Drums Along the Congo Read online

  CHAPTER 13

  THE VILLAGE LIGHTS sputter to life at eight on the dot. Minutes later the night air fills with soft chattering as people emerge from their houses and make their way toward the center of town. Innocent and I join the thirty people seated outside staring at a snowy television screen. Several other sets cackle in the background, but we stay put after a young boy grabs hold of the TV antenna, and an image of a sort flashes on the one channel. “Turn it slowly,” someone tells the boy.

  “Voilà!” people shout as the snow clears.

  A grainy image of a man wearing a gorilla costume appears. He’s beating his chest and growling something unintelligible. The screen goes black for a second, and then a man wearing a loincloth and belt studded with shrunken heads fills the screen. Twisted into his matted hair are chopsticks and more shrunken heads.

  “Chasseur de têtes,” Innocent says.

  The camera pulls back to reveal a wrestling arena filled with thousands of shrieking fans. The ringside announcer delivers an extravagant introduction for the Gorilla of Zaire and the Headhunter. Tonight’s match is for the heavyweight championship of Central Africa. The referee pulls the two wrestlers into the center of the ring, where instead of shaking hands, they immediately exchange blows and toss the referee to the mat. The fans around me leap up, cheering and whistling. The wrestlers strip off their warm-up suits, and the featured “Battle Between Man and Beast” commences.

  The Epena crowd is evenly split at first, but by the third round, when the Gorilla begins to tire, missing Atomic knee drops and flubbing Big Bang Missile kicks, everyone starts rooting for the Headhunter. The match ends in round five when the Headhunter hurls the Gorilla of Zaire into the second tier, apparently impaling him on a fold-up metal chair.

  In place of a commercial, the program breaks for a five-minute message from President Mobutu, reminding viewers how hard the government is working to build a better Zaire. The Epena crowd isn’t impressed and starts chanting for the next match as the screen scrolls images of President Mobutu visiting construction projects, factories, and hospital wards. Wrestling is Mobutu’s passion, and thirty percent of TV Zaire programming is dedicated to his favorite sport. I’ve been told that diplomats regularly check the wrestling card before scheduling an appointment.

  The action returns to ringside with a match between midget tag teams. I decide to go for a walk.

  Moonrise is late tonight, and the dark sky is spangled with stars. This close to the equator both northern and southern constellations can be seen. Polaris is barely visible at the extreme edge of the northern heavens, while the tip of the Octant peeks over the brink of the southern sky; the Twins are about to disappear, and the Archer is creeping into view.

  “Bonsoir, monsieur. Do you know the stars?” a female voice asks from somewhere behind me.

  “A little,” I answer, turning to see a gown floating toward me, its voluminous sleeves billowing in the soft breeze. The outline of a woman emerges. Her step seems unnaturally light, and I feel my pulse quicken as she approaches.

  “What’s that star?” She points to the southern sky. “The bright one, near those other four.”

  I try to focus on the heavens and not on her alluring scent of coconut and camphor.

  “Up there, the bright star. Can you see it?”

  Her slender forefinger is pointing to the Ship, a group of four constellations defining what the Ancient Greeks fancied as the final anchorage of the Argo.

  “That’s Canopus,” I tell her, explaining that it’s the second-brightest star in the sky, maybe two thousand times brighter than our sun.

  “My mother said that is where my father’s spirit is. She says he was too good for this earth.”

  I offer her a cigarette, hoping to see her face by the glow of a match; unfortunately, she doesn’t smoke. We stand silently gazing up.

  “I must tell my mother that he is two thousand times brighter than the sun. It will make her happy. Merci beau-coup, monsieur. Bonsoir.” She turns and walks away, her dress streaming out again like a cloud.

  I’m still lingering at the same spot at ten o’clock, when the wrestling matches end and the electricity is shut off. Children and parents shuffle toward home, and the singles begin their nightly promenade, or mêlé masse. The women walk in twos or threes, the men in packs of five or six, the groups exchanging shy, sly smiles as they pass.

  “There he is. I can see his head,” says a familiar voice.

  I turn and see Innocent walking toward me with three men I don’t know.

