It wasn’t just the infuriatingly repetitive high–pitched ‘fingernails down a blackboard’ chant that grated, for over time I truly didn’t like being referred to as a “tourist”. I know it seems snobbish, but when you have stayed with and journeyed with the locals, when you have eaten in and crapped in the bush, you don’t want to be called a ‘mere’ holidaymaker. After all, “I’ve spent time in Africa” may be a sincere declaration, but it’s a different statement when coming from a person who has endured a year of backpacking through jungles and deserts, as opposed to the person who uses it after a one–week all–inclusive luxury break in the Seychelles. Of course I’m not knocking holidays or holidaymakers, and I also understood that these children had only the one non–African word for all foreigners, but this didn’t prevent it from rankling me. Especially since I had already heard the same ear–splitting chant numerous times during our first day on the Congo, a grievance I shared with other travellers.
The cherubs followed us for several minutes: “Tourists! Tourists! Tourists! Tourists! Tourists! Tourists! Tourists!” they cried. Now and again I shouted for them to quit, but the “Tourists! Tourists!” persisted.
One boy, deciding to be different, then continuously requested we buy his dog! But every time we refused, he looked baffled, as though he couldn’t twig why two ‘tourists’, travelling down the Congo in a pirogue, wouldn’t want to purchase a dog. So he carried on asking.
As much as I like children, had I been capable of it I might have dunked my head in the Congo and endeavoured to smash the world breath–holding record until we had passed by (The Muncher would have loved that), as again I yelled at them to shut up and again they paid no heed... “Tourists! Tourists! Tourists!”
“Talk about Sod’s Law!” I eventually barked above the din. “We’ve spent the best part of three days trying to find banks with a decent clearing, and now I can’t wait for this one to end!”
Equally frustrated, Shaggy hit upon what seemed a good idea.
“Tell you what, Sean — universal language! One...two...three...”
“Fuck off!!!” we both blasted.
Our synchronized chorus froze the wee angels dead in their tracks.
Superb.
Shaggy and I began laughing, the act of swearing at a party of small children appealing to some innately juvenile sense of humour, even though the little darlings probably had no idea of what we had said. Then, within seconds... “Tourists! Tourists! Tourists!”
At the outset, we had decided on the sensible approach of sticking to the same bank from which we had departed, the right–hand (north) bank, until we had arrived at Bumba, also on the right. Thanks to our early days’ paddling ‘technique’, however, which had us involuntarily criss–crossing the river regardless, that tactic had quickly evaporated. Accordingly, once our proficiency improved, we decided we might as well chop time off our voyage by cutting corners whenever the Congo meandered (hence our ending up on islands at the centre). Taking our present situation into consideration, we were justifiably ecstatic to notice the next bend meant we would have to cross over to the right and, once the waters became calm enough, a feeling of emancipation seeped over us as the cries of “Tourists! Tourists! Tourists!” faded into the distance.
Although the cherubim and their shrilling mantra had gone, a small part of that encounter had stayed with me, namely the boy who had tried to sell his dog — it was a reminder that I hadn’t seen my own mutt for four weeks now. Luckily for Shaggy he didn’t at that time have a pet, but for soft sod here the guilt trip about leaving my English bull–terrier, albeit with my parents, and also theirs (although I classified him as mine), made the inner journey every bit as tough as the outer. A dog might not be a child or partner, but they’re still your little piece of emotional attachment. Moreover, while it’s never easy to leave behind your family and friends, for peace of mind at least you can say to them, “Do not worry, I will be coming back.” You can also attempt to let them know that you are fine via one or two forms of communication. Crucially, though, they know. They know why you have gone. They know where you have gone. They know you are supposed to be returning. Your dog doesn’t. Your dog has no idea. The only thing it knows is that for all of their life you’ve been there, and then in a heartbeat you don’t exist. They scent the air, and you’re not there. They walk around your home, but you are nowhere. You can’t give them comfort by saying, “Look, I’m coming back.” All they can do is wonder if you ever will. Yet when each day you don’t, no doubt they grieve in their own small way. And didn’t I know it.
