Fantafrica: Wandering and Wondering Across Africa

487 Pages·2017·2.53 MB·English

by  Pete Martin

FANTAFRICA
PETE MARTIN
Published in 2017 by Monkey Mayhem Books
Copyright © Pete Martin 2017
Pete Martin has asserted his/her right to be identified as the author of this
Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
ISBN Paperback: 978-0-9957742-2-3
Ebook: 978-0-9957742-3-0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the copyright owner.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the
public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue copy of this book can be found in the British Library.
Published with the help of Indie Authors World
For my Mum
(And a note of thanks to my daughter Holly
for naming this book long before I ever dreamt of writing it).
PART 1
ANGELS
PROLOGUE
FRANCE IT’S OUT OF SEASON, SO MOST OF THE SHOPS AND
RESTAURANTS ARE LOCKED UP. THE CLOSED GREY ROLLER
SHUTTER DOORS PROVIDE BOULEVARD DE LA GROTTE WITH A
SENSE OF DORMANCY. ONLY ONE OR TWO STORES REMAIN
OPEN; A RUNDOWN CAFÉ, A TATTY GENERAL STORE AND A
LARGE SHOP SELLING RELIGIOUS WARES, SUCH AS ROSARIES,
AS WELL AS ALL MANNER OF PLASTIC BOTTLES AND
CONTAINERS TO COLLECT THE GROTTO’S HOLY WATER IN. IT’S
GETTING COLD TOO. IT’S BEEN A BRIGHT WINTER’S DAY BUT, AS
THE SUN GOES DOWN IN LOURDES, THERE’S A CHILL IN THE AIR
AS WOULD BE EXPECTED FOR AN EARLY NOVEMBER EVENING
AT THE FOOT OF THE PYRENEES. BEYOND THE SMALL STONE
BRIDGE, THE SACRED BASILICA IS MUCH SMALLER THAN I
REMEMBER. THERE IS SOME CONSTRUCTION DEBRIS AT THE
FIRST STATUE AND SO I DETOUR TO THE LEFT ALONG THE
PATHWAY, WHICH BETWEEN EASTER AND OCTOBER WOULD BE
COMPLETELY CROWDED WITH WORSHIPPERS HOLDING
CANDLES IN PROCESSION AND PRAYER.
The unsymmetrical, sweeping winged staircases provide a welcoming
entrance to the church and the sanctuary of Lourdes. I will visit the various
chapels in time, but first I walk under the arches to the right and along the
river. Under the rock face on which the basilica has been built, there is a
small open chapel; the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes. I sit down and
enjoy the peace of my surroundings.
A remote-controlled camera films mass as a priest plays to a distant
audience rather than the one in front of him. His Spanish accent is strong,
making him hard to understand, but the small congregation know when to
stand, kneel or sit from years of experience. The murmured responses in
Latin are all made at the right times. My eyes wander upwards to the statue of
Our Lady shining under the spotlight.
This is the spot, in the grotto of Massabielle, where it is believed that in
1858 the Virgin Mary appeared to Bernadette Soubirous a total of eighteen
times. Much against her parents’ wishes, she was drawn to the grotto when
out collecting fire wood and the apparitions she witnessed developed from
silent personal prayer to visitations in front of large crowds. On the ninth
visit, in front of three hundred onlookers, Bernadette followed the lady’s
instructions and after four attempts first tasted the healing waters of the
spring.
Less than a week later, in front of a priest and a larger crowd, she guided her
friend, Catherine Latapie, to bathe her dislocated arm in the waters and it
subsequently regained its movement. A day later the lady of the apparition
instructed Bernadette to build a chapel on this spot. When she informed the
local parish priest, Dominique Peyramale, he wanted to be clear who the
apparition was. He also demanded a test; to see the wild rose bush flower at
the grotto in the middle of winter. For the next two days the vision was silent
and for a further twenty days Bernadette stayed away from the grotto.
On the 25th March 1858 Bernadette visited the site again and recounted,
“She extended her arms towards the ground, then joined them as though in
prayer and said, ‘Que soy era Immaculada Concepciou’ (I am the Immaculate
Conception)”. Yet the rose bush that she stood on did not flower and
Bernadette did not understand the words; the dogma had been declared as
truth by the Pope only four years earlier, something that Bernadette was still
unaware of.
Two weeks later the miracle of the candle occurred. A local doctor
witnessed Bernadette holding the flame of her candle during the whole
apparition without burns. Then on 16th July Bernadette witnessed the final
apparition of the Virgin Mary.
In 1862 the apparitions were recognised as authentic by the Bishop of
Tarbes. Yet even prior to this official announcement thousands of pilgrims
were already visiting these healing springs and in 1864 the first statue of Our
Lady was placed here. Over two hundred million pilgrims have visited this
site since then and the Roman Catholic Church has assented that sixty-nine
miraculous healings have occurred here.
So what am I doing here? I’ve been here before and it’s one of those places
that always calls me back. Over the last couple of months, through various
acquaintances, I have come into contact with a German man named Christian.
I’m here to meet him. I’m sure one day Chris will tell his own story but
suffice to say he is another who has left a ‘normal’ life behind. After a life
crash, Chris found himself on a long-distance, healing bicycle ride, beginning
somewhere in southern Germany and making it all the way here to Lourdes.
Then in this magical place, he claims to have heard a voice from God
instructing him to visit the child that he had sponsored for years in Africa.
Inspired by his trip, one thing has led to another and Chris has now founded a
football academy in the West African country of Ghana. Over the last few
months I have sponsored one of the boys who he has taken from the streets to
live in his house, where he provides food, schooling and football coaching.
