The Mantario Trail Experience

Sitting around the lunch table in the Faith Academy High School, the plot evolved: Melanie, Tracy and Melody would set out on a four day trek across the Canadian Shield to traverse the Mantario Trail in Eastern Manitoba. I (Melody) didn’t think too much about the trip until about 2 weeks beforehand when I bought my hiking boots (and quite a few other things). As the day approached the three of us met and discussed what we would need to acquire, and what other things we would need to gather. We headed over to the local wilderness supply store to stock up on dehydrated food packages and bug spray.
The Journey itself began early Friday morning, August 7th. We met at 6:45 am at Tracy’s to reorganize and do final packing of the gear. In the process, I realized that I had left my driver’s licence at home and went back to get it. We were on the road by 7:15 and drove to the trail’s end where we dropped off Mel’s car. As Mel and Tracy joined me in my car we noted the worn signed propped up against the post of the trail identification: “Warning, High Water Levels, Trail Extremely Difficult”. At this point, we were not going to be turned back by a simple warning of greater difficulty – we were going to conquer the trail regardless. We headed to the trail’s head, stopping to drop off emergency contact information at a campsite store in case we didn’t pass through again by Tuesday morning.
We left the car and headed out with a quick prayer and a sense of adventure. We quickly mastered the art of crossing the ridge of beaver dams. What at the beginning of the journey was a novel challenge, became second nature. We realized the enormous assistance of two walking sticks as we precariously teetered on slippery logs placed across bogs with 6 inches (or more) of rich, black muck or water.
At one point later in the day we were concentrating intently on crossing a marsh when we heard voices just over the ridge. We came across three guys one of whom, we discovered, knew Tracy. The trio had set out two hours before us and were hurriedly attempting to locate the campsite before whoever was behind them. We planned to cover a fair distance the first day and head to the next campsite, so we weren’t good competition, but we led them to the campsite and rested our feet in the clear, cool lake before setting off for another hour and a half journey to our site.
It was with exuberance that we discovered our first ‘home’, and all its amenities: a compost toilet (like a throne; no walls), a picnic table, fire pit, clothes line, flat grassy area for the tent and a metal food box so that we didn’t have to go to the hassle of hoisting our food to make it bear proof. We enjoyed washing off the sweat and grime with a swim, and boiled water to add to our first dehydrated supper: Jamaican rice and chicken. We discovered that the portions were very generous and that the taste was better than expected.
We set out on day 2 after a breakfast of hot oatmeal (or left over supper in Mel’s case) at about 10. Shortly into the day, Tracy’s hiking boots fell apart – the soles separated from the upper part! Duct tape didn’t work, and the multiple safety pins only barely held them together. She switched to her Chaco sandals for the rest of the trip. As we hiked, it sprinkled, then showered, then rained, then poured. But none of the water (from the sky or underfoot) could dampen our spirits. Each time the intensity of the rain increased, Mel would cheerfully exclaim, “You know what I was thinking? What would make this trip even more awesome? More Rain!” The funny thing was that she wasn’t really joking. The greater precipitation really did add another layer of adventure and ‘awesome’. As we approached the campsite we were headed to, we had a decision to make: we were soaked, our packs were soaked, Tracy had fallen off a log-crossing into a lake, and Mel knew of an emergency shelter at the Manitoba Naturalist site about an hour and a half further. The room (a sauna, overlooking the lake) would provide a dry place to sleep and we would be able to make a fire in the morning to dry out some of our gear. But the site was on an island, and we would have to take the chance that the rowboat on this side would still be hidden along the shore, and that the sauna would still be accessible as an emergency shelter. The next campsite past the turn off for the island was an additional hour and a half; and we only had about 2 hours of daylight left. We unanimously decided to take the chance and head for a dry place to sleep. As we neared the lake with the potential shelter, we found the trail to turn off to the lake shore and spotted the island. We searched for a boat to no avail, but did notice a beaver dam crossing that we decided to test out. We successfully passed across the ridge about 8 feet higher than the water below and continued on the trail that wrapped around the edge of the island. Our hearts hit the ground as we glanced up and saw, across the lake, a tidy little building on the shore of another island. We promptly turned around and retraced our steps as the sun quickly faded. As we rejoined the trail that ran along the lake, still searching for a boat to no avail, we stopped to desperately call on the help of our Father. Our hearts were encouraged as we set out searching once again, and about 2 minutes later were delighted and relieved to walk into a small clearing with a row boat tucked behind a tree with two oars and a paddle tucked underneath.
We rowed across as the sunlight dimmed and discovered that although the main building (with bunk beds) was securely locked, the sauna, was, in fact, accessible. We were so thankful for a dry place to sleep and dry or mostly-dry gear the next morning.
As the fire heated the sauna and dried our things we enjoyed breakfast, filtered water and washed our hair off the dock. We set out at 1:15 after completely extinguishing the fire (no small task). This was later than we had planned, so we determined to pick up the pace a bit. The times the trail required were longer than estimated by the guide since every surface was wet, and the rocky ridges were slippery and required carefully placed steps. We arrived at our ‘home’ for the third night and turned on the phone to check the time; it seemed very light for our estimated arrival time. We discovered that we had made record time, and shortly before we arrived at our site, the clouds broke and we enjoyed a beautiful sunset after a refreshing dip in the lake and another really good meal from a bag. God had heard our hearts cry once again, this time, for a sunset.


