gyration of the globe

1 August, Closing Thoughts

2006-07-31T23:06:00.000-07:00

I've been gone a mere two months, but I am ready for home. I want to unpack my bag, stretch out my legs, open fresh drawers and fill them with crisp, clean clothes, folded by my mother. It's hot, hot summer now, and I anticipate the cooling fall, sweaters and studies, brisk nights outside under the waning sun. I long for hot chocolate chip cookies and a deep glass of milk, to sit and tell stories with my family in our living room.

I would admit that these longings come from a weak traveler's heart, but I think that any wanderer who has wandered at our pace across the globe would discover the same homesick feelings. In most respects, America is a better place to live than the rest of the world--better than Nepal and Israel, and yes, even Italy. From overseas, America is idyllic. The pleasures of life found in Nepal are mere shadows of the richness of America. I was raised in the land of treasures; if I'd been raised elsewhere I wouldn't know what I was missing.

We've been in lands of dirty water, bus wrecks, and leeches. We've left countries consumed in wars, ravaged by bombs, and shaken by deadly rockslides. We've passed hundreds of beggars and seen the faces of thousands of people needy for a Savior. Tragedies and misfortunes fill the streets of this world. My eyes have been opened to that; to shut them again when I return would be a dishonest deed.

If we died in this far-off land, would our longings for home die with us? If I died with this pack on my shoulders, having never tasted sweet home again, would I regret for a moment taking this journey? Would my love for family and friends vanish with me into the dust? Many, if they were honest about their religion, would have to say yes; all that matters for them is life here on earth.

But this earth is not our home. Hebrews says that Abraham and the saints died in faith "not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth." Though this is the picture of Christians throughout the Bible, I think many Christians today are afraid of it. We're afraid to let this world go.

We are God's children. Our homeland is heaven. If I were to die today, I would die happy. I'd die happy because my hopes do not rest in this world--in my travels or family or home or future. My hopes rest in the promises of Christ, the promises of a new heaven and a new earth--life with God.

C.S. Lewis called this world the shadowlands. The things which I long for back home are mere shadows of the things which I long for in heaven. Now, I see them from afar, making out dim shapes on the horizon. One day, as Paul says, I shall seem them in full, and run after them, further up and further in, without turning back. For, says, Hebrews, "If they had been thinking of that land from which they had gone out, they would have had opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared for them a city." Amen.

Drew

1 August, Closing Thoughts

2006-07-31T22:59:00.000-07:00

Today is the end of a big, big chapter of my life. It is the end of the most important year of my short life. "Hitherto hath the Lord helped me." I am a different man than I was on August 1, 2005. I left for Mercy Ships in Africa on August 21 and I will arrive home on August 1. It has been almost a solid year away from home and I am ready to settle down.

I'm in Shanghai at our hotel. We love this hotel. Look at this hallway--carpeted, vacuumed, uncluttered, cool. Through a window I can hear the city. It woke up without me and it doesn't need me to operate. I always get nervous on departure days.

God has dealt well with me to give me this year of travel. Life is short. But today it's better to be alive than dead. "He who is joined with all the living has hope, for a living dog is better than a dead lion." That's from Ecclesiastes, a book of the Bible that I really like. "All is vanity," Solomon says. ALL. One generation passes aways and another generation comes and there is no remembrance of former things. Do we take these words seriously? The memory of the dead is forgotten. Their love and hatred and their envy perishes. Our days are like a shadow. We could die today and somebody foolish could take our place. What is our life but a vapor?

"All flesh is like grass and all the glory of man like the flower of grass." The Bible is full of this stuff. David and Job would have prayed like this, "Lord, make me know my end and the measure of my days that I may know how frail I am."

So what now? I repeat Herman Melville: "This wilful world hath not got hold of unchristian Solomon's wisdom yet." It's true--Ecclesiastes is hard to swallow. But look at chapter 9:7-10. Those are some practical verses. All in all, take God seriously and don't forget him. Be humble with each other.

Sam

31 July, Action-Man, Shanghai

2006-07-31T22:55:00.001-07:00

On the streets in Shanghai, as the proverb says, "The rich and the poor meet together." Beneath the glitzy lights and designer malls on Nanjing Road, the beggars still beg and the homeless pick through garbage. Rich families with fresh department store treasures stroll casually by the trash pickers. As always, the poor seek more money and better status in a thousand different ways. Hawkers sell trinkets and DVDs and rollerskate shoes. Shoeless kids stick their hands in your face and say, "Hello, money," as if it were your first name.

