When we flew out from Ara, I mentioned the “stuff” Ellen brought with her and said that I had brought nothing.  She brought my passport, and my boy.  That’s because the way I got to Ara wasn’t part of a well-planned day.

Of course, we say that God is in control, and that He has planned everything, and He knows everything, yet we are quite sure we can handle the small stuff.  Evacuating Zaire with nothing, leaving behind everything, squeezed into a small Cessna plane, and taking off from a short gassy air-strip might be seen, “as something bigger than small stuff.”

I’m certain we prayed more often, when we all knew that Kabila and his advancing rebels were meeting no resistance from Mobutu’s unpaid army.  After the terrible slaughter in Ruanda, Kabila and his sponsors were looking for revenge on the Hutu that had fled to Zaire.  They had the goal of taking over all of the country.

A couple of weeks before we fled Zaire, it seemed prudent to have a back-up plan, in case we were unable to fly out through Bunia.  The Lord gave us the idea, I’m sure, but we agreed it was a good option to check out.  Who knew if the airstrip at Ara was still useable?

That airstrip had been built about 20 years earlier, but was rarely used.  The proud Alur chief had somehow heard that we had a tractor and road grader at Rethy.  He wanted an airstrip.  From Ara they could look up the escarpment and see the MAF planes as they flew in and out of Rethy.  The Lendu had an airstrip up there.  He resolved to make one for his Alur people at Ngenge.

After the Simba rebellion, Ted Crossman had found an old rusty road-grader abandoned somewhere, and brought it to Rethy.  The operator stood on a low platform at the rear of the machine and rotated the two large hand-wheels or turned a crank to tilt, raise, or lower either end of the blade.  To change the angle, he needed to signal the tractor driver to stop, so he could dismount, lift the release lever, rotate the plow, and reset the stops.  The dorm Allis Chalmers C was really too small, but the Ford 4000 Bill Stough had loaned to the dorm was a match for the machine.

His son and I had driven all day and night to bring the tractor and wagon from Aba to Rethy, so taking the tractor and grader to Ara to help build the airstrip was easy.

When we arrived we found maybe twenty men at work, cutting back the brush, digging out small stumps, and ant-hills to clear the strip.  We were keen to try our machinery, ready to do all we could in the next three days.

The chain saw worked as expected on a small tree, but stopped all other hand work.

The grader scraped smooth the areas that had already been dug up by hand, but couldn’t peel up the tough, tall, clumps of grass.  That would have to be done by hand.

By chaining the tractor to a stump, and lifting with the hydraulic levers of the three-point hitch; the plan was to pull and remove the stump, but we frequently failed.  If the soil was loose and soft, the tractor lugs simply dug holes in the ground.  With the back wheels locked and gaining traction, the front wheels of the tractor could leave the ground providing a thrilling moment for the driver, and the now huge group of spectators.  Occasionally a stump yielded and was dragged off the airstrip.

All work stopped.

Everyone was watching the two “wazungu” and their machines try, and fail, over and over.  How could we get everyone back to work on all the brush that had to be removed.  Everyone was very happy that we had come, but, nothing else was happening.

I went to see the chief the next morning.  I planned to tell him that he had to get all his men to work together.  We were unable to clear the airstrip alone, even with our machines.

I was ignorant as to how I should treat the chief, but he soon had me seated beside him on an elevated platform in a fairly large room.  He wanted to introduce his family to me.

“This is my wife,” he told me proudly, as a woman about his age entered the room, on her knees.  She advanced, bent forward, still on her knees, shuffling towards us, to bow politely to me, then sit cross legged on the cement floor in front of the chief.  A second, then a third, then a fourth woman, approached in much the same way.  Some had babies in the cloth tied on their back.  I acknowledged each one in turn.

They kept coming and I realized, these must all be his wives!  The room was eventually filled with women and children.  Young girls came in leading other children.  Some boys showed up and stood in the doorways.  I was trying to count the number of wives, assuming the girls carrying small babies might also be his wives.  He no doubt noticed me looking around, though I tried to move only my eyes.

He turned to me and asked me what I thought of his family.  How does one make an appropriate remark, looking at about twenty-eight women with children crowded around them, with others peeking in through the open doorways?

“Your family is large,” I said, “yet most of the children are girls!”  His reply assured me that God had given him many children but the boys weren’t here.  He said he had seventy-six children.  “He was building up the tribe”, he said proudly.  I doubt the child count was accurate for long.  A number of the wives were obviously ready to help with the increase and he still looked to be in his prime!

The hundreds of people that showed up the next day must have included some of the chief’s sons.  There were children everywhere that helped drag brush and big clumps of grass to the side enlarging the cleared area.  The tractor and grader became useful in spreading and leveling the land.  The larger stumps with the roots chopped off by axe were twisted with the chain and pulled out by that Ford 4000.

