The Arusha Factor

On Monday afternoon, I finally swallowed the pill and ventured into town to visit the bank.  Ministry opportunities usually can motivate me to climb atop my 'motor beast' more so than the actual thrill of the ride.  Venturing into the city with it, though, is no thrill!  Actually, it is quite the opposite! 

I am not a motorcycle enthusiast; and, if it were not for ministry purposes, I wouldn't even own one.  I HAVE grown accustomed to the adventures I typically encounter seeing 'Africa' from the vantage point of a motorcycle, however.  But, I wasn't headed to the adventure-filled bush land of Africa on that day; on the contrary, I was headed into the overcrowded, under-organized city.   I groaned.  Nevertheless, I hopped on to my Honda 650, cranked it up, and headed out of the gate. 

When I got to the main road, it was as I expected it to be--packed full of buses, cars, motorcycles, bicycles, and pedestrians very precariously interwoven together on the road, sidewalks and ditches.  This year the city installed their first ever traffic lights which has really paid off in lowering the congestion and confusion by about 1% 

I praise the Lord, though, to have made it relatively quickly in to town and on to the bank where I found that the ominously long line to which I am accustomed was surprisingly short!  That was good news since I needed to make it back out of town again in a hurry if I were to make it to the Christian bookstore before it closed. 

Thus, I was on my way to buy some church songbooks so that I could carry them with me to Babati the next day for Pastor Munah.  He's one of our village pastors who has been pastoring in the same church for more than 30 years.  He had  requested them since they are sold for about $1.50 here in the city as opposed to about $2 in the village.  That 50 cent difference can be significant when you are talking about village life! 

Having successfully maneuvered the bike back outside the city limits made me somewhat 'giddy' at the prospect of pushing my bike passed second gear.  But the thrill was short lived in that I saw my turn approaching so I  turned my right blinker on and began slowing down.  By the time I reached the bottom of the hill I was going slow enough to make the turn off road so I glanced at my sight mirror and saw a car some ways behind me; but, I  knew that it would slow down because of seeing my blinker AND my brake lights...both of which were working fine.  Thus, I turned into the right lane...

Most people do not show motorcycles the same respect they would for a  much larger vehicle for some reason--even in the States.  But, in and around Arusha, it's even worse because most people don't follow would we would consider to be the simplest of 'road courtesy rules.'  I know that...and have to factor that in when driving...whether I'm on my bike or in my car.  But, sometimes, you can't factor in everything all the time! 

...I was immediately struck by a small SUV type vehicle attempting to pass me on the RIGHT--during my right hand turn!

More to come... 

There was Closure

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In his sober, semi-recovered state, this troubled youth was finally able to answer some important preliminary questions like his name, for example, which was, Mohammed, and where he's from--the village of Kiongozi...literally a kilometer from where I had found him on the road! He provided the nurse with a cell phone number for his mother thus she had called her to come and resume care of her son...then she called me...

I didn't recognize her number so I didn't respond...which prompted her to use one of her five free SMS's from the cell phone company...only...they are pre-set so that you can't personalize the message at all so it simply read "Please call me!" in both English and Swahili. Nevertheless, it didn't benefit me any because I still didn't know who had actually sent me the message. Finally she called me and tried to pack as much Swahili into three seconds as she could as to not waste money...only...I didn't understand any of it so I answered, "huh?" to which she retorted by repeating herself about three times faster...only...now she was a little annoyed because she had gone over her three second time limit.

We continued with this pattern for one more round until she finally just said that I should come to the hospital. I drove down the hill and entered the ward where the troubled but sober young man was recovering and found him surrounded by visitors with his mother sitting against the far wall. After greeting her I asked about any more details she might had discovered. She was somewhat vague. I felt as if I was getting in the way of others who wanted to come in and talk so I took that as my queue to return at a more opportune time...which I did...the next morning...and found him gone!

Feeling that I had somehow missed a perfect, God-ordained opportunity to share with the recovered young man the good news of salvation in Christ, I returned home.

