The Plot thickens as our Hero lands in the Democratic Republic of the Congo with no idea what he’s going to do. This replicates what I was going to do about the plot; no idea. However, a little research into the people, geography, and country lead me to understand what our Hero had to do. A festival, a friend, and a Bad Guy needed to be created. At the same time, I re-read Conrad’s Heart of Darkness for clues, ideas, and to ‘sample’ from (which is to mean ‘steal from’. Only steal from the best.) I also succumbed to giving our Hero a nickname.
««« Start of Learning? »»»
She jumped off the bus. It was a sunny September day and everyone was happy to be with their friends on Their First Day of High School.
The school was overflowing with laughter and cheers. Sunlight glimmered off the freshly washed yellow school buses. The trees that hovered over the school danced lazily like inhibited Caucasian men in the breeze. The school was new and shiny.
She thought of what stood here before; an apple orchard where she was kissed for the first time. She let him touch her there. The orchard was surrounded by an old fence that was rotten in places and falling down so it was easy to get in. The owner was an old man and rumor said he died, leaving the land to the school. She wasn’t sure; she liked being touched there. She didn’t like that boy so much anymore, though. She thought he moved away; maybe arrested, because during the summer he told her he was joyriding in stolen cars.
Don, the atheist’s son, was sitting in the shade with Sarah, the racist’s daughter. Yumei, the lesbian single mom’s daughter was walking with a group of guys from the soccer team. Abraham was listening to a white guy pontificating about something he knew nothing about, she guessed.
Tom was walking into the school with three of his sisters and trying to look like he wasn’t with them; he was younger, ‘sophisticated’ and aloof. But everyone knew who they were; him pretending they weren’t his sisters fooled no one.
She thought about calling out to him, but two of her own friends ran toward her; she hadn’t seen them since June. The tall one was quiet, as usual, but the short, blubbery one was shouting “Bobby! Bobby! Did you hear? Did you hear?”
“Sally, Sally,” she said, “What? What? Did I hear what?”
“He’s gone!”
“Gone? Dead?”
“No, no! Gone!”
Judy, the tall one, bent down. “He told Ms Kvern that he’s going traveling. To see things for himself, he said.”
She looked at the tall one, then at the short one.
“For the first year!” Sally shouted.
Bobby nodded her head and brought her books close to her chest; he’s traveling. Why, she wondered, is him traveling so important to bother her on this, her first day of high school?
“Where?” she asked.
“That’s just it,” Judy said. “No one suspected . . . ”
“Africa!” Sally interrupted. “Isn’t that, like, totally, . . . you know?”
“Africa? Where in Africa?”
Sally looked at her as if she was slightly unbalanced. “Well, duh, Bobby, Africa.”
“Africa is a big place, Sally.”
“It’s big, like Alaska or Texas or I don’t know, big, like Montana, duh.”
“Those aren’t countries,” Judy said. To Bobby, she added, “Ms Kvern said something about Central Africa or a river of some kind?”
“The Congo,” Bobby answered. “He’s gone off to see the Congo?”
“That a movie?” Sally asked.
««« Waiting for The Bus »»»
He stepped out of the crowded bus and looked around at the busy city. Sweat trickled down his back and face. He wiped it out of his eyes.
Goma was blistering hot and humid. People were hauling supplies left and right on oddly-shaped bicycles. Trucks blurted smoke and noise. Shopkeepers shouted out their wares, promising the cheapest prices in Goma. People sat in the shade; in a café; under a tree. The bus station was old, broken, collapsing, and raw, but it provided some shade and a fan swept the ceiling like a vulture circling a dying okapi.
His Bantu friend trotted off to do business and was swallowed up by the crowd, the people, the humidity.
He imagined the bus station as it was a hundred years earlier. The people in them were the great-grandchildren of the slaves forced to build it by Stanley or Leopold.
A stream of festival-goers headed off in one direction.
