SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  For what seemed a generation we wrestled against the unrelenting current, the pirogue neither travelling forwards nor backwards, as muscle–memory kicked in, our bodies and minds taking us back to the storm. Back to metronoming. Back to single–minded focus. Back to being athletes. Back to the training sessions. Back to those reps, those sand–hills, those damned sand–hills. Only this time the prize was neither life nor Olympic dream — this time the winner’s medal was that solitary paddle. A piece of wood that at once became chalice both golden and poisoned, as desire met need met frustration met fatigue, met the one thing we didn’t want — failure. But through it all we realised that we just did not have the tools, nor the strength, and moments later we gave in. The Congo’s current may have been slow, but it was frighteningly powerful. Moreover, I had still to rid myself of the many ants now swarming over my body, and while I dunked my arms and legs into the water, Shaggy rushed over to help swat at my intruders — although his suggestion that I should leap headfirst into the Congo didn’t seem the least bit tempting. Not with The Bollock–Muncher lurking beneath the waves! With that thought now in mind, I believe I set a speed record when retracting my limbs from the river. I then tweaked the majority of the thorns painfully from my hands, bandaged the lacerations, and shrugged at the deeper ones that would remain embedded for some time yet. I had so many pains by now that they melded into one dull ache anyway.

  The half–decent paddle now lost and no kindly ladies or on–hand villages to provide another, I decided to have a go at repairing the damaged one, which we had frugally kept hold of. Quite surprisingly I managed to accomplish this, with the aid of a vine, a lot of patience, a bit of hidden strength, and Shaggy’s green sticky–tape, which, to stop it from becoming overly sunburnt, I also stuck on my nose.

  Everything now seemed to be on the road to recovery, although the usual suspects still plagued us: the heat, the slow pace, the lack of food, our physical pains, and recently a fear not only of things such as storms and predators, but also of something else that can kill most effectively — complacency. Above all of them came a need for liquid that outstripped even that of our first day’s hitchhiking, when we had scavenged from a murky puddle. Back then, the dehydration was as much due to our not yet being used to expending energy in such ruthless conditions. Today, our dryness was due more to the sun’s fierce intensity, by far the severest we had encountered.

  Unable to find water but refusing to waste more time by sheltering under the trees, as we had done now and again on this exasperatingly hot day, we continued frying under the cruel rays of the African sun. Soon we had very little energy, but even the decision to down paddles and drift provided no real respite, as various cooling methods, such as dunking our towels into the Congo then draping them about ourselves, brought only temporary relief in a world far removed from the English climate we knew.

  Mid–afternoon, and we had been under the sun’s glare for some eight hours. Still no sign of a cloud. No village. No food. No water. Any of these would have done, but it has to be said that as much as we had been craving the lot, the detection of fresh running water was undeniably paramount — yet there was nothing. Horribly dehydrated, it almost reached the stage where I might have contemplated not only imbibing the Congo again, but also praying to God, the lost Ark, the burning bush, the sun, the moon, even Elvis, when luck finally caught up with us.

  Water.

  Having secured the pirogue, we jubilantly made a beeline for the rivulet we had uncovered — a sliver of a stream that emerged from the rainforest’s apron and cut a small groove across five yards of muddy banking — and eagerly filled our bottles. As a rule, after we’d strained water and added our anti–bacterial tablets, we followed a ‘just in case’ policy of waiting a minute longer than necessary before drinking, but we were so keen to replenish ourselves that we thought ‘sod it’, and gulped the lot down. Whatever the rights and wrongs, it didn’t make a jot of difference, as we had both caught dysentery anyway.

  My encyclopaedia tells me that dysentery is an ‘infectious disease caused by a bacterium, often found in contaminated water’. Also, that the symptoms are ‘profuse watery bowel motions that may contain blood and mucus, accompanied by fever and sickness’. What it does not say is that, despite my preferring to make merriment of our own profuse watery bowel motions, the truth of the matter was that having dysentery meant that we were also consumed with episodes of acute pain. In my case, the most dreadful gut cramps you could conceivably imagine were compounded by what felt like a cannon–ball lodged up my arse.

