SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  Back at the pirogue, haggling Shaggy had exchanged a sweatshirt for some bread and a cache of various fruits, and as soon as the officials had checked his visa and left, conveying heartfelt goodbyes and good luck as they went, we voraciously wolfed the lot. Telling him the news about saving cash on the visas — his basis for putting in extra legwork — made his feast even sweeter. But there was a bigger fish that had to be fried: the pirogue. Whilst I had become rather attached to it after all we had been through, at the end of the day it was now redundant, and we were surrounded by potential customers. Pre–Bumba we had talked about this moment, and although selling it hadn’t been at the top of our agenda, there was no sense in doing without what might prove to be much–needed money. So we started the auction.

  The bidding was up to Z 5,000 when I left an absorbed Shaggy wheeling and dealing and headed back in to town. Now that we had eaten, our priorities centred on obtaining more fluids; the taste of the missionary’s rainwater and the juices of the fruits served to remind us how dehydrated we were.

  While my general intentions were to find any form of drinkable fluid, something else was preying on my mind. Something that now obsessed and drove me the way the idea of reaching The Jewel before the riverboat had done. Something that I hoped I might find in one of Bumba’s many bars, and if you want a clue or two: it was cold, wet and bubbly, but it wasn’t alcoholic. It was also another reason why I had only part–rehydrated myself with rainwater at the missionary’s cottage — a little like being hungry but refusing to snack, if it means spoiling a forthcoming banquet. This may seem a trifle excessive, but when you have a hankering, you have a hankering. And oh boy, did I have a hankering.

  Family, friends, pets, your favourite foods — it’s understandable to miss anything you are accustomed to once it is no longer there, and especially so when one places oneself in such an unforgiving setting as central Africa. Of the things I pined for, one that was impossible to forget was obviously liquid, and in my case this meant fizzy pop. In particular, and above the many I would have paid a king’s ransom for, was my then–favourite, straight from the fridge of course. A few years earlier this would have been cream soda (the green one); a few years later, cherryade, for my favourite occasionally changed in this area. However, like the actor Sir John Mills in the movie Ice Cold In Alex, where his character is forced to cross a barren desert with a group of people and ends up in a bar ogling an eponymous ice–cold tumbler of beer, over and over I pictured myself gazing at my then–favourite — a glass of chilled raspberryade.

  Minutes later I was in the process of scouring the centre for a bar that was open, when I noticed someone paying me special attention. Naturally on my guard, I returned a once–over and took stock of my findings: local; trim; roughly my age. Hmm? While the smart trousers and shoes indicated that my observer had something about him, I assumed the man too young to warrant being in a position of concern to me, meaning an immigration officer or policeman. Besides, the last two officials had worn formal shirts, not a polo. None the wiser, out of politeness I gave the watcher a nod, upon which he signalled to ask if it was okay to approach. ‘Here we go,’ I thought, my cynicism kicking in again, ‘another Limpet.’ But I decided to cut him some slack and beckoned the man over.

  Happily all went well. Echoing the immigration officers’ “spreading like wildfire” opinion, upon hearing what he described as the “famous pirogue trip of two crazy foreigners” (I loved his "crazy” description), he had decided to track us down in the hope that we would converse with him; he wanted to keep up to the mark with his English. No less obsessed with the thought of ice–cold raspberryade, I agreed to chat to the man, but only on the condition that he direct me to every bar he knew — as much as I doubted I would find my pop Holy Grail in this neck of the woods, let alone in a bar, I was tenacious enough to give it my best shot. If you don’t try you don’t get, and all that. And anyway, even if none of the bars sold raspberryade, as long as it was freezing, any other drink would suffice, for I also craved cold.

  “No bars are yet open,” I was told.

  The look on my face must have given a new meaning to Joseph Conrad’s ‘The horror, the horror’.

  Attempting to compensate, my latest associate proposed to guide me to some nearby cafés, an offer I quickly accepted.

