Maputo Bound! (Or... How I got stuck on a chicken bus).

My bus ride down to Maputo started out innocent enough. I drove into Chimoio to buy my ticket. (To buy a ticket, you have to walk up to a waiting bus with “Maputo” clearly marked in the front window, find a bleary-eyed driver and pay the fare. It’s not complicated. Each bus leaves promptly at 3 am.)

However, when I got to Chimoio to buy my ticket, the bleary-eyed mister was missing. I asked around as the bus sat empty and closed. Finally, I found one of the drivers who assured me a seat, we exchanged numbers (this is to track me down if necessary), but he didn’t want to take my money just yet. He didn’t have the official ticket booklet. So, I promised to pay when he picked me up that next morning. Everything was set.

Or so I thought.

I got back to Maforga in time for church, lounged around all afternoon trying to motivate myself into packing, then got a phone call.

-- “Sorry, Miss,” squeaked out a thin voice. “The bus isn’t going tonight.”
-- “What? But I was there this morning and you said it was leaving.”
-- “Sorry. You’ll have to come in again and get a ticket for tomorrow night.”
-- “Okay,” I sighed. “See you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow came.

I returned to Chimoio. Repeat. Wash. Spin. And dry.

But this time, there was no call to cancel. So I got team members to agree to get up at the unholy hour of 2:30 am and drive me to my pick up site. There was a bit of a wait. So we watched a restaurant guard sweep up trash in an effort to stay awake and listened to the feral dogs fight.

Gondola (my pick up site) is depressing at 2:50 in the morning. The pale street lamps paint the main street a dusty taupe. Nothing but the sidewalk sweeping man moved. Not even the wind.

My bus arrived. Brakes hissing in protest. I grabbed my bag, thanked my friends, and hustled without a look over my shoulder. If the bus driver doesn’t see you running, he generally starts to honk. It’s annoying.

When I boarded the bus, I was told to take my seat but I couldn’t. A clean-shaven, barrel chested man was sitting in it.

-- “Sit down in your seat,” the ticket master instructed, absentmindedly tying the door shut with a cord.
-- “I can’t. Someone is in it,” I said flatly.
-- “Go sit down,” he repeated. Obviously not listening.
-- “Where? That man is sitting in my seat,” I repeated sourly gesturing toward the intruder. In protest, I sat down in his seat instead.

He looked at me in irritation, the bus lunged forward, and we were off.

Once we were well underway, the ticketmaster shuffled us about and I took my seat next to a nice man from Zimbabwe. He didn’t talk much but he clearly wanted my seat. The view was better and he kept poking his head around to spy oncoming traffic. For reasons still unclear to me, oncoming traffic really interested him. Halfway through the trip, I offered to swap seats with him and he eagerly jumped at the idea. I slept better from then on, and whiled away the hours reading.

We stopped from time to time to pee alongside the road. (Pee breaks are hilarious. The rush to exit reminds me of elephants stampeding. Pushing. Stomping. Cries of protest. Woman tend to veer one way, men the other. I’ve gotten pretty good at the whole semi-squat while wrapped in a kapulana thing. I think I’d be a fierce contender if it were ever an olympic sport.)

The bus was old. It wheezed and coughed up even the smallest hills. When we tried to pass Big Rigs snailing in front of us, the engined protested loudly. Rarely did we succeed.

As a result, we doddered about inching our way to Maputo. 

Every other village, the driver and ticket master stopped to pick up passengers. The stop and go made our travels even slower. Morning faded into late afternoon. Evening blurred into night. More villages. More random passengers.

The passengers started grumbling. Each hour we delayed they grumbled louder.

-- “Why do you keep stopping, Driver?” asked an irritated man from the back.
-- “Yeah,” joined in another, “Is this a Machibombo (a passenger bus for long distances) or a Chapa (a rickety bus, usually topped with chickens and chairs)?”

The driver grumbled to himself and drove on. The passengers grumbled louder but nothing came of it. Their complaints (and mine) were powerless to move the aging mass of steel even one kilometer faster. And the driver could not pass up picking up more fares along the way.

I read some more, stretched cramps out of my neck, and chatted with the passengers around me.

At one point I woke up to find, the Zimbabwean was no longer sitting beside me. In his place were a set of dirty sneakers. I followed them down a narrow passage way between the seats and found my neighbor sound asleep. Miraculously, another man slept beside him! How? I still cannot fathom.

It’s about then that I noticed the chicken. Yep. It crackled in protest each time the brakes squealed. She was close. Somewhere under foot.
    Sigh. I guess I was on the chicken bus after all.

My friends in Maputo (awaiting my arrival) texted in a fit at half past twelve in the morning. Why hadn’t I arrived? What was going on?

I was irritated to have to hop over two sleeping men, a chicken, and 6 bags of junk to reach the ticket master. But I made it.

-- “My friends are worried,” I informed him. “When do you think we’ll arrive?”
-- “We are going... we are going.... “ he mumbled with a faux-smile and diverted eyes.
-- “I know we are going. I can see we are going,” I answered irritably. “My question’s not if we are going but when we expect to arrive. I need to give my friends an answer.”

More maddening teethy grins, shifty eyes, and mumbles.

-- “What? I can’t hear you,” I continued, obviously not impressed. “When? When!? When do we arrive?”

When I realized it wasn’t my accent or lack of Portuguese vocabulary that silenced this fool, I pushed him aside and crawled my way over to the driver.

