SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  Lager aside, the night looked like it was going to be a pleasant one when Mathew started bringing over more acquaintances to meet the piroguing celebrities, who again paid us much reverence, patting our backs and toadying around us. If only they had played ‘Stayin’ Alive’! Apparently, nobody had ever before paddled a pirogue from Kisangani, foreigner or local. While I greatly doubted the latter, our being the first muzungus was a belief I’d always held, though couldn’t verify or refute. The articles I knew of involved only Western crafts, not native dugouts, but being no expert on the subject I kept my views to myself. Why put a dampener on our bout of stardom? Besides, who’s to say we weren’t the first? When in the 1990s journalist Jeffrey Tayler researched Congo pirogue descents, he found nothing that didn’t sound like ours. And to date, I have never come across an earlier report either. I certainly wouldn’t wager against our being the only blockheads in the history of the Congo, indigenous or not, who ever chose to float in a pirogue night after night whilst its entire crew slept. So that’s not bad, is it?

  In later years the tale of two foreign canoeists eaten by cannibals became something of a Congolese legend. “This story is now repeated to any Westerner who shows up in that part of the world,” Outside magazine’s executive editor Grayson Schaffer told me in 2013. Of the versions I’ve read, most describe the duo as being Belgian (renowned white water rafter Hendrik Coetzee cited this account as his motive for avoiding the Ngombe waters prior to his untimely death by Congo crocodile in 2010), although one narrative tells of two Englishmen who capsized after being struck by a barge. Another has the ill–fated twosome being devoured by cannibals but without any mention of a pirogue. All known chronicles cite 1989 or the late 1980s, and also the Ngombe area beyond Bumba. Piecing these facts together, I firmly believe the story is ours. For a start, two sets of two Europeans in the same period is surely too much of a coincidence. Secondly, it would make sense that any locals who saw a pair of muzungus paddling past might presume them to be Belgians, considering that Zaire had been colonised by Belgium. Thirdly, before Eugene’s intervention, we had told many people that we were intending to paddle from Kisangani all the way to Kinshasa. The fact that we were spotted here, there and everywhere en route to, but never after, Bumba would doubtless lead some to think that we had therefore come a cropper. Fourthly, I later learned that the Ngombe weren’t ‘just’ alleged thieves and murderers, but also cannibals, hence the belief that we had been consumed. Fifthly, I contacted the Belgian authorities to ask if any such deaths had been documented. Whilst they admitted to knowing very well the misfortunate dugout tale, they insisted that no fatalities of any kind had ever been reported.

  Whatever the truth concerning our journey’s status, the whole day seemed to be rounding off nicely — with the exception of one thing. The illustrious piroguers were just too dog–tired to participate in anything remotely energetic, which was something of a shame. Not only did we want to continue soaking up the adulation, but since this was in effect the last night of our pioneering dugout adventure, naturally we also wanted to enjoy it, be with the people, paint the town red. Yet despite its being relatively early, with much regret we were forced to bid both Mathew and our ‘fans’ goodnight, and we withdrew to the confines of our doss–house jail.

  The lighting in our cell was connected in series to the lights in the others and, whether you wanted them to or not, at 10:30pm they all went out simultaneously, prison–style. Fortunately, come this hour we had long since arrived back and completed all relevant activities — primarily, filling in our diaries and ‘washing’ (the scent of those Wet Ones wet–wipes still takes me back to Africa). Now we were ready to sleep the entire night, if at all possible. Needless to say, in the event it wasn’t. Not when you have profuse watery bowel movements.

  I was about three hours into a half–decent sleep when I awakened, again feeling those now familiar strains pulling and pushing on my worn–out guts. Fully conscious of all encroaching dangers, I urgently leapt to my feet and hurriedly made for the awaiting lavatory roll, strategically placed at the very top of my rucksack. Smart move, yes? In general it would be, but there was a teeny weeny glitch. You see, when organising my ‘escape plan’ I hadn’t thought of something rather important — there wasn’t a light switch. And it was pitch–black. The upshot being that I couldn’t see where on earth my sodding rucksack was, or Shaggy’s torch. So by the time I had groped around the floor, finally recovering my bag, felt for the toilet roll, then spent I don’t know how long feeling the walls of the room in an effort to find, as Mathew would put it, the fucking door, I had shit myself good and proper. That said, having become used to such unpleasant incidents I automatically shifted into the now customary ‘Operation Clean Up’... Locate a big bush. Remove your one remaining pair of grits and sling the shit behind said bush. Give one’s backside and grits a rinsing in a convenient puddle. Shower both with talc. Put grits back on. Go back to bed.

