SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  “Done!”

  We shook hands, while a smiling Larry kindly refrained from any ribbing and redirected the discussion to our travels, and with a bump.

  “You do know there are cannibals along the Congo, don’t you?”

  Shaggy and I were indeed aware of Congolese cannibalism, which, in the stories we’d read, appeared to involve only their own kind, so we weren’t too concerned and answered accordingly (if we’d had the ability to see into the future, to read the books I since have, where myriad Johnny Foreigners seem to have kicked the bucket in this foul way, we might not have been so blasé).

  “As long as you are conscious of this, then fine,” continued Larry. “Take some advice, though. Never travel at night, anywhere in Africa. Africa can be an amazing place to be during the day, but at night — beware.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re both very cautious people,” I replied, trying but failing to sound as cool as our esteemed dinner guest.

  “Anything else, Larry?” asked Shaggy.

  “Just one thing. I would like to pass some words of wisdom on to you for your journey.”

  Without warning Larry became very mellow. He’d spoken a great deal during our time with him and I could tell that whatever he was about to say had deep meaning. When Larry X talked people listened, and in an effort to ensure no one else could hear, he leaned forward, summoning us closer as he did so. When next he spoke it was to state one line only, which he delivered with hushed reverence.

  “The ox is slow, but the earth is patient.”

  He then gradually eased rearward, until his back once more rested against the chair, his right leg again crossing his left so that his ankle lay upon his knee, as what seemed usual for Larry.

  Pondering his words, I glanced at Mr X’s partner, then at Shaggy, then back at guru Larry.

  “Hang on,” I said, “you’ve been watching that movie High Road to China. That’s where that line comes from!”

  Everyone suddenly stared at Larry, who froze for a moment, then burst into the broadest of smiles.

  “Good line, though,” he replied, beaming.

  We all laughed at Larry’s stab at looking even more sagacious than usual.

  After the meal, during which I was cajoled into trying a revolting yoghurt–type drink I vowed I would never touch again, Larry and his girlfriend bade us farewell.

  It was the last time I ever saw Larry X.

  When Shaggy and I arrived back the lodge, our cynical side told us to thoroughly check our belongings. Since we always carried our cash, passports, cameras and malaria tablets, our luggage should still have contained each of the following: a water bottle; matches; compass; first aid kit; diary; pens; towel; mosquito netting; penknife; bedding; wet–wipes; water–purifying pills; vitamins; clothes; razors; extra camera films and batteries; talc and a toilet roll. There should also have been: Shaggy’s torch, insulation tape and tent (which, like nearly all of his gear, was borrowed), and my contact lenses’ kit, map, hammock, rope, some magazines and books, a French–English dictionary, some spare trainers, and, dare I say, Brylcreem. Happily all was in place, and we contently turned in at the end of our second full day in Africa.

  The next morning we were up bright and breezy and ready for action. Bags packed, we were standing outside The New Kenya Lodge, awaiting Ali, who said he’d pick us up at 10am. The flight was scheduled at noon. Passengers had to be there no later than 11am.

  10am came and went.

  No Ali.

  As relaxed as when we were ‘nose–diving’ on the plane to Moscow, Shaggy sat patiently by the road, but true to form I couldn’t stay composed and paced up and down nervously.

  “Tell you what, I’ll bet he’s still making some calls,” said Shaggy, hoping frivolity would help ease the frustration.

  “More likely he’s gone straight to the airport and asked Albert the Bore to pick us up, only God’s chosen today to have him struck down and consigned to hell.”

  Shaggy emitted what was a routine giggle whenever we employed banter, even if half–hearted — or naff — but my frustration was still pent up. Feeling I had to do something, I walked to the nearest shop, purchased a carton of milk, guzzled it down, and was vainly looking for a bin when an inquisitive local approached me.

  “It is fine,” said the Nairobian, holding out his hand, “give me the rubbish.”

  Thanking Mr Kind for the offer, I voluntarily handed it over and, intrigued as to where the bin was, watched as he screwed the carton into a ball. He then stepped towards the side of the pavement — and tossed it into the road.

