SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  “And did either of you run in these Olympics?”

  “I wish,” said Shaggy. “I was only there for a couple of years. I kept getting injured, so I went back home and ended up working at the local sports centre.”

  “I was booted out after fifteen months,” I confessed.

  “Booted out? As in, asked to leave?”

  “As in, he was shit,” joshed Shaggy, which caused much chortling between the two of them, though he in time got round to appeasing me. A “personality clash” had been the real reason.

  Killing time aside, the good news concerning Goldfinga’s presence was that he also helped instigate a better connection with our trucking companions. Although we had previously had a tad of discourse with a couple of them, by this time translations were being asked for, and with Goldfinga’s assistance we thereby found ourselves drumming up a more in–depth conversation. Apart from passenger–seat financier ‘Barclay’ — a skinny thirty year–old who underlined his position by carrying a portfolio — up until this point we had been unsure as to who were or weren’t actual crew members. It transpired that Duke’s team included two engineers: twenty–eight–year–old head mechanic ‘Ferrari’ and his equally short and stocky twenty–two–year–old helper Jerome, both of whom had taken turns sitting up front with Barclay. There was also Jerome’s little brother, Pepe. Shy at first, Pepe became more gregarious throughout the journey, as you would expect from a fourteen year–old. This left eight actual hitchers: the six generously proportioned women (who kept to themselves, so we never really got to know them) and two twenty–year–old students, the always smiling ‘Hitch’ and his slight, even shorter pal ‘Ike’, who were heading home to Isiro. I came to look upon them as being part of the crew.

  The upshot of the enhanced chat was that a mutual harmony was struck between foreigner and crew. A solidarity that, once Goldfinga had gone, was sealed by an exchange of gifts. Hitch and Ike handed Shaggy and me a loaf of bread and some sardines, whilst yours truly did an over–the–top impression of the singing crazy man who had passed by minutes after we had broken down.

  Before he departed, Goldfinga also satisfied our curiosity on the subject of gold. From our schooldays, Shaggy and I knew that gold’s chemical symbol was Au, the atomic number seventy–nine, and that its highest purity was twenty–four carats. Other than that, it was a deep yellow. Ten minutes of listening to Goldfinga and we also knew that gold was so malleable that one ounce could be broadened into a sheet the size of a tennis court, and that president Mobutu had taken personal control of the largest of Zaire’s gold mines, estimated to hold over one hundred tonnes.

  Goldfinga also delighted in showing us a couple of small nuggets, which he stored about his person until he had the opportunity to swap them for cash. We did toy with the idea of offering to buy one from him, but being inexpert in the authenticity and value of gold, not to mention the apprehension of getting it through customs, we suppressed any such fancy. More crucially, we would need whatever hard cash we still had for future fares; so we placated ourselves by continuing to absorb Goldfinga’s wisdom — and his tales. Seemingly, jobs in the industry were split between those who received a weekly pittance by working for big companies in minefields, and those who went it alone via ‘panning’: a method of placing a dish into running water, then agitating it so that lighter contents of sand and gravel are sloshed over the side, leaving, hopefully, gold. Whilst Goldfinga was then a panning man, at some stage in his career he had undertaken both activities, and told us all sorts of wacky stories of how miners had hidden a portion of their day’s takings (only to complement their measly wage, he affirmed), which included cramming their booty into more than one orifice. Although the majority of these chancers got caught out, said Goldfinga, I was more than glad to remain ignorant of how this was effected.

  Whilst this cranny–stuffing might not have been for us, the notion of slinking off to a tributary and having a go at panning was suddenly quite attractive, until we were discouraged by Goldfinga insisting the profession was infinitely more laborious than romantic. He finished by saying that whilst the unearthing of gold nuggets was very rare, for someone such as he the emotional reward of that elusive find far outweighed the potential economic security.

