...on the Banks of the Congo River
Liboké de Poisson
Well, I don't know how it happened | But the river-boat captain, he knows my fate | But ev'rybody else, even yourself | They're just gonna have to wait.
The surf report was gloomy.
"Clear skies allowed an early sun to light the Sentinel this morning. But that's about the only good news we have, I'm afraid. The early morning swell coming in from Boulder is huge but it's being blown apart by a stiff westerly. Cross currents are fighting a rising tide and what may have been a good wave is being shredded. Fuck."Bummer.
After a couple of hash bongs, we hit the beach to cook breakfast and surf the point. I wasn't in the mood for a wave, deciding instead to sketch the mountains from the fire and, with Sister Jacqueline, Carmela and Mother Mary, whip up the Liboké de Poisson.
The girls slipped off their jeans and cooked in their bikinis. They cleaned the fish, leaving the scales on. They then cut a few gashes lengthwise on each side and poured on the marinade before leaving it to marinate in a glass dish for a quarter hour.
"This is a damned side better than surfing," I thought.
We had bought the fish the night before from a passing fisherman, but I was too stoned to know what the hell it was. Nobody else knew either. "So what?" giggled Brother Marek, "It's fucking big."
Sister Carmela was using a recipe she and Dingo had brought back from their surf safari up the Congo River. It was on a page ripped out of an old issue of Fair Lady.
"They love it up there," Carmela explained, brushing her long, blonde hair from her face before putting the fish on the fire. She began to chop some okra and tomato. "Fair Lady that is."
"Why?" A great bank of cloud had moved in towards the shore, blocking the sun. The wind was unusually warm.
"Dunno. It has something to do with blonde hair. All Africa's mad about blonde hair. The Congolese have some of the finest waves in the world and nobody surfs. They all sit on the banks of the Congo River reading Fair Lady."
"You serious?"
"Yup." In the eerie light of a fast-darkening sky, she mixed some oil, chopped onion, lemon juice, salt, black pepper and red pepper. Sister Jacqueline and Mother Mary had ducked off in search of banana leaves.
"Bizarre."
"Yeah." She gathered her hair up and, with a couple of deft flicks, turned it into one of those loose knots. Under a fast-darkening sky, it ran like gold. I could see lightning flicker on the horizon. "I haven't seen waves quite like those you get in the Congo. Not surfing them's a crime."
"They should punish the bastards."
"Oh, they do. They make them sit on the banks of the Congo River and read Fair Lady."
Above us, the clouds roiled, sending out great plumes of what looked like whipped cream.
"Ah. Yeah, you mentioned that."
Good enough to eat, I thought.
"But they don't mind."
"No."
Looking to the point across the deep, dark-green sea, I could see the others ripping up good, clean six-to-eight foot waves.
"It's the blonde hair thing, you know?"
I knew.
Sheltered from what was now a hurricane wind, the waves were pumping in and peeling off crisply. They were perfect too. I bet the waves on the Congo River weren't much better.
Fair ladies on the Congo River
Well, I got the fever down in my pockets | The Persian drunkard, he follows me | Yes, I can take him to your house but I can't unlock it | You see, you forgot to leave me with the key | Oh, where are you tonight, sweet Marie?
Sister Jacqueline and Mother Mary returned. They each shouldered a huge pile of banana leaves. Both looked as though they'd hacked their way through a rain forest. Mother Mary had a near-naked girl of about 19 tethered to her at the end of a long rope. Olive-skinned and with perfect breasts, the girl's black hair shone like the sun, which had disappeared completely. The shrouded sky suffused the day with a tangerine glow.
The girl's eyes flashed murder.
"What's with her?"
"She tried to stop us so we thought we'd bring her back," explained Mother Mary. "Her name's Lavena. She's evil."
She looked all right to me.
When the fish was ready, Carmela and Lavena warmed the banana leaves before removing their center ribs by cutting across them with long, pearl-handled knives and pulling them off. They then folded each piece of fish into a packet two or three layers thick.
It smelled finger-lickin' good.
We were all gathered together eating our Liboké de Poisson and smoking more hash when the storm broke. I reckon 50 millimeters of rain fell in around an hour. The wind howled across the mouth of the bay and, from our hut we could see and feel the lighting electrify the sky. But it didn't affect us. Good food and company were all we needed.
I'd finished my meal and had just lit myself a smoke when Dingo choked on his food and died. He did so right in front of us. It was extraordinarily quick and, we'd like to believe, painless. Fortunately, he'd waited for the rain to stop. The air smelt fresh and sweet, so we dragged his body outside and stood around on the beach, wondering what might have caused him to choke on such a wonderful meal.
"He was dreaming of the waves on the Congo River," sighed Brother Marek.
"He was eating too fast," speculated Mother Mary.
"He was thinking of this morning's surf," suggested Sister Jacqueline.
"He was reading this old issue of Fair Lady," said Carmela, handing it to me.
I took it from her. Her eyes were large, moist and blue. I could not imagine what Dingo saw in the waves of the Congo River that he could not find in there.
Standing next to me, the beautiful Lavena guided my search to the page where Dingo had left off. He'd been reading the recipe for Liboké de Poisson. Lavena's delicate hand steered my eyes to the foot of the page.
It read: "Note: Shock the Monkey as you will but never, and I mean never, eat the fucking banana leaves. Trust me." It was signed: The Management."
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Carmela and Lavena exchange the briefest of smiles, before both looked up at me.
Now, I been in jail when all my mail showed | That a man can't give his address out to bad company | And now I stand here lookin' at your yellow railroad | In the ruins of your balcony | Wond'ring where you are tonight, sweet Marie.
Bob Dylan | Absolutely Sweet Marie
