Nyankunde

Easter weekend, I departed for Nyankunde and Bunia. For those following, I wrote previously about the region and it’s past; an area I’ve heard much about through students and friends, but yet to visit. I was looking forward to a break from Beni and CI-UCBC activity and anxious for the 3-hour trip. Thanks to my friend and his reconciliation ministry, we had a free ride in a Toyota Hilux pick up, supped up with a giant loud speaker attached. I confess, elsewhere in the world, I’d be a little embarrassed. As we drove on the newly, Chinese engineered dirt road, we captured the attention of anyone within 1 km. Children, some clothed, some not, ran to the road’s edge with the first sound of rhythm. They bounced, twisted, shook, bobbed, smiled, jumped, laughed…and danced to the African gospel music. Their spirits’ cling to the rhythm and beats…pure joy manifested; embarrassment ceased to grip my mind.
The trip was as smooth as it gets in Congo…again, welcomed. Forests covering rolling hills followed our path, occasionally dissipating to allow the presence of savannah lands. Typical Congolese mud-thatched houses formed pockets of communities. As we neared Nyakunde, nestled in lush hills, wandering FARDC soldiers became more frequent. Conversation grew quieter. Charcoal writing in empty buildings and boutiques; a glimpse of an AK47 sketched among Congolese language graffiti in the black chalk. We arrived at the hospital and guesthouse around 1:00PM.
In the evening, I sat on the doorstep. Violet flora blossomed from gigantic fern-like trees. Feather-like petals slowly fell blanketing the ground beneath. Large fungi leaves created an umbrella for the trees’ joints. Evening came quickly and quietly, as did my contemplation. A paradise, only if my eyes did not surpass this natural beauty. Beyond it lay the empty shells of what were once hospital wards.
Nyankunde Hospital was THE hospital in this region…impacting, successful, well-known , serving ALL. On September 5, 2002, tribal militia streamed over the surrounding hills. Early in the day, my friend took us around the grounds. Building after building, home after home, stood still in time, empty, roofless, looted, and destroyed. Pieces of hospital equipment remained strewed across shards of tile and brick. The only life signs in these hollow structures were the natural, resilient vegetation that had been growing for the past 5 years. As we walked, my friend pointed out desolate houses of people I’ve previously met in Beni, including his own. He quietly explained what happened that day. Pointing to rafters of a ward where the chaplain hid for a week before being found and subsequently killed My friend’s own story, even when heard again, leaves what is beneath our skin static.
On Saturday morning, we awoke to an overcast and damp atmosphere. After eating the best bread in Congo, dense and sweet, like beer bread, we began a 3 km trek to the outskirts of town. The weather provided a gloomy aurora to the already dim setting. Though life moved on as with any Congo village, laughter, open-ended smiles, and curious eyes, the setting rendered what one would depict in a narrative or artistic expression of a war torn region. Though the answer revealed, I asked my friend, “Has much changed?” He responded quietly, “No”. We continued on, my friend greeting old friends and acquaintances. We came to a river where couple UN trucks pumped water into their barrels, as a Bradley-like tank waited. A significant number of peacekeepers curiously watched us walk by. Their base no more than a 1 kilometer away.
We arrived at our destination, the house of a pastor and father of a student at UCBC. We took two motos to a village called Sando. The route allowed me to appreciate another environment in Congo, savannah and pastural land. Our bikes dodged big horned cattle, as I stood amazed by 10 ft high termite hills. The route eventually turned into a rocky and crater filled path, so we dismounted our blue horses and began to hike. Along the way, we picked delicious guava to nourish our bodies. Fifteen minutes passed before my ears captured the sound of rushing water. We eventually came to the river’s edge and vine-cable wire bridge that crossed the chocolate water. Thin, planked boards acted as our footpath. A few years ago, the bridge was strictly a netting of vines. The bridge also led to areas where my friend’s reconciliation ministry has worked with militias. At the crossing, we encountered one man that was on his way to visit a friend. They had met at one of the transcending reconciliation seminars. Coming from opposing tribes, their past intentions were to eliminate each other, now they’re gathering for meals.
Later in the afternoon we traveled to Bunia, a large town situated 3 or 4 hours north of Beni. The following morning, another friend took me via moto all over the town. Again, signs of the recent conflict were clearer. He pointed to buildings and Universities devastated by the war. Larger UN presence, a little residual sense of unease. Signs of development pushing through the cracks. I spent my Easter their to welcomed solitude, enjoying glorious Congolese meals at the guesthouse. The next afternoon we gathered our things and piled into the pick up. I situated myself on top of piled supplies in the truck’s bed among 7 other Congolese friends. We pulled a thick, blue tarp over our heads for shelter from the morning’s rain. For a moment in time, I felt like a product of smuggling…pure imagination.
Twenty minutes later the skies allowed the sun’s rays to penetrate the dark shields of the towering rain clouds. We eventually rolled the blue covering. Trucks passed by stacked 20 feet high with goods and people, packed in dire perfection, as one alteration would cause the transport to inevitably topple. Despite the diesel exhaust pouring into my lungs, I appreciated the setting surrounding our way. The rain’s remnants glistened off the hills and fields with the gentle touch of sunshine. Dark skies in the horizon provided a canvas of contrast. Moments later, streams of a color palette arced above our heads. At the end of the day, God’s presence always is felt last, covering anything that resembles iniquity or shadows of this world, or my own.