Traveling with Strangers

I woke up early, said my goodbyes to the people at Holy Family Parish, and then Fr. Gabriel took me to the “bush taxi” station. The next MEP brother priest on my list was Bishop George, the bishop of the Diocese of Port-Bergé (Boriziny). Mandritsara is in the Diocese of Port-Bergé, and I was travelling to the city that bears the diocese’s name. When we arrived, the taxi wasn’t ready to leave yet, so Fr. Gabriel bought me a cup of some very suspicious-looking coffee at the taxi rank, which he assured me was fine. As we waited together, we talked, and he gave me some final advice for my first months of mission in Madagascar.

When it was getting close to the time to leave, we put my bag on top of the taxi and wrapped it in a big plastic sack to protect it from the rain. As I boarded the taxi, Fr. Gabriel explained to the people that I was mompera (a priest, from mon père in French), that I spoke all of about five words of Malagasy, and that they should take care of me along the way. Off we went. My first bush taxi adventure in Madagascar had begun.

I had a nice window seat, which I enjoyed for the first hour or so, but the driver kept picking up more passengers, and so I got quickly squished into the middle. Nice and warm there. I think we had 24 people and two kids on laps crammed into the taxi, but I noticed for the first few hours the people were still a bit reserved. They didn’t talk too much, and it seemed like my neighbors were trying their best to keep their arms out of my “space.”

Sporting a Madagascar Tan

There were four different bush taxis on the road to Port-Bergé. Sometimes we would pass them, and sometimes they would pass us as we bounced and bumped our way over the very rough dirt and mud roads. I didn’t realize that we were actually travelling together as a convoy until our first difficulty: one of the other taxis got stuck in the mud, and everyone helped him get through. Then it was our turn. Our taxi driver was brave, but the mud was braver, and the taxi wasn’t up to the challenge. We quickly got bogged down in the river of mud. With the exception of two older people, we all got out to lighten the load a bit. We plunged our feet into the calf-high mud, and then the men worked to push the taxi while another taxi hooked up a cable to try and drag us out.

I noticed that during our first difficulty the people started to open up a bit. They started talking more, and even laughing a bit. I tried to use the few words of Malagasy I knew to talk a bit too. My travelling companions, true to the request of Fr. Gabriel, were very nice and helpful. An older woman wanted to help me out of the taxi, afraid that I would fall down in the mud. They then showed their mompera vazaha (foreign priest) where I could wash my feet off in a river.

The Runt of the Litter

We continued on our way, only to be met by more breakdowns, more muddy walks to lighten the load of the taxi. In fact, I learned that the breakdowns are so common that each taxi actually brings a mechanic along with it. It seems like they are able to deal with almost any problem. Each time there was a breakdown, we all stopped, got out, and found a spot to wait. I quickly became habituated to the rhythm. Another breakdown, another little break in the shade. We would find a nice tree to sit under, eat a few litchis, drink some water, and just wait. No rush. No point in being in a hurry anyway! One of the missionaries told me before I left, “In Madagascar you learn patience. We never know when we’ll arrive, but we always get there.”

Miracle Men at Work

After helping the other taxis in our convoy with their difficulties, it was our turn for a breakdown. We hit a bump, and crack! You could hear something breaking. We got out and looked at the damage. The whole wheel hub—the part that connects the wheel to the axle, houses the wheel bearings, and allows the wheel to rotate smoothly—was completely torn. The spindle, the metal shaft that the wheel hub rotates around, was also damaged. I honestly thought, well, that’s that. Patient or not, we’re cooked. However, and I have absolutely no idea how they did it, three hours later, we were back on the road.

Unfortunately, our taxi turned out to be the runt of the litter. I actually lost count of how many breakdowns we had, and how many times we got out and walked through the mud. After one of our innumberable breakdowns, our little convoy left us, and we continued on the road alone, left to fend for ourselves. We were, of course, just carrying way too much weight. But patience, I told myself. You don’t know when you’ll arrive, but you’ll get there.

Night on the Road

We were scheduled to arrive at Port-Bergé in the evening, but as we pulled into a dimly lit town on the route, I checked my map and we hadn’t even made it halfway. It was around 8 p.m. when we stopped and made our way to what, to me, looked like a very questionable taxi café. The MEP missionaries had also told me that I should always eat akoho rony (chicken boiled in water) if I didn’t want to get sick. I went with a few women who seemed like they had claimed responsibility for my well-being. They told me where to sit, what to do, and how much to pay.

I do remember from my first few months in France, as well as from my time in Lesotho, that there comes a point in a foreign country, if you are truly immersed in the new culture, when you become like a little child. You are like a helpless infant who can only depend on the kindness of others, of strangers, and hope that he isn’t led astray. You don’t know what is being said, where to go, or what to do. Even if you had an idea about all that, you can’t communicate much anyhow except for a few hand gestures and smiles. Fortunately, I’ve always had plenty of smiles in reserve.

