More unforgettable than the taxis were their drivers, the biggest danger to the heart since the emergence of the deep–fried chocolate bar. Akin to many parts of the world with a British colonial history, Kenya has left–hand traffic, but so many Nairobian taxi drivers habitually used whichever side took their fancy, it wasn’t easy to tell. Time and again we would have to leap from the path of an oncoming cab, even when we weren’t on the road. That didn’t matter. You could be on the road, on the pavement, or even on the moon — the Nairobian cabbie would still find you. To endorse this, our lift from the airport had been an experience, or at least that’s what we had thought, until we employed our second taxi, which proved to be almost as terrifying as our flight to Moscow. It all began when we got into the exhaust–stinking Death Machine III thing in the first place, and the driver — ‘Bad Max’ — turned around and asked us where we wanted to go. Strewth, talk about devilish–looking. One look from him would have turned Medusa to stone. He had the ideal horror–flick mug: intense creepy eyes and jagged teeth. If he had stuck his tongue out, I swear it would have been forked.
From there it got worse, as Bad Max started to play ‘chicken’ with the other psychotic demolition derby drivers, all of whom continued, in some sort of bizarre suicide ritual, to cherry–pick which side of the street to drive on. When that failed to generate a fatality, our driver turned his expertise to mowing down unwary pedestrians. This began when he spun on to a new road and detected a group of young men innocently crossing in the distance. Salivating at the idea of wiping out the lot, Bad Max hit the gas — hard. No doubt the young men had deemed our cab too far away to reach them (the fools), especially as they were virtually on the kerb by now. But our determined driver refused to be denied. Foot to the floor, he swung Death Machine III towards them, the crazed glee upon his face a palpable contrast to the blind panic of the youths, who dived in all directions. Unfortunately one of them didn’t have the necessary reflexes. But instead of trying to miss him, which would have been only too simple, Bad Max caught the poor lad slap on the rump, spinning him through the air until he landed, in agony, on the pavement. That he was still alive incensed Bad Max, who waved his arms in anger, shouted a few obscenities and drove off, his outburst coming to a finish only when he turned, still driving, to face Shaggy and me with what was now a feverish chuckle; his raised eyebrows giving the signal that he wished for us to convey our approval. Afraid of the consequences, we duly appeased him by enacting our own fevered chortles.
Several heart–stopping minutes later, Bad Max thankfully released us. No haggling from me; I hastily paid him his fare, and off he shot to his next victim. I didn’t even get the chance to ask him when he might be off duty, so we could walk the streets without having to wear a rabbit’s foot or full body armour.
At some point during Day Two in Africa, Sayeed at last materialised. A year older than Ali, the combination of Arabian features, a similar build and choice of attire, all added up to the cousin he had been waiting for. The genealogy was further cemented when, humorously to Shaggy and me, within a minute of their greeting each other they were robustly quibbling over the incumbent black market rate.
Widespread in Africa, the black market was used both by local people and clued–up travellers because, with no charges to pay, the rate of exchange was always better. The trick was to get a balance. Too much at the bank and you were out of pocket, but too much on the street and upon leaving the country sceptical customs officers may detain you. Hence the only way to use the black market intelligently was to not disclose your entire wherewithal on the entry declaration form. Guess which two lame–brained novices had done so? Lesson learned.
The cousins took us on another short tour of Nairobi, then for a spot of boating, and on to Snake Park, a reptile zoo that among other scaly things was home to some imposing ten–foot black mambas: the world’s fastest and Africa’s longest venomous serpent. The signs on the enclosures were equally memorable, each offering an entertaining witticism, such as the black mambas’ ‘Trespassers will be poisoned’ and one crocodile’s ‘Visitors throwing litter into this pit will be required to retrieve it’.
Come teatime, Sayeed had to leave. Hungry but not yet up to savouring the indigenous fare (typically roasted goat and ugali, a starchy cornmeal), Ali took us to the Wimpy, where we each tucked into that awfully British of ice cream sundaes, a Knickerbocker Glory. We also came across an old pal of Ali’s, whom he immediately invited to join us for a chat later that evening at the hotel.
Larry X — and yes, that was the handle he went by, undoubtedly nicked from the rather more famous Malcolm — was an eloquent, ebony–hued, slim, poker–faced young Kenyan, my age to be accurate, who smelled of tobacco and detested political correctness. He also took every opportunity to boast about being, “The coolest dude in Nairobi.” The son of a wealthy doctor, he’d had by Kenyan standards an extremely privileged upbringing, but appeared to care little for that in comparison with his apparent main concern in life — looking cool. And for the most part, I suppose I would have to say that he wasn’t wrong: the turned–up chinos and in–vogue long–sleeved cotton shirt with its unbuttoned collar may not instantly say ‘cool’ to you, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to find some local dictionary carrying a picture of him next to the term. Moreover, while Shaggy and I, and Ali for that matter, disliked smoking, we had to admit that Larry’s execution of it looked more like an art form than a bad habit, as though he had been watching Bogart films his entire life. To top it all, he underlined his coolness by walking with a bounce in his step, à la John Travolta’s character Tony Manero of Saturday Night Fever, which he claimed was, “A natural gift, bestowed on me from birth.” He was every bit as forthright about his darker side, too. Released recently from six months in prison — “I provoked the wrong person” — Larry alleged the authorities involved were crooked enough to have allowed his father to have paid a bribe for his freedom, but his old man wasn’t too pleased with his colourful image and let him stew.
