SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  By noon I began to feel that the long shifts had advanced us a fair distance, so was now sure we could reach The Jewel before the riverboat — as long as we gave it our all. And by that let me emphasise the word ‘we’, for the key to any Bumba success lay in not just my determination to beat the boat, but also Shaggy’s. He needed to assume a ‘race–mode’ too. The good news on that score was that my lone haste was about to change.

  “Let’s try picking up the pace,” he said, imparting an attitude that until now had belonged only to me.

  “Sound’s like your ‘if we get to Bumba before the boat’ has turned into ‘let’s get to Bumba before the boat’.”

  “It has now that I’m thinking about its schedule.”

  “Schedule? What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s just crossed my mind that the riverboat might well get to Kinshasa before our visas expire. If we’re on it, we won’t have to renew them, and boat tickets are cheaper so it will save us a few quid.”

  Silly me. When touting for a boost in effort on Day One, I hadn’t thought to go for my buddy’s Achilles heel — being a tightwad.

  “Come on then, Shaggy, let’s beat that bloody boat.”

  “Too right.”

  The race was on.

  With the uplift in spirits we urged each other to paddle faster and faster, even though, like the day before, the sun beat down relentlessly, not exactly a good sign given that we had yet to come across a village, and doubly so since it wasn’t long before we were again out of water. Food and a few strong painkillers for our backs wouldn’t have gone amiss either. Luckily, an enormous island with a good stretch of sand was soon at hand — its forested apron set back for once, by roughly five yards — and we decided would be much better off towing the pirogue while we walked along the bank. Although the principal reason for this was that it enabled us to keep moving forwards as we searched for water and fruits, it also gave our tortured backs a well–earned rest — not least Shaggy’s. Because the pirogue was designed to be paddled standing upright, to get any sort of propulsion we had had to elevate ourselves and were using our rucksacks as seats. The drawback for Shaggy was that the floor curved upwards to my rear, which meant that my ‘seat’ was higher than his, and the higher one sat in the hull, the less the pressure on the back. We did on one occasion try swapping positions, but by this time we were so used to our initial arrangement that we soon changed over, which I deemed a mercy. Lord knows how sore my back was, but whenever I saw Shaggy stretch or feel for his, I just thanked my lucky stars I wasn’t at the bow.

  Seeking sustenance and resting our backs notwithstanding, walking on the islands also helped us collect more memories. Beating the boat was one thing, but our aim had been to enjoy a Congo adventure, not just to race past everything willy nilly; there was no point in rushing to the riverboat if it meant missing out on any good stuff along the way, a thought that was exemplified perfectly by this island stroll. Aside from being our longest ‘hike’ since Kisangani, the pleasure of our two–hundred–yard amble was amplified by an unforeseen guest — a kingfisher which hopped from tree to tree the entire way, watching our every move.

  This was why the islands were so perfect. After all, an El Dorado, a Holy Grail, some Scooby Snacks, who was to know what treasures we might have fallen upon? And yet…

  Nightmare! Without warning, the sky turned from its customary dazzling blue to the shadowy grey connected with the dreaded rain cloud. Soon the heavens opened, and when it rained in Zaire, it really rained. With the downpour came vicious gales that transformed the sedate river into a tumult of muzungu–drowning waves. So we quickly tied the pirogue to the sturdiest–looking tree and took refuge beneath the ensuing mass of jungle — a daunting experience in itself, as who knew what fanged or clawed creatures lurked within?

  The storm raged on, so fiercely that at one stage I fully believed it wasn’t going to quit and would render us stuck on the island all night (standing in the dark with the predators and creepy crawlies). In a way the deluge was a blessing, as at least we managed to collect a degree of water, although this was far from enough to cover the rest of the day.

  Ninety minutes passed and still the skies thundered. Quite where it was all coming from was anyone’s guess; it was certainly a surprise to us, as to date we had faced only those momentary, but almighty, cloudbursts at Kisangani. Just as we were losing faith, however, the clouds dispersed and our once unwelcome friend the sun shone down again. Cold and wet, but at least unbitten, we leapt into the pirogue and strove on.