We expected our last day to take about the same time as day three (about 7 hours as opposed to the 10 and 9 hours of the two previous days). We didn’t want to arrive back in the city too late though, so we set the alarm for 7:15, ate bars for breakfast, applied moleskin to the sores on our feet, and were on the trail by 9. The first part of the trail was beautiful. It was the first day of sunshine, and since we were mostly in the shade of the forest, we enjoyed it thoroughly. We made it to our rest spot in good time and soaked our feet, signed a guest log, replenished our water, and ate another few bars. The last section of the trail was around the north shore of a large lake, and eventually followed an abandoned road. We were looking forward to the abandoned road for a few reasons. We figured it would be easier going than crawling over the deadfall as we had been for most of the afternoon, and we knew that it indicated we were near the end of our journey. Our hopes were dashed as we came to the road. It was gross. Mud. Slick, grey slimy mud. We couldn’t walk straight through it (even though we had been walking with saturated feet for most of the day already) because each step required careful consideration to avoid falling into the grime. The road went on and on. Finally, the trail narrowed a bit and dried up a lot. We were relieved and hoped that we were almost to the car. We came to the end of the trail; and found ourselves at a boat sitting at the edge of a lake. At this point we were all in pain, Mel had slipped from a log as we passed through the muddy road and punctured the skin over her collarbone, Tracy had twisted her ankle, and we were more than ready to be out of the heat and have the weight off our backs. The site of the boat was disheartening to say the least. We stopped once again to pray and determine our next steps. We decided to retrace our steps and look for a trail branching off the one we followed. The whole trail was very well marked, until we got on the ‘road’, after which point we only saw one marker. As we retraced our steps and investigated paths that might be trails, we eventually got back to where our path left the lakeshore. It looked like other hikers had passed that way since there were hiking pole prints in the sand. Finally we saw a beloved blue arrow indicating the path for travellers going in the other direction, which, at that point, we too were going. So we turned around again, with the new confidence that at least we were on the trail. Finally we explored one path that seemed to be going in a direction opposite to our destination, and prayed for a sign. Eventually we saw a pink tag; a sign. And discovered it was a sign indicating the dreaded road. We were never so excited to see the muddy mess, and we knew that we were once again on the road to the car, to relief from our packs, to safety before sunset...
Tracy (who led the whole way) exclaimed “I see a car”. I didn’t dare believe her. “No, are you sure? Are you POSITIVE? Is it OUR car? Are we there?” We laughed and cried as we WALKED to the trail’s end; a miracle in itself that all three of us were still on our feet and moving forward.
Thinking back on the four days, the ridges and marshes seem to blur together. We paused often to pick a few of the luscious blue berries we were traipsing through. We noted that the bears in the area were enjoying the bounty as well as we stepped over large piles of blue evidence. It was an experience that I put in the same category as rafting the Nile and doing my first Half Marathon; a challenge that was enjoyable, but not to be repeated in the near future.

