Miracle # 2: Africa, A Testament to Survival and Love

My second brush with the miraculous occurred eleven years later in the Congo. Some of you who have already read this post can understand why this story merits a description of miraculous. For those who have not read this story, get ready for a wild ride.

In the winter of 1989/1990, I undertook to ride a mountain bike from London, England to Capetown, South Africa. Crossing Africa alone by bicycle proved a daunting endeavour. Each leg of the arduous journey offered significant trials and tribulations. The rendering of this tale will prove trying The reason this is a difficult story to recount is due to the fact, that in the 20 or so years since these events occurred, I may have told this story only four or five times. Also, I have never taken a pen to record the events. However, the depth of challenges that unfolded in the Zaire jungle those days long past forever changed my life.

The location of this event was a small village about 150 north of Kisangani in the country of Zaire. Slick, undulating, mud roads which carved a path through the dense jungle (calling them roads is most generous) were horrific. Loaded with potholes, fallen trees, deep water bogs and obstacles most vehicles were lucky to accomplish 30 to 40 KM each day of travel. Luckily short of a motorcycle, my mountain bike proved nearly a perfect mode of transport. For example, a good day would see me manage about 75km (Yay, the only time ever I experienced a bike to outtravel a truck). Two days cycling removed from the riverside city of Kisangani where I had rested for one week, I was already knackered. 

The jungle has a way of zapping one's energy. Humidity, the constant need for vigilance, and regular rains render clay loam soil slick as an ice rink. These formidable obstacles represented only a smidgeon of the daily challenges needed to endure the journey. Tack on malaria, dysentery, bowel infections, intestinal parasites, and an assortment of other ailments, it is easy to understand how a cyclist travelling alone can easily become overwhelmed.

The sun was casting a red glow over the dense forest canopy. The darkening jungle announced the end of a long day in the saddle. Fortune favoured me this lovely evening whereby as my day ended I spied a small village nestled proximal to a river winding along a lush ravine. Such fortuitous village locations conveniently poised at the end of a difficult day's ride were always most welcome. So much more pleasurable it was to have the good luck to spend a night in a village, instead of just setting up a lonely tent amid the wild, dense, noisy jungle. 

Unfortunately, I am unable to recall the name of the tiny village. In the blur of a cross-continent trip, such details need to be recorded in a travel log. In fact, I did at one time have a log of this journey, however, it was appropriately stolen years later. I say appropriately, because, when crossing Africa, theft is a regular occurrence, so why not also lose the records. In any event, the names of the people and their quaint village retreat have long since become lost in time. What remains etched in the annals of my mind are memories of faces, smells, sounds and the many lessons learned.

Coasting slowly down the winding mountain road, a mix of villagers, mostly children, started screaming out welcome. Before long, the odd shout became a small din as a throng of villagers amassed at the village square. For those who have never travelled to similar destinations, it should be noted that in remote jungle regions like the Congo, it is unbelievable how loving and giving the local people are. 

As soon as it became understood I was fluent in French, the children grew excited. Belting out an endless array of questions, their excitement, like a screaming teapot, began boiling over. So many questions rang out as one chorus that it was nearly impossible to understand any specific query. Excited as the children were, it proved only a few moments before the adults capably reigned in the cackling mass enabling me to finally communicate directly with each in turn. 

Arriving at these remote villages, with all the attention instantly showering down, makes you feel like a rock star or a shiny new sports athlete. Additionally, you must understand this village was not a unique experience. Everywhere across the continent, I was received with much the same exuberant, overzealous, star-crazed mannerisms. The cities in many African countries are dangerous you definitely need your wits about you, but the villages are rarely short of wondrous.

Approaching the village core, passing the odd thatch hut dotting the outskirts, children's shouts drew the attention of the village elder who quickly made his way toward the growing group. With a nod and a slight wave, the elder invited me to speak my peace. We conversed for a few moments, embraced, and he then asked me to enjoy a smoke before the village women prepared the evening meal. Excited, cackling children gathered around as much as were permitted. The men, amounting to a good twenty or so, sat down with the elder and myself to commune over a few pipes of premium ganja. In the backdrop of our conversation, I could hear the girls and women bustling about in preparation for a special feast to honour their newly arrived guest. 

Much debate soon swelled over the quality of our smoke. Although impressed with the ganja I had lit up, the elder, in an earnest attempt to not be outdone, shouted a few words to a boy who instantly sped off in service. Moments later, the same young boy appeared with a small bongo, a pipe, as well, about three pounds of marijuana. The elder insisted I take these items as a gift. "So that you may remember my people, our village." Having previously found myself in similar situations, I knew it was proper etiquette to refuse the gesture as merely a gift without recompense. 

"This gift is too rich I said. Possibly, I might gift you some sugar, coffee beans, or other market supplies". The elder agreed which was his tactful way of initiating the bartering process.

It may seem odd to be offered a gift, and then find oneself bartering over the cost. However, in the spirit of Congolese trade, such a process was the expected natural progression. After a few pipes and much debate, we both felt pleased to have established a fair trade price, which was the equivalent of nearly $12 US dollars.

Dinner, served by the fire, had the elder sat next to me so that he might ensure I was amply fed and cared for. During the meal, he would continually review my plate, and then make demands upon some of the women to ensure I sampled everything in just the right order. Of course, he insisted each offering was always piping hot. While I stayed with the tribe over the next few days, without fail, the elder continued the same process of gentle, but determined, care for every meal. 

Indeed, we all enjoyed a wonderful meal. The conversation was unique, eclectic, and flavourful as was the food, as enchanting as the village lifestyle. Having completely satisfied my hunger, a freshly stoked fire proved a warm companion to hot coffee and the obligatory few pipes.

Storytelling continued throughout the night, me answering and asking, countless questions in a mutual effort to learn of each other's lifestyles, habits, and customs. Well into the evening, the forest ecosystem created a subtle din against the backdrop of stories. The company, as well as the environment, proved utterly surreal, and otherworldly in so many ways. The recanting of rich village legends provided fodder for a night of amusement one could not find anywhere else in the world. As if it were yesterday, I can remember the full moon as it cast a lovely glow on the flora, the sensational vista adding to a euphoric sense of goodwill.

Late in the evening, the villagers ambled off to bed. By the time the chief decided he had enough libations, smoke, and food maybe a half dozen of us were left seated by the glowing embers. Standing up, rubbing his belly with a sense of great pleasure, he urged me to follow him to the hut his wife had prepared for my evening sleep. Opening the wooden door to the small hut provided to me, proved extravagant, probably only one of five or six village huts was constructed with a door. The hut floor was clearly freshly swept, and a small but robust blanket lay neatly folded at the end of the crafted wooden bed. Like the door, very few of the huts had a bed, mostly, the villagers would sleep on a woven mat.

The hut was round, crafted of straw, and woven from leaves of some unrecognisable ilk. Obviously, this was a sturdily abode firmly cemented by well-placed mud. Each village hut seemed rather small. Mine proved a tad larger than the average. Once inside, I noted that it was large enough for the wooden bed, and next to the bed a makeshift table. On either side of the bed about two feet or so to spare, as well, as three to four vacant feet at the foot. Quickly, in answer to the cool night air, I unfolded my sleeping bag and settled in for a restful night's sleep. Before dozing off, the compulsory orchestra of jungle fauna lulled me into a warm reverie. The sounds of the midnight jungle are something I would so love to hear again.

Morning comes early in the jungle. About one hour before sunrise the birds wake seemingly happy to commence the AM orchestra. Not long after, the monkeys join in the chorus, Undoubtedly, the monkeys feel it is their ordained task to ensure not one soul, human or otherwise, is left dilly-dallying in dreamland. Once all the critters join the morning jamboree, any person with a heart would agree, that there truly is no better way to greet the day.

