Sunday, January 26, 2014
To Africa
My flight over the Atlantic was uneventful. I sat next to a mechanical engineer named Sameep who was headed back to India. They fed us dinner and a few hours later, they fed us breakfast. Boy, was I hungry. I couldn't help but be amazed that I could work up such an appetite by sitting in a seat.
Arrived in Paris at about 7:30 am. I was a little confused at how long the flight took, and I don't think I'll ever do the calculation. As soon as I entered the airport I detected body odor and several greasy looking Parisians walked in front of me. Yes, it's true.
I went straight to the next gate and met my travel buddies, Mike and Jenny. They were pretty easy to spot since, this being a flight to the Congo, they were the only white people in the seating area.
Mike is 21, the oldest of five kids, and works as a salesman in the dairy business in upstate New York. His job at the hospital will be building and repair. Jenny is also from New York, 20 years old, and works as a communication liaison for Joseph Harvey, the missionary doctor in the Congo. We decided to hit the airport Starbucks as a parting shot at civilization. I bought an Americano for 3.80. For their mochas, Jenny and Mike each paid 10.50 USD. Sacrebleu.
We crossed the equator and had some breakfast. A man on our flight kept singing and talking loudly. At first I thought he'd gotten drunk, but after a few hours he did not sober. He started speaking angrily to the woman next to him, an older, white, french speaking woman. We were not sure if she was traveling with the man. As we began to land, his crazy-talk escalated- I heard him use the negative "pa" a lot. "Don't touch that! Stop saying that!" he said. Several times the flight-stewards tried to calm him down, but nothing worked. When the plane hit the runway, he cried out like a child, but much louder.
As soon as we got off the plane at the Brazzaville airprot, a flock of young Africans rushed to assist us with our immigration cards. They asked us questions about our passports and filled in our information with very bad handwriting. One of the young men was named Alain. I remember because, when he introduced himself, he showed me his name tattooed on his arm. Handy.
Later at the airport, in the sweaty stew of bodies buzzing around the baggage claim, the same crazy-man came up to Jenny and I and tried to take one of our baggage rollers. "No," I told him. He backed away quickly. I felt cool.
We were picked up by friends of the Harvey's and taken to Hotel Bravo, a missionary guest house surrounded by walls and with a guard at the gate 24/7. Our hosts were Riol and Michelle, a very good-looking Congolese couple who laugh a lot and like to learn new English words. Riol was our driver and guide, and Michelle cooked us meals (makes killer omlets) and made sure we got some sleep. Michelle is also a wonderful guitar player and singer. The video I took of her singing will probably go viral and I will be famous.
Brazzaville is a city in shambles. Many of the tall buildings remain only partially constructed: they have no windows and have been taken over by squatters. Housing doesn't seem to be a big deal in the Congo. It's plenty warm outside, so there's not much need for shelter. Church was held in a lean-to, cinderblock building with no doors or windows. There was a projector displaying the words of songs, and a man leading at a keyboard leading the singing. Sermon in french, and lots of loud prayers, sometimes everybody praying at once.
After church we exchanged our money in the Poto-Poto (sp?) market of Brazzaville. I missed out on about 30,000 francs (60 bucks) because some of my one hundred dollar bills were not crispy enough. On the way back, two police men who appeared to be directing traffic waived us to the side of the road. They asked for documents Riol got out of the car to speak with them. After 10 minutes of awkward glances at people on the sidewalks, Riol returned and told us that because we were white, the police decided to stop us and ask for money. He said he didn't give any.
Back at the house, we met up with three American nurses from a hospital-ship in Point Noire. The organization is called Mercy Ships and thtese three nurses will help out at the hospital in Impfondo for two weeks. Tammy is from Montana, Kacie is a Texan, and Becky is from Ontario.
The next morning we were driven back to the Brazzaville airport. Checking our baggage felt like coordinating a political campaign. We had half a dozen men from the mission complex who were all talking to different people, pulling strings to get us through. Labeling our baggage took another six people. They kept counting and recounting our bags, everyone took a turn.
