“Seventy miles, though.”
“It’s better than being stuck here for two months. That’s what they said, Shaggy — two months.”
“I suppose a truck could always turn back.”
“Or someone in a pickup could pass by.”
“Or they could fix the bridge and then our truck will pick us up.”
“Now you’re talking.”
After more debate, as much as it pained me we agreed to stay put for twenty–four hours and see what transpired. If, as rumoured, it looked like weeks of stalemate, then we would walk the seventy miles to Nia Nia (where we would have been leaving the crew anyway) and attain another lift from there, if not beforehand.
Our itinerary clear, we had one last matter to straighten out. Back in Apawanza, with Duke asleep, Shaggy and I had had time to assess our state of affairs, and as per usual had been eying the map. Upon inspection, we had found that the real distance from Komanda to Nia Nia was in fact much closer to 250km. Yet we’d had to pay Z 10,000 after being told the trip totalled 500km (remember Duke’s financier Barclay had identified our payment from a tariff chart). In this case, a 250km lift should have been cheaper. We tightwads wanted some of the fare back. Now was as good as any time to ask, and having by this time gained Barclay’s friendship we felt no unease when bringing the issue to his attention. Unfortunately, he had other plans and refused any such repayment. So we took him to ‘arbitration’ in the form of an impartial ranger, who listened attentively to both sides but couldn’t decide who was correct and abstained from any further proceedings. Hello square one.
Doubtless Barclay had presumed this to be the end of the matter, but alas, he had another think coming when the hitherto engaged Duke arrived on the scene. His accountant hadn’t got twenty seconds into explaining the debate when Duke stopped him in mid–flow and ordered him to hand back Z 4,000. We two stupendous politicians hadn’t actually asked for such a bountiful sum, but willingly took the reimbursement and celebrated by blowing it all (and a bit more, after we had acquired the habit) on one or two chilled colas. Of course we simpletons came to regret this, if only because once we had stopped abusing our bellies all that remained in cash for future fares was a combined total of Z 7,000.
Turning out to be a bit of a hero, Duke confirmed his new status that very evening. Sleeping under the Isuzu again, I was awoken by his shaking me and, although I had never heard him speak in any other tongue but his own, he whispered, in a clipped accent, “Come on, I will try tonight.”
Apparently the police blockade on the other side of the river had been left unguarded, so Duke had decided he was going to try to drive across the unstable bridge during the dead of night — even though the extra planking had been pulled up. Worse still, so had half of the originals, no doubt done in an attempt to prevent the very exercise Duke proposed — which left two old beams only.
Gulp.
The thing was, the surviving beams were about the width of a truck wheel apart, and that was just too tempting for our hero.
Duke was going for it.
Hence, so was his crew.
Hence, so were we.
There was an additional inducement in this new escapade. Aside from being able to get back to the journey, those of us who had sat atop the Isuzu rejoiced at the thought of travelling without the poky conditions, for with no knowledge of their whereabouts, Duke had no choice but to leave behind the generously proportioned women. Whilst I felt sympathy towards them for this quandary, at the same time I wasn’t complaining.
* * *
Crack. The ignition fired, Duke slipped into gear and slowly aimed his heavy vehicle towards the broken down, half–eaten, rickety bridge. The rest of us, afraid of it collapsing, bottled it and walked a good few strides behind. We were also feverishly shushing ourselves, for this latest adventure had brought forth a succession of nervous giggling all round. Not Duke, though. He stayed calculating and composed, and seconds later two wheels were perched against what was left of the bridge’s timbers. With no space on them to manoeuvre, the truck had to be straight, and Duke checked with both Ferrari and Jerome, now standing across the other side. His engineers gave a thumbs–up. He had executed it first time. This was it, do or die, and everyone held their breath as Duke eased his foot down on the gas and nudged the Isuzu on to the beams — they let out an ominous creak as the front end crossed the point of no return. But Duke remained steadfast, and with fortitude cast in iron he inched his vehicle forward until finally its full weight was borne.
Now to take the truck out to the middle.
