SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  An hour later we were in Kisangani. 28th June. 9:30am. It had taken us one week to travel from Goma to Kisangani …to the minute.

  CHAPTER 9

  DEN OF INIQUITY

  At 220 metres, the depth of the Congo is four times the height of the Leaning Tower of Pisa — it is the deepest river on earth. And with a drainage basin that encompasses well over a million square miles it is utilised by man in numerous ways, fishing and hydro–electric power amongst them. Mainly, though, it is used for the transportation of goods and passengers between the capital, Kinshasa, near the mouth, and Kisangani, 1,000 miles upriver. With an overall length of almost 3,000 miles, travelling further is practicable, but not by boat, as the journey would be impossibly hampered by the occasional waterfall and, if a history of sporadic violence plays its part, guerrilla warfare. Back in 1989 cannibals supposedly thrived too, although apparently that was the case in either direction. With these factors in mind you would find that most individuals passing through Zaire to East Africa normally took the riverboat from Kinshasa to Kisangani, and then either flew to their destination or, if deranged, hitch–hiked. Since we had travelled the opposite way, it seemed logical that all we had to do to satisfy our hunger for achievement and travel down the illustrious Congo was to wait for the riverboat to turn back. But not Shaggy and I, oh no. We weren’t going to make things so easy by catching a cosy boat. No, we had decided, long before we had set foot on African soil, that if we arrived at Kisangani we were going to paddle a pirogue the entire way.

  And here we were — Kisangani, the geographical centre of Africa, and a critical place because it connected Kinshasa with trading routes from adjoining countries. So much so that in the 19th century both Henry Morton Stanley, the Congo’s first conqueror, and Arab slave traders had based themselves here — it was also the Inner Station in Joseph Conrad’s fêted 1902 Congo novel Heart of Darkness. By the time we rocked up, Kisangani was Zaire’s third largest industrialised city and benefited from many mod cons, including something we hadn’t seen for a week — street lighting. Another godsend was that I felt no unhealthy vibes, à la Goma. Whether this was down to Kisangani’s appearance being less ‘Wild West’, who knows, but throw in a half–million population and a few Johnny Foreigners, and you also get a variety of cheap cafés and hotels. So, after changing some travellers’ cheques, paying off the truck driver, and then being fleeced at one of these so–called ‘cheap’ cafés, we made for what was the most popular accommodation used by travellers, the Hotel Olympia.

  The Olympia was owned by a middle–aged Greek couple, who seemed to sit around all day eating and playing cards. It comprised a large central yard, which was used by travellers who were either happy to ‘rough it’ or simply had limited finances. Luckily for them, it was partly covered by a downpour–defying veranda and had communal washrooms and toilets. Both were putrid, and only one of the toilets flushed. Encircling the yard were some cheap and some costly cabins, the latter not because of any luxury, but because they had their own bathroom — the ill–fated occupants of the cheap (one–room) cabins were obliged to use the shared amenities. There was also an indoor dining hall, with bar, and an outdoor dining area, also with bar. This was favourable for any beer lovers who had emerged from the jungle, such as a group of lager–guzzling Kiwis who had arrived there several days before us.

  Other travellers came and went. An American pair, both geology students, the man of whom we had already met back in Epulu, here to have his cycle gears realigned. An English lady, on her way to The Sudan, who had been travelling in Africa for some two years now. A bunch of Germans, who had run out of cash and were hoping to sell their truck. An English schoolteacher, here only briefly, taking time out to see the world.