He saw a group of kids kick a soccer ball down the street At first he thought they were friends but noticed they descended in height; siblings; eight of them. A man wearing a large hat was shouting in French while a small boy, perhaps his son, held a basket out for donations. He caught a few words and realized the man, while sounding and gesturing angrily, was preaching Christianity.
A week earlier — or was it only four days?— on his first evening in Kinshasa, he stepped out of the bus station to look for a hostel.
“Taxi, monsieur?”
“Nein, danke,” he growled.
The tout slithered off. He learned a stern refusal in German got results whereas a demand in English solicited more requests; declining in French was the equivalent of being asked to be followed and badgered until the sun set or later if the tout knew a ‘cheap’ bar/disco/restaurant.
Even earlier, after a skimpy meal in a Boma youth hostel crawling with the largest cockroaches he had ever seen, a fellow traveler, a well-dressed part-time drug smuggler, told him:
• French was relation amicale compatriotes; friendship and compatriots;
• English was Rich Américains;
• German was hostilité and colère; hostility and anger.
The traveler told him he could say “I would if I could but I have no money” and “I’m penniless” in Kikongo, Swahili, Tshiluba, and French. “And, of course, beer and I love you. Bia and nakupenda, if you’re interested.”
The smuggler lit a thin cigar-shaped leaf and offered him a hit.
“The best,” the smuggler said, “if you really want to know this country,” he sucked in the smoke, “is I’m penniless, but let me buy you a beer.” He let out a long low column of smoke. “In French, of course. The language of friendship. Everyone speaks French in this burg.”
He watched him smoke until he cleared his throat, sipped a warm beer, and said, “Je suis sans le sou. Laisse-moi t'acheter une biére.”
And? he asked.
“Bia in Swahili,” he smiled as he sipped his beer. “This?” he said as he pointed at his leaf. “This is ndugu. Don’t get caught with it.”
“Because?”
“First, it’s not legal, but more importantly, if you get caught with it the penalties can range from years in jail and/or deportation to getting beaten by the police to being forced to fork it over to the policeman. The trouble is, you never know which policeman is going to bust you: the deporter, the beater, or the smoker. So, first, Laisse-moi t'acheter une biére. Then break out the ndugu.”
“How long,” he coughed several times. He sipped a trickle of beer. “How long,” he asked, “have you been in Kinshasa?” He coughed three more times
“You got a hairball, buddy?” the well-dressed smuggler asked.
“Something,” he answered between coughs and pointing at his larynx, “caught in my throat.”
“Don’t mean to panic you, but if that keeps up, better hit a hospital.”
“Sure thing,” he coughed.
“I ship out of here tomorrow,” the smuggler said. “Got a haircut this morning,” he smoothed his hair down, “and bought these clothes this afternoon.”
“Nice.” He held up a finger to indicate either a cough was imminent or more words would flow out of his mouth. “Why?”
“Well, I tell ya, Hairball. When you cross a border looking like you, a common criminal, no offense, they treat you like one. If you look like a semi-respectable businessman, they look for a bribe of some sort before they let you through. I prefer the bribe to jail.”
“Why? You smuggling something?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, Hairball, I am.” The man tapped one of his two large suitcases.
Hairball inspected the two suitcases. Airline stickers adorned them both; they both looked new enough yet old enough to have traveled. Neither looked particularly suspicious.
“I’m not going to ask you what you got,” Hairball said.
“Good,” the smuggler smiled.
“But I am going to ask you where’s a good place to go in this country.”
“Ah, Depends on what you want out of this country.” He tapped his suitcase. “Fun? Sex? Money? Lots of people come here to make a few dollars, ya know. Dancing? Golf? A thrilling encounter with a dangerous croc or hippo? A beastly dinner of insects?”
“I guess I just want to meet people. Talk to them. Get to know a little about . . .”
The smuggler rolled another leaf. He sucked in a lungful and handed the joint to Hairball.
“That, my friend, will take forever. Consider the people, if you will, eh?”