  We managed an hour of paddling before being caught by another torrent. As before, we were about half a mile from the nearest mainland, so again sought refuge on an island. Unfortunately this was only an islet, and the ferocious waves that crashed against its clay bank caused it to crack, crumble, and slide into the murky mire. A highly unsavoury tight spot for us, but beyond trying to stay clear of the edge there was nothing we could do. So we shivered and waited, hoping the gales would relent before they had time to annihilate our little retreat. But there was no stopping the power of nature, and the island began to slowly disintegrate around us.

  “Bloody typical,” was predictable from Shaggy.

  “Tell me about it. We spend ninety minutes freezing our balls off on the last island, and now this.”

  “Since when have you had any balls?”

  “Says the eunuch.”

  “Says the soprano.”

  “I think you’ll find eunuch tops soprano.”

  “You’re the expert.”

  Although we had employed our usual banter to make light of a bad situation, the reality was that “this”, as I succinctly put it, was rapidly turning into our most overwhelming hurdle yet. One might even say our inescapable end, as we sat defenceless whilst wave after formidable wave smashed into the diminutive isle. Ruthless breakers that, if they didn’t engulf the island first, would surely overturn the besieged pirogue, or have it escape its anchor and whip away. And as these terrible consequences drew ever nearer, so stronger grew our feelings of helplessness. Strong enough for me — Mr ‘I’ll Be Okay’ — to seriously wonder whether we were going to get out of this fine mess in one piece. Surviving iffy planes, suicidal taxi drivers, hulking baboons and motorbike gangs was one thing, but now came the prospect of having to tackle what, inside, we always knew would be our greatest trial — the wrath of the Congo.

  * * *

  Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Ninety inches, eighty inches, seventy inches, sixty inches — little by little the eroding bank continued to edge towards us, as against it the explosive waters beat out an unremitting war cry, the gales whipping the river into such a furore that any attempt to reach the mainland remained suicidal folly. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, into the mix the beleaguered pirogue rocked ever more ominously, its aggressive jerks threatening to uproot the already storm–weakened tree to which we had tethered it. Yet, with the rains still drenching us to the bone, through every nail–biting sway and pounding wave all we could do was watch silently, as living off borrowed time we figuratively crossed our fingers, hoping against hope that the island would outlast the blitz. But as the seconds and minutes ticked agonisingly by, tragedy seemed to spiral unavoidably closer, and slowly but surely I began to understand what it was like to await the hangman’s noose, as the knot in my stomach tightened progressively, the moment of doom looming ever larger. And through it all there was absolutely nothing we could do except pray for a miracle, while every now and then a glint of sunlight poked teasingly through the blackened sky. It gave us hope, but unfortunately it was false, for just as suddenly the light was gone, and once more a calamitous end came calling. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

  Mercifully, there was a let–up in the storm — a bona fide one this time. Whether this meant it was dying out altogether or merely tempting us to presume so, we didn’t know. What we did know was that, although it was some distance away, this was our chance t
o make the mainland. Any doubt as to whether we should attempt it was quelled by the thought that the island might literally soon be gone. So we pressed on, and as Shaggy went to untie us I hoisted myself into the pirogue and readied my paddle. In an act of defiance I then turned to look at the calmer but still menacing swirls of the ocean–like obstacle we were about to face, and with my most spirited glare beckoned the river to ‘bring it on’. If I was going to exit this world, it wasn’t without putting up one hell of a fight. A second later I felt the pirogue angle as Shaggy embarked behind me, a movement that corresponded with something else: a disquieting noise that forced me to swiftly revolve. It was then that I saw a most astonishing sight — half of the island had vanished.

  “Whoa!”

