|
Africa
007
Diary
June 22nd 2006
The trip back is long and hard as
usual. Along the way, we manage to pick up two small antelopes and
one large one with a freshly bloodied trachea. The driver puts them
directly on top of our suitcases.
Along the way, we stop to give way to an old Russian truck and meet
a cute little baby called Angel. I coo and awww and tickle her, when
the dad asks me what I can do about her "condition". She has a
frothy, black paste on her toes which turns out to be "la gale". One
of the doctors explains how to treat this with local plants and
general hygiene, and donates one of her medicated soaps. She also
adds that these pimples are highly contagious. I wipe my hands on my
jeans, praying that I haven't caught the disease.
We run into the woman who sheltered us
on our last trip, and I hand her two dishes, which I bought in
Kinshasa for the occasion. She hands me a little chicken, bound by
its toes that I delicately accept and hand to the driver to store.
He unceremoniously jams it under his seat.
We cross the river on the barge again, and I--covered
in Antelope blood, chicken feathers, gale disease, and sweat--have
left Kole forever.
June 21st 2006
The whole participant group is
loaded in an open-backed truck. We settle on the metal floor or
suspended between the metal bars that form the skeleton of the roof.
We negotiate the sandy grounds to get to the hospital for the
practical part of the training. Suddenly, the men in front of me
duck. Not realizing what is happening, I duck a second too slow and
realize that low branches from a nearby tree along the road
threatened to decapitate me…much to the amusement of passengers
behind me.
We visit and inspect the maternity, the prenatal and postnatal
consultation rooms. The prenatal nurse recognizes me and, by way of
greeting, tells me I have gained weight. It’s shocking to admit this
but I am a good 20 pounds heavier than most of the women in the room
who are 8 months pregnant-and I weight about 120 pounds.
In the maternity, a mother is sitting on a cloth on the ground,
crying her eyes out. I must look frightened because the women nudge
me, saying that labor pains (or labor work as they say in French)
are about 100 times more painful than period pains. This woman has a
small stature. As a result, for cautionary purposes, she will have
to have a caesarian. She is crying warm tears because, once again,
she will not be able to give birth naturally. Not one is there to
comfort her, not one is there to explain the surgery, no one has
prepared her for this eventuality, even though she is a small woman
and will have to give birth by caesarian each and every time.
The school kid that I have been waiting on
since the 18th finally makes his arrival after a motorcycle ride to
Tshudi Loto and then a three-day
bicycle ride to Kole. I pay the bicyclist who brought him
over $30 and thank him profusely. The child is happy to be in Kole
and the sisters in the convent (who travel often) all recognize him,
give him high fives and shake him with delight. He sits down, takes
off his shoes, and massage his feet thoroughly. For someone who has
never worn closed shoes, the three day ride with these tennis shoes
were excruciating. He asks for someone to buy him flip-flops as he
has not brought them over in his plastic bags of cloths.
The rest of the day, he eat meat and Chikwangue and hangs out with
me. We cannot communicate but he demonstrates is halting new grasp
of letters “ffff-fffo-kasu” (focus), “pppee-aa-gesus” (page) etc. I
realize that he has not been learning French in his school and the
lack of read material has impeded his reading abilities. But it’s
obvious he wants to learn and grabs a few magazine eagerly to
practice. I promise myself I will buy the school a few easy reading
books in French when in France and send them over. I mull over the
difficulty of getting them first to Kinshasa (plane), then in my
office, and then to Lodja (cargo plane), finishing with Vango which
is situated 15 km from isolated Lomela (probably by bike). Before I
leave Kole, I make sure to leave enough money to hire a motorcyclist
to drive him back the whole way and school fees so he can be in
school another year.
My last evening with our partners finishes lavishly as they have
invited me to a ceremony at the nearby convent. They have prepared a
table full of food, the novices sing and dance my praises (by songs
in which they have cleverly substituted my name). I am giving a
simple wooden shield, a war ax, and a bright orange table cloth with
the words “l’Union fait la Force” (Togetherness is our Strength—a
very Mobutu thing to say) embroidered in blue.
