I haven’t written as much about my mother as I have about my father over the years but that isn’t because I love her any less. She’s been as vital a part of my life as he ever was. When my father was lost in booze, unable to take care of his family, my mother walked the walk, and made sure we were provided for. She’s tough, man. A lady, but no pushover. She’s got her flaws like anybody else but make no doubt about it, she was very much a heroine when I was growing up.

She recently celebrated a milestone birthday and it reminded me how lucky I am to be her son.

Mom was raised in Bukavu, a small city in the eastern part of the Congo.  Her father was a mechanic and ran a garage for the local Renault dealership.  She lived there from the time she was four until she was sixteen (1948-1960).  When the Congolese Independence arrived in ’60, mom returned to Belgium where she finished high school and then went to the university, majoring in public relations.  Like many colonists, she  yearned to return to Africa, to the wide open expanses and the big sky.  Belgium was too grey, too rainy, and too small to contain her.

In the summer of 1966, a year out of college, she made that trip back.  It was a great time and her life was changed forever by time it ended seven months later in February of ’67.  My aunt Anne, a year-and-a-half younger than my mom, and their friend Michelle went too, along with three boys, Jean-Pierre, Jean-Paul, and Freddie.  The group of them were all in their early twenties.  The idea was to make it all the way to Kenya, where an old friend of my mom’s family lived.  They arranged funding for their “mass media expedition,” got sponsorship from Total, a popular gas station chain, jeans from Levis, and took off in two old army jeeps, one that was formerly used to haul cannons in the second world war.  The jeep broke down constantly and much of the trip was spent in small villages waiting for weeks for spare parts to arrive. 

Mom and her pals drove east and south, across Europe, through Turkey and Greece.  They spent a night in jail in Saudi Arabia, suspected of being Israeli spies.  After months of roughing it, they made it to Ethopia.  My father was working as a unit production manager on an ABC, National Geographic documentary.  He and his crew met my mother, Anne and Michelle in the green room of a TV station in Addis Abiba.  The old man was so taken with my mother that he courted her for months, through letters and visits and the sheer will of his personality.  

The man had good taste, that’s for sure.  He was relentless and in time, he won her over.  They were married in October of ’67. 

Here are some shots from that trip.  Check it out.

A familiar scene.  Stuck in the mud.

The gang with new friends (from left to right that’s my aunt Anne, Michelle and my Ma).

These were the first white girls many of the Africans they ran into had ever seen up close.

With crocodile hunters.

Nice catch, ladies.

 I don’t know what kind of bird this is, but Ma sure looks happy.

At a market.

On the beach.

Anne and Michelle.

Mom in big sky country, Africa.