SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  If he returned.

  Time ticked by and still no Shaggy. Although I always had at least one child hanging around me, everyone else came and went (apart from the young boy whose ‘spirit’ I had taken — he avoided me like the plague). The most notable of these was a slim six–footer dressed in a smudged casual shirt, old trousers and sandals; it was the man who’d invited me into the village, a forty–year–old father of nine who, in my ignorance, astonished me by having the ability to speak not only Swahili and French but also pretty good English. Then again, I guess that would be only fitting for someone who had also introduced himself as the chief, no less. Now that we were on good speaking terms, and given that the sky was becoming darker by the minute, before he went back into the village I took a chance and asked if it were possible for us to stay the night. Since I felt him to be a welcoming, generous man, I wasn’t surprised when he said we could.

  It was dark now. Darkness always falls at about 6:30pm in Central Africa, but a strong moon coupled with light coming from fires inside the village enabled me to catch sight of the surroundings. Suddenly there was a hullabaloo among the tribe. Then I heard a familiar voice. It was Shaggy, walking with a young man from another village, and somewhat incredibly the object of his departure.

  Our being separated had paid off ...for now.

  Six cat lives left.

  “I’ve got the belt!” he yelled excitedly. Of course the villagers had little idea why he was so enthused, but empathised with his delight and clapped and cheered and patted him on the back as he drew near. “This lad’s been ace,” he added, pointing to his chaperon. “He saw me looking for something, reckoned it was the belt and brought it back from his hut.”

  “That’s nothing, mate,” I responded, and gestured to My Woman, now clinging to me again. “I think I’m getting married.”

  Shaggy beamed, but in a mumbled aside he confessed his rescuer wasn’t entirely without lightness of the fingers — whilst his travellers’ cheques and other valuables remained, his matches and lighter were missing.

  “He probably hadn’t a clue what those travellers’ cheques were,” said Shaggy, “or I’d no doubt never have seen them again. Not that I would have bothered. When I was going back for the belt I honestly didn’t think I’d find it, and I thought, ‘Bugger it, it will just add to the story I’ll have to tell’.”

  “Funny that, you wouldn’t have minded losing your passport and a few hundred quid, but if you smoked you’d be doing your nut over those thieved matches.”

  My chum emitted his usual chortle, but nonetheless believed the missing items were the least the young man was entitled to, so asked me to give him our trifle of pooled change. Feeling rather relieved myself (while Shaggy’s lost money might well have enhanced our tale, naturally I’d have handed him half of mine), I had little complaint in disbursing what amounted to only one pound’s worth of zaires. But the offer was refused.

  “He wants no money,” the chief translated. “It was his pleasure.”

  Benevolence occasionally knows no bounds. Who knows, though it was unlikely, maybe he was aware of what those travellers’ cheques were.

  Still aiming to reward the young man, I rummaged in my rucksack — thirty sets of inquisitive eyes peering and ‘rummaging’ with me — eventually pulling out what I hoped he would accept “as a gift, not a payment”, I told our interpreter. The chief duly translated, and just as they had with Shaggy, the moment the young man accepted this new offering the villagers all clapped and cheered and patted him on the back. A few handshakes later, Shaggy’s knight in shining armour vanished back down the road, his once sparsely covered body now proudly adorned by a far too large, and useful after all, bold–checked formal jacket.