  Repeat tomorrow.

  The following day Mathew arrived mid–morning and straightaway informed us that the riverboat would land “at fucking seven” tonight. At least that was the general consensus on the street. In truth nobody actually knew, which was seemingly the case throughout our travels; timing didn’t appear to matter to most folk. Then again, we believed they would doubtless have a better idea at the booking office, which we were told would now be open — again, general consensus. So off we trundled to buy two tickets, my fingers firmly crossed, since I still had a suspicion something would go awry. Above all that the office would this day be shut, even though it was now Monday — just my luck it would turn out to be a bank holiday.

  Thankfully my panic was unwarranted. The office was open, and five minutes later confirmation that the riverboat would indeed be here around 7pm was coupled with the clerk’s offering of the usual ticket choices — first; second; economy. Deciding to discard the ‘no cabin’ economy option (for security reasons), we ended up paying £26 each for second–class tickets, which entitled us to a shared four–berth compartment. We could have paid double and luxuriated in our own room but, as you know, we were always looking to conserve money and figured that whichever two people we got lumped with, we would just make sure one of us was always there to protect our gear. That shouldn’t be too hard to tolerate, we thought, not for what everybody was portraying as a fantastic journey. Particularly since the ticket clerk claimed that it would take even less than the “one week” quoted by the immigration officers — namely four days. What pleasure that news brought, and happy in the knowledge that our visas definitely didn’t need to be extended, we headed back to the pirogue.

  The curtain was coming down on our adventure.

  A day earlier Shaggy had been presented with a range of amounts for the pirogue but had declined all, as the highest bid of Z 5,000 hadn’t approached our pre–determined ‘half its original price’ minimum. However, now that reality had kicked in we were happy to take anything (even the second–best offer: Z 3,000 plus their dugout), and yet the prospective buyers who had swarmed around us yesterday had all disappeared. So we decided to paddle the pirogue upriver to a small fishing village Mathew had suggested to us, but even this stratagem brought little hope, for time after time we were refused by anyone we pitched to. Apparently the wood used to make our pirogue was ‘old hat’ and far too heavy for the purposes of these people. Whether they were saying that purely to barter us down to nothing, or whether our supplier Woody had indeed sold us a behind–the–times pirogue, the little tinker, who knows? The bottom line was that we were no closer to a sale, so we put our pitch on hold and sauntered over to a nearby market, where Shaggy and I each purchased a fork and a large cup. I also bought a T–shirt, imported from, of all places, England.

  It was here that Mathew introduced us to his best friend, a gangly amateur boxer who looked far older than his nineteen years.

  “John, these are the two men everyone is fucking talking about.”

  “Hello, John. I�
�m Sean.”

  “I’m Shaggy. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Hello, Mister Sean. Hello, Mister Shaggy. Pleased to fucking meet you too.”

  Evidently they were best friends.

  For the rest of our time together, John — who always prefixed our names with ‘Mister’ — and Mathew meted out “fucks” as though their life depended upon it. As to the origin of this practice, seemingly an over–eager Johnny Foreigner had at some time instilled it in them as the in–phrase, by design or otherwise — although, for my sins, I must plead guilty to egging them on a little here and there. Whatever their motive, ‘troopers’ Shaggy and I were like saints in comparison.