Everything comes at a price.
In time night fell, and with it the sun’s heat, denying us the opportunity of drying our damp clothes and sodden footwear. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, for the rains struck again, but this time they weren’t nearly as harsh. Since we were also spared the tempestuous winds, we figured it best to struggle on, believing that if we moored for the night we would freeze half to death. Cold and wet, our plan now was to bite the bullet and revise past policy. We would somehow find a native camp and hope they’d have a fire to warm ourselves. In the event, however, any light we saw came from the opposite bank, a squillion miles to our left. A sad fact, but had we thought back we would have realised that we hadn’t seen another pirogue since ‘teatime’, some five hours ago. Indeed, from here on we would see little sign of human life for quite some time.
Trying to keep warm by paddling, we stuck with it until midnight before finally admitting defeat — a total of seventeen hours for the day, which equalled our best. While we failed to find a village, all was not lost, for another ‘bright’ Sean and Shaggy idea had long since hatched. Still super determined to beat the riverboat, now that we had become familiar with the surroundings, we resolved to do something utterly outrageous. Perhaps the long paddling shifts had made us a little too self–assured, but between us we decided to take a chance and try to float the entire night, even while asleep. Barmy? Absolutely! Do note, though, that our original plan had been to take turns sleeping. However, after such a gruelling day we realised that not only was there very little chance of staying awake half the night each, but in all sincerity we were also too jaded to be arsed to even try. So we agreed to literally go with the flow. Besides, storms apart, everything had passed mainly without any hassles, so why not? Of course a storm may well rear its ugly head, but, applying the law of averages, we figured that we were good for at least two days of calm. Idiots! Anyway, if we had managed to elude disaster thus far, who was to say we couldn’t keep on doing it? After much initial concern, we slowly drifted off into the land of nod.
The night went without mishap.
Day Four on the river, I woke a good twenty minutes before the sun rose and cursed my luck for it, as my clothes were still freezing and wet. Seconds later and Shaggy awoke to the same complaint, so without delay we began paddling, trying to reheat our damp bodies. While we hadn’t managed to get much sleep the previous night — catnapping for fear of upending in the dark — it was obvious that we had never been in any sort of difficulty. So, after a short discussion, we decided that from this moment on we would try to float the entire night every night. Just as zany, we also decided to expose ourselves to the sun for longer periods. Not too much of course, but with more ‘cooking’ we reckoned we would definitely be warm the next night, rain or no rain.
It was the first and only overcast day of our whole voyage.
Sigh.
In spite of the clouds, by mid–morning both of us had completely dried off and were stripped to our shorts. Alas, our tops were not the only things that had been stripped that morning, for Hercules Shaggy managed to break his paddle — stripping the odds of our making The Jewel before the riverboat from an even–money flutter to a mammoth odds–against.
Whenever we needed to moor to a bank (usually in a hectic race to shit somewhere less messy than in our grits), we found it simpler to manoeuvre the pirogue by sticking our paddles into the riverbed, which
was normally shallow around a clearing, and levering it to the side. On this particular morning, however, the riverbed Shaggy hastily jammed his paddle into decided it wasn’t going to give it back, and when he yanked at it a touch too keenly — as you would, if bursting for a crap — the bloody thing snapped in half. Too desperate to stand and weep, we had leapt behind opposing bushes and after a relieving clear–out returned to inspect the damage.
“Did you keep the receipt?” I asked.
“Think I chucked it with the flask and chocolates.”
“Fair enough.”
By freaky coincidence, the first people we came upon for eighteen hours, a company of women, breezed by in their pirogue and, having noticed our predicament, gifted us a spare paddle.
Despite the charitable deed, for which we of course felt indebted, there was a catch: it was no bigger than a table–tennis bat. The upshot being that we were still faced with the same one–paddle dilemma.
