Drums Along the Congo Read online

  It’s Emmanuel Emugamila, a retired elephant hunter who claims to have seen Mokele-Mbembe three times, once in the nearby Sangha River and twice on the Likouala aux Herbes. He’s the man who showed Mackal the footprint in 1981, the same one Rothermel saw last week.

  The crew of the Speedy confer, and Innocent acts as our spokesman, telling Emmanuel that we plan to stop and hire him on our return trip; right now we’re all anxious to reach Boha before dark.

  “I’ll be here… The footprint will be here,” he assures us.

  A little farther downstream, near a blossoming kapok, its branches studded with the white buttons whose fluff is used in life jackets, we turn off the Likouala aux Herbes and head northward into a sluggish current.

  “Bai River,” Prosper announces, scooping a handful of the river into Speedy and mumbling a short prayer. “The river is a welcome guest aboard this boat.”

  Innocent rifles through our stores of fresh fruit and hands out limes. One by one, we toss them overboard, each fruit part wish and part offering.

  Sangha navigators usually step ashore when they change river courses and pluck a leaf from a tree believed to be tenanted by the guardian of the river. Prosper, a Bakota tribesman, says the Sanghas live in the past, whereas he’s a modern, educated man.

  “I’m not as superstitious as they are in the far north and west,” he tells me.

  Several minutes later we sight the first birds we’ve seen since Epena. A shining blue kingfisher barrels out of the forest and skims along our wake. A yellowtail coucal greedily pecks at a fig vine between glances at our noisy boat; as we close in on it, the coucal puffs its gray-blue chest and darts for the deep cover of the canopy. High overhead, flying a zigzag course, is a pair of superb-sunbirds, Nectarinia superba. The male dips its shoulder, showing off its metallic blue-green coloring; the female remains steady, her lemon-yellow feathers gilded by the midafternoon sunshine.

  The water of the Bai is a rich brown, almost cocoa, suffused with silt and nutrients leached from the jungle floor. I dip a bug-collecting jar into the stream, raise it to the light, and examine the soupy mix of tiny worms and vegetation. A magnifying glass reveals scores of other worms, larvae, and a few creatures that look like mites. God knows how many life forms are in this one cup of water, and I imagine that a similar broth was once lapped by dinosaurs back in the Cretaceous period.

  The numerous large prairies floating down on us keep Prosper on the alert at the helm. One lollapalooza supports a stand of reeds and a twelve-foot-tall willow tree.

  “Good fishing,” Innocent advises, echoing what I had heard around Stanley Pool.

  Every so often Prosper must throttle down as the Bai narrows to a stream only a few yards wide. In these short stretches, Innocent and Theo watch for fallen trees and shallows as I stay ready to tilt the outboard shaft up. Prosper spends these moments cursing the dry season. If, within the next few weeks, it doesn’t rain heavily, the Bai will be too low in spots to use a motor.

  “I ordered a spare propeller and a box of shear pins five months ago, but nothing arrived except the bill,” Prosper laments, adding, “You’re lucky, you know. When the poles and paddles come out, my rates go way up.”

  Innocent grabs the binoculars and focuses on something up ahead. Instinctively, Prosper idles the engine.

  “Mud flat?” the skipper asks, pushing his glasses up his nose.

  “There’s a pirogue up there. Turn off the engine,” Innocent says softly. Our momentum carries us silently along. “It doesn’t look right. Could be a poacher.”

  I can barely make out the profile of a small pirogue under a mess of vines overhanging the left bank. Someone has heaped leaves atop the rails and draped lianas over the sides, as if to camouflage it.

  Prosper steers for the pirogue as I take out a push pole and try to keep Speedy moving—no easy task, I soon discover. Innocent fishes inside his bag and pulls out his forestry badge, a gold shield signifying his senior status in the department. He also dons a set of collar buttons, two gold bars crossing a black circle, the coveted mark of distinguished service and a rare honor for someone not in the military. He pulls rank on Theo and comandeers Speedy in the name of the People’s Republic of the Congo.

  “We’re on government business now!” he barks.

  “Yes, sir!” Prosper answers.

  Theo salutes.

