Forest of the Pygmies(22)
They loaded the slim canoes, distributing the weight of passengers and gear as best they could, and left what they couldn't carry in the plane.
"I hope no one comes along while we're gone," Angie said, giving a farewell pat to the side of her Super Hawk.
The plane was her only capital in this world, and she was fearful she would be robbed of everything, down to the last screw. "Four days isn't much," she told herself, but her heart shrank, filled with unpleasant presentiments. Four days in that jungle were an eternity.
The group got under way at about eight in the morning. They strung canvas to shield them from the sun, which bore down mercilessly when they had to travel up the middle of the river. While the foreigners were perishing from thirst and heat, besieged by bees and flies, the Bantus were effortlessly paddling against the current, urging one another on with jokes and long swigs of the palm wine they were carrying in plastic containers. They got the wine the simplest way imaginable: they made a V-shaped cut low on the trunk of a palm tree, hung a gourd beneath it, and waited for it to fill with sap, which they then allowed to ferment.
There was the babble of birds in the air and a fiesta of fishes in the water. They saw hippopotamuses—maybe the same family they'd met at the riverbank the first night—and two classes of crocodiles: grays, along with the smaller brown ones. Angie, safe in the canoe, took the opportunity to hurl insults at them. The Bantus tried to catch one of the large ones, knowing the skin would bring a good price, but Angie became hysterical, and her companions were just as reluctant as she to share the crowded canoe with the beast, even with its feet and snout tied. They'd had a chance to appreciate those rows of regenerating teeth and the force of that slashing tail.
A species of dark water snake brushed past one of the canoes and suddenly blew itself up into a bird with white-striped wings and black tail. They watched it as it rose into the air and flew off toward the forest. Later a large shadow passed over their heads and Nadia gave a cry of recognition: It was a crowned eagle. Angie told them that she had once seen a similar bird carry off a gazelle in its claws. White water lilies floated among large, fleshy green leaves, forming islands they had to swing around to avoid getting tangled in roots. Along both banks the vegetation was thick with hanging vines, ferns, roots, and branches. From time to time, there were dots of color in the uniform green of that nature: purple, red, yellow, and pink orchids.
?
They traveled north for most of the day. The tireless men never varied the rhythm of their paddles, not even in the hottest part of the day, when their passengers were half fainting. Since there was no pause for lunch, they had to be content with crackers, bottled water, and a small amount of sugar. No one wanted sardines; the thought of them turned their stomachs.
About midafternoon, when the sun was still high in the sky but the heat was relenting slightly, one of the Bantu men pointed to the shore. The canoes stopped. Here the river split into one wide arm that continued north and a narrow channel to the left that led into thick undergrowth. At the entrance to the lesser channel stood something that looked like a scarecrow. It was a life-size wooden statue garbed in raffia, feathers, and strips of hide. The mouth of its gorilla head was open, as if uttering a gruesome scream. Two stones were fitted into the sockets of the eyes. The trunk was studded with nails, and the head was crowned with an incongruous bicycle wheel that served as a kind of sombrero, from which swung bones and dried hands that may have been monkeys' paws. The figure was surrounded by other equally frightening dolls and animal skulls.
"Those are satanic witchcraft dolls!" cried Brother Fernando, making the sign of the cross.
"They are a little uglier than the saints in Catholic churches," Kate replied sarcastically.
Joel and Alexander focused their cameras on them.
The terrorized Bantus announced that this was as far as they were going, and although Kate tempted them with more money and cigarettes, they refused to continue. They explained that that macabre altar marked the border of Kosongo's territory. Beyond that lay his domain, and no one entered without his permission. They added that there was a track through the forest that they could follow and reach the village before nightfall. It wasn't very far, they said, only one or two hours, and they would be able to follow the trail by looking for trees slashed by machete. The Bantus drove the noses of their canoes onto the bank and without waiting for instructions began throwing bundles to shore.
Kate paid them part of what they were owed and, with her bad French and the help of Brother Fernando, managed to communicate that in four days they were to come pick them up at this same spot. At that time they would be given the rest of the money and a bonus in cigarettes and canned peaches. The Bantus accepted with fake smiles, stumbled away, climbed into their canoes, and shot off as if pursued by demons.
"What eccentric men!" Kate commented.
"I'm afraid we'll never see them again," Angie added, worried.
"We had better start before it gets dark," said Brother Fernando, slinging his knapsack onto his back and picking up a couple of the duffels.
CHAPTER SIX
The Pygmies
THE TRACK THE BANTUS HAD referred to was invisible. The terrain was a quagmire strewn with roots and branches, where feet often sank into a soft pudding of insects, leeches, and worms. Huge rats as big as dogs scurried away at the group's passing. Fortunately, they were wearing boots to midcalf, which at least protected them against snakes. It was so humid that both Alexander and Kate chose to take off their befogged glasses, while Brother Fernando, who saw almost nothing without his, had to clean his lenses every five minutes. In that lush vegetation it was nearly impossible to locate the trees that had been slashed by machetes.