We got on the plane and few north, back across the equator and landed in Impfondo at about 12:30 pm. The Dr. Harvey and his children, Isabel (17) and Noah (almost 13), met us and helped us with our baggage. The immigration office took about an hour of ourr time, complaining that our visas had the word "Tourism" on them and because of it we were not allowed to Volunteer at the Hospital. Dr. Harvey later told me the airport officials are mostly trained in Cuba where they are taught that all Americans are spies with the CIA. Dr. Harvey outlasted the immigration officials, and we went on our way.
As we waited for our baggage and the immigration office, Dr. Harvey began briefing the nurses and I on our duties at the hospital.
Impfondo is a longish city that lies along one of the tributaries of the Congo. The name escapes me, but you all have plenty of internet. Google "impfondo, congo."
There are about three very nicely paved roads which, like the hospital, are artifacts of the Marxist days, These roads are bristling with motorcycles which Dr. Harvey says are the chief reason for visits to his hospitals. Eamen Rooney, Dr. Harvey's administration assistant, told me that most of these people never had a chance to learn to ride a bicycle before buying and riding their motorcycles.
Dr. Harvey brought us first to the mission, a group of houses on the south-iish side of Impfondo. Here we met Mrs. Harvey, an organized, dark-haired woman with a kind smile. We had just enough time to take our bags out of his truck before Dr. Harvey drove the nurses and me up the road to the hospital. Dr. Harvey then proceeded to visit his patients and give us instructions. We started giving care right away.
Arrived in Paris at about 7:30 am. I was a little confused at how long the flight took, and I don't think I'll ever do the calculation. As soon as I entered the airport I detected body odor and several greasy looking Parisians walked in front of me. Yes, it's true.
I went straight to the next gate and met my travel buddies, Mike and Jenny. They were pretty easy to spot since, this being a flight to the Congo, they were the only white people in the seating area.
Mike is 21, the oldest of five kids, and works as a salesman in the dairy business in upstate New York. His job at the hospital will be building and repair. Jenny is also from New York, 20 years old, and works as a communication liaison for Joseph Harvey, the missionary doctor in the Congo. We decided to hit the airport Starbucks as a parting shot at civilization. I bought an Americano for 3.80. For their mochas, Jenny and Mike each paid 10.50 USD. Sacrebleu.
We crossed the equator and had some breakfast. A man on our flight kept singing and talking loudly. At first I thought he'd gotten drunk, but after a few hours he did not sober. He started speaking angrily to the woman next to him, an older, white, french speaking woman. We were not sure if she was traveling with the man. As we began to land, his crazy-talk escalated- I heard him use the negative "pa" a lot. "Don't touch that! Stop saying that!" he said. Several times the flight-stewards tried to calm him down, but nothing worked. When the plane hit the runway, he cried out like a child, but much louder.
As soon as we got off the plane at the Brazzaville airprot, a flock of young Africans rushed to assist us with our immigration cards. They asked us questions about our passports and filled in our information with very bad handwriting. One of the young men was named Alain. I remember because, when he introduced himself, he showed me his name tattooed on his arm. Handy.
Later at the airport, in the sweaty stew of bodies buzzing around the baggage claim, the same crazy-man came up to Jenny and I and tried to take one of our baggage rollers. "No," I told him. He backed away quickly. I felt cool.
We were picked up by friends of the Harvey's and taken to Hotel Bravo, a missionary guest house surrounded by walls and with a guard at the gate 24/7. Our hosts were Riol and Michelle, a very good-looking Congolese couple who laugh a lot and like to learn new English words. Riol was our driver and guide, and Michelle cooked us meals (makes killer omlets) and made sure we got some sleep. Michelle is also a wonderful guitar player and singer. The video I took of her singing will probably go viral and I will be famous.
