When we pulled into the bus station, all four of us felt relieved. Steve and I were finally in a place we recognized, and we had 30 minutes to catch a bus to our next town. The Bills had one more night here, so they said a quick goodbye and hurried off to rendezvous with Brad and Evan, who had spent the day by themselves, pedaling around the countryside on rented bicycles.
I went up and bought a ticket at the window. By now I was a pro. I already had to do it once today, and I felt a little more confident with my limited Chinese after talking with so many villagers. Steve grabbed his ticket and began trying to match the numeral on the ticket with one of the license plates of the buses outside. Going from bus to bus, he squinted down at the ticket then back up at each license plate until he found ours. There were probably over 20 buses pulled into the station.
The driver, who was apparently waiting on paying passengers to fill his vehicle, had assumed a squatting position on the ground, a customary posture for relaxation in China. Steve, trying a little too hard to assimilate, mimicked him by squatting down next to him. The driver half smirked and half smiled, revealing a mild hint of both amusement and annoyance. They continued like that for another 15 minutes or so, until the last of the passengers found their way to the bus.
Our bus wasn't nearly full. I think there were 3 other people besides Steve, me, and the driver. It was a good thing too, because this "bus" was more like a 10-passenger van, with three or four rows of tattered, dusty brown seats and no aisle in the middle. Steve and I shrunk down in our seats with plenty of room, a pleasant change from our first two rides that had been packed to capacity.
Since we weren't carrying much weight, I guess the driver figured he could drive the van like Mario Andretti. About 15 or 20 minutes out of town, we began on a road that had us snaking around blind curves and clinging to the side of the mountain. Of course, there was no guardrail on the side of the incline, just rows of trees painted white up to about five feet for better visibility at night. It was not quite dark yet, but I was tired from our long day. After I watched our driver repeatedly pass people on the left going while swerving around a blind curve, I decided it would probably be better if I slept until we reached the town. The ride was only 45 minutes, and I figured the ignorance of sleep would be bliss compared to watching us catch two wheels on hairpin turns and narrowly evade massive collisions.
With the Lord's help (I don't see how we would have survived otherwise) we made it to our destination. Steve shook me awake right after he had frisbeed a VCD into a crowd on the side of the road. He watched a man pick it up and look at it curiously. A few minutes later, our bus was stopped, and Steve's squatting partner was waving us goodbye.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Monday, November 21, 2005
The Colonel
It wasn't even 4 p.m. and the day had already been exciting and eventful. Even with all the anxiety, Steve and I were having a blast. We looked forward to the rest of our bus ride, a time we assumed would be filled with tranquil reflection on the day and what we wanted to accomplish before it was over.
Just out of town, the bus stopped to pick up some passengers. I thought I saw a flash of white hair shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight as the passengers boarded the bus. Sure enough, it was bill Shorey, my pastor, followed close behind by Col. Bill Rieger.
Steve and I had staggered our seating (as if it wasn't obvious that we were together) for comfort and cover. When the Bill's made their entrance, we did just as we had rehearsed in Thailand, exchanging greetings in loud, clear voices, trading handshakes as though this we were meeting for the first time by coincidence.
Bill settled into the seat next to mine, and after a little more show, we began to quietly discuss the day's events. Bill revealed that he and Rieger had encountered PSB landcruisers on more than one occasion, and I told him about all the trouble we had catching our connecting buses.
It was a relief to see familiar faces, and we began to talk and laugh. Before too long, Shorey and I had to curtail our conversations to avoid giving off the vibe that we had come to China together.
Just then, the bus came to a halt. We heard stern voices outside bounce from one side of the bus to the other. Out the window, I caught a glimpse of what looked like the shiny black stock and barrel of some sort of automatic weapon. After further observation, I surmised that we had been stopped at a checkpoint, and I hoped this obstacle wasn't somehow linked to the questionable activities of the Bill's back in the villages.
Both of the officers looked young. I guessed that they were no older than me, but even so, they looked stern in those green uniforms, like they were not to be messed with.
The officer who stopped the bus boarded it, glaring at all the passengers as he asked for identification. His buddy stood watch outside, brandishing his machine gun. I wondered if he was trained to use it, or if it was just for intimidation. I didn't want to find out.
