(An account of a short-term missionary’s adventures installing wells in Africa. Fourth of eight parts.)
Last week we visited the rutted but flat goat-paths of Malawi.
This week we are heading to the hills. Hills? Ha! They are thus charitably described largely to assuage the fears of new volunteers for Marion Medical Mission, like a certain good old boy from the flat delta lands of Mississippi. They go UP in startling fashion, rounding bends shaved into the side of angled mountains, often no wider than, oh, my small truck laden with many pipes and occupied by several perilously exposed workers riding in its bed. The ‘road’ surface upon which we ascend as we slowly chew and crunch our way UP is often in the same or worse condition than the feeder roads mentioned previously, with washouts, roots and random boulders in constant supply.
…Travel note: Leaving Dublin, Ireland. 5:55 a.m…
Less you, gentle reader, assume the driver on these dizzying inclines was in terror of the yawning chasm opening to either the left or right of his little truck, scant inches away from the edge of the road and hundreds of feet above the valley floor below, worry not. As you may have gleaned, the writer seeks evidence of providence in all situations, and this mountain-ascending adventure was no exception.
Here’s how my Lord provided a healing balm to my acrophobic heart: Since the work of driving over these jounces and bumps required more focus than that required of an eye surgeon repairing a detached retina, I realized early on that not only was the tried and true method of ‘don’t look down’ a wise one in these circumstances, it was the only course available since I simply couldn’t navigate without staring at the road. Thus was I able, with only occasional weakness about the knees, to traverse the cliffs of Malawi. In short, I can honestly say that over the course of my many weeks and many miles doing so, NOT ONCE did I ‘look down’ while driving, avoiding the paralysis which would have ensued while taking in the awful (in the Old Testament sense) view. Of course, after safely arriving at ridge-straddling villages, then striding down the mountain to the well sites, I gazed about freely without fearful consequence. Thank you, Lord.
One day, after realizing this profound item of providential wisdom during a high mountain village well installation, a thought in prayer form suddenly popped into my head – “Test me, Lord.” I tried to snatch it back.
“Just kidding, Lord! I quickly prayed, “Lesson learned. No testing necessary!”
“Too late, Jeff.” The Almighty answered, as a thunderstorm - to my amazement since this was the dry season in Africa - struck with fury. We waited out the deluge under a palmetto-frond awning while sheets of rain emulsified the roadbed into a fine slurry. I had not driven in the rain here and was glad of it since I’d heard the roads were slippery when wet.
We left cover and strode to the truck to head home. I noticed that simply walking on that slick surface was difficult. My test had arrived.
I put it in four-wheel drive and inched forward. My tires spun - on flat ground. I stopped, yet even fully stopped slid perceptively. “Edwin, we can’t make that hill ahead,” referencing the slim ribbon clinging to the mountain, slanting slightly into the abyss. “Yes, we can. It has gravel in the mud.” He replied. I murmured a prayer, moved ahead, and much to my surprise the tires found purchase, then within several tense moments we had conquered the hill. Glory. The rest of the ride home was challenging but – given that I’m alive typing this – without significant incident. Oh, and the ‘guard rails’ on those mountain roads are made out of bamboo. Kid you not.
As for the bridges – usually comprised of sticks and hand-hewn logs bound together by rope – each one offered a jaw-clenching moment. Nothing says “We’ve got confidence in you and that bridge, boss!” than when the entire work crew exits the truck before crossing the bridge. They crossed on foot, rearranged the mishmash of scattered boards and limbs across the span, then stood on the other side, usually giving me conflicting hand signals (“This way! No, this way!”) I survived, of course, after a slow crossing, praying our return would be by a different route.
Next week: Blessed are the poor.
Jeff Weill is a senior status judge living in Jackson.
