That morning though, he found himself alone in the large decrepit house. There was not a soul around, the place eerily bereft of the banter between the driver and the housekeeper, which filled the air most days. Tom’s French was still a little shaky, having spent but a few dollars and weeks on an outdated language course. Between online translation engines and the few words he knew, though, there was enough to make out what the headlines were saying.
The Ebola outbreak was continuing to spread unabated. In the beginning, the World Health Organization had successfully trialled a vaccine, but then this new bug had continued to morph and since beaten whatever they had thrown at it. As usual domestic news were less than reliable. Featuring a curious mix of fact and fiction, some reports even alleged witchcraft as the cause of an illness the locals referred to as a scourge to weed out the wicket. A sentiment quickly picked up by the local churches, the congregations of which had seen a surge in numbers since the bug jumped from ground zero in the northwest and virtually sprinted almost all the way to Kisangani in the east. It was hard at the best of times to get facts in this corner of the world, but the rumours and innuendo that followed the widespread panic the disease had caused in some parts already, it had become downright impossible. It was for that very reason that his organization had sent him and a small team of operations folks to obtain first-hand information about where and what the actual need was.
As if the virus was not enough, mass displacement had followed a recent kick-up in warlords’ activities in several regions. Rebels had taken violent but profitable advantage of the confusion and disarray caused by the outbreak, looting abandoned towns and villages and, of course, the small but ubiquitous illegal diamond mining operations dotted about the bush.
The beep of a horn outside had Tom look up from the paper. The team, curiously having been able to secure far better accommodation downtown, was waiting in a WHO-labelled Landcruiser. Gulping the lukewarm coffee, Tom grabbed his kit and joined them, throwing his backpack behind the rear seats among boxes of supplies and emergency kits, or grab bags as the others called them.
He didn’t bother to lock the place. There was nothing worth stealing, he figured, and anyone wanting to stay in the shithole was more than welcome to it.
CHAPTER 2
Initially, the departure from town was slow. The streets had filled with what looked like the beginning of an exodus. But then it was hard to tell. After all, as he had quickly learned in Nairobi, traffic in many African cities - where livestock and cart-pushing vendors competed with minibuses, taxis, trucks, and pedestrians - was like this. Even a normally short commute like the one from their rented townhouse to the office could take three times as long in the mornings as a result.
Once the Landcruiser had nudged its way out of the busy centre though, things became decidedly easier, and soon they found themselves bouncing along a vomity road northward; the only other vehicles the occasional minibus and humanitarian teams, in white Landcruisers just like theirs, all of them racing like participants in some crazy pan-African rally.
An hour or so into the drive, they reached a UN checkpoint, the official demarcation of the no-go zone imposed by the government in cooperation with WHO. It was the point from which access to the rest of the region was technically only possible for those authorized as part of the Ebola response; an unenforceable restriction given the porous nature of its borders and the arterial pattern of roads and paths used by farmers, rebels and ordinary villagers, throughout. They handed their letters of invitation, registration, and IDs to a rather bored-looking UN Peacekeeper, who, well aware of the pointlessness of his assignment, took but a casual glance at their papers.
There were four of them plus the driver, making it a tight squeeze among the boxes, backpacks, and laptop bags, even in a large vehicle like their 8-seater. Two of them were local employees, programme managers assigned to function as communicators and admin, with a rather nervous Thai woman in her 30s, a doctor specializing in infectious diseases, the only other international. They had never met each other before, barely communicated prior to meeting that morning. The very broken English of the two Congolese aside, they hardly spoke the same language. Initial conversations, thus, were awkward, especially in the confines of the vehicle, where close contact was unavoidable. Occasional small talk followed by long silences eventually prevailed as they left the checkpoint behind and continued their journey.
Thick forests gave way to farmlands and small mining communities, their turf wrestled from the jungle and deforestation marring the once-green hills that confined them in small valleys. The occasional river snaked along, before disappearing again into the thick underbrush of the bush. Here and there, groups of people tended to their crops, moving along on foot or on donkey-pulled carts. Others just sat roadside, either waiting for something or someone, or taking a break from an endless hike in the tropical dry season heat.
As far as Tom could tell, nothing seemed untoward here. At least nothing seemed to fit the image of virtual Armageddon he had had in his mind when he left Nairobi. Going by this, Julie's tearful good-bye seemed almost irrational, and he wondered whether they had fallen victim to the kind of hysteria that always surrounded Ebola.
They kept driving north for the better part of three hours, before making a quick but very welcome pit stop in Banalia. A small nondescript town with little more than a handful of buildings, its name seemed to befit its ordinary appearance. Kids ran alongside the vehicle as they pulled over in front of the town’s only store. Laughing at the foreigners, they stretched out their pasty limbs. Aside from the small group of shouting kids, the driver remarked, and although it never got all that busy, the town seemed unusually quiet. There were no other people on the streets, no livestock, and no vehicles. The houses appeared empty and deserted. Far up ahead in the distance a lone, worse for wear looking figure, lost, drunk, or both, stumbled around tiredly.
