Category Archives: Africa

As I was being introduced to the family of one of my son’s classmates from law school I learned something that I had not clued into before.  The family had come to Canada from Africa; from Zambia.  The woman graduating was accompanied by friends and by her son and mother.  As Eric introduced me to his classmate, they in turn introduced both of us to her friends and her mother.  Her mother was sitting and was probably a bit older than myself.  As Eric bent over to shake her hand he did something that was culturally African; he took her right hand in his right hand but placed his left hand on his right arm just above his elbow.  I didn’t notice really.  I have seen him shake hands like this before but didn’t catch on to the significance of it.

As he did this simple gesture, the husband of his classmate remarked, “Oh! That is so African.  You can see that he grew up there.” 

I had to ask, what it was that caught his attention.  I found out something I had not learned all the years I lived in Africa.  It is a sign of great respect to shake someone’s hand in this way.  

It is kind of neat to have a son who became culturally sensitive to these subtle African ways.  It marks him as one of them.  He is in tune with even the little things that living there for years does not guarantee acquiring.  So he lives with a heart torn between two worlds – knowing the way to function in both.  Born in Canada, raised in the Congo, exiled to Canada till a way opens to return to his loved land.

Over at his blog Randall extols the wonders of turkey.  And in his comments, Marc tells how, as a Dutch boy, he never got too excited about the bird.  This interchange brought to mind my only experience with the Dutch and the turkey.  So I will attempt to tell you the tale as I sit here eating a leftover turkey sandwich – the best form of turkey in my opinion.

We were in the Congo and feeling a bit nostalgic as Christmas approached.  You can do strange things when you begin to feel that way.  So for a couple of years we did – a strange thing.  We ordered a turkey.  Turkeys are not native to the Congo.  Ours had to be flown in from South Africa.  We weren’t the only ones who chose to spend a small fortune to have a meal of this traditional fowl.  That was in the days when for a price we could order almost anything from that land to the south.  The cost was astronomical for a rather small bird – about 7 or 8 Kgs – that had obviously, from it’s flavour, had it’s diet supplemented with some sort of fish meal.   But it was not tough.  The Congolese chickens, on a diet of seeds and insects scratched out of the ground, were incredibly tough.  Not roasting stock at all!

In previous years our Christmas fare had become home cured ham.  It started out being grown at home – in our backyard.  It was butchered at home – by Leo. (Who would have known that being the son of a pig farmer would reap such benefits!)  It was cured at home – taking up a good part of the refrigerator for 10 days while it sat in brine.  And then it was smoked – hanging in a half barrel rigged up to allow the smoke from the mango wood to penetrate it.  This was a lot of work.  It paid off in fantastic ham if all went well.

The chance to buy a turkey seemed like a good idea.  Less work for sure.  More expensive though if labor costs weren’t figured in – and my labor was cheap.

This particular year we were invited to spend part of our Christmas vacation with the Catholic fathers and sisters at the mission of Bobadi.  The fathers were Belgian, the sisters were Dutch.  The Dutch sisters were notoriously liberal for Catholics and wonderfully hospitable.  They were our friends.  They also were loved by my children whom they tended to spoil.  They almost destroyed Leo’s memories of the grim sisters who ran the boarding school where he attended school for a couple of years. 

The only complicating factor to the invitation was that we had this turkey which we had been anticipating eating for our big holiday meal.  We decided to suggest that we contribute it to the festive meal we knew they would prepare for all of us to eat together.  We decided to offer it and send the turkey out ahead of us with the father who came in to see us with the invitation.  We would have to travel out as a family on our motorcycles and didn’t think the turkey would fare very well strapped to the back of the bike with our luggage.

The offer of the turkey was accepted with much delight.  They would give it to the sisters to prepare.  I suggested that we usually prepared it with a stuffing, not realizing what an unfamiliar dish this was to the sisters.

We arrived and that night sat down to a wonderful meal.  Like us the fathers and sisters tended to save the special treats for Christmas.  So there were real potatoes and an abundance of local foods as well as homemade chocolates, cookies and other sweet things.  The sisters had done an amazing job of roasting the famous turkey.  And for stuffing – prunes and raisins.  Unusual for us but it was great. 

