SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  “You soft bugger.”

  “Hey, I was just fooling around. Can’t believe you fell for that.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Soon we were inventing stories about an imagined colossal killer fish lying in wait below the surface, which we fittingly christened: The Bollock–Muncher. Who would it grab first, and who would somehow scramble to safety, proving he was the real action man hero? As it was, we weren’t so far off the truth given that a giant piranha–like species known as the goliath tigerfish populated these waters, its 150lbs bulk and two–inch teeth not something you’d want to dangle your jewellery in front of. Fortunately for us, this assassin inhabited only the upper reaches of the Congo, although its mention was fuel for angst. Subsequently, it crossed our minds that we were still in the dark, haphazardly floating on the deepest river on earth, in the middle of a vast, snake–infested rainforest. Not surprisingly, we began to wonder if we had our ‘upper reaches’ facts right — maybe a gilled man–eater really was stalking us — and our sense of fun soon turned to dismay, fear, and a great worry for the fantasy–turns–real Bollock–Muncher. Yet each time we made towards land in the hope of finding a clearing, we would be met only by swathes of sinister, pirogue–gobbling rain–forest. And the only let–up for me, between the fear of the jungle and that of the now–vivid Muncher, was when the unwary Shaggy had his end of the pirogue plunge headlong into the bank’s foliage. Especially as he reacted — to my immense delight — in much the same hysterical manner that I had.

  “You wimp,” I mocked.

  “I was just doing an impression of you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  The pants–shitting score stood at an equitable one–all.

  Four hours beyond dusk we finally located a bank with a clearing, levered ourselves alongside and made ready for our first night on the Congo. Rather than sleep on land, with the pirogue being eighteen feet in length, Shaggy had ample space to stretch out at one end and I at the other, thus offering us a smidgen of protection against whatever may walk, crawl or slither our way. And so, with the torch now found, I grabbed my rope and set about mooring for the night.

  “Told you this rope would come in handy. Now you just relax, Sonny, while the amazing Sean sorts everything out. First, I will fasten the rope that only I had the foresight to bring along, to this tree, like so. Then I will tie the other end to the pirogue like…er…like…”

  Whilst my “amazing Sean” attempt at humour was in this instance as much my way of dealing with acute fear of the coming night, the joking ended when I realised there was no means by which I could attach the rope to the pirogue — no eyelet, no tow–ring, no anything. Bewildered, I thought back to our earlier toilet breaks and it dawned on me that we hadn’t actually moored, but had taken turns to lever and hold the pirogue against the banking with our paddles.

  “Wait a second, how did Woody Strode anchor it at the village?” asked Shaggy. “I’m sure it was by a rope.”

  “I thought so too, but now I’m thinking about it, I don’t know. I’ll bet there was something wedged behind it.”

  “Bloody typical.”

  Undiscouraged, we set about the hull with forensic determination, whilst also speculating which our best backup plan was — securing the rope’s free end to a large stone and popping it into the pirogue, or attaching it to ourselves. Neither of these seemed particularly safe (or appealing), but fortunately neither proved necessary.

  “Bingo! It’s here, Shaggy.”

  “You’ve found it?”

  “Yes, there.” I aimed the torch at the bow end. “See, right there where the light is.”

  “Eh? Where?”

  “Bloody hell, get some glasses. There, that little hole, three inches below the rim.”

  “Ah, right. That’s why we missed it, it’s tiny.”

  “Bet you can get your knob through it, though.”

  I handed Shaggy the rope’s free end, which he just about managed to squeeze through.

  “Tell you what, Sean, I’m glad you’re a cheapskate. No way would a normal–sized rope fit through here.”

  “Your use of cheapskate is ironic, and that rope might look like one of those nylon washing lines but it’s actually a state–of–the–art rope that Q designed for me.”

  “You mean it cost you fifty pence.”

  “A pound actually.”

  “A quid! I’d have borrowed one.”