-- “Your ticket master does not know when we’ll arrive,” I complained. “Can you tell me?’
-- “We’ll arrive soon,” he said a little too quickly.
-- “Soon?” I interjected. “We are already 5 hours late! When will we arrive?”
-- “We are near the city....”
-- “I can see that. I want to know how many kilometers we have to go. I need to inform my taxi driver when to pick me up.”
-- “It’s only 25 kilometers more.”
-- “And how fast are we driving?” I pushed for more answers. “It feels like we are driving 10 kilometers an hour. How fast are we going?”

I tried to look over his dash but it was not lit. I was tired, hungry, and clearly not able to do even simple math in my head... so why I bothered to badger him about this baffles me. But I did.

He never did tell me how fast we were going but insisted it would be only 45 minutes more.

He was wrong.

We didn’t arrive until 2 a.m.

But by then, even the on-call taxi drivers weren’t picking up their phones and the city buses were powered down for the night. How was I going to get to the guest house?

When the bus finally parked for the last time, I shouldered my backpack and hurdled toward the door. The ticket master had it barely untied and I was out like a flash.

Two taxis waited nearby. I’d have to take my chances with unknowns. It wasn’t my first choice, but it was what God supplied. So I prayed and picked the face with the kindest eyes.

-- “I need to go ____,” I told him as I settled into the back seat. “How much do you charge to go there?”

He gave me a price and I haggled.
-- “That’s too much. The price should be lower.”
-- “But you are paying more... because of the hour,” he reasoned.
Smiling at his obvious logic, I nodded that it was fine. And he drove on.

The problem was, I was not completely at ease. I was alone in a cab, in a strange city, with a guy I did not know, and a lot of cash in my pocketbook.
        What could possibly go wrong here?

I prayed as we rode down empty streets and through construction detours. I didn’t recognize the route he was taking, and I asked him about it nervously.

-- “Why are we going this way?”
-- “The other street is blocked off with construction,” he offered with a polite smile. I’m sure he could sense my frayed nerves.
-- “I don’t know this road... are you sure we are in the right neighborhood?
-- “Yes... this is where you need to go.”

He was patient with me. I was frazzled. And by God’s grace, my fears were in vain.

But once at the guest house, no one answered the buzzer. I knew they were expecting me... but no one came to the door. I rang twice, saw curtains move, lights blink on, but still no one opened for me.

I asked the cab driver to wait with me (as the guest house isn’t in a very safe neighborhood for 2:30 in the morning) and he did.

Bless him.

We chatted about world cup results and I stamped my feet in the cold.

Eventually, the guard popped around a bush, key in hand, and opened the gate for me.

The next morning, I learned that the guard was fast asleep and was the only one with the gate key. The guesthouse staff had to first find him, then wake him out of a dead sleep before he could let me in.

Figures.

The  journey continues... but my eyes are drooping. To sleep, I go.

More to come.

Traveling Lessons: Part Two

(If you have not read the first part of this story... please read this post first.) 

When I pulled up next to the man in blue, (who conveniently stood in the middle of the street), he showed me my speed and told me I was 20 km over the limit.

“But... we are out of the village...” I protested. “I can go 110 km here. I’m under the limit.”

He did not seem amused and just shook his head in response. “Pull over.”

I obeyed but did not feel any guilt. How could they expect me to obey signs that did not exist?

The man handed ‘my case’ over to a woman in a neatly pressed blue suit and a clip board. She sauntered up to the truck and told me in no uncertain terms that there would be a fine.

“You must pay $20.00 dollars,” she informed me flatly in melodic Zimbabwean English.

I tried to plead my innocence saying, “But there are no signs..... and the village has ended.” She seemed unimpressed and politely insisted I pay.

When that did not work, I asked her to forgive the debt. “Can’t you just forgive me? I promise I won’t do it again.”

“I’ll forgive you tomorrow,” she quipped. “Today you pay.”

She was polite about it, but not very lenient.

“But tomorrow I will know where the village ends,” I explained, “And I won’t go over the limit.”

Perhaps I pushed longer than I should have, but I did not want to pay a fine for something so trivial. 

Lesson Five: Even if the rules are not posted, you can still get fined for breaking them.

When my third attempt at forgiveness fell flat, I gave up and said, “Okay... but I’ll need a receipt for this fine.”

Only then did she look at me in surprise. Up to this point, she hadn’t even asked for my license or registration.

“A receipt?” she asked, tilting her head to one side.

“Yes,” I said while pointing to the official looking papers on her clip board. Then I searched through my purse for the twenty.

When I handed over the bill I hesitated before letting go and said, “I must have a receipt. (Slight pause.) This is God’s money... and I must show how it is spent (hard serious stare).”

Once I finally let go of the bill, she looked at it, then at me and said, “You are a person. I am a person...” I nodded in agreement thinking to myself, ‘Sure. We are humans. Okay. What are you getting at?’

She continued on with her convoluted sentences, adding some nonsense about us being ‘people’ and I agreed with her again. But I did not get her point and just stared at her blankly.

Then I repeated kindly but with resolve: “I need my receipt.”

With time she stopped talking about ‘people’ and offered to split my twenty if I didn’t insist on a receipt. Her precise words were, “How about you go with ten, I go with ten... and we are done.”

I smiled, but only to soften the ‘No’ that was soon to follow. The look of surprise on her face was priceless. She fully expected her offer to be received. When she did not move, I spoke up again. “Sorry Ma’am, but no. This is God’s money. Since you insist I pay... I must insist it be used for the fine.”