  With a forty–strong highly excited entourage in close attendance, the chief escorted us into the village, which resembled a children’s story book depiction of ‘deepest Africa’: a modicum of grass–roofed huts arranged around a flattened patch of earth that nestled cosily among sentinel trees. Here, we accepted their kind offer of cooked maize cobs and haricot beans, and while this was being prepared Shaggy and I exchanged pleasantries with the chief, the questions on both sides kept fairly trivial. On our part, this could be construed as blowing a great opportunity to glean knowledge of local culture, but in our defence I have to say we were more worried about accidentally offending our hosts, so just kept to “How many children have you got?” etc. Besides, the food was almost ready, and soon we were being asked to sit ourselves on a couple of wooden chairs which the villagers had positioned next to a hut. Once we were seated, in a semi–circle all and sundry gathered around us, while the chief’s wife (as it turned out, My Woman) fetched the meal. I had never eaten plain haricot beans before, only the sauced ‘Baked’ version, and after trying what there was of their flavour I decided I most certainly didn’t want them again, particularly if accompanied by burnt–to–a–crisp maize cobs (I was gagging to introduce them to the subtleties of boiling). However, desiring to be anything other than discourteous in response to the profuse humanity being shown to us, and because Shaggy couldn’t bring himself to eat much of the meal — obviously not as resilient as yours truly — protocol helped me force them down.

  Keeping to his sleepover promise, the chief proposed that we stay in his hut for the night — he’d instead sleep with My Woman in hers. Accepting the offer, we decided to repay everyone their goodwill and, despite already feeling very on–the–spot, totally abased ourselves by singing ‘Frère Jacques’ and ‘Three Wheels on My Wagon’. I have no idea what prompted that (Shaggy!) only that for both parties it had its drawbacks. For their part they had to put up with voices that would distress even the deaf. For us, midway through the last effort, we had to suffer the humiliation of everyone becoming so bored they started chatting to each other. And so, feeling even more ill at ease, once the songs were over we let it be known we were ready for bed.

  Complying with our requests, the chief shooed everyone away and led us to his hut, which was precisely as one might envisage it: a clay–covered rectangular–shaped abode with a thatched roof, its sole room measuring roughly seven feet by nine. Our host opened the wooden door, ushered us in and wished us goodnight.

  We entered torch in hand, and once inside my nostrils were filled with a strong aroma of earth. It wasn’t unpleasant and reminded me of playing with mud when I was a child. Looking around, to our right we saw a 1950s–style bicycle, three chairs and a box full of simple clothing, whilst in front of us a little shutter, and on the left a small bamboo bed. Beyond it, inscribed on the partly crumbled walls, was some faded, inscrutable wording, whilst the low ceiling was daubed in a strangely eerie leopard effect. We put down our bags, squeezed onto the bed and turned off the torch. A minute later…

  “Tell you what, Sean. Do you know what all those markings are reminding me of?"

  “Go on.”

  “That scene in An American Werewolf in London, when they find that pentagram on the wall.”

  “Let me get this straight. We’re in the dark, in the jungle, and you are bringing up werewolves?”

  “I’m just saying that it reminds me of it.”

  “What a shame they didn’t draw some fluffy bunny rabbits.”

  “Do they have rabbits in Africa?”

  “Of course.”

  “Here, in the jungle?”

  “I don’t know about here.”

  “Bet they’ve got werewolves, though.”

  “Any chance of changing the werewolf theme?”

  It went quiet. Another minute went by, then...

  “Hey, Shaggy.”

  “What?”

  “Was it a full moon tonight?”

  Whilst our banter had been meant as nothing more than that, we weren’t so far off the mark when it came to the villagers — we hardly knew them, after all. On that basis, despite their clear cordiality, my reasoning told me to stay on guard for all possible outcomes — were they leading the Capeless Crusaders into
a false sense of security? Owning the sort of self–preservation instinct that in later years would serve me well in the security world, now in the wilds of Africa I didn’t need reminding that shit happens. Ethnic warfare, lions, diarrhoea — the need to leg it was a constant possibility. For that reason, I asked Shaggy what his assessment was. Although the lucky beggar had got prime position on the bunk (my body adjacent to the doorway, he was therefore guarded against spear, machete or werewolf attack), I knew Shaggy held much the same intuitions.

  “My old man always says never trust anybody,” he answered. “So while I’m pretty sure everything’s okay, let’s put it this way, I’ve got my fists clenched.”

  “I’ve got everything clenched.”

  “Good, no farting from you then.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.”

