SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  “This is it!” he shouted. “This is where the adventure begins! This is the Indiana Jones stuff!”

  Although my mouth was horribly dry, and although my trapezius ached from having carried my rucksack, I still managed to remain my usual humble self: “Indiana Jones stuff, pah. This is Sean McCarthy stuff!”

  And the truck rolled and bounced on.

  Forty–five minutes passed and, despite the truck’s impetus causing a breeze, we were closing in on the hottest part of the day — and my dehydration escalated accordingly, to the level that I began to ponder how long I could last before shrivelling away to nothing. Another ten minutes and I was really suffering, a despair that was augmented by the driver, who, rather than having parked at Rumangabo, the small town we had just zoomed through, pulled over five minutes past it and motioned that his leg of our journey had come to an end. My dry mouth notwithstanding, I managed to grunt a thank you, then gaped forlornly as he spun the truck around and doubled back, presumably to the centre.

  Doubtless his act was one of generosity, but since his destination was also our best chance of water, I couldn’t help but have one of those moments, like when, in the comedy film Three Amigos, the main characters are riding horses across the desert. Exceptionally parched, two of the three try drinking from their water bottles, with the result that one of them gets only a spatter of droplets, the other a mouthful of sand. Beyond dejection, they look to the third amigo, who is now knocking back floods of cascading water, after which he then gargles and spits, before tossing his still–half–full bottle on to the sand, where the rest of the liquid slowly glugs away. The miserable expression on his friends’ faces, apart from being immeasurably funny, I guarantee mirrored mine.

  Not ones for back–pedalling, Shaggy and I were torn between a logical about turn and bloody–minded soldiering on, so we settled the matter by other means — we plumped for a third, less energetic, option. To our left stood the last few dwellings of the community, so we decided to try for water there. Well, that’s what we would have done, if not for two details. Firstly, even though only shallow, the rare sight of a puddle, straight in front of us, looked far too inviting to ignore — despite containing what appeared to be chunks of bacteria below the petrol–looking surface film — and since the equally dried–out Shaggy was already dipping his water bottle in it, I hastily went to join him. Secondly, while we still had it in mind to call at the houses, a passing local had noticed our plight and, by way of sign language, indicated there was a waterhole not too far up the road. Thanking the man as best we could, Shaggy and I dropped purifying pills into what little ‘water’ we had acquired (the length of time it took for them to dissolve was unbearable), downed the smidgen, slung various bags over our shoulders and, because we no longer needed them, ignored the houses and marched on ...and on ...and on ...and on.

  No waterhole.

  Argh.

  After another half an hour’s walking we were both tremendously shoulder–sore and our dehydration had become somewhat worrying. Pausing to rest, we became aware of two girls by the roadside with, of all things, a large crate of beer. These were for sale to anyone passing, and given that vehicles seemed to be on a sabbatical, I expect the girls’ eyes lit up when we desiccated muzungus dragged ourselves into view.

  We looked longingly at the ‘treasure’. Had it been kept in a refrigerator it would have been impossible to resist. Unluckily for the girls, though, it hadn’t, and past experience told us that imbibing alcohol would leave us even more parched in the long run, so we declined to buy one.

  “Bloody typical,” rasped Shaggy.

  Thankfully our misfortune wasn’t to last. I was in the middle of changing into my cherished Reebok running sneakers, getting ready for another long slog, when an open–topped Land Rover pulled up. Would we like to jump onboard? I rose to my feet and joined Shaggy in squeezing in amongst ten local hitchers, the cramped conditions counterbalanced by again not being asked for any money. Excellent.

  Along the way some people selling numerous items stopped the Land Rover momentarily. Willing as I was to pay a king’s ransom for fluid of any description, I was forced to dream on, but Shaggy and I did manage to offset our dehydration by purchasing a couple of juicy mangoes each. A portrayal of how fabulous their moisture felt against the aridness of my tongue, I can’t even start to do justice to, and for a short while at least, we managed to curb our thirst.

