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Tuesday 30 December 2014

Miracle # 1 " Tripping " over God...


April fourth will mark my two year anniversary as a blogger. I have taken great pleasure in sharing my thoughts, feelings, and emotions with the world. As well, I feel extremely fortunate to have become privy to the copious information accumulated in the video content below. Faithful followers of my writing understand well, my focus is to afford the regular reader a path to unconditional love. I believe the greatest strength of my site is in the video content. I often maintain the video compilation is designed to act as a puzzle. Each piece has been carefully selected, as an integral part of the whole. The focus is to take the uninitiated through a cleansing of mind so that illusion can be seen. Peeling the onion of deceit, we slowly open locked doors which, in turn, allow us to forge a new construct of reality and self. I have always suggested, if one is asleep, they need only assemble all these pieces of the puzzle and their life would transform. Alas, as is often the case, this great archive of information lies mostly dormant as billions of televisions flicker in darkened rooms.

In my blog writing, I try to augment the video content by offering a humble perspective on reality and unconditional love. I endeavor to tie the science and spiritual truth together so that both left and right brain may become stimulated. My desire is that my work should be thought-provoking, interesting, and entertaining, thereby causing the reader to pause, reflect, and discover. I take great pleasure in communing with my brethren, thanking each of you who choose to partake in my little blog odyssey. To commemorate this imminent anniversary, I wanted to write a special blog. For a long while, my wife has suggested I write a blog about how I discovered my GodSelf. For myself, my darling wife, and you the reader this is that story. Each day from Now until the fourth I will add another miracle.

'Tripping Over God' ( four short stories of GodSelf being )

When presented with the miraculous we naturally envision divine intervention. Samuel L Jackson and John Travolta offer, for our amusement, a good example of this enigma in the movie Pulp Fiction. Shortly after their characters experience a miraculous event, they toy with concepts of divinity. I do not believe divine intervention exists as portrayed in the movie, whereas a benevolent God intercedes on behalf of self or others. In my matrix of reality I feel the miraculous can present itself as a function of only two ingredients, fate and GodSelf will. Note, there is no relationship whatsoever to a third party benevolent God. The explanation I give for this denial of God's presence is that I do not perceive God to be separate from self. God, as humanity defines God, does not exist. Only GodSelf exists, this manifestation we can define as eternal consciousness. There is only ONE God, you are that being. God did not create you, God became you. God did not create the tree, God became the tree. God did not create the universe, God became the universe. For decades, I could not see the tree for the forest, these are stories of personal enlightenment and empowerment of my GodSelf being.




Miracle 1./ Born Again: GodSelf Saying Hello

Sitting in the pew every Sunday I listened, with great interest, to the sermon of our priest. My interest was stimulated by the many foul inaccuracies spewed by this most revered man. Etched in my memory, I can see a little boy, sparkling clean, pondering why only Catholics could go to heaven. Why does God seem to be so jealous, judgmental, uncaring and brutal? Why does God answer some people's prayers and not others? If God loves us, why is the world full of misery?

Most of all, what if I were born into a Jewish or Muslim home like some of my friends? These thoughts continually preyed on my peace of mind. I remember thinking about the concept of only 144,000 souls making it to heaven. The number actually makes sense if you know your bible. Those who do not believe in the virgin Mary, Jesus, and the trinity will not make it. Those who sin against the father without repent will end up in hell or purgatory. Those who have not been baptized will not see heaven. Those who have not accepted communion, eating of the flesh and drinking of the blood of our savior Jesus Christ, will certainly not enjoy a place at his table. The list of dis-qualifiers seems endless, total it all up in the mind of a ten-year-old boy, like I said, 144,000 makes sense. What most certainly did not make sense, even to a ten-year-old, is that billions of people should perish in hell and purgatory.

Take a calculator and divide 144,000 into six billion, I did.( of course, now there are 7 billion )The answer will tell you .000024 percent of the world will make it to heaven therefore 99.999976% of all people will end up somewhere other than heaven. With this fact in place, I looked around my little world to verify if the number made sense. What did I find, our church served a community of about 10,000 souls. We had maybe 150 people in church any given Sunday. Of the attendees, not all performed the essential and regular ritual communion, maybe 50 or so did. I asked myself, of those 50, how many would commit sin during the week and die before having the chance to repent that sin before God on Sunday communion.

 
My guess was about 5 people in our community would have a chance at heaven. One big factor keeping the number down was the fact we sin during the week. Therefore, the way my little brain sorted this dilemma, each week we have sins to repent, so it was unlikely we could make it to Tuesday without darkening our soul with sins of the mind or acts of will against divine law. I figured about 10% of good, God-fearing Catholics would be lucky enough to die on a Sunday or Monday. By my simple reasoning, and having properly evaluated this from a global and local perspective, I had to agree the bible must be right. I divided 5 into 10,000 and came up with .0005 wow this number meant I was wrong, people sin quicker than I thought. It appeared a good Catholic would have to die sometime Sunday afternoon or soon after mass.

This meant I was probably not going to heaven nor was anyone I knew. Only about two or maybe three people in our town would get to heaven and our priest was surely one of them. How do you think a little boy would react to this self constructed empirical evidence? Not well is the answer, I could not accept a religion or a God who could be so cruel. By simple reasoning, I was left with the crushing fact my entire family would not see heaven. Also, how could adults, even our priest always say the person who just died went to heaven.

Did they not work out the math?

The fact was, if the rapture happened, there would be little room left at God's table once all the priests and nuns took their seats.

If this was the way God showed us his love, then why should I love him?

I still believed in God, but I could no longer accept the words of our priest or the ethos of Catholicism.

By the age of 19, I was finishing up my first year of college. In order to pay for school, I had to work a 40 hour week. The demanding course load, coupled with a full-time job left me in an emotional and physical mess. I had passed out twice from malnutrition and fatigue. I was barely able to complete a day's work, let alone keep up with the necessary revisions for exams. My girlfriend represented the glue that held everything together. Finishing the school year, we went our separate ways, as a result, my world began unraveling properly.

I found myself working for a logging company as a tree planter. The camp life was nice, but the labor was exhausting. Having not yet recovered from school, I was struggling to keep my job. Early one morning, about 3am, I found myself dealing with a physical and mental breakdown. Trying my best to stifle sobs proved useless as I woke my friend sleeping in the bunk adjacent to me. This friend I speak of had latched onto me soon after my arrival at the camp. My emaciated appearance, sunken cheeks with vacant eyes spoke clearly of serious problems. My friend, being a Christian, gravitated like a magnet to the role of self-appointed saviour of my soul.

Although a tone of condescension lingers in these words it has no place, for it was his intervention 


which led to my first experience of the miraculous.

It was in this vortex of despair I heard him utter
the words he was so fond of parroting.


"Chris, just ask Jesus for help, what harm could it do."

Asking Jesus for anything was not in my nature. With just cause, I had forsaken the church. I was not going down that road again, not on my life. But then again, I was in no shape to pick and choose where the help came from. I couldn't sleep nor keep down food. My heart ached for my girlfriend, it felt like I was quickly racing to some, not so distant, point of no return.

With my head spinning, I closed my eyes and begged God for help. The simple sentence I uttered is forever etched in my mind. " God if you are out there, please, please help me. "

Upon completion of that plea, my entire world changed. The best description I can offer is that a wave of love enveloped my entire being. For the duration of the early morning, the sensation felt like my body was lifted about two feet above the bed. No thoughts raced through my mind, nor was my environment present. I just floated in stasis, oblivious to all but the love coursing through me. The aches and pains of suffering under depleted reserves disappeared completely. The distress of my girlfriend's absence passed, which was no small feat in the mind of a 19-year-old boy. Without pause or consideration, I can honestly say it proved to represent the second most powerful experience of my life. More importantly, it was the first miracle I had ever witnessed firsthand.

The change in me was staggering, to say the least. I arose at 6am spending an hour or so in the forest. My body felt better than it ever had. I savored this fresh green world, drinking in the smells and sights with the intensity of a starving man at a buffet. I was happy as a lark, possibly the happiest I have ever been. I can never remember a time when I was more content, alive and vibrant. I made my way to the cookhouse for breakfast, my friend spied my entrance encouraging me to sit next to him.

"What happened to you, you're different." Commented my pal as I plopped down next to him with a grin a Cheshire cat would admire.

"I'm not altogether sure " was the only reply I could muster.

We talked about the entire experience between bites of the toast and runny eggs. He deduced that I had been born again. Having no reference for such a staggering event, I was compelled to agree. Later in the day he passed on a copy of the bible, warmly signed with good wishes for my day of rebirth.

I poured over the bible in earnest, devouring every utterance of Jesus with a passion I had never known. By the end of that summer, I found myself at an impasse; reason would not let me accept scripture, therefore, I determined my spiritual pursuit required more dimension. I no longer just vaguely believed in God. From that moment forward, I knew, in the depths of my heart, a benevolent God did in fact exist. When one transcends the chains of a belief structure in favour of a knowing, one is finally able to grasp, from the heart, truth which is hidden by the secular merry go around of lies.