  The water was good. Very good. In fact, it was too good, for so engrossed were we with drinking that we didn’t pay enough heed to the sinking–sand–type mud that had started to envelope us. Naturally we tested it, seeing how far down each foot would go before placing all of our weight forward. Yet those precious seconds we had spent drinking without thinking, those extra inches that Shaggy had taken, now caused him to submerge past his knees, and suddenly our priorities changed.

  Humorous to him at first, Shaggy realised he wasn’t just stuck, he was still heading south. Luckily — with my vastly superior, Samson–like strength — I managed to break free and jumped into the trees to look for a broken branch, which fortunately the ground was littered with.

  “Grab this,” I said, thrusting one end of a dead bough at Shaggy, whilst making sure I didn’t get too close to him — no sense in us both perishing.

  Shaggy caught hold of the branch, which disintegrated before we’d even had time to pull on it.

  “Sorry about that, I’ll get a better one.”

  “Take your time,” joshed Shaggy.

  I snatched up another dead branch and tried it against my knee.

  Snap.

  Then another.

  Crackle.

  And another.

  Pop.

  “Any chance of you lending me a hand?”

  “Don’t you worry, one of these branches has to be okay.”

  “Speaking from an entirely selfish point of view, I’d like to think so.”

  Shaggy’s witticism was cool, yet a hint of vocal restraint told me he was becoming more concerned.

  “You just hang on, mate.”

  “Well, I had planned to nip to the shops, but okay.”

  I tried more branches.

  Rip.

  Break.

  “You found anything yet?”

  Crunch.

  Split.

  “Not yet.”

  Shatter.

  Tear.

  “Bet if I owed you money, I’d be out by now.”

  Bust.

  Sever.

  “Too bloody right.”

  Erupt.

  Fracture.

  Splinter.

  Crumble.

  Explode!

  Eventually I picked out a workable branch, and with the aid of our returning strength Shaggy managed to make good his escape and we survived one more day.

  Three lives left.

  While rehydrating had given our ever–waning vigour a much needed lift — and the ability to speak more coherently, now that our mouths and throats weren’t frazzled to a cinder — as soon as that problem was out of the way (for now), our myriad other troubles came hurtling to the fore. And so back to square one with the mind games, especially now, on this most vicious of days.

  To alleviate things, I followed the same procedure that had helped assuage our Congo problems on prior occasions — I burst into song, trilling out a few favourites, such as the ever–inspiring ‘Jerusalem’. To compensate for my tone deafness, Shaggy chipped in with his own brand of strangled vocal, which might have been good for the soul, but not for anything with ears.

  In time we retired from our warbling, and with it so returned our sombre mood. At first we talked of how we had been so sure that we would discover at least one village, or one fruit–bearing tree, or one clear stream, each day. When that tête–à–tête dried up we got round to another favourite tear–
jerker — reflecting on the things we had been missing from back home. Trust me when I say there’s nothing like a bit of suffering to help you value the things you take for granted and now miss — family, friends, pets, sports, books, music; in fact, virtually everything. And definitely, without question, food. By this I mean: good food, bad food, nutritious food, shite food; any kind of food, just as long as it was emphatically and unequivocally food.

  “Hey, Sean, what about this then — mashed potatoes, carrots, peas, a nice steak, lashings of gravy, and perhaps a few Yorkshire puddings thrown in on top?”

  “Oh yes. And what about a big pizza?”

  “I’d settle for a small one.”

  “Aye. Then there’s a plate of chips, a few sausages, mushrooms, a couple of fried eggs...”

  “With toast?”

  “Sure. Anything like that.”

  We both sucked in some air. Food, lovely, lovely food.

  Interestingly, the foodstuff I hankered after the most (alongside ice cream) was something I hadn’t eaten since being a teen, which was a certain pie my mother used to bake. I was unsure of the exact recipe, but nevertheless tried explaining it to my fellow paddler.

