A cock crowed, signaling the imminence of the dawn chorus, an event that, from our point of view, couldn’t come quickly enough. Having spent the entire night drenched in sweat and mosquitoes, we were in desperate need of the Saviour form the east, the prince of light, that vanquished blood suckers and other creatures of the night. The friendly chips and twittering of the awakening world saw the evil tormentors crackle and scurry for darker shadows, preparing for their return to inactivity. By the time they ventured out of their crypt again to satisfy their evil lust, we would be far away, heading into other dangers.
But…. the damage had been done, the demons of the darkness had had their fill!
“My feet are swollen! The mozzies have eaten me alive!” I wailed as daylight crept over the horizon. The only way to sleep had been to block one’s ears to the drone of the mosquitoes and leave any uncovered body parts to their mercy, hoping that they would drink their fill and then leave. Wave after wave, squadron after squadron had taken their toll – I naively thought my malaria tablets would stop me from getting that dreaded illness. Two weeks later would find me thinking that death might be welcome relief from the extreme pain and fever that came with malaria.
"Quick, close the door!" Yelled Simon
Our host knocked apologetically at our door – we welcomed him with relief at being liberated from dingy confines of the pest infested hut. “Choo, choo” he said enthusiastically moving his arms backward and forwards past his waist in imitation of a train and pointing towards the village. Yes, we got it, we’re were going by train, whether we liked it or not.
The dilapidated train waited next to the platform as colourful Africa busied herself in the early morning light. Women in brightly patterned dresses, tops and matching head scarfs shouted and bartered with passengers hanging out windows, their plates and buckets piled high with their wares. Last minute trade was reaching fever pitch as desperate mothers with babies strapped to their backs tried to secure a final sale before a green flag replaced the dirty red one which dangled from the window of last carriage. For those whose carefully saved money for the trip was already burning a hole in their pockets, it was a bargain hunter’s paradise, from chickens to pigs, doughnuts to chips, from clothes to coat hangers, everything could be bought at a last minute discount.
We were shown to a small 4 berth cabin in the middle of the train. After much gesticulating and signs we were made to understand that we were to have the conductor’s personal cabin. Even so, in view of the fact that the cabin allocation on the rest or the train seemed to be a disorganised “free for all”, we decided to barricade ourselves in, just in case some undesirable decided to share our cabin and steal all our possessions. “We’re not opening for anyone!” Simon declared as he locked the cabin door and propped his rucksack against it for added security. I eyed the cabin with amusement, remarking on the Afrikaans instructions on the grubby wood paneling over the door. “How on earth did they get this train all the way here from South Africa? So much for trade sanctions!”, I mused, as I made myself comfortable on the shredded red seat next to the window.
“Hey, there is glass in this window” I exclaimed as I heaved it up out of the way so I could stick my head and shoulders outside to say goodbye to the two grinning brothers and their bicycle. “Merci” I said to our new friends, proud of the new word I had learned. They beamed in delight and the train lurched, and then clattered together again as it moved a few centimeters and stopped. A mad scramble ensued as last minute passengers tried to find a berth in the over crowded cabins. “Quick, close the window” warned Simon, anxious to maintain our “private cabin” status and fearing being overrun by masses of unfamiliar culture.
The train lurched again, but this time the momentum was enough to see us out of the station and down the tracks, out of the village. Rusty metal squealed as the brakes fought to release themselves, but at least were were on our way!
After about half an hour there was a knock on our cabin door – someone wanted to share our cabin! Simon, resolute in his decision not to allow anyone in, stood up to barricade the door further. “Here, pass me your rucksack” he said, reaching towards my bag on the seat next to me. “Ce moi, la Chef du train!”, came a voice followed by another knock at the door, “ouvre la porte si vous plait”. “They want to take over!” whispered Simon, images of goats, pigs and fat ladies strengthening his resolve not to allow anyone into our precious space.