Incapable of helping, the rest of us watched anxiously as our hardy driver crept towards the daunting make–or–break centre, playing the clutch in such a manner that the truck could only crawl forth, as one inch, two inches, three inches, smidgen by smidgen Duke eased the Isuzu along a bridge that croaked and creaked and buckled with every nail–biting second, a ten–foot drop into the swirling waves beckoning him to a sorry end. Yet our hero ignored such peril and soldiered on, his surgeon–like precision guiding the truck beyond the gaps, while wheels teetered on beams that bowed ever more under the vast force being exerted on them, as closer to the centre Duke edged until eventually he was there. He had made it.
Then… from somewhere on the bridge came the distinctive sound of splintering wood, which could only mean one thing: the old beams had had enough and were in the processes of shattering.
Uh oh.
Refusing to be bested, upon seeing his engineers’ frenzied waving Duke floored the accelerator and the vehicle shot forward. Again he showed outstanding deftness, as at pace he navigated the rest of the skeletonised bridge, its few planks continuing to squeak and creak as he did so …but they held fast. Duke had done it. What a star.
Reminding himself that he was still stuck in Epulu with all to play for, once across the bridge Duke banished any thoughts of celebration or hesitation and, by James Bond–like swerving through a hedgerow and traversing the bordering field, straightaway rounded the police blockade. He then drove back on to the thoroughfare and was seen chuckling to himself, as the rest of us ran after him, one and all doing our own 007 impressions as we leapt on to the back of the moving truck. We were also forced to suppress our returning sniggering, each of us marvelling at the exhilaration that this little jaunt had created.
Now then, at this stage the best tactic would have been to park the Isuzu among the other trucks on this side of the bridge and hope the authorities didn’t have photographic memories. Having blended in, we could wait until, say, mid–morning and then make out that we had simply had enough of hanging around, so would now be ‘turning back’ to Kisangani. The catch was, there was a second barrier at the other end of the village, close to the police headquarters, and while the authorities were keen to let any trucks in through the blockade, they weren’t as eager to let them out (I had no idea why, though my cynical side suggested money was on the agenda). Consequently, our dead–of–night quest was only half complete.
Shortly we approached the centre of the village, and Duke turned off the headlights whilst the rest of us listened for any unwelcome movement, our eyes vigilant for any sign of the law. If Duke could just get to the other side of the village, if he could round the second cordon, then maybe, just maybe, we might be able to get away with it.
Like the others, at this point I was crouching on top of the truck, the anxiety unbearable. Would we be heard? Would we make it to the barrier? Would we get past it once there? Of course nobody knew if there were any policemen on duty and the pressure mounted with each passing second, primarily because everything was deathly silent. Everything bar the engine, that is, which ticked over relatively quietly but in the calm of the night still sounded as though it were a bloody marching band. Yet on we strove, as the snail–paced truck sneaked towards sanctuary, our hero Duke continuing to tease the accelerator, while my thoughts were saying, ‘Keep going, buddy. Don’t make any blunders. Everyone else — no talking. No one move. No
one breathe. And can someone please shush this goddamned engine!’
Closer still we drew to the other end of the village …and closer …and closer. Surely we were going to make it. Hold on, yes, we were there, for certain. Almost home and dry we had only to cover a few more yards and we’d be at the blockade. Oh my word, we’d done it, we had made it. Hello barrier, goodbye creeping through town. Goodbye tension. Goodbye to waiting around. Goodbye to Epulu. Hello Kisangani! What joy. Hallelujah.
Ha—lle—lu—jah!
Huh, what was this? A voice had called out; there was a torch, then a man, and the Isuzu was stopped. It was the police. Moments later Duke was arrested and detained. The upshot of this was obvious — we would have to stay in Epulu.
That night the rest of us slept on benches, usually used as a picnic area.
Come morning, the escape story had been passed around so many times that Duke might well have been considered a national superstar. Bar none, everyone had heard of his courageous crossing of the bridge, and upon his mid–morning discharge scores of crews clapped and cheered and paid homage to him — so much so that even a John Wayne character couldn’t have been deemed more valiant.