The following week I was enjoying my morning devotions in my office when I heard someone announcing his arrival at our front gate. I came out and stood face to face with Mohammed who was wearing the clothes I had brought for him. Since I'm about 6 feet 5 inches tall and weight about 200 pounds, my clothes looked a little ungainly on his 5 feet 11 inch 135 pound frame. Nonetheless, there he stood staring me in the face. After about 3 seconds of growing accustomed to each other's appearances (he had barely seen me while in his right mind for more than a few moments) he bowed himself to the ground at my feet and began to weep while crying out words of gratitude. I was touched to see his level of appreciation; but, I also felt uncomfortable with the display, though I didn't let on lest he become embarrassed and less open to converse about the Gospel.

I invited him in to fellowship over a bottle of soda and to discuss what had happened on that day...then he relayed this story to me.

He had awakened early that morning and prepared himself to be gone all day looking for work. He knew that he wouldn't have another chance to eat until the next day, therefore, he asked his wife to prepare a meal for him before he left that morning of ugali, greens, and kachumbari. Ugali is a corn meal mush--very common--very tasteless; kachumbari is a cold salad mixture usually seasoned with salt and other spices. Mohammed said that as he ate the meal, he noticed that the kachumbari had a 'different taste'...but he was in a hurry so he neither inquired about it nor gave it a second thought. He left his house and walked up to the main road to follow it into the small town of Babati; but, as he reached the road he started feeling sick. He tried to continue but only made it a few steps before he collapsed in the middle of the road. He had no recollection of being dragged off the road...meeting me...being carried to the hospital...fighting the nurse who was inserting all kinds of tubes etc.

The 'other spice', he said, was the cattle dip capsules which his wife mixed into the kachumbari. The two pills would have been strong enough to dillute 100 gallons of water and dip 50 head of cattle! Evidently, she was tired of the day to day struggle of life and thus wanted to return home to her parents; but, divorce on such grounds is highly scorned and the hopes of her re-marrying into a better situation would be quite low. "Death by poisoning" seemed to be the wearied wife's only logical alternative...for her husband...not herself!

Mohammed finished the story by emphasizing that he had already met with the village leaders who advised him to forgive her and to not charge her for the crime. They told him that God had given him a great gift...a second chance at life!

On that note, I opened my Bible and began to show him that our Creator and Lord has similarly given to us a 'second chance at life.' We, like him, are dead in our trespasses and sins. Not only that, but we, like his wife, are guilty of crimes unspeakable against the very God who created us in His own image and likeness.

"The Lord's hand is not shortened that it CANNOT save, neither is His ear heavy that He CANNOT hear, but your iniquities have separated between you and your God." Isaiah 59:1-2 The word "separated" in the Swahili Bible applies to those who are 'dead' but it may also apply to those who are considered 'close to death' with no hope of recovery. (He could sense the relevance.)

But, because of the obedience of Jesus Christ (I continued), who knew neither sin nor guilt, to take the punishment of our sins upon Himself on the Cross...and...to conquered death itself through His resurrection, He now offers us Life Eternal. It is our second chance...our only hope!

After pausing for a reaction, he responded by agreeing with everything I had said. This is quite common for Tanzanians and I have grown accustomed to it. Disagreeing with an elder or anyone you respect is on the top of the list of cultural taboos. Having recognized this, I started to address some of the most common misconceptions among Muslims in Tanzania thinking that, left alone, he could never really accept the substitutionary death of Christ. Some common misconceptions are: the Bible has been re-written by Christians; Jesus, though a great prophet, is not the Son of God, He certainly did not die on the Cross, as well as a few others.

He admitted that he was struggling with these questions so I challenged him to come back another day so we can answer each one openly and honestly. I could tell he felt intimidated and vulnerable, and I, for one, do not like to 'take advantage' of people under those circumstances. Intimidation is not conviction...and...vulnerability is not sensitivity; so, I prayed for him then gave him a Bible to read. We said goodbye. He left.

About two weeks later he came back to visit me. We sat fellowshipping over another bottle of soda. He said that he had been visited by two different Christian pastors in his village--the one, a Pentecostal, the other, a Lutheran. Both women.

