Tag: dirt bike

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Death Valley

There in the African Savannah where acacia trees with their flat-topped enchanting forms dot the landscape, an adolescent boy, a humble cattle-tender, was cornered by thieving attackers. He made a futile attempt to seek refuge among his father’s herd of semi-nourished cows – the bounty his attackers pursued. Horrifying moments raced like short distance sprinters toward the finish tape until the boy was seized and beaten to death by these neighboring tribal warriors.

Once I heard the news, words like heartless and senseless quickly sprang to my young missionary mind.

In the worldview of the tribesmen who had slain the boy for his father’s cows, there was nothing senseless about their deed. For generations nomadic lore had dictated that all cattle were created by God as a gift for their people. Any means to retrieve what was rightfully theirs was deemed acceptable. The “retrieving of cattle” was, to them in fact, a kind of calling.

Pastor Nashon had first been alerted of his young brother’s death by the high-pitched wailing of nearby village women. Afterwards, through grapevine media common to rural Africa, word of the tragedy reached our mission station several miles to the west.

Mounting my orange and aging Suzuki dirt-bike, I ran my helmet strap through the cinch ring, securing it snugly beneath my chin. Pastor Nashon needed a friend nearby – even a recent friend whose culture and land were radically different from his own. I hoped to somehow be such a friend.

Mindful of an involuntary tensing of my eyebrows I tried to push back my growing sense of inadequacy. Comforting loved ones who’ve experience the quiet and expected demise of, say, an aged and dear family member can be daunting enough. But this defied categories.

What shall I say an hour from now once my piki-piki is brought to a dusty halt and I enter the humble, thatch-roofed hut? How do I myself process such news, much less console the grieving young pastor whose brother’s life had so recently been brutally taken?

***

“Bwana asifiwe.” Nashon, only barely my junior gave a warm smile as he offered the Swahili greeting, “the Lord be praised”. Though a common greeting among believers, the words seemed specially poignant (maybe less than fitting? I thought).

I quietly entered the dirt-floor hut which was poised on a high ridge along the Great Rift Valley. I took the seat my young host offered. My senses caught the flavor of steaming, charcoal-heated chai, its vapors loitering above the fresh-washed mug now extended my way.

What followed altered my world forever.

©2017 Jerry Lout
Photo by Dave Butler http://bit.ly/2pQV0TF

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Staring Down the Elements

Had I known that my dirt bike could well have landed at the bottom of a river before day’s end, I might have stayed in bed.

Rains had been falling off and on for several days around Suna Mission, punctuated from time to time with pummeling downpours. My piki-piki slipped and slithered beneath me for miles along the muddy roadway, finally bringing me to a bridge. Submerged beneath a torrent of waters.

It was the bridge I had planned to cross on the road taking me to Lake Victoria’s shoreline ten miles further on. I was slated to preach the Sunday service in a fishing village.

Great volumes of murky brown raced along – a steady, turbulent surge – passing both under and above the concrete bridge. Slowing the bike to a halt I let my feet find the muddy road surface. I sat some moments just taking in the scene. A young Luo man approached as I dismounted.

Smiling cheerily, he wasted no time offering me a proposition once the customary greetings were out of the way.

“Would you like to go over to the other side?” He hardly took a breath before adding, “I can get you there. . .” The youth quickly surveyed the Suzuki and waved an open palm toward it before concluding, “and you’re piki-piki, too!”

Shy of any strong conviction to leap at his offer, I questioned what he had in mind.

“Come. Just come.”

I clambered behind him up a muddy hill, a rise from which we could now take in more of the river upstream. I wasn’t quite ready for the view.

There at the water’s edge lay a home-built canoe – long and narrow. It had been wrestled to shore and held in place by it’s two captains.  First into the into the canoe was lifted a hefty bag of maize, probably a good 70 pounds worth. What most caught my eye, though, was an animal being drawn, much against its will, down the steep bank to the water, and the canoe.

