Prologue
You might have noticed that my last few blogs have been about travel. Our days getting around in Africa have been the most miserable and memorable times of the Race. I hope you read my other two travel day blogs about Mozambique, Stranded! and Not Interesting, Just Bad. If you did, you’ll have an idea of what it’s like to get around in this country, and an idea of what it means when I say that what I’m about to describe blows all those other adventures out of the water.
We are used to setbacks and problems on the road all over the world, but Mozambique was by far the worst country we traveled in. The government isn’t friendly to foreigners: after weeks of trying, only half our squad ever made it in, and the other three teams stayed in Malawi in August. Police are corrupt and stop travelers because they want money from them. It seems like every hour you are pulled over and made to exit the car while a patrol man with a big gun scours your passport, looking for something, anything, to fine you for. One of our friends was even told he would be fined if he didn’t get rid of his car’s tinted back window!
I told you how they hate my yellow fever vaccination card, right? My nurse accidentally wrote her name instead of mine, and so I need to keep that page folded back or else they think I stole it from someone else. Money goes to the most powerful people instead of the roads, which keeps them in bad condition. A drive that would take 2 hours in America takes 4 in Mozambique because of the potholes, assuming the police don’t stop you for an hour waiting and not directly asking for a bribe.
The government is corrupt. The roads are treacherous. Cell service is spotty. Gas stations are few, far between, and expensive. Communication is slow and often non-existent. Public transportation is laughably unreliable. There are no schedules.
This is what we were up against.
You might notice that this blog is incredibly long. It’s almost 12 times longer than a World Race blog should be. But 55 hours of travel merits 55 minutes of reading.
I want to thank my teammate Jayce Van Der Linden for his scrupulous timekeeping, without which the majority of this story would be lost in forgotten logistics. Whenever something happened, he wrote the event and the time down, giving me a nice, accurate record to refer to as I wrote this.
Chapter 1: The River and the Rotten Eggs
On August 25th, Team Oak left Kedesh Santuario in Beira, bound for Caia, a town 6 hours north where the two other teams of our squad were. That day went relatively smoothly. A friend of Jaco’s (the South African pastor who drove us to Beira in his pickup truck, whose wife, Maria, fed us springbok stew) took us into town and got us a cramped 4-hour minibus ride to Gorongosa, where Jaco lives. After waiting on a street corner in Gorongosa for an hour, Jaco picked us up and we rode 200-odd kilometers to Caia. I sat in the back of the truck and ate dry ramen noodles and saw a spectacular sunset. We reached the church where the other teams were and had about three hours to sleep.
The goal was to get to Lake Malawi the next day. The estimated total travel time was about 12 hours.
At 3:45 on Tuesday, August 26, I woke up and packed my tent. Our ride was supposed to come at 4:00 to take us to the Zambezi River, where we would catch a ferry that would take us downriver, where another car would pick us up and take us to a town near the border of Malawi and Mozambique, where Jarvis, our Malawian pastor friend who had been hosting the teams that didn’t get into Malawi, would meet us and drive us to Blantyre, where we would catch a bus to Lake Malawi.
Make sense?
First of all, our 4:00 a.m. ride did not show up. I watched a video of my squadmate Deborah slitting a chicken’s throat and drank some water to pass the time. At 6:30 Jaco, who had been running around like a chicken with his head cut off, finally found a man with a large flatbed truck willing to drive us all to the river. There were 19 of us in the back of the truck, along with daypacks, water, guitars and my mandolin, and food.
My team, Oak, had planned to get more food in Caia for this next day of travel, but for some reason we couldn’t; I forget why. So all we had to eat was leftovers: fried egg sandwiches, aged about 48 hours without a refrigerator. “It was sort of chilly last night,” we rationalized. “They’ll be just fine.”
When we came to a place on the Zambezi River an hour and a half later where the road ran into the water, we were told we were at the ferry landing. We saw no ferry, but someone said it would come at 10, in two hours. So Team Oak busted open our now stinking tote bag (affectionately named “The Africa Bag,” pictured below) and tried to eat our egg sandwiches.
The lettuce was limp and almost black. Its proper color had spread to the cheese, egg, and bread. We peeled off the lettuce and took bites of our sandwiches. I kept showing mine to other people and asking if they thought it would be okay and they kept saying, “Well, I don’t know. I wouldn’t.” No one gave me the answer I wanted, so I ignored them and tucked in. The egg tasted like a huge mistake and after a few bites it joined the lettuce on the ground.
