Brother Mike had learned what he had come to learn. He thanked Brother Gustaf, complementing him on his splendid memory. He then finished his assignment by purchasing two firkins of banana beer and one of the liqueur before regaining his pickup and heading south. The road was not heavily traveled, with more bicycles and cows than cars and trucks, so he had time to consider what he had learned. The facts would seem to speak for themselves. This was no indirect way to burrow into Brother Mike’s affairs. Hopefully these were still buried under the layers of bureaucracy where he had safely interred them. This was the Abbot’s way to try and really help a cousin in need, while maintaining the secrecy of their familial relationship, both for its past and present implications. The War had been a long time ago and it was uncertain if there were still wounds here so far from Europe that could be reopened. But, the good Doctor’s role as Team Leader could be misconstrued if someone chose to document close ties to the Abbey. While there was officially the separation of Church and State in the government, the Church still had a powerful and often politicized voice. The President was a devout Catholic, his own sister a member of a convent not far from here. If international assistance programs were portrayed as being driven by religious priorities, this could have a negative impact on all fronts. Obviously, the Abbot felt it was in his interests and undoubtedly those of the Abbey, to not publicize the fact that one of the prominent physicians of the area was part of his family. Hence, Brother Mike’s commission had been an act of caring and empathy, nothing more ominous.
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Brother Mike was hoping there would be no more special commissions from the Abbot or from any other source and, thus far his wishes seemed to be coming true. He had entered into a period of calm routine where he was able to get to his spot on the pond bank at least twice a week. He took care of all his diverse responsibilities and still made it to the Crane on Saturday and to Philip’s for cards on Wednesday.
The tranquility of this period included an extended stretch of complete celibacy, without any even fleeting friendships. This fact aside, Brother Mike continued to be preoccupied by his relationship with Philip and Angela. This seemed to be evolving into a special relationship by his standards and his general rule of thumb was to avoid sticky serious relationships with everyone. There were unavoidable, and often positive, relationships with members of his monastic community as well as relationships with those from the community at large, but experience had taught him to avoid serious personal relationships. He lived in a world of the transitory. People—expat experts, monks, sisters, all sorts—came and went. This was not the land of his birth, although he felt it to be his home. When he died, he would be buried in the Abbey’s cemetery, but many of his confrères chose to be buried back in Europe. When people got sick, went on vacation, or had a family crisis, they left. Today’s friend was gone tomorrow. This was just one of the transactional costs for the course of life he had chosen and it was, and had always been, his choice. But real friendships, true friendships, required one give a little bit of one’s heart, and he did not have enough to give to all those to whom he could, or maybe should have over the years. It was, he knew, a coping mechanism, but perhaps—just perhaps—it kept him sane. Alas, these were thoughts best relegated to the pond bank, so he tended to lock them in a small room in his brain and only bring them out after he had baited his hook and could let his mind fly. Still, there was an uneasiness when he thought of Philip and Angela.
5
This relatively sedate and pensive stretch proved to be short-lived as Brother Mike found he needed to go south to Lake Tanganyika to get regular supplies of fish for the monastery’s kitchens. The Abbey purchased a pickup load of fish every three or four months—a mixture of various fishes caught by the commercial Greek fishery and sold at very good prices, all tax-free to the religious community.
He decided to go with Jean-Baptiste to help with the loading and unloading of the cartons of fish. They left early one morning, hoping to be back in two days. The undulating hills and valleys dropped away after 120 km of the 160-km trip and they found themselves looking down almost 1,000 m to the long finger of the lake pointing south, all the way to Zambia, some 670 km away. Brother Mike was reminded of what a breathtaking view this must have been for the early traders coming from Zanzibar, looking for ivory and slaves.
The road wound down, slowly reaching the narrow plain that circumscribed the lake. As the old Toyota sluggishly descended, it was overtaken by bicycles piled high with bunches of bananas, bicycles that could only be stopped by the laws of physics, the brakes useless with so much momentum.
Gaining lake level, they first sought the Cathedral, which would have some sort of guest accommodation within its complex. Once they had satisfied themselves they would have a bed in which to sleep, they went to The Circle, a well-known watering hole on the lakefront where they could get delicious fresh fish and wonderful cold beer.
This open-air café was in no way special in terms of its decor. Like scores of other lakeside establishments, it boasted a dozen wobbly tables accompanied by numerous chairs, many equally unstable and most needing paint. Furthermore, its menu was certainly not the best the city had to offer. But what was on offer here was truly unique.
The café was situated on the shore of a small boat basin, giving the customer the impression of being on small peninsula in the lake. From his or her table, the customer could see the mountains of Congo on the other side of the lake. If it were close to sundown, the customer could also see the lights of fishing vessels twinkling as they began their night’s search for riches. And as the sun set, the hippos from the lake began to move, swimming and farting right by the café as the customer downed a beer or chomped on a ham sandwich. It was a special place. While it was only midafternoon and too early for the real show, they enjoyed the serenity and lulling rapture of the great lake.
After sustaining body and spirit, they continued along the lakeshore to a small bay where the Greek fleet was anchored. If one did not know better, one could think one was on the shore of Milos or Paros, with the same ornate vessels at anchor.
The Greeks had come to this area in large numbers between World War I and World War II, when there was a change in the colonial rule from German to Belgian. The Belgians had welcomed the Greeks as traders and service providers. A large community developed, with their own Orthodox cathedral—by design, slightly smaller than the Catholic cathedral—as well as Greek groceries, delis, and restaurants. In addition, there was a Greek fishery where Mediterranean technologies and gear were adapted to the lake’s pelagic fishes.
The Greek community reached its zenith at over a thousand strong after Independence. Now, this population was dominated by individuals of the second and third generations, but in much small numbers, many having returned to Europe due to prevailing political and economic difficulties.
The fishers, with their larger mother ship and smaller light and net boats, fished at night when there was not a full moon. The small light boats had powerful gas lamps that attracted fish. As the fish came into the lights, the net boat would deploy a large purse seine that would be pulled in by the mother ship, hopefully capturing a variety of prey.
It was late afternoon when Jean-Baptiste and Brother Mike reached the fishing harbor and the crews were preparing to go out for the night. They contacted one of the captains, explaining they had come from the Brothers of Piety to get their usual supply of fish. They then discussed with the captain what exactly would go into the order; how many of each size and species of fish and how these would be packaged. It was agreed they should come back the day after tomorrow and, with luck, they would have their fish. Brother Mike knew if they had the pickup loaded by 7:00 a.m., they would be back at the Abbey in time for Vespers.
Brother Mike and Jean-Baptiste found themselves in a rare situation with 36 hours of their own time, no scheduled prayers (they would of course pray), no work, and no other duties. One of the most precious gifts of all: their own time!
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The Great Lakes area was unfortunately not, as many perhaps thought,