Chapter Fourteen.
Ngongo, July 15th-17th, 2007.
Robert “Bob” Shepard.
My improbable visit to this hitherto unknown country, Ngongo, was the result of an urgent summons. Of course, the preconditions were there: I am an inveterate traveler and a retiree with disposable income. The summons came from a longtime friend and colleague in progressive circles, the estimable Jewish-Asian-Kenyan businessman, Mr. Eliyahu Josephai.
Eli and I go all the way back to the Biafran war of the 1960’s and ‘70’s. When the guns had fallen silent, and Nigeria was trying to pick up the pieces, an organization in which I was an officer, The American Jewish Emergency Effort for Biafran Relief (AJEEBR), played a role in the rebuilding effort. One of the things we tried to do was to assist war refugees in their attempts at resettlement, either in Nigeria, or beyond.
I forget exactly how it happened, but an interesting application crossed my desk in, I think, early 1968. It came from a native of Bonny, a Nigerian town on the Oil Rivers. The applicant, whose improbable name was Mishach Ndukwe, was an economist. As the application stated, in 1966 he had fled anti-Igbo persecution in the western region of the country, where he had been a secondary school teacher. Almost two years later, when he finally reached Bonny, the place was occupied by Federal soldiers, so he had labored on (by bicycle, no less!) into neighboring Cameroon, where the last of his funds ran out.
It was at this point that Mr. Ndukwe somehow managed to send in an application to the AJEEBR –- to us -- (and, probably, to half a dozen other aid organizations). Since the application made a strong impression on me, I forwarded it, along with a “Can any of you assist this man?” to the members of our organization, and to our African affiliates. Of several replies, Eli Josephai’s was the least vague: he as much as promised to help resettle Mishach Ndukwe, possibly in Kenya. So I left this refugee in Eli’s capable hands.
When the war ended, Eli and I engaged in a desultory correspondence, initially concerning Biafran relief, but gradually including more and more personal matters. Then, in the mid-70’s, he visited New York, to negotiate a contract. (He owns an import-export business in Nairobi.) I met him for lunch one day in the Garment District, after which we became fast friends. I still remember that jolly lunch, which took place at a then-iconic vegetarian restaurant called Farm Food. I think I chose the place, now long defunct, because I anticipated that my guest might observe dietary restrictions. (He did not turn out to be an observant anything.)
By then, Eli told me, over our bean cutlets, that he had been trying to assist Mishach Ndukwe for several years, during the course of which he had often met with the man. Ultimately, he determined that Mduke was essentially an unemployable eccentric. But one of the things I loved about him -- Eli, that is -- was his indefatigable generosity. Following the N.Y. visit, which visit I returned soon after my retirement a few years later (I had been a tort lawyer and was, by then, alas, a widower), we kept in touch through letters, telephone calls and, once it became available in Kenya, email.
During the early 1990’s, Eli apparently discovered a new protégé -- a far more promising one than Mishach Ndukwe had turned out to be. This young man’s name was Pierre Tshombe (like the much-reviled Congolese political leader). Pierre’s homeland was Ngongo, a small nation in east-central Africa. Eli had monitored the young man’s progress from earnest young student and industrious employee to committed insurrectionist.
Having returned to Ngongo thirteen years before (in 1994), Pierre had now become involved in “something very dangerous” -- or so my friend heard, “through the grapevine.” This I learned from a long email, dated July 10th. Since Eli was now in his late eighties, since his health was uncertain, and since he was notorious across east-central Africa for his longtime support of insurrections against right-wing dictators, he asked whether I might possibly act as his surrogate, “to visit Ngongo, see what you can find out, and help determine what steps, if any, we can take to protect Pierre.” He closed with a strict warning: “But be very, very careful, Bob!”
As Eli knew, I spoke passable French, at least the simple Africanized version I had encountered on a previous trip to Senegal and Cote d’Ivoire. When I accepted the mission, by return email, he immediately sent further instructions, including a local number to call, “if absolutely necessary.” He also suggested that, since Le quatorze juiillet was the anniversary of ngongienne Independence, I book my ticket, “asap.” Even so, I discovered that the earliest available flight was not until after the fourteenth.
