Third Goal

Thursday, January 11, 93 I had walked forty-two of the sixty-three miles from Makoua to Etoumbi, having decided to experience my little part of the Congo with only the clay of the road and the green of the forest and the sounds of bird calls to entertain me while the rising and falling daily sun told me when to tarry or when it was time to hustle on. I caught a truck toward the end of the second day, not because I wanted to quit my trek but because my feet simply could take no more. Etoumbi is a large village of perhaps four thousand people, situated in the high country over the most spectacular view of the rain forest one could imagine. Standing on the very lip of the mountain, one is able to absorb countless miles of unobstructed visibility where the pure-green ocean of forest far below seems almost impenetrable. It occurred to me that Etoumbi would be a perfect place for rich entrepreneurs to build a cable car in which to haul tourists over jungle canopy. Maybe I would do it myself, when I got rich. A surprisingly modern hotel sat with its back at the edge of the cliff. I was told that its rooms had clean beds and real bathrooms with running water and even electrical conveniences. I also was told that “white” hunters often began their expeditions from Etoumbi during the big-game seasons, landing in private planes and then going into the forests by truck. A typical Hydro-Congo station occupied one corner where the dirt highway made a ninety degree turn and then continued a few blocks toward the outer edge of town before turning sharply again on the way to Kelle and ultimately toward the border of Gabon. Several small stores were on the other side of the highway, all made of mud and roofed with tin, and behind those were the homes of the people.
Residential housing in Etoumbi was made of typical mud with thatch or tin, but many of the villagers had electricity, thanks to which, some of them were able to enjoy television and sometimes even refrigeration. Most of the homes stood on the west side of a gorge that began in the very heart of town and quickly dropped forty feet deep to form a canyon that represented decades of unchecked erosion. Linda, the volunteer in whose residence I had planned to spend the night, had a large house just a few blocks from the hotel Mea, and only a few paces beyond the canyon wall.
The outside walls of her home, like the canyon, were pale orange in color. They were painted by Linda herself using a sort of paint made from a mixture of clays and table salt. Her place was so oddly different from those of her neighbors that it stood out like a dim street lamp over an empty thoroughfare. She lived in half of the house, in an area about as large as my entire dwelling in Makoua, and used the other half for the storage of her motorcycle and other possessions. Having a comfortable bedroom, a spacious living/dining combination and a relatively large kitchen area, the place offered a feeling sense of warmth and welcome not often present in traditional African homes. The house had no ceiling, but the roof was so low that I could touch any part of it with a broom. Which meant bats and birds were not a problem for her, and any daring spiders could easily be knocked down. Her yard was much too small compared to the size of the house, but making the best of it, she had a small garden, a chicken yard with five healthy chickens, a small burn-pit in the back, an outhouse with a real seat, and an outside stall for bathing. Her water had to be carried from a spigot at a residence on the other side of the canyon. But without complaint, she walked the narrow plank-bridge every time water was needed. The deep gorge out front served as a neighborhood garbage dump for villagers, which made it a reliable source of contamination as rain water rushed over the litter and carried it to the river. It was also a natural hazard for drunks, a few of whom had been known to fall from the planks to the bottom and not survive the landing. Linda was compelled to cross it several times a day on the way to anywhere, stepping carefully over the boards or on an adjacent piece of steel probably salvaged from a truck frame. She claimed to be comfortable with it by then, and gave little thought to the danger. The Ndule River was actually a wide stream of shallow, black water that moved furiously over a graveled bottom until it dumped into the Likoula-Massaka River several miles further down the line. Although people routinely bathed and washed clothes there, the current was capable of dragging a person off his or her feet for a long bumpy ride down river. Linda said she had lost a few items from her wash on a number of occasions, but she philosophized, “There are plenty of appreciative people downstream”. Linda was a serious and private woman, probably in her middle to late thirties, with prematurely graying hair. But she was a sturdy woman who kept herself busy with several activities not necessarily related to her work as a fish-farmer. When she left me alone in the house, headed for karate-practice with her African classmates, I spent my time resting on the bamboo bunk in her living room, soaking my blistered feet in antibiotic ointment. Thanks to my two day trek, my feet were a medical mess. Covered with blisters that still hurt even to touch, I knew they would take a day or two to fully heal and that I would only be a burden to Linda until then. I did not enjoy the feeling. When the violent afternoon rain visited that first night, it came with an awesome display of lightning that lasted for a half-hour and brought something else that I had not experienced in a very long time. Cold weather! Even though her village was on the equator, as was mine, hers was high in the mountains where the temperature often dropped into the chill-zone. That was better than air conditioning. And I’m was glad I had my sleeping bag.

