Drink the Sauce

For years I worked for a Japanese exchange program called High School Diplomats. Each summer, as part of my responsibility, I would help prepare a group of 26 high school students for a three-week trip to Japan. In encouraging those students to experience as much of the Japanese culture as possible, we always told them about one student who took our advice to the extreme. This guy didn’t want a bit of Japanese culture to escape his eye, his ear, and especially not his stomach. At every restaurant he went beyond eating whatever was served. At the end of each meal he would also drink the bowls of dipping sauces. To the point of absurdity, he tasted Japanese culture down to the last drop.

The past few weeks I have been drinking the sauce of African culture here in Niger. I have spent almost as many nights sleeping in village huts as I have in my own bed. I’ve eaten almost as many meals with my hands from a calebasse as I have from a plate with fork and knife. I’ve had experiences that wouldn’t be possible anywhere else in the world, and I’ve had experiences that would look ridiculous anywhere else in the world. I have tasted the sauce and found it is sweetest when you feel like you are drowning in it.

First, let me say that this Thanksgiving I was incredibly thankful to be healthy. Driving in Niger is as much of a cultural experience as anything else, and I have embraced one of the most African means of motorized transport… the motorcycle. While efficient, convenient, and ultimately fun, it also the more dangerous way to get around town. On Thanksgiving I was in not just one, but two, bike accidents. I was sideswiped by a taxi that didn’t see me and collided with a car at a sandy intersection with no stop signs or clear right of way. Despite getting tossed once, I was fine, my bike was fine, and only minor scratches were done to the other cars. Thank the Lord for letting me survive that aspect of Nigerien culture that seemed to want to kill me that day.

The day after Thanksgiving I left with my friend Hassan for a weekend in the villages he pastors. Each weekend he holds six church services in four villages. I went along to encourage and help him in any way I could. Mounting our motorcycles, we rode for four hours into the African wilderness. Going where only pedestrians and bikers could go, we rode through lion hunting grounds, by elephant watering holes, and under monkey filled trees. I would have stopped to take in the view were it not so terrifying trying to keep up with the daredevil on the motorcycle in front of me. When we finally reached our destination we ate yams and rice and relaxed as the midday heat passed.

That night we held two services in two villages. We rode out to the first village down miles of winding and sandy roads. I preached in the first service, under the shade of a baobop tree: my second French sermon in as many weeks. By the time we finished the sun had long since set, which meant riding back along that windy, sandy road in the pitch dark. I had the pleasure of being the lead bike, with our translator and guide riding with me. Keep in mind: I’m only 24 hours away from my accidents. And let me add that driving in sand is like a perpetual hydroplane, except on a bike that can tip over. Swerving away from low hanging tree branches and jerking for turns at the last second instruction of our guide, we found our way back to our hut without getting out of second gear.

Waiting anxiously for our return was a group of 120 herders and farmers, hungry for the Word and Hassan’s teaching. Night services have a much larger turnout because the daylight working hours aren’t being wasted. So, under the glow of a dangling flashlight, Hassan preached to his church. I sat on the ground amongst the congregation. We clapped and sang songs of worship together and we prayed together. We all leaned in attentively as the one villager who could read shared the Word from the village’s communal Bible. Hassan preached on the passage and then answered the questions of those searching for truth. At the conclusion of the service, these farmers gave happily out of their poverty to the work of the church, proudly dropping pennies into the collection basket.

After the service, we returned to our hut where we shared a meal from a single calebasse. I would tell you what it was if I knew. It was too dark to see what I was putting in my mouth, but it was good. I then set up my hammock to try to sleep. If you aren’t accustomed to the sounds of the village, you don’t really ever sleep; there are just parts of the night you don’t remember so well. Between the neighbor’s donkeys making all sorts of noise, the goats having sex right by my hammock, and the women pounding their grains at 4am, I “awoke” the next morning only slightly rested.

Saturday morning, after two services in two different villages, we rode on to the weekend market to buy lunch: mutton and milk straight from the cow. When we got to the market one of the men I sat with the night before was selling things out of his small corner shop. He was so excited to see us that he put his younger brother in charge of the shop while he showed us around. He then took me by the hand to lead me around. This is a Nigerien custom that, I must admit, I still cannot get comfortable with. It is perfectly normal for men to hold hands, interlocking fingers and all, as they walk down the street. It startles me every time a guy tries to hold my hand. But this time, embracing the culture, I walked through the market holding his hand the whole way.

That night, long after the sun had set, we hiked out to an empty field where the church was again waiting for us. They had already built a large bonfire and the drum skins had been warmed. Hassan opened with a welcome and a brief prayer. As soon as the Amen escaped his lips the drummers began to beat a song of celebration. The whole congregation joined in, singing and dancing praises to God. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. I felt as if I were spying on an ancient ritual, a rhythm and movement that had been practiced for generations. The Gremanche tribe has been singing and dancing for centuries. But this newly converted Gremanche village has found a new song to sing and a new step to dance. Their drums echoed through the heavens and their dancing shook the earth as they offered praise to their savior the best way they knew how. They praised a God who has redeemed them, not sought to reform them. They worshipped as a culture that has been reborn, not replaced. And the whole time God smiled back with the most brilliant array of heavenly bodies that can fit in one sky. I joined in, dancing as foolishly as David, until I was covered with sweat, dust, and ash.

The next morning we had one last service before heading home. The journey home was just as long and windy as the trip there. When we finally made it back I was exhausted, but so satisfied. Hassan and I toasted the journey with ice-cold cokes. He had shared so much with me over the weekend. He shared his food, his water, his hut, and even his motorcycle fuel when I ran out. We talked about everything under the sun during our journey. But most importantly, he put the sauce-bowl of Nigerien culture in front of me and showed me how to drink it. And it was good.