by Jon Ronson
“Well,” said David, softly, “we had a little bit of a laugh and a joke with you, didn’t we?”
“Yes you did,” I said.
Ian Paisley wandered over.
“How are you?” he bellowed.
“Fine, thank you,” I said.
“Good!” said Dr Paisley. “Good! How’s your wife?”
“She’s fine,” I said.
“Good,” said Dr Paisley.
There was a silence.
“So your wife’s well?” he said. “Very good.”
He clapped his hands together.
“Right!” he said. “Time to work up a good pulpit sweat. As George Whitfield said, the cure for all ills is a good pulpit sweat.”
♦
It was dusk. Fifty or so villagers were gathered on the grass outside the church. Dr Paisley knelt down. He retrieved from his pocket a torch he’d bought from Dixons at Heathrow airport. He rested it on the ground and propped it up with a small stone.
This was how it all began for him, as a young preacher evangelizing outdoors at night in Barry Island, South Wales, during the war, roaring the words so as to drown out the hullabaloo of the nearby fun fair and, I like to imagine, the fighter planes circling up above.
Now, Dr Paisley scrutinized the crowd for a moment, and he began.
“As the light goes down and as the night comes, can I ask you this? When the light of your life goes down and the night of death comes, can you face death because you have Jesus Christ right beside you…?”
♦
There are people who like to expose powerful and famous preachers as frauds – as crooks and hypocrites. When this happens, such as in the case of Jimmy Swaggart or Jim Bakker, their sermons are brought back from the news archives to haunt them, as hard proof of their cunning and sanctimony: an adulterer evangelizing against adultery, a swindler condemning the coveting of thy neighbour’s livestock, and so on.
Many people have tried to find hypocrisy in Ian Paisley’s private life, something with which to humiliate and disgrace him. Yes, Loyalist gunmen have proclaimed that attending one of his entrancing sermons was the turning point, the moment they saw the light and knew that violence was the way forward. Some say that Ian Paisley has done more – driven a car, as it were. Or even literally driven a car. Back in the sixties. To drop someone off somewhere, to meet other people. But that sort of thing is not so unusual in Northern Ireland, where men sit around the table at Stormont Castle, politicians like Martin McGuinness, whose previous posts were as IRA commanders.
The only kind of expose that could really destroy the Reverend Ian Paisley would be revelations about drinking, or adultery, or pilfering from the funds, and there is nothing like that to be found. He is what he preaches.
“The world is a shore. Eternity is a great sea. The only way to face the sea is to have that right posture before God…”
Ian Paisley’s voice swelled to something beyond a shout, a whole new sound the likes of which I had never heard before.
“A posture of submission. Kneeling down to God’s perfect and blessed will.”
Joseph stood at his side, translating for the crowd, imitating his every movement. When Dr Paisley raised his hands in the air, clenching his palm for punctuation, so did Joseph. At the beginning of our trip to Cameroon, Joseph had limited himself to simply translating the words. But time passed and he began echoing the hand movements, then the tone of voice, the arch of the shoulders, as if the ultimate goal was for the two men to become as one in the pulpit. They stared out into the darkness, oblivious to the insects that were crashing into their faces, attracted by the torch light. They didn’t brush them away.
“CHRIST STANDS AT YOUR HEART’S DOOR WITH A NAIL PIERCED HAND. HE’S KNOCKING TO GET IN. LET HIM IN TONIGHT.”
The torch cast a huge shadow onto the church wall and, as Dr Paisley raised his hand into the air, the spectre of each finger loomed enormously over us. It was quite mesmerizing.
♦
When it was time to head back to the hotel, I jumped into the Paisley jeep. Joseph drove mine. Our journey took us through the gloom of Yaounde’s red-light district. Local prostitutes screwed up their eyes against the full beam of the headlights, and disappeared into the shadows. Drunk pedestrians swerved in and out of the traffic. There were many posters advertising Guinness.
