The Joy is in the Journey

An unanswered ringing on the other end of a telephone line in Zimbabwe, from an office you know is open and staffed, may mean only one of two things. Either thieves have stolen the telephone lines again, or there is no electricity to power the phones. In either case it means it could be days, or even months before the phones work again. If the need to call was urgent, it definitely means a long, three hour, bone jolting journey (each way!) down a cratered road that would put a military equipped Humvee through its paces.

Such was my lot recently when I urgently needed a letter from Sanyati Baptist Hospital requesting the renewal of the work permit for the hospital’s long-term volunteer doctor. On days like this, most certainly the only joy would have to come from the journey, not from the drive.

This particular drive started at 6:30am, on a beautiful African day. With petrol now in good supply, the myriads of vehicles, that at one time had disappeared from the roads due to the absence of fuel, have now reappeared. Even though it is early and the traffic is not yet at its peak in the bustling capital city, one must be ever on guard. Red robots (stoplights) are only a suggestion, and if one turns on his emergency flashers, all rules of the road are suspended--- or so many drivers think.

Having first been buoyed by the beautiful day, I was quickly brought back to reality by a “near miss” in which I most certainly had the green light. I certainly could not afford to be complacent until I was further out into the rural areas.

As the city buildings faded in the rear-view mirror, the jangled nerves began to calm down and the beauty of the brilliant green, rain washed, elephant grass and newly fattened cattle grazing along the roadside lent an aura of peace and contentment in this tortured land. Songs of praise to the Lord filled my head and heart as I “pot-hole dodged” down the main road.

If my timing was right, about an hour and a half into the drive some joy would be added to the journey by a short stop at a “Take-away” where I knew they prepared tasty samoosas. (a triangular shaped Asian origin fried pastry filled with curried meat) Unfortunately, I was a bit too early and they only snack available for a bite of breakfast was a meat pie and coke.

Anything can happen on one of these journeys, and as I got back into the vehicle a fairly well dressed man began to beg for a short ride. His story seemed plausible enough (his truck was broken down and he only needed to go about 10 kilometers (6.2 miles) to get help from where he worked at a local gold mine. Being somewhat inebriated by the beautiful morning and my time alone singing to the Lord, I agreed. It didn’t take too long to learn the real intent of his “need” for a lift. There was a police roadblock just at the edge of town that he needed to get through, and he needed a buyer for the “goods” he had secreted in his pocket.

Recently gold had been found in the town and it was near enough the surface that panners could recover it just like what you read about in the U.S. gold rush days. Either he or his friends had been doing just that. Obviously a white man, with unlimited money, would be unable to resist such a good buy that he could offer. “Did I know anyone who was in the market for what a man working for a mine like him could offer?” Of course I had to let him know that I was not a “business man” and really had no clue as to who would be in the market for what he could offer. He countered that possibly I would be in the market. This was my opportunity to “sell” him what I had to offer. I didn’t need any gold, or know anyone who did, but because of a relationship to Jesus that began a number of years ago, I know that someday I will walk on streets paved with gold. I didn’t need any now because of what I will have then. Anyone who knows Jesus as his savior can live life with a peace that passes our present understanding right now. His response to my comments let me know very quickly that his interests lay more in what part of that “heavenly asphalt” he could sell me right now. Perhaps if he pulled out the little plastic pouch wrapped in a rubber band, and a melted nugget the size of a 50¢ piece I would be enticed into being a client. With it obvious that I was not a client, and that we were passed the police roadblock where he and his goods might be sniffed out, so we had now reached his destination. There was nothing but deserted bush where we stopped. In one last ditch effort he enquired if I would give him a dollar for airtime for his phone.

The morning was still beautiful, my voice was still like George Beverly Shea in the closed vehicle, so the journey continued. It wasn’t too long before the pot-hole dodging became a search for any piece of pavement that would give my battered teeth a rest. Ever the entrepreneurs, young men and even some women, were tamping “African Asphalt” (damp mud mixed with gravel) into the potholes and asking for “donations” with their upturned, outstretched hands. Some had even printed signs on cardboard that said, “Volunteer Labour, Donations Please”.

After arriving at the hospital on a drive that was already sure to end with visit and donation to my local chiropractor, I learned that the electricity had been gone since early in the morning. The computers and printers were out of commission until it returned. I also needed to note that the hospital doctor that must sign the letter for the TEP renewal had disappeared from the hospital. No one was sure exactly where he was or when he would return ---possibly an hour or two. They would send someone to the nearby business center to see if they could locate him to come sign and stamp a letter if they could print one. Having thought through how we could get a letter printed from a computer with no electricity we still needed to find the doctor. Everyone would sign at the bottom, and when I got home I would type the letter at the top. The only problem with that plan was the doctor was still not back. I volunteered to drive someone to the business center to locate the locater. Before too many bone jarring potholes had passed the doctor approached from the other direction in someone’s car. We stopped in the middle of the road (typical African action) and greeted each other. He handed me a signed, stamped, sheet of paper. I proceeded back to the hospital and got two more signatures and stamps. I was now overjoyed. After 5 hours of waiting in the sweltering heat I could now see if the other side of the potholes was as inviting as the first side. They were.

On the journey home, after a number of hours, the entrepreneurs were still manning their chosen pothole. On my return journey, each one received Gospel tracts out the vehicle windows as I passed. The smiles on their faces would have led you to believe that they had received the money that their upturned palms were soliciting. Perhaps out of my journey, they received some lasting joy.

I now had in my hand, the letter needed for the renewal of our Doctor’s Temporary Employment Permit. For sure I had joy in my heart.

At seven that night I arrived home, not too much worse for the ware. As I look back on the day, there were bits of joy all along the journey.

Pray with us that our joy will be made complete by the TEP for Dr. Byler being approved in the coming weeks.

Barry Robinson