Another story from inland, told to me by the chief’s daughter on the shores of Lake Tumba,

One day all the animals in the world gathered together to vote for a chef, and when all the votes were counted, the winner turned out to be the Lion – which of course made the Lion very happy. His first decree, now that he had the authority to do so, was that he should be properly enthroned, with proper celebrations as befitted his new status.

The other animals wanted to know what form the celebrations should take.

“There must be feasting and drinking,” said the Lion. “There must be dancing. And there must be sport, the climax of which shall be a trial of strength. And for the winner there shall be a magnificent prize – the hand of my own sister, the lioness, in marriage.”

Of course all the animals were dying to have a go. To marry a lioness – to be a member f the royal family? There could be no greater honor. t once all the strongest and most powerful animals began posing and posturing, training ad boasting, preparing for the great day.

The enthronement came, and as the lion had promised, the entertainment was wonderful. All the first day there was feasting and drinking – and let’s just say that no one went short. At the end of the day everyone went to bed happy, looking forward to the next day when the competition would begin – climaxing in a trial of strength and the marriage of the winner to beautiful and magnificent lioness.

The big day arrived, and it began with sport between the smaller animals, who had no chance of winning he big prize. Then the larger animals turned out. The heavy weights didn’t come on till right at the end.

The rhino was already married, so the real fight was going to be between the hippopotamus and the elephant.. When everyone saw these two huge animals limbering up, making the earth quake and the river froth,, everyone else went very quiet. It was certain no one would stand a chance against them.

Then the tortoise stepped forward.

“I see that only the elephant and the hop have put themselves forward to win the bride,” he said. “Everyone is afraid of them – but not me. If Your Majesty will allow it, I am certain that I can win the day.”

The elephants laughed down his trunk. “You, the smallest of animals in the forest?” He said. “You don’t stand a chance. I wouldn’t even waste my time bothering to fight such an insignificant speck.”

“Was that old big nose blowing his own trumpet, as usual?” Asked tortoise. “Always original – and always looking for the chance of avoiding a fight.”

When the elephant heard this, he started to jump and shout with rage.

“I accept the challenge,” he bellowed. “All I have to do is stamp, once Iike this ..” Ad he stamped so hard that a young tree growing nearby fell down … “And you will be nothing but a stain in the mud.”

“My power is not on the dry land,” the tortoise replied. “My power is in the water. If you face me there, you will not stand a chance. Of course, if you are afraid …”

“Ridiculous,” snorted the elephant. And he accepted the challenge.

Next the Lion asked the Hippo if he was willing to fight the tortoise.
“Me, fight a pie with a hard crust?” said said the hippo. “Of course not. Besides, I wouldn’t want to hurt the poor little thing.”

“Ah, there goes old big gob, who wipes his bum on his own tail, trying to get out of a fight again,” said tortoise.

The hippo was enraged. ” I accept!” he roared. “It won’t take a moment to finish you off. I’Il just drag into the river and leave you to drown.”

“My power is not in the water, but on dry land,” said tortoise. “if you dare to face me there, I promise to make you sorry you ever heard my name.”

And so the hippo accepted too. The antelope was appointed referee. The fight was on!

At last all the other sports were finished and it was time for the big match. The elephant stood waiting for the starting whistle on the banks of the river, while a little further away, the hippo waited in the shallows for things to begin.

The tortoise went to the elephant first, with a rope.

“Tie this end of the rope around your foot. I will go into the river, where my power is. When you hear the starting whistle, pull as hard as you can. The first to pull the other onto in or out of the river is the winner. Agreed?”

The elephant agreed.

Then the tortoise went to the hip, with the other end of the same rope.

“Tie this around your foot. When you hear the whistle blow, pull! The winner will be whoever pulls the other in or out of the river. Agreed?”

The hippo agreed.

Finally the tortoise went to the antelope. “I am going to my end of the rope. When you feel me tug it, blow your whistle and the fight shall begin.” He walked and shortly after, the antelope felt a tug on the rope, blew his whistle, and the great battle began!

The hippo pulled. Great waves churned up the river. The elephant pulled! Earth was ploughed into clods. The hippo pulled, the elephant pulled! Great clouds of dust and spray rose into the air. The water beat against the shore, the earth crashed into the water! The noise was so great, the antelope bolted in panic and ran off to ride.