I dove into all world religions with keen zealousness. Each page of a new text revealing a mixture of lies and truth. Searching for the same unadulterated truth and love I had felt that fateful day, yet always unable to touch its magnificence. I could see my personality erode back into the banal constructs of ego, nothing seemed to stem the gradual but steady departure from GodSelf.

In the course of a decade, I realised my thirst could not be sated by religion, more truth was needed. In time I came to realise the entire experience was not about being born again in the image of Catholicism. Rather I was born into my true GodSelf. The Saviour was not God or Jesus, rather it was my GodSelf expressing, for the first time, the great wealth of power that exists within.

In Lak' ech, my brethren, the voice in the woods spoke truth...

Wednesday 10 December 2014

Miracle # 2: Africa, A Testament to Survival and Love


My second brush with the miraculous occurred eleven years later in the Congo. Some of you have already read this post. If you have read this you can understand why this story deserves the merit of miraculous. For those who have not read this story, get ready for a wild ride.

In the winter of 1989/1990 I had undertaken the task of riding a mountain bike from London, England to Capetown, South Africa. Crossing Africa alone by bicycle proved to be a daunting endeavor, with each leg of the arduous journey offering significant trials and tribulations. The rendering of this tale will prove trying The reason this is a difficult story to recount is due to the fact, in the 20 or so years since these events occurred, I may have told this story only four or five times. As well, I have never taken pen to record the events. However, the depth of challenges which unfolded in the Zaire jungle those days long past did forever change my life.

The location of this event was a small village about 150 north of Kisangani in the country of Zaire. Slick, undulating, mud roads which carved a path through the dense jungle (calling them roads is most generous) were horrific. Loaded with potholes, fallen trees, deep water bogs and obstacles of all sorts meant most vehicles were lucky to accomplish 30 to 40 KM per day. Luckily, short of a motorcycle, my mountain bike proved nearly a perfect mode of transport. For example, a good day would see me manage about 75km (Yay, the only time ever I experienced a bike to out travel a truck). Two days cycling removed from the riverside city of Kisangani where I had rested for one week, I was already knackered. 

The jungle has a way of zapping one's energy. Humidity, the constant need for vigilance, regular rains rendering clay loam soil slick as an ice rink, represented just a few of the daily challenges a cyclist needs to endure. Tack on malaria, dysentery, bowel infections, intestinal parasites, and an assortment of other ailments, it is easy to understand how a cyclist traveling alone can easily become overwhelmed.

The sun, just starting to cast a red glow over the dense forest canopy, announced the end of a long day in the saddle. Fortune favoured me this lovely evening whereby as my day ended I spied a small village nestled near a river winding along a lush ravine. Such fortuitous village locations conveniently poised at the end of a difficult day's ride were always most welcome. So much more pleasurable it was to have the good luck to spend a night in a village, instead of just setting up a lonely tent in the midst of the wild, dense, noisy jungle. 

Unfortunately, I am unable to recall the name of the tiny village. In the blur of a cross continent trip, such details needed recording in a travel log. In fact, I did at one time have a log of this journey, however, it was appropriately stolen years later. I say appropriately, because, when crossing Africa, theft is a regular occurrence, so why not also lose the records. In any event, the names of the people, as well their quaint village respites have long since become lost in time. What remains etched in my mind are the memories of faces, smells, sounds, as well, the many lessons learned.

Coasting slowly down the winding mountain road, a mix of villagers, mostly children, started screaming out welcome. Before long, the odd shout became a small din as a throng of villagers amassed at the village square. For those who may not have traveled to similar destinations, it should be noted, in remote jungle regions like the Congo, it is unbelievable how loving and giving are the local people. 

Soon as it became understood I was fluent in French, the children grew rather excited. Belting out an endless array of questions, their excitement, like a screaming teapot, began boiling over. So many questions all in one ring, made it near impossible to understand any single query. Excited as the children were, it proved only a few moments before the adults capably reigned in the cackling mass thereby enabling me to finally communicate directly with each in turn. 

Arriving at these remote villages, with all the attention instantly showering down, it makes you feel like a rock star or a shiny new sports athlete. Additionally, you must understand this village was not unique, everywhere across the continent I was received with much the same exuberant, overzealous, star crazed, manner. The cities in many African countries are dangerous you definitely need your wits about you, but the villages are rarely short of wondrous.

Approaching the village core, passing the odd thatch hut dotting the outskirts, children's shouts drew the attention of the village elder who quickly made his way toward the growing group. With a nod and slight wave, the elder invited me to speak. We conversed a moment, embraced, then I was invited to take a smoke before the village women prepared the evening meal. Excited, cackling children gathered around as much as were permitted. The men, amounting to a good twenty or so, sat down with the elder and myself to commune over a few pipes of ganja. In the backdrop of our conversation, I could hear the girls and women bustling about in preparation for a special feast to honour their newly arrived guest. 

Much debate soon swelled over the quality of our smoke. Although impressed with the ganja I had lit up, the elder, in an earnest attempt to not be outdone, shouted a few words to a boy who instantly sped off in service. Moments later, the same young boy appeared with a small bongo, a pipe, as well, about three pounds of marijuana. The elder insisted I take these items as a gift. "So that you may remember my people, our village." Having previously found myself in similar situations, I knew it was proper etiquette to refuse the gesture as merely a gift without recompense. 

"This gift is too rich I said, possibly I might gift to you some sugar, coffee beans, or other market supplies". The elder agreed which was his tactful way of initiating the bartering process.

It may seem odd to be offered a gift, then find oneself bartering over the cost. However, in the spirit of Congolese trade, such a process was the expected natural progression. After a few pipes, much debate, we both felt pleased in having established a fair price for trade, which by the way, was the equivalent of nearly $12 US dollars.

Dinner, served by the fire, had the elder sat next to me so that he might ensure I was amply fed and cared for. During the meal, he would continually review my plate, then make demands upon some of the women to ensure I sampled everything in just the right order. Of course, he insisted each offering was always piping hot. While I stayed with the tribe over the next few days, without fail, the elder continued the same process of gentle, but determined, care for every meal. 

Indeed, we all enjoyed a wonderful meal. The conversation was unique, eclectic, flavourful as was the food, enchanting as the village lifestyle. Having completely satisfied any sense of hunger, a freshly stoked fire proved a warm companion to hot coffee, as well as, the obligatory few pipes.

Storytelling continued throughout the night, me answering, as well as asking, countless questions in a mutual effort to learn of each other's lifestyles, habits, customs. Well into the evening, the forest ecosystem created a subtle din against the backdrop of stories. The company, as well the environ, proved utterly surreal, otherworldly in so many ways. The recanting of rich village legends provided fodder for a night of amusement one truly could not find anywhere else in the world. Clearly, I can remember the full moon as it cast a lovely glow on the flora, the sensational vista adding to a very euphoric sense of goodwill.

Late in the evening, one by one, the villagers headed off to bed. By the time the chief decided he had enough libations, smoke, and food, there were maybe a half dozen of us left. Standing up, rubbing his belly with a sense of great pleasure, he urged me to follow him to the hut his wife had prepared for my evening sleep. Opening the wooden door to the small hut provided me, proved extravagant, probably only one of five or six village huts that actually had a door. The hut floor clearly freshly swept, a small but robust blanket lay neatly folded at the end of the crafted wooden bed. Like the door, very few of the huts actually had a bed, mostly, the villagers would sleep on a woven mat.

The hut was round, crafted of straw, and woven from leaves of some unrecognisable ilk. Obviously, this was a sturdily abode firmly cemented by well-placed mud. Each village hut seemed rather small. Mine proved a tad larger than the average. Once inside, I made note, it was large enough for the wooden bed, next to the bed a makeshift table. Either side of the bed about two feet or so to spare, as well, three to four vacant feet at the foot. Quickly, in answer to the cool night air, I unfolded my sleeping bag, then settled in for fitful night sleep. Prior to dozing off, the compulsory orchestra of jungle fauna lulled me into a warm reverie. The sounds of the midnight jungle are something I would so love to hear again.

Morning comes early in the jungle. About one hour before sunrise the birds wake seemingly happy to commence the AM orchestra. Not long after, the monkeys join in the chorus, Undoubtedly, the monkeys feel it is their ordained task to ensure not one soul, human or otherwise, is left dilly-dallying in dreamland. Once all the critters join the morning jamboree, any person with a heart would agree, there truly is no better way to greet the day.

Lounging in my bed, I hear a steady flow of little feet bounding around my hut. Chirping banter blend with endless giggles, undoubtedly intended to stir me to rise. What a wonderful accompaniment to the forest choir of equally restless critters. Anxious, the children are, to take advantage of the early hour. Each morning of my stay, the children do their level best to entice me to show my face prior to the elders catching up to their shenanigans. The kids know all too well, as soon as an elder catches them out they will be cautioned to leave me to rest in peace. 