But others force me to pause. A man in the square has no arms. He sits with a coin cup between his feet and his head down. A lady on the subway stairs cradles a baby whose head is twice the size of mine. It stare coldly into space. An old hag, her face and hair torn apart by skin disease, waits in the alley shadows for someone to pass by and take notice. Why does God choose such lives for these people?

All of their faces are burned into my head. Even in Shanghai, this pinnacle city of modern civilization, not everyone is comfortable. Day by day, the destitute play out their game for one more meal. What sort of game are we playing?

Drew

Thoughts after Asia

2006-07-31T22:55:00.000-07:00

Coming away from West Africa, I saw sure that unless a country is wholly devoted to God and the masses accept the gospel, there could be no peace or prosperity. I thought that if the Liberians would only teach and do exactly what the Bible says, their country would change. But this trip has reminded me that many of the richest countries in the world don't give a hoot about God.

"All things come alike to all," says Ecclesiastes, "there is one event to the righteous and to the wicked. One event happens to them all." Shanghai is a major city of the world, a central commercial emporium of the globe. But does the communist Chinese government care for God? Is Christianity a majority religion here? Nations and people can get rich without acknowledging God.

But on the other hand, what does the Bible say? Job 8:11 says, "Can papyrus grow where there is no marsh? Can reeds flourish where there is no water? While yet in flower and not cut down, they wither before any other plant. Such are the paths of all who forget God; the hope of the godless shall perish." And this morning Drew read Psalm 9:17, "The wicked shall return to Sheol, all the nations that forget God." And last night I read Hosea 4:1, "The LORD has a controversy with the inhabitants of the land. There is no faihtfulness or steadfast love, and no knowledge of God in the land; there is swearing, lying, murder, stealing, and committing adultery; they break all bounds, and bloodshed follows bloodshed. Therefore the land mourns, and all who dwell in it languish." Countries can get rich without acknowledging God. But can peace and prosperity last without God?

Sam

31 July, Action-Man, Shanghai, China

2006-07-31T22:53:00.000-07:00

Just got back from breakfast downstairs. In the lobby was the old man from Australia. He was posing with the receptionist for a photo "You leaving today?" I asked him. "I'm leavin' now!" he answered. I can never tell if he's enjoying his vacation to China or not. "Going to Xi'an， then Beijing," he continued. "Well don't get too lonesome," I told him. "Oh no," his speech is so garbled that, at first glance, it sounds like he's speakin Chinese, "You go down this main street out here and all the ladies invite you for coffee. And they got other things up their sleeves, too."

Out hotel is north of downtown Shanghai and sits on the border of town, where English isn't spoken and the dirty streets are third-worldish. Air conditioners drip puddles on the sidewalks and drops land on your head and neck. The women wear big tinted visers. The old men roll up their pant legs and unbutton their shirts. Men and women dig deep in their throats for loogies and spit and snort. In the nooks and corners of the streets are diners where men chew their noodles and dumplings with sickened faces.

This Australian man was the first white man I saw at this hidden hotel and one of the first white people in this whole part of town. We met him a week ago before we went to Beijing. He always wears a baseball cap and boots and pants up to his ribs. His accent is so thick and his mouth opens so little and and he talks so fast--I thought he was just a burly Chinese man. He always misses the part of his beard above his lip when he shaves. We've caught him wandering listlessly down the street--on vacation in China, not sure if he likes it, not sure where he's going.

Sam

30 July, Color-Man, Shanghai

2006-07-31T22:52:00.000-07:00

Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels' Communist Manifesto is a brilliantly dangerous book. In it, the writers have a passage that explains what Sam and I have seen all over the world, and especially here in China:

"The bourgeoisie," it says, referring to nations of rich, upper middle-class capitalists, "compels all nations, on pain of extinction, to adapt the bourgeois mode of production; it compels them to introduce what it calls civilization into their midst...In one word, it creates a world after its own image. The bourgeoisie has subjected the country to the rule of the towns. It has created enormous cities, has greatly increased the urban population as compared with the rural. Just as it has made the country dependent on the towns, so it has made barbarian countries...dependent on civilized ones, nations of peasants on nations of bourgeois, the East on the West."

