SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  “What have I told you about wearing that aftershave?” I quipped.

  “What have I told you about letting them see your face?” Shaggy retorted.

  As much as our jests helped make light of the terribly frustrating situation, they were nonetheless exchanged in the midst of paddling away rapidly — for all we knew, the retreaters had rushed off to get reinforcements with an accompanying, “Quick, bring some weapons and save us from these two ghastly creatures!” — although with our luck it was probably more like, “Quick, these gentleman are in need of provisions. Bring the cakes and lemonade, and ...oh, where have they gone?”

  Success came in the afternoon, when we found another rivulet, and fortunately no sinking sand. Recognising that this might be the only water we would come across all day, which turned out to be the case, we again drank until our bellies ached, before refilling our water bottles and striving on, in search of The Jewel.

  The rest of the day proved to be much the same as the previous one — our personal gripes, the fierce heat, the pursuit of sustenance, the tired eyes and arms, little sleep, our multitude of fears. It was at times tediously monotonous, but we still felt as though we were achieving something. Even if circumstances had prevented us from paddling to Kinshasa, 230 miles of piroguing down the mythologised Congo was certainly a story worth telling — for two lowly no–marks, anyway. Plus we had the cosy riverboat to wind down on. If only we could make it to Bumba on time, that is.

  If only.

  It’s peculiar how, although you are so very close to something you have yearned for that you can almost taste it, you can still back off, you don’t try as hard, you think you’ve made it. Well, this happened to us. Like a fatigued athlete way ahead of the field and closing in on the finishing line, we found ourselves beginning to slow, as though we knew we were home and dry, even though we had absolutely no idea whether we were. Of course the brutal heat didn’t help our dilemma, but the biggest stumbling block, as ever, lay within ourselves. Yet no matter how much we told ourselves to paddle harder — on the off chance that the riverboat might pass us down a different channel — we didn’t seem to have the willpower, or the energy, and our strokes became markedly slower. Half the time we quit paddling altogether and let the current, though still very slow, do all the work, while we basked in the greater glory of the magnificent scenery.

  As evening arrived and began to settle in, again the sunset was too exquisite to ever imagine, and yet there we were, floating in what had in earlier years been but a dream.

  Because of our many rests, now that the night was upon us, we decided to press on for as long as humanly possible, but there was still no sign of The Jewel. Torch in one hand and map in the other, I tried figuring out where we were, ultimately deciding we should be joined before long by another river, to our right. This would indicate the last few kilometres to our cherished end goal, which with any luck would instil some faith, since ours appeared to sag with every stroke. Then ...bam! Out of nowhere something frighteningly powerful grasped us.

  * * *

  It was a fast–flowing current, one that kept us towards the right–hand bank of a Y–shaped junction, but led us in a direction away from the course we had been taking. We decided this must have been the other river, but to us it looked as if we were heading up it, as the fork we had been pulled on to seemed to be angled back the way we had come. In a state of panic, we desperately tried to paddle against the current. Yet it was just too strong for us. We were trapped.

  Although it looked as if we were travelling the wrong way, at some point my rationality resumed and I assured a less convinced Shaggy that it was impossible to float upriver. But he refused to consider basic logic, and cited the small “disguised mini–submarine” island that we had spotted heading the other way on Day One of our voyage. An argument broke out, as neither of us was sure of either notion, which inevitably ended in furious exchanges of no–holds–barred language.

  “If you would care to remember, Sean, you fucking dickhead, you yourself said anything was possible in Africa!”

  “Not floating upriver, you fucking dickhead. I suppose Lord fucking Lucan is going to come riding past on fucking Shergar!”

  The slanging match continued until we both decided that in all likelihood we were simply going around a large island (meaning, I was right — ha), but that whatever direction we might be heading in, it didn’t matter. With our lack of vigour and the too–powerful current, we couldn’t do a thing about it anyway, and if by some freak chance we were heading the wrong way, then, like the possibility of floating past Bumba whilst asleep, it was merely our destiny. So we dropped both the squabble and paddles, stretched our backs, and took in the moonlit view, as the pirogue drifted past the enchanting jungle and veiled wildlife on its way to wherever it may roam.

  Soon we fell asleep, each of us dreaming about waking up to what would be a wondrous sight — that of Bumba, Le Joyau du Congo.

  The following morning we were woken abruptly by a group of fishermen. Deciding to take a closer look, they had paddled out to where our pirogue was now floating, and were in the process of peering over the top of me when I opened my eyes, at which they shot off. It was a good job they had woken us because moments later I asked other passing fishermen the location of Bumba and was courteously informed it was only minutes away, along the right–hand bank.

  Damnation, for the speedy current we had unsuspectingly become caught in was now dragging us to the left–hand side of an extremely long island. According to the fishermen, if we remained in this wrong channel we would finish up going straight past Bumba ...and towards the Ngombe’s waters.

  FUCK THAT.

  Determined to avoid a long haul back upriver, we again feverishly paddled against the direction of the flow, our last ounce of energy being squeezed into those exhausted strokes. But even if we had been at our healthiest we could not have altered course, and we ended up, albeit in calm waters, precisely where we hadn’t wanted to be, on the left–hand side of the island.