Using brain cells we thought had long since migrated, we decided on an alternative scheme. Having bumped into a bunch of women, we concluded that some form of habitation couldn’t be too far away, so banked on procuring not only much needed sustenance, but also a more sizeable paddle.
We were right, for their village was around the next bend. The snag was, we became caught in a current that was taking us away from the settlement, but with the help of some passing fishermen we managed to find the right channel in which to steer the pirogue, and very soon Shaggy was disappearing into the jungle with one of the villagers.
Word of our arrival ran wild, and presently I was subjected to the rest of the tribe’s inquisitiveness. This meant that I was confronted by a wall of about a hundred villagers, something I was not entirely over the moon about, although not because I didn’t like attention — being in the spotlight I could take or leave, depending upon its nature, of course. Had I been in receipt of an Academy Award or Olympic gold, then sure, no worries; bring it on. But being the centre of attention because I was Sean McCarthy ‘the thing’ was different. I didn't know why I felt like an object — I had been faced with a similar situation when buying the pirogue from Woody Strode and had experienced no such awkward feelings. The difference, maybe, was that Woody’s village was close to Kisangani, so their people would have regularly encountered muzungus; plus Shaggy hadn’t vanished from sight. On the other hand, there was something else, something more basic. At Woody’s village, or indeed any of the places we had hitherto come across, I had interacted. And this, in retrospect, was the key difference. At this new village, there was no interaction. No one spoke to me. No one gestured. No one moved a muscle. They just stood and stared. To the point that I became so overtly conscious of the two hundred eyes now fixed on my every move, and the eerie silence that went with it, that I couldn’t help but mutter for the speedy return of Shaggy. Overhearing my deliberation, my audience just looked at each other as if to say, ‘Did you hear it mumble?’
To be fair, my sensation of awkwardness was probably as much my fault as theirs. Had I gone amongst them, shook hands, intermingled, there’s every chance that I would have been made to feel comfortable. Even so, a wave of relief washed over me when I spied a returning Shaggy, particularly as he was carrying a brand new paddle, which was thankfully far superior to the table–tennis bat we had so generously been handed — although still not as substantial as the original. It made sense that Shaggy also try to get as much food and water as possible, but he returned only with our water bottles refilled, the paddle, and one pineapple. Apparently the paddle was “a steal”, but the man he’d departed with had, amid the usual welter of “Give me”s, demanded prices for food and water that were somewhat outlandish (or at least Shaggy’s idea of outlandish), and refused to drop them. As with the smoked fish the day before, my buddy had therefore purchased the bare necessities only, even though over the past three days we had eaten a combined total of: a bit of corned beef, a dash of margarine, three pineapples, and a handful of bananas. During the forthcoming days we would eat only the new pineapple and a bunch of bananas we had yet to buy, end of story. And that’s despite day–long paddling shifts that, when coupled with the heat and humidity, had us burning calories like Grand Tour cyclists.
Good job I was on a diet.
With a new paddle in hand we pushed on, stoked by our desire to make Bumba, again ignoring the listless flow, the immutable scenery, the concealed wildlife, the dehydration, the runs, and the continual nagging pain about our backs, forging onward, always moving, forever trying.
It wasn’t too long after leaving the fishing village that Shaggy and I reached a critical milestone: Basoko, which was the biggest settlement between Kisangani and Bumba. The significance to us, however, lay not in its dimensions (nor in the fact that it would have been at this point that we would have emerged, had we been able to paddle from Epulu), but more notably because Basoko was the first concrete sign that we had passed the halfway stage. As such, we were greatly fuelled by the assumption that we were now on course to arrive at The Jewel sometime during the weekend, and therefore didn’t want to stop for anything unless we categorically had to, so decided to press on. This may seem like a strange decision, but it wasn’t made without further cause, as our primary thoughts had been to drop anchor and acquire extra provisions here — although our sojourn at the last village was still relatively recent, it made sense to obtain whatever nourishment we could. However, upon drawing closer to the bank, all we ran into was a gathering of finger–pointers, each of whom seemed to expect a handout upon their “Give me” command. While this was irritating, it wasn’t the main problem — we were used to it by now, after all. No, the trouble arose when we tried to negotiate an exchange of goods for groceries, yet received replies tantamount to: “Get stuffed, arseholes.” Add this to our belief that there would soon be another village from which to gain supplies, and we rejected going ashore — a decision that turned out to be one of those “don’t fret yourself about that iceberg” clangers. As far as gaining rations at the next village went, it certainly wasn’t to be this day.