  During the walk over, I discovered that the mature twenty–one year–old was another undergraduate of Kinshasa University, this time studying engineering, back home on summer leave. I was to find out far more about Mathew Lisamba–Gioma throughout our brief time together, the most notable detail being that his continent of birth was where any resemblance to Limpet started and thankfully ended. This meant there was no sneaking in bags, no grabbing our food, no hanging around just to see what he could get out of us — and no attempts to hold Shaggy’s hand either. Other than that, the things that stuck in my mind about Mathew were threefold. First of all, he liked dancing. Secondly, like many Zairians at the time, a photograph of President Mobutu took pride of place on his bedroom wall (whether this was due to admiration or fear, in Mathew’s case it was hard to tell. Whenever questioned he denounced any criticism of Mobutu, although he had blatantly stuck by his Christian first name, despite the president having banned them. Perhaps he believed the rarer spelling with one ‘t’ made it less Western). Thirdly, as often as possible, he liked to use the word ‘fuck’.

  Unsurprisingly, the first café we arrived at didn’t sell raspberryade, although they did have one of the colas, which, without a fridge, they kept on view in the scorching sun, by now at its most searingly hot, so I declined that purchase.

  The second café mirrored the first — except this one had a fridge. However, anticlimax of all anticlimaxes, it hadn’t worked for yonks.

  And so to what appeared to be the final café. Although basic, the third stood out from the others for one awfully good reason. Behind the counter was something that looked especially interesting to me — another refrigerator, but this one actually worked.

  Fully aware of my requirements by now, Mathew insisted that he negotiate with the proprietor for me.

  “What are you selling from your fucking fridge?”

  “Lager.”

  “Don’t you have fucking raspberryade?”

  “I’ve never even heard of it.”

  “Fuck me. Do you have anything that isn’t fucking alcoholic?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Fucking hell.”

  Although the conversation had taken place in Lingala, I got the gist of it and certainly understood all the “fucks” Mathew had thrown in for my ‘benefit’. On the off chance that the owner had understood also, and taken offence, I piped in and motioned to the man to show me the contents of the fridge. In an effort to salvage a sale, he swiftly granted my request, and sure enough there in front of me stood a nice array of lagers, looking very sumptuous due to their arctic–cold, frosted appearance. Oh my.

  What to do? While lager usually left me feeling dehydrated, and that was the last thing I wanted, the self–evident coldness forced me to consider buying one — until I spied something different. Different yet incredibly appealing. Tucked away and half–hidden, I again risked Mathew speaking for me. I wanted to know if the large jug I was now pointing at contained what I suspected.

  “Yes, it does,” confirmed the proprietor.

  “Thank fuck,” said Mathew.

  “Does your friend want a glassful?”

  “Fuck, yes.”

  Again I jumped in.

  “Combien?”

  The man gave me his price, which I quickly paid.

  Naturally it took the proprietor an age to get his backside in gear, faffing about with nothing important before oh…so…slowly pouring the drink, my mouth attempting but failing to salivate at the mere look and sound of the liquid splashing into the tumbler, let alone the idea of how it would feel against my shrivelled tongue. The ‘chink’ of glass against glass as he eased the jug, even....……...more
..........…slowly, back amongst the fridge’s other vessels teased me further, goddammit.

  When finally the glass was in my hand, like the renowned titular scene in Ice cold In Alex I took a long look at the beverage I’d been handed (okay, it wasn’t that long, but the length of time it took the Mr Tease to transport it to my impatient grasp deserves the prose) before allowing my fingers to greedily close around the snowy outer layer. But there was no John Mills pause from me, its prized kernel of nectar lifted instantly to my willing mouth.

  At this moment I could have gulped it down, but took my time, savouring every nuance of the liquid’s texture — the delicacy of its touch; the wetness; the chill against my throat. However, unlike the murky and warm rainwater I had sampled at the missionary’s house, it was the combination of clarity and coldness of this drink that did it for me. Oh yes, despite my desire for raspberryade, or anything fizzy, anything pop, I have to say that of all the drinks I’ve ever had, it was that lone glass of liquid that stands out as my most memorable.

  So hats off to iced water.