“Pull!” yelled the tortoise.

The elephant pulled. The hippo pulled. Pull, pull, pull!

The great fight went on all evening, all night and on into the next day. The elephant and the hippo pulled and pulled and pulled, but no matter how hard they strained, neither was able to drag the other in or out of the river. As the second day sank towards evening, both animals were so tired they felt like weeping – but neither would give up. Pull, pull, pull!

By the morning of the third day, both animals were so tried they could hardly stand up.. The elephant was on his knees. The hippo was in danger of drowning, he lacked the strength even to stay afloat. But the tortoise, who had had a good night’s sleep, was as fresh as a daisy.

At midday the lion called a fifteen minute break, and the tortoise took the chance to visit his two rivals, who lay exhausted in the shallows, panting and groaning with pain. When they saw how fresh the tortoise was, and how ready he was to carry on, their hearts sank.

“Well!” the tortoise said. “What a good fight. I had no idea you would be so hard to beat. But now I’m loan forward to the next round. Are you ready to carry on? This business of having breaks is for babies!”

Both the elephant and hippo shook their heads – they were broken beasts.

“No more,” groaned the elephant.

“Enough,” whimpered the hippo. “You win.”

And that is how the tortoise won the greatest fight the animal kingdom has ever seen, and became a prince by marriage. And as you will see if you ever come across a tortoise talking to the other animals, they all treat him with the utmost respect.

After A VERY long break, I’ve found the time to go back to my notebooks from the Congo and carry on writing up the folk tales I collected … (and to notice, incidentally, that most of the photo’s I posted have been lost when the website was changed – must do something about that!)

Camping on the banks of the Congo

This story was told to me in the village in the village of Samba by the chief’s son. It’s more like the kind of thing we’re used to in Europe, with it’s happy ending and traditional fable structure. Readers of African folk tales will be familiar with Tortoise the trickster – always one of my favourite characters from folk tales and myth. In this one, he teaches a friend a lesson about the differences of others.. The eagle, as you can see, was a bit stupid, but personally if I’d been him, I might have been tempted to drop our shelly friend on the way back home ….

The Tortoise and the Eagle

The Eagle and the Tortoise were the very best of friends – so much so that every single day, the eagle flew down from the high mountain where he had his eerie, across the steep cliffs, down past the stony slopes, over the trees, across the river, and past the meadows until he came the scrubby wilderness where tortoise made his home.

Tortoise was always there to meet him and make him welcome, and the two friends would have lunch together.

This went day after day, year after year, and the friendship between the two never wavered, until one day, the Tortoise noticed that his friend was quieter than usual. He asked him why.

“Have you ever noticed that its always me who comes to visit you?” the Eagle said. “In all these years, I don’t think you’ve ever come to my house even once.”

“But you live so far away!” replied the Tortoise. “There are mountains to climb, ravines to get over, rivers to cross. The forest is full of tangled roots, the way is littered with boulders and stones. It would take me forever, if I got there at all.”

” Still,” said the Eagle. ” I think you might have managed it just once, if you cared for me as much as I care for you.”

The Tortoise was hurt and shocked that his friend felt this way, but the journey was far, too difficult and dangerous for a stumpy legged little thing like him to ever attempt.

“Don’t be like that,” he begged.  “I’m sorry you feel let down. Give me time. Let me try find some other way of proving my loyalty to you.”

Months past and the Eagle sadly thought that the Tortoise had forgotten his promise. But then came his birthday, and he forgot about his doubts, looking forward to the big day. Every year, the Tortoise prepared a special lunch for his friend and always began the meal with a splendid present.

On the day, the Eagle excitedly made the flight down from the mountain to the desert in double quick time, he was so excited. But when he got there – what’s this? No table spread with goodies, no group of friends – no Tortoise. All there was a package and a card.

The Eagle opened the card and read.

“My friend, I’ve tried for months to think of a way to repay you for all the visits you’ve made to me over the years, but I’ve failed. So today, on your birthday, I’ve decided to come to visit you at your house. It’s a long journey for me, so I’ve decided to take several days to get there, to make sure I’m on time. As you can see, I was unable to carry your present as well. I hope you won’t object to carrying it yourself to your house – where I shall be ready to greet you and help you celebrate this special day!”

