SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  We walked and walked and walked. With the exemption of two uncooperative pickups early doors, not one vehicle passed. Soon daylight was drawing to a close, and while the night brought about a natural unease, with a decent moon to guide us, we quickly learned to handle it. We were enjoying the walk. Life was good.

  Even so, there was something amiss. A cog that wasn’t in place, but I couldn’t work out what it was. Something to do with the whole ‘Africa’ thing, of that I was certain. More often than not, when you watch a movie that’s located in the depths of the rainforest you will see remote tribes living a primitive existence; you will observe ritual dances; you will behold witch doctors, and a picture will take shape in your mind. Of course this spectacle would have been nice to see for real, yet the settlements we had passed on the journey through Zaire’s eastern provinces, although archaic by big city standards, had thus far all but embraced modern society. Indeed, the only settings where we had seen anything ‘other worldly’ was at villages like My Woman’s and this last community. But this still wasn’t ‘natives in headdresses’, wasn’t men of a bygone age, wasn’t tribesmen wearing loincloths or performing ceremonial dance. And, to be straightforward, as much as it would have been thrilling to come across these people, this wasn’t a problem to me — it wasn’t the cog that I’d been missing. No, this time around I just wanted to see the jungle on my way to the Congo; wanted to be part of the rich green shading I had been so enthused by in an atlas when I was a schoolboy, while keeping myself as far away from harm as possible.

  So what was it that I had been missing? As it was, that mysterious cog was about to fall into place.

  Yes, I was getting the sights, and the aromas, but the missing link lay in another sense, for the component that finalized the picture was sounds. I should say ‘sound’, singular, as the elusive cog was one very specific sound — one that was about to become a stark reality to us, as at long last we got a taste of my image of Africa.

  Once night had fallen, in the distance somewhere, we began to hear natives chanting. With this came that one very precise sound I had been subliminally waiting for. It sounded like this: Boom–Boom–Boom. Boom–Boom–Boom.

  Tom–tom drums.

  Gulp.

  * * *

  Boom–Boom–Boom. Boom–Boom–Boom, went the drums.

  There was a sudden mixture of emotions. Elation, in that I finally had a sound that went along with the vision I had previously held of Africa. Excitement, in that I might actually spend a night with my idea of a remote tribe. And apprehension, because my fear of the unknown refused to allow my positive side any leeway. After all, who knew what the drums meant? As ignorant as I was, for all I knew we were close to a hostile tribe and the Boom–Boom–Boom decoded as: ‘Two strangers approach. They are bad juju. They must be punished. Make sure the dark–haired one suffers in particular.’

  Whatever the message, the drums and the chanting were, without question, enthralling.

  Boom–Boom–Boom. Boom–Boom–Boom.

  There is a famous scene in the film Zulu, the 1964 classic based on the true tale of the battle of Rorke’s Drift, where 120 British soldiers somehow repel twenty times as many combat–hardened Zulu warriors. In the film, the warriors surround the small encampment and begin their war cry in an effort to unnerve their foe. Not to be outdone, the men of Rorke’s Drift counteract this with their version of the Welsh battle song ‘Men of Harlech’.

  If you are partial to rousing scenes and haven’t seen this one, do so. It is electric.

  Boom–Boom–Boom. Boom–Boom–Boom.

  The tom–toms were getting closer.

  Boom–Boom–Boom. Boom–Boom–Boom.

  I decided not to be outdone either, and I burst into the first verse of ‘Jerusalem’: “And did those feet, in ancient times, walk upon England’s mountains green…”

  The men of Rorke’s Drift would have been proud.

  Boom–Boom–Boom. Boom–Boom–Boom.

  Bless him if Shaggy didn’t join me: “And was the Holy Lamb of God, on England’s pleasant pastures seen…”

  Boom–Boom–Boom. Boom–Boom–Boom.

  This carried on for some time, as we leaped from ‘Jerusalem’ into what lines we knew of things like ‘Men of Harlech’, ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, ‘God Save The Queen’, and a few rugby songs to boot.

