SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  While it seemed Woody’s expenses would keep mounting, the tax never materialised and we eventually shook hands on Z 19,000, which we agreed to pay on departure, fixing a time for the next morning. All we had to do now was turn up. The Congo was beckoning.

  Excited by the prospect of our pending adventure, we headed back to the Olympia, this time on foot, in spite of Eugene’s bellyaching for another taxi — very grateful for his assistance we may have been, but there was little sense in drowning ourselves in more exhaust fumes. Especially since we needed to mark out the correct route by which to return. That, and the fact that with Eugene no longer holding all the cards, Scrooge Shaggy refused to cough up another Z 1,000.

  As expected, as soon as we had reached the Olympia the first folks we came across were the hustlers, who had no idea that we had found a pirogue and inevitably tried re–hustling us to acquire Halitosis’ shite offering.

  “You won’t get one cheaper.”

  “You won’t get one better.”

  “You won’t get one.”

  Having spent quite some time haggling with them after I had left the previous day, Shaggy insisted I let him do any talking. Then he waved his hand, summoning the hustlers around him.

  “Do you remember yesterday, when you dragged us miles away and showed us that pirogue?”

  Sensing a sale, the hustlers crowded in. Did we want to inspect it again? Had we changed our minds? Were we going to buy it after all?

  “And do you remember telling us how sixty thousand zaires was a very cheap price?”

  The hustlers all nodded.

  “And you’re still saying we won’t find one cheaper, or better?”

  Again, more nodding.

  “Well, you’re wrong!”

  At this, the hustlers moved to protest, but Shaggy was faster: “No, no, no, don’t say anything. Let me just tell you something. Today we bought a pirogue. And guess what? We only paid sixteen thousand zaires for it. That’s right, sixteen thousand. A big difference from sixty thousand, don’t you think? And ours is twice the size of that manky piece of shit you showed us…” Again the hustlers tried to cut in, but once more Shaggy wouldn’t let them: “Hang on, hang on. I haven’t finished yet. I want to tell you slimy toe–rags what you can do with your manky pirogue. Do you know what people do with suppositories? If not, then I shall enlighten you. I want you to go back down to your manky little fishing village, and one by one take hold of that manky little pirogue you showed us, and shove it, sideways, right up your fucking manky arseholes!”

  After Shaggy had reprimanded the Olympia hustlers we returned to our cabin and braced ourselves for what turned out to be a future–changing pow–wow. Despite our being elated at attaining a pirogue, its acquisition had nonetheless come at a price, and I don’t mean vis–à–vis the extra cash for the paddle and transportation. The price I’m talking about arrived in the shape of a giant bombshell delivered by Eugene. It appeared that a territory beyond our visa–extending town of Bumba was occupied by the Ngombe, a clan of thieves who always covered their tracks by murdering their victims. These lovely people posed no threat to the gargantuan riverboat, but entering their waters as a two–man job without some serious backup was as good as signing one’s own death warrant. “Do you have some guns? Can you afford more manpower?” our mediator had asked. Of course many people had endeavoured to steer us from our objectives, but this was different since it came from the oracle Eugene. It wasn’t guesswork either; this was something he knew.

  As much as we trusted Eugene’s information, it didn’t hurt to get a second opinion. So, giving immigration a miss, we decided to return to the consul, who practically said, “Oh yes, the Ngombe will for sure slay you.” Gee, thanks for telling us first time around.

