A Sunflowered Middle of Nowhere

Our most recent road trip to a training center in Lioma, about 2 hours past the beautiful tea producing mountain community of Gurué, left lots of time for introspection as these trips always do. Plus there’s always something new to see. This time, I thought a lot about how rural Africans interact with the road itself; why does an African cross the street? It could be to get water. Or maybe they simply forgot the street was there at all. Still unaccustomed to paved highways, people amble across slowly, without looking either way, or even sit in the middle of the road until they see a car – inevitably a white NGO truck – barreling toward them at speeds no amount of last minute brake-slamming could diminish enough to make a difference. A woman with 20 liters of water on her head steps into the road and panics when she sees us coming, genuinely shocked that a car is on the road at all. I grit my teeth and hope that she can maneuver out of the way in time. Eventually, I succumb to highway hypnosis and doze off, only to be jolted awake by a particularly severe brake slam and gasps from my colleagues (which only accompany the closest of calls), my eyes flashing open just in time to see a small child barely escape the crush of our tires. I didn’t sleep much after that.

Then we were in Gurué, indulging ourselves with seasonal avocados at 5 cents a pop before continuing on to Lioma through the sunflowers and towering eucalyptus trees, with thread-like branches of tinkly green leaves gently drooping and swaying around trunks in a constant state of molting. This is the only forest I have seen in Africa. When we finally arrive at the center, in a starry middle of nowhere, the electricity is out and the center has but 6 candles. There will be no bathing tonight. After preparing tuna salad in the dark, the light finally comes back but at this point we don’t miss it so much.

On the trip back, men with shovels are filling holes in the road. They see us coming and toss down their shovels to hold out their hands for an offering. Please, see the work we’ve done? There is no other work, so please pay us for making the road that much safer for you.

Then the black mamba passes in front of our car. So I spend the afternoon in terror as I crash through the bush behind a barefoot farmer who is taking me to see youth group plots. He steps lightly, quickly outpaces me, so I speed up to keep him in my sight. They’ve chosen remote areas, close to water so that vegetable production will be possible, and because this visit was last minute, I am wearing sandals. A bite from a mamba can kill a full grown adult within minutes. I calm myself by insisting that I there’s no use worrying about things out of my control. Mambas generally rest during the day and stay in trees anyway. So why did the mamba cross the street? So much long skinny green grass….and finally we’re in the clear, have arrived at the vegetable plot. And I try not to think about the fact that this is merely one leg of the many visits I have planned for this day.