Tuesday, January 12

My blisters were feeling much better by morning, but I still inched about in rubber flip-flops and continued to take it easy. One more day of recovering, I figured, and my feet should be tough enough for the forty-mile walk to Kelle. And I would walk there, if no other transportation was available. Because I had been forced to pack my tent wet during my trip from Makoua, I needed to air it out and clean it up for the next adventure. Linda helped me to pitch it on the grass near the edge of the gorge, and there a large crowd soon gathered to watch. And of course to tell us how to do the job. Amazingly, everybody in the Congo seemed to be an expert about most everything. It made no difference if they have never seen a tent, they knew all about how to erect one and they lacked no reluctance to say so. Thus, Linda helped me to stand guard while the tent dried in the brisk wind. We constantly had to tell people to stay back, don’t step on the pegs, keep your hands off the damp fabric, leave those zippers alone, please! Fifteen minutes later, when the fabric had completely dried, we took it down again and packed it properly away.
Linda informed me of some news. She heard that a truck was leaving town at noon, headed to Kelle. She said I had better take it if I wanted to ride there anytime soon, for several days might pass before another was available. Walking, she added incidentally, would be difficult, sometimes waste deep in muddy puddles, and it might not be safe. The truth was, my feet weren’t yet ready for another major hike anyway Nearing noon, I hurried to pack. Linda walked with me to the Hotel Mea, which owned the five-ton lorry that was making the trip. The truck, sitting on blocks in front of the hotel, had three men underneath struggling with some mechanical problem that we could see. As we went by and posed a question, the men told us they would be finished soon, maybe by 1:00 p.m. Linda and I took a seat in front of the hotel, ordered soft drinks and talked for a long time about every interesting subject we could think of. But was until I mentioned a man, an American tourist who had dropped by to see me in Makoua. It was evident that a nerve had been touched. Linda put down her glass and angrily related her story. She had been away for a few days on Project business, and came home to find a total stranger in her house. He had talked his past the boy who was looking after the place, slept in her bed, used her facilities, eaten her food, and even had the gall to act as if she shouldn’t care about it. Feeling violated, she was furious with him and told him to get out of her sight and never darken her door again. As she was accompanied by a friend at the time, the rude American man immediately grabbed his pack and left. She then went through her things to see what, if anything was missing. Nothing was. I listened with great interest to her story, hearing her anger in her voice and seeing it in her eyes, but I was somehow not at all surprised. I had disliked the man as soon as we met some weeks before, and I had refused to let him spend the night in my house.
Linda walked me back to the hotel Mea at 3:30 p.m. then she continued on to take care of some personal errand. I was fully packed for the ride to Kelle, but it was plain to see that we would not be going anywhere just yet. The men were still working on the truck, still underneath, still doing mysterious things with no end in sight. Less than amicable when questioned as to their progress, I went to a table, ordered a beverage and waited. If I had gone back to Linda’s house and they happened to finish, they would go without me. I was stuck. Another thirty minutes passed before I dared pay them another visit and that time I took a peek underneath the truck to see what they were doing. I was amazed to see the transmission resting in the dirt beside them! When I quizzed them again as to whether they might finish that afternoon, they were so angered that they refused even to acknowledge the question. Well, that was it for me. I did not think they could finish that day no matter what, and I doubted that they would start the trip after dark. I went back to Linda’s and told her the news. She was not surprised.
“Maybe tomorrow”, she said. “Maybe not”. Frederick homepage.mac.com/f.e.pitts/ More to follow

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