the women have babies tied on their backs, but they forgot and left their “ hoods” in my car, so the babies too are getting wet. Fortunately I have a sweater on and also a borrowed raincoat, which surprisingly was of fered me, because of the threatening “ face” of the sky, by an African whose village we passed in the afternoon. The coait is scanty, but I am thankful for it because it helps to keep my shoulders comparatively dry, though the rain seeps through my Nairobi- bought straw hat and runs in rivulets down my neck! After about three-quarters of an hour, we come to Arena’s and Mari anna’s village again. (He — the don or of the raincoat, and my former head-teacher in the girls’ school; We pause in their home for only a few minutes’ rest, then press on towards the Blue Pigeon (my Peugeot sta tion wagon), and the hope of the comforts of our safari home at Ekua about five or six miles away, which is not far via the Pigeon! Food, shel ter, warmth of fire, hot water, all await us there. But the Aru River must yet be crosed. It may well be overflowing its banks and flowing over the logs which span it, which would mean crossing on the, submerged, in visible logs, with swirling, swiftly flowing water about fifteen to twenty feet deep on both sides! I have done this once in the daylight and do not relish the thought of doing it at night. Thankfully we find the logs are not yet submerged, and we cross safely. My flash picks up the gleam of the car. But what’s that? The lights of the car are burning faintly! How come? I realize with sinking heart that the battery power will be fin ished, as the lights must have been burning all eight hours since we left here at noon. Fortunately I left the car facing back up the hill, preferring to turn around on the narrow path by the light of day rather than at night. We unlock the doors, place men holding lights on both sides of the road a little distance down the hill to mark the road for me. I get in, get ready, get set, and they push me backwards down the hill towards the river, with only the dim lights to guide me. After one attempt I give up, for there is not the slightest re sponding “ kick” from the motor. I concede it means sleeping in the car, which prospect causes much conster nation to Yulio the local evangelist and to the crowd. After much discus sion in the rain, they leave, either for the village or the other side of the river, or for their more distant vil lages. The three women with babies go with them across the river to find shelter for the night in the evangel- THE KING'S BUSINESS
by Laura l Barr/Africa Inland Mission
women, boys and girls. Four of the women are those who are with me on this week’s evangelistic safari. And my two house-girls are with me as well as Enoka, one of our district elders, who is accompanying us this week everywhere we go. The rest are Christians of varying ages from vil lages near Boloa, where we have just held a meeting late in the afternoon, and where we were delayed by the rain. Some of these are former girls of mine. Some are mission school girls and boys, home in their villages for the long vacation. They have all come along of ther own accord, to help us get back to the car, which is parked one and a half hours’ walk away, down on the other side of the Aru River. The things they are carrying for me are getting wetter each min ute: books, bags, flannelgraph board, easel, envelope of flannelgraph pic tures, Bible picture roll, phonograph, phonograph records, eggs and the in evitable gift chicken, which squawks its protest most of the way! All this week we have carried my umbrella and raincoat faithfully ev erywhere and have not needed them, but this morning we forgot them as we set out from our headquarters camp in the village Ekua. Three of
flU q u is h - s w is h , squash-swish! The wa u l ter is forced out of my shoes, then sucked in, with each step. Sur prising fact this: that the whites of my saddles still look whitish, even in the muddy torrent of rushing water through which I’m splashing! With each step they come into the low circle of half-light from the dimming, borrowed flashlight I hold in my hand. In front of me, pairs of brown legs glisten as far as the light reach es. Actually they stretch in front of me far beyond the limits of the flash, and also in back of me, for we are about sixteen strong, and I’m some where in the middle. We’re on the march, single file, over hill, down dale, cross country. It’s night, and it is raining. The long line slithers in front of me to the right, to the left up, down, according to the lay of the land and the curve of the path. It produces ail ever-changing pattern, silhouetted against the faint light of the lead-lantem, which is the only other light we possess. The path is a swiftly-running stream; uphill we “ buck” it and it climbs well over our ankles; downhill it tries to help us along. I keep my eyes down, for this kind of walking takes concentration. The group consists of African men, 14
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