Africa. My friends in Kampala, the capitol of Uganda, tell me not to tell my friends at home I was in the “bush” because they will think I was in a tree. I sit on a bus somewhere in Kenya, on my way from Jinja to Nairobi, a good twenty-four hour trek. My traveling companions and I pray that twenty-four hour estimate is American time and not African time; African time would require us to be on the road for much longer. The last bus ride we had was supposed to take five hours and ended up taking thirteen. Nonetheless, we are thankful. Thankful that we have space, that we are not crammed on top of each other as is the norm, and thankful that we have a private bus that shields us from the body odor of the locals that one cannot escape from in close quarters.
I sit here in my semi-comfortable bus seat, on this bus that bounces around on the dirt road, swerving to the right and to the left to avoid potholes. Every now and again the bus swerves a little too far, off the road, and my friend and I exchange glances that says we are thankful we did not flip over. As I sit, I want to show you a glimpse, because that is all I am getting, of the lives that I pass.
Fields stretch on as far as the eye can see. There is usually at least one kind of livestock roaming around by itself or in pairs but rarely in herds. I have yet to understand how the owners of these chickens, cows, donkeys, and sheep keep them contained and claim them; there is probably a system set in place that my western mind can’t comprehend.
We pass little communities, villages filled with huts and small one-room houses made of mud. Almost everything has fences around it made of vertical sticks. There are some small make-shift stores made out of wood that are enclosed with roofs and other less established stands made of sticks. Even on the bus, our presence hardly ever goes unnoticed. Those of age may turn a head, or perhaps just an eye, wary of our existence. Younger ones stop and stare, wave excitedly, jump up and down, and sometimes run after us.
We are but a blip in their existence. Immediately they continue with their daily lives. Women who stopped to see us continue walking with their babies on their backs, men continue working on their trade, children continue whatever it is their parents have given them to do for the day – whether that is playing, participating in the family trade, herding an animal, or sitting in the middle of a crowd with their hands out in hopes of receiving something that will help feed their families. It is hard to imagine that these things existed for a long time before we were here and will exist a long time afterward.
I hardly see anything of these people. I don’t know them, don’t know the details of their daily lives, don’t know their family history, their greatest fears or struggles, or their greatest joys or achievements; but God knows them all. He knows all of these things about every single person in Africa, every last one hidden deep in tribal villages that Westerners’ eyes will never see or document. Part of me wonders why He cares, but I know He does. That is part of the mystery. I am in awe of my God and the way He sees those He created and those He loves.