She was not impressed.

But seeing that I was not willing to permit the bribe, she grudgingly filled out the form, asking for the spelling of my name (as she had still not asked for my ID or driver’s license!). I could have told her I was named “Ferdinanda Finklespunker” and she would have jotted it down in the same irritated way.

Lesson Six: Always get receipts, if only to irritate the less-than-honest!

Eventually she finished the form, handed me my receipt, and then walked off in a huff.

No goodbyes. No safe travels. No farewells.

I didn’t mind the brush off and was soon on my way... but as African roads would have it I didn’t get far.

Potholes led to flat tires, and flat tires led to bent rims, and bent rims... well they got sorted out in the end. It just ate a chunk out of our travel time.

Lesson Seven: ALWAYS travel with a spare tire, car jack, and bike pump!

Not surprisingly after my speeding ticket and flat tire, Roy decided to drive again. Who could blame him? I had shown myself to be inept at talking myself out of fines, and even worse at avoiding road hazards!

Subsequently, we did not make it back to Mozambique that night. (It was unlikely, anyway.) Instead, we stayed at a friend’s house in Matare where they fed and watered us, then tucked us in for the night.

The next morning, we woke early and were quickly on our way as we had one final border to cross.

Getting out of Zimbabwe was a cinch. However, we gnawed our nails wondering what Mozambique would bring. Burdened low with motor engines, donated clothes, various electronics, and the general splendor of three pack rats, we couldn’t say whether they’d let us through.

Would we have to declare everything? Only time would tell.

So we prayed. And... I know you prayed as well.

And upon entering Mozambique God blinded the custom officials to all our stuff and shimmied us through in no time!

Lesson Eight: Prayer works!

From the border we were just an hours drive back to Maforga.... where ecstatic, bouncing children waited for their hugs.

In the end, our two day trip took three... but it was fun and insightful all the same. Thank you for covering us in prayer. The more I think about it the more I realize the favor and grace we received each step of the way. 

What a blessing!

Traveling Lessons: Part One

I’m told we are in early autumn, but it’s hard to believe. Everything is growing. Everything is green. In fact, my first two days here it rained almost non-stop. We unloaded our vehicle amid warm, steady showers.

But we were so happy to arrive, no one cared about the mud or the soaked bags.

In fact, our welcoming party was one of shrieking joy and the bouncing ecstasy of children. Dozens of them. Running. Clapping. Shouting for attention. Calling for Papa Roy or Mama Trish to wrap them up in a hug and a kiss.

The party was not for me... but I enjoyed it all the same. I stole a few hugs from the younger ones and slapped hands with those ‘too cool’ for hugging. The older girls remembered me well, and greeted me by name.

As I stood there taking it all in, one by one their cherub faces morphed into memories for me.

I was back.

I was really back.

The army of children unloaded the truck and trailer in no time, carrying each packet on their heads despite the downpour.

But I get ahead of myself a bit. I intended to write about my journey here. But so much has happened this week, my thoughts are crowded out by more urgent and pressing ones.

Nevertheless, my trip here was noteworthy... so I will write it. Please bare with me.

Achem... let’s see. Where to begin.

After the end of my three-week delay in South Africa, Roy picked me up bright and early Thursday morning. The plan was to leave directly, picking up some car parts on the way to our final destination that night --Zimbabwe.

But when I saw that Roy arrived without the truck packed and Trish was nowhere in sight, I knew we had a long day ahead. Smiling wryly, I loaded my bags and prayed that my American affinity for schedules would not get in the way. 

Lesson One: Schedules are not important... but people are.

We were supposed to pick up a phone card on the way back to Trish, but the directions were not good so we steamed on ahead without them. This proved to be the wrong choice as once we packed up the truck and trailer (which took several hours), we had to go back for them (adding an hour to our delay).

By one in the afternoon we were on the road to Pretoria where a friend’s car parts were waiting. But we were so heavy loaded, no one expected to find room for them.

Miraculously, there was.

It took three strong men to lift the engine block into the back of the trailer, rearranging the donated clothes as they went. But to everyone’s relief and surprise, it worked!

Lesson Two: In Africa, there is always room for one more.

Now with an engine block, massive donations for the orphans, my heaping bags, and three adults we set out for our journey. It was well past two in the afternoon at this point and we no longer hoped to reach Zimbabwe that night.

We’d have to stay at a guesthouse in South Africa.

Plus once we started calling around, it became clear there was trouble at the border and no one was getting through. Friends had been waiting for hours in line with little progress. 

A few more phone calls and we secured ourselves a room in a small guesthouse in ???. But we only pulled in to our destination by 9 p.m.

We got settled quickly, found a restaurant that was still open that late, and had a quick bite before we turned in for the night. We could not be sure of what the border would bring the next morning and wanted to be rested before we got there.

The next morning started at dawn. The guesthouse gave us a breakfast of champions. Eggs. Bacon. Fried tomatoes. Yogurt. Fruit bowl. Biscuits. Toast. Cereal. Meat spreads. Cheeses. And more!

Apparently this is a common English Breakfast, but my eyes could not take it all in. There was more food than I could eat in a week --all for just three people! But no doubt, this home-made luxury put a smile on my face as we headed out the door.

It took us another two hours before we reached the border.



