When the high-ranking soldier had appeared at the Mahagi customs border, after we had spent the night there, he somehow knew what was going on.  His question, “Are those people still here?” had facilitated our being cleared in very short order.  The customs officials had been used to collect all they could from any transporter entering the country and had high expectations of what we would pay to keep our motorcycle.  If I still refused to pay they could seize the bike and let me go with the truck and the rest of the load.  Apparently the question as to who had the authority was still being worked out.  That day the soldier had the last say and we arrived at Rethy before noon.  I have no recollection of the customs paid.

Jeff was eager to get the 2 cycle 50 cc Honda MTX running.  The old 200 cc Suzuki also needed work.  It had been used by Kakura at Editions CECA and had so little resistance to the kick starting lever that we concluded it probably needed new rings.  There was no compression.  Back pressure from the muffler, filled with carbon residue, no doubt also robbed power from the motor.

I was again grateful for the tools that hadn’t been lost during the rebellion.  Jeff and I worked on both motorcycles.  Neither of us thought of our time spent together as engine repair training, though every time we did mechanics together I explained how things worked. 

As we burned out the carbon clogging the Suzuki muffler, we both thought of the whistling Honda one-ten trail bike owned by my fellow missionary, Dave Rondeau.  After Dave used a piece of re-bar to knock out a couple baffles in the muffler, he no longer need to shift down so many times on his way up the hill in front of school.  The bike lost its whistle, as it roared by, but had all its power back.  Changing the rings in the Suzuki necessitated the removal of the gas tank and everything connected to the top of the engine before we could finally get to the head bolts.  That proved to be quite a learning experience, but after we replaced the rings, the bike’s performance improved significantly. 

His MXT actually required very little work and he soon had it adjusted and running smoothly.  The two-cycle engine running at higher rpm turned out to make it a very peppy bike.  He took his mom to the market place at a sedate pace to do her shopping but was soon experimenting on all sorts of trails.  A favorite place to jump the bike was near the church where the path from the road and across the soccer field led to the hospital.  The path, beaten smooth by thousands of bare feet, went up a rather steep incline where it left the road.  The soccer field made a great landing strip.  The little kids, and some bigger ones, from Uguru and Taiya villages stood and watched at a safe distance, cheering as the jumps became longer and longer, with Jeff making the approach at ever higher speeds.  What else was there to do anyway?

Well, driving the Toyota Highlux was probably in his mind.  I used the Suzuki to go out to the studio building site each morning for prayers with the men in the open guard hut, but I would soon need to haul bricks with the pick-up.  I was sure he wouldn’t object to learning to drive the truck and he would help load the bricks too.  He had driven the Kubota tractor a year ago, when we were working at the retirement center.  He would no doubt learn quickly. 

Jeff looked at the gear pattern on the shift lever, adjusted the seat a little, put in the clutch and was ready to go.  It was almost that easy to teach him.  When in first grade he had steered our car from my lap, and later as he grew up from beside me.  Now he could reach the pedals.  What could be easier?  

It wasn’t long before he was driving the pick-up, loaded with bricks, from the ruins of the old Titchie dorm out to Puu hill.  I was his instructor, but no longer paid much attention since he had no trouble steering and was soon shifting smoothly.  The drive down the hill between the row of purple Jacaranda trees towards the dip, then between the tall Eucalyptus trees, led us to the main road.  I told him to stop, since we were entering a major road from a side road and they had the right of way.  There were never any cars, and only rarely a truck, so our turn signal was never seen by another driver.  The seat belts installed in the truck were never used.  Top speed might reach ten miles an hour.  Though no one knew Jeff’s age it was obvious that a child was driving. 

“Green Boots”, the former roaming immigration officer under Mobutu, was used to confronting people whom he assumed were breaking the law.  After all, the fines he levied whenever an infraction was discovered were the source of his livelihood.  He may have gotten permission from the soldiers to resume his old responsibilities.  Green Boots waved us down; apparently with the intention of addressing this, clearly illegal activity: a child driving a truck on a major highway.  He may have remembered the humiliating visit he had made to see us when he was destitute.

I greeted him immediately.  This is my son, Jeff, and I am teaching him to drive.  He is doing very well.  We are transporting bricks from the dorm to the studio we are building on the hill just ahead.  Instead of the accusation of ignoring the law and allowing a child to drive a dangerous vehicle, he gave us instructions that a learning driver needed to have a white flag attached to his mirror to show other drivers that he was a learner. 

“May we deliver these bricks to the work site?  I will then go home and attach the flag before the next trip.”  

His response, “Ndio, Bwana,” gave us the permission to complete the job.  We would try to get a learner’s permit the next time we were in Bunia, and find a white rag to tie to the mirror.

