CANOEING THE CONGO
Copyright Phil Harwood, 2013
Photos Phil Harwood. All photos used with permission.
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For Mum and Dad
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
I first met Phil Harwood when he came to the Winston Churchill Memorial Trust for his interview to become a Churchill Fellow. When we heard his proposal for an expedition to canoe down the Congo, we could only assume that he must be slightly mad! After all, a civil war still raged in the country, he had no planned back-up or communications and seemed completely nonplussed when we pointed out that his chances of not returning were rather high.
We soon realised that Phil was not only a tough and determined ex-Royal Marine, but a very experienced canoeist, outdoor instructor and expedition leader, who had planned his trip in great detail. His proposal was a challenge in the finest tradition of British exploration, completely unconstrained by today's increasingly restrictive 'health and safety' mentality, and one that we felt that Sir Winston would have entirely approved of.
Phil did not let himself or us down, and this book is the wonderful story of his journey, which was extremely dangerous at times, not only in the finest Boy's Own tradition, but more topically an example to us all as to what can be achieved with common sense, determination and a spirit of adventure. Phil has spent many years helping others to challenge themselves and develop their skills through his work with Outward Bound and with Fairbridge. This book I hope will inspire many more people to reach out of their comfort zone, both physically and mentally, and see what can be achieved when they challenge themselves and give free rein to their sense of adventure.
Jamie Balfour
Director General
The Winston Churchill Memorial Trust
PREFACE
I was alone in the middle of deepest, darkest Congo. Worse still, I was being chased by eight angry tribesmen in two dugout canoes and they were gaining on me.
'Mazungu Mazunguuu,' came the bloodcurdling screams. 'Give us money.' They were all standing up and paddling like men possessed. The nearest guy had a huge machete attached to his waist.
'Jesus Christ. What the hell am I doing here?' I muttered to myself.
For the past half hour I had been paddling as though my life depended on it. As though? It did depend on it. I was praying they would give up the chase, but it was no good. Despite my best efforts they were catching up.
All of my senses were strained to the limit. I couldn't have felt more alive and in the moment the rhythmic sound of my paddle pulling hard and clean in the water, the heavy, pungent aroma of steaming vegetation, the feel of my heart pounding, and the sweat dripping off my nose. The fear was rapidly growing within me, demanding an answer to the age-old question: fight or flight?
***
During my journey I'd come to understand that the amount of trouble I encountered was directly proportional to the size of the village. Give me a humble, hardworking fishing village any day. In the smaller places, people were generally far too busy trying to feed their kids to worry about the bald white bloke and his fat wallet. But the bigger the place became, the more chance there was of encountering madmen hell-bent on making my life a misery. Kasongo was a very big village.
Not long before, when the dawn mist still lingered over the water, I had tried to sneak past without attracting attention, hugging the opposite bank. But just when I thought I'd got by safely, I came upon a group of men lingering by the riverside just ahead of me. It quickly became apparent that they weren't in the mood to make a new friend. They burst into life with a suddenness and a ferocious intensity that made me wince.
I'd known I was in trouble almost immediately. It wasn't unusual for people to shout for money from the banks, but my gut instinct, which I had come to love and cherish, told me that this time it was different. These guys were more hostile and aggressive than normal, and they'd made no bones about what they were after. They wanted my money or my life. I tried to introduce myself in my usual polite way but they didn't give me a chance. They just ran into the water and tried to grab my canoe, some of their faces screwed up in pure hatred. It was time to put the power on and get the hell out of there.
Within seconds, I heard the cry 'Mazungu' 'white man' screamed and repeated along both banks at an alarming rate. It was disconcerting, to say the least. I felt like a wandering wolf that had inadvertently strolled into a farming community and was being hunted down. I had to go faster.
***
I'd spent the last three months paddling 8 to 10 hours a day. I was a canoeing machine and confident I could out-paddle most mortals. But now, after paddling my heart out to the point of near exhaustion, I turned around and saw the nearest dugout canoe was less than 20 m away. So close that I could see the whites of the men's eyes and their teeth bared in a contorted, hate-filled travesty of a smile.
For the first time on my long journey, I wished that I had bought the handgun I'd been offered in Pweto. If I'd had that, I could have fired a couple of shots in the air and maybe scared these guys off. But now? I couldn't believe this was happening. Why did they hate me so much? What was it going to be roll over and expose my soft underbelly, or put up a fight? It was the venom in the next cry of 'Mazungu' that made me decide. I grabbed my machete.
CHAPTER ONE