  Dejected but committed to try again, we decided that this time we would stick as close to the bank as humanly possible and, if need be, tow ourselves around using the reeds.

  Though energy–sapped we truly did give it all we had. However, as with any other time we had ventured to wrestle the too–hefty pirogue against the Congo’s elemental movement, we only manged to get so far before the flow overwhelmed us, and after spending what seemed an age in the exact same place, we were forced to yield. Dispirited but not yet out of it, we were on the verge of taking the reed–clutching option when a couple of watching fishermen decided to lend a hand. Given the all–clear, the man with a withered leg — the other a mass of knotted Ulysses–like muscles — moved into the centre of our pirogue and, between the three of us and his expertise, we at last managed to get out of the left–hand current and rounded the island, ending up what transpired to be less than a kilometre away from one of the most welcome sights we had ever seen...

  The Jewel of the Congo.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE JEWEL OF THE CONGO

  My first impression of The Jewel was that it was, yet wasn’t, like Goma. While similar dusty roads reminded me that a Spaghetti Western set designer had at one point come calling, luckily Bumba didn’t exude any bad vibes. More notably, though, like Goma it also had electricity. Creature comforts, however limited, appealed greatly after our taxing journey.

  Having thanked the fisherman who had aided us — another shining example of the contrast between the river’s generous people and its Give–Me folks — we landed the pirogue upriver of the centre, whereupon we were soon reminded of our true location. Instead of Clint Eastwood and Lee Van Cleef, we were confronted by a sea of locals, who instantly began bartering with us over anything they or we had. We waved the all–pervasive Give–Mes away.

  Still unsure whether we had missed the boat, before any haggling was allowed we first asked the essential, “Le grand bateau — arrivé?” But the
citizens insisted that no large craft had yet appeared. It would be here later today, maybe tomorrow.

  We were over the moon.

  “We’ve done it,” said Shaggy, shaking my offered hand in triumph — mercifully not too hard, since some of the thorns hadn’t yet worked their way out.

  “Yeah. Well done, mate.”

  Given our long slog and tenacious effort, one might be forgiven for wondering why we hadn’t danced around and bellowed “We’ve done it!” and “Yeah!”, but the truth of the matter was that we were too tired and weather–beaten to muster energetic celebration, despite having only recently awoken from a full night’s sleep, which was never especially deep, given our subconscious awareness of the possibility of careering into the jungle — or upending, only to be faced with The Muncher. Besides, we had been given erroneous information many times over the past few weeks, so who was to say whether the handful of non–English speakers with whom we were now communicating had got their facts right, or had fully understood our request? Until we were on that boat, this adventure was still ongoing.

  Understandably sceptical, I continued my enquiries. We needed riverboat details and tickets, so where was the office? We also wanted to know where we might obtain water, since we had again run out of it the previous night. The answers came thick and fast. The office was in town, a half–mile walk. The water we could no doubt get from a house now being pointed at, a prefab–like cottage set in its own small compound, which the villagers said belonged to an ecclesiastical missionary. The place under discussion may not have been far away but it was up a steep incline, so it was with an inward groan that I left Shaggy in his element, bartering, and made my way to the front door.

  No missionary.

  Apparently he was still in transit, returning from a vacation in his homeland of America. Fortunately for me, his caretaker was on hand and following a touch of good old–fashioned grovelling I was shortly handed a red plastic mug, which I was then allowed to dip into an outdoor storage bin full of rainwater. The mug wasn’t big, and I made damned sure I filled it to the very brim before letting the liquid slide down my eager throat. Despite its being warm, when considering my week of severely restricted liquid intake, together with the sun now streaming down even this early, believe me that water was as welcome as a giant–sized Knickerbocker Glory. So cheeky bugger here availed himself of a second helping. A third and fourth would have been much appreciated, but I decided not to push it and asked if my pal could also get a share. Judging by the keeper’s expression, this new request created an inner turmoil between doing the right thing and a worry that there was a horde of us, all of whom he was inviting into a place he didn’t actually own. Thankfully the debate turned my way, and in no time my compatriot was groaning his own way up the steep incline — which caused him to miss my much–lauded impersonation of a passing bossy–boots old man, but with a thirst to be quenched I guess he wasn’t too grief–stricken. Presently we reverted back to our conventional roles. Shaggy delved back into his treasured wrangling, whilst I headed into town. My purpose was clear: acquire sustenance and find that ticket office.

  Although my preliminary take on Bumba was that of another Wild West settlement, the more I wandered alongside the powerful spread of the Congo, the more The Jewel lent itself to a somewhat different portrayal. Despite its Belgian history, I couldn’t help but picture a colonial town evoked by many a movie exhibiting Britain’s imperial past, although as it might appear many years after its resources were too depleted for the khaki–sporting trespassers to hang around any longer. Gabled dwellings that had seen far better days sat opposite weathered concrete landings and brick embankments, while a rickety dockyard with commandingly tall, but idle, loading cranes competed against sporadic greenery and hinted at an active commercial past. In amongst everything came several dilapidated buildings. And whether official–looking blocks with crumbled plaster, or ancient clapboard metal structures, it all added up to a place that looked as though it might have once been a plucky adversary of the illustrious river and put up a brave fight, but unsurprisingly lost.

