The forest and the gift...

As I was sitting and chatting with some of the locals in a tiny village where I stayed my first night after leaving Ouagadougou, lots of people had questions, like: -Isn't it too hot to ride? What do you eat? How far do you go in a day? Doesn't the rain bother you? Is it really possible to ride ALL the way to Niger? - I had fun telling them about the trip and seeing their eyes get wider and wider.

A couple of times, I heard the question, "Aren't you afraid of crossing the forest?" I brushed it off, laughing: "No, there is nothing to be afraid of." There really is no forest to speak of here. The lush green forest with the huge variety of trees that I saw on my first day out of Banfora is long gone. The climate is so much dryer here, and the ground so much rockier and sandier that not nearly as much grows. Mostly scrub bush with a few giant Boababs towering above. There are little splashes of green, oasis-like scenery where a rainy-season stream passes or where a tiny lake has formed from rainwater trapped in a little basin where there is more clay than sand. But in general, I wouldn't consider anything I have seen to be a forest.

I didn't think anything of all this until the next day, when I was riding along and thinking to myself, "Gee - its been a long time since I saw a village. (More than 20km, which is unusual)". It was then, that I saw a big sign on the side of the road: "Government Forest". It certainly didn't look like a forest, just the same old scrub and Baobabs with the occasional Accacia tree where there is a bit of collected water. This must be what they mean when they say "crossing the forest". - I wonder why they would think this to be dangerous?" Immediately, I started imagining all kinds of bandits hiding in the scrub, but there were none. In fact this was the longest stretch that I had gone so far without seeing anyone. Eventually, I saw a few donkey carts trotting down the road carrying young guys with firewood, but they were very friendly.

Just as I was wondering how far it might be to the next village, "Pppfffffff....." Flat tire. It was about 11am and the sun had just come out from behind a cloud, blazing hot. Dang it. It was my rear tire (much harder to fix than a front tire). I thought I might be able to pump it up enough to limp the bike along to the next village (how ever far that may be), but it wouldn't hold enough air for me to sit on it. After pumping for 2 minutes, I was drenched in sweat (riding, I sweat, but the breeze that I create by going Mach 0.016 is enough to keep me dry). I sat down, discouraged. I was going to have to take the tire off and patch the tube. I really didn't want to do it because the rear tire is an extremely tight fit and it took a lot of doing to get it on in the first place.

Just then I heard voices. I looked up and over the tops of the cornstalks, I could see a little grass-roof poking up. I figured that it would just be women and children who would be home at this time of day, but when I listened again, I heard a mans voice. I "took courage" as we say in French ("pris le courage") and wheeled my bike down the little path that led through a field of corn. I found a little compound consisting of three small huts and fenced of weaved branches. When I called out a greeting, a man came out of one of the huts and smiled a huge grin.

I doubted that he spoke any French, but it turns out that he knew a fair number of words and we were able to communicate with only a few moments of resorting to gestures. I introduced myself and he immediately saw my problem. I asked if I could work in the shade in the compound, but he just said, "Come. We'll fix."

I don't know how old Kouadoma was, but he looked to be about 50. He pulled out his tool box which contained exactly 3 tools, but together with my tools, we were able to quickly patch the leak, and his extraordinarily strong farming hands rolled the tire back onto the rim with very little trouble at all! His second wife (there were 2) brought me a peice of roasted corn which I broke in two and shared with Kouadoma. He was just delighted to be able to help me. I didn't even try to offer him money (an insult), but I told him that God would bless him for his helping of a stranger and I prayed for him and his family.

As I rode away, I thanked God for sending me the gift of Kouadoma. I got my flat right in front of the only house for miles in any direction. He happened to be home, spoke a little french and was an expert tire-fixer! I sang to myself a little song "Jehovah Jireh" which talks about God being the one who provides. That song had just became very real for me.