  “My mum used to make this walloping meat and potato pie every teatime. Okay, it probably wasn’t every teatime, but it seemed that way. Anyway, she’d bung the lot into a big Pyrex glass bowl — stewing beef, potatoes, gravy — and then she’d do the pastry. Obviously I’d pester her to let me knead the dough, that way you could nick a bit and eat it. We would roll it really thick, then place it on top of the stew and fire everything into the oven. When it came out, the pastry would be all crispy and dead chunky, and you could mix it with the gravy to moisten it. Believe me, that was good stuff.” I didn’t have to sense him doing it, I knew Shaggy would be picturing it, scenting it, tasting it. I certainly was. “I’ve not had that for years, but when I get back the first thing I’ll do is ask my mum to run the recipe by me. I’m definitely making that when I get home.”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Shaggy, tittering.

  There followed a few seconds of silence, then...

  “We sometimes had sponge pudding for afters.”

  “Oh stop it, Sean. I can’t take it anymore.”

  More chuckling preceded another spell of silence.

  Shaggy was the first to break.

  “We used to have sponge pudding an’ all.”

  “I’d love one now.”

  “That’s two of us. I’m not bothered what flavour. Syrup, raspberry, lemon, anything.”

  “What about Spotted Dick?”

  “Now there’s a blast from the past.”

  “Or treacle.”

  “Toffees.”

  “Chocolate.”

  “I could murder a Curlywurly.”

  “I could murder a Curlywurly — and a Twix, Picnic, Flake, Topic.”

  “Dairy Milk, Wispa, Toffo, Yorkie, Marathon, Dairy Milk.”

  “You said Dairy Milk twice.”

  “I like Dairy Milk.”

  “What about Mars? If I buy a Mars I put it in the freezer, and then slice bits off it.”

  “Freezer? Fridge for me.”

  “Bloody hell, Shaggy, that takes way too long. Ten minutes in the freezer is like an hour in the fridge. Why wait longer?”

  “Suppose so.”

  “Then again, sometimes I bite the chocolate off the sides and then split half of it into the Milky Way bit and the toffee bit.”

  “Biting the chocolate off the sides wouldn’t make a difference.”

  “You’re joking! Course it does. Just try it.”

  “Oh sure, here’s one now. Two secs whilst I just get it out of the fridge. Sorry, freezer.”

  More sniggering.

  Another lengthy pause.

  Shaggy broke again.

  “I could murder some cereal an’ all.”

  “Weetabix is my favourite.”

  “Yeah, mine too.”

  “Alpen and Ready Brek are good.”

  “Alpen, Ready Brek, Cornflakes, Rice Crispies.”

  “Porridge.”

  “Frosties.”

  “And wash everything down with a freezing cold drink.”

  “Oh no, why did you mention that! Tell you what, Sean, I’d give anything for some pop right now.”

  “Remember all those refrigerated Pepsis we had in Epulu?”

  “Oh, don’t.”

  “Imagine one of them trickling down your throat right now.”

  “Noooo.”

  “Just imagine the icy coldness of that Pepsi as it comes out of the fridge.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Or lemonade, orangeade, cream soda, Dandylion and Burdock.”

  “Stop!”

  “Irn Bru.”

  “Made in Scotland.”

  “From girders.”

  We sucked in more air, and then both retired to our own private thoughts, each of us fantasizing about what we would devour once we returned to a more populated setting.

  Even though we hadn’t eaten for twenty–four hours, the lack of food was far from our only concern, what with the sun still blazing down and our water supply dwindling again. The reality, however, was that our problems would dissolve — if we could just get to Bumba. But with the heat foiling any kind of decent paddle projection, and the complete absence of wind marring any speed that might be mustered by the current, the actual distance we were covering was laughable. So, from here on in, it would be some form of momentum I’d be praying for.

  Another hour passed. Travelling by the north–bank again, it was late in the afternoon and nearly time for tea: a swig of water. The heat was still electrifying and there were more tired strokes. Then, feeling something alien on my back — a faint breeze — I turned to look over my shoulder.

  “Look at that, Shaggy!”

  A mile back upriver and heading straight at us was an inky set of clouds. We knew they were coming our way, as we could feel the gust picking up directly behind. Then the winds blew heavier and heavier and our speed radically increased. It was at that point that we realised this wasn’t merely a breeze homing in on us but, more worryingly, a battalion of storm clouds, not entirely unlike to those that had almost upended us two days earlier — we could gauge how far away they were because the once–calm ‘flat’ river had now kicked up into a crushing mob of waves. Waves that with every second bore down on us.