As if anyone could peacefully rest in light of the din created by howling monkeys greeting a new day.

We take breakfast as one great family, everyone enjoying coffee, fruit, baked assortment of cassava treats. Rounding off breakfast is the passing ganja pipe. With the men resolved to chatter away an extra morning hour over a second cup of coffee and three or four pipes. Whilst the men lounge, the women chase the children to do chores, as well, busy themselves with various early morning tasks. This first morning as village guest, the men were excited about the prospects for an afternoon hunt. Village scouts had reported much game on the move. I very much wished to participate in the hunt but was not offered and therefore would never presume to ask.

I did, however, have the opportunity to join in the late morning village prayers and dances. Offerings to the hunting Gods were made by each of the men, with thanks, for a safe, successful hunt. Looking into their eyes as they offer up prayers, you can see the manifestation of intent. Such concentrated focus would be the envy of any, new age, intention group around the globe today. It worthy of note, the villagers did not offer prayers in hopes of success, instead choosing to offer prayers of thanks. This is a very important part of manifesting intent, any good Shaman would tell you, it is not right to beg or ask for something from the Gods. Instead, one must first know the Gods will give you what you want, which is why you give thanks for their blessings prior to actually receiving the bounty. 

Many years later, I remember reading the teachings of don Juan Matus, a great South American Shaman. Tears came to my eyes when I read, in the Carlos Castaneda series of books his illustration of the identical manifestation process as exercised in a rain dance.

In lieu of attending the hunt, I made afternoon arrangements to join eight of the young village girls on a fishing trip. The trip was quite the learning experience for me, as much as it was for the young girls, who were absolutely thrilled to spend time with a foreigner. Their excitement makes more sense when you understand that, due to their status as girls, they rarely are allowed such privilege. Awesome and beautiful as village life is, it is very misogynistic. The men enjoy the best of life, the boys next, thirdly the women, finally the young girls. As a result, young girls expect little more than a continual stem of chores. 

The little time they are afforded for pleasure is almost completely spent among themselves. Exciting events gaining direct contact with a traveling visitor is almost solely the domain of the men. If the men were on the hunt or otherwise occupied it would be the boys would be next in line to gain the traveler's attention. The women would get the pleasure of serving the guest, in doing so gain contact. The girls, however, almost never found themselves within the warmth of such a privileged spotlight.

Knowing the lowly status of village girls, it is easy for one to imagine how extremely excited they were to have me along for the fishing trip. Making our way down the river, maybe a kilometer or so, the girls were dancing, singing, giggling and frolicking for all they were worth. Having arrived at the perfect bend in the river, they prefaced their afternoon fishing with a welcome swim. I was anxious to discover what they had in mind for fishing gear, especially as they had no fishing poles nor nets, no hooks, nor line. By my reckoning, all they had were half a dozen five-gallon plastic buckets.

Perplexed as I was to engage in their technique, while they frolicked on the river I spent a few moment gearing up with my rod and reel. I had brought my mini tackle box, enough gear I figured to catch most smaller fish. I anticipated on maybe hooking up a few worms or bugs if the fish didn't hit one the artificial lures. Having rigged my fishing line with the most likely lure for success, I started a pipe, then waded into the river for a brief dip in hopes of cutting through the early afternoon heat. 

The girls were, pretending to be rapt in swimming. However, for the most part, they seemed more transfixed by relishing the chance to witness my every action.

I thought to myself, maybe they expect me to catch the fish so that together we might fill those empty buckets. Well, I cast and cast my lures, trying all kinds of widgets and gadgets but all to no avail. The girls found the entire scene very amusing. Delighting in my fishing methodology, we all had fun as they guffawed at my expense. After about an hour of fishing in the hot sun, one of the girls brought me some fresh papaya. The fresh papaya is an absolutely fantastic fruit for reviving the senses. Upon finishing my fruit, I lit up a pipe relaxing by the shore watching the morning sun dabble diamonds across the winding river.

Finally, the girls commenced working, after all, they were here to fish. With much amusement, it was now my turn to voyeur their fishing techniques. Proximal to the apex of the river elbow was a small marshy area about 25 feet in diameter. The young girls were using the plastic buckets to dam off a small portion of the river. Perplexed, I watched as they effectively engineered a river diversion which proved enough to fill the marsh waist-deep. Understand, this endeavor was no small feat. There were nine girls, seven of whom were dispatching buckets of mud enough fo the other two girls to construct a small dam. 

It took about two hours of steady work until they could fill, then seal, the small marshy bog. Like all the villagers whom I offered assistance to, the girls refused to let me help. Relegated to the role of observer, I sat back reading my favorite book, smoking my pipe, and enjoying the jungle fruit brought to me with regularity. Having completed the reservoir, the girls sat with me to enjoy lunch. 

Endless chatter, questions, good times, were had by all.

We sang songs, ate lunch, then splashed around in the river laughing and giggling. Work recommenced just as the sun was passing its apex. Phase two of the fishing trip involved the girls using the same buckets to empty the gooey swamp. Singing songs of praise and thanks, they labored tirelessly for about two hours until all that was left was a quagmire of mud shin-deep to all but the eldest girls. One girl was assigned to maintain the integrity of the dam while six others skittered about yelping and screaming with joy and excitement as they seized their prey. The other two girls remained steadfast in bucketing the mud onto the banks while keeping a keen eye for any sign of flopping prey. 

The day ended with the dam being broken up thus allowing the river to ebb into the quagmire. Before long, the river effortlessly clearing the remaining debris from the slew leaving little sign they were ever there.

For their rewards, the young girls caught about 150 fish, the largest of which was maybe four or five inches in length. They had managed to fill about one-third of a five-gallon pail. Making their way back to the village, excitement reflected upon their faces, you would imagine they had caught 200 pounds of fresh salmon. The joy and sincere gratitude those girls exuded that day brought then, as it does now, tears of love to my eyes.

Upon our return to village life, the entire village proved a beehive of activity. The men were astir with tales of a successful hunt as they cleaned and oiled their spears or stalked their quivers of arrows. The women were busy with chores whilst the young girls were cleaning fish whilst bounding with excitement for the coming festivities. The odd elder carefully instructed some young boys in the art of skinning and butchering the game. 

Ladies, who had busied themselves most the day preparing all sorts of loaves of bread and side dishes, were now setting the tables for the evening feast. The entire village was abuzz with excitement.
Indescribable was the meal in its vast assortment of tastes and textures. After a hard day watching the girls fish, this time of quiet reflection proved the perfect tonic.

Leaving the dinner table behind, the men led a slow migration back to the main firepit just as the setting sun brought a cool reprieve. Smoke billowing from a well-stocked pipe, a few stories proved a perfect segue toward the Sunday evening village commune. 

The Chief, or elder if you like, asked I join him in offering prayers of thanks for the bounty the earth has provided his humble village. We sang psalms of praise, then prayed under a canopy of straw thatch community gathering hut. Comforting was the steady breeze passing through the unwalled building Carried upon the night air a buffet of jungle aromas, coupled by the light din of village life everything seemed surreal, Edenic. Looking around, I could see the entire village, perhaps sixty or so comfortably seated upon benches, stumps, or thatch rugs. Before the altar, the 150 or so villagers without a seat crowded around the perimeter of the structure. Sights, sounds, smells euphoric, indeed my world had truly become a paradise of love.

Settled back in a comfy chair, the fire cast a warm glow enhancing the many stories and pipes to follow. One of the men asked about my fishing trip inquiring about my success. I admitted I had no luck, but extolled the grand success of the girls. Everyone around the fire laughed robustly, obviously finding it rather amusing the girls outfished the foreigner. We talked about fishing in the area and they told me of a sacred lake. I mentioned, I wish I had the time to go there and try my luck. My commentary invoked a fresh round of hearty laughter. Perplexed, I asked what they found so funny. They said you can't fish there, it is forbidden and you would not catch fish if you spent a lifetime trying. 

My reply was to why could no fish be caught in this lake? 

I was told that this is a very special and magical lake. When I probed into the magical aspect of the lake, the chief informed that if I were to cast a net or a line toward the water then the water would run away. Please explain I said. He told me the water would always run away from you every time you approach its presence. If you try to take from the lake for water or food it will surely run away and give you nothing. To this I replied, I need a few more pipes. 

The fire almost consumed, wood has become coal leaving the cooling ash to end what was a perfect day.


I woke early embracing the love of the few who stirred, I felt sorrow in the knowledge I would soon leave this beautiful village family. I say village family because all the elders treat all the children just like their own. As well, all the children respect and love all the elders considering each elder as a parent. 

The result of this heightened community bonding is confusing at first when you hear one man speaking to twenty or so children referencing each child as my son or my daughter. Conversely, each child would refer to each elder as father or mother thereby making it appear like one child has many fathers.

