SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  “Just so you know,” I added, “from what I can gather there’s no registered or even anecdotal evidence of anyone ever paddling a dugout from where we’ll be starting. We’d be the first.”

  Whether it was “the first”, “the Congo” or, more likely, a combination of the two, Shaggy’s imagination had clearly been ignited as he gazed into the distance at nothing in particular.

  “Congo?” he whispered, his thoughts now so alive with visions of African jungles and tribes and wild animals, and the limitless chance of adventure, that his infatuation for Latin booty soon diminished. “Tell you what,” he said, rubbing his hands enthusiastically, “perhaps we can go to South America next year.”

  “Sure — if we get back.”

  And so it was set. We were going to Africa.

  Over the upcoming weeks we endured the necessary typhoid, cholera and yellow fever injections, procured the relevant kit and ordered our malaria tablets. We also had to organise insurance, tickets, and capital for the journey ahead — and figure out how on earth we were going to subsidize all of this. There’s little more sobering than rejoicing the decision to go venturing in far–off lands, only in the next instant to remember you don’t actually have any money. In my case, with a dire credit rating I had to borrow from my father, whilst Shaggy managed to secure a bank loan. The biggest challenge came when picking up his cash. Time constraints meant I was forced to step in for him and, despite our both having blue eyes, there was no way my two years of theatre study could overcome our clear differences. Shaggy, so–called because of a fleeting resemblance to Scooby Doo’s sidekick, was a gangly six–feet–two and had fair hair and a small ponytail, whereas I was nearly three inches shorter and had trim, Brylcreemed dark hair. Fortunately no physical ID was required, and with funding now in hand we swiftly obtained everything else needed. The scheduled day of departure would be Friday, 9th June, 1989. I therefore had time to celebrate my twenty–third birthday and Shaggy his twenty–fifth, as we looked forward to the day of reckoning.

  When it came to it, that day almost never happened. With Shaggy living halfway between my home in the north and our flight in the south, the strategy was to travel by rail to his nearest station and then, to save money, hitchhike the remaining six miles. Everything ran like clockwork until I took the platform guard’s advice to “Change trains at Crewe”. Only after I’d debarked and watched it head off did I learn that “Crewe” should have been “Birmingham”. (Don’t guards always do that to you?) Even more disastrous, the next connection wasn’t due until the following day.

  I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t yet reached the middle of England, let alone Africa, and already my blueprint was falling apart. Salvaging things, I worked out another practicable route, ultimately arriving a full five hours after my intended midnight target. This meant having to abandon my original hitchhiking policy, so I jumped straight into a taxi, which for me was breaking with type. Although I deem myself a charitable person, spending money needlessly has always been a big no–no, and definitely at this juncture, as I was very much trying to conserve what little I had for Africa — before the taxi, the same as Shaggy, £690 (which equates to about £1,500 today). This may seem a decent sum to the stony broke, but considering that we were planning to travel through several countries, over a period of many weeks, you can perhaps appreciate why I was resolved to stay as frugal as possible. Hence it irritated me even more that the taxi — driven by a man who weirdly found it necessary to inform me he’d recently had one testicle removed — appeared rather overpriced. His ‘man down’ was probably lost to a disgruntled customer’s boot.

  Once finally at Shaggy’s, we scoffed half of his parents’ food, as you do, then grabbed our luggage — one full–to–the–brim rucksack and one bursting holdall each — and from the nearest terminal took two buses, via London, to Heathrow Airport. Our flight, a one–year open return, included a plane change at Moscow and was set to land at Kenya’s capital Nairobi, towards the east coast of central Africa. Thereafter we would make our way inland to our Congo start–point.

  Before any of this happened we had to first leave England, yet, typical of my luck so far, long after the scheduled time of departure we remained confined to the waiting room. Looking out of the window I noticed the familiar shape of Concorde and couldn’t help but day–dream that that was our plane. I had a substantial fear of flying and assumed the then ‘wonder of the skies’ was radically safer than our budget booking (oh, for hindsight). Being within audible range of a pair of merchants of doom didn’t help either, bearing in mind they were swapping tales of cataclysmic aviation mishaps, such as: “And then the air traffic controller said ‘Climb like your life depends on it — because it does’.”

