Excerpts

Introduction: The Four Horsemen of My Apocalypse I thought Americans were supposed to be stupid about these things. Ignorant of foreign cultures. Disinterested in international affairs. This, I've always figured, was particularly true of Africaâ€"Americans presumably have trouble distinguishing between the Kalahari, Sahara, and Luxor on Las Vegas Boulevard. Jay Leno hits the streets to prove what a bunch of insular jackasses we are, and even someone like me, who's never once laughed at that condescending bit, has to admit he's got a pretty deep reservoir of stars-and-stripes stupidity to trawl. Which is why it surprises me that when I begin e-mailing friends and family about my upcoming trip to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, I receive in reply a storm of dire and frighteningly specific warnings. Americans, at least my Americans, appear to be quite impressively informed. From buddy Dave Malley: "The currentAtlantic Monthlyhas a thing about a British biologist who died in the Congo after contracting an illness from monkey feces. Thought you might want to know." From sister Amy: "You're aware there's a civil war going on there, right?" From Glasser in Japan, a man hardened to life's inequities first as a foot soldier in Vietnam, then as a jewelry salesman in South Central Los Angeles: "The Congo, and you may quote me, is Hell. Only without the interesting people. Pay for a week at the nearest rifle club. Train on an M16 or AK-47. Takes a monkey about two days on either one to begin shooting like Clint Eastwood. Your M16 tends to jam up if you don't keep it clean, but AK ammo weighs a ton, something to think about when you're humping through a croc-infested swamp with your mortally wounded local guide slung over one shoulder. But don't even think about bringing guns into the country. They're cheaper at the Kinshasa 7-Elevens." From cousin Michelle, intrepid sufferer of Peace Corps and invasive-parasite abuse: "Do you know about guinea worms? They bore into your skin, then burst and release larvae and infecting cyclops, better known as 'water fleas.' If the worm is wrapped around a tendon or so deep that it's not possible to extract it surgically, you have to wait until 'normal emergence' occurs. This means waiting for the worm to burrow out on its own. When I was in Senegal I saw a woman with multiple worms in her leg, breast, and vagina." From Dr. Bahr, a man I'd claim as my personal physician had I not personally witnessed his collegiate heyday. "In lieu of your latest effort to impress I don't know exactly who with your carefree spirit of misadventure, I'm pasting some information from the State Department's Web site: 'The Department of State again warns U.S. citizens against travel to the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). Armed groups and demobilized Congolese troops in parts of the country, including Eastern Congo, are known to pillage, carjack, and steal vehicles, kill extra-judicially, rape, kidnap, and carry out military or paramilitary operations. Travelers are frequently detained and questioned by poorly disciplined security forces at numerous roadblocks throughout the country. Public Health concerns also pose a hazard to U.S. citizen travelers for outbreaks of deadly viruses and other diseases which can occur without warning and many times are not rapidly reported by local health authorities. During the months of Augustâ€"October, lab confirmed cases of Ebola were found in the Luebo area of Kasai Occidental Province.' " Perhaps because he wastes more on- the-job Internet time than anyone who doesn't have an addiction to fantasy football or two girls, one cup, my infamous Asia expat buddy Shanghai Bob began slamming me with daily e-mail warnings featuring links to archivedNew York Timesstories bearing headlines such as "Rape Epidemic Raises Trauma of Congo War" and "African Crucible: Cast as Witches, Then Cast Out." The latter story dealt with a contagion of Congolese and Angolan children who were being persecuted as witches. One concerned father reportedly injected battery acid into his twelve-year-old son's stomach in an effort to encourage the boy's evil spirits to find a new home. Later, Bob would keep me informed of proceedings concerning a roundup of Congolese sorcerers accused of shrinking men's penises with special curses. When I told him I couldn't possibly keep up with his force-feeding regimen of Dark Continent fearmongering, Shanghai Bob wrote me a note that summed up, if in less urbane terms, the prevailing attitude of everyone from my mother to my dental hygienist. (Even the relentlessly chipper Tete from Togo exclaimed, "Africa, it's all bribes!" while scraping my plaque.) "I'm not trying to scare you, fuck with you, or be a wiseass in any way," Shanghai Bob declared, drawing upon his complete reservoir of personal empathy. "But I think you may want to be kept informed about these things as your trip nears. As Father O'Flaherty always counseled us, there's no shame in pulling out, even at the last minute." This is the problem with having a lot of educated, liberal friends. Every one of them has an encyclopedic knowledge of injustices and outrages around the worldâ€"Congo, East Timor, charter schoolsâ€"and jump at any chance they get to tell you how bad everything is out there. More disconcertingly, my friends seemed to be right. Or at least consistent with expert opinion. A few weeks before going public with my plans for a Congo holiday, I'd sought the advice of a highly regarded BBC documentary filmmaker named Sam Kiley, himself on his way back to the Congo to shoot more footage in the North Kivu region, the place where that aforementioned civil war was raging. I had no interest in being an eyewitness to war, but North Kivu had caught my attention for its mountain gorillas and position at the center of Africa's Great Lakes region. As a friend of a friend, I thought Kiley might be a good guy to tag along with for my first trip to Africa. He immediately rejected my plea to join his expedition, then did his best to discourage me from going it alone. From a twenty-minute phone conversation, here are a few of the more memorable moments: "Congo's not the end of the world, but it's bloody close. As deep bongo as it can be." "You can get eaten in the Congo." "You mean by animals?" "No, by humans. Try to stay off the menu, mate." "You're kidding, of course." "No, I'm quite fakking serious." "Congo is very advanced fakking horror. Think Marlon Brando in the final scene ofApocalypse Nowand then take some acid and you're close to it. I'm properly not kidding."* "All Eastern Congo is a front line. A full-on war is going on." "It's not at all rare to come across eight- and ten- and twelve-year-old boys with AK-47s using someone else's intestines to set up a roadblock." I wanted to go to Africa because I didn't want to go to Africa. And I didn't want to go to Africa for many excellent reasons. Malaria. Cholera. Bilharzia. Yellow fever. Genocide. AIDS. War. Famine. Rebel attack. River blindness. Lions, hyenas, and other wild animals that occasionally maul and kill even dedicated pacifists. Eighteen hours in the coach cabin of an airplane. The aforementioned worms that nest in human sex organs. National dishes such as "foufou" that cousin Michelle reported on from her latest posting in western Africa as "gelatinous balls of yam or cassava with a thin sauce on top, often slimy okra." All of which made me want to go. Not counting the eighteen hours. Allow me to Excerpted from To Hellholes and Back: Bribes, Lies, and the Art of Extreme Tourism by Chuck Thompson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.