The Strong Brown God
The Strong Brown God was the name given to the Niger by author Sanche de Gramont, who wrote a complete history of the Niger from point of view mainly of its role in the colonisation of West Africa. It’s a quote taken from a TS Eliot poem, and it seems an apt name as we stand contemplating it, canoe at the ready, preparing to strike out for the bush and whatever awaits us there.
It’s two days after our successful trek to the source. We’ve had a day to recover, and are feeling as fresh as can be expected, though my feet by the end of the trek were bloody, blistered stumps. We’ve got all our gear together - bag loads of food to keep the eternally hungry Norwood happy, two very large backpacks, safely stowed in expedition dry bags (should the worst happen and a hippo gets us), and, best of all, two large, evil looking machettes given to us by our South African friend Jon in Conakry.
Innevitably, a crowd gathers to watch us put up the canoe. They look perplexed. Disaster very nearly strikes right from word go when it transpires one of the crucial clips that holds the canoe’s cross braces together has broken. But a bit of string and some nimble-findered Willis lashing saves the day. Mike, if you’re reading this, thanks for showing me how to lash!
We have a look at the river. It’s certainly brown, and, despite that deceptive semblance of tranquility, looks strong and urgent as it sucks its way past the thick vegetation that crowds its banks. I can’t help but think of stories I’ve heard of vicious whirlpools on African rivers that can suddenly get up and suck down a boat, crew and all…Still, this is no time for thoughts like this; they are just stories after all.
Banishing nervousness to the backs of our minds, Dan and I load up Djoliba, the boat. Even without us in it, it’s already groaning under the weight of our kit. We both clamber aboard. It sinks a bit more - but takes our weight comfortably.
The crowd of kids on the shore laugh and point at the sight of two crazy white men sitting in such an outlandish looking craft. They must think we’re mad; for a moment I think we’re mad too, but there’s no going back now.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” I say to Dan. He nods, and with a gentle shove we nose Djoliba out into the current. We’re finally on the River Niger and heading into who knows what.