  There was an air of melancholy about me when Goldfinga waved goodbye. Sure, this was mostly due to his being an obvious source of killing time, but then again part of the reason was simply because it’s nice to meet people who are, in a good way, different from the norm. He certainly was, and not just because he was a pygmy.

  After dark another truck’s headlights were spotted in the distance and, as it drew near, I heard the ‘opposition’ crew mocking our woe. Fatal. If ever there was an argument for the veracity of Sod’s Law, this was it. As their truck drew out to overtake, guess what? Yep, it too blew a tyre (our return banter was terrifically zealous). And guess what else? Yep, they also had but a repair kit. At least it took them ‘only’ two hours to mend their puncture, and they were away yonks before our boredom was relieved.

  When we eventually got going, the sun had long gone down and the night winds blew effortlessly through my T–shirt. Too cramped to reach into my rucksack, for a while I was very uncomfortable and cold, but with a little persuasion I managed to hunch down atop the two heads I now found resting on each knee. Contentment at last, and with the people huddled around me now keeping me warm, after a long and frustrating day I finally felt myself drifting off to sleep.

  Who was I trying to kid? At the very moment of peaceful slumber, the Isuzu pulled up.

  It could not have been worse. We had arrived at Epulu, the site of the main rangers’ headquarters by the Epulu river, but the first of two bridges was falling to pieces, so they had closed it down. To add insult to injury, whoever had sanctioned this had supposedly made their judgment only moments before our appearance. If we hadn’t had that puncture, if it had been fixed quicker, or had happened later in the journey, we would have been across.

  With nowhere to go, we were forced to bed down for the night. Frustrated but unable to do anything about it, while the generously proportioned women vanished to wherever, Shaggy and I stayed with the Isuzu and its crew. Here, I sought out the warmest place possible, laid my mum’s once–clean towel on the floor, myself on top of that, added my thinner–than–thin sheet and mosquito netting, shut my eyes and, since I was now laying beneath it, prayed the truck’s hand brake was a lot more reliable than its tyres.

  Monday, 26th June. We had landed at three o’clock in the morning. It was now ten o’clock, and all fifteen of us were back by the Isuzu, eagerly watching a few rangers laying planks across the derelict bridge. Once this was achieved, they allowed the barmiest volunteer (Duke) to try to cross it. At long last we could get on our way. Well, that was the objective. With Duke ready to set off in nanoseconds, a jobsworth official arrived on the scene and announced that the bridge had to be fully restored before anyone was allowed on it, and all the planks were taken up. The repairs, we were told, would take all of two months to complete.

  Two months!

  “Bloody typical,” moaned Shaggy.

  Despite the wealth of vulgarity that has survived my partial censorship, my opinion as expressed remains unsuitable for print.

  I couldn’t believe our bad luck, nor indeed abide the idea of being stuck for weeks on end in the same place. But stuck we were. Not that we were the only ones, for as the day wore on the number of trucks that ended up waiting on either side of the river soon had us baffled as to where they had been in the run up to this lift. Yet there they were, at least fifty of them sitting around doing nothing.

  In a way it was quite fortunate that Epulu was situated near the bridge, as it was a Third World version of a motorway service station. Even when the crossing was fine, the drivers would stop here to use the facilities, despite its being no bigger than a village. It comprised two rows of clay huts, one either side of the roadway, and a tiny market at the other end of the s
ettlement. Directly across from that was an official building, which we correctly presumed incorporated a police station. There was also a modest zoo and campsite, both located on the other side but away from the road — these had been built by the rangers to help raise funds for the surrounding 8,000 square–mile Okapi Wildlife Reserve.

  With time to spare, Shaggy and I took to wandering through the village with the crew, the generously proportioned women going their own way, as was customary. In the centre we purchased food from one of six little ‘café’ huts, all of which had their own makeshift signs outside, with a menu and price list. The menus generally consisted of rice, eggs, and what I found to be the most common meat throughout our journey, goat, which to my uneducated palate tasted like a cross between mutton and beef. You could also buy a beer or a cola, and one hut even had its own (generator–powered) refrigerator, which, given the tremendous heat and humidity in this part of the world, understandably attracted the most business.

