What followed proved to be one of the most memorable rides of my entire existence, for the National Park was grandeur incarnate. An immense magical kingdom, its pulsating rainforest meshed stunningly with the vast golden Savannah of Virunga. And then, beyond the lush forests, grasslands, swamps and great savannah, beyond the treetops and the clouds, beyond the imagination of man, stood the legendary snow–capped Rwenzori Mountains — the ‘Mountains of the Moon’. Truly astounding.
The sun now blazed down with such intensity that even the winds rushing past my face were hot. The trail itself was so irregular that I felt as though I was on a giant rollercoaster, only this one lasted for over a hundred miles and the view and aura of the whole occasion were quite simply without peer.
The first few miles had the little pickup engulfed by dense, overhanging masses of sultry jungle, but the driver clearly knew the road well and drove it, at speed, to perfection. Then a myriad of butterflies filled the air with colour and elegance, fluttering towards us before being brushed past by the steamy wind. And on we went, revelling in the glory of a park that showcased an extensive diversity of landscapes — from savannahs and lava fields, to swamps, volcanoes and woodland, Virunga abounded with visual riches par excellence.
In due course we were at the forest’s edge, plunging headfirst into the open–plain world of elephant, giraffe, buffalo and lion, while the deep green peaks of the tree–clad mountains were at once a fantastic backdrop to the boundless yellow tract now set before us. And with it so changed the journey, for the ground was markedly flatter and we drastically picked up pace. Looking out across the unlimited miles of grassy expanse we saw warthog, then antelope, then topi, then hippo; all kinds of animals stopped and stared. And on we went.
The pickup had taken in what seemed like anything up to thirty miles before pausing at some kind of checkpoint. Immediately there was much animation in the vehicle.
“Look over here!” cried Shaggy, his exclamation displaying much gusto.
On the other side of the pickup was a gigantic baboon, far larger than anything I had ever imagined (encyclopaedias give their topmost weight to be around 90lbs — evidently they hadn’t weighed this titan). ‘Goliath’ put on a bold front and sauntered over to the pickup. The next thing anybody knew the enormous monster had leapt straight into the vehicle ...and was sitting next to Shaggy! Everyone else had hastily abandoned the pickup the moment the brute had jumped in. Especially your author — sod that confronting a baboon malarkey, I was out of there at maximum warp. Shaggy on the other hand was either too mesmerized, too brave, too scared, or just too plain dumb to move. Fortunately for my inert buddy, Goliath’s only objective was that of thievery, and he made a getaway with some fruit from another passenger’s basket.
After, but only after, Goliath had disappeared, everyone laughed out loud (except the fruit owner, who pretended to find the whole event amusing but any idiot could see she was well cheesed off), even Shaggy, who went on to explain, “I couldn’t get out fast enough. Then I saw it eyeing up my kit and I thought, ‘No way are you having that!’ So I grabbed my bag and sat on it.”
“Bloody hell, Shaggy, I’d have shit myself.”
Shaggy began to laugh. “Who said I didn’t? Where’s the loo roll?”
Once the excitement had died down, papers were exchanged and the roadblock opened. The driver turned the key, released the brake and started us back on the great African rollercoaster ride.
Soon we were approaching the end of the savannah. The pickup was travelling as fast as ever but for some reason the winds seemed to be getting hotter and hotter — to the point that it became somewhat oppressive. Wondering why, I suddenly noticed what turned out to be a massive grass fire miles to our left. A mile on and we were crossing the charcoal destruction where the fire had passed through. Copious amounts of vegetation had been devoured and yet, out there, where the savannah stretched for miles and miles and miles, it could have been nothing more than, as Shaggy put it, “a piss in the ocean.” And on went the rollercoaster.
Now we were leaving the savannah and wound up into the mountains, once more densely occupied by thick green jungle. Up and around what seemed hardly a pathway the rollercoaster went. Up and onward, round and round, up and up. At appropriate turnings one could look out between the heavy plant life and gaze in awe at the seemingly endless lengths of savannah until it met the cloudless glare of the bright blue sky, and the contrast would be overwhelming. And on we went.
