When I pulled up in front of the tidy, well-shaded, and manicured brick building of the mission, I was greeted by a line of uniformed children practicing a song in three-part harmony. The melody and sincerity of the children were compelling, and the high and low notes striking. The lyrics went on about community and walking down to the river together in the hopes that God would meet them there. The teacher nodded in greeting to me as I passed the procession and knocked on the front door of the mission.
A man dressed in black robes opened the door. “Hello, madam, how can I assist you?”
“Hello. Sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for a Father Sebuku.”
The man nodded. “That would be me.”
I held out my hand and shook his. “I’m Catherine Sohon. I believe Craig Phipps from WIA got ahold of you to tell you I might stop by?”
Father Sebuku seemed to stiffen a bit. “Oh yes, of course. Do come in.” He held a hand past him for me to enter the building.
“Craig said you are from the Congo?” I was led into a reception area with surprisingly new and comfortable-looking white leather couches that seemed out of place in an environment where everything was covered in the ubiquitous orange sands of the Kalahari dune system.
“That’s right.”
I looked around. “Nice place.” It must have taken a lot of energy to keep orange dust off the white leather and teak tile flooring in a room with floor-to-ceiling louvered windows.
Father Sebuku put his hand out and gestured toward a couch. “Please, have a seat.”
I melted into the supple leather—most probably Italian, or at least tanned by someone with European tanning skills. “How long have you been in the Caprivi?”
Father Sebuku sat down and sighed. “Oh, a little over a year now. Came down to manage the HIV program at the hospital. Shame how the problem just doesn’t seem to be getting any better here.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Howe, this issue of promiscuity is killing our people. Much more education is needed to build an understanding and get rid of superstitions.”
“I thought that the antiretrovirals had turned things around.”
“About five years ago, this was true. And the epidemic was minimized. But now, there are other issues. People are not taking the medications correctly. There are transport problems getting access to tests and treatment. The men are refusing to get tested. And the education just isn’t there for prevention. Sexually transmitted diseases are making the problem worse. We need an open dialogue in the communities and in the schools. That’s the only way I can see the possibility for real change.”
“I see.” I sat back. “Is the Red Cross involved in helping to deliver supplies for HIV?”
“Yes, yes, they have been a big help.” The priest nodded and looked me up and down. “Would you like some tea, Ms. Sohon?”
“Oh no, I don’t want to bother you.”
Father Sebuku stood up. “It’s no trouble at all, really. I’ll tell the kitchen staff.” He walked into the hallway and turned back. “Milk and sugar?”
I nodded. “Sure, thanks.”
When he was far enough down the hall, I stood up and walked around the room. There were various photos of opening ceremonies, children in traditional beaded skirts singing, a handshake with a minister here and there and even one with the president. Father Sebuku had been busy in the year that he’d been in town.
I looked up to the distinctive sound of a small aircraft taking off somewhere behind the mission. I had no reason to be suspicious, but I couldn’t help thinking that Father Sebuku had asked if I wanted tea as a way to excuse himself to go get rid of an airplane—which meant passengers and or cargo he didn’t want me to see.
The priest returned with a silver tea set and a plate of gingersnaps. “There we are.” He placed the tray on the small round coffee table between us and proceeded to pour a drop of milk in the bottom of my cup and then tea. He held up a sugar cube. “One or two?”
“Just one, thank you.” I watched him stir the cup with a teaspoon and focused on his fingers. “I was thinking about volunteering for the Red Cross.”
Father Sebuku stopped stirring, placed the teaspoon down carefully, and forced a smile. “Volunteering?”
“Yes, you see, I’m a pilot and I was hoping you could use an extra plane for all the supplies you need to move around.”
“Well, that’s a very generous offer, but you see, we don’t manage Red Cross activities here. We simply offer to do some of the deliveries as needed. We don’t have any control over who does the work outside this mission. The whole program is run out of Lusaka in Zambia. We are just lucky to be on the list of recipients.”
“Oh, I see.” I hadn’t expected volunteering to be so tricky. “Can I be put on a list when you need an extra pilot?”
“That won’t be necessary. At least not for now. You see, the Red Cross hasn’t been delivering supplies for some months now. We’ll only have one more delivery from Lusaka in a day or so, and the doctor will take care of that.”
“The doctor?” I asked, remembering that Nigel had mentioned a doctor, too. “What doctor is that?”
“Dr. Geldenhuis.”
“He works here, in Katima?”
“Yes, that’s right. He works at the hospital but has a private office, behind the deli, that he just opened. Best doctor in town if you are ever in need. But, best to see him at his office and not at Katima Hospital. I’m sure you’ve been told to stay away from that place. So unfortunate. A death trap, really.”
I didn’t want to seem too nosy, but couldn’t resist. “Is that whose plane just took off?”
Father Sebuku hesitated.
“The one I heard taking off behind the mission? Was that Dr. Geldenhuis?”
Father Sebuku seemed to be piecing things together in his mind, as if trying to censor himself.
“I’m a pilot, you see, so I can’t help noticing these things.” I could see I was making him increasingly uncomfortable, so I spoke quickly. “And it’s a nuisance sometimes because I always have to challenge myself to guess exactly what kind of airplane it is that I hear. Was it a Cessna 172—or a Piper Cub, maybe? Didn’t sound like enough horsepower for a 182.”
Father Sebuku squinted at me and then burst out in a nervous laughter. “Impressive.” He shook his head. “Most impressive. Yes, it was a Piper Cub. A minister from the Seventh-Day Adventist church was just visiting from Lusaka. I had to see him off.” He poured his tea and seemed to loosen up a bit. “They have been very generous with their donations to the HIV program. He came to tell me that we will be able to pick up new test kits next week. In time for the national testing day.”
“Has there been any Red Cross activity in Angola?” I sipped my tea.
“Not by our mission. I think that the Red Cross is still trying to work out a relationship there. It’s been very difficult to negotiate humanitarian efforts after decades of war. Last I heard they were going to start with transistor radios.” He held the plate of cookies for me. “You understand.”
I accepted a cookie and ate it thoughtfully, enjoying the spike of ginger in my mouth. “Of course.”
Father Sebuku looked at me carefully. “You seem troubled by something.”
I shook my head quickly. “It’s nothing. I just wanted to offer some help, that’s all.” I finished my tea and stood up. “Thank you so much for your time.”
“I will be sure to let you know if we can make use of your offer in the future. Perhaps when the doctor’s schedule has a conflict.”
“I would appreciate that. Thanks so much.” I shook his hand and left, uncertain of what to make of my visit, but Dr. Geldenhuis was next on my list. First thing the next morning.