The smuggler talked about the:
• Mongo
• Luba
• Kongo
• Mangbetu-Azonde
• Mbuti Pygmies
“. . . and that’s just five of the 200 tribes here. Have their own culture, language, religion, customs, logic, and hatred for each other and, of course, the white man who probably started their hatred for each other. Divide and conquer. But,” he continued between hits off his joint, “really want to have a time, Goma. In eastern Congo. On the shores of Lake Kivu. Great folks. Great lake. Great scenery. And only a little dangerous.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Did some business there, yeah. The Pygmies live near there, ya know. And they make the best. . .” he tapped his joint. “Have for at least two centuries, probably many more.”
“Why’s it dangerous?”
“Lake might explode. Methane build up and all that.”
He smiled and watched a female traveler slip into the common room. She was tall with blonde hair. And muscles. More than your average female.
“Hi,” he said to the woman.
“Hi,” she answered. She checked out the smuggler and Hairball.
The smuggler leaned forward to offer her his joint. She looked at it, at him, and at Hairball. Then she took the joint and settled in for a conversation that would meander all over god’s creation before eventually getting nowhere.
“Medicinal purposes at first,” the smuggler explained to Hairball. “Now it’s more for the money. This is Hairball,” he said to the woman. “I’m . . . Kurt. Kurt Kurtz. French.”
“Hi, I’m Amelia” she answered as a long stream of smoke billowed out of her nose. “I’m from Adelaide, in Australia? Hairball, that’s an unusual name.”
“Indeed it is,” the smuggler smiled. “Ever play golf with an alligator?”
<<< With Sakombí >>>
The bus belched to a stop and a flood of eager passengers dropped off the roof, the back, disembarked from the inside, and evaporated into the city.
Before he had a chance to surge forward, a rapid flock of over-burdened travelers rushed into and on the bus. Women carried huge baskets of cloth and salt; men lugged portable TVs and generators; children were packed like beasts of burden with clothes, canned goods, pencils, paper, and precious sewing needles.
Hairball clambered quickly onto the roof, grabbing hold of the mirror and jumping up from the hood. He grabbed a spot in the middle where he could hang on to the emergency door handle over rough roads.
An angry, lanky, bald-headed Bantu with one tribal tattoo on his forearm pushed his large duffle bag up against him; with enough force that Hairball could’ve tumbled off the roof, down to the dusty street. But Hairball held on to the door handle. The tall Bantu gave up and secured his pack between himself and Hairball.
“Laisse-moi t'acheter une biére,” Hairball said as he pulled a can of Budweiser out of his pack; brought along for just this occasion.
The Bantu smiled at him and snatched the beer out of his hand.
“Mercí,” he replied and cracked the can open. “Américain?” he asked as he drank quickly.
“What gave it away?”
“You have what we call accent atroce. An atrocious accent,” the Bantu smiled and finished the beer with one final swallow. He tossed the empty can into the street. “Going to Goma, are you?”
“Yeah,” Hairball answered as he sipped his own warm beer.
“For the festival?”
Hairball stared at him long enough for the Bantu to realize Hairball didn’t know what he was talking about.
“The festival! It starts in four days!”
“What festival?”
The man laughed and nudged his shoulder against a man struggling to hang on to the roof.
“He wants to know what festival is in Goma this week!” He laughed again.
He turned back to Hairball. “The greatest festival in all the World! The greatest gathering of musicians and artists in all of Africa! Four days of music, art, dance, creation, and innovation! We all . . .,” he waved his arms to encompass most of Kinshasa. “are heading to Goma! To dance! To sing with open hearts! To forget work!”
“Well, then, I’m glad I’m going!” Hairball raised his beer in a toast.
The bus driver shouted; everyone held on to what they could. Hairball held on to the emergency door handle. The bus spit smoke, groaned, and leapt forward as if it were a donkey stabbed in the hindquarters; its three day journey — if fortune rained down upon them with an abscence of engine trouble, a healthy transmission, tires that refused to burst at the seams, ferries that did not capsize, axles that withstood the strain of people, merchandise, roads that offered up a constant Congolese Massage, and a forest-jungle awake and alert to their needs and wants — began.