Lounging in my bed, I hear a steady flow of little feet bounding around my hut. Chirping banter blended with endless giggles, undoubtedly intended to stir me to rise. What a wonderful accompaniment to the forest choir of equally restless critters. Anxious, the children are, to take advantage of the early hour. Each morning of my stay, the children do their best to entice me to show my face before the elders catch up to their shenanigans. The kids know all too well, as soon as an elder catches them out they will be cautioned to leave me to rest in peace. 

It was unlikely anyone could peacefully rest in light of the din created by howling monkeys greeting a new day.

We enjoyed breakfast as one great family, coffee and fruit accompanied by baked cassava treats. Rounding off breakfast is the passing ganja pipe. The men resolved to chatter away an extra morning hour over a second cup of coffee and three or four pipes. Whilst the men lounge, the women chase the children to do chores while bus themselves with various early morning tasks. This first morning as village guests, the men were excited about the prospects for an afternoon hunt. Village scouts had reported the game on the move. I wished to participate in the hunt but was not offered and therefore would never presume to ask.

I did, however, have the opportunity to join in the late-morning village prayers and dances. Offerings to the hunting Gods were made with thanks for a safe and successful hunt. Looking into their eyes as they offer prayers, you can see the manifestation of intent. Such concentrated focus would be the envy of any, new age, intention group around the globe today. It was worthy of note, that the villagers did not offer prayers in hopes of success, instead choosing to offer prayers of thanks. This is an important part of manifesting intent, any good Shaman would tell you that it is not right to beg or ask for something from the Gods. Instead, one must first know the Gods will give you what you want, for this reason, thanks are given for their blessings before actually receiving the bounty. 

Many years later, I remember reading the teachings of Don Juan Matus, a great South American Shaman. Tears came to my eyes when I read Carlos Castaneda's illustration of the identical manifestation process as exercised in a rain dance.

Instead of attending the hunt, I made afternoon arrangements to join eight young village girls on a fishing trip. The trip was quite a learning experience for me, as much as it was for the young girls, who were thrilled to spend time with a foreigner. Their excitement makes more sense when you understand that, due to their status as girls, they are rarely allowed such privilege. As awesome and beautiful as village life is, it is very misogynistic. The men enjoy the best of life, the boys next, thirdly the women, and finally the young girls. As a result, young girls expect little more than a continual stem of chores. 

The little time they are afforded for pleasure is almost completely spent among themselves. Exciting events affording contact with a travelling visitor are almost solely the domain of the men. If the men were on the hunt or occupied the boys would be next in line to gain the traveller's attention. The women would get the pleasure of serving the guests and, in doing so gain contact. The girls, however, seldom found themselves within the warmth of such a privileged spotlight.

Knowing the low status of village girls, it is easy to imagine how excited they were to have me along for the fishing trip. Making our way down the river, maybe a kilometre or so, the girls danced, sang, giggled and frolicked for all they were worth. Having arrived at the perfect bend in the river, they prefaced their afternoon fishing with a welcome swim. I was anxious to discover what they had in mind for fishing gear, especially as they had no fishing poles, nets, hooks or line. By my reckoning, their fishing gear consisted of half a dozen five-gallon plastic buckets.

Perplexed as I was to engage in their technique, while they frolicked on the river I spent a few moments gearing up with my rod and reel. I had brought my mini tackle box, enough gear to catch most smaller fish. I anticipated hooking up a few worms or bugs if the fish didn't hit on artificial lures. Having rigged my fishing line with the most likely lure for success, I started a pipe, then waded into the river for a brief dip hoping to cut through the early afternoon heat. 

The girls were, pretending to be rapt in swimming. However, for the most part, they seemed more transfixed by relishing the chance to witness my every action.

I thought to myself, maybe they expect me to catch the fish and fill their empty buckets. Well, I cast and cast my lures, trying all kinds of widgets and gadgets to no avail. The girls found the entire scene very amusing. Delighting in my fishing methodology, we all had fun as they guffawed at my expense. After about an hour of fishing in the hot sun, one of the girls brought me some fresh papaya. The fresh papaya is an absolutely fantastic fruit for reviving the senses. Finishing my fruit, I lit a pipe relaxing by the shore watching the morning sun dabble diamonds across the winding river.

Finally, the girls commenced working, after all, they were here to fish. With much amusement, it was my turn to voyeur their fishing techniques. Proximal to the apex of the river elbow was a small marshy area about 25 feet in diameter. The young girls were using the plastic buckets to dam off a small portion of the river. Perplexed, I watched as they effectively engineered a river diversion which proved enough to fill the marsh waist-deep. Understand, this endeavour was no small feat. There were nine girls, seven of whom were dispatching buckets of mud for the other two girls to construct a small dam. 

It took about two hours of steady work until they filled and sealed the small marshy bog. Like all the villagers who I offered assistance to the girls refused to let me help. Relegated to the role of observer, I sat back reading my favourite book, smoking my pipe, and enjoying the jungle fruit brought to me with regularity. Having completed the reservoir, the girls sat with me to enjoy lunch. 

Endless chatter, questions, and good times were had by all.

We sang songs, ate lunch, and then splashed around in the river laughing and giggling. Work recommenced just as the sun was passing its apex. Phase two of the fishing trip involved the girls using the same buckets to empty the gooey swamp. Singing songs of praise and thanks, they laboured tirelessly for about two hours until all that was left was a quagmire of mud shin-deep to all but the eldest girls. One girl was assigned to maintain the dam's integrity while six others skittered about yelping and screaming with joy and excitement as they seized their prey. The other two girls remained steadfast in bucketing the mud onto the banks while keeping a keen eye for any sign of flopping prey. 

The day ended with the dam broken up to allow the river to ebb into the quagmire. Before long, the river effortlessly cleared the remaining debris from the slew leaving little sign they were ever there.

For their reward, the young girls caught about 150 fish, the largest of which was maybe four or five inches long. They had managed to fill about one-third of a five-gallon pail. Making their way back to the village, excitement reflected upon their faces, you would imagine they had caught 200 pounds of fresh salmon. The joy and sincere gratitude those girls exuded that day brought tears of love to my eyes.

Upon our return to village life, the entire village proved a beehive of activity. The men were astir with tales of a successful hunt as they cleaned and oiled their spears or stalked their quivers of arrows. The women were busy with chores while the young girls were cleaning fish and bounding with excitement for the coming festivities. The odd elder carefully instructed some young boys how to skin and butcher game. 

Ladies, who had busied themselves preparing all sorts of loaves of bread and side dishes, were now setting the tables for the evening feast. The entire village was abuzz with excitement.
Indescribable was the vast assortment of tastes and textures. After a hard day watching the girls fish, this time of quiet reflection proved the perfect tonic.

Leaving the dinner table behind, the men led a slow migration back to the main firepit just as the setting sun brought a cool reprieve. Smoke billowing from a well-stocked pipe, a few stories proved a perfect segue toward the Sunday evening village commune. 

The Chief, or elder if you like, asked me to join him in offering prayers of thanks for the bounty the earth has provided his humble village. We sang psalms of praise, then prayed under a canopy of straw thatch community gathering hut. Comforting was the steady breeze passing through the unwalled building Carried upon the night air a buffet of jungle aromas, coupled with the light din of village life everything seemed surreal, Edenic. Looking around I could see the entire village, perhaps sixty or so comfortably seated upon benches, stumps, or thatch rugs. Before the altar, the 150 or so villagers crowded around the structure's perimeter. Sights, sounds, and smells were euphoric, indeed my world had truly become a paradise of love.