I’m not sure what I expected... but it was certainly not what I saw. Large warehouse-like buildings in various stages of ruin (or repair depending on your view in life) peppered a flat open space hemmed in with chain-link fences and green-clad guards in berets.

I did not see any guns... if they were there at all. But I did see a long line --which was getting longer while we watched.

Trish was hesitant to leave the truck for fear our stuff would up and walk off. And even when we finally joined the line, she watched it like a naughty child hell-bent on finding its way into trouble.

Fortunately our wait in line was not as long as expected and we were through the South African side in under an hour. But once we had our passports stamped, we then had to be granted access into Zimbabwe.

This meant more lines, more officials, and (for me at least) more money. I won’t bore you with the number of lines and stamps needed. Suffice to know, it was more than a few.

Lesson Three: Even with all the right papers, Africa can still take hours and hours.

By lunch we were finally through and on our way to Matare. But a few hours into the drive, Roy got sleepy and offered me the wheel.

I was happy to take it (as I love to drive), but I wanted to do it right. Since no speed limits were posted, I constantly kept asking Trish, “How fast can I go here?” and “Is this the right speed?”

It got so bad that Trish began to chuckle and repeat in slow, articulated English, “It’s 60 km in the village... and a 110 on the highway.”

“But how do you know where the village begins... or ends?” I asked in desperation. The highway was nothing but a narrow two lane paved road with tuffs of dirt on either side. I could see no houses and just a few people from the road.

“The best rule of thumb,” she began “is to look for crossroads.”

“Crossroads? What do you mean ‘crossroads’?” I complained, “It all looks the same to me.” 

She laughed again, then pointed out a tiny dirt path shooting off to one side.

“That!” I exclaimed in indignation. “That could barely fit a large motorcycle!”

“Precisely!” she continued, “If it could fit a motorcycle, then it’s a crossroad.”

I just shook my head in confusion and carried on.

Lesson Four: Even if the rules are not posted, you still have to know them.



It did not take long for a ‘village’ to appear. But the only thing I could see that made this village a ‘village’ was the large tree shading a handful of traffic police with speed guns pointing right at me.

But I had anticipated them and had been able to slow to the proper speed in time.

The dilemma was... I could not tell where the village ended. Once I passed them, I didn’t see any more footpaths and naturally started to speed up. The heavyly loaded trailer and truck did not allow this to happen quickly, and thus I was only at 81 km when the next pile of traffic police waved me down.

The scoundrels!

(Read the rest of the story in Traveling Lessons: Part Two by clicking here....) 

Sequestered Flights.

As I left for Africa, I had quite a few hiccups along the way. At the airport, they would not check my bags all the way to Johannesburg since I only had a one-way ticket and could not prove I wasn’t staying in the South Africa.

I was warned this would happen... but hoped my papers inviting me to Mozambique would suffice.

They didn’t.

So, I was forced to buy a ticket back to the States.  
     --Yada yada yada.

I was not pleased, of course, because it was very expensive. But the greying woman at the American Airline’s counter assured me that it was refundable. So I bought it and was on my way.

(However, now that I’ve tried to get it reimbursed they are saying it’s not refundable! Please pray for it to work out. I would hate to have spent all this money only to be penalized. Thanks.)

Once my bags were checked-in, I was surprised to learn that my friend who purchased my one-way flight with her frequent flyer miles got me a first class ticket!

First class has seriously improved in the last 15 yrs.

They give you pajamas, a toiletry kit, and excellent food. But more than that, the seats go completely flat. It’s wonderful!
    ---Thank you BH for your generosity. I felt very spoiled.

But I get ahead of myself...

Even before I left Vegas, I learned that JFK was part of the sequestered airports and everything was delayed.

Hours.

I was able to get on a flight to Dallas instead which promised to get me to London in ample time for my connection. 

Once in London, however, I was too exhausted to think about touring the city (like I’d intended). But fortunately, my first class status granted me access to the British Airway waiting lounge.

Whoopie!

Having more than 8 hours to waste, I sauntered slowly through to the plush couches and all-you-can eat-drink-and-nibble-on buffet that makes up the lap of luxury called the First Class lounge.
       --Oh! Where to sit! Oh! What to eat first!

I slept the first two hours on a boxed-shape couch with my suitcase as a pillow. Who knows, I may have even snored.

But did I care?

No.

When you are that tired... you find a way to sleep standing if necessary. Fortunately, things did not come to that.

I woke hungry and ate, then opened my book.

A few hours later when I could not read another page, I looked up to find the room filled with weary and worn travelers.

My sleep-deprived state had blurred them previously and miraculously muffled their sound.

There were easily several hundred people milling around like zombies.

Men in pressed suits sipped gin and tonics while checking messages on their phone; women in smart pumps riffled through their bags in search for hand lotion; and the odd kid that appeared, sat quietly engrossed in the latest video game.

Sadly, like me, few stopped to look up.

After a while of watching, I moved places to see if I could meet someone. I had been asking God for divine appointments and frankly, I wanted to tell someone an STS story if I could.

I’d been practicing.

Not long afterwards a Canadian about my age sat down next to me. We talked and swapped stories for a short time, but before I could fit in an STS story, she had to run off. Her flight was due to depart.

But before she left, we exchanged business cards as she eagerly asked to keep in touch. Hopefully, I’ll get another chance soon.

Once she left, I looked to my left. There sat a kind-faced man in his forties working on his computer. Emails. I think.