  By the afternoon we found ourselves on a sabbatical from Mathew and John and were back at our initial place of mooring, in the neighbourhood of the mission from where I had obtained my first taste of Bumba water. Albeit some distance from where the riverboat would be docking, we were needy enough to go back for another (free) sip — the seventeen–hour paddling shifts may have gone, but the sun still beat down with demonic intensity. Here, Shaggy chose to do the first stint of our hanging by the pirogue in case of any passing trade, whilst I groaned my way back up the ‘vertical’ incline. Once at the cottage I discovered that there had been a new development, for the missionary had returned. And what a congenial man he turned out to be. After accepting his request to enter, we briefly chatted and philosophised whilst I swigged his water, now sourced from a tap. His geniality was further endorsed when he told me of his wife’s intention of making her own ice cream, which certainly made this Englishman’s ears prick up, especially when he added, “It will be ready by five o’clock. Would you like to come back with your friends and try it?”

  WOULD I?! Who do I fight? What a result! Moreover, although I would of course have preferred my indulgence–fix sooner rather than later — my tongue already waxing the floor at the mere thought of the ice cream — the timing was fine, as this would give us a full two hours to polish off the treat before the riverboat’s consensual seven o’clock arrival.

  At long last everything was going swimmingly, and with Lady Luck finally on my side I allowed myself another clenched–fist victory salute. Hallelujah! Halle—fucking—lujah!

  Hold on. What was this? Noooooo! My euphoria had surfaced too soon. The words “ice cream” hadn’t been in the air one minute when four hours ahead of its supposed appearance the riverboat came into sight — and my sweet–toothed dream met an instant demise.

  “Bloody typical,” moaned Shaggy, once I had told him about the misfortune as we exchanged duties. For my part, I was occupied by contrasting emotions. Absolute devastation, obviously, because I was going to miss out on ice cream (a big downfall for me — imagine how much I must have yearned for it after my Congo experience). On the other hand, there was the utter elation of genuine physical evidence that we had beaten the boat, not to mention the relief that our task was all but over. After everything we had been through, as much as we liked the people of Bumba we didn’t want to stay put longer than necessary, especially since we had used up seven of our nine cat lives. Had our adventure lingered on, I doubted whether the remaining two would be enough to see us through. Besides, the sight of the riverboat signified not only the conclusion of our quest, but also the beginning of our journey home. Other things awaited, not least my next goal — if you’re going to have ambitions, one should attempt to realise them. And didn’t the Congo now know it.

  With no takers, we decided to abandon any hope of flogging the pirogue, and to appease Shaggy (who resolved to “burn it rather than leave it to a sponger”), I later talked an unenthusiastic Mathew into selling it for his own gain. We then headed back to the prison cell to get our belongings. Whether we had sold the pirogue or not, the last thing we wanted to do was miss the boat.

  There was an air of poignancy as I walked away from the pirogue for the last time. Despite its being the third member of our team for one week only, that dugout had unquestionably been our greatest ally. Storms, heat, jungle thicket: it had weathered all, and time and again had brought Shaggy and me back to shore safe and sound. Whilst our saviour was nothing more than a whittled log, being a sentimentalist I have to say I wish I could have kept it. Wish I could have transported it to England. Wish I could turn to gaze at it now as I compose these words. If you think of the wooden puppet Pinocchio, then you have that pirogue. It was more than just a piece of wood. So much more. No wonder I dissuaded Shaggy from inscribing ‘The African Queen’ on its side when we procured it. I wrote ‘Mum’ instead. It had surely looked after us like one.

  Interestingly, with there being no logic in chopping up a perfectly floatable dugout, who’s to say it doesn’t still exist? Even more intriguing, with its distinctive welded metal circle, if it has survived these years it would certainly be identifiable. How fabulous it would be to find and reacquire it. How marvellous it would be, even just the one time, to lie in it at night again, under the stars, and simply float one’s cares away.

  Twenty–three hours after booking into the prison cell, we were checking out. Shaggy and Mathew took our bags outside, while John stayed on with me as I went to pay for the room. To be truthful, our splitting up hadn’t come by chance, rather yours truly had engineered it in case the owner tried to break his promise and charge double — at this vital stage, Shaggy getting nicked for assault didn’t best suit my plans for going home imminently.

