Africa, a story of survival and love, Part 2

I was led to the same hut I had used the past two days and given two squares of gauze and a mirror. I looked into the mirror and saw a horrible mess. My vanity set in, all I could see is a future with a messed up lip, then I thought. What is all this biting about?
My lip and my finger, no punches just teeth. Does he have aids? Zaire is dealing with a national aids crisis right now. Have I been doomed to their fate? My friends, I was loosing my mind.
The elder opened the door to my hut, we talked for a long while. He was grief stricken. He told me of the great shame his sons had brought on his village. He wept as he told me quick interrogation of the captive had disclosed there were three working together. He mentioned that he had dispatched all the men and boys to search the jungle until they find the other two. As well, he had sent their quickest boy to a larger village twelve kilometers away to get the Gendarme ( police ) to take the thieves away. He had food and drink brought to me asking that I rest until the police arrive.
The afternoon passed, a poultice was made for my lip. What ever it was, it performed excellent in stemming the bleeding and promoted quick mending of tissue. As well it froze the area a bit, like at a dentist, but not quite as much.
I ate what I could for dinner but my demeanor was very solemn. It broke my heart to find myself involved in such an affair. But also I was hurt and very angry at what had befallen me. I was a bundle of confused feelings, none of them good. Where was the love and euphoria of yesterday?
After dinner I sat with some of the elders over a few pipes, the mood was very somber. The chief elder asked that I pray with him and a few others. We went to the prayer lodge asking for blessings of grace. The chief later turned to me and said, " although I have lost three sons, one is of my blood ". " His position in the village is one of great responsibility. His sin is one I cannot forgive, he is no longer my son ". Tears welled in both our eyes as the gravity of his loss set in. We returned to the fire, smoked in quiet for a while then parted for the night. Making my way back to my hut the moon was still full but the glow on the flora was not to be seen. I was trying to read and just as I was putting out my pipe the Police knocked on the door. I scurried like a child hiding my weed as I answered their call. The night was late, they were not happy ( as it turned out the only vehicle in their village is the police chiefs landrover and he was away until the next day, so they had to walk all the way, 12 km to answer this call. )
They asked I join them in the elders hut for a discussion. I was asked what happened, I told them everything, including my attempted murder on the thiefs life. They asked what was missing and I lied. I told them everything that I knew was missing, but I also told them two hundred dollars U.S. was taken. There was no $200, I wish I never said there was.
No matter what, I wanted those three to pay for my lip and pay for the aids I might be carrying. I didn't want the police letting them go because I was just a tourist out of his depth and they were locals, so to speak.
The police informed me the village men had captured the second thief and will surely get the third, as he has no where to go. They told me I would have to attend the police chief in their village to file a proper report. As well he suggested I should rest as we will leave mid morning.

I returned to my tent, tried to read or sleep but neither was possible, I laid there victim to my thoughts. In the background echoing throughout the village was the screams of the two men as the police tortured them for information and confession. The night grew on, I drifted off to sleep in a eerie silence, it seemed the entire jungle was holding it's breath.
I woke about two hours before dawn to stomach cramps, nothing unusual if you make the tiolet in time. My finger throbbed and my lip ached while my stomach was doing the two step. I placed my feet on the hut floor ( which is the ground ) and gathered my composure. I felt a couple of bites on my foot, then a few more on my leg. Damn these buggers really bite. I lifted my feet up and reached for my handy zippo. A flick of the zippo illuminated the floor showing a steady flow of army ants, or whatever they are called. The entire floor of the hut was moving. The only way you can get them off is by picking them off. Trying to sweep them away is useless. In all the commotion I shit my pants, damn not again.
I got myself sorted, took extra underwear and pants and made my way to the toilet. For those who don't know, it is a concentric circle of thatch with a large hole in the middle and two sturdy logs across. You should have a picture of me standing on the logs with my ass sticking out dropping a load. And that is exactly what happened for the first few minutes until the log broke. Yes my dear readers, I found myself covered from head to toe in shit and piss. I vomited, like I have never vomited in my life ( even worse than when I pounded back a fifth of tequilla to celebrate my
25th birthday ). When I finished vomiting, I vomited some more. I started climbing out the hole. However the shape I was in with my broken finger and pounding head I couldn't get out. I fell back submerging myself no less than three times before finally extracating myself from the excrement. I made my way down to the river stripped off and tossed away my clothes, I guess at least I didn't have to clean the shit out of my pants, that is never fun friends.
I cleaned up,making my way back to my hut just as the birds were getting up. I smoked a few pipes and before I knew it the police were knocking on my door to go. They were able to recover about 80% of what was taken but the $200 and some odds and ends were still missing, albiet with the promise all would be recovered. The one thief admitted the third guy has my money.
The police led myself, the thieves and the chief to the village ceremonial square. In the harsh light, I could see heavy bruising on their legs, torso and arms. Since neither could stand in one place for more than a second, I assumed the soles of their feet had also been beaten. Moreover, the damages I had inflicted on the thief who I fought had not been tended. To this day, I cannot imagine how much emotional and physical pain they were in at that time. Nor, could I ever imagine then what was yet in store for us all.