  In due course the many fed–up passengers were eventually allowed to board — only to receive more bad news. A collective groan went up as we were told the plane had now been refused permission to take off. Apparently, some blockhead had put an extra suitcase in the hold and the officials could neither match it with the passenger directory, nor account for it in any other way.

  Another hour passed.

  Then another.

  By this time we were all becoming quite tetchy, so when everyone was asked to vacate the plane and check their baggage, now strewn by the side of the jet, tempers began to flare — not least one Scotsman, who had obviously had too much alcohol during the wait and started to raucously blaspheme. As the expletives persisted, an official warned Mr Irate about his language, insisting that any more obscenities and he would be ejected from the plane (no, not in full flight). Despite being cautioned, the Caledonian’s language remained markedly blunt and loud, and so he was escorted, still swearing, off the aircraft.

  More time passed, and to counter any belief that things couldn’t possibly get more wearisome, we were instructed to check our luggage a second time. Worse still was the rumour that the anonymous bag belonged to a terrorist and contained a bomb, which didn’t exactly boost my already very low confidence in heavy objects staying airborne — my overactive imagination repeatedly telling me: ‘You’re on a plane that’s about to explode. Get off! Get off!’

  After five more mind–numbingly boring hours, the pilot was given the green light and at long last the aeroplane’s engines were fired and we took off. Destination: the capital of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The next 210 minutes, the time it took to make Moscow, were the most nerve–racking and terrifying I had ever experienced.

  As if the possibility of sitting on a live bomb wasn’t bad enough, the decidedly old–looking plane (called a balsa wood model by Shaggy and ‘Death Machine’ by me) then coped so badly with the turbulence that any macho demeanour I may have coveted was now but a fading memory.

  ‘Why did I reserve something that was advertised as Low Budget, No Frills?’ my self–questioning continued, as I looked across at the wing, merrily flapping away as though it were meant to be doing that. A few more judders and jerks and I could no longer curb my fears.

  “That wing’s going to come off,” I proclaimed.

  At times the archetypal sloth, my absurdly calm colleague simply shrugged and carried on reading one of the boxing magazines I had brought. Even when the pilot — whom I named Captain Kamikaze — chose to play ‘let’s bounce Death Machine off every air pocket under the sun’, Shaggy remained as cool and as impassive as ever. Not me — I was a total wreck. With the plane now uncontrollably jolting, my pulse was already stuck in overdrive when Kamikaze hit the biggest air pocket yet, and we lost altitude dramatically: goodbye to agnosticism, hello heartfelt prayer. If this ‘nosedive’ wasn’t sufficiently petrifying, a red warning light began flashing. And just in case anyone hadn’t yet messed themselves, this happened in tandem with a horrible ‘death to all’ siren. Well, I went straight into labour — my tepid “That wing’s going to come off” now substituted by an involuntary and loudly screamed “Fuck!” Thankfully, my embarrassing expletive was drowned out by a chorus of like–mi
nded passengers, and just as I was toying with the idea of finding a parachute, or something from which to fashion one, the flight attendant, who was being thrown all over the place by the violent surges and seeming loop–the–loops, somehow managed to make her way to the intercom.

  “Do not panic! No need to panic!” she said a touch belatedly, and with an evident tremble in her voice added, “Fasten your seatbelts!”

  Do not panic? Fasten your seatbelts? “Fuuuuuuuck!”

  Seeking empathy, I again turned to my pal. With Death Machine’s rapid descent, I had by this time expected to see a fellow quivering wimp. But no, for the listless Shaggy was apparently unaware of our impending doom and just continued reading the magazine.

  “Bloody hell, Shaggy… Aren’t you… Why aren’t you… How come… Why…?” I was stammering, unable to get the words out, trying desperately to co–ordinate speech whilst my legs were doing a better bossa nova than any finalists ever seen on Strictly Come Dancing.

  Shaggy looked up, albeit briefly, from the mag: “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” My eyeballs nearly popped out of their sockets. “I’m having bloody twins here!” I spluttered.

  “Congratulations. Picked out any names yet?”

