LineaLanoie's Weblog

On the way out to the farm at Bodenge, Jacques pointed out houses in several of the villages we passed. They all were marked with wooden plaques indicating that they had been provided by the American Leprosy Mission (ALM), sometimes by a particular group such as “staff” or “The Holland/Zealand Women”. 

Jacques has worked with his own people under the ALM for over ten years.  He has reached out to help a sector of his own society that usually finds itself at the bottom of the heap – those suffering from leprosy and tuberculosis.

Now although leprosy is treatable, many cases have advanced too far before treatment starts, either from neglect on their part in seeking early treatment or ignorance. These patients may already have nerve damage with the resulting deformities and sometimes are stigmatized. 

In one village, a woman with leprosy was abandoned by her husband. (Women are often the providers, planting and harvesting, providing food for the family.  If a woman loses this ability what is her value in a relationship not based on love?)  He remarried and she was left ill and destitute.  Jacques was able to help her with a home and some animals (usually a goat or some ducks or chickens) so she could continue to raise some livestock and have a source of income.  When her husband saw her good fortune, he decided to return – second wife came too.  There were problems.  This time she thew the husband out.  A short while later, back comes the repentant husband – without the second wife!  True love?

That day we went to the farm, we also stopped at a village to check on a woman with a suspected new case of leprosy.  A few days later, I went back with Jacques to see her.

Some things about watching Jacques work really impressed themselves on me.  One was his ability to communicate with this woman he was examining.  He conversed with her in their native language and he took time to talk to her. 

Secondly, he showed respect for her as a woman worthy of some privacy in her examination.  The village people were pulling up chairs for the show.  Jacques asked them to take seats under a tree in the yard.  Then he invited one son to come with us to a private area at the back of the house where she could be examined without a crowd of onlookers.  My role was to record the location of her skin lesions and the areas of insensitivity.  I felt the enlarged nerves and saw the wasted hand muscles.  Jacques started her on treatment that day.  He will check on her progress when he passes by on his way to his farm. 

Another thing that impressed me was the way that Jacques knows his patients.  He knows where they live, their social and economic circumstances, their families.  And he cares.  I suppose that is why he knows them so well.  I watched him touching his patient’s skin, checking for enlarged nerves and insensitive areas; listened to him explain the disease and the treatment that was needed.  I was watching a healer not just a medical doctor. Knowing that God is there at the foundations of Jacques’ life, this time of watching was a time of blessing to me.  He examined this woman with hands that were so caring that he could be touching the skin of God, with love and reverence, rather than the ulcerated insensitive foot of a poorly clothed woman.

Jacques has a farm at the village of Bodenge about a  45 minute drive from Gemena.  This is his place of retreat.  He took us out there one day. 

On the way we stopped and attempted to make our way to a large outcropping of rocks, a high cliff, below which we could see the dark opening of a cave.  Jacques says that people will go there to  pray.  No one seems to have been there for awhile.  The sobi grass is tall and thick.  We followed a path that took us past some gardens but then disappeared into grass and brush over our heads.  We gave up since we had no machete with us to clear the way.

We continued on our way to the farm which is reached by taking a turn to the left partway through the village, between the rows of huts that line the road. 

Jacques isn’t the chief but acts the part of benevolent landowner.  The village benefits from his presence with access to a clean water source and a certain level of security.  He knows the political leaders and is not afraid to speak out against injustices like theft of livestock by passing soldiers.  But his goodness isn’t always repaid in kind.  One of his herders, from this village, disappeared one night.  So did three head of cattle. The timing was a bit suspicious. 

There is a mud brick house with a small cookhouse off to the side.  The thick sobi thatch keeps it cool.  Out behind is a covered area and “goi goi”  (lazy) chairs.  Jacques brings out a large cooler.  There is cold pop for myself and the kids.  Jacques enjoys his cold Mitzig.  While we relax our meal is being grilled over a charcoal fire.  Authentic barbecue- the way most food is cooked in this country.

Afterwards Sara, Grace, Tantine and I walk down to the water source, a fresh water spring that has been capped so that pure water flows out of a couple of pipes.  There is still a pool for washing and bathing but the drinking water can’t be contaminated.  Bruno comes along with us but is warned by his father that at this time of day it is the women’s turn to go there.  And, sure enough, we are there a few minutes and a woman comes to bathe.  He hikes off back to the house while we women and girls enjoy the coolness of the water.

The girls have brought along one of their soccer balls.  Before long there are dozens of village kids – the boys – eager to play.  It has been years since they last played with a real soccer ball, maybe the first time for some.  When it came time to leave, my girls presented the ball to the village.  Jacques made a little speech.  All the kids told Grace and Sara “merci”  but the sparkle in their eyes spoke more than their words.  The girls will become part of the villager’s stories – how the girls from Canada brought them a ball.  That is part of how things happen out here.