As the first officer inched closer to us through the crowded aisle, my anxiety started to build. Then Rieger, who was sitting in front of us, spoke up in a calm voice without looking back.
"I'll handle this. Don't give him anything yet," he said.
Shorey and I sat there dumbfounded as Rieger fumble through his bag. In a few seconds, he pulled out a paper copy of his passport. He was giving us commentary the whole time. I was tempted to laugh, but I kept my cool.
"Okay," Rieger said, "I'm handing this to him upside-down. Let's see if he turns it over."
Now, that's what training does for you, I thought. If the officer doesn't turn it over, it's obvious that he can't read anything it says.
The officer got frustrated with Rieger's antics. When Rieger handed him the passport, he didn't turn it over. We relaxed a little. If the guy couldn't even read English, he really had no grounds to do anything to us. Plus, if he asked us to come with him, we could play dumb, like we didn't understand anything he was saying.
"This guy doesn't know what the heck he's looking at," Rieger continued calmly, never challenging the man in uniform.
Soon, like a bear that had lost its appetite for American flesh, the officer turned and walked out of the bus, motioning to the driver that he was okay to continue.
As we began moving, the tension level in the bus was still high, like everyone was having a contest to see who could hold their breath the longest. Shorey and I both patted Rieger on the back, commending him for his quick thinking. Then we sat back in our seat and let out relieved sighs. After a few minutes of silently processing what happened, Bill looked over to me quizzically.
"Did that guy outside have a machine gun?!" he asked loudly.
"I think so, pastor," I said, "I think so."
We laughed together and rode a wave of adrenaline back to the city. In this situation, we were glad to have the Colonel on our side.
Just out of town, the bus stopped to pick up some passengers. I thought I saw a flash of white hair shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight as the passengers boarded the bus. Sure enough, it was bill Shorey, my pastor, followed close behind by Col. Bill Rieger.
Steve and I had staggered our seating (as if it wasn't obvious that we were together) for comfort and cover. When the Bill's made their entrance, we did just as we had rehearsed in Thailand, exchanging greetings in loud, clear voices, trading handshakes as though this we were meeting for the first time by coincidence.
Bill settled into the seat next to mine, and after a little more show, we began to quietly discuss the day's events. Bill revealed that he and Rieger had encountered PSB landcruisers on more than one occasion, and I told him about all the trouble we had catching our connecting buses.
It was a relief to see familiar faces, and we began to talk and laugh. Before too long, Shorey and I had to curtail our conversations to avoid giving off the vibe that we had come to China together.
Just then, the bus came to a halt. We heard stern voices outside bounce from one side of the bus to the other. Out the window, I caught a glimpse of what looked like the shiny black stock and barrel of some sort of automatic weapon. After further observation, I surmised that we had been stopped at a checkpoint, and I hoped this obstacle wasn't somehow linked to the questionable activities of the Bill's back in the villages.
Both of the officers looked young. I guessed that they were no older than me, but even so, they looked stern in those green uniforms, like they were not to be messed with.
The officer who stopped the bus boarded it, glaring at all the passengers as he asked for identification. His buddy stood watch outside, brandishing his machine gun. I wondered if he was trained to use it, or if it was just for intimidation. I didn't want to find out.
As the first officer inched closer to us through the crowded aisle, my anxiety started to build. Then Rieger, who was sitting in front of us, spoke up in a calm voice without looking back.
"I'll handle this. Don't give him anything yet," he said.
Shorey and I sat there dumbfounded as Rieger fumble through his bag. In a few seconds, he pulled out a paper copy of his passport. He was giving us commentary the whole time. I was tempted to laugh, but I kept my cool.
"Okay," Rieger said, "I'm handing this to him upside-down. Let's see if he turns it over."
Now, that's what training does for you, I thought. If the officer doesn't turn it over, it's obvious that he can't read anything it says.
The officer got frustrated with Rieger's antics. When Rieger handed him the passport, he didn't turn it over. We relaxed a little. If the guy couldn't even read English, he really had no grounds to do anything to us. Plus, if he asked us to come with him, we could play dumb, like we didn't understand anything he was saying.
"This guy doesn't know what the heck he's looking at," Rieger continued calmly, never challenging the man in uniform.