  Our pirogue now securely fastened, further security would come from the fire I proposed to make and, trying to establish I still had some of the he–man about me, I headed inland (not too far, mind!) to gather wood. A couple of minutes later I returned with a stockpile of dead branches, which I then built into a small stack.

  “Stand back,” I said, utilising my best ‘hardy guy starts fire’ pitch while I placed a lit match into the timber.

  It failed miserably to ignite.

  Several botched efforts later, salvation appeared in the mould of three young fishermen who, having noticed our pirogue pulled up in theirs. Fortunately one spoke a little French and, after explaining the problem to him, he offered to light the fire for me. Feeling something of a wuss, I was nonetheless eager to glean what I figured would be a mysterious technique honed and passed down through generations of tribal bushcraft. Well, you’d think. In reality, I put a match to wood: nothing. He put a match to wood: inferno.

  Although we did come across the occasional tribesman who wore nothing but indigenous garb (wraps akin to those worn by the ladies, who almost universally wore traditional clothing in this locale), the fishermen’s well worn clothes more or less mirrored what we would see for the rest of our pirogue journey. Two of them wore a raggedy T–shirt and shorts with sandals, the other a raggedy vest and long pants, with bare feet. Given their sparse togs, it was no wonder they were good at starting fires of an evening.

  The three of them stayed but a few minutes and the conversation followed what proved to be a routine pattern during our forthcoming Congo adventure. Our mixture of dodgy French and sign–language went something like: “What is your name?” “How old are you?” “Are there any fruit–bearing trees here?” (apparently not), and “What the hell is that banshee noise?” Whereas, accompanied by a finger point, theirs seemed to be stuck on anything beginning with: “Give me...”

  Tuesday, 4th July. Our night’s sleep had luckily gone without incident and we were up and paddling by dawn. Even so, all was not well in the world of Sean and Shaggy. Whilst folks across the United States were waking to an Independence Day feast of pancakes and waffles — their thoughts drifting to that evening’s lavish banquet — since we had yesterday eaten our meagre food stock, unfortunately for us, our breakfast consisted of nothing more than a swig of water. We had intended to make sandwiches pre–departure; however, that plan had gone up in smoke when we realised that not only was the bread we’d purchased soaked in petrol, but also the corned beef was so foul we could eat only a couple of mouthfuls each. Hence we had discarded everything, including the margarine. Of course it made sense to do this after our chief scheme to acquire wild fruits had prevailed. Sadly for us, though, our IQ had fallen to single figures that day — meaning we dimwits had whizzed our stash up front. Sure enough, once again Sod’s Law came calling — the wild fruits never materialised. Almost certainly they did exist, but not from our viewpoint. Not yesterday, nor today. So, to address our hunger, we later that morning bought a pineapple from a local passing in his pirogue, an occurrence that unfortunately failed to become a trend.

  By 8am the sun was already insufferable and the repetitive back–breaking strokes, which seemed to carry us nowhere, had us both feeling exceedingly low. Then Shaggy complained of his lips cracking again, and he contemplated whether the rest of him would follow suit. Opportunely, our despondency found a brief respite when two of the fishermen from the previous night reappeared — a surprise, since we had set off over two hours ago — and the one who spoke a soupçon of French offered to hop into
our pirogue and gift us a paddling lesson. That it came without a price tag gave us another shock following the untold “Give me”s we had received after he’d sorted our fire, but it merited our acceptance, and soon we were zipping along at thrice our usual speed. Not that it was to last. When at five minutes into the assist we playfully asked our paddle tutor to take us all the way, his unexpected “Oui” was followed directly by his leaping back into his mate’s pirogue, and off they went! Plainly he’d misinterpreted our ropey French “will you take us all the way” to mean “will you now go away”, which deprived us of I dread to think how many extra minutes of added paddle–power. It also taught us a valuable lesson — to keep the gags in–house. Still, his kind support had been a nice touch, and one that helped redeem the preceding night’s myriad “Give me”s.

