Passing

Concentrating on keeping your food down is never fun. I try not to do it very often, yet, when we landed in Kigali, Rwanda, that's exactly what I was doing. I'm attributing it to the porridge (although I'm sure it had more to do with taking my malaria pill on an empty stomach the night before). Fortunately, my sickness passed with a good dose of fresh air on the ground. We were greeted by Kwema, a youth pastor in the area and part of Faustin's core team of leaders for TLAfrica. Kwema is one of the warmest, most winning people I have met thus far, and that's saying quite a lot, because everyone here is warm and winning. We took a taxi into Kigali, where we were planning to spend the night before our long bus ride to Ruhengeri. But this is Africa. When we got out of the taxi, we weren't at a hotel, we were at the bus depot. So we sat down to wait for the bus. But this is Africa. Kwema took off for a moment, and when he came back, he had another taxi waiting for us. I was a bit disappointed. I was looking forward to three hours of chaos on a serpentine mountain road with pigs at my feet, chickens in my lap, and 34 local travelers all shouting at the top of their lungs in other languages. Though less interesting, the taxi ride was much more comfortable.

Driving in Rwanda is an adventure in itself. In the city, the roads are about three lanes wide, although you can't tell exactly, because there are no markings. The center area of the road is apparently fair game for passing in either direction. Passing in general is a dangerous, but exciting proposition. I'd be praising God for seat belts, except ours didn't work. Everyone honks at everyone else, but no one is upset. Once in the mountains, we passed countless travelers walking. They walk for miles (and no one is overweight - go figure). Some of them ride bikes with huge loads strapped behind the seat. Lots of people combine the two alternatives, and walk their bikes. They probably just couldn't decide. Kids under 10 frequently travel in small groups without adults, and sometimes all by themselves. Everyone is carrying something - a large sack, a yellow 5 gallon container, a jar, a basket of fruit. The coolest part is that my ill-formed presupposition was strangely accurate. Most of them transport their cargo on their heads. Furthermore, the older the traveler, the more likely they are to be doing this without hands. Every person I saw over 50 was balancing something. That's not to say that the kids don't. I saw one boy, no older than 7, balancing a sack of potatoes on his head as big as he was. Many of the women have the tell-tale lump. No, not pregnancy. The lump is on the other side, but it is a baby. They sling their children over their backs in beautifully ornate fabric. We pass remarkably close to them at 50 miles per hour. Equally remarkable is the fact that no one seems to mind that we're within inches of killing them and their children.

Fortunately, we didn't hit any people, but we did hit some enormous potholes. Once, we hit a particularly large one, and something fell off the car (hey, it's Africa). When we stopped to figure out what it was, a couple of teenagers passed by and stopped to investigate with us. One of them laughed and pointed at the layer of dirt caked onto our spare tire cover. He and I both began to draw in the dirt. He drew a heart. I drew a smiley face. Then we exchanged names. I couldn't make out what he said his name was, and I could tell by his face that he was having the same trouble. Unfortunately, we didn't have time to attempt further conversation, but in our passing we exchanged something more profound than our names. We exchanged hearts and smiles. That's what I would have remembered anyway. Two hours and 200 km after our ride began, we arrived at the Centre Pastoral Notre Dame de Fatima in Ruhengeri. You would expect our cab fare to have been pretty heavy, and 10,000 francs sounds so, but it's not. It's about 18 dollars. I'm sure we would have had to pay more if Kwema had not been with us. Our fare was a testament to his warmth and winning nature.

Halfway through dinner our first evening here in Ruhengeri, Faustin, the director of TLAfrica, paused to thank the other group of American pastors who had been ministering the week prior. He invited each of them to say a word as they were all leaving the next day. When everyone had had an opportunity to speak, Faustin thanked them all and turned to Pastor John, who is the TLAfrica representative whenever Faustin is in the US. "Pastor John, would you like to say a few words?" Pastor John thought for a moment. "Yes... I would like to share something," he began in a very patient, disciplined tone, "in my culture... my mother taught me... to wait until you have finished eating before you begin talking." Dinner ended as light-hearted as it had began. As they were leaving the following day, we had only this meal to connect with the group that had been serving before us (Faustin called it "our last supper"). And the connection was genuine. We exchanged hearts and smiles. We may be passing each other like travelers on the road, but we are united by our mission and our faith. Passing in general is a dangerous and exciting proposition, but I find that the excitement far outweighs the danger.