Monsieur Ancien’s Guide to Bushmeat
The illegal trade in bushmeat is hampering conservation efforts to protect endangered species in the Congo basin. The WWF has produced an educational calender for educational purposes in this area. The calendar consists of photos and a cover sheet with lists of endangered species(Class A, more endangered and ClassB, less endangered) and photos to boot. The calendars are highly prized in this area, they are first used as a calendar, the pages are then separated and plastered ovewr the interior walls of the home as decoration. The other day I stumbled upon another unintentional use of the calendar. Around 100m from the WWF office there is a small restaurant, complete with WWF calendar on the wall. I enquired what there was to eat and Momma guided me over to the list of endangered animals which also doubled as a handy menu, informing me that today there was 1 class A and 2 class B animals…
The WWF are obviously losing the battle against the bush meat trade, for a variety of reasons. Firstly, this is the way of life for the people here and always has been, they hunt to feed themselves and their families. Secondly, it is cheap hardly any capital needed to start up, all that is needed is to buy a length of wire to make the snares. Thirdly, truckers love meat.
So with apologies to environmentalists and vegetarians everywhere, I present Monsieur Ancien’s guide to bushmeat:
Rule of thumb: The bigger it is the better it is.
1.Elephant, the most prized. Rarely eaten fresh, mostly smoked or dried in the sun. Elephants here give about 5 tons of meat. 2 kilos of smoked elephant costs around a tenner. (I abstained from eating elephant, so cannot give you a taste test)
2.Gorilla. Apparently female tastes sweeter than the male; although male makes you strong. According to Ancien, eating a male gorilla puts lead in your pencil (you can fuck all night, for those of you that don’t get the analogy).
3.Giant Pagdolin. Is some kind of throwback to prehistoric times, looking like a small stegosaurus:armadillo. Very tasty, same flavour as lamb.
4.Buffalo. Standard beefy substitute.
5.Abis. A small gazelle type creature, looks very tender but was quite a disappointment. I was expecting something as soft and delicious as Bambi’s legs…
6.Livre. Large rodent, reasonable, but mamma had stewed it to death.
7.Caterpillars. Surprisingly tasty if somewhat crunchy, the spikes give a slightly prickly sensation as you swallow, followed by a burning similar to a strong whisky.
***Monkey: hard to place, palatability depends on species. The Mayor monkey is a delicacy, but other are not rated so highly. The other day I watched Ancien work his way through the arm of a stewed monkey. Slightly disconcerting was the similarity of the bone structure, almost identical finger bones even down to the tiny fingernails, it was however lacking in one important detail. There was no opposing thumb, which I guess is why we are eating it and not vice versa.
Congo.
The river Sangha is the border of Cameroon and Congo. This morning I hopped into a pirogue(a dugout canoe made out of one massive treetrunk) and we paddled across the border. On the other side underneath a large red, green, yellow flag stood the immigration. It was not the most friendly welcome. I was accused of being a spy, an ivory hunter, a botanist(bizarre), illegal immigrant, and finally a tourist. 2 hours later and 25 euros lighter (going into the back pockets of various men sporting AK47s) I was on my way.
I hate paying bribes.
Corruption is destroying these countries and I don’t want any part of it. Ancien gets a hard time off it at the border and ends up paying an extortionate amount to get his truck through, no wonder there is hardly any cross country trade. In fact regional trade within Africa(African countries trading with other African countries) is only 2% of total trade.
We move from the border onto Pokola, once again through pristine rainforest. Arriving in Pokola uniformed men once again had their hands out. I refused to pay out and he locked up the immigration post with my passport inside. I pass into town via the CIB, Congolese industrial de boite(logging company), a 2km enclosure covered in carcasses of massive trees. Ancien was waiting for me in town and we proceeded to celebrate in the usual fashion. Several bottles later a little nipper I had sent down to the docks to check out the boat situation came running back up to me, crying “Mandele, Mandele”.
The Bomassa was due to leave at 5am, sailing down to Mosakka, the confluence of the river Sangha, Obangui and Congo. Boats are few and far between and this was a stroke of luck for me. I was however drunk, Ancien was currently trying to buy me a pair of sisters to welcome me to the country, and importantly sans passport. I believe I caused quite a scene banging on the door of the immigration post at 1am, uniformed moustachied man(the kind I dislike the most) was not best pleased, but by 4am I was happily passed out on the deck of the Bomassa.