  Decision time. As we saw it we had a number of options — the first being to magic some cash from midair, buy backup and weapons, and resume our task with an all–guns–blazing “Do you feel lucky, punk?” methodology. As enticing as that was, it was also less realistic than Bad Max passing a driving test. And so to the more feasible choices, which included basically turning back, or binning the pirogue and catching the riverboat. Both equalled game over, so were instantly discarded. This left two more alternatives: to hope for the best and stubbornly soldier on towards Kinshasa, or else implement Eugene’s proposal of merely changing the end goal to Bumba, which, although frustrating, made sense on several levels. For one, the last time we had flouted good counsel it had resulted in the “at night — beware” confrontation with the motorbike gang. Did we really want to keep pushing our luck with marauders? Moreover, it wasn’t as if we were against flexibility considering that, when back in Goma, we had ditched plans to travel on the southerly pathway to Kisangani because of bandits. There was also the question of our being the first documented people to paddle a native canoe from Kisangani to Kinshasa. It wasn’t our raison d’être, but we liked the concept. This, however, was negated by the fact that Kisangani to Bumba would still be a ‘first’. Furthermore, it wasn’t as if we were going to scupper a source–to–sea attempt, since the cataracts pre–Kisangani had put paid to that thought long before the off. No, the goal, our quest, was to experience, by paddling, a section of the Congo. That I had picked out Kisangani to Kinshasa simply made sense at the time. Kisangani was the first major port after the waterfalls, while Kinshasa was where we would be heading back to England from. The literal length between the two was not the question. The target was purely to paddle a respectable distance. And Kisangani to Bumba — for two novice paddlers, anyway — was a respectable distance.

  Everything seemed to favour a modification of our finish line, with one exception. Eugene was quite certain that, even with the riverboat scheduled to set off two days after us, we would still miss its exit from Bumba. This meant that, to get to Kinshasa, as opposed to jumping on the boat for a cosy ‘feet up’ finale, we would now have to hitch–hike, which didn’t exactly thrill me. Not because I disliked walking — I loved hiking through the rainforest — but because I had visions of having to hang around days on end waiting for lifts. As unpalatable as that sounded, being bored senseless still trumped being slaughtered. Grudgingly, we chose Eugene’s advice and changed our focal point to Bumba.

  Before I continue with the story, I should give a special mention to Eugene, because had it not been for him this book might never have come to pass. Without an alternative, Shaggy and I would most likely have shelled out to Halitosis, and then either capsized and drowned or been slain by the Ngombe. It was therefore frustrating to later read, in the following year’s version of the guide book that had so lionised him: ‘A man called Eugene…used to be the usual contact, but mention in the last edition has gone to his head and it seems that he’s resting on his laurels and doesn’t have a lot of useful information these days’. Had they known our story, I doubt they would have been so hasty to print this. Eugene may have taken his time over our dilemma, but he still sorted it. And for no charge.

  With our set off time planned for the morning, Shaggy and I headed into the centre for provisions, subsequently bumping into four highly energised Kiwis. Seemingly there was a wonderful café at the market which actually served a real beef dinner.

  “It was like eating a Sunday roast,” claimed Heinzy.

  “Seriously?” asked Shaggy.

  “Oh yes,” said Goods. “And proper steak. Wasn’t it, Tom?”

  “Totally. Proper vegetables, too. Potatoes, peas, carrots and gravy.”

  “Nah, you’re kidding,” I chipped in.

  Apparently they weren’t. In fact, they had only just returned from having a juicy platter themselves and they were on their way to inform everyone.

  “It was a taste of home,” concluded Jack.

  Shaggy and I shot off to the marketplace. We wanted our portion of wholesome, much–loved, too–good–to–miss, Sunday roast.

  Once there we found Kisangani’s main market to be no different from that of Kigali, only this one was e
normous. Here, you could buy virtually anything that the town had to offer, from everyday utensils, clothing, fruit and vegetables, to your more elaborate and newly slain, roasted or smoked: fish, goat, antelope, monkey, snake, and even rat.

  We didn’t buy much food (a pineapple; a tin of corned beef; a loaf of bread; margarine) as we felt we would spot plenty of fruits growing wild en route, so would save cash by scavenging from the land. Before buying any supplies, however, and still licking our lips in anticipation, we had sought out and found the relevant café.

  Hmm. We had a nasty feeling that someone was having a laugh at our expense, for a large tent was hardly what we had been expecting. All the same, hunger, and a sign that indicated the meals cost only Z 500 (plus a growing, if unrealistic, vision of Yorkshire puddings), got the better of any sound judgment, so we decided to follow the Kiwis’ advice and spoke to the smiling man standing by the entrance, whom we took to be the manager.

  “Avez–vous le boeuf ici?” asked Shaggy. “Manger la vache.”

  “Oui.”

  “Avec légume,” I added. “Moo–moo avec légume.”

  “Oui, oui,” came the reply, together with much beaming and hand beckoning.

