SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  “There are six million people living on ten thousand square miles of land, and the average Rwandan mother has eight or nine children. And I guarantee there will be ten million people in twenty years. This is why the government has asked parents to stop at four children. But it isn’t enough. Far more than religion or politics, it is overcrowding that sets off wars. And one will happen again. You will see.”

  He was proved to be right on all counts.

  Sajid liked to philosophise too, chiefly on what seemed to be the ‘in’ themes: commerce and world politics. Due to visit other nations where their company had interests, he talked candidly about political tensions, especially in the Asian countries with which their family had connections, such as Lebanon. One day he confessed to knowing “for a fact” that the famed Englishmen Terry Waite and John McCarthy, along with Irishman Brian Keenan and Americans Terry Anderson, Tom Sutherland and Frank Reed — just six of many foreigners taken hostage by the Islamic Jihad Organisation — were alive. This was an eye–opener, because no one in the UK appeared to have a clue about their welfare. Moreover, while I might not have known Sajid well, I had every confidence that his information was accurate, to the point that I made a mental note to inform the authorities of this news upon my return home (in the event, I wrote to the government and various media, all without reply). As history has shown, these men were not only alive but within three years were also all released.

  Unable to obtain a Zairian visa due to the immigration office being closed, Shaggy and I unpacked our belongings, locked the room, and with time to waste made for some tree–covered hills in the distance. To accomplish this we had to first pass through Kigali’s main market, which basically was no different from those in England: a large square full of rows of stalls that showcased clothing, bric–a–brac, food, etc.

  Clucking chickens, bleating goats and a chatty parrot competed for attention against a backdrop of many barterers, the sights and sounds of which highlighted the most prominent difference between Nairobi and Kigali, as here there were significantly fewer foreigners. Another disparity was that the Kenyans spoke English, and whilst Kinyarwanda was the indigenous tongue in Rwanda, because their co–official language was French many of the Kigalians spoke both. One such vendor asked Shaggy to buy a chicken, which prompted a curt reply, although on this occasion not because of my friend’s limited French (five years of Français at school had rendered neither of us a linguist). Like me, Shaggy had a soft spot for animals and couldn’t understand why the man felt it necessary to display his live birds by hanging them upside down. And so on we wandered — directly into another abrupt Shaggy response. The boldest of a set of children had asked my compatriot for one of the badges he kept on his cap, but received short shrift because Shaggy was hoping to trade them should the necessity arise. At least that’s what he reasoned — my penny–pinching was decidedly small–time compared to Shaggy’s. If at death’s door he was offered life–saving pills that cost next to nothing, I wouldn’t have bet against him turning them down if he knew they were cheaper elsewhere.

  Once past the market, differences within Kigali itself materialised. The houses became progressively smaller, and far more rudimentary, until they eventually turned into what I would describe as clay cabins. Similarly, although the men continued to wear Western garb, albeit more raggedy, women now favoured traditional clothing in the form of brightly coloured sarongs, shawls and wraps. The biggest transformation, however, occurred once we reached the suburbs, as here there were no Johnny Foreigners at all. And it showed. Where once we had been asked to purchase chickens and hand over badges, the Kigalians now stared, laughed and pointed at us. Others would pass us and, preoccupied, not notice until the last moment, when they would drop their jaw, then holler “Umuzungu! Umuzungu!” (“White man! White man!”). And children would at first back away, then, realising we were friendly, tag along, their flock now so voluminous it was as if they were joining some great carnival procession.

  In time we arrived at the bottom of the nearest faraway hill, upon which I asked a teenager if it was possible to make the crest. Having suddenly witnessed a large group fronted by two umuzungus bearing down on him, it was no bombshell to find the teen’s face a fusion of shock and puzzlement, but the look soon altered to that of a gigantic beam and he motioned us to follow him up a well–trodden pathway. So follow we did, the ever–growing procession of children cheerfully pursuing, while men and women, wondering what all the commotion was about, emerged from what were now mud huts, many of them greeting us with handshakes, good luck wishes, pats on the back and cries of excitement — to such an extent that we felt like pop stars.