We sailed promptly at 6am. The noise of the engines starting up awoke me, followed by a rather puzzled looking French captain. I guess I didn’t look in great shape, dishevelled, hungover, unannounced and trying to spoon a piece of large metal machinery.
Thierry has been commanding the Bomassa for the last 5 years. Paid for by the French, the Bomassa sails the channel, signposting and clearing the route for other boats. Everything is done by hand.
The signposts are planks painted white.
The depth of the channel is measured with a metre stick.
Positioning is done by compass, map and logbook.
The only computer on board is Thierry’s personal laptop on which he writes informative, but very dull journals of each voyage.
The Bomassa has just cleared and posted the route along the Sangha, it is now heading downriver again to Mosakka, to join the Obangui and sial upriver to Bangui, capital of CAR. Crew of the Bomassa consists of 7 central Africans, 3 congolese, a Frenchman plus their wives and, inescapably, loads of children. There are also a fair amount of four legged passengers. Jacques the ship’s dog is a constant source of amusement and fear for all the local children along the route. We also currently have a goat(lunch), 3 crocodiles(also for eating), chickens for eggs and a couple of tortoises(also for nutrition) and a frozen monkey.
As much as I try to appear a man of the world(especially in front of a group of brawny sailors) I cannot help but tread gingerly around the crocs each time im down on deck. They are tied up with their jaws clamped shut, but they can still spit a loud threatening hiss whenever Jacques the ship’s dog approaches. My fear of reptilians causes a fair amount of amusement for the river folk.
I had a similar situation visiting a mountain lake in Cameroon, after trekking for 3 hours I reached the top of the volcano and traversed the caldera. Standing in the middle of my path was a huge bull, staring directly at me. After the initial shock I decided to play it cool and starting walking casually towards it. It lowered its head and started to paw the ground, making ready to charge. All nonchalance deserted me and I beat a hasty retreat. I sat down about 50m away and considered my options. As I was considering an honourable retreat(I have seen plenty of lakes in my life and have also seen the damage that bulls can do at San Fermin) a young fulhani boy hopped onto the road. No older than 5 or 6 he ran up to the bull and with a loud “WAH” whacked it round the head with a stick. Having a 5 year old show you how to be a man is quite a humbling experience.
The Fulhani are herders and live with their cattle year round, I spent 3 days in the hills with the boy’s family. Every cow has a name and a man’s wealth is measured by the number of cattle he has. Cattle, much as camels in Arabia, are used as currency; from paying a bride price down to buying a mobile phone. The mobile phone is used to spread news about good pastures and relate the current market price in different regions. It is a strange modern intrusion(with undeniable benefits) in what is otherwise a very traditional way of life.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
I started writing this journal as a distraction and in no small way as a form of repentance. Distraction is the only currently available remedy for the intense itching that has plagued me for the last few days. Ladies and Gentlemen I have scabies, and it is getting me down. The itching is severe over my hands, arms and back, and keeps me awake at night, however the saving grace of rabies (ladies you’ll be pleased to know) is that it spares the face and the genitals.
Here in Congo people access western medicine to treat the symptoms but visit traditional healers to treat the real cause of the malady. As I have resorted to distraction to treat my symptom I also think I need to look a little deeper to find the real cause of my suffering. On the surface I either caught scabies from a patient I treated or a pygmy I shared a tent with. However this seems a shallow soulless explanation, I think the answer lies deeper back in my infant years. so I have decided it is time to repent.
Nicky Baker I am truly sorry for chasing you around the playground yelling that you had scabies or the lurgi. I would never wish such an unpleasant disease upon anyone (the truth is I was young, insensitive and more than slightly repulsed by how at lunchtime you would take a bite of your peanut butter sandwich, slurp of your ribena a bite of your penguin bar and swallow it all in the same mouthful). Anyhow I hope wherever you are now you have a justified smile on your face and can rest happy in the knowledge that some kind of eternal justice does exist.