The rest of my time was spent sitting with teammates under the truck: it was the only shade we could find. We stacked round pebbles on top of each other and discussed “travel day humor,” the phenomenon that occurs when you are so worn out from all the moving and waiting and logistical nightmares that everything becomes funny. Like the banana Jason ate that was so big it was almost two bananas. Or talking about drawing eyes on your chin and hanging upside down. Or the suggestion, “Let’s just walk to Malawi instead.”
When the ferry was an hour and a half late, we were told that it had run out of diesel and would not run that day.
We now had only one way to cross the Zambezi: on foot.
Let’s walk to Malawi, indeed.
Chapter 2: The Bananas and the Bridge
At 2.3 kilometers, the Caia Bridge is the longest in Mozambique. It crosses corn fields, marshes, and the mighty Zambezi River and is available to trains, bikes, and pedestrians only.
We were expecting to walk with all our luggage: for me, that meant my 50-pound pack, 25-pound daypack, mandolin, and on this particular day, a jumble of 20 bruised bananas. On a hot day like that, it was not the most pleasant prospect, but when we reached the bridge we were met by a fleet of bike taxis (pictured below). Jacky, a man Jaco had met while waiting for the ferry, had arranged for about 20 of them to pedal our big packs across the river. We would walk with the rest of our things and meet them at the other side.
We said goodbye to Jaco and Maria, hugging them and thanking them for taking care of us and going out of their way to keep us moving on. They said, “Some of you we will not see before we go to heaven, but hopefully, some of you, we will see again soon.”
Our loads considerably lighter than expected, we started walking. We walked for a few minutes, and stopped, because, of course, there were customs officers patrolling the bridge. They asked Jayce for money and he didn’t give them any. One told Deborah to open her backpack. Another demanded our identification. We all got out our passports, which he lazily glanced at. They found a bag of pills in Deborah’s pack and started in with the questions.
“It’s ibuprofen,” she said wearily. “It’s all labeled, but you can confiscate it. I don’t care.” After a few minutes, they let us continue with the ibuprofen.
Gosh, it was a long walk. It was a beautiful walk too. Through the gaping holes in the floor we had magnificent views of the land below us. Motorcycles passed us on the right. I ate one banana to lighten my load and threw another one into the water because it was mushy and black (like the lettuce. Like all our produce that day).
Chapter 3: Cops and Angels
When we arrived at the other side at noon, our packs were stacked neatly near some ant hills and the spectacle had drawn new policemen. The chief was there, straddling a beat up motorcycle and expressing his desire to search all our packs and check our passports. We told them to go ahead and please get started, because we were in a hurry. Gone was our resistance to unnecessary inspections: we had all learned when we first entered the country that the only way out was to go through them.
Our plan, like I said, had been to go from Caia, Mozambique, to Cape MaClear on Lake Malawi that day. We were supposed to have been at the border at 10:00 a.m. to meet Jarvis, the Malawian pastor, who would take us to Blantyre by 2:00 and send us to the lake in buses that would arrive by dinnertime. It was now almost 1:00 and we were still hours from getting into Malawi.
I was starting to wonder if we’d make it to the border that day, which closed at 6:00. It was tiresome, really. This country never wanted us to enter in the first place, and now, it would be impossible to leave!
We waited for close to an hour at the end of the bridge, sitting on and getting bitten by the ubiquitous tiny ants and burning in the sun. The police were insisting that we go to the station to have our things inspected, and we told them they’d have to arrange transportation for us if they wanted to do that. Because we were so delayed, the transportation that we’d arranged to meet us on the other side of the bridge was not there and we were, for the third time that day, trying to find different transportation.
The police seemed reluctant about going through the trouble of finding us all transportation, so we all just sat around for a while, not doing much of anything. But then Jacky, the man who had arranged our bike taxis, appeared. I hadn’t noticed, but he must have crossed the bridge as well.
He took the policeman behind a tree and talked to him. Then they came back holding hands and smiling. We didn’t have to go to the station anymore. We didn’t ask questions.
