45 Zaire: Musumba Kasaji Kolwezi

We have been making reference to the Mwanti Yaav in the last few posts.  When we first arrived in Kolwezi there had been a lot of activity surrounding the death of the previous  Mwanti Yaav, and the coronations was to take place after we left the area.  As best I can make out, the same person is still the king of Lunda Land today. Here we get to meet him. 

There is a lot of conflicting information on the web and different spellings, but this much is clear:  It was the largest pre-colonial kingdom in this part of Africa.  It covered Katanga province in Congo, North and South Lunda Provinces in Angola, and all of Western Zambia down to the Okavango River.  It kind of looks like the colonial powers attempted to debilitate it by dividing it up amongst the three countries.  In any case we were in Musumba, which on all maps is the seat of the Mwanti Yaav.  It was a much bigger  deal than we realized at the time.

 

Map on the web reputed to be from 1889 showing the large size of the Mwata Yavo´s Kingdom with regard to the Portuguese Colony that would become Angola.  It basically covered the headwaters of the Zambesi, Kasaji and Cubango rivers.

Musumba--Kasaji, Zaire, Wednesday, April 20, 1983

(DAN) Protocol required that Mr. French have an audience with new Mwanti Yaav before we left Musumba. He, we repeat, is the chief of the Lunda tribe, remnant of the former Lunda empire that the Belgians found here. We had arrived too late in the afternoon yesterday, so we had to delay our start for Kasaji until after this occasion.

We sought to have everything ready before we went into the town, but as usual, there were 4 to 5 persons piled up to speak with Mr. French starting at 0700. For example, Mr. French had once bought a set of hippo teeth from an old friend, so now this friend showed up with another set (four huge teeth approximately a foot long) that he “had saved all these years just for Mr. French”, etc.

Finally he broke away, and Mr. French et sa suite (roughly equivalent to "his entourage") headed into town. This included the three of us, Pastor Muema, Ilunga, and on the way in the superintendent joined us. Now, we have been having trouble with Miss Ruth’s (the Land Rover) electrical system and had to push start it several times in our departure preparations. Mr. French made a mental note to park it on a hill in town. Our start was less than smooth in other ways. I had been trying to get the vehicle ready to go, loading the rack, pouring 6 “jerry cans” of gasoline into the tank, putting air into the tires, etc. By the time we headed for the audience, my clean, “ironed” tee shirt was completely soaked, I dried off and changed my shirt on the way in with six people in the car, but was unsuccessfully trying to tuck it in when we pulled up in front of the “palace.” We were now re­quired to descend in a dignified fashion and approach the building soberly--which is hard enough with your zipper zipped and belt buckled. However I managed to shield myself with the vehicle door.  I just hope the great chief was not looking on.

The palace itself is a large, European building in a state of deterioration set in a huge walled compound. There was a throne set up on the front porch with a huge leopard skin leading up to it. We were shown to an anteroom. In one corner of the long room was some European style furniture arranged in a “U”. We were led here to wait for the chief.

Before he appeared, the row of drums outside sounded, and the chief came out from his inner chambers. (I hope you appreciate that seldom do I get to trot out my “royalty vocabulary”.) The drums continued to sound until he sat down and even afterward because we had to yell and strain to hear for several minutes.

We have heard accounts from sunburned missionaries about the chief’s installa­tion, where for 2 1/2 hours a procession of minor chiefs had to approach him to show allegiance by touching both shoulders to the ground and snapping their finger in a certain way. However, we were informed that today we would only have to stand as he entered and shake hands respectfully. That is exactly what happened.

The chief is about 6 feet 6, slender with huge, manicured hands, and was dressed in a spanking crisp khaki safari suit. He did not have the Mobutu pin on, but on the other side of the room there was a picture of Mobutu on high. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought that it was mounted ever so slightly crooked. You have to appreciate that this chief is not only a full brother to Moise Tchombe of Katanga Separatist fame, he was also on “the other side” during the war in 1977.  It must be incredibly rankling to have to pay tribute to Mobutu. On the other hand it is surprising that Papa Mobutu allowed him to become chief.

After introductions including Mr. French’s by now well-rehearsed introduction of the two travelers, we all conversed a while.  (One of the subjects was for me a little disap­pointing to hear from such a chief.  He reminisced about Methodist missionaries, how he played with Howard Brinton when he was young, and then about when he was at the Methodist school in Mulungwishi (1934) at Muajinga. Also, his wife took care of some missionary children. That is really all I caught as most of the conversation was in Lunda.) I thought the conversation all seemed light and did not cover any of the meaty problems that surround the church and the Lunda Tribe. I guess that is why it is called a protocol visit.