“My country has its corruption,” said Larry, “but we still have a lot more class than the non–English speaking nations of Africa. That is because Britain brought true culture to us. I cherish that.”
“Careful, it’s not all sweetness and light. They’ve just sent us here,” I joked.
Whether or not Larry was trying to ingratiate himself with us, who knows? Regardless of his take on culture, a man with his knowledge would have known full–well that any positive British influence had come at a price. The pith–helmeted gatecrashers had, for one, deceitfully displaced many of his farming forefathers (shepherded to substandard regions, they were caused to return subsequently to their own farmland, but this time as mere labourers). Still, being no expert I was happy to take him at face value and listened attentively as he continued to cast opinions on all manner of topics, including African traditions, philosophy, politics, and in particular politics in sport. His ambition was to become the minister for sport, and I found it an audacious mix when he combined sport, cool, and his abhorrence of political correctness, by describing the Frank Bruno vs Mike Tyson heavyweight world title boxing bout earlier that year as, “A fight to see who were the coolest — the British niggers or the American niggers."
“If ever you realise your dream,” said Shaggy, “your time in office will be interesting.”
Monday was all go. To quell any possible ‘three for the price of one’ suspicion we left the hotel separately, then reunited at the Wimpy. After stocking up on another Knickerbocker Glory each, we set about ruminating on Shaggy’s and my travel options. Our objective was to head to the home of the Congo river, Zaire (it’s now called Democratic Republic of the Congo — not to be confused with neighbouring Congo), and then on to a place called Kisangani, which was situated alongside the river, deep in the jungle. Here, we planned to obtain a native ‘dugout’ canoe, which the Congolese call a pirogue, and then paddle it to Kinshasa, not far from the mouth. It was also the capital, so wou
ld be the ideal place from which to make our return. How we achieved all this depended upon our first getting to Zaire, and the overland option was to travel around the enormous Lake Victoria. To the north meant passing through Uganda; to the south, Tanzania, and on through Rwanda or Burundi. From any of these three nations we could then make our way into Zaire.
North or south? However we looked at it, either way seemed time–consuming and my impatience soon triggered an alternative from Ali, who had by this time arranged to fly out to Rwanda the following day.
“Why not come with me? The plane will be landing at Kigali, the capital. This is where I live. From there it is very simple to get to the border, one bus ride. If you come, I can show you Kigali and also how to get to Zaire.”
“To be honest, we’ve ruled out flying,” I responded.
“Yeah, flights cost too much,” said my ever–thrifty sidekick.
“The flight to Rwanda is actually rather cheap. In my estimation you would spend twice as much money in the two weeks it would take travelling around Lake Victoria.”
Suddenly Ali’s solution sounded just the ticket. If we could chop a few days off the journey to our definitive Congo goal, and in doing so save money that we may later need, then so much the better. Not as bothered about time constraints, the thought of saving money nonetheless sold it for Shaggy, although he did express our reservations about Rwanda’s stability, above all its history of warfare.
“There has been much violence in many African countries — Zaire especially,” wasn’t the answer we had been hoping for from Ali. All the same, he did go on to assure us that we would be fine in Rwanda, as long as we were with him. “My father is a very powerful man. The only person more powerful is Juvénal Habyarimana, the president. I used to play football with one of his sons when I was younger. We are still friends. The Hassan name is very big in Rwanda, very powerful.”
Up until now Shaggy and I had been aware that Ali’s father was a successful businessman, but with this latest revelation and then more dialogue came the full impact of just how far–reaching that success was. With offices in a number of countries, Hassan Senior not only controlled a thriving import–export business, but he also owned the franchise to produce and supply Pepsi–Cola to the whole of Rwanda. He was a very rich and influential man, and the more Ali talked, the more awestruck we became by his family’s patent clout, to the point that Shaggy felt compelled to ask, “What if, say, we are with you and we got into a fight with someone and they died. What would happen then? Not that we’re intending to get into any trouble.”
“Of course not. You are speaking hypothetically. Shall we say that, if you know me, they will not punish you, but you will be told to go home.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Looks like we may be coming with you,” I added, as increasingly the flight started to seem too good to miss. Not because we could get away with murder, but because we would now have the omnipotent Ali as both guide and protector.
Despite the benefits, there were still two snags with Ali’s proposal. Firstly, the idea of boarding another plane didn’t appeal to me — had Shaggy and I been cats, our nine lives would already have been cut to seven, courtesy of Captain Kamikaze and Bad Max. The more rational second predicament was one that couldn’t be ignored: the plane was leaving the following day, and to enter Rwanda we would need a visa. Acquiring one of those apparently took no less than two days.
“Bloody typical,” said Shaggy, utilising one of his pet maxims.