  Although still dubious, we gave ‘Smiler’ a chance and followed him inside. Apart from a local couple, the place was deserted, and we parked ourselves at one of the empty tables Smiler had motioned us to. He then disappeared into an adjoining area, concealed from our position, presumably where the chef grappled with the food. With time on our hands we glanced around the room, which wasn’t overly unlike a marquee set–up back in Britain — no flooring, just ground, and a collection of benches pulled under a few wooden tables. Yep, we were sceptical alright, and like the chicken back in Butembo, half expected to hear some form of commotion while the chef went toe–to–hoof with whatever it was he was going to cook.

  “There is no way this is going to have a happy ending,” I declared.

  “I think you’re right. Shall we tell him we’ve changed our minds?”

  “We need to eat something, so whatever he brings, he brings?”

  “Okay, but only because it’s cheap.”

  We had the routinely long wait before discovering our fears were merited, when Smiler reappeared with two battered metal bowls, the contents’ overpowering ‘rotting corpse’ stench forcing us to reel, and he hadn’t even reached our table yet. When he did, we could see that each bowl held a lump of something or other.

  Trying not to gag, with streaming eyes Shaggy and I looked at the cargo, and then at each other with a twin ‘what on earth?’ expression. They were peculiar–looking steaks. The reason for this was obvious — although we were sure our French had been fairly graspable, Smiler’s understanding of the language was perhaps a tad suspect, and we were given something that undoubtedly was not steak. Not the kind we were used to, anyway. Nor did it come with potatoes, peas or carrots, or any sort of vegetable — and definitely no Yorkshire puddings — just ‘gravy’. But, the big question, precisely what did we have? We had no idea, but whatever it was it tasted every bit as foul as it smelled. Even mixing it with some gravy proved pointless, as the flavouring was, in essence, just the blood and juice of whatever creature it had come from. To make matters worse, although the chef had evidently cooked the shit out of it (since it was nigh–on burnt to a cinder), this applied only to the external flesh. The innards, though, were as tough as old leather, and as such proved almost impossible to swallow.

  Still not swallowing, and chewing very slowly, we two haute cuisine gourmets looked at each other again, our faces each giving away the vileness of the ‘what on earth’ now being masticated. To add to our misery, Smiler had decided he was going to ogle the proceedings, so we couldn’t even spit it out. Not without upsetting him, that is, but his sparkling ‘please like me’ grin was so passionate that both Shaggy and I felt dutifully obliged not to disappoint. Worse still, he appeared to be so deliriously happy to have pleased his guests that it looked like he was going to watch us devour the whole thing — right up to the last ghastly fragment.

  Strewth!

  “I really don’t want to eat this,” Shaggy finally mumbled through a mouthful of ‘what on earth’.

  “I can’t eat it,” I mumbled back.

  “Tell you what, I wish I had my hat. I’d slip whatever it is in there and make out I’ve scoffed it.”

  “If he wasn’t watching we could maybe spit it out somewhere.”

  “Ask him to bugger off then.”

  “Will you ask him? He’s beaming at me so hard I wouldn’t want to offend him.”

  “That’s two of us.”

  “I know what, I’ll sneak mine into your bowl when he blinks and pretend I’ve finished.”

  “No way. I’ll sneak mine into your bowl and pretend I’ve finished.”

  “I’ll give you five quid if you eat mine.”

  “Tenner if you eat them both.”

  Momentarily we forgot the lump’s horridness and erupted into a fit of giggles.

  Smiler asked if everything was okay, that ‘please don’t hurt me or I’ll start crying’ beam still stamped on his face.

  Damn.

  “Oui, oui. Magnifique,” I said, still unwilling to upset him — not easy when you’re half–wretching.

  Shaggy employed his own white lie by stroking his abdomen and making approving “mmm, mmm” yummy sounds.

  Embarrassingly I joined him: “Mmm — très bon — mmm.”

  We went back to mumbling.

  “Sean, I’m going to throw up.”

  “That’s not going to look too good, is it?”

  “I’ll bet it looks better than this shit.”

  “I’ll bet it bloody well tastes better too.”

  We descended into another bout of sniggering, but in due course composed ourselves.

  “What do you think he’s given us?” I asked.

