"Its All Who You Know. . . ."

It was when the motorbike jerked and made a grinding sound like broken metal that I knew we were in trouble. David pulled the bike over and we climbed off. The red dirt road stretched between stunted trees both ways to the horizon, not a soul in sight. The equatorial sun overhead burned my scalp when I removed the helmet. Sweat sprung from every pore, sweat dripped down my ears and nose, sweat ran down my back and soaked my shirt. We were in the deep bush in the upper eastern region of Ghana, in the Konkomba area. Dad and Rev. Emmanuel Tito were long gone ahead of us, a tiny dust cloud on the horizon. It was obvious something was very wrong with the sprocket and chain. We were 20 miles from any sort of potential help. Part of me counted how much good water I had left and whispered ‘turn back,’ but a deeper part of me rose up like a lion in the grass. We were in the hands of God.


If there’s a theme for the last week and a half, it would be the old proverb, ‘it’s all who you know.’ We could not get a reliable vehicle to go upcountry and into the bush (not without spending a minimum of $800), so we decided to use our network of friends and trust in God. I mean, what do a little hunchback pastor with a perma-smile (Rev. Emmanuel Tito), creaky Mercedes Benz loading vans belching diesel smoke, a small boy with a wrench in a village in the middle of nowhere, children singing who composed their own songs based on Bible passages, and a young man baptized by Dad 27 years ago – what do all these have in common? Read on!


Dad says Ghana is at least three countries. First, there’s Accra the capital city on the coast that sucks everyone down from the interior regions into a haze of dust, diesel fumes, and heat. Millions and millions of people. Across the world, cities of developing nations continue to swell. Lack of city planning means that Accra’s greatest problems revolve around transportation, water (you have to buy water from trucks), and sewage (more on this later). Second, there’s the Kumasi area – Kumasi is the seat of power to the Ashanti tribe who were historically the most powerful in the old Gold Coast. The Ashanti language, Akan Twi, is the national ‘trade’ language and all goods from south and north pass through the Ashanti region. Third, there’s the ‘rest of the country’ that is relatively disregarded by the other two, but filled with folks with whom Dad spent a lot of time. It’s this ‘third country,’ with its underdeveloped roads, bush villages, and seeking people that drew in my father years ago. Now, as he disappeared from view over the next hill, I realized Dad was back in his element. He grew up around farmers and men of the land, and the pastor with whom he rode was a farmer. I thought to myself, “He’s not coming back!”


As David fiddled with his ancient motorbike (he had no tools), and I looked for shade, I thought back over the last few days. I thought of having dinner with ‘little Sammy,’ once a baby whose single mom was helped by mom and dad, now a thoughtful young teacher. I saw once again the big grin on Edward Ayariga’s face as he told Dad that he had received ‘The Small Animals Best Farmer in Ghana’ Award last year. Dad helped Edward get a good start as a farmer years ago. I thought of meeting Mr. Kunsi in Kintampo – the same Mr. Kunsi who had a tiny chemist shop in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere but now runs two in the large regional town. Mr. Kunsi proudly drove us in his car to the new site for the church building on the crown of the hill overlooking the market. A site from which he personally resisted and expelled a developer (who had dropped loads of sand and concrete blocks on the land). It’s a little like the Wild West here. And like the Wild West, anything worthwhile is worth fighting for, said Mr. Kunsi’s eyes as he told the story. I thought of seeing the old mission station where we used to live now being used as a school – a worthy transformation. You’ve heard this old proverb: ‘give a man a fish…. teach a man to fish…’ Our family is about the latter. On the long rides across this country, I’ve had much time to meditate on family mission. Ours continues to unfold. Does your family have one?