Now, many years later, we needed to know if the strip was useable so I drove the blue Toyota pickup down the long winding road to Ara to find out.  The grass definitely needed to be cut.  Though the chief may have considered it his airport, the CECA pastor at Ara was the one caring for the strip.  He understood that it had to be ready so the planes could use the entire length.  I talked with the Immigration officer, and the soldiers that showed up, telling them that many planes might come.  I left several bundles of money, and the drinking water with them.

Miraculously the strip appeared to be ready when an MAF pilot buzzed it a few days later.

The soldiers in the small camp between Rethy and Kwandruma were unpaid and used their wits to get what they needed.  Sitting on a mat beside the road, holding a gun across his knees, and requesting food contributions from those headed to the market place, was their way to get food.  In theory they had radio contact with their superior officers in Bunia but actually they were on their own.  They wanted reliable information.

One soldier showed up at our back door and asked Marko where I was.  Ellen found me and I found out that he wanted my motorcycle to go find out what was happening.  It seemed reasonable to maintain good relationships with the man carrying his army gun so I took the Suzuki key out of my pocket, and gave it to him.

I shared with him the latest news we had from MAF: Kabila’s army was stuck in the Ituri forest headed towards Komanda.  I asked that he share with me what he found out when he returned my motorcycle.

During the time pouring rain halted Kabila’s progress on that jungle road, the school term was completed and all the dorm children rejoined their parents.  MAF and AIM AIR dropped off fleeing missionaries at Rethy, as it was considered a safe staging point to collect passengers for the larger planes that could fly out of Bunia.  The dorm workmen helped with a willing heart as Ellen and Karen fed and housed all the additional guests.

We thought of what might happen to everything at Rethy.  It was certain to be looted.  We tried to conceal some of our valuable personal stuff to use again once things settled down.  What would happen to the temporary broadcasting station, RTK, FM, when the rebels came?  What about all the equipment, the tower and the four bay antenna that was to be installed at the permanent broadcasting site?  What about the printing press, Editions CECA?  What about the hydroelectric plant?

Seems strange to say “non-essential personnel” would leave first, but the school was closed, and planes flew in and out daily.

I was surprised to find my freshly washed Suzuki and the soldier back at my back door.  He had come to say thanks!  I don’t recall what news he may have shared, but I again had wheels of my own.  The blue Toyota station pickup was being used by the Rethy Station driver, Upoke, for all the airport trips.

I was at the press with my Craftsman tool box strapped to the back of my Suzuki, when I was told some armed soldiers were at the dorm, looking for me.  I was taking the tools to the printing press for Kakura to add it to the trunk of tools, along with Jeff’s toys that I had taken there earlier. Kakura said they would put the stuff in the press attic near the bee hive.  I told him he was to have the motorcycle to use for the press while we were away.

The soldiers were after the blue Toyota pickup and they were in a hurry.  They headed for the hospital to commandeer a different vehicle when they understood that the truck was needed to take our guests to the airport right away.

The MAF planes had turned back from Bunia, after hearing that the AIM AIR plane from Kenya had been commandeered.  Word came from Ngenge that the immigration officer at Ara was asking for Bwana Brown.  That alternate airstrip was being used.

I joined Upoki’s passengers in the blue Toyota pickup and went with them to the airport.  Upoki’s CB in the truck crackled again and the hospital men informed us that they were coming to the airport with the soldiers.  They were still looking for the blue Toyota pick-up.

We met them at the intersection, the turnoff from the main road at Uguru to the airport.  The soldiers demanded our SSB radio and the pick-up truck.  I explained to them that we still needed the radio and that it would be no good to them without the antenna and electricity.  They could have the truck.

With difficulty they closed the door with three soldiers and their guns packed in the front.  The rest climbed in the back and stood, or sat on the sides, holding their guns.  The motor started, the truck jerked, then stalled.  The soldiers apparently thought that was very funny.  The motor started again, louder this time, and those standing pitched forward.  Fortunately, it stalled again.  The third time they selected a forward gear and they were on their way towards Kwandruma.

I hitched a ride with the next plane down to Ara.  The Immigration officer had his little bag and stamp and wanted me to tell him what we would have to pay for his services.  It seemed reasonable that if planes leaving Bunia paid a $50 departure tax we could work out something.  I don’t remember the details, but all was soon agreed.  We wrote names on lists.  He stamped passports.  I paid money for services.  I’m sure he had never earned so much in his entire life!

I went outside of the dimly lit hut to give another pile of passports to an MAF pilot.  A plane has just taken off, another was loading and a third was just landing.  Dust whirled in the brilliant sunlight and I marveled at the One who was doing air-traffic control.

God had cared for every detail.  His plan was perfect, even in the “small stuff”.