SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  Eventually the storm outran us and headed off further downriver, leaving us once again in tranquil waters. This time, however, we had joyous smiles on our faces, as we knew we had just enriched our quest by having as much of an exhilarating ride and as much enjoyment as we could ever have imagined.

  Then we were back in the slow current, paddling tediously, without any more clouds, under the hot, blazing sun.

  As if the cruel heat, lack of food, dreary pace, bodily pain, and fear of any number of things, weren’t bad enough, it wasn’t long before we had again finished our water. But all was not lost, because once more Lady Luck was just around the corner — this time, literally. After twenty–four hours of nothingness, we at long last came across a small village. Here, we were able to purchase sustenance in the shape of a bunch of tiny bananas and some water, albeit only enough to last the night. Still, it gave our verve another shot in the arm, and with it the ability to ride out the rest of the day — by far the most remorseless to date — without any additional distress.

  Although our earlier surfing escapade had left us soaked to the skin, while the sun’s rays had proved to be an absolute nightmare all day, they at least did a tremendous job of drying us completely before nightfall. Happy in the knowledge that we would be warm, once again we hoped to make up for any lost time by opting to float the night.

  Oddly, while I had an inherent fear of things that go bump during the hours of darkness (in this case, our overturning in a flash storm, or plunging into a bank crammed with awaiting predators), there was a flipside. Remaining in the pirogue at night while still afloat was not only a quicker way of reaching Bumba, but as it turned out was also a very relaxing way of sleeping, maybe as relaxing as I had ever known. And not just because, after a typical dawn–til–dusk, and beyond, paddling stint, we could rest our aching backs and drained limbs. There were two other factors. The first was the amount of warmth the river managed to retain after enduring a full day’s sunshine. This would then heat up the underside of the pirogue, which, providing it didn’t rain, helped to keep things nice and snug. The second reason was one that did away with the machismo and took you back to childhood — the peaceful way in which the current gently rocked the pirogue, like a cradle.

  Despite the snugness and cradle–like rocking, it was never possible to get a full night’s sleep on the Congo, each evening holding some kind of alarm once we had downed paddles, such as when a chugging noise and bright lights woke us at approximately two o’clock the previous night. Rousing ourselves, an immediate panic set in, as all indications confirmed that the riverboat was about to come crashing down on us, even though the channel we had floated down seemed far too small for what we understood to be a gigantic craft. Once focused, however, our qualms were soon dispelled, for attached to the impending bend was a wooden jetty, on the other side of which lay a clearing that, judging from the several piles of stacked logs, appeared to be some form of wood yard — its functioning generator unveiling the source of the chugging. At first glance the place seemed deserted, and whereas my race–mode mindset told me to keep going and pass by, curiosity had got the better of me, so I endorsed Shaggy’s proposition that we should moor and investigate. Besides, given that there was a generator and lighting, we had assumed that there would be at least one guard on hand, and therefore a likelihood of obtaining, if not food, certainly water. When it came to it, though, irrespective of combing the entire hockey–pitch–sized clearing, we found nothing beyond the generator, not even a pathway out — and definitely no people, water, or food, nor anything else of any use or significance — so headed back to our pirogue and Congo snooze.

  While being woken by things such as the wood yard was acceptable (its exploration may not have concluded with something noteworthy, or particularly adventurous, but it was still a change from the norm, still interesting, still a positive), being woken or kept awake by more problematic, negative stuff did bother us. For a start, purely getting to sleep was always a struggle for me, care of the unceasing presence of the ever–spiteful African flies.

  For some reason, whenever I nuzzled under my mum’s once–clean towel and my thinner–than–thin sheet and mosquito netting, I always seemed to take a fly with me, unknowingly perched in my ear (not a horsefly, or I would have had no ear left). Only having bedded down would I hear a predictable “buzz, buzz”, right smack in my lughole — whereupon I would attempt to rid myself of it by poking and then punching ten bells out of my ear. Then, once the buzzing had gone, I’d resettle myself, and yet as soon as I was nigh–on asleep the blasted thing would start up again. Eventually, after much readjusting and umpteen more pokes and punches, I would yell in frustration, throw the netting off, shake it vigorously, and then quickly re–cover myself before the fly had time to return. Peace at last. Or so I had presumed, for as with all unhappy endings, no sooner would I get back to my almost–asleep mode than I’d hear that seemingly obligatory “buzz, buzz” noise again, right bang in my ear.

  Having weighed up whether or not these phantom flies were all in my mind, and not finding a solution, in due course I bedded down knowing the buzzing would soon begin and trained myself to deal it regardless. Mind you, if you think about what flies usually squat on, and imagine how ‘clean’ I was considering I hadn’t adequately washed for days, using wet–wipes only, it’s hardly surprising.