  Sticking to the directions I had been given, I eventually located the ticket office, but couldn’t identify the correct entrance by which to make a purchase — not that it mattered, since every door was locked. Concerned that our transport home would arrive at any moment (and with no tickets we would be left standing — if not crying — on the bank, waving as the riverboat disappeared towards Kinshasa) I began asking anyone passing for directions to where it would dock. Maybe I would find some answers there.

  Providence dealt me a splendid card. The second person I stopped, apparently a student of English at Kinshasa University, back visiting his family during the holiday season, was also scheduled to take the riverboat. By his estimation, it had been due to land at least two days earlier, but with delays being the norm, he claimed it would now be arriving some time later that evening.

  “This is the office,” said ‘Scholar’, pointing to the nearest locked door. “Because it’s Sunday they won’t be open until tomorrow, but don’t worry if the boat comes today. People need to buy tickets and load goods. It will not sail until late tomorrow.”

  Until now I had not dared to fully accept that the riverboat had yet to land. However, now that I was conversing with someone who not only spoke excellent English but also had a vested interest in its arrival, I finally assented to believe we had truly made it on time, so afforded myself a surreptitious clenched–fist victory gesture. That it was due imminently provided the cherry on the cake. What timing!

  Despite my optimism, I reminded myself that the adventure would be over only when I was sat, feet up, on the riverboat (for all I knew the tickets may have sold out), so I politely asked Scholar to escort me to where it would be docking. The student obliged my request, but when I asked the whereabouts of any place that sold food and drink, the only assistance he could offer was, “The shops are also closed.”

  “Bloody typical!” would have been Shaggy’s predestined response, but fortunately Scholar hadn’t yet finished.

  “But the bars will all be open.”

  Phew, a reprieve.

  Scholar then walked me part–way along one of the manifold tree–lined streets to the centre, but just as we were in the throes of saying goodbye, two smartly dressed locals unexpectedly challenged me.

  “We must talk to you. We are from Immigration. You must show us your passport.”

  I couldn’t believe it. One minute I was looking forward to a restful period of being calmly sailed away from my achieved Congo ambition, and the next I’m fronting a pair of jobsworths, no doubt looking to justify their status by finding any possible reason to detain Shaggy and me — and prevent us from getting on that boat. Moreover, whilst their suits and command of English cried out ‘bureaucrats’, for all I knew they might well have been con artists, hoping to fleece me out of anything they could. Intuitively distrusting of them, warranted or not, my cynicism ran deep. As such, I wasn’t keen to show them a single thing, above all my precious passport, regardless of their motives.

  “Let me see some identification of yours first!” I demanded.

  While I had every right to be dubious, at the same time ticking off African authority figures wasn’t remotely wise, so when the image of Cheesy flipping his lid when riled popped into my mind, I inwardly slapped myself for reacting as I had. Especially when my confronters whipped out what could only be described as very authentic–looking official papers.

  Whoops.

  To augment my clanger, Scholar’s goodbye handshake included a verbal reassurance of their legitimacy, so I gingerly handed over my passport, ready to snatch it back should my suspicions be realised and they tried to run with it.

  Once again my luck was in. Not only did they turn out to be the real deal, but seeing my visa had another ten days before expiry they also freely returned my ID, and not just with gratitude. Seemingly our meeting had not been by accident. The story of the pirogue j
ourney, they confessed, had spread like wildfire. Everyone had heard of it. We were stars. And there was I thinking they were here to scupper me.

  “You are brave to try this,” said one of them.

  “Yes, we are very impressed,” added the other, their niceness flying in the face of my perception of immigration officers.

  Though jaded, with all this flattery I was suddenly able to stand a little taller, not that the goodwill was unlimited. Scholar now gone, despite my declaring that Shaggy’s visa read exactly the same as mine, they insisted that I take them straight to him, which did grate, bearing in mind I had yet to obtain nourishment.

  To make the most of the situation, en route to Shaggy and trusting the officials would be more clued–up than Scholar, I decided to pick their brains about the riverboat. I also asked how we might go about securing visa extensions, if it came to light that more time was needed.

  “The boat will not be here tonight. Probably tomorrow, departing Tuesday,” I was told, which put a new downer on me, since Scholar’s ‘Monday’ prediction was more compatible with my haste to complete our Congo quest and head off home. Nevertheless, their next piece of information was far more heartening.

  “You won’t need to add to your permits. It will take only a week to get to Kinshasa. The current is faster from here. Your ten days will be more than enough.”

  This news was excellent, despite my pessimism about the current (which might well have been quicker but never ‘fast’), and meant we’d be able to get to Kinshasa, then out of Zaire, before the existing visas ran out, saving us time, aggravation, and another small fortune. Then again, second–guessing the riverboat’s actual arrival was a lottery — apparently a couple of days behind schedule, who was to say that those days might not turn into a week or more, fast current or not? In view of that, I took note of where they said their headquarters were and readied my dwindling cash reserve to take a big hit.