  Prior to our now–impending werewolf doom, the night had been sublime. I had never seen stars so prominent and the fireflies were a joy to behold, so it was something of a pity that we were stuck indoors and not gazing skyward. Yet, between the restricted environment and the sound of the chief bonking My Woman half the night, I found it difficult to get to sleep. Adding to my insomnia was a strange scraping noise that recurred only too frequently, which I supposed was some form of animal shifting around. Disturbingly, my guess was a snake. Whatever it was, the snake noises had come predominately from right beside me (jammy Shaggy on the other side, still conveniently guarded by my body). Indeed, the snake was so close that every time I heard it move, I would leap up and switch on Shaggy’s torch, but I unearthed nothing.

  The following morning, waking to appreciatively find that I hadn’t become a pin–cushion to a serpent’s or werewolf’s fangs, I was tickled when I discovered the peculiar sound I had been so flustered by had been caused by a pet guinea pig.

  Before we left, Shaggy handed the chief one of his shirts and I gave his eldest son — the boy who had handed me the fruit — a pair of dazzlingly coloured Tom and Jerry boxer shorts. Everyone laughed and pointed and jigged up and down as he joyously paraded around in them, for they were far too large and in this setting looked acutely bizarre.

  Many handshakes later, we were back on the open road, one of eastern Zaire’s key trading routes — an appallingly unkempt, bumpy, backwater lane that wound its way through some of the most glorious scenery you could ever hope to see.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE ROAD TO KISANGANI

  By now we had become accustomed to the weight of our rucksacks and were quite content to be walking among the mélange of colossal trees, heathers, groundsels and ericas. Many villagers came to the side of the road for a nosey, or to say “Jambo” (hello). Some just laughed. Then a teenage girl with a gleaming smile and matching dress approached Shaggy and, using sign language, insisted she carry his spare bag for him. Happy to let her, she walked with us for a spell, laughing and joking with the on–lookers in their native tongue. We were unable to grasp the specifics of the conversation, but it was unmistakably full of joie de vivre, so Shaggy and I joined in with the festivities, and beamed and waved at everyone.

  After ten minutes the huts came to an end and, pointing to a sign up ahead, the teen mentioned something about being unable to carry on. So we said our goodbyes and made our way to the notice, which appeared to be written in every lingo but English, and the only thing we could translate was Parc National des Virunga.

  “Well, Sean, this must be the start of the National Park.”

  “But it can’t be. There would be gates and rangers.”

  “You’d think, but that’s the sign.”

  “Suppose so.”

  Wondering how it could be possible to wander through a national park — what with all those huge, wild animals roaming around — we nevertheless took in a deep breath and walked on.

  A half–mile further and our pace blatantly slowed. The sides of the meandering road continued to be littered with foliage and I had to strain my eyes to see beyond it. I had an unanticipated premonition, a feeling that a big beast was going to leap from the bush at any time. Then, without warning…

  “Shit!”

  “What is it?” asked Shaggy, the perturbation in his voice revealing the increased anxiety I had just caused him, his eyes avidly searching for danger.

  “I’m not sure, but something very large moved over there, to the right.”

  “Shit.”

  “About thirty yards due north, moving at around seven miles per hour and weighing seven–hundred–and–fifty–six pounds, give or take a couple of ounces.”

  Realising I was only messing around, my comrade gave a sigh of relief, then came back with, “I didn’t know one of your exes lived out here.”

  “Good one, Shaggy. Actually, this reminds me of that scene in An American Werewolf in London. You know, when those two hikers are walking across the moors at the beginning of the film.”

  “Now who’s bringing up werewolves?”

  “Just getting my own back.”

  “Tell you what, then, you can be the one who gets bitten to death. I’ll be the one who ends up with Jenny Agutter.”

  “No way! I’ll be the one who ends up with Jenny Agutter. I was the one who brought up the subject.”

  “Maybe, but I had dibs on her first.”

  “I bagsied her when I was ten years old.”

  “I bagsied her when I was two.”

  “Have her then.”