Picture of the Mwanti Yaav taken within a year of our visit and sent to us by Mr. French.

Soon the chief stood, the drums sounded, and we were on our way out. I take it that the drums play as long as he is standing. As soon as we got out the door, we remembered that the vehicle, parked square in front of the building would need pushing. You never saw such a group attempt to push-start a vehicle and try to be dignified at the same time.

When we returned to the mission, there was another line waiting for Mr. French, but we finally pulled away at 1100 hrs. An early start would not usually be important, but we had found that the woman we brought groaning from the Sandoa dispensary had been diagnosed as having inoperable, incurable cancer. Dr. Frazer insisted that we take her back to Sandoa which would add two hours to the 9 hour trip. Fortunately, Mr. French had talked with Kasaji over the radio, and they knew we would be coming in late.

The trip was not so interesting retracing already covered land, but conversation with Mr. French seldom lags, as he reflects on 26 years of seeing things happen here.

Contemporary sketch map of the trip through Western Shaba (Katanga).

The woman we were carrying actually lived in Sandoa itself rather than out at Muajinga. Mr. French stayed at the crossroads while Ilunga and I drove the 20 kms in and back, and then we were on the way again. The woman’s case was really sad. I am sure that Dr. Frazer explained her condition to her, but every now and then she would speak, and Pastor Muema said she kept asking if she was going to die. I asked Ilunga what they told her, and he said, “We would never tell her that she is going to die! It only makes her cry.” We shared our food with her each time we stopped for a rest and tried to speak to her. But there she sat, naked above the waist with the wound in constant evidence. We did not even learn her name!

After all our worrying, we arrived in Kasaji only a little after 2100. After driving the 8 kms to the town and back (from the Catholic Mission) to deposit Pastor and Ilunga, it was 2200 when we finally drove into the beautiful grounds of the mission. Damian and Justin were already asleep, but Dale was up and sat with us while we ate a supper they had set by for us. They are Franciscan missionaries from the Chicago diocese. (Their address in Chicago is “The Franciscan Missionary Union”.) They are not only differ­ent from any other Catholic missionaries I’ve met, but very different amongst themselves.

Damian, the priest, has studied in Rome, taught medieval history for ten years in Rome and we found out nearly as we left that he is writing a medieval novel about friendship.   More specifically, it is a novel about Saints Francis and Claire. He has worked in Chicago where he was “Dale’s boss” before they came out here. Damian spends a lot of time talking to kids and has a small school for the polio-crippled children in Kasaji (among other things).  He is short and always wears a long-sleeved sweatshirt, even under his luxurious vestments at mass.

Dale is a “seminarian” and here as a “stager.” He has not quite finished his semi­nary studies but is out for two years on a program to see if he is meant for pastoral and missionary work. He and Damian (his sponsor) are the first participants in the en­tire program. Dale is about 6 feet 2, has broad shoulders and a big bushy black mustache.

Justin, the one who has been out here the longest is the lay brother in charge of all the physical aspects of the mission. He is extremely handy with radios, vehicles, solar power fixtures, passive hot water heaters, etc. He is also in charge of their hen yard, rabbit hutch, garden, etc., etc. I take it that he has done trouble shooting for missions all over Shaba. He is very close friends with Mr. French, and I think he conceived the idea of bringing him in to give the seminar these next couple of days.

From left Mr. French, Helena, Damian, Dale, Justin and several polio afflicted boys.  Kasaji Franciscan mission.

Kasaji – Katoka, Zaire, Thursday, April 21, 1983

(HELENA) While Dan and Mr. French were up to Chitazu, they got to discussing the idea of writing different agricultural missionaries to ask about their experience to see what they and others can learn from the past experiences. The first step in imple­menting that idea was for Dan to go see William Rew, the man he helped with his flipped-over trailer. Over breakfast after 6:15 mass Mr. French asked if we could borrow some gasoline from the mission in order to make the trip. They did not seem too enthusiastic, but offered to lend Dan a motorcycle and gasoline to make the trip. That meant he would have to go alone, so we fixed up a lunch and first aid kit, and off he went.

Meantime I stayed “home” and did a bit of washing while Mr. French prepared his lessons for the seminar. We had delicious pizza for lunch. The trio was finishing up by the time Mr. French and I got there. 

We started to worry a tiny bit about Dan, but he got back before nightfall, thus depriving us of the chance to worry seriously. It was good to see him arrive in good spirits, albeit with a scrape on his brow.