  The next time the Land Rover stopped was at a place called Rutshuru. Then the two men in charge stood down, and while the driver greeted four ferocious–looking cohorts, his similarly tough–featured colleague let on that this was as far as they were going. He also wanted everyone to pay a Z 1,000 fee, which came out of the blue, as we had been under the impression that we were on for another freebie — regardless of whether you paid at the journey’s outset or its finish, the common policy concerning fares was that they were always negotiated at the beginning of the ride. Many drivers even carried a tariff chart, and more often than not the price would be higher for a foreigner, which I thought acceptable, although I couldn’t say the same for my hard–nosed companion. Not that he could grumble in this instance, since everyone had been asked to pay the same. Besides, the (two pounds) fee was far from earth–shattering, so when all the indigenous passengers began paying up, I naturally followed suit. But Shaggy point blank refused.

  Huh? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and took another look at the six bruisers in charge, and my heart leapt into mode ‘Captain Kamikaze’.

  What planet was Shaggy on? Irrespective of whether the fee was or wasn’t unreasonable, when contemplating the bigger picture it meant nothing. Not when we were so visibly outgunned. And this was their backyard — another picture perfect setting for a Wild West showdown (the dusty street and overhanging upper–storey balconies cried out for a gunshot, a moan, and the earthbound tumble of a bad guy at the hands of The Stranger). But my headstrong friend remained adamant he wasn’t going to pay a penny, and climbed off the back of the Land Rover — and my heartbeat cranked up to ‘Captain Kamikaze plus Bad Max’.

  Cursing under my breath, I realised that this may be the end and, disregarding any notion of Queensbury rules, made ready to punch, kick and bite if anyone started a fight — or wail like a baby, if I thought that would save us. The other, arguably even better, option was to act as if I had never seen Shaggy before and when they begin laying into him, basically join them. Shaggy, though, was undeterred. Apparently oblivious to the possibility of bloodshed, he casually picked up his tackle and strolled off, which left me half–dazed, half–fascinated by his actions. However, as soon as it had become clear that nothing was going to happen, I quickly took after him and we made for the open road.

  “What the hell was that about?” I asked, my heartbeat returning to some semblance of normality.

  “They didn’t say how much we would have to pay at the start, so fuck ’em.”

  “Oh.”

  To add to the adrenaline rush I’d just been put through, bearing in mind we were still craving water, my emotions went back through the wringer when in the next two minutes we came across a tap, only to discover it didn’t work. Compounding the anticlimax, not far up the road the same scenario happened again.

  Purgatory.

  As it was, a local man had spotted our suffering and told us that there was a fully functioning well only a minute ahead. We’d heard that one before, but thanked the man anyway. We could have kissed his feet when we learned he was telling the truth. To be fair, I think the person who had tried to point us to the last settlement’s waterhole was being sincere; we probably just misinterpreted his directions.

  Under normal circumstances I would be forced to admit the well’s water tasted like my perception of urine, but these weren’t normal circumstances, and to our dehydrated palates it was nothing short of pure nectar. We drank until we thought our bellies would pop.

  Replenished and resolute, we filled our bottles and, with fair
ytale greenery our backdrop, once more braced ourselves for the eternally bright sun, the treacherous road, and what for us was the unknown, and marched forward, ever onward.

  Soon we were deep in the forest, its shrouding walls amplifying the air’s stickiness, the scent of dampness blending with fragrances of flora, earth and wood, whilst the sound of rustling leaves, crackling brushwood, and squawks and howls and barks, grew exponentially. With the sensory upsurge came the sighting of more monkeys, birds and squirrels, although, unfortunately for us, this didn’t include more vehicles. An odd few did pass by, but again, despite our best efforts to catch a lift, the handful we did see did just that, passed by. In time, the all–consuming sun and pain from our heavy loads became too much and we decided to rest. My second kitbag and the unnecessary length of my jeans had preyed on my mind for far too long now and, with the knowledge that I had an extra pair of denims in my rucksack, I grabbed my penknife and cut ruthlessly at the legs, converting them into a pair of shorts. Then I took hold of what was in the holdall (my standby pair of footwear and the large space–taking blanket Ali had given me) and gave them to an old woman watching intently from a nearby hut. In the absence of a sleeping bag, handing over the blanket was a moment of madness I would later regret. Especially since, for whatever reason, I had instead kept hold of a bold–checked formal jacket I’d needlessly brought, tucked away with my belongings. At that time, though, I felt only relief to be carrying just the rucksack, my holdall now folded inside. Psychologically, that made a big difference to me. In contrast, Shaggy, always reluctant to get rid of something he might possibly need later, refused to dump anything, although he did ease his own discomfort by changing into a pair of shorts.

