We returned to Kisenyi in the last few days of December. This time we were travelling in style – a friend from Bunia who had inadvertently become our guide drove us through in his car. It was definitely a more comfortable than 45km on a cheap Chinese (Indian?) motorbike. We stopped once, along the way, at an accident scene – a large, yellow truck had fallen off the side of the mountain. As one of our group remarked, it was probably a good thing we didn’t see this on our way in. To be fair, the condition of the roads and the vehicles in the eastern DRC is such that accidents are probably not that unusual. Luckily no-one was hurt and, once the photographers were done, we headed on.

The eastern DRC is beautiful and this ride was one of my favourite of the trip. The area around Bunia is cattle country, with rolling hills and wide grassy plains. Travelling to Kisenyi, you drop sharply down the hillside towards the lake. We had driven out of a storm and the storm light turned the hills emerald green. In the distance, running almost parallel to the road, was a series of electricity pylons. Wires hung down forlornly and nothing connects them anymore, but they are a reminder that this place, this area, is not one of perpetual darkness and despair and hint that this most recent turmoil might be an exception rather than the rule.

Towards Kisenyi, we saw more of the long-horned cows so typical of the area. Months later, I would hear from a colleague the ongoing struggle they have to convince people in east and central Africa to give up their long-horned cows in favour of breeds with better milk and meat production. Those horns certainly are striking.

In Kisenyi, the friend we had driven down with took us back to the little guest-house where we’d stayed which, it turned out, was owned by his sister’s daughter. We left our bags and then headed off to his resort, which, it turned out, is quite a lot like something out of a movie set. We chatted and wrote and relaxed and some of the group did a few interviews before the friend who had driven us down returned to Bunia. Fisherman in boats came and went along the shore. A perfect setting for our last afternoon in the Congo.

We stayed at the resort for dinner. It was more expensive than some of the other places we’d been, but it was pretty good and the sheer joy of fish and chips with cold Primus under a lapa by the lake, while evening fell on Kisenyi was precious.

As we were getting ready to leave, like a final gift after a day of wonderful sights, fireflies appeared. I grew up reading about fireflies in books from other countries. I know we have glow-worms in South Africa but I’d never seen anything like this. I sat on the swing in the warm evening and watch a magical lights show – masses of flickering, pulsing flashes of light against the dark trees and the dark lake and the endless, star-washed sky.

The drums woke us again the next morning, although they were less dramatic and we dozed for longer before getting up. We breakfasted at the guesthouse: boiled eggs, soft rusks and (sadly not very good) coffee.

Less than an hour later, we were back at the dock searching for a boat to carry us back across the lake. This time, we were not taking the fast ferry, so the options were many. The first boat we found was full of empty beer bottles being transported back to Uganda. Shortly afterwards, however, we found a passenger boat. Before we knew it, someone had found the lost members of our group, everyone had climbed aboard and paid and we were pushing off and leaving behind the village of Kisenyi.

On the eastern shore of Lake Albert is a small town called Kisenyi. To get there, we took a car from Fort Portal around the winding foothills of the Rwenzori and then, unexpectedly and for free, through a game reserve of long, dry-white grass, antelope, guinea fowl and thorn trees.

We reached the grubby port town of Ntoroko around mid-morning and headed off to find immigration and the ferry. Someone gave the immigration official a call and he came and stamped us out of the country. We were told we had to take the fast ferry, so we dutifully climbed on board and waited five hours for the boat to fill up.

It was a beautiful, hot, summer’s day with the water sparkling into the distance. Nearby, a moving line of men and women loaded all manner of supplies onto what looked like an over-sized wooden row-boat. Three small boys splashed and laughed and did back-flips in the water near the shore.

Towards late afternoon, we set off across the lake. Lake Albert is beautiful. A wide expanse of silvery water, with the occasional clump of greenery. In the distance, the silver water met the light blue sky, the horizon invisible. Fishing boats dotted the lake, dark against the shining water. Wooden boats, poled slowly across the water or still as a fisherman threw out his net. Some of the boats had what looked like shade-cloth structures in the middle, looking in silhouette strangely Japanese. People waved as we passed. Birds took off from tree trunks and glided away. The light was perfect on that first trip over the lake and the photographers among us virtually vibrated with frustration as we tossed around whether to risk what we’d heard was Congolese officials’ vehement dislike for people with cameras.

In the distance, the shadow of a mountain began to grow. As we got closer we saw what looked like a coastal resort or a fishing village. Cream and blue houses nestled in the green with towering hills beyond. We landed at a dock where many people were gathered below the rusted corpse of an ancient metal crane.

As we stepped off the boat, a border police-man took our passports and led us to the small, white and blue house that served as the immigration office. The office was simple and clean and the immigration official was relatively pleasant and polite. Before long, we were stamped into the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

The original plan was to head straight for Bunia but it was getting dark and there was uncertainty about being able to find transport. I’m so glad we stayed. Not that we had anywhere to stay, but small towns are small towns, especially when you’re friendly, and the border police-man who had shown us to immigration quickly jumped in to help and hustle two of our group off to inspect the potential accommodations. The rest of us lazed in the late afternoon sun and watched the cows grazing and looked out at the lake. People wandered by and greeted these strangers before moving on.

We stayed that night at a very basic little guest-house, the name of which I never did figure out. The rooms were sparsely furnished but everything was clean and actually quite comfortable and there were mosquito net on the beds. We got three rooms at $10 per room, which would turn out to be one of the best prices of the trip, and for one of the nicest places.

I was tired, that first evening, and stressed because I wanted to contact home and let them know I was okay. I couldn’t sms because the text message services had been suspended after the DRC elections and roaming charges on MTN in a non-MTN country would be extortionate. Sorting out sim-cards helped, as did a good bucket-shower and good dinner. Dinner was great, actually. Ugandan food didn’t thrill me, but it wasn’t until that first meal in Kisenyi that I realised what I had been missing. The Ugandan food was bland. It wasn’t bad or offensive; it just didn’t taste of much. That dinner in Kisenyi was delicious: spicy cabbage and beef with plantain that wasn’t mashed and rice.

After dinner, I phoned home and felt much better. The phone reception in Kisenyi was great – possibly because the place we were staying was just near the cellphone tower. By 8 o’clock, I was climbing into bed and turning off the light in the room – which for some reason had a red light-bulb – and falling asleep to the gentle sounds of a lakeside town on a warm summer evening.

At 5:30am we were woken by the sound of drums. Loud and actually pretty good, they welcomed us to the day with intricate, delicate rhythms. We eventually figured it must be a church service. It was definitely unexpected but not unpleasant. It was early, however. I tried to drift back to sleep but the morning had started and the ducks and chickens and motorbikes were all adding their voices to the dawn. Slowly, the sunrise turned the world beyond the bamboo fence a gentle orange. Inside the room, tree-dappled light fell onto the white mosquito net. It was peaceful. The drumming had stopped and I could hear birds chirping and some sweeping in the yard.

Eventually, we were all up and about. We headed to the centre of town and ate a good, if slow, breakfast before getting onto the back of boda-bodas and driving off to Bunia. It would be nearly ten days before we returned to Kiseyi, ten days in which we saw so much and travelled so much. Kisenyi was as much of a joy on the return journey as it had been on the way out.