(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.