  “I feel like the Pied Piper of Hamlin,” I afforded, musing over our newfound ‘stardom’.

  “They’re most probably thinking — Wow, the blond one is Indiana Jones,” said Shaggy.

  “Nah — The dark–haired one is James Bond.”

  “More like Frankenstein’s monster.”

  “Says Quasimodo.”

  Shaggy giggled, and we carried on up the faraway hill.

  The incline steepened. So much so that it was impossible for any more huts to have been erected here, and our resident guide stopped the procession and beckoned us to keep on up the little track and into the woods …alone. With many cheers ringing in our ears (and youthful optimism dismissing the possibility that what we assumed to be “Goodbye and good luck!” was actually “Abandon hope all ye who enter there!”) we followed the guide’s advice and made our way up the hillside, which was now inhabited by such an intoxicating kaleidoscope of trees that it wasn’t until we were deep into the forest that we realised something rather telling — there was no longer a pathway. All the same we maintained our trek, but after thirty minutes we still couldn’t see the summit. With daylight starting to fade, we decided to take some snapshots before the shadows became too long.

  “Hold still. Say chee…”

  I didn’t get the chance to finish my sentence. Through the view–finder, behind Shaggy, I had seen something move. Something big. Hurriedly, I retracted my camera, but only trees adorned the scene before me. Whatever had been there had now vanished into the bush. Or, rather, was now watching us from within the bush, undoubtedly waiting to pounce. When I informed him of this worry, an instantly less cool Shaggy spun on his heels. Heartbeat rising, his eyes hungrily scanned the vegetation on which mine were already fastened, but only shadows and forest remained. A moment turned into ten before my apprehensive friend spoke.

  “There’s nothing there.”

  “I’m sure I saw something.”

  We continued to stare at the surrounding landscape.

  “Hang on! I think I saw something too.”

  We strained our eyes again.

  Nothing.

  “Maybe I was wrong. Tell you what, Sean, if there is anything there, it’s definitely in hiding.”

  “Yeah, still waiting to pounce.”

  Shaggy fired me a ‘thanks for reminding me of that’ glare, but my mind was already on other things — like why no one had pursued us once we had reached the periphery of the woods. Given our angst, I felt it appropriate to mention the fact.

  “Well,” said a faux–brave voice, “it’s too dark to go on now anyway. Reckon we’d better head back.”

  “I think you are right,” replied the other faux–brave voice. “But only because it’s too dark to see.”

  “Of course.”

  Shaggy took out his torch and we descended as best (and as fast!) as we could.

  Our little adventure for the day was over.

  On the way back to the compound Shaggy tried to persuade some children to be photographed but found he had to hand over a badge for the privilege. As they were lining up, a young man came by and asked if he too could be in the shot. The more the merrier as Shaggy saw it. Just as he was about to take the picture, however, half of the children ran away (with his badge) but after much toing and froing he finally managed to extract some kind
of photo — as confirmed by the front cover of this book.

  Shaggy thanked the children who had stayed, but when he turned to show gratitude to the young man he was met with a bit more than he bargained for.

  “J’ai besoin vingt francs.”

  “Sorry, I don’t speak much French,” said Shaggy, determined not to give a penny to anyone he didn’t want to.

  “Give me twenty francs!”

  Let it be known now that right through our entire duration in French–speaking Africa, the majority of English sentences uttered in our direction seemed to start with: “Give me…”

  Fearing an acceleration of wills, I made ready to move off sharpish and signalled Shaggy, who liked a good spat and was now pointlessly laying down the law, to follow. When eventually he had rid himself of his antagonist, we again found ourselves ‘sitting targets’, this time to a large group of children, who had surely been in search of two foreign–looking blokes to trail and shrill at. At least that’s how it appeared, judging by the ear–splitting effort they put into their piercingly high–pitched voice projection. After a while this fervour became a tad too raw for us (picture thirty children repeatedly scraping their fingernails down a blackboard). With our eardrums now frayed, Shaggy echoed my own thoughts when he said he felt like “strangling the little shits”. Not that we would have, although we might well have yelled back at them had there not been a surfeit of machine–gun–toting army guys kicking about. So we just put up with it.

