A Bucket of Warm Water

A Bucket of Warm Water

Four Years in an African Village

Minehende refuelling the plane – circa 1989

Heather Allen

Copyright 2013 Heather Allen

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Foreword

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Foreword

My husband Brendan and I were running the Barriere hardware store in 1971, at the same time as the Belgian Congo was renamed Zaire by its then-president, Mobutu Sese Seko. We would, years later, come to understand the significance of this Portuguese word derived from the Kongo word "nzere", meaning ‘the river that swallows all rivers’. Even after the fall of Mobutu, in 1997, when it became the Democratic Republic of the Congo, the country was once again renamed in honour of the majestic river that defines the country.

When we were asked by CIDA (Canadian International Development Agency) to go to Africa, the timing was perfect. Our children were grown and we were ready for an adventure. The fact that it was French-speaking was a plus, as I had always wished to become fluent in Canada’s second language.

We had spoken to previous pilots who had been on missions there and had been given some concept of what life would be like for us, on a practical level. What we couldn’t possibly appreciate was how deeply we would grow to love the people, how much we would learn in four short years, and how utterly grateful we would become for the experience. In the ensuing years since we were there, more than 5 million people have been killed in an ongoing conflict, fuelled by the Congo’s mineral wealth. Living there in the dying days of a despotic dictator’s rule, we naively believed a new dawn would come to the country. We were very profoundly, very sadly, wrong.

The village life we so enjoyed is now gone, which is why I wanted to chronicle and share it.

CHAPTER I

I expected a different climate, a different culture, a different language… and I wasn’t disappointed. All those things were here, in Zaire: searing heat and sticky oppressive humidity, African mores which included both infinite hospitality and crushing corruption, and a gentle, more languorous French. But it was 1989 – I wasn’t prepared for the 15th century.

Our destination was Dungu, Haut Zaire: a village of 12,000 people living in small mud huts with no running water and no electricity. More surprising, in this age of supposed globalization, was that there were almost no traces of American culture. But if there are no means of transmission: no televisions, only a few short-wave radios, no magazines or newspapers, then how would the population learn about Coca Cola or Starbucks or Nike? Most evocative of the Middle Ages was the fact that the Roman Catholic Church held centre stage. Aside from the military and a few state bureaucrats, it was the sole employer. It was the economic engine, given that in order to circumvent endemic state corruption, all foreign aid money was funneled through the church, to ultimately provide for the hospitals and schools. In the absence of films, books, theatre and cafes, it even provided entertainment with its choirs and daily Mass. Limited road maintenance was funded by the church; even the short wave radios that allowed communication between the isolated villages were owned by the church. Perhaps it had even more influence than the church in medieval Europe.

We set out on this journey through space and time almost entirely by chance. My husband Brendan and I had talked vaguely of working in the developing world now that our children were grown, but it was all idle speculation. What could we do? Neither of us had a degree; we had no experience in medical fields. Why would they want us? I did know that I didn’t want to go somewhere where we would end up being more of a burden than a help.

For the past eight years we had lived on a strip of sand about 8 kilometres long by half a kilometer wide in Malaspina Strait, 100 kilometres north of Vancouver. Here, on Savary Island, there were only 20 households most of the year, though in the summer many of the 500 holiday cottages were occupied by people seeking sandy beaches, warm water, good fishing and a simpler way of life. We had good telephone service, but no electricity.

There were no shops or schools, and we had to go to the mainland to get our mail. Most people took advantage of the water taxi service, but we had our own plane: a Cessna 172. We had left a comfortable house in Kamloops for an island adventure. Though we never considered it at the time, living without services or entertainment, plus Brendan being obliged to fly whenever he wanted to return to the Interior to visit his family, or to bring supplies and sub-trades to the island for our construction business, was giving us the experience we needed to go to the heart of Africa.

It was in the spring when Pierre, a commercial pilot in Powell River, who had worked in Dungu, asked Brendan if he would like to go to Zaire.

They need a Canadian bush pilot. Usually they recruit from Quebec because of the language. Do you speak any French?