  Hesitation reigned. It was like that moment when, in his mind’s eye, a cricket umpire plays again what may or may not have been an LBW. That instant when all around ceases to exist whilst the brain puts things into perspective. Was it my imagination, or had half an island just been wiped out? If so, what a brilliant piece of timing on our part. Especially since the now–defunct half was that on which we had sat. All the same, minds can play tricks. I did a quick assessment: There was a raging torrent? Check. The island was subsiding? Check. There were previously more trees and bushes? Check. Half the island is now missing? Yes! Check! Bloody hell, and how lucky that Shaggy, who only a second earlier had stood in the exact same spot that now held nothing but water, had managed to get into the piro… managed to get into… into the… the… Shaggy? Where the hell was Shaggy? Surely not overboard. As choppy as the waters were, the storm’s lull had ensured they weren’t that turbulent. ‘Hang on a minute, Sean — think,’ I told myself. ‘Did he even get into the pirogue? The tilting you assumed was Shaggy’s weight had happened at the same time the island had collapsed. Holy shit, it was the island that had caused the lift, not Shaggy! So that means…’

  I replayed the scene in which I had last seen him. Yes, he had been standing on this side of the island. But had he been captured by the abyss? Yet it was only too obvious: Lee Walker, son, brother, nephew, grandson, was now a victim of the Congo.

  Never one for accepting defeat before the fat lady sings (although unfortunately for Shaggy, I’d heard her belt out quite a few tunes over the years), as pointless as it seemed I scanned the area for any signs of life, but there was nothing. Not a jot. Nada. Even so, I was about to shout for my lost friend …when a certain someone appeared beaming from behind the remaining bushes.

  “You idiot! I thought you’d gone into the drink!”

  “With that Bollock–Muncher thing lying in wait down there? You must be nuts!”

  We both laughed — a mixture of Shaggy’s witticism and nervous relief, because at least one of us had all but bought the deeds to Davy Jones’ Locker. Hurriedly, Shaggy explained that he’d been forced to dive behind the bushes in order to avoid going down with the island, which only served to remind us that the other half was likely to follow suit. So, with the fat lady still ready and waiting in the wings, we terminated our chatter and started out towards the mainland.

  We got lucky setting off when we did. Not only did we time it to perfection with regards to the storm dying out, but minutes after our departure we also looked back to see that the entire island had completely disappeared, swallowed by the rage of the all–consuming river.

  Don’t screw around with the Congo.

  We weren’t remotely about to do so.

  Or were we?

  After surviving two storms we figured we’d had a pretty rough day. We certainly hadn’t counted on that old maxim we had been so quick to dismiss: bad luck comes in threes, the third instalment often being the worst.

  Between our position and our objective lay another little island, the protection of which we had just passed when ...bang! Like a bear rounding on two bees, the mother of all storms struck.

  What to do? Withdrawing to the island would have been the level–headed solution, but after seeing what happened to the last one, no thanks. So now the question was this: Could the bear catch the bees? Yet caught we were. Out in the open. This frenzied, rampant storm that appeared to come from Hades’ very depths now threatened to destroy both the pirogue and all its contents, as nature’s unbending fury turned on us. The heavens, the waves, the winds — all conspired against us, especially the pelting rain, which robbed us of our sight. But we refused to submit, and despite the savage winds and torrential downpour we struck out into the volley of waves. Huge swirling waves that — boom! — rocked the pirogue against the mouth of the storm. Nevertheless we soldiered on; aching limbs and mounting pains now pushed aside, we fought on and on, struggling towards a mainland that edged oh–so–slowly nearer. And although our strength had been sapped by a lack of food and water, and by too much sun, our arms, unrelenting metronomes, continued to tear at the paddles, while at the same time I hollered at Shaggy, trying to motivate a heart I hoped had not yet resigned itself to death. For surely, had the pirogue overturned, that would have sealed our fate, as time and time again our embattled vessel swayed, tilted and threatened to go under. Yet time and time again, instead of sinking it soared and gave us hope to fight on. And fight on we did.

  Boom! Another wave.

  Boom! And another.

  By this time we were tired. Very tired. But we knew something that Hades didn’t — we had been here before. As athletes we had been at the door of exhaustion, been to that brink we call the pain barrier. The early morning runs; the sprint drills; the track repetitions; driving ourselves through the mud of a cross–country race; endless forays up a quarter–mile sand–hill while lactic acid coursed through the body, and fit–to–burst lungs screamed: ‘No more! No more!’ As competitors we trained ourselves to push right to the limit of fatigue. As winners we had learned to go that one step further — to embrace it. Today we drove ourselves back to that threshold, but this time there wasn’t a thumbs–up from our coach, no personal best time to gain, no ribboned medal at its conclusion. This time it was different. This time it was for our lives.