Soon, like a bear that had lost its appetite for American flesh, the officer turned and walked out of the bus, motioning to the driver that he was okay to continue.
As we began moving, the tension level in the bus was still high, like everyone was having a contest to see who could hold their breath the longest. Shorey and I both patted Rieger on the back, commending him for his quick thinking. Then we sat back in our seat and let out relieved sighs. After a few minutes of silently processing what happened, Bill looked over to me quizzically.
"Did that guy outside have a machine gun?!" he asked loudly.
"I think so, pastor," I said, "I think so."
We laughed together and rode a wave of adrenaline back to the city. In this situation, we were glad to have the Colonel on our side.
Another Helping Hand
We were unable to read the characters on any of the buses, so we hoped to get some help from the locals. Although we were in a hurry, I paused for a moment to take a picture of Steve next to a large hog wallowing in a mudhole in an alley branching off the main street.
I spotted a family sitting in front of their feed store, not doing much of anything but enjoying each other's company and watching the day go by. They looked friendly enough, laughing with one another and talking in that loud, animated style used so frequently by Chinese in their conversations.
A few of them went silent when I approached; the others continued their rowdy conversation. To the ones that paid me attention, I did my best to convey that we needed to get on a bus to base city.
"Bus...we go..[city name]," I said in flustered Mandarin.
The lady that I had approached personally acknowledged my words and told us to sit and wait a few minutes. From what I gathered, she said that they would let us know when a bus to our base city came by.
As we waited, a shirtless young man took a particular interest in us, joking with Steve about how big and strong he was. He lugged Steve's pack over to the scale in the feed store and weighed it. The reading he got astonished him. Then, like any macho guy would do, he heaved it up onto his shoulders to test his strength. The whole family applauded heartily as he took a few bumbling steps, and we all had a good laugh together.
Every time a bus would come near, we would get up from the midget-sized stools and get ready to leave. Each time, they would plead for us to sit down again. Apparently they were watching out for us. We had no choice but to trust them.
Soon, a purple and white bus crunched toward us along the gravel and dirt road. Steve's shirtless friend jumped up to check it.
They all shouted our city's name, pointing frantically to the oncoming bus.
"Thank you! Goodbye!" I shouted in Chinese as we lugged our packs across the street to flag it down. This wasn't an empty 'thank you'. It was a truly heartfelt expression of gratitude. I couldn't believe how hospitable they had been to us. Without their help, I have no idea how we would've selected the right bus and gotten back to our base city.
Just to be sure, I asked the driver if this was the right bus. He affirmed it, and I let out a sigh of relief. For the next few hours we would settle into some cushioned seats and save some strength for the next leg of our journey.
I spotted a family sitting in front of their feed store, not doing much of anything but enjoying each other's company and watching the day go by. They looked friendly enough, laughing with one another and talking in that loud, animated style used so frequently by Chinese in their conversations.
A few of them went silent when I approached; the others continued their rowdy conversation. To the ones that paid me attention, I did my best to convey that we needed to get on a bus to base city.
"Bus...we go..[city name]," I said in flustered Mandarin.
The lady that I had approached personally acknowledged my words and told us to sit and wait a few minutes. From what I gathered, she said that they would let us know when a bus to our base city came by.
As we waited, a shirtless young man took a particular interest in us, joking with Steve about how big and strong he was. He lugged Steve's pack over to the scale in the feed store and weighed it. The reading he got astonished him. Then, like any macho guy would do, he heaved it up onto his shoulders to test his strength. The whole family applauded heartily as he took a few bumbling steps, and we all had a good laugh together.
Every time a bus would come near, we would get up from the midget-sized stools and get ready to leave. Each time, they would plead for us to sit down again. Apparently they were watching out for us. We had no choice but to trust them.
Soon, a purple and white bus crunched toward us along the gravel and dirt road. Steve's shirtless friend jumped up to check it.
They all shouted our city's name, pointing frantically to the oncoming bus.
"Thank you! Goodbye!" I shouted in Chinese as we lugged our packs across the street to flag it down. This wasn't an empty 'thank you'. It was a truly heartfelt expression of gratitude. I couldn't believe how hospitable they had been to us. Without their help, I have no idea how we would've selected the right bus and gotten back to our base city.
