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The Scalpel and the Soul – Dr Allan Hamilton

As if popped out from the trunk of' a nearby tree, a black man, no bigger than a boy, stepped in front of us. There wasn't an ounce of fat on his leathery-looking body. His muscles stood out like cables of ebony steel, crisscrossed with veins. Despite small stature, his physique suggested incredible strength, making me think of a black panther. Our intruder wore only a pair of shorts, and a necklace decorated with a few coins. But a shaggy mass of grayish-white, dense curls gave him a regal appearance. From his shoulder hung a leather sack, inside of which something wriggled. Dinner, perhaps.

It never occurred to me to be scared. He appeared to have no weapons. His thick, calloused feet indicated he'd roamed his whole life without shoes. His hands were, likewise, thick and worn from use. But there was no knife, bow, or gun. He did not even have a staff. He stood looking down at us with an air of kindness, of almost paternalistic love. But he still looked as though he could handle anything.

We both jumped up, wiped our muddy hands, and stuck the right ones out. He stared at it, reached forward awkwardly, and shook it.

Jean-Michel made the introductions, first in Fang, and then in French.

The old man-if he really was old-answered him in Fang, and then turned back to me, repeating his greeting in French. He glanced down at our little dugout, now beached in the heart of the jungle, with all of its lashed contents. He smiled. There was a suggestion in that smile that we might be the luckiest fools ever to set out on the Ogooue River.

Jean-Michel explained that we were from the Schweitzer Hospital.

Did he know the hospital? I wondered. Had he ever been there? Had he perhaps met Schweitzer himself?

"'We are looking for the village of Tan-Beang," I explained. "Jean-Michel and I are bringing medicine to the people of Tan-Beang." Our visitor crossed his legs and sat down gracefully right where he stood.

He nodded, smiling from ear to ear. Then he took our hands and shook them, this time heartily.

"Yes, I know," he said in broken French. "I thought you would be here yesterday." He shook his head wistfully, as if surprised at his own mistake.

"Yesterday?" I asked.

"l had a dream that two men would be coming to Tan-Beang. That is my village. But in the dream, the two men are lost. They do not know which way to go. So I am asked to stand here and help. I am asked to stand here in the branching place of the river and lead them to my village." He said this simply, factually.

"Who asked you to stand here?" I asked.

"My dream was a message" he said. "But in the dream, you arrived yesterday. I had gotten the message messed up, so I waited. Maybe the dream was right, but I got the days mixed up.  Who knows? But you are here!" He beamed from ear to ear.

I was dumbfounded. I remembered all our problems with the dugout.

There were no phones, no telegrams, no radios, and no drums. Nothing. There was no way we could have informed him or anyone else that we would be a day late. This man had had a dream that we were coming and that we were lost (which was true enough). He had come to the fork in the river and waited for over twenty-four hours, based on the subconscious instructions from his dream. Why? Then realization dawned: it was not really the waters of the river that carried us. It was the hand of invisible forces. Suddenly, the notion of being afraid, and especially the idea of being lost, seemed absurd.

Our saviour's name was David, given to him by French catholic missionaries who roamed Gabon when it was a colony. His real name, understandable in light of his dream, was outeen. In Fang, it means "who sees things." The rest of our boat trip with him to Tan-Beang was delightful. Gods could not have been greeted with more reverence and hospitality as we pulled up to the village landing.