Chapter 7: Swallowed up into the Interior

The rest of the day was spent without major incident, our party meandering its way farther into the bush. I marveled at the many hundreds of tropical birds we disturbed along our way, their fire-like plumage contrasting deeply with the dark tropical surroundings. Parrots, macaws and cockatiels flapped and squawked in the jungle canopy above us, and I thought I might have even seen a rare Norwegian Blue at one point, but Tess swore he was just sleeping. We crossed a wide but shallow stream bed about 25 kilometers into our journey, and headed north from its opposite bank, towards the famed Ngoro Highlands. This long chain of not-quite-mountains-but-larger-than-hills occupied much of the northeastern part of the country and actually had the borders of three different states run through it. It had traditionally been seen as a sort of no-man's land, since each country claimed it yet could not legally force the issue or prove its claim. As a result, it was one of those areas that everybody wanted but nobody cared about. There appeared to be little or no mineral wealth, it had few natural resources other than trees and grasslands, and there were not even many game animals or anything worth tourist-ing over. In short, it was a forgotten, little-known and completely ignored part of the Dark Continent.

We climbed higher and higher over the next few days, leaving the sweltering lowland jungle behind and graduating to dry grasslands with rocky outcrops and stony ridges at every side. I don't know how Mbuto followed the trail but he did. Finally, about noon on the fourth day out, we crested a ridge and I stared, with eagle eye and a wild surmise, somewhat like the man Cortez in that poem, at the scene before me.

It was a large valley, flat in the center, about ten or twelve miles in length, and perhaps four across, hemmed in by hills on either side that rose to perhaps a few thousand feet above the valley floor. I could see the sparkle of a river bisecting the valley, but it was not a wide or freighter-navigable watercourse by any means. I thought I saw a few mtumbui or native canoes being rowed along the river.

Mbuto spoke. "There – there is land of the!Kung -" (he made a particular clicking noise with his tongue at the start of the word). Tess walked up to stand beside me.

"Oh, darling, isn't it wonderful!" she said, eyes aglow at the unknown possibilities spread out before us. A huge forest canopy spread out on either side of the river, gradually giving way to lower growth and rocky outcrops, finally devolving to an almost Alpine meadow of short grass and vegetation on the higher slopes of the valley. Waves of heat rose from the valley floor.

"Yes, I suppose so, my dear, I suppose so. Shall we proceed to meet them and make ourselves known?" I took her hand and we trudged forwards, down a sloping trail towards the cluster of huts, or kraal, that I espied breaking from a clearing about three miles ahead of us. Our little party made good time on the downhill trek and within an hour we were on the narrow dusty path that bisected the valley floor and led into the main part of village, or kijiji, as they're called.

I was mystified by the complete and utter silence, however. Something about this didn't sit well with me. No dogs barked. No birds chattered. No hippos gurgled, even. I held up a hand to stop our party. Tess came up to stand between Mbuto and me. Suddenly, a cacophony of noise erupted from one side of the trail – shouts, screams, drum beats, hand claps, even, dare I say it, a cowbell rang out. I heard a commotion behind us, and turned to see many of our bearers throw down their loads and run shrieking back up the trail. The bloody bastards had deserted us!

Before Mbuto or I could do anything to halt their exodus, the four of us were surrounded by the tallest, darkest tribesmen I'd ever seen. These fellows made the Masai look like pygmies. Not a one was less than seven feet tall. Their capes and tribal costumes were a riot of color, ostrich feathers, lion and cheetah skins, elephant tusk, it seemed all the natural components of the local fauna was made part of their adornments. They whooped and hollered with a frightful din and a feverish look on their faces, reminding me not a little of that band of tribesman encountered by Stewart Granger in "King Solomon's Mines".

We cowered in fear for our lives, I'm not ashamed to say - surrounded as we were by dozens of towering Africans, shaking lethal looking spears at us. It was looking more and more like we were about to become the latest trophies on their wall. I especially noted the alarmingly lecherous looks most of the giant ebony specimens directed towards Tess, who clutched my arm with a tenacity unmatched since the Ancient Mariner accosted those fellows on their way to a wedding.

Mbuto saved the day. He strode forward and raised his left arm and spoke loudly, "M'kaa. Ooogoo logo pakka unguluko. K'ya makka ginga massa bulu. Oku mga'ya, kepu makka olongo". The assembled mass broke out in cheers whose meaning, even considering the cultural differences, were unmistakable in intent. I later found out that Mbuto had said "This white guy wants you all to fuck his wife while he takes pictures", the scoundrel.

The largest of the!Kung tribesmen strode forward, and made a sort of salute to Mbuto, involving making a fist and cracking knuckles with our guide, then bumping elbows and chests. It was an odd ritual, I should venture, but one never knows what these bally natives will come up with next.

He and Mbuto palavered for a few minutes, excitedly chattering back and forth in their lingo, which I profess I knew nothing of, until the large black fellow stood back and looked at me for a long moment.

Suddenly he reared his head back and a loud guffaw burst from his lungs. "Haw haw haw haw haw! Never have I seen such a thing as this!" I was shaken to the core, and staggered back like the Old Testament prophet Eli on receiving the bad news about the 10 C.'s

"You ... you speak English?" I stammered, querulously.

"Perfectly well, my good man, perfectly well. I don't get a chance to practice it all too often out here in this beastly jungle, since my people expect me to converse with them in their own bloody language."