Wayne, who played the hero in classic movies such as The Quiet Man, was nicknamed Duke, hence my driver’s pseudonym — that, and the fact that if I ever knew his real name, I’m afraid I can’t recall it.
The crews continued to give a standing ovation to John Wayne as he swaggered back towards the truck. Noting Duke’s newfound fame, those of us connected with him quickly jumped on the bandwagon, following him closely and joining in the bowing and waving to ‘our’ fans, of which there must now have been no less than one hundred, for the trucks were virtually wall–to–wall by this time. If this praise wasn’t enough, Duke’s laudable actions also convinced the jobsworth official who’d caused the whole debacle that the bridge was, for the time being at least, safe enough to cross. So they decided to abandon the cordon and re–lay the extra planks (they lasted a full twenty years, finally giving way under the weight of a …drum roll, please… truck. It took twenty–six days to fix).
Talk about irony, although he had already spent the night in jail — wangling a bunk rather than a bench, so it wasn’t all bad — Duke was informed that whereas everybody else was free to leave, he would be permitted to go only on one condition: he would have to consent to transport the official who had stopped us crossing the bridge in the first place! Raring to get on his way, our hero jumped at the chance, and we gleefully leapt on to the Isuzu — only to find the generously proportioned women had squeezed back into the sardine tin.
Irony indeed.
Further irony occurred when we were made to wait while everyone else left first.
Groan.
When eventually we got going, a relieving exit was preceded by our stopping outside the police headquarters, where Duke had been asked to collect ‘Jobsworth’. With the generously proportioned women now squashing us again, the entire outfit cringed when we saw the size of the most incalculably huge, enormous, hulking, ponderously gross vat of blubbering walrus fat–filled, whale–featured, wobbly bottomed ‘I can block any toilet’ official we had ever needed wide–screen vision to set eyes on. That guy was big! The best sight of the day, however, was Shaggy’s expression when he realised Jobsworth had decided he was going to fashion a deckchair out of his rucksack …crunch! Later on, Shaggy checked his belongings and found that every remotely fragile article had been flattened. And all he could picture was Jobsworth’s big beaming smile as he’d sat on it.
Our trip had taken us into the overflowing forests of the north. Here, where the road narrowed slightly, the tree branches would hang over significantly. Okay if you are inside the Isuzu, not so clever if you’re propped on top. And especially if you are sat straddling the sides of the sardine tin, which, bearing in mind the generously proportioned women and the even more colossal Jobsworth were sprawled all over, was exactly what the rest of us were forced to do. This also meant we were obliged to play a game, which I shall name: Dodge The Branch Or Die.
My favourite moment occurred when another truck decided to join in. Aside from looking out for the branches ourselves, whenever an oncoming truck came by it would be as much fun to watch their crew also playing Dodge The Branch Or Die, and vice versa. From all passengers there were many moments of unified drawn–in breaths, as someone on their side or ours just about got away with dodging a branch. But this wasn’t always the case. In the one event I mentioned, a member of an opposition crew had ducked beneath a particularly awkward, dangerous branch. So perfect in his technique was he that he drew rounds of applause from our crew, and to reward his new fans he gave us a small, though somewhat conceited, bow. Ha, the mug. What a great ploy on our part, for it took away his focus, and the one thing you could never do while playing Dodge The Branch Or Die, however good you were, was lose focus. Yet we had suckered him splendidly, and Mr Mug turned from his rather smug little bow directly into another equally awkward and dangerous branch — only this time he wasn’t so fast, and it veritably caught him right in the kisser, sending him flying. We pissed ourselves laughing. No one beat us at Dodge The Branch Or Die.
Other games and more laughs abounded with the crew. The most memorable was when one of them winked at us cronies, then in a whisper and sign language asked who would “jiggy–jiggy” with the lady he flashed his eyes at, the big momma of the big women. Desperately trying not to giggle, everybody feigned nausea at such a notion, apart from Mr Slapstick here. Pretending to size up Big Momma, I joked (inadvertently far too loud as we went over a bump) “Moi”. Those in on the clowning creased up with laughter at my faux pas — while Big Momma’s nose went straight into the air.
