Life in the Submarine - The Mill Hill Missionaries

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secondary education proper), and became a day school. The school buildingsat Bonkita returned to their original destination to accommodate the A.I.F.(Année Initiatique de Formation), a one year preparatory course for candidatesfor the major seminary, a brain child of the ever creative bishop Matondo, ofwhich I was initially put in charge. The main U shaped building consisting ofthe student dormitory, chapel and accommodation for teaching staff wastransformed into a much needed pastoral centre for group trainings, retreats,workshops and the like.As for me, I was happy to be able to keep my base at Bonkita, but as aconsequence of my new responsibilities began to lead a quite nomadicexistence. Over the next seven years till I left the diocese in 1988 I travelledthe length and breadth of the diocese ( some 800 kms from one end to theother) several times a year, got hopelessly stuck in swamps on numerousoccasions, had to cut my way through the forest once to circumvent one ofthose giant rainforest trees which had fallen over the road, and generally led anomadic existence. I enjoyed moving around, visiting fellow missionaries inevery corner of the diocese, and giving whatever assistance I could to wellmeaningbut struggling headmasters and inadequate or dishonest ones alike.Willy Lokose, an expert teacher of French, became a trusted companion forduring my final years on some of these trips. He would occasionally give modellessons and would generally be quick in picking up relational or other problemsraging underneath the surface. One day he rescued me from a particularlysticky situation when an irate teacher threatened me with a machete. I reallysympathised with the man because was going to be made redundant for lackof proper qualification. I only wish he had chosen someone else to vent hisanger on! The sad fact was that the payment of teachers during the course ofthe 1980s became more and more erratic and the level of remunerationwoefully insufficient as the country slid further down the road of economic ruindue to Mobutu’s increasingly kleptocratic regime.The 4x4 Toyota Landcuiser was our preferred means of transport on the oftentreacherous forest roads.The rainforest equivalent of the desert camel. Minewas equipped with a winch and a specially adapted jack to lift the car whenoccasionally a wheel would slide into the space between two logs on makeshiftbridges, especially after a heavy downpour. On one of those trips, a 2-3 weekodyssey to visit the far end of the diocese, the Bongando area, the car wasoverloaded as often happened. Some 20 kms out of Basankusu I had to stopbecause the load began to shift. When I tried to readjust a piece of luggage Iviolently hit the back of my head against a protruding piece of metal at the car’s
ceiling meant to hold the door shut. The wound was deep and I was bleedingprofusely. The water of a nearby stream helped to wash away the blood andeventually the bleeding stopped. We decided to continue our journey. Just pastWaka we ran into Sr Josephine who was on one of her medical trips into theinterior. She took one look at the wound and decided it needed to be stitched.Being a no nonsense practical Flemish nun she proposed to set to work rightthere in the village. And so she did. The scar was visible for quite some yearsthereafter, but eventually disappeared. Rock hard missionaries? You had littlechoice in those circumstances.Crossing the two main rivers inthe diocese, the Maringa andthe Lopori, both tributaries of‘Le Fleuve’ (the Congo River),was always an adventure onthese journeys. When youarrived at the ‘bac’ (ferry) atSamba you never knewbeforehand what would berequired to make the crossing.Sometimes, when the ferry layidle at the opposite bank, thecaptain would ask you to sendthe car battery across so as toRiver ferry at Simbaenable him to start the engine, at other times it was fuel he needed. But theywould rarely leave you stranded. The ferry on the Lopori at Simba wassomething frighteningly special altogether. It consisted of five or six largedugout canoes tied together with cables and fitted with two platforms of planksto allow a car or even a lorry to manoeuver on top. This ingenious contraptionwas then pulled by sheer muscle power from one side of the river to the otherwith the help of a cable fixed to a pole on both banks. On one of my trips therethe pole on the opposite side broke when we were already some distance awayfrom the bank. I had visions of helplessly floating down river with the car andgetting irretrievably stuck somewhere in the vegetation along the banksdownstream. Fortunately the men pulling the ferry had the presence of spirit tofrantically pull back to the bank we had just left. And we made it!In 1988 I was elected to represent the Mill Hill contingent of the diocese ofBasankusu at the General Chapter at Mill Hill, London. I felt honoured andsomewhat awed by the prospect of participating in such an august gathering.Little did I know then that this would mean the end of my Congolese
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Life in the Submarine - The Mill Hill Missionaries

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