Jungle Beast

The thing about the Congo is, you're never alone. On the darkest night in the middle of nowhere, you can stay up all night listening to the squeaks, squawks, howls, and growls of a thousand and one birds and beasts. That's why I like it here. It's so far from normal, or anything like it. All there is...is that big, muddy, deep river. And the terrible, dark jungle on either side of it. A hundred years ago, two hunters were sent out to slay some man-eating lions. They were preying upon the railroad workers who were building the line from Mombasa to Lake Victoria.

Those monsters were called the Man-Eaters of Tsavo. After a long and daring hunt, they were slain. Later, their bodies were taxidermized and displayed in the Field Museum in Chicago. I saw them once when I was a boy. That was before I knew much about Africa. I must confess that I was a fearful lad; a coward even. I was determined to overcome my fears, and so decided that I must travel to the most dangerous place in the world. To build myself up, I first joined the Army. I was never much of a marksman, but they taught me how to shoot well enough. All the early mornings of hard exercise paid off in the long run. Though I'd never be a match for even the weakest Masai warrior, I was tough enough. Or so I thought.

My companion on this voyage is Saseeta, a good Kikuyu man. I don't speak his language well, neither he mine. We can understand each other through Swahili, which we both know well enough. When he was a boy, the mchawi, the witch doctor in his village said he would not find peace in this life until he made a true friend and performed a great deed. He shared this secret with me, perhaps because he thinks I am that friend. I don't know. All the friends I thought I had are dead. That's life: here today; gone tomorrow. So eat, drink, and be merry.

Saseeta and I were hired by a mining company, a foreign one. One of their camps stopped making radio contact a month ago, and so they needed people to go up the river to investigate. They found us in a bar in Kinshasa. We were drinking beer and playing darts. Two white men came upon us and asked if they could buy us a round. Of course, we agreed. It turns out there was a diamond mining camp halfway up the river. No one had heard from them for a month, though they had a radio and a satellite phone. How strange. The old talking drums were out of fashion, but they still worked. At night when the air is cooler and denser, sound travels farther. The drums are a good fail-safe technology, as they need no electricity. 

Back on the river to the lost camp. No one came out to greet us when the boat stopped and I waded ashore with Saseeta. We were both out of our element. Saseeta grew up in a village surrounded by grassland. And I, well I came to Africa like an astronaut to the moon. It was near dusk when we arrived. That is a very dangerous time in the jungle. Foolishly, I walked through a hut's doorway, and came face to face with Nephila pilipes, a giant spider. Its body was a long as a stapler, and its legs wrapped around my head. Fortunately, it was as scared of me as I was of it, so when screamed and swatted it away from my face, it scurried off into the brush. 

A distant rumble of thunder disturbs the quiet of the coming night. It's the beginning of monsoon season. Soon, hard, pouring driving rain will flush the jungle almost clean. I look to the sky and see lightning crackle across it like the angry fingers of a demon. It makes you want to pray for something, even the devil to save you. Maybe Conrad thought the same when he wrote Heart of Darkness. Saseeta waves off the boat. We're on our own now. We take shelter in an empty hut as the rain begins. I begin reading over the documents left behind. Saseeta takes a seat and says nonchalantly:

"Bwana, did you see the big footprints?" 

I was taken aback at first. "Bwana" is an overly polite term, often used for foreigners. It's the word used to translate "the LORD" in the Bible, and so can be seen as either a sign of respect or contempt. Saseeta has never called me that before. 

"What footprints?"

"They're all over this camp, and twice as wide as an elephant's. I've never seen anything like it before. Do you think it could be from that Mokele-Mbembe thing?"

"Mokele-Mbembe? What the hell is that?"

"I heard the guys at the bar talking about it, in Lingala. I don't speak it so well, but I can understand some."

Lingala is the main language along the Congo River. The difference between it and Swahili is kind of like the difference between Spanish and Italian. 

"Sorry, my mind must have been elsewhere."

"Oh, bwana. Your mind was soaked in pombe. That's why you didn't hear them."

It's true. I did get thoroughly hammered that night. If a herd of rhinos had stomped through the place, I probably wouldn't have noticed. Suddenly, the ground shook. Then again. The sound was like a big bass drum. Whatever was here before, it was now back for round two. Some angry, drunken cyclops was stumbling towards us, and the best weapon we had was the elephant gun in my hands.

Ever shot an elephant gun? It kicks like an angry mule. First time I shot one, the recoil knocked me flat on my rear end. 

The bass drum thuds became louder. Whatever was out there, it was getting closer. I peeked my head out the entry way to look for the best escape route. I was still hesitating when the big, gray thing came crashing through hut while it roared like a herd of bulls.

"God almighty!", I blurted out in English. I kneeled to brace myself, took aim for its gigantic head, and fired.

KAPOW!

I must have only grazed it, because it turned around and fled. It pounded the earth like a kettledrum with every step. I barely caught a glimpse of its monstrous tail as it swooped over the ruins of the hut. 

The next few days were mostly quiet, except for the monsoon rain. We took shelter in a cave near the camp. By an incredible stroke of luck, there was an old talking drum inside. We both took turns pounding it for three nights in a row. Neither of us knew the talking drum language, but figured if we pounded enough, someone would come for us, if only to stop the awful cacophony we were making. 

Back in Kinshasa, we met the two white men again. We told them the story of what happened. They paid us well for our trouble. I parted ways with Saseeta not long after. Surely, he would have a great tale for his kin. As for me, I plan on spending the rest of my days warming a barstool in Kinshasa. My elephant gun is displayed above the bar entrance, and the strange tooth I found after I fired at the thing that night is nailed above the dartboard. I carved my and Saseeta's name into it.