In fact, this is the essence of their demeanor, they truly are a family of 200. Imagine, if all people around the world treated their neighbor as a sibling or a parent! How easy it would be to find love replacing the corporate fear paradigm.

I digress...,

 The morning passed in a flash with a meal and, you guessed it, a coffee and ample fragrant pipes. With my bicycle panniers packed, I bade a sorrowful farewell to my new family.

Or so I thought.

For those who may be thinking this cycling thing sounds like paradise and are considering buying a Trek 900 mountain bike with the intent of crossing Africa, let me say, you have no idea how grueling cycle touring can prove to be. For example, in Zaire alone, I suffered malaria, intestinal infections, bowel infections, parasitic attacks, and dysentery so bad I shit myself at least four or five times in a single day of cycling. When I saw my doctor back in Canada, he told me my insides will never be the same, twenty years later his sage words have been proven right. For those brave souls who disregard my warning, you will find divine synchronicity between your survival needs and the graceful love with which these villagers are prepared to offer respite.

Back to the story.

The sun has just passed its apex as I start the climb out of the ravine. Looking back, I see bright faces, waving arms. The road is in good shape here, proximal to the village it gets often used. I appreciate the relatively smooth surface as it appears to be a good two kilometers to the top of the little mountain I am navigating out of the valley. 

My muscles feel good from the re hydration of my body over the last few days. The recent abundance of good food has helped to curb dysentery, so all is about as good as it gets for the start of a long day of riding. Half way up the long incline a couple of young men, in their twenties or so, offered to help push me up the mountain. For those who don't know, an extra source of income is derived by the boys and young men who push trucks, land rovers, and motorcycles out of mud holes. Cleaning of said vehicles after muddy ordeals is another service often rendered. Providing of fruit and food while the pushing and cleaning are done is yet another opportunity for the villagers to acquire, what I call, sugar money.

I was happy for the assistance, especially because my muscles were not yet warmed. We progressed up the mountain around a couple of bends. It was in the last few hundred yards from the top I heard a metal ping sound. Something metal had dropped from my bike landing precisely on a large rock. I looked behind me to see only one man was standing on the road about twenty or so feet from the bike, where was the other?

I looked closely at him, for some reason he looked scared. As my eyes spied the bicycle panniers I noticed they were all open and emptied. In stealing my belongings he had dropped my spoke key. It is a fairly heavy solid steel tool and probably one of the only things in my bag that could have made such a distinct noise. If anything else had fallen from my bag unto the rock and I probably would have never discovered their plot. Or, even if the spoke key had fallen in the mud or sandy dirt the alarm would have never been sounded. 

There was a moment of disbelief as I spied at him, he latched his gaze upon me. Then, in unison, the moment passed, he bolted down the road disappearing around the bend.

( Reader, please note, I had been robbed seven other times in Africa, once at knifepoint in a nasty little cafe in Tetuan Morocco. Three times I was robbed in the capital of Nigeria, Lagos. A good reason why the Canadian consulate warns you about Lagos )

Instinct kicked in and I dropped my bike so that I could commence running after the culprit. He had a good head start, I never expected to catch him, but I had to try. As misfortune would have it, he made a very poor choice. He ran down the hill, around the bend and yet another 100 yards or so farther down the road to a second bend. There he was standing on the apex of the bend looking intently to see if I was to come. Why he didn't just get around the corner and hide in the jungle I will never know. Ten feet in the jungle and he would have been as hidden as a ghost.

Even at the distance of one hundred yards, I could see his eyes light up in fear as he saw me barreling toward him at full speed. This was not to be his day, the young man made a second crucial mistake. Instead of making a getaway in the dense jungle, he stayed on the road. Running down the mountain for all he was worth was a fool's errand.

Cresting the corner where he once stood, I was rapidly catching him. Realising that I had made up more than half of the one hundred yard distance between us, I doubled my effort. If he buckled down and ran hard he probably still would have made his escape. Instead, he kept looking back over his shoulder, by doing so, slowing himself down considerably. I was just about to grab his shirt when, with absolute abandon, he dove headfirst into the jungle. Close as I was, I was not about to relent. Without a second thought, I leaped off the roadway into the jungle precipice. 

The ground fell from beneath my feet as I soon found myself tumbling head over feet down the steep mountain ravine. Before long, I came to rest about 150 yards down the slope. Much to his dismay, I had landed firmly on my thief as we both had crashed into the same tree. Like I said, this was not a day for him to enjoy good fortune. 

( Please understand reader I am not a violent man, to this point in my life I had been involved in only one fight, and that was on the hockey ice. )

Ashamed as I am to say, we fought for our lives, I beat him until I could no longer raise my hand. I took off his belt, tied his arms behind his back, then told him he was going to drag me back up this gnarly slick ravine. With much effort, we finally made it back to the road then navigated our way back to the bicycle. Using rope stashed in my front pannier, I loosened the belt securing his hands behind his back, then commenced retying his hands. We were both terribly fatigued and sweaty, my guard was down giving him the opportunity to make one last effort at escape. Without pause, he jumped on my mistake. Slipping his hand free, he lunged at me biting my lip. 

My God, we were attached! 

No matter what I did, I could not get him to release his maniacal grip. I poked and pushed my fingers in his eyes, but to no avail. I grabbed him by his pants, literally lifting him up and kneeing him in the balls, three, four times, still, he would not relent. Clamping on his forehead with one hand and his chin with the other, I braced myself then yanked my lip out of his mouth. Finally, I was free, but I knew I had left behind a large chunk of my lip. Falling back in delirium, he came at me again, I parried his attack then rolled him off to the side. Straddled across his torso, I pounded him senseless. Filled with rage, I deliberately selected portions of his face to pummel. Nose, orbital bone over the right eye both broken. Just as I was about to slam my fist into his jaw he managed to slip away to the side causing me to lose balance.

Flashing his big white teeth, he made another vicious attack on my face. Placing my hand in front of my face for protection I was fortunate to protect my chin or lip from being ravaged by his, fast approaching, chompers. Unsuccessful he was in clamping onto my face again, however, his ultimate attack did yield a prize. My index finger was caught in a vice-like grip. The skin tore, followed by my finger-snapping excruciatingly in his mouth. With my free hand, I poked at his eyes while yanking my trapped hand as hard as I could. Feeling my skin peel back, I knew he had consumed another chunk of flesh. 

We both fell to the ground, him in tatters, I covered in blood. 

Much to my surprise, he quickly rose. Leaving me on the ground trying, with my good hand, to stem the steady flow of blood from my hand and face. Again, I watched as he started his way down the mountain. But now, his escape was more a stumble than a run.

I had given it all I could, yet somehow he defeated me. Rolling over on my side, I watched as he fled. From a blurred vision, I noticed the rope, which I had firmly tied to the one hand, was trailing behind him as he attempted escape. With one last ounce of effort, I picked myself up then began pursuit. Upon seeing me renew my chase, his stumbling turned into a slow run. Before long,  I was closing in on my prey. 

My eyes were intently fixated on that damn rope. Bouncing in a weird jerking pattern off the dirt road, it called me forth. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as I bent down to pick up the prize. With deadly malicious intent, I drew in the slack. As soon as the slack was taken up, I anchored my feet, begged my weight against the rope then, with all the viciousness I could muster, yanked on that rope for all I was worth. His arm made a loud pop as it dislocated. The force of the break-in his momentum so severe his body contorted almost entirely horizontal before he collapsed in utter agony onto the ground.

Without pause or reflection, I jumped upon him. Like the devil himself, I stared him straight in the eyes then said 

"Tu est mort". 

Wrapping the cordage around his neck, I pulled with all my might. With eyes bulging, his face took on the colour and look of death. Just at this very moment of rampant madness, the moment of his demise, the sounds of two village boys reached my reptilian brain.  

"Arretez, Arretez". they screamed.

The fog of insanity passed, the children had awakened me to the dreadful realisation that I was killing a man. As if the rope were scorching ambers, I let the ends fall to the ground. Bewildered, I rolled over then helplessly sobbed in the dirt. In the still moments when sanity slowly returned, I could hear the man gasping for breath.

He was alive, thank God.

Although it seemed like an eternity, likely it was only two or three minutes before I rolled the young man over, hogtied him, then told the boys to help him to the village chief. Arriving back at the bicycle, I sat down then uncontrollably wept in a state of despair, gratitude, horror. Recovering my composure, I made my way coasting down the hill. Before I had a chance to reach the village, many were running up the hill to offer aid. My white T-shirt was covered in blood, a good part of my lip was missing, my throbbing finger gushing. 

None of us could comprehend what this event would bring to this loving village. Adrenalin gave way to shock as, in a fog, I was led to the same hut I had used the past few days.

The Chief's wife soon arrived to offer two squares of gauze and a cracked mirror. Looking into the mirror a horrific mess reflected back. Vanity took me over, all I could see was a future with a messed up lip. 

Then I thought, what is all this biting about?

My lip and my finger, no punches thrown just chomping teeth. 