We started talking and immediately fell in to the deep things of God. Using what I had learned in the STS workshop, I shared a quick story about Nicodemus, jumping to the fact that ‘God did not send His son into the world to condemn the world, but through Him might be saved’ (John 3:17).

As I was about to move on, the man stopped me and said, “Wait. Don’t go on. I must think about this first... that is a powerful statement.”

It looked as if he had never heard that verse before, despite his Easter and Christmas attendance in church.

We eventually continued talking about what it was to have head knowledge of God, rather than heart knowledge. Delightful. We could have easily continued a long while, but soon he too had to catch his flight.

But he left reluctantly saying, “I will remember what you’ve said and seriously consider these words. Thank you for them.” Then he was off.

Lord, may he come to know you today. Open his heart to receive you. Thank you for providing the opportunity.

Soon afterward, it was time for me to go as well. My last flight was equally comfortable --more pajamas, even better food, and an attendant who turned down my bed for me.
     --Seriously! De-Lux!
 
But once I landed in Johannesburg, I quickly figured out that my bags were nowhere to be found. I suspect they went to The Big Apple without me. Fortunately, they arrived safely a day later.

To be honest, coming here felt like falling into a black hole. I lost all track of time. I gained a day... but lost three.

Jet lag has been tolerable. It helps considerably that I’m NOT traveling to Mozambique right away (more about that later). Currently, I’m staying at the Calvary Chapel Johannesburg guest house.

It’s a refreshing and beautiful spot with even more refreshing and beautiful people. Thank you CCJ for your hospitality and love. I’m so glad I’m here!

I’ll stop there for now... I hope I have not bored you with the minutia of my life. But I thought you’d all like to know I’m well. Oh! and please please pray I get my ticket reimbursed soon. Thanks.

Deported?

Awad, one of our beloved staff in fatigues.

The flight home was a bit like stepping through the looking glass. I had to keep telling myself, “You are in Switzerland. And now you are in Turkey. And this, my dear Stephanie, is Kenya. You are going home.”

Those who watched me do this mental check at each country must have thought I was nuts. But do I care? No. This is how I handle the changes. This is how I transit through culture shock. Just follow the White Rabbit with the stop-watch! Right?

I know. I know. It’s strange... but it somehow works for me.

However, once semi-settled in Kenya, I realized I didn’t have my Sudanese visa yet, (because one of our staff recently resigned). In the hub-bub, my papers were forgotten or misplaced. The problem was I couldn’t leave without it, and my flight was scheduled early the next morning!

Normally, this sort of thing would have stressed me out to the max. But oddly, I just laughed.

(Here’s the skinny: If I missed my plane, I’d be out a lot of money-- non refundable tickets and all. If I landed in Sudan with no visa, I might be deported, then I’d be out three times the amount of money. Why? Well, I’d have to pay my return ticket... then another flight again later this week when I have the right documentation.)

In a mad flash of texts and long-distant calls, my directors were able to procure the visa I needed in Tonj. The plan was to bring said documents to Rumbek and hand them over when I landed.

But when I arrived at the airport in Kenya the next morning, the flight company wouldn’t let me on the flight. Yep. They didn’t want to risk having issues with the government. But when I pushed them further, it came down to money.         -- lots of things do in Africa.

Plainly put, if they allowed me on the plane and I was deported, they might have to bare the cost. They needed some assurance, I’d pay my plane fare back.

Oh.

Frankly, the idea hadn’t occurred to me. In my mind I thought, 'Of course, I’d be responsible for paying my flight back. It would be my fault and I’m the one taking the flight. Duh!'

When I told the airline employee this, he just looked at me warily under half-slit eye lids. Had he heard this story before?

He wanted me to call my director so he could then present my visa to his director who would then call him, and confirm I could get on the plane. Simple right?         -- Ha ha... only to Kenyans.
There were just a few obstacles to this plan.

One: it was 6:30 am and my director was sound asleep. Two: my director lives more than three hours away from the airport. Three: my plane was to leave in an hour and a half.

I told him I’d be willing to make the call, but couldn’t there be a simpler way?
-- “What if you gave me a blank piece of paper where I write a ‘promise-to-pay’ statement and sign it? You could then sign it, too, as a witness. It would state that I am responsible to pay for my plane ticket back, in the off chance I’m deported. Would that work?” I proposed.

I could see the cogs in his brain slowly turning. This was obviously not how things are done in this country. But did I know that?

Standing there in jeans and a bright red hoody, my sleepy no-make-uped-self smiled with that dogged American optimism (or naive ignorance -- not sure which). I’m guessing he didn’t know what to think of my plan. Perhaps he was trying to decide if I had the funds in my bank account. I certainly wasn’t giving him much proof that I did!

Slow, eager seconds ticked by while he sat there looking at his papers-- probably thinking worst case scenarios in his head.

But honestly, what was the worst thing that could happen? I could miss my flight and the frozen dog food I was hoofing in for the compound mascot would melt? Oh... and the fact, I’d be out hundreds of dollars? That too.

(Yes, flights into Sudan cost the ‘peau de fess’ as the French like to say. There is no easy translation for that.... It literally means it would cost ‘butt skin’. Sounds better in French. Right? Ha ha.)

After taking a few long seconds to pause.... dramatic drum roll please..... he gave me a piece of paper and I wrote a very official sounding paragraph promising to pay for all expenses if deported.

I, Stephanie Williams, promise to incur all financial responsibility for any flights..... yada yada.

