Africa, a story of survival and love...Part 1.

This is going to freak me out, in the 20 or so years since this happened I may have told this story only four or five times and I have never taken pen to record the events. However, the events that unfolded in a Zaire jungle then, forever changed my life.

The location was a small village about 150 north of Kisangani in Zaire. The mud roads ( calling them roads is most generous ) were horrific. Loaded with pot holes and fallen trees most vehicles were lucky to accomplish 30 to 40 KM per day. On my mountain bike I could manage about 75km per day ( yay, the only time ever I experienced a bike to out travel a truck ). Two days from Kisangani and I was knackered. The sun was just starting to set over the forest canopy as I spied a small village sitting near a river at the bottom of a long ravine. I wish I could recall the name of the village but like the names of the people all is now lost. What remains etched in my mind is the memories of their faces and the lesson they taught me.

I coasted down the road being welcomed by a throng of villagers. In remote regions like Zaire it is unbelievable how loving and giving the people are. I am fluent in french so the children were very excited to learn they could communicate with me. One must understand this village was not unique, everywhere across the continent I was received in much the same manner.

The cities in many African countries are dangerous and you need your wits about you, but the villages are rarely short of wondrous.

The children's shouts drew the attention of the village elder who quickly made his way to the growing group. We spoke, embraced and I was invited to take a smoke before they prepare the evening meal. The children gathered around as much as allowed while the men sat down for a pipe of ganja and the women prepared a special feast. Great debate soon swelled over the quality of our weed and the elder shouted a few words to a boy who sped off in service. Moments later the boy came running up with a small bongo, a pipe and about three pounds of grass. The elder insisted I take this gift so that I may remember the good people of his village. I refused to accept it as a gift, insisting instead, on trading some money so they could buy sugar and coffee beans. The elder agreed and we bartered on how much I should pay.
It may seem odd to be offered a gift and then find oneself bartering over the cost, but in the world of the elder it was a very natural progression. After a few pipes the elder and I both felt pleased in having established a fair price for trade.
Dinner was served by the fire, the elder sat next to me ensuring I was amply fed and cared for. We enjoyed a wonderful meal with enchanting conversation. The fire was stoked as a warm companion to some coffee and a few pipes. Well into the evening now, the forest ecosystem created a subtle din against the backdrop of stories recalling rich village legend. I can remember the full moon cast a lovely glow on the flora, leaving me feeling very euphoric as I opened the door to the small hut provided me. The huts are round and made of straw and mud. They are about large enough for the wooden bed with about two feet on either side and at the foot. I settled into my sleeping bag drifting off to the orchestra of the jungle fauna I would so love to hear again. Morning comes early in the jungle. About one hour before sunrise the birds wake, not long after, the monkeys get everyone up. There truly is no better way to greet the day. Lounging in my bed, I hear a steady flow of little feet and giggles. Anxious the children are to take advantage of the early hour, hoping I would show my face before the elders catch up to them.
We take breakfast as a family enjoying coffee and a pipe later while the women chase the children to chores and busy themselves. The men were excited about the prospects for an afternoon hunt. Village scouts had reported much game on the move. I very much wished to participate in the hunt but was not offered and would never presume to ask.
I did however have the opportunity to join in the village prayers and dances. Offerings were made by all, with thanks, for a successful and safe hunt. Looking into their eyes as they offer up prayers you can see the manifestation of intent. Such concentrated focus would be the envy of any, new age, intention group around the globe today.
In lieu of attending the hunt I made arrangements to join the girls on a fishing trip.
This was something to see. We made our way down the river maybe a kilometer or so until the girls found just the bend they wanted. They had no fishing poles or nets, no hooks or line, all they had were five gallon plastic buckets.
I was perplexed, I had my rod and reel and enough tackle to catch most smaller fish. I figured on maybe finding a few worms or bugs and a hook if they didn't hit the artificial stuff.
I started a pipe and then rigged up my rod. The girls were doing nothing but watching in amazement my every action.
I began to think maybe they expected me to catch the fish and fill those buckets. Well I casted and casted trying all kinds of widgets and gadgets but all to no avail. The girls found the entire scene very amusing, delighting at my expense, we all had fun. After about an hour of this one of the girls brought me some fresh papaya. The fresh papaya is fantastic fruit for reviving the senses. I lit up a pipe relaxing by the shore watching the morning sun dance across the river.
Well don't you know it, the girls started working, they were here to fish after all. At the apex of the elbow was a small marshy area about 25 feet in diameter, they were using the buckets to dam off a small part of the river and fill the marsh area. Understand this is no small feat, there were nine girls, seven were bringing in the buckets of mud/sand so two girls could construct the small dam. It took about two hours of steady work until they could fill and seal the marshy area. Like all the villagers, the girls refused to let me help. So I sat back reading my favorite book, smoking my pipe and enjoying the jungle fruit brought to me with regularity.
They all took a lunch break with me when the work was done. We sang songs, ate lunch, then splashed around in the river laughing and giggling.
Work recommenced just as the sun was passing its apex. Phase two of the fishing trip involved the girls using the same buckets to empty the gooey swamp. Singing song of praise and thanks, they labored tirelessly for about two hours until all that was left was a quagmire of mud knee deep to all but the eldest girls. One girl was assigned to maintain the integrity of the dam while six others skittered about yelping and screaming with joy and excitement as they seized their prey. The other two girls remained steadfast in bucketing the mud onto the banks looking for anything that might flop. The day ended with the dam being broken up allowing the river to ebb into the quagmire, in time clearing the debris for the next fishing expedition.
For their rewards they caught about 150 fish, the largest maybe 4 or 5 inches. They had managed to fill about one third of a five gallon pail. Making their way back to the village you would imagine they had caught 200 pounds of fresh salmon. The joy, gratitude and thanks those girls exuded that day brought then, as it does now, tears of love to my eyes.
The men were back from a successful hunt, the girls were bouncing with excitement for the coming festivities. Ladies, who had busied themselves most the day preparing all sorts of breads and side dishes were now setting the evening feast. The entire village was abuzz with excitement.
Indescribable was the meal in it's vast assortment of tastes and textures. After a hard day watching the girls fish this was just what I needed.
We migrated back to the fire as the evening began to cool. A pipe and a few stories was to segue into the Sunday evening commune. The Chief,
or elder if you like, asked I join him in offering prayers of thanks for the bounty the earth has provided his humble village. We sang and prayed under a canopy of straw, the breeze passing through the un walled building offered up an aromatic pleasure making everything seem surreal. Looking around I could see the entire village about 60 or so of us on benches before the altar, the 150 or so villagers without a seat crowded around the perimeter of the structure. Sight, sound, smell, sharing, my world became a euphoric paradise of love.
We settled back to the fire for a few stories and pipes. One of the men asked about my fishing trip inquiring of my success. I admitted I had no luck but extolled the success of the girls. Everyone around the fire found it quite amusing ( as if they didn't already know ). We talked about fishing in the area and they told me of a sacred lake. I mentioned, I wish I had the time to go there and try my luck, to this comment was more laughter. Perplexed, I asked what was funny. They said you can't fish there, it is forbidden and you would not catch fish if you tried. My reply was why? I was told that this is a very special and magical lake, if I were to cast a net or a line the water would run away. Please explain I said. He told me the water would always run away from you. If you try to approach the lake for water or food it will surely run away and give you nothing. To this I replied, I need a few more pipes. The fire almost consumed, wood has become coal leaving now ash the end to what was a perfect day.