  Aching of limbs, and eardrums, we at last escaped the children and reached the compound. Not long after, Ali stopped by for half an hour, bringing two offerings in the process. The first was a welcoming bowl of fruit. The second, a personal present for me — a nice chunky blanket similar to Shaggy’s. In spite of the towering heat of the day, it wasn’t lost on Ali that, come night time, our ‘bed’ — the compound’s concrete floor — was far from warm, and in particular for idiot here, who had brought only a sliver of a sheet.

  After Ali had left, Shaggy and I decided to turn in. In my case this meant having a wash, taking out my contact lenses, re–assessing our travel itinerary, jotting down notes, and then settling down with my new blanket. Contacts aside, Shaggy’s evening always concluded much the same, although this night had closed a bit differently following a toilet incident.

  “I was in mid–flow when a giant cockroach came out of nowhere and charged at me!” he wheezed. “I wasn’t expecting it and nearly hit the roof. I ended up having to drown it.”

  “Since cockroaches can supposedly survive nuclear war,” I replied, “please refrain from having a piss anywhere near me.”

  The compound’s chief caretaker, a willowy thirty–three year–old with turned up trousers and an attitude, was a snobbish so–and–so. Boasting that he was a university graduate, fortunately he didn’t look down his snout in our direction whenever we spoke. It was a shame, then, that he didn’t extend the same gentility to his sole underling — Claver — a young local whose job was to keep the place clean, discourage intruders, and generally kiss everybody’s backside, or so it seemed. The nineteen year–old lived in a pint–sized room next to ours, and always sported two things: an apparently second–hand blue imitation Adidas tracksuit, and also a big smile, which disappeared whenever ‘Snooty’ showed up. I deduced this to be a result of being persistently bossed about by him, especially when it appeared to be completely meaningless — on several occasions Snooty summoned Claver in our presence and commanded the put–upon teen to do something trivial, before flashing us a ‘check out how important I am’ smirk.

  Every sundown Claver would cook Snooty the most beautiful of meals, with ingredients purchased at the market for what amounted to forty pence. Shaggy, his mouth watering, asked Claver if he would cook for us also; we would provide money enough for all three of us, as long as he did the shopping. Even if he hadn’t been promised a free dinner Claver would have been happy to help, and that evening he laid on the most gorgeous, fulfilling and authentic meal you could ever hope to buy for a few pence. It consisted of a range of vegetables, including yams, sweet potatoes and, the core ingredient, plantain, all of which Claver placed into a small kiln–like stove and then smoked beneath a mound of earth. Not au fait with some of the local fare, I have to confess that I had presumed the plantain was a large unripe banana — that I was wrong now explains why, when dimwit here later tried to bake a banana, it didn’t taste anything like potato the way plantain had.

  Once he had started to cook for us, we requested Claver also eat with us at the table. But Snooty flatly forbade it, as it meant Claver would be dining in the same room as he, so he made him sit outside.

  Throughout the world, prejudice comes in many forms.

  After three days of tolerating Snooty’s behaviour, Shaggy and I, and certainly Claver, were chuffed to see the back of him. The reason for his departure, once we had learnt it, staggered us. Apparently he wasn’t the head caretaker at all (he was away visiting relatives), but merely a friend who had stopped over for a few days. And there was Claver, not only slaving after him day and night, but also being made to sit outside whenever he dined.

  “If I’d have known this beforehand,” said Shaggy, who had spent some time teaching Claver his limited French, “I’d have made him sit outside whenever Claver ate.”

  Looking back, in our ignorance I’m pretty sure there was a degree of Tutsi–Hutu rivalry, as opposed to a solitary ‘I’ve been to university’ mind–set. It would be logical that Snooty had a chip on his shoulder if the ethnic group to which Claver belonged had at some point in the past been at loggerheads with his. Still, at the time we felt that an injustice had been done, and I found myself handing some francs to Claver, who immediately misread the gesture and began to head back to the market for more food. I stopped him and signalled that it was his to keep. He was ecstatic — seemingly, this was an enormous tip. I was later told it was also something of an honour. I had given him the equivalent of seventy pence.

