T A B L E_T A L K Are airlines evil? Discuss your horror stories in Table Talk. R E C E N T L Y Esther Dyson, road warrior By Don George The Net's most frequent flyer shares her travel secrets (11/06/97) Eating around in Boston By Larry Smith The way to the heart of Boston is through its stomach (11/06/97) The Surreal Gourmet By Bob Blumer Don't let El Niño come between you and a good meal (11/06/97) Mondo Weirdo Old McDonald had a farm -- in Ecuador (11/06/97) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Wanderlust archives - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Your virtual travel agency - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -		____________________D E S C E N D I N G_T H E ______________Congo ____________ HE WANTED TO BE THE FIRST WESTERNER ____________ IN 100 YEARS TO CANOE THE LENGTH OF THE CONGO. ____________ BUT HE DIDN'T COUNT ON THE STORMS AND ____________ THE MOSQUITOES -- AND THE CANNIBALS. Today we are extremely pleased to announce that Wanderlust is going daily! As we have since our debut in March, each week Wanderlust will present a mix of great travel tales, essays, book excerpts and tips -- but now we will feature one offering each day. We're launching this publishing adventure with the tale of an even wilder adventure: Jeffrey Tayler's attempt to be the first Westerner in 100 years to canoe down the Congo River. Tayler braves violent storms, swarming mosquitoes, jungle screeches in the night and machete-wielding cannibals to try to realize his dream. Does he make it? Check out his tale -- below -- to find out. And let us know what you think about our new format: Write to wanderlust@salonmagazine.com. We hope this will make it even easier for you to get your daily dose of Wanderlust! ____________-- Don George, Wanderlust Editor BY JEFFREY TAYLER | like a chiming valedictory from a world we were leaving behind, the bells of Kisangani's cathedral came pealing out to us through the predawn darkness as we slipped away from the bank, the bow of our pirogue cutting a pale gray V in the indigo river. Sweat ran into my eyes, soaked through my shirt and blanched into expanding blotches on the thighs of my cotton trousers. The bells rang out a sixth time. Their peals lingered and died, leaving us with the swish of our paddles, with our bow silently parting the mists over the Congo's black currents. Joseph Conrad called the Congo River "an immense snake uncoiled," but I found its outline on the map of Zaire more closely resembled an unfurled claw. Rapid-free from Kisangani, in the heart of the African continent, to Kinshasa, near the Atlantic, and flowing through some of the densest equatorial jungle on earth, the Congo is less a river than a crescent swath of rain forest cut and slashed by currents pouring in from dozens of tributaries. It is a labyrinth stretching 12 miles wide in places and composed of hundreds of islands. A desire to confront and vanquish something primal impelled me to attempt to be perhaps the first Westerner since the British explorer Henry Stanley to successfully descend its entire navigable length -- 1,084 miles -- in a dugout canoe, or pirogue. Stanley, who launched his historic expedition from Zanzibar in 1876 (reaching the river at Nyangwe, above Kisangani, and proceeding downstream from there), lost over half his hundreds-strong African crew and all three of his European companions to disease, starvation and skirmishes with cannibals by the time he sailed into the Atlantic from the Congo's lower reaches. I searched for evidence that someone had completed the Kisangani-Kinshasa descent since then, but could find none. Apparently, all who had tried had failed. Violent storms had capsized a few, malaria had struck down some, others had disappeared without a trace. In 1989, two Belgians were hacked to death and eaten by the Engombe tribe in a stretch of river near Ile Sumba that Zairians called the abattoir (slaughterhouse). Whatever the risks were, I resolved to surmount them and be the first to succeed. Screeches in the night I arrived in Kisangani, on the upper Congo, from Moscow, where I had worked the previous three years. Though I loved Russia, the bureaucracy and the seven-month winters of slush and gray skies got to me; I found myself craving an escape into hot climes. Beneath this craving lingered the realization that I had reached a crossroads in my life: a career or money or marriage would not be enough for me; I needed to prove myself to myself. When I flew to Central Africa, I left behind an incredulous Russian girlfriend, Tat'yana. My friends and parents in the States were convinced I was making a foolish, even fatal, mistake. Once in Zaire I hired a guide, a lanky 28-year-old named Desi from the Lokele river tribe, and bought a pirogue. Together we turned the 30-foot wooden craft into a floating cornucopia outfitted for survival in extremis. Besides staple foods, we had a charcoal stove, pots, tents, machetes, jerrycans of drinking water, a first-aid kit and malaria medicine, maps and a gun. I carried a laissez-passer from a Zairian general, the purpose of which was to obviate problems with President Mobutu's unruly military, known for its propensity to pillage and harass rather than for its martial prowess. I spoke French, Zaire's former colonial tongue, and had learned the basics of Lingala, the Bantu dialect in use on the river. By our estimation, our descent would take 45 days. We had supplies for two months. "Le bon Dieu will decide our fate. We will face the Congo alone. If He wills us to die on this trip, we will die," said Desi after a prayer uttered sotto voce on the bank. He grew up in a pirogue and never dared approach the water with anything less than the respect due a jealous god; rather, he was wont to make obeisance, afraid of the hubris resolution implied. Until the last day in my Kisangani hotel, I had had no such fear. Perhaps I should have. The night before departure I lay awake