  The other wake–inducing things were a little more troublesome, like the occasions when we would be stirred by the sensation and sound of rushing water, as the pirogue was forced through a small gap between two islands. Upon realising this, we would immediately come round, sit straight up, paddle for a bit, then, once all felt calm, lie back down and drift off to sleep. Then there were the moments when one of us would feel the pirogue thump into something and wake to find ourselves caught against the bank, again enmeshed in a shrouded mass of overhanging black forest. As usual, this caused more panic than the rushing water, and whichever unfortunate one of us had become jungle fodder would shout for his ally to rouse and get him the hell out of there. Worse even than this were the times we would wake to find the sky so dark that we couldn’t even see each other, let alone land. A somewhat terrifying predicament when you’re encircled by God knows what, in the middle of an immense forest and, more daunting, a river so titanic we might have been at sea. Amplifying my trepidation was the memory of the storms. Who’s to say they wouldn’t strike again? And if they did and we were caught out at the centre of the Congo, at night, in the dark?

  Gulp.

  The possibility of flies, rushing water, dense jungle, darkness, and storms notwithstanding — not to mention the ever–present Bollock–Muncher — we downed paddles as usual. It was time to sleep.

  Normally the more laidback, Shaggy slept soundly that night, but not I. Just before the point of shutting my eyes, I had become fascinated by a multi–coloured flashing arc of light that I had noticed in the distance downriver. Fascinated and apprehensive, that is, for like any animal I am always hesitant about something I don’t understand, and for the life of me I couldn’t work out what on earth I was looking at.

  At this juncture the Congo was punctuated by a host of lengthy islands, some miles in length, and we had floated down a slender channel between two of these, the banks of which were so laden with tall ‘barnyard’ grasses that in places it left only thirty yards of breadth. Quite whether it was this that had caused our already listless speed to decrease, who knows, but I couldn’t help wondering if we had coasted into an eventual dead–end tributary (which subsequently, and luckily, we hadn’t). Even so, the curious glow I’d spied up ahead had become far too engaging to fret about anything else. Utterly mystified, I even woke Shaggy, who muttered something about the Northern Lights and went back to sleep.

  I couldn’t tell precisely where the strange light was coming from, as the channel in which we were floating meandered so much I could never see further than a hundred yards in front — and that was rare, since it was typically less than hal
f that distance — but when the arc did flash, about every two minutes, I could make out, above the treetops, that we were heading in its direction.

  The closer the object of my curiosity got, the more it struck me as being a huge lightning bolt (and I had seen one of those up close, when it tragically killed a pupil at my school nine years earlier), which appeared to stem from one side of the channel and blaze across to the other. Whatever it was, the only explanation I could think of was that someone had built a large power station on each bank, and they were erratically transferring a giant electrical charge from one to the other. At least that’s what it looked like, but whatever the facts were, I had no answer, and repeatedly my psyche warned “turn back, turn back”. But I simply lay there, glued to the sight of this omnipotent lightning flash criss–crossing our path ...and coming nearer and nearer.

  * * *

  Closer drew the vast bolt. A mishmash of creams, yellows and pinks, a dominant hue wasn’t easy to decipher, despite being pitched against the backdrop of the rainforest, itself a web of dark and smouldering evergreens, with splashes of brown bark jutting out from behind moss–covered trunks, branches and vines. Colours and shapes that would otherwise melt into shadows were now lit by rays of moonlight that punctured the canopy and shimmered on the Congo, reflecting shafts of light back into the woods and enabling me to see all before me without too much nocturnal hindrance.

  Nearer still came the charge, as the pirogue snaked its way through the reed–filled waterway and past the sleepy jungle, and whilst my unease should have made me halt our progress, I was too awestruck and befuddled by the exceptionally picturesque, mesmerising show of energized brightness. So on we carried, the bolt so heart–stoppingly close that around one of the next few corners I knew it would be over us.

  The first corner came and went. Then the second ...the third ...the fourth. At the fifth I braced myself, but instead of stark apprehension I felt an unusual sensation, my fear entwined with a fusion of both discovery and beauty, which only increased as the fifth bend turned into the sixth, and then the seventh, the eighth. And yet, because of the nature of the islands, the narrowing river zigzagged so much and the corners now followed so frequently together that not only did it become wholly impossible to calculate where the arc was (which made it even more of a thrill, never knowing when it would out of the blue materialise), but at any given point the pirogue almost seemed like it was heading back on itself.

  Wait! I briefly held my breath. ‘This is it. It’s here. It’s around this next bend,’ I told myself, the suspense intensified by the lethargy of the pirogue, which crept around the turn so slowly that I had time to steal glimpses of a jungle so beguiling it was a shame that my attention was otherwise preoccupied, its entombing foliage creating such alluring imagery, I might well have been in a fairytale. Yet what I had assumed to be the last turn came — and then went, as the closer we drew to where I supposed the spectacle would be, the more I realised we would be bypassing the strange flash, as at last I caught sight of it, now appearing further away to my right, back down the Congo. And with it the hope of unearthing the source of my intrigue.