Eventually we passed over the emerald–coated hills and came to a village on the other side of the range. Here, the driver stopped for a break and went off to shop for fruits. The local who had been sitting in the front passenger seat came over and, with an outstretched hand, insisted I “pay now”, rather than when the driver had decreed, which was to be at the conclusion of our lift. Doubtless this was a common trick, but unfortunately for Mr Crook, whilst I had made the odd daft decision during my Africa travels, and would do so again, handing money over willy nilly was a different proposition — I told him I’d pay the driver and no one else, after which he tried to make a case, but in time skulked off, unsurprisingly never to be seen again.
Presently we were back on the rollercoaster, but this time we were travelling through the rolling woodlands of Kivu, its milieu of broadstemmed pink spurges standing shoulder–to–shoulder with the spiny leaves of orange–podded Encephalartos, always divine, always breathtaking. We passed through countless villages: Kanyabayonga; Kayna; Mulinga; Kasegbe; Matembe; Alimbongo, each clothed and enveloped in the picturesque green hills and trees that seemed to stretch forever. And when the people of the forest noticed us Johnny Foreigners they would drop their wares and shout for their friends to come and look. Then their pals would rush over to see what all the fuss was about, the routine chorus of “Muzungu! Muzungu!” stifled only whenever we ground to a halt while one of the other passengers exited.
One of these occasions is etched in my mind. Following the initial “Muzungu! Muzungu!” hubbub, the villagers had appeared en masse, bar one late arrival, who couldn’t take in what the now–silent crowd was pointing at (should have gone to Specsavers). In attempting to grasp the situation, he proceeded to strut around the pickup like ‘ten men’, his arms splaying as though carrying invisible water buckets, accompanied by the equally typical ‘I’m hard’ pecking head. It was only when right in front of me that he became aware of my presence, whereupon his eyes metaphorically ‘stalked’ and, tail between his legs, off he shot. Everyone else, the villagers and those in the pickup, burst into laughter, and I held my hand out in a ‘high five’ gesture, which the nearest local cheerfully reciprocated.
The pickup departures continued until, come early evening, only Shaggy and I were left. Shortly darkness fell, and the once–hot air rushing through the bars turned to a deathly cold. I was wearing only shorts and a T–shirt and it became impossible to stand. Lying down was the best way of saving any warmth, but I was positioned on something that jabbed painfully into my side, which in time caused me to ache all over. I thought about altering my posture, or obtaining more clothes from my rucksack, yet the cold was so insufferable I just didn’t want to move from my hunched position. Instead I bit into my lip, the mix of pain and cold so demoralizing it was all I could do to stop myself from drawing blood. The ride had turned into a nightmare.
As keen as I was to make Butembo, I wasn’t alone in my anguish. Although the other passengers had gone, any surplus space had been filled by a plethora of merchandise loaded en route, hence Shaggy was unavoidably sitting on a metal box, and the pickup’s violent bounces caused much throbbing to his backside. Then the temperature dipped again but somehow, in spite of the tribulation and mounting pain, we managed a brief conversation.
“Sod the budget,” I said. “Once we get there I’m going straight to the best hotel. I want a comfy bed, a bath and a bloody good meal.”
“Preferably steak,” rasped Shaggy, so aching and frozen he ditched his usual penny–
pinching and kept his concurring deliberately short.
We finally reached our destination at 7:30pm, but what agony. Despite having a population of 100,000, like most places in Zaire, Butembo had no electricity. It was pitch black.
To add to the disappointment, even with a concerted effort not to, we ended up in another hovel. No bath and rock hard beds as well. At least the two pounds charge reflected the lack of home comforts.
The dearth of facilities notwithstanding, my frustration came more from youthful ignorance and daydreaming of somewhere luxurious, brought on by the dreadful ending of our pickup trip — diabolical in comparison with Five Star lettings our room may have been, but it was no worse than we should have expected. Besides, we did manage to procure a reasonable meal, albeit eaten by the light of a candle, and even though we were slightly put off by the, although very friendly, proprietor. After taking our order, he exited to the adjacent room, upon which followed much squawking, then a sudden silence, and later our chicken meal.
