SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  Copyright © Sean Kendall McCarthy 2017

  First published in Great Britain in 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, sold or utilised in any form or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author and copyright holder Sean Kendall McCarthy

  A CIP catalogue record is available for this book from the British Library

  Hardback IBSN 978–0–9532724–3–3

  Paperback IBSN 978–0–9532724–2–6

  Ebook IBSN 978–0–9532724–4–0

  www.seanofthecongo.co.uk

  For my long-suffering mum

  and late, great dad

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Foreword by Nigel Marven

  Foreword by Etienne Stott MBE & Tim Baillie MBE

  Prologue

  Acknowledgements

  1. A Leap into the Unknown

  2. Trespassers Will Be Poisoned

  3. The Killing Zone

  4. Death Knell

  5. Kingdom of Kongo

  6. The Road to Kisangani

  7. The Quiet Man

  8. Men of Harlech

  9. Den of Iniquity

  10. Enter the Dragons

  11. The Wrath of the Congo

  12. The Inner Journey

  13. Gods of the River

  14. The Jewel of the Congo

  Postscript

  Photographs

  Finally

  INTRODUCTION

  In 1989 the World Wide Web was invented. It was also the year of Tiananmen Square, the Hillsborough disaster, the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the end of the Cold War. In the meantime, over in Africa, a further episode entered the annals of history when two young men became the first documented foreigners to attempt to paddle a native dugout down the Congo’s longest navigable stretch. The tale would become the stuff of Congolese legend.

  What follows is the account of that unique voyage. Beginning with one man’s desire for adventure, it encompasses a perilous trip that led him and a friend into the equatorial rainforests of Africa and, finally, on to the forbidding Congo. It starts 4,000 miles, one continent and two seas from Africa’s core, in England.

  It is my story.

  FOREWORD by Chengdu

  Panda Ambassador,

  Wildlife Legend Nigel Marven

  Who were the first Europeans to paddle a native ‘dugout’ canoe down the mighty Congo River? There was a rumour in Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo) that two Belgians were doing just that when they were eaten by cannibals in 1989. But the voyage was, in fact, made by a couple of Englishmen — and they did not end up on a cannibal menu!

  One of them, Sean McCarthy, has written a rip–roaring narrative of their journey. Sean of the Congo is a travel book I relished reading. Before their adventure, Sean and his buddy Shaggy hadn't set foot in Africa, let alone handled a dugout. With zero preparation and little planning, in the spirit that epitomises the English eccentric, they attempted an outrageously ambitious and unique voyage down the immense Congo.

  This entertaining warts–and–all account vividly describes the diseases, deprivations and hardships. I laughed out loud at Sean's description of the effects of dysentery, and winced with a shared pain as wicked–sharp thorns ripped through his flesh. Just getting to the position of dropping their dugout into the water was no mean feat. It involved a hair–raising flight from London to Moscow, on to Nairobi in Kenya, then to Kigali in Rwanda, for an overland trek to Kisangani in Zaire.

  As with all good travelogues, Sean transports the reader to the humid tropics of Central Africa, sprinkling his story with top facts about the geography and history of this troubled region. On the way there are plenty of colourful characters, among them: Bad Max, a suicidal taxi driver; Goldfinga, a pygmy gold prospector; Cheesy, a shocking visa official; Mathew, a master of profanity; Halitosis, a dugout seller with dubious breath.

  In the river at last and of course things don't go to plan. On the banks of the Congo, the watching crowd erupt in gales of laughter as two hapless Englishmen, with no idea of how to manoeuvre a dugout, spin the craft in circles, getting nowhere fast. I hope you enjoy finding out what happened to Sean and Shaggy on the Congo as much as I did. And the end is as surprising as it is tasty!