“Kuja! Kuja! (Come! Come!)”, shouted the man leveraging the donkey’s makeshift harness, as his comrade energetically shoved from the animal’s backside. The poor creature’s resistance proved futile as it skidded nearer and nearer its watery destination.

The donkey’s handler passed the harness rope to the nearest boats-man who made sure the animal went into the water alongside the vessel rather than into it.

Once the craft was loaded, off they rowed, the donkey swimming nervously alongside – it’s jaw held taut by the keeper now on-board – bumping now and then against the canoe side.

Whatever was true about the action-laced drama, the mariner’s labors convinced me. To – reluctantly at least – entrust my old dirt bike to them. With one condition, however.

“Not a single scratch must be added to the bike until it’s safely across and sitting on the opposite bank.”

If this feat were met satisfactorily I would add an extra two Kenya shillings on the agreed fare. Naturally, I wasn’t so concerned about added dings on the already-scarred machine. I simply wished to make the strong point that neither the Suzuki nor myself landed at the bottom of the river.

Two additional canoes – freed of  goods they’d just delivered to the far bank – made their way to our shore. The boats found me struggling some to keep my balance on the steep, sloshy terrain.

Twenty minutes later and a good way further downstream, both my piki-piki and me alighted intact on the opposite shore. Balancing in the canoe carrying me across, I had snapped a picture of the bike, it’s 250 cc frame held perfectly upright the whole distance in the second boat by two strapping Luo youth. The photo appeared later in our newsletter update with a caption beneath advising,

“Watch and Pray”.

©2018 Jerry Lout

 

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Observing

Observe

Watching my Suzuki dirt bike hoisted onto a wobbling, home-built canoe at the edge of a flooded river, gave me pause. Did I make a smart move?

My unsettled mind calmed the next few minutes as the two tribal men skillfully executed their self-assigned duties. I looked on in growing admiration.

These fellas know a thing or two about rivers. And of cargo management for home-built canoes.

The reflection in my head took form after I witnessed a donkey traversing those waters under the young men’s management, emerging at the opposite shore, her hee-haw still intact.

In a similar way I’ve found it often only takes a little observing to appreciate praiseworthy qualities in people – their dispositions, skill sets, personalities, their manner.

In this respect, Jesus has become my favorite subject in people-watching.

Indeed, he himself – this son of a blue-collar worker growing up in an unexceptional middle-eastern village – honed his own set of observing skills. Sharpening them as keenly as he did the carpentry tool finding its home in his saw-dust-sprinkled grip.

Engage

“Here, Yeshua, see how we mark the place just this side of the knot hole? This is where we cut the plank. Now, watch closely where I position the saw. . .” Papa Joseph patiently tutored the youngster, modelling for him the carpentry craft.

To excel at a thing – to move little by little into expertise – any person ever trained in a skill knows the drill.

  • Watch (observe) the trainer, listening, paying attention as they do their work
  • Imitate the manner and movements of the mentor while he looks on, coaches, corrects
  • Do the work – produce ‘fruit’ reflecting the quality of the master’s own workmanship and of his character

Jesus did this. Jesus trained his friends while adopting for himself role of trainee. Remarkable, really. The writer of Hebrews offers a pithy insight about Jesus, “He learned.”

Paul the apostle followed suit, the Damascus-road convert boldly recruiting others to ‘board his gospel canoe’:

“Follow me as I follow Christ.”

Become

I want to become like Jesus.

Through the years the yearning has ebbed and flowed in my deep interior.

Not in me alone. The cry is common to Christ-followers all around. Common because nothing else slakes our thirst for meaning. A cry because, at the core, this is our design. We are made for it – for apprenticeship to Jesus. Made to be formed into a likeness very much resembling him. In  character. In life.

How does such a life-altering enterprise get underway?

My boyhood days growing up on a farm stirs a thought.

©2018 Jerry Lout