  After the delights of my finest–ever drink, I decided to introduce Mathew to Shaggy, who had failed to secure an acceptable bid for the pirogue. As you would, I ribbed my pal that when it came to bartering he was clearly not as talented as the great Sean, furthering the banter by explaining (in nauseating detail — twice) the astonishing healing qualities of, “a thirst–quencher that is so gorgeously cold and out of this world that it blows the temptation of Pooh Bear’s honey off the planet.” Goodness knows why this led the still–dehydrated Shaggy to refer to me as someone with no known father, after which he asked me to stay with the pirogue so that he too could sample the “Wonder Drink”. But Mathew had a far better idea. Promising that the chances of the unsold pirogue being stolen were next to nothing, he suggested we would probably be able to leave our belongings “in fucking town” at the Catholic mission — where, apparently, he had learned to speak English! Being tied to neither bags nor pirogue sounded an admirable plan to us, and before long we had reached the place in question. Yes, we could leave our bags.

  “That priest was a nice person,” I said, as we departed the mission. “Surely he didn’t teach you to swear?”

  “Fuck, no. I picked that up later.”

  It felt good not having the weight or worry of our rucksacks as we ambled about The Jewel. A sense of well–being that increased further when Mathew started singing our praises once again, this time telling anyone he knew words to the effect of: “These are the two celebrities currently hitting the fucking headlines.” Since both our new friend and the story appeared to be somewhat popular, in next to no time we were receiving a fair amount of back–slapping homage, to the point that we finished up strutting like a couple of prize peacocks. All we needed now was the Bee Gees’ ‘Stayin’ Alive’ as a backdrop and we were sorted.

  “See those fuckers over there staring at you,” continued Mathew, “fuck, man, they know of you. You are fucking famous.”

  “Yeah,” said Shaggy, “bet they’re saying — ‘That tall blond bloke, wow, that’s the real Indiana Jones’.”

  “Nah,” I countered, “they’re saying — ‘That dark–haired guy, he’s the real James Bond. The blond fella is Chewbacca from Star Wars’.”

  “You mean Han Solo.”

  “Princess Leia, actually.”

  “Says Yoda.”

  After Shaggy’s sampling of “Definitely the coldest, most beautiful thirst–quencher”, we visited Mathew’s family home, which was typical of most of the smaller abodes around Bumba — a single–storey, but roomy, clay shack that stood back from a tree–lined, dusty, potholed and pavementless road.

  We stayed only briefly at Mathew’s, just long enough to kill time before the bars’ opening hour, then headed straight to them.

  No raspberryade.

  To moderate this earth–shattering catastrophe, we instead stopped off at an allegedly cheap restaurant. Despite receiving our colas right away, as expected we had to wait an age for the meal, and after a full hour’s conversation on myriad subjects, Shaggy decided to lighten the discussion.

  “Do you know the answer to this, Mathew? If you were forced to choose between spending twenty–four hours in one of three rooms, which would you pick? One that is full of lions that haven’t eaten for two years, one that is full of venomous snakes, or one that is full of murderers with knives?”

  Mathew hardly blinked: “The fucking lions. If they haven’t eaten for two years, they will be fucking dead.”

  “Bit quicker than you, Shaggy,” I joshed.

  “You definitely said two days.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  More joking helped fill the next twenty minutes, but come another twenty — and still no meal — we were all talked out, although I eventually broke the silence.

  “Listen to this, I’ve been doing some maths. We spent a total of six days on the Congo. That’s six times twenty–four hours, which is one–hundred–and–forty–four. Now then, we floated each night except for the first two, where we moored for an average of seven hours each, so that’s take fourteen. If we also subtract time for stopping — so we’ve got the storms, buying foodstuff, finding water, getting some shade, and exploring that wood yard, etcetera, I reckon that totals about five hours — so that’s minus five and fourteen, so nineteen. Anyway, take that from one–hundred–and–forty–four...”

  “Wake me when you’ve finished,” said Shaggy.

  “Isn’t that what your last girlfriend used to say?”