  We walked on, only this time our small amendments had somehow changed the whole ball game. The rucksacks still cut into our shoulders, the heat was still intense, and the walk still seemed as if it would go on forever, but now we had reached some kind of accord. We were also fast becoming acclimatized, which was fortunate, as the trucks had dried up for the day and we didn’t manage another lift. We were quite content not to. The walk had become more than just an experience now. More than a dogged battle of wills. More than a necessity to get from one point to another. Now there was a sense of wellbeing, a capability to enjoy, a means to take in the surroundings, to soak up their beauty, to observe rather than see, to be part of the rainforest, to rejoice in its array of greens and browns, to be captivated by the creepers, the blooming ferns, the wild orchids, and the buttress roots that grew to the size of elephants. For sure, the walk had become more than an experience now. It had become a privilege.

  There was something else magnificent about that particular forest, that particular walk, that particular day. Before we had left Rwanda a few people had mentioned their reservations about Zairians, but out there, in the wilderness of the north–east, on the open road between Rutshuru and the Virunga National Park, lived the most benevolent, pleasant people you could ever imagine. Men and women of all ages appeared from archetypal little huts that dotted the forest–clad route to echo warm greetings, and children would move shyly towards us before handing out various fruits and water, which we gladly filled up on. Oh yes, these lovely people were the very antithesis of the ‘Give–Me’ folk who would later blight us.

  Despite the enjoyable hike and the kindness of the inhabitants, it was impossible to ignore a specific harsh reality of African travel, and one that proved to worsen the longer we stayed — anything that goes in at one end goes directly through and out of the other, and doesn’t stop to admire the view. So much so that in expectation I started my journey with a mammoth sixteen pairs of ‘grits’ — my term for underpants — correctly assuming I wouldn’t have so many at the conclusion (one over–used pair).

  At this juncture, we had just passed a small gathering of huts when the fruits I had recently eaten decided to reappear at the other end, so I quickly nipped behind a bush. Usually I would return to hear the much–told story of how an associate of Shaggy’s was competing in a half–marathon and doing well, when he felt a pressing need to relieve himself. Not wanting to blow a doable personal best by diving behind a car or wall, he simply shit into his hand and then flung it across the road (so if you recall a big turd heading your way somewhere in the United Kingdom back in the 1980s, now you know why). Upon my return, however, there was no tale, only the sight of a panic–stricken Shaggy urgently upturning his possessions.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I left something when I changed into these shorts.”

  “Your blow–up doll?”

  “I wish. No, my money–belt.”

  Nightmare. We had walked a good three miles since then.

  Shaggy’s search ended with our worst fear.

  “Yes, I have left it.”

  Another look through his baggage brought only the same conclusion.

  What to do? Common sense told us that if he had indeed left his belt it would have disappeared by now, and therefore endeavouring to retrieve it would prove to be a hopeless exercise. Then again, with the contents being so important it seemed we should at least attempt a salvage mission. So, to hurry things up, it was decided that I would wait by our backpacks whilst Shaggy scampered back to the scene of the ‘crime’.

