’A Congo Christmas’ continues

Editor’s Note: This is the third installment of a past African holiday adventure authored by Spokane resident Andrea Shearer.

Over the past couple of years, I had put on a bit of weight. I wasn’t fat, but chubby would be a fair description. I did, however, have more stamina than my outward appearance indicated — a holdover from my overly athletic youth. Aggravatingly for me, our guide took one look at me and decided that I would be the one to “set the pace.” (He meant ‘slow us down.’) This shot to my ego didn’t endear me to our guide at all. In fact, I maneuvered myself to come last just so I could avoid him.

After the other group members consoled me by quietly calling him some choice names, my spirits were raised. I stopped concerning myself with proximity and wound up walking closer to the front of the group. This turned out to be a big mistake. Every time I got near him, he would check to see if I were ‘holding up’ or ask if I needed a break. Soon, I was back at the end of the line, wondering if I could convince a silverback to take a break from its vegetarian diet for this one exception.

The guide’s harassment wasn’t the only killjoy of the day. Our hike had started in a cornfield — very difficult to navigate if you’re inexperienced at traversing African farmland. Due to the heavy rains, farming in Africa requires the land to be tilled in a corrugated fashion; rows of raised earth alternating with dips between the rises. Meaning, you have to constantly watch where you’re stepping while at the same time looking up to fend off the cornstalks attacking your face and arms.

There is a trick to it, but I didn’t learn this until after I had done battle and lost to the vegetation. Like sand, chaff gets everywhere and I spent the rest of the day digging bits out of my collar and other unexpected places.

Just about 45 minutes later, we emerged from the cornfield scathed and itchy. Mounting a small hill, we followed a well-worn path which led into a small village. We thought that we were close to our goal. After all, it had been almost an hour, the rumored ‘longer’ hike time. Our guide sat us down on the outskirts of the village while he went to confer with a tracker who had come down the mountain.

A few minutes later, he returned with the tracker and an armed guard. Asked why we needed an escort with an AK-47, he said, “For the gorillas.” I was mortified until it clicked that he meant ‘guerillas.’ I took a long look at the gun and decided they were just trying to make us feel safer. That gun was so rusted over it was more likely to backfire than deter any would-be attackers. If we ran into any actual guerillas, we were ransom fodder.

Then the good news. “The trackers have located the gorilla family,” our guide announced. And the bad news. Looking directly at me with a malicious grin on his face, “They’re only three hours away.”

(Read the continuation of A Congo Christmas in a future edition of Pinch.)