  “There we are,” he said, gave a polite bow to me and walked off.

  10:40am, and still no Ali. The airport was nine miles away but a taxi was out of the question, as the milk had spoken for the last of our Kenyan currency. With no lift or cash for a taxi it was now panic stations, and at long last Shaggy cracked.

  “What shall we do?” he asked, the sharp tone of his voice betraying any calm façade he may have wished to present.

  “If only you’d brought your ruby slippers, you could have tapped your heels three times and transported us to the airport.”

  “Knowing our luck we’d end up in Kansas.”

  As usual we had endeavoured to calm ourselves with humour, and think more rationally, but once again it didn’t work — we still had no answer. The plane departed at noon, we were miles away, we had no shillings, and even if we did manage to get there, we would still have to find time to check in, pay the twenty dollars airport tax, have our currency papers checked, our baggage checked, ourselves checked, our passports checked, our tickets checked, and goodness knows what else checked.

  We were right in it.

  By chance, a ray of hope fell our way when the lodge’s sympathetic receptionist offered a partial remedy. Apparently, a colleague needed to run an errand and, if we liked, he could drop us off at the Nairobi Airport freeway, which would enable us to at least try to gain a hitch. Having abandoned all hope of Ali arriving, we gratefully accepted, and before long we were by the main route, our thumbs wagging for all they were worth.

  11:15am. In spite of our best efforts we were still standing by the freeway. With no other option, we decided the only way out of our quandary would be to offer a cabbie some dollars and hope he would take the deal. Of course that was what he would have preferred in the first place, but we were still being educated on that score.

  Soon we were back to shitting bricks while at the mercy of another suicidal driver, finally skidding to our arrival at check–in forty minutes beyond its cut–off time, to face a bewildered Ali.

  “What happened to you two?”

  “You mean what happened to you?” I replied.

  I was right. Ali had sent Albert the Bore to meet us, only “I can’t do anybody any wrong” Albert hadn’t turned up.

  “I’ll talk to him when I’m back,” said Ali. “At least you’re here.”

  “Like Batman and Robin, we always arrive in the nick of time.”

  “And there’s your exes saying you usually come too prematurely,” joked Shaggy.

  Although we had tried to pass off our relief in the usual light–hearted way, “in the nick of time” was a perfect phrase because the plane had to be postponed for us (and one other straggler, and how lucky for them that the influential Ali Hassan had asked for that delay) while we passed through what seemed like the most complex airport system in the world. Worse still, because I had paid the taxi driver in dollars and he didn’t have an official stamp to say he had received it, my currency declaration form didn’t match my money. I needn’t have worried, though, for the officer in charge couldn’t (so obviously) count, and despite his checking my cash against the form, he therefore had no idea that the totals were erroneous. That said, he still tried to pretend there was something wrong with my papers and hinted transparently that if I paid a bribe he ‘may’ let me through. Told this was a common practice in many parts of Africa, since Mr Can’t–Count had assum
ed my documentation correct, I called his bluff and hinted back to him that I was far too stupid to understand what he was talking about. It worked, and moments later I was about to jeopardize one of my remaining seven cat lives by boarding my first African aeroplane, which, if you have just been on Captain Kamikaze’s Death Machine, wasn’t the most appealing thing to look forward to.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE KILLING ZONE

  Lying near the heart of Africa, the tiny landmass of Rwanda (the ‘land of a thousand hills’) has, for all the wrong reasons, featured in many a news article since its 1962 independence, the headlines of which can usually be condensed into one word — war.

  A thousand years ago the predominant people of this area were The Twa (pygmy), but a slow process of infiltration by two migrant tribes over the next few centuries saw them systematically displaced. Today they account for only one per cent of the population. The rest is shared between the Tutsis and Hutus, who throughout the ensuing years have vied for control. The bloodiest clashes occurred after, and are generally attributed to, German, then Belgian, occupation. Where once Tutsi and Hutu had enjoyed a reasonably flexible relationship, regularly intermarrying, colonialism helped encourage a ‘them and us’ ethos, particularly under Belgian rule. A 1934 census, for example, arbitrarily classified anyone owning more than ten cows as a Tutsi, and so all ‘rich’ Hutus and poor Tutsis suddenly found themselves reshuffled. It led to a rich–poor divide, one that was aggravated by the manner in which enforced labour was metered out — to Hutus only, whilst Tutsis were installed as their superintendents. Bloodshed was inevitable.