  We’re about fifteen yards from the other pirogue when the vines above its bow begin to shake; a few seconds pass and we hear the sound of snapping twigs.

  “Arrêtez! Arrêtez-la…” Innocent commands, standing and raising his fist. “Arrêtez!” he shouts repeatedly. “Forestry agent!… Arrêtez! Forestry agent.”

  Leaves continue to rustle and lianas jiggle, but we can’t see who or what is behind them. Theo thinks it’s two men; Prosper is sure it’s only one. In the distance we can hear the Djéké drum pounding out the news of our boat and crew.

  “They knew we were coming.” Innocent turns to me. “Push, dammit, push.”

  When I push us closer, we can see a canvas tarp amidships, nearly covered by the leaves. I lean into the pole one last time, bringing Speedy alongside the pirate pirogue. Innocent grabs hold and yanks back the tarp, exposing a cache of small elephant tusks. He orders the poacher to come forward.

  “Last chance,” he yells. He turns to Theo and orders him to prepare to fire into the air. Theo salutes again and swings his AK-47 into place, aiming into the treetops. “Show yourself or we fire!” There’s no response.

  “Pointez!”

  Theo nods, clicks off the safety, brings a shell into the chamber, and lays his cheek against the gunstock.

  “Tirez!”

  Theo pulls the trigger. Four shots burst from the barrel of the AK-47. “Merde,” he says, “I forgot to disengage the automatic.”

  The forest becomes eerily silent. The gunshots leave a bluish cloud that rises slowly in the calm air. Innocent yells again for the poacher to surrender and takes Polaroids of the ivory. He orders us to probe the river bottom with our push poles.

  “They usually throw the big tusks overboard and come back for them later.”

  Innocent’s gold bars were awarded for his efforts to halt the ivory trade. He wrote the federal report on poachers and their industry, and he drew up several sections of the law itself. He’s also responsible for reforms that prohibit the killing of gorillas, chimpanzees, and female monkeys of certain endangered species. After years of research on poachers, he’s eager to catch this one, but Prosper and Theo wisely advise against going after an armed man in such dense cover. They finally convince Innocent to tow the boat to Ipongui, where he can file a report and alert the police to look out for anyone hitching a ride on the river.

  We spend a few more minutes unsuccessfully probing the bottom for jettisoned ivory, then motor off with the pirogue in tow. When we arrive at the village, Innocent gathers the local council, but the chief says they know nothing about ivory or poachers. His village is peace-loving and law-abiding. The village drummer pounds out an alert, and two councilmen sign the bottom of Innocent’s hurriedly written report. The poacher’s canoe will stay here, but Prosper will deliver the report and the confiscated ivory to the commandant in Epena.

  “Don’t you have something good to offer our poor village?” a councilman asks, eyeing the cases of liquor.

  We pass out our gifts and stay one drink too long. By the time we’re aboard old Speedy, we’re as tipsy as she is. Innocent and Theo start singing in Lingala as Prosper tries to steer a straight course.

  Theo watches me fidget with a camera and stops singing. “Mon dieu,” he exclaims, his lower jaw springing out like a cash drawer. “Think of what Mokele-Mbembe is worth … just one picture will bring in millions and millions.”

  He’s stumbled onto a disturbing prospect that I’ve been contemplating for quite some time: the impact on the region if we see and document a living dinosaur. Scientists and tourists would come by the thousands, disturbing the tradi
tional rhythms of life. The ecology could be altered, perhaps disastrously, particularly since the Congolese government, teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, is desperate for new sources of revenue. The lumber companies already clear-cut 145 acres of rain forest a day, and Brazzaville would be quick to build an airfield and hotels near the lake, no doubt leveling miles of trees to make room for them. As Theo and Prosper dream aloud of owning hotels and fleets of boats to ferry tourists, Innocent remains silent. I sense that he shares my apprehension.