  In view of the circumstances, we momentarily ceased paddling and watched in awe, as the formidable tempest drew closer and closer. Regardless of the imminent jeopardy, I have to say that a huge block of rollers tumbling towards you is quite a marvellous sight, although any shocked silence was soon pierced by Shaggy’s, “We’re going to get pissed wet through again!” He’d had to shout because the winds had picked up so much that it was getting difficult to be heard. Yet he was wrong, for, as the rising waves drew nearer still, it dawned on me that there was no rain at all — just a force–nine gale.

  “I don’t think so!” I hollered back, the waves looming ridiculously close. “It’s only a wind storm!”

  “Oh well, thank the heavens for that, were not going to get rained on at all ...just drowned! Shouldn’t we moor the pirogue to the bank?! Fast!”

  The waves were as good as on us now and Shaggy had to shout at the top of his voice to be heard above the gusting wind and crashing breakers. And yet, perhaps a little too full of myself after our great victory in the last ‘island–swallowing’ battle with the elements, all at once I was a swashbuckling captain onboard an Elizabethan galleon, and I promptly denounced my colleague’s defeatist suggestion. After all, the lengthy island running parallel about 150 yards to our left had produced a long channel, which funnelled everything forward. This meant that, unlike on the preceding day, these waves were heading in the direction we wished to travel, and at speed, so why not make use of them?

  “Let’s ride with it!” I bellowed.

  “Are you off your rocker?!”

  “Ma
ybe, but I came here for a spot of excitement and by gad I’ll have it! Are you with me?!”

  I’d definitely watched too many pirate films.

  Despite his having little choice in the matter, the waves now upon us, Shaggy sensed not only a thrill in my madness but also a belief that we could truly ride these whitecaps without capsizing.

  “Alright then, you mad bastard! But I do hope you’ve insured this thing!”

  Now travelling at a pace we could only have dreamed of before, Long John Shaggy and Blackbeard Sean enthusiastically thrashed at each wave, as the once–cumbersome pirogue fairly zoomed past the veiled denizens, jockeying on powerful swells that, despite there being no rain, not only had us drenched to the bone, but also made sure we found it hard to keep the pirogue from smashing into the bank. So Shaggy decided to rectify the problem ...Congo–style.

  “Let’s go out to the middle!” he roared.

  Evidently I wasn’t the only one off his rocker.

  On any other day we might not have risked such a crazy stunt — although sure, I would do it again — as nutcases both, we discarded the safer route and headed out towards the ominous core, each gripped by both ‘the moment’ and a deep–seated instinct to step outside our comfort zone.

  By the gods of the river it was the right option. Once at the centre, the dugout moved with such dolphin–like finesse that Shaggy and I practically danced on the Congo like surfers. Into the bargain, now driven by a force of nature, the pirogue became a veritable missile. As though launched from a slingshot we rocketed forward, speeding as never before, riding the waves onwards and onwards, as five, ten, fifteen minutes elapsed and still we whizzed past the spooling forest, its previously sedate greenery at once a backdrop blur of whirling pastels — shades and shadows that morphed into a living symphony of wild ‘Faster! Faster!’ encouragement. And with its hypnotic ‘chant’ inducing us to embrace an ever–increasing tempo, we hammered incessantly at the waters, metronoming our arms and forgetting not only how shattered we were but also the magnitude of the waves. Yet whenever the pirogue threatened to go under, up we bobbed, giggling and grinning and barking orders at each other, as though we really were the crew of an Elizabethan galleon. White water rafting, eat your heart out! We continued to ‘live the dream’, as we surfed, smiled, jockeyed and laughed, near enough flying down the Congo for a good twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of fun. Twenty minutes of madness. Twenty minutes of defiance. Twenty minutes of all–out, coming–of–age, action–packed, no–stopping–us–now, death–defying ecstasy. Oh yes, this was the Indiana Jones stuff!