Zaire - part 2

I began the journey along the track from Bumba to Lisala, where apparently I would be able to board a boat up the Congo, one late afternoon on the top of a grossly overladen goods lorry. It soon began to rain and many of the twenty or so other passengers elected to take shelter under the tarpaulin. As I preferred to be able to see out, even at the cost of getting wet, this allowed me to move to grab a spot at the front, overlooking the top of the drivers’ cabin. Initially there was some consternation at this, which turned out to be caused by the fact that I had chosen as a seat a cardboard box containing wine glasses. Zaire is not noted for its wine.

Peering ahead into the early evening gloom, I saw a woman some distance ahead flagging down our truck by waving her large black handbag. We slowed, the driver evidently anticipating another fee paying passenger. As we drew nearer to the woman, however, it became apparent that her handbag was in fact a dead monkey, its tail pulled up and around its neck before rigor mortis had set in and then employed as a waving-handle, which she wished to sell us for our supper. Our driver declined. I was glad of this at the time, but rather regretted it later when our evening meal, apparently included in the fare, turned out to include some exceptionally ‘mature’ goat stew. Fresh monkey, I could not help but feel – and that monkey could only have been fresher than my portion of goat – would have been greatly preferable.

After our disturbing meal, we continued in darkness until apparently we reached the end of our ride on this particular truck. We were in a small, sleeping village, and the other passengers quickly dispersed. I found a dry doorway and got into my sleeping bag.

Next morning there was no transport. A small stall sold warm Fanta and tinned Moroccan sardines (every stall in Africa sells tinned Moroccan sardines), so I bought some for breakfast. Many of yesterday’s passengers reappeared and settled down to wait for some means of leaving the village. I fell into conversation with a travelling businessman named Raoul. He was sitting on a large sack of plastic sandals purchased from the Central African Republic which he planned to sell at the market in Lisala. I bought him a warm Fanta while we chatted. At some point I revealed that I was English. A thoughtful look came into his eyes and he beckoned me over to a quiet corner.

 

“Do you know, about, ahh, men’s problems?” he whispered. “Problems with sex I mean,” he clarified. No reply suggested itself, especially in my O-level French, so I nodded noncomitally. He reached into a pocket and produced a piece of paper. It turned out to be a letter, written in the most ornate official-style business French, addressed to a firm in Minnesota which produced – presumably – devices which would assist with “men’s problems.” The names of the products had been laboriously, but unfortunately, transcribed letter by letter from their original English, probably from an advert in the back of a magazine. The letter solemnly requested samples be sent of, amongst others, the ‘Sunrise Ejection Assistent.’

“I sent this letter,” Raoul explained, sipping his tepid Fanta, “but I have had no reply.” I tried to imagine what the firm in Minnesota had made of an earnest written request in a foreign language for samples of their probably bogus products to be sent to a small town in Zaire. “I wonder,” went on Raoul diffidently, “if they did not reply because I did not write in English?” It was possible, I agreed, while attempting to conjure a picture in my mind of the Sunrise Ejection Assistent. “Could you possibly write me a letter in English expressing my request?” he asked.  It would pass the time constructively and make a positive contribution to a third world economy, so I set about a written request for a specimen Sunrise Erection Assistant for evaluation with a view to a larger order being made if its performance was satisfactory.

As I completed this task, a small van driven by a government contractor pulled up, looking for paying passengers to Lisala. Most of the other travellers had too much luggage for the van, and the contractor was asking double the usual fare as well, but pointing to my small rucksack they urged me to board.

Travel-stained

After the trucks of the previous days, sitting in a proper car seat, and unbelievably reaching 80km per hour at one point along the tracks, this was first class travel, Zairean style. Five of the other six passengers were a cheerful bunch too, sharing a bag of nuts with me and asking me what England was like. The sixth, strapped into a seatbelt and occupying a premium space on the back seat by the window, was a large white goat, which bleated conversationally throughout the journey.

They dropped me off in a “motel” at the edge of Lisala. I was shown to a pleasant looking room with a fine white-tiled bathroom and a sort of mock-chandelier with a lightbulb still fitted in its centre. I was in the process of haggling over the price when a maid hurried in. She set down a couple of candles and some matches on the table, and heaved her full bucket of water into the bathroom. “If you need more water to wash or to flush the toilet, you can ask Maria here, or you can draw the water from the well yourself.”