The Adventure Continues…

Well, it’s been a while. I decided a while back that my Aunt’s suggestion to keep writing is a good one. I no longer feel responsible to document my life, so the motivation is diminished (thus the delay). But this previous week has brought so many extraordinary experiences that I feel compelled to write. I’ve had the joys of selling pies at a true farm fair, being attended to by several emergency medical people and not paying a cent, receiving prophecy from a stranger on the street, hearing stories of my grandpa’s childhood and being led in worship by some of the same students that were apathetic towards chapel 3 years ago when I was teaching them. It was an amazing week.

Last weekend I had the privilege of visiting my Aunt Ruth at her place just outside Millbrooke in Southern Ontario. She has a lovely place surrounded by peaceful fields, flowers and cows. It was a wonderfully relaxing time that included lounging on the deck, hiking down a nearby wooded lane, demolishing and replacing a mailbox and selling pies at the Millbrook fair. The St. Thomas Anglican church annually sets up a booth at the fair to serve those showing their cattle, horses or chickens. I anticipated a long table with an assortment of pies to choose from; I would simply take the customers’ money and wish them a pleasant day. Ha! Little did I know that I would also be selling hot dogs, pea meal on a bun (a local? pork product), beef on a bun, and various drinks to accompany pie – by the slice or whole. It was a fun time. I enjoyed employing the bit of salesmanship I picked up from watching my dad in the store as a kid – “would you like a drink to go with that?”.

The night after I got home from Toronto I was feeling quite good about the day: a jog, bike ride, subbing in the afternoon followed by a bike tune-up and thorough washing. I started making something to eat, and in the process the too-large knife slipped and attacked the index finger of my left (thank God) hand. When I saw the damage I immediately went outside with the thought If I pass out, at least someone will know (I was home alone). I noticed a girl coming down the street towards my place. She looked like someone I’d known about 7 years ago in University. I hadn’t thought of her in years but I’d recently come across her name. It was her! I called and she came over. She had been at a prayer meeting at the church down the street and parked right in front of my house! (Coincidence?) She came inside and I directed her to collect a few things. I was sure that I hadn’t tuned the stove on, but felt compelled to check anyway…. and turned it off before we left. After (quite a few) hours in the Urgent Care waiting room I got some stitches and was sent on my way. I’ve never before been so excited to see that the tip of my finger was still attached to the rest of my hand.

Yesterday as I was walking home from doing a few errands, a man walking towards me on the sidewalk motioned to my hand in the sling. He began to confidently proclaim healing: seventy times seven million, no more blood… At another point in my life I may have been startled by such a declaration. Yesterday, it made me smile like my face was going to spilt and reply (repeatedly) “I receive that, thank you”. I’ve been reading a book called "Kissing the Leper: Seeing Jesus in the Least of These”. It has reminded me that Jesus delights in bringing blessing through individuals that the world has cast off.

Yesterday afternoon I enjoyed spending time with Grandma and Grandpa Roberts. Grandma and I worked on some computer things (she learned the ‘printer friendly’ option for printing e-mails). She continues to amaze me with her will and ability to learn new technology at 88 years. I enjoyed listening to stories of Grandpa’s father coming to Canada, farming in Dauphin and Craik, SK. My grandpa was four before he discovered (on his way to drop off the mail!) that his father smoked. Apparently, it was the one condition my great grandma had for taking great grandpa as her husband - there would be no smoking in her house!

