THE ONE WITH THE MONKEY OR MUSINGS ON POVERTY

Heading for Donguila, as we passed through yet another Gabonese village, we saw a monkey (a skinny mandrill, to be specific) tied to a tree next to one of the houses. We are tourists, in the end, and an unexpected possibility of taking a cool monkey picture is always more then welcome. On our way home we thus stopped, got out of the car - camera all set in my bag - and approached the three men sitting in front of the house, in order to be issued an official photo permission. Here's what happened.

Three villagers in their thirties, forties or maybe fifties (in the case of African people it's impossible to tell!) were sitting in the yard of what we assumed was the house of at least one of them. They were chatting and drinking palm wine, which they merrily poured into tall glasses from a 10-litre canister they'd placed in the middle. After the usual hellos and howareyous, straightforward as we are, we asked if we could take a picture of their monkey. They laughed good-naturedly, said they had absolutely no problem with the plan but insisted that we sat down and at least had a chat with them, if not a glass of palm wine. Eager to get the photo, we sat.

They told us the story of Eulalie, the mandrill. She's been with us for six years, they said. She's nice if you give her a treat. Right. Poor monkey, I thought, and suddenly, as if reading my thoughts (or rather, sensing the word poor had passed through them), one of the men asked the last question we would have expected: What is poverty, my sister? (for some reason, he directed his philosophical problem at me). Luckily, it turned out to be a rhetorical question, for he soon started answering it himself.

His reasoning was not far from what I had discussed with Jandro a couple of days before, inspired by an article in the Polish magazine Polityka. The article, discussing the situation in the poorest countries of the world, featured a picture of an African man sitting in front of his wooden hut. This scene, so easily spotted in Gabon, was supposed to illustrate poverty and the resulting misery of those who live in similar conditions. And here we were, in the middle of such a gathering, sitting in front of a wooden hut, drinking palm wine from a canister - well, all right, we weren't exactly drinking - and it seemed we were among the happiest people on Earth.

What is poverty?, the man continued. In the media, they constantly talk about poverty. Am I poor, though? No! I have my house, which I like. I have a small plantation, where I work. I love nature, and I've taught myself to work and live on nature. I have palm wine with my friends on Sunday. I'm very happy. He explained how God had given all these goods to man, and how man must learn to profit from whatever God had given him. Because man had received so much from God! Surely, palm wine does make you much more grateful for whatever God has given you, but I suppose that the gist of what he said would not have changed under different circumstances.

This man, mind you, probably has one decent pair of shoes and his wooden hut has no floor. He lives on what his plantation brings him and makes the palm wine himself. Considering his living conditions, income and whatnot, any European would say he's poor. But... what is poverty? And why do we need all those statistics and spreadsheets to define it?

THIEVES AND BAD PEOPLE

Yesterday we visited the Mission of Saint-Paul de Donguila, built in 1878 by French missionaries. Accompanied by Mr Placide Kombila, the catechism teacher and responsible of the Mission, we took a tour around the place and were even allowed to see the school from the inside. We also admired the views, as the Mission is superbly located on a hill overlooking the vast waters of the Estuary. A spirited trip, this one.

Saint-Paul de Donguila rests around 70 kilometres from Libreville (just take a right turn in Ntoum) and is definitely worth a quick visit, which amounts to a half-day trip. We drove for 1,5 hours (the last 28 kilometres are at times tricky but you see lots of nice villages on the way), and arrived at the Mission at 10 am sharp, just in time for the Mass. Villagers were already slowly climbing the hill on which the lovely church stands, looking at us with unconcealed interest, smiling politely and answering all of our bonjours. Most parishioners were the kids from the Mission's boarding school, wearing their best clothes, and taking up the three front rows. As we entered, and were inevitably noticed by the whole congregation, the singing was already in full swing.

The original idea was to listen to a few songs and silently sneak out in the middle of the Mass to take a look at the Mission. However, the church was hardly full (maybe 30 people, counting several toddlers who kept glancing in our direction), and our leaving would certainly have been noticed by all. We thus stayed the whole Mass, and took part it all the proceedings apart from the Holy Communion (that would've been too much, we thought, but were surprised to see that only two people actually took the Communion).

Trapped as we were in the church, we thought we might as well listen. I tuned in just as the priest was starting his sermon, a simple and straightforward one, directed at simple people with good hearts. He talked about a man who new the Bible by heart, and who was self-confident enough to sit in the front of the church and talk to God. He boldly pointed to another man, sitting at the back, who did not know the Bible, and called him a thief and a bad man. (Inevitably, at this point, the whole congregation followed the priest's hand pointing to his imaginary man, and looked at us, sitting at the back. I almost smiled at waved.) The man sitting at the back, was - surprise! - a fisherman, a humble uneducated fisherman, who did not deem himself worthy to look at God. The Lord, in his love and goodness and fondness of simple fishermen, preferred him to the man who new the whole Bible. End of sermon.

And no, I'm not mocking. I have great respect for all believers and I thought this particular sermon suited the context very well, giving people hope and joy. And after a few more lovely songs in Fang, the Mass was over and we were able to wander around the Mission. I'm not sure, though, how many people (kids, especially) kept seeing us as thieves and bad people, pointed out in church by the priest!

Note: there is not much to do in Donguila, so be careful to arrive in time for Mass, which is definitely a cultural experience. Otherwise, here's what you can see and visit.