Jeff was with me most of the day, except when he was exploring the countryside with his Honda MXT, or maybe practicing jumps at the soccer field by the church.  There was a curfew established by the military authorities, based in Kwandruma, and so there were no late night activities that we knew about.  The night guard made his rounds as usual and we gave him batteries for his flashlight from time to time.  I do recall one night when it was cold enough to light a fire in our bedroom, where the window was too high for anyone to just look in.  The fire was crackling and I was reading a humorous story written by Patrick McManus called Poof, No Eyebrows!. Jeff & I, having made similar homemade muzzle-loading guns ourselves, found it impossible not to laugh out loud.  Ours had pen filler sized barrels and used the powder scraped from Union Matches. We never graduated to using sewer pipe with a croquet ball as a projectile.  Black gun powder was available to Pat McManus and Retch Sweeney, but not to us!  Ellen also enjoyed the time, possibly because she saw our uncontrolled reaction, even when I found I could no longer read!  Our little world held no terror.  We slept well and woke early. 

We then planned a trip to Bunia after enquiries at Kwandruma confirmed that the road was passable.  In rainy season they might reply that there was no road.  Of course the road was there, but since it was the only route available to the large Mercedes 2624 trucks used for importing goods to Bunia and exporting coffee to Uganda, it could be totally blocked when trucks became hopelessly stuck in mud trenches deeper than the truck was high.  We found, however, that the road was dry and trucks were again moving. 

It took less than six hours to travel the hundred miles to Bunia so we went straight to the Transport Service Office located a couple miles down the airport road.  That road had been repaired, and was used regularly by the UN peace keeping force stationed near the airport.  We found the office and were assured that we were at the right place.  There was no book to study, to learn the rules of the road, and no test to obtain the learner’s permit.  As far as I could tell there was no such thing.  They were very friendly and said it was possible, however to obtain a driver’s license, actually an ‘attestation tenant lieu de permis de conduire,’ if we had a picture and supplied the details about the driver. They laughed when they saw the only snap-shot we had found.  Jeff was even younger, pictured climbing up on the back of a truck.  He is “Fujo”, full of mischief, they chuckled.  We filled in the request form and handed it back to them.  So sorry, they said, he needs to be born before 1983 to be old enough. 

Oh well, we could tell Green Boots that we had tried and had kept our promise to him.

The Lewises had also returned to Congo and were living in Bunia so we enjoyed the evening with them, catching up on family news.  Our shopping didn’t take all that long and we were on our way out when Mbanza, the CECA treasurer, stopped beside us.  His motorcycle was still idling as he explained that he could pick up Jeff’s license for us but the fee of $8 was needed.  The Governor was coming and they were making preparations to receive him.  As soon as we handed Mbanza the cash he was off to the “Service de Transportation”.  Had they actually processed the application even though they had declined the previous day?

After a very short time Mbanza was back with the small folded card that became the first driving license Jeff ever had.  We could see that he was in a rush so we thanked him briefly and were on our way.  As Ellen looked at the document we found that our son had instantly aged three years, and was very highly qualified indeed, licensed to drive every kind of vehicle listed on the card, except the tractor/trailer combination vehicle we frequently call an eighteen-wheeler.  In spite of his high qualifications as shown on his driver’s license, I felt it was still prudent to display the white learner’s flag to warn other drivers and to signal to Green Boots that we were complying with the authorities.  I still have no idea if he had any authority at all, but I know Jeff never had to show his license as proof of his skills.

Jeff did get an opportunity to test his driving skills on a 2628 Benz Truck that was even more powerful than the popular 2624 model.  The truck, driven by one of Ukumu’s friends, had arrived from Uganda with a 20 ton load of cement.  Most was destined for Bunia but he wanted to drop off what Ukumu had ordered for the RTK studio building.  He unhitched his heavily loaded pup trailer on the lower road by the bookshop and drove up past the store to our door.  Jeff immediately started checking out the truck as I talked with the driver about where to drop the bags of cement.  The driver knew English and was obviously pleased to tell Jeff about the different transmissions and the fifteen gear combinations available to the driver.  Jeff was fascinated and asked so many questions that the driver asked me if he wanted to try driving the truck.  “He is too young and he would be afraid to try”, he said. 

I assured him that he wouldn’t be afraid to try and soon they were off, creeping along, in one of the lower gears.  I saw them speed up and heard the engine revs climb, drop and then climb again as Jeff worked his way up through maybe five gears.  Jeff admitted later that the driver had corrected his steering at the narrow place in the road where a culvert allowed rain water to pass beneath it.  They stopped at the intersection where the road headed up the dorm hill to back down to the main road to turn the truck around.

God had given Jeff the opportunity to drive a truck that even his license with all its extra stamps and unverified birth date didn’t list as within his competence. 

Going to the boarding school at RVA in Kenya, not even being able to talk with his parents for three months was not easy.  Coming home by bus and then by truck, even sleeping in the truck at the border was part of the experience, but it was great to have him home!

The life that God gave us and Jeff during that time was so special we can only thank Him over and over for His good gifts to us.

When He is the one in control of our lives we learn to know more of Him.