(1)

“Sometimes a man wants to be stupid if it lets him do a thing his cleverness forbids.” – John Steinbeck

One of the Boy Scout mottos is “Ready for anything.” My dad was an Eagle Scout and to this day still embodies that motto. My siblings and I would sometimes get annoyed with his seeming over preparedness, but we were inevitably grateful when extraneous precautionary items became essentials. Before the days of GPS there were always VA, NC, MD and DC roadmaps in the glove boxes of Williams family vehicles. He always has both a bottle of sunscreen and an umbrella in his golf bag and he always has a band-aid in his wallet. I was never a very good Boy Scout. In truth I didn’t even make it to Boy Scouts; I dropped out around WEBLOS.

I make a much better African than I do a Boy Scout. Africans tend to operate under a different mantra: “React to anything.” Preparedness is not appreciated as much as adaptation. Nigerien unpreparedness is more attributed to a lack of means than a lack of foresight. Consequently, an African ambulance would probably arrive late to the scene because they would have to stop and get gas on the way. Repairs on vehicles and tools are always in reaction to a problem. Preventive maintenance is a luxury only the rich can afford. Being prepared in Niger means driving a four-wheel drive Land Cruiser with sand tracks, an engine snorkel, tow rope and Gerry can filled with fuel. Being Nigerien means driving a beat-up motorcycle with a half tank of gas and a prayer.

These past few months I have had a series of adventures on my motorcycle. I have become skilled, if not expert at doing simple bush repairs on my bike to get it home in one piece. Spark plugs, tire plugs, dead batteries and carburetor repairs are things I’ve learned to deal with out of necessity. Despite my basic understanding of motors and how to get them running properly, I still have found myself broken down in the bush frequently of late. However, 8 months ago when I had to be rescued by Rodrigo just because my spark plug was spent (a three minute fix when you carry a spare) I resolved to never seek rescue when I break down or the road seems impassable. Prepared or not I am determined to make it to and from my destination without having to call Niamey for rescue. On several occasions I have paid the price for unpreparedness. Sometimes seeking help amongst villagers costs more than it would to call Brent or Rod. However, embracing the Nigerien mindset of reacting to anything, I have been rewarded with experiences and relationships that would not have been otherwise.

(2)

One of my favorite projects that I have become involved with has been microloans amongst church members. I work through the arm of the local churches to find clients who need a small loan to reinforce their existing businesses. Usually these loans are between $100-$200 and their uses can range from pharmacies to farms, from hair salons to sheep herding. The project is still in the pilot phase, and three of my five clients live in the city. I follow up with those clients at least once a month, but usually more often due to their proximity. However, two of my clients live way off the beaten path in a village called Gueladjo.

First there is Soja, the spiritual lion of Gueladjo. He used his loan to buy millet in the Gueladjo market and resell in his village, which is two miles farther up the road. Then there is Mohammed El Hajji, a converted Muslim who has once made the sacred pilgrimage to Mecca. For the past 60 years (yes, that’s right, 60) he has been running a small radio repair business. He used his loan to stock his radio repair shop and to fatten a few rams before Tabaski, the Muslim holiday celebrated by mass ram slaughtering. These two have faithfully attended the Gueladjo church for years.

Gueladjo is a Fulani village a little over 80km from Niamey. The first 60km are along a paved highway, but the remaining 20km are down an eroded dirt road. It is populated by 400 herders and farmers. Its distance and remoteness make it difficult to visit more than once a month. The roundtrip can be done in one day, but I usually prefer to overnight at the church to split up the driving and to spend time with the pastor.

Pastor Lawali is a man who infects all he meets with his contagious smiles and joyful laughter. He is a simple man who matches each spoonful of instant coffee with two spoonfuls of sugar, a ritual repeated four to five times a day. He loves to trade stories, especially if it is over a game of spades. He is a good card player and would probably be better if he could keep his hands from shaking with excitement when he holds all the aces. He is passionate about evangelism, especially when a long and winding motorcycle ride is required to reach the unreached. He is an expert bush rider, whose instincts and experiences have taught him how to negotiate the most difficult of trails and how to overcome the most difficult of engine troubles. If he is guilty of a sin it is coveting my mosquito-netted hammock that I spread in his yard the nights I stay. It was he who noticed Soja and Mohammed’s need for a small loan and asked me to come and evaluate their proposals.

(3)

Soja and Mohammed received their loans on the 16 May, 2009. They were given two months to put the money to work before making the first payment. I visited them in June to see how their businesses were progressing and to offer my prayers and advice. On July 25 I returned to Gueladjo to visit them once more and to collect the first payment.

The afternoon of the 25^th, the pastor and I ride to meet with El Hajji to discuss his progress. At his shop he shows me the stock of radio parts he had bought. We then walk to his home where the young rams are munching on baobab leaves. He had wasted no time, investing the full loan amount into his inventory. Returning to the shop, we sit down and talk about how the business was progressing. “I thank God,” he says. “Little by little I am gaining more clients, and I know these rams will fetch a high price come November.” He then hands me his first payment of 10,000 CFA plus an additional 2,000 CFA advance. “I want to finish payments as soon as possible,” he tells me. With a sly smile he adds, “I already have plans for the next loan.”

Excited and encouraged, Lawali and I ride on to visit Soja at his home. Soja pulls out a mat and invites us to sit while he goes to get milk from his cows for us to drink while we talk. Sipping the fresh cow’s milk from the gourd I ask him how the millet trade has been going. The conversation takes a while to be translated between French and Fufulde, but the pastor is extremely thorough. “He says that he has lots of clients,” relates Lawali. “Already he has sold over five sacks of millet to his village. His price is lower than the competition and he is closer than other markets. However, this is a hard time for the village. People do not have much money. The majority of the millet has been sold on credit. Some people have started to pay their credit, but most have not paid back. He has made some money, but most of it is still tied up in unpaid debt. Consequently, he cannot make the full payment this month. He can only pay 4,000 of the 7,500.”