(DAN) Now the good brothers were understandably serious or cautious when they lent me the motorcycle. Only a few months ago another stager Mike, ruined his knee in a motorcycle accident, but I was eager to get started on the project so decided to take the chance.

The motorcycle, one of two identical ones, is a slick job, a Honda 110 trail bike for one passenger and with two sets of four gears. It is geared just right for the sandy, rutty road. The trip was typical of our east-west travel, cutting perpendicular to the river valleys, and alternately crossing ridges or river valleys. Admittedly, when one is riding a bike through sand, there is little time for scenery, but you cannot help but notice the beautiful termite hills, some as much as thirty feet high (conservative estimate), others with huge ancient trees growing out of the base. The most memorable were ones in an area of incredibly red soil. The hills were as red as a crayon, and as the sun got low, it would light up only the hill protruding from dark foliage. 

Tree growing from termite mound

The trip was, sadly, not without its bad moments. I was riding through an extended village, perhaps a trifle too fast, but the road was sandy, and to stay upright you have to maintain your speed. The road was just two wheel tracks. I was riding along in one track, and two little boys were riding a big bicycle ahead. Just before I came abreast they panicked and fell over directly into my path. I remember one kid lying on his back looking up at me. All I could do was “lay the bike over”, and the next thing I knew I was plowing a furrow with my helmet. It is an excellent helmet, but I still opened a cut above the eyebrow. The kids were certainly not hurt and escaped into the weeds. The motorcycle did not seem damaged and continued to run. I treated my forehead with merthi­olate from the first aid kit on my belt and set off very cautiously.

We found next day that the impact had cracked a piece that houses the emergency cut-off switch and bent the brake lever slightly. Justin had all the parts in stock, so I shall replace them through our brother in the States.

The rest of the trip was most pleasant. Now that the railroad does not cross into Angola, Katoka is another end-of-the-road place.  I timed it all nicely, arriving at lunch time, but I think that the Rews were glad to have a visitor.  I mentioned them back when they had the accident with the trailer outside of Kolwezi. They are Plymouth Brethren missionaries out of Scotland (actually Mr. Rew was born out here) and their church here is called the Garanganze church after some early tribe. Mr. Rew’s father started the Katoka station I believe in 1923, and one of them has always been there since. Until the Kolwezi war they had always had a large herd of improved local cattle, and since the late fifties have had success with fish ponds. They have not done this in a “develop­ment” sense, but to provide protein for the school, hospital, and themselves. I mean that they were not preoccupied with disseminating the information. In any case he has had a lot of practical experience in this ecosystem, and Mr. French and I thought it should be written down.  The soldiers and guerillas took all of the cattle and set the fish system back a number of years.

We had goat for lunch that had an interesting history. When news of the accident with the trailer filtered back to Katoka, it said that everybody had been killed. When they returned alive, “the people were so happy that they came to greet us and brought a goat.”

After lunch we headed down to see the dams, ponds and water system Mr. Rew had de­signed. Then we went to see where the cattle scheme had been. By that time it was 1500, and we had set 1530 for departure. Both Mr. Rew and Mary, the nurse, wanted me to see the hospital yet.

Low dam, part of Garanganze fish system destroyed by soldiers in 1977

It was something to behold! Katoka is only a station with a few villages around, but people come from Dilolo and Kasaji for treatment. There are hospitals and doctors in both those places, but no medicine, so they come here for treatment. They have a brand new ward for TB patients who can no longer walk. It was only inaugurated in December, but the 40 beds have been full ever since. There are 120 fairly serious TB patients who live in the village of huts around. There is a FULL maternity ward of about 40 beds, and maybe 40 beds scattered in different buildings around. There were many more people evidently waiting to get in. Mary is the only “diplomaed” person on a staff of 14, but I take it that they have all been well trained and have worked for many years in the Garanganze system.

One of the big problems is that the ‘77 war disrupted treatment of many T. B. pa­tients, and they are now resistant to the treatment.

Before I left, we went over to Mary’s house for tea and scones. I had to smile at the pictures of the Prince and Princess Di. Overall it was good I had made the trip. They mentioned that they almost never get outside visitors, and I overheard Mr. Rew comment, surprised, that Mrs. Rew had put on a Sunday dress.

The Rews, Garanganze mission.

As I was leaving the house, I could not help noticing that there was a large stack of maga­zines with unmistakable covers with paintings of Scotland by a Mr. Campbell. When I commented to Mrs. Rew, she said, “Oh, we always get People’s Friend; it has such nice stories.” (Ed: Agreed![1]) The trip back was uneventful, though I was in a hurry to get back before dark.

