An Americans Medics Time In The Belgium Congo

Africa adventure

The Belgium Congo, or to be exact "The Republic Du Zaire" as it was named when I worked there, was an unpredictable, turbulent country.  It was a very different type of violence that I experienced in Vietnam. Tribal warfare raged in the rural areas with various political guerrilla units ran amok throughout the country. Some were communist guerrillas supported by Cuba and Russia attempting to extend their communist influence throughout Africa, with the western countries supporting The Republic Du Zaire. Add to this mix, the border country of Angola made frequent military excursions along this country's border in a feeble attempt to topple the dictator Mobutu.  

I had worked as a civilian medic for almost seven years in war-torn South Vietnam, followed by working for one year in the south Pacific secret military Johnston Island, which stored and neutralized sarin nerve gas and biological warfare agents. I then accepted a job with CIS Constructors, a Morrison-Knudsen Company, for work as a medic and parachute jumpmaster in the African Belgium Congo. The Zairian Government contracted our company to build a 1,100-mile-long power transmission line from Inga Dam to the copper and cobalt mining region of Katanga in the south-east province of Shaba. The Inga-Shaba construction project would take ten years to complete.

Driving along the bumpy torn-up road, we were careful to avoid bands of tribal rebel teenage youths armed with AK47 and long knives, which would threaten and rob travelers or take a fee to pass. These types of rebels were punks who did not have a strong leader and not associated with any official government military units. They were known to raid other tribal villages to loot, rape, and kill.

Daily, working in Zaire was mostly boring than dangerous, usually sitting in my small dispensary alone, except for my African interpreter. Now and then, an American co-worker would invite me to accompany him on an excursion, of course, I leaped at the chance. 

 

Using my best judgment and not to bring embarrassment to me, I won't admit to being in this story, so let's say that allegedly, I was there.

A medic went along with an engineer who was surveying the jungle terrain to select the best sites to build the steel electrical towers. After a day of twisting and turning through the forests, they found themselves lost. They came across an isolated small African village with mud-thatched huts, and they requested safety. With the help of a young African who spoke his native language in addition to French and English and with bribes of a few whiskey bottles and small gifts, the African natives took them and put them up in mud thatched hut for the night. Later in the evening, they accepted an invitation to a bonfire social chit chat and tribal warrior dance entertainment. 

The Cheif and his leaders sipped the fine gift whiskey and shared a bitter-tasting African liquor with the Americans. The native woman passed around bowls of meat and mashed vegetables, which were eaten by fingers.  The feast and social event lasted until well after midnight. At the close of the ceremonies, the village Cheif suggested they take a woman to keep them warm for the night. For some reason, the Americans feigned being ill and exhausted and with sincere regret, declined the offer. 

Early the next morning, when leaving our thatched hut and getting into the jeep to depart, they found the natives, in a colorful ceremonial dress with the African warriors holding spears. They had gathered and lined up along the village square. The engineer slowly drove the jeep toward the center of the plaza while the African natives jumped up and down in unison, chanting a native song. The engineers and medics egos soared due to the spectacle as if they were the stars participating in a great white hunter "Tarzan of the Ape's" movie. Both Americans were looking off to the sides and waving goodbye to the natives and failed to see a massive metal stake in the center of the square. There was a loud metallic thud causing the jeep to jolt to a sudden stop. The medic flipped out of the jeep, hitting the ground in a heap. Slowly and painfully, he got up and with the African Cheif, inspected the undercarriage and found no damage. However, they realized that the Jeep was hung up on the metal spike.

The African  Cheif gave a command, causing the African natives to drop their spears and run toward the jeep.

 The engineer yelled, "were are being attacked!" 

Suddenly the jeep was swarmed over with the natives who quickly lifted the vehicle and moved it off the spike and dropped it to the ground with a bang. Being very embarrassed and with damaged egos, the Americans jumped into the jeep and drove out the village entrance with young African children running along and after them, while the medic waved back goodbye to their new friends. With the help of Chief's rough directions and compass bearings, they managed to get back on track to resume the mission. 

One late afternoon an exhaustive native ran into our camp, shouting something in his native tongue. My native interpreter told me that something happened to a car with people down the road, and they need help. Not much information, as usual, to go on, I thought. With me driving the pickup, my interpreter and I scanned the road for several miles, then finally came across a small old beaten car turned over at the edge of the road near some bushes. I grabbed my emergency medical equipment and ran to the pickup, finding nobody in it.

 I followed a trail of blood to the jungle edge, and was entering the forest when my African interpreter ran up, grabbed my arm,  pulling me back screaming, "don't go! Don't go!  He said very excitable, "an animal has dragged off the man and it is out there, or because there is a famine, somebody dragged off the man to chop up to sell on the market.  For our safety, it is not wise to go in there; we have no guns!"

 In disbelief, I mentally examine what he said and chose to accept the animal explanation and on his advice, returned to the Inga campsite to get word to the well-armed African police to investigate.  

Another weird day!  As we were driving through the jungle on a bumpy dirt road, I had the gut feeling that something was observing me. A flash of light on top of a ridge alerted me to grab my binoculars and focus on that area. There on top of the hill stood a white man dressed in a military uniform with several African natives in military uniform with what appeared to be AK47 rifles squatting near him. It was not the typical familiar American military uniform.

