Into the Heart of the Congo – My Journey Through the Ituri Forest and Virunga Volcanoes
November 2011
My friend Sterling and I spent a week deep in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), chasing a dream I’d had for as long as I can remember—to explore the vast and mysterious Ituri Forest. For me, the Ituri symbolized pure, untamed wilderness. It’s the kind of place you read about in adventure novels or see in faded maps on explorers’ desks. To step foot in the Ituri is to follow in the footsteps of legendary adventurers like Henry Morton Stanley, into what Joseph Conrad famously dubbed the Heart of Darkness.
This region is one of the last truly wild places left on Earth—an equatorial rainforest home to pygmy tribes, elusive wildlife, and, at times, rebel fighters. It’s raw, remote, and unpredictable—and that’s exactly what drew me in.
But the Ituri wasn’t our only destination. Another major goal was to visit Virunga National Park, Africa’s oldest national park and home to some of the continent’s most awe-inspiring (and dangerous) volcanoes. Chief among them: Mount Nyiragongo, which boasts the world’s largest lava lake.
At the time of our visit, it was possible to camp on the rim of Nyiragongo, spending the night perched high above the bubbling inferno. Between the jungle of the Ituri and the fire of the volcanoes, this trip promised the kind of adventure that feels increasingly rare in the modern world.
This is the story of that journey—into the forests, onto the craters, and deep into one of the most unforgettable corners of Africa.
About DRC
Understanding the DRC: A Land of Riches, Struggle, and Untamed Beauty
The Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) is a French-speaking nation and the second-largest country in Africa—so vast and complex that exploring it can feel like stepping into another world entirely. It’s a country defined by paradox: incredibly rich in resources yet plagued by poverty, corruption, and conflict.
The DRC is so resource-rich that, by all logic, it should be one of the wealthiest nations on Earth. Its land is filled with minerals, fertile forests, and freshwater reserves. But instead of bringing prosperity, these riches have too often invited exploitation and war.
Historically, the DRC has endured some of the darkest chapters of colonialism. It was once the personal property of King Leopold II of Belgium, who turned it into his private kleptocracy. Under his rule, millions of Congolese were enslaved to extract rubber and ivory—profits that flowed directly into the king’s pocket while the local population suffered.
After gaining independence from Belgium, the DRC fell into the hands of a series of corrupt rulers. One of the most notorious was Mobutu Sese Seko, who stole billions from the country’s coffers and is still considered one of the richest dictators in history. His regime, propped up by Cold War powers, eventually collapsed, paving the way for two Congo Wars—the bloodiest conflicts since World War II, claiming an estimated six million lives.
Today, eastern DRC remains unstable, with various rebel groups—many of them remnants of militias that fled Rwanda during the 1994 genocide—continuing to terrorize local communities.
And yet, in spite of all this, the DRC remains one of the most extraordinary countries in Africa. Its sheer natural beauty, biodiversity, and cultural richness are beyond words. From towering volcanoes and pristine rainforests to gorillas, elephants, and indigenous tribes, the DRC has the potential to be a world-class travel destination and economic powerhouse.
But that potential continues to be caught in the crossfire of politics, greed, and instability. And so, the race is on—as powerful countries like China eye its resources, hoping to carve out their own piece of this untamed land.
For travelers like me, drawn to wild frontiers and places few dare to go, the DRC is both fascinating and sobering—a land that stirs equal parts wonder and heartbreak.
My travel route
Goma and a Volcanic Lake
Crossing into Chaos: Arrival in Goma, DRC
To enter the Democratic Republic of Congo, we crossed the border from Rwanda into Goma—a city that’s as chaotic as it is unforgettable. I had arranged for a local fixer in Goma ahead of time to help smooth out the visa process and arrange private transport for our upcoming journey into Virunga National Park and the Ituri Forest.
After a few days exploring Rwanda, the border crossing into the DRC was surprisingly smooth, thanks to our fixer. But the moment we stepped into Goma, it felt like we had entered another world.
Goma is one of the most threatened cities on Earth. Built on the banks of Lake Kivu, the city rests atop a geologic nightmare. The lake itself conceals a subterranean reservoir of lava and carbon dioxide, and from time to time, it belches up massive, invisible bubbles of gas that can asphyxiate fishermen and anyone unlucky enough to be downwind.
And then there’s Nyiragongo, the angry giant looming just 15 kilometers away. One of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world, Nyiragongo has erupted several times, most infamously in 2002, when it sent fast-moving lava flows through the city, killing and displacing thousands.
