SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  While anything big had thus far been too afraid to cross our all–powerful rampaging path, there was one species that definitely fancied its chances: bloody flies, the worst of which, throughout the day, were the dreaded and ever–voracious horseflies.

  Illustrative of the entire voyage, there was always at least one fly of some type kicking around, although I rarely bothered swatting them, choosing to get on with my paddling and ignore them as best I could. Whenever one of those sabre–toothed horseflies decided to drop in on me for its afternoon snack, however, a good old–fashioned swat was undoubtedly the order of the day; those buggers really could bite. Ordinarily a few swipes and they’d tuck tail and flee, and yet on this occasion, no matter how often I lashed out, I could not deter the two ‘adversaries’ I now found buzzing behind my seemingly yummy bare back. Through sheer boredom I eventually quit trying. Besides, they hadn’t actually tried to bite me, it was just the thought that they might that had propelled me to swat at them.

  “Did you kill those horseflies?” asked Shaggy, his back to me of course.

  “Nope.”

  “Did they go away?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why don’t you kill them, then?”

  “Not fast enough. Mind you, there’s some other kind of fly, a little one, perched about two feet away from me.”

  “Kill that, then.”

  “Nah, it’s okay. It’s just sat there peaceable–like, minding its own business.”

  Minutes ticked by, and although the horseflies continued to buzz annoyingly behind me, I somehow managed to keep my cool and disregarded the potential danger. More fool me…

  ‘Chomp!’

  Reeling in agony I leapt to my feet, as the last few ounces of sanity eroded with that one, painful bite.

  “That’s it! That—is—it!” I bellowed, turning on my antagonists. “I’m going to kill them, I’ll bloody well kill them I will! They—are—dead—meat!”

  Shaggy began laughing. “Did one bite you?”

  “Bite me? The little shit’s taken a huge lump out of my back! I’m going to damned well kill it! ...When I get hold of it.”

  Luck went my way, as one of the horseflies then foolishly decided to perch on my rucksack.

  “A–ha! There’s one of them now. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  I was half–wild with vengeance now and, laughing like a deranged idiot, roared triumphantly as I trapped the fly under my mum’s once–clean towel.

  Deciding on a really evil execution, I figured a slower death was far more appropriate than the usual crushing approach, and I gently felt beneath the towel until I had enclosed the horsefly in my hand. Still maniacally snorting, I then pushed it into the river.

  “What’s happening?”

  “I’m going to drown it,” I gloated.

  Despite my anger, after only a moment I removed the fly from the water. As much as I had told Shaggy I was intending to top it, and as much as I had at the time meant it, once my hand was immersed my true self kicked in — drowning anything, even a fly, wasn’t and isn’t part of my natural make–up. Instead I changed strategy, deciding a quick dunking would soon smarten it up a bit, and have it scurrying off and leave me alone, which was my objective in the first instance. Of course there was another reason I changed my mind mid–dunk: a rather vivid image of The Bollock–Muncher biting my hand off. So sod that! The thing is, one should learn to do things the easy way, not least when on the Congo. The little shit scurried off alright, only to go fetch its crony and come back for another bare back banquet.

  Groan.

  Later, as the two horseflies returned again and again (and again and again I tried, and failed, to swat them), my line of vision caught the small fly I had let live earlier, still perched in the same position two feet away.

  “Hey, Shaggy.”

  “What?”

  “You know that little fly you said I should kill but I let it off.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s still here.”

  “So?”

  “I reckon,” I said, looking for some kind of retribution, “the little swine is the radio man for the two horseflies, and every time I try to corner one of the shits, it signals to them.”

  “Could be.”

  “Hmm.”

  Moments later…

  ‘Splat!’

  Funnily enough, once the little fly had been disposed of, I had few problems eradicating the two horseflies.

