Pole Dancing
Another excellent excuse for an ‘African Bore’ story…

For those who don’t know, the two capital cities that are closest to each other are Brazzaville and Kinshasa, the capitals of the two Congos. They lie separated by the great river itself, and although the geographical distance is only about a mile the passage between the two is one of life’s harder journeys.

Apart from the sporadic wars that are generally taking place somewhere in both countries at any time, the ports are considered to be lucrative franchises which are controlled by the President’s closest cronies who milk traffic mercilessly. Men with guns are everywhere. And worst of all it’s impossible to get a cup of coffee which meant that when I arrived at the ‘Beach’ in Brazzaville I was in possibly the foulest mood ever. I’d been briefed on the likely shake-downs by the British pro-consul – a French bloke who spoke precious little English, but who gave me pertinent and direct advice (of the “go there and they will shoot you” type). After brushing off the demands for a Port entry fee I headed for the little know diplomatic jetty (who’s going to check?) where amazingly the ferry (a barge and a tug) was docked. Making the most of the opportunity I drove straight on and paid the ferryman. Once the car was on board I was almost home and dry – a few stamps in my passport and a little bit of ducking and diving to avoid the many ‘Chefs’ and I was almost home and free. It was only at the last moment that the harbour mafia realised I’d outsmarted them, but by this point the ferry was pushing off and I could only shrug at the half hearted attempts of some 14 year old with a rusty Kalashnikov to collect his bosses money.

The ferry crossing is short, which is jsut as well as the barge was little more than floating box with space for three vehicles and a few stanchions (poles) rising out of the deck for hand holds. As I wondered what surprises Kinshasa would throw at me a kindly Asian bloke in the white van next to me said “When we get across they will touch land to the West of the port and there will be many thieves coming on board”. He nodded to my roof which was stacked with jerricans and shiny kit, and I got his meaning. I locked my doors and positioned myself behind the Camel as, just as predicted, we touched the bank in order to let the current carry us into the port, and a dozen young men jumped agilely aboard.

A few ducked in amongst the foot passengers and I heard a rising squeals of indignation. Most of the guys, however were delighted at the rich pickings available on the barge. The tallest and brashest of them stepped forward smiling and made to push past me, knowing that my pockets would be full of treasures; his mates were cheering him forward. As he got within arms length I planted my hands on his chest and gave him a hard straight armed shove that should have send him into the Congo.

What happened next was pretty spectacular; as he went overboard he caught one of the stanchions and executed an amazing pole-dancing manoeuvre that sent him swinging almost horizontally around the stanchion before somehow finding his feet back on the deck. It was as graceful a piece of pole dancing as I’ve ever seen, and his mates broke into spontaneous applause and cheering. Now that the ice had been broken I shook him by the hand and complimented him on his style – he beamed back at me and from then on he and his team treated me with respectful caution and went about their pillaging elsewhere.

I still don’t know how he avoided ending up in the river, but then agility and thieving are part of the same skill set when you think about it.

Length? 18 months and 70,000km
(strongp, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 15:53, 2 replies)

This story is something of a disappointment
I was hoping that it would finish off with the line, "That's why it's called Um' Bongo"
(The Kwyjibo A big, dumb, balding North American ape., Tue 26 Jan 2010, 16:14, closed)

Well I liked it
Have a click.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Wed 27 Jan 2010, 14:06, closed)