Asher Kaufman, at 18, set out on June 28 for a yearlong trip to help spread the Children's Rosary in Europe and Africa. He spent the months of July, August and the first two weeks in September in France. He arrived in Uganda on September 15. From Uganda he traveled by car to Rwanda on September 28. After a week in Rwanda there was once more a return for more travel in Uganda. On October 11 he arrived in Tanzania and on October 26 traveled to Kenya. A visit for three weeks to Madagascar followed on November 7 and then South Africa. He spent several weeks in Cameroon and then the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). The following dispatch chronicles his journey in Angola.On Tuesday, March 24, Fr. Mombo and I set off for Benguela. It was a rather gray morning on which we left Luanda. We drove to the small bus port and waited with an ever-increasing crowd of people for our bus to arrive. Finally, arrive it did, and everyone surged forward in that rather aggressive and yet still impeccably civil manner people employ of attempting to load and board first. Being near the front, I was expecting to hear groans on every side on account of my loading three large suitcases underneath the bus (like the chains of Marley’s ghost, these bags have been my constant burden on this trip). However, if anyone did entertain such feelings of frustration and resentment, they did not volunteer a desire to express them, to my great relief.
Once I boarded, I made sure to quickly bury my handbags into the overhead space, knowing that every ounce and gram that feels doable to carry on one’s lap at the beginning of the journey becomes as oppressive as a cinder block by the sixth hour of travel.
Soon we were underway, and the rather arid countryside of coastal Angola was rolling by underneath our windows.
Traveling in a southerly direction, we never strayed too far from the ocean (and, by consequence, the heat too). All along the drive we would occasionally happen upon some picturesque bit of coast with its rolling surf and deserted beachfront.The countryside actually reminded me (as it did back in Uganda and Kenya) of the western United States.
Arriving in the middle of a village with some small stores on a large, ill-paved main road in the middle of dry, mangy vegetation, I could not help but think of some Gary Cooper or John Wayne movie set in a similar setting.
We stopped often, and at each halt we would descend, blinking and stiff-jointed into the roasting heat and intense sunlight of the roadside. Women with fruit or nuts grouped in colorful baskets on their heads would crowd about the doors of the bus to hawk their wares to the passengers who descended. Usually, I would stand around or walk back and forth until I had had enough of the elevated temperature and burning sun and then would reboard the bus.
By 7:30 p.m., we arrived and made our way to a restaurant run by some friends of Fr. Mombo’s. There we supped and then made our way to the house of another friend of Fr. Mombo’s, a priest named Fr. Belchior. This house was in a residential neighborhood located on a hill outside of Lobito, a city next to Benguela. This was neighborhood was comprised of about ten to fifteen-year-old modern homes, each enclosed by large walls or fences. When we pulled up in Fr. Mombo’s car, after unloading the bags and greeting my host, there ensued the unpleasant and difficult activity of trying to get the two cars to fit into Fr. Mombo’s small, square driveway.
After Fr. Mombo moved his vehicle in as far to one side as he could, Fr. Belchior began to back in next to it. Seeing the tightness of the space, we suggested he fold in his mirrors, which he did. He now could not see much at all spatially, but we assured him we would help him to pull in without scraping anything. Fr. Mombo was on one side and I was on the other.
The perceptive reader likely realizes where this sequence of events is leading to, and at the time, I also had a kind of sinking feeling in my stomach as the car began to move backward.
I had always hated and feared parking in tight spaces, and I disliked directing people in so doing almost as much as I detested doing so myself. It was the kind of thing that made me gulp in air, hold my breath, and look away, much like a climactic scene in a movie or an uncomfortable part in a book. On this night, as the car moved into the driveway, my eye suddenly became conscious of the outside of the wheel well on the back left tire which, obscured by the darkness and protruding farther than the rest of the car, had moved to within millimeters of a stout metal pole on the edge of the driveway. I had not even been at the house for ten minutes, and already I was about to scratch the car of the man who would be hosting me for the next two and a half weeks! What a mess! What was worse, despite Fr. Mombo’s and my repeated calls to pull forward, the standard transmission car kept lurching backward and closer to the pole (as if it was even possible to do so without touching).