  Historically significant post–independence episodes include mass butchery of the Tutsi in 1963 and 1973, the latter as a repercussion of the 1972 slaughter of thousands of Hutus in neighbouring Burundi. Since then not much had changed, with the worst chapter beginning one year after our presence, and escalating each year until 1994 and the appalling genocide that wiped out almost a million people, many by machete.

  In terms of our arrival, if we wind back slightly, again in next–door Burundi, thousands of Hutus had been slain by the Tutsi authorities, with the knock–on effect that thousands more fled to Rwanda — and now had an axe to grind. And this was only ten months prior to our setting foot in Africa. Be that as it may, in 1989 Rwanda was at peace with itself, even if history has taught us that tribal violence was always just around the corner. Yet here we were, entering the killing zone.

  Ethnic cleansing aside, Rwanda is as renowned for something else. Located in the west and clothed by imposing forests, the massif above Lake Kivu is home to that legendary creature, the mountain gorilla. And with the ape–spotting industry boosted by the success of the film Gorillas in the Mist, by the time we hit Africa tourists were flocking to catch a glimpse of them in their natural habitat. As such, the cost of seeing the largest of all anthropoids was regrettably too high for our humble pocket.

  This tourism was evident the second I stepped on to the plane — foreign sightseers everywhere — and with its being full to capacity and my being late, I couldn’t make out where a spare seat was, so I paused at the end of the gangway. As I scanned the cabin a voice came from behind.

  “Is this the flight for Rwanda?”

  It was the straggler who had arrived at the airport even later than we had.

  My reply sustained my own doubts: “I certainly hope so.”

  To anyone who has never travelled in this part of the world, this question and answer might sound daft, but the truth of the matter was that there were two identical aircraft standing side by side and no staff to tell you which one was yours. You just had to take your pick and pray you’d guessed correctly. Even Ali, it transpired, had initially boarded the wrong plane.

  Two hours and one transitory stopover at Bujumbura (the capital of Burundi) later, we were at Kigali airport being greeted by a smartly suited middle–aged gentleman of obvious Arabian heritage, and an entourage of personnel. Possessing similar features to Ali’s, his father looked sharp of mind and carried an air of confidence about him, although his guarded body language gave away an expected suspicion towards us. I put this down to his being a busy man; the last thing he needed was a couple of wannabes clouding his son’s arrival. Even so, upon introduction his firm handshake and amiable manners were appreciatively accepted, and at Ali’s request he was genial enough to have us transported to Pepsi–Cola headquarters, where we were given a tour and handed a business card. It read: ‘Pepsi Sobolirwa. Société de boissons de limonades au Rwanda. Hamud Hassan. Administrator. B. P. 653 Kigali’. Remembering Ali owned ten per cent of all his father’s interests, Shaggy and I gazed at the plant, and then at each other with an expression that said: ‘Jammy sod.’

  Next on the agenda was the problem of our accommodation, and while Ali had offered to let us stay with him at his father’s residence (by all accounts, an exceptionally palatial stately home), he would first need permission. Although luck was on our side in this matter, what with Ali being a smooth, persuasive talker, I metaphorically crossed my fingers. With all thoughts of the Congo now taking a back seat, I indulged my mind with a scenario of powerful millionaire Hassan Senior throwing himself at our feet and begging us to stay with them indefinitely, thereafter whisking us off to his Taj Mahal–esque palace in an awaiting helicopter. Here, we would divide our time between Jacuzzi sessions, banqueting with dignitaries, hobnobbing with celebs, and being waited upon hand and foot by beautiful dancing girls. The hottest of them would take me to one side and…

  It was at this moment that my daydream was interrupted, by Ali wandering over.

