Emissaries of Night (Part II)

                                      ALONG THE SENEGAL RIVER (PART II)

Four days of failed negotiations were only mitigated by their Catholic Mission operating its own bar, on site. Prospects of a boating trip were diminishing fast. Second only to the lagers consumed with the son of the priest.

And then, one of the pilgrims – the more OCD one – remembered some sage words from a dear friend and staunch benefactor of the mission. “Africa is most efficient at the least opportune times,” the wise man once said, free of charge. Indeed, their final, twilight attempt at negotiating proved the most effective. The pilgrim who doesn’t suffer from agro phobia – the one who is skilled in deal-making – pulled off a miraculous majority vote from the pirogue shareholders:

Eight hours later, in the morning dimness, they were in a boat, with two paddlers and some tea leaves, thrown in as a last minute bargaining chip. It was just as well, for the supplies brought personally by the pilgrims wouldn’t have covered all outcomes:

Supply List

Baguettes – 4

Flagon of wine – 1

Apricot jam – some

Chlorine tablets – lots

The elements were only too happy to greet the four men in a boat. A headwind, unremitting heat, and a big, powerful river flowing in the opposite direction were some of the grander challenges. But, other, mysterious quandaries soon gathered around the wooden pirogue. Different greetings for different countries on each riverbank flummoxed them – particularly the traveller who often forgets things in places. Large insects, small amphibians and regular-sized children often found their way into the pilgrims’ tent, clothing and boat. And, of course, their old nemesis, that bloody huge star around which the earth, and Senegal, travels.

Le Soleil, as it goes by in the arid regions, confined them to the margins of the day. Early mornings, late nights and some midnight disturbances from the gamut of birdlife along the river were commonplace. To be called upon by birds of the feathery kind was a far more savoury experience for the rambling duo. The sun, too, stimulated much debate, for there were many hours beneath it to occupy with debating. Various topics were discussed:

How did it get so round?

Why did it get so vicious?

What would be the most appropriate thing to shout at it, the moment before it consumed one during The Big Crunch?

They drifted past other oddities; girls who slammed their brothers’ heads with iron pots and rioting donkeys, flinging their passengers skyward while onlookers laughed uncontrollably.  They passed such varied and prolific waterfowl that a Jacana stew would have been eaten with relish rather than regret and in the final stages they were treated to that most distinguished of welcoming committees that all wild travellers hanker after – the vervet monkey troop.

More surprising, however, was their realisation that this parched strip of the southern Sahara, satiated by this essential flow of turquoise water, didn’t really ‘need’ anything. On the contrary, the river dwellers were far keener on giving to these two ashen shapes emerging from the haze in their upstream battle. Mats were rolled out, pots were donated, lunches were prepared, daughters were offered; all in exchange for some conversation in rudimentary French and, of course, mirth.  There was laughter from both banks and on all sides. And, it wasn’t long before the penny dropped. The only ‘thing’ the two pilgrims could really disseminate was some light relief. To this end, their past presence was sufficient.

150kms later, or seventeen villages, their destination was in their sights. Cloaked in a sandy fog, a feeling of inevitability gripped the windswept emissaries.  After six days opposing the current, they had finally sighted the canon turrets of Bakel. The foreboding caw of a crow caught their eye above them, and a goat, nibbling pages from a holy book on the shore brought their gaze back to earth. And they knew, as nature ordained, that they would need to leave this place in the same fashion as they appeared – with no light. The place was radiant, long before they wallowed in her azure depths. Illumination was only required to seek out the large cricket that nestled in their tent. And, more importantly, for playing ad hoc Morse code with fishermen.

They headed for their third frontier – Mali – in the sleepy hour before dawn. As they shuffled away from the water course that had been their home for a fortnight, it seemed to be moving even more assuredly now. Swirls of apathy rippled freely in all directions. Around the drained carcasses of wooden donkeys and past the regal kingfishers and through the roots of the old-fashioned baobab trees and under the litter-laden villages and into the bellies of people who remain unfeigned.

Both knew all traces of their expedition would soon dissipate. The westward flow would sweep them impartially in the Atlantic Ocean. As they carried on eastward, through clenched eyes, they found they were in the middle of something. The searing halo of drowsy dust secured them in its midst. In this way, they never seemed to reach that line which the earth and sky appeared to meet.