Vehicles in [and on] which we’ve ridden: we tried to get on a bus in Kumasi to the Brong Ahafo region 200 miles north, but the lines were so long that we ended up taking ‘local’ transportation. [interpretation: buses are ‘top of the line’ transportation, everything else falls underneath them, figuratively and literally]. This ‘local transportation’ happened to be the usual Benz loading van with passenger seats added. We sat in the back with the doors tied open around a huge set of baskets. Its these same Benz vans that litter the side of the road, burned out and smashed up from rolling multiple times. Interpretation: unstable at any speed over 55 kmp. It’s these same diesel Benz vans that belch smoke all over the country and if you’re stuck behind one, you get sick on the fumes. We said a prayer and got in. When we got out 4 hours later in Kintampo, we were covered in a layer of fine red dust. After that it was a little Nissan van to Tamale, another Benz van [the driver stopped to refill his radiator from a river] to Yendi, ‘uncle Bob’s’ Nissan 4x4 to Saboba and back to Yendi, two ancient motorbikes from Yendi to Nalongli and then all the way up to Gbintiri, a Toyota truck used as an ambulance for the Lutheran mission in the Konkomba area to Bunkpurugu, more motorbikes to Garu, a Nissan truck driven by ‘Father Dominick’ a local Anglican priest to Ziako, and a bus back to Kumasi. Phew. I won’t even start on the different beds on which we’ve slept. Why do it this way? Though poor in finances, after 22 years of life here, we are rich in relationships. In fact, I just said to dad, “I don’t know if people are going to get that our family experience is very different than most Anglos here.” He said, “Just tell them we invested in people, family by family, for 22 years, and we’re back doing it again.” Family mission. There you go.


A short divergence here to explain that behind the highlights are all the usual issues that go with living in a tropical equatorial region. Both dad and I have endured stomach cramps, tremendous humidity that threatens to drown you with every breath, sunshine that can fry your skin in a minute at high noon, dark toxic fumes in the major cities from traffic, venomous snakes, and bloodsucking bugs. However, this is ‘old school’ for us, and aside from this short paragraph, I hope to not speak of these things. In the tropics, you really only need speak of major sicknesses like malaria, hepatitis, typhoid fever, guinea worm and such. And, thank God, we have escaped these so far.


David and I climbed on the bike, and with it groaning beneath us, slowly rode forward. “Maybe there is a village nearby,” David said. My mind drifted back to two nights before with ‘uncle bob’ and ‘aunt jean’ – career medical missionaries in Saboba, far out in the Ghanaian bush. Filled with faith, they’ve been serving the poor in Ghana for more than two decades. Dr. Young (Aunt Jean), a surgeon, was in the midst of telling us a story about how typhoid fever is everywhere now (“people go to the cities where sanitation is very bad and bring it back”), and how immunizations don’t always work (“don’t eat anything from street sellers unless they’re pulling it out of the boiling water or oil”), and how it’s so much more painful than Malaria (“every hair on your head screams in pain”), when she was called to the ward to deal with, in her words, ‘reducing an umbilical hernia.’ The first Anglos we’d spent time with since arriving in Ghana, they treated us to guinea fowl noodle soup and crackers for dinner. Then, ice cream. Later, Aunt Jean returned with the simple statement, “umbilical hernia reduced.” A day in the life – or is it a life in a day? -- of a medical missionary.


The following day, Pastor Tito and his friend David picked us up on motorbikes in Yendi and we rode 15 miles out into the bush to his village. In the dark, with a single lantern glowing, Dad preached (“Lydia invited Jesus home with her after she was baptized; does Jesus come home with you?”) and human shadows sang and danced. The bed was bumpy and the room sweltered that night. We slept little. And today, I found myself tired, on someone else’s motorbike, looking for a wrench in the middle of nowhere. “Clint Kunze [a good friend and also the director of Shoshone Base Camp – Lutherhaven Ministries] would love this,” I thought, as the bike ground down and through a deep pothole filled with sand. “He’s a motorbike guy. He’d pull out a shoelace and tie this motorbike back together.” Then I thought, “Hmmm. He’s also really really white. He would be red as this sand.” Still, next time I come, maybe I’ll bring Clint.