We ate our akoho rony, and when we got back to the taxi at the scheduled meeting time, they explained to me that the driver was too tired to continue, so we were going to sleep there for the night. Those who wanted could go get a hotel room. My group of caretakers told me to come with them and that they would get me a room, but I decided to stay with those who couldn’t afford a room for the night.

I can’t say it was the best sleep I’ve ever had in my life, but I did feel even more strongly bonded with our little group of voyagers, travelling on the road together, eating together, walking together, laughing together, suffering together, and now resting together. It wasn’t exactly comfortable or quiet. Noise from the bars outside and noise from my fellow passengers pushed me to put my headphones in, and probably around midnight I was able to start drifting in and out of sleep listening to the melodious chanting of Enya.

As it was cool and humid outside, and to protect the taxi from thieves, we shut all the windows. Well, the people left in the taxi put off enough heat that it turned into a little taxi oven. Condensation was literally rolling down the insides of the windows, and my shirt was soaked with sweat. I generally don’t like to bother anyone. I would rather just sit there, take it, and be uncomfortable, thinking that if my neighbors are happy and comfortable, then that is good enough for me. But at around 3 a.m., I just couldn’t take it anymore. It was so hot I could hardly breathe, and sweat was literally dripping down my face and off the tip of my nose. So I said to myself, well, they’ll just have to deal with it, and I cracked open a window… sweet relief! I could breathe again! To my surprise, someone on the other side of the taxi cracked open a window too, and I started to drift in and out of sleep again.

Will we ever Arrive?

At around 5 a.m., we “woke up” to continue our voyage. The second day was a bit smoother, but what I noticed above all is that the longer we traveled together, the closer we became. People looked out for each other, cared for one another, and I learned more and more about my fellow passengers. One of the older women turned out to speak French very well. She was Catholic and happy to be travelling with a priest. At one of our roadside stops, she bought some fried grasshoppers as a snack, and she desperately wanted me to enjoy them with her. I refused politely two times, and on the third time she seemed almost hurt that I didn’t want any grasshoppers, and so down they went. Protein. They actually weren’t that bad.

As evening rolled around, we pulled into Antsohihy, still several hours from Port-Bergé. We stopped as usual for some akoho rony, and then the normal drill. It turned out that both of the back wheels were shot, and so they had to be replaced. We all knew the drill; waiting we were good at. As we were eating at the café, shooing away the dozens of flies swarming our dinners, I couldn’t help but think that there was something marvelous in traveling together.

We All Knew the Drill

We started out as a group of strangers from different places, from different walks of life, yet we were all going in the same direction, travelling together. As we travelled, strangers became acquaintances, acquaintances became friends, and dare I say, friends became family. We were in the same boat, on the road together.

It is a beautiful analogy for the Church. We come from different walks of life, different cultures, and with different challenges and struggles, but we begin a walk together. As we walk, we become more than just friends, more than just a family, but a body: The Body of Christ walking together toward our heavenly home, pilgrims on a journey together. As we walk, we help one another, care for one another, and even welcome new voyagers as we travel on the Way.

As you may have guessed, this voyage in the bush taxi was the inspiration for the name of my website. Madagascar is one of the poorest countries in the world. Here, suffering is ever present, poverty is everywhere, the road is not easy, and life is not easy, but we can walk that road together. We can walk that road together with Christ as he leads us through the dirtiness and difficulties of life here below. As we are walking, we realize that yes, sometimes the road is hard, sometimes it is bumpy and muddy, and yes, sometimes we feel like giving up—but the journey is beautiful. In truth, I wouldn’t trade what I have found for all the riches in the world. I would rather travel a bumpy road with good companions than travel a smooth road all by myself.

As the sun sets on the second day, we are on the road again. Our little family is exhausted. It is 10 p.m., and I can’t help but think back on our first morning. We were all scrunched in the taxi, but we still tried not to touch each other too much. But now, we’re different. We’ve changed somehow. I’m sitting upright in the dark taxi, looking at the reflection of the moonlight on the window, because the woman on my right is asleep on my shoulder, and the man on my left is asleep on my other shoulder. I can’t help but smile. No, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I hope with all my heart that they can rest a bit.

Just after midnight, we finally approach the outskirts of Port-Bergé. Glory hallelujah! I can almost feel the good shower I’ll soon have, and the clean sheets against my skin as I lay down to sleep. And then… pop! There goes the tire. All I can do is hang my head and wait. At 1 a.m., 41 hours later, we finally pull into the taxi rank. Fr. Franklin, a Malagasy priest who studied in Paris at MEP, is there to meet me, along with a seminarian from the junior seminary that he works at. They take my bag off the roof of the taxi, and I give a joyful goodbye to my travelling companions, my little family for the past 41 hours. They take me to the seminary, where there is a hot shower and a clean bed waiting for me. As I’m lying in bed, closing my eyes to finally sleep, I can’t help but have one last thought: I wonder what kind of homes, what kind of beds, my travelling companions are crawling into tonight?

Miara-dalana: Together on the Way