Thirty Miles Through the Bush -or- Journeying Together

It’s pitch-black at 4am and I’m riding through a desolate section of the African bush on a bicycle. Let’s talk about how I got here.  

At least two times a year we hold meetings in villages around the country. The purpose of these meetings is for each of our sponsored students to receive any gifts or letters their sponsors have sent, and to take pictures and write letters that will be sent in return. Along with that we do committee training and auditing of receipts, before finally ending the day by sharing a meal together. The location of these meetings is chosen with a number of factors in mind, but they are primarily centralized locations for the kids and their families. That does not necessarily mean that these places are always in close proximity to where they live. In some villages our kids must walk over 8 hours to arrive on time, in others it means a 4-hour, almost 60-kilometer trip by bicycle. I’m not sure sponsors often realize just how much of a journey these kids are taking in order to take their pictures and receive their letters.  Although, that’s not to say they don’t do it gladly, as they would most certainly travel a number of days in a number of different ways to be a part of the Children of Promise program.  

So, back to the bicycle and the reason I found myself out at 4am. I decided that as a side project I’d like to see what goes in to these trips to come and see us at the meetings. I wanted to visit the children and their families in their home village, and then travel with them as they made the journey. So, after making arrangements with a family in the village of Membe, Herman, Sam, and I drove deep out in the bush one Saturday afternoon.

Heading north out of the southern city of Dodoma we followed the tarmac as far as we could before breaking off onto a thin and dusty dirt road. Ten Kilometers later we passed the last electric pole, and after fifty more kilometers (thirty-one miles) we pulled up in front of a tiny mud-brick church.  The building sits on a little plain in the center of the community, surrounded by the small local plots of nearby villagers. Distinct rocky knolls pop up at irregular intervals, but the landscape is mostly flat.

Tiny wooden benches lined the dirt floor of the church as we were ushered inside. Around the front of the room sat four plastic Coca-Cola chairs, and we were graciously offered a seat. Slowly people from the village began to enter. After 15 minutes the benches were full, and after 20, people had filled in the remaining spaces along the center aisle and walls. Some sat on the chocolate brown floor and others leaned against the brick and in through the windows.

I had asked specifically in advance that nothing special be done in preparation for our arrival. I wanted only to reach town in the early evening, stay with a family in the village, and bike with them to the meeting in the morning. It was my hope that the trip would be as normal as it always was for them. This was not to be the case.

When the church was full, the music began. Women from age 5 to age 80 flashed across the room, sometimes in slow methodical steps but often in wild sputtering and spastic movements. They were accompanied by young men playing homemade instruments, a box affixed with flattened bicycle spokes called the marinda, and a type of gourd with a long wooden handle and strings, played like violin, called a zeze. The music emitting from the crudely constructed woodwinds and percussions was unbelievable, a hauntingly beautiful but somehow upbeat tempo. Children danced in the aisles, and through the windows I could see the remaining villagers, those who hadn’t come to the church, dancing and jumping in rhythm in front of their houses.

After 2 hours the music slowed and we were led through the crowd outside. We were given a tour of several of the local houses of our sponsored children. Each time we were led inside the small chest high structures and gathered around the central room for a prayer of blessing. Outside we were given small baskets of peanuts that we carried around and ate as we spent time in the small exterior stick kitchens and played with the little children that gathered around and followed.

When we had finished the tour we retired to the hut that we would be sharing, and the party began. If not everyone had arrived for the meeting in the church, they had all most certainly gathered outside this hut now. The dancing and music began again and this time would not subside until almost 3 am, when a rain shower finally pushed the last few people back into the dark African night and to their homes.

A local woman brought a rooster as a special gift for our arrival, and along with the rice and beans we had brought as a gift, we ate in a small dirt alcove by the light of a flashlight.

When it was finally time to rest for the evening, we made our final plans for the next morning. We would leave at 4am, with members of the village each carrying a child on the back of their single speed bicycles. Herman and I pulled our bikes from the back of the Land Cruiser. We would ride alongside our hosts and accompany them on the trip.  Sam would take the vehicle and drive back the road we had come in, meeting us in the village of Kongwa at approximately 10 am to begin the meeting. We would be taking a separate path through the bush; the car could not follow where we were going.

As Herman, Sam, and I knelt down beside our bikes, we began reattaching the tires and brake lines that we had removed before the trip. By the light of headlamps we readjusted everything and readied the bikes for the morning ride.  

Having completed the setup of each bike, we were shown to our bedrooms. I was given the main room of a three-room hut. A simple curtain hung halfway over the door and was all that separated us from anything that might choose to enter during the night. I sat my bike upright along the wall and turned on my headlamp to survey the accommodations. A simple wood bed with a thin homemade mattress was the only furniture in the room, which was partly out of necessity, as the entire space was only 6’ by 6’.

I pulled back the simple blanket on the bed to check the mattress and spotted the innumerable bed bugs waiting within. Thankfully we were already close to our departure time, as there was little chance I would get any sleep that evening. I wrapped a small blanket that I had brought around myself, sat down on the dirt floor, and waited for the alarm on my watch to go off. I sat listening to the rain ping against the tin metal roof and occasionally shot the beam of my flashlight into the corners of the room when shadows darted across the wall. Tiny termites inched their way towards me from the wooden beam on the roof, as a small rat raced back and forth across the wall. For his part, Herman took a small wooden table from the main room to use as his mattress. He slept with his feet dangling towards the floor and his back pressed against the hard bench.   