Settled back in a comfy chair, the fire cast a warm glow enhancing the many stories and pipes to follow. One of the men asked about my fishing trip inquiring about my success. I admitted I had no luck, but extolled the grand success of the girls. Everyone around the fire laughed robustly, obviously finding that it was amusing the girls outfished the foreigner. We talked about fishing in the area and they told me of a sacred lake. I mentioned that I wish I had the time to go there and try my luck. My commentary invoked a fresh round of hearty laughter. Perplexed, I asked what they found so funny. They said you can't fish there, it is forbidden and you would not catch fish if you spent a lifetime trying. 

I asked why no fish could be caught in this lake? 

I was told that this was a special and magical lake. When I probed into the nature of the lake's magic, the chief informed me that if I were to cast a net or a line toward the water then the water would run away. Please explain I said. He told me the water would always run away every time I approached its presence. If you try to take from the lake for water or food it will surely run away and give you nothing. To this, I replied, I need a few more pipes. 

The fire almost consumed and wood became coal leaving the cooling ash to end what was a perfect day.


I woke early embracing the love of the few who stirred, I felt sorrow at the knowledge I would soon leave this beautiful village family. I say village family because all the elders treat all the children just like their own. Also, all the children respect and love all the elders and consider each elder a parent. 

The result of this heightened community bonding is confusing when you hear one man speaking to twenty or so children referencing each child as my son or daughter. Conversely, each child would refer to each elder as a father or mother making it appear like one child has many fathers.

In fact, this is the essence of their demeanour. They are a family of 200. Imagine, if all people around the world treated their neighbour as a sibling or a parent How easy it would be to find love replacing the corporate fear paradigm.

I digress...,

The morning passed in a flash. We shared a meal and coffee with ample fragrant pipes. Having packed my bicycle panniers, I made a sorrowful farewell to my new family.

Or so I thought.

For those who may be thinking that continental cycling sounds like paradise. Or maybe you are considering buying a Trek 900 mountain bike to cross Africa. Let me say, you have no idea how gruelling cycle touring can be. For example, in Zaire alone, I suffered malaria, intestinal infections, bowel infections, parasitic attacks, and dysentery so bad I shit myself at least four or five times in a single day of cycling. When I saw my doctor back in Canada, he told me my insides would never be the same, twenty years later his sage words have been proven right. For those brave souls who disregard my warning, you will find divine synchronicity between your survival needs and the graceful love with which these villagers are prepared to offer respite.

Back to the story.

The sun has just passed its apex as I start the climb out of the ravine. Looking back, I see bright faces, and waving arms. The road is in good shape here, proximal to the village it is often used. I appreciate the relatively smooth surface for the two kilometres needed to reach the top of the little mountain I am navigating out of the valley. 

My muscles feel good from the rehydration of my body over the last few days. The recent abundance of good food has helped to curb dysentery, so all is about as good as it gets for the start of a long day of riding. Halfway up the long incline a couple of young men, in their twenties or so, offered to help push me up the mountain. For those who don't know, an extra source of income is derived from the boys and young men who push trucks, landrovers, and motorcycles out of mud holes. Cleaning of said vehicles after muddy ordeals is another service often rendered. Providing fruit and food while the pushing and cleaning are done is yet another opportunity for the villagers to acquire, what I call, sugar money.

I was happy for the assistance, especially because my muscles were not yet warmed. We progressed up the mountain around a couple of bends. The last few hundred yards from the top I heard a metal ping sound. Something metal had dropped from my bike landing precisely on a large rock. I looked behind to see only one man standing on the road about twenty feet from the bike. 

Where was the other fellow?

I looked closely at him, for some reason he looked scared. As my eyes spied the bicycle panniers I noticed they were all open and emptied. In stealing my belongings he had dropped my spoke key. It is a fairly heavy solid steel tool and probably one of the only things in my bag that could have made such a distinct noise. If anything else had fallen from my bag onto the rock I likely would have never discovered their plot. Or, even if the spoke key had landed in the mud or sandy dirt the alarm would have never been sounded. 

There was a moment of disbelief as I spied on him as he latched his gaze upon me. Then, in unison, the moment passed, he bolted down the road disappearing around the bend.

( Reader, please note that I had been robbed seven other times in Africa, once at knifepoint in a nasty little cafe in Tetuan Morocco. Three times I was robbed in the capital of Nigeria, Lagos. A good reason why the Canadian consulate warns you about Lagos )

Instinct kicked in and I dropped my bike and raced after the culprit. Fast as a rabbit, he had a good head start and I never expected to catch him, but I had to try. As misfortune would have it, he made a poor choice. He ran down the hill, around the bend and yet another 100 yards farther down the road to a second bend. There he stood on the apex of the bend looking intently to see if I was to come. Who knows why he didn't just get around the corner and hide in the jungle. Ten feet into the jungle he would have been as hidden as a ghost.

Even at a distance of one hundred yards, I could see his eyes light up in fear as he saw me barreling toward him at full speed. This was not his lucky day, the young man made a second crucial mistake. Instead of making a getaway in the dense jungle, he stayed on the road. Running down the mountain for all he was worth was a fool's errand.

Cresting the corner where he once stood, I was rapidly catching him. Realising I had made up more than half the one-hundred-yard distance between us, I doubled my effort. If he buckled down and ran hard he probably still would have made his escape. Instead, he kept looking back over his shoulder and, by doing so, slowed himself down considerably. I was just about to grab his shirt when, with absolute abandon, he dove headfirst into the jungle. Close as I was, I was not about to relent. Without a pause, I leapt off the roadway into the jungle precipice. 

The ground fell from beneath my feet and I soon found myself tumbling head over feet down the steep mountain ravine. Before long, I came to rest about 150 yards down the slope. Much to his dismay, I had landed firmly on my thief as we both had crashed into the same tree. As I said, this was not a day for him to enjoy good fortune. 

( Please understand reader I am not a violent man, to this point in my life I have been involved in only one fight, and that was on the hockey ice. )

Ashamed as I am to say, we fought for our lives, I beat him until I could no longer raise my hand. I took off his belt, tied his arms behind his back, and then told him he was going to drag me back up this gnarly slick ravine. We reached the road and navigated our way back to the bicycle. Using rope stashed in my front pannier, I loosened the belt securing his hands behind his back, then commenced retying his hands. We were both terribly fatigued and sweaty, my guard was down allowing him to make one last effort at escape. Without pause, he jumped on my mistake. Slipping his hand free, he lunged at me biting my lip. 

My God, we were attached! 

No matter what I did, I could not get him to release his maniacal grip. I poked and pushed my fingers in his eyes but to no avail. I grabbed him by his pants, literally lifting him up and kneeing him in the balls, three, or four times, and still, he would not relent. Clamping on his forehead with one hand and his chin with the other, I braced myself and then yanked my lip out of his mouth. Finally, I was free, but I knew I had left behind a large chunk of my lip. Falling back in delirium, he came at me again, I parried his attack then rolled him off to the side. Straddled across his torso, I pounded him senseless. Filled with rage, I deliberately selected portions of his face to pummel. The nose, and orbital bone over the right eye were both broken. Just as I was about to slam my fist into his jaw, he slipped away to the side causing me to lose balance.

Flashing his big white teeth, he made another vicious attack on my face. Placing my hand in front of my face for protection I was fortunate to protect my chin or lip from being ravaged by his, fast approaching, chompers. Unsuccessful he was clamping onto my face again, however, his ultimate attack did yield a prize. My index finger was caught in a vice-like grip. The skin tore, followed by my finger-snapping excruciatingly in his mouth. With my free hand, I poked at his eyes while yanking my trapped hand as hard as I could. Feeling my skin peel back, I knew he had consumed another chunk of flesh. 

We both fell to the ground, him in tatters, I covered in blood. 

Much to my surprise, he quickly rose. Leaving me on the ground trying, with my good hand, to stem the steady flow of blood from my hand and face. Again, I watched as he started his way down the mountain. But now, his escape was more a stumble than a run.