Meet kindness, one of the fruits of the spirit, but also the killer of good business plans. My business mind wants to tell Soja that he has to stop the credit. I want to explain how, in such a small commerce, the credit will keep him from rebuilding his inventory and stall his business. I even start to explain these things, but something in me stops Lawali from translating the lecture. Instead I say, “Soja, I think you have seen how credit can slow your business. If you really trust that your neighbors will repay you, then I will not tell you stop. Right now, I think we should pray that your debtors make good on their word and that God would provide a new way for you to make profit out of your commerce. You still owe the 3,500, but we will worry about that later. For next month, let’s focus on making a full payment.” With that we spent some time in prayer before Lawali and I head back to the church.

Following a night of cards and stories with Lawali and his neighbors, we wake up early to prepare for the Sunday service. Soja shows up early to arrange the benches and Mohammed arrives just as the pastor starts tapping the drum. I don’t understand a word of the Fufulde worship, but I love the way Soja leads it and the way the rest of the congregation responds. After worship I preached a brief message on the Holy Spirit. I taught about the first Pentecost in Acts and how God sends his Spirit to help us share the good news. I explained that the Holy Spirit, though a mystical concept, doesn’t have to be spooky. When Jesus left, he knew it would be difficult to preach the gospel to Jews and Gentiles who were hostile to Christians. That’s why God sent the Holy Spirit, “the Helper,” to aid them in proclaiming the message of hope in dark world. Being a Christian in a Muslim country, especially in a small Muslim village, can be difficult. That is why God still sends His Spirit, to help us in the most difficult of places. We finished with a time of prayer, asking God to embolden and empower us with His Spirit, so we could be His witnesses in this village and this country.

After visiting with the members and lunch with the pastor, I load my bike to head home. I thank the pastor and his wife for their generosity and hit the road. I make it back to the highway without any problem. As is my habit, I stop in Kobadie for a pack of water and to send Brent a text. I let him know I’m on the road and a best guess of when I should be back. My bike is running great as I power on to Niamey.

Just 20km outside Niamey there is a village called Boulaba. It rests in a small valley between plateaus. Descending into the valley, my engine crescendos to a high-pitched whine as the RPM’s increase. This is normal and I think nothing of it until, “POP!” and my bike halts as abruptly as if I had slammed the brakes. This causes me to lurch forward and, on such a steep decline, the rear wheel starts lifting up. I pull the clutch to keep from flipping over the handlebars and coast down into the valley. At this point my engine trouble experience is limited to bad spark plugs and running out of gas. The spark plug is still good and I can hear the fuel sloshing in the tank, so that eliminates those possibilities. I can’t get a kick-start, so I ask a villager to help me push start. We are able to coax out a low rumble, but the engine never revs to life. “Sounds like you blew a piston,” he offers. I don’t know enough to validate or refute his words, but there is wisdom and experience in his voice. I pull out my cell phone to look for service. “There isn’t service down in the valley,” he tells me. “For that you have to climb the plateau.”

I park my bike and climb the small mountain of a plateau in search of service. My quest renders one bar. I call Brent and try to explain the situation. “Brent, I’m 20km outside of Niamey and my bike broke down. Can you come with the truck and pick me up?” The signal is so weak that all Brent hears is “Brent, *** 20km ****ide ** Nia*** *** my **ke broke do**. Can *** *** with the truck *** pi** me *p?” That’s all I could get out before the call was dropped. My solo journey that started with adventure has now deteriorated into frustration. I’m frustrated with the dropped call. I’m frustrated that I’m stuck just 20km from home. And, as I think on the situation, I become increasingly frustrated with myself. In March I had resolved not to ask for rescue any more, yet at the first trouble I revert to my old MO and call Brent. Just then I get a text from Brent, “You OK? Do I need to come and get you?” I think a moment and text back “No. I’ll call you when I get to the city,” and descend into the valley.

I ask the villagers if there is a transport going to Niamey anytime soon. It’s Sunday, so this means nothing is coming or going. The guy that helped me push start speaks up, “I can give you a tow into Niamey.”

“How?” I ask.

“We’ll tie your bike to the back of mine and you’ll just ride on it behind me.”

My first thought is that this is a terrible idea. Motorcycles aren’t cars. One sharp turn and I could pull his rear end out from under him. Then we’ll both be ripped off the road in a tandem of death. If he slams the breaks I could crash into him or fly past, ripping his tail around as I go. But then I start to wonder if it’s just my inexperience that makes his suggestion seem foolish. After all, he’s probably done this before. Eventually my American concerns surrender to the African problem solving and I agree to the suggestion.

He ties a rope around his luggage rack and then ties the other end around both struts of my front wheel. He leaves a good meter and a half of slack between the two bikes. “Put it in neutral and follow me as straight as possible,” he directs. “Try and keep the rope taut, even if you have to ride the brake. That’ll keep the rope from snapping and keep you from jerking me around.” Slowly he pulls out onto the highway, with my bike in tow. Not wanting to strain the engine, we cruise at a gentle speed all the way to the roundabout in Niamey. He drops me at the station where I fill up his tank, thank him and wish him a safe return.

Now I call Brent, and he comes across the river with the pickup to haul me the last bit to my mechanic. “I was worried about you, dude. How’d you make it in?”

