Chapter 3
Morning comes early in the Congo. The
researchers met quickly for coffee and toast at the breakfast bar before their
taxi showed up and drove them to a nearby quay in the grey dawn, where they had
their first look at what would be their means of transportation up the
river. An emaciated old man, sat on the
bow of a large boat with a steel hull, its painted turquois sides built up with
scabs of plywood tied to stakes with wire and twine. A couple pallets of food
and supplies covered with canvas tarps and tied with heavy ropes were already
loaded mid ship. They met their guide,
Amos, a smooth talking bald man in his early 40s who introduced himself with a
wide smile. The Captain, a toothless
middle-aged man in a greasy t-shirt, waved at them from the wheelhouse at the stern. While porters loaded the researcher’s luggage
into the bow of the boat, Amos pointed them to a pair of wooden planks amidship
with wooden cleats nailed across them, stretched between the dock and the boat.
Roger led the way, helping Celeste aboard with his outstretched hand. Patty also caught his hand half way across the
springy planks. She stepped into the boat and fell into a large coil of rope
and fishing nets, only too happy to take a seat where she could find one. After
a few minutes, Amos came aboard, threw off the lines and with a roar of the
engine, they were off, fighting the strong current as they headed upstream, river
froth spraying in their faces. Patty
watched as they joined other boats and barges coming and going up and down the
river. There were no roads beyond this
point and it would be months before she would enjoy the luxury of a hotel
again. She settled back in the netting, laid her knapsack under her head and after
checking for spiders, closed her eyes.
This was quite the change, she thought,
wiggling her buttocks a little deeper into the coil of netting as she made
herself a comfortable nest. Only a few weeks ago, she was safe in her lab coat
filing daily reports on the activities of a group of chimpanzees that she was
assigned to. She was able to watch and take videos of them through the
protective lexan glass of an observation window located across one wall of her
office. Aside from noting their feeding activities and general behaviour, her
observations focused on primate conflict and especially post-conflict
reconciliation, or how they resolved arguments. The idea of studying bonobos
appealed to Patty. Unlike the patriarchal chimpanzees, the matriarchal bonobos
have a reputation for affection, peace and harmony in their society. The females, who lead the group collectively,
resolve group issues with constant sexual activity. The males are so busy
recuperating from constant sex that they don’t have time to fight; sex in the
morning, sex in the evening, and sex every few minutes in between. Bonobos have sex between males, between
females, between males and females and between young and old and in every
position known to humans. Bonobos use
sex as a greeting and to show that they have no grudges with each other. If bonobos
come onto a food source, they drop everything, have sex and then calmly share
their food. They rarely fight and if they do, they quickly reconciliate with
sex. They never kill each other. A male bonobo’s
rank in the social hierarchy is determined by his mother’s rank, which is fine
by him because he’s too busy having sex with everyone but her, to care. Bonobos
do not form pair bonds nor do they form monogamous sexual relationships. Patty knew
that life in the Congo would be a stark contrast to the safety of her
laboratory, but when she admitted it to herself, she was growing restless and bored
of the monotony of her life and needed a change, even if that included
challenging her safety margins.
Celeste managed to find an old military
box to sit on, or rather she managed to fit one cheek on it and the other on
the top of a greasy bucket, which she pulled some rags over. She sat across from Roger who was content to
find some floor space on the deck of the boat. He leaned back against his backpack,
flipped his shades down and drifted off to sleep.
Celeste looked off to the shore, where
tropical flora grew right to the water’s edge.
She saw winged birds take to the air as the sound of the noisy motor
spooked them. Here and there, African women were doing their laundry on the
rocks. They passed boat loads of people,
many of which were overloaded, on their way down river. Celeste was 30 years old, well educated,
single and bi-sexual. She was the biological daughter of a prominent politician
from Paris. Her mother remained in
Sierra Leone where Celeste was born. Her
mother had not seen her father for over 30 years but a monthly deposit in a Swiss
bank account had more than taken care of them. Celeste had attended a private
school in Freetown, the capital of Sierra Leone until she was 12 years old, at
which time her mother had sent her away from the war torn country to France. Celeste attended a private school in
Paris. It was there that she, at the age
of 16, had finally met her father.
She thought back to that day on the Pont
de l’Archeveche, the bridge with its sides covered in lover’s padlocks, where
her father agreed to meet her and walk with her across the city. She got there early, padlocked her bicycle to
a tree and wandered nervously back and forth across the bridge while she waited. She saw the black limousine pull up and as
she held her breath, an aide with dark sunglasses stepped out of an armoured
car parked discreetly across the street.
