The hydroelectric potential of VP was never realized, though the falls are probably still there. The pond itself went down-stream not long after independence was declared and the production of perfume was abandoned. The idea that falling water could generate electricity has been demonstrated over, and over again, even in Zaire. The motivation to turn potential energy into power needs to be sufficient to get many people working together. Generally, those people want to use the power to get what they want.

What do we want from life?  What if the electricity goes off?

I mentioned that Marr Miller discovered a huge set of falls not far from Rethy when hiking to Lake Albert. He told me, and together we went by motorcycle past the small CECA church, Nioka Foret, where years earlier we had started our hike down to the lake with Mr. Crossman. We walked beyond the end of the road on foot paths that lead to remote gardens on the edge of the escarpment. The people directed us to the falls where the Koda Hydroelectric plant was eventually built. It generated more than 200 times the power of the HR4 Lister diesel, and was distributed to Rethy, the adjacent villages, the soldiers camp, the town of Kwandruma, to a coffee factory, and to a couple other population centers near the transmission line.

Rethy was located in the highlands of northeast Zaire at an altitude of about 7,000 feet and the surface of Lake Albert, then called Lake Mobutu, was at 2,000 feet. The hike to the lake and back in one day was possible but far from easy. We did it when I was in ninth or tenth grade.

We started at about 5:30 in the morning from Nioka Foret, nearly running down the well beaten path. It was so steep that it was impossible to walk easily. It was just light enough to see, with the early rays of the morning sun splitting the sky. The sun was white. Maybe it would be hot. We were full of energy. After a mile it was too steep to run and there were big irregular steps down, one worn foothold to the next. We zigzagged from one side of the path to the other, around rocks, and damp depressions in the path left from the puddles after the rain. There were two miles of easy stuff, and then it became yet steeper. If you slipped you grabbed at the long grass beside the path or ended up sitting on the muddy spot with your feet hanging out over the next step. Going backwards was the least risky at those slippery places. Far below, the palm trees around Ngenge could be seen; tiny balls on bent stalks. The people resembled colorful ants flowing in on various trails then mingling in the market place that was on a miniature soccer field.

There was loose rock on the path now, and no thought of running. I looked at the view. The blue of the lake and sky merged together in the distance, the sun glaring brightly and the lake full of silver reflections. My legs trembled and felt hot from all the jolting, and it was easy to stop and look, but not so easy to start again. I could see specks of kids back up above me, but Pete Epp was catching up, so was Gary Kline, and Danny Nelson was with them. Ken Schuit was way back. I wanted to be first.

I was first to Ngenge, the plateau where the busy market was in full session. Now my knees felt as if the joints were watery, not too well attached, to whatever that was down below. It felt as if there were blisters starting, but I didn’t dare look. I had to stop and wait. I didn’t know where to go next. The guys were catching up. When Pete got there he started asking the way. We began walking. We hadn’t seen Mr. Crossman since we left the truck at the top of the hill.

A tenth grader’s legs recover quickly, and we were soon passing one another on the fairly even grade for the next few miles. It felt good to climb a small rise from time to time. The thigh muscles that put on the brakes had had a real workout. Cooling hot feet, as we crossed small streams, felt good, but walking in wet sneakers didn’t help the blisters any. We passed another palm shaded village and were shown the next path that led down to the lake. Our steps had slowed; I was no longer looking at the scenery, but at the ragged sweaty back of the little African boy in front of me. He said he knew the way. We hadn’t seen the lake since before Ngenge, but when the lake again came into view there were dugout canoes on it, scattered around near the shore like floating matchsticks. Our goal was near, yet still so far!  I was able to get ahead again after we stopped for water at a stream.

Now there was no shade. There were no men carrying fish up to the market place. No one was going down the path but us.  My little guide had stopped at the stream. It was just too hot a time of day for reasonable people to travel. The tall dry grass made small cuts in my hands when I had to grab it to keep from falling. I became more and more conscious of my goal and noticed my blisters less and less. The lake below was now so close it filled the entire horizon, a glittering surface merging with the blistering white sky.

I stood on the shore. All was quiet except a gentle lapping of the water at the edge of the great lake. There was no activity in the fishing village a short way off. Several black Kites circled lazily around looking for fish entrails floating in the water, left from the cleaning of the night’s catch. They would swoop down and pick the pieces neatly off the calm surface of the lake, and pick at them slowly in their circling flight.

Pete came, nearly running towards the water, his shirt already off, his pants on their way, and somehow kicking off his shoes, he rushed into the still lake water. I followed his example, well sort of. I left my stuff in a neat pile; then waded into the clear water. Looking down with the water at chest level, I could nearly count my toes, if I was very still.