Currently it is not the itching that is keeping me awake, I am bouncing back and forth on a terrible logging road in the jungle South East Cameroon. We have been on the bus for 24 hours and only covered about 150km, in fact we seem to spend more time out of the bus pulling it with ropes or building very dodgy temporary bridges than driving. Not only is it a long bumpy ride but I am engaged in an increasingly vicious battle for territory with the old mamma sitting next to me. I am cramped with my rucksack between my legs, as for some bizarre reason the driver refused to place baggage on the roof(normally the minibuses here are double their height with cargo piled on the roof, which makes them very prone to flipping over). I finally give Mamma a sharp nudge in the ribs, she seems to respect this as after a brief torrent of abuse she gives a chuckle and eventually falls asleep on my shoulder. I finally drift off as well, reciprocally leaning on her sack of plantain.
I awoke slowly. the engine is off, we’ve stopped. My first thought is that we’ve broken down again, until I see people crowded all around the bus pressing themselves against the windows. They all have their hands raised above their heads and they re wailing. It is about 6am, the wailing combines with the morning mist to give me the heebie jeebies big time. With a fair amount of trepidation I descend out of the bus to confront this strange ritual. The first thing that strikes me are the people, they are pygmies full grown adults all around 4ft to 4.5ft, they re all looking upwards. I notice that only the women are wailing, then all the men come forward suddenly and reach up to the roof of the bus. A coffin is passed down to them, I have been travelling in a hearse. With this realisation everything comes into a familiar focus; the solemn faces of the men, the wailing of the women. What started as an alien event, with understanding is transformed into a universal human event with similarities unchanged by race or borders.
I am heading to Yokadouma, a logging town in South east Cameroon, in order to head down into the Republic of Congo. Ive been travelling and working a medical placement in Cameroon for the last couple of months and now want to head off to the Congo. The plan is to cross the border and get some form of boat down the Congo river. I havent been able to find any real information about the proposed route(lonely planet for Congo consists of 8 A5 pages and only 5 pages for DRC, which is larger than all of western europe). The truckers i have met have told me there are river barges transporting timber downriver to Kinshasa and Brazzaville, journey time varies from 1 week to 1 month depending on the source.
There is one road that runs south from here towards the border, it is maintained by the logging companies and the only traffic is a steady stream of lorries carrying giant logs from the Congo basin out to the rest of the world.
The last time I travelled down this road(in search of gorillas) I had a slight security issue. I was travelling in a Land Rover Defender with another Englishman, on our way to the national park in search of gorillas. We came across a large hole in the road, the local villagers had created a small diversion of about 10m to the side. We crossed the diversion and were immediately surrounded by young men. They asked for the old gringo tax(which varies according to the tone of your skin), demanding a ridiculous amount for our passage. We refused, they climbed onto the car and started leaning through the windows. We negoitiated and gave them what was a generous sum, in the knowledge that we had no choice for our return but to travel along the same road. On our return we were immediately surrounded again and the price of a safe passage had tripled. Our refusals were met with brandishing of machetes and death threats. As some youngsters started trying to strip things off the outside of the car, a man pushed a machete through the window and started demanding cash. We accused them loudly of being bandits. This caused considerable consternation whilst they argued amongst themselves about whether or not they were in fact bandits. Charlie took advantage of the opening and put his foot down. The land rover roared forward knocking the majority out of the way, I dispatched the last hanger on with a sharp elbow Walter Bailey style(RIP).
So before continuing I checked in at the WWF office in Yokadouma to enquire about the security situation and to try and cadge a lift south. They radioed the main office, to my pleasure the calls signs were: “Bongo 1, c’est bongo 5 fin”.
Unfortunately the WWF has temporarily suspended sending vechicles down the road, due to a military operation against a serious group of bandits further south, who had crossed over from Central African Republic and were attacking vechicles and looting villages. My hopes of a safe passage to the border were rapidly fading. Bugger.
Two days later a solution arrived in the form of Monsieur Aloys Akoa, a Cameroonian truck driver barely a more than slight resemblance, albeit he is black, to Danny Devito. His company are still sending trucks down the road and he ahs agreed to let me ride with him to the border.