As if natural disasters weren’t enough, Goma is also plagued by human conflict. The region remains a battleground between rebel groups and government forces, and the city is frequently overwhelmed by waves of refugees fleeing violence in the surrounding countryside. At times, rebels have even managed to occupy parts of Goma itself.
It’s a place that just can’t catch a break—yet it keeps going, held together by the resilience of its people and the chaotic rhythm of life on the edge of catastrophe.
Lake Kivu one of the deepest in the world sits on top of a lake of magma that sends bubbles of methane and CO2 burping forth from time to time suffocating everyone in its path.
Goma airport, plane sitting on top of lava rock
Goma: On the Edge of Desperation and Adventure
Crossing from Rwanda into Goma felt like stepping into a different universe. Where Rwanda was clean, orderly, and rapidly developing, Goma was chaotic, crumbling, and raw. The contrast was stark.
The city is in a state of perpetual disrepair—lava rocks from past eruptions are still piled along the roads and in giant mounds around the airport. Makeshift refugee camps sprawl across the outskirts, housing thousands displaced by violence or natural disaster. It’s a city that lives in the shadow of catastrophe, and the palpable air of desperation makes it hard to fully enjoy your time there, even as it captivates.
Still, Goma is the gateway to Virunga National Park, and that’s what brought us here. We went straight to the Virunga Park Headquarters to organize our permits and coordinate with the rangers who would escort us into the park.
The office itself was a mix of local Congolese and white Belgian rangers, including the park’s manager—a Belgian nobleman overseeing one of the most dangerous and important conservation areas in the world. Inside, we studied a large map of Virunga, plotting out our route, taking note of regions we were explicitly told to avoid due to the risk of encountering rebel groups known for kidnapping or killing outsiders.
For the moment, the road and hike to Mount Nyiragongo appeared safe, but we would still be accompanied by armed park rangers, just in case. As we wrapped up our plans, it became clear that Sterling and I would be the only foreigners on the volcano—and likely the only foreigners in the Ituri Forest for the rest of the week.
We weren’t just visiting a national park. We were stepping into one of the last truly wild frontiers on Earth, where danger, beauty, and mystery are part of the terrain.
DRC public transport
Homemade cargo transport bikes commonly found in DRC
Homemade cargo transport bikes commonly found in DRC
Homemade cargo transport bikes commonly found in DRC
Sleeping Above a Lava Lake on Volcano Nyiragongo
Nyiragongo: Staring into the Gates of Hell
As we approached the mighty volcano, a plume of steam and molten rock suddenly burst into the air—not from Nyiragongo, but from another volcano erupting in the distance. It was a surreal and ominous welcome. Ahead of us loomed Mount Nyiragongo, nearly 12,000 feet tall, its upper flanks hidden behind mist and cloud. This was Africa’s most active and feared volcano, and we were here to sleep on its rim.
We followed our armed ranger escort up the steep, ashen slopes, every step sinking into slippery pumice and volcanic gravel. At one point, one of the rangers suddenly grew alarmed and ordered us to move quickly. For a brief, heart-pounding moment, I thought rebels were ambushing us—but it turned out to be a rockslide from above. A reminder that the mountain itself was the danger.
The climb took over three grueling hours, and just when the burning in our legs reached its peak, we crested the ridge—and everything else melted away. Before us was one of the most awe-inspiring natural sights on Earth: the world’s largest lava lake, a boiling, hissing, fuming pit of hellfire.
Even from what must have been a thousand feet above, the lava lake roared like an ocean in a storm. We watched waves of lava—some towering 20 to 50 feet high—crash into each other, launching glowing bombs into the air that exploded with terrifying force. The air was hot, the ground rumbled, and as night fell, the red glow intensified, bathing the crater walls in a fiery dance of light and shadow.
We stayed in simple wooden cabins perched on the crater’s edge, but I hardly slept. Instead, I spent hours at the lookout, mesmerized by the infernal cauldron below. It felt like staring into the heartbeat of the Earth itself.
To this day, Nyiragongo remains one of the most spectacular, otherworldly places I’ve ever seen—and I’ve never looked at a volcano the same way since.
Another erupting volvano
Bullet holes are seen here in the national park sign, evidence of the many rebel and ranger battles that occur in Virunga Park.
Park ranger
Steaming Fumerole
The climb
View from the top
Lava Lake-Less than 10 years ago this volcano erupted and sent a river of lava streaming into the city of Goma below killing thousands. Now we were going to climb to the top and sleep there next to the lava lake.