I had given it all I could, yet somehow he defeated me. Rolling over on my side, I watched as he fled. With blurred vision, I noticed the rope that I had tied to his wrist was trailing behind him while he attempted to escape. With one last ounce of effort, I picked myself up and began pursuing. His stumbling turned into a slow run after seeing me renew my chase. Before long,  I was closing in on my prey. 

My eyes were intently fixated on that damn rope. Bouncing in a weird jerking pattern off the dirt road, it called me forth. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as I bent down to pick up the prize. With deadly malicious intent, I drew in the slack. As soon as the slack was taken up, I anchored my feet, begged my weight against the rope then, with all the viciousness I could muster, yanked on that rope for all I was worth. His arm made a loud pop as it dislocated. The force of the break of his momentum was so severe his body contorted almost entirely horizontally before he collapsed in utter agony onto the ground.

Without pause or reflection, I jumped upon him. Like the devil himself, I stared him straight in the eyes then said 

"Tu est mort". 

Wrapping the cordage around his neck, I pulled with all my might. With eyes bulging, his face took on the colour and look of death. Just at this very moment of rampant madness, the moment of his demise, the sounds of two village boys reached my reptilian brain.  

"Arretez, Arretez". they screamed.

The fog of insanity passed, the children had awakened me to the dreadful realisation that I was killing a man. As if the rope were scorching ambers, I let the ends fall to the ground. Bewildered, I rolled over and then helplessly sobbed in the dirt. I could hear the man gasping for breath in the still moments when sanity slowly returned.

He was alive, thank God.

Although it seemed like an eternity, likely it was only two or three minutes before I rolled the young man over, hogtied him, and then told the boys to help him to the village chief. Arriving back at the bicycle, I sat down and then uncontrollably wept in despair, gratitude, and horror. Recovering my composure, I made my way coasting down the hill. Before I could reach the village, many people ran to me offering aid. My white T-shirt was covered in blood, a good part of my lip was missing and my throbbing finger gushed. 

None of us could comprehend what this event would bring to this loving village. Adrenalin gave way to shock as, in a fog, I was led to the same hut I had used the past few days.

The Chief's wife soon arrived to offer two squares of gauze and a cracked mirror. Looking into the mirror a horrific mess reflected back. Vanity took me over, all I could see was a future with a partially missing lip. 

Then I thought, what is all this biting about?

My lip and my finger, no punches thrown just chomping teeth. 

Does he have aids? 

Knowing Zaire is dealing with a national aids crisis, my mind quickly reeled toward a new set of fears. 

Have I been doomed to their fate?

I was losing my mind!.

The elder Chief opened the door to my hut, and we talked for a long while. He was grief-stricken. He told me of the great shame his sons had brought upon his village. Weeping uncontrollably, he disclosed how quick interrogation of the captive had revealed three young men were working together to affect the robbery. He mentioned that he had dispatched all the men and boys to search the jungle. Looking me straight in the eyes, he assured me they would not stop until they found the other two men. Additionally, he mentioned how he had sent their quickest boy to a larger village twelve kilometres away to get the Gendarme ( police ) so the thieves might be taken away to get their rightful justice. Leaving the hut, he assured me food and drink would be brought. 

"Please, try to take the medicine my wife will offer. Eat, drink, then rest until the police arrive."

The afternoon passed, a healing poultice was made for my lip. Whatever it was, it performed excellently in stemming the bleeding and promoted quick mending of the torn tissue. Also, the balm froze the area, like at a dentist, but not quite as much. I ate and drank what I could for dinner, but my demeanour was solemn. It broke my heart to find myself involved in such a sordid affair. But also I was hurt and very angry at what had befallen me. Trapped I was in a bundle of confused feelings, none of them good.

Where was the love and euphoria of that morning?

After dinner, I sat with some of the elders over a few pipes, the mood was very sombre. The chief elder asked that I pray with him and a few others. We went to the prayer lodge asking for blessings of grace. The chief later turned to me and said, 

"Although I have lost three sons, I discovered one son is of my blood ". "His position in the village carries great responsibility. His sin is one I cannot forgive, he is no longer my son". 

Tears welled in both our eyes as the gravity of his loss consumed us both. We returned to the fire and quietly smoked some pipes before parting for the night. Making my way back to my hut, the moon was still full but the glow on the flora was not to be seen. I was trying to read my journal when, just as I was putting out my pipe, the Police knocked on the door. Hiding my weed, I scurried like a scolded child as I answered their call. The night was late, the fatigued Gendarmerie was not happy. 

(As it turned out the only vehicle in their village was owned by the police chief, He was away until the next day, so they had to walk the twelve kilometers to answer the call.)

They asked me to join them in the elder's hut to describe the events. "What happened", they inquired.

I told them everything, including my attempted murder on the thief's life. When they asked what was missing, I paused, then lied. As much as I could account for, I told them everything I knew was missing. However, I also told them five hundred U.S. dollars rolled up in a film container had been taken. 

There was no $500 and I wish I never said there was. 

No matter what might come to pass, I wanted those three to pay for my lip and to pay for the aids I thought it was likely I was now carrying. Whatever the chose to do to dispatch jungle justice, I didn't want the police letting them go. Imagining that my word would be weighed against that of locals, I expected justice would probably not take into consideration that I was, more than likely, sentenced to a life of AIDS.

The police informed me the village men had captured the second thief and, as he had nowhere to go, would surely capture the third thief within a day or two. They informed me that, considering the gravity of the assault and crime, I would have to visit the police chief in their village to file a proper report. He suggested I rest as we would leave sometime in the early morning.

Returned to my tent, I tried to read or sleep but neither was possible, Restlessly, I lay on the bed a victim to my thoughts. In the background, echoing throughout the village, were the relentless screams of the two men as the police tortured them for information and a confession. The night grew on, and I drifted off to sleep in an eerie silence, it seemed the entire jungle was holding its breath.

Waking, about two hours before dawn, to severe stomach cramps, I realised I had pooed the bed. Cramps resulting in soiled underwear was nothing unusual, given some time, most poop will end up in the toilet or forest. My finger throbbed and my lip ached while my stomach was doing the two-step. Placing my feet on the hut floor (which is the ground) I slowly gathered my composure. Immediately, I felt a couple of bites upon my foot, then a few more upon my leg. Damn these buggers really bite! Lifting my feet up from harm's way, I reached for my handy Zippo lighter. 

A flick of the Zippo illuminated the floor showing a steady flow of army ants, or whatever they are called. The entire floor of the hut was moving. For such a small size, their bites were rather painful. Being Canadian, my impulse was to gain freedom from their stings by simply brushing them off, This was Africa thought, and the only way you can get the damn bugs off was by picking them free one at a time. Trying to sweep them away proved useless. In all the commotion, I shit my pants anew. 

Damn not again!


With the pesky ants disposed of I took extra underwear and pants and approached the toilet. For those who don't know, the jungle toilet is a concentric circle of thatch with a large hole in the middle and two sturdy logs across. You should have a picture of me squatting upon the logs with my ass sticking out spraying whatever was left in my gut. 

Your image of me defecating, as repugnant as it is, proved exactly what happened for the first few minutes. That is until the log broke. 

Yes, my dear readers, after falling fifteen feet, I found myself covered from head to toe in shit and piss. Standing up, the horrific melange was a little higher than the waist-deep, about four feet. Thank God, the toilet pit was only about one-sixth full. If it were a third full I would have been swimming. 

Trust me when I say, being able to stand was a blessing from the Gods, for if I had to tread shit, I very much doubt I could have had the leverage to dig out the hand and footholds needed to make my escape.  

As you can imagine, I vomited like never before in my life. (Much worse than when I pounded back a fifth of tequila to celebrate my 25th birthday.)