  Being in his late forties, the teacher was by far the oldest traveller at the Olympia. Apart from an early thirties member of the Kiwi backpackers, every other traveller we met was, like Shaggy and me, in their twenties, seemingly the norm. My guess for this generality is that, unlike the teenager who is still finding his or her adult feet and looking forward to things like university or relationships, the person in their twenties might have done all of this but has not yet gathered responsibilities. With no spouse, children or mortgage, and still on life’s learning curve, they haven’t yet hit that stage of ‘family’, a time where it might be deemed irresponsible to wander off. Alternatively, the more mature, post–twenties person interested in seeing the world usually does so as a quick break, by means of a tour operator. Steeped in responsibilities, they have commitments, children, mortgages, time constraints. They are also at a period in life where they have perhaps seen parents or friends pass away, so are less likely to be carefree. They possess more fear. They no longer feel unbreakable. Everything won’t ‘be okay’. This being so, they believe a tour operator offers not only a faster and more comfortable way of seeing the sights, but also presents the safer option, particularly in places of perceived danger — like Africa. To support my point, I saw this fear in my parents’ eyes when I advised them of my do–it–yourself Congo intentions. Where I saw an opportunity, they saw problems. Where I saw adventure, they saw danger. Just the same, I vowed I was indestructible: I would ‘be okay’. Ironically, they tried to persuade me to go to China instead. Had I done so, I would have been landing there around the same time that their authorities were cracking down on Tiananmen Square protestors. Good job I picked Africa.

  So far.

  The abovementioned managed to move on before our departure, excepting the Kiwis, with whom in due course we became quite congenial. Forced to stay on a few days longer because they had tickets for the impending riverboat, they thought Shaggy and I were stark raving bonkers to even contemplate paddling down the Congo.

  “Take your pick,” they told us, “crocs, hippos, cannibals — one of them’s bound to eat you!”

  Others awaiting the riverboat included an American student, Dan, and also Paul, an English solicitor who had forked out for a pricey ‘top of the range’ cabin, something the Kiwis would never have done. Indeed, having arrived over a week before the riverboat’s listed date of arrival, like Dan they hadn’t even opted for the inexpensive cabins, saving money by roughing it out in the yard, regardless of not having a tent.

  As much as Shaggy and I were on the side of thrift, we nevertheless plumped for a cabin. I won’t pretend that being without sleeping bags or a tent didn’t come into the equation, or that we hadn’t had our fill of cold, uncomfortable nights, but primarily we needed to be able to leave our stuff somewhere secure whilst searching for a pirogue. To appease our prudence, we chose a cheaper cabin, which was lucky for our budget, as a couple of complications eventually expanded our stay from a calculated two nights to an unforeseen five.

  Our first priority had been to pay a visit to the immigration office — in spite of having three weeks remaining on our existing permits, we estimated that it would take between four and six to reach Kinshasa, so we would need additional visas. Since these were sold in one– or three–month durations, there was no advantage in paying extra for the lengthy one. Of course there was something else we definitely had to do — go see the Congo. How could we not?

  Sniffing around for directions, we decided to head to the famed river on the way to immigration, and fortunately had far less trouble finding it than we later did their headquarters, although something as enormous as the most voluminous river in Africa could hardly go unnoticed, despite its being ‘only’ a half–mile wide here at Kisangani, compared with ten at its widest.

  Soon we were standing by the water’s edge, gazing at and listening to the rumble of “an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country and its tail lost in the depths of the land”, as Conrad described it in Heart of Darkness. Our initial words were every bit as eloquent.

  “There it is, Shaggy.”

  “Aye, there it is.”

  Well, maybe not.

  Our brevity may have
been due to a cauldron of mixed emotions. On one hand, as bizarre as it seems there was a feeling of anticlimax. After all, we were but staring at a large body of water, something we had done many times before bearing in mind our athletics camp had been positioned close to the coast. On the other hand, a far more upbeat surge of excitement came from both a sense of pride in having got this far, and that old passion–inducer, anticipation. Better than the act? In the Congo’s case, only time would tell. All in all, the sense of occasion quashed any feeling of anticlimax, the intoxicating expectation of destiny rubbing shoulders with that of history. Henry Morton Stanley; Joseph Conrad: how many other people had carved out their finest hour here? Now the Congo was set to be more than ‘just’ a large body of water, as it entered the life story of that little boy gazing at an atlas.