"Mais oui." agreed Brendan with more confidence than skill.

His flying experience was more important – language could be learned with less danger than bush flying. The most recent pilot had flown into a volcanic mountain near Goma, killing himself and all his passengers. The plane had now been replaced, but the area needed a pilot; conjugating verbs was low on their list of requirements.

As for me, au contraire, the French was very important. For years I had been an ardent Francophile and knew that the only way I could hope to become fully bilingual would be to live in a French culture, and Zaire – the former Belgian Congo – fit the bill very nicely. Far from being imbued with neo-missionary zeal, I was interested in adventure and improving my French. These were not particularly noble goals, perhaps, but were less likely to disappoint.

Less than two weeks after our initial conversation with Pierre, we flew to Montreal for an interview with an NGO funded mainly by CIDA, the national development agency. This was just one of a veritable vegetable soup of acronyms. We would be really working for ASF – Avions sans Frontières. Since the majority of the funding came from the Canadian government, we would have to satisfy a bevy of bureaucrats.

We had a series of interviews, both together and separately. Brendan’s piloting skills weren’t in question – he had the requisite 2000 hours on a single engine plane and had flown extensively into dirt strips. While his French was limited, they figured a few months of immersion would greatly expand his vocabulary. They did not, however, mention the difficulty of understanding any language through the static on the HF radio. But then, what’s life without surprises? They were kind about my French, but more interested in whether our marriage was stable and whether or not I was an alcoholic or likely to become one. I’d read enough English novels about expatriates in equatorial countries to not be offended by their questions. Our attitudes were also important – did we fear or distrust Africans? Apparently a previous pilot had done so much damage by his irrational fears that he was sent home before Canada-Zaire relations were permanently damaged.

We must have passed muster because they asked Brendan to sign a two year contract. As a volunteer he would be paid $400 a month. We would have our house provided, and transportation to and from Canada paid, with one month’s leave every year.

During the interview I was told that I would have household help – Carolina, who would come twice a week to wash our clothes, and Christophe, who would cook and clean. I dismissed the idea out of hand. I was perfectly capable of doing my own laundry and housework, and as for cooking, well, I considered myself quite good at that. It didn’t matter, I was assured, as both Carolina and Christophe and their families depended on their salaries. I would definitely have been less forceful about wanting to do it all myself had I realized that Christophe had to kill the chickens he cooked, and sort the weevils from the flour before he made bread and Carolina had to heat the water on a wood stove and then rub the clothes on a washboard.

But what was I to do for two years? Even being an alcoholic looked unlikely given the paucity of liquor stores. But then we met Frère Herman, one of the Catholic brothers (frères de l’instruction chrétienne), home on leave from Dungu. The Frères of his order had taught in Dungu for the past twenty years. It was this group that had led the campaign to buy an airplane some 10 years previously. I asked if there was anything I could do in Dungu, and they suggested some bookkeeping, which caused me to sigh heavily. I had been doing that for the family business for all of my married life and had hoped to escape it. They then came up with another tentative suggestion: was there any hope of my teaching English? English was on the curriculum that had been set by UNESCO after independence, and was required for high school graduation. However, it was always difficult for them to find competent teachers amongst either the locals or the French-Canadian frères. The adventure started to look even better, and I told them I’d love to do it, but warned that I had no experience. Frère Herman laughed, and said the important thing was that I understood the language.

We returned home to Savary so Brendan could finish the two houses he currently had under construction while I concentrated on making lists and packing. We found three battered steel trunks, including one that had already made the trip from Dar es Salaam, and began filling them with everything from paper to shampoo, including medication, books, toothpaste and batteries. I was assured that almost nothing was available in Dungu, and I lay awake at night trying to imagine what I might need in the coming 24 months. I knew I’d forget something; I just didn’t want it to be something vital.