When I finished projectile vomiting, I vomited some more. Slowly, very carefully, I started climbing out the hole. However, the shape I was in with my broken finger, throbbing lip, and pounding head, I just couldn't get out. Four or five feet up the dirt wall and would inevitably tumble back into the pit. Again, like the two times previously, submerging myself entirely over my head. Finally, on the fourth attempt, I gained freedom from the pit of excrement. Stumbling down to the river, I stripped off and tossed my clothes. Small consolation, I didn't have to clean the shit out of my pants, that is never fun.

I cleaned up and returned to my hut just as the birds and monkeys warmed up for the morning concert. I smoked a few pipes and before I knew it, the police were knocking on my door. During the night of tortuous interrogation, they were able to recover about 80% of what was taken, Still unaccounted for was the fictitious $500 and some odds and ends. While we ambled to the village square they assured me that all would be recovered. Assurances built on the fact one thief admitted the third fellow had the cash. 

The police led myself, the thieves, and the Chief to the village ceremonial square. In the harsh morning light, I could see heavy bruising on the criminal's legs, torso, and arms. Since neither could stand in one place for more than a second, I assumed the soles of their feet had also been severely beaten. Moreover, the damages I had inflicted on the thief I fought had not been tended. To this day, I cannot imagine how much emotional and physical pain they were in at the time they were forced into reckoning in front of family and friends. 

Nor, could I ever imagine what was yet in store for us all.

A goat was led into the square and a villager took a large knife efficiently cutting its throat in one swift motion. I nearly puked. Then and there, the goat was gutted and then tied around the neck of the man I fought. Around the neck of the other thief, the Gendarmerie tied a sack with all the retrieved belongings they took from me. To this man's waist, a live goat was tied. Lost in our own nightmares we stood in utter silence as accusations were announced and the gifting ceremony performed. The Chief said a few words denouncing the three villains and banishing them from the tribe. Racing through my mind, I knew I too was a villain. 

We would all die in the end, me from AIDS, them from torture.

When the ceremony was completed, the police ushered the two thieves out of the village and up the dirt road. Following about 50 yards back, I walked in utter despair, horrified by the events of the last twenty-four hours. 

Could it be only one day had passed? 

With the village disappearing around the lazy bend an eerie silence seemed tethered to the bowels of sorrow and tragic loss. Lost in thought the thieves were captivated by fear and hopelessly asea in a world of shame. Jungle sounds eventually crept back toward the group perhaps gifting each of us a small respite from our tortured minds. 

Twelve kilometres might not seem like much, but it proved a most arduous journey. The jungle steamed with humidity and the group sidled from one side of the road to the other in hopes of hiding from the direct sun. From the shitfest of the previous night, I was entirely spent long before we departed from the village. Stomach battered and sickened from the grotesque ceremony, I remember reeling back and forth like a drunken sailor. Bile would creep up into my mouth, only to be forced down with the greatest of effort. To this day, I cannot conceive how the thieves could move, let alone walk with their load, and the goat constantly tugging at the one fellow's waist buckle. 

We took breaks to eat and rehydrate, However, the breaks were not long enough to offer reprieve or regain lost strength. The two Gendarmerie set the pace, both were in much better shape than any of us three. When the thieves stumbled or slowed, they were mercilessly beaten with sticks until they regained their footing or excited their pace. For the most part, I let them navigate a couple hundred yards ahead. To a certain extent, allowing the group to advance two or three hundred yards distance insulated me from experiencing the violence up close. The blood, grunting, anger, sounds of stick flaying flesh, all horrible nightmarish memories which still come to life.

How did any of us make it?

I really don't know. 

When my body gave way and I passed out of consciousness the large village was in sight one kilometer distant. I assume the Gendarmerie carried me to the local infirmary. Early that evening I regained consciousness, jolted upright by the screams of the tortured thieves a few huts from the infirmary. Gawking at the I.V. in my arm, I slowly regained the realisation the nightmare was indeed a reality. Hours later, I was informed by a proud Captain how, during my brief absence from consciousness, the two men were tortured by three different police officers. 

The officers were comparing notes, pleased with themselves in knowing the tortured thieves told them everything they wanted to know and much more. By the time the torture sessions were complete, neither thief could speak, stand, or comprehend the hell they found themselves within. Much to my regret, the next morning, I witnessed the two poor souls as they were dragged to the village square in a semiconscious state. The bright sun made the square feel like a set in a cheap spaghetti western. The police Captain beamed as we watched his officers tie the two men back to back against a large tree. The tree was big enough that the thieves couldn't see each other. The Chief of police sauntered out into the courtyard greeting me with great interest. He addressed the growing crowd with a scared straight rant about the evils of crime.

"How terrible these men are to the reputation of the government of Zaire. No mercy should or will be spared in retribution." 

Bla, bla, bla the sound of his voice turned my stomach and made my head spin, I was going to pass out again. The chief, noticing my unsteadiness, grabbed my arm and apologised for keeping me in the sun. He broke off his tirade short so that he could usher me into his air-conditioned office. The cool air steadied my senses allowing us to proceed with the task at hand, the deposition. 

Steadfastly, I dictated to him the events as I knew them, trying in some way to reduce the damage my lie about the money would inflict. He would have nothing of it, he assured me they would find the $500 dollars. If by some weird chance his men could not retrieve my money he assured me he would meet me later with recompense from government coffers. About ten or so minutes into the interview the thieves began to scream, the torture had begun anew. We took two hours to compile the whole sordid story, typed in triplicate with the aid of carbon paper. The report should never have taken such a long time, unfortunately for the thieves, it was typed with one finger. The Chief remarked how he felt typing with one finger added an air of gravitas to the task.

When all was done, the Chief ushered me out of his office so that he might proudly address the defeated thieves. The cacophony of torture confirmed how, off and on during the interview, this immense man (One of the biggest men I have ever seen) used a knotted heavy hemp rope to flail the two men. The ordeal rendered the men unable to respond to the Chief's admonishments. This eventuality miffed the Chief, a cross stare was proffered to the beast. Buckets of water were thrown on their lifeless bodies, all to no avail. Instead of further shaming the thieves, the Chief again took the opportunity to offer another rant to the attentive crowd. 

Defeated, dripping unconscious in blood, the two lifeless bodies assured all the show was indeed over. One last horrific glance left me with the nightmarish image of the man I fought. Now unconscious, his nose and orbital bones broke and grotesquely swollen upon a lifeless head. His back, buttocks and legs right to the ankles were raw as burger meat, most of the skin just not there. Assuredly, his cohort was in much the same state. 

Escorted from the square, I was ushered to a small room in a hut motel. The Captain informed me that the Chief had arranged for two missionaries to take me as a passenger in their Land Cruiser. The missionaries were headed to the city of Bunia where I was to receive proper medical help and aid from the Canadian consulate. The Chief said he would meet me in two weeks as he was due to travel to Bunia for business. As well, ever the boastful host, the Chief invited me to his home for dinner. His property was lavish as was the dinner. However, his pride in brutal justice along with constant bragging about his new prison was difficult to bear. 

Insisting on giving me a tour of the prison, we returned to the village. Conditions at the prison were dreadful, well beyond the imagination of what one would consider horrific. Cells were all underground, with no windows and no ventilation. Dark and damp holes reeked of the stench of death. Feces and body odor were far too vile to describe. Rats scurried across the cement as soon as the harsh lights lit up the rows of soiled floors. Each cell was about six feet by five. In the cell corner, a five-gallon pail acted as the toilet. The beds were devoid of pillows, a soiled blanket or sheet were the only possession within the dank cells. Proudly, the Chief extolled the virtues of the hell hole. Each tenant was a ghost of a man, bloodied, scarred, emaciated, entirely broken humans biding their time until death releases them from their misery.  

Inflating his chest, head held high, the Chief blurted. 

