by Carrie Regan
He stepped away to call his team together, leaving Liz in stunned silence, reconsidering the wisdom of their journey. With the gear piled in the back and on the roof of the van, only one free row of seats remained. Four porters climbed on top of the van and three stepped up onto the back bumper. Moe climbed onto the front seat next to Abdoulaye, who directed the film crew into the remaining space.
“On to the airport. Just in time to catch your plane,” he said, turning the key as the engine coughed to a start.
“I hope it’s in better shape than your van,” Troy said nervously.
“I hope there’s room for the porters to ride inside,” Buddy said, looking out the window at a foot dangling from the roof.
Abdoulaye let out an appreciative laugh as the van slowly rolled away from the hotel. The adventure had begun.
***
The Cessna launched into the sky, bound for the vast, little-known interior of the country. Shantytowns gave way to lush green landscape where centuries-old trees stretched to the heavens, concealing the activities of the jungle floor below.
“That’s the only other way in or out of the Nburu,” Moe said, pointing to the shimmering surface of a wide, lazy river that snaked its way through the jungle and disappeared in the distance. He and the American crew occupied the only two rows of seats in the plane, while the team of porters sat atop the pile of luggage in the back, exchanging words of astonishment as they peered out the windows. One asked Moe a question in Kituru, and his reply prompted a new wave of excited chatter.
“What was that all about?” AJ asked, taking a break from filming shots of Max and aerials of the jungle below.
“It’s their first time in a plane. They wanted to know how long it will take to reach Kimkali, and I told them about three hours. They were amazed. They don’t believe me. It takes at least a week by boat.”
“And is this your first time in a plane?” Troy asked, over-enunciating his words, as though speaking to a remedial English student.
“Oh no. I’ve been to London many times. I’m studying there. I’m just on break now.”
“What are you studying?” he asked, taken aback.
“I’m working on my PhD in Economics from the London School. But I enjoy returning to the interior of my country. I was born in the bush. And if I’m to be Minister of Finance some day, I need to stay in touch with people in the villages,” he said earnestly. The crew exchanged glances, both surprised and impressed, while the porters continued to gasp in astonishment as the plane climbed higher among thin, wispy clouds.
Hours later, as the plane emerged from the clouds and began its descent, Moe drew their attention to small settlements that dotted the river’s edge. “Not far now,” he observed. “Nburu, here we come.”
“I take it a modern guy like you doesn’t believe all this mumbo-jumbo about the Nburu jungle?” Max asked Moe sportingly. At the mention of the Nburu, the porters fell silent.
Moe glanced at them, then replied cautiously, “Please, don’t underestimate the danger of the trip ahead.”
“What do you mean?” AJ probed. Troy and Buddy leaned in, dreading the explanation but not wanting to miss a word. Liz also drew closer. After Abdoulaye’s stern words, she was eager to hear Moe’s opinion.
“The Nburu isn’t an ordinary place. There’s no thicker, more inhospitable jungle in all of Africa. And none richer, either. They say it contains a fortune in gold and precious gems, and species of animals found nowhere else on earth – even species yet to be discovered. Its plants hold the cures to countless diseases considered incurable in the West.” He read the disbelief in their eyes. “It’s not just superstitious villagers who believe it. Years ago, there was a wealthy European scientist whose beloved wife was dying of cancer. He dispatched five different teams to the heart of the Nburu, paying each handsomely to bring back a selection of plants to try to cure her. None of them returned.”
“What happened?” Buddy croaked.
“Depends who you ask. Most will say they were taken by the Bambada, the guardians of the Nburu. For as long as anyone can remember, the Nburu has always been considered a special place, a door to another world. Some say it was the source of all civilization; others say it will be the end. The Bambada, this mysterious “lost tribe,” roams the Nburu, protecting it and all its riches from the rest of the world.”
Max tried to suppress an amused grin, but failed. Moe shrugged it off and continued. “Whether you believe in the Bambada or not, one thing’s for sure: there’s something in that jungle, a force no one can explain. They say you can feel it when you reach its heart. We’ll find out soon enough.”