Having found the store equally devoid of people and, going by the lone packet of noodle soup on the otherwise empty shelves, virtually ransacked, the team decided to move on. They gave a few francs to the kids, who grabbed the bills no sooner than they had been offered.
Shouting and singing “Le Croque-Mitaine, Le Croque-Mitaine, il va te manger,” they ran off back to wherever they had come from, leaving behind nothing but the dusty road and desolate ambiance of the place.
“What was that about?” Tom asked the driver.
“It is an old wives’ tale, a song to frighten children. ‘Le Croque-Mitaine.’ You know? The Bogeyman. They say it wants to eat you.” The driver feigned a shaky laugh.
An uneasy quiet descended upon the cabin, and the A/C seemed colder than before.
The Landcruiser made a right turn and continued in a north-eastern direction now. Soon the bush grew thicker, and eventually rainforest, the type Tom knew all-too-well from nature documentaries, took over everything around them.
Another two hours of trying to avoid potholes and the occasional UN UNIMOG, they reached Mobo. It was the last point of civilization along their journey as the driver had called it, although, going by what they were seeing, Tom thought the description seemed a rather strong euphemism.
A depot had been erected in a hurry and were it not for the white and blue coloured logos that adorned just about every piece of equipment and structure, the cavernous white UN tents, towering Armoured Personnel Carriers, supply trucks, and drab container offices might as well have belonged to a military base. Hundreds of people, some in peacekeeper uniforms, some in white overalls and others in civilian clothing, were busy coming and going, carrying boxes or getting in or out vehicles that arrived and departed in a constant stream. Off to the side, over the cyclone-fence and separated by another checkpoint from the rest of the interior of the improvised compound, sat a row of Red Cross branded medical tents. Here, long queues of civilians queued in front of a reception desk, waiting to be processed for testing and treatment inside, where personnel in Hazmat suits went about their busines
s.
Approaching the entrance to the main compound, Tom noticed another area further to the left. Well, beyond the medical tents and even the initial perimeter fence, it was hard to make out the activity taking place there. A dented pickup truck leaving the treatment area through a side gate gave the only clue as to the purpose of the facility.
For a brief moment, just as the truck turned onto the main road, the hastily thrown tarp covering the rear lifted. Inside the truck bed, large black bags, each one roughly the shape and size of a human being, shifted with each jump of the vehicle's axel.
Body bags were nothing new to Tom, and he had seen more than his fair share of them, and yet here, the sight seemed out of context. This kind of thing just wasn’t supposed to happen to civilians. Tom shook his head, then laughed at the ridiculousness of the notion. Of course, unnatural death was not reserved for those on the battlefield alone. If anything, it now found more civilians than ever in this world so volatile and violent few of the previous generations could have ever imagined. War had always been part of humankind’s story, but it was no longer waged in the conventional sense. The rules had shifted.
According to a grim-looking Ukrainian manning the entry point, they had arrived just in time for the daily affiliated-agency briefing, and he ushered them into a white double container in the centre of the compound, complete with air conditioning and Congolese locals serving tea and coffee. They found themselves sitting around a table with thirty others. Representatives from like-minded organizations, all assisting in the Ebola response. A map was projected and figures and acronyms thrown about in a mad jumble, while attendees read emails and flicked through their Facebook pages, chatted, and complained about the internet connection.
A stark-looking man then gave a security briefing, issuing warnings the irritated humanitarians around him were likely to ignore. As the briefing went on, at least for Tom, the initial exhilaration of finally becoming part of the operation soon gave way to a sense of frustration. Nothing the others had to contribute seemed to be particularly meaningful at all.
He had come to help people get their lives back on track, give them food when they were hungry, keep them safe from this terrible illness and maybe, just maybe even save a few from it through what he was able to contribute. Indeed, meaningful contribution had been on his mind all the way from home and the sole driving factor in his decision to come here.
But now, as discussions drifted from gender mainstreaming to advocacy, from macro to micro-politics of international aid and from the here and now to the ‘would, could and should’ of empty rhetoric, he felt his heart sink and his stomach churn at the degree of self-centeredness on display in the sterility of this air-conditioned room which seemed light-years away from what was going on outside and in the rest of this nation. He had excused himself after a while, unable to bear it any longer and, feigning a stomach upset blamed on lunch, had made a rapid departure.
Now Tom wandered about the place in the heat, trying to get a sense of where they were, his internal OODA loop very much making a resurgence. ‘Orient, Observe, Decide, Act.’ The mantra of his training, which had become second nature, was back in full swing. Within a few minutes, he found himself at the checkpoint to the medical treatment area, curious to get an idea of what was really happening and a first impression of what things were like where the proverbial rubber met the road.
The guard he was standing in front of now looked as conscientious in his duties as he looked terrified at having been given the post. Being this close to potential victims was enough to scare anyone but the most hardened medical professional. He inspected Tom’s credentials and asked him several times whether he knew where he was going, clearly confused why anyone would want to get closer than he himself had been ordered to be. They chatted briefly. Speaking the language fellow soldiers do the world over, they quickly gained respect for each other for the same reason.
