This month I’m sharing stories from my own journeys (read my story from last week about London here). This one comes from my time in Uganda, and while I’d ordinarily file stories from this season under the category of “Missional Pilgrimage,” I’m going to leave this particular story – or misadventure, as I’m calling it – out. It’s simply a fun story brought about by the circumstances of travel – something faced by pilgrims and tourists alike. But it’s the pilgrim who always has God in mind and can draw meaning out of any circumstance, even ones that seem to oppose our original perception of the Sacred.
Read on…
On the main road going through our village.
(From left to right: me, Ruth, Lizzie, and Abby.)
We had been living in rural Uganda for three months. We were working with a local missionary family and had been looking forward to a vacation filled with rest, good food, game drives, beach lounging, and above all running water (it’s the little things that count, right?). My gap year team and I were spending two weeks in Kenya – one week on safari and the next near Mombasa on the Indian Ocean.
Of course, we had to get there first, and little did we know that our much-awaited vacation would be filled with story-grade misadventures from the start.
We decided to travel to Nairobi by bus to save money, though I’m not sure it was the option that would save lives – the first few hours on the bus were strangely akin to a wooden roller coaster that had a knack for getting off track (our train from Nairobi to Mombasa did go off track, but that’s a misadventure for another time). We were granted a break from the ride at the Uganda-Kenya border, or so we thought.
However, while waiting for our visas to be processed, my team and I realized we had left behind the golden ticket that gets you into any African nation: our Yellow Fever vaccination records. With our new visas being stamped and the clocks ticking (it seems Africans are laid back about everything but transport), We concluded that we had only one option: avoid the Yellow Fever-checker-man at all costs.
I would like to term this stunt “sneaking into the country” for theatrical purposes, though I do wish to clarify to all that we entered Kenya that day in a “glass half full” sort of way and sometimes that’s all you can ask for, really. (Truth be told, we bought our visas, got our passports stamped, and had previously received all of the required vaccinations. For all we know, the only thing the Yellow Fever-checker-man might have done was to give us another Yellow Fever shot right then and there, but who wants to do that again? Also, he didn’t look so forgiving.)
And so, with the Yellow Fever-checker-man continuously peering around the corner for new prospects, we had to quickly devise a plan. The answer lay in the restrooms across from the visa office that were blocked by semi trucks parked on the path that led to freedom – a path that could not be seen by the enemy.
Abby and Ruth were the first to go, followed by Lizzie, and I was left behind for a solo mission because my visa was not yet finished. It was then that God invited me to come out and play, for as my name was called to come and collect my passport, the semi-truck meant to block my exit (or rather, entry) began pulling forward, blocking the clear path to the restrooms that I had been memorizing for the past ten minutes. In a moment of sheer determination accompanied by an ounce of recklessness inspired only by Jason Bourne, I briskly walked (which I’m sure was looking rather suspicious by this point) around the front of the moving truck, arriving at the restrooms.
It was there that I was stopped – not by the Yellow-Fever-checker-man but by the ever-present toilet cashier, who charges you to use the toilets even though he never gets around to cleaning them (this being the same ever-present toilet cashier who was now in plain sight of the Yellow-Fever-checker-man, leaning back in his chair scanning the area for his next victim – or more accurately, missing one).
At this point my wallet was in the bottom of my bag and lacking in Kenyan change. After what seemed like the longest two seconds of my life spent in a sweaty panic searching the contents of my backpack, the gracious toilet cashier allowed me to go on, and I hurried in praising God for those latrines that pose as toilets and the salvation that they brought at that moment.
After a few moments of regrouping in the safety of my new-found sanctuary, I slowly peeked around the door to see if the coast was clear, as any clever sleuth or criminal would do. I then briskly made my way down the original path leading to freedom, so elated with my adventure that I forgot that I would now need to figure out how I was planning to get back into Uganda without my Yellow Fever vaccination record. Thankfully I could figure that out over the next two weeks while lying in the sun or while sitting (not squatting!) on that blessed, porcelain, water-pumping toilet. No wonder some call it a throne.
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When I shared this story with those at home through my blog at the time, it seems my reported misadventures caused quite a stir. Considering God as my co-conspirator in this endeavor seemed inconsistent to some readers’ perspective of God. To me their reaction seemed a bit closed-minded, as if they served a God with a gavel rather than the creator of the universe who made horses that have stripes (which just so happened to dot the Kenyan landscape like cows as I looked out my rickety-bus window).
Had I skipped across the border just because I felt entitled I would have understood their reaction (and would have likely had the same). But considering that the only perceived alternative was to be denied access to Kenya, therefore being left at the Uganda-Kenya border without ride or possessions, the events that occurred seemed to be the safest decision. Thankfully, the safest decisions don’t always have to be the dullest ones, and God knows that more than any of us beings who live in a world which often tries to stifle our imaginations.
And so, when issues arise, I like to refer to that creative Sacred Guide, and hope that the outcome is an invitation to turn a sticky situation into a moment of Divine co-play.
GO FURTHER…
What have been some of your misadventures with the Divine?