I don’t remember eating my lunch, by then a wad of bread, peanut butter and jelly, with roast beef slices all mashed into the corner of the plastic bag. My drinking water was gone. The sun was directly overhead.

“To get back to the truck we have to get started”, said Mr. Crossman. He had finally arrived, very red in the face. He was the strongest man I knew, and I didn’t quite understand what took him so much longer to get there.

The goal to be first was not important on the way back. The pace was slow. The air was still. Before long we were all wet with sweat. I repeatedly wiped my face on my sleeve. Some of the guys took their shirts off. Before we reached the top of the first steep climb, I was so hot there was no sweat to dry off my face. There was nothing I wanted more than water. At the stream where we had cooled our feet on the way down we all put our faces in the water, and sucked up water the way a cow does. My water bottle would no longer hold water. Falling on it hadn’t helped the integrity of its structure, so I left it with a little African boy by the stream.

Refreshed, we were again on our way. Mr. Crossman and the rest of the guys were somewhere behind us, maybe a long way. An hour of hiking later, at Ngenge, we faced the two long steep hills, to the top. It was the hottest time of the day. The shrilling insects that are normally a continuous background of noise were silent in the heat. The people at Ngenge sat totally still, just talking, in the dense shade of the mango trees, or on low benches under the eaves of their huts. We started up.

Earlier we had been extremely hot and tired. Earlier we had been thirsty. Those were superlatives two hours ago, now they were only comparatives. Before we had had a stream ahead, now there was another mountain slope in the beating afternoon sun. My heart was racing, a rushing sound in my ears. I couldn’t even spit. We were near the top of the first half and Danny was digging, less efficiently than a dog, but in a similar manner, in what had been a damp spot in the path. Pete and I watched hopefully. We desperately wanted a drink.

Can you make a productive bore hole in a damp spot in a path on the side of a mountain, with your bare hands?  Apparently not. Even Danny gave up. We went on.

A woman met us at the top of the first steep slope. Her house was nearby, she said. I have never had better water to drink. I drained the first half sufferia without a pause. She laughed and went and got some more. That time I noticed the taste, delectable!  I’m sure it wasn’t boiled, though it did taste faintly of smoke. It wasn’t cold, but nothing has ever been more refreshing. It reminded me of the reward Jesus promised to any who gave a drink of water in His name, comparing a good deed done to the least brother as something done for Him.

I think that I might have been able to see the Koda falls had I looked south at that point during our hike but I was more focused on the drink of water. At that time, I wasn’t the dorm parent or the science teacher, just an exhausted, thirsty boy trying to get back to the top of the escarpment, back to the dorm truck, and back to the dorm. The potential energy of water falling down those hills would be far more power than we could ever use! We never saw the falls.

Now, over twenty years later, Marr and I arrived at the falls and found almost no vegetation on the bare rock that paralleled the river rushing down the mountain side. The footpath led to several logs spanning the river just above the first short falls. There the river must have been several feet deep but not more than 12 or 14 feet wide. Just below the falls the river divided, part going sharply right around a small rocky island, and the rest flowing straight ahead through a shallow basin to turn and rejoin the rest of the river. The riverbed itself was very irregular filled with huge boulders, immune to the pounding water as it plunged ever more rapidly towards the cliff. To go down following the riverbed was impossible, but with great care, one could climb down to the cliff on the exposed granite bedrock that Marr Miller had seen when climbing back up from the lake.

When at the edge of the cliff, looking down, we could see big rocks covered with tall grass where the slope of the mountain changed and wasn’t so steep. The water below the falls slowed a little as it tumbled onwards to the next set of falls and under some forest trees, to fall again, and again down to Ngenge. It then crossed the lower plateau to eventually flow down the second escarpment into lake Albert.

The site looked to be the perfect place to generate electricity. God gave me a love to build things and I wanted to make something that would really do what we had dreamed about back at VP.

More and more missionaries bought electric fridges and even stoves. Computers, including the TRS 80 at school needed power. We had gotten used to reliable electricity and wanted more so Rethy purchased another diesel engine for RUC, an HR6, using 6 cylinders to power a larger generator. It was a beautiful machine installed by Paul Buyse and Steve McMillan giving us two reliable generators to supply electricity. Buying enough diesel fuel to keep them running became more and more of a challenge. Paul Buyse located truckers who would deliver 20 barrels of fuel at a time from Bunia. We would need to check to insure that each drum was full and that it had not been diluted with water. We purchased kerosene and diluted it with oil to make our own diesel fuel.

With the world-wide escalating cost of fuel there was an ever increasing interest in Hydro Power, Solar Panels, and wind generators. The science field trip to VP needed to be done again, but with greater precision at the Koda Hydroelectric site.

Did we really need all that electricity? What would we use it for; a radio station? Where would all the money come from? Was I doing this just because I wanted to?