Congo Chronicles: Chapter 2 – Departures & Destiny

By David Graham: June 27, 2025

We were now adjusted and in-country—the part we feared most was already behind us. No one was arrested… all of our luggage made it. The day had come for us to make our way to the fishing grounds. Ahead of this trip, arrangements had been made with numerous backup plans and fail-safes. We had secured the use of a powerboat to transport us from Brazzaville up the Congo River some 75 miles. A 200-horsepower motor would cut our travel time to camp dramatically, slicing through the Congo River’s current with ease. Waiting at camp were two aluminum powerboats, each with 60hp outboards, along with interpreters, guards, and a full support crew.

preparing to launch

Our 2.5-hour trek from the port at Brazzaville to our camp, located just above a tributary known as the Mary River, gave us our first true glimpse of life along the Congo. Along the way, we flew past life on this remote but active river. Here, the capitals of two nations—Brazzaville and Kinshasa—face each other across the Congo River, the only place in the world where two national capitals sit directly opposite on a riverbank. The Congo splits and splinters into various side channels, opening up into an interesting system of navigational routes used heavily by local industry. In the immediate area of the river near these two major hubs of the Congo, the river is alive with local commerce—generally crude boats, ships, or floating masses of logs tethered together and powered by the river itself.

Villagers line up to board one of the large river boats

We passed overloaded vessels packed to the rails—flotillas that looked as if they were ferrying entire villages up and down the river. The boats were powered by crude engines with exposed exhausts that blew massive plumes of black soot into the air—and into the lungs of anyone on board. The deafening sound of these engines, popping and sputtering, was ever-present on the river, eliminating any chance of natural ambient sounds on the water. These boats are a way of life; they are part of the lifeblood of this area.

I monitored our progress moving upriver through offline maps I had downloaded to my Garmin InReach. Tracking in real time where we were going—and knowing exactly where camp was—I anxiously waited to turn that final curve in the river, eager to see what would be our home for the next two weeks.

At camp, we saw the additional boats positioned along its beach. A small crew of dogs waded out into the shallows, cautious and on guard as these strange newcomers approached.

Also waiting was a crew of hands to help unpack gear and get us settled. These guys, close confidants of Hilly, were there to assist in any way possible. We got our gear off the boat and up to camp, where we met Marc for the first time. Marc is a true OG of Central Africa—born and raised here, he’s spent 40 years fishing these waters.

The camp itself was a marvel of architecture in this harsh and rugged environment, where most of the structures we passed in the immediate area were homes made of hardened clay, mud, palm leaves, and scrap metal. The “lodge,” as I’ll call it, sat atop a well-landscaped hill above a set of concrete stairs. The stairs opened onto a swept path, lined with stone and ornamental plants, which wrapped around a central and showy stone-paved terrace.

View of the lodge

The large stone patio, octagonal in shape, was fully covered overhead and supported by exposed, cathedral-style wood beams—very attractive, whether by design or practicality. There was a good balance between that authentic Out of Africa feel and a semi-modern eco-lodge design. A small showcase room along the back wall—possibly a repurposed bar area—was adorned with African sculptures, artwork, uniquely woven bird nests, and framed photos of big tigerfish caught from the camp.

I just knew I needed to get my photo there!

In the center of the court was a long dining table—a place where the day would begin and end, with hope for good fortune and stories of what the day brought. This area, like a sacred gathering point where strong bonds and friendships are formed, was the central “spot” of camp, I feel.

Just outside the covered stone patio was an outdoor courtyard-type area—meticulously groomed like a garden, with a very large, mature tree at its center. Hanging from it was a large scale—presumably the spot for weighing the day’s catch. Just up a short set of stairs from there were several bungalows—our housing for the trip.

These bungalows had electricity that ran off a generator, providing light in the evenings and early morning hours. Each had a queen-sized bed, linens, a bedside stand and tables, and a private restroom. The restrooms, lacking running water and plumbing at the time of our visit, were still enough to get the job done “manually” with a simple bucket of river water.

We each quickly dropped our luggage and started prepping fishing gear. We reviewed rigs, got an initial idea of what we wanted to run, and got things ready for 10 straight days of sun-up-to-sun-down fishing.

In the evening, we took a quick boat ride to a nearby tributary called the Mary River. This river runs especially clear and cool. So blue and clear is the water that I imagine its source is spring-fed—running through mineral-rich, stony earth. The main Congo River is beautiful in its own rustic way, but the Mary River is particularly captivating.

Tall, dark green foliage growing along large stone walls closes in on you from each side, where the wind seems to be pulled through and chilled by the water’s surface. You’re captured by brisk air here... and I looked around, just wondering what might be keeping a large goliath tigerfish from venturing into this starkly different environment. I must try fishing here before the end of the trip...

swimming in the clear tributary near the camp

The locals use this river as a source of freshwater—they drink from it, bathe in it. We took a quick swim in the river—refreshed our bodies and got clean.

Back at camp, I met a nice little friend. One of the guys assisting Hilly had a pet monkey—a mustached guenon. We bonded almost immediately over a few pieces of fruit and some scratches. The monkey (named Moose) would take you by the hand, pull you in to where it wanted to be scratched, and then reciprocate by grooming you for any potential ticks or insects!

Maybe the real 'MVP' of the whole camp, though, was the chef. Preparing our meals at camp was the former head chef of the French Embassy. He put maximum effort into every single meal he prepared, presenting it with flair and showing genuine concern for how we felt about it. His efforts were over the top, and I have seldom seen someone—on this side of the planet or the other—with such clear devotion and commitment to their job. It was a real treat having him there.

Still—despite all of these wonderful accommodations, comforts, and logistical efficiencies—the fishing is unavoidably tough. Where the country couldn’t find a way to make us uncomfortable, we would soon find out there was no escaping the long, grueling days spent pursuing this tremendously difficult species of fish.