  “Of course, my friends, you will stay at my hotel for free,” Theo promises.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE VILLAGE SCHOOLTEACHER greets us from under the sago palms of Boha. Since his name is “As long as a moonless night,” he suggests we just call him Teacher. His puffy cheeks suggest an ample build, but it’s impossible to tell what lies underneath his voluminous paisley robe. As he moves, the robe balloons and collapses like a working model of a lung. We follow him down a wide laterite path separating two rows of tan brick houses that have rain barrels set under the eaves. Behind the houses are rickety wooden structures of various shapes and sizes. A few have palm-frond roofs, but most are open to the sky and tip precariously one way or another.

  “The old houses?” I ask.

  “Not old, not new, not houses … just kitchens and sheds. Wood doesn’t last long around here. Powder-posts are everywhere,” Teacher says, referring to powder-post beetles, voracious pests that tunnel through wood, leaving a trail of dust in their wake.

  Village women are peeking out at us from behind their curtained doorways, but only the village goats come out to greet us, their nostrils flaring as they sniff my bags.

  “What’s in there? Fruit?” Theo asks, shooing the goats away as I bend down to unzip the canvas satchel, releasing a sweet smell.

  “It’s not your clothes,” Innocent says from experience.

  I remove the T-shirts and discover an unfamiliar package wrapped in plantain leaves, as well as two smaller bundles I didn’t pack. Innocent and Theo don’t recognize them either.

  Inside one bundle are five shotgun shells and a note wishing us luck from Alain, Caspar, and Marc; the other contains two shotgun shells and two handkerchiefs, with a message from Prosper reminding me to keep my head covered. Innocent peels back the plantain leaves of the large package and finds some mouthwatering pineapple drenched in honey. We eat half of it before I notice the blurred writing on one of the outer leaves.

  Innocent manages to decipher a few words: “Thank you … brother star … father spirit…”

  I grab the leaf and quickly pocket it.

  “Who’s it from?”

  “A friend.” I ask Teacher to give some pineapple to the children playing peek-a-boo behind the rain barrels. My few minutes of enchantment with Monique shall remain private.

  The children devour the pineapple, and we resume walking. At the last house on the right, Teacher tells us to wait. He pops inside for several seconds and returns with outstretched arms, palms up. With an exaggerated shrug, he says the village council is meeting inside and will summon us when they’re ready. He leaves for the schoolhouse, a long, thin building tucked behind rows of pineapple plants and citrus trees. We pass the time watching the western sky change guard, the gathering forces of purple chasing the pink and gold across the horizon. As the light fades, the jungle sounds intensify; the shrill cry of a black-and-white hornbill is drowned out by the hooting of monkeys, while cicadas begin to trill ceaselessly in the background.

  Streams of white smoke rise from the kitchens behind every house. Metal spoons tap against pots, and machetes thunk as they cleave pineapples. Babies stop crying and mothers call their children for dinner. One by one, youngsters emerge from their spy posts around us and dart for home.

  We can hear the councilors talking, but neither Innocent nor Theo can understand Bomitaba, the local dialect. Innocent tells me that at one time there were more than a hundred and fifty dialects in the northeast provinces alone. The French tried to banish the native tongues, withholding money and supplies from any village conducting business or running schools in any language but French; after independence, the federal government campaigned to make Lingala the national language, but Boha is still a pocket of the “Old Congo,” where tradition apparently means more than certain government subsidies.

  “Entrez!” someone says at last, drawing back the thin fabric hanging in the doorway of the council building,

  A voice directs us: “A droite … A gauche. Arrêtez. Asseyez-vous,” as we slip inside.

  We sit together against the far wall of a square room devoid of furniture. The packed dirt floor is cool and a bit slimy. The councilors talk among themselves for a while, paying us no attention and rarely even looking at us through the fog of cigarette smoke. The room is lit by a small kerosene lantern suspended overhead. Its cracked chimney casts a spider web of light across the sooty walls. The only decoration is an outdated calendar, compliments of Primus beer, depicting an Alpine winterscape with beer bottles swooshing down a ski trail. Water-stained curtains cover the three windows, and small bones of some type are piled near the doorway. Dirty cocktail glasses are scattered about; three eight-foot-long spears are propped up in a corner, their tips scratching the eaves.

  “Do you bring gifts?” asks a tall man with broad shoulders, long sideburns, and an unzipped fly.

  “Oui,” I say, rising to my feet. “Oui.”