My wonderful yester-day was completed with a time of worship at the high school where I will be teaching in September. It is a student-led event that has been going on for the last several months. Being the last gathering before summer break, some of the kids shared stories of God’s work in the previous months. It was such an incredible thing to listen to these kids proclaim the glory of God. We heard of people receiving healing, Bible studies in the lunchroom, Grade 12 kids mentoring Grade 9s, and individuals who are willing to admit weakness and allow God to strengthen them through participation in community. Thinking back to the painful chapel experiences that I’ve encountered in the past, this gathering of students was nothing less than miraculous!

I hope that this coming week is not quite so action-packed (at least no knife action), but I do love truly living this great adventure.

Compared to Uganda…

Someone asked at church this morning how I was faring with the transition back to life in Canada. I responded that I no longer compare EVERYTHING to Uganda. But I still find myself thinking, "In Uganda it was…"

I just looked out the window and the sun is setting. Slowly. And it is 8:45 pm! In Uganda the sun sets fast and regular just after 7pm. Not better or worse, just different.

On Monday I was substitute teaching at the High School in the morning and the Middle School in the afternoon. I was planning on walking between the two, and then I remembered that it is at least a 20 minute walk. As I approached the school, I thought to myself, ”If only there were boda bodas like in Uganda, there would be no problem” (Bodas are motorcycles. The drivers wait around until approached by a customer then they drive you wherever you want to go, for a negotiable price.) The custodian gave me a ride; I didn’t have to walk or pay!

People in Uganda seem to be more friendly than people here. I feel like I should greet people, or at least look at people as I walk down the street, but many people avert their eyes and I keep my greetings to myself.

In the airport in Toronto I almost told the woman cleaning the toilets, “Thank you for your work,” in Luganda, then I thought about saying it in English, and realized it sounds kind of funny (but I determined afterwards to thank people for their work even if it sounds funny). I was in the habit of thanking almost everyone I saw working.

On my way through suburbia to visit my grandparents I noticed just how much boulevard and grassy yard area there is. I found myself thinking that the area really should be used for growing food… and then reconsidered.

I find myself drawn to any black person. Maybe I’m subconsciously hoping that the face I search will be Nsubuga, Kaggwa, Ndagire or a Mwonge… but they never are.

The second day I was home I located the Africa Resource Centre, about a 15 minute walk away, but it was closed, I’ll try again this week.

I went to a birthday party last weekend. It was great to see some of my closest friends and get caught up. But when the birthday girl (now age 2) started opening the heap of gifts it was a bit much. I couldn’t help but think of the kids that I have left behind.

I somehow have the sense that I’ve abandoned them, at least when I was there I could listen and pray with them. I could try and help figure out solutions. Now I’m just far away. I feel like a mother whose son has gone far away to University for the fist time. Helpless to help. Separated.

I went to a concert last night. It was really good. And kind of hard. They handed out pictures and profiles of kids that need sponsorship and asked us to consider sponsoring the kid whose picture we were holding. I was holding Jhanny from the Dominican Republic. But I was thinking of Mitcho and Mega and Katerega and Jackie, Syrus and Martha. I thought of the four day old baby that I held in my arms the week before I left. I wondered about her future.

Living in Winnipeg is different. Good to see people, and hard to be away from people. Nice to have all the modern conveniences, but difficult to reconcile the disparity. Needless to say, I am still adjusting to no longer being Melody in Uganda.

I'm Cold

I took a job subbing at my former place of employment yesterday (which, by the way, was a lot of fun). As I headed out to work, I was greeted with icy precipitation and a blast of cold air in the face. I never thought about the adjustment that weather would be...

in canada

I’m home.
I didn’t have to wonder if there would be electricity this morning.
I brushed my teeth with water from the tap.
I had a hot shower.
There is nothing green outside. The trees are standing sticks.
I have internet in my house!
I arrived at the scheduled time of arrival.
I just slept for 7 hours and I’m drinking coffee that was brewed (I miss Nescafe).
I’ll write more later, just wanted to let you know
I’m home.

