...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…