"Not one man, woman, nor child within a hundred miles does not fear this prison." "So it should be." 

Incomprehensible was the depth of this man's depravity. Overcome by emotion, stench and revulsion, I emptied my stomach of the fine meal I had recently enjoyed. No one responded, no need to clean the mess the rats would soon enjoy the task of cleaning the concrete floor. The chief merely patted me on the back and then without even a murmur, ushered me toward the stairway exiting the pit of cells. No sooner did we exit the prison and reach the fresh jungle than a sensation of relief hit me so powerfully that I had to sit on the grass to regain my composure. 

Hovering above, the Chief looked down, sincerely concerned. "Poor Canadian man, you are not well, and I can see they have broken you. Don't worry, we will care for you and all three will pay for what they did."

Back at the 'motel', I laid my head down. Moments were all that was needed for sleep to carry me from the living nightmare to the inevitable dream nightmare. Waking the next morning with a scream had startled me. Sweat-soaked, but greatly revived, I regained composure and reconnected with the reality of events. Within the months to follow, it became the norm to awake in a terror-filled, chaotic manner. Behind me were the most horrific events, ahead was a reckoning, an accounting of the spirit. 

During the next month, I battled what I knew to be my connection to sanity. Strange being a passenger on a speeding train to the insane. You see yourself losing touch with reality, you know the thread is thin  and you desperately reach for anything that allows the horrors to be kept at bay. Suicide seems the only recourse, justice for my role in the destruction of three innocent men. Continually I would hold my head in both hands willing the memories to leave, give me peace or just explode and be done with the torment.  

Food adorning the bedside table was papaya, mango and an assortment of items I could not identify. Ravenously, I tore into the contents not pausing until all was gone, hunger somewhat sated. Feeling run over, dishevelled and disgustingly filthy I made my way to the communal showers, the warm stream of water a welcome balm. Late morning speedily arrives as the do-good missionaries park their fancy white Land Cruiser in front of the motel. Fulfilling their mandate to rescue my sorry soul, they patiently attended my approach. Compassion and understanding were the expected reaction from my pious escort, instead of offering loving compassion the missionaries seemed oddly rude. 

For example, they had a big, spacious Land Cruiser with a single carry-on luggage resting on one seat and a small leather briefcase in the middle rear seat. Entering the vehicle, I opened the back door and occupied the comfy leather seat proximal to the lone briefcase. No sooner did I buckle up, when the driver jumped out of the truck, walked around, opened the door then told me to sit in the trunk area. Thinking perhaps another passenger was yet to come, I quickly acquiesced. Thankful for the ride, I was not about to complain. After all, riding in a Land Cruiser bouncing around in the back is still far better than walking back to the village or trying to push my bike 150 km to Bunia. 

When we arrived in the village an early afternoon sun was approaching its apex. Tears welled up as I fought back mixed emotions. These villagers had treated me like family. They were so loving and their hospitality was a tremendous valued gift. Seeing the solemn faces of all cut like a knife. Quietly, with much emotional upheaval, I collected my gear to load on the Land Rover roof rack. Loading a bike and a few bags should be simple, but the missionaries had other designs. 

Both missionaries thought I should leave my bicycle, accordingly, they vehemently argued against me loading my bike onto the truck's roof rack. Their argument was senseless as they thought I should atone for my sins by gifting my bicycle to the villagers. Confused by their unreasonable position, it took about 10 minutes to convince them the bike was the single essential element of my journey. I argued how there was plenty of room for everything, nothing was on the roof rack so why not accommodate the bike?

Eventually, with a great show of displeasure, they relented. All packed and ready to leave, I hugged my new village friends, this time departing with a heavy heart. We cried, we gifted each other presents, and then after a few words to the elders followed by photos I departed. The journey, I knew was about 150 to 175 kilometers which I suspected, even by Land Cruiser, would take about three to five days. The cold demeanour of the missionaries was a caution, but what could I do? I was an emotional and physical mess and their assistance was essential to my survival. Not in a million years could I ride my bicycle, not with my finger broken, my lip a mess, and a litany of other health issues taxing my strength and sanity. Even if my injuries did not prevent me from riding the bike, I knew, severe dehydration due to chronic dysentery caused by the parasites and infections imbibed when I fell in the shit pit would likely be enough to cause my death. 

With my bike firmly attached to the rood rack, I happily curled up in the trunk cubby hole. The jarring bumps, stifling air, and immense discomfort left me staring wantingly at the empty rear seat. Each and every bump in the road sent shooting pains throughout my body, Before long, I questioned in my mind whether the vacant seat was indeed being made available for another passenger. Surely they would not force me to endure this level of discomfort needlessly. No matter what I would have to endure, if I was to miraculously survive the ordeal, I was convinced their free ride to Bunia would be essential. Curling my body into a tight ball while jamming my body between the trunk and a suitcase I struggled for relief from the continued jars and bumps.

Four or five kilometres into the trip, it became patently obvious this 'free ride' would extort a hefty toll. Clearing his throat, a segue into a hellacious condemnation, the missionary driving the Land Cruiser started berating me about the idiocy of flaunting my rich lifestyle in front of the savages. 

"How are they supposed to refrain from the devil's work when evil people like you are acting as temptation?"

Without pausing for a breath, the driver continued his rant for ten minutes. Like a beaten child, I curled up in the back bracing myself for the next inevitable bump and grind offered by the endless array of potholes and assorted obstacles. Maybe it was my imagination or the sensitivity caused by my injuries, but it seemed the driver took great pleasure in bashing his way through the roughest parts of the road instead of slowing for the holes and obstacles as most drivers would. Sharp, burning pains were streaking across my finger, lip, and entire body. My stomach, unable to deal with the crash and bang turmoil, was slowly belching out bits of poop into my now-dampened underwear. More hideous than the physical pain, or soiled pants, the verbal assault was wreaking havoc with my sense of guilt, despair, and post-traumatic stress. 

The ordeal left me entirely broken. Desperately, I wanted to make an argument for my actions. However compelled I was to defend myself, the verbal and physical attack was more than I could tolerate. Like a dog beaten in a corner, all I had courage or strength to manage was to whimper, sob, and cower. Holding my head, covering my ears, I tried to drown out the driver's diatribe by humming the old travel song, 100 bottles of beer on the wall.  

Bashing too speedily through a deep muddy bog, the driver slammed his head into the windscreen with enough vigour to shut him up. Finally, I was rewarded with a few moments of quiet and a welcome reprieve from the dangerous driving. Thinking I would gain a modicum of peace, the passenger took the role of verbal abuser to heart. Like a wrestling tag team, both combatants were equally vile and remained faithful to their stated position. The passenger, quietly prepared his vitriol as his partner held the ring. Together they took turns, each remarkably surpassing the nastiness of his fellow priest. Taking a rest after gaining a second wind, the driver piped in wherever he could find room. Together, the two missionaries were relentless with their verbal assaults. 

There were two truths of which I was convinced. Firstly, without their support, my chances of making it to Bunia alive were at best very slim. Secondly, it was unlikely I could mentally manage a four-day trip with these vile men constantly abusing me. Realising there was no end to the misery they saw fit to inflict, I mustered up what little strength I had to forge my defence. Attempting to defend my position against their attack proved much more difficult than I imagined. The biggest problem I faced in trying to muster an argument was that, in my heart, I felt guilt so intense it was destroying what little sense of emotional or logical balance I possessed.

I parried their ridicule, chastising, and contempt for the better part of two unbearable hours. As best as I could, I futilely tried to argue my point. (Making a solid argument is something I normally would be well equipped to manage.) However much I tried to reason, my brain was not working. Instead of being calm and collected I allowed my emotions to spiral into verbal decay. Matching their vitriol, I slammed their lack of compassion, questioned their Christian love and asked what their Jesus would do if he were here to offer advice.