“Imagine what these guys go through every day…” The tall Pakistani nodded towards the civilian entrance to the treatment centre and the two Peacekeepers in Hazmat suits that were controlling access there.
Having received a facemask and a pair of rubber gloves, Tom passed through to the other side. Another feel-good measure in the fight against an enemy invisible until it was too late. An enemy that had time and time again shown its ability to adapt and overcome whatever was put up against it. Tom strolled over to the registration desk and watched as the long queue, one person at a time, was processed, the facility slowly but surely reaching its daily limit, with many more people making camp outside as they waited for their turn the next day.
Not wanting to interfere with the hectic to and fro of the medical staff inside the tents, he made his way towards the civilian gate, where the Hazmat suit-wearing peacekeepers were asking each person a series of questions and searched them for weapons before letting them into the compound. There were young and old, individuals, couples, and whole families, all waiting to be screened and tested. Some looked sick already, whether from their arduous journey, dehydration and malnutrition or, in fact, from the virus, it was hard to say.
They were each asked their name, where they had come from, how many in their party and whether they had ‘any of the following symptoms,’ before covering a long list of follow-up questions the two men crossed off as they went through their questionnaire. Many people looked confused, unfamiliar with the terms, and eager to get inside the compound where not only medical assistance but also food and clean water were readily available. People in the queue looked tattered, tired, beaten, and desperate.
“You are British?” Came a voice from the back of the queue. Tom looked around, not sure whom it was addressing until it called out to him again.
“Yes, you. You, with the facemask.” The voice belonged to an unusually well-dressed elderly man, holding a little boy of maybe six or seven years of age by his hand.
“Well, actually I am,” Tom replied, making his way past the others standing in line. “How did you know?”
“Sometimes you can just tell these things,” the man replied with a smile and in a perfect English accent. He briefly relinquished his place and stepped out of the queue so Tom could see him.
“I know. Yes, I am Congolese, but a long time ago, I studied in England,” the man continued, emphasizing the words even more.
Tom was intrigued by hearing someone local speak his own language with such perfection. They awkwardly shook hands, Tom wearing his rubber gloves and the man extending his bare hands and sat down on a couple of concrete barriers nearby, put in place to protect the compound against attack by whatever factions were roaming the countryside.
The man lifted the little boy up to sit beside him and introduced himself as ‘Olivier Bisimwa from the village of Gono,’ immediately triggering Tom’s curiosity as to what had brought him to the compound.
“Back where I come from, I am…or better, I was the teacher, the preacher, the mayor, the doctor. Not by choice, I might add, but sort of by default.” Olivier began answering Tom’s questions with a warm and patient smile.
“This is Fabrice, my neighbour’s son. I have known him since birth. And I have taken care of him since his parents’ death.”
Tom looked back and forth between the man and the little boy in anticipation of Olivier’s story.
“When the virus hit, we were first able to contain it rather well. Isolation, sanitization, you know. Ordinary stuff for most in your country, but novelties for many of my countrymen, sad to say.” His brows furrowed, and his voice became darker.
“But then the others started appearing. The ones that we were no longer able to contain. Those whose illness, although similar in the beginning, was very different in the end. Or should I say following their new beginning.”
“What do you mean very different?” Tom pushed. He sensed the old man was holding back.
“There are things in this world, my British friend, which cannot be explained…be it by science or religion. They but c
ome into being without rhyme or reason, or at least none that the human mind can perceive.” Olivier continued.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not following. What things are we talking about here?” Tom interjected.
Olivier leaned over, lowering his voice, almost whispering over the roaring of the trucks. Still coming and going in an endless stream, enormous wheels kicked up thick clouds of red dust that settled on every surface.
“Things, as the locals say, have come from the foreign man’s white castle to reap the souls of the sinners, of the debauched and the unclean…” At that, Olivier broke out in hysterical laughter, but then stopped abruptly.
He glared back at Tom with wild eyes, his desperate stare pressing for a reaction. Tom was beginning to doubt the man’s sanity, but decided not to judge too quickly. Olivier had seemed rational enough up to this point. Besides, Tom had seen his share of religious zealots prone to speak in riddles during Sunday mass or whenever they were given an opportunity. With the man saying he was a preacher, certain deductions would need to be made.
“Again, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I understand. Is this some kind of folklore you are talking about? What do you mean by castle?” Tom asked as calmly as possible.
“I apologize,” offered Olivier, “even my late wife used to say I have a sense for the dramatic. Blame a classic education, ey?” He again smiled broadly.
”Castle is what the village folks called it, but it really is just a small research station in our area. I don’t believe it is still active, but it was for quite some time. Well, at least until all this happened.”
A shadow of sadness flickered across his face, and he drifted off into deep thought. He placed an index finger on his temple and gazed vacantly into the distance.
The Virophage Chronicles (Book 1): Dead Hemisphere Page 3