  Innocent and Theo help me bring in a case of scotch, five kilos of salt, three demijohns of wine, and a liter of brandy. The tall man nods and snatches a bottle with the speed of a lizard’s tongue; the others follow suit. The councilors are dressed in tattered plaid or raspberry-colored shirts and black pants. None of them wear shoes, but they all carry juju bags.

  The tall man rocks forward on his haunches and says, “I am Ange, president of the People’s Village Council of Boha in the People’s Republic of the Congo.” As he speaks, he reaches out and squeezes my hand with a python grip. Thankfully, a young boy pops through the doorway with a tray of pineapple, and Ange releases my hand before a bone cracks.

  “Enchanté,” he says softly, and laughs to himself as I attempt to shake off the pain.

  One of the councilors uses his shirttail to wipe the cocktail glasses before passing them out. Once Innocent fills them all, I toast the council and the wise people of Boha who have elected them to office. Theo then relates the latest news from Epena, speaking in a mixture of French and Lingala. Innocent, still wearing his badge, interrupts Theo to ask if anyone knows anything about the pirogue filled with ivory.

  “Poachers!” Ange exclaims in French with a wry smile. The other men chuckle, shake their heads, and remain silent. Theo resumes his update of regional news and gossip.

  The young boy reappears with a tray piled high with some kind of meat. The man sitting across from me, Gabriel, passes me a small piece. “This is the best,” he says, moving closer.

  Beneath the charbroil is an undercooked, sinuous pink flesh, greasy like pork and heavily salted. Gabriel watches intently as I nibble at its edges. He has a baby face, with kind eyes and only a few lonely hairs for eyebrows. He’s about the same height as Innocent, but considerably thinner. His shirt is missing its buttons, and the back pockets of his pants have been ripped off, exposing his cheeks.

  “Tasty, eh?” Gabriel sucks the marrow from the bone. Three of his front teeth are missing, and he slides the bones in and out of the gap.

  “It’s very chewy,” I say.

  “This is the last of the monkey,” he says, running his fingers in the grease puddled in the wooden tray.

  “Oh.” In previous travels I’ve dined on yak, camel, mongoose, dog, snake, rat, even crickets and worms, but I’ve never eaten this far up the evolutionary chain before.

  “When we go to Télé, it’s monkey for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Monkey meat makes up for being away from home.” Gabriel licks his fingers and smacks his lips. “Boom,” he says, pretending ther
e’s a rifle in his hand and a monkey on the rafter.

  He asks for a cigarette, and as he flicks the lighter, I recall an ancient Pygmy myth in which chimpanzees, not humans, were the favorite creation of the Almighty God Mugu. The chimps lived in comfort compared to the humans because Mugu had given them the gift of fire. One day some young chimps befriended a Pygmy boy and invited him to visit their village. When the clever boy next visited, he wore a belt made from bark that hung down to his knees. He crouched near the fire while eating a banana, and once the fringe of his belt was red hot, he took off, outrunning the chimps and delivering fire to mankind.

  The room hushes as Ange speaks quickly and loudly in Lingala. Innocent interprets, explaining that Ange is addressing the council with a list of grievances about previous expeditions to Lake Télé. Ange believes Boha would be a happier place without Westerners trooping through, demanding outrageous services and then quibbling about the price and the quality of the work. The men of Boha are expert huntsmen and guides, yet Westerners treat them like porters, and forestry agents infuriate them with condescending remarks. The councilmen grunt in agreement.

  “He’s right,” Gabriel says to me. “White men expect us to be like women. They want us to carry the bags, cook, and watch over them like babies. Many times I want to pull the trigger. Boom-boom.” This time he points at my head.

  Innocent gulps loudly, and Theo nervously glances at his rifle in the corner. I throw back a double scotch and quickly refill every empty glass in sight.

  Ange stands and calls the council to order. The People’s Council of Boha, he tells me, must decide whether or not we can go to Lake Télé. This is a civil matter, not involving custom or ritual, and the council is the sole arbiter of such cases.

  “We establish the rules… We assign the guides. If we say yes and let you go, then the chief and the village elders set the fees. First we vote.”