“African code,” I respond. “React to anything.”

(4)

It’s late August and I still haven’t been able to make it out to Gueladjo to visit Soja and Mohammed. The early part of the month was split between Niamey and Maradi, helping with the three different weeklong children’s camps. Just after the camps Mike Thaler came to visit from the states with his family. The camps have been amazing, and I am enjoying rest and time with the Thalers, but I am feeling a little guilty about being late on my visit to Gueladjo. I decide to make a quick daytrip on the morning of the 28^th. Mike wants to meet with Brent, Dave and I in the afternoon, so Brent offers me his truck to be sure I’ll make it back in time. While I love my motorcycle, it’s hard to refuse an offer of air conditioning and a reliable engine. So at 6:00am Friday morning I climb into the truck and head out for Gueladjo.

Travel in the rainy season is always unpredictable. All the lessons on erosion I learned in 6^th grade Earth Science come to life at this time of year. What was once a smoothly graded road can be worn into a washboard or cratered with potholes. Sandy floodplains can turn into rushing rivers and flash floods can rip apart bridges of concrete and steel. Entire sections of road disappear after a hard rain. Consequently, even a familiar road can be altered beyond recognition overnight.

Turning left at Kobadie towards Gueladjo, I send Brent my usual text message that I am leaving cell service. This also marks the transition from paved highway to dirt path. Immediately I start to notice the changes in the road. Sections of road that were formerly smooth and even are now rough and bumpy. Sections that were rough before now put the truck’s shocks and suspension to a test that could be showcased in Toyota commercials. All of this is, however, is foreplay leading to the challenge ahead.

Halfway between Kobadie and Gueladjo there is a valley village called Chileda. I descend into this small valley that normally troughs into a dried and sandy floodplain. On this day, however, the valley is filled with a stream that is over 200 meters across. This area is normally quiet and vacant, but today it is alive with activity. Women are washing clothes and pots at the rivers edge. Farther out there are men with nets and fishing lines. And on both sides there is a group of opportunistic men, ready to help carry bikes, motorcycles and baggage across. I pull up to the water’s edge and get out of the truck. A group of men in the water come sprinting to my assistance. They tell me they can help push the truck across, for a price. “How deep is it at the center?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s only waist high,” they assure me. “We can push you across no problem.” I measure waist height against the side of the truck, and that makes it midway up the driver door. Even if the water doesn’t destroy the engine at that depth, it’s bound to flood the cab. I am not about to ruin Brent’s truck, so I tell them no and hop back in to go home.

About a kilometer up the road I stop the car. I am frustrated that the road is flooded, but even more frustrated that I have no foreseeable opening in my schedule to make another trip. Plus, the river could be there for another week before drying. As I ponder my options my frustration slowly turns into adventurous determination. By the time I turn the truck around I have decided to make it to Gueladjo, one way or another.

The men in the water see my truck coming back into the valley and think I have finally succumbed to their plan. They rush to the bank to meet me as I climb out of the truck again. “You want us to push the truck?” they ask.

“No, I want you to guard the truck. Is there somebody here that has a motorcycle?” One of the guys steps forward. “Good, I’ll pay you to drive me to Gueladjo. I only need to stay a couple hours and then we’ll come back. Does that work?”

“It all depends on how much you are willing to pay.”

We agree on a price and the motorcycle owner runs off in search of his bike. The rest of the men, and growing crowd of children, start chattering excitedly in Fufulde. I don’t understand, but it sounds as if they are mentally spending the exorbitant amount they just charged me. I take my bag out of the truck and lock all the doors, making sure first that everything of value is either with me or concealed. My ride is coming down into the valley just as I lock the last door. The other guys start splashing water on the motorcycle’s engine to cool it before lifting. I take off my pants to put them in my bag and the women respond with shrieks of laughter. I must have scandalized them with my pasty white legs that have hardly seen sunlight since leaving America. Either way, we are ready and start crossing the rushing stream.

It took a team of six guys to lift the bike on to its front tire and push it across the stream. I follow behind them, watching their steps to avoid falling in the many sinkholes. Midway across, the water is at my waist and the current is flowing strong. I pat myself on the back for not trying to push the truck across and continue on to the other side.

My chauffeur to Gueladjo is named Bouba. He looks around 18 years old and speaks broken French. After a few hundred yards I realize that this is not his bike. In fact, I don’t think he even has a license. At every sandy section he makes me dismount and run to the other side because he is afraid of tipping. This makes for slow progress, but eventually we arrive at the church door.

Lawali laughs hysterically when he sees me on the back of another person’s bike. “I was wondering how you were going to get across that river,” he says. “Looks like you found a way.” I tell him all about the adventure, but then remind him that I only have a few hours before I need to be back in Niamey. “No problem. Soja and El Hajji are expecting us.” We hop on his DT and head out to make our rounds.

Mohammed’s business continues to thrive. He again pays 12,000 CFA, 2,000 over the minimum. His sheep are already looking older and fatter, showing promise of a large profit in a few months. After a quick visit we ride on to Soja’s house. Soja tells me that his debtors have started paying him back. He is no longer selling millet on credit and is experimenting with reselling simple medications. He not only makes a full payment of 7,500, but also an arrears for last month’s missing 3,500. We rejoice together at the success of his business and spend time in prayer, thanking God for his provision and for answering our prayers.

We get so caught up in the moment that we lose track of time. “Lawali, it’s 11:15. We told Bouba I’d be back by 11:00.” We quickly say farewell to Soja and his family and then speed back to Gueladjo. Bouba is waiting for me at the door so I say goodbye to the pastor and hop on with Bouba. The ride back to the Chileda stream is as unnerving as the ride from it. I have to give Bouba credit, though, because despite all the near tips and slides he manages to keep us both upright the whole way there. At the stream, I once again strip down to my briefs before crossing back to the truck.

