SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  The Kiwis were an engaging lot who had travelled from the north and were on their way to South Africa. With them was the equally charismatic Tony, a pony–tailed Australian who apparently had been born in the same Tasmanian hospital as the author of one of the books I had brought, Hollywood icon Errol Flynn. For the purposes of the forthcoming passages, however, I hope he’ll forgive me (should he ever read this humble tome) if I band him hereafter in the group ‘The Kiwis’, the rest of whom consisted of: Heinzy, Tom, Pricey, Goods, Greeny, and Jack, who was short of statue but never slow to provide a friendly ear. This didn’t stop him from telling it like it is, though, a quality he very much shared with rugged–looking Greeny. A veteran traveller for the last five years, he embodied the proverb, “if you don’t ask, you don’t get.” Bearded Heinzy was also no–nonsense. Whether or not this was just his way, I supposed the trait might have been due to his being, at thirty one, the ‘old man’ of the team. The others, like Shaggy and me, were aged between twenty and twenty–five, although I was shocked to learn that well–spoken Pricey and fellow prankster Goods were younger than me, as was the seventh and final member, Tom. Reminiscent of the older Kiwis, however, they were nonetheless as outgoing as they were laid back. I reasoned these traits were forged by a blend of unspoiled childhoods and years of international roving, the latter unsurprising, as Antipodeans are famous for being the great modern–day travellers. Wherever you go in the world, you are always likely to run into someone from Down Under.

  These go–getting Kiwis brimmed with all kinds of claims to fame. Brilliant raconteurs, I found myself absorbed by their company and listened intently as they swapped stories of their wide–ranging voyages and exploits both past and present, and of how during their travels they had bumped into just about everybody; half of the stories seemed to have a celebrity attached to them. Such as when, in America, one of them got talking to Oscar–winner Michael Caine, star of Zulu, who had then invited him to a party. These anecdotes were by and large terribly droll, definitely adventurous, sometimes sad, and occasionally cringeworthy, but the Kiwis weren’t the only people with a tale to tell.

  They might not have hung around long, but the two American geologists related the most memorable narrative. Whilst staying with a tribe out in the wilds they had been offered monkey for tea. So as not to offend anyone, they had accepted the otherwise unappetizing meal, but instead of being handed something cooked, they soon grasped they would have to watch a live monkey being skinned. Repulsed not only by the sight but also by its sickening screams, the geologists had requested the tribesmen kill it instantly, thereby ending a nightmare of slow torture and its desperate, ineffectual, effort to break free. The natives, however, misunderstood their guests’ plea and, thinking only that the noise had disturbed them, just cut out its tongue. Then they resumed peeling its skin, and although its resistance became less frantic, it still took what seemed an age to die.

  The chronicles often carried on far into the night, and adventurers one and all would gather around the bar area playing chess — with a made–up board and thirty–two beer bottle tops — telling tales, and topping themselves up with an omnipresent Congolese brew called Primus. It went some way to avoiding my top ten best–tasting lagers, but was nonetheless an integral part of where I existed, in this strange, distant land, at the core of a vast frowning jungle, over 4,000 miles away from home.

  Shaggy and I had no sooner rid ourselves of the visa fix than another ace cropped up. It was after the first night, when I rose to find I was itching far more than usual, that I should have taken the hint. On further inspection, I discovered some large red blobs had mottled my arms and ankles, but if I was galled by this, I certainly wasn’t prepared for the sight that was to meet me whilst rising from the adjoining bed — Shaggy crawled with the ravages of something that had fed on him. Being amateurs we too–quickly dismissed what transpired to be the real problem, figuring only that we had been victimised by a raiding party of some sort of flying insect, and stomached the consequences until the following morning. This time Shaggy woke to what looked like several hundred bites on his back alone. For whatever reason my back remained untouched (probably too grimy), although I now had additional ‘teeth marks’ on my arms and ankles, and these itched so much one couldn’t help but want to scratch incessantly. Not Shaggy, mind. Despite his itching being tenfold, man that he was, he swore scratching would only make his bites worse and somehow resisted. Balls to that, I tore at mine until blood flowed.