 It occurred to me that we should turn around and leave. However, that is not my nature. With our interest peaking, we continued to drive along the road toward their direction. It was apparent that we were checking each other out. Now I could see the white man clearly, "It's a damn Russian officer uniform! What is he doing here, scouting out the same terrain that we are!  For what?" I thought. He didn't seem to care if he was seen or not. He let his binocular glint give him away, and he did not attempt to conceal himself or the armed natives in any manner. As I got close enough, I could see him clearly without binoculars. As I was about to pass by under the hill, I looked up gave him a snappy military salute. The Russian officer smiled and waved back as he kept watching us as we drove out of sight. 

I am sure he realized I had no military or other official interest in him. For sure, he was checking out any American military or civilian personnel to determine what we were doing in Africa for Russian intelligence purposes. To ensure that I was not mistaken for the military, I always wore a white medical short sleeve smock and carried a black medical briefcase and brown military canvas medical bag. I never had possession of a weapon,  which, of course, made me an easy target for anyone that had the desire to capture or harm me. 

Driving on the way back and close to the Inga base camp, we approached the twelve to fifteen-foot tall termite mounds that bracketed the road. The air was full of huge black swarming termites with white wings. Two African boys were running and leaping up into the air with their arms flailing vigorously. They would grab the large juicy termites, be engulfing them, then forcibly be blowing out the white feathers spraying them into the air. The African boys who were leaping and grabbing for more termites, continued the feast until bellies were so full of termites or being so exhausted they couldn't run and jump anymore. After enjoying this spectacle, we made it back to camp.

It was the talk of the jungle, the George Foreman-Muhammad Ali fight. To the Africans, Ali was the most popular. For some strange reason, the rural natives thought that George Foreman was white, nothing that I said could convince them otherwise.  A friend and I visited Ali's training camp located at his villa next to the banks of the Zaire river near the capital city of Kinshasa. Since Ali allowed visitors to his training camp, we watched him train and spar with other fighters. After working out, Ali would go outside and enjoyed talking with visitors and horsing around with admiring African kids. George Foreman, on the other hand, kept secretively and would not allow any visitors except for handpicked reporters to visit his training camp.

The company surprised us with tickets to the so-called "Rumble in the Jungle." The ticket was dated September 24th,1974, but the fight delayed due to George Foreman suffering an eye cut during sparring training. The fight was rescheduled for October 30th., little did I know that it would not start until after 4:30 am so that it was on prime time in the United States. Happily, four of us jumped into the back of the pick-up and endured the rough four and half hour ride through the jungle to the city of Kinshasa. With my ticket in hand, which I still have, cost $10.00 US or $5.00 Zaires money, and was seat 858 in section X, was located at the top of the stadium. Finding our assigned seats occupied by black Africans and not willing to challenge them, we chose to stand alongside the stadium wall edge.

It was a night with oppressive heat with an approaching thunderstorm making it more humid, causing our damp shirts to stick to our skins. The stadium seats were a sea of black African faces, while down around the center boxing arena, it was an upper-class international fan base with more white and a scattering of other racial faces. 

During the fight, I moved away from the wall toward the back of the seats and later heard thuds and painful screams. Looking back behind me, I saw a wave of excited wild-eyed African boys attempting to crawl up over the top of the soccer wall parapet. African Army soldiers were beating them about the head and shoulders with rubber hoses and truncheons to drive them back off the stadium wall. All this action around me caused my head to flip back and forth to take in both activities. By the fourth round, the fight going on behind me was over, and now I could concentrate on the big rumble in front of me.

The fight early rounds began with the Ali, the underdog, and old fighter, leaning against the ropes, absorbing sledgehammer punishing blows from George Foreman. For most of the fight, Ali's "rope-a-dope" cover-up tactics of using his arms to block as many blows he could result in him to lose rounds. It appeared to me that Ali would be soundly defeated. Once or twice in the round, Ali would throw a hard punch to Foreman's head, which would send a sheen of sweat across the ring. Being a black belt in Hap Ki Do, my training was to attack and attack. I disagreed with the tactics that Ali was using. About the 6th round, it occurred to me that Ali was letting Foreman tire himself out. Foreman's punches were becoming slower and weaker, and his fighter stance began to slump.  Then in the eighth round with Ali being assailed and against the ropes, Ali bounced off the ropes and unleashed a barrage of punches and then threw a thundering blow to Foreman's head, resulting in a sheet of sweat to spray across the ring. That hard blow caused Foreman to twist and fall, and ended up spawling in the center of the ring. The referee gave the count of ten to Foreman, who was unable to rise in time. Ali, against all the odds, won the fight. The "Rumble in the Jungle fight" was over.

Being a Hap Ki Do karate style black belt and wanting to maintain my karate form, I began solo practicing. Soon two American company workers joined me to learn karate followed by several black African company workers who, after watching us, also merged into the practice formation. After a week or so of group daily martial arts training, an African male confronted us who begin angerly shouting in African to my black students. One of the students informed me that the man was a government agent, and he was ordering the black African students to stop learning karate. Not willing to get involved in African politics or to put the black students in trouble, I stopped teaching karate and solo practice. 

I left Africa with mixed emotions. Raised in a small western farm town in Montana, I could relate with and be comfortable with the rural African tribal people and work with them on common ground. From time to time, I had to deal with African government officials who reigned with the dictatorial powers of "Mobutu," who used brutal force on their African subjects. At the time, little did  I know that I had witnessed a boxing match that would be called the "greatest fight in boxing history." I learned to understand a culture that was very different from Asian culture. I will never forget the sights and sounds of Africa and my experiences there.