When I arrive at the truck it seems as if the whole village has gathered to witness the mysterious white boy that left his truck and traversed their stream. There are over 30 men gathered, not counting women and children. Feeling extremely self-conscious, I put my pants on before asking why there were so many people.

“We heard about what you did,” their leader, Hamadou, explained. “Most white people either drive by or don’t come at all. They almost never stop. We wanted to see what kind of man would trust us so much.”

“Well, now you see me,” I say a little impatiently. My mind is still on the fast approaching afternoon rendezvous.

“What does ‘AD’ mean?” he asks, referring to the large logos that cover the hood and sides of the truck.

“Well, it is a church, les Assemblées de Dieu (Assemblies of God),” I explain. “I am a missionary from America and I work with the AD church.”

“What is your work that you come so far out here?” he prods further.

“Well I work with a few small business projects in Gueladjo, but I also preach there from time to time. Wait a second, have any of you heard of a man called Jesus?” I get nothing but blank stares and shaking heads in response.

The lunch date is forgotten. Suddenly there is something more important in my schedule. “Well part of the reason I am here in Niger is to share the good news of Jesus Christ. Would you like to hear a little about him?” They look at each other and nod in agreement, as if to say, “We have nothing better to do.”

For the next 20 minutes I gave a simple Gospel presentation. Hamadou translated from French into Fufulde. I use the river as an example, explaining how the river separated me from my destination. By myself, I could not get to my destination. But they had saved me. With their help I was able to cross and get to Gueladjo. Without their help it would have been impossible. Similarly, our sin separates us from God. We all have done something bad in our lives, and this darkness separates us from a perfect God. By ourselves we are unable to be reunited with God. We need somebody to save us, to help us cross the river of sin and reunite us with our heavenly father. Jesus is a man who came to save us. He was God’s only son, but more than that, He was God. He lived a perfect life, without sin. He died on a cross as a sacrifice, so that we could be reunited with God. I explained how he was the only way to be reunited with God. All you must do is believe with your heart and confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and you will be saved.

At the end of my sermonette the large audience applauds for me. Nobody accepts the Gospel in that moment, but they invite me to come back and share more. Bouba and Hamadou ask for my phone number so they could call if they had more questions. I give them my number, thank them again for their help then climb into the truck and head home.

When I finally meet up with Mike, Brent and Dave at the restaurant they give me a hard time for being late. Dave notices that my pants are wet right around the underwear region. “What, did you have an accident there buddy?” he jokes.

“No. But have I got a story for you guys.”

(5)

Fall is a busy time for missionaries. Children are back in school and the return of structure to children’s schedules has mysteriously strong residual effects on their parents’ organization. The rains have ceased, allowing for roads to be repaired making bush travel more predictable and therefore more programmable. The weather is plenty warm, but it comes nowhere close to the heat of spring and there isn’t the perpetual dust haze of winter. This makes fall the preferred travel time for short-term mission groups from the states.

From September 15 until November 8 there were twelve days when there has not been a short-term team from the states that I have helped host. There was Uncle Charity who came with his construction and evangelism team in mid-September. Then there was the medical team lead by my mother that overlapped with Charity’s group. A week after their departure came the WINSHAPE team that we took to Maradi for a business leadership conference. We wished them farewell at 11pm Tuesday night and were scheduled to be back to greet the next team on Friday at 3pm. This 2.5-day gap is perfect for my monthly visit to Gueladjo to follow up with Soja and Mohammed on their microloans. I spent Wednesday helping prepare for the coming team and making arrangements for my overnight visit to Gueladjo. The last thing Brent told me before I left his house Wednesday night was “Remember, you have to be back by 3pm Friday so you can drive the truck to the airport.”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I’ll make it back in time to greet Marcia’s team at the airport.”

(6)

Thursday 6:00am – I pull out of the dorm on my DT-125. The engine sounds the best it has in months thanks to the recent tune-up and oil change. The sun is just peeking over the hills as I head south towards Gueladjo. I cruise at a comfortable speed, enjoying the freshness of the cool morning air and the solitude of an empty highway. I did not make good time on the road, but the conditions made time great. I get to Lawali’s house just in time for coffee and fresh tapioca. I can tell Lawali is excited because today we are going to Mayunga Gourma for a baptism. He is excited about the baptism, but I can tell he is equally excited about the two-hour ride over the mountains it takes to get there. He loves riding the trails on his DT and he loves it even more when he has somebody to keep him company.

9:30am – After fueling our stomachs and our bikes, Lawali and I head down the long winding trail to Mayunga Gourma. Just a few kilometers out of Gueladjo we come across a small stream. Gunda, one of our friends from the village, is crossing in the opposite direction. The water is knee high in the center and he shows us the best place to cross. “Just put it in first gear and accelerate through it,” Lawali shouts. “Even if you think you are getting stuck, don’t let off the accelerator because then the exhaust will suck in water.” With that the pastor kicks his feet over the handlebars to keep them from getting soaked and speeds into the stream. He enters at an angle, following the current so as not to be pushed over by it. In the middle the water is high enough to cover the cylinder but his speed is enough that the channel cut by the front tire keeps it relatively dry.

