My grandson WIlliam and I exchange literary pieces for Christmas. Following is the story I wrote.
Mokele-Mbembe
Byanga, Central African Republic. My small plane charter flight got in about 9
this morning. I was met at the air strip by Emanuel, my guide. He had transport
ready, a beat-up old Toyota pickup, and off we went into the reserve. We traced
a forest track, parked at a gate, then walked for 40 minutes down trails
beneath gigantic trees and across a small stream until arriving at Dzanga
Sangha Bai, an open area in the jungle that contained salty springs. I was
astounded at the animals present, especially elephants. There were at my initial
count 36 of various sizes, digging in the springs or lounging in the mud.
Little ones cavorted around. Also in the area, which was about three or four
football fields in size were cow-sized bongo forest antelopes with big horns
and stripped flanks, and a number of smaller deer like creatures. “Blue duikers
and reedbucks,” Emanuel said. He pointed
to a huge pig in a far mud pit, “forest hog, very dangerous close up.” I saw monkeys in the trees opposite and flocks
of raucous parrots. Indeed, with elephants rumbling and squealing, sucking, and
spraying, plus the bird chatter, the bai was not a silent place. I unlimbered my
camera, affixed the long lens and spent several happy hours photographing the
various beasts. It was wondrous. After
several hours we retraced our path to the pick-up.
Back in the little town, after a cold beer and a plate of
fish and chips while sitting on a small terrace overlooking the half mile
expanse of the Sangha River, I explained to Emanuel why I had come to this
forgotten corner of the world. I told him I was a photojournalist trying to
make my mark. Animal pictures, like the marvelous ones I took earlier at the
bai, weren’t enough. I needed something sensational. Therefore, I was on a
quest to find and photograph the elusive mokele-mbembe, the last living
dinosaur. Emmanuel laughed. “That beast
is only a folk tale, which gets embroidered upon only to amuse tourists like
you.” I scowled. Emmanuel quickly
changed his tune. “How do you plan to find this creature?” he asked.
“I need a guide. Someone who knows the forest. I reckon
we’ll have to trek nearly a hundred miles into the northern Congo from which
the last reports of the mokele originated.”
Emmanuel retorted, “I am not your guy, I just lead visitors
to the bai and back, but perhaps I can find a pygmy who can guide you. Let me
go look now.” He took his leave, still
chuckling under his breath. Emmanuel returned several hours later with a short
nearly naked man in tow. “This is Mbjah,” he introduced the man.
“Bonjour, Mounjou” the pygmy formally stated as we shook
hands. I knew that mounjou means
whiteman in Sangho, the language of central Africa. It turned out that Mbjah could not or would
not say my name George. He always called me mounjou.
Since Mbjah’s French was rudimentary we used Emmanuel as a
translator to Sango and a bit of Bayaka in order to explain the quest and to flesh
out the deal. Mbjah was willing to take
me on a long trek into the forest. He admitted to knowing the legends of the mokele-mbembe
and the part of the forest where it was supposedly found. He said he had never
been that far but was willing to go. He
thought the trek would take “many days.”
Emmanuel noted that pygmies could not count so that might mean days or
weeks. Mbjah said we must first go down
river before heading off into the forest.
The next day I augmented my supplies from a small shop. I
especially bought a half dozen packages of cigarettes as that was part of
Mbjah’s fee. Mbjah confirmed that we could live off the land so did not need to
carry much food. Emmanuel arranged a boat;
a long canoe called a pirogue with a twenty-five h/p Johnson outboard motor on
it. He saw us off and wished me well. Emmanuel added somberly, “be very careful in
the forest. Mother Nature can be quite vicious.”
The boat ride was pleasant. The breeze from the boat’s speed
cut the heat and humidity even as cloud shadows danced on the brown river
water. There were few signs of human
presence. After about an hour Mbjah instructed the boatman to steer into a
sandy beach below a small bluff. We clambered
out onto the sand just as a half-dozen naked pygmy children rushed to greet
us. “My family,” Mbjah noted. As the boat pushed back into the river, I
realized that I was now truly off the map and out of contact with the modern
world. The never changing rain forest of
the Congo Basin loomed ahead.
Mbjah enlisted a “brother” named Mabuti to carry a pack. The
little settlement was primitive. It was hardly a village, just a camp. Pygmies built temporary shelters with stick
frameworks covered by large tropical leaves. Mbjah later told me that his clan stayed here
or there for a half season or so, then moved on. Mbjah made a quick round of helloes and
goodbyes. Before long, we headed into the rain forest. The two pygmies alternated leading the way,
chopping away the undergrowth with machetes as needed.
The first several days were hard but not terrible. We
followed paths made by elephants or red buffalo. Mbjah knew all the French
names for the forest’s big game. He snatched me quickly once or twice from the
trail into the undergrowth when an elephant or two strode by. I was amazed at
how quietly such big beasts moved.
Monkeys often chattered at us from above. Once we surprised a gorilla
family eating fruits fallen on the ground. There was quite a ruckus as they fled. Mbjah and Mabuti laughed uproariously while
imitating the gorilla’s chest thumping.
Food was not great. It usually consisted of porridge of
unknown provenance with some mushy leaves on top. Additionally, Mabuti parceled
out some very tough dried meat to chew on. My innards, plus I suppose bad water,
did not handle this well. I had bouts of
diarrhea which I medicated, and for which Mbjah gave me a forest herb remedy. It
left me weak.
