...part II of the black, rubbish-trash bag adventure...

The next morning I awoke to the banging rhythm of African drums & the sound of chanting echoing from surrounding villages. My rest had been sweet & amazingly I had actually felt cool once in the night! A rare occasion in Africa! The cool feeling didn’t last long. As soon as I went outside our bungalow the hot African sun beat down on my skin & sweat started to pour off my brow. My three friends and I rendezvoused with a local fisherman who had agreed to ferry us across the lake to a tiny village on Lac Togo’s northern shore, in a wooden canoe/fishing boat.

Our canoe captain ferried us across the lake by standing in the back of the canoe while propelling us with one large stick-ore that he shoved off the shallow, lake bottom, in a perfect rhythmic fashion. Our captain’s muscles were huge, as would be expected from making multiple such trips in his lifetime. From across the lake, sticking out among the lush green vegetation, I could see a huge cross on what appeared to be an old historical church; I wondered if that was where we were headed. When we were in the middle of the lake, 30 minutes out from shore, but still far away from the other side of the lake, I determined the projected “30 minute” boat ride was going to be more like an hour & 30 minutes, but I didn’t mind. We didn’t have anywhere to go, except back to the ship and at that point in time, I wasn’t interested in getting on a hard bike seat again anytime soon.

Eventually, the canoe captain rowed our boat into the reeves and weeds on the shore of what we guessed to be our destination. I was excited for our next adventure. We walked across a rickety jetty and were greeted by locals hoping to get the job of being our tour guide. We had indeed reached our destination. The city was built up on a hill & we started to climb an old set of stairs that reminded me of ancient staircases from movies, like those that lead to the top of an Aztec Temple or something. At the top of the stairway/road there was a huge beautiful, ancient, German-built cathedral with a gigantic cross, the building I had seen from the middle of the lake. I hoped we would get the chance to see inside the cathedral.

After bartering for a fair price, we agreed to a tour. We also requested a shortened tour as our time was limited. Our English speaking guide weaved us through red-dirt colored, mud huts, through tiny alleys, around more mud huts, stopping us at town square of sorts. He reported that was where voodoo dances took place. He explained to us that the villagers would approach the voodoo idol (which looked like a large tree stump with mud on it, with seashells for eyes) and offer sacrifices of food, money, or items, to it wishing for protection, healing, safety on a journey, children, or the like.

We continued to walk through the village and our guide kept pointing out voodoo images. I hoped to learn about village life, the children, healthcare, or the village economics, but almost every other sentence out of our guide’s mouth referred to voodoo. As we traversed the city, I decided that I was on a “prayer walk” not a tour. I prayed for the people in that village & that they wouldn’t have to live lives of fear. We passed another huge voodoo idol. This one too looked like a large tree stump that had had its top rounded off to look like a blob or head with slumping shoulders. This idol had red stains dripping down it and a handful of obviously used knives sitting near it. Our guide explained that people could come and pray to the idol if someone was bothering them, they could stab the spirit in the idol to get rid of the person bothering them, or something like that. I didn’t really understand what he was saying; I just prayed that those knives would never physically be stabbed into someone. He also mentioned people were never to walk behind the idol because something bad would happen. I shut out what he was saying, but ached in my heart for those who live in such spiritual captivity. I wanted to walk right behind the idol just to show the idol held no power over me, but I determined it was better to just keep following the tour guide.

Next, we came to two majestic trees. Their roots were huge and stood out of the ground. The trees had to be hundreds of years old. Their roots were so big; I would have had to climb up and over them to get near the actual tree trunk. We were informed that the trees had spirits and were living gods as well. One could offer prayers and sacrifices to them too. Every part of the village that we walked through had some sort of voodoo or animistic theme. When we were on the way out of the labyrinth of mud huts, we passed a mud-shack that had screaming coming out of it. It was explained to us that we were outside of the voodoo convent and someone had just entered into it to appease the spirits. We were rounding the corner and almost near the cathedral when a man wearing just a sheet-skirt, walked out of the convent and in front of us. He was carrying a dead chicken. I saw blood coming from the chicken’s neck. In a ceremonial fashion, the man, possibly a voodoo priest, took the blood and smeared it on a stump then on two sides of a door, and then he went back into the convent. What I had just seen played out before my eyes reminded me of the Old Testament and Passover. I had no fear inside of me; instead the following phrase came rushing to my mind...a phrase I hadn’t thought about for a long time….a coincidence….I don’t think so….this is what came to my mind…Satan’s greatest issue is that he didn’t get to be God. He wanted more than anything to make himself like the Most High, he couldn’t be God, so he set out to counterfeit the actions of God. Therefore, anything God does, Satan tries to counterfeit. Something to ponder….

I was happy when we reached the main street of the village and when its gigantic cross was once again within my view. Our tour guide never once spoke about the cathedral in their town. It was huge, beautiful, majestic, but he never mentioned it. It makes me feel as if I imagined it, but I know it was there. We headed back toward the jetty, thanking our guide for the tour. We boarded our wooden fishing boat again and headed back to the other side of the lake. I looked over my shoulder one last time at the village, the only thing I could see was the old cross, on the historic cathedral, towering over the village…

As I peddled my last mile back toward Lomé, in the hot afternoon sun, I reflected on where I had just been. I realized that I had travelled way farther than 60 miles on a bike in a black-rubbish bag that weekend. I had travelled to the heart of the matter…to the central issue in life…Sobering…in our own lives & villages, if the truth of the cross is towering over us, we need to be careful not be blind or immune to it…

...part I of the black, rubbish-trash bag adventure...