When Lawali gets to the other side, he stops and looks back, laughing with childish glee. I laugh too, but mine is more nervous than confident. “So much for my tune-up” I think to myself as I plunge in after the pastor’s tracks. I try to follow his model of lifting my feet, but my tires catch on the edges of the his rut. This pitches me left, and then right causing me to lose balance. I slam my foot down on the right to push myself back up, then on the left when my overcorrection sends me tipping in that direction. My front tire twists, sending mud and water splashing all over my face. I look more like a mud wrestler than a motorcyclist by the time I reach the other side. Now Lawali and Gunda are really laughing at how pathetic my attempt looked in comparison to their expert crossings. I’m soaked and mud stained, but grateful my bike didn’t tip and the engine is still running strong.

11:30am – After two hours of riding Lawali and I finally reach Mayunga Gourma. It’s not even noon and I’ve already been riding for over four hours on narrow and winding trails. I am exhausted. We greet the chief and other villagers and then sprawl out on some mats while we wait for Bouba, the deacon, to assemble the other church members. I am finally relaxed when Lawali looks at me and says, “So are you ready to preach a message before the baptism?” This is a classic Lawali move, asking you to preach an hour before the service starts. I half expected this invitation, but time did not allow me to prepare for it.

I look at him and ask in a facetious tone, “What you didn’t prepare anything?”

“No. I thought you would want to speak since it has been so long since your last visit.”

“I was just kidding, I’m ready,” I half lied. The Bible tells us to be ready in season and out of season. In that sense I am ready, but I’ve not actually prepared anything. I think to myself, “African Code” as I pull out my bible and start looking for the verses to the sermon that was already forming in my head.

12:30pm – The wheel drum used as the church bell has been rung and the Christians are beginning to assemble under the thatch hangar used as the sanctuary. Lawali is thumping away on the drum as one of the ladies leads the growing group in song. After a few songs Bouba leads the group in prayer before the floor is given to me for the message.

Matthew 10:32-33

So everyone who acknowledges me before men, I also will acknowledge before my Father who is in heaven, but whoever denies me before men, I also will deny before my Father who is in heaven.

I teach how baptism is a public profession of faith, nothing more. We are not saved by baptism, but it is a way of celebrating the salvation that we already have. We do baptism to publicly proclaim our commitment to Jesus, so that he may acknowledge us before the Father. We baptize by immersion because that is the model set forth by Jesus. I explained the symbolism: how the new believer is submerged into death (for if he is not brought out of the water he will surely die) and then raised again into life. It was a short speech, but with two translators it took time for the message to be communicated. After closing in prayer, the drummer rises and begins leading the way to the baptismal. The congregation follows, singing and dancing the two kilometers to the water hole.

1:30pm – The six men being baptized line up at the water’s edge, waiting for Lawali and I to call them into the water’s depths. The drummer continues to beat and the women continue to sing throughout the entirety of the ceremony. One by one, these men are submersed into a watery filth before being lifted again into a new life with Christ. “Hallelujah!” calls Lawali as he lifts each one out of the pool. The women and men respond with a deafening series of tribal war cries that seem to pull all of their ancestry and heritage into the celebration. Over seventy people have gathered from Mayunga and surrounding villages to take part in this celebration. I watch with a hint of pride while a church, whose beginning I witnessed less than a year ago, baptized six into its already flourishing congregation.

2:00pm – Gathered again under the hangar, the newly baptized men bring the platters of food their wives have prepared for the celebration. We feast on beans and rice, macaroni and red sauce, couscous and sauce and wash it down with millet-based bui. After Lawali and I finish eating we notice storm clouds gathering on the horizon in the homeward direction. We bid farewell to the church and mount up for the long ride back to Gueladjo.

4:00pm – Still an hour and a half ride from home, we stop in a village along the way for a break. Lawali manages a mill in this village and has not been seeing the expected returns lately. He wants to stop and work the mill for an hour to see if his current employee is keeping honest books. I wait at the machine while Lawali goes in search of Diesel fuel to crank her up. The Fulani women line up with their gourds of grain, waiting for their turn to grind their produce to flour. The storm clouds have now reached us and a light drizzle starts which quickly develops into a downpour. The women scatter in search of shelter, skillfully sprinting without spilling the loads bourn gracefully on their heads. Fortunately it’s a typical Nigerien storm: just as fast as it is furious. In 10 minutes time the women have re-gathered as Lawali and I attempt to crank the mill to life.

5:00pm – After forty-five minutes of trying to start the machine without success, Lawali concedes defeat and promises to return tomorrow with the mechanic to see what the problem is. We hop on our bikes to leave, but mine refuses to start. After a series of unsuccessful attempts by Lawali and myself, the pastor decides to take a look at the carburetor. Sure enough, my throttle is jammed, fully opened, causing the engine to flood. Lawali shows me how, with only a screwdriver, this problem can be easily fixed. In fifteen minutes he has it working like new and we mount up to head home. “Just over an hour till home,” he tells me. “If we have no problems we should be there before sundown.”

6:00pm – The rain has hit our road hard. The narrow paths are now scattered with puddles and mud that makes us feel more like we are sledding than driving; we can steer but our speed is more dependent on the grade of the ground than the push of our throttle. I increase my following distance to avoid the spray from Lawali’s rear tire. Though the conditions slow our advancement, our lack of haste allows us to enjoy the sport of our progress. The added challenge excites us as we weave our way through the swampy paths. It is not long, however, until I can see Lawali is having engine trouble up ahead. His bike eventually sputters to a stop. “Spark plug is spent,” he says. “I forgot my spare at the house… do you have one?”

After being stuck in the bush with a burnt spark plug in March, I have always carried a spare with a plug wrench. However, fate would have it that this time I had forgotten. “I don’t have one either. What are we going to do now?” We are in the middle of nowhere, halfway between villages. There isn’t a mechanic or parts seller for miles.