“Will you be going on then to Nairobi after the festival, yes?” the tall man asked.
“Why?”
“You are white, no? You come to Goma for the festival you did not know was going to be, yet you are on a bus to Goma. Why is a white man going to Goma if not to continue on to Nairobi?”
“I’m just here to see the DRC,” Hairball replied.
“Why?”
“To see the Congo.”
“Just that?”
“Isn’t that enough? I mean, I flew from Chicago and . . . ”
“A plane. From your rich white country to Africa to see us poor brown people, yes? Pauvre marron personnes, oui?”
“No,” Hairball hesitated. Was his Bantu friend telling the truth? Did he travel all the way here just to see poor brown people? Did he convince himself that he was learning and exploring and experiencing new things when actually he was just following the trail blazed by the genocidal Leopold II and his flunky Stanley?
“In junior high,” Hairball began. He wanted to explain how a simple assignment triggered his interest in the river, the country, the people. How he lead a mutiny of students against a whitewashed history curriculum that resulted in his three-week suspension and a review of the school’s history textbooks and that during his three weeks away from school he read about the genocides in the history of the Congo, Zaire, Burundi, Rwanda, and other neighboring countries. How he was horrified to learn Leopold II enforced quotas by hacking off the hands of slaves who failed to meet their quotas; eight-year-old children left with one hand.
Did he want to explain that during his three-week academic exile, he planned this trip — from the US to France; four weeks in Paris to study French from African immigrants; from Paris to Kinshasa; and talk to shopkeepers, officials, workers, and housewives; photograph and tape-record; write and interview. He wanted to Know the Congo; he wanted to dive into a different culture. He wanted to Know rather than Learn.
Hairball wanted to tell all this to his tall friend.
“You had a nice school, yes? With books and paper?” the man interrupted. “Even walls that kept out the rains, snakes, and spiders?”
“Well,” Hairball answered.
“Nice,” the tall man replied, settled into his bag, closed his eyes, and nestled his blue hat over them; their conversation ended.
“I am not here to exploit. I am not here to make money,” Hairball insisted.
“I am,” the tall man answered. He tapped his big bag as if to show Hairball his intention of selling its contents at the festival. “Expensive clothes for the dandies. Expensive and sexy undies for the ladies. ”
“You’re a clothes salesman?”
“Vendeur de vêtement, James Sakombí. Clothes, shoes, hats,” he tipped his own up to smile at Hairball, “and undergarments of all kinds.”
“So you’re not going to Goma to sing and dance. You’re going to make money there.”
“We are all,” he waved his arm around, “going to Goma to sing and dance. And, yes, make money. You Americans are so, what is the word, one-dimensional. Either you can sing and dance or you can make money. Never can you sing, dance, and make money. It must be a terribly terrible to be Américain, no?”
“Uh, no.”
“No? So it is possible for the Américain woman to control her own body, yes? I mean, yes, the birth contraception and how to say, Avortement; abortion, yes?”
“Well, not in all states, no. But is it legal in the Congo?”
“Why is legal or no in the Congo important for legal or no in the les États Unis?”
“I just thought . . .”
“Quí. In Goma, we party. And we do the business, yes? Together I show you how to –what is the word – réjouissant.”
“Rejoice?”
“Cheerful with smile on your face, it is good, no?”
“Yes.”
“There is in Goma a friend of mine. I meet my friend. We have a business together. Later I meet you at a café and I show you cheerful, yes?” Sakombí smiled, and placed his blue fedora over his eyes.
Hairball nodded to the hat and settled in for the long and bumpy ride to a blistering adventure.
<<< Coffee with Tippu Tip >>>
The Goma coffee shop Sakombí directed him to was small — three tables with two chairs each — mostly outdoors — one table, unoccupied, was inside what looked like a garage / storage area — and friendly.