Kasaji, Zaire, Friday, 22 April, 1983

(HELENA) I kind of enjoy starting the day with a bell-call at 5:45, a mass at 6:15, and breakfast at 6:50. Damian does a good job with the Swahili mass, even though I have always been against so much routine ceremony. There really is something to sitting in a church building (this one is a huge brick structure) and seeing the sun come up.

Today they inaugurated the seminar. I should have attended to see what I could  learn about raising rabbits and chickens, but I decided I could better use my time by writing some letters; I actually wrote six! I figure that I had better answer our last batch of letters before arriving in Kolwezi to get even farther behind.

Mr. French was in charge of the morning session. One of the reasons they were hold­ing it there at the mission was because of the rabbits and chickens that Justin has. Later in the afternoon Dan took me to see the big room with some 30 rabbits of varying sizes and breeds. There were some mighty cute little ones and the most impressive was a huge one named... SUPER MACHO. A lot of them are named, and each cage is well labeled, complete with the name of each rabbit’s father and mother. For supper we ate one of the rabbits (first time for me--DELICIOUS) and we all had to laugh when Justin told us that he had run out of names, so he had started naming the females after the nuns who live next door and after the Spanish nuns in Kafakumba.

The Kasaji nuns (there are five of them, all above 45 years of age) are a very small Belgian nursing order. Damian was saying that at one time they fulfilled a need, but now that things have changed, the order is dying out.  None of them has degrees, and although they are kept very busy, they have no intention of teaching local people to take over once they have left. That makes their purposes very different from those of the Franciscans who are trying to get the lay people to take over more responsibility.  In fact they can be quite blunt about telling people that if they want something done (such as fixing the school house roof) THEY will have to do the work, pay for it, and organize it. Some of the buildings belonging to the church are in terrible shape because although the missionaries have no money problems, they insist that the parishioners should do it.

We wazungus had lunch together with three of the head men in the seminar. Mean­while no one else had lunch, so let me tell you it was a rather uncomfortable meal. They did not want to set a precedent for feeding the participants. Afterward, Mr. French commented that none of us should have eaten.

Pastor Mwema was in charge of the afternoon session on gardening theory. He started in French, but when he switched to Swahili,  I decided I needed some fresh air and exercise (and how) so I took a walk to the river in the late afternoon. It is a small river, but at the place where I went, it rushes over boulders forming some really pretty water falls. It was a beautiful walk on a well-worn path through tall grass and trees,  lots of them surrounded by the tall termite hills. I met a lot of people, and I even­tually got quite uninhibited about greeting “Jambo,” “Jambo sana.”

                                                                                                              Kasaji, Zaire April 23, 1983
 

(DAN) I missed most of the morning seminar because I was helping Justin fix the motorcycle. It was not all THAT complicated, but we kept getting interrupted. The agenda was a visit to the Catholic church garden and fields. Helena went along, but it was mostly in Swahili.

In the afternoon Mr. French gave a talk on storage and pest control and then there was a period for general discussion on topics such as rabies. The entire seminar was geared toward improving food production and diet without a lot of outside input. The way the economy is at present, it will be a long time before one can afford to depend on commercial fertilizer and pesticides. Yesterday they wanted Mr. French to talk about imported chickens, but “poultry science” as it is known in the States is just not prac­tical. Most of the feed has to be brought in from Zambia; the only poultry feed grown locally is corn and peanuts, and they are expensive enough as food for direct human consumption.

Here at the mission they use “African” chickens with “improved” roosters, but with their system they only have to supplement some grain for the layers. They have a large hen yard, but for a couple of hours daily they allow the chickens to roam the mission lawn and garden. In the yard itself they have a compost heap about 25 feet in diameter surrounded by a low wicker fence. Here they put much of the human garbage and the refuse from the rabbits. The chickens can use some of what neither the rabbits nor people can use, and they most certainly can use the insects that break all of this down. The chickens keep the compost all stirred up, as they will, and there was no odor at all in the vicinity. You do need to vaccinate chickens when using this system, so everybody got a chance to vaccinate a bird.