  Still too blinkered to appreciate the true cause of our anguish, we decided to show our war wounds to the Kiwis.

  “Looks like you’ve been dined on by bedbugs,” said Greeny.

  “Sadistic little bastards,” uttered Jack.

  “No question, bedbugs,” confirmed Tony, who went on to explain that the pinhead–sized bedbug is a parasite that lives in mattresses and feeds on you while you are asleep, after which really itchy lumps are installed. “Were there any old bloodstains on the sheets or walls?”

  Shaggy and I both gave him a sheepish nod, because in all honesty we had already done our homework about bedbugs and knew all the signs. So did we take heed? Obviously not.

  In attempting to defend our inability to take steps after that first night, whilst in hindsight the clues were there, the room was no less comfortable than anywhere else we had rented so far — better than some, to be fair — and we had never before had a bedbug crisis.

  Miffed that we had been given a plague–infested room, which we would later no doubt be expected to pay for, with Pricey winding us up to take action (not that we needed motivating) we barged into the manageress’s office.

  “Look at my back!” cried Shaggy, lifting his top.

  The manageress — a slender, businesslike local of about thirty — replied with an understated “Oh là là”, tendered her apologies and moved us into a different cabin. We later saw an orderly taking the mattresses out of the old one and beating them, upon which they were then put back — and other victims moved in.

  Even though the new cabin appearing to be bedbug–free, the bites remained and I continued to tear at mine, while Shaggy, rising above the expectations of any normal man, still refused to scratch. That’s in spite of the agony in his face, and the torment in his words.

  “I–will–not–scratch. Aaaargh! I–will–not–scratch. Aaaaaaargh! I—will—not—scratch. Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!” …all night long.

  Revenge of a sort came two nights later when the evil bedbug had been replaced by the ever–irritating fly. Impossible to sleep among the buzzing (and itching), unluckily for them, these specific flies weren’t nearly as nimble as the usual species and, although outnumbered, we two ‘avenging angels’ doggedly set about our foes. After a while the main light was turned on and scores of “thirteen nil!” “fourteen nil!” “fifteen nil!” could be heard victoriously ringing out into the night.

  When finally we turned off the light, I couldn’t get back to sleep, what with maddening discomfort fuelling my customary insomnia — even back home, in familiar surroundings, I always had a problem with sleep. To be out here, though, deep in the tropics, when all was dark, my incapacity to drift into the unknown that vengeful night increased. Just as frustrating was the shortage of alternative diversions. There were no televisions or radios, and my books I’d already read to distraction. Even so, despite the worry over my sleeping patterns pre–Africa, mercifully this night’s experience wasn’t repeated too often.

  Irrespective of whether my sleeping or itching troubles would be here for the duration, the one problem that was indisputably a constant annoyance, and indeed gradually worsened, was The Shits.

  In spite of the odd close shave, up until now diarrhoea hadn’t led to anything awkward for me, as there had usually been a large tree or bush to escape behind. However, now that I was out of the rainforests and in a town, I decided it would be much safer to embrace a more cautious approach and stayed as close to the hotel toilets as possible, a strategy
endorsed by similarly suffering Shaggy. That isn’t to say we didn’t visit the market, the post office or the bank, we did, but these rambles were always well timed and generally began after a soothing clear out. No, the real problem arose when my sweet–toothed buddy noticed some townsfolk scoffing ice cream and ill–advisedly conveyed this to a man who could, in one sitting, easily gorge a couple of family tubs (and then some).

  Drawn by its irresistible appeal, after a short search we soon found the shop from which our ‘fix’ was peddled. Alas, this proved to be, if you’ll forgive the pun, my Waterloo, and while I should have seen it coming, for me the shit was really about to hit the fan. Well, hit something anyway. Although the store wasn’t too far away, it was far enough, and our original policy swiftly became more of a guideline than a rule, as we two dessert–worshippers frequented the ice cream parlour just a bit more often than was sensible — with the result that, during one of these simple sprees, yours truly again felt an alarming turbulence building.