Just to be sure, I asked the driver if this was the right bus. He affirmed it, and I let out a sigh of relief. For the next few hours we would settle into some cushioned seats and save some strength for the next leg of our journey.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Our Chariot
My resolve was renewed after my dialogue with God, but that didn't change the fact that we still had a few more grueling miles to hike before getting back to town, where we could flag a bus to the base city.
It was almost 3:00 by now, and our pace was dragging after walking over 10 miles in over 4 hours. We had been up before 6 a.m. to catch the original bus that took more than 2 hours to get to our starting point.
I took one last look at the final village, its buildings gradually shrinking as we moved farther down the desolate dirt road toward the city. Our inability to follow the map had led us into uncharted villages like this one. I figured the detour was worth it because we had expanded our influence. Now, a few more people will have heard of the Savior. I just hoped taking on those last few villages wouldn't compromise our plan for the rest of the trip.
The prospects for getting back to base city in time to catch our 6 p.m. bus to our final destination for the night were looking pretty dim. We still weren't sure how far away the town was, and walking at this sluggish pace, it would take almost an hour to cover two miles. Our trainers had told us that if we wanted to make it back to base city in time to catch our transfer, we would need to leave this town by 3:30. To do that, we'd need a small miracle.
As I was pondering our helplessness, I heard the faint rumbling of an engine in the distance. I didn't get my hopes up. The noise could easily have been the firing of a tractor engine, and we could walk faster than those things could putter along. Even if it was a motorcycle taxi, there's no guaranteeing that it wasn't already occupied. A few had already passed us by, the passengers looking at us as if they couldn't believe someone could be stupid enough to trek through China's Death Valley on foot.
It seemed like an eternity before the driver was visible on the horizon. Sure enough, his standard red helmet peeked over the handlebars, assuring us that he was a taxi driver, not just some common farmer trying to get from A to B. As he got closer, though, we realized something: there was only one vehicle.
Now, when I talk about motorcycles in China, please don't envision a Harley. These dirtbikes were barely large and powerful enough to carry one of us with a pack. There was no way we'd both be able to hitch a ride.
But that was the beauty of the situation. Somehow, beween my limited Chinese and Steve's erratic gesturing, we communicated to the driver our plans. He would take me into town first, then come back and pick up Steve, bringing him to the same place he dropped me off. Although reluctant, he understood. Steve flashed his wad of Renminbi to assure the driver that his kind service would pay off in the end. Steve nodded toward the bike.
"Hop on," he said, "and stay put wherever he drops you. I'll be right behind you."
I nodded, straddled the seat, and tapped the driver to let him know I was ready to go.
Thank you Lord, I prayed under my breath as we left Steve in the dust. I didn't like the idea of splitting up, but this taxi may as well have been an angel chariot as far as I was concerned. I had the calm assurance that Steve and I would be reunited soon, so I took the time to relax and enjoy the ride.
I unholstered my digital camera, which had been strapped to my side all day without getting much use. I took a 15-second video of the ride, making a panorama of the horizon which was interrupted in part by the big red dome of the driver's helmet. After returning the camera to its case, I stealthily unzipped my fanny-pack. I had some unused VCD's left, and I wasn't about to waste them.
On the right side of the road, I saw a few small homes with children playing in the yard. I seized the opportunity to frisbee a few VCD's off the bike, praying they would fall into hungry hands.
A few minutes later, I dismounted on the side of a dusty, paved street lined with a variety of shops and vendors. There were people milling about everywhere, most of them minding their own business, some of them stopping to stare at me and wonder where I had come from and why. In Shanghai, seeing a white man is not a big deal, but this was smalltown China, the Mississippi of the Far East. Once again I was out of place, and this time, alone.
"My friend..." I said to the driver in Chinese, pointing back toward where we had come from. He nodded and turned his bike around. About 15 minutes later, the taxi returned, this time sagging under the weight of a smiling Steve and his hefty pack. I never thought I'd be this glad to see Steve.
"You ready to catch that bus?" he asked.
"Let's do it, Team Leader."
It was almost 3:00 by now, and our pace was dragging after walking over 10 miles in over 4 hours. We had been up before 6 a.m. to catch the original bus that took more than 2 hours to get to our starting point.
