100 km trek (2) – the enchanted stream
I spent the night on the floor of the hut, rolled into my tent. There was just about room. When I woke up the first rays of the sun had just begun to filter through the roof. Through a hole in the wall I looked out to the other leaf huts and the forest beyond. A few ants were sluggishly crawling up one of the sticks that formed the wall, still affected by the morning chill.
The boss and his wife were already up; the bunk was empty. I thanked them for their hospitality and the boy who had brought me here showed me the way back to the road.
Soon the mis-balanced rucksack started to press uncomfortably onto my shoulder blades. I cursed the lack of traffic. There had been no jeep or any other vehicle
I went in search of food. It had to be possible to buy some bananas and other provisions in one of the villages.
After a while I came to a few huts. As I approached, an old man emerged from one of the huts and shook my hands, then women and children joined in. They were pygmys, notably smaller than the other people in the region, their faces decorated with patterns in a black dye. A passing bantu (non-pygmy) boy who must have thought me stupid waved and shouted, pointing at the gathering: “They are pygmys!”
I was inundated with questions. Where was I from? Where was I going? Why? Where was my husband? After a while I managed to get a word in sideways and asked where I could buy bananas. The bantu boy pointed vaguely down the road: “There are some stores over there.”
I walked on for a good kilometre without passing anything resembling even a ramshackle store. A few kids showed me where I could buy a little piece of cake and a few bananas. It was expensive but they explained that in gold-digger country everything costs more.
Not far from the village there was a brook crossed by a little bridge. From there a path led into the forest. I knew better than to enter the forest, except for a few steps when showers drove me to seek shelter under the large umbrella-like leaves — it was possible to get irretrievably lost within minutes. However, this little path might lead to one of the pygmy settlements, so followed it for a short way until I came to a bend in the stream. The sight it presented made me hold my breath: hundreds upon hundreds of yellow-white butterfies alighted from stones on gossamer wings, surrounding me like fluttering glitter flakes. Gently, I slid the rucksack off my shoulders and sat down. I drank in the view in silence for a few moments then turned to look up the path. There, a few metres ahead, a bunch of tiny red bananas had been placed. There had been no sound, no sign of anybody. Puzzled, I picked up the bananas and settled for a rest.
After a while I shouldered my backpack and made to continue down the path but I had only gone a few steps when some of the village children appeared behind me, shaking their heads.
“Don’t go into the forest,” one of the boys pleaded: “Follow the road!”
I smiled and nodded and walked back to the road to continue on my way, occasionally glancing back over my shoulders, waving at the children who watched me until I had gone from sight.
About 45 km from Mambasa was a river, crossed by a ferry, where I was told I would find transport. That was my goal for the day. According to the map, I would first come to a bridge across a smaller river, followed by a village.
I walked on for hours and eventually crossed a bridge spanning a wide raging torrent, apparently the “smaller river”. As evening drew close, I reached a village. Exhausted, I asked much further it was to the ferry. “12 km that way,” a man said pointing the way I had come.
“I mean the Hari River.”
“Yes, the Hari. Down that way.”
“Since when is there a bridge across the Hari?”
The man looked at me increduously: “There has been a bridge there for a long time!”
Curse the damn map; I had overshot my target by 12 km. But what was worse, there had been no sign of any transport.
I bought some dried fish. The man I had asked about the bridge smiled as he saw me haggle about the price for two and bought the second fish for me. Slightly embarrassed at being so tight-fisted I thanked him and went to ask the village chief for shelter. I was welcomed with open arms.
The village was a busy hub of local trade. Tribespeople from the forest bartered goods in the streets. As I was watching the bustle, a man called out to me:
“These are Pygmies,” he shouted.
I turned around.
He continued:” They live in the forest but they come here to buy banana-schnapps. They adore the stuff!”
He grinned and introduced himself as my guide. He showed me to a hut where I rested for a while. Somebody came and gave me a tin of condensed milk, apologising that there was no bread. Did I have any supplies? I was relieved that I had managed to get the fish and handed it over.
“The women will prepare it for you,” the man said and I was left alone again.
After a short rest, I went for a look outside. The pygmy women had left but most of the men had stayed behind, gathered around a fire by the huts across the road. They passed around a jerry-can of clear liquid, the contents of which were rapidly diminishing. When I approached I was offered a slug: banana-schnapps. It was a pleasant brew, not quite as harsh as pure spirit and slightly sweet. I could get used to it.
One of the women who were dishing out the drink offered me to freshen up, pointing to a bamboo wall. She apologised that there was no shower but there was wonderfully clean water from a stream and a bucket to wash with, and I was happy. Clean and glowing fresh, I returned to the campfire to be told that the food was ready. My fish had been stewed in a delicious gravy and was served with plantain. One of the women ate with me back in the hut — she did not take very much, it seemed just to keep me company. I did not hold back.
When we returned to the campfire, most of the pygmies had left and a group of women sat around their own meal, chatting. The woman who had shared my food minutes earlier turned around and smiled: “Have you tried this? Manioc and Soubé!”
She sat down and dug in, beckoning me to join her. There was a mountain of the slightly transparent, mildly sour manioc paste which we scooped up with our fingers then dunked into the dark green spinach-like Soubé. I was full when the hostess removed the bowls. I had not eaten this much since leaving the missionary in Bangassou. However, soon the hostess reappeared with a collection of new bowls: rice and fried fish. Apparently, the manioc and Soubé had just been the starter. Three dinners in one evening! I took a polite mouthful then I was shown to “my” hut and a proper bed made from bamboo. I was soon fast asleep.
Denni