Biology Reference
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“A few months later, in Kinshasa, Sally and I got a call. Médard and his friend had been hit by a
motorcycle. They were walking here, in Mbandaka, at night, and the motorcycle driver lost control
or swerved suddenly to avoid a hole. We never got the story straight. Maybe he was drunk. But he
was going really fast. You see how dark it is. It killed Médard's friend instantly and left Médard
unconscious and in critical condition. The hospital said that he'd suffered a massive head injury and
would probably die.”
We'd stopped walking and stood on the dark road, no sense of the city around us at all, just the
vast, depthless night.
“Our team sent us photos of him. His entire face was swollen. His eyelids were as big as fists.
He was bleeding from his ears and eyes and nose. The Mbandaka hospital had no one who could
operate on head injuries, so we called a top surgeon in Kinshasa, and he said it would cost a few
thousand dollars. He asked if the injured person was essential to our operations, if we really needed
to have him airlifted there and were ready to pay this kind of money. We contacted everyone we
knew to help with funds, and when I called my sister, she told me she'd just received a letter from
Médard, another one that he'd sent himself, with fifty dollars in it. She immediately wired me two
thousand dollars for the operation.”
Again we were silent, Michael taking the time to calm his voice.
“We built BCI with an idea of family and community. We were a family. It didn't matter if you
were American or Congolese, a scientist or a boatman. That was our vision. We would have done
what we did for Médard for the others, too. What we didn't realize was how much taking care of
Médard would make people trust us here. They want to take care of us, too. They know that we're
doing this for them.”
“And what happened to Médard?”
“The surgeon didn't expect him to survive. He was in a coma when we flew him to Kinshasa,
but as soon as Mwanza came into the room, Médard woke up and recognized him. I don't know if
the accident caused permanent injury, but now he seems fine. He's still with us. You'll meet him on
the boat when we go back. People here remember the story. Everyone in the Congo is connected.
The families are huge, so in a lot of areas more people are related than not. People called him Mir-
acle Bonobo. It's made us realize, even now, when BCI is getting bigger, that we need to stay close
to the people. A few months ago, the captain of the boat, Le Blanc, had a stroke, and we helped him
get care. He's still not well, and this will be our first trip without him.”
Michael and I arrived at the bar where CREF researchers often met up when in town. A dozen
plastic chairs were arranged around crooked wooden tables set in gravel, and there was a raised
dance floor with tall mirrors against one wall. But the CREF researchers had already gone home,
which Michael said was unusual. He said that they called themselves les beaux-frères de Jésus , “the
brothers-in-law of Jesus,” and I admitted that I didn't get it.
“It's because Catholic nuns are called the wives of Jesus. They've nicknamed the local bar the
Church of the Brothers-in-Law of Jesus. When they're in Mbandaka, they meet here for what they
call prier sans cesse , 'ceaseless prayer.' These are the words a priest would use, though in this case
they just refer to drinking.”
Michael called to the waitress and began his own divine communion as a lively song blared on
the sound system and people got up from a number of tables.
The Congolese are known for their love of dance. They value form in the way they greet, men
ceremonially shaking hands and touching their foreheads side to side three times, women warmly
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