The bike engine roared, the rear wheel flung mud wildly as it spun, and my feet, held near the ground for stability, became wet as water poured into my boots. I realized how deep this puddle was as steam billowed up from the engine.
Vincent was behind me, a shadowy figure on a small Chinese motorcycle, desperately swinging the kick starter with his right leg.
The mud called us to blindly go on. In the right pocket of my soaked and reddened khakis were two passports belonging to missionaries I flew yesterday. We were taking them to the border by bike to get some paperwork done for S Sudan.
I wanted Vincent to come along so he could meet the immigration officials and then next time he can make the run by bike for us for a reasonable fee. I don’t think Vincent expected the trip would be that bad!
It rained for about 40 minutes this morning in Loki, but near the border it must have been much longer. At 8:15 we left on our trip. Normally it’s about 45 minutes to ride the 26 kilometers. This morning we didn’t get to the first checkpoint until 11 am.
Along the way I took a trail through the brush that skirted several mud holes. It helped, except the trail never reconnected back to the main road again, but ran parallel. We came to a hill with a camoflouged 2-ton truck parked on top, and a soldier waving us to stop and come by foot. They weren’t too impressed with our circumnavigating the mud plan, and that we were on bikes.
We talked for awhile. It was mostly them, and they were big on intimidation (“You are both lucky I didn’t shoot you!”, “You are walking corpses riding out here.”)
Then we got directions to the main road. At the Kenya post on the border a funny friendly soldier named Geoffrey helped us take off Vincents front fender. (After about every 100 meters he would have to stop to unpack the mud so his front wheel could turn again.) While removing it, we discussed Obama, crazy taxi drivers driving station wagons through all the slop, and how being posted out here was a calling, like being a minister. It wasn’t for the money.
I pointed out that Vincent was in the Salvation Army, so I was surrounded by army. Geoffrey said “I fight physical enemies, but he fights spiritual battles.” “So you make a good team!” I joked.
I decided we should walk from the Kenya crossing to the S Sudan immigration. After an hour, we were back with the bikes. I called Breanna on the Sat phone and told her we’d be there in an hour and a half. It was pretty close. After a couple hours of sun, the mud began to dry and my arms and face turned red. Still, a rain shower poured on us on the ride to Loki.

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After six hours, Vincent and I covered 52 kilometers through slippery, gooey, clingy mud. The passports each had a nice extra stamp in them which no one will ever notice, and unfortunately their owners had already caught a flight on to Nairobi.
I asked Vincent if he was really willing to do this for us. He said “Yes, I accept the responsibility.” I told him its not usually that bad, but if it is hopefully he can catch a ride on a 4 wheel drive vehicle instead.
Vincent followed me to our house. As we idled up to the house, Isaiah and Grace came out and gave us towels and Bre told me she had the water on for chai.