  Customarily I would have found Shaggy’s wisecrack amusing and offered a riposte, but since I was about to leave this world, I dispensed with the joking and pointed out that he needed to put on his seatbelt.

  “If you’re going to go, you’re going to go,” he remarked coolly, and returned to the magazine.

  ‘Sod that,’ I thought, and checked, double–checked, then triple–checked the clasp of my own seatbelt, at the same time half–expecting Captain Kamikaze to say, “If you look through the window to the left you will note the fast approaching sea. To the right is a dinghy. That is where I am speaking to you from.” And yet, whether an almighty being intervened, or the air pockets vanished, or Kamikaze’s piloting improved, Death Machine somehow managed to keep its nose above the waterline and the passengers of Flight 445 survived.

  Once on the ground, my toes clutching for all their might at terra firma, I mentally denounced anyone who ever ridiculed the Pope’s floor–kissing ritual.

  In Moscow we should have had to wait a few hours before our next flight, but since the initial one had already been delayed, we were all rushed through the system faster than a fifth pint of best lager. Once onboard, the comprehension that we were getting closer to Kenya hit home, as it was full of Africans. I also noticed that, although Death Machine II was much smaller than Death Machine I, it was still very balsa wood, and I instantly made for the seat next to the sign marked ‘Emergency Exit’. In the event, though, the air pockets weren’t nearly as brutal, and even if they were, once we were in full flight I largely forgot about crashing because we soon found ourselves in deep talks with a handful of the other travellers — predominantly a young Arab, Ali, who studied at the University of Warwick in England but was now heading back to his adopted home, Rwanda. Other talkative passengers included two brothers from New Zealand, who over the course of the next seventy–two hours we bumped into every day; an Australian woman, Meredith, and also Dean, a big bruiser of a fellow Aussie who regaled us with a host of stories, such as how in Hollywood he’d auditioned for the part of boxing great Jack Dempsey (who he avowed was a distant relative) and also many exciting tales of his travels around the globe. His last epic venture was a motorbike trip that took him all the way from North Africa, right across the Sahara, then down to Ghana in South–West Africa. Ah yes, the plane was filled with go–getters, who had decided to see our magnificent planet first–hand and not just from watching television.

  Before we arrived in Kenya we had to make two refuelling stops, at Cyprus and South Yemen. Neither lasted more than an hour, but it was the latter which offered an inkling of what might be in store for us — at some point the airport had obviously come under terrorist attack, as the windows were riddled with bullet holes. To fortify this reality check, the officials chipped in by confiscating one tourist’s camcorder. Still, what measure of stupidity would you need to start filming in an official building in that region of the world without first obtaining permission?

  A full twenty–six hours after boarding the plane in England, we finally landed in Africa. Here, our journey proper would begin. One that would bring many moments of not only enjoyment, camaraderie, heroism and swashbuckling adventure, but also danger, hardship, desolation and, if I’m frank, total horror. Even death. More personally, it would achieve the first of my many ambitions, whilst fulfilling our mutual craving for an unforgettable leap into the unknown.

  CHAPTER 2

  TRESPASSERS WILL BE POISONED

  There was a very valid reason why Shaggy and I chose Kenya to begin our African passage. With a shoreline steeped in Indian Ocean sunshine, its diversity of landscapes, national parks like Maasai Mara, and an endless array of wildlife and top–drawer safaris, Kenya had for many years received a copious quantity of holidaymakers. As such, we saw it the perfect place in which to ease ourselves into our adventure, especially since we had sidestepped the rainy season. That its capital, Nairobi, sat a mile above sea level also meant its temperature wasn’t as sweltering as its lower plateaus — June was very similar to a British July, hot but not oppressively so. Into the bargain, after sixty–eight years of British colonial rule, Kenya’s first language was English. In contrast, the motherland of the Congo river, then called Zaire, was a French–speaking nation. And since our French was as creaky as the Addams Family’s front door, we figured it pretty dumb to fly straight into the jungle and then start asking, “Which way to the Congo, old bean?” No, our best bet was to first dip our tootsies in the pool that was Africa, hence our reason for beginning in Kenya. Well, that and the fact that it was by far the cheapest flight.