Lava Lake
Lava Lake
Me at the Lava Lake
Driving Across Volatile Virunga National Park & Ituri Region
Crossing Virunga: Into Rebel Ambush Country
After our unforgettable night on the rim of Nyiragongo, the real danger began. To reach the Ituri Forest, we had to cross Virunga National Park by road—a stretch of our journey that I had dreaded the most.
We could have taken a flight to Beni and bypassed Virunga entirely, but the domestic airlines were notorious for their unreliability and poor safety records, and I wasn’t eager to gamble our lives in the air. So, we opted for the land route, despite the threat of armed rebel ambushes.
This stretch of Virunga has seen its fair share of bloodshed. I had read the park’s blog, which often details tragic incidents—ranger ambushes, shootouts, and patrols that never returned. While we chose what was considered the safest known route to Beni, there were no guarantees. The road was isolated, winding through bush country and empty plains, prime terrain for militias to lay in wait. And unlike our trek to Nyiragongo, we had no security escort.
For the entire four-hour journey, I felt a persistent knot in my stomach. The road was hauntingly quiet—no other vehicles, no signs of wildlife beyond a few baboons. Yet, we knew the deeper parts of the park were home to elephants, lions, and hippos—animals we wouldn’t see unless we ventured further in, which we lacked both time and permission to do.
As we entered the Rwindi Plains, I grew even more uneasy. This was the stomping ground of Mai-Mai rebels, who are rumored to adorn themselves with human body parts, and various Hutu militias such as the Interahamwe—the same groups responsible for the Rwandan genocide. Our guide and rangers had assured us—“you should be safe… probably”—not exactly words that inspire confidence.
Eventually, the forest gave way to scattered villages. At the roadside, women and children approached our vehicle, selling fruit, nuts, and grilled snacks. We loaded up without even stepping out. Our guide advised against it. Wandering around could attract unwanted attention, especially from corrupt police looking to extract a bribe.
We reached Butembo before nightfall, a chaotic city lying in the shadow of the Rwenzori Mountains of the Moon, which I had climbed from the Ugandan side a decade earlier. It felt strange to be back in their shadow—this time from the Congolese side.
The next day, we pressed on. The roads were an endless stretch of ruts, rocks, and potholes—pure punishment for our backs. Then, for one glorious hour, we hit fresh Chinese pavement, the only smooth road in hundreds of miles. We dozed off almost instantly, lulled by the absence of jolts—only to be rudely awakened when the pavement vanished and the jolting resumed.
As we entered deeper into the Ituri, civilization seemed to recede. Villages became fewer, the jungle thickened, and once again, we found ourselves in rebel territory. This was where some groups ambushed vehicles, hoping for loot. Ironically, the rebels often left the vehicles behind—they didn’t know how to drive.
We were now entering the true heart of darkness.
Road through Virunga
Baboon on the road trying to break into our car
Virunga Plains
Buying food from our car in villages
Buying food from our car in villages
Village lady in Ituri
People of Ituri
People of Ituri
Okapi Reserve and Camping with the Mbuti Pygmies
Into the Heart of the Ituri: The Okapi Reserve and Mbuti Pygmies
By late afternoon, after countless hours navigating pothole-ridden roads and dense rainforest, we finally reached Epulu, the heart of the Okapi Wildlife Reserve—one of the most remote and biologically significant rainforests on Earth.
Named after the okapi—a rare, forest-dwelling creature that looks like a cross between a giraffe and a zebra—the reserve spans over 13,000 square kilometers of untouched jungle. This elusive animal, found only in the Ituri, is rarely seen even by locals. The reserve also serves as a refuge for forest elephants, chimpanzees, leopards, and countless species of birds and primates, many of which exist nowhere else.
Before entering the village of Epulu, we were stopped at a ranger checkpoint and escorted to meet the head ranger, Michele, a soft-spoken yet commanding man who managed the reserve’s fragile balance between conservation and chaos. We handed over our passports and registered for our stay—three nights in the ranger outpost and one deep in the forest, camping with the Mbuti pygmies.
Our base for the next few days was a simple ranger cabin perched beside the river—a quiet, mist-covered stretch of water surrounded by thick jungle, teeming with bird calls and the distant cries of monkeys. It felt like we had stepped into another world, far from the roads, the checkpoints, and the corruption of eastern Congo.
The plan was ambitious: hike into the surrounding forest, search for wildlife, and spend the night in a remote pygmy village, learning about their way of life—one of the oldest surviving forest cultures on Earth.
