One of the must-do things of Kinshasa is to take a trip up the river and have a picnic on a sand bank. You can even have a swim if you like, though you have to be careful as the current is very fast.
We were invited to do this very thing by the manager of a large security firm which has its own boats. Excitedly we prepare by putting on our bikinis, making a thermos of tea and plenty of egg sandwiches. Oh, and we mustn’t forget the bottle of wine, and should bring the dogs: they’ll enjoy it.
As the agreed time of departure draws near, the sky gets darker and darker and, exactly at the said time it starts to pour. Really pour, as only the West African tropics and Queensland skies know how.
We agree to wait for an hour, by which time it has been reduced to a mild drizzle, and, since it seems to be getting brighter, we decide to go. The boats do not have windscreen wipers, so yellow-clad men are stationed in front to wipe the glass with their hands as we drive.
The view from the river of Kinshasa’s port area is bizarre. Huge rusty hulks obscure what signs of life there may be; derelict cranes and battered containers complete the picture which is like nothing so much as a Chernobyl scene of chilling lifelessness.
We buzz on, our little speedboat carefully avoiding the obstacles, and before long, cold and wet, we arrive.
What followed reminded me of the times when my parents insisted on having a picnic in freezing Scotland: we erect a tent without walls and huddle under it. It may be the tropics, but when you are wet and it is still drizzling you feel quite cold.
Our tiny contribution of sandwiches is totally dwarfed by the host’s spread. Cocktail sticks with cheese and frankfurters, samusas, spring rolls, sausage rolls, quiches, meat balls, cheese spread and cream cheese with chilli sauce; and enough baguette sandwiches to feed an army. Two cool boxes of wine, beer and soft drinks complete the feast.
Before long the optimists could raise a cocky I told-you-so eyebrow: the rain stopped and it began to brighten up. So did our mood as the wine and beer did the necessary. The dogs were enjoying themselves too, racing up and down, frolicking in the water, playing hide and seek among the reeds. We didn’t worry about them, knowing that this was just an uninhabited sand spit.
In retrospect we should have been a bit more careful. Someone interrupted our raucous chatter to ask us to listen: what was that noise? And where were the dogs? The answer to the first question was that it sounded very much like a very upset pig; and we did not have to wait long for the answer to the second question. The playful barking coming from the same direction as the pig said it all.
We rushed across, but found that one of the crew had already run off to investigate. He managed to chase the dogs away and restore the pig to . . . its very cross owners. It was only then that we noticed the roof of a tiny hut on stilts, just over the dune.
And that, we thought, was that. Until, about fifteen minutes later a dugout canoe edges slowly along the shore. In it is a pig and two very serious-looking men.
They demand “at least $500” for the damage done to the pig. We go and look at it: poor thing, it’s only small, and is obviously very scared (wouldn’t you be?) but actually, apart from a few scratches is unhurt. No blood or anything.
The bargaining starts, with the crew members as the negotiators and the manager of the security company handling matters from our end. He starts at $20. The pig people are totally shocked, but come down to $100 rather too quickly. We stick to $20, after all it’s only got scratches. We’re not even sure that the scratches were made by our dogs (although one dog lost its collar, so something must have happened). The pig owners are adamant that they have to take the poor animal for “treatment”: $60 minimum. After half an hour of ceaseless argument – who knows what was said, as it was all in Lingala – we concede, simply for a quiet life, that we’ll give them $40. They push off, very happy. We joke about how they’ve done so well. They’ve got enough money to have a big party as well as a pig to eat.
It is now afternoon. The sun comes out, and other people arrive. Thankfully there is plenty of room, so they are quite a long way off. One party has a dog, which starts to run around, as ours had done.
We start to pack up, wanting to avoid getting home late, but something catches the corner of our eye. In the distance we see the pig, being chaperoned carefully into the sight and smell of the new dog.
Have we been had?
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