He indicated a break in the jungle where sunlight glinted off sheet metal roofs. “Kimkali,” he announced. “And nearly a week’s journey northwest, the Nburu.”
As the plane descended, they craned their necks in an attempt to spot the legendary jungle, but could see only a uniform sea of green.
The plane skidded to a stop on Kimkali’s banana tree-lined laterite airstrip, and the team disembarked, squinting in the intense afternoon sun. A dilapidated van pulled up next to the plane, and Moe greeted the driver.
“Abdoulaye has arranged everything. This is our transport while we’re in town.” He summoned the porters, and they began unloading the equipment, piling it into the van while AJ recorded a few shots of Max getting off the plane.
Moments later, they were driving through Kimkali, past mud brick shops and dusty streets lined with vendors guarding overloaded tables. From the surprised looks they received, it was clear that Kimkali didn’t see a lot of foreigners.
“Does the driver know where the missionaries live?” Liz asked.
Moe smiled. “Everyone knows where the missionaries live.”
“They’re supposed to have Thompson’s belongings.” She’d spent the better part of the evening reading the research Bill had sent over with Troy.
“Including his bag, soaked with blood,” Max added. He’d obviously read the material, too. Bill had good reason to want to keep Max, Liz thought. He was a pro, always researching his own stories and, more often than not, writing them as well. Teams scarcely needed a producer on Max’s shoots; he would often simply direct himself.
“AJ, you rolling?”
AJ turned around and framed Max from the passenger seat of the van. “Get my good side,” Max instructed as Buddy wired him with a tiny lapel microphone and transmitter.
“We’ve just arrived in the town of Kimkali, one of the last places that Lawrence Julian Thompson was seen alive. Rumor has it a team of local hunters found Thompson’s blood-soaked pack in the jungle, and brought it to the local missionaries. We’re about to find out if that rumor is true.”
He looked out the window again for another few beats, then turned back to the team.
“How was that?”
“Looked good.”
“Sounded good to me.”
Max looked at Troy, who was staring out the window, clearly in another world. “Does the producer have any reaction?”
Troy snapped to attention and noticed everyone watching him. “It’ll do.”
“It’ll do? Great. Let me give you a few alternates, just in case.” They shot several variations on the lines, some mentioning how long it had taken them to reach their destination, others leaving out the fact that the bag was bloody – a detail that might have more impact if revealed with the bag itself.
They had just finished the last take when the van started up a small hill. A church topped by an enormous cross overlooked the town, with a charming bungalow nestled next door.
The bungalow was fancier than the average mud brick home in town. For one, the cement structure was whitewashed and trimmed in a lively pink. Window boxes burst with a colorful variety of blooming flowers. A covered porch ran the length of the front of the home, complete with bamboo chairs and a hammock. A wood carving – the profile of a plump woman in a bonnet, knelt in prayer, encircled by the words, “God Bless This House
” – greeted visitors at the door. It was as though a quaint New England summer cottage had plunked down in this most unlikely of places.
The crew followed Moe up to the house, where an elderly African man stopped tending a small garden to receive them. A small wooden cross hung from his neck.
The front door swung open and a blond white woman emerged, wiping her hands on a dishrag and looking as out of place in Kimkali as the house itself. Her hair was pulled back, an apron covered her sundress, and a bright smile lit up her face.
“Greetings! I see you’ve met Joseph!” she said enthusiastically, shaking their hands. “I’m Martha, Martha Simpson.” She turned to the gardener. “Joseph, please go get Mr. Simpson. Tell him we have visitors!” He nodded and dashed off.
“You’ll have to forgive my enthusiasm. We don’t often get visitors way out here in Kimkali. Are you here to see the mission?” Her eyes were wide as she glanced between them.
Liz stepped forward. “Hi Mrs. Simpson. I’m Liz.”