This was the Ituri I had dreamed of: wild, mysterious, and utterly unforgettable.
Epulu
River running through Epulu-I was told that every year a handful of people from the village are taken by crocodiles from the river.
Encountering the Elusive Okapi
While we didn’t spot an okapi in the wild, we did manage to see one—sort of.
Just outside the ranger station in Epulu, a few rescued okapis are kept in large enclosures within the reserve. These rare creatures were brought in from the surrounding rainforest, either injured or orphaned, and are now part of a conservation effort to protect one of the most unique animals on Earth.
Though it was incredible to see them up close—their velvety, chocolate-colored coats and zebra-striped legs giving them an almost mythical appearance—it still left us yearning for a glimpse of one in the wild.
We came close. On a jungle hike with a local tracker, we found fresh okapi droppings along the trail, a clear sign that one had passed through recently. Just knowing one had been there, hidden somewhere in the thick undergrowth, was a thrill in itself.
The okapi remains one of the most elusive and iconic animals of the Congo—and seeing even a trace of it in its native forest was a reminder of how special this place truly is.
Captive Okapi in Epulu
In the USA where everyone has a big screen television it is hard to imagine a place where most people don’t have electricity and for these boys, they are thrilled to stand outside the window of a local restaurant watching a Van Damm movie inside being watched by the patrons.
Sterling and our guide having a beer in Epulu
Parrots, Primates, and the Sounds of the Ituri Forest
One of the most iconic sounds of the Ituri Forest is the piercing call of the African Grey Parrot, echoing through the jungle canopy. I saw plenty of them flying overhead—flashes of gray and red darting between treetops—but photographing them in the wild proved nearly impossible. The only clear photo I managed to capture was, ironically, of a parrot in a cage. Still, it was a reminder of just how intelligent and vocal these birds are—widely considered among the most skilled mimics in the animal kingdom.
Our hikes through the dense Ituri rainforest revealed other forest dwellers as well. We encountered several species of monkeys, their movement swift and agile through the trees, occasionally pausing just long enough for a blurry photo. The forest was alive with sound—calls, rustles, and distant hoots—a constant reminder that we were deep in one of Africa’s most biodiverse ecosystems.
Every step in the forest felt like a discovery, even if the wildlife remained just out of reach beyond the foliage.
Black Faced Mangabe
Jungle monkey
Camping with Mbuti Pygmies
Into the Heart of the Ituri: Campfire Songs and Rebel Warnings
The deeper we ventured into the Ituri Forest, the more serious things became. Our freedom to explore was tightly limited—the threat of Mai Mai rebels loomed large. These militias are infamous not just for their brutality, but for their horrifying belief that the Mbuti pygmies are subhuman—there are even reports of them hunting pygmies as bushmeat. For this reason, we weren’t allowed to go anywhere without an armed escort.
Our protector was Michele, the lead ranger of the Okapi Reserve. He looked every bit the part of a jungle warrior—tall, stoic, and carved from stone, with an intense gaze that said he’d seen things most people never would.
Together, we trekked a few hours into the rainforest. Along the way, we paused to inspect elephant and okapi tracks, and to watch monkeys leap above us in the canopy. Eventually, we reached the Mbuti pygmy camp—a small cluster of conical stick huts tucked beneath the towering trees.
During the rainy season, the Mbuti camp near town. When the forest dries out, they vanish deep into its vast green lungs, hunting antelope and gathering nuts and fruits. What they don’t consume, they trade for alcohol and tobacco in the nearby villages. Their relationship with the forest is one of survival, movement, and spiritual connection—and danger. Any time the rebels draw near, the Mbuti flee deeper into the jungle. They have no choice.
Despite the risks, our time with the Mbuti was a highlight of the trip. Michele translated as the chief spoke about their lifestyle—how they move constantly and rely entirely on what the forest provides. We accompanied them on a traditional net hunt, though we caught nothing. Still, the experience of shadowing them through the jungle was unforgettable.
That night, under a canopy of stars and ancient trees, we sat around their campfire. We shared a simple meal, sang Mbuti campfire songs, and watched the chief puff on a giant bamboo bong filled with jungle-grown marijuana.
It was one of those moments of pure connection—until nature reminded us where we were. A violent thunderstorm rolled in, lightning cracking through the trees and torrential rain forcing us into our shelters. The jungle was once again untamed and raw.
But for a few hours, in the flicker of the firelight, it felt like a timeless corner of the world had opened up and let us in.