  Innocent introduces me to Marc, Caspar, and Alain. “They’re musicians. They’ve invited us to a jam session.”

  “What kind of music?” I ask.

  “Drums … the big sound,” Marc replies, adding that he’s the leader of the band.

  “There’s no one better than us,” Caspar boasts. This is quite a statement, considering that Epena may be the percussion center of the world. The villages of Tom-Tom, Bongo, and Conga are all within paddling distance.

  We walk toward the manioc fields and duck under an open structure with a thatched roof. Caspar lights a kerosene lantern hanging dangerously close to the eaves. Marc snaps off a tarp covering the instruments: three tom-toms, several sets of bongos, two fifty-five-gallon barrels, and a seven-foot section of hollowed tree trunk with a slot cut in it.

  Caspar cradles a tom-tom while Alain props up one of the metal barrels. It’s perforated with holes and shingled with rust. “You want old wood for your bongos and old steel for your drums. The rust adds to the sound … softens it,” Alain explains.

  Marc, who plays the large tree trunk, is the official drummer of Epena. “I send messages and interpret the ones that come in… Mostly, I play for entertainment. People love to hear the drums.”

  He makes a living by performing at weddings and traditional ceremonies, which, sadly, are less and less frequent here. Some of the smaller villages deeper in the jungle, though, maintain many of the old rituals. In Bontongo, for instance, there’s a daylong celebration whenever a girl reaches puberty or a baby is born; twice a year there is a men’s festival celebrating the birthdays of boys turning seven.

  Alain and Caspar work by day as fishermen, but drums are their passion.

  “The drums are magic. They can make problems disappear,” Marc says, and places a kiss on the big drum.

  For centuries drums were the only means of communicating over long distances here. A finely tuned network of drummers maintained constant vigil, ready to relay messages anywhere in the Bantu universe. The drums rapped out messages in a common code that most tribes understood; it was the only way a Fang could talk to a Ubangi without an interpreter.

  The first wireless was brought to Epena by Christian missionaries, but the local people were seldom allowed to send or receive messages. One priest required them to answer catechism questions before listening to radio news or music broadcasts. It wasn’t until the 1960s that the air waves were freed in this part of the Congo, and telephones are still not in use.

  The weather, more than anything else, affects the speed and clarity of drum transmissions. A cloudy day is best, as the low ceiling captures the sound and bounces it back to the ground. Rainy days are the worst: the drums must compete with the water noise and penetrate the sodden air. I ask how long it takes to send a message to Brazzaville.

  “Four years ago I sent out a birthday greeting, and my friend got the message in three hours,” Marc recalls, adding that any record would have been set years before he was born. In the old days the drums were used to warn of approaching slavers, French troops, and enemy tribes.

  There’s not a cloud in the sky tonight, so there’s little chance that anyone in Impfondo will be able to hear the Epena drum, but if we’re lucky, Marc might raise Boha to the west and Molembé to the east.

  “Let’s see who’s out there,” Marc says, rolling up his sleeves.

  We step back as he closes his eyes and starts to shake his arms like a swimmer on t
he starting block. Suddenly the air whooshes past me, each whack of the drum supercharging the molecules around us. Dust and bits of thatch sift down on us from the rooftop. My body starts to vibrate to the tempo; muscles loosen and bones start knocking. I feel like a freshly plucked bass string.

  Boom-boma-rahbooom-boom-bam-boom-boma-rahboom-boombam…

  Alain tells me that Marc is tapping out the standard salutation. Anyone in the area will recognize the distinct rhythm of Epena—the village call letters, so to speak. While we wait for responses, I’m appointed the timekeeper; the others will identify the replies as they come in.

  “Bole,” Marc shouts, left hand cupping his ear.

  “One minute and forty-eight seconds,” I announce.

  “Djéké,” Alain notes, as another drum voice thunders.

  “Ah, there’s Boha. It’s a little weak, but that’s their sound,” Marc whispers, matching his voice to the faint thumps.

  Within ten minutes a number of villages have responded to our call, and Marc raises his sticks, takes a deep breath, and pounds the wood for several minutes, sending a message out twice. Everyone glances my way and laughs.