The man looked in every direction before he opened the door. Celeste
didn’t recognize the man who stepped out of the limo, but it was none other
than Frances Descartes that walked on to the bridge. Monsieur Descartes was a well known name
throughout Europe and Africa in the early and mid 1990’s. He had worked for the
Minister of Defense in Sierra Leone until a military coup forced him into
hiding. His name and photograph had made headlines around the world and he
still had a price on his head; many were the mercenaries who dreamed of cashing
in on the prize that a bullet in his head would bring. He now had a permanent
post at the French Embassy, though his work was highly secretive. Not knowing
how to greet him, Celeste shook his hand and they had exchanged pleasantries no
different than if he was the headmaster at her school. While his bodyguards discreetly followed at a
distance, they walked across the bridge and turned west along the esplanade which
runs along the River Seine towards the Eiffel Tower.
As they walked, he asked her about her
mother, her transition from Sierra Leone and how she enjoyed Paris. Gradually Celeste
relaxed and she worked up the nerve to ask him a few questions too. Was he
married? Yes for nearly 20 years. Did he
have other children? Yes. Three daughters, one older, two younger than her.
Where did he live? He wasn’t able to tell her, for her own safety, but he lived
in a nice house near Paris. He told her about his life. He had been born in
Freetown, Sierra Leone, the son of a poor diamond miner who found a way to
bring his diamonds home with him, even at the risk of death. The elder Descartes,
though it wasn’t their family name in those days, sent his wife and two sons
away from Freetown, across Western Africa to the city of Kambia, where they
managed to buy a house and get educated, one black market diamond at a
time. By the time Frances was in his
early 20’s he had graduated with honours from Fourah Bay College, and went
straight to work for the Minister of Defense in Nigeria. He was gifted with high ambition to succeed
and by the time he was in his early fourties, he was in line to become the next
High Commissioner of Sierra Leone. The
job came with its risks; he was privy to much corruption and he knew far too
much about far too many high level diplomats.
Then there was a military coup in 1997, and he barely escaped to France
with his life. His father and most of
his family disappeared in the aftermath of the coup.
Celeste’s father hugged her, bought her
a crepe at the base of the Eiffel Tower, stepped into the waiting limousine and
vanished. For her own safety, she had not seen him again. But she did receive emails on her birthday
and a bank card had arrived in her name when she became an adult. Her account
was limitless. She had finished school, attended the prestigious University of
Paris-Sorbonne and gone on to study Anthropology at Pantheon-Assas and Primatology
at the University of Wisconsin, which had sponsored all of her field studies to
date.
Roger woke an hour or so up the river as
the girls shuffled, putting on their rain jackets. It was just beginning to drizzle, large drops
of rain splattering on the surface of the passing water. His back was sore from the constant vibration
of the boat on his spine. He stood up
and stretched, catching the girl’s eyes as they followed the movement of his
body. He was very pleased that fate would put him in the company of these two women.
This was going to make life at the research centre that much more
interesting. Roger loved his job but the
one downside of living for months in remote areas, often alone or in groups of
scientists focused on their work, was that he had never had a meaningful long
term relationship. He thought about the
girl he was currently sleeping with at the camp, a young Congolese girl by the
name of Christiana. She was young, barely legal by North American standards
though here in the Congo she was old enough to be married with children. It was
a simple deal, he had brought her from Kinshasa to take care of the huts and
the dining area. She washed clothes and
bedding, swept the floors, did the dishes and in return she got room and board and
a small monthly salary. One night, only a couple months ago, he was up late
catching up on some reports when she came into his hut without knocking, took
off her thin wrap and climbed into his bed. At first he was perplexed, but he
wasn’t one to argue with fate so he let her stay. He had saved her from a far
worse fate on the streets of Kinshasa; she had asked him if she could stay with
him. She looked to him for protection.
He wondered briefly if she would be a problem if he took up with the new girls,
but he doubted it. He could leave her in his hut and sleep with the new girls
in their tent. He smiled, knowing full well in his conscious mind that it would
never happen, yet he enjoyed the thought all the same.
After an hour of damp travel, the boat
suddenly turned, heading into a graveled backwater where the jungle had been
chopped back to make room for a makeshift floating gas station. Red 45 gallon drums floated in the
rainbow-coloured scum on the stagnant water. The boat throttled back and they
threw their lines to a man standing knee deep in the water. Another man, the hood from his rain jacket
covering his face, stood watching them, his fingers wrapped around the butt and
trigger guard of a machine gun slung across his chest. The boat was pulled against a large log and
tied up while a worker pumped gasoline into the gas cans scattered around the
back of the boat. Both girls fidgeted while they thought about going ashore, hoping
for the benefit of a ladies room; but they knew they wouldn’t likely see one
for months. Amos pulled a wad of cash out of a fanny pack around his waist, paid
for the gas and they pushed off heading further up the Congo.