The knocking at the door continued for a while until whoever it was gave up and went to find another cabin. It was only much later, early the next morning, we found out who the person was, knocking at our door. It was the chief conductor and all he wanted was his personal belongings from the space above the door. I don’t know where he slept that night. I do hope he forgave us.
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“Don’t ever catch a train in Zaire, they can be up to three weeks late.” Matz’s warning echoed in my mind as a fresh wave of panic surged. “Nooo! We can’t go by train in Zaire!” I protested. But it was no use, the grinning brother did not understand a word of what we were saying. Again he pursed his lips and, while making a “Choo, choo” sound, vigorously moved his arms backwards and forwards against his body. Yes, we got the message, a train! It wasn’t that we didn’t understand, it was that we didn’t want to get on a train, certainly not in Zaire!
Don't ever catch a train in Zaire!
But, the more we shook our heads, the more the elaborate train impressions became. It was becoming apparent that we were going by train whether we liked it or not!
The day before, after the Protestant missionaries had left in the opposite direction, tinted windows of their Landcruiser closed to maximize the effects of the air con, it dawned on us that there was no turning back. We were in the middle of nowhere …no money, no map, no means of communication, following two smiling strangers and a bicycle down a track into the forest.
We might not have had language in common with these brothers, but we did have something, The New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures. And for the next hour or so the conversation went along these lines:
(Judges 19:17) So the old man said: “Where are you going, and where do you come from?
Genesis 29:4 to which they said: “We are from Ha′ran.”
“S O U T H A F R I C A” said Simon loudly and very clearly, drawing a picture in the sand of the continent and prodding the lower part with his stick and then at the word Ha’ran in their well worn French French Bible, which had been produced from the tall brothers bag.
(Isaiah 44:28) ‘She will be rebuilt,’ and of the temple, ‘You will have your foundation laid.’”
“Bethel – Kinshasa” he added, in case they didn’t quite understand
(Deuteronomy 1:28) Where are we going up?
We asked, curious to know where they were taking us.
The beaming brother fumbled in his bible,
(Judges 19:18) and it is to my own house that I am going.
He explained, lifting his finger to indicate that he needed to read some more.
(Matthew 8:11) come and recline at the table
(Hebrews 13:1-2) Let YOUR brotherly love continue. 2Do not forget hospitality.
(John 12:2) Therefore they spread an evening meal .
He added with a smile.
The brother’s abode was humble to say the least, consisting of two huts surrounded by neatly swept sand and scratching chickens. Dozens of children peeped from around the sides of the mud and thatch structures. As we entered the property we were met by a middle aged woman wearing a traditional printed fabric blouse and “wrap around” of the same design, the end of which was twisted and tucked back into the waist band. She bobbed toward us, one hand outstretched while the other hand supported her upper forearm. She bobbed even lower as we shook her hand. A small child wearing nothing but a grubby tee shirt, who, evidently too scared to move, started to cry as we approached. Simon’s efforts to befriend the toddler, was met with even louder howls of terror.
Almost at once we were escorted into the first hut that had been transformed into a banquet hall of note. We stood for a second or two and marveled at the feast that had been laid out on a rickety table in the middle of the floor. Our host waved towards the laden table, “Karibu” he said with a smile. Two chair had been placed either side of the table. Unsure of the seating arrangement and eating protocol, we turned around inquire from our host, who had vanished into thin air. “What are we supposed to do?” I said, turning to an equally puzzled looking Simon. Unsure of cultural etiquette and custom, we decided to eat what we could, suppressing our own cultural urgings to get a few more chairs and invite the whole family to share in the meal. Ice cold beer brought only temporary relief from the heat and humidity of the evening.
After diner we were shown to the other hut, evidently the family’s sleeping quarters. In side we found two beds without mattresses, the wire mesh and springs the only signs of comfort. The drone of mosquitoes filled the room as we unrolled our sub zero quality “you never freeze to death in these” sleeping bags out on to the two beds. “At least we’re off the floor!” I mused, as a creeping thing scurried in the dim light of the candle. My shirt clung damply to my back and the sweat ran like rivers from my brow as I adjusted my sleeping bag, “I can’t sleep in this, I’ll die!” I exclaimed, gingerly lying down on top of my sleeping bag, careful not to get my elbow stuck between the springs of the bed.
