We need to get back to Kinshasa early so that we don’t meet the rush hour. It’s an eight hour drive, so we plan to leave at seven in the morning.
There’s a hitch. The ferry across the river[1] doesn’t start until eight – or so they say. There aren’t any timetables.
A delegation is sent to the Captain the night before to ask him to start early. It will, apparently, be a pleasure. They will make their first crossing at seven.
To be honest I don’t altogether buy the story that they don’t start until 8, because when we arrived at the appointed hour, the river banks were already crowded with people who didn’t look as if they were expecting to have to wait an hour. Maybe the word had got out, or maybe the ferry always leaves at about that time.
Anyway, we are duly introduced to the Captain and he proudly shakes our hands. His boat has recently been refitted by the Belgians, and clearly has excellent equipment. We drive on – the only car – but have to be very careful as the deck is already full of people settling down to breakfast. Everyone is munching a bit of breakfast, banana, bread, fish – all sorts.
From the tools they carry they are obviously crossing to get to their fields. But what really impresses me is the other traffic: the dugout canoes. Some are hired and some clearly are owner driven. The water is thick with them, striking hard against the incredibly fast current. What really catches my eye is one which has ten women in it, all with paddles.
Now for a lecture about boats. Fact one: most boats have keels to stop them turning over: dugout canoes have nothing of the sort. Fact 2: if you stand up in a boat without a keel it is much more likely to turn over than if you sit down because your centre of gravity is closer the middle.
So if you were to ask me to paddle a dug-out canoe standing up, I would definitely question your wisdom. But the people of Bandundu have learned an important lesson. If you don’t stand up, you don’t have enough power to push the canoe against the current. And if you can’t balance, that’s your fault. So the normal commercial canoe has three paddlers, one standing in the bow, one in the stern and one in the middle. These women were ten. The grace and speed of their canoe was breathtaking: working in perfect unison, intuitively steering in the counter intuitive direction that the rapid current required, these women were doing what they must do every day – just getting across the water. As soon as they reach the other side, they tie up the boat, and walk to their fields, a wonderful example of self reliance and co-operation.
Our crossing was much more mundane, and no quicker than theirs. As we drove the sandy track to Kinshasa something struck us forcefully: everyone on the ferry, and in the canoes (apart from the hired canoes), was a woman. What were the men doing? Your guess is as good as mine. Being philosophers under the tree, with a beer in one hand and a piece of goat's meat in the other?
[1] It wasn’t the Congo, actually, but a tributary. It just makes a better headline. Anyway, it was as wide and swifter than the Congo at Kinshasa.
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