Pygmy camp
Pygmy camp
Pygmy camp
Pygmy camp
I can only imagine what kind of a life this elderly pygmy woman’s eyes have seen. Life for the pygmies of the Congo is better these days. However less than 10 years ago a rebel army with a leader who developed a taste for pygmies terrorized these jungles.
Me at the Pygmy camp with a guy wearing an Obama Dracula tshirt
Pygmy camp
Pygmy camp
The cream on her face is from a forest plant that is ground up and placed on skin to preserve beauty.
Pygmy camp
Sterling showing the camp their photos. For once in his life Sterling felt like a giant. He looked 7 feet tall compared to the Pygmies. One pygmy man, appearing at least least 18 years old when asked his age answered , four since pygmies as was explained to us tend by the park ranger tend to be unaware of their age.
Pygmy camp
Pygmy camp
We set off with the pygmies to hunt in the jungle with nets. The pygmies carried these nets on their heads and spread them out while hooting and hollering trying to scare the game into the nets where they would be speared. We didn’t catch anything.
Chief smoking marijuana from a very long bamboo branch that has got to be some kind of record for longest pipe.
The Joy of Simplicity: Music in the Jungle
The children in the Mbuti camp had no electronics—no iPads, video games, or toys. What they had instead was each other and the forest. And honestly, they were some of the happiest kids I’ve ever seen.
They spent their days playing, giggling, and singing with a freedom and joy that was contagious. One moment that stuck with me was when they gathered around our campsite, using leaves as instruments and singing in perfect harmony. Their voices, soft and melodic, echoed through the trees—it was like something out of a dream.
In that moment, I was reminded that happiness doesn’t come from things. It comes from connection, creativity, and the beauty of the world around us. These children, raised in one of the most remote forests on Earth, radiated joy.
And their song? It was nothing short of angelic.
Pygmy Children singing around the bonfire at camp and using the leaves on the fire as percussion
Escaping the Ituri: From Jungle Roads to Brothel Rooftops
After our time in the Okapi Reserve, we decided to head directly back to Uganda and onward to Kigali, Rwanda—opting for the remote border route rather than risk another tense drive through Virunga. Though the road was in terrible shape and the crossing desolate, I felt a strange sense of comfort. At least here, we weren’t in rebel territory.
Of course, no journey through the Congo is ever simple. Deep in the Ituri, our driver decided that the growing engine issues warranted an impromptu demand for more money. What followed was a heated shouting match in French between him and our guide, with the driver at one point threatening to pull over and kick us out—right there, in the middle of the jungle. Thankfully, it never came to that, and we were eventually dropped at the Ugandan border town of Kasindi, a dusty and chaotic outpost where law felt optional.
There were no real hotels in Kasindi, so we did the only thing we could—we slept in the top floor of a brothel, above a bar where deafening Congolese music blasted through the night. Yet, oddly, I’d never felt happier. We had made it out of the DRC, and stepping back into Uganda—my first-ever destination in sub-Saharan Africa a decade earlier—felt like a homecoming.
The next day, we flagged down another taxi and made our way to Rwanda, stopping en route at Queen Elizabeth National Park for a brief but much-needed dose of peaceful wildlife viewing.
We were exhausted, bruised, and dusty—but we had survived one of the wildest journeys of our lives.
Dusty border town view from our brothel hotel
Rebel Attack
Tragedy in Epulu: The Price of Protecting Paradise
Only six months after our visit to Epulu, tragedy struck.
A ruthless rebel group descended on the village, unleashing chaos on the community we had come to admire. Dozens of people were killed, and many others taken hostage. The rebels slaughtered most of the captive okapis and set fire to the park’s buildings before vanishing back into the jungle. The very reserve that exists to protect endangered wildlife and the forest’s indigenous people had become a battleground.
Michele, the tall, stoic ranger who had guided us through the forest, was on the front lines that day. Under a hail of gunfire, he helped fight off the attackers while risking his life to evacuate park staff and villagers. His bravery, and that of the other rangers, saved lives—but many in Epulu were lost, and some—including women—were taken as prisoners into the forest. Their fate was likely grim. In this part of the world, rape is far too often used as a weapon of war.
I remembered speaking with the park warden, a Belgian man who mentioned his wife lived in West Africa. When I asked why she didn’t live with him in Epulu, he simply said, “It’s too dangerous here.” I understand that now more than ever.
In the DRC, rangers don’t just fight to protect animals and ecosystems—they often risk their lives to defend entire communities. What happened in Epulu is a sobering reminder that some of the most beautiful places on Earth come at the highest cost.