The bright African sun that had been blazing down on the dock just moments before was rapidly being replaced by a dark cloud cover. The gentle breeze coming off the ocean started to pick up and with it came more grey-black clouds. The ominous appearance of the clouds suggested sheets of water would soon be dropping from the sky. There was a refreshing, tangible temperature drop in the air. I looked at the menacing sky wondering if my friends and I would have to cancel the adventure we had planned for the weekend. The four of us stood by our bicycles on the dock as a torrential rain burst forth from the heavens. We ran for cover under the dockside tents that double as a patient waiting area. We contemplated our next plan of action. We took a vote & determined that a little African rain storm would not spoil our planned adventure. One of my friends ran back inside the ship & returned with a handful of large, black, rubbish-trash bags for each of us. I quickly donned one and secured one over-around my back-pack. Other crew members stood on the gangway, laughing at us, reporting we were crazy, but wishing us well. We peddled out the port gate and my friend questioned if we were abusing God’s grace. I turned that question into a prayer & said, “God please give us your grace if we are being stupid.”



We peddled along people-packed dirt roads, through the market, through puddles, and out of Lomé toward Lac Togo (Lake Togo), our weekend destination, a mere 27 kilometers away. We splashed along through puddle after puddle, mud sloshing up all over our legs & bodies. I continued to cycle along, taking in all the sights & sounds around me. I took a deep breath & smiled, I was home again, in Africa!


We rode kilometer after kilometer, sometimes side-by-side, sometimes single file. We thanked God for the rainfall and cooler air that made the ride pleasantly easier than we had anticipated. We passed little stores, grass-mud huts, hotels, wood-working stands, restaurants, goats running through the streets, naked children bathing, women & children working in fields, the beach, women washing clothing in mud puddles; we passed the beauty of God’s creation.


As I peddled along I had the chance to practice a few of my French phrases as it is customary & entirely rude if one does not greet those they pass on the street. Kilometer after kilometer I said, “Bonjour (good-morning), Bonjour, Comment çe va (how are you)? Bonjour Madame…Bonjour Monsieur… Bonjour…Comment çe va?...” I just kept smiling, peddling, and greeting all those we passed. I laughed as some little; toothless, old men on the side of the road clapped & cheered my friends and me on. I prayed for those going really fast on motorcycles who were so intrigued with four white people riding bikes in the bush that they forgot to watch the road, and instead would stare backward at us until we were out of sight, a dangerous activity with cars coming toward them from the other direction!


I did my best to wave at all the little dark skinned, kids on the side of the road as they jumped up and down singing what we have come to call the “Yovo song”…A little chant that echoes throughout the streets of Togo anywhere a white person is seen. I was amazed at the fact that just when I thought no one was around, out of a field or abandoned looking house-shack-hut, I would hear “Yovo, Yovo, bonsoir, çe va? çe va bien merci! Yovo, Yovo, bonsoir, çe va? çe va bien merci! (White person, white person, afternoon! How are you? I’m fine, thank-you!) Many times I couldn’t even see the little singer, but could only hear the precious, endearing, song!


Early afternoon- we finally reached our destination; Lac Togo & some little bungalows we had hoped to stay at over night. We dropped our back-packs off in our rooms, checked out the lake (contemplating jumping in, but not certain of its “hidden treasures” possible parasites that unleash havoc on one’s body after they secretly burrow in your skin), ate the sandwiches we had packed for lunch, and then chatted about our plan for the rest of the day. It was decided that we hadn’t had enough bike riding for the day, so we headed out on the road again. We decided we would see where we ended up. One destination could have been the Benin border, but we determined we would listen to our muscles and then go from there.


Out on the road again, we passed the little town of Agbodrafo and some other towns with names I could never pronounce & that don’t show up on any maps. It was getting late in the afternoon & we concluded we should find somewhere to get a coke & turn back. We didn’t want to be out on the road in the dark, even though my African friends joke with me, saying, “you glow in the dark” because of my skin color. I didn’t trust my skin color to be my safety reflectors.


We stopped in Aného, the old 19th century, colonial capital of Togo. This city was once a Portuguese slave-trade port. All that remains of its grand history are crumbling buildings that barely show how incredible the city once was. We found a hotel on the beach & enjoyed a coke with the sound of waves crashing against the shore in the background. After our brief break, we mounted our bikes once again to return to Lac Togo. We enjoyed a lovely super back at our beach bungalow, drenched ourselves in mosquito spray, & crashed in bed after making sure our room was cockroach free.

Stay tuned for Part II of this adventure!

The little girl in the yellow dress...

Pray for the little girl in the yellow dress.  She needs an orthopedic surgery.  We won't be
doing any ortho this outreach because we are only in Togo for a few months &
bone surgeries take too long to heal. 
We had to tell this precious little girl's mother & many others that we couldn't help them...
...Heart- breaking...

bed...now

I'm alive...tired....left ship at 0400hrs returned dirty, stinky, sweaty, & sun-kissed at 1830 hrs.....the only way to describe the day...amazing & incredible...there was a sense of heavenly peace surrounding the entire stadium/screening process...no trouble...estimations are that over 3500 patients flowed through our screening lines...scheduled as many as possible... pray for all those we were unable to help (there are always more "no" patients than "yes" patients)...bed...now...