Does he have aids? 

Knowing Zaire is dealing with a national aids crisis, my mind quickly reeled toward a new set of fears. 

Have I been doomed to their fate?

I was losing my mind!.

The elder Chief opened the door to my hut, we talked for a long while. He was grief-stricken. He told me of the great shame his sons had brought upon his village. Weeping uncontrollably, he disclosed how quick interrogation of the captive had revealed there were three young men working together to affect the robbery. He mentioned that he had dispatched all the men and boys to search the jungle. Looking me straight in the eyes, he assured me they would not stop until they find the other two men. Additionally, he mentioned how he had sent their quickest boy to a larger village twelve kilometers away to get the Gendarme ( police ) so the thieves might be taken away to get their rightful justice. Leaving the hut, he assured me food and drink would be brought. 

"Please, try to take the medicine my wife will offer. Eat, drink, then rest until the police arrive."

The afternoon passed, a healing poultice was made for my lip. Whatever it was, it performed excellently in stemming the bleeding and promoted quick mending of tissue. As well it froze the area a bit, like at a dentist, but not quite as much. I ate and drank what I could for dinner, but my demeanor was very solemn. It broke my heart to find myself involved in such a sordid affair. But also I was hurt and very angry at what had befallen me. Trapped I was in a bundle of confused feelings, none of them good.

Where was the love and euphoria of that morning?

After dinner, I sat with some of the elders over a few pipes, the mood was very somber. The chief elder asked that I pray with him and a few others. We went to the prayer lodge asking for blessings of grace. The chief later turned to me and said, 

"Although I have lost three sons, I discovered one son is of my blood ". "His position in the village carries great responsibility. His sin is one I cannot forgive, he is no longer my son". 

Tears welled in both our eyes as the gravity of his loss consumed us both. We returned to the fire, smoked in quiet for a while, then parted for the night. Making my way back to my hut, the moon was still full but the glow on the flora was not to be seen. I was trying to read my journal when, just as I was putting out my pipe, the Police knocked on the door. Hiding my weed, I scurried like a scolded child as I answered their call. The night was late, the fatigued Gendarmerie was not happy. 

(As it turned out the only vehicle in their village was owned by the police chief, He was away until the next day, so they had to walk the twelve kilometers to answer the call.)

They asked me please to join them in the elder's hut for a discussion to describe the events. "What happened", they inquired.

I told them everything, including my attempted murder on the thief's life. When they asked what was missing, I paused, then lied. Much as I could account for, I told them everything that I knew was missing. However, I also told them five hundred U.S. dollars rolled up in a film container had been taken. 

There was no $500, I wish I never said there was. 

No matter what might come to pass, I wanted those three to pay for my lip and to pay for the aids I thought it was likely I was now carrying. Whatever the chose to do to dispatch jungle justice, I didn't want the police letting them go. Imagining that my word would be weighed against that of locals, I expected justice would probably not take into consideration I was, more than likely, sentenced to a life of AIDS.

The police informed me the village men had captured the second thief and, as he has nowhere to go, will surely capture the third thief within a day or two. They informed me, considering the gravity of the assault and crime, I would have to attend the police chief in their village so that a proper report can be filed. As well, he suggested I should rest as we will leave for the trip back sometime mid-morning.

Returned to my tent, I tried to read or sleep but neither was possible, Restlessly, I laid upon the bed a victim to my thoughts. In the background, echoing throughout the village, were the relentless screams of the two men as the police tortured them for information and a confession. The night grew on, I drifted off to sleep in an eerie silence, it seemed the entire jungle was holding its breath.

Waking, about two hours before dawn, to severe stomach cramps, I realised I had pooed the bed. Cramps resulting in soiled underwear was nothing unusual, given some time, most poop ends up in the toilet or forest. My finger throbbed and my lip ached while my stomach was doing the two-step. Placing my feet on the hut floor (which is the ground) I slowly gathered my composure. Immediately, I felt a couple of bites upon my foot, then a few more upon my leg. Damn these buggers really bite! Lifting my feet up from harm's way, I reached for my handy Zippo lighter. 

A flick of the Zippo illuminated the floor showing a steady flow of army ants, or whatever they are called. The entire floor of the hut was moving. For such a small size, their bites were rather painful. Being Canadian, my impulse was to gain freedom from their stings by simply brushing them off, This was Africa thought, and the only way you can get the damn bugs off was by picking them free one at a time. Trying to sweep them away proved useless. In all the commotion, I shit my pants anew. 

Damn not again!


Getting the ants sorted, I took extra underwear and pants then made my way to the toilet. For those who don't know, the jungle toilet is a concentric circle of thatch with a large hole in the middle and two sturdy logs across. You should have a picture of me squatting upon the logs with my ass sticking out spraying whatever was left in my gut. 

Your image of me defecating, as repugnant as it is, proved exactly what happened for the first few minutes. That is until the log broke. 

Yes, my dear readers, after falling fifteen feet, I found myself covered from head to toe in shit and piss. Standing up, the horrific melange was a little higher than the waist-deep, about four feet. Thank God, the toilet pit was only about one-sixth full. If it were a third full I would have been swimming. 

Trust me when I say, being able to stand was a blessing from the Gods, for if I had to tread shit, I very much doubt I could have had the leverage to dig out the hand and footholds needed to make my escape.  

As you can imagine, I vomited like never before in my life. (Much worse than when I pounded back a fifth of tequila to celebrate my 25th birthday.)

When I finished projectile vomiting, I vomited some more. Slowly, very carefully, I started climbing out the hole. However, the shape I was in with my broken finger, throbbing lip, and pounding head, I just couldn't get out. Four or five feet up the dirt wall I fell back in the pit. Again, like the two times previously, submerging myself entirely over my head. Finally, on the fourth attempt, I was able to gain freedom from the pit of excrement. I made my way down to the river stripped off and tossed away my clothes. Small consolation, I didn't have to clean the shit out of my pants, that is never fun.

I cleaned up, making my way back to my hut just as the birds and monkeys were warming up for the morning concert. I smoked a few pipes then before I knew it, the police were knocking on my door to go. They were able to recover about 80% of what was taken, Still unaccounted for was the fictitious $500 and some odds and ends. With sincere promises that all would be recovered because the one thief admitted the third fellow had the cash, we made our way to the village square. 

The police led myself, the thieves, and the Chief to the village ceremonial square. In the harsh morning light, I could see heavy bruising on the criminal's legs, torso, and arms. Since neither could stand in one place for more than a second, I assumed the soles of their feet had also been severely beaten. Moreover, the damages I had inflicted on the thief who I fought had not been tended. To this day, I cannot imagine how much emotional and physical pain they were in at the time they were forced into reckoning in front of family and friends. 

Nor, could I ever imagine then what was yet in store for us all.


A goat was led into the square and a villager took a large knife efficiently cutting its throat in one swift motion. I nearly puked. Then and there, the goat was gutted then tied around the neck of the man I fought. Around the neck of the other thief, the Gendarmerie tied a sack with all the retrieved belongings they took from me. To this man's waist, a live goat was tied. All of us stood back in utter silence as t accusations were announced and the gifting ceremony performed. The Chief said a few words denouncing from the tribe all three villains. Racing through my mind, I knew I too was a villain. We would all die in the end, me from AIDS, them from torture.

Ceremony complete, the police ushered the two thieves out of the village, up the dirt road. Following about 50 yards back, I walked in utter despair, horrified by the events of the last twenty-four hours. Could it be, only one day had passed? 

With the village disappearing around the lazy bend, an eerie silence was brokered within the confines of great sorrow and tragic loss. Each of us lost in thought, captivated by fear, hopelessly asea in a world of shame. Jungle sounds eventually crept back toward the group perhaps gifting each of us small respite from our tortured minds. 

Twelve kilometers might not seem like much, but I promise you it proved a most arduous journey. The jungle steamed with humidity, the group sidling along from one side of the road to the other in hopes of hiding from the direct sun. From the shitfest of the previous night, I was entirely spent long before we departed from the village. Stomach sick from the grotesque ceremony, I remember reeling back then forth like a drunken sailor. Bile would creep up into my mouth, only to be forced down with the greatest of effort. To this day, I cannot conceive how the thieves could move, let alone walk with their load, and the goat constantly tugging at the one fellow's waist buckle. 

We took breaks so that we could eat and rehydrate, However, the breaks were not long enough to offer reprieve or regain lost strength. The two Gendarmerie set the pace, both were in much better shape than any of us three. When the thieves stumbled or slowed, they were mercilessly beaten with sticks until they regained their footing or excited their pace. For the most part, I let them navigate a couple hundred yards ahead. To a certain extent, allowing the group to advance two or three hundred yards distance insulated me from experiencing the violence up close. The blood, grunting, anger, sounds of stick flaying flesh, all horrible nightmarish memories which still come to life.

How did any of us make it?

I really don't know. 

