The Boxing Day Adventure (Lafiabougou to Siby - almost) [2010]

On Boxing Day (Dec 26, 2010), my french friend Olivier Durand and I set out from Bamako (end of the "Marine House road") to Siby and the Natural Bridge by mountain bike.

The Natural Bridge in Siby
I never made it that day.

Rather than go on the goudron (paved road), we set out in the valley that goes past the statue of the warrior and on to Waspy Waterfalls. And then we just kept going straight on that road, which is a pretty poor dirt road for cars, but fine for bikes. The road eventually ends up at the waterfall behind the Natural Bridge and Siby and then goes on to the natural Bridge itself.


Here is our route: http://www.mapmyride.com/routes/view/26351874



We left at 8:10 a.m. and it was a nice chilly 22 C (72F). All went well as we passed the first waterfalls.

It began to heat up, especially in the sun.

Around about the 35 km mark, I got the first cramps in my thighs, in spite of having some electrolyte stuff in both my water bottle and camelback. I had some tangerines along and also some sesame seed bars.

We road on and Olivier supplied the occasional "coup de fouet" (literally: whiplash) which is a french brand of cycling energy gels.

It was a gradual climb but long for a total of 462 m gained in altitude (1515 feet). Once we got up on the ridge, we actually started moaning each time we went DOWN because we knew it just meant more going up.








By then the cramps were becoming more and more frequent and I had already drained the 3 liters of water I had brought with me. Olivier gave me a bit of his and we stopped in a village where a kind lady with 6 kids gave me some "mini-ji" (drinking water) from the container she had by her hut.




The ridge became more and more desolate. We passed a bush fire, which we HEARD before we actually saw. We thought there must be animals in the trees near us, but the sounds we heard were crackling from the fire. I made sure to say "No" to the bush fire, as the billboards here tell us ("Dites 'non' au feux de brousses"), but I don't think it helped.

Eventually there were no trees and little vegetation at all on the plain of flat volcanic rock and it was HOT. My bike thermometer read 43 and 44 C (111 F) but that was in the sun. The rocks were nicely radiating the heat as I realized when the leg cramps forced me to sit down.

I got my second wind around the 50 km mark, as we started to go down slightly and found some trees. We were nearing the (Siby) waterfall, but finally decided against turning off there, as we were already 1.5 hours late for meeting Olivier's family and driver at the Natural Bridge and I could not fathom going UP anymore.

By this time, we were both out of water. I straggled on, through the sand towards the village (Dyoula Fondo) we both knew was about 5 km from the Natural Bridge. I knew from the "Tabaski Challenge II" (June 2006?) that there was a well with a pump in this village. So I stopped there around 3:30 pm and Olivier went on to get the car and come back as I could go no further.

A girl from the village drew water from the well with her rubber bucket. I added some OMS oral rehydration salts" to it. The kids asked in Bambara if I was putting "Barakatigi" (laundry soap) into my water.

I greeted a woman in the courtyard next door and eventually noticed that she was holding her 2-3 year old in a strange way. his neck was bent way backward and he couldn't straighten it. Is he sick? "Yes, little Toumani Diakité has been like this for 3 months". I assumed it was Meningitis as there is an outbreak here. Had they taken him to the "doktoroso" (clinic) in Siby? No, they had no money. I asked if I could pray for him and did so and then gave them some money to go to the clinic. Not sure if he will make it, if 3 months have really passed.


View of the Natural Bridge in the distance from under my mango tree. The rock formations sticking up to the left of the ridge in the distance is where it is.

I went on a bit further and got more water from the pump this time, then outside the village I sat down under a mango tree to rest undisturbed by children until Olivier returned.



Resting under a mango tree, in the village of Dyoula Fondo, after cycling 65 km and
having my legs cramp up in a major way due to dehydrated. I waited here for Olivier
to come get my in the car and drank water from the village well!