“So good to meet you, Elizabeth,” she cut in, pumping her hand again. “Please, call me Martha!”
“Thank you. We’re actually a television crew from America. Someone from our office in New York might have radioed you about our visit. We’re here looking for Lawrence Julian Thompson.”
“Ah, yes!” she said, glancing past them as her husband approached. Striding toward them, he had a confident, open smile, the large frame of a high school football star about 20 years past his prime, and blond hair that was just starting to thin. His khakis and white Polo shirt were spotless and neatly pressed. “John, these are the TV people!”
He shook hands with the team, introducing himself all around. “Great to meet you all. John Simpson. I’m minister here in Kimkali.” Suddenly, two waist-high, giggling children raced between John and the crew and took refuge behind Martha’s knees. “And these two little rascals are Mary and Johnny Jr. Kids, how about being polite and saying hello to our guests?”
They looked up with bright blue eyes. “Hello, guests,” they said in unison, blond curls bouncing.
“Twins. Twice the trouble!” Martha laughed, barely managing to stand as they continued to hug her knees.
“Mom, are the cookies done yet?” Johnny pleaded.
“Oh goodness! I nearly forgot in all the excitement. I’m baking Tollhouse cookies.” She leaned in to Liz. “The church sends a special treat now and then. Elizabeth, why don’t you come with me to the kitchen, and we’ll leave the men to talk business. We can fetch everyone lemonade while we’re there.”
“That sounds great, Elizabeth,” AJ said in a tone that matched their hostess’s enthusiasm. Liz chanced a thrust-out tongue in his direction as she followed Martha into the house.
“Forgive me for being so rude,” John said. “We don’t often get visitors. Why don’t we grab a seat on the porch?”
Moe offered to go into town to pick up canned and dried foods for their trek. AJ grabbed the camera from the van before he left, then joined the others on the porch. Martha and Liz brought out glasses of lemonade, and young Mary followed with napkins. AJ grinned up at Liz as she handed him a glass, a frilly apron tied around her waist, and she grimaced.
“We’ll be right back with some hot homemade cookies,” Martha said, gently guiding Liz back into the house.
“How long have you been living here?” Troy asked, looking around the property.
“Off and on for about twenty years. My parents had a mission south of here, and when I finished college I started a mission of my own in Kimkali. I left a few years back to do some fundraising in the States and to find myself a bride. From the day I left, I couldn’t wait to get back. Martha and I moved here with the kids a little over a year ago.” He took a sip of lemonade and surveyed the town from his perch on the porch with a satisfied smile. “I wouldn’t trade it for all the tea in China.”
“How long do you think you’ll stay?” Buddy asked.
“Oh, we’re here for the rest of our lives,” he said, as though it were obvious. Noticing their surprise, he laughed. “This is our home. And there’s so much work to be done for the church.”
“Like saving souls and shi— stuff?“ Troy asked.
“Yes, there’s that. Plus general community development work. Martha’s working with the local women, forming gardening cooperatives and teaching prenatal health care, and I’ve been training teachers for the elementary school we built last fall. We believe in ministering to the mind and body as well as the soul.”
“Sounds idyllic in a lot of ways,” Max said wistfully.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s far from paradise. We still have segments of the community who cling to unhealthy, primitive beliefs, like polygamy, spirit worship, witchcraft. It’s an uphill battle much of the time, but we’re not easily discouraged.”
“If, pardon the expression, I could play the devil’s advocate,” AJ began carefully, “That’s their way of life. What right does an outsider like you have to challenge it?”
John nodded; he’d heard the argument dozens of times. “Well, first of all, I’m not an outsider. I grew up here, and I’ve seen how destructive these primitive beliefs and practices can be. When a man takes more than one wife, the family grows to a size that he can never care for single-handedly. They say they need large families to work the fields and make up for the inevitable death of some children, but with the introduction of vaccinations and a few essential medications, infant mortality rates have dropped. So you get families that are utterly destitute, even by local standards, because of this primitive practice of polygamy. And it inspires such jealousy and bitter feelings among the wives, even though the men deny it. Any practice that cultivates such ill feelings, and threatens the stability of the family unit, is against God’s natural order in my book.”