  Life was still good.

  Though late, the drums continued to beat incessantly, and while our tonsils had yet to reach the ‘nigh–on expired’ stage, we decided to stop singing. The tom–toms were getting too loud and, oblivious as to what they were actually signalling, our insecurity told us to be mindful of worst–case scenarios. Whatever the conclusion, it made sense to be completely aware of the situation, and that meant sticking a sock in it and pinning back our lugholes.

  We had timed our silence to perfection, for within the next sixty seconds three things happened that required our being as receptive as humanly possible. Firstly, the chanting and tom–tom beat concluded. Presumably unable to hear our singing beforehand, whilst my positive side urged me to cross the cultural barrier and announce our arrival to men who would probably treat us with nothing but kindness and respect, an innate feeling of self–preservation kept me on high alert. ‘Why attract potential adversity? Maintain your silence. Play it by ear,’ it told me. Secondly, it was at this moment that the warning issued by Ali’s friend Larry X, way back in Nairobi, loomed ever larger: “Never travel at night. Africa can be an amazing place to be during the day, but at night — beware.” Thirdly, we heard another sound. A sudden one that invaded our senses like an arrow whistling past the ear — it was a vehicle, closing from behind. Of course we had hoped it would be a truck, but quite quickly it became apparent that it was a motorbike. The engine’s whirr drawing closer and closer.

  What to do? A motorbike would be of no use to us, and since we were guarding against all prospective danger, the thought crossed my mind to employ our pre–determined ‘stay safe’ stratagem of moving twenty paces into the cover of the forest, returning only once all was clear. The problem with that little trick was that we had devised it during daylight hours, when implementing it hadn’t meant walking blindly into a pitch–black thicket of alternative peril. Weighing up what ended as a fifty–fifty choice, I whispered the options to Shaggy, who unfortunately came back with the same indecision. So we just hoped for the best and kept walking. Besides, the more I mulled it over the more I decided the biker would likely be another traveller, in the vein of Dean, the Australian who, on the flight from Moscow, had regaled us with the story of his motorbike expedition across the Sahara.

  Almost immediately we detected the dimness lifting as the headlights neared, and we no longer needed to strain our eyes to see the way ahead. The bike was close now but the instant we were caught in the beam, instead of sweeping by, it slowed dramatically, then crawled past us at a snail’s pace, whoever was on the seat staring intently. By this I don’t mean the one rider I was expecting — or two. I mean three. Three Zairians.

  Although concerned, I decided not to worry too much because one would presume they would be curious. Two greenhorns hiking through the jungle in the dark, I doubt many others of the same ilk had ever been so intrepid (so stupid!). As odd for me was the contrast in sounds. One minute I was listening to the beat of tom–toms, the next to the drone of a motorbike. One symbolised perfectly the old world Africa, the other the new; I just hadn’t ever put them together. Be that as it may, I stayed composed and continued walking. So what if three locals showed some curiosity towards us? It was only natural. Sure enough, the bike passed by.

  What was this? Not far up the road the motorbike turned on itself and circled back, slowly passing us again, the three men making more acute eye contact. We didn’t respond, but watched every single movement out of the corner of our eyes. It was curiosity. Yes, that’s what it was, just curiosity.

  Or was it?

  Behind us the bike turned again, and again came to u
s, crawling past even slower. I wasn’t exactly happy about this, and was even less so when the practice was repeated, each sweep looming ever nearer.

  This time I made eye contact. I wanted to know who and what we were dealing with. Curiosity is the easiest thing in the world to cope with, provided that’s all it is. And yet — fuck. I didn’t like the look of these guys. I really didn’t like the look of them, and I mean really. Their whole demeanour, the intense eyeballing, the furrowed brows, the inflated masculinity, the scarring, the bike drawing closer, all told me the same thing...

  We are bad.

  Once past us, the bike moved on a little but then ground to a halt. Then one man dismounted, yet simply stood by the bike until we had walked by.

  Bad indeed.