Their analysis is dead on. Like most dangerous ideas, the foundations they laid for communism were rooted in truth, but were twisted somewhere along the way. But this description is exactly the state of the world, even today.

I'm not sure what's left of "the East." Ghandi once looked to the East to save the world because he considered the West incapable. But democracy, free thought, and free trade (the enemy of communism) are spreading now more than ever, it seems. Nepal, the last Hindu nation, has just become secular. That leaves just hidden Bhutan, the final Buddhist kingdom. Sure, those religions still control millions of people, but politically, the masses have begun to see how those systems just don't work.

It seems that, for now at least, McDonalds and iPods and Hollywood will remain the kings of the world. There may be a better way, but the East has certainly not yet found it. And so the West will continue to create "a world after its own image," or, as is often the case with China, a world surpassing its own image.

Drew

30 July, Action-Man, Shanghai

2006-07-31T22:51:00.000-07:00

Let me draw for you a picture of the Shanghai streets. On both sides of the Yangtze River, collosal scrapers loom over busy streets. To the west of the river is the old business center, Puxi, with the downtown core and the famous Bund, a rich avenue of colonial waterfront buidlings. Pleasant parks and clean streets fill the city. But the main thing is the towers. Everywhere and all the time, since 1989, new metal mammoths have risen out of the ground, soon to be filled with lights and noise and thousands of beating hearts. To the east of the river is the newly-developed Pudong district.

The Chinese seem to never cease in this rapid growth, and it seems they will never fail to suceed. The government is clever. When they began to build the new city centre in Pudong, across the river, they offered to pay half the citizens' rent to live ther. Soon, the buildings and streets filled. Pudong snowballed; more and more people wanted to move to the new, hip city. Now, the government has withdrawn its money, but the people still come. The inner city has effectively doubled in size.

You see, the Chinese are more adept to adapt than most of the rest of the world. In some ways, they are even more capitalist than America itself. China has shot up, dare I say, like a weed in the last ten years. But does this weed have roots? With 1.3 billion people, it's hard to say no. But only time will tell.

Drew

29 July, Action-Man, Beijing

2006-07-31T22:50:00.000-07:00

Tonight, we took the Beijing subway to the famous silk market. It must have changed a bit since Marco Polo's day. As we ascended from the station, smiling young Chinese girls stood behind trays of Portuguese egg tarts (If you haven't had one you haven't yet lived) and crates of Chinese candies. A makeshift shop displays hundreds of pirated DVDs and CDs. But this, in the locals' eyes, is a respectable shop. They even let you test the disks to see if they work. True class.

In the silk market itself, those smiling girls turn into different animals. Outside rows and rows of shops, each selling fake Gucci bags and North Face jackets, they wait to suck in customers whose eyes linger too long over their merchandise. They whip out calculators cooly and begin their trade. "OK," said one, "retail price this shirt go for 680 yuan [80 bucks, yeah right]." She punched in the first number then said, "but I see you are student, ok, so I give you wery good price, give it you for 400, ok?" Sam and I asked for about a tenth of that, which infuriated her. She refused flat out. Soon enough though, with many punchings of buttons, she yielded. The price dropped to 20% of the original. We left with booty in hand, followed by cries of outrage.

After the silk market, we feasted. Chinese hotpot is not to be missed while in the Orient. Sharp waitresses bring out boiling bowls of soup and drop them down into a hole in the table. A fire is lit beneath. Then, eaters choose from a panoply of raw foods that make up the core of the meal. Sam and I ordered, among other things, duck paw, which arrived looking more like raw squid with bones. We dipped our morsels deep into the steaming soup, and soon even the most frozen bits were fired and ready to eat.

In our eating frenzy, Sam and I pushed our time in Beijing right up to the edge. Our sleeper train to Shanghai left at 7:21, and we left the restaurant at 7:00, bellies full. We taxied with all speed across town to the station and arrived with five minutes to departure. We sprinted like warriors across the busy steet, through crowds of glaring Orientals, past the ticket gate, up an escalator, through a long hallway and down to our platform. We jumped aboard with seconds to spare. As Jules Verne says in Around the World in Eighty Days, "Trains, like time and tide, stop for no one."

