Mon 14 November 2007
Another storm in the night, but we were quickly at battle stations, fastening down the tarp and pulling in to a sheltered reedy bank. Wonderful thunder detonating across the sky, God’s crazy timpani solo, and I peaked under the tarp to see the strobe-lit rainy river.
We are still passing the occasional family compound of huts, the occasional pirogue, but now there are many more butterflies and birds - hornbills, herons, eagles. So very beautiful but so very little stopping it from being pulped....
More lumber dumps.
Butterflies- blue, green black swallowtails dive in flirtatious pairs, white ones flutter over the surface, taking occasional little kissing dips.
The sharpness of the afternoon, after-storm light, mist exhaling from the forest,
reflected sunset gold radiating from the gentle wake.
Tue 15 Novemeber 2007
Still on the river. Charles' title as "Best Boatman on the Congo" could be revoked if it turns out it was him, and not his helper, who was at the till last night when we twice ran into overhanging branches in the space of 10 mins. Paul's tummy took the force of the first blow and it managed to knock over the hot coals in the stove (threatening to set the tarp and the boat on fire), as well as Michael and Arne (who was lucky to find his glasses again). Apart from a few scratches, everybody was OK and we calmed our nerves the way humans do (with some whiskey and honeyloaf) and not how bonobos do (with genital fondling and rump rubbing). This far upriver, it becomes increasingly
narrow and I suspect that the drivers are pushing it a bit harder at night than they otherwise would have in order to make up for lost time. The combination did not work out so well last night...
Charles (aka LeBlanc)- “Best Boatman on the Congo
(Photo- Martin Bendeler)
Still, I realised later we dodged a bullet. Worst case scenario would have seen us with a seriously wounded journalist, a capsized and incinerated boat, and us treading water in a river in the middle of Africa , 1000 miles from help. This blissful cocoon of comfort and ease is most fragile.
Little Violette contents herself with singing songs and playing with her dismembered
Barbie, trying hard to give barbie an afro, though it looks more troll doll chic.
This endless lazy hassle/responsibility-free (no calls, no news, no work) journey up a breathtakingly beautiful river has a surreal Huckleberry Finn aspect to it, occasionally tinged by the sad thought that it may all be pulped before my future children get a chance to see it.
The river is probably only 30m wide now, it’s midday and it flows quickly in shiny ripples and whorls. Tiny mites, only visible in the direct light, somehow swarm and surf upstream, buzzed by iridescent butterflies and birds. I'm resigned to never arriving and living forever in this beautiful limbo. Nina is drying our washed clothes on the tarp roof. Guys are sitting on empty barrels in the back. Paul is sleeping. Arne and Michael sit in quiet reflection in the front. I am on my bed, reading Emergency Sex- a UN whistleblower book.
Charles slowed the boat so Michael can jump in and take a dump, introducing to the African habitat the exotic American shitfish. The vastest, most beautiful toilet in the world. I am getting close to a place I have only read about- it’s a pilgrimage to a place that is pristine and holy. I am quietened and quickened. Few places in the world are this remote and beautiful. The bonobos truly live in Eden . Somewhere, something sweet is blooming. I can breathe it. It intoxicates. I'm sure I have dreamed of somewhere like this before- of a land of only trees and water- where I could move and breathe freely in both and was very happy. However my dreamland also hand big rocks in the river that I could skip across....
