Chapter Six – Village
Written by Kirsty Harkness
There’s hot, and then there’s Zaire hot. The kind of heat that clings to your skin like honey and turns every breath into fire. By 10am, the dust on the paths was already warm underfoot, and the air carried that thick, weighty stillness that made even your thoughts move slowly. But it was beautiful, in a raw, untamed way.
The village wasn’t built with symmetry in mind. It was a patchwork of dirt paths and foot trails, winding between mud-brick homes, vibrant flame lilies and jacaranda trees, and groves of mango trees tall enough to blot out the midday sun. No addresses. No road signs. Just routes etched into memory and earth, worn smooth by the soles of thousands of bare feet.
We were the only ones with a vehicle: the battle-worn Toyota Land Cruiser with a snorkel and a winch, still caked in dust from the three-day journey it had taken to get us here. But once we arrived, the car stayed parked. It wasn’t for daily life. Here, we walked. Everywhere. Through narrow alleys between homes, up weaving bush tracks, under fruit-laden trees, the kind of walking that made your calves strong and your senses sharper.
You learned the sound of a mango falling. If you were lucky, it landed nearby and rolled into reach. Otherwise, you waited for another. They were too high to pick. They came only when they were ready.
Our brick house had a low fence that served more as a garden boundary than any kind of protection. Theft wasn’t a concern. There was no front door key, no locks on the windows. In a place with so little, there was a deep respect for what was yours. And most shared what they had anyway.
Rain was everything. On each corner of our house sat a 200-litre drum to collect water when the skies opened. That water was gold, clean enough to drink, unlike the brown water we hauled up from the village well for washing and sponge baths. Baths were a once-a-week event. Anything more was a luxury. The rest of the time, you made do with a bucket, a cloth, and sheer determination.
When the rains came, it was as if the whole earth exhaled. The smell was incredible. Earthy, rich, alive. It soaked the dust, softened the air, and brought the scent of mango leaves, firewood, and wet clay swirling into your nostrils. That smell after rain is something I can still summon, even now. If heaven has a scent, that might be it.
Sunsets were something else entirely. If there had been a burn-off that week (as there often was to clear the land, reduce fire risk, and keep snakes away from the homes), the skies turned molten. Smoke from the grasslands caught the last rays of the sun and scattered them like oil on water. Every evening looked like a painting lit from within. You’d stop whatever you were doing just to stand in it.
And then the stars. You’ve never seen stars like this. With no electric lights for miles, the sky turned into velvet scattered with glitter. You didn’t just look up, you felt among them. Like you could fall upward into space if you stared long enough. I remember watching the lights of planes and satellites far off in what seemed like space, and wondering what those here thought of these lights moving. This was before mobile phones. The age of shared knowledge hadn’t quite reached our oasis.
There were always village sounds. Distant drums, babies crying, fires crackling. But without power, TVs, radios, or machinery, everything fell quiet at night. People rose with the sun and slept with the dark. It was a rhythm that made sense once you surrendered to it. Unless it was a full moon. Then the temptation was too great. We’d walk through the village under its glow, the world lit so brightly you could see every detail, except with no colour. Just black, white, and grey. A spectacular scene, like standing in a black and white film.
We wore long skirts and dresses always. Showing your legs here was like baring your chest back home. Cultural modesty ran deep, and we were guests in their world. Sandals weren’t safe, and bare feet weren’t an option. Tiny bugs would burrow into your skin beside your toenails and lay eggs. You think I am joking but I had one once. It felt like popping a boil… except it wriggled. Absolutely revolting. It still turns my stomach to think of it.
The fabric here was stunning. When new bolts arrived by truck from the north or south, they burst with colour. Bold blues, emerald greens, canary yellows. Each pattern more joyful than the last. On Sundays, it came out in full force. The women wore their best: perfectly wrapped headscarves, pressed skirts, dresses sewn with pride. The rest of the week, fabric was often worn thin. Colours faded, seams stretched, holes common. Some women’s breasts swung freely through gaps in their tops without a second thought, usually with a baby latched on. They were practical, not private. Life-giving. Nobody stared. Nobody cared.
To the west of our house lay the airstrip. A dry, packed dirt runway with just enough clearance for the weekly plane to land, if the weather held. It ran past the old path to Mother B’s, a long-retired midwife from Australia who lived at the far end of the village. To the southwest was the hospital where we worked. To the south, the market, alive with barter, chatter, and the overpowering scent of sun-dried fish.
Money itself was unstable here. The local currency inflated so fast it was nearly worthless. For staff wages, we collected whole sacks of paper notes worth just thirty New Zealand dollars. A whole sack. It was illegal to carry much foreign currency, so every few months we’d cross the border south to convert enough to pay the hospital and school staff. I kept one of those 10,000-franc notes as a paper souvenir. A reminder of how little, and how much, could mean everything.
The doctor’s house sat up a winding track beneath mango trees. He lived there with his wife and two young sons, all from Ireland. One son often had a monkey perched on his shoulder, just as natural here as a wristwatch back home.
The village had a heartbeat of its own. Steady. Slow. Warm. You didn’t need a watch. You told time by the sun, the sounds, and your own hunger.
It wasn’t just a place we lived.
It was a place that took hold.
Chapter Seven coming...
Start from the beginning: Chapter One
To protect privacy, names have been changed but these are all true stories.
With thanks to my editor and sounding boards. Sometimes it takes another set of eyes to help find the right words. I’ve always been better at feeling a story than finessing every sentence.
Glossary Note: Zaire
At the time of this story, the country now known as the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) was officially called Zaire. From 1971 to 1997, the nation bore that name under the rule of President Mobutu Sese Seko. Today, the same region is referred to as the DRC, but for historical accuracy and personal authenticity, I’ve used “Zaire” throughout this book to reflect the time and place as I experienced it.
About the Author
Kirsty Harkness is the founder of Hark & Zander, a premium natural skincare brand inspired by care, courage, and connection. Before launching her business, Kirsty worked as a nurse, photographer, and vineyard owner — a path that’s taken her from remote African hospitals to the heart of New Zealand’s wine country. Founder’s Footsteps shares true stories from a very different life, written for her daughter and anyone who’s ever felt the pull of purpose, people, and place.
