We were headed up river, the same direction as Kurtz. Okay, I know that for most of us, that would mean a trip up the Mekong, but this is Conrad’s Kurtz, not Coppola’s. There are moments in your life when you look back and think, perhaps that would have been the time for a good cigar.

Bit over thirty years ago I did the big backpacker thing for the best part of a year – mostly Africa and parts of Asia. In those days, I had about one cigar a year and I remember I took one on that trip (it spent seven months in my backpack before I smoked it at a group final dinner in Kathmandu – no prizes for guessing what a shocker it must have been).

With all the house/Covid/life crap going on (and yes, so many people so much worse off than I am), I decided I needed an afternoon outside with a good cigar and a drink. Work stuff delayed this and so the big cigar planned was reduced, and I opted for a CoRo for this Kenfessions. Matched it with a Stanton & Killeen Rare Muscat. Take me now lord, that is such a monumentally staggeringly good drink. 100 points anytime. And it elevated the cigar to such an extent that this was as good a match as imaginable. But more on all that later.

Grabbed a few books. One was ‘Gideon the Ninth’ which is a science fantasy about lesbian necromancers on spaceships and distant planets. I have stuck with it and it is getting better. Not ready to dispose of it just yet.

 Also grabbed my old copy of ‘Heart of Darkness’ by Joseph Conrad. ‘Apocalypse Now’ is a brilliant film but I do love the book, as different as it is. I have not read this book since I was literally on a ship heading up the Congo (and this is that very copy). Obviously, knowing what the book is about will help with all this (basically, imagine ‘Apocalypse Now’ but a century earlier and on the Congo River.).

I dug out the old diary and these reminiscences on the river are taken, almost verbatim, from it. But it struck me, how good would a few good cigars have been on the boat. This all took place during a seven-month trip on the back of a truck – have written about this before – from London to Nairobi to Kathmandu, with around twenty people. During the trip, almost everyone took the chance to leave at some stage and reconnect. This was one occasion. It was always a bit risky as if you missed the planned connection, you had to find the truck. This was pre-internet, mobile phones, GPS machines etc. So if you missed the connection, you were in Africa and the truck was in Africa and you had to find it.

Anyway, a group of us left the truck and took a passage on a lumber tug which was headed up river. We planned to do the Lisala to Bumba section in north-west Zaire, which is about 70 miles as the crow flies. These days, about three hours by highway. Then, several days by tug. I believe that Bumba still has no electricity or running water, so imagine thirty plus years ago. Lisala was the birthplace of Mobutu, the dictator, so it fared better. The tug actually pushed another two large boats, so you can imagine the pace was near glacial. Bumba is the final stop – it had come all the way from Kinshasa. At Bumba, which resembles a colonial ghost town, it collects loads of forest timber and returns. We negotiated a passage, 1,000 zaires each (about $8), we set up in the front boat, which was empty. There was a spartan captain’s cabin and a sundeck. That is it. so basically, one slept on the open deck.

And so, we set sail for a little more than a three-hour ride. Preconceptions were smashed in seconds. My idea of a narrow, treacherous, snag-infested, winding, smoky-brown river went out the window. The first impression is of an enormous expanse of water, a truly big river, which is appropriate for one of the world’s great rivers. The water is locked into an inevitable flow to the ocean but it is only apparent by the lumps of hyacinth torn loose from their moorings by unknown forces and proceeding procession-like westward to the Atlantic.

The water is like grey-brown ash, not terribly distinct from the sky until the afternoon sun clarifies the colours and crystallises the water. Sky and river were separated by a bright green slash. The vegetation runs right down to the river.

Sitting on the sundeck, reading the book, was all a bit surreal and in retrospect, oh for a good cigar. Conrad wrote of the “vegetation rioting”. Absolutely. He also spoke of ‘when big trees were kings’. To a degree. They were there but far from the dominant feature. The thickness of the jungle and the feeling of hopelessness at the possibility of any form of penetration into the jungle prevailed. There is no shore, no mangroves. The jungle literally grew right into the river. It was interspersed by an occasional clearing where a family had erected a hut or two. Hard life. 

Numerous islands of similar growth formed trapdoors to sandbanks, making navigation hazardous indeed. River traffic was limited almost entirely to an endless stream of dugouts, each manned by one or two extremely fit and agile locals. They glided effortlessly, upstream and down, day and night, giving the impression that they travel simply for the sake of travelling, rather than with any specific destination in mind.

As dusk would fall and the sun, a truly giant ball of gold, dropped behind the trees, only then would the serenity and the peace and indeed the timelessness of the river, emerge. The light became soft and the heat of the day and its constant companion of strength-sapping humidity, would be replaced by a delicious cool from the giant body of water. Feel like a cigar yet?

The harmless flotilla of hyacinth, as it was during the day, would be transformed to dark blotches of mystery by imaginations run riot. The only concession to the 20th century was the occasional sweep of the tug’s searchlight. Village clearings were replaced by the eerie glow of fires dozing on the bank.

When we finally approached the lonely, deserted, long-forgotten town of Bumba, guarded only by two or three dim lights from moored boats, the journey was over. The entire thing was totally dominated by that incredible river. “When the companionship and conversation, the kindness of the crew with their moonshine, their stories and their food have been long forgotten, however reluctantly, there will still be the river”.

I remember that we beat the truck by about 8 hours – no highway back then, just bush-bashing. We found an old doomed building and grabbed some sleep in the ruins. I remember being woken by something running back and forth over me. A local rat. Not sure who got the bigger shock when I sat up.

That book has some serious memories for me, so it was good to find it again. if you have not read ‘Heart of Darkness’, I strongly recommend it.

The cigar was a good, not great, CoRo, but it always seemed like it was trying so hard to raise itself to the next level. Never quite could, but it was a most enjoyable smoke. Had a bit of a ratty foot but that did not impact it. Quite a dry, almost raspy wrapper. Quickly moved into a lovely creamy coffee note, with milk chocolate and then some appealing honey. A fine CoRo. As we moved through it, the texture was soft and cushiony. The finish detracted a little – quite hot and some bitter almond. One plus – it was so well constructed that it finished with only two ashes, if that makes sense. 90.

The Muscat. Wow! Anyone not familiar with a great muscat from Rutherglen needs to seek one out. The ‘Rare’ category is the highest level and worth the extra. Incredibly rich, intense, sweet, balanced and spectacularly long. It worked so well with this cigar that I'd happily give the match 100!

Just wish I'd had a bottle of it and a good cigar for the Congo!

KBG