It was almost 5 when he came. I was about to wonder if he hadn't gotten lost and try to go on myself, when he showed up with Muriel, his wife, and sandwiches. We headed straight down into Siby without stopping at the Natural Bridge and had some cokes and fruit at the campement before heading home to Bamako on the paved road. That only took 1 hour. . .



And this is what your legs look like after riding 65 km (39 miles) off-road. No idea why
one leg always gets dirty than the other!

Back to Bassam - The Shack

I've written before about the terrorist attack that I experienced at Grand Bassam in Côte d’Ivoire just over 18 months ago on March 13, 2016. I was with 2 friends at the beach when armed terrorists attacked. We hid in a an unfinished room by the beach for 2 hours, with heavy shooting outside before being rescued. 12 people including 2 soldiers and 2 terrorists lost their lives within 100 yards of where we were hiding.

 
The trauma was deep and the healing came slowly over the course of months. But I really thought I was past it all when I reached the one year anniversary this year.

Then 2 weeks ago I headed up to the small village of Todnauberg, Germany for a retreat in a beautiful setting with lots of trails for walking around a lovely mountain village. In the first session of the retreat, we did Lectio Divina on 1 Kings 19. This is a classic “retreat for tired people” passage. Elijah had his success with the prophets of Baal, then is threatened and runs for his life. Exhausted, God ministers to him with food and rest and then finally meets him in the cave with the “still, small voice”.

In Lectio, you listen to the passage, three times and ask God to speak to you. So I settled in to listen, and was struck in verse 3 when it said “Elijah was afraid and ran for his life." This jumped out at me in a way it never had before. I knew what it was like to have people wanting to kill me, to run and hide. This was the terror attacks at Bassam, March 13, 2016 - all over again.

I thought to myself, “Oh, I thought we were done with Bassam.”

I kept listening and focusing. In verse 7, the angel comes to Elijah and says, “Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.” God came to him to restore him and prepare him for the long journey yet ahead.

Elijah travels 40 days to Mount Sinai, where I guess he thought he could find God. God asks him what he is doing there and he replies,

“I have zealously served the Lord God Almighty. But the people of Israel have broken their covenant with you, torn down your altars, and killed every one of your prophets. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me, too.” (19:10 and :14)

I’d never picked up on it before, but it seemed there was a real tone of accusation against God. I zealously served you and now I’m the only one and they want to kill me. Why are you allowing this?

This rang very true to me and took me back to all the hard questions I wrestled with in the months after Grand Bassam:

• Where were you, God . . . . while all this was happening? Were you really there with us in our cave while the attack was happening outside . . . 300 bullets, 12 killed nearby?
• Was an angel standing in front of the door?
• Yes, you protected our lives, but we still experienced it. Why did you let this happen? Why didn’t you keep us away from the events that day? Like Elijah, “I served you faithfully, God.”

Next on the retreat schedule was a time of silence from noon to 6 pm. A nap was suggested if we were tired. When I laid down, I decided to read the passage again, starting out in the preceding passage, where Elijah confronts the prophets of Baal.

We had also read Ecclesiastes 3 that morning and I recalled the various times “to weep, to mourn, to keep silence” and the final verse (15) that says “that which is already has been and God seeks what has been driven away.”

God was seeking me just as he did with Elijah.

I slept from 12:30 until almost 3. And then got up and then got up to explore the trails around the valley. There is a high trail that circles the Todtnauberg “ski resort” valley. I followed it and eventually I sat on a bench and journaled most of what is above.

Then I got up to walk and pray. In my mind, the answers to the questions went back to the dream that I had back 3 months after Bassam - on June 6. I woke up from that dream with assurance that God had been there and that he was distressed and saddened by what happened to me. It was so clear at the time that I wrote the dream into a note on my phone.

So my first impulse was to pull out my phone and reread the dream.

As I walked, God said to me, “The dream is important, but we’re going to be back further. We’re going back there, back to Bassam.”
And He took me back there. I was walking on the trail in Todtnauberg, but also transported back to Bassam.

I've told the story of the attack now several times, three times in fairly great detail to large groups. It has become internalized and I can tell the facts fairly easily.

