Читать книгу Closer to God - John Moehl - Страница 13

This relatively sedate and pensive stretch proved to be short-lived as Brother Mike found he needed to go south to Lake Tanganyika to get regular supplies of fish for the monastery’s kitchens. The Abbey purchased a pickup load of fish every three or four months—a mixture of various fishes caught by the commercial Greek fishery and sold at very good prices, all tax-free to the religious community.

He decided to go with Jean-Baptiste to help with the loading and unloading of the cartons of fish. They left early one morning, hoping to be back in two days. The undulating hills and valleys dropped away after 120 km of the 160-km trip and they found themselves looking down almost 1,000 m to the long finger of the lake pointing south, all the way to Zambia, some 670 km away. Brother Mike was reminded of what a breathtaking view this must have been for the early traders coming from Zanzibar, looking for ivory and slaves.

The road wound down, slowly reaching the narrow plain that circumscribed the lake. As the old Toyota sluggishly descended, it was overtaken by bicycles piled high with bunches of bananas, bicycles that could only be stopped by the laws of physics, the brakes useless with so much momentum.

Gaining lake level, they first sought the Cathedral, which would have some sort of guest accommodation within its complex. Once they had satisfied themselves they would have a bed in which to sleep, they went to The Circle, a well-known watering hole on the lakefront where they could get delicious fresh fish and wonderful cold beer.

This open-air café was in no way special in terms of its decor. Like scores of other lakeside establishments, it boasted a dozen wobbly tables accompanied by numerous chairs, many equally unstable and most needing paint. Furthermore, its menu was certainly not the best the city had to offer. But what was on offer here was truly unique.

The café was situated on the shore of a small boat basin, giving the customer the impression of being on small peninsula in the lake. From his or her table, the customer could see the mountains of Congo on the other side of the lake. If it were close to sundown, the customer could also see the lights of fishing vessels twinkling as they began their night’s search for riches. And as the sun set, the hippos from the lake began to move, swimming and farting right by the café as the customer downed a beer or chomped on a ham sandwich. It was a special place. While it was only midafternoon and too early for the real show, they enjoyed the serenity and lulling rapture of the great lake.

After sustaining body and spirit, they continued along the lakeshore to a small bay where the Greek fleet was anchored. If one did not know better, one could think one was on the shore of Milos or Paros, with the same ornate vessels at anchor.

The Greeks had come to this area in large numbers between World War I and World War II, when there was a change in the colonial rule from German to Belgian. The Belgians had welcomed the Greeks as traders and service providers. A large community developed, with their own Orthodox cathedral—by design, slightly smaller than the Catholic cathedral—as well as Greek groceries, delis, and restaurants. In addition, there was a Greek fishery where Mediterranean technologies and gear were adapted to the lake’s pelagic fishes.

The Greek community reached its zenith at over a thousand strong after Independence. Now, this population was dominated by individuals of the second and third generations, but in much small numbers, many having returned to Europe due to prevailing political and economic difficulties.

The fishers, with their larger mother ship and smaller light and net boats, fished at night when there was not a full moon. The small light boats had powerful gas lamps that attracted fish. As the fish came into the lights, the net boat would deploy a large purse seine that would be pulled in by the mother ship, hopefully capturing a variety of prey.

It was late afternoon when Jean-Baptiste and Brother Mike reached the fishing harbor and the crews were preparing to go out for the night. They contacted one of the captains, explaining they had come from the Brothers of Piety to get their usual supply of fish. They then discussed with the captain what exactly would go into the order; how many of each size and species of fish and how these would be packaged. It was agreed they should come back the day after tomorrow and, with luck, they would have their fish. Brother Mike knew if they had the pickup loaded by 7:00 a.m., they would be back at the Abbey in time for Vespers.

Brother Mike and Jean-Baptiste found themselves in a rare situation with 36 hours of their own time, no scheduled prayers (they would of course pray), no work, and no other duties. One of the most precious gifts of all: their own time!

