Rough Riders
Missionary transportation:
Anything that will get you there.

“How far?” asked one of the missionaries.

We all turned and looked at Francois Filogene, our translator extraordinaire who had been waiting for us at the airport. Lanky, thin, with sparkly eyes full of merriment, a man we would call in Texas: a long tall drink of water.

“12 miles missus.”

Easy breezy piece of cake. I can handle this. 12 miles to the missionary compound. 15 minutes more and it will be official, I will be the “M” word…Let the God games begin. But…but…but…where's the road?


Transformer
Without warning,a dust storm skidded in upon us. As the cloud settled…Three objects appeared. If wheels could walk, three sets of four, 18 wheeler wheels, dragon snorting the smell of diesel fuel, inch wormed up next to us and parked themselves.

My eyes bugged out of my head like a frog. Surely I was in a transformer movie. Three mix-matched trucks with multiple car parts? Was that an 18 wheeler front grill? Bailing twine? A chocolate brown extension cord? I tried to focus on just one (and I use the term loosely). A black hood. A Pontiac hood ornament. One red door. 2 blue doors. One white door. No bumper.

"Sha-woosh!!!" a guy landed like superman, feet first out of the passenger window. A Chicago cub's cap. Pittsburg Steelers t-shirt and khakis. 4 teenagers with the pizzazz of the 4 musketeers hopped off of the bed of the truck and approached us with the grace of Fred Astaire and the swagger of Lil.' Wayne. I was thrilled! (Lookie here, lookie here, I grinned from ear to ear). My lily white counterparts were aghast and as white as Mary's lil' lamb. Each lad was dressed in khakis and an array of American sport team shirts and caps. Dallas Cowboys, LA Rams, Louisville Cardinals, Texas Longhorns. Being a Texas Ex, I just couldn't stop grinning. (Way to represent America, way to represent). My 4 heroes began organizing our luggage and supply bins. Taking my cue from the other fellow missionaries I quickly wiped the grin off of my face and I tried not to alter my normal blinking pattern. A game I had long since mastered thanks to my brothers. I inhaled a dashboard prayer: Thanks God for my brothers and the multitude of hours spent playing that notorious game of “made you flinch” then "wham", you got punched in the arm for blinking. I morphed into my poker face. A strategy which came in very handy for the vast number of things that would eventually bombard my sight and compete for my blink.

From inside another truck, a dark brown arm, darker than the browns in any crayon box I had ever seen, pointed in my direction. He leaned his woolen head out of the window, with teeth whiter than dental porcelain white, smiling like a river boat king “You will ride wit me, missus,”my transformer limo-truck driver announced.


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