  When we at long last arrived at Nairobi airport, Shaggy spent so much time claiming he’d had his camera stolen (only to find it in the exact same place in his bag where he had left it) that by the time we had filled in money declaration forms, had had our bags inspected and changed some currency, everyone had disappeared. Everyone, that is, except a recognisable face we spotted leaving an airport payphone. It was Ali, the young Arab we had met on the plane. Apparently his travel plans had gone awry — his father, who was initially supposed to be picking him up, was still at their home in Rwanda, and the cousin who lived in Kenya and would now house him wasn’t answering his calls. To add to his woes, he was as luckless when ringing around for a hotel room. So we stepped in to save the day. Would he care to share a taxi to the centre? If so, until he could get hold of his cousin would he also consider staying with us in Shaggy’s tent? Ali thanked us for our generous offer, agreed to split a taxi, but was confident he could find a hotel somewhere.

  “Won’t that be expensive?” I enquired. “You’re quite welcome to share the tent.”

  “Don’t worry, we won’t charge you,” quipped Shaggy.

  Despite our gesture, Ali remained adamant he’d find a hotel, but for our kindness insisted we let him show us the sights and sounds of Nairobi. We spent the best part of the next ten days with Ali — the son, it transpired, of the richest man in Rwanda.

  Ali Hassan was a very mature twenty year–old who reminded me a little of the Hollywood actor Omar Sharif, though this was probably less to do with their respective features and more so the blend of a comparable charm and Arabic looks. His choice of attire, like the majority of all men we saw in Africa, was Western. In Ali’s case this usually meant a black leather bomber jacket, buttoned shirt, jeans, and the latest Nikes, which combined in an appearance of cleanliness. That may seem a needless thing to comment on, but in Africa many a person presented a grimy exterior (like Shaggy and me, over time). Originally from the Sultanate of Oman, half of Ali’s relatives had relocated to Rwanda because his father thought he could make more money there. And make it he did: he was a multi–millionaire. Moreover, it turned out that Ali owned ten per ce
nt of his father’s assets — and we’d asked him if he would like to save money by squashing into an ancient and microscopic tent. A born businessman, Ali’s greatest love in life was being precisely that. He loved doing business the way another man might love a woman, or so it seemed in the brief space of time that I came to know him and call him a friend. Always busy concluding some type of deal, the line “I’m sorry, I have to go, I have some calls to make” came from him so often, I wondered if it really was business he loved, or just the telephone. He had something of an intellect too, and could hold a conversation on many subjects, most notably world affairs and finance. These had been part of the degree he’d undertaken in England, where he drove around in his BMW; in Rwanda he settled for a Mercedes. One thing was for sure, he rarely walked anywhere. Beyond that, Ali, always prudent with his money, treated everyone as though they had a station in life. Peasants were peasants and the rich were rich, although he did appreciate people as individuals, whoever they were. At heart he was a caring man whom I liked and admired, even if his outward philosophy could be summed up by quoting him: “Money can buy you anything.”

  Our first night in Africa — and our only night in the tent — was an uncomfortable event. Not only were we charged what we perceived to be an exorbitant price for the use of a bit of ground, but also neither of us slept well. At first we were too cold, then, as daylight broke, we were too hot, and the rock hard ground was ineffably lumpy. So when we were invited to spend the following night with Ali at his hotel, we jumped at the chance faster than my deplane at Moscow.

  After we had sneaked our bags into Ali’s room, he escorted us on a mini–tour of Nairobi, a city which I quickly liked and felt at ease in. Whether this was due to the locals’ friendliness or the large throng of other ‘familiar’ Brits, the answer probably lay in a mixture of both. But it wasn’t all moonlight and roses. Before leaving England I had read a couple of travelogues hoping to gain an insight into what I was letting myself in for. These had described 1989 Nairobi as an ‘ultra–modern’ and ‘strikingly modern’ city, which didn’t account for the occasional dilapidated building, the odd waft of latrine, and the many vehicles that looked as though they had come straight from a scrap yard. Particularly the taxis, none of which had a meter, and while now and again one can barter over a fare in Britain, in Kenya it was always haggle, haggle, haggle.