The owner was a large woman who greeted Hairball in French until she realized he didn’t really speak much. She switched to English with a smile.
“I love speaking English!” she laughed. “I never get the chance to speak it!” She laughed again as she pointed at a menu pasted to the wall. “Coffee. Tea. Cola. And, for you, my special friend from England, pawpaw!”
“I’m from the US.”
“Of course you are! So you will want Cola and Two! Pawpaw!”
“Well, no. Just the cola.”
She laughed.
A fat man approached her shop. His belly flopped over his shorts.
The smile dropped from her face.
“Qu'est-ce que tu veux?” she asked. “Pourquoi es-tu ici?”
“Un espresso.”
The new customer smiled at Hairball and sat at the next table.
“You are Américain, yes?” the chubby customer said.
“I am.”
“I traveled in the US once, many years ago. On business,” the customer said. “Where are you from?”
“Originally from Baraboo, Wisconsin. But now I live in Madison.” He saw the customer’s face scrunch up in a question, so he added, “It’s near Chicago.”
“Ah, Chicago, yes. I know Chicago,” the customer smiled, relieved. “I stood at the top of Sears Tower once. On business. That is a big lake, is it not?”
“Lake Michigan. Yeah, it’s big. Maybe too big? I like this one.” He glanced in the direction of Lake Kivu.
“Too big? Do you also think mountains can be too tall or people too rich?”
“Too big in that is kind of hard to grasp its beauty.”
“I see,” the customer said. “Yes. I see. Ah.”
The shop owner slid an espresso in front of the customer and nestled a cola in front of Hairball. She smiled, glared at the customer, and stormed into her shop.
“Tippu Tip,” the customer said and held his hand out.
“Hairball,” Hairball said and shook the man’s hand. Seeing the man’s face arch in a question, again, he added, “A nickname.”
“As is mine,” Tip said, sipped his espresso. He glanced at the owner before asking, “Are you heading to Nairobi after here?”
“Why do people ask me that? I mean, I came here to learn about the Congo, not Kenya.”
“So you are not going on to another country soon?”
“No. I’ll probably go down Lake Tangiyika and then stay in Lubumbashi a couple of days.”
“Lubumbashi? That is very . . . not so close. I was there once. On business.” Tip sipped his espresso and watched people walk by the shop.
“What’s it like?”
Tip finished his espresso. Stood up and dropped a few bills on the table. “Profitable. Nice to have met you, Monsieur Hairball. Perhaps we meet again. Á plus tard.”
As Tip blended into the crowd of festival goers, the owner of the shop came out.
“C'est un homme méchant. Le mal le suit.” she whispered. She turned and saw Hairball looking at her.
“Pawpaw!” she laughed. “You need dessert to enjoy life, yes!” She hurried back into her shop.
“No, no, I really don’t want . . .” Hairball protested, but it was too late.
<<< No to PawPaw! >>>
When Sakombí walked up with his huge bag of clothes an hour later, Hairball was finishing his second pawpaw and his third cola.
“Where’ve you been?” Hairball complained.
Sakombí shook his head.
“My business with my friend went not as planned.” He smiled as the owner of the shop stepped toward their table.
She smiled back.
“He had other, what is the word, demands. Conditions. I had to argue with him for longer than I planned, yet still I failed. I did not sell what I anticipated selling.”
“You’re screwed?”
“What? No, no,” Sakombí smiled. Then immediately frowned, “If I meet his conditions.”
“But you don’t want to?”
“Of course not. No one does. But he has, what is the word? a hold over me. A bit.”
“What do you have to do?”
The owner of the shop came out with a pawpaw and a large cup of tea. She smiled at Sakombí as she placed them in front of him, then turned to Hairball.
“Another pawpaw for my Américain?”
“No, no. Oh, god, please. No.”
Thank you for reading. If you have any complaints, compliments, questions, or suggestions, please drop a note.