At 3:30am I stood up, changed my clothes, and headed outside. All around the front of the hut I found piles of villagers sleeping under the stick structures of the nearby kitchens, their only protection being the mud pasted to the small stick roofs. I strapped a headlamp onto my hat, another on to my bike, and waited for the rest of the group to arrive. Slowly they wandered out of the darkness, men pushing ancient bicycles each with a child in tow. All told our group numbered 7 men and 5 children.

The children each climbed on the back of a bicycle and clutched whatever luggage was needed. Some carried small bags with their school uniforms inside, keeping the clothes clean so that they would be available to change into later at the church. Each student is required to take their picture for their sponsor in these uniforms, and they are adamant about sending their very best to their sponsor.  Another carried a small pump in preparation for the almost certain number of flat tires along the journey, another holding the tiny bottle of glue and strips of rubber to serve as patches.

We began briskly as I took up the rear. The beam of my light flashing on the tire in front of me was the only thing I could see for the first several hours. Occasionally I’d be caught off guard by a sudden dip and a splash of mud, and when daybreak finally came I was struck with how muddy I already was. The path was seldom more than a few inches wide, and the shrubs that lined our route scraped against our legs in passing.

When the sun did rise, the landscape had already changed dramatically. Whereas Membe was mostly flat and exceedingly muddy, we were now in the middle of a far more rugged area. Small mountains rose and fell every kilometer; in between they would break between patches of deep sand and long rocky stretches. Often the sand was too thick to ride through and we were forced to push the bikes. When we returned to riding the jagged rocks would jar the bicycles through each rotation of the pedals.

During the mountain stretches, at each ascent the children would hop from their perches at the back of the bikes and walk alongside the driver. The single speeds proved too difficult to navigate up the steep inclines. Without riders and with 21 speed bicycles, Herman and I would ride ahead and wait, giving us a few moments to catch our breath and drink some water, the only moments during the journey in which we set the pace.

Around 8am we wound our way through sunflower fields and stopped for the third time to change another flat tire on one of the villager’s bikes. At a local home, a family brought out a bucket of water as we dipped the inner tube through the liquid, searching for the air bubbles that would reveal the source of the leak. As I watched the tube rotating in the water I noticed at least 9 other patches already on the thin rubber. The cost of a new tube is 2,500 shillings, about $1.50. That’s half of a full day’s pay for some of these men and women.

At 9 am we saw the first electric pole and knew we were close to returning to the main road. At 9:30 we saw our first car, and at 9:45 the small church building that would house our meeting came in to view. I pulled up along the side of the building and next to our waiting car. I was muddy but happy, tired but feeling accomplished. I shook hands with the rest of the men that had made the trip and sat down at the base of a large baobab tree.

The oldest member of our party, a 75-year-old father of 6, came and stood beside me. He put his hand on my shoulder and laughed. When I asked why, he explained in simple Swahili, “you only accomplished half of the journey.” He was right of course. All told we had ridden some 30 miles through a rough and unforgiving landscape, but I had only gone one-way. At the end of our meeting I’d be able to throw my bike in the back of the car and drive along the return route to our hotel in the city. The villagers would climb back aboard their aged bicycles, help a child find his/her seat on the rear, and ride another grueling 30 miles home. I’d be taking a warm shower by early evening; they wouldn’t arrive back at their darkened homes until late that night.

I think often times, if we’re honest with ourselves, we are all guilty of only going halfway. We commit to walking with others through life up to a point. If I’m using my bike ride as an illustration, we agree to ride along because we know at some point there is a car waiting to pick us up and take us back home.

The real issue isn’t that we need to move to third world countries and take up residence in tiny villages. I’m not suggesting we’d be doing a great good by physically committing to that lifestyle. Rather, the root of the problem is that we see the needs of those around us and around the world and we’re not really sure where to go from there. It’s easy to see suffering, it’s much harder to do something about it. But, I don’t think our disengagement is happening because of a lack of compassion or a missing desire to make a difference in the lives of others. Rather, I think often times we just don’t know where to start.

That’s one of the reasons working for Children of Promise has been so important to us. COP is a program that helps branch the disconnect between seeing and doing. It moves beyond recognizing the disadvantages and struggles of poverty to assisting in real and tangible ways of overcoming those obstacles. And, quite frankly, it’s a simple way to forever change the life of a child in need.

As much as we might want to experience and understand what some of our children go through, the reality is we’ll never be able to fully comprehend the hardships that accompany a life lived in poverty. Our glimpses of their lives are just that, small intersections of shared memories and moments. But those glimpses are often more than enough to recognize the needs. And now, if we’re going to truly be people that believe God has called us to lives of service, then we need to do something about it.

There is a reason that an elderly man would put his young child on the back of a bicycle and ride 30 plus miles one-way to take a picture for their sponsor. There is a reason children would walk eight hours through remote forests to wait for a letter written to them from the other side of the world. It’s because they know someone out there is offering them an olive branch of hope, and sending a message of love. It’s because through a simple financial gift, they’re being provided with food, clothing, healthcare, education, and spiritual nurture. More succinctly, they’re being given a future.

After several minutes at the base of that tree I got up and walked inside the church for our meeting. I shook hands with men and women who had come from miles around to be a part of the Children of Promise program. And I smiled as I was again reminded of the unique privilege I have of catching glimpses of changed lives. Fifteen young boys and girls from that area sat smiling back, and I was struck with the reality that there are many ways to walk and bike alongside someone on this journey.

Please consider getting involved with the ministry of Children of Promise. For more information you can find them online at echildrenofpromise.org or call them directly at 800-848-2464.