  Next we sauntered down to the campsite, but it was deserted so we instead visited the zoo, the fee for which was surprisingly pitiful, the equivalent of sixteen pence. I soon realised that the outlay reflected the goods, as its sole occupants were two zebroids (the offspring of an interbred zebra stallion and any other non–zebra equine mare), four chimpanzees and one snake, albeit a very imposing but beautifully marked viper renowned for having the longest fangs in the world — an awesome two inches! Having over the years been a regular visitor to the animal section of the Guinness Book of World Records, Mr Smart–arse here confidently asserted, “It’s a Gaboon viper.”

  “Oui, c’est vrai!” came the impressed ranger’s reply, which milked pats on the back from the crew, and helped increase my already large hat size. That said, I was greatly saddened to see this exotic creature being kept inside a two–foot by two–foot box.

  After the snake we moved on to the two zebroids and then the four chimpanzees. Housed in independent enclosures and penned off by chicken wire, both species were mercifully given a little more space than the viper, and in an effort to entertain everyone I mimicked the seemingly friendly chimps. But my teasing wasn’t to last. Unlike in England, where there is either a wall of glass or much space between the section in which you may stand and the penned–off area, here there was only a small gap between two wire fences. The result of this was that the chimp I had been mocking somehow managed to get its hand through the wiring, at which it made a swift ‘pay–back’ grab at my family jewels. Fortunately aware of the situation, I rapidly proved that Superman wasn’t the only life form capable of travelling faster than a speeding bullet, although the sight did draw a big “Oooooh!” from the onlookers, each wincing at the thought of the near–disaster.

  Zoo visit over, the crew separated and Shaggy and I ambled down to the market with Hitch and Ike. Here, one could buy bread, fruit, vegetables, nuts, and peanut butter (mashed peanuts), a spoonful of which would be placed inside a leaf, which was then folded and, hey presto, packaging. We also spent time at another café, at which point Ike decided he liked Shaggy’s Nike running shoes and wanted to swap them for his plastic sandals. Shaggy chuckled and told him he wasn’t interested.

  “Pourquoi?” asked Ike.

  Deadly serious, he wanted to know why Shaggy wouldn’t exchange with him. Before then, anyone asking my not always tolerant ally such a question had been met by one of two reactions: either a ‘I can’t be arsed with this conversation’ attitude — frequently backed up by an abrupt “piss off” — or else a lengthy debate, which more often than not culminated in the same two words. On good terms with Hitch and Ike, Shaggy decided on option two and asked Ike how much his sandals had cost. Establishing they were worth two pounds, my fellow Brit disclosed that his beloved trainers had cost him seventy. “And I had to work a lot of hours to afford them, so no, I won’t be swapping, thank you,” he concluded in a mixture of sign language and as much explicable French as he could muster.

  Despite having had this explained to him in simplistic detail, Ike turned to Shaggy and asked, “Alors, on éxchange?”

  Shaggy looked at me in amazement. My ‘only in Africa’ shrug preceded his telling Ike once more that he didn’t want to swap, and to nullify any riposte he adopted the most palpable way of drawing the discussion to a close. At six–feet–two Shaggy towered over five–feet–five Ike, so they measured shoe sizes — they were like snuggly peas in a pod. It was impossible not to laugh at Ike’s raised–eyebrows look of kismet. Even Shaggy tittered, though he of course had other ideas about the destiny of his prized trainers, so carefully re–explained how much of a fiscal difference there was between the contrasting footwear, adding that he’d stick with his running shoes even if the sandals were worth more. He was a trainers, not a “manky sandals”, man.