We were now free to go but we needed transportation. That was when a white middle aged South African man approached us. He was holding a beer and had a scruffy gray beard. He actually looked very similar to Jaco, but he introduced himself as Conrad, a friend of Jacky’s. He told us Jacky had told him about us, and that he had trucks for us to ride in.
Conrad confirmed what I’d been thinking and told us that we wouldn’t make it through the border that night. We were too conspicuous not to be bothered, it was too far (about 45 kilometers, or 30 miles: on those pockmarked dirt roads, no small drive), there were too many policemen on the way. He said we could stay with him that night and make the journey tomorrow. The leaders thanked him and declined, because we needed to get to Malawi. We were on a schedule and we were finished with this country.
But like I said, I was doubting we’d make it that day. A meal and a good night’s sleep was starting to sound like a good option, even though I was so tired of the delays.
Despite Conrad’s advice, it was agreed that we’d try to cross the border that day, even though it was getting less likely by the minute. With the help of some local kids, we took our bags and walked to the transportation Conrad had arranged for us.
Guess what that transportation was? You probably won’t.
Chapter 4: Crocodile Truck
Conrad and Jacky work for a crocodile hatchery. Conrad’s job is collecting crocodiles and their eggs. He has lived in Mozambique on the Zambezi River for years and works with a conservation program.
When he needs to transport crocodiles to wherever it is people transport crocodiles, he puts them in cages which are then loaded into a big flatbed truck with a big wire cage built up around it. I don’t know how many crocodiles the truck can carry, but I can tell you that it snugly fits 19 World Racers and their luggage.
We climbed into the truck, delighted that someone with a vehicle and the kindness to accommodate us had come along! And could we have asked for a more awesome ride? Jacky agreed to drive us. And after being abandoned and overcharged by drivers, we were astonished when Conrad refused any form of payment and waved us on as the crocodile truck started moving.
A minute later we stopped in front of a house. We thought it was another surprise inspection, but it wasn’t. It was another angel.
A blue cooler was placed in the back of the truck and an unfamiliar man stuck his head in under the cage. He was big and tall and had one arm, bare feet, and a broad smile. This was a man named Peter, and he was about to turn everything around.
“Hello, hello! I’m Peter! I’m with Conrad and Jacky,” he said, expertly opening the heavy cooler with his left hand. Any further introductions were drowned out by a collective gasp, followed by cheers. Inside the cooler were frosty Cokes, Sprites, Fantas, and Sparlettas. Peter’s in the blue shirt below, and Conrad is peeking from behind Heather’s shoulder.
Time crunch or no time crunch, after a long day in the hot sun, there’s nothing like a bunch of cold sodas to refresh you and remind you that everything will be all right. Conrad and Jacky must have seen how tired we were and called ahead to Peter, who went out and bought us all drinks!
Peter was wonderful and strangely moved at the opportunity to refresh us. He kept laughing and shaking our hands and getting teary, like we had just given him the sodas.
“I’ve found the reason I’m here,” he told us, over and over. “I’ve lived in Mozambique for years and I just found the reason I’m here: it’s to help you!” When he said that, I knew that despite all the setbacks, God was showing up: if our being held up let us meet Peter, it was worth it.
Weak with gratitude and high on sugar and strengthened by his kindness, we shouted blessings at our new friend Peter as we headed for that border.
Chapter 5: God is With You, and I am Close Behind!
Do you think we made it to the border? Remember, it closed at 6:00. The time was now 2:30.
We drove almost a kilometer in triumph. We laughed at our absurd fortune. Everything would be fine! Yes, some of us were standing for the long drive, but this ride was more comfortable than most and we were going to Malawi tonight, where we would hang out on a lake for a week, and then we would fly to Thailand, and I would see my parents there, and I’d fly home in time for Christmas and start a career and marry and live happily ever after…
We were spotted by more police. They stopped us in front of the station and ordered us into the office. I waited in the truck while they asked what we were doing, who sent us, were we married, what denominations we were, and other irrelevant questions.
They demanded our passports. Numbers were copied. Stamps were inspected. An hour later, we were still there. So Jacky decided to bust out the big guns and call up Peter and Conrad again.
Right away, the two men drove up in a truck. We all waved at Peter from the crocodile truck.
“Don’t worry!” he shouted jovially as he leapt from the passenger seat onto the orange earth. His bare feet sent up puffs of dust. “God is with you, and I am close behind!”