(A fortnight after we returned home, an oil tanker crashed in Yaounde. The crash itself claimed no lives, but then people gathered to scoop up whatever oil they could. Somebody lit a cigarette, and 120 people were killed.)
“This is a wild place at night,” muttered Dr Paisley.
“It’s fearful,” said David Mcllveen. “That’s Africa for you, I’m afraid.”
“Firewater!” said Dr Paisley. “That’s the curse of civilization.” He sighed. “‘Guinness is good for you’? It should be ‘Guinness is very bad for you.’”
“The street lighting is very poor,” said David. “That’s one of the terrible hazards of driving here. You could hit a black person on the side of the road very quickly.”
“It must be dangerous,” I said.
“Oh, David’s well used to driving in these conditions,” said Dr Paisley. “This is nothing compared to Kenya.”
“Oh yes,” agreed David. “Kenya’s worse. So’s Douala.”
“Oh yes,” said Dr Paisley. “Douala is terrible. Kenya’s a rough place.”
“And Jerusalem,” said David, “is even worse.”
“Oh, Jerusalem’s much worse,” muttered Dr Paisley. “Terrible. Too many Arabs! Ha ha!”
Dr Paisley yawned for a long time. He had been on the road since just after dawn, and now it was midnight. I think he would have fallen asleep if it wasn’t for the potholes in the road, shaking the jeep violently from side to side. The jeep fell silent. Nobody said anything – except for when we drove past a decapitated body lying on the side of the road outside a brewery.
“Look at that,” said Dr Paisley. “Terrible.”
“Terrible,” said David Mcllveen.
And we drove on to the hotel.
♦
The next morning, Ian Paisley had ordered a 10 a.m. start, but by 10.30 a.m. there was no sign of Joseph. We waited on the sofas in the foyer of the Yaounde Hilton. It was strange to see Ian Paisley locked into this period of relaxation. He stood up and wandered around the foyer, busying himself.
“There’s always something to do,” he muttered, wandering off.
I was left alone with David Mcllveen.
“So…” I said. I paused. In small talk lay minefields. “Who designed the hymn books for the trip?”
“That was Dr Paisley himself,” he replied.
“Really?” I said. I was impressed. “For all his burdens and responsibilities, his constituency duties in Westminster and Strasbourg, his vigorous opposition to the peace talks, and so on, he still found time personally to design the hymn books?”
“Yes,” said David.
“Right down to choosing the typeface?”
“That’s right,” said David.
“Is he not someone who likes to delegate responsibility?” I asked.
“Well,” David said, “the day may come when Dr Paisley isn’t with us, and others will have to carry on where he has left off. Therefore, it is good that we can benefit from his wisdom, his understanding and his expertise in these matters.”
“Do you ever say to him, ‘I’ll do that?’”
“Oh no.” David seemed astounded by the question. “Oh no. I have never said that to him. I make myself available for him. I’m happy for him to make the decisions. That is very much a measure of the man.”
Dr Paisley bounded over in time to hear these last words. “A person who doesn’t like to work, a person who gets deputies to do things he doesn’t need to do, he’s not a man at all. He thinks he’s the Pope. And I don’t think I’m the Pope!”
He laughed, and I remembered the occasion in October 1988 when the Pope visited the European
Parliament. As he began his address, Ian Paisley rose to his feet, and held up a sign upon which was written POPE JOHN PAUL II ANTICHRIST in bold red letters.
“I denounce you and all your creeds!” he roared.
He was surrounded by a dozen deputies who tore the banner from his hands. Other members of the European Parliament booed and hurled objects at him, some of which hit him on the head. He was dragged from the building and hospitalized for his injuries.
♦
Twenty more minutes passed in the foyer of the Yaounde Hilton.
Ian Paisley looked at his watch.
“Where do you think Joseph is?” I asked.
“You always have to give these people half an hour,” he replied. “They’re always late. That’s African time.”
“That’s right,” said David, softly. “African time.”
“I may be wrong,” I said, “but – ”
“You definitely are wrong,” said Ian Paisley. “Let there be no doubt about that.”