My boots sucked as I carefully pulled out of the muck. One
foot at a time. It was slow going. The swamp seemed never ending. Game trails
were finished. We slogged for miles through dark colored water that was about a
foot deep. Occasional drier hummocks rose from the muck, but they were never
long enough to avoid the wet. The pygmies went barefoot. I kept on my boots.
Being wet added a couple of extra pounds to each step. I sweated profusely in
the humid heat. Being under the tree canopy we never saw the sun. We did experience rain. It usually hammered
down for an hour or so every day. It was
tiring. Like the rain forest the swamp
was not quiet. Insects, frogs, and birds buzzed, croaked and chirped
incessantly. Snakes too swam by. I was
running out of energy and mentally damning myself for having undertaken such a
bizarre quest. But there was no going back.
Mokele-mbembe land was just ahead.
We camped one night on a hummock, land that rose about a
foot above the swamp. I collapsed under my mosquito net with barely enough
energy to pull a tarp over. In the
middle of the night Mbjah shook me awake. “Mounjou, mounjou.” He cried
earnestly. “viens, viens” (come). There
was a rustling sound getting louder every second. It sounded almost like a
small tractor nearby. He and Mabuti
grabbed what of our stuff they could. Leading me by the hand, we retreated into
the swamp. I shone my headlamp back on
our campsite to see it seething with ants. A wave of back bodies formed a
sinuous carpet almost a foot thick. Mbjah pantomimed ants ate everything in
their path and that would have included us.
At first light our camp was emptied. Nothing was left of the
tarp and my mosquito net. Both had been consumed. Only metal gromets remained.
We moved on.
About midday, we arrived at an open expanse of water, a lake
evidently a mile or so across. Mbjah said, “lake of Mokele.” Stunned, I sat on a log and almost cried. I was there.
The horrors of the trek behind us. Now was the chance to document
history. Spot the world’s only living dinosaur. So where would he be? We moved
carefully along the marshy shore towards a clump of tall trees. There the ground was high enough to provide
some respite from the swamp. It was also a good vantage point. We set up camp.
I took my binoculars and studied the lake and surrounding shore. There were birds galore and apparently some
hippos not so far away, but no mokele-mbembe.
I stayed searching until dusk. Just as I was about to turn away, I
noticed a ripple way out in the middle of the lake. Soon what appeared to be a
head and a long neck emerged from the water. I snapped a photo as quick as I
could. I mentally marked the direction the apparition was moving in. Then it was quickly too dark to see.
Back at camp I found that the pygmies had speared several
fish that were now roasting over the fire. It was the best meal I’d eaten in
weeks. I told them I had seen something
swimming and wanted to push around the lakeshore in the morning.
We were up at dawn as usual and moved out. The going was
tough. The lake was apparently the center of a basin that sloped down into it.
Our usual shallow swamp was traversed by much deeper streams or extensions of
the lake. The pygmies did not swim so we
had to detour or find a log to float us across. I feared crocs, hippos and
snakes, they feared the water. We made slow progress. Finally, we neared the part of the lake where
I estimated that whatever I saw was headed. Mabuti spotted some high ground, so
we paused for the night.
As usual we were serenaded by the creatures of the night,
including Mbjah told me hippos snorting on their feeding rounds. Once or twice, we heard a loud honk. It
sounded like a truck or train horn.
Mbjah and Mabuti talked it over in hushed tones. The two were trembling. Mbjah indicated he did not recognize the
sound. But if it was the mokele-mbembe, it was a great spirit of the forest that
should not be disturbed. To do so would be to arouse nature’s wrath. I was even more encouraged by his reaction, judging
that the sight I had seen and now the sound was indeed mokele-mbembe.
The pygmies were delighted to stay in camp the next morning.
I took my camera and went hunting. I
moved carefully through the reeds towards where I believed the honk originated.
After an hour or two of slow stalking. I heard movement ahead. It seemed to be
something big, sloshing through the reeds.
I aimed my camera at the noise. At first, I thought it was an elephant,
but no, its bulk loomed bigger than that.
Suddenly a large head on a long neck rose above the swamp. There he was
- mokele-mbembe! I snapped away madly while the beast carefully looked me over,
then went about its business munching on reeds and grasses. I inwardly rejoiced. I found it, I saw it, I
had proof. My quest succeeded. My name was made! I had to bite my tongue to keep from letting
out a victory whoop. The great beast
moved further away from me into deeper swamp where I was reluctant to go. I
took another dozen photos of it retreating.
Back at camp I showed the photos on the camera’s screen to
Mbjah and Mabuti. They marveled at the images
but had no concept of what photos were. I said that my quest was finished and
that we should move on in the morning. Mbjah said if we kept going east, we
would soon meet a great river, which would lead us to towns. I will fall asleep
tonight under the stars rejoicing in my victory.
Note from the administrator of Hospital Impfondo to the
U.S. Consul in Brazzaville: The journal
ends at this point. We presume it
belonged to George McCally because it was in the backpack with his possessions
and passport when he arrived unconscious at our facility. McCally suffered from
broken ribs, pelvis, backbone, and consequent internal bleeding. It appeared he
had been trampled by a huge beast probably a hippo or elephant. He never
regained consciousness and died the night of his arrival. He was given a Christian burial in the
hospital’s cemetery. McCally was brought to us in a pirogue down the Oubangui
River by a Baptist pastor who lives in a northern village. The pastor said the
man was carried into his village by two pygmies who reported that he had been
trampled by an elephant while camping at night deep in the forest. Although the journal fantasizes about a
dinosaur and even purports to have photos of one, no camera was found among
McCally’s effects.