  Evidently not one for being fobbed off, in reply Ike insisted he had understood in the first place and that there was no need for Shaggy to repeat himself. But did he want to swap anyway? Shaggy was all but speechless, though finally made his point clear with a firm: “Non!”

  “Pourquoi?” asked Ike.

  Later, Shaggy went swimming in the river with a handful of the crew while I busied myself with my camera. A minute into this and the Epuluan I was set to photograph began shouting “Frère! Frère!” whilst beckoning me to spin around. Upon doing so, instead of being met by a similar–looking African, I quickly realised that ‘Brother! Brother!’ was his way of telling me there was another muzungu heading our way. A moment later and I was shaking hands with a big Australian.

  “Can’t stay long,” said the backpacker. “Heard you were in town, thought I’d say hello before heading off.”

  A brief chat ensued, which ended with my ‘brother’ informing me that he had stayed the night at the small campsite.

  “We checked that out earlier, there was no one there.”

  “Yeah, bit dead now. The guys staying there are probably off seeing the okapis. Anyway, I’ll say g’day. Got to go, got a pickup waiting.”

  “Which way are you heading? Nia Nia?”

  “No, the other way, Bunia.”

  “Pity.”

  We shook hands again and I watched the big backpacker depart.

  Although understandable, it was ironic that the Aussie had been referred to as my brother. After all, geographically speaking he must have lived twice the distance from me as did the Epuluan. More noteworthy was the fact that Shaggy and I had only gone to the campsite because we had nothing better to do and were bored. In all honesty, the last thing we wanted to do right now was spend time with non–Africans. This wasn’t because we had “gone native”, as one character puts it in Lawrence of Arabia — a film that helped instigate my wanderlust — but more so because after knocking about with the crew we just wanted to ‘belong’. Not forever of course, just for now, for this one moment, this one journey. No longer were we ‘Shaggy, Sean and the crew’. Now it was only ‘the crew’.

  By the time Shaggy had come back from his swim, the Aussie had disappeared down the road to Bunia, so we took another stroll to the campsite, where we at last came across other Johnny Foreigners — an American geology student and a couple of Scandinavians, who had indeed been to see the okapis, which they recommended. They also advised us to visit a nearby village of tourist–friendly pygmies. While both proposals were obviously attractive, the fact remained that if we were away from the immediate vicinity and they somehow fixed the bridge, we might miss the Isuzu’s departure. A distinct no–no.

  With his girlfriend, the American was gathering facts for a book on rainforests and had been staying with tribesmen in much the same way as we had done post–Rutshuru. Now they were heading to our chosen destination, but first he had come alone to the closer Epulu, as he’d been told that he could get his bicycle gears re–adjusted here. Quite clearly he’d been misinformed and, tempted to follow him, we watched enviously as he cycled off down the road we wanted to tread, towards Kisangani.

  Having witnessed the recent exo
dus, Shaggy and I figured it a wise move to revise our alternatives. If the Isuzu was forced to remain in Epulu indefinitely, rather than hang about, one option was purely to walk on, despite this meaning we would unhappily be abandoning the crew. A still more interesting possibility was to obtain a pirogue here and then paddle it down the river, which in due course flowed into the Congo. We examined our map. As far as the tributary idea went, things looked promising. It would bring us out at Basoko, downriver of our intended Kisangani starting point. Although this would mean omitting 120 miles of our predetermined 1,000–mile Congo voyage, since we would have to paddle 460 miles just to get there, we would hardly be missing out. Then we spotted a snag. Tiny blue lines drawn every so often across the tributary spelt one thing only: like the Congo upriver of Kisangani, it had waterfalls. Back to the drawing board.

  “Let’s think about walking again,” I said, running my finger over the map. “It’s about seventy miles to Nia Nia...”

  “With no adjoining roads until then, so there are going to be no trucks to cadge a lift from.”

  “...Fifteen miles minimum a day, let’s say twenty, we could easily do the whole lot in less than four days.”