We found out that turkey is not commonly eaten in Holland.  The sisters had seen them but had never eaten it before.  Since they tend to be large it apparently was only used for large gatherings – and of course by the Americans residing in Holland.  So they had a first experience preparing and eating turkey and we had a first experience eating a turkey stuffed with fruit.

We went back to ham as our traditional Christmas meal the next year.  It has retained a special place at our table every Christmas eve.  Oh, we have turkey too but ham is necessary.  I just don’t cure it at home any more.

Tekpa’s Gifts

Today Randall spoke about gifts, as in 1 Corinthians 12.   I know I have some gifts in this sense although it is hard to be sure and to know if it is just me thinking this or if others see in me what I think I recognize.

What he said about helping gifts made me think back to the last Sunday we were at Karawa.  I had attended the French service early and thought I might make it to the Lingala service after but got started chatting with some people who, one after the other, came by to see me and so I didn’t make it.  

  Tekpa was on guard duty at the guest house that morning.   There was a problem with the water the whole time we were at Karawa.  Something was wrong with the pump and it could only be turned on for short periods of time.  So the hospital was the top of the line as far as priority for water went.  We, at the guest house paid women to haul it for us in big basins on their heads.  While everyone was at church that Sunday morning, the water in one of the lines to the houses was turned on.  Kids found out pretty quickly just where it was running and went up to one of the houses where everyone was away at church, turned the water on to fill their pails and bucket and left the tap running.  So Tekpa caught wind of this and was sent to guard the taps. 

After visiting with a series of people and being too late to go up to the Lingala service, I decided to take a walk around the mission.  When I was returning to the guest house, I met Florence coming back from church.  Tekpa was sitting in their back yard with a pail.  She asked him what was happening.  He had confiscated some child’s pail and was holding it till they came back to claim it.  Then he would have them clean up some of the mess they made behind the house as the water turned the yard into mud.  

Florence asked me if I had noticed the flowers in church. This is Tekpa’s job she told me.  He has done it for years.  At one time one of the pastors had asked him if he could do this little job for the church.  Tekpa explained that he really didn’t know anything about flowers or making them look nice.  “But,” he told the pastor, “If you pray for me that God will give me that gift, I will do it.”  And so the pastor prayed for him and he has faithfully put his gift to use since then.  Now Tekpa is not endowed with great intelligence and has a lowly menial job being the yard keeper at the guest house.  He does his job with a huge smile on his face.  He is not ordinary.  He has that sort of radiance that comes from being infected with the love of God. And when his regular job is done he places flowers in the church.
       

I have posted a lot of pictures from my trip to Africa in my galleries.  The latest ones are found under Faces of the Congo.  People – the reason to go anywhere is for the sake of the people whether to visit or to work.  In some of these pictures you will see some of my best friends.

Find the picture of Isabelle.  She could not get used to my name.  Much to the chagrin of her parents she would simply call me “le blanc”. (Didn’t get the gender right either – but she’s only 3)  By the end of the visit she did remember this strange mname of mine.  Isabelle – la belle Isasbelle!

Her sisters are Claire and Karen.  Claire was content to sit in front of the TV or with a book.  Karen was always on the go “turbulente”  as her parents called her.  She was all over me, climbing, jumping, sitting on my lap.  We got to be good friends.

Another of my favorite pictures is of a young woman about 15.  She wanted to have her picture taken with the other kids who were hanging around the airport hanger when we walked by.  No one smiles for pictures without a lot of coaxing or being caught unawares.  It just isn’t “right”.  She makes me wonder what the future holds for her.  School?  Marriage? First or second wife?  Children and hard work in her garden? For us it seems a poor excuse for existance.  For most girls in Africa that would be pretty good.

Have posted some new images to the galleries – Congo travelling

Praying for the Sudan today.  And for my boy, Patrick as he crosses his last border into the Congo and travels on a long trip by truck to get to his home in Gemena. 