  “I have absolutely no idea. Not sure if I want to know either.”

  “Probably a wildebeest.”

  “Warthog.”

  “A warthog’s balls.”

  “More like his own balls.”

  After more cackling, we two former roast–lovers agreed to tolerate half the meal and then pretend it was so filling we couldn’t consume another morsel.

  Later on, having procured the machetes and rations, we managed to corner our fabulous ‘friends’ at the post office. After hearing our gut–wrenching account, the Kiwis bellowed with laughter, and then explained we had both been victims of a wind–up (golly, we hadn’t yet realised), adding that we had eaten…

  “Rat.”

  Despite the authenticity of this confession, whatever it was, it most definitely might well have been.

  Regardless of all manner of communicative gadgets these days, a post office can still prove to be a useful means of keeping in touch with people when abroad. Certainly it was back in 1989, when there were as yet no email facilities, and mobile phones were in their bulky, unreliable and astronomically expensive infancy.

  Although I was sending postcards from every major town, I wasn’t getting anything in return. But this didn’t have to be. A pre–planned itinerary means that friends and family can dispatch their letters “care of” the main post office of the town you will be arriving at. All the traveller needs to do is present their passport and ask for any mail bearing their name. Simple, and at that time I couldn’t help wishing that, like the Kiwis, I had done this. Especially since many of them had received letters, even in Kisangani, which they generously showed us. I read all correspondence with both pleasure and envy.

  Our last night in Kisangani was spent in topsy–turvy land. The other travellers had bought their riverboat tickets and, although it wasn’t expected to show up for another two days, everyone was eager to celebrate …Kiwi–style. This incorporated two items. The first was, unsurprisingly, lager. The second was a particular object Goods had brought with him. As for the identity of this, let’s just say it’s funny ho
w some people, remembering the time–honoured rule to ‘always travel light’, might insist on carrying a spare blanket, or an extra pair of jeans, or a second novel in their rucksack. Not so Goods, who had planned to travel the entire length of Africa — and much of the Congo — with a rugby ball. Then again, he did hail from the realm of the All Black.

  Of course it’s no good having a rugby ball if you’re not going to use it, so, young and high–spirited, we booted it all over the place. If truth be told, it was rather a privilege to have a kick about with the Kiwis (their legendary team bordering on gods within the world of rugby union). That said, having played league for my town team, brat here I had to outdo everyone and started hoofing the ball too hard — and it landed on the proprietors’ dinner table. End of game.

  Now that the physical pastimes had been abandoned, our group of adventurers turned to a new activity — cards. Unfortunately this too had to be discarded, as it was the loser’s punishment to drink a whole pint of lager; hence, once the rules of the game had been sussed out, everyone was so hell bent on losing that they just downed the booze anyway. Too drunk to continue, the well–oiled crew decided to return to the warmth of the campfire on which they boiled their daily stew. As usual this was stoked on bits of wood, a few pieces of charcoal and, provided by a couple of the Kiwis who smoked the stuff, lashings of marijuana, which was supposedly illegal but could be purchased by seemingly anyone, and at a ludicrously cheap price. Although Shaggy and I abstained from smoking of any kind, and elected to sit upwind of the fumes, we nonetheless joined in the telling of tales and jokes, briefly forgetting we were a long, long way from home. Between the beer and the strenuous day, soon the entire bunch of us were lying flat out around the fire, a million miles from anywhere.

  The following day was our fifth and last in Kisangani. It was time to leave. A time to embark on our ultimate quest, down the Congo river. Shaggy and I bade farewell to Tony, Greeny, Pricey, Goods, Tom, Heinzy and Jack, then marched into the manageress’s office. Lucidly remembering the anguish of our first two nights, we had already decided we were going to pay only for the other three, and reminded her that we’d had to change cabins. Despite her earlier apologies, it quickly became obvious that she couldn’t have given a tinker’s about our two nights of martyrdom (which still had us suffering the itches for the next three nights), as her previously friendly manner changed immediately to that of a right dragon, and she demanded we pay for all five. Shaggy, whose refusal to scratch these past few days had by now taken his patience to the limit, was incensed. With raised hackles he explained that, as a matter of courtesy, we shouldn’t be expected to pay for one night, let alone five.