But this time, it became clear that we were not just revisiting the facts, but the FEELINGS, my FEARS. So I reviewed the film in my mind, and forced myself to linger, not just on the images and sounds, but to remember what I was feeling at each point.

I kept walking and could see the trail moving behind me and hear the crunch of the gravel, even see others ahead of me. I came to a bend that went down and decided to take it. It turned through a stand of trees and the lack of sunlight made it noticeably colder there - as we plunged into the cave of fears. Tears ran down my face and into my mouth - salty on my tongue.

Suddenly, I walked out of the woods into the warm sunlight and the memories were over over.

I tried to rush ahead in my mind to the dream, but God made me linger on the days following Bassam,

• Riding my bike the day afterwards across the bridge, my limbs sluggish and my body sore from being in fight or flight mode. And being glad to be alive.
• A few days later, riding again, and wondering “What if I never come back to life (emotionally) after this?” The attack was like a big rock in path that I could not see around.
• The debrief on a wednesday and then finally on the 4th day crying for the first time, sobbing when I learned that 2 had died in the pool near us.
• The beautiful Egg Ceremony
• Returning to Cameroon and regaining some semblance of normalcy.

By this point in my walk, I was nearing the road back to our lodging. I stopped at the Glocklehof Cafestube and had a nice piece of Black Forest cake and coffee, sitting out on the patio and enjoying the sunlight.

I found the Dream write-up on my phone and read it.

I had forgotten some of it, including the entire first section about my new job.

Part 2 was about God taking away my pain, pain that looked like rocks, that I was trying to put behind a wall. And suddenly in the dream, the rocks were gone.

Then part 3, where I saw the events happen, in a symbolic way, with a Watcher standing outside and watching what was going on - deeply saddened by it.

The note also had a quote from the book Failure to Scream: “The Trauma wounds your spirit. We need the Spirit to heal us.”
I got up from the cafe and went back to the retreat. That evening when I shared with our group, the leader asked me, how does this experience make you feel?

My response was, “like God loves me.”

I wrote in my journal, “God entered into the pain and fear of Bassan with me today!”

As I look back, it seemed very much like the book “The Shack” where God takes the main character to the site where his daughter was murdered and WALKS WITH HIM THROUGH IT.

All in all, it was a good day, but also very intense. Like I had had emotional surgery! I took the picture below the next morning as the sun rose over the valley!

Celebrating 200 years of the Bicycle!

This past weekend I went to the Dreiländermuseum (Musée des Trois Pays) in Lörrach, Germany for a special exhibit on the history of the Bicycle.

Did you know that the earliest form of the bicycle had its debut 200 years ago on June 12, 2017. Invented by Karl Drais in the city of Mannheim, about 250 km from where I live. The "Draisine" or "Vélocipède" (French), or Laufmaschine (German, literally: Running machine) had wooden wheels and no pedals.

Except for the wheels, it is basically the same design as the push bikes that children learn to ride on.

Karl chose a nice flat area to do his demonstration and managed to do 14 km (8.5 miles) in one hour.

Without pedals, though this really was quite a lot of work and it did not really take off for some time. 

The next leap in design came in the 1860s when pedals were attached directly to the front wheel. In order to get any efficiency without gears, you needed a really large wheel, which in turn made it quite hard to handle. 

Apparently there were clubs of gentlemen who would ride these around for fun, but they were not practical enough for everyday transport. 

In 1884, an Englishman invented the "bicyclette de sûreté" (Safety Bicyclette) pictured below. 

With the addition of rubber tires, a chain and pedals attached to the middle of the frame, we finally arrive at something similar to a modern "fixie" bicycle (only one speed). 

Note that this even has a bell and a light. It's hard to tell if the light was meant to hold a candle inside it or a lamp with a small gas reservoir). 

In the 1890s, bicycles came into mass production. Apparently there were bicycle clubs in this area of Germany dating back to the turn of the 20th century - and they are still going strong. 