Our friends in Kamloops had been amazed when we decided to move to Savary Island – what, no shopping? What will you do? Easy… if you forget something, you do without it for a week. Two years, now, that was a slightly different proposition. How much shampoo do we use in a month? I ordered another set of glasses, another set of contact lenses. It wasn’t the lack of shops which worried me – the locals apparently lived on rice and beans; we were unlikely to starve – it was the lack of books. My library card was the most used card in my purse. We were limited as to weight, and even though Sabena, the Belgian airline, was classifying us as missionnaires which gave us 100 pounds, the trunks quickly reached that. I took my laptop and printer along with a goodly stack of paper. My priorities – books and paper – were very heavy. I decided to take more French than English books. I couldn’t read so quickly in French; they’d last longer.

We finally left Canada for Africa via Europe near the end of June, only three months after we had first heard of the village of Dungu. We had left Savary in a flurry of last minute chores and farewell parties. I closed my door, but left it unlocked so people could access my ample book shelves. I looked longingly at them as we left.

I had no doubts as we left Savary, and then Vancouver; it was too exciting. But during our five hour stay in the Brussels airport I had more time to reflect. I looked at the well-fed, well-dressed people. I considered my meal… my coffee. I thought about my comfortable bed at home: my refrigerator and my gas stove. I looked at the heap of international newspapers. What would it be like living in a small village deep in the jungles of Central Africa? Two years suddenly seemed like a very long time indeed. I started to doubt myself – how naive was I? What made me think I could teach high school English? I knew it would be very hot – I knew malaria was endemic – why had I ever thought this constituted an adventure? But more than anything, I really didn’t want to fail; to be sent home in disgrace. Still and all, it suddenly seemed like a monumental task… two years.

When we lined up to board the plane, we were amongst very few white people. Everyone spoke mellifluous French and the few African women were dressed in bright exotic clothes while the men flashed gleaming white teeth and slapped each other on the back in exaggerated bonhomie. And there was an overpowering smell; of sweat mainly, I suppose, from bodies innocent of deodorant, and a different diet. Whatever, I found it cloying, and felt almost suffocated. Not too many weeks later, I barely noticed it in a crowd of people, and now, years later, I think of it with nostalgia. It is just one of the smells of Africa, like burning brush and palm oil. But when I boarded the plane, it was just one more very foreign element, and I felt small, pale, and entirely inadequate for what lay ahead. Two years. Two... long... years.

The first African stop of our journey took us to Kigali, the capitol of the tiny country of Rwanda. The Kigali airport was crowded and noisy, but we were soon taken in hand by a OCSD worker, Lorraine. Her Rwandan driver sped towards the Zairois border along the winding blacktop with assurance, blasting his horn constantly, while Lorraine kept up a running commentary.

Rwanda is often called the Switzerland of Africa… the roads were built by the Chinese… there could be trouble at the Zaire border, better make a list of the contents of your suitcases.

Looking ahead, I saw long processions of women who appeared to be nine or ten feet tall. But as our car came closer, I saw that they were of normal height, but were balancing huge baskets of produce on their elegant heads. Barefoot and with perfect posture, they talked animatedly to each other, turning their heads as effortlessly as if their 30 kg load of bananas or manioc was a garden party hat bedecked with ribbons.

After several hours we pulled off the highway and stopped at a hotel for lunch. The dining room was stark and the tables were littered with dirty dishes. After we had been ignored for what seemed like an inordinately long time, Lorraine called the waiter who reluctantly took our orders and cleared off the dishes that she had stacked at the edge of the table. Before leaving Montreal we had been warned by OCSD never to eat in restaurants. However there didn’t seem to be a viable option. We were with an OCSD employee, and besides we were hungry. The food arrived on thick white plates – piping hot crispy French fries and tender and moist deep fried river fish. There was good cold Zairian beer to drink in large brown bottles. Life in Africa was already taking a turn for the better. If this was deprivation, I could take it.

Another hour’s driving and we reached the border between Rwanda and Zaire. It was marked by a fence, a number of young men casually carrying rifles, several tawdry wooden buildings and the end of the blacktop. Lorraine explained she couldn’t come with us, and wished us luck.