  FOREWORD by Olympic

  Champions Etienne Stott MBE

  & Tim Baillie MBE

  When we read this inspirational book, we were struck by numerous parallels and similarities between our journey to the Olympic Gold Medal at London 2012 and the adventure Sean undertook with his friend Shaggy on the Congo. For us, these parallels are important, as we were inspired by the stories of other athletes in our sport, athletes in other sports and by any number of people whose undertakings could be put into the ‘extraordinary’ category. These parallels give a person the notion that maybe they are not that different from these so–called heroes or superstars, these adventurers and daredevils. If you can understand one of these heroes and see where they are coming from, then who is to say that you could not decide to try to do something extraordinary yourself, in a domain that excites and interests you?

  We knew each other from a young age, and grew up together in the sport of canoe slalom, sharing many adventures and experiences. We attended the same university and lived in the same house for many years; we had some big highs and some tough lows. It strikes us that a good yarn is helped by a good sidekick. While the Congo mission was Sean’s vision, the adventure is his and Shaggy’s. It is hard to imagine this story with only one of the lead characters.

  We also share the idea of a journey and a destination, as well as the blurring of the lines between them. Many would think that sports are all about the destination, that is winning. Many would think that adventures are all about the summit, the objective, the claim. We would contend that the journey never ends and that these targets are just places on the way. The Congo was Sean’s dream, and our dream was winning the Olympics in canoe slalom, but looking back, even the shortest shortcut would have taken something away from the satisfaction of the route. It may have been said before, but sometimes the journey is the destination, and sometimes reaching it just begs more journeying.

  Finally, like Sean and Shaggy, we have been fortunate to meet many brilliant people along the way (although it’s fair to say, perhaps we haven’t encountered some of the ‘darker’ characters that they came across). The people we met have sometimes affected us directly and immediately by their actions, but sometimes they have left us with something else of great value: an idea or a thought that reveals its true significance further down the line. It is always interesting to meet new people, however and wherever you meet them. These encounters add something to the journey and to the tales that come afterwards.

  It would be nice to think and hope that people reading this book might find something that pushes them to make a choice, be that in nature, sport, art, science, love, or anything else. That one choice might propel them in a direction that takes them somewhere that was up to that point inconceivable. Potential adventures are all around. You just need the inspiration to take the first step. That’s why we think you’ll enjoy reading Sean of the Congo, it is an adventure that tempts the imagination to get up, stretch its legs and hit the road!

  PROLOGUE

  Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Ninety inches, eighty inches, seventy inches, sixty inches — little by little the tiny island’s eroding bank continued to edge towards us, as against it the explosive waters beat out an incessant war cry, the gales whipping the river into such a furore that any attempt to reach the mainland rema
ined suicidal folly. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, into the mix the embattled dugout rocked ever more ominously, its violent jerks threatening to uproot the already storm–weakened tree to which we had tethered it. Yet, with the rains still drenching us to the bone, through every nail–biting sway and pounding wave all we could do was watch silently, as living off borrowed time we figuratively crossed our fingers, hoping against hope that the island would outlast the blitz. But as the seconds and minutes ticked agonisingly by, tragedy seemed to spiral inexorably closer, and slowly but surely I began to understand what it was like to await the hangman’s noose, as the knot in my stomach tightened progressively, the moment of doom looming ever larger. And through it all there was absolutely nothing we could do except pray for a miracle, while every now and then a glint of sun–light poked teasingly through the blackened sky. It gave us hope, but unfortunately it was false, for just as suddenly the light was gone, and once more a disastrous end came calling. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

  Mercifully, there was a let–up in the storm — a bona fide one this time. Whether this meant it was dying out altogether or merely tempting us to presume so, we didn’t know. What we did know was that, although it was some distance away, this was our chance to make the mainland. Any doubt as to whether we should attempt it was quelled by the thought that the island might literally soon be gone. So we pressed on, and as Shaggy went to untie us I hoisted myself into the dugout and readied my paddle. In an act of defiance I then turned to look at the calmer but still menacing swirls of the ocean–like obstacle we were about to face, and with my most spirited glare beckoned the river to ‘bring it on’. If I was going to exit this world, it wasn’t without putting up one hell of a fight. A second later I felt the dugout angle as Shaggy embarked behind me, a movement that corresponded with something else: a disquieting noise that forced me to swiftly revolve. It was then that I saw a most remarkable sight — half of the island had vanished.

