Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Walk (07/20/06)
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TITLE: Every step of the way | Previous Challenge Entry
By Gregory Kane
07/23/06 -
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We live in the former Portuguese colony of Mozambique, squeezed between the much better known nations of Tanzania and South Africa. We are missionaries and every Sunday sees us in a different church, often deep in the African bush and accessible only with patience and care.
We set off early on the Sunday morning along the one decent tar road in this corner of Mozambique. Our ‘walk by car’ takes nearly an hour. By now we know how to avoid the pot holes that can so easily cripple a vehicle’s suspension. The road is pleasantly free of livestock - it’s not uncommon to come out of a bend and find the way ahead blocked by a slow moving troupe of cattle, goats, or even guinea fowl.
The Samoa crossroads are not marked on any map but there is a hubbub of activity even on a Sunday morning. Hawkers come up to the car to try and sell maize cobs, while wooden shacks boast supplies of tinned fish, sugar and soap. It also serves as the local equivalent of a filling station. Cheeky young men flag down passing trucks and siphon off a few gallons of diesel that they can then sell on to other motorists.
We turn off the tar road and continue our ‘walk’ for another thirty minutes along dirt roads that career through the bush like a demented roller-coaster. The tropical sun bakes the clay hard but torrential streams still manage to carve deep furrows. One minute the road resembles a corrugated tin roof; the next moment the road narrows with a plunge down one side into an unforgiving ditch.
Eventually we can go no further. The village is on the far side of a wide, muddy river that scoffs at our presumption to traverse the African bush. On another occasion we might have looked for a ford but the river knows that it is safe in its derision. It lies at the bottom of a hundred metre cliff and we have no choice but to abandon our car and continue on foot. The descent is interesting: our children don’t hesitate. They slip, slither, scrabble, shuffle and stumble down the crudely cut path.
There are two ways across the river. You can opt to wade across. Your wet clothes will dry out quickly enough and you can wash off most of the mud when you reach the far bank. The only problem is that crocodiles are known to patrol this river. They are more likely to seize a young goat but I certainly wouldn’t want to take that sort of risk.
The other way across is to pay the ferryman to carry you across in his canoe. We are instructed to squat down inside the boat - which is little more than a hollowed out log – and told not to move around too much lest it overturn and throw us all into the water. Halfway across I am stupid enough to ask why there is a second canoe lying on the river bank. “It’s a spare,” explains my guide with perhaps a hint of amusement, “in case this canoe should sink.”
Once back on dry land, we have only another three miles to ‘walk’ to the village. Knowing that we would be accompanied by our children, the church leaders have laid on a taxi service. A fleet of bicycles are waiting for us along with their respective drivers. Personally I would prefer to ride the bicycle myself but the local people would feel that they had not honoured us sufficiently. So instead I must perch precariously on the luggage rack with my feet on the rear axle while an earnest young man conveys me to my destination. And I can assure you that balancing on the back of a rickety bike while your driver plays chicken with an oncoming ox cart is not for the faint-hearted.
Space does not allow me to tell of our time in church nor of the ‘walk’ home. But of this simple truth I am confident: throughout this day the Lord walked with us every step of the way.
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