My heart nearly stopped. Had The Pearl gasped her last breath?

The Pearl of Africa was a superb vehicle. That old Toyota Land Cruiser could drive through streams, slog through deep mud resembling greased peanut butter, cling to a steep rock face on a hillside, and somehow adhere to a tiny point of a mountaintop, preventing our certain deaths.

 

You’ll remember that on the first day Dave and I spent in our final segment of our three-month orientation, The Pearl wouldn’t start. Yet someone—we didn’t know who—had scheduled important appointments for Dave, as our group’s leader, with the District Commissioner, the Bishop, and the police. Brian, our orientation director, had explained that relating with those officials would assure them our group had no suspicious motives.

 

Brian impressed upon us that establishing a good relationship with them was of great importance.

 

But we couldn’t get The Pearl started! Aaaargh!

 

And we had no one nearby to help—we were in a remote, sparsely populated forest in steep mountains at about 6,000 feet.

 

We'd have to push to get her started.

Looking around, we were keenly aware that only thirty feet away we would come to a drop-off of nearly five hundred feet. It was going to be tricky. Mighty tricky.

 

Bwana Mwakodi and I pushed while Dave steered The Pearl and worked the clutch, but she wouldn’t start. We pushed again. That Toyota Land Cruiser was a sturdy, heavy vehicle!

 

Winded, we strained and shoved, but The Pearl still wouldn’t start. The nearest mechanic was probably dozens of kilometers away.

 

I looked at Dave. He looked as sick as I felt.

 

We had only one option: turn The Pearl around and face it downhill. However, whether we turned to the right or to the left, we had to push The Pearl uphill to turn it around.

 

If and when we got the back wheels up on the hill, we had to avoid yet another drop-off. Bwana and I tried and tried, but didn’t have enough muscle to push The Pearl uphill.

           

Then, as if by a miracle, a man stepped out of the forest. And then another, and another, all of them Bwana’s friends and neighbors. For an hour, we struggled and groaned and sweated and eventually managed to turn The Pearl around, facing downhill.

 

We pushed once again and that time it chugged and sputtered—and came to life! Oh, what a sublime sound!

 

From that day forward,

we always parked The Pearl facing downhill

so we could get her started by pushing.

 

Nevertheless, our adventures with The Pearl continued. One morning we climbed in and expected her to chug to life by compression after I pushed it wobbling down the hill—but it did not.

 

My heart nearly stopped. I looked over at Dave. He looked pale.

 

Had The Pearl gasped her last breath?

 

Dave looked around for a way to avoid pushing her uphill backward to try again. He scouted out a steep, forested trail beyond the Mwakodis’ house, one we’d never driven before.

 

It took travelers away from civilization, but it was a downhill slope, so the two of us pushed The Pearl that direction. Dave jumped in at the last moment and worked the clutch—but it didn’t start.

 

That left us stuck worse than ever before.

 

What should we do? We could push it further down into that unpopulated mountain valley and hope it would start, but if we had already tried twice without success, why should we expect The Pearl to come to life the third time?

 

If it still didn’t start, towing it out would be all the harder, if not impossible.

 

We were so stressed we felt sick. Faint-hearted.

 

We felt so alone, so isolated—and in fact, we were. No one was around to help this time.

 

After nervous deliberation, lots of sighing, and silent praying, we decided to push once more before we gave up—and . . .

 

. . . and The Pearl sputtered to life. Hooray! It’s hard to find words for the enormous relief we felt. Tears stung my eyes.

 

At that point, Dave faced another challenge: he had to back The Pearl up that narrow steep trail, up and up and up, until he got to the dirt road at the Mwakodis’ place.

 

“Ah,” Dave sighed, “the perils of The Pearl.”

 

My stomach still knots when I remember that day. I can feel again the light-headedness, the cold sweat.

 

But once again, we had witnessed that:

 

God had worked on our behalf,

confirming His promise

for those He sends to do His work:

 

“Do not be afraid or discouraged

for the Lord will personally go ahead of you.

He will be with you.

He will neither fail you nor abandon you.”

(Deuteronomy 31:8)

 

(From Chapter 3, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

 

We had a problem: We didn’t even know where we were

We woke up Monday morning, our second day of living with Bwana and Mama Mwakodi high in the Taita Hills, and Dave and I took turns walking across the yard to use the choo (outhouse). By then Mama and Bwana were ready for breakfast: black tea boiled with milk and sugar.

 

They were thoroughly gracious. They hadn’t known we were coming, due to a communication snafu, yet they smiled and made pleasant conversation with us around their small table. Bwana spoke a little bit of English but Mama didn’t understand us, so Bwana interpreted for her.

 

As we finished our tea, Dave said to Bwana, “This morning I need to meet with the District Commissioner, the Bishop, and the police.”

 

Someone—we didn’t know who—had scheduled those appointments for Dave, as our group’s leader. Brian, our orientation director, had explained that relating with those officials would assure them our group had no suspicious motives. Brian impressed upon us that establishing a good relationship with them was of great importance.

 

We had a problem, though. We didn’t know how to find their villages or offices.

 

We didn’t even know where we were. We had arrived at the Mwakodis’ home after dark and, along the way, we lost our sense of direction.

 

No electricity or streetlights lit our surroundings over twisting one-lane dirt tracks—with no street signs—cloaked in tropical forests, uphill and downhill and around corners.

 

We had seen very little evidence of other human beings.

 

We had no map of the area. Before Brian left us, he told us all we knew—that the closest of our fellow orientees lived more than nine kilometers away.