After reading it, he smiled wryly and gave a slight nod of approval. He wasn’t convinced they would let me off the plane in Sudan... but at least this way he wouldn’t get in trouble with his boss.

(Mental Note: When flying to Sudan, dress better so you don’t have to write a financial promise-to-pay statement at the airport. Better yet, get a visa on time!)

Boarding the plane an hour or so later, I was given a small paper bag with my ‘in flight meal’ of unsalted peanuts and a bottle of water. Oh... and don’t forget the peppermint candy tucked in the bottom!

There were about a dozen passengers, most of which deplaned in Loki, our first stop. Loki is the Northern-most city in Kenya. It’s a dusty stretch of land tucked in between a few mountain ranges. Not much can be said of it, really.

It’s home, however, to a handful of NGOs with large warehouses near the landing strip, a few mud huts, and one overpriced concession stand.

Since we were running late, the lay-over there wasn’t long. The second leg of my flight would take me to Rumbek where I planned to meet my director.... and my visa.

Climbing back on board, I found a seat quickly, and waited for the rest of the passengers. Two other heavy set men boarded with me and made their way to the very back. One was talking loudly on his cell phone.              --Annoying.

But then, the pilots boarded and closed the plane door. Huh? There were only three passengers on this leg?

The pilot (who doubled as a flight attendant) asked the loud Kenyan on his phone to hang up because ANY form of frequency would interfere with the flight. Somehow I believed him. We couldn’t leave until he hung up. He had to ask three times before acknowledged, and then a fourth time, before he actually obeyed.

Looking around I was a bit taken aback by the plane. Empty. Old. Dirty. Packed with boxes marked ‘unattended’ where people should be sitting. This is not your typical commercial flight.

Plus, my outside window pane was chipped in numerous places; I imagined it shattering causing this metal bird to plummet to a crinkly, mangled death. Tragic. At least there would be only 5 reported deaths... the two pilots, me, Mr. Cell Phone and his friend. Would we be missed?

Laughing at my overactive brain, I finished off my peanuts and tried to sleep.

Once we landed, they searched my bags (definitely a first in Sudan), and asked for my paperwork. Fortunately my director, Sabet (who is referred to by his wife Suzy as ‘the King of Rumbek’) met me with the right papers.

A view of Rumbek from behind.

He argued on my behalf, and I quietly left to wait in the truck with Albino and Awad (pronounced OW-wad) --two of my favorite staff members. (They had come because we needed to pick up groceries for the compound on the way home.)

Awad greeted me in his fancy blue military fatigues. He even proudly pointed out his new AK47 resting haphazardly in the back of the truck. It seems like every time I see him these days, he’s decked out in some new military outfit. 

After all the proper hellos and handshakes, I asked them how things had been lately at the clinic. Awad, always the talker said: “Oh, so busy. Busy-busy. You know, the pregnants is waiting for you. You will see, on Monday there will be sixty coming to see you!”
-- “Sixty! How will I see so many?” I laughed to hide my apprehension. (I was sure he was right. They told me they’d be waiting for me.)
-- “Yes, the clinic so busy. Margaret so tired. Everyday many many patients. So many. You will see. The women they say, ‘Go to this clinic. There is no cost. You can have free medicine. You can deliver no cost. That is why they come from East Tonj... they even come from Thiet.”

As he spoke, I realized I was walking back into the craziest season of my time here. (I don’t know if I should be afraid or excited.)

Not long afterward, my director Sabet joined us in the truck. The customs officers wanted me to pay a large sum for not having the right papers, but The King of Rumbek talked his way out of it.  New papers will be arranged this week, but fortunately... I won’t be deported.

At least not this time.

So thank you all for praying for my time off, and for my flights home. I’m back enjoying the hot humid afternoon rains.

But please pray for the clinic and staff. There is more work than ever. Pray for laborers. Pray for midwives. Pray for nurses. Pray for doctors. Pray for missions-minded hearts to serve... starting with me.

I’m also told we are going to be desperately short-staffed this summer as our Kenyan staff takes their much-deserved breaks. Please pray that I would not be overcome by all the need, or spread myself too thin. I don’t want to burn out. Pray that I would find rest in Him alone, and that He would be my strength and song. Thanks.

Making Friends.

Kids in Tonj, before taking off. I didn't take Ajon's picture.

Friday I woke up early to get everything ready for my flight. There was no risk of missing it, since I was one of only two passengers, but I was ready to go. Mentally ready. “Get me on that plane now!” kind of ready. Ready-ready!

I’m not sure if it’s been the heat, the fatigue, or just a deep desire to get a bit of perspective, but I knew the only way that’d happen...  was hopping on that plane.

I was ready. 

The small 4-seater looked solid enough; nevertheless, I watched in satisfaction as the pilot meticulously checked every latch and flap. If we were going up, we needed to stay up. Right?

Our first stop was Akot, a small village in Southern Sudan, for fuel. This required someone driving up from the local hospital to unlock the container where dozens of barrel drums baked in the heat. Next, one of the Texaco-stamped drums was tipped on its side with a clank, then pushed out the door.  Mud and dirt collected, as it was rolled over to the plane.

By now a dozen or so locals gathered to watch the ‘action’. What they could find of interest still bewilders me, since this must be a regular sight by now. But without fail, they come to greet us and watch the show. We are unwitting actors in some WAY off-Broadway production piece.