When my body gave way and I passed out of consciousness the large village was in sight, perhaps half a kilometer distant.  Early that evening I regained consciousness, jolted upright by the screams of the tortured thieves a few huts from the infirmary. Gawking at the I.V. in my arm, I slowly regained the realisation the nightmare was indeed the reality. Hours later, I was informed by a proud Captain how, during my brief absence from consciousness, the two men were tortured by three different police officers. 

The officers were comparing notes, pleased with themselves in knowing the tortured thieves told them everything they wanted to know, and much more. By the time the torture sessions were complete, neither thief could speak, stand, or comprehend the hell they found themselves within. Much to my regret, the next morning, I witnessed the two poor souls as they were dragged to the village square in a semiconscious state. The bright sun made the square feel like a set in a cheap spaghetti western. The police Captain beamed as we watched his officers tie the two men back to back against a very large tree. The tree was big enough they couldn't see each other. The Chief of police sauntered out into the courtyard greeting me with great interest. He proceeded to address the growing crowd with a scared straight rant about the evils of crime.

"How terrible these men are to the reputation of the government of Zaire. No mercy should or will be spared in retribution." 

Bla, bla, bla, my stomach turned, my head spun, I was going to pass out again. The chief, noticing my unsteadiness, grabbed my arm making apologies for keeping me in the sun. He broke off his tirade short, ushered me into his air-conditioned office. The cool air steadied my senses allowing us to proceed with the task at hand, the deposition. 

Steadfastly, I dictated to him the events as I knew them, trying in some way to reduce the damage my lie about the money would inflict. He would have nothing of it, he assured me they would find the $500 dollars. If by some weird chance, his men could not retrieve my money, he assured me he would meet me later with recompense from government coffers. About ten or so minutes into the interview the thieves began to scream, the torture had begun anew. We took two hours to compile the whole sordid story, typed in triplicate with the aid of carbon paper. The report should never have taken such a long time, unfortunately for the thieves, it was typed with one finger. The Chief remarked how he felt typing with one finger added an air of gravitas to the task.

When all was done, the Chief ushered me out of his office so that he might proudly address the defeated thieves. The cacophony of torture confirmed how, off and on during the interview, this very large man (One of the biggest men I have ever seen) used a knotted heavy hemp rope to flail the two men. The ordeal rendered the men unable to respond to the Chief's admonishments. This eventuality miffed the Chief, a cross stare was proffered to the beast. Buckets of water were thrown on their lifeless bodies, all to no avail. In lieu of shaming the thieves, the Chief again took the opportunity to offer another rant to the attentive crowd. 

Defeated, dripping unconscious in blood, the two lifeless bodies assured all the show was indeed over. One last horrific glance left me with the nightmarish image of the man I fought. Now unconscious, his nose and orbital bone broken and grotesquely swollen upon a lifeless head. His back, buttocks, legs right to the ankles, raw as burger meat, most of the skin just not there. Assuredly, his cohort was in much the same state. 

Escorted from the square, I was ushered to a small room in a hut motel. The Captain informed me that the Chief had arranged for two missionaries to take me as a passenger in their Land Cruiser. The missionaries were headed to the city of Bunia where I was to receive proper medical help and aid my consulate. The Chief said he would meet me in two weeks at which time he was due to travel to Bunia for business. As well, ever the boastful host, the Chief invited me to his home for dinner. His property was lavish as was the dinner. However, his pride in brutal justice along with constant bragging about his new prison was difficult to bear. 

 Insisting on giving me a tour of the prison, we made our way back to the village proper. Conditions at the prison were dreadful, well beyond the imagination of what one would consider horrific. Cells were all underground, with no windows, no ventilation. Dark damp holes reeking of the stench of death, feces, body odors too vile to describe. Rats scurried across the cement as soon as the harsh lights lit up the rows of soiled floors. Each cell was about six feet by five. In the cell corner, a five-gallon pail acted as the toilet. The beds were devoid of pillows, a soiled blanket or sheet the only possession. Proudly, the Chief extolled the virtues of the hell hole. Each tenant was a ghost of a man, bloodied, scarred, emaciated, entirely broken humans biding their time until death releases them from their misery.  

Inflating his chest, head held high, the Chief blurted. 

"Not one man, woman, nor child within a hundred miles does not fear this prison." "So it should be." 

Incomprehensible was the depth of this man's depravity. Overcome by emotion, stench, revulsion, I emptied my stomach of the fine meal I had recently enjoyed. No one responded, no need to clean the mess the rats would soon enjoy the task of cleaning the concrete floor. The chief merely patted me on the back then, without even a murmur, ushered me toward to stairway exiting the pit of cells. No sooner did we exit the prison, the fresh jungle air caused a sensation of relief so powerful I had to sit upon the grass to regain my composure. 

Hovering above, the Chief looked down, sincerely concerned. "Poor Canadian man, you are not well, they have broken you. Don't worry, we will care for you and all three will pay for what they did."

Back at the 'motel', I laid my head down. Moments were all which was needed for sleep to carry me from the living nightmare to the inevitable dream nightmare. Waking the next morning with a scream had startled me. Sweat-soaked, but greatly revived, I regained composure, reconnected with the reality of events. Within the months to follow, it became the norm to awake in a terror-filled, chaotic manner. Behind me were the most horrific events, ahead was a reckoning, an accounting of the spirit. 

During the next month, I battled what I knew to be my connection to sanity. Strange being a passenger on a speeding train to the insane. You see yourself losing touch with reality, you know the thread is thin, you desperately reach for anything that allows the horrors to be kept at bay. Suicide seems the only recourse, justice for my role in the destruction of three innocent men. Continually I would hold my head in both hands willing the memories to leave, give me peace or just explode and be done with the torment.  

Food was resting upon the bedside table, papaya, mango, as well an assortment of items I could not identify. Ravenously, I tore into the contents not pausing until all was gone, hunger somewhat sated. Feeling run over, disheveled, disgustingly filthy, I made my way to the communal showers, the warm stream of water a welcome balm. Late morning speedily arrives as the do-good missionaries park their fancy white Land Cruiser in front of the motel. Fulfilling their mandate to rescue my sorry soul, they patiently attended my approach. Compassion, understanding, was the reaction I expected from my pious escort, in lieu of this the missionaries seemed oddly rude. 

For example, they had a big, spacious Land Cruiser with a single piece of carry-on luggage on one seat, on the other back seat was a briefcase. Embarking in the vehicle, I naturally opened the back door, slid the briefcase over to the adjacent seat then took a comfy leather seat in the vehicle. No sooner did I buckle up, when the driver jumped out of the truck, walked around, opened the door then told me to sit in the trunk area. Thinking perhaps another passenger was yet to come, I quickly acquiesced. Thankful for the ride, I was not about to complain. After all, riding in a Land Cruiser bouncing around in the back is still far better than walking back to the village or trying to push my bike 150 km to Bunia. 

Early afternoon, we arrived in the village. Tears welled up as I fought back mixed emotions. These villagers had treated me like family, they were so loving, their hospitality a tremendous gift. Seeing the solemn faces of all cut like a knife. Quietly, with much emotional upheaval, I collected my gear and bicycle loading it onto the Land Rover roof rack. One would consider the task of loading a bike and a few bags an easy undertaking, this proved not the case. 

Both missionaries thought I should leave my bicycle, accordingly, they vehemently argued against my choice. Their argument was senseless, essentially they thought I should gift my bicycle to the villagers as a way of atoning for my sins. Confused by their unreasonable position, it took about 10 minutes to convince them the bike was the single essential element of my journey. I argued how there was plenty of room for everything, nothing was on the roof rack, why not the bike?

Eventually, with a great show of displeasure, they relented. Again, I found myself hugging my new village friends, this time departing with a very heavy heart. We cried we gifted each other, then after a few words to the elders followed by some photos I was off. The journey, I knew was about 150 to 175 kilometers which I suspected, even by Land Cruiser, would take about three to five days. The cold demeanor of the missionaries was a caution, but what could I do? I was an emotional and physical mess, their assistance was essential. Not in a million years could I ride my bicycle, not with my finger broken, my lip a mess, and a litany of other health issues taxing my strength and sanity. Even if my injuries did not prevent me from riding the bike, I knew, severe dehydration due to chronic dysentery caused by the parasites and infections imbibed when I fell in the shit pit would likely be enough to cause my death. 

In the end, with my bike firmly attached to the rood rack, I happily curled up in the cubby hole made available to me in the trunk. The jarring bumps, stifling air, and immense discomfort left me staring wantingly at the empty rear seat. Each and every bump in the road sent shooting pains throughout my body, Before long, I questioned in my mind whether the vacant seat was indeed being made available for another passenger. Surely they would not force me to endure this level of discomfort needlessly. No matter what I would have to endure, I was absolutely convinced, this ride to Bunia would be essential if I was to miraculously survive the ordeal. Curling my body into a tight ball while jamming my body between the trunk and a suitcase did wonder for relieving the continued jars and bumps.