  When I confessed my act to Shaggy, rather than scoff at my having ‘wasted’ money, he instead started to chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I gave him the same tip earlier this morning!”

  “Ha, I’ll laugh if he’s scamming us.”

  “I bloody won’t.”

  Shaggy’s riposte notwithstanding, it was good to see him displaying a principled and caring side that was every bit as prevalent as, if often masked by, his frugality and black–and–white thinking. As for Claver being a scammer, he was anything but. And from that day forwards we insisted he eat with us, at the table, every day.

  CHAPTER 4

  DEATH KNELL

  Friday, 16th June. “Come back for them this afternoon” didn’t fill me with any great expectation of acquiring our Zaire permits on arrival. The statement had been offered to us by the bureaucrat in charge of doling out visas, but that was first thing this morning. Now it was the afternoon and we were back at the agency. Had the documents we’d filled and handed in been inspected as promised? No, apparently they hadn’t.

  “Come back on Monday. You can have your visas then.”

  Talk about déjà vu.

  “Bloody typical,” muttered Shaggy on the way out.

  Keen to move the journey closer to our goal, we had called at the Zairian consulate every day since arriving here, and today, our fourth in Kigali, was the first time it was open. And now this, the worry that we may have to wait another God knows how many days for our visas — no doubt processed much faster if accompanied by a ‘tip’, a strategy we witnessed working for someone else. Not that miser Shaggy was about to copy it, especially as he was still smarting over the extra cash we’d tipped Albert the Bore for the Rwandan passes. I could scarcely disagree, since the three–month Zairian visa we had been hoping to procure was priced at a monstrous £130. To add insult to injury, had we had the foresight, we could have got one in Kenya for a fraction of the price. It seemed clear to us that someone was intent on
creating a second income, but what could we do? As we understood it, corrupt authorities were commonplace, and now, following Albert’s crooked visa deal and Mr Can’t–Count’s attempt at bribery, we supposed we’d had another taste of it. Licking our wounds, we decided the best bet would be to buy a one–month visa, and then have it extended later in the journey, although this still cost us a whopping £45 each.

  The frustrating aspect of the visa–wait wasn’t just the inability to move our odyssey forward to the Congo, but also the tedium of the delay. With Ali busy making calls, for the most part we’d had to find our own entertainment. And since, oddly, there were no museums or the like in Kigali, unless you were off on a gorilla search or had funds for nights outs, once you’d had some rambles and visited the market a few times, that was your lot. That’s why, except for a couple of trips to the local restaurant, and a meal at the Meridian the preceding evening (not the brightest of decisions, given the expense — and the manager’s ‘Aren’t you those peasants with the shitty tent?’ frown), our time here had proved no more exciting than a rainy Sunday. To compensate, we had toyed with the idea of roaming up into the gorilla mountains without a guide and having a peek, but the odds of being shot as a poacher or mauled by a protective silverback didn’t exactly match our plans, so we walked randomly around Kigali, taking photographs and sunning ourselves; the latter invaluable to your average holidaymaker, especially with the immense heat and zero cloud cover, but quite the reverse to two livewires with thoughts of the Congo on their mind.

  The following morning I had barely finished writing some postcards when a character wearing pressed charcoal trousers and a black cotton formal shirt appeared before me. Nothing abnormal about a mid–twenties black man in these parts, but upon introducing himself, a first–impression gut feeling told me Mbonyunkiza was as false as they come. However, since he was there in the compound, sporting pricey togs and polished shoes, he was obviously an associate of the Hassans, so I kept my intuitions on standby. Anyway, he said that he had been a university student and would welcome the opportunity to converse in English, and for a spell Shaggy and I found this use of our native tongue a refreshing relief — until, that is, he tried pocketing my pen. Even if he hadn’t, that minute or two we spent answering personal questions, whilst he doggedly evaded ours, seemed to verify my initial suspicions.