  Contrary to the evidence presented I wasn’t a completely heartless fly executioner, and even saved a few which had landed on the water. At a glance you would be forgiven for assuming these little creatures were dead, with their wings stretched out flat. But this day my curiosity got the better of me and I fished out an attractively marked butterfly. To my great surprise it wasn’t dead at all. So, as it was still too damp to fly off, I decided to place it in the pirogue, giving it the chance to dry and regain its strength.

  No doubt these actions will have some people thinking: “Weirdo.” However, in this ‘other world’, far removed from what your average Johnny Foreigner would consider the norm, at the time it just seemed to be the right thing to do, not to mention giving myself something to think about beyond pain of back and dryness of throat, etc. Besides, after reading innumerable superhero comics as a child, I had and still have a compulsion to be heroic, even towards creepy–crawlies. Soon I had repeated this procedure enough times to start my very own insect football team, and although it wasn’t often, whenever we moored to the bank I would replace them back on land.

  Weirdo indeed.

  After another few hours’ paddling, twilight was practically upon us and we were happy to take a short break for the one part of the day that subsequently became a daily fix of utopia. The reason for this was simple: the sunsets on the Congo were extraordinarily stunning, and sure enough, at its usual time, the sun began to gradually disappear and for a few glorious minutes cast a sunset as opulent and beautiful as any sight I had ever witnessed — the descending rays of amber light advanced across the treetops in such a speckled fashion that it was impossible to do anything other than fall spellbound. The rainforest’s once diversely coloured orchids, brown creepers and mixed greenery eventually faded to grey, while bias heat waves distorted the Congo’s glistening wake, adding to its magnificence and entrancing us with its beauty. Unbelievably breathtaking, and with our outlines diminishing against the encroaching night, I quickly snapped out of my trance and reeled off a hatful of photos to ensure our memories of the incredible view would never be forgotten.

  What a crying shame, then, that these particular photos went awol.

  Having floated successfully right through the preceding night, we had already agreed to continue with this policy, so pushed on until 9:30pm before abandoning our paddles and lying back in the pirogue. Unlike the ‘wintry’ evening we had spent searching for a village the previous day, during our subsequent nights on the Congo Shaggy and I would always spend a half hour or so just reclining and gazing out across the moonlit rainforest before settling down to sleep. Although this was immeasurably relaxing, we would nonetheless tell jokes, offer opinions, revisit past tales, work out riddles, anything. Anything that might, although surrounded by the ever–enchanting splendour of the jungle, help us to forget that we felt like we were two of the loneliest people on earth.

  “This is an easy one,” I said. “If at gunpoint you were made to pick between spending twenty–four hours in one of three rooms, which would you go for? One that is full of murderers with knives? One that is full of lions that haven’t eaten for two years? Or one that is full of venomous snakes?”

  What seemed an age passed by before my cogitating friend replied.

  “Can’t think. It’s going to be one of those bloody obvious ones an’ all.”

  “You want the answer?”

  “Hold on, give me a minute.”

  A minute came and went.

  “Well?”

  “I’m still thinking.”
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  “Come on, Shaggy, it’s easy.”

  “Hang on, hang on.”

  Yet another age.

  “You give in?”

  “No, no, leave it with me.”

  “Strewth, how long do you need?”

  “Tell you what, if I don’t get it by the time we get to Bumba, give it me then.”

  “You mean, The Jewel of the Congo.”

  “Naturally.”

  With Shaggy still chewing over the riddle, we continued our chitchat, this time regurgitating our African experiences to date, although in due course there was a pause in the conversation. Staying with the subject, my mind drifted back to the events we had mulled over. Back to one episode specifically, a time that encompassed a couple of days in Rwanda and a brief but rather innocent addition to the adventures of Sean McCarthy. In fact, the tale began in Nairobi, on the Kigali–bound plane I had just boarded, with the voice of a straggler saying, “Is this the plane to Rwanda?”