  Boom! Another wave, and we were nearly upended.

  Despite my optimism, throughout our ordeal I was planning what I would do in such an instance. ‘Should I try to cling to the pirogue?’ I asked myself. ‘Yes, grab it and attempt to ride out the storm. But, hold on, what if it gets washed away? Swim, Sean, swim. At least try to float. Leave the rucksack, it’s unimportant. Worry about its contents later, just save yourself. What about Shaggy, should I help him? No, he’s healthy, he can take care of himself. Focus on you. Hang on, here comes another wave. Hold your breath. Shit, I can’t see. The spray, the rain, I can’t see anything. So what? Keep paddling. Metronome, think metronome. You haven’t overturned yet. You can still make the mainland. Just keep going. Come on, Sean …Come on …Come on! ...Come on!!! ...Come ooooooooooooooon!!!’

  Boom!!! The biggest of all waves hit us at an unforgiving angle, and in truth that should have been it, curtains. Only there are certain things in life that remain unexplained outside the basic fact that there are some people who simply refuse to lie down and die. Fortunately for me, the person sitting in front of me that thundery day was one of those individuals. One of those die–hard characters who point–blank decline to succumb. And whilst, okay, I had yelled encouragement in an effort to motivate Shaggy, I hadn’t really needed to. Whoever had been in the pirogue with me, that’s how I would have played it — it was just my way. In situations like this, when your back’s against the wall, the last person you want to be sharing such an adventure with is one who needs motivating. That’s why I was more than happy to have Shaggy on my side, as no way would he resign himself to death. Sure, there were times in Bournemouth when he would idle on the sofa, dead to the world, and the rest of us would be compelled to tell him, “Come on, let’s go.” And yes, Shaggy’s slothfulness in Zaire had often presented itself in the form of wanting to hang around waiting for lifts rather than keep walking. But these were times when our
survival hadn’t depended upon it. Had it done so, believe you me that man would have ‘been there’. Like a Formula One supercar with the engine switched off, Shaggy’s inactive side may well have registered nothing, but depress the button and you had a turbo–charged, never–say–die mega–machine who didn’t know the meaning of defeat, even in the face of impending doom. So don’t kid yourself one iota; you’d need more than the ferocity of nature to kill off tough–as–old–boots Lee ‘Shaggy’ Walker. Frankly, that went for me also — so fuck you, Hades.

  Eventually, and not before time, we came through the worst of the storm and reached the left–hand bank and the sanctuary of a village, which could only mean one thing: we had done it. We had weathered the tempest. We had beaten nature. We had survived. We were alive.

  We had four lives left.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE INNER JOURNEY

  At the village we were able to obtain some water and what turned out to be our only meal for the day, a bunch of bananas. We were also offered some smoked fish, but my typically thrifty and immovable pal wasn’t pleased with their prices and, in spite of our dearth, since they refused to barter, he refused the fish. We declined something else as well — their advice. The villagers were adamant that the storm would come again, insisting it would be insane to carry on. However, fuelled by our craving to make Bumba (and Shaggy asserting their advice was more a ploy to keep us there to fleece), we ignored the warnings and forged onwards, this time remaining as close to the bank as possible. In doing so, we managed to push through the last of the winds and, despite our quandary, began to make headway.

  Although we had recovered some since the storm, by now we were fairly beat and any additional strife would undoubtedly be met with great disapproval. And yet, if there’s one lesson I had learned in my twenty–three years, it was that one doesn’t always get what one wants — and I most definitely did not want to be bothered by a group of hysterical children howling at me from the bank. But there they were, around thirty cherubim running adjacent to the pirogue, all of them shrieking, “Tourists! Tourists! Tourists!” Each and every one of them set on outdoing those other angelic tots who had tried to pierce our eardrums way back in Rwanda.