Africa – a continent of such potential and such sadness.  Your people who hope in God still hope.

Psalm 10: 17-18 NLT
Lord you know the hopes of the helpless.
Surely you will listen to their cries and comfort them.
You will bring justice to the orphans and the oppressed,
So people can no longer terrify them.

Jordon posting at Resonate linked to an article by Joan Chittister via One House on the plight of the people of the Sudan.

I sit and listen to the news about the situation there too and wish there was something I could do.  It is not about Aid money really.  I seems as if there should be some political solution but I have very little faith in politics to solve anything.  Political solutions seem to have the best interests of the politicians at heart.  Even aid money often seems to have the best interests of the giver at heart.

So what is there that a small Christian in a huge world full of problems like this can do about anything?  It somehow sounds so trite to say that I will pray about the problem.  But then I remember how people prayed and the wall came down in East Germany.  Maybe the evil one likes to overwhelm us with the problems to keep us feeling helpless and useless and doing nothing.  So we tend to shut out the problem and go on with our comfortable North American lives.

Oh Africa!
What can we do,
We, the powerless ones
Who love you?

So, for myself, I will pray.  I know I will feel like that is not much.  Frankly – sorry God – I would like to see God do something spectacular so that I knew my prayers were being answered.  But I know God will be there no matter what I see.  So One House – I too will make Monday a special day to pray for the Sudan and other parts of Africa that I love
. 
I will continue to do the little that is within my ability to do, supporting the work I know about in Africa that is good for the people.  Work that supports the building up of God’s church there and that will help to develop the minds and talents of the people that live on that great continent.  The changes that are going to make a lasting difference must come from the hearts and minds of the people that live there. 

And because I write when I am passionate or disturbed about things I wrote this:

We Turn Off The TV

Oh Africa!
We turn off the TV
Our third daily meal grows cold.
We sat watching the news
But are hardened to
Your images of death;
Your children of the sunken eyes,
Swollen bellies and lopped off limbs.
What can we do?

You say, “We are tired
Of the lies of the politicians.
They swear to change our world,
One hand raised in oath,
The other already groping
Through the pockets of the givers.
They turn and steal
Our birthrights.”

You ask, “Can’t you,
Rich with power,
Hold our leaders accountable,
Honour the incorruptible,
Protect our innocents
Feed them on truth to
Grow them out of the death
They were born to?”

Oh Africa!
We turn off the TV.
We repeat “What can we do?”
Your answers go unheard
And we have none.
Steadily, your rich color
Stains the red soil of your land.
And we turn off the TV.
Can you forgive us?

Houses in rural Congo are very open.  Windows are screened and only occasionally have glass windows that can be closed.  Even those are usually left open to provide ventilation.  Air conditioning is rarer than glass and so is the electrical power to run them. 

Open windows allow sound to travel. 

The early mornings are full of sound.  Sometimes the nights are too.  Waking up to the sound of a rooster outside the window is pretty common – and it is likely the neighbors rooster.  All animals seem to wake up at the first signs of light.  Chickens, goats, parrots and the neighbor’s small children share this trait.  That seems to be about half an hour before the alarm clock that you set goes off. 

I was given a goat which travelled with me to Karawa – alive.  It seemed like a good idea at the time not knowing what the refrigeration situation was going to be when we arrived.  After the first night at Karawa it no longer seemed like a good idea to anyone.  It not only woke early but every hour on the hour all night.

Lament of the Sleepless Night

We took  a goat
Wedged between packing cases and door.
Live food,
Refrigeration not required.
So we  – and he
Endured the four hours
Confined together.
His bleats of  protest
At each sudden drop
Of wheel
Each sudden brake;
Vied for attention
With Bam Bam on cassette.

So we arrived,
Unpacked the beast.
Entrusted to the watchman’s care.
The night watchman,
Who sleeps
Guarding my bleating feast
Under my window
Where lies my sleepless head.
That goat will die today!