Brazzaville is a city in shambles. Many of the tall buildings remain only partially constructed: they have no windows and have been taken over by squatters. Housing doesn't seem to be a big deal in the Congo. It's plenty warm outside, so there's not much need for shelter. Church was held in a lean-to, cinderblock building with no doors or windows. There was a projector displaying the words of songs, and a man leading at a keyboard leading the singing. Sermon in french, and lots of loud prayers, sometimes everybody praying at once.
After church we exchanged our money in the Poto-Poto (sp?) market of Brazzaville. I missed out on about 30,000 francs (60 bucks) because some of my one hundred dollar bills were not crispy enough. On the way back, two police men who appeared to be directing traffic waived us to the side of the road. They asked for documents Riol got out of the car to speak with them. After 10 minutes of awkward glances at people on the sidewalks, Riol returned and told us that because we were white, the police decided to stop us and ask for money. He said he didn't give any.
Back at the house, we met up with three American nurses from a hospital-ship in Point Noire. The organization is called Mercy Ships and thtese three nurses will help out at the hospital in Impfondo for two weeks. Tammy is from Montana, Kacie is a Texan, and Becky is from Ontario.
The next morning we were driven back to the Brazzaville airport. Checking our baggage felt like coordinating a political campaign. We had half a dozen men from the mission complex who were all talking to different people, pulling strings to get us through. Labeling our baggage took another six people. They kept counting and recounting our bags, everyone took a turn.
We got on the plane and few north, back across the equator and landed in Impfondo at about 12:30 pm. The Dr. Harvey and his children, Isabel (17) and Noah (almost 13), met us and helped us with our baggage. The immigration office took about an hour of ourr time, complaining that our visas had the word "Tourism" on them and because of it we were not allowed to Volunteer at the Hospital. Dr. Harvey later told me the airport officials are mostly trained in Cuba where they are taught that all Americans are spies with the CIA. Dr. Harvey outlasted the immigration officials, and we went on our way.
As we waited for our baggage and the immigration office, Dr. Harvey began briefing the nurses and I on our duties at the hospital.
Impfondo is a longish city that lies along one of the tributaries of the Congo. The name escapes me, but you all have plenty of internet. Google "impfondo, congo."
There are about three very nicely paved roads which, like the hospital, are artifacts of the Marxist days, These roads are bristling with motorcycles which Dr. Harvey says are the chief reason for visits to his hospitals. Eamen Rooney, Dr. Harvey's administration assistant, told me that most of these people never had a chance to learn to ride a bicycle before buying and riding their motorcycles.
Dr. Harvey brought us first to the mission, a group of houses on the south-iish side of Impfondo. Here we met Mrs. Harvey, an organized, dark-haired woman with a kind smile. We had just enough time to take our bags out of his truck before Dr. Harvey drove the nurses and me up the road to the hospital. Dr. Harvey then proceeded to visit his patients and give us instructions. We started giving care right away.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Safe in Impfondo
I have arrived safely at Pioneer Christian Hospital in Impfondo. I will post some fun details of my journey soon. Right now, I am learning my way around the hospital and trying to deal with the heat.
The internet is slow but steady. I am optimistic about my ability to post text, but less so for pictures and videos.
I love you all.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Departure
My father drove me to the airport, dark and early. On our way, we passed through patches of heavy fog and wondered if it would affect my flight. The airport was shrouded in the thickest of it, but all the flights seemed to be on time. I made it through security with no troubles except that they took a can of bug-repellant that I'd forgotten was in my pack. Oh well. I have two more in my checked luggage.
Before we took off from Spokane, a crew of reflector-clad men ran around the plane knocking off ice and spraying an anti-freezing reagent to remove ice and frost that had built up over night.
Now I'm bound for Minneapolis where the temperature, the pilot said, is a balmy one degree. Below me is an endless grid of frozen fields, they look like marbled bathroom tile. The ladies sitting next to me are Christians and we have a few mutual acquaintances in back in Moscow. We experienced some turbulence a little earlier, and it's always a little unsettling to see the wings wagging up and down, bouncing around and over some invisible force.
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