He needn’t have fretted, as once more the heroic Ali leapt to our rescue and led us to his father’s Nairobi office, whereupon he introduced us to his Mr Fix–it, Albert, a forty–something Kenyan donning a 1970s–style jacket and jeans combo.
Although determined to talk of nothing beyond how God–fearing he was (and consequently being very boring, a trait amplified by the charismatic company we had kept of late in the form of Ali, Sayeed and Larry X) ‘Albert the Bore’ knew the bribery ropes well enough to get anybody anything they wanted — a visa, a driving licence, even a passport — for a small donation, that is. And so he promised to get our visas sorted out that very day. The required amount corresponded to thirteen pounds, plus two more for whichever office staff member would be accepting the backhander, half of which doubtless found its way into Albert’s pocket.
Everything went smoothly.
The visas sorted, Ali next directed Mr Fix–it to take us to the travel agency to purchase our air tickets, where we again found problems, and again they were twofold. The first was that we had to spend more time with Albert the Bore, who still couldn’t be drawn on any topic of conversation other than to bellyache about how he would be struck down and consigned to hell if he ever did anyone a wrong. Given he had just broken the law of the land, not only did he have a terrible memory, and an odd sense of being a Christian, but so repetitive was his drone, one could also be forgiven for hoping the striking down would happen sooner rather than later. The second part of the problem, however, was more worrying. Once at the travel agency, disaster struck. We were refused service on the basis that we hadn’t brought any receipts for the money we had changed previously at the bank. Another lesson learned — hang on to all relevant receipts. What the assistant really wanted was for us to pay with US dollars (the accepted international currency), but alas, we were still rather green about all these money matters. Even so, I was damned if I was going to buy a ticket with anything except Kenya’s own currency, and I blew a fuse.
“What you are trying to say is that we’re allowed to enter Kenya, but we’re not allowed to leave!”
The assistant shrugged, but there was no way I was dropping the subject and declined to give her any quarter, carrying on my protest until the manager came out and agreed to complete the transaction, receipts or no receipts. Catastrophe averted.
That night Ali had arranged to stay with Sayeed, but rather than have Shaggy and me kip in the tent again, he asked Albert the Bore to take us to a no–frills doss–house called The New Kenya Lodge. Here, we were handed the key to a very basic — two beds and a wooden chair only — moth–eaten and musty room, which may seem unsavoury (and sure, you wouldn’t choose it for your honeymoon) but it was nothing less than we were expecting within our budget. Besides, not only was it more comfortable and safer than camping, and only half the price, but it also gave us the ability to come and go without our baggage.
Once settled, we locked the door and followed Ali’s directions to our given rendezvous, a little café a couple of miles out of town. Soon we were being presented to some of his Arab connections, a similarly gracious and philosophical lot whose discourses also revolved around world affairs and commerce. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have believed this too problematic, but compared to Ali and his friends’ more extensive insight, I have to say I did feel something of a thicko. Especially since, whenever I was about to chip in with anything that seemed vaguely fitting, Shaggy kept beating me to the punch with much the same idea — at one stage I swear my entire input amounted to, “Lovely weather here, isn’t it?”
Halfway into the evening all the business talk reminded Ali that he had contracts to clinch and, with an itchy dialling finger, he soon left everyone with his usual, “I have to go, I have some calls to make.” An hour later his friends decided they too had people to ring, so Shaggy and I shook their hands and wandered back to the centre, where we unexpectedly ran into the coolest dude in Nairobi, and his girlfriend Suzette.
A charmer, Larry took advantage of our not yet having eaten and in no time we were treating them at a Greek–owned, sort of African–Chinese restaurant. Here, he opened the chitchat with his favourite subject — himself — before moving on to debate politics in sport, and ultimately our forthcoming voyage.
“So your Congo journey commences at Kisangani. I’ve heard this is the centre of Africa.”
“Geographically speaking, that’s right,” I answered. “It’s the same distance from Cairo as
is it to Cape Town, and also the same east and west, from the Atlantic and the Indian Ocean.”
“This is why you have chosen Kisangani, not further upriver?”
“No, no. We have no choice. Waterfalls make it impossible to navigate prior to Kisangani. If there is a way of getting past or down them, we wouldn’t have a clue.”
“Besides,” said Shaggy, “neither of us has ever been in any kind of canoe before, let alone a paddle a pirogue.”
“Never?”
“No, never. Or done any survival training.”
You’re both crazy.”
“Pretty much.”
“And you say you’re going to paddle to Kinshasa. How far is this?”
My “a thousand miles” raised Mr Cool’s eyebrows.
“Impressive. Even ten miles would be good.”
“Don’t forget,” I added, “once we get into Zaire there’s still several hundred miles of jungle to get through before we reach Kisangani. And that’s bound to create a tale or two.”
“You should write a book,” was somewhat prophetic from Larry.
“Oh, Sean of the Congo’s going to do everything,” jibed Shaggy, “write best–sellers, play James Bond, win the Olympics, win...”
“Yeah, nothing major,” I cut in, wishing to play down my usually mocked, expansive ambitions.
But Shaggy knew how to press the right buttons.
“Fiver against you doing any of them.”
SEAN OF THE CONGO Page 3
