Take a 23-year-old actor (one admittedly naive about the problems plaguing central Africa), surround him with four young activists, and drop him into one of the world’s most ravaged places. The result? A journey of discovery.

by Emile Hirsch

DAY 1: FROM CALI TO THE CONGO

Right now I’m sitting in seat 24H, 40,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, on my way to the heart of Africa: the Democratic Republic of Congo. On my lap is a packet from Oxfam America, the humanitarian aid organization. The pages are filled with all sorts of information about the Rwandan genocide, the Tutsi and Hutu civil war, and other injustices, and so far I’m having to read everything three or four times because none of it is really making much sense to me. Oxfam brought up the idea of this trip a month ago. Another actor and I were to visit camps of displaced people, meet local officials, and see relief efforts firsthand to help make others aware of this ongoing crisis.

I first came across Oxfam through the story of Christopher McCandless, the young man whose journey of self-discovery, with its ultimately tragic conclusion, was well-documented in the book and film Into the Wild. I played McCandless in the latter. He had given his life savings of $24,500.68 to Oxfam before setting out on his two-year odyssey to Alaska. Inspired by that, I also donated to Oxfam, and it still feels like the best money I’ve ever spent.

So here I am in 24H, my little blue bag I bought at a CVS pharmacy for $20 buried deep in cargo. And now, due to unexpected reasons, the other actor, one I’d counted on as my brother in arms, isn’t next to me. He canceled hours earlier. So as far as actors with no relief work experience whatsoever go, I’m on my own. And I’m reading these pages and thinking about the $600 in 20s and 50s I was told to carry for “security reasons” and part of me (a big part) is a bit scared. I mean, Jesus — the Congo?

I’m starting to put together a picture of the situation in the DRC. In the 1994 Rwandan genocide, more than 800,000 Tutsi men, women, and children were brutally and systematically murdered by Hutu extremists over 100 bloody days. The Tutsis, through the Rwandan Patriotic Front, fought back, eventually sending the Hutus into retreat. The Hutus fled, and over a few days in July 1994 nearly 1 million refugees crossed the border into Goma, an eastern city in the DRC. This strained an already unstable situation in the Congo, a country filled with civil strife. A lack of supplies and basic water and hygiene led to new levels of suffering and starvation. Since 1998 an estimated 5.4 million people have died from the hardships.

The other actor may have dropped out, but I’m not alone. Before I departed Los Angeles I had been joined by Lyndsay Cruz, Oxfam’s “public figures liaison.” My first impression of this blond-haired, blue-eyed 30-year-old was more California beach babe than humanitarian worker. Turns out the two aren’t mutually exclusive. Also onboard was photographer Nabil Elderkin, who has a restless energy and a toothpick forever glued to his mouth. He’s a wise 26, having grown up in Australia and traveled the world shooting photos since he was 18. When I offered him a beer in the airport lounge, he told me he quit drinking on his 21st birthday, which sounded ass-backward to me. “In Australia we start at 14,” he explained.

The rest of the team joins us at a stopover in Frankfurt. Liz Lucas, a short, multipierced 27-year-old blonde, is Oxfam’s press officer. She mentions that only a few days earlier militia fighters stormed into a refugee camp in Rutshuru and opened fire with machine guns, killing nine and injuring many others. This, at a camp just like the ones we are supposed to visit. I’ll be honest: Right now I’m scared out of my fucking mind. I keep going over how to get out of boarding the next plane, but there’s just no way without giving up some manhood.

The fifth member of our group is Jimmie Briggs, a journalist and author. About 6-foot-3 and black, with nerdy-cool retro glasses and long, thin dreadlocks, Jimmie, 38, has a charisma that puts me at ease right away. He wrote a book, Innocents Lost, about child soldiers around the world, and spent six years researching it, so this guy knows what he’s doing. At our next stopover, in Ethiopia, Jimmie and I sit at a bar and drink Fantas together, chatting about what I expect from Africa. I give him a lame answer about trying to manage my own expectations, which basically means I have no idea. But later, when we all grab some food at an Ethiopian restaurant, I turn to Jimmie and readdress his question. What do I want? To help make the world a better place. That’s why we’re all here. Jimmie puts out his fist to me. That’s the truth right there, he says. I take his word for it.

On our way to the plane two African men blatantly cut in front of us as we go through security. “TIA,” say Jimmie and Nabil, chuckling with each other. TIA. This Is Africa.

We touch down in Kigali, Rwanda’s capital, and meet Yao, a 32-year-old Congolese Oxfam worker who looks exactly like the pop star Seal, but without the scars. His English is perfect, and he ushers us into two jeeps, painted purple to render them unusable if stolen. We drive for three hours, winding around cliff-hanging roads at sphincter-tightening speeds, until we reach the city of Goma, just across the border in the Congo. We’ll spend the night here.