Looking back, it could be argued that our negativity towards the Congo’s Give–Me men was influenced by our memory of the lovely, benevolent people we had met whilst hitchhiking in eastern Zaire. That’s why, despite our misgivings, Shaggy and I could never in reality make a fail–safe assessment of them. Had we taken time to familiarise ourselves, who knows, like the young Give–Me fisherman who had later redeemed himself by helping us paddle, perhaps our grievances might have been mitigated. Besides, our muzungu forefathers surely had to take a dose of the blame. Britain, France, Portugal, Germany, Russia, Italy, Holland, Spain — in the ‘Scramble for Africa’ they all had blood on their hands, and none more so than the former ruler of where we were, King Leopold II of Belgium. Having spent over two decades robbing their land and mutilating and butchering millions of Congolese in the process, his ousting in 1908 didn’t stop more rich foreigners from coming over and ‘buying’ whatever they wanted. So how could I possibly complain when they asked for a morsel back? All the same, after countless random groups of people have insisted you give them your every possession, whilst their offspring are in unison shrieking at full pelt down your poor lugholes, it’s hard not to have some reservations.
Although the Give–Me men and their kids’ screeches remained a thorny pain in the rump whenever we came across them, rather than shout obscenities back as I had with the wee mites the previous day, I decided to adopt a course of action that had worked well for us from time to time: humour. A perfect example of which was here at Basoko, where I learnt that mimicry could be used to calming effect.
I didn’t know how but, though I hadn’t practised at all, I found I could somewhat competently imitate the resident language. Of course I never knew what on earth I was saying, and without doubt my words never meant anything, but to another foreigner I appeared able to speak the native tongue. So, once we had sussed we were going to get little from the Basokians beyond
a shower of “Give me”s, when next the fishermen called to us, motioning with their arms for us to hand over our stuff, I just shrugged and, making sure I used the correct inflections, answered accordingly: “Unaka jouibanawi umbuska lana wombungi”, or whatever. Then the villagers and I would strike up a dialogue of sorts, in which I would simply respond to their gestures. At first Shaggy was astounded by my ‘knowledge’ of (presumably at this location) Lingala, but when I professed not to have a clue as to what I was babbling, he burst out laughing, thereafter joining in the ‘conversation’ with much aplomb himself.
The Give–Me men aside, luckily we hadn’t yet run into any large critter problems on or around the Congo — Shaggy spied one water snake, and that was it. Of course that’s not to say that a diarrhoea–inducing beast wouldn’t crop up, and on the river our animal worries included the two highlighted so memorably by the “one of them’s bound to eat you” Kiwis — crocodiles and hippopotamuses (the latter is, surprisingly, the most prolific mammalian killer of man in Africa). From what I had read, neither of them needed to be a worry to us, as supposedly they inhabited only lakes and small rivers. The obvious problem with this is that crocodiles and hippos don’t read! Besides, who was to say that they didn’t populate one of the Congo’s narrow, reed–filled channels? And if they did, and we ended up in the selfsame strait, and then in our complacency we saw a fresh water rivulet and made an ignorant beeline for it... Well, it might prove to be a case of ‘Goodbye world, it’s been nice knowing you’. Of course this was all conjecture, but until that moment, we tried to remain as cautious as possible.
SEAN OF THE CONGO Page 21