Bicycles also began to be used in armies. Initially they were used for messaging, but eventually some countries had bicycle infantries. The bicycles below are quite literally "Swiss Army Bikes".  They apparently even had some sort of foldable bikes the soldiers would carry on their backs. 

With the arrival of WWI, bicycles came into the mainstream because fuel and vehicles were in short supply and this was the only way to get around. 

The widespread use of bicycles also brought social change. It meant that workers could live further away from the factories where they worked. And it provided a way for women to get around, once it became acceptable for them to ride bikes (around 1900). 

It was also interesting to note that during World War II, bicycles were used by resistance fighters to smuggle documents across the border from Basel, Switzerland into Weil am Rhein and Lörrach (on roads that I likely took today on my bicycle ride). They would hide the documents in the frames and inside the tires and inner tubes! 

There is much to the history of the bicycle - it's replacement by the automobile in the 1950s and resurgence in the 70's due to the energy crisis and more recently for health and environmental reasons! 

If you live in the Drieländereck, head over to this exhibit which is running through Sept 17, 2017 and celebrate this truly marvelous invention! (entry is €3)

Same, Same. . . . .But Different

A few weeks ago someone asked me what it was like to live somewhere where I blended in. After 21 years in Africa, now living in Germany, it's a good question. 

SAME, SAME
That got me to thinking. Up until I was eight, I lived in my home culture. A perfect one-to-one match where I was indistinguishable from those around me, both in the way I looked and the way I understood the world. 

Then my family moved overseas and we lived in various countries in the Middle East from 1973 to 1979. I also had a a year of boarding school in Ethiopia (5th grade) and India (9th grade). 

DIFFERENT
One of my memories from that time was going shopping in the big open market. I always knew I could find my parents easily because they really stood out from everyone else. And of course, I stood out as well. If I got lost, everyone would know who my parents were. 
Not so, when we came back to the US. There it was easy to lose your mom at the supermarket. 

When I was 30, I moved to Africa and lived there for 21 years, mostly in Mali.  
I stood out. Everywhere I went, children (but also adults) would remind me of the fact - in case I forgot - by yelling out Toubabou or better yet, "Toubabou, Toubabou! Toubabou de Toubabou". 

[Toubab is a word used across West Africa, but also seen as far away as India. One etymology is that it comes from the Arabic word Tabib, meaning doctor. In any case, it is used to refer to people of European descent, but does not actually include any element that refers to the color white] 

Having your differentness yelled out everywhere you went certainly DID get old. 

Now, if you live anywhere long enough, you can do things that move you from the camp of outsider to being an insider" 

• Learning the language goes a long way, especially when that language is NOT a language of power but a minority one. (See Language Learning and the Incarnation) 
• Wearing clothing that is appropriate to the context, including things in the local style. NOT wearing clothing that is deemed inappropriate. 
• Eating local food (and not gagging). 
• Taking a local name. This was important in Mali where I took on the name "Dawuda Tunkara" which opened doors to a specific language group. And allowed me to enter into all sorts of games and joking. Tunkara identified me as a "griot", a member of the minstrel/bard class who sing the praises of nobility, warriors, etc. 

• Oh how the Malians loved it when they told me, "If you're a Tunkara, you must be a djeli (griot)." And then I responded by asking them their name and singing a funny song about all the Coulibalys eating beans. The icing on the cake was asking them to give me a dollar afterwards. 

But even if you do all these things, you're still an outsider and will always do things that are funny, strange or even offensive without knowing it. I learned to not be too upset by it all. Try your best and realize you're always going to be something of an oddity. 

In Mali our status of Toubabou came with a level of deference, respect and preferential treatment which was automatic and not earned, and usually made me feel uncomfortable. There's no reason to let me go first when paying my electric bill, for example. Or to make me come up and sit at the front of church. 

I've been in other countries where I stood out and was not always received as kindly. I gone exploring on my bike and ended up in neighborhoods and had people tell me to go back to my part of town. 
I've had people get upset because they were sure I was taking their picture, when in reality I was checking my GPS map to figure out how to get back home. 

