Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
By 6 p.m. I arrived in the town. I asked people every 100
metres where the Catholic Mission was. Slowly I crawled up a hill
and then down. I went through narrow paths to a large square and
then down the road and up a huge hill (the one kilometre I was told
turned into 3½ kilometres).
Never before have I felt so low. I felt stripped of my dignity:
I smelled, I was in pain, I was emotionally naked, and my voice was
raw from all my swearing. I felt that I wanted to just pack the bike
in.Ilostall focuswhyIwasonthese hills inAfrica. Ialsoneverfelt
so ashamed before in my life. I felt as if God had left me all alone
on these hills even though deep down inside I knew he was carry-
ing me, leaving only one set of footprints in the sand. “Why Lord? I
don't deserve this! Please give me patience!” for I had none. I asked
a10-year-oldgirlfordirectionsbutshewouldn'trespond.Irepeated
myself to the point of yelling at her, “Oú est la mission catholique?”
I scared the hell out of her and she ran and got two teenage boys. At
leasttheywerehelpful.Thelasthill,Ihadtwolocalshelpme.Igave
them a pin each and crawled to the mission's gate.
When I arrived, both Fathers Stanislas and Bogalau welcomed me to the mission.
Within 20 minutes, I had a room, washed, and joined the priests for dinner. I returned to
my bike and removed the faulty link and replaced it with new links. By 9:30 p.m. I was
in bed 100% mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted. In total, I managed 108 kilo-
metres in eleven hours and it was without a doubt, hell on two wheels. The threat of rain
that played so heavily on my mind was just that, a threat. It only started to rain heavily
when I was lying in bed. The sound of the rain on the tin roof quickly lulled me to sleep as
it continued through the night.
Iwokeupinthemorningtogowithoneoftheprieststothesisters'formass.When
we returned, I prepared my bike while Father cooked breakfast. My shoe was ready to be
thrown out, but instead I rewrapped the chord around it to keep the sole in place.
I left the mission at 8:00 a.m. and as I cycled out of Mindouli, I heard a police of-
ficer's whistle being frantically blown. I didn't turn around for I knew it was for me and I
just wanted to keep going. Many people passing by also told me but I just wished them a
Merry Christmas. The whistle sound soon stopped as I continued eastward.
The road conditions were far worse than the previous day. However, there was one
key difference: my attitude. I actually made a conscious decision out loud so I could hear
myselfsayitthatwhateverhappened,Iwasgoingtoreactpositively.Ifitthreatenedtorain
or actually did rain, fuck it. If my pace was slower than a crawling infant, fuck it. If I only
completed 5 kilometres, what the fuck? No, the same: fuck it.
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