Eleven people. Father with daughter. Mother with son. Two families, an eye-doctor and a nurse. God united us as a team to venture outside of comfort zones and time zones, to a village more than 7600 miles from home.
All from diverse backgrounds. Each with a unique, God-given life purpose. Sharing one aim: to love as Christ.
Uganda Mission Trip – 15 October, 2016
We arrived at the famous but indescript Entebbe International Airport at approximately 10pm local time. Fellow passengers, mission teams, aid workers and rogue adventure seekers, mixed with a few locals to form a haphazard line for yellow fever card inspection, followed by a series of security measures for customs approval.
Next, the monumental task of baggage claim. All 33 pieces.
As if sent by God to rescue our waning enthusiasm for this never-ending leg of travel, appeared a wide-eyed man smiling from ear to ear. He greeted each of us with a mammoth-sized hug that screamed “Welcome!” – a comforting familiarity in a sea of mysterious foreigners.
Shannon Hurley, founder of SOS Ministries in Uganda, was the face that connected the dots between Westfield, Indiana in the U.S. and here…Africa.
Though it was a relief to finally see the end of two back-to-back eight hour long flights, our journey to the slightly remote village of Kubamitwe was hardly over. We stepped outside amidst a few purposefully placed tropical plants, into the balmy air at what was now 11:30pm on a Sunday night. No parking garage. No bus shuttles. Simply a short walk across a parking area, struggling to push multiple carts loaded with a mish-mash of suitcases threatening to topple.
Shannon announced that he had driven a small vehicle that could hold four passengers and the rest of the group would board the mini-bus that several young African men had begun piling our suitcases into, through a side window. I wondered if it were indicative of a sketchy ride that loomed, when we formed a circle right there and prayed. Rather, praise for safe travels thus far was given – indeed, we were thankful.
Like a scene from an independent film, Caribbean-style music blared on the radio in the front where the driver and his friend held our fate, and the right-side steering wheel. Exhausted as we were, there would be no dozing, for me. With luggage piled high at the rear, we bounced along and away from the airport, wind in our faces through the open windows.
Into the night. Introducing a conglomeration of sights, smells and sounds one would imagine as part of a once-in-a-lifetime experience. An adventure. The interlude to our destination, to our mission. Godspeed.
Traffic lights and caution went out the window along with my peace. Our driver and his “assistant” talked without pause, hands gesturing wildly, while my ears strained to adjust to the accent and fluxation of their native tongue. Wishing the young man at the wheel would pay more attention to the way ahead, and through.
Through the crowded streets riddled with people walking, selling, risking life on motorbikes, dodging cargo and the occasional farm animal.
Back home in America, this night would look more like a deserted city, sidewalks rolled up as families would be snugly sleeping ahead of a busy Monday morning workday – only a handful of stragglers with business attire undone, returning from corporate seminars. But on the contrary, here, people were hustling and bustling as if unaware of the late hour. Music and neon lights in stark contrast to the rickety vendor stands lit with a small fire or hanging light bulb.
Familiar but not, the street food so eloquently depicted by Anthony Bourdain and Andrew Zimmern on the Travel Channel, cooking and displayed amidst open flames and mothers with babies strapped to their backs, so surreal (a word I would later use to bridge a gap with a new friend).
Quite shocking. Exhilarating, truth be told. Careening wildly into the unknown. Losing sight of Sir Shannon, who started out leading this train, carrying one family and leaving the rest of us to wonder if, and when, we would reach the village. We were at the mercy of this man whom lived a world away from Pleasantville and paved roads with stop signs and roundabouts.
And speed limits.
I wished he would slow down. And keep his eyes on the road littered with opposing cars and swaying trucks that whizzed by us so close we could’ve touched them with our fingers that tightly gripped the seat backs in front of us, void of seat belts that might save us from the impending head-on collision I imagined. Distinctive looking Isuzu trucks, whipping past on the wrong side, a sensation I found startling. And just as I thought we were traveling too fast, he pushed the pedal further, dirt flying, my heart racing.
An hour or so after passing through Kampala, we took a sudden turn off the main road, onto an even more rugged, loose red-dirt path lined with vegetation only visible by the lights of our two-vehicle caravan. Is this what “the jungle” looks like? Still motoring at a speed that seemed too dangerous without a clear view of where the road was leading, no view of what lies around the next curve. It was like a safari ride, dust billowing and following behind our vehicle. But at night. In the pitch dark.
And then a sign. Literally. SOS Ministries. Legacy Academy.
The wild growth cut back and tamed to reveal a gravel driveway. A concrete dwelling. Where’s the porch light? I can’t see anything beyond the interior lights of the van. Standing at the front porch, in the grass and something bites my leg. And her leg. And his leg. Ants. (In the daylight tomorrow, we discover their size – which explains the discomfort.)
We’ve arrived in Africa. There’s nothing more to see tonight. There are bunk beds in each of the four bedrooms, windows open to the sound of a million crickets and a slight breeze.
Is it even possible to sleep? Where am I?
Morning will tell.
…to be continued