He turned to David Mcllveen.
“He’s definitely wrong!” he said.
“That’s right,” agreed David.
“Don’t get into ground that you have never run through,” said Ian Paisley, turning back to me. “Keep out of long grass. I never go into ground that I haven’t investigated first. But we’ll hear your question anyway.”
“All I was going to say,” I said, “is, uh, I’ve noticed Joseph carefully studying your preaching techniques. When you raise your hand, he raises his hand. I think he’s very fond of you. And I was wondering if you’d noticed that too.”
“Well,” he replied, “I would never say to a youngster, make that man your model. Because you’ll just become a poor imitation.”
“On our last visit here,” said David, “Dr Paisley put his trousers into his socks to keep the ants away, so the interpreter did exactly the same thing!”
“And one day,” said Dr Paisley, “one of my trouser legs fell out by mistake, and he pulled his trouser leg out too! Ha ha!”
Ten minutes passed. There was still no sign of Joseph. Dr Paisley scrutinized his watch and disappeared again, leaving the two of us alone.
“Are you Ian Paisley’s best friend?” I asked David.
“Oh no,” he said. He blushed. “Oh no. Dr Paisley has many, many very great friends.”
David paused. “I would say that I have been very convenient to Dr Paisley over the years.”
“Convenient?” I said.
“Well,” said David, “one of my very pleasant duties over the years used to be transporting Dr Paisley’s children to school. When they were going to school. But now they are all grown up.”
David smiled. It was a warm smile.
“What makes him angry?”
David’s smile vanished.
“I have no idea,” he said. “You cannot be in his company and not share the joy and the happiness that he exudes.” He turned his back to me and said, “Stick to the agenda.”
The agenda was that my line of questioning would be limited to enquiries about the tenets of Dr Paisley’s faith and Protestant fundamentalism in Cameroon. If I mentioned the peace process, even the words ‘Northern Ireland’, I would no longer be welcome in the entourage.
We sat in an uncomfortable silence, our backs turned away from each other, awaiting Joseph’s arrival.
And he did arrive, at 11.20 a.m., flustered and contrite.
“The traffic was terrible,” he said to David. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get a taxi.”
David locked eyes with Joseph.
“You slept in,” said David.
“And we had such a late night…” Joseph looked down. When he looked up again, he saw that David was continuing to stare at him.
“Did you sleep well?” said David.
From across the hotel foyer came the booming laughter of Ian Paisley. He bounded over, grinning and pointing theatrically at his watch. When he reached us all, he turned to David.
“Well?” he roared. “What happened to Joseph?”
“He overslept.”
“Did he now?” laughed Ian Paisley. “Well. We’ve got to fly.”
♦
“It is a great privilege to be here this afternoon…”
Dr Paisley leant forward on the pulpit. He surveyed the crowd. Joseph did the same. Ian Paisley straightened his shoulders. Joseph straightened his shoulders.
“I was to be here this morning…”
Joseph translated.
“…but Joseph slept in!”
There was a long silence. Joseph turned plaintively to Dr Paisley. But there was no escaping this elaborate punishment.
“Confess your sins!”
And with unease, Joseph did.
The congregation laughed, quietly at first, but the laughter grew. Soon, the whole congregation was laughing at Joseph. Ian Paisley hushed the crowd with his hands.
“I’m the oldest man in the party,” he said, “and, try as they may, they all fail to keep up with the old man…”
♦
Lunchtime. David Mcllveen picked up a bowl full of soapy water. He held it out while Dr Paisley washed his hands.
“I thought you were offering to wash my feet there, David,” he laughed.
“I am one among you who serveth,” laughed David.
“And I am one among you who has one that serveth,” laughed Dr Paisley.
The pastor produced a large metal pot full of fruit and hard-boiled eggs. He rested it at Ian Paisley’s feet.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said. “But I am not permitted to bring any fruit into the United Kingdom. So, please, give it to the children. And David Mcllveen would have liked to have taken the hard eggs because he’s a hard-boiled egg himself! But he has to say goodbye to his associates. Ha ha!”