❦❦❦

The Great Lakes area was unfortunately not, as many perhaps thought, a remote safe haven far from a madding world. Quite to the contrary, in its own often-veiled way, it had been, and continued to be at the core of ethnic problems in Central Africa. The plight of local people honestly went back centuries when, as through much of Africa, different peoples migrated to different places.

Those who most probably had the right to call themselves the indigenous people were now a small, small minority; the population was numerically dominated by agrarian stocks who had come from the West, while the traditional society in recent memory had been politically dominated by a second exogenous stock of pastoralists coming from the North. The northern ethnicity was a warrior group that quickly assumed power, often in a most heavy-handed and dictatorial fashion.

By the time of the arrival of the White Fathers in the mid-nineteenth century, the Great Lakes area included a number of kingdoms, the Mwami (or King) being of the northern ethnic group. These feudal states saw the pastoralists as the nobles and the farmers as the serfs. While the lines were blurred, this bipolar structure, with a minority dominating a majority (in general, the people from the West outnumbering the people from the North by 4 to 1, and the indigenous folk by more than 20 to 1), was prone to strife. This instability led to considerable demographic fluidity, as those feeling as though they were the mistreated and marginalized majority attempted to move to other neighboring areas where they would be free of the domineering pastoralists.

This unrest had led to various experiments at Independence. Some newly formed countries were majority rule and others were still controlled by the minority. These population dynamics and their time-honed frictions also led to various periods of out-and-out confrontation, with these contests often bloody, even atrocious.

The net result of this history was that ethnicity was very important. While ethnic groups did intermarry, there were still very clear feelings and stereotypes of each group that were often magnified by frequent (but not always true) observations that the physiognomies of the two major groups epitomized their standing: the patrician Nilotic pastoralist and the servile Bantu peasant.

The interethnic antagonism was a simmering pot that boiled over at recurrent intervals. However, the green hills of Africa were often far from the global political spotlight. Similar pots boiling over in Vietnam or Czechoslovakia took the front page and the evening news. News from Central Africa, regardless of how brutal, simply took a long time to filter out to the wider world. Under the shadow of what could be seen as international apathy, people strove either to keep the old ways or to implant the new.

Brother Mike knew the situation well. He understood the sensitivities and tried to see all sides of the issues. The monastic life was often seen as divorced from the politics of the everyday, but Brother Mike knew one could not live in these green hills without understanding the context. The past was the future. The history of these hills impregnated every thought and deed. To navigate the maze, you needed to understand the lay of the land.

❦❦❦

The tale of this land, romanticized in a popular film of the 1950s and forgotten during the terrors of the 1970s, was the tale of its people and the story within which Brother Mike hoped to achieve his life’s aims and his personal aspirations. Without understanding the story, one was faced with a lock without a key.

Brother Mike was digging into all these thoughts as he tried to imagine how he could use his unaccustomed free time. By the time he and Jean-Baptiste had returned to the city center, the sun had set and they decided to go to the veranda of the Palace Hotel, an old colonial relic, for a drink as they decided how to use their time until they got their load of fish.

This castle-like hotel dated to pre-Independence. Albeit once a jewel in the city’s center, it was now tarnished and drab in comparison to the shiny new metal and glass hotels that had been built by international conglomerates. These gleaming hotels catered to large international meetings organized by large international promoters with big budgets, as well as to staff from large international organizations with big wallets. They offered all the pleasures, if indeed this could be an apt term, of being in a hotel in Brussels—every room, bed, breakfast, and dinner the same blasé content that was intended to encourage in clients a feeling of detachment from really being in the heart of Africa.

The Palace had been and was different. Under its faded exterior, it still was a fixture with charm, with personality. It was perhaps for this reason that most of the clientele were long-term guests; reportedly, most expatriates engaged in trafficking any of a multitude of items. The city’s modern international airport gave entrepreneurs access to the world’s markets while the porous borders offered access to the riches of the Congo and beyond. It was rumored that whatever one sought, it could be found at the Palace.