  “Okay, I will.” There was a pause. “I’ll have Miss World instead.”

  We both started tittering, then…

  Abruptly the fun ended, as the sight of a real animal zipping across the road some seventy paces ahead took us aback.

  “What the hell was that?” asked Shaggy.

  “I don’t know, but it was one mean–looking mother.”

  “Shit.”

  By the way it crossed, we deduced that it was some sort of monkey.

  Then another one crossed. It was a monkey alright, only larger and bolder than any we had become used to.

  I stared hard at the spot where the wild creature had disappeared.

  “I hope they’re nothing like baboons,” I said.

  If he hadn’t before, Shaggy now looked apprehensive — giving me a ‘why on earth is that?’ look.

  “I’ve heard they can be very dangerous. Have you seen their teeth? They’re like lions’.”

  “Oh, brilliant.”

  Whatever the animal, both of us agreed on one thing: it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if we moved back down the road fifty paces and re–assessed the situation from there.

  “Trouble is,” said Shaggy, “I don’t think I can make it that far.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because I’m rapidly bursting for a crap.”

  I spluttered out a long snigger, then added, “So go and have one.”

  “With those mothers in the bush? I’d sooner shit myself right here! I can see it now, I’ll have just squatted down and some big hairy hand will come from behind and grab my nuts.”

  “Coming from your neck of the woods, you ought to be used to that.”

  Cross–legged, a giggling Shaggy managed to make his way back a little and disappeared into the undergrowth.

  By the time he’d returned — nuts intact, I presumed — we made our boldest decision yet, and ventured on.

  With eyes and ears on full alert, and penknives drawn and at the ready (really) we trod stealthily, Special Forces–like, down the centre of the road, thankfully passing the relevant area without hindrance.

  Soon we reached a substantial barricade and a dozen or so rangers. It appeared that the sign we had passed made notice we were nearing the National Park. The ‘killer’ monkeys we had seen were common all over Zaire, park or no park.

  “I think we need to top up our French.”

  “Quoi?” quipped Shaggy.

  What a pity someone didn’t have a You’ve Been Framed camcorder on us. It would have been hilarious to watch us executing our back to ba
ck/penknives at the ready/‘walk down the rice paper, Grasshopper’ manoeuvres past those innocuous monkeys, just in case one of them came out and waved at us. From here on in we would have to wait for a lift of some description. No one is allowed to indiscriminately walk through a national park, particularly if you are a couple of boneheads from England.

  The day was exquisite. Anyone on holiday would have been justifiably content to copy Shaggy, who seemed glad to bask in the marvellous sunshine, but this was far from a vacation and I had no patience for such trivialities. With the Congo’s call as powerful as ever, and the realisation that we were a hair’s breadth away from spotting animals we had only ever seen in captivity, and viewing countryside as spectacular as anywhere in Africa, maybe even the world, I simply had to get going.

  The clock ticked. Minutes felt like hours; when frustration kicks in, time gets distorted. Then a couple of vehicles passed by, but none that would pick us up.

  More time passed. More frustration. I tried to duplicate Shaggy’s lazing about, tried to enjoy the sun, tried to take my mind off the trip ahead, but then I would be up, kicking my heels into the dirt road, still champing at the bit to get into Africa’s oldest national park. And still we waited.

  We had been immobile for a full hour before we got lucky. Right on the stroke of noon we were offered a lift that would subsequently take us on a seven–hour crossing, straight through the 3,000 square–mile park and on to Butembo, a major town in the North Kivu zone. For this courtesy, each of us was asked to pay Z 5,000, on arrival, which seemed a little costly, but we couldn’t complain. Particularly as the pickup in which we were to travel was an excellent contraption, perfectly made for the ensuing terrain. It had an open back in which the passengers (we two, and five Zairians) sat, and were protected by bars wide enough for us to fit through but too small for a lion — a reassuring feature. The horizontal part of the bars, which generally would support a canopy, stood at about chest height and made good balancing grips for those of us who chose to stand.