One of the crowd happened to be a little girl wearing a gauzlin cloth around her waist as a skirt and a well-worn, pink top. She was beautiful. Discrete dimples framed her smile, catching my eye every time I looked her way.

She was the older sister (I think) to the chocolate waif with the bloated belly. He, too, had the familial dimples, but one was masked by a large sore on his cheek. He watched intently as we hand-pumped the sea-green liquid, first in one wing and then in the other.

Tan, plastic, sandals on his feet, and a strand of sturdy beads about his neck and ankle, served to accent his chocolate-covered nakedness all the more.

As we smiled at one another, a flash of bright, wet, pink poked out of his mouth every few seconds to play with the sore on his cheek. In stark contrast to the solid, chocolate-colored canvas of his face, it mesmerized me. I found myself counting the times it poked out, studying the sore.

This imp was all boy. Adorable.

Older ones gathered, as well, to practice their English with the Kowaja. They were happy to hear me mutter my Dinka phrases, and laughed at my thick accent.

At one point, I turned to find my dimpled shadow standing to my right. She had to crank her neck to look up into my face, but she didn’t seem to mind.

What she saw I can only imagine.
    -- A pale, flightless, bird with hair instead of feathers and a funny accented song.

I’m so accustom to their barefoot, beaded ways, I forget I’m the exotic bird -- not them!

As we stood staring at one another’s plumage, the girl at my side again smiled. I decided to test out the ways I see others make friends on her; I took her hand.

Uncomfortable at first, as it made a scene, she stood awkwardly, not sure what to do. Why was the Kowaja holding her hand? As understanding dawned, she relaxed.

Only friends -- good friends at that-- hold hands. I was basically telling her that I wanted to be friends.

A few minutes later, I was needed elsewhere so I dropped her hand, thinking nothing of it. But, my dimpled shadow followed me.

Squaring her shoulders and looking at me straight on, she told me in no uncertain terms she had something to say. (This is the Dinka way of addressing a person respectfully.) The protocol is to wait until acknowledged, however long that might be.

Once I recognized she was addressing me, I nodded for her to speak, and even bent in half to hear her better.

Smiling, she whispered in Dinka: “Jabber Jabber Jabber Friend. Jabber Jabber.” (Okay my Dinka needs lots of help!) Even though, I didn’t understand the sentence, I totally understood the intent. She was asking me to be her friend.

My heart melted as I took her hand in mine to do the extensive ‘Friend Greeting’ which requires repeating ad infinitim the words ‘Friend. Friend. Friend. Friend....” while repetitiously shaking hands. The longer you do this, the closer you are.

After greeting my new friend, we had a little conversation. It went like this...
-- Call yourself what? (aka: What’s your name?)
-- Me call Ajon. (aka: My name is Ajon.)
-- How did you rise, Ajon? Me call Akuac. (Good morning, Ajon. My name is Black & White spotted cow with even horns.)
-- Age how many? (aka: How old are you?)
-- Ten.

As we talked I couldn’t help but smile. It’s been AGES since someone asked to be my friend. I think the last time was when I was ten!

Why don’t we do that anymore? Why can’t we go up to strangers or semi-strangers and ask, “Jabber Jabber Friend?”

I miss those days.

A few minutes later, I had to board the plane and wave goodbye to my new friend. She watched us start the engines, and even bounced a bit in excitement when we taxied down the dirt runway. Waving goodbye was sweet. I wonder if I’ll see her again....

The rest of the flight and connections went without incident.

I wish everyday I could meet a friend like Ajon. I wish we all could be ten again, and make friends while fueling our planes...

Will you be my friend?

Shift Change.

Tonight is the last night of some of our short term volunteers. Jessica and Daniel (who’ve been here two months) are heading home. The have blessed us so much with their faithful service. I’ll miss them.

Jessica’s a nurse and has taught me a lot at the clinic. What’s more is she has shown me an example of joyful service that I’ll not soon forget. I keep praying and asking her to come back. Everyone has. Plus I’m pretty sure at least 4 men here would marry her on the spot. I can’t blame them. She’s a keeper. That’s what makes saying goodbye so hard.

Daniel (my adoptive younger bro) fits into that same category for me. He has encouraged me so consistently and powerfully over these last two months, I’m not sure I’m ABLE to let him go. I see so many gifts in him... so many amazing gifts... that my heart is to keep him here. To let him go means to lose a powerful prayer warrior and talented teacher. I know God has other plans for him... but it’s hard not being selfish.

A couple from California, Paul and Elaine, also will be leaving. They are so fun at dinner time and they live to tell people about Jesus. I love that. They were a joy to have these last few weeks. Elaine helped from teaching the kids to counting meds in the pharmacy and Paul taught the pastors along with Sabet and Daniel.

With them go a few others on staff... but only for a month’s respite. Suzy and the kids, Caleb and Jane (who’s going for 6 months). They will all be missed.

As they leave, two guys from CA have come to dig a bore hole -- Chris and Eric. Soon, we’ll have a water hole in Malone. What a blessing! Also, our lab technician arrived. His name is George and he’s Kenyan. I can’t wait to be able to run tests. Yeah!

Welcome all! Goodbye dear friends.

It sure is nice to be home.

My journey began on wednesday with a canceled plane but got better along the way. Two lay-overs turned into three. But for my flexibility, I was bumped to first class part of the way!