Joyfully, Peter bounded into the chief’s office. All of a sudden we heard his voice become loud and full of rage. He yelled at the officers to let us go. He swore a lot and seemed to lost his temper, but then he emerged from the office with a bashful grin.
“It seems like it’s not working!” he announced. “Usually I can make a ruckus and they stop bothering me. But it seems you may be here a long time!” He laughed and smiled and so did we. But all of us were annoyed at the police, who had decided to wait for a “phone call” from “the higher ups” before returning our passports and letting us go to the border.
Of course, there was no real problem with any paperwork. The police just wanted to delay us and get some money from us. It would have been nice if we had been able to pay them off, but we couldn’t even do that. We were nearly out of money, and we offered to give them what we had, but they wouldn’t take it. We were really stuck.
Peter went back inside and tried threats: “They will write about this on the Internet! They will tell people not to go to Mozambique on Facebook! This is bad press for you!” Another barrage of profanity.
Again, he came out of the office smiling sheepishly, apologizing for cursing around us.
“It seems you will be here a very long time!” he said. We smiled weakly.
“But you are the reason I’m here,” he repeated. “This must be why I came to Mozambique: to help you people, because you’ve been helping people! I’m so glad we met.”
When another round of yelling proved unsuccessful, Peter said we’d better pray, and we all stood in a circle in front of the police office and prayed that they would let us go soon. Then we asked to pray for Peter, who had been insisting in between his shouting matches with the police that he was a “baddie,” and didn’t deserve much love, from God or people.
“I drink too much, I swear too much, I’ve lost too many people because I’m a real baddie,” he said. “I didn’t lose this arm to a crocodile, you know. I lost it in a driving accident because I was drunk.” We kept telling him that we didn’t care about all that and neither did God, and we prayed for him and blessed him. We kept telling him that we loved him and it didn’t matter what he had done. We were just happy that we got to meet him, and he was happy that he got to meet us.
Since Peter hadn’t been able to make much headway with the police, he told us to all ask to use the office’s bathrooms.
“That way, they’ll understand you’re human beings with needs and they can’t just keep you here all night.”
Our problem was actually the opposite: we were thirsty. We were almost out of water and rationing what we had left carefully. Peter saw this and sent Conrad out on a mission. He returned with a giant box of ice cold water bottles for us! And again, no payment was accepted.
The question of our passports came up: if the police didn’t return them to us, would we be willing to come back for them tomorrow? We said no. We refused to leave the property without our passports and we would stay all night if we had to.
Peter went in the office again to tell them that “they absolutely will not leave without all their documentation,” and then he came out again. He said, rather excitedly, “It seems to me we will be here a long time! It seems to me you will be staying with me tonight!”
We protested: we had to get into Malawi tonight. We couldn’t afford any more delays. But Peter pointed out that it was 4:30, and we had an hour and a half to make a very long drive to a border that would be even more hostile than the police at our current location. We had to face the facts.
“I have space for you to pitch your tents. And I’ll make you dinner,” he offered. “I’m out of crocodile, so it’ll be chicken.”
So instead of protesting, we sighed and said thank you, and food would be wonderful. The sun was starting to set over the Zambezi. I was fine with having a place to stay that night and food that wasn’t a rotten sandwich. Yes, it was another delay. But delays happen, especially on the Race. Especially in Mozambique on the Race. So you learn to adapt quickly and appreciate what you have, which, in this moment, was the prospect of fried chicken for dinner. Besides, it seemed our presence lifted Peter’s spirits just as his lifted ours.
At about 4:45 we were all thanking Peter, Conrad, and Jacky for their continued hospitality and generosity: after all, they had given up their entire afternoons to help us! It was decided that as soon as we got our passports back, whenever that would be, that we would go to Peter’s house for the cookout. Jacky was sent ahead to get the grill going. Our leaders were on the phone with Jarvis, our Malawian contact waiting on the other side for us, telling him that we wouldn’t get to Malawi tonight, and apologizing for having him wait all day long for us.
And meanwhile, Stacie and Michelle (“Brooklyn” and “Philly,” respectively) decided enough was enough and went into the station again. We heard their voices all the way from outside. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but from what I was told later, it was along the lines of this:
“We are servants of God, and you are holding us up. You have to let us go. You have no reason to keep us here and keep up from doing the work of God. Do you want to be responsible for stopping what God is doing?”
