Dear friends,
I
hope you are all well! Many greetings from all of us here in
Recently
an American friend has come to visit. He plans to spend much of his sabbatical
with us (Oct. to May). Watching his fascination with things African, I can see
how I have grown so accustomed to life here. Things that really startle, amaze
or confuse him, I hardly notice any more. I guess that means I am settling in
somehow. That is fine, but it makes it more difficult to find material for a
really good travelogue! But I shall try.
Today
I would like to share two travel stories which taken together reenforce the same point. See if you can guess what it is!
The first incident happened during my long summer journey. One day we were in Shinyanga, a good size city with which I was totally
unfamiliar. My “attaché” George and I went to the bus stand at city
center to catch a lift to his home place, the
Then
slowly something really strange began to happen. One by one, without a word,
the other passengers began getting up, collecting their luggage, and leaving
the bus. Soon I was the only one left sitting in this big bus. The man who sold
the tickets was still there in the front, smiling at me reassuringly from time
to time. But I was stumped. What was happening? Suddenly, the bus driver
arrived and the engine gunned into action. “No problem,” I thought,
until the bus began actually to move. “No problem, maybe we are just
repositioning ourselves,” I thought. But no, the bus got under way,
completely empty except for me and the driver. As we were pulling out I could
just glimpse George (a good head taller than most people) staring at the bus in
disbelief. But what could we do? We were launched, on the way, but where?
As
there was no one to ask, I just sat back and tried to take in the
scenery--landmarks--so that maybe, somehow, if necessary I could someday find
my way back to the bus stand. First I thought we would just circle the block
and return to the stand. But no. The driver took a
road that seemed headed for the country. We drove in silence past schools,
businesses, and fields. After about 10 minutes I knew I would never be able to
find my way back alone, and I had neglected to bring bread crumbs to drop along
the way (something that I recall didn’t even work for Hansel and Gretel).
Just as I was about to give up all hope, the bus made a sharp turn and came to
a stop in front of a metal gate leading to some kind of enclosure. The gate
opened and we entered a repair yard of some kind full of dead and dying buses
(plus of course some goats and cows, and may young men
in different postures of idleness). Aha! Something wrong with the bus, I
surmised. But what? Would it be a short fix or a long
one?
As
it turned out the problem was not really mechanical. A strut supporting the
seat across the aisle from me had snapped and needed welding. So pretty soon,
through the window, came the torches and all the other paraphernalia of the
metal workers’ trade. Needless to say, the workers were as surprised to
see me as I was to see them. But no problem! In 20 minutes or so we were all
repaired and on our way back out the main gate, driving past fields and houses,
and schools back into city center and to the bus stand (or so I hoped). Soon I
was happy to find myself back in familiar territory, but not half as happy as George
was to see me! It would have been very difficult for him to explain to the
community how he lost his formator and superior so
near his hometown and in broad daylight!
The
second travel story concerns an old Capuchin priest (mid-eighties)--a Swiss
missionary who worked in
In
the meantime, I had noticed that the bus had never turned off its engine...an
ambiguous sign, but something worth noting. Feeling a bit uneasy I counseled
Fran, the sabbatical friend, to stay with me close to the door of the bus,
figuring that if the door moved the bus would most likely go along with it, and
that the best way back into the bus would be through that very door. No sooner
did I say this, than two things happened: the old priest, far out of earshot, turned a corner and
disappear into the market, and at that very moment the bus began to move. Fran
and I quickly boarded the bus as it lurched forward, and I began trying to
explain to the conductor that the old man, the “Mzee,”
was not aboard. But every time I started my explanation about the “Mzee,” the man cut me off, and said (in Kiswahili)
“Sure, Mzee, you just get in and find your
seat, everything will be fine.” Again I would say... “But the Mzee...” But the conductor would just reassure me,
“Yes, Mzee, you just sit down.” So no problem. So I just sat.
About
3 kilometers out of town as we began climbing the mountain, the passengers
sitting around us began to fidget. They had noticed that the old man’s
luggage was still on board but there was no mzee to
be seen. So they asked me, “Where is your mzee?
What have you done with him?” All I could say was, “He is
missing...completely.” At first they were upset and informed the
conductor. But what to do? There was no turning back
on this narrow mountain road, so we just drove on in resigned but relaxed
silence.
Now
what to do? The old man was separated from us and from his luggage. Of course
he knew Swahili better than most of the natives, and I was somehow sure he had
been lost before and would know how to take care of himself..
But I had never lost an 80 year-old man from a bus in
45
minutes and one warn Sprite later, a minivan struggled into the market place. I
ran to greet it and after about 20 people had unpacked themselves, there in the
back I saw the old man. He was happy to see me. And as I handed him his bag, he
smiled affectionately, the way old people smile who are comfortable with being
old, and called me his guardian angel. Soon a new wave of passengers crushed
themselves back into the minivan, the old man was lost to sight, and soon the
car was gone. Quiet settled over the market and Fran and I continued on our
way.
Two
travel stories. Everything turned out just fine in both. But I wonder how
things would have gone if I had pushed the panic button... a very American
thing to do. “Stop the world, something is wrong!” Here in
So
that is something from here. I was hoping to write a Christmas reflection, but
this is what came out instead. No problem. In any case I sincerely wish all of you
and all of those you love and very happy holiday season. Maybe the Christmas
reflection to add as a footnote is that Jesus came into the world, into time,
into our life, not to completely overturn and readjust it, but to teach us to
trust more fully his Heavenly Father, the author of time and the giver of life.
Surrendering to life and to time, surrendering in faith, hope and love, without
giving up, this seems to me the great challenge of human life. This is what
Jesus came to empower us to do with our lives, as he did with his. And I am finding that
Knowing
that many of your thoughts this Christmas season may be turned to helping the
poor and those in great need, let me remind you that these very people come to
my door every day. Some I can help, many I cannot. Much depends on what I have
to share with them. Any help you can give me, I promise to use as wisely and
compassionately as I can to assist them in their struggles in life. You can
still send anything you like to me safely through Fr. Dan’s Project Fund,
c/o Fr. Eric, SDS,
Fr.
Dan