The drone of the mosquitoes had reached a crescendo by the time Simon blew out the candle, “My sleeping bag is drenched in sweat” he moaned from the blackness.
“You always said you wanted a water bed!” I yelled over the roar of the mosquitoes.
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It was only when the huts started to rush past the window of the little plane did we realize the we were landing where we were supposed to land. Up until that moment the twin engine plane that belonged to the Protestant missionaries seemed intent on landing in the middle of nowhere. Our pimply pilot had been fiddling with dials and knobs whist talking into his mouth piece for the last 10 minutes or so of the flight from Lubumbashi, thus indicating his intention of putting his craft down somewhere. Where, we just couldn’t see from our cramped position behind the two front seats. It appeared as if we were landing in the bush itself!
Map of the Congo (Zaire)
The wheels of the little plane hit the dirt runway sending a cloud of dust into the air obscuring the huts, pigs and naked running children. A few minutes later the clinking of seat-belts and the flicking of little switches above the pilots head signaled the end of our fight to Kamina. The propeller appeared to spin backwards for a second as it came to a stop.
No sooner had we found the lever that released our seat belts than there were eager ground crew at the cabin door ready to extract us from our confines as quickly as possible. The jostling men at the window had us out of the plane before the pilot could shoo them away, each man eager to carry an item of luggage.
As we emerged from the plane and stretched our stiff limbs we surveyed our surroundings. At the side of the runway stood a brand new white Landcruiser with the Protestant Missions Logo printed on the front doors. Beside the Landcruiser, looking as equally expectant, stood two men and a black bicycle.
It became evident quite quickly that the two men and a bicycle was our reception committee. Their faces beamed full of white teeth as they acknowledged our recognition of the Watchtower they held aloft. We made our way to the waiting delegation and extended our hands to shake theirs, smiling and pointing to the Watchtower held by a tall brother with a field service bag. But, that was as far as the communication went! Yes, we had a lot in common with these brothers, but language, sadly, wasn’t on the list. We looked around in desperation for a translator. One of the Protestant Missionaries, a big American, ambled over, a bemused expression on his face and offered to translate.
“Your people say the truck has left without you.”. The American’s words struck me in the pit of my stomach and a wave of panic flooded up into my chest. “What!” I cried, “Why?”. Our translator turned to the brothers to relay my question, his French strongly accented with an American twang. “They say there is no space.” he returned with the explanation.
“But, what are we supposed to do now?” asked Simon, the panic rising in his voice. Our translator turned once again to the duo with the bike to enquire of their plan, the name badge on his white shirt twinkling as it caught the afternoon sun. There was an interchange, a shrug of the shoulders, followed by a fresh wave of panic. “What did they say! What did they say? ” I bleated, a lump sticking in my throat. “They say you should go with them and they will work something out” translated the American, casting a glance across at the two grinning brothers and their bicycle.“But listen….” he ventured, lowering his voice a little, “we have space at our missionary home, why don’t you come with us and you can catch the plane back tomorrow?” he added, his eyes shining at the sheer brilliance of the idea. After all…. two white boys in the middle of nowhere, can’t speak a word of French, with no money, what else were they going to do? Fait accompli, he reached towards our rucksacks. I shot a glance a Simon and caught his eye, the twinkle said it all!
“Nah, it’s OK, we’re going with our brothers” Simon said, getting to his rucksack before the American.
As we headed off on foot down the bush path leading to nowhere at the end of the runway, flanked by the two beaming brothers and their bicycle, I turned around in time to see the Landcruiser swinging off the runway to head in the opposite direction. The puzzled expressions on the protestant missionaries’ faces inside the air conditioned Cruiser said it all!
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