I guess they didn’t want that responsibility, because after 15 minutes, Stacie and Michelle sauntered out of the office with smiles and a stack of 19 passports! We cheered and I think Stacie said something like, “You can’t hold up God, you just can’t,” and they passed them out to us.
In the midst of our celebration and anticipation of one more night in Mozambique, Peter and our leaders had been talking. Phone calls were made. Opinions were sought. Plans were reconsidered. And a really, really brash decision was made:
In 55 minutes and over 45 difficult kilometers, we were going to try to get out of Mozambique.
Chapter 7: The Race
The World Race never felt like a real race until that afternoon.
What made us think we could make it to the border? We had a bumpy dirt road that our loaded truck would not handle well. It was getting dark and there were no major towns on our way should we need to stop. The border closed at 6:00, and while in Mozambique, nothing ever starts when it’s supposed to, I can tell you that people sure close up shop on time.
In a frenzy we gathered our water bottles and thanked Peter as he shooed us back into the truck. We thanked him for his friendship and gave him Jaco’s contact information, because he wanted to know more about this Jesus we were following who supposedly loved him despite his being a baddie. We phoned Jarvis again and said we were going to try to come tonight. Jarvis said he would turn his car around and be there for us.
We drove down the road a little way and stopped. It was 5:10 now. Jacky, who had gone from grill master to chauffeur again, needed to get money from Peter’s house.
“We have money!” said Arden. “We don’t need to stop!”
Peter appeared to us one last time through the cage to laugh off our frantic offer: “We have money too!”
Finally, we were off. For real.
As we drove I couldn’t stop smiling because we were doing such a crazy thing. What made us think we’d make it to the border? What made us think they’d let us through? It was like the climax of a movie, the kind you’re so invested in you forget it’s fake. Nothing was on our side, failure was certain, and we were still going for it.
We drove as fast as possible, but it wasn’t fast enough. I kept staring ahead. I was so interested in what would happen. If we somehow got to the border before 6:00, we stood a very slim chance of getting approved quickly. But we’d need more time, because Malawi’s border also closed at 6:00 and in between the two checkpoints was another five kilometer drive through no man’s land. So if Mozambique let us out but we didn’t get to Malawi in time, we could be illegally spending the night on a mountain road in our tents. If Mozambique didn’t let us through, we would return to Peter’s in the dark and have that chicken dinner before attempting the same stunt tomorrow.
Around 5:30, the truck stopped in the middle of the road under the quickly darkening sky. The vehicle had overheated and Jacky was fetching water. There were children all around us who had gathered to say hello but we couldn’t see them since it was dusk and we were in that cage.
I yelled to ask Jacky how much longer it would be to the border. He replied, “Not far.”
It was 5:45. We started moving again. The sky was completely black now. I couldn’t see the stars or our headlights, but I could see the orange glow of cooking fires lining either side of the road like a heavenly race track.
At 5:50 we started praying and singing worship songs. Then we were just quiet.
It was 6:00 and the border would now be closing.
It was 6:10.
It was 6:20.
It was too late. The border must have been very near for Jacky to keep driving.
Then Arden got a text message on his phone.
“Someone’s at the border waiting for us!” he said. The text said to call Jaco and Maria, whom we’d left back on the other side of the river, before the bike taxis and the bridge. Arden tried, but all our phones were out of minutes so we couldn’t contact them.
At 7:00, an hour too late, we were there.
Chapter 8: The Border
The border was closed, of course. The big concrete buildings were locked and dark. We didn’t see any cars or bikes or people. The truck stopped and we shined some lights out of our cage. They fell on a familiar figure approaching us.
Some of you we will not see before we go to heaven, but hopefully, some of you, we will see again soon, they’d said. More like “all of you.”
“Jaco!” someone exclaimed. “Jaco came!”
If I remember correctly, when Jaco and Maria said goodbye to us before the bridge, they had started heading home to Gorongosa. But a couple hours later, when we were waiting at the police station with Peter and company, someone had called them to ask for advice on what to do to reach the border in time. Instead of giving advice, Jaco and Maria turned the car around and tore through the bush, trying to beat us to the border to smooth things out ahead of us.
