The Wild of God

I awoke with the dawn and the sound of children giggling. My eyes peeled open. Several children peered through the door of my tent. My eyes met theirs, and they erupted in laughter and ran away. I crawled out to meet them. The day was young, and it was already quite warm. A swarm of children ran back down the path and stared at the strange sight. I looked around and saw two dozen bright yellow and red tents with shiny brand names glistening in the morning light. The sight even caught me off guard due to its ridiculous nature. Deep in the African bush, a tent city had appeared in the middle of the night like some Jack and the Beanstalk miracle. When we erected our tents in the dark, it did not seem strange. But the morning light showed how out of place we really were.
I snapped photos of the children as they posed. They wrestled for my attention and threw their thumbs up like hippie hitchhikers of old. They squealed with delight when I showed them the miniature photos on the camera’s digital screen. Their tiny hands reached out to touch the magical colorful display to see if it was real.
“Time to go!” Herb shouted. “The ferry will be open soon, and we need to get there early. We don’t want to wait in line all morning.”
I signaled to the children that we were leaving. They clutched at my clothing, and it pained me to tear myself from them. I returned to my tent and stuffed my sleeping bag into its diminutive sack. The tent city vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Curious onlookers peered from behind trees and bushes, gazing at the traveling gypsies as we vanished down the road.
Within an hour, we arrived at the mighty Zambezi River. The muddy brown water lazily drifted east. Shacks lined the banks on either side and were full of vendors selling cold Coca-Colas and hot bread for the lingering masses. Trucks waited in line for the barge that trudged from the north bank to the south bank like a dawdling game of Pong. We arrived early and did not wait long for our humble truck to chug its way up onto the barge’s steel ramp.
A ragged Mozambican flag fluttered in the wind as the ferry slowly traversed north across the powerful Zambezi waters. An array of African sediment churned and swirled in the rich waters beneath my feet. This great causeway, a vein giving life to a vast stretch of the African continent, began its own pilgrimage long ago. Monsoons cracked and laughed upon the earth thousands of miles away. The raindrops collected in the floodplains of Zambia and tumbled with smoking thunder over Victoria Falls. Sleepy from its heroic journey, it chugged silently on to the Indian Ocean.
At long last, our tired truck pulled through the humble gate of a World Vision relief center. For a meager price, we had clean beds and more goat than anyone could dream of eating. So for anyone who has given a dime to World Vision, I thank you. You are responsible for feeding more than a few hungry people.
“We are going out tonight.” Herb gathered us all together after we spent a day recuperating from our painfully long travels. “The fifty tons of food just came in.” Herb explained how we should expect events to unfold. A team of locals who worked at a nearby orphanage would help us distribute food. We were to bring a generator and a set of speakers to play music and attract as many people as possible.
“We are going to give them physical food and spiritual food. These people are truly desperate, and we can’t offer one without the other,” he said.
We loaded bag upon bag of “pop” onto the truck bed. Pop, a white, starchy powder that mixes with water and becomes like mashed potatoes, provides a humble meal. It is not very satisfying, but at least it is good enough to offer much-needed nutrition.
I sat upon the bags with my feet propped up on the side of the truck. People piled on top of the bags with me until the truck was full. Several volunteers from the village joined our operation. White powder puffed through the bags and covered my blue shorts. The truck bounced down a dirt road and over deep ruts formed by soaking rains and heavy vehicles from days past.
It is difficult to explain the deep spirituality of Africa, but I could feel it engulfing me. A fiery sunset exploded upon the horizon. Majestic wildlife roamed free as the wind upon the earth. The dramatic contrast of light and darkness in the soul of Africa itself was as palpable as ocean air.
We passed a gathering of grass huts in a clearing. Sticks woven together formed the skeletons for these hand-built homes. The land reeked of desperation. Poverty, sickness, and disaster had left their terrible stamp upon Mozambique. Herb signaled to the driver to pull over at the collection of shelters. Everyone jumped off the truck at once and began unloading the bags of food. The sun sank lower in the sky behind us and lit up the dried fields of grass and sugarcane. The generator chugged and hummed to life. Soon, scratchy music blared from the speakers. People peeked out of their shelters and gathered near. The sound traveled far, and all who heard came to see the commotion.
Many who came were weak from hunger; some were even on the brink of death. Most had not eaten in days; for some, it had been a week or even longer. The actual flood was months ago, and the government had grown lax in its food distribution. Those who remained in the camps had received little help in weeks. Yet still, despite the horrible conditions, the most simple and extraordinary thing happened. They danced.
Oh, the dancing! Their homes had been destroyed. Masses of people had been displaced from their familiar homeland. They lived among disease and starvation. In spite of it all, they maintained that spark of life—joy.