I met a number of characters along the way (missionaries, nuns, BP gas company representatives!) and was able to sleep. I'm glad I thought to bring my own pillow. However, I'm strongly convinced that the airline industry has shrunk the seats and foot space to an all time minimum! Honestly, how much can they be saving my causing all these leg cramps and blood clots? Is it worth it?  Sigh. Regardless, it was a simple trip - long but worth every leg cramp and food stain. (yes. food finds me non-stop on these flights. Ha!)  

When I landed, I was surprised with the number of smiles and sweet consideration. Perhaps, I was expecting Haiti and didn't know it. I hadn't realize this was the case... until I noticed how surprised I was. Remarkable? Perhaps not. But the case none-the-less.

The people here are open and inviting. I get smiles everywhere I go (which offends my french veneer but blesses my American core!). I like a people willing to stare (thanks to France) and smile at strangers (American). I like a people inviting and generous of heart (love you Filipinos! I really do!) and happy to talk to anyone. And so... I've decided to like Kenyans too.

Gordon Sunga (hereto will be referred to as Professa Sunga!) picked me up at the airport and has been my constant guide ever since. He is a young man from the Luo tribe who is the logistic man for In deed and truth. I'm glad he is here. He is a good example of the Kenyan kindness. But most importantly, he has exhibited extraordinary patience with me in learning Swahili. :- ) Thus his new name - Professa!

This morning, after sleeping like a log, I woke to the sound of LOUD exotic birds cawing out my window. The sound soothingly reminded me that I was 'not in Kansas anymore'. However, I can't say it feels foreign.

Everywhere I turn, a sheen of familiarity shines through. The smell of the land reminds me of home. The crazy driving takes me back to the Philippines... but different. They drive on the left side of the road here and my brain is trying to shift to this new dimension. I have to say the reverse images flashing in my brain have shifted a number of times... and not in a good way! :- ) But all the same... it feels very familiar.

But most of all, it's the soft humid caress of the air that brings me home - home to the Philippines. The heavy air and sweet tropical flowers transport me. I feel like I've breathed this air once before. And well... with a happy sigh, I find myself thinking, "It sure is nice to be home."

Manila and beyond! - Day one and a half of the adventure

So much... oh so much to share.... but I'll start with this, the ADVENTURE HAS BEGUN! Yesterday morning I was shuttled off to the airport where I caught the early flight to Manila. My partner in crime and trusty side-kick is a travel savvy MK from Africa,named Janelle. Together we had it all figured out. We'd drop our bags at the bus depot and then explore the city on foot. We were excited. Once we landed, we powerhoused our hiking bags on and off carts, around the masses and made it to the concierge desk for information.

We figured it couldn't hurt to ask for directions for the bus depot. When in doubt, ask! Right? We made it to the concierge desk and were thrilled to learn we could get to the station using public transportation. So off we went, with a skip in our step to the bus depot. We boarded a transit bus and rolled on and on... and on. We were told where to get off by the conductor and then asked a few people who helped us find the place. We were so proud that we made it there by bus... all on our ingenious own! (plus the help of about 25 locals- of course). But soon after arriving, we discovered there was just one problem... it was the WRONG TERMINAL!

We then had to brave the taxi system (not a good reputation in manila) and cross town to the northern terminal!.... Amid the honking and exhaust fumes... we had to laugh. We had tried to avoid the taxi and here we were begging one to get us to our next stop. Three hours after landing in Manila... we made it there at last. We purchased our tickets and stored our bags. We were exhausted... hot... hungry and a bit defeated. The noise and the dirt, the heat and the hassle, had conspired to zap the adventurous spirit out of our steps. We had grand plans to see Rizal Park (a 58 hectare oasis in down town Manila) and then roam around museums to while-away the time. But instead we opted for the nearest mall and settled in for a 7 hour lay-over.

We ate, played and laughed our way around the mall. We got lost in the book stores and even more lost looking for the loo! (Apparently only the locals now where they are... and restroom signs cannot be trusted!) We didn't want to stay any longer than we had to at the bus station so we tried to time our connection to the last possible moment. We had to be there at 7pm so, optimistic us, we gave ourselves 15 minutes. We were naive to think that a 7 minute ride could take us longer than 15 minutes or that traffic might play a part in our downfall. But most of all, we assumed that like in everything else in the Philippines, that time didn't matter and they'd hold the bus for us! Oh... we were WRONG! Oh so very WRONG! Not only was our bus gone at 7:05 when we arrived but it had left exactly at 7pm!!! Timeliness is a concept that is largely unknown... or possibly unappreciated by this culture- EXCEPT AT THE BUS STATION!

Happily, my story does not end with my trusty-side-kick and I standing sullen and dejected, holding our bags amid the masses of travelers. We were able to catch the next bus (which thankfully left only 45 minutes later) and bunker down for the 12 hour commute to Tabuk. Yes, you heard that right... 12hrs! Now, I've taken international flights across the Atlantic that didn't take that long! But we were happy... because the Victory Liner bus was taking us further and further away from the BIG-BAD-CITY with every minute. And we were both craving a little country-side time. The ride was uneventful... if you don't count the cheesy-B-class horror movie they subjected us to, or the lack of sleep and leg room. This morning, we arrived safe and sound to our destination... a lovely birthing clinic surrounded by rice fields on three sides and a main street on the last. As I sit on the balcony and type out this message, I get excited about what the next few weeks will entail. I'm sure it will have something to do with catching babies... but i'm hoping for much, much more. But as each adventure leads me to new places... I'll make sure and bring you along. Until then, thank you for lifting us up in prayer!