I slept well that night, my general fatigue overcoming the rigidity of the bed, and was woken only once, briefly, by someone wielding a pillow and flashing a torch. Surmising it to be Shaggy, I mumbled an enquiry in his direction, subsequently discovering he was chasing a bothersome fly, so I went back to sleep.
Poor Shaggy. Whilst I had endured some discomfort that evening, I had finished the day with a satisfying meal and, although jaded, felt fit and healthy. Not so my sidekick, who had acquired fierce stomach cramps and complained bitterly about his now–chapped lips.
Friday, 23rd June. It was the morning after, and I rose ready and fully replenished for a good day’s journey.
“It’s surprising but I actually had a decent night’s sleep. Did you catch that fly?” I was shadowboxing as I spoke. I felt good.
Shaggy was sat on the edge of his bed, torch in one hand, pillow in the other. He looked across at me. His eyes were red, drawn and had great bags hanging beneath them — his chapped lips so inflated one would have assumed yesterday’s face–off with Goliath had continued in a dead–of–night, one–sided, losing rematch.
“Don’t mention that bloody fly. I got to sleep alright, but then a buzzing noise woke me. It kept buzzing, so I got the pillow and torch and went after it. Then it buggered off and I was just getting back to sleep and the bloody thing came back. Anyway, I went after it again.”
“What happened this time?”
“It buggered off again.”
“And?”
“I reckoned I’d be getting back to sleep and the little shit would come back, so I sat and waited for it.”
“And did it?”
“No.”
“How long have you been sat up?”
“All night.” He started to chuckle. “I just sat here praying it would come back so I could swat it. But it didn’t. The little shit.”
Shaggy’s day was no better than his previous night. Along with his chapped lips, stomach cramps and dehydration, he began to suffer a painful blister. Worse still, he sustained the first bouts of an affliction that was bound to have an effect on him, since it already had me — excessive loosening of the bowels.
We had been walking for quite a while before my troubled friend was relieved of his blister torment by two huge trucks. That they were travelling in convoy from Kenya was a further bonus, since, according to the drivers, Kenyans always gave hitchhikers lifts out of kindness rather than for profit.
Heading towards Beni, approximately forty miles up the road, with only the solitary spare seat in each truck, Shaggy had had to sit in the passenger seat of the one up front whilst I followed suit in the other. Being so large, and the road so bad, these trucks dawdled along at a brain–deadening ‘speed’ of 8mph, although at one point my truck overtook Shaggy’s (at the one feasible passing spot the entire way) at but 6mph! Hence, even though Beni wasn’t half the distance we had covered the preceding day, we eventually took at least as long getting there as we had reaching Butembo.
Once safely at our destination, we thanked our respective drivers, debussed, and took stock of our surroundings. Oh dear. Were it not for a handful of vehicles, Beni’s central thoroughfare of trampled dust and raggle–taggle rows of wood, plaster and clapboard buildings, all added up to another place that very much looked like it was awaiting the odd rolling tumbleweed and the leisurely ride into town of The Man With No Name — i.e. another Spaghetti Western settlement in the mould of Goma. The difference was that I thankfully didn’t sense any bad vibes. Nor apparently did someone else: citing his ailments, upon arrival my too–lazy mate was keen to wait around until a truck bound for Kisangani passed by. The problem was, my urge to keep moving now bordered on fanaticism, and I insisted we walk on. To compromise, while Shaggy stood by the road waiting for a lift, I went round to every parked truck whose driver could be found in order to ask if anyone was heading north. If so, would they mind us jumping onboard? But no one was going our way. So we hung out by the road, both of us believing something would pass by, but come another half an hour, nothing had.
