(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.”