I woke early embracing the love of the few who stirred, I felt sorrow in the knowledge I would soon leave this beautiful village family. I say village family because all the elders treat all the children just as their own. As well, all the children respect and love all the elders considering each as a parent. The result of this is confusing at first when you hear one man speaking to twenty or so children calling each one my son or my daughter. Conversely each child would refer to each elder as father or mother making it appear like one child has many fathers. In fact this is the essence of their demeanor, they truly are a family of 200. Imagine, if all people around the world treated their neighbor as a sibling or a parent! How easy it would be to find love replacing the corporate fear paradigm.
I digress..., the morning passed in a flash with a meal and, you guessed it, a coffee and a couple of pipes. With my bicycle panniers packed I bade a sorrowful farewell to my new family, or so I thought.

Shall I continue, I hope I am not boring you...

For those who may think this cycling thing sounds like paradise, and are considering buying a Trek 900 mountain bike with the intent of crossing Africa, let me say. You have no idea how gruelling it is. In Zaire alone I suffered malaria, intestinal infections, bowel infections and dysentery so bad, I would shit myself at least four or five times in a days cycling. When I saw my doctor back in Canada he told me my insides will never be the same, twenty years later he is still right.
For those brave souls who disregard my advice, you will find, a divine synchronicity between your survival needs and the graceful love with which these villagers are prepared to offer.

Back to the story....