Women pastors in Tanzania truly is an enigma! It is, by and large, a male dominated society! Most men value women as they value their cattle. This opinion is augmented with the Islamic teaching commonly found here that women are not meant to think, but work. Nonetheless, he went on to tell me that the Lutheran pastor made more sense to him. Even though he still wasn't sure about converting to Christianity, if he did, he would do so by being baptized in the Lutheran church. He had already picked out a new name for himself--Emmanuel.

I asked him to explain what the pastor had taught him about how to be saved. He said that she told him that he had to be baptized to have his sins washed away. I rejoindered (while hiding my distress) that baptism can't wash away sin! A person can only be saved by putting his faith in Christ who took our sins upon Himself on the Cross. He was obviously confused by the opposing Christian worldviews...Unfortunatly, he needed to go. I asked him to visit me again so that I could clarify the meaning of salvation...and address more of his concerns He asked for the location of our nearest church. I told him that it was here in Babati--8 kilometers from his home. He thanked me and took a tract which I often use here entitled "The New Birth." We prayed. He said goodbye and left.

I never saw Mohammed again after that day. Who can tell if he stayed locked in the shackles of Islam, or if he traded those shackles for the chains of 'churchianity,' or if he received the New Birth and New Life found in Christ! Though disappointed myself, I knew that these had been my God-ordained opportunities to share the good news of Salvation in Christ. I was glad to have had a chance to 'plant' the seed of the Gospel on his first visit then to 'water' that seed on his second visit. I then left it in God's hands to bring the increase in His time. There was closure. I was at peace. I prayed that he would find peace.

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A couple of days later, I decided to go by the hospital to see if Mohammed/Emmanuel owed anything more on his hospital bill. The nurse called me a "Good Samaritan!" I didn't know how I felt about that...but I was glad to know that she was familiar with the story and hoped that it had more meaning to her now. She said that the balance had been paid by the elders from the young man's mosque. I thanked her for her time and left.

The next day, I climbed atop that motorcycle of mine and went barreling down the same long, hot, treacherously dusty road ...Bible 'in hand'...waiting to see what I might encounter along the way...by God's predetermination of course.

The Beginning of the End

So here I was just down the hill from our house at the Babati Hospital with a man  whom I've never met who was dying from a cause yet undetermined on the very morning I really didn't want to pull myself atop that 'electric donkey' of mine to anyway.  I left home early that morning in order to fulfill a discipleship engagement in the village of Mdori where I had been ministering 3 days a week.  Now, after only two hours time I had returned almost to my port of origin having been thrust out of my normal pattern of ministry into a 'way side' opportunity. 

After dismounting the bike and locking my helmet to the seat, I rushed over to help carry the poor man...but...he was already being carried.  I followed them into the examining room where the men from the car left him and said that he smelled like 'dip.' 

For those of you thinking 'Frito-Lay' or even 'Copenhagen' I should clarify by saying that 'dip' refers to the poison used on cows to kill fleas, ticks, tsetse flies, and other kinds of annoying pests which persecute cattle to no end.  The poison is usually sold in capsule form and then mixed in about 50 gallons of water.  The water is sometimes sprayed on the cattle; but, more typically they are herded through a dipping station where they are submerged...hence the name. 

The question is then begged--why does this poor sick man smell like cattle dip? 

Those who had carried him into the hospital quickly turned and left. I stayed behind to describe the situation as I discovered it and to relay a detailed account of my short conversation with the sick fellow to the nurse.  The nurse's preliminary astute analysis was that he was poisoned...and with the pungent aroma of cattle dip in the room, little more examination was necessary for validation.  The astute nurse then began asking him loud pointed questions like: "What is your name, young man? Where are you from? Who's trying to kill you? Are you trying to kill yourself?"  To which the only response she could elicit was: "Hospital!  Hospital!  I'm dying!  Take me to the Hospital!"