Aloys is known as Ancien, as he has been driving this route for 15 years. Ancien likes to start the day with a litre of 6.5% beer and I feel obliged to join him. At 6am we stop at a little village and have a drink with the chief. Aloys is well received, people come out to greet him at all the villages along the route. With reason, trucks are the lifeblood of these communities, they are the reason the road was constructed in order to bring timber from the congo basin out to Douala the port and then the rest of the world(as we travel down this road trucks passing in the opposite direction carry huge amounts of timber surreally marked “Helsinki” “Porto” “Berlin” which feel rightly so a million miles away. Trucks are by and large the only traffic on the road and the only source of income for the villagers, the drivers therefore are treated like royalty. There are 6 of us in the truck cabin, Ancien, Me, Autoboy(anciens son) and 3 Malians. Each night we stop in a small village and follow a routine; eat, drink beer, then Ancien trys to buy me women. The first time I declined his offer politely. The second time I decided to explain my position, my French is hardly eloquent and all I could come up with was “C’est pas la commerce, c’est l’amour”. Ancien proceeded to explain that there are two types of women here: One you sleep with and you pay them money. The other you just buy a few drinks for the night and then sleep with her. I told him I wasn’t particularly comfortable with either. He replied
“In England do the men not buy the women drinks”
“traditionally, yes”
“And do the men not sleep with the women?”
I did not reply and went off to bed alone.
We were the first truck on the road today, it also rained heavily last night. As a result we are slipping and sliding all over the road and Ancien has a grim look on his face(partly perhaps due to his alcohol consumption last night). We pass many downed bridges on the way, bridges here consist of a few logs stretched out over the river. It is only by a miracle of engineering that they can hold the weight of these large trucks. In fact many don’t, most of the downed bridges have a wreck at the bottom, some of the wrecks are alarmingly recent.
I am back in Mambele, the last town before the Congo border. I met up with an old friend who was my guide in the jungle. Petit Jean is at home in the jungle, swings a machete with ease and can smell a gorilla a mile off(literally, this is how he tracks the gorillas and we were rewarded with a group of 7 or 8 huge beasts). With Petit Jean there is none of the irony associated with the English forest dweller with the same moniker Little John. PJ is 4ft2”, a pygmy of the Baaka tribe, with a goatee and sharpened front teeth that form perfect little equilateral triangles. Origianlly the Baaka are hunter gatherers, they do not farm and live completely off the jungle. Nowadays they are almost all settled for some of the year and have access to modern education and health care. There is of course access to the more dubious fruits of modern society such as alcohol and cigarettes, which are taking their toll (similar to the fate of indigenous groups all voer the world). Despite their small stature the Baaka can put away a lot of booze. Indeed the last time I saw JP he was plastered, probably spending all the money we had paid him for his services in the jungle.
I settle down for a beer with JP, Ancien and Tito a military who we picked up on the way, in a small restaurant come bar, hotel. It is the epitome of a family business; Grandma is the overseer and general manager, Momma cooks the food for the clients, Son serves the cold beer from the bar and the granddaughters sleep with the clients.
The atmosphere is nice and the beer is cold, until I realise that the barrel of Tito’s AK47, that he is cradling in his lap is pointing unerringly at my chest. I edge my chair to the right and relax again. One of the granddaughters, who is obviously ill and painfully thin, takes my edging towards her as a sign of encouragement and puts her hand on my thigh. I edge back to my left, back into the line of fire.
The evening ends with drunken skanking with pygmies to a soundtrack of sweet reggae (my musical power complex continues even in africa) and thankfully no accidental discharges.
We crossed Cameroonian immigrations this morning and made our way to the river Sangha. The Cameroonian officer asked for the usual baksheesh and on the advice of my French friend, I sat and waited it out, eventually crossing for free. My French friends tells a story of the Congo border where he waited 4 hours refusing to pay, eventually the immigration gave up and handed him a rubix cube with a disembled image of jesus on the cross. Assembling the image of the Only Son in under a minute he was allowed to pass for free.
Electricity is about to be cut, ill post the river journey next time there is any electricity..
Next week Congo… In search of Umbongo..
Here in Congo people access western medicine to treat the symptoms but visit traditional healers to treat the real cause of the malady. As I have resorted to distraction to treat my symptom I also think I need to look a little deeper to find the real cause of my suffering. On the surface I either caught scabies from a patient I treated or a pygmy I shared a tent with. However this seems a shallow soulless explanation, I think the answer lies deeper back in my infant years. so I have decided it is time to repent.