Hence it was that, on July 15th-16th, 2007, I found myself, a spring chicken in my late seventies, on my way to Fort Chaltin, the capital of Ngongo. Round trip airfare from New York was steep ($1400) and, with a two-hour stopover in Paris, the trip was long (almost twenty-four hours). At Eli’s suggestion, I had also booked a room for a week at a boutique establishment called Pension Saint-Louis. My friend told me the proprietor was Pierre’s uncle, and that I should stay there in the hope that the uncle might be able to shed light on his nephew’s current situation. But Eli also warned me that the man was a government informant, so I must approach him with extreme caution.
Warned, too, about the state of Ngongo’s roads, upon my midday arrival at the airport, I did not rent a car. Instead, I engaged a rickety old Renault taxi, which wheezed and clattered its way up the escarpment to the city. As the driver crept through the showcase Quartier Central, and on through city streets to the pension, since I had previously visited other places in what used to be called ”the third world,” Fort Chaltin’s stark contrasts, ubiquitous poverty, and air of repression did not unsettle me, at least not at first.
My initial encounter with M. Saint-Louis was wary, on both sides. When the driver had deposited my wheeled suitcase inside the front door, I paid him off and approached the patron, who was standing behind the reception desk reading a newspaper.
“Alors, Monsieur …” he began, his eyes twinkling through bifocals. “Ca va?”
“Bien, merci.” My schoolboy French seemed to come back readily. We continued in that language.
“Thank you. If I may ask, are you here, Monsieur, on business or for tourism?”
“Actually, neither. I’m here to try to connect with a friend of a friend.”
“How interesting! And is this … connection your sole motive for visiting our poor, out-of-the-way land?”
“Well, mainly,” I replied. We smiled and nodded at each other, and I changed the subject. “Are there any other guests staying in the pension, at the moment?”
“Actually, we are expecting a business contingent from China this afternoon. But, other than yourself, no tourists.” Then, as if he had just thought of it, he added,” You understand, Monsieur, that Le Pension Saint-Louis does not serve luncheon or dinner to our guests. Breakfast, however, is offered in the dining room, which is to your right.” He gestured to his left (my right). “At what time will you wish to take this meal, please?” “Seven-thirty okay? I’ll probably wake up early from...” (English) “jet lag.” He cast me a quick glance, after which we proceeded with the formalities of registration. Then, I returned to the point of my visit. “But tell me, mon patron, how might I go about locating the person I mentioned?”
Again, he eyed me suspiciously. “What is the name, please?”
“Name? Robert Shepard. But… “
“No, no. His name?”
“Oh. Patrice -- I mean, Pierre -- Tshombe.”
M. Saint-Louis visibly flinched. “Well, Monsieur,” he said carefully, “ ‘Tshombe’ is a very common name here. If I were you, I would check for an address at the Post Office.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “That will be easier than trying to obtain a phone number, which would entail a big palaver at the Ministere Telephonique.” A devious man, this hotelier!
Since I knew no one in Fort Chaltin, and Eli had warned me to be careful, I was uncertain how to reply. “I think I’ll go up to my room, and then take a walk,” I announced, adding lamely, “to see what I can see.”
“Of course, Monsieur Shepard, I am at your service. And now, if you will excuse me, I must also attend to some business upstairs. Good day, then. Please turn the lights off when you leave the lobby. There is a night light in the stairwell, which you may leave on.”
“Good day, mon patron.”
Neither of us offered to shake hands. He stood up, stretched theatrically, and started to walk toward the staircase, then stopped, looked back at me, and seemed about to say something more. Apparently thinking better of it, he proceeded to climb the stairs.