“Wow,” thought the Eagle. “Finally – he’s actually doing it!” He took the present in his talons and set off – over the desert, across the meadow, over the river, which he noticed today was very full and strong … Above the forest that was as the tortoise had said, full of tangled roots breaking up the ground, as well as sharp thorns in the twigs and branches. Then up, up he soared, up the slopes of the mountain, beyond the stony slopes and towering cliffs back to his eerie home.

The Tortoise wasn’t there.

“Never mind,” said the Eagle. “It IS a long way for someone who can’t fly.  He’s probably still walking. I can wait”

The Eagle waited … and waited … and waited.

After a bit he began to worry. The mountain certainly was very steep. The Tortoise had such tiny legs – there were a million places where he could slip and fall to his death.

“I’ll find him and give him a lift,” the Eagle thought. He flew off over the mountain, up and down, up and down. But there was no sign of the tortoise. He asked his friends the other eagles to help, and they all flew to and fro, but none of them saw anything.

“Maybe he fell into a ravine,” one of the other eagles said.

“Unless he’s crept past us and is waiting for you at your place, ” said someone else. The Eagle dashed home, full of hope, but the tortoise still wasn’t there.

“Maybe he’s still at the river. But that’s ludicrous – he can’t swim with that shell. He’ll drown! He stupid I’ve been! I must stop him,” thought the Eagle.

He flew off down the mountain side to to river and searched and searched – he even got one of the crocs that lived there to help him … But no one found anything

“Maybe one of my cousins found him first,” suggested the croc.

Off the Eagle flew, in a panic now .. back home , then to the forest, then to the desert, then to mountain again, then back home, then off again … back and forth and to and fro, until his wings ached. But of the tortoise, there was no trace …

It was getting late now. The Eagle realised that what for him was a simple journey on the wings of the wind, was a terrible ordeal for his little friend – an ordeal that had surely killed him. He flew wearily back home, full of guilt. He had lost the best friend in the world, and it was no one’s fault but his own.

He got back and – who should be there to greet him, but  the Tortoise himself,  looking comfortable and rested as he raised a glass to his friend.
The Eagle too one look and said…

‘HOW!!??”

“Can’t you guess?” said the Tortoise. “You gave me a lift! I was hiding … inside the parcel you so kindly carried here for me. I AM your birthday present!”

When he realised he had been tricked the Eagle was at first angry … then relieved … then angry again … and then at last he began to see the funny side and started to laugh … and laugh … and laugh.

Finally, they had their party.  At the end of the day, the Eagle carried the Tortoise safely back home and dropped him gently  at his front door. ”

“Just promise me one thing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t EVER come to visit me again! I don’t think I could stand the stress!”

These first few months of 2012 have been far too busy, but things are settling down so I reckon it’s time to re-start telling the stories I collected in the Democratic Republic of Congo in 2010.

The stories that follow are rather  different from those I’ve told so far. The first part of the journey, in Kinshasa, was over. After a week there with Save the Children, investigating the phenomenon of child witches, I took a trip with a company called Go Congo deep into the country. I flew first to Mbandaka, right on the equator, where I was met by my guide, Peter. We spent the night in a tent on the banks of the Congo river – such a huge river, you couldn’t even see the opposite bank.

The Congo river. The bank you can see is that of an island in the river - and there's more than one on the way across.

The next day we drove across country to the village of Samba on the Lulonga river.

It was a pretty odd experience. Samba and the other villages I was taken too had no roads, no electricity, no services of any kind. We went from place to place in dug out canoes – pirogues – which were basically the only way to get from A to B in that part of the world. There was myself, my guide Peter, six paddle men, a cook, and one other to deal with the putting up my tent and so on. When we set off, I was sitting like Lord Muck in one of those white plastic chairs people often use in this country for patios; Peter sat behind me also in a white chair, while all the others stood and paddled. Seven black men all for the purpose of pushing one white tourist along the riverways! – I felt like a fraud. But I reminded myself of something some friends of mine who live in Nepal once said. When they first went trekking over there, they carried their own bags, and did there own work; but the locals were furious with them for taking work away…

In fact, everyone was delighted to see me. What’s he doing here? A tourist! Great! We want more of them! I was certainly the only tourist I saw in the whole week … So I reminded myself that I was good for the local economy, and tried to enjoy myself.