  The question had been posed by a well–tanned twenty–six year–old whom I shall name Cal, since she was from California. Travelling alone and vacationing for one week only, Cal had spent stopover time in London and Nairobi en route to her eventual destination, Kigali. Here, like most if not all of the holidaymakers we had noted, she had pre–booked a short tour to see the mountain gorillas. With this being a whistle–stop visit, on the plane she had advised me that Thursday sundown and Friday morning would be her only free time. After that she would be flying back to Nairobi. If I wanted to come to her hotel and say hello during this brief time, then fine.

  So there I was.

  Paradoxically, regardless of what, if I’m candid, was something of a ‘Don Juan’ reputation when I was in my early twenties, pre–departure I was fully prepared to accept my African escapade as a dating–free expedition. The challenge to this guideline came on the plane from Nairobi, when Ali, noting Cal’s solitude, defied me to obtain a date with her. For my part, in agreeing to the dare I figured that I would at least be able to kill time should we be forced to hang around waiting for our visas — which certainly proved to be the case — although her pretty face and slim, but curvy in all the right places, frame helped sway things too!

  With a boyfriend back in the States, Cal hadn’t come to Africa for romance, so that evening it wasn’t I alone who dined with her at the Meridian but also Shaggy. Not until my return the following morning did I get to spend any one–on–one time with her, even if that period remained platonic, in spite of her admitting she found me “dashing” (aw, shucks). Then again I was in a romantic mood, so put it to Cal that she should come with us down the Congo. I did a passable job too, making the “once in a lifetime” trip sound nothing more than a light–hearted but wonderful jaunt. The sun would beat down, and as Shaggy and I joyfully paddled, ardent sunbather Cal could lie in the middle of the delicately swaying pirogue, tanning herself and eating various tropical fruits. Of course, whilst I had never been down the Congo, I might have painted a somewhat more idyllic picture than the probable reality. But it was hard not to be gripped by the blend of Cal’s allure and, even more overwhelming, the desire for amour when seduced by the enchantment that was Africa. As such, even with Cal appearing too set in her ways to go for it, I hoped I could induce her otherwise. Hoped that my ‘dashingness’ would win the day. Hoped that once Cal was involved with the adventure, she would soon come around to it. What I hadn’t realised was just how off–the–scale I had been on all counts: that Cal would require a little more than my persuasions, and that rather than the joyride I had been depicting, our ensuing Congo journey would be filled with all the hardships to date — plus a few as yet to be recounted. Be that as it may, it all sounded terrifically appealing to her. So much so that perhaps Cal might even have gone with us if she hadn’t had a conference to return to. Whatever the reason, it just wasn’t to be, and come noon she had her guide drop me off at the compound, allowed me to kiss her on the cheek, then left.

  Forever.

  Although that was the last time I ever saw Cal, after she returned home she sent a letter and photographs to the English address I had given her. In her letter she remarked how she would love to be back in the tropics, amongst the magic and the romance of Africa. She also disclosed something else — she had left her boyfriend.

  ‘I guess he just wasn’t dashing enough,’ she confessed.

  After I had recalled the tale of Cal, I gave a short sigh then looked across the pirogue’s walls and listened to the beat of the waves. I was still on the Congo.

  “Hey, you awake, Shaggy?”

  “Barely.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “That bloody riddle!”

  “Ha, that figures.”

  “You?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Anyway, I’m off to sleep now.”

  “Same here.”

  “Night.”

  “Night.”

  With that I pulled my mum’s once–clean towel and my thinner–than–thin sheet and mosquito netting over me, then snuggled back further into the dugout. With the thoughts and dreams of a romance lost, I gradually fell asleep, whilst the pirogue zigzagged its way down the Congo, past the jungles, past the tribes, and past the many other slumbering denizens of the rainforest.

  CHAPTER 13

  GODS OF THE RIVER

  Friday, 7th July. Day Five in the pirogue was a complete reverse of Day Three. The wet, cold, predominately grey day that had soaked us from top to toe, was replaced by the cloudless, dry, blisteringly sunny day we had been wishing for yesterday. A day late and much too hot. Running out of drinking water the preceding night only exacerbated the situation, particularly when combining the extreme heat and our high calorie–burn. And with the sun dehydrating us as never before, we began to wilt and crack under its escalating glare. So much so that, whilst we had promised ourselves to never again savour the Congo, desperate times called for desperate measures.