Nicky Baker I am truly sorry for chasing you around the playground yelling that you had scabies or the lurgi. I would never wish such an unpleasant disease upon anyone (the truth is I was young, insensitive and more than slightly repulsed by how at lunchtime you would take a bite of your peanut butter sandwich, slurp of your ribena a bite of your penguin bar and swallow it all in the same mouthful). Anyhow I hope wherever you are now you have a justified smile on your face and can rest happy in the knowledge that some kind of eternal justice does exist.
Currently it is not the itching that is keeping me awake, I am bouncing back and forth on a terrible logging road in the jungle South East Cameroon. We have been on the bus for 24 hours and only covered about 150km, in fact we seem to spend more time out of the bus pulling it with ropes or building very dodgy temporary bridges than driving. Not only is it a long bumpy ride but I am engaged in an increasingly vicious battle for territory with the old mamma sitting next to me. I am cramped with my rucksack between my legs, as for some bizarre reason the driver refused to place baggage on the roof(normally the minibuses here are double their height with cargo piled on the roof, which makes them very prone to flipping over). I finally give Mamma a sharp nudge in the ribs, she seems to respect this as after a brief torrent of abuse she gives a chuckle and eventually falls asleep on my shoulder. I finally drift off as well, reciprocally leaning on her sack of plantain.
I awoke slowly. the engine is off, we’ve stopped. My first thought is that we’ve broken down again, until I see people crowded all around the bus pressing themselves against the windows. They all have their hands raised above their heads and they re wailing. It is about 6am, the wailing combines with the morning mist to give me the heebie jeebies big time. With a fair amount of trepidation I descend out of the bus to confront this strange ritual. The first thing that strikes me are the people, they are pygmies full grown adults all around 4ft to 4.5ft, they re all looking upwards. I notice that only the women are wailing, then all the men come forward suddenly and reach up to the roof of the bus. A coffin is passed down to them, I have been travelling in a hearse. With this realisation everything comes into a familiar focus; the solemn faces of the men, the wailing of the women. What started as an alien event, with understanding is transformed into a universal human event with similarities unchanged by race or borders.
I am heading to Yokadouma, a logging town in South east Cameroon, in order to head down into the Republic of Congo. Ive been travelling and working a medical placement in Cameroon for the last couple of months and now want to head off to the Congo. The plan is to cross the border and get some form of boat down the Congo river. I havent been able to find any real information about the proposed route(lonely planet for Congo consists of 8 A5 pages and only 5 pages for DRC, which is larger than all of western europe). The truckers i have met have told me there are river barges transporting timber downriver to Kinshasa and Brazzaville, journey time varies from 1 week to 1 month depending on the source.
There is one road that runs south from here towards the border, it is maintained by the logging companies and the only traffic is a steady stream of lorries carrying giant logs from the Congo basin out to the rest of the world.
The last time I travelled down this road(in search of gorillas) I had a slight security issue. I was travelling in a Land Rover Defender with another Englishman, on our way to the national park in search of gorillas. We came across a large hole in the road, the local villagers had created a small diversion of about 10m to the side. We crossed the diversion and were immediately surrounded by young men. They asked for the old gringo tax(which varies according to the tone of your skin), demanding a ridiculous amount for our passage. We refused, they climbed onto the car and started leaning through the windows. We negoitiated and gave them what was a generous sum, in the knowledge that we had no choice for our return but to travel along the same road. On our return we were immediately surrounded again and the price of a safe passage had tripled. Our refusals were met with brandishing of machetes and death threats. As some youngsters started trying to strip things off the outside of the car, a man pushed a machete through the window and started demanding cash. We accused them loudly of being bandits. This caused considerable consternation whilst they argued amongst themselves about whether or not they were in fact bandits. Charlie took advantage of the opening and put his foot down. The land rover roared forward knocking the majority out of the way, I dispatched the last hanger on with a sharp elbow Walter Bailey style(RIP).
So before continuing I checked in at the WWF office in Yokadouma to enquire about the security situation and to try and cadge a lift south. They radioed the main office, to my pleasure the calls signs were: “Bongo 1, c’est bongo 5 fin”.
Unfortunately the WWF has temporarily suspended sending vechicles down the road, due to a military operation against a serious group of bandits further south, who had crossed over from Central African Republic and were attacking vechicles and looting villages. My hopes of a safe passage to the border were rapidly fading. Bugger.
