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See that? The spirit of giving.

Ah, Congo, the familiar air of a war-ravaged land. It feels like home. I already dipped my toes into the familiar paranoia back at home, when I hit a major snag in my travel preparations. Maurice and Serge are now being quoted US$300 per day for SUV rentals. Even on a ten-day trip, that adds up fast. As with all my Run for Congo Women work, including my prior Congo visit, this jaunt through Africa is strictly self-funded. After all, I am a never-published, would-be author working on spec.

I put out the word, emailing all my contacts if they know how I can find a more reasonably priced vehicle (around US$100 a day). Less than a week before departure, I got one hit from a friend.

MAMA LISA,

I RECEIVED A CALL FROM RENÉ THIS MORNING. HE SAID HE HAS A

JEEP FOR RENT.

HE WILL BE DRIVING IT HIMSELF.

NICE DAY!

I SPENT TWO DAYS swimming in thoughts of El Presidente hovering behind me, overseeing every interview, every roadside stop, and wondering if he knows I was responsible for getting him fired. (After our drive, I approached his boss at an international NGO, who was unaware of his affiliations. He was fired immediately and since then has struggled to find work—even calling me for a job reference at a ridiculous hour after he was forced to abandon “political affiliations incompatible with humanitarian work.”)

I offhandedly mentioned René’s offer to drive me in an email to D when I was encouraging him to buy Eric an SUV. (If the inflated rental rates are tough on me, they must be killing Eric’s little nonprofit with his hour-and-a-half commute!)

D didn’t respond much; he just cautioned me. “Be careful.”

But, funny thing, I got an email from Eric about an hour later. He had just gotten off the phone with D and just happens to have a neighbor who will rent me an SUV at US$90 a day.

D plays dumb when I mention the coincidence.

Later Eric will tell me about the call, how D urged him to take care of me, since I don’t always maintain the strictest safety standards for myself. (It’s true, a lot of experienced Congo travelers think I am nuts. I prefer to think of myself as having a high threshold for risk.) Oh, and D agreed to buy Eric that SUV.

ORCHID IS A WHOLE different scene this time around. The Last Belgian is away and the place is crawling with middle-management types, mostly mining subcontractors clearing the way for a massive goldmine that is only a short helicopter ride from town.

Over breakfast, some managers strike up a conversation with me and ask about the purpose of my visit. I see no reason to sugarcoat the matter. I mention the Kaniola massacre matter-of-factly, as I would tell any friend inquiring about my plans for the week. They fidget with their napkins for a moment and quietly rise. Someone murmurs, “Well.”

They walk away without further niceties, but one of them remains. So I start with the basic traveler’s intro. “What brings you here?” “Environmental work.”

“I have a lot of friends who have environmental projects here. What kind?”

“Mining.”

In remarkably unfiltered fashion, he explains he’s been hired by a mining company with offices in the hotel to do an environmental impact assessment. The company wants to claim that all the pollution and other damage to rivers near a new gold-mining project they’re starting in Eastern Congo already existed—and was done by local artisanal miners—prior to mine and hydroelectric construction. “So no one can pin it on us,” he says.

In another lifetime, I might have found this intriguing, even scandalous. But foreign mining interests are no secret in Congo. Why pretend it’s shocking? Why be shy? He’s not. Like all good corporate spin-machines, he has resolved the ethical issues, hovering above the conflict like the helicopter that flies in and out every day, cruising across the Congolese landscape just high enough to avoid being bothered by the little things, like people.

“Americans did this in their own West,” he reminds me. “Is it fair to say