Drew

28 July, Action-Man, Beijing

2006-07-31T22:35:00.000-07:00

This morning, at 8:30, an hour late, a brisk Chinese man came to our hotel and led us to his tour bus, bound for the Great Wall of China. The bus was full of Westerners. It was tight, like most Asian buses, but weird to rub shoulders not with a rajah or Brahmin priestesses, but with Europeans and Americans.

Progress was slow as we got on the road, and when a ten minute gas station stop turned into something longer, the Americans started to complain. Ahead of me was a group of silent Italians, and beside me were two Frenchmen. One had a dark tan and the other was fair with a big jaw and mouth and a broad forehead. Behind me were two shamefully talkative Americans.

The shelves of the gas station were sparse and the floor of the men's bathroom was very sticky. The problem, I think, is that they don't clean the bathrooms. They smell like frog dissection. They should keep the pipes to the urinals attached and use clean water when they mop. Western toilets undoubtedly excel the squatting toilets of the East. Outside the gas station, heavy orange trucks with green tarps tied over their cargo lined up on the shoulders of the highways. Apparently, the police are starting to crack down on weight restrictions and the truckers were waiting for the officers to leave the area.

Many hours later, we arrived at the Wall. It is higher up in the hills than I expected and I didn't expect so many steep stairs. The walls were packed with British and French tourists. But suddenly, looking to my left out in to the sharp hills, I spied the Mongol army approaching. Piles of wolf dung in the towers of the wall were lit and a chain of fire appeared on the horizon. All the watchmen were alerted. Just then arrows started to fly towards the sentries who took cover behind the ledge. A Mongol warrior pulled his arrow from a full quiver on his back. He set the arrow on his ox horn bow and took aim, as when hunting a bear or a tiger in the forest. He dug deeper in his stirrups and pulled the tasseled bridle of the snorting warhorse. In the distance, I heard the blow of a conch or a deer horn. The battle was on.

We left two hours late from the Wall and stopped at the same gas station as before. At first, the bus started to smell gamey like the Cono bus after a varsity soccer game. Sure enough, the big jawed Frenchman behind me had taken off his shoes. Then, after the gas station, the smell of store-bought cookies filled the air. Drew got back on the bus and said, "What's worse than a gas station bathroom?" He went on, "A Chinese gas station bathroom." I read until the sun went down, then turned across the aisle and talked to a young Brit named Joe Barnsley. He was my age and was a good conversationalist. He was the only guy that I was really in the mood for. We hit every important topic.

Sam

27 July, Color-Man, Beijing

2006-07-31T22:34:00.000-07:00

I just finished listening to some Bach on Drew's iPOD, and I realized how little I have thought of God today. He wants me to think about him. And he wants me to not get tired of praying, as I count on the promise that he bestows "his riches on all who call on him." These are the riches of God, all the riches of Beijing and Shanghai, to us who call on him.

My last three or four days have been so rushed that I've hardly opened my Bible to read. Now that I have time, I hesitate to read it and again I want to put it off. I have become a partial stranger to it. I am even afraid that I won't understand it and that it won't do me any good.

Drew and I memorize one Proverb every day, and so tonight, I remember, "In the fear of the Lord, one has strong confidence and his children find a refuge." I am worried and tonight I need a refuge. And another Proverb says, "Every word of God proves true; he is a shield to those who take refuge in him." That's the only thing I want tonight--to side with Him and for Him to be involved with my life.

Sam

26 July, Action-Man, Shanghai

2006-07-31T22:33:00.000-07:00

Tonight, Drew and I skyscrapered Shanghai. We even went to the top of the world's fourth tallest building. Shanghai is a forest of tall office buildings and hotels. Clouds roll and clot the glassy tops of the tallest skyscrapers, like young Himalayan mountains.

At the Jinmao tower, the world's fourth tallest building, across the river, we joined a crowd on the observation deck on floor 88. As you wait for the elevator, they have a display of the top twelve tallest buildings in the world. Taipei has the tallest tower, and most of them are in Asia. Three or four are in America. I wished that the World Trade Center was still up, so it could contend with Kuala Lampur and glittering Shanghai. Suddenly, I was sobered about America's power.

Will we remain the most powerful country in the world? Surely our skyscrapers testify to our long-standing supremacy. In 1931, we built the Empire State Building, and it remains in 2006 in the top twelve. Has God raised up China as an adversary to test America? How did colossal China get all of its economic wheels turning so quickly and so efficiently?