Two days later a solution arrived in the form of Monsieur Aloys Akoa, a Cameroonian truck driver barely a more than slight resemblance, albeit he is black, to Danny Devito. His company are still sending trucks down the road and he ahs agreed to let me ride with him to the border.
Aloys is known as Ancien, as he has been driving this route for 15 years. Ancien likes to start the day with a litre of 6.5% beer and I feel obliged to join him. At 6am we stop at a little village and have a drink with the chief. Aloys is well received, people come out to greet him at all the villages along the route. With reason, trucks are the lifeblood of these communities, they are the reason the road was constructed in order to bring timber from the congo basin out to Douala the port and then the rest of the world(as we travel down this road trucks passing in the opposite direction carry huge amounts of timber surreally marked “Helsinki” “Porto” “Berlin” which feel rightly so a million miles away. Trucks are by and large the only traffic on the road and the only source of income for the villagers, the drivers therefore are treated like royalty. There are 6 of us in the truck cabin, Ancien, Me, Autoboy(anciens son) and 3 Malians. Each night we stop in a small village and follow a routine; eat, drink beer, then Ancien trys to buy me women. The first time I declined his offer politely. The second time I decided to explain my position, my French is hardly eloquent and all I could come up with was “C’est pas la commerce, c’est l’amour”. Ancien proceeded to explain that there are two types of women here: One you sleep with and you pay them money. The other you just buy a few drinks for the night and then sleep with her. I told him I wasn’t particularly comfortable with either. He replied
“In England do the men not buy the women drinks”
“traditionally, yes”
“And do the men not sleep with the women?”
I did not reply and went off to bed alone.
We were the first truck on the road today, it also rained heavily last night. As a result we are slipping and sliding all over the road and Ancien has a grim look on his face(partly perhaps due to his alcohol consumption last night). We pass many downed bridges on the way, bridges here consist of a few logs stretched out over the river. It is only by a miracle of engineering that they can hold the weight of these large trucks. In fact many don’t, most of the downed bridges have a wreck at the bottom, some of the wrecks are alarmingly recent.
I am back in Mambele, the last town before the Congo border. I met up with an old friend who was my guide in the jungle. Petit Jean is at home in the jungle, swings a machete with ease and can smell a gorilla a mile off(literally, this is how he tracks the gorillas and we were rewarded with a group of 7 or 8 huge beasts). With Petit Jean there is none of the irony associated with the English forest dweller with the same moniker Little John. PJ is 4ft2”, a pygmy of the Baaka tribe, with a goatee and sharpened front teeth that form perfect little equilateral triangles. Origianlly the Baaka are hunter gatherers, they do not farm and live completely off the jungle. Nowadays they are almost all settled for some of the year and have access to modern education and health care. There is of course access to the more dubious fruits of modern society such as alcohol and cigarettes, which are taking their toll (similar to the fate of indigenous groups all voer the world). Despite their small stature the Baaka can put away a lot of booze. Indeed the last time I saw JP he was plastered, probably spending all the money we had paid him for his services in the jungle.
I settle down for a beer with JP, Ancien and Tito a military who we picked up on the way, in a small restaurant come bar, hotel. It is the epitome of a family business; Grandma is the overseer and general manager, Momma cooks the food for the clients, Son serves the cold beer from the bar and the granddaughters sleep with the clients.
The atmosphere is nice and the beer is cold, until I realise that the barrel of Tito’s AK47, that he is cradling in his lap is pointing unerringly at my chest. I edge my chair to the right and relax again. One of the granddaughters, who is obviously ill and painfully thin, takes my edging towards her as a sign of encouragement and puts her hand on my thigh. I edge back to my left, back into the line of fire.
The evening ends with drunken skanking with pygmies to a soundtrack of sweet reggae (my musical power complex continues even in africa) and thankfully no accidental discharges.
We crossed Cameroonian immigrations this morning and made our way to the river Sangha. The Cameroonian officer asked for the usual baksheesh and on the advice of my French friend, I sat and waited it out, eventually crossing for free. My French friends tells a story of the Congo border where he waited 4 hours refusing to pay, eventually the immigration gave up and handed him a rubix cube with a disembled image of jesus on the cross. Assembling the image of the Only Son in under a minute he was allowed to pass for free.
Electricity is about to be cut, ill post the river journey next time there is any electricity..
Next week Congo… In search of Umbongo..
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