I'm staring at the smattering of white hairs in Abakar's almost shaven head just inches from my rain spattered glasses. His bare arms are thin as he whines out the motorcycle engine, plowing fearlessly through mud puddles up to our seats at times. As we slip and slide and almost fall several times, his only response is a hearty chuckle and a shaking of the head.
We'd left Moundou early this morning in a pounding thunderstorm beating ferociously on the old Toyota mini-bus. My mind flashes back to Youlou's funeral yesterday evening.
Anatole, Tchibtchang, Christophe, Youlou's cook and I turn down a muddy street in Moundou and stop in front of a brick wall near a sign that says "The Dove, Medical Care Center" with a picture of the young Youlou, untouched by the neck cancer that would almost kill him and leave him permanently scarred with a raspy voice from surgery and radiation. We enter the courtyard where twisted sticks have been pounded in the ground to support tarps over numerous mats and a few chairs for the well wishers. We solemnly greet all those present.
We sit down. I feel extremely sad. Anatole explains that we wanted to come sooner but an early morning rain and lack of a vehicle forced us to go by motorcycle later in the day. I stare at the large vein on the back of my hand. I slowly push it up and down under the pliable skin. Youlou's cook has started wailing over on the mats with the other women. Normally, I think their mourning cries are artificial and fake. Today I'm envious as they are able to let out their sorrow while I feel it weighing me down, brimming to the surface but not able to escape.
Anatole moves over to a hut where Youlou's mom waits with a couple other women. I follow him. We take off our shoes, move across the sand and onto a mat. A wrinkled, tough woman she is shaking her hands up and down and rocking back and forth, moaning. Her right hand is missing it's middle finger that has recently been amputated and is covered with a Betadine soaked elastic bandage. As Anatole starts offering his condolences in N'Gambai, I just absorb the sadness of Youlou's mom as the tears start to just brim offer and spill silently onto my arabic robes over my crossed legs. I start sniffing and use my amble sleeve as a Kleenix.
That evening we eat beans, rice and grilled meat by the light of a Kerosene lamp on wooden stools by the side of the night market. After finishing it off with some tea, we go to the our almost finished Surgery center, pull out some gurney mattresses and sit around laughing, joking and shooting the breeze for hours until I fall into a fitful sleep.
In Kelo the next day we find moto taxis but immediately get poured on so just before leaving town we pull under a woven mat shelter and wait out the storm. I pull some old beignets out of my back pack and we dunk them in some hot tea. I feel slightly guilty scarfing down the donuts and slurping the hot drink in front of the group of Ramadan fasting Muslim moto taxi men. One of the taxi men is our neighbor from Bere and one of my HIV patients. He's been healthy on ARVs for over three years now. He's wearing a world war two era Russian fur hat. I'm extremely jealous as I shiver in my soaked scrub shirt under the constant drip-drip of the leaking shelter.
Back to the present I see Anatole's driver's invention has fallen down and started flopping. To keep water from entering his exhaust pipe, he'd attached a length of innertube and tied it to his luggage rack so the smoke poured up Anatole's back and over his shoulder renewing his diminishing levels of carbon dioxide in his blood. Now it's fallen down and writhes around like a snake with it's head cut off, still spewing foul emissions.
At the lake where our local hippos usually reside we get off the motos and wade through almost waist deep water while the motos follow in dugout canoes. One of the canoe "drivers" is Marty, the man who was bit by the hippo in March 2004 featured in the documentary film "Unto the Ends." He greets us and it proud to show off some of his scars. He seems to be in perfect health and grins from ear to ear until I take a picture of him with Anatole upon which he transforms into the typical serious African dictator pose.
Arriving in Bere, my Muslim driver breathes out a prayer of thanks to God as he offers one last chuckle and shake of his head. The sun is shining and I'm almost warmed up on the outside but completely renewed on the inside.