“We have two choices: we can push all the way to Gueladjo, another fifteen km, or one of us can stay with my bike while the other goes to Gueladjo and back for the spark plug.” Neither of these options seems desirable to me. Just at that moment a passing Fulani, hearing our trouble tells us he knows a guy who keeps a bunch of spares and would probably sell us one. He walks us back to his hut and spreads a mat for us to rest on. Since I only speak French and Lawali speaks both French and Fufulde, I offer them my bike to go in search of the spare part. “It’s not far, “ says the Fulani herder. “We should be back in 10 minutes.”

7:30pm – It’s been over an hour since I heard the last traces of my motorcycle going over the nearby hills. I know that most Africans have a different definition of “not far” than Americans, but even I am starting to get worried at this point. The sun has long since set and I have no clue where I am. I lean back on the mat and my mind is flooded with all the possible problems that may have befallen them. I do not linger long on these thoughts because my attention is drawn to the myriad stars that are beginning to fill the dusky sky. The rain clouds have parted, uncovering the night’s beauty. No matter how many nights I spend in the villages, I am continually captivated by how clear and numerous are the stars. Lying there on my back, looking up at the heavenly hosts and listening to the man’s wife chattering to her children in Fufulde, I am struck by God’s presence in such a remote and bucolic place. I know God is always present, and even earlier today I saw His hand at work. But it is not always that I feel his presence. Some people spend all their lives searching for God’s presence and never find Him. He eludes them like the setting sun. But the truth is, God pursues us at the same time. If we just sit and wait on Him, eventually He will find us. I did not find God on this night. Instead, He threw water and mud into our engines until we stopped so He could find me. On this night He found me in the isolated nothingness of the Nigerien bush and allowed me, for the first time in a long time, to feel His presence.

8:15pm – I am awakened from my reverie by the familiar sound of my DT coming over the hill. Lawali has returned victoriously clutching a new spark plug. We quickly change out the old and, thanking the friendly Fulani, head out on the final leg of the journey.

9:00pm – I can see that Lawali has stopped. I slowly pull up beside him to discover the reason. My headlight’s reflection dances on the rushing river that impedes our progress. The stream that we had crossed earlier in the morning has since flooded into a small river. “Well, let’s see how deep it is,” Lawali says, climbing down. I take off my pants and shoes, grab a nearby branch to use as a depth gauge and slowly ease my way into the current. Poking and easing my way deeper into the river, it soon becomes apparent that we won’t be driving across this time. The water is waist high in the middle and the once smooth creek bottom is now cratered with washed out holes. “It’s a good thing there are two of us,” the pastor tells me when I return to our bikes. “Looks like we are going to have to push the bikes through, one at a time. And then we’ll have to pray that they start on the other side.”

This sounds foolish to me. My bike has started leaking oil, so I know water is bound to leak into the engine through the same breach. I know our only alternative is to leave the bikes and come back in the morning with more help. I think a moment and then, quieting my wisdom with either faith or foolishness, say, “OK let’s go. We’ll push yours first, then mine.”

Halfway across the stream I step on a thorn branch drifting on the creek floor. These are not your American briars, but your Jesus, crown of thornsesque barbs. I don’t say anything but each step becomes more painful as the dirty water and sand rush into the fresh puncture wound. We get Lawali’s bike across and marvel at the flood of water that comes pouring out of the cylinder as we pull it out of the stream. We head back and follow the same path with my bike. High and drying on the other side we say a quick prayer over our motorcycles. Some might think us crazy for praying over motorcycles, but with my new foot wound I in no way want to push the remaining kilometer to Gueladjo. By no small miracle our bikes fire to life and we sputter the rest of the way home. We pull into the churchyard and thank the Lord for bringing us safely home.

(7)

Friday 9:30am – It’s a late start, but after a lazy breakfast and a cup of coffee Lawali and I head out to meet with Soja and Mohammed. We find Soja at his home, buying basic medications from a passing vendor that he will eventually resell to his neighbors. I laugh and joke with Lawali that Soja’s competition might hurt the church supported pharmacy that he and I opened just a few months back. Soja and I sit and he explains all the different small commerce projects he has been doing to earn extra money. He then explains how this year he has been weathering the famine much better than years past thanks to the additional income he has been earning. He smiles and thanks me as he hands over the month’s payment.

10:30am – We find Mohammed waiting at his radio repair station. A young Fulani boy has brought his boom box to be repaired. The boy needs it fixed so he can carry it around the market on his shoulder, circa 1980’s, and impress the young Fulani girls. Mohammed puts down the soldering iron and smiles a toothy smile as we approach. “You see how much work I have?” he says with a laugh. “Before they would have to wait, sometimes weeks, for me to have the parts needed to fix their radios. Now, since I am well stocked, they can have it repaired in the same day.” We talk for a while about his family, his business and the growth of his sheep. “I thank God,” he says conclusively before making his payment plus an advance payment.

11:30am – Having finished our visits, I tell Lawali that I really cannot stay for lunch. I have to make it back by 3pm, in time to drive to the airport, and want to leave myself some extra time. I bid him and his wife farewell then drive over to the mechanic’s tree to buy some fuel and to change my oil. They fill my gas tank and then crack the lug nut to drain the oil. The liquid spills out gray and thin, rather than the normal thick blackness of used motor oil. “You have a bunch of water in your engine,” the mechanic explains to me. “That’s why the oil is so gray. It’s a miracle your bike even started with oil like that.”

“So what do we do about that?” I ask.

“Well, we need to run a round of petrol through the engine to clean it out before we can put new oil in. Then it should be fine.”