 

The nearest phone was many kilometers away, too. And even if we’d had access to a phone, we wouldn’t know who to call.

 

We had no idea what to do.

 

Just when we felt ourselves slipping into a panic,

God provided a helper with a willing heart.

Bwana offered to come along

and direct us to the various villages.

I find it hard to explain the enormity of our relief.

           

The three of us grabbed our canteens and climbed into The Pearl of Africa. Dave turned the key, but The Pearl did not start. He tried several times but—nothing.

           

“We’ll have to push The Pearl to start it by compression,” Dave said.

 

And, looking around, we were keenly aware that only thirty feet away we would come to a drop-off of nearly five hundred feet. It was going to be tricky. Mighty tricky.

 

Bwana and I pushed while Dave steered The Pearl and worked the clutch, but she wouldn’t start. We pushed again. That Toyota Land Cruiser was a sturdy, heavy vehicle!

 

Winded, we strained and shoved, but The Pearl still wouldn’t start. The nearest mechanic was probably dozens of kilometers away.

 

I looked at Dave. He looked as sick as I felt.

 

We had only one option: turn The Pearl around and face it downhill. However, whether we turned to the right or to the left, we had to push The Pearl uphill to turn it around.

 

If and when we got the back wheels up on the hill, we had to avoid yet another drop-off. Bwana and I tried, and tried, but didn’t have enough muscle to push The Pearl uphill.

           

Then, as if by a miracle, a man stepped out of the forest. And then another, and another, all of them Bwana’s friends and neighbors. For an hour, we struggled and groaned and sweated and eventually managed to turn The Pearl around, facing downhill.

 

We pushed once again 

and that time it chugged and sputtered—

and it came to life! Oh, what a sublime sound!

 

Our new friends cheered and laughed along with us.

           

How could we ever thank them enough?

 

I wanted to hug and kiss each one, but I suspected a public display of affection wasn’t appropriate in their culture.

 

Then Bwana Mwakodi told us the men were on their way to another village for market day, so, to thank them, we loaded them into The Pearl and gave them a ride.

 

God had worked on our behalf,

confirming His promise

for those He sends to do His work:

 

“Do not be afraid or discouraged

for the Lord will personally go ahead of you.

He will be with you.

He will neither fail you nor abandon you.”

(Deuteronomy 31:8)

 

That morning we experienced God’s love and provision for us through dear Kenyan people. All these years later, their kindness still brings tears to my eyes—happy, thankful tears.

 

After that, we always parked The Pearl facing downhill because we never knew when we’d have to push to get her started.  (From Chapter 3, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

 

The beginning of our biggest test yet

 

You remember those knot-in-your-stomach times when the rubber hits the road, when you know you’ll be tested and tried.

 

You had trained and studied and prepared, you had prayed and worried and prayed some more.

 

And the day came when you had to see for yourself

whether your training and preparation were enough—

whether your faith was adequate,

whether God was adequate,

whether you were adequate.

 

Well, that’s where Dave and I were—on the threshold of our big test—one that would last three weeks.

 

You see, we and our fellow orientees had been in training for two months and the time had come for us to see how well prepared we were for the third and final phase of our orientation: Each family would be on its own, scattered throughout remote African villages. We would no longer have the comfort of living alongside our fellow orientees. Our directors, Brian and Jenny, would leave the area.

 

But someone in our group needed to be in charge—in case of an emergency—so Brian called a meeting and had us vote.

 

Our fellow orientees chose Dave to be the Samaki kubwa, the big fish.

 

So, we all loaded up our tents and supplies and left Maasai-land. I remember our stay there as a mellow time, a serene time, a gentle time—for the most part anyway. I had enjoyed the quiet, the clean air, and the slow, simple lifestyle.

 

Our handful of vehicles headed toward the Taita Hills—a mountain range at an elevation around 7,000 feet—in southeastern Kenya, close to the majestic and famous Mt. Kilimanjaro. We left the desert and entered a lush, verdant region.

 

Before we all went on our separate ways on our own, our group congregated in Dembwa at the base of the Taita Hills, a small town close to a main highway and a bustling civilization. Town and regional officials welcomed us with lunch and speeches. And in good African style, both Dave and Brian gave speeches, too. (See photo below.)

 

We had gathered in the yard of a new elementary school with six or eight classrooms and, since Dave was an educator, he was curious about the classrooms. Since the children didn’t have classes that day, we stepped inside one room.

 

Concrete floors and walls kept the temperature nice and cool, but the school had no electricity—teachers and students depended on sunlight through windows.

 

The classroom was furnished with a slate blackboard and rough-hewn desks and stools.

 

A world map hung on the wall—the classroom’s only educational material.

 

The room had no textbooks, dictionaries, or anything else. In place of books, we noticed pencils and thin tablets in which children had written lecture notes from their teacher.

 

We found it hard to grasp the poverty displayed in that school—it seemed unthinkable—but we also knew the teachers, students, and their families placed a high value on education. They were doing the best they could with their meager resources.

 

On that day, little did we know that this school was superior to many others across the continent.

 

And so, with a knot in our stomachs

and with wonderings if we’d stand the tests,

and curiosity about what awaited us in the Taita Hills,

we were off on yet another adventure.

How good to know God was with us on it.

“The Lord Himself goes before you—ahead of you—

and He will stay with you.

He won’t leave you alone, He won’t forsake you.

Don’t be afraid. Don’t be discouraged.”

(Deuteronomy 31:8)

Dave and other speech-givers in Dembwa