He made some inquiries here along the waterfront and soon had good news: that the big boat, the cargo-and-passenger barge known as le bateau, would be departing tomorrow for Brazzaville, many miles and days further downriver. I wanted us to be on it.
We found a hotel, Max and I, and in the morning walked to the Ouesso market, which was centered in a squat, pagoda-shaped building of red brick just blocks from the river. The pagoda was big and stylish and old, with a concrete floor and a circular hall beneath three tiers of corrugated metal roof, dating back at least to colonial times. The market had far outgrown it, sprawling into a warren of wood-frame stalls and counters with narrow lanes between, covering much of a city block. Business was brisk.
A study of bushmeat traffic in and around Ouesso, done in the mid-1990s by two expat researchers and a Congolese assistant, had found about 12,600 pounds of wild harvest passing through this market each week. That total included only mammals, not fish or crocodiles. Duikers accounted for much of it and primates were second, though most of the primate meat was monkey, not ape. Eighteen gorillas and four chimps were butchered and sold during the four-month study. The carcasses arrived by truck and by dugout canoe. As the biggest town in northern Congo, with no beef cattle to be seen, Ouesso was draining large critters out of the forest for many miles around.
Max and I snooped up and down the market aisles, stepping around mud holes, dodging low metal roofs, browsing as we had done in Moloundou. Because this was Ouesso, the merchandise was far more abundant and diverse: bolts of colorful cloth, athletic bags, linens, kerosene lanterns, African Barbie dolls, hair falls, DVDs, flashlights, umbrellas, thermoses, peanut butter in bulk, powdered fufu in piles, mushrooms in buckets, dried shrimp, wild fruits from the forest, freshly fried beignets, blocks of bouillon, salt by the scoop, blocks of soap, medicines, bins of beans, pineapples and safety pins and potatoes. On one counter a woman hacked at live catfish with a machete. Just across from her, another woman offered a selection of dead monkeys. The monkey seller was a large middle-aged lady, her hair in cornrows, wearing a brown butcher’s apron over her paisley dress. Genial and direct, she slapped a smoked monkey down proudly in front of me and named her price. Its face was tiny and contorted, its eyes closed, its lips dried back to reveal a deathly smile of teeth. Split up the belly and splayed flat, it was roughly the size and shape of a hubcap. Six mille francs, she said. Beside the first monkey she tossed down another, in case I was particular. Six mille for that one too. She was talking in CFA, the weak Central African currency. Her six thousand francs amounted to US $13, and was negotiable, but I passed. She also had a smoked porcupine, five duikers, and another simian, this one so freshly killed that its fur was still glossy and I could recognize it as a greater spot-nosed monkey. That’s a premium item, Max said, it’ll go fast. Nearby, gobbets of smoked pork from a red river hog were priced at three thousand francs per kilo. All these animals could be hunted legally (though not with snares) and traded openly in Congo. There was no sign of apes. If you want chimpanzee or gorilla meat in Ouesso it can still be had, no doubt, but you’ve got to make private arrangements.
Our trip downriver on the bateau suffered complications and delays so that, four days later, Max and I were back in Ouesso. Revisiting the market, we passed again through the pagoda, down the narrow aisles between stalls, along the counters piled with catfish and monkeys and duikers, smoked and fresh. This time I noticed a wheelbarrow full of smallish crocodiles and saw one croc being whacked apart on a plank. You could locate the meat section from anywhere in the market maze, I realized, by that sound—the steady thunk-thunk! of machetes. And then we came again to the brown-aproned lady, who remembered me. “You’ve returned,” she said in French. “Why don’t you buy something?” This time she plunked down a little duiker, more as a challenge than as an offering: Are you a shopper or a voyeur? I prefer chicken, I said lamely. Or smoked fish. Unsurprised by the pusillanimity of the white man, she smiled and shrugged. Then, as