  Then the bikers repeated the procedure. This time a second man dismounted, the first now walking behind us.

  Fuck indeed.

  My heart began to pound harder and harder. No way were they just ‘being nosy’. This was proper bad. They were weighing us up for sure. How strong were we? Could we put up a fight?

  Fuck, this was bad.

  Now what to do? Do we run? Do we drop rucksacks and run? Do we drop rucksacks and stay and fight? I assessed our circumstances. Not only did they outnumber us, and knew the area, but they doubtless also guessed that no one had a clue that we were walking along this particular road at this particular time. Into the bargain, they were likely to be carrying far deadlier weapons than the measly stick Shaggy had just picked up — an action that only validated my fears, and sent my already high adrenalin into overdrive. Now couple all that with a lack of witnesses and, oh yes, we were right in the shit. Real down and out, straight to the core, no messing around, hard–fast proper shit.

  Fuck!

  This was it. Fate had arrived. In readiness I flicked open my penknife and dropped one of the rucksack’s straps from my shoulder.

  Then it happened.

  * * *

  In the distance, a heavy shaft of light of shone deep into the night. Talk about a million–to–one lucky break — after hours of nothing, it was a truck, heading our way and surely our only possibility of a lift. Better yet, it stopped the bikers in their tracks.

  For now.

  As the truck neared, I fretted about all manner of possible negative outcomes. Maybe the driver wouldn’t stop because it was night–time? Maybe he wouldn’t stop because of the sight of the motorbike gang? Maybe he wasn’t interested in picking up passengers regardless? Either way, I couldn’t help but picture the truck sailing past. If that were the case, I was sure we would find ourselves in the unenviable position of having to defend our lives. We needed this lift to happen like no lift we had ever had before. Especially as the bikers were visibly remaining within striking range, no doubt hoping our salvation would pass by.

  The truck drew closer. My whole being now centred on getting a lift, I willed the thing to stop, and if it looked as though it wouldn’t, I told Shaggy we should leap on the back.

  Presently it was upon us. The moment of truth had arrived and I metaphorically crossed my fingers and flailed my arms at the driver, who fortunately for us couldn’t have missed anyone in his headlights on such a narrow, slow–moving road.

  The truck pulled to a stop. Result. But would we be allowed onboard? An English–speaking passenger atop the truck interpreted for the driver.

  Yes, they were heading straight to Kisangani.

  Yes, they would give us a lift.

  Yes, they wanted Z 12,000.

  Hang on …Z 12,000?

  Shit.

  One of the things we had learned in our short time here was the cost of hitching, and at over double what Duke had charged for a similar distance, this was far too high. But faced with our disagreeable circumstances we could hardly refuse. The problem was, after our wild cola–buying spree at Epulu we had only those Z 7,000 left.

  Uh oh.

  With the bikers still loitering in the background, I maintained that without this lift we would soon be swapping our muzungus title to ‘the deceased’. And since we hadn’t Z 12,000 on us, therefore pleaded with the driver to let us have the lift for what we did have. The answer was an emphatic “No!” — the sound of which registered in my brain like the chime of a 100–decibel bell.

  Fuck!

  Our goose was cooked. Goodbye sheltered lift, hello fight to the death.

  In desperation, I was about to offer to clean the truck as part payment when the words cascaded out of my mouth: “What about taking seven thousand zaires cash and the other five thousand in travellers’ cheques?”

  A debate ensued, and with it my pulse fluctuated accordingly, as one second the lift was on, the next it wasn’t. But fortune swung our way, as the driver finally assented to escort me to a bank in Kisangani to get the cheques cashed (not that I knew if any would be open — or cared). The important thing was that, at least for the time being, we were safe.

  Now we had five cat lives left.

  Now I needed some toilet roll.

  Tout de suite, Shaggy and I leaped into the back.

  Surprise, surprise — a zillion other passengers.