“How about birth control?” AJ asked. “Can’t that help keep family size in check?”
“Right. American tax dollars being used to ship hormone pills overseas, so people can fornicate without creating life. Call me old-fashioned, but again, it’s against the natural order of things. If people learned to respect the act of love between a man and a woman and control their carnal urges during certain days of the month, they wouldn’t need a pill to prevent babies from coming into this world. That’s what we teach. A pill is just an easy out that doesn’t address the central issue: that sex is an act of love between a man and a woman who want to bring another life into the world. It should be respected and practiced with restraint, not reckless abandon just because a pill will keep a woman from getting ‘knocked up.’”
The men in the crew responded with a polite sip of their lemonades.
In the kitchen, Liz lifted hot cookies off one baking sheet while Martha dropped rounded teaspoons of batter onto another. The room was straight out of Martha Stewart’s Living, with colorful curtains framing the windows, kerosene lamps, an old-fashioned sink, and stencil art decorating the walls.
“It may seem like a rustic way of life, but we manage. The Lord provides, as does the church.” Martha giggled nervously. “I had trouble adjusting to their way of cooking here, over an open flame. The smoke alone would have done me in! John made mention of it in one of our reports to the congregation back home, and poof! A new gas range was here within weeks.” As though to show off the new stove, she opened the oven door and slid in the batch. She offered Liz a cookie, handed one to Mary, and continued chatting without missing a beat, as though she hadn’t spoken to a soul in years.
“Of course, some things are still hard to get used to. The bugs that work their way into the flour, for instance.” Liz stopped chewing and gazed down at her cookie. “Oh, don’t worry about these! I sifted the flour, honey! But the mere fact that I have to. It just takes so long to get anything done. And the distance from family and friends, with so little human contact. Not that there aren’t people here, but they just don’t understand when I talk about how much I miss the convenience of the corner grocery, or the hair salo
n. John says that I’ll adjust, that the Lord is giving me the opportunity to overcome the greed and vanity that’s become so acceptable and commonplace in American society. But he was born into this life. Sometimes I wonder…” Her voice trailed off.
“Are you here much longer?” Liz asked, thinking of how different their lives were, despite their closeness in age.
“We’re here for our entire lives,” Martha said with a sad smile.
Back on the porch, Max diplomatically tried to steer the conversation to a less controversial topic. He glanced at AJ, noticed the camera in his lap, and gave a discreet sign for him to begin rolling. “Your life here sure is fascinating. I can see why Lawrence Julian Thompson would want to spend so much time in this part of the world.”
“Ah, Thompson!” John’s face lit up. “What an interesting fellow. Gifted linguist, too. If I’d been able to recruit him for our Bible translations work, we’d have finished the Old Testament long ago. We’ve spent hours engaged in theological debates on this very porch. Can’t say we saw eye-to-eye on everything, but I respected him. Shame what’s come of him, though.”
“And what, in your opinion, has happened to Thompson?” Max asked, glancing at the camera.
John noticed the camera for the first time and smiled rather self-consciously. “Oh! On film! Hi there!” he said, waving. AJ forced a smile, cringing inside. People were far more natural and relaxed when they didn’t know the camera was rolling. He didn’t have to worry, though. John looked between Max and the camera once, then continued on as before.
“They got him. The jungle people, that is. I warned him not to go, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“You mean the Bambada?” Max asked.
John patted Johnny Jr. on the head and sent him into the house, then leaned in, ready to reveal all. “The Bambada, the jungle people, whatever you want to call them. In books, they call it a ‘secret tribe,’ but they’re not so secret. Anyone here will tell you. You go into the Nburu – assuming you’re crazy enough to go – and you’ll find their camps scattered here and there. And God forbid if you ever run into them in person.”