  Innocent translates: “We have a hairless mundélé looking for some hair of Mokele-Mbembe. Advice?”

  The drummer in Molembé says, “Curse him who goes after the god of the jungle.” From Botongo comes a request: “Tell the bald one to bring shotgun shells. We will trade hats for shells.” Boha’s response is a flat, “We own the lake. Bring money.” Boha does control the access to Lake Télé, which lies on the northern edge of their tribal land.

  Marc offers me a set of bongos covered in goatskin. Like the larger drums, whose walls vary in thickness to produce different tones, the bongos have tapered sides and have been tuned to a traditional scale. Alain says the drum cavities are crafted with a small adze and a curved chisel; the final minute adjustments are made with a razor blade.

  “Are you going to use your hands or do you want drumsticks?” Marc asks.

  I take the drumsticks thrust my way. They are carved from lignum vitae and have small balls on their tips.

  “Rubber,” Alain explains. “You dip the tips like candles until you get the size you want.”

  I slip the bongos between my knees, trying to recall the technique Maynard G. Krebs displayed on “Dobie Gillis.”

  “Start out slow. Try to repeat what I play,” Marc coaches, rapping out a simple sequence on another set of bongos.

  Bong-boom-a-boom-a-bong.

  Bong-ga-boom-a-boom-thwap-thud, I reply with my hands.

  I try several more times, but my mind seems far ahead of my motor skills. This lack of musical ability has dogged me since childhood, when my piano teacher dismissed me and returned the instruction fee to my parents. Attitude, I assure myself, it’s all a matter of attitude. I concentrate, redoubling my effort, but alas I end up whacking my own fingers.

  Marc suggests I close my eyes. “Follow the sound… Let it start in your gut, not in your head. Let it flow.”

  Boingga-boom-bonga-dum-thud-thwap. “Dammit.”

  “Hit the goatskins,” someone shouts.

  Marc declares my practice session over. It’s their turn to play. Marc and Caspar set up, while Alain adjusts the rusty barrel. At this time of night, the huge village drum is used only to send messages. Alain taps the barrel and counts out, “Un-deux-trois-ah-un-deux…”

  Alain keeps rhythm while Marc and Caspar exchange the lead, their arms pumping like teletype keys. Caspar makes the drum shout with short, frenetic bursts; Marc mixes it up, coaxing his drum to bark or purr, improvising as he goes, his face flashing with emotion.

  I suddenly sense the basic flaw in my approach to the bongos. Instead of surrendering to the sound, I was trying to control it; I allowed no room for the drums to speak for themselves. Now, as I relax, my hands magically begin slapping my thighs in perfect time. The music enters my blood. I start dancing, shaking like a wet dog. When the drummers break, releasing me from my joyous trance, I slump to the ground, abruptly reminded of how little I’ve slept in the last few days.

  “Well, you’re a better dancer than drummer,” Innocent offers. “How come you can’t move your hands like your legs?”

  A few minutes later I head for the sack. Bidding me good night, Marc plays a special number he dubs “Le Rêve du Dinosaure.” The tune follows me back to our house.

  I dream of walking through the jungle with my old teacher, Patrick; he smoothes over problems with menacing swamp cats, hissing snakes, and buzzing tsetses; when I’m stumped by the name of an orchid, he’s there to rattle off family, genus, and species; we eat what he has gathered in the forest, his expert eye able to sort out the deadly from the delightful.

  Patrick was recommended to me by a friend who once worked as a journalist in Africa. “He’s the best there is,” my friend said. “If anyone can teach you how to stay alive in the jungle, he can.” My friend wrote down a telephone number, and I called Patrick, who lives in New York City when he’s not in Africa.

  We spent many hours together in a basic crash course in jungle survival. Our open-air classroom was Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx. At night we would retreat to the warm glow of McCann’s Bar, and Patrick would spread various field guides out on the bar and continue my education until last call. He gave me a long list of recommended books and made me memorize entire chapters from the field guides and army manuals. He too considered himself the best in the world, and he expected his students to be the second best.