A goat was led into the square and a villager took a large knife cutting it's throat in one swift motion, I nearly puked. Then and there he gutted the goat and tied it around the neck of the man I fought. Around the neck of the other thief he tied a sack with all the retrieved belongings they stold. To this man's waist a live goat was tied. All of us stood back in utter silence as the ceremony was performed and accusations were announced. The chief said a few words denouncing from the tribe all three villians. All I could think of was that somehow I was the, real, third villian.
Ceremony complete, the police ushered the two thieves away with me following about 50yards back. As we left the camp the eerie silence was broken with the sounds of great sorrow and loss. Soon the sounds faded as the jungle engulfed our group. It was a most arduous journey my friends, 12km through a hot jungle. I was spent from the day and night before, I cannot conceive how the thieves could move, let alone walk with a load. We took breaks, but not enough. As the thieves stumbled, they were beat with sticks until they regained their footing to continue. I let them get a couple hundred yards ahead, so I wouldn't have to experience the violence up close. How did any of us make it? I don't know. I passed out in the infirmary as soon as I arrived, the other two didn't have that luxury. I regained consciousness jolted by the screams of the tortured men. I looked at the I.V. in my arm and slowly regained the realisation of the nightmare.
In my brief absence, the two men were torured by three different police officers. They were going up the rank comparing notes as they went. By the time they were done, niether thief could speak. I witnessed this as they were dragged to the village square semiconscious.
The bright sun made it feel like a cheap spagetti western.
I watched them tie the two men back to back against a large tree. The tree was big enough they couldn't see each other. The chief of police walked out into the courtyard greeting me with great interest. He went on to rant to a growing crowd.
" How terrible these men are to the reputation of the government of Zaire. No mercy should or will be spared in retribution. "
I could barely stand up. My head was spinning while my stomach was dancing the Cha Cha. The chief, noticing my unsteadyness, grabbed my arm making appologies for keeping me in the sun. He ushered me into his air conditioned office. The cool air steadied my senses allowing us to procede with the task at hand, the deposition. I dictated to him the events as I knew them, trying in some way to reduce the damage my lie about the money would inflict. He would have nothing of it, he assured me they would find the $200 dollars. Or, he would meet me later with recompense from the government coffers. About ten or so minutes into the interview the thieves began to scream, the torture had begun anew. We took two hours to compile the whole story, typed in triplicate with the aide of carbon paper. The report was typed one letter at a time, the chief liked to type that way.

When all was done, the chief ushered me out of his office to proudly present the defeated thieves. Off and on during the interview this very large man ( one of the biggest men I have ever seen ) used a heavy hemp rope with knots tied in it to flail the two men. Rendering them unable to respond to the chiefs questioning, even after buckets of water were thrown on their lifeless bodies. Defeated, dripping unconscious in blood, the crowds started to disperse, the show was over.
I was ushered to a room in a small hotel, if you could call it that. I was informed that missionaries who heard of this event were prepared to take me as a passenger to the city of Bunia where I was receive proper medical help, and inform my consulate. The chief said he would meet me in two weeks when he must travel to Bunia for business. As well, he had me over for dinner. His property was lavish as was the dinner. However, his pride in brutal justice along with constant boasting about his new prison was difficult to bear. He insisted on giving me a tour of the prison, the conditions were dreadful, he could not have been prouder because of it.
Back at the " hotel " I laid my head down and slept like never before. The next morning arrives with the do good missionaries fulfilling their mandate to rescue my sorry soul. They seemed odd, by example, they had a land rover with some luggage on the seat. Instead of moving the luggage to the back and offering me a seat they asked me to sit in the luggage area. I was not about to complain, riding a land rover bouncing around in the back is still far better than walking. We arrived in the village, I collected my gear and bicylce loading it into the land rover under great protest. The missionaries thought I would leave my bicycle. It took about 10 minutes to convice them the bike was essential. After all, there was plenty of room for everything.
They relented, so with a few words to the elders and some pictures I was off. I knew the trip was about 150 km which I suspected would take about two or three days even with a land rover. The cold demeanor of the missionaries was a caution, but what could I do? I was an emotional and physical mess. I couldn't ride, not with my finger broken, my lip and a litany of other health issues. Dehydration alone could do me in.
No matter if I could ride or not, it soon became apparent I was not going to be able to maintain the company of my compassionate missionaries.
It went like this... The passenger started berating me about flaunting my rich lifestyle infront of these savages. How are they supposed to refrain from the devils work when evil people like you are acting as temptation? Then the driver chirped in with his barrage. On and on this went for about and hour. I tried to argue my point ( which is something I could do well ) but my brain was just not working. Instead of reason, I started yelling and screaming obsenities about their probable propencity for young black boys. The land rover came to a quick stop, soon after I found myself assembling the parts to my bicycle.
The next three days to Bunia was all a blur. I remember sleeping in a ditch under the stars the first night. After that, I can only remember the focus it took to make sure the next peddle is pushed down. Willing my legs to continue turning the crank, I fell of my bike many times. Each fall felt like a dream, I was far beyond the pain one receives when falling of a bike. Get up and turn the crank I would say over and over in my mind keep, just keep it going. I rode on until I passed out unconscious in the ditch.
I have no idea how long I was out for, all I knew was that it was now dark and I had passed out. I was very, very scared. I thought I was going to die here in an African jungle miles from nowhere. I began thinking about the love for my family and friends back home. I imagined what it would be like for them to get consular news of my death, never knowing what happened or how much I loved them.
I cried and cried, then I prayed like I have never prayed before, or since. I begged God to give me the strength of my brothers and sisters, of my parents and my friends. I begged that their love and energy should come to my aid so that I may find the strengh needed to survive.
At that very moment, a wave of peace and love came to me. I was still a mess but somehow I knew I would make it, I knew God was with me.
( later I came to understand it was my own Godself power which I had accessed )
I righted the bike, fixed my light on the road and recommenced turning the crank. The entire rest of the journey to Bunia was surreal. As if it were a dream, I cannot comprehend how I made it. I arrived in the city around dusk the next day, immediately coming to the attention of a police officer. He had spied me across an open courtyard determining I required assistance. I remember looking at him, wondering, why he looked so concerned? He asked me my nationality, I told him Canadian. At once he said I know where to take you, they will tell me what to do.
He took me to a home about a block away where a representative of the Canadian government lived. This gentleman was establishing a new agriculture project for the city. In addition to his job he acts as a vice counsul representative. ( I may have the term wrong, in essence, he acts in the capacity of the consulate, fulfilling some duties but without the title. )