What now? If we had waited, even up to a day or two, it should have been possible to grab a truck heading in Kisangani’s direction, yet I maintained we walk on. My philosophy was simple: if we were at some point able to cadge a lift at Beni, then that same truck would still pick us up later, should we be hitchhiking on the open road. Conversely, if for whatever reason no trucks were due for months, not walking meant we would be stuck in Beni. At least travelling on foot guaranteed we would arrive sooner or later in Kisangani, even if we had to walk the entire way. So walk we did, thumbs at the ready, eager to flag down anything that might pass us by.
Despite the sense of my theory, Shaggy continued to petition for hitching from a fixed spot, and I was in the process of re–explaining my (patently more sensible) way of thinking when our luck changed. A Portuguese gentleman in his mid–thirties and dressed in shorts and a T–shirt, offered us a lift in his brand new ‘deluxe’ four–wheel–drive.
Now we were travelling in style, and although the dead ringer for British actor Trevor Eve wasn’t going far, only two or three miles, any disappointment with the lift being brief soon abated as fortune again smiled our way. Would we care to stay at his house for the night? For my part I was a little reluctant, as my inner spirit told me to carry on until I dropped, but I relented. There was only one more hour before dark anyway, and warranted or not I realised Shaggy’s resolve had, of late, not been up to scratch.
Whilst the vehicle was a something of a giveaway, what we hadn’t realised was just how affluent ‘Trevor’ was. Not until, that is, he spun into a sizeable coffee plantation and let on that the entire acreage, the manpower, the servants, and what turned out to be an enchanting homestead, with its own generator, were all his. A half–mile on and we came to rest in an isolated but spacious dusty yard, dotted around which were some outbuildings and Trevor’s residence — a large, white, single–storied house.
Once out of the four by four, Shaggy and I followed our host up a short flight of steps — and into a world of clean sheets, good food, hot and cold running water, electric lights, television, and even a valet. What a windfall! From nowhere we appeared suddenly to have everything to hand. Our bedroom even had an en suite bathroom, which was the most welcomed facility of all. Bliss. Well, nearly, as there was one aspect of the stay that proved to be less than heavenly — while Trevor spoke French, he did so very quickly. And because our French was at best basic, we were hard pressed to comprehend him. Rather than appreciate there was a language problem, however, Trevor would become annoyed whenever he was asked to repeat himself. So we just nodded whenever he spoke, which seemed to appease him. But hey, who were we to object? We each had a hot bath and snug bed, drank a bottle of chilled lager, and attempted to absorb a foreign–tongue video. Who would have predicted that a couple of hours beforehand?
After a pleasant sleep on soft pillows, another relaxing bath, and a belly filling breakfast, it was time to go. Whi
le this could have been construed as a shame for indolent Shaggy, the worst aspect of leaving, as far as he was concerned, was the way in which it was effected — not by the plush car in which we had travelled yesterday, but by an open–backed pickup.
To return us to the main road, not only did Trevor have to drive a half–mile back along an extremely rough, pot–holed dirt track, but he also decided to cut a few corners, making the journey even bumpier. Unwittingly, Shaggy had consented to sit in the open–back section, whilst I, enjoying the comfy passenger seat, was told to fasten my seat belt. This wasn’t because buckling up was a legal requirement (who would impose it?), but because Trevor fancied himself as a rally driver, something he’d neglected to show off in his new car.
So off we set, me all buckled up in the front, and in the back the unrestrained dupe Shaggy, sat on a hard corrugated floor, with only the sides of the pickup to hold on to. Which is precisely what he had to do — with all his might — as at speed Trevor proceeded to bounce his ‘stunt–machine’ in all directions. Oh what fun, as now and again we would bang hit a mound or bump go over a crater. But Trevor was undeterred and, foot to the floor, would just look round at me with a nod and wink as if to say, ‘How do you like that wheel spin?’ or ‘Brace yourself, here comes another gargantuan ramp.’ With my seatbelt and protected sitting position, I revelled in it. Alas, not so the untethered Shaggy, who ended up being smashed all over the rock–hard metal back — on numerous occasions he almost bounced out of the thing altogether.
SEAN OF THE CONGO Page 10