  We later attempted to copy his style of paddling, standing upright, the typical Congolese method conducive to the design of their dugouts. It was the foremost reason why they were so much quicker than us — and why their backs weren’t crippled. Try as we might to master the skill, however, time and again we nigh–on capsized, so decided to knock that idea on the head, despite its meaning we’d have to return to our limited pace and pain of back.

  As time passed, our paddling technique began to improve, but that didn’t stop the Congo’s flow remaining wearyingly laboured and it depressed us to watch the upright Africans whooshing past in their smaller, much more streamlined pirogues. Even the reeds floating on the surface moved faster than we did, but the fascinating aspect of this befuddling sight was that most of them appeared to be heading upstream. After observing some of the resident fishermen, though, it became evident that floating logs had trapped these reeds, which were in turn dragged by fish caught up in the attached netting. That said, one mega–mound of earth the size of a small island sped upriver at such a tempo that for some time we were left questioning its identity. Shaggy’s “it was propelled by an invisible force” theory was of course preposterous, especially when weighed against my wholly plausible, “a disguised mini–submarine.”

  Disheartened by the mundane paddling, the ache in our backs, the lack of speed, and the heat from the sun, it came as no surprise to find that by mid–afternoon we had scoffed the pineapple and drunk all of our fresh water too. Food we could theoretically do without, but if we were to survive this ordeal we would definitely need liquid, and the reasons we hadn’t brought more were as follows: Firstly, we were young and we were male. That made us stupid. Secondly, when going for supplies we had of course intended to obtain extra water canisters, but alas, our frugality kicked in when we saw the shameful fees being charged, so decided to make the water purchase en route to Woody’s village. In the event, however, we came across no such merchandise. We did debate going back to the centre, but the combination of our now being acclimatized and, well, pure laziness, meant that we didn’t. What a pair of wallies! To be fair there were a couple of other, more defensible, reasons why we hadn’t returned. In addition to assuming that we would regularly come across fresh streams, we also believed that we would be able to acquire water at many of the communities dotted along the shore. But herein lay the problem. If there were any streams they had eluded our scrutiny, and while the villages had come in quick succession during the first few hours after leaving Kisangani, it transpired that the further we travelled throughout the backend of yesterday, the less frequently they appeared — a pattern which had continued this day, to the extent that by the time our water supply had disappeared we hadn’t seen anyone, not even a distant pirogue, for two hours. So we decided to do something drastic: we imbibed the river water.

  Unlike a rivulet, which we presumed clearer, the stories about the toxicity of the Congo were rife, but then again we had by this time grasped that we could filter water by passing it through a shirt before adding our purifying tablets, which we decided we should double up on. Anyway, for all we knew the Congo’s flavour might well have resembled that of bubblegum or chocolate (wake up, Sean — slap, slap — wake up). When it came to it, however, reality soon kicked in, as even the repugnant vomit flavour of our purifying tablets couldn’t suppress what turned out to be the actual taste of the Congo — faeces.

  “Argh!” I spat, my face reeling from the sensory blow.

  “Ugh!” squirmed Shaggy. “Tell you what, I don’t take shit from anyone, so I’ll be damned if I’m going to drink the bloody stuff.”

  A minute later Shaggy’s words rang true, for a large dollop of what genuinely looked like human excrement sailed by (if not human, then another similar–sized animal that ate peanuts). This stomach–turning spectacle was to be repeated often, along with the sighting of bladders and entrails of various breeds of half–eaten animal. Accordingly, we decided that we would never again drink from the river. Instead, we began looking out for lengthy foliage–free banks, as they would give us the best chance to catch sight of any fresh streams. Although few and far between, on such occasions we would scan the undergrowth while walking along the verge, towing the pirogue by the rope.

  This time I was rather pleased when dusk arrived, as it brought immeasurable relief after paddling beneath the sun’s intense glare for the best part of twelve hours, and especially since our thirst had now been curbed. Although the finding of riverbank hamlets and streams had become a lot less common (our river–water swig had taken place in the midst of a four–hour scarcity), we did in time happen upon the latter.