They send one of their little trainees off with 1000 francs and an empty bottle to bring back some petrol.

12:00pm – Just as I started getting worried that the boy was lost, he comes around the corner with the bottle of petrol. We run it through the engine for a few minutes before draining it out again. It, too, spills out thin and gray. They fill the newly cleaned motor with oil and then wish me a safe journey back to Niamey. It’s now 12:15. It normally takes an hour and a half to make it to Niamey. That leaves me an hour to shower and change before heading to the airport. Perfect.

12:45pm – Riding down the dirt path to the highway I am enjoying the beautiful, clear day. I can tell by the reddening of my arms that it is plenty hot, but the wind feels cool thanks to yesterday’s rain. I take my right hand off the throttle to scratch my knee, only to realize that the throttle is stuck once again. I try to free the jamb by jerking the throttle a few times, but to no avail. The only way to slow down is to cut power to the bike. This works, but I know if I completely stop I may not be able to start her again. I try not to panic and think, “If I can just make it to Kobadie, I can stop and fix the carburetor before heading on to Niamey.” This seemed like it could work until I remembered the washout in the road just ahead. It’s impossible to cross at any speed above a crawl without falling off the rain torn ridge. I ride until I can see the ravine in the distance and then cut the engine.

I remember Lawali’s lesson on freeing a stuck throttle, but then further remember that I don’t have a screwdriver. I do my best to loosen the jamb manually and then try to start my bike. After a few minutes of attempted kick-starts without success, I hop off and try to push-start. I put the bike in first gear. I then push it till I’m going at a fast jog and pop the clutch. As soon as I pop the clutch the engine roars to life and the bike starts speeding away. I have to sprint to keep up with it and cut the engine before it outpaces my guiding hands. I stop to catch my breath and think a minute. “The rest of the road after the washout is good. There’s only three kilometers left to Kobadie. If I can just make it there I’ll get my bike fixed and be in Niamey by 2:30.” This time there is no hesitation, no digging for the cell phone. I know what I need to do.

1:00pm – I push my bike across the washout to a smooth stretch of road. I feel proud of what I’m about to do: adapting and triumphing despite difficult circumstances. I feel as if I am living the African motto of reacting to anything. I take a deep breath and whisper a short prayer, “God, please don’t let this be the stupidest thing I have ever done.” And with that I lower my shoulder and start pushing the bike. This time I wait till I am at a quick run before popping the clutch. Once again the engine roars to life and I can already feel the bike starting to accelerate. In my head I see myself jumping, expertly swinging my right leg over the back of the bike, sliding gently into the saddle and speeding all the way to Kobadie. I do jump, and gracefully kick my leg over the back of the bike. However, in my estimation I forgot to account for the large overnight pack I had tied to the back of the bike. So, instead of gently sliding into the saddle, my leg collides with the pack. I land awkwardly on my left foot, right on last night’s puncture wound. The shot of pain causes me to fall to my left, pulling the revving motorcycle on top of myself. The left handlebar drags my left hand along the ground, ripping off my pinky nail and tearing a good chunk of flesh with it. Quickly I cut off the engine and pull myself from underneath the wreckage. I pick up my bike to keep the gas from leaking out and put it on its kickstand. The bike looks scraped, but otherwise unharmed. Similarly, I am scraped down my left side and my pinky is bleeding pretty heavily, but I have not suffered any serious injuries.

Now, I like to consider myself a smart guy. I did well in school and generally feel I exercise at least a normal amount of common sense. However, sometimes the voice of pride shouts over those of intelligence and common sense. For a third time I lower my shoulder and start pushing my bike. At just above a jog I pop the clutch and this time do not wait for the engine roar to try and hop into the saddle. Again, I clumsily collide with my overnight pack. Fortunately I am under enough control to keep from falling and am able to cut the engine before the bike takes off. After three failures, the voice of wisdom is finally louder than my pride. I count my blessings and decide not to tempt fate with a fourth push.

Two Fulani ladies, who had apparently witnessed the whole charade, creep out of the millet stalks just as I am ripping off my shirtsleeve to use as a bandage. They don’t speak a word of French, but by their gestures I see that they want to help. They pour some water from their gourd on my shredded pinky, then rip my shirtsleeve into tiny strips and bandage my finger. In the mean time, I pull out my cell phone and see that there is no service. Great. I thank them as best I can, then lower my shoulder and start pushing my bike to Kobadie.

1:45pm – I feel the full weight of the midday sun as I trudge slowly down the road. I have only pushed one of the three kilometers and already my shirt is soaked through with sweat and my hands are starting to cramp on the handlebars. A Fulani boy headed to Kobadie on his bicycle pulls up and dismounts beside me. He follows for a minute, watching me every step, then tries to stop me. He offers to trade loads: my motorcycle for his bike. I look in his eyes and see that it is genuine. I have been humbled greatly this day, but I still have enough pride to bear my own cross. I am not yet ready to suffer the ultimate humility of passing my cross to another. He follows another 100 meters or so before climbing back on his bike and pedaling ahead.

2:00pm – I am now over two thirds of the way to Kobadie. There is still no cell phone reception, so I have little other choice but to plod on. A motorcycle coming in the opposite direction slows as it approaches and eventually stops. “A boy told me somebody was having trouble on the road,” he says as he gets down. “What’s wrong with the bike?” Looks like my Fulani friend sent for help.

“My throttle is stuck open,” I replied.

“Let me take a look at it.” He starts poking around and I start thinking. Even if he does get it started and working, I don’t feel great about riding the last hour to Niamey. I’m exhausted and my hand is throbbing with pain.

“Hey, why don’t you just tow me into Kobadie and then I’ll find a transport to the city,” I suggest.