Needless to say the potholes were every bit as bad as the branches. On one occasion, we passed a truck which had fully toppled over on to its side. Told this was far from uncommon, it was just good fortune there had been no passengers, who may well have perished, especially if they’d had a few generously proportioned women and an elephantine official ready to land on them. Still, this omen couldn’t persuade Duke to abate his cavalier driving methods and, as usual, he had the Isuzu agonisingly balanced on its outer wheels here and there.
Eventually we reached the crossroads at Nia Nia, which, despite being touted as one of the large gold–mining districts, appeared to be nothing more than a small community. To support this, the handful of domiciles that lined our south–westerly route ended long before the next bend in the road. But that was the least of our concerns, for here we were to carry on without the likes of Duke and his crew, as destined for Isiro, they would be turning north. I for one had become quite attached to these men, our ‘brothers’, and couldn’t help wishing that they too were heading towards Kisangani — not least because we had so little hard cash left for lifts. Nevertheless, we said goodbye to all and shook hands with Duke, Barclay, Jerome, Pepe, Ferrari, Hitch and Ike, and departed their company.
CHAPTER 8
MEN OF HARLECH
Once more Shaggy and I had the choice between waiting for a truck and thumbing one whilst on the move. We shouldn’t have had far to walk, as there would be plenty heading towards Kisangani from Nia Nia. Or so we had thought, because once the die had been cast and we were out walking once again, we found that, like the thousands of years before technology arrived at Africa’s door, the metal beasts may as well have been non–existent. At least Shaggy was now feeling a lot better, and for the first time in days both of us were quite content to just mosey along, amongst the ever–exquisite flora, on a beautifully coloured, sunny African afternoon.
Two hours came and went. By this time we had passed a couple of settlements and crossed over what our map–reading told us was the bridge on the river Aruwimi–Ituri, its waters encased by an equatorial rainforest so heaving it threatened to overrun our furrowed pathway, the thick tangle of trees alive with squabbling monkeys and twittering birds, while gigantic creepers and scented flowers intermingle
d with fruits that dangled appealingly from their slightly too–high position and goaded us to ‘have a go’.
“If you give me a leg up, I reckon I could grab that one there,” said Shaggy.
A swift hoist and the papaya was in his hand, although any happy ending was negated by its being unripe. But it mattered not, for food and water was soon on hand when we came across another gathering of mud huts, which, again as per our map–reading, was the village of Avakubi.
“Do you know how they make these huts?” I asked Shaggy as we approached.
“Yeah, they’re made in Hong Kong and then flown in.”
“And there’s me thinking it was Monaco. No, you knob. What you do is take some long branches and cut them to the height of however tall you want the walls to be. But you’ll need an extra twelve inches…”
“I could provide that.”
“I said inches, not millimetres. So, you need an extra twelve inches because you have to dig holes into the ground. Then you put in the stakes and pack everything down with stones and dirt. Before that you have to coat them in a special sap, a sort of preserver. Then you put the holes about a foot apart, in a quadrangle, or whatever shape you want your hut, and once you’ve got your uprights in, you just interweave thinner branches through everything. Then you get some mud and grass, and mix them up with water and then rub it all over. Voila, a hut.”
“So the roofs get there by themselves?”
“Alright, I forgot that bit. Obviously you then interweave some long grasses and vines to make the roof, and then coat that too.”
“I could have guessed all that.”
“Sure you could.”
“So where’d you get this from?”
“I read about it.”
“You can read? Wow.”
In spite of the folk of the village staring at us as though we had just beamed down from Mars, they were all the same friendly, so we rested briefly and bought and devoured water, a pineapple and goat meat. Shaggy’s opting to offset the sting of the pineapple’s juices by holding tissues against his improved but still blistered lips caused more gaping — and demonstrated that his wellbeing still wasn’t on a par with the magnificent specimen of superhuman virility that was his exploration partner. Then we were off again, on the road to Kisangani.
SEAN OF THE CONGO Page 13