SAME, SAME but DIFFERENT* 

Same Same but Different is a very popular "T-shirt Meme" in Thailand

So this brings me to the summer of 2016 when I moved to Germany.  There's no doubt about it - I certainly blend in. I can go anywhere and people do not KNOW that I don't belong. As long as I don't open my mouth. Then they know I'm not German. 

But even when walking the streets, shopping, or attending events, you always have the nagging feeling that at any moment you might DO something that reveals that you are an outsider, that you have no place and then the gig will be up: 

• show up at the church potluck without your own plate, silverware and drink. 
• take forever at the kiosk where you buy bus tickets because you have no clue how it works. 
• cut your cheese with the wrong knife

Of course, people are generally very understanding, especially when they figure out you're a foreigner - but that depends on where you are from (sadly). 

SAME, SAME but DIFFERENT 2.0

These thoughts originally grew out of some facebook interactions. At the time one of my friends also pointed out that she felt this same fear of being discovered as a pretender when she returns to the US after 20+ years overseas. 

Sadly this is very true. After you do your time overseas, you head home and think you'll finally be able to blend in. Once someone takes you shopping for clothes that are in style, you can look the part, and sound the part in normal conversation. 

But then you go to a party or Sunday School class and realize that you really can't relate to the casual talk that is going on. You may not even know WHO or WHAT they are talking about. And the things you have to contribute are so foreign that most of the time you don't share them.  

Strangely you end up not fitting in either in your host country, or your own country. You become truly a "Third Culture" person. You only find yourself fitting in with other cross-cultural workers. And oddly enough, they don't even need to have served in the same area of the world you have. 

Recently, I talked with a Third-Culture Kid who is now back in his home country as a young adult. He said that even though he LOOKS and TALKS and SOUNDS like those around him, he does not FEEL like one. 

Same Same . . . . but Different. 

Tending the Vine

Last summer, I discovered the joy of cycling through the vineyards that are one valley over from where I live in Kandern, Germany. (Between Holzen and Tannenkirch).


In early September they started putting up netting over the vines to keep the birds off.

And then in late September and October came the harvest. The vines were loaded down with beautiful green grapes (and a few red ones). There were roadside grape vendors, and lots of local grapes at the grocery store. The Autumn festivals all boasted new wine. 

On my last few rides before winter set in, the vines were picked clean and then I did not see them until this week. After weeks of snow, on February 2, it got up to 55 and I decided to go on my first real bike ride of the spring. 

I rode through one set of vineyards and didn't notice anything. After all, there were no leaves. But then I went to the other side and there I saw people out working among the vines. And I realized they were pruning the vines in preparation for warmer weather and a new season of growth. 

I remembered a Bible Study my small group did several years back on John 15. 

John 15: 1 “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. 2 He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.

The study pointed out that it is the new growth that is cut off each year to allow more growth. And that it might be painful the things that are cut off. 

Here is the before picture. The vine (french: le cep) is the dark brown section going about half way up. And the Branches (french: les sarments) are the red parts in the upper half. 

What struck me this week was HOW much they cut off.
My inclination would be to cut off maybe half of last year's growth.
I was shocked to see that there was just one little branch left coming out of the vine.

Below you can see the untrimmed vines on the left. And the trimmed ones on the right, looking a lot like Charlie Brown's Christmas tree.



Seriously, you would think the vine would not grow at all with just ONE little branch to grow leaves. But then I remembered the verse. The growth comes because the branch is connected to the Vine which has roots going down and provides nutrients:

4. Remain in me, as I also remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.5 “I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.

Here is one last shot:

This is the finished work of pruning. See all that has been cut off from last year. We must not cling to our growth from last year, but allow ourselves to be pruned back.

And leave the rest to be gathered up, and thrown into the fire! (vs 6)

But

7) If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. 8 This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be my disciples.

Picture I took in 2012 in France, of a vine with new growth.