  “My father is too busy for guests.”

  Oh well, it had been a nice fantasy while it lasted.

  But, hold on, what was this? No sooner had we received the Sod’s Law news when, in the same breath, a reprieve was granted.

  “He has, however, instructed one of his drivers to take you to the Meridien.”

  “The Meridien?” I queried.

  “Yes, it is the finest hotel in Rwanda.”

  I was about to say “You seem to be forgetting our limited budget”, but Ali was two steps ahead of me.

  “Do not worry, you will not have to pay for anything.”

  Silly me. Coming from a working–class upbringing, I hadn’t stopped to think that people such as this would have a pre–paid hotel suite all kitted out for visiting guests. Way to go, Ali and his dad!

  “Because,” continued Ali, “I have heard you can pitch your tent in the field next door for free. Just ask at reception. I will be along soon to make sure you are okay. Enjoy your camping. Bye.”

  Shaggy and I tried not to look too deflated as we waved goodbye from our departing lift — the only banger in a fleet that included at least one top–of–the–range Mercedes.

  When we arrived at the Meridien, another of Sod’s Laws was to follow — no, we couldn’t pitch our shitty tent in their field, and even when Ali arrived and put a good word in for us, the duty manager was adamant we peasants should keep as far away from their hallowed soil as humanly possible.

  Back to square one.

  With the field out of the question, Hassan Junior again leapt to our rescue, offering an alternative which turned out to be a far better proposal than the Meridien, and we were chauffeured to his family’s import–export office, in the centre of Kigali.

  While travelling I visually assessed a city that would prove to be our home for the next seven, noticeably hotter, days, much of which was pleasing to the eye, as enormous palm plantations and leafy forest lined very clean, garbage–free roads. The impression of greenery was enhanced by the fact that Kigali straddled several hills, the outline of which remained clearly visible due to the bulk of the capital’s homes being so small and plain. Gabled or flat–roofed rectangles, they were erected so closely together across the shallow slopes that it looked as though someone might have tipped a big box of Monopoly houses in a pile, and then smoothed them to a single layer.

  We s
oon arrived at the Nyarugenge borough and pulled to a stop across the road from a half–erected building, which was memorable because the scaffolding was partly made from whittled logs which were far from straight. Still, they appeared to do the job. On our side was the Hassans’ import–export workplace, a prefab–looking concrete construction that was painted an orangey beige, its two tiers consisting of one small room each. The groundfloor office, occupied by their secretary, Felicité, was a sparse room containing a desk, chair, phone and large but near–empty shelving unit. To get to the second–floor main office, a matching room with the exception of the added mod con of a filing cabinet, you had to ascend a set of stairs on the outside of the building. These offices overlooked the adjoining compound, which apparently included three rooms and a toilet, all utilised by two caretakers. More crucially, it was also owned by the Hassans.

  Prior to being shown around, we had been greeted by another of Ali’s relatives, an uncle, Sajid, who ran this particular office, and after a brief discussion he ordered the head caretaker to give us the keys to one of the rooms. With just an old table and some chairs decorating its bare concrete floor, save for a lick of green paint, it may not have been Hassan Senior’s imperial abode, but who were we to complain? A free roof over our heads right in the heart of Kigali — we peasants were more than happy to accept the invitation.

  Now that he was back with his ever–busy father, Ali had business to attend to and, after arranging to meet up afterwards, left with his standard, “I have to go, I have some calls to make.”

  In his late thirties, Ali’s uncle was a clever, sturdily built, buoyant man who bucked the family trend by wearing a thobe — an Arabian ankle–length tunic — although this was where any diversity started and finished: like Ali and his dad, Sajid was a born businessman forever on the go. This didn’t stop him from exuding kindness, however, and he assisted Shaggy and me whenever asked, such as by exchanging cash for us on the black market. He was also rather prophetic. Having explained that Rwanda was Africa’s most densely populated country, he proceeded to predict the advent of more conflict.