muffled singing and shouting reached our ears from somewhere in the town. I finally dropped off to sleep thinking about Carmen Roux, leprosy and rhinoceros beetles.
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Next morning, slits of pale grey light showed through the gaps in the bedroom shutters, and the rise and fall of African voices passing under the window brought us to full consciousness. It was just after eight oâclock and out in the street, groups of people had gathered to talk. Given the noises we had heard the night before, I wondered when these people ever slept! After breakfast, we left Roger and Boniface to prepare our lunch while we went to look for Kruger.
From the verandah of Krugerâs house we looked out on the bend of the Ivindo River: Makokou lay on itswestern bank. It was still early morning, and a leaden sky blocked out any warmth from the sun. The river lay brown, glassy and deserted. Along the banks the forest stretched, forming a green corridor. Wisps of morning fog hung in the air, filmy wraith-like patches, low over the water and drifting through the branches. Kruger wasnât at home.
The débarcadère was a steep clearing on the riverbank, where a group of pirogues bobbed in the shallow water. A rusty iron barge lay beached nearby in the mud. Part-way up the slope, a corrugated-iron shed with a padlock and chain on the doors provided storage space for outboard motors and fuel.
Gabonese men ran in all directions, people were shouting orders, but no-one listened because everybody spoke at once. Children bathed and played in the shallows. Women washed clothes in the river. Flies buzzed. Men in white hard hats loaded lengths of timber into a twelve-metre pirogue, along with drums of outboard fuel, spare motors, and bundles of local food wrapped in banana leaves. All the companyâs Gabonese staff wore hard hats with SOMIFER printed across the front. They came up in turn to greet us. Their calloused hands felt like old rope as they gripped mine.
Kruger stood astride a petrol drum, amidships in the pirogue. He appeared to be having a rough time of it, and I sensed that now was not the moment for small talk. He came ashore, shook hands briefly, and after barking a few more orders in the direction of the boatmen, disappeared to keep a radio liaison with Belinga back at the office.
We returned to the house and settled down to wait for the chauffeur. Instead, about ten oâclock, Kruger himself pulled in near the kitchen door, red-faced and agitated. He loaded our bags hastily into the car and announced that weâd besharing the pirogue with the sous-préfêt (the deputy district governor) and a trade union representative, who were making a routine trip to Belinga. When we climbed in, he reversed out into the street and gunned the accelerator, sending clouds of red dust into the air.
At the riverbank, the frenzy had abated. Our luggage and the iceboxes of fresh food were stowed, then there was a last-minute flurry to find enough life jackets and folding chairs for all of us, and position them in a line down the middle. Finally, everything was ready. We climbed in and took our places, the sous-préfêt at the front. The huge black pirogue slid quietly backwards into mid-stream. At the stern, the pinnassier , the boatman, sat grave-faced with his hand on the tiller. At the bow, the navigator peered intently into the water. Then the outboard shuddered into life, and with a last-minute warning from Kruger not to make any sudden movements or we could tip over, we were off, sliding through the tea-brown water and watching the hill of Makokou grow smaller and smaller behind us.
Â
For the first hour no-one spoke, and the only sounds were the thudding of the outboard and the swish of the bow wave past the gunwales. We were seated one behind the other on the folding chairs, with no room to move in any direction. A long corrugated-aluminium canopy stretched over our heads almost the full length of the canoe. We
Â
Next morning, slits of pale grey light showed through the gaps in the bedroom shutters, and the rise and fall of African voices passing under the window brought us to full consciousness. It was just after eight oâclock and out in the street, groups of people had gathered to talk. Given the noises we had heard the night before, I wondered when these people ever slept! After breakfast, we left Roger and Boniface to prepare our lunch while we went to look for Kruger.
From the verandah of Krugerâs house we looked out on the bend of the Ivindo River: Makokou lay on itswestern bank. It was still early morning, and a leaden sky blocked out any warmth from the sun. The river lay brown, glassy and deserted. Along the banks the forest stretched, forming a green corridor. Wisps of morning fog hung in the air, filmy wraith-like patches, low over the water and drifting through the branches. Kruger wasnât at home.
The débarcadère was a steep clearing on the riverbank, where a group of pirogues bobbed in the shallow water. A rusty iron barge lay beached nearby in the mud. Part-way up the slope, a corrugated-iron shed with a padlock and chain on the doors provided storage space for outboard motors and fuel.
Gabonese men ran in all directions, people were shouting orders, but no-one listened because everybody spoke at once. Children bathed and played in the shallows. Women washed clothes in the river. Flies buzzed. Men in white hard hats loaded lengths of timber into a twelve-metre pirogue, along with drums of outboard fuel, spare motors, and bundles of local food wrapped in banana leaves. All the companyâs Gabonese staff wore hard hats with SOMIFER printed across the front. They came up in turn to greet us. Their calloused hands felt like old rope as they gripped mine.
Kruger stood astride a petrol drum, amidships in the pirogue. He appeared to be having a rough time of it, and I sensed that now was not the moment for small talk. He came ashore, shook hands briefly, and after barking a few more orders in the direction of the boatmen, disappeared to keep a radio liaison with Belinga back at the office.
We returned to the house and settled down to wait for the chauffeur. Instead, about ten oâclock, Kruger himself pulled in near the kitchen door, red-faced and agitated. He loaded our bags hastily into the car and announced that weâd besharing the pirogue with the sous-préfêt (the deputy district governor) and a trade union representative, who were making a routine trip to Belinga. When we climbed in, he reversed out into the street and gunned the accelerator, sending clouds of red dust into the air.
At the riverbank, the frenzy had abated. Our luggage and the iceboxes of fresh food were stowed, then there was a last-minute flurry to find enough life jackets and folding chairs for all of us, and position them in a line down the middle. Finally, everything was ready. We climbed in and took our places, the sous-préfêt at the front. The huge black pirogue slid quietly backwards into mid-stream. At the stern, the pinnassier , the boatman, sat grave-faced with his hand on the tiller. At the bow, the navigator peered intently into the water. Then the outboard shuddered into life, and with a last-minute warning from Kruger not to make any sudden movements or we could tip over, we were off, sliding through the tea-brown water and watching the hill of Makokou grow smaller and smaller behind us.
Â
For the first hour no-one spoke, and the only sounds were the thudding of the outboard and the swish of the bow wave past the gunwales. We were seated one behind the other on the folding chairs, with no room to move in any direction. A long corrugated-aluminium canopy stretched over our heads almost the full length of the canoe. We
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