Sam

23 July, Action-Man, Kathmandu, Nepal

2006-07-31T22:28:00.000-07:00

I was pretty disappointed when we found that we couldn't go to Tibet and Lhasa, its capital. It was just too expensive and we didn't have enough time. Paul, Silas and Timothy tried to go to Bythnia and Asia, but the Holy Spirit forbid them and hindered their way. God wanted them to go on to Macedonia. I rest in those words of the Bible. The Lord closed the door to Tibet.

Still, it would have been fun. A Frenchman and his wife here in the airport told us about a new train that goes from Shanghai to Lhasa in 48 hours. The beautiful Yunnan province and other beauties of China's east coast, they said, pale in comparison to the scenery between Lhasa and Kathmandu. We would have seen all that, but we didn't know any better in Kathmandu.

Here we sit in Kathmandu's airport in the middle of the night waiting to board our plane to Shanghai. But the tardy airline is treating its patient passengers with a midnight snack. They just rolled out carts of boxed food and metal drink dispensers with milk tea. The passengers fell on the refreshments like pesky birds of prey. I just went to refill my glass and found a large puddle beneath the spigot and broken bits of bread scattered on the table. Oh well, like many African airlines, no one knows the day or the hour of Royal Nepal Airlines.

Sam

23 July, Color-Man, Kathmandu, Nepal

2006-07-30T22:24:00.000-07:00

I am Anglo-Saxon and we are a dwindling breed. Only 10% of the world's population is white, I've heard, and even less than that are descended from northern Europe. Blond hair and blue eyes are petering out of this world.

But not only are we a small ethnic group, our cultural habits are deep in the minority. We are task-oriented people--straightforward, punctual, private, scheduled, and individualistic. We are the vigorous people of the cold north.

Some of this is related to the cold climate. The cold forces us to stay indoors many months of the year. But staying indoors separates us from our neighbors. Some of it also is related to our religious heritage. Christians in northern Europe were known for their good work ethic and timeliness and orderliness. But our increasing individualism, for the most part, is related to our money.

Prosperity divides and poverty unites. In Africa, friends share everything. We get friends for our emotional needs. Africans get friends for all their needs. Lack binds people together.

Most of the world is different from us. In the lazy tropics (like Nepal and Jordan), relationship is everything. "Please don't be shy; we are all brothers here," a boy in Jordan urged me. Boys my age of this hot-climate culture include themselves and include me, even when I don't want inclusion. It seems pushy and intrusive, but that is their culture.

I've grown to love the friendship and warmth, the fraternal grip of the hot-climate culture. I love eating together. In church, Christians sing and pray and play their instruments as though no one is watching. They're not trying to impress other people. They are free and confident.

But all of this is difficult for me to enter as the white Anglo-Saxon. I must overcome my inbred individualism and my fear of being asked for money. We all must overcome our private, staunch individualism. But for all this, the world still eyes us and our money. Our cherished dollars hinder friendships in Africa and make it impossible to walk through a market in Kathmandu in peace.

23 July, Color-Man, Shanghai

2006-07-25T02:45:00.001-07:00

I had not yet left the Shanghai Pudong Airport to enter into the city when I suddenly grew excited about China. Even in the airport, I saw a thoroughly different world. Yet it is, in a strange way, compatible with Western culture in a way that the Middle East and India are not. It has a certain order and work ethic that is entirely its own.

My intrigue grows. This place indeed has a rich culture and history and language, to rival the West. It is full of opportunity and versatile to change. The people adapt quickly and work hard. In the mornings, you can find the streets filling with workers as early as five or six. They are on the move. I think that in the same way that it has been fresh ground for Western business, China is also fresh ground for the gospel to grow. This is a place to invest in spiritually. I want to learn its language and history. I want to learn how these people think.

My joy has also been restored for traveling. God has given me the kind of energy and zeal I had at the very start of this trip here at the end. We're on our own now for these last couple weeks, so I needed it. I've got back the desire to make the most of each remaining second of travel. Mark Twain reminds me in The Innocents Abroad that I will regret more the things I don't do than the things I do. What an opporunity we've been given! I will long for these days in the coming years. We will not let it grow old.