From our discussions, it’s clear that Chris needs help and so we have agreed
to meet here in Lourdes to see if I can assist in any way, over and above my
sponsorship.
It’s intriguing and frustrating at the same time that, after my sabbatical year,
each time I’ve become serious about finding a ‘normal’ job again, something
abnormal has come my way. I don’t know whether this has been done
subconsciously or not. Am I doing this deliberately or is the universe
planning something different for me now? After finishing my sabbatical year,
I transitioned into founding a small consultancy business, yet just as I grew
serious about it I became wary of my business partner’s over-protective
behaviour. As I considered the future of this business I was offered a
publishing contract for my first book, which meant I didn’t have to deal with
any more corporate shenanigans; I could be creative and artistic instead.
Now, with my first book finished and in the hands of the publisher, I should
be looking for a job but I find myself here in the Pyrenees inquiring how to
help a football academy develop in darkest Africa; a continent I hardly know.
Beyond the grotto there is an area where candles can be lit. In the quiet
twilight I light a couple. Rightly or wrongly I follow my usual behaviour. I
light one for the dead. With particularly dedication to my father, who I miss
so much – isn’t it supposed to grow easier with time? – and also to the many
others who have been lost along the way. The second candle is for the living;
to all those I care about and to one or two that I don’t but who could do with
my prayers. I then join mass in one of the side chapels of the basilica. I smile
to myself as it’s in Spanish for a group of dedicated and serious Mexican
worshippers. Afterwards I visit the chapel above, the Basilica of our Lady of
the Rosary itself. In the dark the angelic form of the statue of the Virgin Mary
sitting to the side of the altar illuminates the vestry. I sit here for quite a
while. Alone in the heart of this mystical place, tranquillity spreads through
me and I feel totally at ease.
In peak season the queues are legendary. However, on my morning walk I
deliberately head this way to see if I can get in. It’s chilly this morning. The
baths of the holy spring open at ten o’clock and fifteen minutes before this
around a dozen men are wrapped up warm queueing on the cold bench
outside. Outside the next building, the women’s baths, perhaps twenty
women are doing the same, waiting patiently for opening time. I join the
wait.
I keep asking myself what I’m doing here. I still don’t know whether I really
should be here and whether dedicating myself to a weird and wonderful cause
in Africa is sensible or not. I gaze out across the river into which the holy
water runs. It’s one of those sunny but freezing winter days. The clear blue
sky offers unimpeded views but no resistance to the cold. At ten o’clock the
wooden door creaks open and an old grey-bearded man in a thick coat peers
out. He goes back in and the door closes once more. Maybe it’s too cold or
there are just not enough lunatics wanting to get into the asylum.
I imagine Jean, the one with the grey-beard, leaning against the inside wall,
taking a deep breath before accepting that there are people here and another
day’s ablutions will have to take place. On cue the door opens again. The first
six men are beckoned forward. The rest of us slide slowly along the wooden
bench closer to the holy baths. I peer inside before the door closes. I can’t see
much, just more benches inside. We wait for longer, whilst more hardy souls
join the queue.
Another six are called and then quickly another six, which includes me. The
first six are sent behind a dark curtain and my group is ushered towards the
inside benches. The door closes and Jean rubs his hands together for warmth.
I want to tell him that it’s just as cold in here as it is outside.
There is movement in the first room. Jean checks inside the curtain and
smiles. With a flurry of French, it seems that penance will commence. I can
hear water being poured but not much else; a few murmurs but nothing
intelligible. I am at the stage where I am teetering on making a run for it. I
have no clue about the etiquette nor if I am really qualified to be here as a
lapsed Catholic. (Surely I have enough sins and enough things to feel guilty
about to qualify.) I also never, in these spiritual places, want to show any
disrespect, yet if I did it would not be deliberate, only out of total ignorance.
(That’s the story of my life.) The gap between me and the front of the line is
lessening. Four men have left the curtained room and, one by one, my
companions in the queue have gone beyond the mysterious veil to replace
them. One man comes out. It’s my turn. Do I make my excuses and leave?
Too late; I am waved in.
Behind the curtain there are eight chairs in two rows of four, all facing
inwards. Assorted clothes hang on the pegs behind them. Two chairs are
empty. One has clothes behind it and must belong to the man currently being
sanctified behind a second curtain. Two men are in various stages of undress
and the other four sit shivering in their underwear. I guess the empty chair is
for me and I should do the same. I slowly undress. The second curtain opens
and inside two men wearing rubber aprons, dressed like butchers, help an old
man, whose lower torso is wrapped in a rubber towel, up a step and then
towards his seat. Behind them is an old iron bath. After a nodded
acknowledgement between the men, another victim is called forward and
then the curtain is closed again. The wet old man sits for a moment on his
seat, deep in thought. I guess he is contemplating whatever he needs to after