“If you saw the way I drove,” Jaco told us, “you would have jumped out! I drove like a madman.”
They found a different ferry far upriver and drove as fast as possible with the intention of telling the border patrol in person that 19 Americans would be coming at closing time, and they simply had to stay open for us. When 6:00 came, the officials went home, but Jaco wouldn’t leave. His presence forced one or two men to stay there an hour late. And when we finally arrived at 7:00, he requested the chief official to return and approve us to exit the country, or else they’d have a band of foreigners to deal with as well as a feisty South African couple.
The chief must have come, because our passports were soon collected and we stood around in the dark night, waiting. We called Jarvis on Maria and Jaco’s phone, and Jarvis said that he too was miraculously holding the Malawian border open on the other side. If we could get out of Mozambique, we could get into Malawi.
We were all very hungry, and there was a big tupperware container of tuna salad, so my team found some crackers and rationed out a light dinner, our first edible meal that day (other than those bananas). My team huddled together, smelling like tuna and grime and laughing at nothing and reassuring each other. We were too tired to know how we felt about all this. I think it had been such a day, the most we could do was to keep going, and keep waiting. We wouldn’t feel relief until we were out of the country.
One thing we did feel, however, was an incredible, powerful, loving thankfulness for Jaco and Maria, who had driven hours and hours beyond what was required of them, to try to get us out. And for Jarvis, who had faithfully waited at the Malawian border for 12 hours, hoping that despite everything we would meet that night. And for Jacky, Conrad, and Peter, who had surrendered their truck, money, and entire day on a whim to help a squad of strangers out. There were so many backups that day, but the right person was there at every turn, ready to give way, way, way beyond what was normal, at great personal cost. I wasn’t angry at all the patrolmen and police. I was moved to tears by all those angels.
It had been nearly an hour without our passports and we were getting nervous. Would Malawi’s border still be open if we got out of Mozambique? Did they need a bribe here? Would they find any faults with our paperwork?
As I wondered these things, an official returned.
With 19 passports.
Inside each passport was the most beautiful thing: an exit stamp.
At 8:00 we got into the crocodile truck one last time and officially crossed out of Mozambique. Jacky drove us five kilometers. There was no Pharaoh changing his mind and chasing us down, and there was no Red Sea to cross. We drove on dry, level ground with walls of rock on our right and left, and on the other side was the Malawian border, glowing with hospitality. The officials were all still there. There was a clean bathroom to use. They smiled and said, “Welcome to Malawi.” They weren’t angry. They didn’t interrogate us. They spoke English. Jarvis was there, welcoming us back and brushing off apologies for making him wait all day. The whole country might as well have stayed up late to welcome us in. That’s how grand it was.
Jaco and Maria had driven to Malawi with us because in the process of their holding the border open, something strange that I really don’t understand at all had happened to their own visas, and they were now kicked out of Mozambique for seven days. So they had no choice but to drive with us to Blantyre. We all felt bad that they couldn’t even go home.
“But missions is never easy,” Jaco told us. “You’ve seen that today especially. It’s all right. It’s all part of it.”
Chapter 9: Running on Empty
When we were all approved and packed in at 9:00 and thought it would all be downhill from there, Jarvis drove us to his mother’s house in Blantyre, where we had stayed only three weeks ago when Mozambique wouldn’t let us in. It was cramped. Nine of us squeezed into the trunk of his van and we were sweaty and tired and grumpy. But you know what? We were in Malawi, where police are the good guys and foreigners are welcome and the vice president isn’t hiding in the bush and people don’t riot… as often.
It was a long five hour ride in Jarvis’ van, and there’s not much more to say about it except this: we had to drive into the mountains for a couple of those hours. It was a twisting dirt road, the kind where you need to watch for bandits who block your way with boulders and rob you when you try to maneuver around them.
And when we started up the mountain, unbeknownst to us, the van’s gas light went on. We were alone in the middle of the night, miles from towns, and the gas tank was about to be spent lugging 19 people up a rough road.
Jarvis didn’t tell us we were about to run out of gas. Instead, he drove up that mountain praying for the van to make it. He prayed for the gas to last just a little longer, and it lasted two hours. It lasted all the way through the mountains. The car was running on empty all the way to Blantyre, just like we were.
