Congo.

by Wayne Naidoo.

Clasping on for dear life in an overloaded, half sunken lopsided boat, tightly Lego-pieced against eighteen sweaty bare-chested locals, whilst crossing over the 2nd largest river in Africa from Kinshasa to Brazzaville – with our passports and luggage somehow lost in transit – I feebly eye connected with Morox and Willem and I knew, that they were thinking what I was thinking: Maybe just maybe, we may have oversold ourselves on this one.

Willem, Morox and I were the Village People of Advertising. Morox was our head Strategist and carried dreadlocks that would’ve made the whole of Jamaica jelly. Willem was the creative guru, half Afrikaner nut job, that had more hair than Frodo and who loved everything non-conformist. I was the straight-laced Account guy, and the slickest Indian tradesman in Town. Or that’s what I was told. And we made up, the ultimate Dream-Team-Pitch-Trio. Everything we touched converted to a win. We were the best of friends and the worst of enemies. Our winning formulae: Don’t be boring.

One of the must-win pitches came knocking. This time we needed to travel to Amsterdam to strut our stuff. This was like inviting three jailed Mexicans to an all that you can drink tequila festival. Willem had been many times but not us two other darker brothers. We arrived at Schiphol airport ready to conquer this foreign land of white chicks on bikes. The pitch was the following day at 10am and we had ample time to get the final bits aligned. Our five-star hotel had all the trimmings and latest tech gadgets and was only a stone throw away from the clients Head Quarters. All logistics were taken care of beforehand by yours truly. Being the suit meant you were basically the PA too.

Sadly though, this ultra-modern Hotel was not quite what the boys were expecting. It was way too far from the City Centre (3km’s) and just lacked any creative joie de vivre apparently. I was told to keep the cab at bay whilst they looked for alternative accommodation. Very pleased with themselves that they pulled off the Everest of accomplishments, they came running out and gave the new hotel GPS co-ordinates to the driver. Knobs.

I have to admit that the new spot looked rather proper. Central, eclectic and filled with warm Dutch charm. So, they were right, and I was wrong. I was never going to hear the end of this. Willem stood in the foyer like Indiana Jones, as if he had discovered Tutankhamun’s Tomb. Bonifacius, the concierge, elatedly welcomed us in like a show-house agent but then almost immediately pivoted and like Mr Hyde, he inhospitably escorted us out to the nearest exit. No rooms were available under our names. You see these two Amigo’s just failed to confirm the booking when they called for availability, and during the short trip across town, the last three rooms were snapped up. Sadly, the original hotel let go of our bookings too and we had now learnt that no beds were available in the whole of Amsterdam as the World Dildo Tournament was being held in Town that week.

Wiebren, our dear driver had thankfully not left yet and started calling everywhere to find us a spot. One last resort existed near the red-light district which Willem and Morox excitedly high fived to.  Double knobs. The building was home to Kerk Inn and was thinner than Kate Moss’s waist and consisted of five flights of broken stairs that led us to our rooms on the top floor. Every room had six military styled beds stacked next to each other and looked like they were brought in from a war bunker. It was mouldy and the air was thick with a cloudy odour that smelt like fermented rodent.

This was a far cry from what we had. But no fingers were pointed. Instead, Heinekens were poured, Marlboros got lit and we got stuck into completing our masterpiece Wolf of Wall Street pitch deck. When we looked again It was 10pm. Willem had a marvellous idea and Morox and I followed him like Mary’s little lambs to a nearby coffee shop. We had about an hour left before we needed to head back, to get in a decent night’s sleep.

The menu was definitely foreign but not to Willem who did all of the ordering like he was at an art auction. He also got us each of these very posh fags which looked like Vuvuzelas and he kept saying “when in Rome”, which was helleva confusing because we were nowhere close to it. Anyway I must have been seriously jet lagged, as I was now in dreamland but with my eyes and mouth wide open.  My tongue filled my entire mouth as if it had been stung by a bee and my limbs were non-functional and only moved when Candy Reigns the Unicorn, said “jump little donkey”. This coffee shop was very different to the Vida E back home, and even the walls and lights, moved in and out like an accordion playing Three Little Birds by Bob Marley.

It was the burst globe in the passage that woke me. It was 08h30. Snooze. Why was my underpants inside out and why is there a rabbit and a box of multicoloured Dildos in my room? OMG it was now 08h37. I jumped up from my bunk as if I was lightly tasered and banged on every door until I found the chaps. Panic poured over us like kryptonite. We had just over an hour to shit, shave and shampoo and to get to the other side of Town. Murphy decided to rock up – The Kerk Inn had no available water that morning. Even though the rising tsunami of vomit was closely approaching we still gathered everything in under 2 minutes and jumped into a cab as if we were part of a heist.

We were fast running out of options and the only place to get some form of splash, was at the public toilets just a few minutes away from the clients HQ. We stripped, brushed our teeth, shaved and did a quick cowboy wash as local onlookers stood in awe, watching us in action. We never knew them and they never knew us. We were in a safe place and space.

We showed up. The Village people were in the house and we were on fire. TV and radio scripts were acted out, soundtracks were hummed and Homer Simpson talking beer bottle openers were all part of the pitch theatrics. The twenty person client team couldn’t contain themselves and were now holding hands, singing and swaying to, We are the World. We were fast running out of steam as we were way past the 4 hour mark already and the only way we could stave off narcolepsy, was to flat slap each other every two minutes, which everyone thought was just part of the act. It was finally over. We had survived and were told that they would get back to us shortly with an answer. As we were leaving, we spotted a familiar face in the client foyer. It was one of the lads from the public toilet who winked at us whilst placing his finger over his lips in a Schhh fashion. Oh dear.

We were parched, still pissed and in dire need of some form of celebratory hair of the dog. After a few pints and some more coffee shop touring, my phone rang and it was from Benjamin, the main client. What to do? What to do? I could hardly string two words together but I answered anyway, leaving my crew behind in the shop. He took the lead and sang our praises non-stop which thankfully didn’t need any input from me other than making sounds of appreciation. There was one last request they had though, that would ultimately seal the deal – “would we set up an agency in the Democratic Republic of Congo to service their local operational needs?”

I finished the call and in slow motion, valiantly re-entered the coffee shop. The boys anxiously looked at me and asked nervously, “Naidoo, what did you do? Have you promised something that we can’t deliver on?”. I paused, deep gazed at them and with the smile of Donkey in Shrek, I said – YESH.

And that’s how we ended up, about to be crocodile fodder on the mighty Congo River.

Life Lesson #9 – Be careful what you wish for.