Relaxing the Rules

I love it that Ugandans have a healthy sense of when it is appropriate to forget about the ‘proper’ way of doing things.

I’ve decided that before I leave (in 9 days) I need to perfect, or at least master, the art of making chapati. So this morning I set out to buy the main ingredient: flour. We don’t use much flour, and the end of the last 2kg bag was bug-infested, so I was hoping to find a smaller package. We I got to the small shop down the road I found out that they don’t make smaller packages. But the woman kindly offered that she could weigh out a portion for me. I decided to take the ½ bag that was there. I realized then that I had failed to check if we had oil. I decided to buy just a bit to make sure I could go ahead with the chapati-making plan. But they only had 1 L containers. The woman pointed out the bulk supply she had on the counter: a large container of oil sitting in a basin with a coke bottle and a beer bottle. The coke bottle amount went for 1500 and the beer bottle for 2000. I thought this would be a good idea, but hadn’t brought a container to carry it in. The very helpful woman suggested putting it in a cavera (plastic bag), which ended up working just fine. I can’t imagine going to a shop in Canada and the clerk offering to give me part of the bag of flour since I didn’t need the hole thing!

The fact that I’m here visiting Rita (for the last time) is also only possible because sensible Ugandans were willing to bend the rules. I’m sure there is some general law against passengers riding in the back of trucks because our CoU truck is specifically licensed to carry 25 passengers. Yesterday the taxi operators went on strike, so the main means of transportation was frozen. I had planned to go to Jinga, and thought I’d see if I could catch some other ride. Shortly after I arrived on the side of Jinga Road, a truck passed by with people in the back, some of who were motioning that they were going past Mukono. I called out “Jinga?” and they slowed to a stop to let me hop in the back. It was an interesting ride. The men allowed the three women to sit on the sack and spare wheel that doubled as seats. As we travelled we saw large crowds of people waiting for transportation and one man being led by police to a truck. The man with the sack got off and I switched to sitting on a car battery. A couple elderly gentlemen got on and I gave up the battery and squatted. Really dark clouds rolled overhead and we scrambled to get any jacket, scarf, or piece of material to cover ourselves. The gentleman on the battery pulled out a plastic bag and put his briefcase inside. The rain came, but thankfully didn’t last long. I enjoyed talking to the people around me, fortunately there was one man who knew English and could step in when my Luganda failed.

There are rules being broken that I wasn’t aware of until lately: apparently it is illegal for the taxi to let you off where you want to get off along Kampala Road. Up until last week, I could tell the conductor “Bank” and get let off in front of the Stanbic. Or say “Parking, Seebo” and get off fairly close to wherever I wanted to go. I admit, I’m sure this added to the congestion, but walking three blocks back to the bank is just too far (maybe I’ve been spoiled). Now there are police all along the road daring drivers to stop and incur a fine or worse.

But now, as I think of it, I guess it was the relaxing of rules that caused this strike in the first place. It is very unusual to find a taxi with seatbelts, and many are in pretty poor condition. Who knows how many drivers are licensed. I suppose these things should be addressed. The police, however, are clamping down on all the things they’ve let slide at the same time, and charging a lot of money for the operators to redeem their impounded vehicles. So the taxi people are striking.