The rest of the motorbike story is classic Ghana, classic Africa. We found a village. In the village, somewhere, there existed a boy with tools. We tracked him down eventually, and he tightened things up, and the motorbike ran like new. For three more miles. Then the grinding started. Again. Even worse than before. Dad made an executive decision. “We have to be in Bunkpurugu tonight (still at least 80 miles away) because people are expecting us. We will continue while you two find a proper mechanic.” So I climbed behind Dad and we took off on Rev. Tito’s bike.


As I write this, I’m sitting at the back of Dad’s seminary class here in Accra. The men are telling how they came into the faith. Phenomenal stories I might share at another time. But I’m smiling as I think of our last stop in the North, at the Kusasi village of Ziako. A young man, Pastor Cletus, our host, is standing on a hill overlooking the countryside with us. It’s just before Sunday worship, and down below us I can see people streaming over the hills and down the pathways in this dusty farmland (the rains have not come). These are worshippers from seven churches in the area, joining together. Too many people to meet in a building. Below us, they gather under three mighty trees. The drums begin, and the young girls start to sing. Pastor Cletus says, “These are words from the bible. The children and youth read the bible in their own language, Kusaal, regularly, and they write all these songs from passages that they find important.” Dad says, “I remember when we first met over there,” he points far away to the left past the Baobab tree and beyond a distant hill, “in 1983. We baptized over 150 people back then.” Pastor Cletus smiles, “You don’t recognize me? I’m one of the boys you baptized.”


I suppose, in a nutshell, this is why we’re back. It’s not really a trip to reminisce for us. It’s a family mission, and the mission is not finished. In Africa, when you travel to “greet” someone, what you’re really doing is much more. You acknowledge their humanity, you acknowledge that you are not independent from them; you acknowledge your need for them; and all are mutually encouraged by the ‘greeting.’ I, for one, returned from the Kusasi area impacted by the literacy shown by the young people. A powerful testament to having Good News in your heart language, but more than that, having good teachers who make sure you are released into making the Good News your own in song, dance, life. I am hopeful that the young Kusasi’s I saw singing and dancing will be able to share this deep appreciation for the Word, and how it’s released among them, with other young people in the Ghana church.


What is this all about anyway? After over two weeks here, I find myself wondering. If you’ve stuck with me to this point, you’re probably wondering the same. Dad is teaching the seminarians right now about St. Paul’s attitude towards his culture and God’s desires for his people in Rome. I wonder if we aren’t in similar times to Romans 2,000 years ago. We have a multitude of options to dissipate our desire for God. We have a multitude of ‘gods’ that drive us, receiving our time and worship. Many of these, like those of Rome, seem good for us and our children. What would St. Paul do (W.W.S.P.D.?!).


I know this: Africans are coming to the U.S. to share the Good News these days. Like the Roman roads, our skies carry passengers around the globe, and people go where they want. It took 10 hours to travel by big orange bus from Kumasi to Bawku, it took 10 ½ hours to travel by big delta airship from Portland to Amsterdam. What wind blew the ship that carried Paul? What wind blows mine and yours? “What marketing strategy is there for humbleness?” I heard Dad say just now to the men. Indeed. Every family has a choice, as we always have. Though ours has stumbled like any family, thank God, this particular family still trusts not in horses (or horsepower) or in the pyramid (schemes) of Egypt or the temples of Rome and all that the spirit of the age represents. The rewards are commensurate. People are eternal, living spirits, built to last forever. Sustainable in the purest sense. Our family mission: invest in people, the only resource that lasts. How about you?


PS. Many details of the trip remain uncovered. I’ve been filming short videos all along. It will be grainy and have poor sound quality, but stay tuned for the video recap of the trip once I’m around an editing program.


PPS. Many thanks to those of you who sent some financial gifts, you know who you are. Your family and ours are linked in thankfulness. Your kindness made it possible to make the trip North, and be a blessing in little ways to those in need.