  “Whoa!”

  Hesitation reigned. It was like that moment when, in his mind’s eye, a cricket umpire replays what may or may not have been an LBW. That split second when all around ceases to exist whilst the brain puts things into perspective. Was it my imagination, or had half an island just been wiped out? If so, what a brilliant piece of timing on our part. Especially since the now–defunct half was that on which we had sat. All the same, minds can play tricks. I did a quick assessment: There was a raging torrent? Check. The island was subsiding? Check. There were previously more trees and bushes? Check. Half the island is now missing? Yes! Check! Good Lord, and how lucky that Shaggy, who only a second earlier had stood in the exact same spot that now held nothing but water, had managed to get into the dug… managed to get into… into the… the… Shaggy? Where the hell was Shaggy? Surely not overboard. As choppy as the waters were, the storm’s lull had ensured they weren’t that turbulent. ‘Wait a minute, Sean — think,’ I told myself. ‘Did he even get into the dugout? The tilting you assumed was Shaggy’s weight had happened at the same time the island had collapsed. Oh my word, it was the island that had caused the lift, not Shaggy! So that means…’

  I replayed the scene in which I had last seen him. Yes, he had been standing on this side of the island. But had he been swallowed by the abyss? Yet it was only too obvious — my sole companion was now a victim of the Congo.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Once upon a time someone said that getting a book into print is not so much a sprint, but a marathon. I’ll endorse that, although in my case I guess it’s been more of an ultra–ultra–marathon. For those who might be querying why it has taken me the best part of three decades, the truth of the matter is that the first seven chapters were written within a few months of my return. Thereafter followed many years of inserting it between pressing matters, not so pressing matters and, just as JK Rowling was, being ignored by myriad publishers. Fortunately for my desire to accomplish, I’m not the kind to throw in the towel, so here you go. Of course few writers ever complete a journey without at least one helping hand, and luckily for me the occasional dispiriting voice has been easily drowned out by those offering practical assistance, inspiration, or simply encouragement. I would therefore like to give heartfelt thanks to:

  David Martyn Davies, Robert Ashcroft, Pat Matthews, Tom Crowdy, Professor Christopher Cramer, Grayson Schaffer, Charlotte Ecroyd, Christina Dodwell FRGS, Dr Reuben Loffman, Ivan Lawler MBE, Etienne Stott MBE, Samantha Davis, Sarah Wooding, Vicky Allum, Tim Baillie MBE, Brigit Sullivan, Nadeem Sajjad, Deborah Atkinson, Nigel Marven, Jacqui Stewart, Lesley Walker Timms, Wayne Walker, Geoff Thompson, Steve Kellar, Kevin Green MD, Zulf Choudhary, Perry ‘The Original Stig’ McCarthy, John Harris Hussar, Shaun Kelly, Sir Ben Ainslie, Anthony Davis, Ian Visser, Carol Lee, Nigel Mitchell, Ben Shephard, Owen Burnham, Dave Benmore, Joe Ball, Russ Aspin, Ben Fogle FRGS, Sean O’Toole, Andy Reid, Lee Crew, Neville Yates, James Cracknell OBE, Martin Astin, Ben Smallwood, Kristen Ellison, Steve Backshall, Andrea Holt, Tony Follett, Mary Grey, Alan Samson, Benedict Allen FRGS, Tom Kennedy, Colin Benmore, Stephen Ball, Sir Ranulph Fiennes, Alan Chadwick, Ste Drayton, Lynda Sedgwick, Alistair Brownlee MBE, David Klein, Teresa Wright, Katie Davies, Jonathan Brownlee, James Harris, Sue O’Mara, Richard Vickerstaff, Louise Minchin, Travers Lawrence, Gary Davenport, Dennis Linskey, Richard Madeley, Harish Deepak, Karen Donohue, Derrick Binning, Judy Finnigan, Mark Taylor, Nicola Spiby, Kelsie Shute, Janet Brown, Professor Noel Fitzpatrick, Russell Jarmesty, Guy Parkinson, Arran & Ryan, Gill & Dave Ward, Sue & Allan Davis, Suzan & Zeynel Aydin, Sir David Attenborough, Ann Fyles, Co McIntosh, Gary Brown, Jo & Jim Arnold, Lyubomyr Yatsyk, Sandeep Likhar, abfire–prevention.co.uk, siteeng.co.uk, nulifeuk.co.uk, sweetdeceits.com.