As the car began to creep forward, I for an explicable but still indefensible reason, shoved my fingers in between the pole and the car, as though in so doing I would prevent an accident by the strength of my own flesh. Subconsciously realizing that the paint scheme on the side of the car was probably not worth my fingers, I nevertheless continued in my irrational fear for the former.
Somehow, and with much massaging and finessing, the car made it out of the tight spot; Fr. Belchior tried again and got it in with inches to spare. I do not think he ever quite realized how close his car had come that night to bearing an ugly gash on its side right above its back left wheelwell. As for Fr. Mombo and I, we had our hands full just trying to get our hearts to come back down out of our throats.
In the next few days, I would get to know the school that Fr. Mombo founded and come to understand more fully the work that he was engaged in.
Fr. Mombo is a priest who truly cares about his community, as would become obvious to me. He is a friend or acquaintance to more than half the population of the cities of Benguela and Lobito (this I do not think is much of an exaggeration, as countless times someone on the street or in a restaurant would stop him, shake his hand, and begin a conversation such as is had between good friends). Not only that, but he also has a project to help young people living on the street to get some education and obtain a chance at a well-paying career.
There is quite a large group of these young boys, aged around 10-14 on the streets of Benguela. They do not have homes that they can go to and thus live on the street, shining shoes or selling products. They have had very little or no education, and they are effectively outcasts from society. Fr. Mombo attempts to get them into school and help them to have a place to live while studying with food. Further, he started a band composed of these young fellows that has performed regionally to great acclaim. I listened to some of the music, pristinely played classical tunes. General Firmino, whom I mentioned in the last post, has helped Fr. Mombo financially with this project, including facilitating and financing the transport of the group various times up to Luanda for events.
I myself went with Fr. Mombo to various parts of the area, meeting with young boys on the street when he would try to see which ones might be interested in his proposition. It was difficult when he would speak about the ones that had dropped out, finding the strain of integrating with a group of classmates and academic pressure to be too much. This is difficult because few options remain for someone who drops out; only a life on the margins and with an unstable financial reality remain.
As for the primary school that Fr. Mombo founded, Saint Cecilia, it was built with help from grants from various oil companies (Angola has an economy that is built on oil), and it is situated in the middle of what I jokingly called a “treeless wasteland.” There were no trees or any other cover from the sun for seemingly miles around, and as a result, the hot Angolan sun would beat down mercilessly on anyone caught beneath it. In the front of the school were numerous large pits laid out in grid shape with small quantities of rather murky-looking water in each. These were, I was told, to extract salt. Some local women would come each day and do some work around the holes, excavating and tinkering with the dirt sides. How exactly this process of salt extraction worked was not something I ever fully understood, but then it is hardly the only such topic.
Fr. Mombo made sure that we visited the school and addressed the students just before they went on break so as to establish a Children's Rosary group at the school. In all we ended up establishing four Children's Rosary groups in Benguela, one at a parish called Santa Cruz, one at the Cathedral, one at the school (St. Cecilia), and finally one towards the Interior of the diocese at a parish I did not visit but whose Deacon was quite interested.
After a few days staying with Fr. Belchior, I also ended up spending about a week at the local diocesan seminary where Fr. Mombo works. Because of some engine trouble with Fr. Mombo’s car, we would commute variously with the seminary car, by motorcycle taxi, or by taxivan to the school each day where I would pray the Children's Rosary and teach some English to the students who would come on their free time for extra enrichment during Easter break.
At a couple of points during the stay, the seminarians invited me onto their social media shows for interviews, something I of course accepted without hesitation.
One day I remember seeing something strange in one of the trees in the center courtyard of the seminary. It seemed to be moving and making quite a noise with the leaf-shaking and branch-bending going on. I looked closer and saw a white monkey peering back at me. Soon I saw there were two of them. I was quite entertained by looking intently at the monkeys’ faces and observing their expressions which have such minute detail, rather like human expressions. They might scratch their cheek, itch their head, or look nervously from side to side in such a humorous way that I quite liked just observing them. Venturing to emerge slightly from the pavilion in the middle of the courtyard, I came out more or less right under where the monkey was perched. I was a bit disconcerted when, instead of retreating to a safe distance, the monkey instead began to come towards me without the least bit of trepidation. Knocked off my confident advance, I found I was the one beating a retreat back to the safety of my pavilion. I made my way to another path out and managed to get across before the monkey could get all the way over to me. Wondering at the seemingly aggressive actions of this monkey, I mentioned them to a passing seminarian. He laughed and said that the monkeys were actually quite aggressive and had even been known to jump on people and bite them.“But only small bites,” he said reassuringly.