  Becoming increasingly used to the Congo’s dark surroundings, we pushed on for another five hours until we reached the bright lights of a community on the northern mainland, probably Yangambi. Feeling somewhat chuffed with our progress, we decided to moor here for the night — where there were lights, there were people, and where there were people there would certainly be fewer predators. The thing was, the man–eating kind weren’t necessarily limited to four–legged beasts.

  “Shall we go and introduce ourselves?” asked Shaggy.

  “If they see us, yeah, but if not, why bother? We’ve still got some water left.”

  “What about food?”

  “Surely you can hack not eating until we get to another settlement — when it’s light.”

  “I guess so, particularly now that I’m thinking about cannibals.”

  “What the...? What brought that on? And what a time to do it!”

  “You were on about food, and then I started thinking about that book of yours with the ‘charred hands in the fire’ bit.”

  “Ah, right. Yeah, but they said they only ate their own kind.”

  “Tell you what, then, you go and acquaint yourself. Let me know how it goes.”

  “Well, I would, but it wouldn’t be right leaving you on your own. You know, bad manners and all that.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  As it was, we had presumed we would at some point come across cannibals, as, rightly or wrongly, we believed they might be found anywhere along the Congo. Naturally we feared them, but then again we feared everything and everybody. The difference with cannibals was that our concerns had been assuaged by stories such as the one above, where explorers spotted human remains in the fire of a tribe of maneaters. Noting their guests’ unease, the tribesmen doubled over with laughter and said that they would never eat muzungus. Consequently, our only real fear in this department was the Ngombe killers, but then again Eugene had insisted their territory lay beyond our destination.

  After another fleeting debate, we resolved to stick to the cautious policy. Even though finding villages had become gradually harder, we nonetheless believed that we would stumble upon at least one from which we could procure sustenance the following day. Cementing the decision, while the folk of this community may well have invited us into their midst with open arms, we remembered only too well Larry X’s “at night — beware” warning, and our subsequent incident with the motorbike gang. As such, we felt that the smart option was to play it safe by seeking out company only during daylight hours, and then only if it was t
ruly warranted. In many ways this would mean our loss, but we were here to ‘take on’ the Congo, not make lots of friends. At least that’s what we told ourselves, so we secured the pirogue against a clearing that was close to the village but not so near that we would be noticed. Then we lay down to rest, presupposing our crack–of–dawn departure would be sufficiently early to guarantee we were gone long before any life stirred.

  Unable to sleep properly the entire night, I woke from a light doze to find a motorised pirogue zigzagging in front of us (so much for our strategy of not being seen), which was ironic, since I had fallen asleep dreaming we had one. Although rare, we had seen a couple en route, and combining our limited progress and pain of back, how I longed for my dream to turn real. Had we possessed a propelled dugout, I believe we would have loved every minute of our cruise. Okay, almost every minute.

  Unidentified, our vessel had evidently been spotted, and the locals who owned the powered pirogue had been too curious to let sleeping dogs lie. Struggling to see its contents properly, our inquisitors drew closer and closer, until they ventured so close that they awakened the previously peaceful Shaggy — not by the sound of their engine, but by the swell of their wake, soaking him to the bone. Once we had shown our faces, however, they off quicker than a Death Machine nosedive.

  Albeit only 5am, we reckoned it would be futile trying to eek out another half–hour’s kip, so we returned to our long haul in search of Bumba. Or, as we renamed it, The Jewel of the Congo.

  Our nickname for Bumba was coined during one of our isolation/pain/hunger–relieving conversations. Together with sports and rainforest journeys, one of our shared passions was the Silver Screen, and Shaggy and I often debated the virtues of films we both enjoyed, more often than not the 1930s/40s ‘Golden Years’. Of course every decade has its gems, and in the 1980s one of these was the wonderful jungle adventure Romancing the Stone. Considering our present location, and its being the only film we had seen at the cinema during our Bournemouth days, it was only a question of time before we got around to discussing it. Since its sequel was called The Jewel of the Nile, it doesn’t take a genius to work out from where Shaggy plucked: The Jewel of the Congo.