  CHAPTER 1

  A LEAP INTO THE

  UNKNOWN

  I had been intending to travel to the heart of Africa for some time. For years I’d been fascinated by the thought of fortune and glory, quests and exploration, danger and risk, and every other element of the concept of derring–do. Ever since I was a child, reading superhero comics and Enid Blyton tales, I had dreamed of leading a life away from the everyday drudgery that’s so easy to fall into. I was going to be different. I was going to boldly go. Surgeon, jockey, astronaut — most people have aspirations that somehow get discarded upon adulthood, but not me. I was so positive I would fulfil my every objective, and especially exploring Africa, specifically its interior, probably the easiest to achieve of my many goals. Unless becoming an Olympic champion and winning Academy Awards is simpler (I had big dreams).

  Why deepest Africa? I recall that, at that childhood phase when I was discovering adventure could be had in distant lands, I would turn time after time to Africa in an atlas. With its immense deserts, mighty rivers and steamy jungles, the whole place seemed so far away from the norm. Any part of it would have offered the experience of a lifetime, but my eyes were always drawn to what had been its last bastion of uncharted territory: the once–unconquerable, ominous core. Here, along the equator, it was shaded a rich green, representing lush and dense rainforest. And through the green came a vivid blue line that arced its way across the middle. I don’t know how many times I read the enchanting, yet equally menacing, word that went with that green shading and blue line, but I was hooked... “Congo.” Now combine this with the imagery of the Tarzan TV series I was watching at the time, and my desire for exotic adventure became a concrete ambition. One that over the years kept tempting me, luring me, nagging me, goading me: “I dare you to man up. I dare you to go to the tropics. I dare you to brave darkened forests — I dare you to face the Congo.”

  Then, one day, I received a letter from an old training partner I’d roomed with at an athletics camp some five years earlier. His name was Lee Walker, though we all called him Shaggy.

  The letter Shaggy sent was the game changer: dumped the job; left England; living in Germany; injured again, etc. It was the ‘etc’ bit that caught my attention. Forced to take a breather from i
ntense training sessions, he could still walk, so had made the decision to hitchhike around Europe. Did I fancy going with him? My “Let’s go to Africa instead!” was not the answer he had been expecting. To someone like Shaggy, however, it was very inspirational. After all, when your screen hero is Indiana Jones and you harbour the impulse to go trailblazing, how could you not be stirred by such a prospect? No doubt the blood surged through his body, and excited by my having similar escapist aims he quickly headed back to England.

  On his arrival at my house, Shaggy actually tried persuading me to accompany him to whichever city it was in South America (he’d read of a bejewelled hidden antiquity and fancied uncovering it, à la his screen hero), but I’d had my heart set on African travel far too long to be discouraged at this stage of the game. So I set about reshaping his thinking. Yes, by definition a quest is classically associated with the search of a prized trinket of some kind, the en route adventure more of a by–product. And yes, of course I would like to go jewel hunting in South America. But I had already made plans.

  “Keep talking,” said Shaggy.

  So I did, telling him how instead of an actual item we would make adventure itself our task. We would go to the legendary Congo river “...and paddle down it in a native dugout.”

  “You’re out of your tree.”

  “Completely. But that’s only half of it.”

  “What’s the other half?”

  “Getting there. Our starting point is smack in the middle of Africa. That means we’ll have to first cross at least three countries and then hundreds of miles of jungle.”

  “You’re definitely out of your tree.”

  “Says the guy who thinks we can find lost treasure that none of the experts have. You’ve been watching too much Indiana Jones.”

  “Says Tarzan.”