“No problem. It’s going to be hard on my motor though… it’ll cost you.”

Normally I would negotiate, but I know his price is under what I’m willing to pay and I’m too tired to argue. Plus, he has me by the balls here, so I agree to his $4 tow fee. He pulls a rope out of the bag and ties it to his luggage rack and then around both struts of my front wheel. “Make sure you are in neutral,” he shouts as he slowly drives off with my bike in tow.

2:15pm – We pull into Kobadie just as the afternoon prayer is ending. That means that as we drive by the Mosque on our way into town there is huge crowd to witness my shame. Oh well, they probably think I’m a stupid American anyway. We park at his shop and I leave my bike to start looking for transport to Niamey. I find a beat up Peugeot 504 that is mostly empty. There’s ample space in the bed for my bike, so the owner and I negotiate a price. Twenty bucks to haul my bike and me the 60 kilometers home and thirty if I want to ride in the cab. I give him ten dollars and tell him he’ll get the rest when we arrive in Niamey. His crew helps me load my bike and then I hop in the truck bed with two of them. Just before we pull out I call Brent, “Hey Brent, it’s me. Yea I’m OK but I might be a little late. Will you see if Danika can drive the truck to the airport? Yea, and can you pick me up at the clinic around 3:30? No, it’s nothing serious, just might need a couple stitches. I’ll tell you all about it when you pick me up at the clinic. Alright, see you soon.”

3:00pm – The transport drops me off at Clinique de la Paix and helps me unload my bike. I park it with the guard then hurry in to get my hand looked at. The clinic is relatively empty so I get seen right away. The doctor unwraps the shirtsleeve bandage and winces. “That’s an ugly cut you have there. I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but it might take some time for it to heal and for the nail to grow back. And we definitely need to wash it out well. This might hurt a little.” That’s what I was most afraid of. I ball up my shirttail and stick it in my mouth to bite down on. I grip hard with right hand on the side of the table as the doctor starts cleaning the wound. First he rinses it with water. Then he cuts off the flap of skin that I apparently “Don’t need any more” and starts disinfecting. He scrubs it first with alcohol, then with peroxide, and finally with betadine. Just as he finishes wit the antibiotic ointment and bandage my phone rings. “Hey, Brent. Oh you’re outside. Well I just need to pay and then I’ll be out.”

3:45pm – Riding in the cruiser to the airport I explain to Brent the whole stupid story of my last few hours. I can tell he’s snickering, trying to contain the laughter because he isn’t sure how much teasing my pride can take. When I finish I start laughing and say, “Well at least it’s a good story right?” He can’t hold it back anymore. Laughing hysterically he says, “That was pretty stupid, Daniel. But if it’s any comfort, I can say that it wasn’t the stupidest thing I’ve heard you do.” This makes him laugh even harder.

At the airport I’m forced to retell the story to everyone who notices the bandage on my hand. Dave and Danika laugh at my foolishness, reminding me of how stupid that was. However Dankarami, one of the Africans we work with, listens intently to the story. Before I even explain the part about push starting and hopping on the back of my bike, he is a step ahead of me. He tells me what I did before I get there. I ask how he knew and he responds, “Because that’s the solution. I would have done the same thing. Anybody else here would have tried the same thing.” I am hit simultaneously with equal doses of pride and shame. There is pride that I am beginning to think like an African and assimilating myself into their cultural mindset. For the same reason I feel a little shame, like a little bit of the American in me had died. I still haven’t decided which of those sentiments should rule over the other, probably because I’m still not sure which way of thinking I favor.

Fortunately I don’t have the time to decide because the team starts coming out of the airport. I greet the team members and give Marcia a big hug. “What happened to your finger?” she asks, noticing the bandage.

“It’s a long and stupid story… I’ll tell you sometime soon.”

10:00pm – With the team all settled into their rooms I head over to Brent’s for our usual Friday night game of Rook. A few hands into the game my phone rings. It’s Lawali.

“Daniel, how are you? I heard you had an accident. I just wanted to make sure you were OK.”

Amazing. The Fulani ladies who came to my aid must have passed the news up the road. The Fulani grapevine works faster than most news networks. “Yes, I am fine. Thank you for calling. How did you hear about it, pastor?”

“Someone told me they saw you bleeding and pushing your bike to Kobadie. Even though they don’t know you they recognize you and your bike. They knew you were my friend so they passed the word on to me.”

“Thank you for calling, Pastor. God Bless,” I conclude and hang up the phone.

I am still amazed that Lawali caught word of my accident when, a few hands later, my phone rings again. I don’t recognize the number, but I answer anyway. I am greeted by a familiar voice that I haven’t heard in a while.

“Daniel, it’s Bouba. Do you remember me? I drove you from Chileda to Gueladjo.”

“Yes, I remember. How are you Bouba”

“I am good. Are you OK? I heard you had an accident.”

Incredible. Everyone on the road to Gueladjo must have heard by now. “Yes, Bouba, I am fine. It was just a small accident, so I am fine. Thank you for calling.”

“Thank God. I also wanted to know when you will be coming back to teach us more. Everyone is talking about what you taught us that day. We have lots of questions. Can you please come?”

“Of course I will come. Let me just speak with my pastor and we will find a day to come.”

When I hang up the phone I look at Brent incredulously. He gives me a questioning look that suggests I better spill it. “Brent, you have to come with me to Chileda. They are asking me to come and teach more about Jesus.”

He laughs, remembering the story about Chileda. “Well, Williams,” he responds. “Looks like something good came out of your silly shenanigans. Maybe you should break down in more villages, then the whole country will get saved.”