Welcome to Samba!

The trip was pretty uncomfortable in many ways. The DRC is a Lingali and French speaking country, so I was reliant on Peter, and Peter’s English was poor to say the least. Anyone who is immersed in language as I am, and who finds themselves struck dumb by being both foreign on an idiot monoglot abroad will know what I mean. It was uncomfortable, hot, sweaty and damp, there were mosquitoes everywhere. Kulu, who was doing the tents, had forgotten much of what he’d been taught so I was frequently dripped on. But hey – how often do you get to go visiting villages deep in the forest, that can only be reached by canoe? The people there saw a white person once in a blue moon, they all came thronging round wanting their picture taken to see themselves on the screen. It was fabulous – what an experience!

I should say a few words about the nature of the trip – the package, because that’s what it was. That part of the DRC has two main tribes – the Bantu and the pygmy people. The pygmies are not the very small people you sometimes see on TV documentaries, who live deep in the rain forest. The pygmies I met were slight boned, usually not so tall as the Bantu, perhaps, but certainly not much smaller than the rest of the population.

A Pygmy family - and a few friends.

There is unfortunately, a good deal of racism from the Bantus towards the pygmies. In the villages I visited, no one had much. This was the tropics, and there seemed to be enough to eat, so long as you were happy with manioc root and manioc leaves, bananas and a few other fruits and vegetables. But no one had any money – not a penny. As such there was no economy; it was all subsistence farming. Even so, the Bantu had more. Their homes often had mud walls, roofs made of banana leaves or even corrugated iron. Often the pygmy houses were little more than shelters made of leaves and branches. Their houses were in a separate part of the village, on the outskirts, away from the centre; and they were generally looked down on by their neighbors.

My trip was an anthropological trip, as Michel, the founder and boss of Go Congo put it. The villages that we went to all had pygmies in them. My guide was a pygmy man and some of the paddle men were also pygmies. I think it was a novel experience for some of them to have a pygmy man in charge over Bantus, although I never saw any decent or arguments – everyone was very good natured. Even so, Michael had recently had to re-vamp his trip because the previous guide, a Bantu, had diverted the visits away from pygmy villages to those exclusively Bantu, were his own family and friends lived. He was determined to ensure that his trip favoured the pygmy people

And of course, I collected stories everywhere I went … So; tomorrow – The Boy With no Hands or Feet.

This story was told to me by Madou, who worked in save the children’s offices in central Kinshasa. She told me her children loved this story and that they will always willing to find a lesson in a story.

Many years ago, I remember reading an article arguing that black Africa had a far greater influence on Western Culture than was at that time usually thought, via ancient Egypt. One of the themes was that the fables attributed to Aesop originated in central Africa. Anyone who has followed these stories  will be familiar to the themes common to both these African and our own European folk tales, and the odd way they sometimes surface. In this case though, you’ll know the story just from reading the title. There have been many comings and goings over the years between Africa and Europe, and where this story began – that’s anyone’s guess. But I include it here for the sheer fun of hearing a story we all know from a land in which wolves are unknown.

Never Cry Croc

One day there lived a family with 4 children, 3 girls and one boy. All the children were good except one – you guessed it was the boy. But he wasn’t just unruly – he was also funny. He wanted to spend the whole day playing jokes on people.

One day the boy was sent to get water from a river that was full of crocodiles. After he had collected his water he put the pots safety on the back. Then he started to call out at the top of his voice, “Help! Help! The crocodiles! The crocodiles!”

When they heard his screams, everyone was in a panic. They all came running as fast as they could down to the river bank to help him. When they got there they found him laughing his head off. He’d fooled them all! He thought he was hilarious.

Of course everyone was very cross. “You called us was nothing. You interrupted our work for nothing. You stupid, bad boy.”

Another day the boy was given the same job to go down to the river to collect water. This time though he really was caught by the leg by a crocodile. He pulled all he could and yelled and screamed – “Help! Help! The crocodile the crocodile!”

Everyone in the village heard, and rolled their eyes. “Yeah yeah yeah,” they said. “He does that all the times. Take no notice.” When his screams got really loud and panicky, they all shook their heads. He doesn’t give up, that boy, does he? But he’s not fooling us twice!”