  Although the bizarre light continued to glow periodically, and even though it would eventually vanish into the night, right up until that last sighting its flashes were still beautiful, still enchanting, still perplexing, and still a phenomenon whose origin, even to this day, I wish I knew.

  Day Six on the river. Again we were up and ready to go before 6am, the thought of yesterday’s thorns encounter surfacing momentarily, as my improved but still throbbing hands took their first painful heave on the paddle. But it wasn’t to last. With the ache in my back every bit as prevalent — as were the other pangs and twinges that went along with what had been, in this most pitiless of arenas, five days of blood, sweat and fears — everything again fused into one. Besides, another recollection prevented me from succumbing to any physical discomfort — the memory of something that had happened to us only four hours earlier. It was a stern reminder that, although floating during the hours of darkness helped us gain ground, the latent dangers were indubitably far greater. For when one’s main sensory defence — vision — has been severely hampered, then the prospect of being injured, or worse, when faced with such things as storms or wild animal attacks increases accordingly. Particularly if one becomes too complacent and familiar with one’s surroundings — or too busy being fast asleep. And so to the panic–inducing incident in question. For the second night in a row, we had been awoken by what sounded like the chugging of the riverboat, though on inspection was fortunately just a tug. So why was this dangerous? While our riverboat assumptions had brought an inevitable welter of despair — under no circumstances did we want to miss that boat — the more worrisome aspect of the tug’s presence was that the wretched thing nearly smashed into us! And because having one’s head caved in wasn’t going to be the best way to beat the boat to Bumba, I just thanked my lucky stars we had woken in time.

  Two lives left.

  Now that we were back paddling we had something else to cheer about. Unlike the last couple of days, there were one or two more pirogues about — although mostly, and typically, on the other side of the Congo — and these and the tug combined to give us much heart from the belief that we must be nearing a large settlement, hopefully The Jewel. If all went to plan we would be there ahead of midnight. Arriving any later would doubtless equate to floating straight past while asleep (hello, Ngombe). In an attempt to discover how close we were, on the occasions that we were in vocal range of any fishermen, we asked them the correct distance to our finish line. Normally we would be greeted by a nonplussed look, while the few who did offer a reply proffered nothing logical. Answers of 800km, 500km, 250km, and 2,000km, in that order, were clearly way off the mark, although I did have a theory.

  “In all fairness, these people probably don’t understand our dodgy French.”

  “How else do you say Buum–baa?”

  “Maybe we should ask for The Jewel of the Congo.”

  “Or, Le Jewel du Congo,” said Shaggy (in his dodgy French).

  “Ha, good one. Anyway, forget kilometres. I just wanted someone to say ‘It’s around the next two bends’ or ‘It’s half a day’s piroguing’, or something.”

  “I just want to hear ‘My place is around the next corner, come and have a break and some coffee’.”

  “And ice cream.”

  “Chocolate.”

  “Cream cakes.”

  “Your mum’s meat and potato pie.”

  More giggling was followed by a lengthy pause, then…

  “Say, did you ever work out the answer to that riddle?”

  “Might have.”

  “That means you didn’t! Sheesh. Come on, Shaggy, it so simple a kid would get it.”

  “I’m sure they would, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass.”

  “You want the answer?”

  “Yeah, go on.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “I do.”

  “Thought you wanted to wait until Bumba.”

  “Bugger Bumba, what’s the answer?”

  “You really, really want to know?”

  “Get on with it!”

  “Oh no, I can’t remember. Damn.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Okay — it’s the lions.”

  “The lions...? Go on.”

  “Because if they haven’t eaten for that long they’ll be dead. Duh.”

  “Eh? I think I’m missing something here.”

  “It’s called a brain.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Anyhow, let me get this right. I have to pick between three rooms to spend twenty–four hours in. One has some psychos in it…”

  “Murderers.”

  “Murderers, psychos. So the murderers have all got knives, yeah?”

  “Yep.”

  “And one of the other rooms has some deadly snakes in?”

  “Yep.”

  “And
the last room has some lions that haven’t eaten for two days. So where’s the dead bit come from? If we can do two days without any food, I’m sure some lions could hack it an’ all.”

  “What are you on about, two days? It’s two years.”

  “Years? You said two days.”

  “No, I said years.”

  “You definitely said days.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I’m telling you, you did.”

  “Why would I say days?”

  “I give in, why did you say days?”

  “I didn’t. You just misheard me.”

  “Well take that paddle out of your gob. Bloody hell, all this time, racking my brains.”

  “Ha, you dipstick.”

  While we still oblivious as to how far away Bumba was, we were as hapless when trying to find food and water — to a degree because the fishermen who’d given us the unlikely distances were as ineffectual when it came to revealing the whereabouts of their villages. And when we did eventually pinpoint what totalled three hamlets, any attempt to converse with the occupants brought only the wrong conclusions. At the first village we received bewildered expressions. At the second, a plethora of “Give me”s. At the third, its gathering of ladies actually seized their children and with a petrified look sprinted off into the bush!