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2.20.2013The Road to Goma
So There I
was
Breaking one
of my cardinal rules of living in an alien environment. I was ignoring the
advice of the local friend charged with my health and safety. Muzungu Ujinga - stupid white person!
I was
getting ready to head out from Kigali to Goma. It is a long ride on the very
best of days. Those days don’t come around very often. My friend was clear that
I should be on the 10:30 bus, and that at the latest. It was the last bus that had a good chance of
getting me to the border crossing before dark. I was going to have to negotiate
that crossing without help, and in need of a visa. It might take time. No one
wanted me to cross into the Congo after dark.
Before
leaving there was a task that I needed to perform. I had been charged with the
duty of interviewing six secondary students at the George Fox Secondary School.
They were orphans and at risk of losing their place at school for the inability
to pay their fees. I was going to bring their stories back to a group in the US
who had scholarships on their mind. It felt important.
My friend
picked me up and wanted to purchase my bus ticket before seeing the students. He did not want to risk
a sold out bus and a late departure. We
got to the bus office. He tried to buy me a ticket. Bad news. There was no
10:30 bus today, just a 9:30 and an 11:30.
It was five minutes until nine. My friend stated his intention to buy me
a ticket on the 9:30 bus. He was clear about this. He assured me that the
students would wait. I knew my return trip would be even tighter and on the
weekend, the odds of finding the students at school were not good. I asked him
to buy me a ticket on the 11:30 bus. He told me this would not do - he wanted
me to get on the 9:30 bus right then and there. I asked him to pray with me for
a moment. In those moments of silence I felt a bond and a call to those young
people that would not let me go. I could not abandon them. I thanked my friend
for his care of me. I assured him that I understood the risk I was taking. I
told him that I felt clearly led to go see the students. I asked him to buy me
the 11:30 ticket. He politely asked me to buy it myself, as he wanted no
responsibility for my choice. This is as clear as an African can be that you are
being foolish beyond belief. I bought my
own ticket for the 11:30. Then he took
me to see the students.
It was a
heartbreaking hour. I heard stories that will never leave me. We all wept. I
had nothing to promise them except that I would tell their stories. Any possible help was many months away, and
it might be too late for some of them. Walking away crushed my heart.
We arrived
back at the bus station at 11:25. They were doing repairs on the bus. Duct tape
being applied to headlights. I snagged the seat in the center front next to the
driver. I am a famous puker, and seeing forward and having air is a good idea.
The bus was a Toyota 10 seater, they sold 17 tickets - plus luggage. It was
good to be packed in tight because there were no seat belts, as was evidenced
by the spider shaped crack in the windscreen directly where my head would hit
in a sudden deceleration. Seasoned African travelers like the center of the
bus. The air is bad, but the person at the center often survives the crash
cushioned by the bodies of their comrades. We left with a locally on-time
departure of noon straight up.
Kigali sits
in a bowl, a city on many hills surrounded by mountains. Every road out of the
city goes up. Every road is serpentine. Serpents would puke on those roads. Our
bus driver was in a mood to make time. Cutting curves and not stopping for
vegetables or people. Until we were about half way up - then there was a large group of people by the
roadside and on it. I do not know what caught his attention, but he slowed and
then called something to the passengers and then stopped. Way too far into the
roadway for my happiness. So we all got out. Driver trotted up to the people
who I could now see were distressed and pointing over the precipice. Driver
looked over the edge and screamed. I never like it when African men scream. It
is never good.
It turns out
that over the edge was the 9:30 bus. Our company’s bus. Yes, that bus.
Some men had
climbed down. There was not a soul to bring up alive. Bodies would be eventually
hauled up, the bus would be left. Phone calls were made to headquarters. People
prayed. About an hour later our driver
decided that we needed to try and go on. We boarded our bus in a somber mood.
He goosed it up the hill. He started swearing almost immediately. I looked at
him. He pointed to the gauges. I watched as the engine heat gauge swung up and
over the “H.” He alerted the passenger
to our situation. This bus was not going to make it to the Congo today. Many
groans tempered a bit by our status of being alive, and our awareness of how
lucky we were in that. That status was challenged right off. He turned the bus,
put it in neutral and switched off the engine. We coasted silent and swift as
death itself down that mountain. We passed the bus plunge scene, and the
roadside viewers looked at us with gaping mouths as we flew past. They must
have though our driver has gone insane with grief and was planning to take us
to follow the lost bus. Our tires screeched at every turn. The smell of burning
brake pads filled the cabin. The people of the bus were too shocked to pray.
Finally we reached the flats and over the river bridge and coasted to a stop.
Then people thanked whatever God they worshiped.
I honestly
cannot tell you why I did not find or borrow a phone and call my Kigali friend
and bail. But I didn’t. I bought cokes and sambusa with the people of my bus
and we waited for the bus company to send us another bus. I am sure that we
commandeered the 12:30 bus. But soon (an hour or so) we had another bus and a
fresh driver. And again we ascended. It was about 2:30 pm.
As were
starting the climb, I spoke in a loud voice and stated that I was going to lead
the bus in prayer, apologizing for my English. I prayed loud and long. I prayed for the bus, I prayed for every part
of the bus, I prayed for our new driver and for our old driver. I thanked God
for our lives and I prayed for the souls of the departed. I prayed for our
courage and for the road ahead of us.
When I finished, a voice in the back said loudly “In the name of Jesus -
I agree with you!” It was the first English I had heard all day. I invited the
man named Daniel to come and sit more forward so that we could talk. The people
of the bus rearranged themselves for my entertainment. Daniel had lived in
Boston for two years, and he
told me the story of Mary
Dyer. He was very pleased to see that female Quaker preachers were still
risking their necks for the Lord.
He had thought we had all been killed. Not
quite, Daniel, not quite.
I guess some
days is just pleases God to have everyone on their knees.
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