Equateur province in the Congo is still recovering from the effects of war.  Jacques and I drove to the airport in Gemena to meet the plane coming in from Bangui.  The airport is occupied by soldiers.  From what I was told, these soldiers don’t learn how to dig pit latrines – any space will do.  It may be a long time before passengers use the building again. 

We sat and waited in the vehicle for about an hour – there was more trouble for the SIL plane getting out of Bangui than anticipated.  During this time we watched the soldiers drilling down on the tarmac. 

The ragtag army was standing in formation – some drill or listening to some political speech. Then they “marched” back up to the airport,some wearing bits of uniforms.  Most wearing flip flops rather than boots.  All with some kind of weapon.  Ammunition?  Hopefully it is scarce.  They look like they could hurt themselves – or someone else – by accident.

One group marches up to the other end of the parking lot, mostly in step – a semi-goose-step.  Maybe these are new recruits – not much for uniforms among the dozen or so young men.  One of them is soon down on all fours doing push-ups.  Must be the universal discipline measure for soldiers!

Then the whole contingent moved back up to the airport and began packing up.  Bed mats were being rolled up.  An assortment of packs from black plastic bags to school packs were hoisted onto backs or their women’s heads.  And off they went (marching is a bit too formal a term) down the road leading back into the city.

We have no idea where they are going.  If east to the front in Bukavu, they will be pushed to the front of any fighting.  They won’t know the local language and to the easterners they will be dispensable. These guys are young, ignorant and vulnerable.  Jacques says that any villages they pass through will be sure to suffer.  The soldiers have guns and they use this power to rape and steal as they go.

Later, we see that they have only moved into town, taking over a school vacant for the summer.  That did not make Jacques happy.  “The school will be destroyed.”  Getting an education is already difficult enough.

SIL (aka Wycliff) has a Cessna five seater plane stationed in Yaounde, Cameroon.  This is the closest plane available to fly us across to the Congo, to Gemena.  Officially the border between the Republique Centrafricaine (RCA) and the Republique Democratique du Congo (RDC) is closed.  Flying into Gemena avoids the border hassels at Zongo and saves us a 20 hour road trip by truck.  We take off with four passengers and half our baggage and arrive in Gemena 45 minutes later. 

In Gemena we again must pass through customs and immigration but on a smaller scale.  The church’s truck brings fuel down to the plane for the return flight and loads up our trunks.  One of the pastors takes our passports to take care of these formalities.  Again our bags are undisturbed, unopened.  We are well cared for almost as if we are under divine protection.  God is very good. 

Hungry, we arrive at Jacques home in the early afternoon.  There is a meal ready for us -fuku (a sour corn meal mash), spinach greens, plantains and goat.  As we sit around the table and share this first meal in the Congo, I am reminded of communion.  This is a reunion meal, for me a remembering meal.  Foods eaten again for the first time in thirteen years, friendships renewed as we share at the same table.

Gemena is a city of eighty thousand or more.  No one knows the true number of people living there – no one knows when anyone last counted.  Of the buildings lining the main street, four appear to be used – the local political party, Campus Crusade for Christ and two stores selling cell phones and airtime.  The others, the bank, the pharmacy, the shoe store, etc. are empty, windows broken. 

The most dramatic change in this part of the world has been the introduction of the cell phone.  They are just about as common on the streets of Gemena as on the streets of Prince Albert and they, like the phones here seem to begin ringing as soon as anyone sits down to eat.  A call from Gemena to Bangui is just a local call even though the cities are in different countries.  Of all the changes that have taken place in the Congo, cell phones have to be the biggest progressive change.  Other changes were more in a regressive manner.  The cell phones were just totally wierd!

The stores may be closed but all kinds of merchandise is available in the “Grande Marche”.  One can buy almost anything – cans of Coke, toothpaste, baking powder, baby powder, bicyle tires and repair parts, batteries, cloth, used clothes and soap.  Even toilet paper!  And food – like a grand farmers market.  There is a section for meat, another for fish, another for greens, fruit, hot peppers, peanuts.  Meat and fish are sold freshly butchered, “on the hoof”,  or dired and smoked – accompanied by clouds of flies.  Sugar and salt are sold by the cup.  Gas is sold in jugs at the stall next to the soap or flour. 

Barganing is an art.  Jacques has it almost perfected.  But I am white – white people have money – and the price doubles.  We look and Jacques makes note of what he wants.  Then he sends someone back later to buy at the normal price when I am out of the way. 

The girls stick pretty close.  There are masses of people here and it is hard to pass through such a place without being jostled by the crowd.  They are unable to speak the common language – Lingala – and although they can communicate in French it also marks them as foreigners.  I am wondering if after the meat market experience if they will decide to become vegetarians.  I know that the Congolese all cook their meat very well – no rare steaks in this country.  And I am very glad. 

Just posted some pictures in the gallery – the market in Gemena.  Check them out.