  Talk about prophetic. Having already lost out on the pirogue, the last thing we needed was Shaggy’s “I’ll bet that toe–rag tries to renege on our deal” premonition coming true, but when I tried to hand over the one–day fare, sure enough, the owner wanted paying for two. It was a good job I had left my pal outside! In quick retort, I reminded ‘Toe–rag’ of yesterday’s “one day” arrangement. I also reasoned that, since we were leaving in less than twenty–four hours, if anything he owed us a rebate. This new philosophy caused him to suddenly come down with a bad case of ‘I–don’t–understand–you–itis’, claiming that he couldn’t debate the subject on the grounds that he comprehended neither my English nor my French. Do keep in mind he managed to tell me this in perfect English, the novelty of which continued as he pressed for double the cash: “Listen old bean, I’m afraid my English is a smidgen shy of the rudimentary, but how’s about dispensing capital enough for two days, what?” Admittedly, in the scheme of things an additional pound was neither here nor there, but Shaggy wasn’t the only person with principles. Toe–rag had made a deal, and once you have done that with me don’t even think of changing it (unless, that is, you resemble The Hulk). Be that as it may, the owner stuck to his “Je ne comprend pas” crap, so I asked John to intervene and speak to him for me in Lingala. Seconds later Toe–rag had amazingly changed his mind, and I paid only the pre–agreed price.

  The curtain was definitely coming down.

  John and I exited the office and wandered over to where Mathew and Shaggy were waiting.

  “Check this out, Shaggy. That doss–house owner had the gall to ask for two days after all.”

  “The slimy toe–rag! He can bugger off. No way I’m paying extra for that manky room.”

  “Yeah, fuck that,” said Mathew.

  “Please tell me you didn’t give it to him, Sean?”

  “Damned right I didn’t. He kept pretending he couldn’t understand me, so I had John talk to him and he caved in. Out of interest, what was it that you said to him, John?”

  “I told him one fucking day only, Mister Sean, or else I would beat the fuck out him.”

  By the time we arrived at the harbour, the riverboat (the Colonel Ebeya, a colossal four–tier ‘pusher’ with six enormous barges attached) wasn’t due to leave for another couple of hours, but as much as it was excruciatingly tempting to go back for the ice cream, we decided it would be wiser to get onboard as early as feasible in order to sort out a cabin. The thing was, the masses of people who had chosen the exact same approach, as well as those loading and unloading
cargo, meant that we had a rather difficult job managing this without being pushed into the Congo. Indeed, once we had fully boarded, the tally for saving someone from slipping off the heavily populated deck stood at… Me: an old lady. Shaggy: two children. Mathew: two men. John: me! Still, at least we were onboard, which also meant that it was time to shake hands with and bid a fond farewell to our latest acquaintances.

  “Thanks for rescuing me, John.”

  “No fucking problem, Mister Sean.”

  “Mathew, goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Sean. Goodbye, Shaggy. Have a fucking safe trip.”

  Quite fittingly, that was the last we heard from Mathew and his friend John. We couldn’t even make out their faces among the throng of friends and family waving the boat off, which was a pity. They were good people.

  Although we had lost sight of our Bumban friends, it wasn’t long before Shaggy espied some other familiar faces, on the next deck up, and called to them. It was the Kiwis, apparently making their way to the bar, so no surprises there.

  “You’re alive then, you mad bastards,” said Goods.

  “Is this a social visit or are you joining us?” asked Pricey.

  “Definitely joining,” Shaggy responded.

  “Aye, sod hitchhiking to Kinshasa,” I added, “thought we’d do the rest of the journey the easy way.”

  Monday, 10th July. Effectively the end of an adventure that started out over 4,000 miles, one continent and two seas from Africa’s core, with a platform guard telling me to catch the wrong train, and taxi driver with only one testicle. Since then there had been many more characters who helped form this story, all of whom played a part in an escapade that in truth began far earlier than 1989, with an ambitious little boy who flicked through an atlas and found Africa, a place that seemed so far away and mysterious. One day he would go there. One day he would lead a life away from everyday drudgery and implement a childhood fantasy. One day he would visit that rich green area, that vivid blue line, that bastion that held both enchantment and menace. One day he would go to that ominous core they called Congo. One day he would also write of his adventure.