Salvation:

We stood on the stoop as he rang the bell, I was in a haze but I will never forget the look on my saviours face when he first saw me. He picked me up, took me to the living room calling his wife. He was asking the police officer all sorts of questions, but all the police officer knew was that I was Canadian. They phoned a doctor who lived near to visit, he examined me suggesting they watch me closely through the night. His assesment was I would be okay but it would take time to heal. I was to see him at his office the next day to x-ray the finger, sort out the lip and clean up my dysentery. Stitches could not be used as it had happended too many days past.
The next day the doc fixed me up some more, he said I had to wait three months before I could get an aids test, then another test after six months determine my fate.

I cannot describe to you dear readers how this man, his wife and two children saved me. They own a beautiful home with servants who love their work. Their garden looked over a gorgeous vista of jungle groves. The smell of of their garden was heavenly. They had many books for me to choose from, most importantly they had all the old tunes I love. I had the house to myself. The servants were so gracious in putting up with Leonard Cohen over and over and over.
I cried and cried, my heart felt like it was ripped apart. As my health improved I felt guilty for surviving this ordeal when it was likely the other two or three men were doomed. I kept seeing the fight in my mind. I could not shake the image of his face purple with the rope tied around his neck, knowing how the anger raged through me unabated. The many images of torture; from the butchered goat to the 12 km march, ending in the final beating tied unconscious to a tree. The screams of those two men rang in my ears almost every moment. I felt like I was loosing my mind, I just wanted to die.
The love of this remarkable family was the only thing which kept me from a psychiatric ward. They cared and loved me like one of their own. They fed me, cried with me, cleaned dirty bedsheets, and comforted screaming nightmares. They led me gently back to health. Before leaving, I was speaking with the father. He told me how pleased he was to see me recover. He admitted that when he first saw me he thought I was a ghost. In his words, " there was nothing there, nothing in the eyes. "
I met with the police chief two weeks later as planned. He said he would be able to have some money for me in a couple of days. He winked at me, with a wry smile he said, " one of them is dead, the fighter ". " He killed himself with a knife in his cell. The other one will suffer the same and the third we will find. " I got up and without a word left his presence, never to see him again.

I left the company of my saviours the next day. I had imposed on their hospitality enough as well Uganda was calling me. With great sorrow and joy I looked back on the town of Bunia as it faded into the jungle. There was road ahead, people to see and lessons to be learned. Down goes one leg, up goes the other, the crank starts to turn, man in motion.

The events of that time took many years to resolve. I still have dificulty keeping it all in perspective. A couple years ago my wife bought me Lenard Cohen for my birthday. We were eating dinner as the music began and I realised it was the same album that kept me sane in Bunia. I tried to hold back the emotion but ended up breaking out in sobs. We learn compassion from the strangest of places. Our heart breaks from the oddest ordeals. Souls dance with us in loving synchronicity, giving up their very existence on this plane so that we may discover our true nature. I cherish the three thieves and pay greatest love and respect to their memories, all who danced with me during those days.

Post script. I ended up loosing my diary which had the names of all the party members. As a result of post traumatic stress ( and maybe too much weed ) my memory for recollecting the names was hopelessly lost with the diary. I did not like refering the the elder as the elder, the thieves as the thieves or the family who save me as the family. In this omission I mean no disrespect and have for years felt terrible that I cannot honor them all by name.