in sudden apprehension. I suffered the overwhelming presentiment that I was about to come up against forces of nature against which my motivations, obsessions or even meticulous planning meant nothing. Because Desi and I judged the risk high that we might be followed out of Kisangani on the river and robbed, we decided to tell people that our departure date was several days later than it actually was and then leave town under cover of darkness. Desi had arranged for a taxi driver to show up at the hotel at 4 in the morning. We loaded up the trunk and drove down to a deserted clearing on the river below the cathedral. After this, Desi stole upstream along the bank and detached our pirogue from its mooring on the dock, then paddled down to the bank where I was. Thus our journey began; we simply disappeared from Kisangani -- where we had been the object of much curiosity the previous week. When we departed, the air was thick with humidity and hard to breath. The mist felt like steam. In silence we paddled down the glassy river under a sky paling with the approach of dawn. From the jungle emanated gurgles and caws, yowls and screams, every sound echoed in the steamy air with the exaggerated acoustic amplitude of tiled shower and bathroom. A hiccuping monkey a half-mile away sounded like a growling gorilla at our backs. Later that morning I paused to rest, glancing sternward to see how Desi was coming with his tea. I recoiled. Behind him the sky roiled with advancing black clouds dragging iron-gray skirts of rain. Desi looked over his shoulder, then went back to his teapot. "That's not coming our way," he said. Seconds later we were paddling for our lives against gusts that sought to blow us out into mid-river. A surf had risen. We got within 40 feet of shore when the rain hit us. "Jump out!" shouted Desi. "Jump!" We quit the craft in a bound as the storm descended. I had the bow rope in hand and it jerked my elbow socket as I plunged into the churning brown water, but when I regained my footing I found it was only sternum deep. I strained to keep my eyes open in the horizontal rain. Desi pushed from the stern and I dragged, the current and slick clay alluvium keeping our footing tenuous in the shallows. Within 10 minutes we were in a cove, struggling to lash our blue U.N.-issue canopy over our provisions, which were scantily covered but still dry in plastic sacks. We then sat shivering under umbrellas, watching the river boil white and the sky rage black. By afternoon the skies cleared. When evening came we had covered 30 miles. We found a glade on an island, dragged the pirogue ashore and set up camp. My head was heavy, my clothes were damp, my shoes were clogs of clay. In my tent, I covered myself with a sheet and dropped into a deep sleep, as if drugged. Drums from villages hidden in the forest were beating all around us. We were not alone. There was no moon. On the river after 11 in the morning the searing ball of the sun drove us under umbrellas. Huge trees loomed in statuary repose on the banks, bees roared by in black swarms, flies lent an audible drone to the heat. At 4 in the afternoon we looked for a clearing in which to camp; hippos, snags and mosquitoes precluded travel after dark. The sun fell promptly at 6. From sunset on, swarms of mosquitoes made it impossible to stay outside. I sat in my tent and listened to the BBC and the Voice of Russia. By his kerosene lantern Desi studied his only book, the "Code du Travail du Zaire," poring aloud over interminable clauses and sub-clauses, scrutinizing the codicils and whys and wherefores of the labor code of a country where the government had effectively ceased to exist a decade ago, where, with Mobutu's pillaging of every resource, the law of the jungle had drifted back into force. (Desi could never explain why this book fascinated him so.) With all the crashing of animals through the jungle foliage, nights were never restful, at least for me. Were it not for the fatigue engendered by the fierce routine of paddling (plus the mumbling lullaby of Desi's legal perorations), I doubt I could have slept. One evening we camped in a clearing strewn with fetishes that Desi warned were designed to keep away intruders. "It is not safe here. But we must camp now. There will be rain tonight." At midnight I sat up in my tent, suddenly uneasy. The mosquitoes droned away outside, the air clung to my face like damp gauze. I was sweating in the close heat. Thunder rumbled, lightning danced over the treetops. Something -- a lemur? -- screeched from the forest, as if in alarm. Grunts followed, then a crashing in the bush. I listened for a while, then went back to sleep. A couple of hours later a cannonade of thunder exploded above us. White lightning fissured the black sky; the river flashed a horrid negative of itself in the violent light. A prolonged, brilliant blast directly overhead ended with the descent of a tree bough through the corner of our tarp. Rain poured in through my netted flaps. Desi bounded awake, I shot from my tent, we reattached the tarp. A bolt of lightning had struck a tree beside us. Once inside my tent again, I discovered that my bedding had become a pool of water. As I looked at it I felt pricks of pain on my calves; I had left the netting open and my tent rang with mosquitoes. I swatted at my legs and withdrew a bloody palm. When we passed villages, some people waved, others stared dumbfounded at the sight of the white man in a pirogue, but children ran away screaming. Desi explained: "The children hear how the Belgians used to eat little boys, they believe every mondele [white] is on an evil mission. The mondele comes to Zaire to take our riches and to kill." The legacy of colonial exploitation the Belgians left behind was a terrible one, still alive decades after independence. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - N E X T+P A G E+| "We would have robbed and killed you both!" ILLUSTRATION BY ALAN DINGMAN