‘Although by “ran” I really mean “looted”,’ said Amelia.

‘If you say so.’

‘Just as the West, and China, with the help of local warlords, continue to rob the country of its natural resources today. If you think about it, this country, the heart of Africa, has been pillaged pretty constantly for a hundred and fifty years. From King Leopold to your uncle Langdon, outsiders have always wanted to slice up the pie.’

She can get earnest pretty quickly, Amelia. A bit like Mum; they share an admirable passionate streak. But lumping Leopold, who declared the whole country his, in with Langdon, who on his word at any rate just wants to do sustainable business here, seemed a bit harsh. But whatever. I wasn’t about to defend him.

I looked over Amelia’s shoulder at the only truly impressive thing we saw that day, a view of the city spilling down to the river, which lay massive and brown in the distance. If the National History Museum in London makes the Kinshasa National Museum look like a shed, the Congo River makes the Thames look like a streak of dog wee. I unholstered my camera and took a few wide-angle shots before one of the museum staff told me I had to pay extra for the privilege.

Caleb joined us again for the trip to the airport, where Uncle Langdon, wearing a lime-green Hawaiian shirt today, made a big show of the fact that we’d be travelling east in one of his charter jets. Caleb got in on the act, telling Amelia, ‘This country has one of the worst air-safety records in the world: all its airlines are blacklisted in the developed world,’ loudly enough for other passengers in the terminal to hear.

She wasn’t impressed. ‘Statistically, flying here is still safer than riding a bicycle at home, by a factor of about ten.’

This should have put him in his place, but he just shrugged and said something else to her too quietly for me to hear. Annoyingly, whatever it was made her smile. She sat next to him on the plane. Just because a person knows a lot, doesn’t make them a good judge of character.

10.

It was only after we’d landed in Goma that I really started to think about what we were about to do there, namely trek into the jungle in search of chimpanzees and gorillas. I have to admit I was looking forward to it: I’d have the opportunity to take some good photos. Our safari guide picked us up from the airport with a placard that spelled ‘Courtny’ wrong, and introduced himself as Innocent.

Amelia said out loud what I was thinking: ‘Unusual name. French, I suppose.’

Thankfully he took no offence, just said, ‘That’s right,’ with a big smile, and led us to a battered Toyota Hilux among the sea of motorbikes and pickups parked haphazardly in front of the terminal. He was quite young, thirty at most, with thin stubble on his chin but not his cheeks. It was as if his face was saying this was all it could manage for now, beard-wise, but he moved quickly and authoritatively, which persuaded me he knew exactly what he was doing. This guy was a former soldier after all.