I am asked to give an ad-hoc speech, which I do with hesitation, and
end my discourse with tears and a clenched throat. I know full-well
that, no matter how much I want to come back, the chance being back
in this little town as slim to none
June 14th 2006
This is my
last trip to the field
and I am already getting nostalgic about the place. As usual, we
are flown into Lodja on a nice plane by some polite American
pilots. The plane is empty but for two of us, the pilot and
copilot, so we are able to pack it up with flipcharts for
community village activists, registers, tools for tracking
Insecticide-Treated Net sales in the small health zones. This one
trip alone saves us a lot of cash by reducing distribution of
project materials from months to days.
A sister welcomes me at the airport. Just 10 minutes of standing
around in the sun gives me a splitting headache. I just have the
energy to make sure the porters don’t run away with our project
materials and to hand the immigration man (my very best friend in
the whole world) my Ordre de
Mission and my passport. I don’t protest when the sister pays
a bribe or when she reaches into her bag to pay the steep parking
fee of $4 on the defunct airstrip. When I tell her she shouldn’t
have paid this, she protests, explaining that these guys don’t get
salaries and this is their only way to live. It’s hard to deal
with bribing. On the one hand, you don’t want to encourage this
ad-hoc, informal system of money flow. On the other hand, this is
almost an official way to make your salary.
I arrive in the compounds of a Catholic-run “hotel”, visit my old
friend Antonia the Bonobo—this always attracts fearful stares from
Congolese men (which she often mistreats). I sit down with the
brothers to eat. The meal is highly satisfying: fufu ball,
amarentes leaves, and baked fish swimming in red/orange palm oil.
I am well satiated and crash promptly to bed. I am awoken 6 times
by phone calls from the office and never get to sleep my migraine
off.
Since I always travel with copious amounts of Advil, pop two in
and feel it very slowly diminishing. In the evening, we sit around
the television powered by solar panels to watch the Soccer game.
The brother explains that the battery will soon run out as this is
the second time the TV is turned on to watch a match today. The
World Cup organizers have no idea how much electricity is being
used up in Africa just to watch their event. Little by little,
villagers approach the hotel, hoping to catch the game. The
brother grumbles at the disturbances but let them watch
nonetheless.
June 16th 2006
I am still waiting in Lodja
for the trainers for Safe Motherhood. I hope they arrive today
as planned because, without a car and in a small town, I don’t
have much to do. I’m almost at the end of my New Yorker
magazine. Damn! I should have brought more reading materials.
I also vastly under-packed in order to leave space for the
various presents I plan to give our partners.
This morning it is cold and misty, I can see my breath. I have
not brought a sweater and wrap myself in a bright pink Kenyan
cloth instead. I look strange and mismatched but hey, it’s
fashionable in the village to be wearing a patterned green
skirt, with a polka-dotted torn red shirt, blue flip-flop and
a yellow hair wrap.
In the late afternoon, the sister leads my through a large,
dusty, busy market to buy items. This is for a kid for the
distant village of Vango which I am putting through school. We
buy a cheap pleather (plastic leather) suitcase, three
second-hand pants, a fabric belt, four second-hand shirts, a
towel, a year’s supply of soap, a year’s supply of clothing
soap and a toothbrush + toothpaste. I am horrified by the
expensive prices, even as the sister bargains them down. 50%
of the used clothes are brand names I recognize from the
United States, and 30% of those come from Old Navy. The
sellers get huge balls of clothing for $100 and sell them in
large markets such as these.
For lunch, I get the daily meal of fufu, rice and fish,
improved by two roasted pigeons. For a French girl, it’s
awkward to admit that this is the first time I try this
poultry. It’s nicely grilled with Maggi bouillon cubes, and
the meager pieces of meat taste delicious.
The afternoon is spent at the pitiful airport, waiting for two
Congolese trainers from Kinshasa. Immigration officials pester
me non-stop and ask me for $4 just to reach the tarmac.
Besides me, people come and go freely without concern. After a
futile attempt at getting angry and scowling at them, I walk
away dejected, absolutely powerless to do anything about it.
During the day, I also go visit a depot we share with sisters
(filled with boxes upon boxes of condoms. The afternoon gives
way to numerous political debates and thoughts between
residents of the hotel. They also discuss how campaigners have
sent three city buses to Lodja, a city that has very poor
roads and sand banks (during the rainy seasons, deep pools of
mud water stagnate in the middle of the road)—and where they
most likely will not run. This just reinforces their notion
that politicians are completely disconnected from the
realities of the field.