Four or five kilometers into the trip, it became patently obvious this 'free ride' would extort a hefty toll. Clearing his throat, a segue into a hellacious condemnation, the missionary driving the Land Cruiser started berating me about the idiocy of flaunting my rich lifestyle in front of the savages. 

"How are they supposed to refrain from the devil's work when evil people like you are acting as temptation?"

Without pause, barely taking a breath, the driver continued his rant for the better part of ten minutes. Like a beaten child, I curled up in the back bracing myself for the next inevitable bump and grind offered by the endless array of potholes and assorted obstacles. Maybe it was my imagination or the sensitivity caused by my injuries, but it seemed to be the driver took great pleasure in bashing his way through the roughest parts of the road instead of slowing for the holes and obstacles as most drivers would. Sharp, burning pains were streaking across my finger, lip, and entire body. My stomach, unable to deal with the crash and bang turmoil, was slowly belching out bits of poop into my now dampened underwear. More hideous than the physical pain, or soiled pants, the verbal assault was wreaking havoc with my sense of guilt, despair, and post-traumatic stress. 

The ordeal left me entirely broken. Desperately, I wanted to make an argument for my actions. However compelled I was to defend myself, the verbal and physical attack was more than I could tolerate. Like a dog beaten in a corner, all I had courage or strength to manage was to whimper, sob, and cower. Holding my head, covering my ears, I tried my best to drown out the driver's diatribe by humming to myself the old travel song, 100 bottles of beer on the wall.  

Bashing too speedily through a deep muddy bog, the driver slammed his head into the windscreen with just enough vigor to shut him up. Finally, I was rewarded with both a few moments of quiet, as well as a reprieve from the dangerous driving. Thinking I would gain a modicum of peace, the passenger took to assailant role to heart. Like a wrestling tag team, both combatants were equally vile, faithful to their stated position. The passenger, having time to prepares his vitriol as his partner held the ring, came out with a vengeance which remarkably surpassed the nastiness of his fellow priest. Taking the bit after gaining a second wind, the driver piped in wherever he could find room. Together, the two missionaries were relentless with their verbal assaults. 

There were two truths of which I was convinced. Firstly, without their support, my chances of making it to Bunia alive were at best very slim. Secondly, it was very unlikely I could mentally manage a four day trip with these vile men constantly abusing me. Realising there was no end in sight to the misery they saw fit to inflict, I mustered up what little strength I had to forge a defense. Attempting to defend my position against their attack proved much more difficult than I imagined. The biggest problem I faced in trying to muster an argument was that, in my heart, I felt guilt so intense it was destroying what little sense of emotional or logical balance I possessed.

For the better part of two hours, I parried their ridicule, chastising, and contempt. Best as I could, I futilely tried to argue my point. (Making a solid argument is something I normally would be well equipped to manage.) However much I tried to reason, my brain was just not working. Instead of being calm, cool, and collected, I allowed my emotions to spiral into decay. Matching their vitriol, I slammed their lack of compassion, questioned their Christian love, asked what their Jesus would do if he were here to offer advice.
 
All the while I argued, in the back of my mind, I knew it was essential I quietly take their abuse or likely forfeit my spot in the vehicle. There was no way I could get myself out of Africa without their help, therefore somehow I had to find a way to defuse the argument. The irony was that the more I consciously reached for reasoning the more I found myself yelling obscenities. The proverbial shit hit the fan when, absolutely exasperated, I suggested their probable propensity for tickling young native boys. Even before the Land Cruiser came to an abrupt stop, I sensed I had gone too far. Knowing doom was inevitable I could not help but twist the metaphoric knife. Spitting sarcasm, I caustically inquired. 

"Did I hit a nerve?" 

"Do you men diddle little boys?" 

Shortly thereafter, as expected, I found myself sitting in the ditch assembling the various parts to my bicycle. Thoughts of all kinds were crashing through my aching head. Do I push my bike or can I find a way to ride it? Should I go back to the village or continue my journey to Bunia? How many days can I survive in this condition? How many days will it take for me to make it to Bunia? Can I realistically expect to have the strength to successfully complete the journey? 

One step at a time, I can do this. Wheels, seat, handlebars, reaffixed on the bike. Rolls freely, no problems of note, brakes adjusted, luggage and lights affixed. Knowing the bike was ready for the road gave me a sense of relief. Emotionally and physically exhausted from the time spent with the missionaries, I laid back in the ditch to take a short nap. Countless worries were racing through my mind as I drifted off to sleep. 

Perhaps two hours later, I was stretching in an effort to get my body back in working order. The sun was well past its apex, likely there was two to three hours of daylight left. Sitting back next to the bike I contemplated my options anew. 

Quickly dispatching with the obvious frivolity was essential. No, three ladies in a Molson's beer truck will not be stopping by to offer me a lift. The chance of seeing any vehicle on this backwoods road was unlikely. For example, the days I had spent in the village, not one vehicle had passed by. In speaking with the villagers, they mentioned how it was common during the rainy season months to not see a vehicle for a month or more.

Knowing how unforgiving African jungles can be, an honest appraisal of my health and capacity was essential. Having had countless degrees of intestinal infections and dysentery I knew this was my weakest link. My guts were an absolute mess, severe cramps would hit me like a hammer about every fifteen minutes. When the cramps arrive, you have about thirty seconds to drop your pants. In the event you cannot relieve yourself, all you can do is squeeze your sphincter as tightly as possible to prevent the inevitable leak from being too voluminous. The severity of dysentery can accurately be assessed by the interval between cramps, fifteen minutes was by far the shortest interval I had ever faced. 

Dysentery is the deadliest affliction a cross-continent cyclist will face. Your body is literally spewing out all your life-sustaining liquids. Couple the fluid loss with tropical heat and you are facing real serious dehydration issues which include but are not limited to the following, heat injury, urinary and kidney failure, excessive fatigue, chronic headaches, seizures, low volume shock, and fainting. If I survive dysentery, the rest of my ailments should be relatively easy. The odds of being taken down by dysentery during the next week of cycling were, I felt, realistically somewhere between 60% and 70%. I figured the upside was that I would likely be able to pass out unconscious between one to three times before I would die. The chance was worth the risk, I could always reassess my options when or if I pass out unconscious.  

Other ailments include the very real possibility of a recurring bout of malaria. The month prior I had a terrible attack of malaria which knocked me on my butt for the better part of a week. If I get another bout of malaria while in this mess the odds of survival are slim at best. There was no way to evaluate the odds of getting a recurrence of malaria, however, in my weakened state who knows for sure? I thought to myself the odds of dying from malaria over the next week were under 20%.  

Next in the level of health concern is a chronic infection of lip, finger, or other open wounds. Weakened as was my immune system I knew the chances of infection were very high. Once infection sets, if left untreated, you have about three to seven days before it becomes a serious problem either from sepsis or bodily complications. Severe sepsis, if it does not kill you, will lead to gangrene and loss of limb. If fortunate you will only suffer the potentially less fatal effects, urinary blockage, clotting of blood cells, heart arrhythmia, problems breathing, chills, unconsciousness. Fortunately, the medics in the main village did a fine job of loading me up with penicillin to ward off the infection caused by the hour or so I spent in the shit pit. I figured, if careful, there was less than a 50% chance my injuries would become septic. 

Finally, the easy part of my health assessment, managing the pain of a broken finger and a torn lip. The pain I knew I could handle. Nine years before this journey I had a nasty bout of double pneumonia, nothing in the world could be more painful than that experience. Also, eight years before I broke my big toe, damn that really hurt for a very long time. This pain, although quite intense, could be managed, The odds of not surviving the next week due to my physical injuries being too painful were nill.

Collating the odds of survival I determined the chance of death was somewhere around 50%. Most of the deadliest events would be prefaced by evidence which would give me two to four days before taking me out. If I remained conscious, pounded down 10 to 15 liters per day, kept my injuries dry and clean, paid close attention to my glands, then I should be just fine. If things start to go sideways, symptoms become acute, I could always redesign a game plan. The one problem I refused to confront in my health assessment was the fact that if things do go from bad to worse then having two or three days grace before dying will do me little good if I am alone in the jungle miles from the next living soul. 

Pushing aside my fears, I told myself, go slow, stay hydrated, keep the wounds dry, and pray I don't fall unconscious. Maybe my odds are not quite 50%, but really there was little choice because hell or high water this bicycle was my only way out of Africa. 

Sitting against the bike, my mind drifted back to my choices. Going back was the easiest decision physically, but emotionally I just did not have the courage to face the tribe. Regret, shame, deep sorrow, made the choice to return impossibly difficult. The final decision to not return was made out of two things, shame and undeserving. After the mess I caused in their beautiful lives, I felt the mere thought of asking for further help absolutely reprehensible. The decision to push forward instead of the retreat was also aided by the fact there were perhaps only three hours of sunlight left in the day. In theory, I could forge ahead this day, then if it appears the journey to Bunia too much for me to handle, I could always return to the village the next day.   

