Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
As in Djolu, people came to ask what supplies we'd brought. Jean-Pierre arrived with his four-
year-old daughter, a pretty girl who kept glancing up at us curiously. He told us that she had a fever
and asked if we'd brought medicine. None of us were doctors, but the fever was low, and she had
only a slight cough. We shared what we could find in our supplies, Advil and vitamin powder. One
of the reserve's trackers came next, a tall, rawboned man, moving woodenly, ducking his head shyly
when he looked at us. The previous night, he'd stepped barefoot on the cut stump of a sapling and
gashed his heel. Sally washed it with peroxide and bandaged it.
Sick or injured people would come by often in our first days, telling us that there was no more
medicine at the reserve clinic. Sally assured them that it was in the boat with the rest of BCI's field
staff, and in the meantime, we shared what we had on hand.
Even the DGM official from Djolu, an aging man with hooded eyes and a small black beard,
who arrived the next day by motorcycle, showed up with an injury that needed treatment. He had
come to collect the fees that BCI paid to operate legally in the region. He unfolded a plastic grocery
bag and produced all the forms relating to BCI's previous visits. One was so old and worn that he
handled it like tissue paper, evoking the love of ceremony here. Gently, he opened it and laid it on
the wooden table in the
paillote
as if it were a relic, the document's remaining ink pale blue, the
folds in the paper worn through.
Sally paid a year's fee of one hundred dollars to operate in the region, and Michael called for
lotoko
, the local moonshine used in ceremonies or to show respect. One of the eco-guards brought
a beer bottle with a folded palm leaf for a plug. As soon as Michael removed the leaf, a smell like
rubbing alcohol permeated the air. He poured three fingers' worth into a plastic cup, and the official
took a drink.
“Other NGOs, they come in here and they do their projects,” the official said, “but they do them
for themselves. They do their projects, and when they finish, they leave, and that's it.” He waved
his hand dismissively. “But BCI has given us a lot. You have made people's lives better. You are a
part of us.”
I was surprised to hear the official speak so dismissively about other NGOs. Even Michael and
Sally appeared shocked. That was when the official told us about his injury, that on his way here,
his son had lost control of the motorcycle on a sandy stretch and they'd fallen. He showed us the
long burn on his ankle from the muffler, the skin darkened and papery.
As he drank, Michael and Sally went inside to get the medical kit.
The official looked at me and, still speaking French, said, “Is it true they do not even have chil-
dren?”
“No, they don't,” I said.
He shook his head, eyes still and serious, as if he couldn't imagine anything worse.
“They just work, helping people,” he asked, softly, “instead of having children?”
I turned my palms up, not sure how to answer.
He nodded once, solemnly, and stared off, appearing sad for them. Nearly every man I'd met in
the rural DRC had at least five children.
Sally and Michael returned with the medical kit and hydrogen peroxide. Together, they band-
aged the official's ankle as he studied them, maybe trying to make sense of why they would do what
they do.
But already, on our first day in Kokolopori, before his arrival, when Sally and Michael were still
unpacking and the people kept coming and asking for medicine, I began to feel—to sense in my