At 2:07 a.m. we were there. We climbed out of the van and went into Jarvis’ mother’s house. We were given peanut butter and jelly sandwiches by the rest of our squad who had been waiting and praying for us all day. We fell asleep on the floor. I turned on a Catholic Stuff You Should Know podcast and fell asleep instantly, learning nothing about the Filioque.
The next morning, high on our victorious escape, we went to Shoprite for snacks and tried to get them to open at 7:30, even though it was a half hour early. We figured if we could bust through two borders, a grocery store would be no problem. But it didn’t work. We waited till 8:00 when the store opened and pranced gleefully up and down the aisles, spending lots of money on doughnuts and soda. Then we got in minibuses and took a short five hour ride to the beautiful Lake Malawi where we spent a lovely five days before flying to Thailand, where I saw my parents and now sit alone at night, on a balcony in Chiang Mai, finishing this long story.
Chapter 10: Our Exodus
All of it was painful and it was not fun, but oh, it was worth it. It might be one of the most “worth it” things I’ve ever experienced.
I know God brought the Hebrews out of Egypt and had them cross over the Red Sea. But now, we have experienced that in our own way. What happened that day should not have happened: it was crazy that Jarvis waited at the Malawi border for 12 hours. It was crazy that we met Jacky, Peter, and Conrad and were given free transportation. It was crazy that Stacie and Michelle found the words to say to win back our passports. It was crazy that we drove to the border knowing that it was unreasonable to expect success. It was crazy that Jaco and Maria reappeared in our lives to get us to safety. It was crazy that Mozambique’s hostile, bureaucratic border let us through, let alone the fact that the border was closed for the night. It was crazy that Jarvis convinced Malawi to stay open late for some foreigners. It was crazy that we drove up mountains on an empty tank. It was crazy that we got free drinks!
It was also crazy that Shoprite didn’t open for us.
I’m one of those people that likes to think everything’s a miracle in a way, because God created us and our mere existence is reason enough to see that we are loved and life is beautiful… la, la, la. That’s true and I stand by that, but on this day, God pulled out the big guns. When I wonder if God’s really doing real things in the world, I can think about all that happened on August 26. God showed up. God didn’t let a corrupt government keep us. God put benevolent strangers in the right place at the right time. God kept danger away on the road and led us through an impossible, impassible border. God was on the side of the helpless ones, not the powerful ones. You can see that God doing stuff like this in the Bible, the God that fights for the underdogs and is not troubled by scary systems, be they Egyptian, Roman, or Mozambican.
I’ve been reading Exodus (which is Greek for “the way out”), and I love the third chapter, when Moses gets distracted by a bush that’s on fire but not burning up and decides to take a detour to check it out. And that’s when God starts talking to Moses and tells him to go back to his homeland and free all of the Hebrews from slavery.
What would you say if a fiery bush started talking you and told you, a prince-turned nomad, to liberate an entire race? Moses says he can’t do it in 3:11, that he’s the wrong person for the job.
And God’s first response to Moses’ protest is, “But I’ll be with you!”
God doesn’t tell Moses “I’ll make sure everything works out well,” or “It will be easy,” or “This will only take a week,” or “I promise you won’t get hurt.” Because none of those would be true to the story. Things do go wrong for Moses, and his job is not easy. But God just says, “I’ll be with you,” like that single promise is enough to make it worth everything.
Is that single promise enough for us? I’ve been asking myself that a lot on the Race, as things go wrong, as we get tired, and as we deal with death and loss at home and abroad. I really wish God would give more specific guarantees than, “I’ll be with you.”
But then again, I think about this day. Things went wildly wrong. Our plans didn’t work out. We were uncomfortable and probably in danger. But God was with us, and God’s presence was all the more obvious because our situation was so desperate. And at every bad moment, a little miracle happened. When we finally rolled into Blantyre, we had experienced a very difficult day, but a very glorious day. We all had seen that our God was Someone who could lead us out of trouble.
God is with us; God loves us; everything God does is intended to draw us to him. This day showed me that that promise is not feeble. It’s the strongest, most reassuring thing we could hope to hear. I know that through everything, God is there. God is not up in heaven pulling strings. God is with me in the crocodile truck. Nothing else is really guaranteed, but if those things are true and you’re ready for some adventures, why would you need it any other way?