Staying put waiting for assistance was out of the question. No one was going to miraculously come to my rescue. If I stayed in the ditch, each day my strength would be depleted. With little food in reserve, I would have to survive on jungle fruit like papaya. The jungles are a dangerous place to navigate in search of food sources. Fruit alone will not sustain me for long, so whatever I chose to do I knew covering a minimum of twenty to thirty kilometers per day was essential.

Forging ahead was the most favourable course of action, I knew hitting the road was the key to success. The choice made much easier by the fact the two hours of cycling left in this day would go a long way toward cementing the decision as being the most intelligent. I further reasoned that if I struggle too much over the next two hours, then I could head back to the village in shame with my tail between my legs. If push came to shove, I could even abandon my bike and belongings then just hike back to the village. 

Moving forward cautiously seemed the best choice both physically and emotionally. Perhaps when I wake tomorrow, I will reassess my odds of survival to be better than 50/ 50.

Get on the damn bike Christopher, push the pedal down one leg, then the next. Riding the bike with my finger in the open-air proved a non-starter, the pain of each wiggle and jiggle was really intense. Each small jolt in the road caused severe shooting pains. I stopped, dismounted, then used my knife to fabricate a splint from a small piece of wood. The doctor told me keeping the wound dry in the open air should be my first choice. This way, the rain-soaked finger would have a chance to dry out when the sun comes out. I was instructed to apply a gauze cover during the night so that bacteria does not get into the wound. Reluctantly, I tightly wrapped the gauze around the splint then used duct tape to seal the wrapping. 

The finger responded well to being immobilised. The pain was still rather severe when experiencing big jolts but the small bumps were not causing anywhere near as much pain as previously. Staying focused in the moment, I concentrated on the simple task of pushing down the crank one leg at a time. Uneventful was the next hour of cycling, I managed a little over five kilometers, not too bad under the prevailing conditions. Just as the jungle was taking on the serene glow afforded by the setting sunset, I pitched my tent along the roadside in a very unremarkable ditch locale about fifty feet past a small brook. Soon into the African journey, I learned never to camp my tent proximal to a water source. It makes sense when you think of how all critters need water, especially snakes. With the tent set for the night, I ambled down to the brook so that I might use the last of the light to wash clean my ass, underwear, and riding pants. 

Waking the next morning, I felt physically functional but emotionally destroyed. The night was fitful, between bone-chilling nightmares, endless thoughts of despair, much sobbing, I managed very little sleep. The monkeys and jungle fauna, oblivious to my travails, sang their morning melody with the usual grace and aplomb. Food was the last thing on my mind, regardless I managed to eat papaya, some bread along with a tin of sardines. 





   

  
The first three days on the way to Bunia was all a blur. I remember sleeping in a ditch under the stars the first night. After that, I can only remember the focus it took to make sure the next peddle is pushed down. Above all, there was the constant nerve-racking pain, even my hair hurt. Willing my legs to continue turning the crank, I fell off my bike many times. Each fall felt like a dream. I was far beyond the pain one receives when falling off a bike. Get up and turn the crank I would say over and over in my mind, just keep it going. I persevered until I passed out unconscious in the ditch.

When I finally regained consciousness, I had no idea how long I was unconscious. The only thing I knew for certain was that it was now dark and I had passed out. Quickly, the realisation sunk in that this was likely the end of my life. I was very, very frightened. Moreover, I was pissed off to think about how stupid it was to die in African jungle miles from nowhere. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I began thinking about the love for my family and friends back home. I imagined what it would be like for them to get consular news of my death, never knowing what happened or how much I loved them. I sobbed helplessly, then I prayed like I have never prayed before, nor since. I begged God to give me the strength of my brothers and sisters, my parents, and my friends. I begged that their love and energy should come to my aid so that I may find the strength needed to somehow survive.

At that very moment, a wave of peace and love came to me. I was still a mess, but somehow I knew I would make it, I knew God was with me.

(Later I came to understand it was my own Godself power which I had accessed)

I righted the bike, fixed my light on the road and recommenced turning the crank. The entire rest of the journey to Bunia was surreal, a dream that cannot be remembered. As I have no recollection of what transpired, I cannot explain nor comprehend how I made it, how long it took. From the very moment I remounted the bike, my GodSelf completely took control of my reality. For all I knew, I could have flown on the wings of an angel.







I know the first few days were slow maybe 20 - 25 kilometers per day, that would have left about 75 to 100 km remaining. I guess, if the same pace were maintained it would have taken another three to four days riding as a spirit. How many more days of cycling did it really take? Did I sleep? Did I eat? Everything was and still is a complete blank slate.

I arrived in the city around dusk, immediately coming to the attention of a police officer. He had spied me across an open courtyard quickly determining I required assistance. I remember looking at him, wondering, why he looked so concerned? He asked me my nationality, I told him Canadian. At once he said I know where to take you, they will tell me what to do.

He guided me to a home about a block away where a representative of the Canadian government lived. This gentleman was establishing a new agriculture project for the city. In addition to his job, he acts as a vice consul representative. (I may have the term wrong, in essence, he acts in the capacity of the consulate, fulfilling some duties but without the title.)

Salvation:

We stood on the stoop as he rang the bell. I was in a haze, but I will never forget the look on my saviors face when he first saw me. He picked me up, took me to the living room calling his wife. He was asking the police officer all sorts of questions, but all the police officer knew was that I was Canadian. They phoned a doctor who lived near to visit. Within minutes he was there prodding, poking and asking questions. The doctor suggested they watch me closely through the night and to call if my condition deteriorated. His assessment was I would be okay, but it would take time to heal. I was to see him at his office the next day to x-ray the finger, sort out the lip and clean up my dysentery. Stitches could not be used as it had happened too many days past. The next day the doc fixed me up some more, he said I had to wait three months before I could get an aids test, then another test after six months determine my fate.

I cannot describe to you dear readers how this man, his wife and two children saved me. They own a beautiful home with servants who love their work. Their garden looked over a gorgeous vista of jungle groves. The smell of of their garden was heavenly. They had many books for me to choose from, most importantly they had all the old tunes I love. I had the house to myself. The servants were so gracious in putting up with Leonard Cohen over and over and over.

I cried and cried, my heart felt like it was ripped apart. As my health improved I felt guilty for surviving this ordeal when it was likely the other two or three men were doomed. I kept seeing the fight in my mind. I could not shake the image of his face purple with the rope tied around his neck, knowing how the anger raged through me unabated. The many images of torture; from the butchered goat to the 12 km march, ending in the final beating tied unconscious to a tree. The screams of those two men rang in my ears almost every moment. I felt like I was loosing my mind, I just wanted to die. The love of this remarkable family was the only thing which kept me from a psychiatric ward. They cared and loved me like one of their own. They fed me, cried with me, cleaned dirty bed sheets, and comforted screaming nightmares. They led me gently back to health. Before leaving, I was speaking with the father. He told me how pleased he was to see me recover. He admitted that when he first saw me he thought I was a ghost. In his words, "there was nothing there, nothing in the eyes."

I met with the police chief two weeks later as planned. He said he would be able to have some money for me in a couple of days. He winked at me, with a wry smile he said, "one of them is dead, the fighter". " He killed himself with a knife in his cell. The other one will suffer the same and the third we will find. " I got up and without a word left his presence, never to see him again.

I left the company of my saviors the next day. I had imposed on their hospitality enough, as well, Uganda was calling me. With great sorrow and joy I looked back on the town of Bunia as it faded into the jungle. There was road ahead, people to see and lessons to be learned. Down goes one leg, up goes the other, the crank starts to turn, man in motion.




The events of that time took many years to resolve. I still have difficulty keeping it all in perspective. A couple years ago my wife bought me Lenard Cohen for my birthday. We were eating dinner as the music began and I realised it was the same album that kept me sane in Bunia. I tried to hold back the emotion but ended up breaking out in sobs. We learn compassion from the strangest of places. Our heart breaks from the oddest ordeals. Souls dance with us in loving synchronicity, giving up their very existence on this plane so that we may discover our true nature. I cherish the three thieves and pay greatest love and respect to their memories, all who danced with me during those days. The miracle which occurred in the Jungles of Africa was not the surviving but rather the three day or four day trip my GodSelf spirit made on my behalf to ensure my safety. I have absolutely no recollection of how I managed to ride a mountain bike covering nearly 150 kilometers of the most difficult African terrain. In perfect health, I could not have managed such a feat of endurance. How did I do it? Impossible to say, unless you accept it was in fact a miracle.

Post script. I ended up loosing my diary which had the names of all the party members. As a result of post traumatic stress ( and maybe too much weed ) my memory for recollecting the names was hopelessly lost with the diary. I did not like referring the the elder as the elder, the thieves as the thieves or the family who save me as the family. In this omission I mean no disrespect and have for years felt terrible that I cannot honor them all by name.