  “Argh!”

  “Ugh!”

  That second mouthful each was the last time we sampled the river.

  With the necessity of obtaining liquid more pressing than ever, we had hoped to find another riverbank village, but in this remote locale there were none. We did spy a couple of natives among the bush, but our shouts to them were met only by silence. Just as frustrating, the equally scarce sighting of a pirogue would be that of a speck on the other side of the Congo. To address our dilemma we instead focused on spotting a fresh water rivulet, which meant directing our eyes inland and sticking as close to land as physically possible. In itself this wasn’t too tricky, as we were travelling down the right–hand side of the river and, as I’ve said before, the pirogue always strayed towards the right. By now, though, we had become fairly adept at paddling and had little problem maintaining a set distance from the verge — although this policy had its own drawback, for every now and again the adjacent mass of jungle poked out a bit more than our established gap. Ordinarily this wouldn’t have posed much of a task, as it wasn’t too difficult to alter course and circumnavigate any wayward objects. However, now that our attention had been diverted landward, only too often we would find ourselves suddenly confronted by oncoming branches. Without much time to change direction, this would cause us to paddle like madmen in an effort to avoid the obstacle, a feat made all the more fiddly by the current, which drew us like a magnet whenever the pirogue neared an impediment. The outcome was that every so often we would graze a tree, or catch the edge of overgrown shrubs, but we were never in any real danger, nor were harmed in any way — until this morning. As we approached what back home would be lunchtime, we again found ourselves looking inland for a rivulet, when ...pow! Our senses went to red alert.

  That it had gone unnoticed was testament to how anxious we were to find water, and with but seconds in which to adjust, we certainly didn’t have time to round the colossal branch now blocking our way, its heavy tangle of leafy stems defended by an assemblage of needle–sharp
thorns.

  Calculating that we could squeeze under it, Shaggy instinctively lay flat, expecting the pirogue’s walls would offer protection against the more concerning offshoots. Normally I would have followed suit, but I’m afraid I had digested too many superhero comics to risk my pal being snared, so continued paddling an extra nanosecond. The theory was that if I pushed Shaggy’s end of the pirogue out of harm’s way, he would be saved. And guess what? It worked. For although my actions had ensured that I would head straight towards the perilous centre, my partner in crime succeeded in passing safe and sound through the branch’s outer edges. To achieve this I was forced to keep paddling right to the wire — but I got my nanosecond wrong. By concentrating on rescuing Shaggy (I know, I know — hero), I hadn’t allowed myself enough time to drop below the sides of the pirogue, and as I hastily lay down I left my hands too high and my paddle somehow got trapped in the stems. ‘No chance,’ I told myself, ‘we’re not losing another paddle,’ and, in spite of the might of the current and the weight of the pirogue acting against me, I clung on, leaving my hands and arms exposed.

  Bad move.

  The thorns were merciless. I writhed in agony as they ripped easily into my flesh, my do–or–die effort seemingly for nought as the paddle was dragged from my fading grip. To add to my woes, my hands were now hooked by the barbs, and the pirogue slowed to a standstill. But the Congo’s power was not to be denied, and there was an almighty jerk, which wrenched me free and spewed the pirogue out the other side.

  Instantly in even more pain, I hoisted myself into a sitting position and glimpsed at my now swollen and bloody palms — my blisters had been joined by deeply embedded thorns. So I used the back of my hands to feel for the enormous scratch marks etched in my forehead, unaware until this moment of the army of angry ants that had spilled on to me from the branches above. But all I could think about was getting back the errant paddle and, having seized the table–tennis bat, as the ants crawled over my body and the thorns speared further into my hands, I brushed aside all and sundry, and together with Shaggy frantically struck out back towards the half–decent paddle, now hanging in the bush.