Yesterday, Ross, an American YWAMer in Kathmandu, told us something very important. We asked him how he dealt with Daal Baht twice a day, every day. "It's all grace," he said, "It's the grace of God that lets us sleep where we sleep and eat what we eat." He hasn't had a bed to call his own in a long time, yet he is content.

But now I am in a cozy hotel room with Western accomodations. Nepal is in my past; I'll no longer be dealing with Daal Baht and squatter toilets. Or will I go back? We must be ready in our minds to give up everything and follow where Jesus leads. I must be ready to go back to Nepal, or even to India. The best of the world is not enough to satisfy my desires, and the worst of the world cannot separate me from Jesus' love. Therefore I can be confident to live anywhere under His grace.

Drew

17 July, Action-Man, Pokhara, Nepal

2006-07-25T02:45:00.000-07:00

Tonight, we returned to our hotel, took off our shoes at the door, propped our bamboo walking sticks against the wall and climbed the stairs to our room. My feet ache. What ails them? Six days of walking on rocks in the Himalayas. And it's a wonder, with continual moisture in my shoes, that I didn't get trench foot.

Our room is at the end of the hall on the upstais floor of Hotel Castle. Pokhara is a city full of tourists and hotels, but this hotel, begun by the first Christian in Pokhara, hosts only Christians. At the end of the hallway, as I shuffled to the door like a tired Himalayan ox, and unloaded my heavy rucksack, I saw an oil painting on the wall of Mount Machapucchre. It is a horned, mammoth mountain in the Annapurna range, north of Pokhara. I felt like an old, experienced mountainman, tired and finished with his adventures, gazing on the mighty mountains he fought against so hard, and in the end, prevailed.

The picture has green in the foreground--vegetation and trees, forests and rolling grass land, just like our mountains. At times, I felt like I was in the jungle, at times in a deciduous evergreen forest, or the dewy green of Ireland, as we tramped towards Annapurna Base Camp. We never crossed the snowline, which begins high above the clouds.

Today, we covered the same ground as on our first day. The river flowed beside us all the way back. At certain points, the cool air from the rushing water felt like a refrigerator door opening on my face, when clear drafts met us on the open banks. The villagers seem to have lost all wonder at Western trekkers. The village elders must think to themselves as we pass, "These people from these far countries have a strange desire to climb the highest mountains at all costs, even at the risk of their lives." And it's true, some daredevils never do come back. I read about one Russian, swept away by an avalanche, like the thirty villagers that died in the rock avalanche in Dolpa yesterday.

Today, I realized just how much some goats look like sheep and how much some men look like trees, walking with their heavy loads of corn stalks and brush. Look at Mark 8:24 and Jesus' miracle there, because it gives a good visual of the Himalayan porters and what the blind man saw when he opened his eyes. In our last hour of walking, we looked back once more and saw the mountains again, so high above everything else. I marvel at the power of God and his hand like a great antediluvian bulldozer pushing the land together. The Indian peninsula squeezed against Asia and the Himalayans reared their great shoulders. I remember in the Bible how the flood of water covered even the highest peaks by 15 cubits. Is it possible?

Sam

17 July, Color-Man, Pokhara, Nepal

2006-07-24T08:17:00.001-07:00

In my pockets this morning was a compass, a lighter, insect repellant, bamboo wood balm, a mag-lite, a pen, and 30 or 40 odd rupees. I loved trekking--the dirt-caked pants, warm fleece, clif bars and gatorade--but I love returning home all the more.

We are back--toes and fingers clipped and clean, showered, dried, fed, soon to be rested. Our wet clothes hang under a fan.

Civilization is a wonder. We were trekking for just six days and I completely forgot the joys of modern, normal life. We learned quickly to cope with wet feet and sweat-soaked shirts. It became normal to walk all day. We became familiar with suffering. I think humans are set apart by our incredible tolerance for pain, our adjustment to difficulty and hardship.

And now we return to our home in Pokhara. Tomorrow we return to our home in Kathmandu, the YWAM base. In two weeks we return home to the states. Someday, we'll find our true home in heaven.

Tonight, Sam and I strolled through Pokhara in search of Snickers bars. Once found, the two chocolate bars went down slowly and scrumptiously. We nutted and nougeted our hungry mouths. Daal Baht needs an addendum every once in a while. This was it.

