- The Reuters office in Democratic Republic of Congo is famous for its view: a 180-degree vista over the world&${esc.hash}39;s closest capitals, Kinshasa and Brazzaville, and the wide, brown Congo river that separates them.
From the apartment, which I&${esc.hash}39;m told was George Foreman&${esc.hash}39;s suite for the 1974 Rumble in the Jungle fight with Muhammed Ali, my predecessors have reported on Kinshasa&${esc.hash}39;s coups and given commentaries on helicopters attacking Brazzaville from afar.
But the former Zaire is vast, far more complex and much higher up the news agenda than the other Congo and I usually just gaze at it across the river from our ninth floor office.
So when the United Nations offered a trip to the Republic of Congo&${esc.hash}39;s Pool region, where civil war has officially ended but peace has yet to return, I was excited.
As our convoy of gleaming white Land Cruisers sped through Brazzaville, lights flashing, horns blaring and drivers cursing the city&${esc.hash}39;s neatly-painted but slow-moving taxis, an Italian aid worker commented on what a good target we would make.
But the roads crumble before the outskirts of the capital and we soon gave up worrying and concentrated on holding on.
Pool lies between Brazzaville and the oil-producing coast town of Pointe-Noire but it might as well be in another country. It is an economic and social backwater, and there&${esc.hash}39;s no oil here.
Not only has the Pool been forgotten by its government but the world has also neglected its humanitarian disaster in a land without a large-scale war to catch people&${esc.hash}39;s attention.
A few thousand rebels remain -- gunmen who wear purple scarves and call themselves Ninjas after the ancient Japanese warriors glamorized by Hollywood.
They harass civilians, hold up and loot trains linking the capital and the coast but are not deemed a national security threat. Nor do they warrant a United Nations peacekeeping force, so no one in our convoy was too worried. Until the second day.
The checkpoint was just a clearing in the thick bush where a collection of bored young Ninjas -- dressed in soccer shirts, scruffy shorts, combat trousers and Stars and Stripes bandanas -- loitered, slugging strong palm wine and smoking dope.
The Ninjas said they had nothing against aid workers. But then they found the prefect, the most senior local government official from Pool and his three body guards, whom the U.N. had inexplicably allowed to join the convoy.
The official was dragged out and his bodyguards disarmed. The drivers negotiated while U.N. officials cowered in their cars and eventually we all left. But by the time we got to the second group of Ninjas, it was a different story.
"Go and tell (President Denis) Sassou Nguesso that Pool is for the rebels and he shouldn&${esc.hash}39;t send his government men here, let alone in U.N. convoys," barked one, who called himself "The Laughing Cow" after a French brand of processed cheese.
A mob of 30 youths, armed with assault rifles, knives, machetes and grenades, soon forgot about the prefect, who was now wandering around aimlessly, and concentrated on looting.
"Wind up your windows and lock your doors," crackled the U.N security officer&${esc.hash}39;s voice over the radio. That was the last piece of advice from him as the radios were whipped out of the cars.
The rebels took everything, from cash and mobile phones to high energy biscuits and mosquito nets, before scurrying into the forest to stash their booty.
It wasn&${esc.hash}39;t all serious. One boy Ninja managed to prise open the car in front, snatched the first box he saw and vanished into the bush. He reappeared a few minutes later somewhat dejected but with his sense of humor intact.
"Here in the bush, we are fighting against AIDS -- as well as Sassou," he said as he handed out some the thousands of condoms inside the stolen box. "The Laughing Cow" returned to remind us of the seriousness of our predicament by banging on my window with a fist clutching a couple of grenades and an enormous joint.
Reaching a long arm into the car, he grabbed my camera bag. I was explaining that I really needed this equipment when his attention turned to something else: my feet.
"Those," he said, pointing to my old walking boots, "are my security for the war here in the Pool."
He forced open the front door, climbed over the driver and joined us on the back seat. Any thoughts of resisting evaporated when he held two grenades to my head and pointed to my shoes.
I took the rather smelly boots off and handed them over. He smiled, hopped out of the car and disappeared into the forest.
Relieved to have clung onto my camera but condemned to flip-flops for the rest of the trip, I never thought I would be so happy to see the living hell that is Kinshasa&${esc.hash}39;s chaotic port.
Later, settled on the office sofa in Kinshasa with a cold beer in my hand, I gazed at the other Congo and decided it was probably better viewed from afar after all.
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