June 17th 2006
This morning, I find
that two bites on my back and bum from yesterday have
swelled up alarmingly and one has even developed the
tale-tell sign of fly larvae: a large red welt with a
black spot in the middle. I show it to all who care to
see and everyone seems to agree that there is indeed
something growing beneath my skin.
The brother proposes to squeeze them out. I
respectfully decline and ask a female doctor (one of
the trainers) to do it instead. She applies gentle but
constant pressure to the boils. It hurts terribly and
all I can mutter is “Jesus, oh God, sweet Mary”. She
finishes the deed and swabs the entire area with my
antiseptic hand wash (it contains alcohol). I take a
look at the cotton swab and see two tiny white grubs
squirming lazily. I pull up my underwear, button my
jeans and join the rest of the crew for breakfast.
We finally make our exit
around 13:00 which, judging from the road conditions
in this country, should make us arrive at 21:00 for a
220 kilometers trip. The 8-hour trip is its usually
challenge, with two uneven footpaths making up what
they call a “road”. I anxiously look at the mechanical
dial and note that we tip the 30 degree angle (where
the left wheel is higher up than the right) three
times. Luckily, we do not need to hoe the road as the
conditions are passable.
The the driver spots a small mammal (ciboulette in
French) which he almost hits. He shouts in frustration
and I learn with that he actually wanted to run it
over to bring home to cook. We also stop briefly at
his house so he can visit his family. I ask him which
of the 15 kids are his. He exclaims “but they are all
mine”. I first imagine that he is being all inclusive
of his kids and his neighbors but later find out that
they are truly all his kids belonging to 3 wives which
all live on the same compound.
We finally arrive to the convent in Kole. Our dusty
bags (the back door of the car didn’t close properly)
are dropped off. Exhausted, I fall asleep in a foam
bed, in a room where there’s just enough space to
place a single bed, a table and a small dresser. The
rooms are subdivided by small walls that do not reach
the ceiling and I’m painfully aware that each gurgling
sounds from my stomach can be heard by all the sisters
and I fall deeper in a fitful sleep.
June 18, 2006
A little
bell rings energetically at 6:00, to get
the sisters up so they can start praying
at 6:30. Thankfully, I am allowed to sleep
in until 7:00 in time for a breakfast made
from soggy rice and tea. I feel like I’ve
only slept for 1 hour.
In the morning, I notice a strong smell of
petrol emanating from my body and realize
that all my clothes sport large spot of
gasoline. My thin travel backpack has
absorbed a flow of fuel from the
ill-closed fuel canister. I quickly clean
my jeans and shirt as best I can, in a
bucket of cold water, with market-made
greasy clothing soap and hang them out to
dry along with the sisters’ white
underwears on the line.
The training for Reduced Risk Maternity (literally
translation for Maternité à Moindre Risque)
continues in the school room where doctors,
nurses and sage-femme alike sit on kid
stools and wait for the presenter to write
on the blackboard.
June 20th 2006
After a long day of work, I am
invited to dinner by the
Spanish, Belgian and Philipino
sisters. We have delicious
wild boar (Sanglier) with
home-grown tomatoes, onions
and garlic.
We talk about the difficulties
of the field (a perennial
favorite) and a sister
remembers the Rwandese
soldiers pillaging the village.
She and the Bishop had to flee
to the forest for a month, fed
surreptitiously by villagers.
She decided to stay behind to
continue working in the
hospital and ended treating as
many villagers and wounded
Rwandese soldiers. She’s been
in the Congo for the better
part of 30 years.
We also discuss politics
(another perennial favorite)
and evaluate Presidential
candidates which include
the daughter of Kasa
Vubu (first president
in the early 1960s),
the son of Mobutu
(the nerve!) and of course
Kabila the Father’s
son.
I heartily admire a little
carved, sitting stool they own.
The Belgian sister grabs it
from the wall where it is
hanging, dusts it off, and
thrusts it towards me as a
farewell gift. I’m embarrassed
by this generous gesture but
can’t resist accepting
nonetheless.
(A family of dogs lying in the
grass in front of an office,
the view of Kole when coming
in from the road in the
forest)
On the way back from the
sisters place by motorcycle, I
crane my neck for 15 mins just
taking into the sky. Though
the depth perception is
amazing at night with no
lights around, the heavens
feel low and all encompassing.
I catch glimmers of palm trees
and rarely lit mud houses when
the motorcycle beams hit the
sandy road ahead of us.
| |
|
