Warlord. James Steel
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He looks at them with such searching honesty that Alex for the first time really understands the pain of the people of Kivu. Up to now it has been a challenge for him, a fascinating experiment in international relations, a reassertion of the Devereuxs’ role in the world, but he hasn’t really connected to the six million people who will be affected by what he is going to do.
Cousin Vernon is an intelligent, weary-looking man in his forties with a neat moustache, short hair and a chewed yellow Bic biro tucked behind his right ear. He’s wearing a mudstained tracksuit and anorak.
‘OK, I need two more guys! Come on, good rates, I pay three dollars a kilo!’ he shouts to the crowd of men milling around. It’s 7 a.m. and he is recruiting for the morning shift in his tunnel, which he has named Versailles in a bid to attract labour.
The miners range in age from teens to thirties. They stand around dozily on the muddy track leading from the manoir, the village where they sleep, up the hillside to the Mabala mine. The manoir is at four thousand feet so it’s cold and misty.
Gabriel can feel a light rain begin to patter on the hood of his cheap nylon anorak. He shivers, wraps his arms tighter around himself and shuffles his feet in his Wellingtons. Next to him, Marcel does likewise; it’s their first day at work.
Other tunnel bosses are hawking for labour for the day, shouting rates and proclaiming the virtues of the different seams that they are chasing deeper into the mountainside.
On the edge of the crowd are some FDLR troops in dark green rain capes that reach down to their wellies at the front and back. They are part of the Gorilla Brigade under Colonel Etienne and several hundred of them live in a base on a hill overlooking the manoir.
One of the soldiers hears Vernon’s rate and discusses it quickly with a friend. They unhitch their rifles off their shoulders, hand them to another soldier and stroll down to Vernon. ‘OK, boss.’ Soldiers need extra cash like anyone else.
Vernon nods. ‘Names?’ He whips his biro out from behind his ear.
‘Robert.’
‘Patrice.’
‘OK.’ He scribbles down their names in a little pocket book that he pulls out of his anorak. ‘You got your own tools?’
They both nod and each pulls three bits of equipment out from under their rain slickers: a short-handled masonry hammer, chisel and torch with a rubber strap attached.
Vernon writes a symbol next to their names and points. ‘Over there.’
The soldiers come to stand with Gabriel and Marcel and the other six men. They grunt a greeting and then Vernon comes over and they follow him and trudge up the hillside.
The Mabala mine is a huge hill of red mud that looks like it has been attacked by an army of termites. The green forest all over it has been chopped down and the hillside is littered with tree trunks and uprooted stumps. In between the patches of mist and drifting rain Gabriel can see the small entrances to many tunnels: Fort Knox, ATM, Golden Goose. Outside each one is a cluster of men; the night shift is coming out and their produce is being weighed and bagged up.
Vernon leads his new team half a mile round the side of the hill to Versailles. His nightshift manager is wearily bagging up the produce and they talk briefly before Vernon takes tools and torches off some of the workers and gives them to Gabriel and Marcel. Two small portable pumps attached to hosepipes leading into the tunnel whirr noisily next to the entrance.
Gabriel eyes the men nervously. They are covered in mud that has dried to a light ochre colour. As one of them wipes his forehead with the back of his rain-wet hand, he cleans a streak of dark brown skin in it.
Vernon gives them new batteries for the torches – ‘I’ll charge you for those’ – and issues each of them with a plastic sack stained brown with mud. Gabriel pulls the strip of black tyre rubber attached to it round his head so that the torch sits above his left ear.
Clutching their sacks with their tools in them, the men duck down and follow Vernon into the narrow entrance. The tunnel is about four feet high so they have to stoop and proceed in an awkward slouching walk for fifty metres. It slopes down, water drips on Gabriel’s head and it gets very cold.
Vernon leads the way and the others follow the wobbling circle of his head torch as it illuminates the wet brown rock. He stops just as the tunnel turns a sharp right. ‘OK, this is the tricky bit. To get to the seam we have to go under this outcrop of hard rock.’ He thumps the rock with his hand. ‘The passage is very small but it’s worth it when you get to the other side, the ore is very high grade. OK, Pierre will lead the way, come up.’
They flatten themselves against the side and Pierre squeezes past to the front. Vernon then crabs along to the back, and checks his watch. ‘OK, I’ll see you at eight o’clock tonight. Bonne chance.’
Gabriel watches the white circle of light retreat back down the tunnel and glances at Marcel who has switched on his headlamp so that it silhouettes the side of his face. He sees him shrug.
‘OK, follow me. This is scary but it’s OK,’ Pierre says in an unreassuring way. He crawls over to a muddy hole in the floor just wide enough for a man to fit into. ‘You have to put your sack in front of you, push it forwards and then wriggle on a bit. It’s about six metres to the gallery and the tunnel bends a bit under the outcrop. There’s a kind of sump at the bottom where the water accumulates but don’t shit yourself – it’s fine. Just keep going.’
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