  “No, she used to ask why your nickname is Inchworm.”

  “I hope you told her that that was the distance from the floor.”

  “I did, but then she asked if you were a leg amputee from birth.”

  “I am, but don’t these six–feet–long false legs look good.”

  Mathew’s polite chuckle told me that whilst he was enjoying the repartee, our very British humour had undoubtedly become lost on him. Since Shaggy’s asphyxiated expression also told me he had been checkmated, I gladly returned to the subject under debate.

  “As I was saying, the total hours travelled is one–hundred–and–forty–four take nineteen, that’s one–hundred–and–twenty–five. The number of miles is two–hundred–and–thirty. From that we can work out our average speed.”

  “Which is?” asked Shaggy.

  “Work it out.”

  Shaggy groaned but had a bash anyway. “To get miles per hour it would be two–hundred–and–thirty divided by one–hundred–and–twenty–five, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Okay, so that’s about…”

  “One–point–fucking–eight,” cut in engineer Mathew.

  “Ooh, close enough. One–point–eight–four to be exact.”

  “Miles per hour?” asked a shocked Shaggy. “Bloody hell, I knew it was slow but I hadn’t realised it was that slow.”

  “Fuck,” said Mathew.

  The pirogue voyage wasn’t the only thing lacking progress. Despite the restaurant being quiet, we had to hang around for another twenty minutes before getting our meal. Then we were overcharged, and all three of us indulged in a few harsh words with the manager, Mathew effing for all he was worth.

  Believing that the riverboat wouldn’t be arriving until tomorrow, our next objective was to book into a doss–house. We subsequently obtained a decrepit ‘prison cell’ room, situated in a row of five or six, with a battered chair and desk, and a pair of battered beds, with no bathroom or toilet. All the same, it was somewhere to sleep, and for the equivalent of only fifty pence each per night, even Shaggy couldn’t protest. We retrieved our paraphernalia from the mission and moved in.

  In general, when you retain a room you have to leave by a pre–established time the following morning. This constitutes “one day”, irrespective of whether you have checked in the previous afternoon, evening, or even in the early hours of the morning. However, since we were now pretty adept at the African way
(haggle over everything), we had managed to talk this owner into letting us pay for one night only, on the proviso that we left no later than twenty–four hours after our teatime arrival. Had we not wangled this, we would have had to move our stuff out before 10am, or pay for two days.

  At this juncture I was more than happy. Even if we’d had to pay a pound each for two days, it was still a very reasonable figure, despite the bleakness of the room. So no way was I going to complain at fifty pence. Nor indeed was Shaggy, until he later discovered the locals had to pay only half as much, which induced a predictable, “Is he taking the piss?”

  Just as when we had a couple of times been required to pay more for hitches here in Zaire, personally I didn’t mind coughing up a little extra. As long as that’s all it was, a little bit. Of course, had the surplus fare been expected of me in a wealthier setting I might not have been so lenient, but these people were in comparison with our standard of living very poor. Rather than being an excessive payment for me, the twenty–five pence difference seemed a revenue for them that was hard to begrudge. But Shaggy wasn’t so understanding.

  “It’s not the money, it’s the principle,” he contended. “What does it matter where you come from, everyone should pay the same.” But in time he relented. “Alright, let’s just leave it. Tell you what, though, I’ll bet that toe–rag tries to renege on our deal.”

  That evening Mathew led us back to Bumba’s centre, passing a scattering of little stalls that sold various edibles — we plumped for goat meat, sweets and gum — on the way to the most significant event of the evening: The Jewel’s very own open–air disco. This consisted of a wooden dance–floor and bar, surrounded by lots of benches. What we understood to be French as well as African music was played via a tape–recorder and loudspeaker, and the people of Bumba, Mathew in particular, danced with much style, while anyone not boogieing drank copious amounts of booze. Not us two Brits, mind you. Even though we were each handed a lager by a reverential contact of Mathew, to be blunt we only accepted them out of courtesy and, try as we might, neither of us could finish them — the memories of Primus and waking in the morning with dehydration had completely put us off alcohol.