Just do what you’re told, and you’ll be fine. Expect to have to open your suitcases, and expect that some things will be taken – supposedly because they are not allowed in Zaire/ Of course they are bribes.

We entered the Immigration shed nervously carrying our passports; uncertain as to what to expect. The severe looking man behind the old scarred desk extended a hand to be shaken and unsmilingly greeted us with a ‘Bonjour’. He examined our passports very carefully and slowly for the necessary visas and then asked my husband a question. Brendan answered in halting French, and the Zairian sneered.

Don’t you speak French? You’re a Canadian, aren’t you?

I explained we came from British Columbia where only English was spoken. The guard became quite expansive on the subject and said he thought Canada was a bilingual country. Condescendingly he told us how many languages he spoke (four) ‘like most Zairians’ and perhaps because he felt markedly superior, stamped our passports with a great flourish and never asked to look at our suitcases at all. Ironically, the officials in Montreal had been right. Facility in French wasn’t all that important after all. I hadn’t expected the lack of it to be a plus, though.

We drove on to Goma, a city of 200,000, situated by Lake Kivu in the shadow of volcanos. Its former glory was still evident in the broad avenues and now decrepit and crumbling brick buildings. Bright flowers were being tended and grass cut with powerful strokes of sharp machetes (an operation known by its French name of coupe, and everywhere evident) along a street which led to the lake. President Mobutu’s new villa was there and a visit was expected soon. There were a few vehicles; far less than one would expect in a major city, but an amazing number of black Mercedes, nonetheless. Everywhere there were people walking: men in collarless Zaire style suits (an idea borrowed from Mao apparently, as a rejection of the West) and women in brightly coloured pagnes (a cloth wrapped seductively around the hips) and either Western blouses or the African models with elaborate tiered sleeves, some with high heels negotiating the broken pavement carefully. Many more were barefoot and wearing little more than rags.

We were taken to the house of another Canadian volunteer, Gilles, a young man who had installed storm sewers in Goma to prevent the drownings and deaths by disease caused annually in the rainy season. His brick house was spacious and comfortable, surrounded by a garden of riotous tropical flowers, a lawn and then a brick wall with a locked gate. Two men were hired to spend the night in the enclosure, and they patrolled the perimeter of the fence with a German shepherd. Bright outdoor lights were placed on the roof to illuminate the yard. The security precautions shocked us – what were we getting into? It looked like an armed camp – us against them. All my uncertainties in Brussels resurfaced. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of an ‘us and them’ situation.

But, slowly my apprehension dissipated. Gilles was affable and hospitable. He had been in Zaire for three years and told horrific stories about supply.

It took six months to get the cement, and the day it arrived, a soldier came and demanded that I give it to the military so that Mobutu’s villa could be constructed. I might have argued with him, but not with his gun.

He had a crew of several dozen and showed us a photo album with all his workers, ils sont adorables, as well as pages of close-ups of young women with elaborately braided hair. He wanted to capture as many different styles as possible. The girls smiled confidently at me from behind the plastic sheet, which covered their photographs. I envied Gilles his obvious rapport with the Zairians and wondered at my chances of emulating him. They seemed impossibly remote. At least, as a Quebecois, he had language on his side. All physical details to the contrary, he obviously didn’t see himself as on the other side of a great divide. He seemed, if not content with the situation, at least at ease with it. If he could handle it, then surely so could we… I hoped.

Several days later we caught the first commercial flight inside Zaire to Bunia from Goma. The airport seemed to be a seething mass of boys; all grabbing for the chance to carry our bags. I soon realized why they all sported numbers on the back of their shirts. How else could you possibly figure out who to pay? Even though we were already in the country and our destination was also in Zaire, we once again had to go through passport control where our visas and vaccination certificates were closely scrutinized. All was in order. I thought that was good. They thought it was bad – no chance of a bribe. Our luggage was overweight and they demanded more money. Our missionaire status, which had been blithely stamped by Sabena, had no cachet here; not where bribes were sought at every opportunity. But, this was no problem as a fellow Canadian traveller appeared and announced that he would claim it since he and his wife had only overnight bags for their weekend in Bunia.