It will be interesting to see how I get back to Kiwanga today. Hopefully won’t have to break too many rules.

the Message

[written April 8th]

About 2 weeks ago I had a long conversation with one of the other office staff. I can’t remember what we started out talking about; the conversation meandered through many topics. He told me parts of his childhood growing up an orphan and he told me some of the history of the Church in Uganda. Christianity was firmly established by the Catholic and Anglican churches. Churches, schools and hospitals were built by the churches. When Amin was in power all other denominations and religions (other than Islam) were outlawed. This explained why it seemed that there are only three answers to the question of one’s religion: Catholic, Protestant (Church of Uganda/Anglican) or Muslim. I listened to Richard’s story of growing up. The orphanage that cared for him was, unlike many, not run by one of the traditional churches. During his time at the home, some visiting missionaries introduced him to Jesus as Saviour and a living person who wanted a relationship with him. When he returned to his Catholic school the following year he started a Bible study that quickly grew. By the end of that first year there were 100 people attending. The school officials felt threatened and disbanded the group. The students tried to meet in groups of 2 or 3 after class so that it appeared that they were going over notes. They tried to disciple new believers, writing out pages of scripture to hand to the new Christians (they were not allowed to read the Bible). Eventually, they felt that they should meet again as a large group. They tried to choose a strategic time and location, but were found out. Richard and some other leaders were not allowed to return to the school. Eventually, God made a way for Richard to return to secondary school to complete his S6 and then, miraculously, provided means to attend university.

Richard also told me about the church he now attends. The church is fairly new, and is made up of mostly labourers. The structure that they meet in is made of wooden poles for support, white polythene sheets between the poles, and aluminum sheets for a roof. Very few people in the congregation are educated, many are seeking employment. But they believe. They believe that the prayer is important, and look to God together each morning and evening. Some people walk 6 miles to get to church. Some bring the first fruits of their garden as offerings to God.

Hearing about this group of believers encouraged me; I wanted to worship with them, and experience their church. I asked Richard if I could come and visit before I left. He asked if I would be willing to speak to the people. For up to 50 minutes. I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly: 1-5 or 5-0? 5-0! I wasn’t sure about 50 minutes, but I agreed to speak.

During the next week the people of the church prayed for me. They said I could speak about whatever God led me to; they believed that whatever I said would be used by God in some way.

So last Sunday I passed through Kampala, down Gyaza Road to Wampeewo Close. As I descended the final hill, a woman caught up to me. We greeted each other, and she continued with: “Let me hope that you are coming to church”. We established that we were, in fact, headed to the same place, and that I was the visitor that Pastor Richard had told them about (it was at this point that I realized that my friend Richard was the pastor of this church!). We came to find people praying and joined in.

Other aspects of the service included singing, special songs from the children, ladies choir (3 people), and another trio. Testimonies were shared: one boy was brought to the church some time back. He was very sick; they thought he would soon die, but God saw fit to heal him. He was standing healthy and strong on Sunday, with a huge grin on his face. Another woman praised God that she had school fees for her child, another that she was healthy and could be in church after being sick.

It was amazing to feel at home among a group I had never met, in a setting unlike any other house of worship I have entered. The Lord was there. It was one of the few times in Uganda that I didn’t feel I was being noticed for being white. Everyone was too busy worshipping, praying, singing, to concentrate on me.

I was invited over to the pastor’s place for lunch. It was good food, and, of course, great hospitality. The house is being built of bricks that church members have made, with labour from church members too. The land was given by the elderly woman who found Pastor Richard as a baby on her step and took him to an orphanage. The house is shared by the Pastor, his wife and 2 year old daughter, the elderly woman, some children who have been rejected because of their faith, and some men who are seeking employment. Currently the floor is still rough concrete, not yet flat, some walls have concrete, some are still brick. There is no electricity, but you can tell people belong. The older girls help care for the young one. One of the older boys cleared the table and wiped the place mats after the meal.

The whole thing reminded me so much of the early church. It seems the way it should be. They live by faith. Faith for the next steps in building, for healing, deliverance, food.

And they live with joy.

Just before I left with them to walk back to main road (about 25 min), Richard handed me a re-used brown envelope with the words “Melody, love offering” on it. It almost made me cry. That these people understand that it is better to give than to receive. They have faith that God will bless them, that He is enough to meet their needs.

I was the one who spoke the message from God’s Word on Sunday, but experiencing the faith of this amazing family of believers was an message in itself to me.