on the road again…and again…and again… (continued)
Month 6. Very few moments this year have been more awkward than our first day in Kenya. We were met at the bus station by a large African Bishop who warmly welcomed us to Mpeketoni. We were led to his church and home where we would be living and serving for the month. Straw mats and foam mattresses were brought in and sprawled over the church’s concrete floor. Crates of warm soda and plates of Nice Biscuits were waiting for us but it wasn’t long before we all crashed for hours. That afternoon, the Bishop shared with us his vision and his dreams for the community. Not so subtle hints were dropped about being able to help him financially. It was awkward and uncomfortable. In order to clear up any confusion, Hope told the Bishop that we would be able to help with physical needs, but were not able on our limited budget to fund his projects. He paused for what seemed like eternity, brought his hands slowly up to his face, shook his head as he looked to the ground and said, “oh…I see.” I still would bet a bowl of Chilli’s chips and salsa that he was crying. Bless his heart, he sincerely thought that our purpose in being there was to fund and work on his projects. We also found out that he had borrowed money to begin plastering the church walls in expectation that we would be bring money for the project. So, not only had we shattered his dreams, but had indirectly caused him to go into debt. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before we cleared everything up. It was a huge misunderstanding and in no way to we blame the Bishop (he is one of my favorite contacts and we email regularly). But in those first few days, we felt so awful.
Month 7. For months we had all been hearing the African bus ride horror stories from veteran racers. There were rumors of live chickens scrambling under the seats, bare breasts nursing crying naked babies, and smelly, sweaty Africans who refuse to open the windows. I probably wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t lived it myself. In transit to our ministry, we stopped in Kampala to stay the night. We arrived (as seems to be the pattern) in the middle of the night. We were warned repeatedly by many different people to guard our bags with all our might. We were told that people would steal our bags without hesitation. We even heard stories of people reaching in through bus windows and grabbing bags off the laps of the passengers. The Kampala bus station is without a doubt the most chaotic and craziest place I have in all my life been. As soon as we arrived, people started grabbing our bags and taking off with them. We had to stop them and claim them as our own. A crowd of people started forming while waiting for the bus. Twenty people soon doubled to forty and before we knew it, over 60 people formed ready to fight for a seat on the bus. The bus pulled up and everyone took their position. A very disorganized line (more accurately, a mass) formed and people started rushing the door of the bus. Our bodies were all crammed together and were pushed to and fro in one motion. Luckily I’ve had a little practice in my day of working my way through a mosh pit, so these skills came in handy. I worked my way to the door, inching closer and closer. Strangers were cheering me on telling me to “PUSH!” An African woman named Grace (whom I had met earlier) yelled at me, “EMMA! SAVE ME A SEAT!” I’ve never seen such aggression- it was survival of the fittest at its finest. People were pushing and shoving. Hope’s shorts were ripped as one African tried to pull her down off the stairs of the bus. Finally, we all made it (including Grace!) Just as we had been warned, there were chickens and babies and bare breasts everywhere. It was unbearably hot and our bodies were soon drenched with sweat without any relief from the heat (not even a crack in the windows). But no one warned us about the grandma who would puke in her hand the majority of the bus ride sitting in between Michelle and Brandy.
Month 8. We were told that we would be staying in a Maasai village in the middle of the Tanzania bush. We were all dropped off at the edge of a cornfield and led down a narrow dirt path. We walked for more than a mile in the hot African sun before we were greeted by a swarm of smiling tribal Maaasai people. They went straight for our bags without hesitation and insisted in Swahili that they carry our luggage. We could all read each other’s expressions as we silently wondered if these were our hosts or were we just getting high jacked? At the village we were welcomed with traditional song and dance. Everyone was so genuinely happy and excited to see us. They all stood in line to shake the wazungu hand. We were exhausted from travel, but had no choice but to be shown around the small village. Mary, the pastor’s wife proudly showed us their river, which turned out to be a small hole in the ground that stretched two feet wide and two feet deep. A small boy demonstrated their filtration process which was skimming the debris off the top of the water with a dirt crusted plastic jug. Over the next few hours, we toured Mary’s home and she served us ugali and beans. Our bellies were full, but she persistently insisted that we eat more. Finally we made our way back to the main meeting place where we sat and stared at a crowd of curious African girls. Not knowing what else to do, we began singing songs in our off key a cappella. They listened patiently and then stole the show by belting out beautiful melodic tribal songs. It wasn’t long until they arranged themselves in a dancing line and moved to the beat of a rhythmic drum. We politely ate our dinner of goat liver and brains served on a bed of rice. We washed it down with their most famous treat- warm goat’s milk. Choking down dinner about wore us out, so we were all more than ready to retire for the night. As we walked to our tents, our contact stopped us. “So, we will have church at 10 and we need a pree-cha.” O.K. No problem. “We will be ready to preach tomorrow at ten. What time will breakfast be?” Hope replied. “No…not tomorrow” Our contact clarified. “What?” “TONIGHT!” He said in a drawn out raspy voice as he looked off creepily in the distance. So half dead exhausted, we put our best faces on and stayed up past midnight preaching, singing and dancing all in the name of Jesus.
Month 9. Our flight from Thailand to the Philippines was one of our shorter flights, but we still arrived at 4 AM. We were met by an American missionary who brought a cooler full of juice boxes, a box of blueberry muffins and a several bags full of Quaker Oats Chewy Chocolate Chip Granola Bars. Its hard to say whether or not I would have thought much of eating granola bars and muffins at 4 in the morning after a sleepless flight, but I’ve learned to soak up any opportunity to have a small taste of home. We were elated to have something so familiar. After we all fueled up, our contact, Jeff told us that we had a two hour car ride ahead of us. I was actually looking forward to the car ride- two hours seems like nothing now that I have survived countless African bus rides. Then we learned that we wouldn’t all fit in one vehicle. Someone from the group would have to drive through Manila’s bumper to bumper rush hour traffic. Adam courageously volunteered and Jeff warned him that it was extremely dangerous and asked if he would be able to “keep up.” The two hours I expected to sleep were spent hanging on for deal life and we weaved through traffic and dodged semis. I still really don’t know how Adam did it. This will always be one of my fondest memories.
Month 10. Kampong Cham is just a three hour bus ride from the capital city of Cambodia. We left mid afternoon and were surprised to see a air conditioned bus waiting for us! The ride was pleasant and we arrived promptly at 5pm. Our contact, Cecil met us with two Tuk Tuks (these are hard to explain, but they are basically a carriage attached to a small motor bike) to take us to our accommodations. She took us to the place we will call home for the next 3 and a half weeks to drop off our things. She told us to hurry because we would attend a cultural dance performance that started at 5 PM. We were all excited to jump right in and even more excited to experience the culture in this unique way. It was 5:20, so we all hurriedly piled into our Tuk Tuk and sped off. Being 25 minutes late, I expected to walk into a crowded auditorium and have to tip toe through a crowd of people to find a seat. Instead we found one row of plastic chairs set before an outdoor stage. There was exactly enough chairs for each of us and that’s when we realized that the performance was for us. The act was absolutely unbelievable. Unlike anything I had ever seen in my life. The performers wore brightly colored traditional costumes and the dancing was slow and deliberate. Cecil told us that this was part of a monastery and these dancers were orphans ranging in age from 12 to 18. Following the performance, we were taken to the ministry center where dinner was set and waiting for us. We ate a delicious Cambodian dinner outside which was the perfect way to end our travel day.