No one realised that they were really listening to the boy being attacked and then eaten by a huge crocodile, until they went down to the riverbank later on and found nothing but a pile of clothes and some bloodied mud.

And what is the moral of the story? Simple: you must never lie. You must always tell the truth. Even when you want to make a joke.

This is the last story fro Kinshasa. The next post will be from Samba, a village almost exactly on the equator in the DRC.

Or … and this is my version of the moral because who wants to live in a word with no jokers and no jokes … don’t make practical jokes about dangerous things – they really aren’t funny!

A short father and a short mother gave birth to 4 tall children. But these children weren’t just tall – they were vain. When they got old enough to think for themselves, they looked down their noses at their parents and said, “These people cannot be our parents. We are too big to have come from such little things.”

So they left their parents and went to ask King to provide them with a new set. They knew he would never give them new parents if he knew they already had some, no matter how short they were; so they lied, and told him that they were orphans.

You should know that these children were planning on making a living by baking.

The King listened carefully, and then he said; “I will give you parents. But in return you must give me 2 sacks of charcoal. But this charcoal must not come from wood. You must make it out of pure fire.”

The tall children have no idea how to do this, so they went back to ask their short parents for advice. Of course, they did not want to tell them how they were trying to get new parents, more befitting to their tall stature; so they lied again, and told them they went to the King only to ask for food.

“We asked him nicely, but he told us to make some charcoal from nothing but fire! How do we do it?”

Of course the parents wanted to help their children, so they agreed.” Okay. Go back and tell him that the charcoal is cooking, but that in order to prepare it properly you need to have jars filled with the King’s tears.”

They went back to the king and did as their parents had asked. The King said, “I have no tears. But I now know you have not been telling the truth. You are being too clever. Someone must have told you to play this trick. The only people who would help you in this way must be your parents.”

And so the tall children had to go back and live with their short parents.

So what is the lesson of this story? Whether they are rich or poor, or tall or short ot strong or weak, you must love your parents as they are. They are irreplaceable in your life. You can search the whole world but you will never find anyone else who will be parents for you.

That’s the story. Not a good moral if you happen to be an orphan, or loose your parents through no fault of your own. Not always true either. In Kinshasa I met several children who’s parents had left them to live on the streets, who were later adopted by brothers or other relatives – see the story of Nono earlier in this blog.

Many of the organisations that help the street children of Kinshasa reunite with their families are funded by Save the Children.  Evarista Kalumuna who told me this story used to work for Save the children and he, like me, would be delighted if you were return the favour. If you’ve spent the time to read this, please spare a little more; return the favour with a small contribution. You can help Save the Children continue their important work by clicking here.

This story is from Naomie, one of the girls who used the Santa Famillie open center in Kinshasa. This one is like a number of stories I’ve heard from Europe, but it’s not the sort of thing we might might tell our children these days. And once again, unlike many of the European stories I’ve heard, there’s a lot of humour in it.

Sharing a meal at the Sainte famille open center for street chidlren in Kinshasa. I wonder how many of these tots had been chased out of their homes for witchcraft? 80%, the center director said. A more unlikley bunch of witches I never saw!

A wife and a husband lived together by a lake, where they caught fish for a living. One day, out on the lake with his nets, the husband pulled in huge plate. What to do with it? They had no use for it, it wasn’t a particularly nice place … so they threw it back. As soon as it hit the water, the plate called out to them.

“Don’t throw me away – ask me!”

The fisherman was amazed, and scared – but fascinated. “Ask you what?” he demanded.

“Just ask me.”

The fisherman was troubled. What if the plate was trying to trick him? But then – what it was doing him a favour? In the end, he decided that this was something he just couldn’t miss. So he took the plate home, and he said to his wife, “You’ll never guess what I caught today …”

That evening they both sat and looked at the plate. It seemed impossible to imagine that it had ever talked. “What shall we ask it?” said the man.

The wife thought for a mount, then she said, “Let’s ask it for food. We never really get enough to eat. Asking for food should be quite safe.”

The husband agreed. “Plate, feed us. Please,” he added. At once, a wonderful feast was spread out before them – plates of meat,which they almost never had, wonderful fruit, everything they could hope for. And it wasn’t just food that the plate could serve up. Money, clothes, anything they asked for, the plate produced. After that, they never needed for anything.