I took one last look at the final village, its buildings gradually shrinking as we moved farther down the desolate dirt road toward the city. Our inability to follow the map had led us into uncharted villages like this one. I figured the detour was worth it because we had expanded our influence. Now, a few more people will have heard of the Savior. I just hoped taking on those last few villages wouldn't compromise our plan for the rest of the trip.
The prospects for getting back to base city in time to catch our 6 p.m. bus to our final destination for the night were looking pretty dim. We still weren't sure how far away the town was, and walking at this sluggish pace, it would take almost an hour to cover two miles. Our trainers had told us that if we wanted to make it back to base city in time to catch our transfer, we would need to leave this town by 3:30. To do that, we'd need a small miracle.
As I was pondering our helplessness, I heard the faint rumbling of an engine in the distance. I didn't get my hopes up. The noise could easily have been the firing of a tractor engine, and we could walk faster than those things could putter along. Even if it was a motorcycle taxi, there's no guaranteeing that it wasn't already occupied. A few had already passed us by, the passengers looking at us as if they couldn't believe someone could be stupid enough to trek through China's Death Valley on foot.
It seemed like an eternity before the driver was visible on the horizon. Sure enough, his standard red helmet peeked over the handlebars, assuring us that he was a taxi driver, not just some common farmer trying to get from A to B. As he got closer, though, we realized something: there was only one vehicle.
Now, when I talk about motorcycles in China, please don't envision a Harley. These dirtbikes were barely large and powerful enough to carry one of us with a pack. There was no way we'd both be able to hitch a ride.
But that was the beauty of the situation. Somehow, beween my limited Chinese and Steve's erratic gesturing, we communicated to the driver our plans. He would take me into town first, then come back and pick up Steve, bringing him to the same place he dropped me off. Although reluctant, he understood. Steve flashed his wad of Renminbi to assure the driver that his kind service would pay off in the end. Steve nodded toward the bike.
"Hop on," he said, "and stay put wherever he drops you. I'll be right behind you."
I nodded, straddled the seat, and tapped the driver to let him know I was ready to go.
Thank you Lord, I prayed under my breath as we left Steve in the dust. I didn't like the idea of splitting up, but this taxi may as well have been an angel chariot as far as I was concerned. I had the calm assurance that Steve and I would be reunited soon, so I took the time to relax and enjoy the ride.
I unholstered my digital camera, which had been strapped to my side all day without getting much use. I took a 15-second video of the ride, making a panorama of the horizon which was interrupted in part by the big red dome of the driver's helmet. After returning the camera to its case, I stealthily unzipped my fanny-pack. I had some unused VCD's left, and I wasn't about to waste them.
On the right side of the road, I saw a few small homes with children playing in the yard. I seized the opportunity to frisbee a few VCD's off the bike, praying they would fall into hungry hands.
A few minutes later, I dismounted on the side of a dusty, paved street lined with a variety of shops and vendors. There were people milling about everywhere, most of them minding their own business, some of them stopping to stare at me and wonder where I had come from and why. In Shanghai, seeing a white man is not a big deal, but this was smalltown China, the Mississippi of the Far East. Once again I was out of place, and this time, alone.
"My friend..." I said to the driver in Chinese, pointing back toward where we had come from. He nodded and turned his bike around. About 15 minutes later, the taxi returned, this time sagging under the weight of a smiling Steve and his hefty pack. I never thought I'd be this glad to see Steve.
"You ready to catch that bus?" he asked.
"Let's do it, Team Leader."
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Perspectives of Pain
We breezed through the last village of the day, making many drops and liquidating most of our VCD inventory. As we circled around the back side of the village to rejoin the main road, Steve led us off the beaten trail into another bamboo forest, much like the one we had seen earlier.
I wondered where we were going, but before I could say anything, Steve stopped and began taking off his shoes. Worried that his feet would blister, he decided now was as good a time as any to take a break and doctor his tired toes. My feet felt fine at least as far as blisters go, so I let my pack fall to the ground and laid back, using it as a pillow while I waited for Steve.
The stalks in this forest were tall and thick. A cool breeze whispered through the tree tops, producing one of the most relaxing sounds I had ever heard in nature. When Steve hopped up to leave, I wanted to lie there and sleep. The rustling leaves, the faint creak of the stalks as they swayed in the wind, the sunlight dancing through the openings in the leafy canopy above meshed together to create the perfect environment for napping.
