Somewhere between Kisangani and Bumba - Authors have described the Congo boats as floating villages. They are indeed, although after four long days packed together I think the conditions are more comparable to a refugee camp.

We have become a small community. Most of the passengers are traders, some of them grasp the opportunity each evening to sell the latest fashion in the villages where we stop to spend the night. Others bake oily cakes each morning and sell them to fellow travelers.

When I open the door of the land cruiser I sleep in, I must be careful not to push the three elderly ladies who sleep next to it in the water.

Traditional roles
In the main Ugandan language, the words for cooking and marrying are practically the same. Also on the boat it is regarded as highly unusual for the women doing the cooking not to also deliver other ‘services.’ Madou is my new cook, after the previous one known as mama Rosie was fired by Gaston on my behalf, for allegedly embezzling food.

Our friend Saddam is pushing the limits a bit, it is rumored he's had eight of the boat’s women so far. The Congolese are proud people, some of them are literally offended that I refuse to ‘try’ one of their women. Being married isn’t an excuse here.

Nearby a small village we waved goodbye to Yosef today, and his two wives and one baby-girl. He had reached his final destination. We are, after four days, not even close to being halfway to Kinshasa.

In the previous village vendors tried to sell us monkeys. Although we are going extremely slowly, I start to enjoy my life on the floating village.