The sun has just passed its apex as I start the climb out of the ravine, looking back I see bright faces and waving arms. The road is in good shape here, so close to the village it gets used often. I appreciate the relatively smooth surface as it appears to be a good two kilometers to the top. My muscles feel good from the
re hydration of my body over the last two days. The recent abundance of good food has helped to curb the dysentery, so all is about as good as it gets for a days ride. Half way up the mountain a couple of young men, in their twenties or so, offered to help push me up the mountain. ( For those who don't know it is an extra source of income derived by the boys and young men by pushing trucks, land rovers and motorcycles out of mud holes. Cleaning of said vehicles after muddy ordeals is another service often provided. Providing of fruit and food while the pushing and cleaning is done is yet another opportunity to get, what I call, sugar money )
I was happy for the assistance, especially because my muscles were not yet warmed up. We progressed up the mountain around a couple of bends. It was in the last few hundred yards from the top I heard a metal ping sound. Something metal had dropped from my bike landing precisely on a large rock. I looked behind me to see only one man was standing on the road about twenty or so feet from the bike, where was the other?
I looked closely at him, for some reason he looked scared. As my eyes spied the panniers I noticed they were all open and emptied. In stealing my belongings he had dropped my spoke key. It is a fairly heavy solid steel tool and probably one of the only things in my bag that could have made such a distinct noise. Anything else falling and I probably would have never discovered their plot. Or even if it had fallen in the mud or dirt the alarm would have never been sounded.
I looked at him, he looked at me, then he bolted running down the road disappearing around the bend. ( reader please note I had been robbed seven other times in Africa, once at knife point in a nasty little cafe in Tetuan Morocco. Three of those times in Lagos, good reason why the consulate warns you about Lagos )
Instinct kicked in and I dropped my bike running after the culprit. He had a good head start, I never expected to catch him but I had to try. As misfortune would have it he made a very poor choice. He ran down the hill, around the bend and yet another 100 yards or so to second bend. There, he was standing on the apex of the bend looking intently to see if I was to come. Why he didn't just get around the corner and hide in the jungle I will never know. Ten feet in the jungle and he would have been a ghost.
Even at that distance I could see his eyes light up in fear as he saw me barreling toward him at full speed. He made a second mistake. He stayed on the road running down the mountain, again the jungle would have still kept him free. I crested the corner where he once stood. Realising that I had made up more than half of the distance I doubled my effort. If he buckled down and ran hard he probably would have gotten away, instead he kept looking back, by doing so, slowed himself down. I was just about to grab his shirt when he finally dove head first into the jungle. I was so close I just followed. The ground fell from beneath my feet and I found myself tumbling down the mountain head over toe. I came to rest about 100 yards down the slope landing firmly on my thief. ( Please understand reader I am not a violent man, to this point in my life I had been involved in only one fight, and that was on the hockey ice. )
I am ashamed to say we fought and I beat him until I could no longer raise my hand. I took off his belt, tied his arms behind his back, and told him he was going to drag me back up this hill. We made it back to the road and up to the bicycle. I had some rope in my front pannier which I used to retie his hands. We were both fatigued and sweaty, my guard was down and he jumped on my mistake. He slipped his hand free and lunged at me biting my lip. My God, we were attached! No matter what I did, I could not get him to release him maniacal grip. I poked and pushed my fingers in his eyes, no use. I grabbed him by his pants, literally lifting him up and kneeing him in the balls, three four times, no use. I grabbed his forehead and his chin and yanked my lip out of his mouth leaving behind a large chunk of my lip. I fell back and he came at me again, a vicious attack with his teeth. I put my hand out to prevent him from clamping onto my face again but he managed to get my finger. I yanked my hand as hard as I could, breaking my finger and leaving a nasty chunk of flesh behind. He got up leaving me on the ground soaked in blood. Again he started to run down the mountain, but now it was more like a stumble. I was defeated, I rolled over watching as he fled. I noticed the rope, which I had firmly tied to the one hand, was trailing behind him as he ran. I picked myself up and began pursuit. I was closing on the rope. My eyes were fixated on that rope bouncing in a weird pattern off the dirt road. Time seemed to slow, I bent down, picked up the rope, and drew in the slack. As soon as the slack was taken up, I did with a most malicious intent, yank on that rope for all I was worth. His arm made a loud pop as it dislocated pulling him horizontal before collapsing in agony on the ground. I jumped on him looked him straight in the eyes and said " Tu est mort ". I wrapped the rope around his neck and pulled with all my might. Just at that moment two young boys shouted " Arretez, Arretez ". I woke, just then, to the dreadful realisation I was killing a man. I let go of the rope, rolled him over, hog tied him and told the boys to take him to the village. I walked back to my bicycle, sat down and wept. Recovering my composure, I made my way coasting down the hill. Before I had a chance to reach the village many were running up the hill. My white T-shirt was covered in blood, a good part of my lip was missing and none of us could comprehend what this event would bring to this loving village.

Part 2 tomorrow, or if you must know now... click the link below

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