The seminar finished at 1500, and we spent the rest of the afternoon in conversation with the good brothers. That night after a tremendous lasagna that Damian learned to cook in Rome, we had popcorn and “pop” and talked until late. Mr. French really gets along with them both in their methods and their outlook. The Franciscans   are operat­ing on the principle that they have five years at the most to work here before the country changes drastically in some way. Mr. French suspects privately for various reasons that Damian is a “think tank” sent out here by the order, mainly to analyze the situation and formulate strategy for future work. He thinks that this attempt at coopera­tion with the Methodists in the seminar and in other areas is an experiment that is being watched from “above”.  Another example of the cooperation and the free hand the good brothers have is that in the large area for which they are responsible, there is already a Methodist dispensary. They want to cooperate and back it. They are even willing to help in the TASK of importing and providing the medicine stock. This idea is unpopular with local Catholics including Zairois priests. I take it that their revolutionary ideas are not popular with the Belgian missionaries in Zaire, either.

Kasaji--Kolwezi, Zaire Sunday, 24 April, 1983

(HELENA) No early mass this morning. Damian went into Kasaji itself (Kasaji-Gare, since it is on the railway) to celebrate mass, and I think that Justin went also. The rest of us stayed to get things ready so we could leave IMMEDIATELY after the 9:30 service at the Methodist church in town. Dale stayed around, too, getting ready to receive still more guests. Among other things he went on his motorcycle to bring big jugs of drinking water from a spring. He was also preparing to travel to Lubumbashi tomorrow with Damian and some 12 children crippled by polio. We actually did have everything packed and in Miss Ruth before going to church, but we would have to return to the mission to pick up some rabbits.

We arrived at the church just on time, and the service started right on time. Amazingly, church services seem to start promptly here. Naturally they had to lead us past everyone to seats of honor clear at the front of the church. There was a very proper usher who showed everyone to his or her seat carrying a sign which said

ACHA MAKELELE

or “be quiet” in Swahili. In fact he walked around the whole service keeping order in the ranks. Finally we got up our nerve (or I should say “Dan did”) to get pictures of the choir, the pastor, and even of the offering procession. (DAN adds) Helena did not mention that when they had the offering procession, they had her come up front to hold the basket for the “visitors’ contributions.”

Helena with the "visitor´s offering".

Once again the choirs were special.  On the left side sat a rather unimpressive choir of just. five voices, but on the right our eyes were bedazzled by a larger choir dressed in diagonally striped robes of yellow and brown with flowers with yellow sleeves and pockets. Usually they would sing an introduction while seated, then they would stand and sing at full volume. They had some really imaginative arrangements and (may I say it?) NO ELECTRIC GUITARS. One of their pieces started off with only a mellow drum, then a man sang alone, and he was finally joined by everyone else. The tutti sections were normally accompanied by several counter melodies. In the midst of one of his prayers, the pastor led a song: he sang alone (his voice was a little weak sounding, but very pleasant and effective), the congregation responded in several voices, and at times his and their voices would interlock. I am very tempted to send the Frenches several cass­ettes and ask them to record hymns for me. Beautiful! Everyone I have talked with agrees, but they tell me that the words are petty, and they need help in getting songs with deeper theological meaning. Dan and were impressed with the way all of the little tiny kids sing out with treat enthusiasm and confidence.

Kasaji  choir.

What with one thing and another, we finally left Kasaji two hours after the service ended. No matter how determined Mr. French is, he finds time to talk to people.

For this, our last leg (it felt as if we were going home, a feeling we do not have very often these days) we were accompanied by the wife and baby of a teacher. Dan, Mr. French, and Ilunga took turns driving for one hour stretches. As Mr. French said, “I think I’ll SCREAM if we hit one more bump.” We were followed by the truck from Kapanga, and they even had to wait for us once when we stopped to have a cup of coffee in the middle of the road. I would say that on these long trips we take, we never get passed by a vehicle, and we meet one, two, or maybe three during the whole day.

We knew we would be cutting it pretty close on the gasoline supply, so Justin lent us a gerry-can full. Whew! Otherwise we would have been stuck some 60 kms out of Kol­wezi. We arrived at 21:00 hrs. Mr. French had been afraid that the soldiers would bother us, but they let us through with no problem. Mrs. French greeted us with supper AND a mirror with letters taped around the edges. We had asked over the radio from Kasaji if we had any mail waiting, and Mrs. French said, “The whole house smells of perfume.” All day we wondered who had a perfumed letter from whom.  Sure enough at least our room reeked of it. But, clever us, since even Don Bobiash’s letter (Canadian we met in Dakar) had been perfumed, we knew it had been done by the postal clerk.

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[1] My mother has subscribed to People´s Friend since a package arrived at our house in Caranavi, Bolivia by mistake.  The package had been addressed to some “Caravan”, Boolabong, Australia…