  What to do? Head back to the sanctuary of the hotel toilets? Yes, of course. But how? Should I sprint back and risk overburdening the metabolism, thereby creating more waste and forcing out what I now urgently tried to keep in? Or should I ease my way back bit by bit, periodically holding my breath (and buttocks) but running the risk that I might not have the time to fight against gravity’s natural effect? Either way it didn’t matter, for having separated from Shaggy, in the heat of the moment I turned down the wrong alley, got lost, and my quest for the Hotel Olympia suddenly failed, as I felt my overtaxed grits expand with that warm, soggy feeling that in the event threatened to — but thank God didn’t — break the elastic. Shitting yourself is one thing, but to have it run down your leg when wearing shorts in public is a whole new ball–game.

  Embarrassed but concealing my pickle reasonably well (not least because the garbage–pong of Kisangani’s back streets helped mask my own stench — I hoped), I eventually located the Olympia and headed straight to the toilets, which were situated directly past the outdoor dining area. Typical of my day, the bar was packed with customers, including most if not all of the travellers I had come to know, no doubt wondering why I had taken to walking as though I was trying to clutch a cactus between my butt cheeks — then again, for foreigners visiting these parts, Montezuma’s Revenge would be the rule rather than the exception. As if this wasn’t suspicious enough, no sooner had I reached the nearest toilet and squatted down, than I realised I had made my second mistake of the day: I hadn’t checked if it was the one that flushed. Fortunately for me I had chosen correctly, although unfortunately for me it had no loo roll. Thoroughly suspect, I surfaced a full ten minutes later without not only my grits — now jammed behind the cistern — but also no shirtsleeves. Still, as I can certainly testify, and practically speaking, since cotton definitely offers more grip than toilet paper, the method of cleaning one’s arse with sleeves should not, if you’ll forgive me another pun, be sniffed at.

  CHAPTER 10

  ENTER THE DRAGONS

  Friday, 30th June. Finding a pirogue wasn’t much of a problem. Finding the right one, however, was. When we had initially arrived at the Olympia, the first people Shaggy and I had run into were the hustlers, who stood outside the entrance selling sculptures and clothing, etc, while also promising to get us whatever was accessible, for a price of course. Even if you didn’t want anything, they would still be in your face pestering until you bought something to rid yourself of them. To avoid these people I used to just walk past, ignoring them, although at times I would be compelled to back them off by shaking my head and saying, “No! No! No! No!” Shaggy, on the other hand, would have a field day with them. Teasing them to the limit, he would make believe he was highly interested in, say, a T–shirt. He would then try it on and tell them it fitted perfectly, and add that his dad would also love one, and so on. Next he would ask if he could look at a sculpture, as he had lots of gifts to buy. Continuing to act as though he was just as attracted to other things, his next move would be to profess to having no money on him, but if they would bring the items he would meet them “in two hours” outside the bank — always one that was furthest away. Quite miraculously, every time they went to meet him, Shaggy wasn’t there.

  As luck would have it, it was these hustlers that we were ultimately forced to turn to in order to find a pirogue. Believing they were even dodgier than Limpet, I hadn’t wished to consult them at all, but a particular Kisanganian, who we had been hoping would help, had let us down too often, and time was ticking by.

  Eugene, the man in question, was quite the minor celebrity in the area and well known among travellers after being mentioned in the only guide book which at the time dealt with Zaire — Lonely Planet’s excellent Africa on a Shoestring — as a sort of all–purpose Mr Fix–it. Although the title appeared to fit (he had helped change our capital on the black market — and it was he, not the consul, who eventually brokered the Germans’ truck), as yet he’d been too busy to solve our pirogue problem, and so we approached Shaggy’s best mates.

  The hustlers informed us that they would have no problem getting us the cheapest pirogue possible (predictable sales patter, I know, but we were desperate) and led us, for what seemed like miles, to a village downstream of Kisangani. Here, we were introduced to a very shady–looking local — his killer breath so bad I swear his teeth ducked whenever he exhaled.

