Tran & Mike on the ferry boat to Bangani –
Mike suggested that they take a tour of the lively lower levels as the boat would probably not be leaving for another hour. Noting Tran’s apparent lack of enthusiasm for the journey, Mike said, “This is a rare opportunity my friend. Traveling on the Bongo River is the ‘real’ African experience.” He spoke contemptuously of those Americans who traveled to East Africa for an insulated, luxurious safari and thought they had seen Africa. Real Africa existed in the depths of the jungle, in the fabled ‘heart of darkness.’
On the lower decks, Tran discovered where the ‘mob’ from the ticket office was residing. Mike noted how they had recreated the ‘cite’ – home and marketplace in such a short time. The ever-versatile straw mats were used as beds at night as well as siesta time and became display windows during business hours. These were the petit businesspeople who supplied the needs of the people who lived along the banks of the river between the capitol and Bangani, the ferry’s final destination. The boat stopped at a few villages, but every village transacted business day or night by sending out numerous pirogues, simple hollowed-out tree trunks pointed at each end, which were tied to the mother boat until business was finished. This was no simple matter. Navigating an unsteady pirogue was fraught with danger and it was not uncommon for the boat to capsize, sometimes drowning its passengers. The villagers offered such delicacies as smoked monkey and elephant, antelope, crocodile or bush pig in exchange for the modern necessities not provided by the jungle: soap, salt, dresses, injections, butter, fuel and most important beer.
Tran didn’t have to ask Mike the source of this local knowledge; Mike explained he always researched his trips extensively. Besides reading many travel writings, he had spent many hours drinking beers with Peace Corps volunteers passing through the capitol. Tran listened in near disbelief as Mike eagerly repeated stories of prior river boats colliding with fallen tree trunks or crashing into mud banks causing the boat to be stranded for days. Tran began to wonder whether Mike merely imagined himself a modern-day Joseph Conrad or whether he had an unusual attraction to danger. Tran hoped it was merely the former.
Setting foot on the lower deck was to enter a different world. Exhaust from the engine, the smells of rotting meat, wilting produce and live animals mixed with stale urine and the blaring sound of music from all directions made one gasp and nearly hold one’s breath. The most amazing feature was the incessant buzz of activity. “What a hellhole!”, exclaimed Mike, with a twisted grin on his face.
Tran & Mike in the jungle –
Mike fell quiet and pressed on ahead. Moke lithely moved through the forest floor like a small gazelle. After gaining on Mike and Tran he would stop and wait for them. Tran’s shoulder drooped from the heavy pack he carried. He had eagerly filled it with all the rice, dried fish, nuts, canned sardines and meat it would carry. He had difficulty negotiating the forest path. Bending to miss an overhanging branch, stepping up to avoid tripping on a gnarled root, or swerving to avoid a felled tree, Tran was puffing heavily after a short time. Mike offered to trade packs, but Tran stubbornly refused.
The jungle felt strange, frightening and oppressive. This wasn’t a guided tour down a well-paved path with camping supplies in tow. This was a survival test. Only a modest filtering of sunlight penetrated the high canopy of trees. Large patches of the forest floor languished in the darkness. Lack of light and dimmed perception led to an unsettling of one’s spirits. The swampy, hilly terrain of the forest forced the foot traveler to constantly look at their feet balancing on fallen tree trunks. Tran found himself jumping from log to log to avoid soggy feet lest he fall in the tiny rivulets of water running in every direction. When he did stop to look up, he could scarcely see what lie ahead more than several feet due to the thick foliage. He quickly dismissed any curiosity about how Moke could navigate a path through this web of vegetation. They had been hiking for nearly four hours. Tran needed every ounce of stamina to maintain his movement.
The air was heavy, cloying; it acted like glue between Tran’s clothes and skin. The sounds of the forest, which should have been entertaining, were instead disturbing. What animals lurked in the dense undergrowth or lay in wait in the trees above? Mike had bragged about elephants and leopards in the jungle. Tran realized that Mike’s words at the mission camp had conjured exciting thoughts about safari-type adventure; safe adventure conducted from inside a jeep not a foot safari with three defenseless souls against the wild animals of the forest.
Suddenly a cacophony of high-pitched squeals and chattering surrounded them. Invisible yet all-enveloping. Tran jolted, then stiffened with fear. He looked at Mike and Moke for help. Visions of becoming the feast of wild animals raced through his head. Moke pointed toward a tree to their right; Mike laughed and turned to Tran saying, “Look it’s a colony of Colobus monkeys.” Tran saw two black- and white-haired monkeys sitting together. Mike pointed to more and more until Tran understood why the sounds had been so intense. Tran thought about a Hitchcock film about birds gone mad. Why not monkeys?