  This last decision infringed a self–preservation rule once explained to me by SAS top brass. A fundamental rule that, when abandoned, helped terminate the life of one General George Custer at The Battle of Little Big Horn. The rule is straightforward: do not split your group when faced by an outnumbering opponent. But the several hundred pounds’ worth of travellers’ cheques, the passport, and anti–malaria medication, as well as other valuables entombed in that money–belt, rendered speed essential, even though, with the heat, humidity and altitude, Shaggy’s lone progress would not be very fast. Moreover, any tribesmen we had run into of late had been nothing but friendly. So, regardless of an innate instinct for self–preservation, we forsook the golden rule, hoping that nothing of any significance would come of our separation. Sure, we would be fine. I watched Shaggy fade away into the distance.

  I wasn’t the only one.

  By this time, the children who resided in the nearby gathering of huts had congregated close by and, once Shaggy had left, they began to focus their attention on lone Johnny Foreigner here.

  At first they didn’t know what to make of me. Was I a friend? Was I an adversary? Was I that Tarzan bloke’s runt cousin? Who was I? As beforehand when walking, some children brought fruit as an offering, only these were too frightened to draw near. Admittedly, I could have appeared more affable and beckoned them forward, but I found the whole thing far too engrossing and just adopted a non–committal posture. Fighting a natural trepidation, the largest boy, who was about twelve, and like half of his number wore only a pair of frayed shorts, tried to bring his fruit over. But an older girl, I presumed his sister, clothed like all the girls we saw on our travels in a plain dress, wasn’t so convinced and talked him out of taking the risk. Arguments began to break out among them, the result being that I became too amused to suppress a giggle. So I slapped on my warmest smile and signalled for the boy to approach. The change of tactic worked and, plucking up courage, the youngster edged towards me and — at arm’s length — handed over the fruit.

  I was unsure of my next move. Ordinarily I would have stomached the punishment of it going directly through me, but since that meant revisiting my friend the bush — where half of the children had now congregated — it wouldn’t have been very private. Yet I wanted to show these people I was grateful, so braved the consequences and ate their gift. Fortunately it had no immediate ill effect, and in next to no time I had over twenty children crowded around me — still at arm’s length, mind. Their timidity noted, for a laugh I’d occasionally shout “boo”, then cackle heartily as umpteen sandaled or bare feet took off every which way. Subsequently they would turn, see that I was laughing and tiptoe their way back, t
ittering like the children they were.

  Two hours passed. No Shaggy. Some women returned from their fruit–gathering forest sortie, their apparel typical of non–city locales, meaning African wraps and sarongs, while those with babies carried them on their backs via their binding (no maternity leave here).

  The lady with the biggest smile, a full–bodied, impressive–looking woman I estimated in her mid–thirties, came straight over to me and without so much of a “Who on earth are you?” greeted me in French and shook my right hand, her left hand clasped to her forearm. At the time I had no idea this was their sign of respect, but I copied her action anyway, and with my own titbit of French relayed the situation, which, for whatever reason, only made her laugh (if her French was anything like mine, between us she may well have heard: “I wait for my dwarf, who is sniffing his limousine and oiling the backend of his left didgeridoo”). She then took me by surprise, pulling herself to me, flinging her arms around me, kissing me on the cheek and telling the children she was claiming me for herself. They all gave a great cheer, her friends whooped, and I winked at my captivated audience — in spite of the fact that for all I knew these people were cannibals and I was about to make a refreshing change to the usual Zairian pot roast.

  Soon more women returned from their labours in the forest and ‘my’ woman explained who I was, then moved off with them into the village. Staying put, and alone with the children again, I decided to take out my notebook and, so as to describe where I had come from, drew a map of the world. Looking around I noticed that one of the smaller boys had a somewhat rotund belly and put it down on sketch. I then held the drawing in the air and pointed at the youngster, upon which everyone began roaring with laughter. Everyone, that is, except the boy, who let out a full–sized scream and ran off shrieking into the village. Of course this worried me, in particular when My Woman reappeared with some men, and I wondered if I had taken away the kid’s spirit or something — so would now myself be taken away (and pot roasted). Thankfully, their arrival was nothing to do with the boy; the first man to reach me shook my hand and invited me into the village for some food. Again I explained that I would have to wait for my friend before going anywhere, but vowed to oblige the man once Shaggy returned.