Fearing that M. Saint-Louis might be about to telephone the authorities, I sat in the lobby for a few minutes, my mind awhirl. Then, rousing myself, I went up to my room, which was plain and small, but clean. I lay down for a nap, but too worried to fall asleep, I flipped through the pages of my guidebook, without absorbing a thing. So I sponged off, and changed out of my stale clothes. Packing a few things in the small backpack I had brought from New York, I headed out for my walk.
For whatever reason, outside the pension, I turned right, in the direction of the Quartier Central. After some aimless window-shopping, I saw signs of an imminent thunderstorm. Not having brought with me the collapsible umbrella I had carried from New York in my suitcase, I decided to return to the pension. But, still in the Quartier, I spotted a store with a sign for yes telephonies mobiles, and suddenly panicking, I remembered Eli’s emergency instructions. Overpaying grossly, I succeeded in purchasing a “burner” phone without filling out any paperwork. Stepping into an alley, I punched in the local number Eli had provided, which was picked up on the second ring.
“Tiens!” said a deep voice. Although I feared I might be too nervous to make myself clear, I replied in French.
“This is Mr. J.’s friend, Mr. S. I am afraid I may have…” I stumbled for the next word, and came up with “inadvertement.”
Was my interlocutor aware that his caller was not a francophone? “Dieu!” he exclaimed. “You have done something par inadvertence?”
“Yes, I may have alerted the N. to P’s role in your organization.”
The man sighed twice. “Understood. Goodbye.”
To the best of my ability, I deleted the call. Then, by rolling the phone beneath a wheel of a large dumpster, I managed to flatten it, and returned to the street. A passerby who looked like a businessman saw me emerge from the alley, but when I pantomimed zipping up my trousers, he grinned and continued on his way. With the rain still holding off, I hurried back to the pension where, completely exhausted, I flopped onto the bed and, this time, fell into a long, deep nap.
Eli had warned me what else to do in situations like the one into which I thought I had already gotten myself. “Make the call, then try to play the tourist for a day, or so. After that, pretend to receive an urgent summons from home, and fly out as soon as you can book a seat.”
I tried to follow these instructions. Using my own cell phone, I called aire ngongienne, and was told I could change my return ticket to a flight the day after next, July 18th –- for a hefty service fee, of course. I paid the fee with the credit card I had originally used to book the flight.
That left me with a day-and-a-half to kill in Fort Chaltin. Since dinnertime was approaching, I once again consulted my guidebook, and found an upscale place that seemed decent, the Grille Lapin. I made a reservation for seven-thirty. After a shower, again using the guidebook, I called for a taxi. Then, I went back down to the lobby, which was still deserted, and spent an hour, or so, reading the newspaper, which the proprietor had left on the counter. Most of the “news” was puffery about the anniversary celebrations two days before, and the brilliance of the keynote speaker -- the Dictator.
At a few minutes past seven, my car arrived. The driver was short, silent and scowling. Without a word, he drove me to the Grille, which was in the heart of the Quartier Central. Not responding to my overgenerous tip, he said he would return in one hour, and sped away. Not fifty feet from the restaurant, two men in black shirts and trousers, presumably NKN agents, stood side by side beneath a streetlight.
By now, it was exactly seven-thirty, and the place was about a quarter full. As restaurants go, the Lapin looked like a good choice: immaculate and chic, with white tablecloths and black bentwood chairs. The server, a nervous, older man, seated me at a table for two right in front of the window, and immediately took my order. I hardly noticed what I chose. A glass of red wine arrived, along with a basket containing two huge rolls.
A few minutes later, he brought my entree’, a French stew served central-African style, and still hot enough to exude a delicious aroma. I ate as much as my nerves allowed, washing it down with a second glass of wine. Then, I paid the hefty bill, which arrived just as my car pulled up to the curb. As I exited the restaurant, I looked to my left. One of the NKN men grinned and saluted.
Since my plane did not leave until Wednesday morning, remembering Eli’s advice, I spent the rest of the evening searching the guidebook for tourist attractions. Although the pickings seemed slim, the Musee’ d’Ethnographie caught my eye. Luckily, it was open on Tuesdays, from 10-4.
To be continued...
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