the best way to travel around the bush of nigeria is to use a "machine," a motorcycle. the missionaries, when they arrive in country, receive a pretty sweet dirt bike. this machine was MADE for the bush. it can cross rivers, shimy up hills, and challenge some of the deepest pits of mud. so, while we were there, brett and i had many motorcycle adventures. we would borrow one of the missionary's machines and take off towards the horizon. b/c i don't know how to control a motorcycle i would always ride on the back of brett's. on our first ride i was so scared that i wouldn't let brett speed up past a putt-putt. yeah, that never really changed either.
on our rides we would see the most amazing things--small gatherings of huts, huge expanses of sky, women balancing all their belongings on their heads while breastfeeding their little one. children would run after us yelling, "Bature!" White people! Can you imagine if that happened here? what would happen if i started chasing down black people yelling, "Black person!" probably nothing good. but we didn't mind. it was definately a term of endearment there.
one day brett and i took a ride out to a distant field. many of the village men were working the same field that day. this is called an "ibana." eveyone works in one person's field to clear away the weeds. it's too big a job for just one man. and all the men expect the same help when they need it. we had heard that the men will sometimes play a drum while they work, to keep up their spirits in the hot blazing sun. i wanted to see it. brett wanted to film it. so off we went. a man had tried to show brett the way. but how do you keep track of directions in the bush? left at the fork in the path, right at the bush with one broken branch, when you see the big tree head straight for it. these were the directions we were working with. we got lost. but after about an hour of searching and passing the same fork in the path, we finally found the field. the men were not playing a drum, but they seemed to be working to some inner beat that moved them all in the same sort of swaying rhythm. it was beautiful. they were very curious to see what brett was doing with his camera. when they saw their own pictures, some of them just couldn't stop smiling. that was a good ride.
we had many great rides...all adventures. but one in particular sticks out in my mind. it happened the day that our missionary friend took us out to see his old village. it was one of the most remote villages where World Missions sent missionaries. he had lived there for years -- alone. he said those were some of the hardest years of his life. he wanted to show us his house. so, we borrowed the nigerian pastor's NEW machine. he was a friend of the missionary and would probably never say no to him. but we could tell it was difficult for him to give up his new bike. to top it off...brett and i were the ones having to ride this bike. there is a big difference b/w a nigerian machine and a missionary machine. the missionary machine has thick tires. they are built for dirt paths. the nigerian machine looks more like a moped. skinny tires. the nigerians ride them flawlessly, weaving in and out of bushes, into and out of rivers, always arriving safely back home. but we white people are not as skilled. especially when you stick TWO white people on the same machine. brett and i climbed on that bike and our knees were practically touching our chins. we looked like the characters straight out of the movie "dumb and dumber." but we were good sports...so off we went. the missionary, on his dirt bike, flew ahead of us. we tried to keep up but couldn't. we were left only to follow his dust and the tracks he left in the dirt. once in awhile we would catch a glimpse of his gleaming white helmet off in the distance. but we could never catch up to it. through every river we would stall. through every pit of mud we would spin out and get stuck. we never made it up a hill without having to push the bike. it was a rough ride. after about an hour we caught up with the missionary who had stopped to wait for us. we pulled up along side of him, thankful for the small rest. that is when he handed me the rocks. he had a handful of rocks he had collected and he dumped them into my hands. "these are for the dogs," he said. then he took off...
"the dogs?" I said. great. just great. i climbed back onto the bike and prayed to God that he would give me good aim! we took off and could hear dogs barking in the distance. we had to cross a large open field that was soupy from the afternoon rain. we stalled right in the middle of that field, sunk in mud up to our knees. i knew that we were gonners. i pleaded with brett to get the bike started. he ferociously kicked at the kick-start. it seemed like forever before we heard the soft purr of the engine starting up. we pushed ourselves out of the mud and continued on. no dogs. we went through a small village surrounded by their tall growing guinea corn. we could hear the dogs making their way through the stalks. i tucked my feet up a little closer to my body, grasping those rocks, ready to take a shot. then, we were there. we had arrived at our destination...never seeing one dog.
we had a lovely time in that village. we met some wonderful people. we ate day-old guinea corn. we crossed a river in a leaky canoe. we let kids try on our helmets. but then, alas, it was time to go. i rode home the same way i came-- with my knees tucked up under my chin, clutching sweaty rocks. -SN