  And what of the Congo itself? Blue in numerous photos one sees, and indeed blue many times when we were finally on it, at Kisangani the river's colour would better have been described as gunmetal grey, although the backdrop medley of trees that would line our journey completed a portrait that included tones gleaned from a galaxy of wenge, agba, iroko and limba trees, their greens and browns standing side by side with, and enhanced by, the more renowned ebony and mahogany, each helping to form a towering rainforest whose canopy peaked at well over a hundred feet.

  The closing transcript of my first impression of the Congo may well have covered a visual description of its Kisangani waterfall, had we been standing in the right spot. Positioned a little further upriver, later on we did view the last instalment of the Congo’s famous series of seven cataracts, although to be fair, Stanley Falls, as it is commonly known, wasn’t reputed to be anywhere near as breathtaking as its cousin, Victoria Falls. Hence our preliminary inertia.

  Our dalliance with the Congo over, we headed off to immigration, the locating of which turned out to be a mission in itself and we were forced to ask one of the countless soldiers on hand for the correct directions. Rather than tell us, the private stopped a local and instructed him to escort us there, which he duly did, even though the bureau transpired to be a fair old distance. Disobeying someone in the forces, we surmised, was decidedly inadvisable.

  As if we hadn’t already spent a small fortune on visas, at the office we were told that obtaining added permits was viable but, contrary to what we understood were the usual terms, you couldn’t select your start date; the visa simply began upon payment. Our remaining three weeks would be redundant.

  “Bloody typical!” snorted a displeased Shaggy. “That means that if we really need up to six weeks to get down the Congo, we’ll have to buy a full three–month visa. Another big dint in the wallet.”

  Wishing to retain as much money as possible, we had a brainwave and sought out a person whom we hoped might help us bend the (dodgy) rules: the British Consul. Years later I was to learn his name was François Seneque and that his long service in the region had at some point earned him an OBE, but at the time I knew nothing of him except that he was supposedly a Belgian, which I guess accounted for his apparently French accent. There was nothing inherently wrong with his being Belgique, of course, as long as he did his job. But a lack of patriotism, I suspected, led to him spending all of his time trying to get a buyer for the German travellers’ truck.

  The UK, Belgium or Germany — whichever country the Consul was working for, word had it that his conduct had nothing to do with allegiance, rather he was just trying to get his hands on a percentage of any sales going. Of course these assumptions might be doing him a disservice; suffice to say that when eventually we pinned him down, he did give us a letter to take to immigration asking for leniency. And so, armed with the all–powerful note, we headed back to the relevant office. No sense in waving it at the desk lady, this time we asked to see the personage in charge, the Big Cheese. To my surprise, our wish was granted and we were guided into a rather plain, dimly lit office that smelled of old wood. Here, we found two people. The first was a dead ringer for Huggy Bear from the TV series Starsky and Hutch, and I don’t just mean because he had a comparable face and build, as he seriously looked like a 1970s pimp, transported in time and place from the streetlife of New York; his white, embroidered and sequined ensemble, with its humungous lapels and even wider bell–bottoms, would have put Las Vegas Elvis to shame.

  Shading our eyes from the suit’s glare, we looked beyond Huggy, where we saw a hefty wooden desk. On the other side sat the chief of immigration, patiently waiting for our requests. Both Shaggy and I took one look at him and thought the exact same thing: ‘We’re going to get sweet–f.a. here’. For the Big Cheese, with his heavy–set frame and brooding expression, was so much the spitting image of Uganda’s dictatorial ex–president Idi Amin that we began to wonder if he really did abscond to Libya. Even his clothing was evocative of Amin’s non–military fashion, a tailored suit with cravat.

  “How may I help you?” asked a now–smiling ‘Cheesy’, his English perfect.

  As politely as we could, Shaggy and I explained the situation and showed him the note from the sales rep, I mean the Belgian–British–German Consul. At odds with his appearance, Cheesy seemed very caring and unexpectedly agreed to our terms, telling us to have our visas lengthened by the woman in charge of such transactions.

  “Is there anything else I can assist you with?” he asked, a picture of kindness.