But Jesus said that we'd better not be caught sleeping when he returns, and there was yet work to be done, so I reluctantly arose from my shady spot and we ventured back onto the trail.
As I dragged my feet over the rocky path, they began to ache, and I began to question my ability to endure next four to five miles we had to walk back into the city. At college, I would run or play basketball once or twice a week, but those short spurts of endurance activity had not prepared me to walk 15 miles per day with a 30-pound pack weighing me down.
When I had chosen Route 4, I knew the road would be long and tough, but I also knew my heart had just the right balance of determination and dependence on God's strength. When my legs began to fail me, he held me up. After all, I was answering his call, and when he calls us to something, he inevitably provides the resources to complete the task.
Does this mean the pain in my legs and back was instantly taken away? No, quite the opposite actually. It may sound masochistic at first, but He actually gave me a heart that was focused on the suffering. He gave me his heart, helping me endure this little portion of suffering willingly in hopes that my efforts might reap eternal fruit.
Every time I complained, he lifted my eyes to the cross--to a new perspective unclouded by the fears of the world, untainted by the me-centered, God-wants-my-life-to-be-easier mentality we so often hear proclaimed from pulpits in the U.S. My load is light compared to the the Roman cross and the heap of sin that he carried up the hill called Golgotha. My feet may have been sore, but they had not been impaled by a nail. My heart was heavy, but the spiritual weight of his task forced the Son of God to his knees in anguish in Gethesemene.
Thanks Lord, I thought, for the privilege of walking down the road of sacrifice, however menial the sacrifice may be, for your sake. Forgive me for even thinking about comparing my pain to yours. Your power is made perfect in this weakness. Have your way in me and in these people. I am your ambassador. The one being sent cannot be greater than the Sender.
I wondered where we were going, but before I could say anything, Steve stopped and began taking off his shoes. Worried that his feet would blister, he decided now was as good a time as any to take a break and doctor his tired toes. My feet felt fine at least as far as blisters go, so I let my pack fall to the ground and laid back, using it as a pillow while I waited for Steve.
The stalks in this forest were tall and thick. A cool breeze whispered through the tree tops, producing one of the most relaxing sounds I had ever heard in nature. When Steve hopped up to leave, I wanted to lie there and sleep. The rustling leaves, the faint creak of the stalks as they swayed in the wind, the sunlight dancing through the openings in the leafy canopy above meshed together to create the perfect environment for napping.
But Jesus said that we'd better not be caught sleeping when he returns, and there was yet work to be done, so I reluctantly arose from my shady spot and we ventured back onto the trail.
As I dragged my feet over the rocky path, they began to ache, and I began to question my ability to endure next four to five miles we had to walk back into the city. At college, I would run or play basketball once or twice a week, but those short spurts of endurance activity had not prepared me to walk 15 miles per day with a 30-pound pack weighing me down.
When I had chosen Route 4, I knew the road would be long and tough, but I also knew my heart had just the right balance of determination and dependence on God's strength. When my legs began to fail me, he held me up. After all, I was answering his call, and when he calls us to something, he inevitably provides the resources to complete the task.
Does this mean the pain in my legs and back was instantly taken away? No, quite the opposite actually. It may sound masochistic at first, but He actually gave me a heart that was focused on the suffering. He gave me his heart, helping me endure this little portion of suffering willingly in hopes that my efforts might reap eternal fruit.
Every time I complained, he lifted my eyes to the cross--to a new perspective unclouded by the fears of the world, untainted by the me-centered, God-wants-my-life-to-be-easier mentality we so often hear proclaimed from pulpits in the U.S. My load is light compared to the the Roman cross and the heap of sin that he carried up the hill called Golgotha. My feet may have been sore, but they had not been impaled by a nail. My heart was heavy, but the spiritual weight of his task forced the Son of God to his knees in anguish in Gethesemene.
Thanks Lord, I thought, for the privilege of walking down the road of sacrifice, however menial the sacrifice may be, for your sake. Forgive me for even thinking about comparing my pain to yours. Your power is made perfect in this weakness. Have your way in me and in these people. I am your ambassador. The one being sent cannot be greater than the Sender.
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