We’re the same family, he told the baggage clerk.

Since extended families here can run into the hundreds, this was accepted without question.

I must remember everything, I thought desperately, one of these days I’m bound to be travelling on my own.

But paying close attention didn’t do us any good as far as actually catching the flight. We sat in the hot, uncomfortable waiting room for hours past the scheduled departure time while other planes came and went. Then suddenly, people whom we knew were fellow passengers, got up and walked out of the terminal towards a Mitsubishi aircraft waiting on the tarmac. We showed our tickets and boarded. We had no boarding passes and there was no announcement. It was rather like a migrating herd simultaneously deciding to move on to a better pasture.

The plane was deliciously cool. Shortly after take-off we looked down on the lake, then rivers, and then, most amazing of all, the glistening snows of peaks almost on the equator. After a one-hour flight, we landed in Bunia, where the temperature was still like a pleasant summer afternoon with a light breeze blowing. The thing I had most feared was the heat, and with every stop, I became more and more cheered. Kigali and Goma were summer dress weather certainly, but it was not oppressively hot. Guy, the Canadian relief pilot who met us in the Cessna 206 Brendan was sent to Zaire to fly, answered my question gravely.

Dungu’s hotter than this, all right. Lower altitude.

Bunia airport was a very long way from Brussels and even quite a long way from Kigali. There was no water, let alone food on the flight. The bathrooms had long ago been wrecked and any useful fitting looted. Tall grass on the side of the airport seemed to be the only restroom alternative. I thought about creatures slithering through the dry grass and figured I could wait until we arrived in Dungu. Once again there was a lengthy passport control, though not for Brendan who was introduced as ‘le nouveau pilot’. Hands were shaken, smiles exchanged and his documents were not scrutinized. Bunia was one of the airports Brendan would fly into regularly. He would see these smiling lined black faces of the airport officials at least once a week. I marvelled at how quickly our life had changed. Would this all become routine? Was that possible, when it seemed so very strange and foreign?

The 206 lacked air conditioning and flew much lower, and it was indeed warmer. But I was too entranced by the scene below me to mind. There were slow muddy rivers, thick tangled jungle, rutted red roads and tiny clusters of paillotes (round mud huts with thatched roofs) in the midst of it all, miles from any other human habitation. If the Portuguese explorers of the 16th century could have travelled inland by plane, surely the scene would not have been much different. I forgot my Goma worries about the poverty and desperation I saw in the eyes of the people in the street. I forgot my concerns about why I was here. Could I actually teach, and would I do any good? I even forgot about my fears of heat and disease. I was here. I was in the heart of Africa.

Brendan touched my shoulder and pointed forward – I could see the clearing that was obviously the airstrip. There were two large rivers, a bridge (with an intriguing history of deception, as I was to find out later), a cluster of red brick buildings, which was the mission, and many paillotes, usually in clusters of three or four. These were all surrounded by a perimeter of four or five meters of hard packed soil. While it seemed ugly and hot to have hacked the jungle so far from the dwellings, I was soon to discover that the practice was essential. Every morning someone from the household carefully swept the dirt to ensure that no grass or weed had the chance to sprout. Snakes, large and small, venomous and non-poisonous alike, all prefer the cover of the swishing grasses. They avoid open exposure and also if the soil is smooth and hard they have difficulty in moving quickly.

Guy landed the 206 smoothly on the dirt strip, and opened the door to a welcoming rush of air. We arrived to an astonishing welcome. Several hundred people were standing at the open hangar which was decorated with palm fronds and flowers. Everyone shook our hands and said, "Bonjour". There was a bewildering array of mostly black and a few white faces, all smiling, all with names that I forgot as soon as the next one introduced himself; with the exception of one, Ndombe.

"Le fameux Ndombe", I said with delight, and he responded with a laugh and a flash of perfect white teeth.

Ndombe was our boss, and I had seen many pictures of this man in Montreal as well as heard much of him. He had a Master’s