Now, that couple had a son who loved football. One day, this son went to play a game against a rich kid. This rich kid was boastful, a bully, disrespectful to his parents and always expected his own way. He boasted so much about what a great player he was, that the fisher’s son grew angry with him, and an argument broke out. In the end they had a bet – who was the best football player? The rich kid bet a fine new football. “And what about you?” demanded the rich kid. “I’m always hearing abut this famous plate of yours. If you’re so sure of yourself, why don’t you bet that?”

The fisher’s son was so angry, he stupidly agreed to bet the plate. They played the game, the fisher’s son was outclassed. That rich kid may have been boastful and irritating, but he was a great football player. So now what? Too ashamed to back down, the fisher’s son crept him, stole the plate and gave it to the rich kid.

When he got back home and his parent’s discovered what he’d done, they were furious. They beat him for his stupidity and went straight round to the rich man’s house to ask for their plate back. But of course, the rich man said no. “Why should I?” he asked. “It was won fair and square. You should teach your son to behave with more respect to you.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” said the fisherman, “when everyone knows how rude your son is.”

“That may be so, but the plate is still mine,” said the rich man. “But I’ll tell you this – I’ll make a bet with you. if you can find a way to make my son behave, I’ll let you have it back.”

The fisherman went home feeling miserable. His son had given away their only bit of good fortune they’d ever had. “And there’s no way on earth anyone could make that boy behave himself,” he told his wife. “Everyone knows he’s the rudest, most unpleasant kid in the village.”

There was nothing for it but to get back to the fishing.

A few days later, the fisherman was out on his boat with his son, and he found caught in the net a cane. “This is no good to anyone,” said the father. “Although I could find a use for it if I thought about it,” he added, looking sideways at his son and swishing the cane. The son looked ashamed, and the father threw the cane back into the water.

But as soon as it hit the water, the cane shouted out. “Don’t throw me away. Tell me, tell me!” The father was delighted – but still a bit suspicious. Just because you have one piece of good luck, it does’t mean you;re going to have a second.

“Tell you what?” he asked.

“Just tell me,” said the cane. The fisherman pulled back the cane into the boat. “Now then – what shall I ask it?” he said aloud. “I know! Cane, beat my stupid son.” The cane set to work with gusto, gave the unfortunate son a beating of his life. It whipped him all the way back to shore and all the way back home, and still carried on when they got home.

“This is the life!” said the fisherman, lying back and watching, while his son hopped and howled. Every time he tried to escape out of the door, the cane would whip him back in.

“But this is perfect,” said his wife. “Now we have a way of teaching the rich man’s son his manners, and we can get our plate back.”

The next day, the man and his wife went to see the rich man, and explained to him that they were ready to take up the bet.

The rich man called his son to him. “Now – show me what you can do,” he said.

“Cane, beat this boy,” exclaimed the fisherman. As once the cane started work. The boy whooped and yelped and ran and twisted this way and that, but no matter where he went and what he did, the cane was there behind him, whipping merrily away. “This is perfect,” exclaim the rich man. “I’m far to busy to make sure my son behaves himself, but now I don’t need to, because this fine thin fellow will do all the work for me.”

So the deal was made – the cane for the plate. And everyone was happy – the fisherfolk because now they had all they could ask for; the rich man because he already had enough, but now he could keep his son in check; and the fisher’s son, because he had no need to worry about that troublesome cane any more. Only the rich boy had any need to feel sorry for himself – and that just serves him right.

That’s the end of the story.  Caning – not the sort of thing we do nowadays in Europe. I guess some of these children in the Congo aren’t so lucky, but I was a child, canings were a common place in books and in comics – half the stories in the Beano ended with an child bending over and getting six of the best from a jubilant teacher.  I remember a folk story I read as a child, one of a collection from the Czech republic, in which a group of rude princesses ended up being caned for three, six and nine days! Not only that, but the illustration showed them in their underwear – long frillies; and with a little crown on their heads. Not something I;d recommend for 11 year old boys today, although as a means of dealing the Royals, it has something to recommend it.

This lady told me all about the child witches she met in the market, and how she had a special gift from God to spot witches. Funny thing was, I have a special gift to spot self deceivers myself, and God was pointing right at her.