 

All the while I argued, in the back of my mind, I knew it was essential I quietly take their abuse or likely forfeit my spot in the vehicle. There was no way I could get myself out of Africa without their help, therefore somehow I had to find a way to defuse the argument. The irony was that the more I consciously reached for reasoning the more I found myself yelling obscenities. The proverbial shit hit the fan when in an absolutely exasperated state I suggested their probable propensity for tickling young native boys. Even before the Land Cruiser came to an abrupt stop, I sensed I had gone too far. Knowing doom was inevitable I could not help but twist the metaphoric knife. Spitting sarcasm, I caustically inquired. 

"Did I hit a nerve?" 

"Do you men like to diddle little boys?" 

Shortly after, as expected, I found myself sitting in the ditch assembling the various parts of my bicycle. Thoughts of all kinds were crashing through my aching head. Do I push my bike or can I find a way to ride it? Should I go back to the village or continue my journey to Bunia? How many days can I survive in this condition? How many days will it take for me to make it to Bunia? Can I find the strength to successfully complete the journey? 

One step at a time, I can do this. Within one hour, I had the bike wheels, seat and handlebars reaffixed. Rolls freely, no problems of note, brakes adjusted, luggage and lights affixed. Knowing the bike was ready for the road gave me a sense of relief. Emotionally and physically exhausted from the time spent with the missionaries, I laid back in the ditch to take a short nap. Countless worries raced through my mind as I drifted off to sleep. 

Two hours into the solo ordeal I was stretching to get my body back in working order. The sun was well past its apex, likely only two to three hours of daylight remained. Sitting back next to the bike I contemplated my options anew. 

Quickly dispatching with the obvious frivolity was essential. Three ladies in a Molson's beer truck will not stop to offer me a lift. The chance of seeing any vehicle on this backwoods road was unlikely. For example, during the many days I spent in the village no trucks rolled past. In speaking with the villagers, I was told that throughout the entire rainy season, they might only see one vehicle a month.

Knowing how unforgiving African jungles can be, an honest appraisal of my health and capacity was essential. Having had countless degrees of intestinal infections and dysentery I knew this was my weakest link. My guts were an absolute mess, severe cramps would hit me like a hammer about every fifteen minutes. When cramps arrive, you have about thirty seconds to drop your pants. In the event you cannot relieve yourself, all you can do is squeeze your sphincter as tightly as possible to prevent the inevitable leak from being too voluminous. The severity of dysentery can accurately be assessed by the interval between cramps, fifteen minutes was the shortest interval I had ever faced. 

Dysentery is the deadliest affliction a cross-continent cyclist will face. Your body is literally spewing out all your life-sustaining liquids. Couple the fluid loss with tropical heat and you are facing real serious dehydration issues which include but are not limited to the following, heat injury, urinary and kidney failure, excessive fatigue, chronic headaches, seizures, low-volume shock, and fainting. If I survive dysentery, the rest of my ailments should be relatively easy. The odds of being taken down by dysentery during the next week of cycling were, I felt, realistically somewhere between 60% and 70%. I figured the upside was that I would likely be able to pass out unconscious between one to three times before I would die. The chance was worth the risk, I could always reassess my options when or if I pass out unconscious.  

Other ailments include the real possibility of a recurring bout of malaria. The month prior I had a terrible attack of malaria which knocked me on my butt for the better part of a week. If I get another bout of malaria while in this mess the odds of survival are slim at best. There was no way to evaluate the odds of getting a recurrence of malaria, however, in my weakened state who knows for sure? I thought to myself the odds of dying from malaria over the next week were under 20%.  

Next in the level of health concern is a chronic infection of my lip, finger, or other open wounds. Weakened as was my immune system I knew the chances of infection were very high. Once infection sets, if left untreated, you have about three to seven days before it becomes a serious problem from sepsis or bodily complications. Severe sepsis, if it does not kill you, will lead to gangrene and loss of limb. If fortunate you will only suffer the potentially less fatal effects, urinary blockage, clotting of blood cells, heart arrhythmia, problems breathing, chills, and unconsciousness. Fortunately, the medics in the main village did a fine job of loading me up with penicillin to ward off the infection caused by the hour or so I spent in the shit pit. I figured, if careful, there was less than a 50% chance my injuries would become septic. 

Finally, the easy part of my health assessment, managing the pain of a broken finger and a torn lip. The pain I knew I could handle. Nine years before this journey I had a nasty bout of double pneumonia, nothing in the world could be more painful than that experience. Also, eight years before I broke my big toe, damn that really hurt for a very long time. This pain, although quite intense, could be managed, The odds of not surviving the next week due to my physical injuries being too painful were nill.

Collating the odds of survival I determined the chance of death was somewhere around 50%. Most of the deadliest events would be prefaced by evidence which would give me two to four days before taking me out. If I remained conscious, pounded down 10 to 15 litres per day, kept my injuries dry and clean, and paid close attention to my glands, then I should be just fine. If things go sideways, and symptoms become acute, I could always redesign a game plan. The one problem I refused to confront in my health assessment was the fact that if things do go from bad to worse then having two or three days grace before dying will do me little good if I am alone in the jungle miles from the next living soul. 

Pushing aside my fears, I told myself, to go slow, stay hydrated, keep the wounds dry, and pray I don't fall unconscious. Maybe my odds are not quite 50%, but really there was little choice because hell or high water this bicycle was my only way out of Africa. 

Sitting against the bike, my mind drifted back to my choices. Going back was the easiest decision physically, but emotionally I just did not have the courage to face the tribe. Regret, shame, and deep sorrow made the choice to return impossibly difficult. The final decision not to return was made out of shame and feeling undeserving of their support. After the mess I caused in their beautiful lives, I felt the mere thought of asking for further help absolutely reprehensible. The decision to push forward instead of retreat was also aided by the fact there were perhaps only three hours of sunlight left in the day. In theory, I could forge ahead this day, and then if the journey to Bunia is too much for me to handle, I could always return to the village the next day.   

Staying put waiting for assistance was out of the question. No one was going to miraculously come to my rescue. If I stayed in the ditch I would be assured that my strength would be depleted with the passing of each hour. With only a little food in reserve, I would have to survive on jungle fruit like papaya. The jungles are a dangerous place to navigate in search of food sources. Fruit alone will not sustain me for long, so whatever I chose to do I knew covering a minimum of twenty to thirty kilometres per day was essential.

Forging ahead was the most favourable course of action, I knew hitting the road was the key to success. The choice was made much easier by knowing that the two hours of cycling left on this day would go a long way toward cementing the decision as being intelligent or foolhardy. I further reasoned that if I struggled too much over the next two hours, I could head back to the village in shame with my tail between my legs. If push came to shove, I could abandon my bike and belongings and try to walk to the village. Moving forward cautiously seemed the best choice both physically and emotionally. Perhaps when I wake tomorrow, I will reassess my odds of survival to be better than 50/ 50.

Get on the damn bike Christopher, push the pedal down one leg, then the next. Riding the bike with my finger in the open-air proved a non-starter, the pain of each wiggle and jiggle was really intense. Each small jolt in the road caused severe shooting pains. I stopped, dismounted, and then used my knife to fabricate a splint from a small piece of wood. The doctor told me keeping the wound dry in the open air should be my first choice. The plan to cycle meant the rain-soaked finger would dry out in the sun. I was instructed to apply a gauze cover during the night so that bacteria would not get into the wound. Reluctantly, I tightly wrapped the gauze around the splint and then used duct tape to seal the wrapping. 