Bokude Moke is the location of a Catholic mission on the outskirts of Gemena constructed about 15 years ago by the Pères de Scheut (sp?), a Belgian Catholic Missionary order.  By the time this particular mission was built, our friend, Père Marcel, had been working in Gemena with Wycliff for a few years. 

I seem to have had several reasons for thinking about the significance of Wycliff over the past few weeks.  For one, I read a novel based on his story or rather on the story of the translation of the Bible into English.  Second, we are having a woman speak in church tomorrow who has come up here to Canada to participate in the translation of the Bible into Cree.  Third I have a cousin and husband who were missionaries to Papua New Guinea with Wycliff and who still teach and work in Dallas with this organization.  Fourth, it brings to mind my good friend who I got to see again while visiting the Congo.  He is a linguist and co-operated with Wycliff in the translation of the Bible into Ngbaka. 

The Ngbaka are one of the larger tribal groups in the Ubangi Mongala region of Équateur province in the Congo.  Since it has a significant population more than the province I live in it is a language still spoken as the first language by the inhabitants of that part of the Congo.  Even if you are from one of the smaller tribes surrounded by Ngbakas, you will probably know how to speak the Ngbaka language.  The Catholic missionaries speak Ngbaka.  Protestant missionaries and other people foreign to the area tend not to speak this language.  It is a difficult language to learn very tonal and with short words, many one syllable.  You need to have a good ear to hear the differences in tones and most of the protestant missionaries have been content to stick with the simpler trade language of Lingala.  Maybe we were in too much of a rush to get to work or simply too busy with what we were sent out to do” to take the time needed to learn this language.

Let me tell you a little about my friend.  I think he is a remarkable man.  He is the guy with the little goatee in the foreground.
 

Père Marcel entered the priesthood a long time ago.  He was getting ready to go out to China and had spent four years studying Chinese in seminary when the political upheaval there ended all chances of going to China.  So he was redirected to Africa to the Congo to the Ngbaka people.  And that is when he began his study of this language.  When he got out to the Congo, he perfected it as he lived closely with the people.

We got to know Père Marcel as a friend when he was living at the mission of Bobadi.  We would visit there from time to time.  It became a place we could go for a break.  The Dutch sisters and the Belgian fathers were welcoming, even to Protestants and even to a lapsed Catholic.  It was a place we could go and talk about things that were important to all of us and where Leo could enjoy a cold beer in good company away from abstemious watchers.  We began to care for each other on many different levels; medically, dentally, psychologically and spiritually.  Père Marcel also spoke English fluently and for our children he became a substitute grandfather.   We visited his family in Belgium and he visited us in Canada after we returned here.

I didn’t know that Père Marcel was in Gemena when I arrived there.  So, when I heard he was over at the mission at Bokude Moke, we headed over there for a visit.  It was so good to see this old friend again.  We exchanged hugs and tears.  I honestly did not think that I would ever see him again in this life.  He is now well into his seventies and living in this part of Africa throughout a war is not gentle on one’s health. He has a very pronounced tremor but is still working.  His latest effort has been to put together a French Ngbaka dictionary.  The draft copies have been published and he is working on bringing it to perfection. 

We talk about what the church” really is.  To me he is part of it and when we sat and talked I experienced it.  He is part of the community of Christians that has helped to shape me into who I am now as a follower of Christ.  We have loved and cared for each other over the years and there is a bond between us that can’t be disrupted by distance or time.  This aspect of church has absolutely nothing to do with buildings or services or worship on Sunday morning at eleven.  It has a lot to do with being part of the body of Christ.

We are there at the full moon.

It rises bright over the village,
Throwing shadows to the ground ‘neath the palms
Where the dancers move in circles
Between the drums and the forest edge.
The rhythm throbs through the night.
And in the church up the road
The choir rehearses
Praising the Maker of Light.

For God made two great lights
And the lesser one rules the night.

The night sky in Africa has always been strong in my memory.  This visit was no disappointment.  We were there at the full moon.  There are no other lights in rural Africa to diminish the light from the moon and the stars.  They rule the night and are splendid.