  By the end of the ten-day course, I could identify most African snakes and knew the best ways to cook them; I could make a spear out of a tree branch and a crossbow out of a spear, build a snare trap, concoct poisons, and tell the footprint of a duiker from that of a reedbuck.

  Snow was falling in the Bronx for our last class. Patrick brought along a colleague to act as an examiner. When I went to shake hands, he threw a stick to the ground and growled, “Snake. Two meters long. Green with a yellow tail and black margins. What is it and what do you do?”

  “Green mamba, Dendroaspis jamesonii. Keep arms at the sides and move slowly backward. No sudden movements, mambas strike when challenged. Black-snake serum for bites. Four intermuscular and four intramuscular shots in two rings around the bite.”

  CHAPTER 14

  MY PADDLE HAS BEEN carefully fashioned from the buttress of a plane tree to resemble a palm frond. It is over six feet long, but exceptionally light and flexible; its shaft has been polished and is quite comfortable to grip.

  “In Epena all paddlers stand,” Caspar instructs.

  “Right,” I say, rising to a shaky stance.

  Alain casts a nervous glance my way; one awkward movement will send us all swimming. Empty, the pirogue rocks alarmingly in a zephyr; fully loaded, with the weight piled up high, it’s even less stable. Fourteen feet long and as slim as a cigar, the pirogue provides speed at the expense of comfort and stability. The boat is an elbow-scraping twenty-one inches wide, and the rails stop just six inches above the water. The bow draws to an abrupt point, good for slicing through reeds and snags, but lousy in quartering seas.

  “Very safe … very pretty,” Caspar assures me, thumping the sheer.

  He stands on the transom, his heels jutting out over the water; as steersman he uses a special oar, longer and thinner than ours. He occasionally sculls with it, but usually it functions as a push pole. In one rhythmic motion, he thrusts the tip down into the bottom, lays his weight into it, pivots to correct course, and pushes off. When we reach the hunting grounds, he alone will move us. Our thick paddles, he announces, are too noisy for the delicate work.

  “Watch me,” Alain says from the bow, coaching us greenhorns on how to pull a paddle. “It’s all in the wrist.”

  Within twenty minutes the paddling begins to feel automatic. My arms and shoulders become attuned to the paddle; the wood connects me to the river, and I can feel its energy vibrate through the shaft. Balance is no longer a problem as my legs an
d hips shift automatically as the boat tips. As Innocent observes, “It’s easy once you pick up the beat.”

  “Taisez-vous!” Alain commands. He ships his paddle and drops to a knee, leaning outboard, as his eyes search the shoreline. The pirogue glides along until it loses its momentum and starts a lazy spin downstream. A fish jumps clear of the surface just as a pair of fruit pigeons dart from the forest, brazenly flying inches off our starboard rail, their wings fanning the air around us.

  “What did you hear?” Caspar asks his partner.

  “I thought it was the voice, but I’m not so sure anymore.” Alain picks up his paddle, and we resume course.

  The voice belongs to the river spirit, who sometimes tells him where to fish or hunt for crocodiles. Caspar can also hear the spirit, but not as well as Alain, who, they say, has a special gift. Alain urges me to listen, noting that sometimes the water god takes an interest in outsiders. “You’ll know the voice when you hear it.”

  “The gods are always talking, but we don’t listen enough,” Caspar adds.

  We’re fortunate to be traveling on the Likouala aux Herbes, he and Alain tell me, because the older the river, the more powerful its spirit. According to them, everything around us is empowered by a spirit, every blade of grass a piece in the giant mosaic. Alain points to a macrolobium tree and tells me that when he concentrates and communes with the tree, he makes contact not only with its spirit but with the whole of nature itself, a divinity that is the sum of all worldly parts. “One spirit leads to another,” he says. “The tree moves in the wind and shares the sky; it drinks the water and absorbs the sun … and its leaves feed the animals.”

  Caspar draws our attention back to the hunt. Up ahead is the giant kapok tree marking the edge of the crocodile hunting grounds. It’s an area of mud flats, small islands, and gently sloping banks. “Keep an eye on the tall grass. Crocodiles love it there.”

  Alain suddenly bends over to scratch his right foot and nervously glances about. I notice he’s missing two toes.