  ‘Halitosis’ endeavoured to sell us an astonishingly pathetic, teeny weeny pirogue for a whopping Z 60,000. To justify this price tag, he affirmed that we would not find one bigger, or indeed cheaper, which was strange, since, unbeknown to the hustlers, Eugene had advised us we would have little difficulty obtaining an adequate dugout for no more than Z 30,000. He even went so far as to insist that not only would this amount be expensive, but anything higher would also be an unmitigated rip–off. Now relating this detail, I bartered against Halitosis for quite some time, starting the price at a more equitable Z 10,000. However, backed up by the hustlers’ denunciation of Eugene, the ‘I need a mint’ pirogue owner was adamant that we wouldn’t find a better bargain and stuck to his bullshit price. So, realising I wasn’t going to get the cost any lower, and irritated at having had my time squandered on something that looked pared from a twig, I closed our dialogue with a flagrant hint as to where he may shove his pirogue.

  Occasionally waxing lyrical about how he fancied owning a market stall, Shaggy held too much of a fascination with haggling to leave it at that, so tried to make a deal himself. Given that I had bartered Mr Poop Breath to a standstill I assumed nothing would change, and sure enough my wrangling colleague also found himself telling Halitosis how he might better park his diddy twig.

  With time still passing us by, we at long last managed to persuade Eugene to give us a hand, and come the early morning of our fourth day in Kisangani, we were outside the Olympia shaking hands with this short thirty–five year–old, although he looked a decade younger, who wore designer jeans and a chic sweatshirt, which was edged up at the sleeves, enough to showcase a massive–faced watch — an ensemble that screamed ‘wannabe–A–list’ personality. But I cared not. He held a wealth of regional knowledge, was affable enough, and since he had stated that he didn’t want a penny from us, who was I to complain, or label?

  Like the hustlers beforehand, Eugene planned to take us miles away, albeit in the opposite direction, upriver, to a fishing village sited on the banks of one of the Congo’s tributaries. In spite of our desire to walk, with Eugene being pushed for time and holding all the cards, we allowed him to talk us into catching a taxi down by the market — subsequently a truly weather–beaten, suspension–free, hole–ridden old jalopy that so poured with fumes we were only too glad to get out of the darned thing alive. It was about to leave with a woman inside, but minor–celebrity Eugene stopped the cabbie and asked how much she was paying. Apparently she was journeying a few blocks away (Z 500–worth), whereas we would be travelling further (Z 1,000), so the driver booted th
e woman out.

  In these parts, the highest bidder definitely got the dinner.

  Soon we were by the tributary’s edge, looking at pirogues that were much bigger, much smarter and much better than Halitosis’ twiglet. The dugouts, however, weren’t the only things being scrutinised, as two muzungus pricing up a pirogue was a must–see novelty, and within a minute the whole village had crowded around us. Another minute and, via English speaker Eugene, we were back to bartering, this time with a fisherman who looked remarkably like a shorter version of Hollywood actor Woody Strode, the champion gladiator in the 1960 classic Spartacus.

  Woody offered us a big eighteen–feet long, two–and–a–half–feet wide, strong–looking pirogue for all of Z 16,000, and although it had a twenty–inch circular piece of metal riveted to our side of the hull, it nonetheless floated. Moreover, unlike Halitosis’ shitty twig, this was a decent–sized, robust vessel, and we had little objection to sacrificing streamlined speed for a craft that would offer better security against probable storms — whilst we had for the most part enjoyed blazing, dry weather throughout our time in Africa, even when overcast, here in Kisangani we’d had our first taste of equatorial rainstorms. These may have lasted only ten minutes at a time, but take it from me, those deluges, not to mention the booming thunder and forked lightning, made you think twice about your pirogue’s dimensions.

  There was another reason why it made sense to get a sturdy craft. Although we weren’t expecting a visit from the superstar of Jaws, large predators undoubtedly abound and the last thing we wanted running through our minds was, ‘You’re going to need a bigger boat.’

  Pleased with the pirogue and its low price, its acquisition wasn’t all plain sailing, as there was only one paddle. This meant we would have to pay an extra Z 1,000 for a second. Also, as this tributary was on the wrong side of the waterfall, the pirogue would have to be transported past it by land, which would cost a further Z 2,000. We skinflints did ask if it was possible to navigate the cataract, but were told, not with something so weighty.