The Congo River

I can never hear the word Congo without feeling the resonance of Joseph Conrad and other tales of the weird and wonderful things which have happened here. I get a similar feeling when we walk along the river, a ritual performed twice daily.

The scale of it is truly inspiring: the water is not dawdling in the way of the great rivers of Europe, but rushing to the sea carrying numerous little islands of grass and other debris which has fallen into it. These grass clumps are a source of constant wonder: where do they all come from? They’re not small, typically I would guess about two or three metres across, and they swirl down the river like kids in one of the waterworld play parks. I picture a mother duck and her ducklings sitting on such a clump staring wild eyed as the river banks flash by.

Our walk takes place along a tarred road, probably about thirty metres from the river itself. On the other side, almost due west and about one kilometre away, is Brazzaville. The river banks slope quite steeply, but are grassy and many of the house owners on the landward side of the road have taken the trouble to cut the grass. Where the grass is uncut there are jungly mounds of wild flowers, creepers and the rustle of . . . frogs? snakes?? Flocks of little birds play around, so tiny that when they sit on grass it hardly bends. The bank is lined with trees, including majestic mango trees, lots of pawpaws, bananas and cassava.

There are a few flat areas. One is big enough for people to play football. In others, especially on Sundays, there are outdoor gyms where trainers goad fatties into doing uncomfortable exercises under the curious eye of passers-by.

Here and there are benches which are occupied either by very keen runners doing stretching exercises or lovers sitting silently, enjoying the bliss of proximity.

If you aren’t scared of the wild life you can walk down to the river’s edge. Most of it is protected by thick reed beds, but here and there the water comes right to the bank. There’s a gentle lapping sound as the little waves hit the shore.

In the morning, the air is filled with enthusiastic bird song, some of it extraordinarily musical. But the best time is the evening. At about 5.30 the sun starts to get red, and cloudy or not, makes displays which, were they not natural, you would have to call bad taste. The reds and yellows and purples that the sun projects colour not just the area around it, but the whole sky and even the landscape. Sometimes there is a thick haze which turns the sky into an exaggerated Turner painting. And in the foreground the slightly turbulent waters of the river somehow pick up different colours. Silhouetted against the vivid reds and blues of the water are a few dugout canoes – pirogues – using the remaining moments of daylight to catch their last fish of the day, completing a timeless scene. They move slowly and silently, now paddling against the strong current, now allowing themselves to be swept downstream.

To add to the mystery there is a dull roar in the background coming from the rapids downstream. The sound, to use a very unglamorous comparison, is like the roar of a distant aeroplane, probably a fighter jet.

As it gets dark you might expect people to scurry to the safety of their homes, but no: they linger. Here it is safe, and why rush away when they can rather participate in the daily miracle of the sunset?

But the scene is not always so sugary sweet.

One evening, we had let the dogs off the lead to scamper around when we heard noises in the dusk. We could pick up the silhouettes of four men slowly coming up a slipway that must have been built many years ago to allow a householder to launch his boat. They were clearly carrying something very heavy. As we approached we could see that this object was a metal box, about a metre square, and about the same height. Much to our surprise the men were dressed in dark suits. When they reached the road they were greeted by two men we took to be Lebanese, ominously flanked by four soldiers, all carrying, very conspicuously, machine guns. Two cars were ready for them: one, a pick up, to carry the box; the other a 4x4 with thickly tinted windows.

We decided we had seen nothing, and calling the dogs gave the scene a wide berth.