  We declined any more help, but thanked him for his benevolence.

  “That’s a turn up for the books,” said Shaggy, after we had exited his office. “It just goes to show, you never know.”

  “You mean, don’t judge the cheese by the wrapper.”

  The woman Cheesy was talking about was the same one who had first rejected us, and we again found ourselves staring at, as Shaggy presently described her, “a sour faced, bumble–bee–type piece of shit, hanging from a sick dog’s arse.” His portrayal had its merits. Rotund of body and wearing a yellow and black dress, since we had gone over her head, by this time ‘The Bee’ was already sulking, and as such I was amazed that the pout on her sour face didn’t worsen when I told her the ‘supplementary visa to begin in three weeks’ update. Sticking to protocol, she handed us various forms, which we filled in, but when I looked at the stamp she’d given us, it read one month to start from this very day. I wasn’t best pleased.

  “Le directeur parlez oui,” I said in my broken French.

  It made no difference. She was adamant these were the rules, that it couldn’t be done any other way and that this is what we were going to get.

  “Mais le directeur parlez oui!” I insisted.

  Now she wasn’t best pleased, and her sour mug went into overdrive as she snatched up the papers and buzzed off to consult her boss. Five minutes later The Bee returned to her hive, a sickly sweet ‘Limpet smirk’ now plastered on her face, as though she had taken part in a debating competition and won a pot of honey. Following her was the Big Cheese, only he wasn’t smiling. He was also minded by five rifle–toting guards.

  Uh oh.

  Luckily the extra security wasn’t for our benefit, for they all rushed off to an awaiting car. The problem was, before this happened Cheesy stopped to apportion us a moment of his time.

  Uh oh.

  Quite what The Bee had said to him we didn’t know, but whatever it was she certainly stung any chance we had with our appeal.

  We didn’t try reasoning with him, or question his change of heart — not with five rifles on hand — we just stood there listening to him rant and rave, this time in French, about how we must comply with the rules and regulations (must acquiesce to being swindled). After the mauling I watched Idi Amin disappear out of the building, and mused about how nice it would be to have a genie offer me three wishes, which I would have picked thus… One: Cheesy’s family jewels become fruit scented. Two: Cheesy is picked up and taxied by Bad Max. Three: Cheesy is dropped off at the dwelling of Goliath, the fruit–loving, teeth–like–a–lion baboon. Likewise, it would be poetic justice if the sam
e genie bequeathed another three wishes to Shaggy, who would no doubt have used them in a similar fashion on The Bee, as she’d still got that smug Limpet–grin stuck on that waspish mush of hers. Oh my giddy aunt how I yearned to tell her where she might thrust her pot of honey, but thought better of it and snatched up my belongings, appeasing myself by muttering a few obscenities under my breath on the way out.

  Still faced with our predicament, we dolefully headed back to the Olympia, our only solution now, apart from paying the small fortune for a three–month visa (sod that), to hope that somebody else could come up with a suitable alternative.

  Thankfully, someone did.

  Rescue came in the mould of the Kiwis, who had gathered a useful array of information while they had been in town and were of the opinion that we would be able to renew our visas at Bumba, one of the riverboat’s stops, 230 miles downriver. If this were true, we could paddle there on our existing passes — which we guessed would take no longer than two weeks — and then purchase a one–month extension. Hopefully, with the distance we would have travelled already, that month’s validity would be all we’d need in order to get right down the Congo and out of Zaire. This sounded such an excellent idea that we instantaneously went and sought confirmation with The Bee (so was relieved I had kept my diatribe to a mumble, and to be frank she was awfully nice to us second time around — probably just revelling in her ‘victory’). We were in luck: yes, it was possible to renew the visas at Bumba. There and then we decided that this was what we would do. If, for whatever reason, we didn’t have time to get out of Zaire, it was just tough. We couldn’t care less anymore and adopted the outlook que sera, sera. If we ended up in bother, or even jail, then so be it, we would merely have another story to tell, so we washed our hands of the subject.