I was not much reassured and from then on kept a safe distance from the aggressive monkeys.
On another occasion, we were scheduled to visit someone’s house for condolences after a death. I was still finishing a piece of papaya after dinner in the dining room. Our departure was thus delayed a few moments as I crammed the rest of the fruit into my mouth. Upon emerging from the seminary gate, we saw a small group of people apparently in a state of confusion. Two men were running around attempting to get on a motorcycle, which they did in short order, after this the cycle sped away with at least one other in close pursuit. This seemingly incomprehensible scene puzzled me until someone explained: they were bandits. Operating literally right outside the seminary gate, they had sprung upon a lady riding on a motorcycle taxi and had tried to grab her handbag. They had fallen off their motorcycle in the process, but so had the handbag. They grabbed it and sped away with a third motorcycle having seen the occurrence trying to chase them down.
“We arrived just too late to join in the pursuit ourselves,” someone said ruefully.
“It was the dessert,” I said jokingly.
Soon enough, the Easter Triduum came around. I was present for the Chrism Mass at the Cathedral, presided over by the bishop, as well as the Holy Thursday Mass. Good Friday included a procession through the city to complete the stations of the Cross and only ended at about 8:00 or 9:00 p.m.
The next day was Holy Saturday, and of course we attended the Vigil Mass as well.As soon as we walked in, I could see this was a particularly packed Mass. I managed to find a seat near the back and settled myself in. I knew this would be a long Mass, particularly given my experience with the length of Masses in Africa.
I was not wrong. The Mass ended up lasting four hours, and I must say that by the end, I was exhausted. I had not slept well the nights before, and physical fatigue as well as the discomfort of the seats did not work in my favor.
In the final procession, some young scouts who had helped out in various parts of the Mass came and joined hands to line either side of where the priests and bishop would process out. It was a good idea given that people were liable to throng out as soon as they could, interfering with the recessional exit of the bishop.
As His Excellency came by, making the Sign of the Cross over the faithful, pausing here and there to greet someone or place his hands on a child’s or elderly lady’s head, smiling with his frank, but at this point rather exhausted smile, I suddenly felt a wave of sympathy and love for this man well out from me. Any times that I had mentally placed blame on the bishop for the long ceremonies or extended homilies or prayers melted away as I reflected on the sacrifice this man had made for the last few days to serve the faithful of the diocese. He had washed their feet, he had held the Cross for them to venerate, he had led them in the Stations across town, and he had baptized and confirmed them. He had done this in all weather, from the incessant rain during the Stations procession to the melting heat of the Chrism Mass, all while dressed in heavy vestments that allowed no reprieve from the temperature. Every morning he had faithfully shown up for Lauds at 7:00 a.m. in the Cathedral, even after long evening Masses and processions. Surely he was tired and short on sleep; surely he had as much reason as anyone and better reasons than most to doze off during parts of the Masses as many of us did. Yet not only did he never do so, but he never complained, never adjusted the schedule, never missed any part of the program, always prepared with well-organized homilies and impeccable execution.
As we waited outside in the parking lot with the raindrops falling and the clock ticking into the early morning, nobody seemed fazed by the late hour or the hostile elements. A group of women stood waiting for the priests and bishop to come by and were loudly singing in celebration of the Resurrection of Jesus. On every side, I saw smiles and lightheartedness. The same people who only twenty minutes earlier had sat with long faces in the pews, tired after the nearly four-hour long celebration, now stood joyfully about, hardly wishing to leave. I could not explain this but was deeply moved by it. The full weight of what we had commemorated in the preceding days, the Last Supper, the Passion and Death of Jesus, His descent to Hell, and now his Resurrection piled into my mind, and I too was filled with a deep and inexplicable joy at the contemplation of Christ’s rising from the dead.
Soon, at 8:00 a.m., there would be the morning Mass. Soon we would be getting to bed in anticipation of the new day, but here at this moment, something precious and beautiful was going on, and I think we all just wanted to taste a little more…
To see all of Asher's dispatches from his journey click HERE
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