"How did you learn English?"

"My father sent me to Zangaro when I was young and enrolled me in the English schools there. He thought it would be beneficial for me to be, shall I say, exposed to the white peoples culture."

"You obviously benefited from the education. I'm Roderick Basingate-Chumley at your service, your Highness, very glad to make your acquaintance. And this is my wife, Teresa." I said, bowing slightly and gesturing to my lovely bride, blushing before me.

The chief's booming voice replied, "Your wife is indeed charming and lovely, I must admit."

We made small talk for a few moments, the chief asking about our journey, and enquiring about news of the outside world. Meanwhile, the entire entourage, tribesmen and our party together, strode down the main avenue of the encampment. The porters were directed to distribute our trunks to several large huts, or 'kibanda', as they are called, the last man taking Tess & my steamers to a fine, nicely laid out ensemble close by to one that, from its designs, appeared to be the home of the chief himself.

It turned out that the chief, who introduced himself as!Konga XIV, had been immersed in the white culture of Zangara for his first fifteen or so years, but had been called back to his tribe here nearly forty years ago when his father, the previous chief, sickened on some bad wildebeest or something, and handed in his dinner pail. I asked him what he remembered about living with the white people.

"It was much interesting, once used to it I got, and understanding of your funny languages", he said hesitantly. "I was boarded with a district administrator man person and his wifes and young child while I attended their schoolings. I learned English at a very early age, and have become much good at it yes, but I can not practice heres in the jungle. Tell me, is that Nixon man still in charge of the states of united america? We thought he was much lying always and crookish."

I assured him that no, Richard Nixon was long gone from the political scene, and brought him quickly up to date on the recent world events, including the fall of communism in the Soviet Union, the economic rise of China, and a few other recent events.

"That is the one thing I am missing most oftly. We get no news information from the rest of the world, and I miss very much watching American sportings and even your English footballers. I love very much Dallas Cowmens cheers-leaders," he said with a leer. "Tell me, have the Buccaneers of Tampa of the American footballs ever won a game? And those silly Saints from News Oreens?"

I admitted that yes, the Buccaneers finally found a few winning seasons, as had the Saints. He seemed amazed at how much things have changed.

By now, the porters had distributed all the trunks and expedition paraphanalia, and I expected them to line up for their agreed-upon pay rate. I collected our strongbox with the local currency in it, and excusing myself from the King's company, ducked out of the hut and met up with Mbuto, who was himself scurrying in our direction.

"Oh bossy bossy, porter mens all done with putting away of the gear, yes yes. Finished very much fine with no problems, no problems at all thanking you sincerely. However, many porters come to me with offers for final payment, wanting something difference from paper monies which they can not use having no banks here. What you say?"

He was chattering on so I had to raise the hand and slow him down.

"Cease the ungodly high-speed vocalizations, my good man. Apoplexy does not suit you. Now what on earth are you talking about?"

He gestured for me to lean down, so he could whisper in my ear. The aroma of a native liquor of some type assaulted my senses, even my eyes started to water in the tart atmosphere. I didn't really care to have the bloody fellow touching me too closely but nevertheless, I imitated my elderly aunt from the English coastal area, and I leaned over.

"Many mens of the porters would trade wages for chance to drop their sperms in your lovely wife's tummy. They not often get chance to have pretty girl take dicky-dick in mouth and make it shudder to release white life juice. Most wives not do anymore after married, and porter say ones who do usually fat and ugly anyway. They really like pretty girl wife. You know what means we do?"

I nodded in agreement with his whispered confidences. "I'll have to ask Tess how she feels about that. I can't make any promises, it will have to be up to her, of course. How may of the porters are wanting to make this kind of ... trade?"

Mbuto started counting on his fingers. "one ... two ... four ... three with thumb is five ... um..." He looked down at his splayed hand with a sort of bizarre consternation, as though he'd never seen his palm before. "um ... lets me see ... fourteens ... fifteens ... sixteens with Jongo, he change mind last minutes when other fellows be joshing at him."

"Sixteen porters, you say. Hmmm." I did the quick math. We'd save about 350 Congolese dollars, or very nearly six pounds sterling.

I strode off in search of Tess. I found her unpacking some of our trunks in the hut that we'd been assigned to.

"Tess, love of my life, sweet one, help-mate and so on, Mbuto has come to me with a request from some of the porters, don't you know?"

"Oh? What's that, dear husband of mine, sweet fellow, charming rogue that you are?"

"Well, it seems that they were captivated, not to say bloody entranced, by your amazingly competent performance of fellatio on that fellow stuck by that blasted python a few days back. They offered to exchange their pay for the opportunity to, as it were, make a deposit in your little tummy-tum-tum. I told Mbuto that I'd have to ask you..."

Tess, bless her little Anglo-Saxon heart, blushed furiously at the compliments being paid her, even if in an off-hand manner.

"Heavens, they were that impressed? And they'd be willing to trade their wages for a simple act of oral sex? Do not their own wives or girlfriends perform that most basic act for them?"

"Well, according to what Mbuto says, not at all, not at all. Evidently, the act of placing an erect penis between one's lips and providing friction and movement enough to enable the ejaculation of semen is not practiced among the women-folk of our porters. One has to assume that for many, their initial exposure to the act was your performance the other day. And it appears to have made quite an impression on them. Not that I can blame them, of course."