The English speakers all laughed. Joseph translated. Everybody else laughed. The pastor responded. Joseph nodded and translated.
“According to the programme,” he said, “they say you were supposed to be here at 1 p.m. So they thought you’d eat the lunch, and then take a rest, and then eat the fruit.”
“Ah!” roared Dr Paisley. “Well, let me explain. This man was supposed to be at the hotel at 10 a.m. Now, we moved it from 8 a.m. to 10 a.m., thinking he would be on time. He turned up after 11 a.m.!”
He looked at Joseph. “Confess your sins!” he roared.
♦
“It is a great privilege to be here this evening…”
(Translation)
“I was to be here this afternoon…”
(Translation)
“…but Joseph slept in!”
♦
“It is a great privilege to be here on this beautiful night…” And so on.
♦
“Are you a hard-boiled egg?” I asked David Mcllveen. It was 11 p.m. The day’s preaching engagements were over, and we were checking into our motel.
“I don’t know what that means,” he smiled.
“I think it means a hard man.”
He paused for a beat.
“Is that right?”
“I think so.”
“We would really prefer concentrating on the religious aspect of the missionary work while we’re here.”
“OK,” I said.
“So maybe I am a hard-boiled egg,” he said.
“I understand,” I said.
♦
The Ranch motel in Ebulowa is a sprawl of pre-fabricated chalets, each one decorated with a red light-bulb and a soft-core painting of a naked woman lounging on a bed.
The first thing Ian Paisley did, after putting down his bags, was to remove the painting from his wall and place it, with gentle rectitude, inside the wardrobe.
The roar of the insects was almost as loud within the rooms as it was outside. I hoped this was a result of the wafer-thin walls rather than the possibility that I might be sharing my bedroom with a swarm of mosquitoes and little grubs. I was later informed that both scenarios were tru
e. The last time the Paisley party slept at the Ranch a worm burrowed into David’s ankle and laid eggs. Back home, David cut open the swelling on his ankle and lots of little worms crawled out.
I stood rigid in the middle of my bedroom, holding my suitcase, afraid even to put it down on this infested floor, this ever-moving carpet. Ian Paisley wandered past my open door and looked in.
“It’s not so bad,” he said.
He gave me a friendly smile. I smiled back.
“This is really quite a horrible motel,” I said to David in the foyer. We had been invited for dinner at a local pastor’s house.
“This is Africa,” he said. “This is Cameroon. You have to be a hard-boiled egg to experience the hard life. And I understand that a hard-boiled egg is soft on the outside and hard on the inside. So, maybe I am a hard-boiled egg.”
“I’m sorry about that…” I said.
But it was too late. David informed me that he and Dr Paisley had discussed my hard-boiled egg comment in detail and I was to be suspended from the entourage for twenty-four hours, pending a decision on the long-term situation which would be made in the fullness of time.
I watched the Paisley jeep drive off into the darkness. It was a melancholy night. I sat in the bar, replaying the day’s events in my head. The waiter brought over the menu, and I ordered the chef’s special: porcupine.
“I’ve never eaten porcupine,” I said as it arrived.
“Oh, it’s very, very tasty,” he said.
“Mmm,” I said. “It is tasty. Are they local?”
“Very local,” he said.
“I’m glad the chef took the spikes out!” I joked.
“Spikes?” he said, mystified.
“Oh, nothing,” I said.
♦
“Good morning,” said Dr Paisley, sternly.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Did you have a good evening?”
“I just had supper and went to bed.”
“Was the food good?”
“Very good. I had the special. Porcupine, can you believe it?”
David Mcllveen’s eyes widened. “Did you say porcupine?”
♦
“I ate a rat?”
“I’m afraid you did,” grinned David.
“A rat?”
Ian Paisley doubled up with laughter.
“Did it still have the fur and the teeth?” he hollered.