The finger responded well to being immobilised. The pain was still rather severe when experiencing big jolts but the small bumps were not causing anywhere near as much pain as previously. Staying focused at the moment, I concentrated on pushing down the crank one leg at a time. Uneventful was the next hour of cycling, I managed a little over five kilometres, not too bad under the prevailing conditions. Just as the jungle was taking on the serene glow afforded by the setting sunset, I pitched my tent along the roadside in a very unremarkable ditch locale about fifty feet past a small brook. Soon into the African journey, I learned never to camp my tent proximal to a water source. Such a tenting choice makes sense when snakes and all critters need water. With the tent set for the night, I ambled down to the brook so that I might use the last of the light to wash my ass, underwear, and riding pants. 

Waking the next morning, I felt physically functional but emotionally destroyed. The night was fitful, as bone-chilling nightmares, endless thoughts of despair and much sobbing prevented sleep. The monkeys and jungle fauna, oblivious to my travails, sang their morning melody with the usual grace and aplomb. Food was the last thing on my mind, regardless I managed to eat papaya, some bread and a tin of sardines. 

The first three days on the way to Bunia were all a blur. I remember sleeping in a ditch under the stars the first night. After that, I can only remember the focus it took to make sure the next peddle was pushed down. Above all, there was the constant nerve-racking pain, even my hair hurt. Willing my legs to continue turning the crank was not enough to succeed. Within the first few hours, I fell off my bike many times. Each fall felt like a dream. I was far beyond the pain one receives when falling off a bike. Get up and turn the crank I would say over and over in my mind, just keep it going. I persevered until I passed out unconscious in the ditch.

When I finally regained consciousness, I had no idea how long I was unconscious. The only thing I knew for certain was that it was now dark and I had passed out. Quickly, the realisation sunk in that this was likely the end of my life. I was very, very frightened. Moreover, I was pissed off to think about how stupid it was to die in the African jungle miles from nowhere. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I began thinking about the love for my family and friends back home. I imagined what it would be like for them to get consular news of my death, never knowing what happened or how much I loved them. I sobbed helplessly, and then I prayed like I had never prayed before, or since. I begged God to give me the strength of my brother, sisters, parents, and friends. I begged for their love and energy to come to my aid. I prayed for the strength needed to somehow survive.

Within the moment of prayer, a wave of peace and love came to me. I was still a mess, but somehow I knew I would make it, I knew God was with me.

(Later I came to understand it was my own Godself power which I had accessed)

I righted the bike, fixed my light on the road and recommenced turning the crank. The entire rest of the journey to Bunia was surreal, a dream that cannot be remembered. As I have no recollection of what transpired, I cannot explain nor comprehend how I made it, or how long it took. From the moment I remounted the bike my GodSelf persona completely took control of my reality. For all I knew, I could have flown on the wings of an angel.

Judging by the distance I covered before falling unconscious, I expect the first few days were slow maybe 20 - 25 kilometres per day. With such a gruelling pace the total trip would likely have taken between six and eight days of riding as a Godself spirit. How many days of cycling did it really take? Did I sleep? Did I eat? Everything was and still is a complete blank slate. 

I arrived in the city of Bunia around dusk. From what I was told, I immediately came to the attention of a police officer. He had spied me across an open courtyard and quickly determined that I required assistance. This meeting was the first memory of which I could recapture. I remember looking at him, wondering, why he looked so concerned? He asked me my nationality, and I told him Canadian. At once he said I know where to take you, they will tell me what to do.

He guided me to a home about a block away where a representative of the Canadian government lived. This gentleman was establishing a new agriculture project for the city. In addition to his job, he acts as a vice consul representative. (I may have the term wrong, in essence, he acts in the capacity of the consulate, fulfilling some duties but without the title.)

Salvation:

We stood on the stoop as he rang the bell. I was in a haze, but I will never forget the look on my saviour's face when he first saw me. He picked me up as if I were a feather, and carried me to the living room. Shock emanated from him, and as he called his wife I could see a tear drop from his cheek. He asked the police officer countless questions, but all the officer knew was that I was Canadian. His beautiful wife hovered above me in an equal state of shock. The busied panorama seemed to unravel in slow motion. Words and actions caught in the eye of a tornado. Children approached and his wife ushered them away from the scene like a protective mother duck. They phoned a doctor who lived nearby, and within a few minutes later he too hovered above prodding, poking and asking questions. 

The doctor suggested they watch me closely through the night and to call if my condition deteriorated. His assessment was I would be okay, but it would take time to heal. I was to see him at his office the next day to x-ray the finger, sort out the lip and clean up my dysentery. Stitches could not be used as it had happened too many days past. The next day the doc fixed me up as best he could, he said I had to wait three months before I could get an aids test, then another test after six months to determine my fate.

I cannot describe to you dear readers how this man, his wife and two children saved me. They own a beautiful home with servants who love their work. Their garden looked over a gorgeous vista of jungle groves. The smell of their garden was heavenly. They had many books for me to choose from, and most importantly they had all the old tunes I love. I had the house to myself. The servants were so gracious in putting up with Leonard Cohen over and over and over.

I cried and cried, my heart felt like it was ripped apart. As my health improved I felt guilty for surviving this ordeal when it was likely the other two or three men were doomed. I kept seeing the fight in my mind. I could not shake the image of his face purple with the rope tied around his neck, knowing how the anger raged through me unabated. Countless torturous vignettes racked my spirit; from the butchered goat to the 12 km march, ending in the final beating of the med tied unconscious to a tree. 

The screams of those two men rang in my ears almost every moment. I felt like I was losing my mind, I just wanted to die. The love of this remarkable family was the only thing which kept me from a psychiatric ward. They cared and loved me like one of their own. They fed me, cried with me, cleaned dirty bed sheets, and comforted screaming nightmares. They led me gently back to health. Before leaving, I was speaking with the father. He told me how pleased he was to see me recover. He admitted that when he first saw me at his door he thought I resembled a ghost. In his words "there was nothing there, nothing in the eyes."

I met with the police chief two weeks later as planned. He said he would have some money for me in two days. He winked at me, and with a wry smile he said, "one of them is dead, the fighter". " He killed himself with a knife in his cell. The other one will suffer the same and the third we will find. " I got up and without a word left his presence, never to see him again.

I left the company of my saviours the next day. I had imposed on their hospitality enough and Uganda was calling me. With great sorrow and reverent joy, I looked back on the town of Bunia as it faded into the jungle. There was a road ahead, people to see and lessons to be learned. Down goes one leg, up goes the other, the crank starts to turn, man in motion.




The events of that time took many years to resolve. I still have difficulty keeping it all in perspective. Not long ago, I was gifted a Lenard Cohen album as a birthday present. We were eating dinner as the music began. Panic raked over me as I realised it was the same album that kept me sane in Bunia. I tried to hold back the emotion but ended up breaking out in sobs. 

We learn compassion from the strangest of places. Our heart breaks from the oddest ordeals. Souls dance with us in loving synchronicity, giving up their very existence so that we may discover our true nature. I cherish the three thieves and pay the greatest love and respect to their memories. All who danced with me during those days will forever keep me company. The miracle in the jungles of Africa was not a survival I can attest to my fortitude. Rather the five to seven-day trip my GodSelf spirit made on my behalf ensured my safety. I cannot recollect how I rode a mountain bike during the rainy season covering nearly 150 kilometres of the most difficult African terrain. All that remains are flashbacks and crystal-clear vignettes that haunt my spirit. Over the years, I have been informed that PTSD often causes memory loss of the events in question. In perfect health, I could not have managed such a feat of endurance. 

How did I survive? Impossible to say, unless you accept it was a miracle.

Postscript: I ended up losing my diary with the names of all the party members. As a result of post-traumatic stress, my memory of the names is hopelessly lost with the missing diary. I did not like referring to the elder as the elder, the thieves as the thieves or the family who saved me as the family. In this omission I mean no disrespect and have for years felt terrible that I cannot honor them all by name.