  Between the dimness and the fact that the rest of them were all under blankets laying down sleeping, it was near–impossible to know where to wriggle in, and I heard the odd grunt and groan, followed by my “whoops, excusez–moi” as I stepped on a few bodies. Eventually Shaggy slipped in alongside the others, whilst I, the human footrest, ended up down by everyone’s feet.

  Although we had gained a lift, I had worried that the bikers may follow us, or else go off and obtain reinforcements. In reality, though, they were more likely opportunists who had merely come across two potential victims in the dark. But then again, were they? Think back. Was it really nothing more than a coincidence that the tom–toms had concluded at roughly the same time as we heard the motorbike?

  Food for thought.

  Whatever their intent, as the minutes turned into hours it became apparent that neither they, nor any others, would return. And thank heaven for that, for when I look back on this occasion, a chill runs down my spine. Had that truck not appeared from out of the blue, I am convinced that whoever might have won blood would have been spilled that night.

  As if the lift and the departure of the bikers wasn’t pleasing enough, someone smiled down on us again, for the driver decided to travel all night.

  “Hey, Shaggy. If he keeps going at this rate we’ll be in Kisangani tomorrow morning,” I said (although perhaps I shouldn’t have. Not after his “We’ll be in Kisangani by Monday night” had heralded the last puncture).

  Whilst the idea of reaching our ultimate destination gave me some solace, journeying at night had its downside, for it also meant the cold night air would again rush through my mum’s once–clean towel and my thinner–than–thin sheet and mosquito netting, and again I regretted not keeping hold of the blanket Ali had given me.

  Despite the cold I didn’t sleep too badly, until I was woken by a painful throbbing located somewhere around my shins. This, I discovered, had been caused by a fellow passenger’s tootsies, or rather the footwear to which they belonged — hobnailed boots — now embedded into my shins, thank you very much. Hence, although it was still rather chilly at this time in the morning, and therefore lying flat was definitely the preferable option, I nonetheless opted to liberate my tibias and rose to my feet, fervently awaiting the exposure of the blanket–covered, shin–crushing fiend.

  Impatient as usual, I started drumming my fingers. Awake since 6:30am, it was now 8am and I hadn’t a clue how far away Kisangani was, although one of the crew let on we would be there before noon. Certainly we were near, for the road was both wider and flatter, and the sides of the route were far more colonised (by shacks and little stalls) than during the previous day. This, however, served only to rile me, as the driver persisted in stopping, seemingly every other minute, to purchase various items — notably dead porcupines and monkeys, the latter strung up on stalls
like handbags, a small slit in the end of the tail with their heads popped through.

  Quite why the frustrating git couldn’t wait until Kisangani before obtaining such paraphernalia, who knows? “It’s probably cheaper” is an obvious assumption, but then again simple sociopathy could also explain not only his willingness to leave Shaggy and me to the bikers had we not the fare, but also his decision to splatter some poor kid’s pet dog, a sickening incident that, to be honest, would have been very easy to prevent.

  As our truck drew closer to Kisangani, my attention began to focus on the hobnailed fiend who had gouged my shins to pieces. Whoever it was, they were still fast asleep under a blanket that masked their identity, which irked increasingly the longer it stayed there. To the point that whenever we reached Kisangani it didn’t matter now, I had to see who it was. Not that I was after revenge or anything like that — although that would have been perfectly satisfactory — I just wanted to know who the hell had mangled my shins. Another half an hour and my patience was rewarded. For the fiend slowly stirred, until, a moment later, the culprit sat bolt upright and the blanket dropped, revealing all.

  Crikey! There in front of me was a sight too unreal to believe — sodding Jobsworth! The self–same rucksack–squashing, incalculably huge, enormous, hulking, ponderously gross vat of blubbering walrus fat–filled, whale–featured, wobbly bottomed ‘I can block any toilet’ official who had cut short our Epulu progress. Shaggy, who had been watching the events unfold, cracked up laughing — he later joked that he had wanted to cry but it came out wrong. Still half disbelieving the probability of such a painful coincidence, I looked at my mate as if to say, ‘Only in Africa, my old cock sparrow. Only in Africa.’