And Immediately They Dropped Everything

It was 2018. The skies above Idete were a brilliant shade of blue, as they almost always are during the months of June and July. Whisps of white cirrus clouds danced atop the surrounding mountains who were, themselves, cloaked in the dark greenery of pine trees that framed the narrow, mountain road we were driving on as well. Thanks to recent rains, where they appeared, the patches of grass and groundcover along the roadside were likewise dense and green. 

And therein was the problem.

My colleague and I were in Idete to celebrate the Installation of a new District Pastor – someone to serve on behalf of their Bishop as a pastor to the pastors in the remote villages that dot the valleys and high ridges in this far, Southeastern Corner of the Iringa Region. It was quite the affair, as gatherings of this type often are, full of pomp and circumstance and speeches punctuated by informal outbreaks of floor-stomping dance moves and ululating voices. Top government officials came up to the mountaintop church from the village below and the entire Diocese head office came from town – forming a caravan that our landcruiser joined early in the morning.

The whole installation was efficient and ran for a brief three hours. Time was a concern because the Bishop and his entourage were pressing on via backroads to make it to Pommern for another installation the next day. The celebrations wrapped up shortly after lunch and people began piling into their cars. While most of the vehicles were heading to the next destination, my colleague and I (both Americans by the way), were heading back to town – along with a half-dozen older women we were to drop off in villages along the way. We passed the junction where the other vehicles turned off; we could see the dust their tires kicked up as we continued on our way. 

My colleague was driving… carefully navigating blind turns with a wall of dirt on the right and a steep drop off on the left, giving ‘informational beeps’ as we’d approached each bend.

The road was rutted and pockmarked with puddles… The grader hadn’t been through yet and wouldn’t be for some time. ‘Driving’ in this case meant choosing when to ride ridges and when to hew close to an edge. 

In one particularly challenging section the wise choice seemed to be to stick to the edge.And that’s when it happened: 

Tire met air and our whole vehicle began a sickening slide to the left. 

The thick underbrush masked a place where water from a culvert had eroded away the road.

 

While the angle was precarious, the vehicle bottomed out pretty quickly. We didn’t slide entirely off the road or (God forbid) tumble into the valley below. My colleague turned the engine off and put the car in park. I helped our startled passengers climb up and out. With our friends heading off in a different direction and no cell service at this particular corner, we were stranded on a hillside… Utterly Alone.

Or so we thought.

After several minutes had passed we heard sound from the hillside above us as a farmer, carrying a jembe or hoe, walked down to see what was going on. With a quiet sigh and expression of sympathy (‘Pole sana’) he dropped whatever else he was going to do that day; suddenly his purpose was to figure out a way to get us out. 

As he was assessing the scene, two young guys on a motorcycle came by and stopped in their tracks. One jumped off to assist with the analysis of our situation while the other raced off to get help. Soon a handful of other motorcycles appeared and shortly behind them a truck carrying the local government leader. 

The men got together and tried all sorts of different methods to free the vehicle – a fascinating exercise in groupthink/trial-and-error problem solving in its own right.

Women who were with them on the motorcycles gathered around, conversed with, and comforted our startled passengers. 

I tried to pitch in but realized I was likely more of a hindrance than a help in their efforts…

The village chairman got a signal on his phone and called ahead to the village below to the guy he knew who owned a tractor... 

“Yes, I know you have other things you intend to do,” he said.

“I also know that you will be bringing the tractor up the hill right now... Or else I'll be calling so and so, who will call so and so, who will then tell you to drive the tractor up the hill.” 

There was a pause. 

“So you are coming? Good.” 

I don’t recall if he added a cursory “Thank you” or not. Another life interrupted and redirected at the drop of a hat – or, in this case, the slip of a tire.

While the cajoling on the phone was going on, the crowd around the car had divided into a few different crews. Those with hoes and shovels dug into the roadbed to help the vehicle settle back into the road, those with axes cut down a couple trees and used them as levers, those with only their bodies used their strength… together they were able to lift and shove the landcruiser back onto the road. 

Just as they finished and cheered, the tractor came chugging around the corner.

‘Thank you-s’ and ‘Drive Carefully-s’ were exchanged as people began to go their own ways.

Our vehicle was none-the-worse for the ordeal. Our passengers hopped back in and continued chatting among themselves. 

With nerves understandably shot, my colleague opted for the passenger seat as I took the wheel – full of gratitude for the many who immediately dropped what they were doing on the spot and took a different way that day.

Originally delivered as part of a Message at Gustavus Adolphus Lutheran Church, Saint Paul, MN on 24 Jan 2021.