They immediately moved him to a ward where there was only one nurse on duty who then started inserting tubes into most every bodily opening he had.  Being understaffed, this was quite a battle so I stepped in to assist in holding him in various ways as he began to lose control of himself!  I fought to hold him...she fought to insert tubes...we finally prevailed as he settled into a forlorn mental state of helplessness! 

The dutiful nurse then asked who would be in charge of caring for the patient.  I had to confess to her that I had unfortunately skipped the normal social formalities which usually occur upon being introduced to a stranger and thus knew nothing about the poor, sick, young man.    The head nurse for the shift finally came in and as she and I talked we reached an understanding that I would be responsible for him until it could be determined who he was and from whence he came! 

From the hospital, I went back home to relax a few minutes, to get my bearings, and to talk to a Tanzanian friend of mine about what had happened.  We went together to bring him raw milk, as requested by the nursing staff, as well as a complete change of clothes.  We didn't think that he would survive the night, but we wanted to be prepared if he surprised us. 

Morning came and we returned to the hospital.  To our surprise, the young man had made it through the night!  I wanted a chance to talk to him about the Lord but at that moment he was under heavy sedation.  I told the nurse that she should inform me if he were to recover and be in any condition to receive visitors. 

Two days later they called...

"Are you drunk!?!"

That was my first question.  Not a good ice breaker, I know, but the normal formalities for which the Tanzanians are known seemed inappropriate in view of the circumstances. 

“Please help me…please take me to the hospital!”  was his panicked response. 

I couldn’t smell any type of alcohol on the helpless man laying in the ditch crying out for help.  It was puzzling.  My previous experiences of finding drunk people passed out in ditches didn’t match up with this one any way.  It was early morning and I usually find people in ditches in the early evening…occasionally in mid afternoon…but this would have been the first morning encounter…unless you count crazy people whom I have sometimes encountered sleeping in the street in town in the early morning.   But they usually haven’t bathed in forever and are wearing rags for clothes...like the guy who climbed into the back seat of my car in town a few weeks earlier and then had an ‘accident’ in the back seat when we tried to get him out.  No, this guy was dressed well enough…and clean.  He was also in his right mind for the moment although panic stricken.  The more I examined him, the more puzzled I become. 

Taking action seemed to be more relevant than to continue analyzing his puzzling state of  pain-stricken soberness so I ‘changed gears’ and started thinking of ways to get him to Babati.  I knew I couldn’t carry him on my motorcycle…he would fall off for sure!  At that moment, though, a bus leaving Babati full of passengers heading for the city of Arusha approached so I decided to stop it and ask for help.  They couldn’t help, of course, because how in the world would they get a forty foot long bus turned around on a winding dirt road which cuts through the African bush?  They did say, however, that the earlier bus had encountered him just an hour ago in the middle of the road and since they were at a loss of ideas on how to help him, they dragged him off to the side and left.  That would explain the drag marks I had seen which meant that he hadn’t been hit by a car. 

As the bus pulled away a car was coming FROM Arusha going TO Babati.  Hey, if they’re going in the right direction maybe THEY will stop!  They did stop but there was no room, of course.  I proffered for a volunteer to ride with me on the bike as to make room for the puzzling sick man, but they found my offer unappealing.  Many were interested in gazing at the man before moving on; but, up to that point, I had no luck in finding help.

Then…finally…another packed car stopped…and they made room for the man.  It took three of us to carry the ‘dead’ weight of the man to the front seat and lifted him inside.  Then they took off for the Babati hospital and I followed on my bike. 

“Should I just make sure he gets there and then be on my way?  Should I stay behind until he gets checked in?  Should I stick around to make sure that he’s taken care of properly?”  A thousand thoughts filled my mind!  I knew that patients relied on relatives and friends to feed and care for them while they were in the hospital.  There are no cafeteria services available.  I also knew that unless someone at the hospital recognized him upon arrival--no relative or friend would even know that he was missing!  What I also realized was that by the time we reached the hospital the man might even be unconscious…or worse!  That means that the hospital would look to me as a surrogate ‘friend.’ 

I followed them all the way back into town and then up to the hospital where I dismounted my bike and hurried up to the vehicle to help carry him inside.