Drew

17 July, Color-Man, Pokhara, Nepal

2006-07-24T08:17:00.000-07:00

Action-Man, 16 July, Chhomrong, Nepal

2006-07-24T08:15:00.000-07:00

Tonight we are lodged at Lucky Guest House on the hillside of the Himalayan village Chhomrong. A few days ago, we passed through Chhomrong on our way to Annapurna Base Camp and at the time it seemd to me like just another remote Himalayan outpost.

But tonight, as we began to climb up to Chhomrong on the top of the hill, this remote Himalayan outpost seemed like a city. Chhomrong is a vital center for the mountain villages beyond. Horses and mules bear goods to Chhomrong, but from here the path is too rugged for the beasts of burden. After Chhomrong it's all manpower. Men and women wear big wicker baskets on their backs, pronounced 'dohkos,' like dirty clothes hampers, held by a tight strap over their heads. The porters strain under heavy loads. The stone staircases and paths are the roads of these Himalayan mountains. They were "layed by our ancestors, a thousand years ago," our fluent innkeeper told me last night. What a feat to hew and drag those blocks and boulders into position. But how much greater a feat are our American roads! If the Himalayas were in America, we would build wide, two-lane highways all the way to Annapurna Base Camp at 4130 meters.

Yes, Chhomrong seems very luxurious tonight. Electricity runs through power lines along Chhomrong's main road. We have light and lightswitches and a hot shower tonight, which was very meager. We look ahead to a full flowing stream of hot water from the showerhead in America. Up from the river, the main staircase with stone railing passes handsome rice paddies and a general store and stables and residential areas. Down there on the banks of the river is Chhomrong the nether and we are in upper Chhmorong. The city stretches from the bottom of the hill to the top. We have walked more than ten miles today. Drew and I wanted to push on to Jhinu, where there are hot springs, but Yogya persuaded us to stop here. Our feet and legs are sore. I see the light of the kitchen and hear the flame of the burners and a knife chopping. Tonight, Drew and I are gonna have some spaghetti, a rare break from Nepalese food.

Sam

15 July, Color-Man, Annapurna Base Camp

2006-07-24T08:13:00.000-07:00

Chapter 53 of Moby Dick talks about stranger whaling ships meeting in the middle of the barren ocean. The two ships "cannot well avoid a mutual salutation," Herman Melville writes. "How natural that they should not only interchange hails, but come into still closer more friendly and sociable contact." This was especially true for sociable whalers, "For not only would they meet with all the sympathies of a sailor, but likewise with all the peculiar congenialites arising from a common pursuit, and mutually shared privations and perils."

And so it is with the world traveler! How could the European or North American, my kinsmen according to the flesh, not stop and greet us on the streets of Kathmandu or in a remote Indian village. These are the uttermost parts of the earth. Difference of country should not make much difference, so long as the two speak the same language. Yet, time after time, eager, I am turned away by reserved suspecting looks.

Tourists are everywhere, even in the Himalayas. But for me, backpackers draw the most attention. The first thing I notice is their gear. I look at bags, most of which are twice as big as mine with fancy cords and straps and cushions and sleeping bags. In Italy, I remember marveling at one boy from Finland with his solid pack and his ablutions bag. I look at the backpackers' shoes and socks and sunglasses and wristwatches. The ferry to Greece was full of young backpackers. I saw their dry, folded bath towels and blankets and big plates of food. Most of them seemed to have more spending money than us.

Now we are among trekkers, the backpackers of the Himalayas. We are snuggled in a cozy lodge beneath the Annapurna Range. This is Annapurna base camp, 4130 meters above sea level, much touted, much prized. A Canadian, a woman from France and a man from England showed up at about five o'clock and Drew turned to me, "They probably have loads of money. They'll get a heater...buckets of hot water for 50 rupees...and treats." Sure enough, they got those things and pulled on their dry wool socks.

Sam

14 July, Color-Man, Deurali, Nepal

2006-07-24T08:12:00.000-07:00

Four days of trekking in the Himalayas has brought out the savage in me. Yet not like Ishmael in Moby Dick who says, "Long exile from Christendom and civilization restores a man to that condition in which God placed him, i.e. what is called savagery. Your true whale-hunter is as mch a savage as an Iroquois."

At lunch and supper, after hours of walking, I sink my fingers into rice and daal and stuff it in my mouth with hands, like a famished oger. Eaters of daal baht sound like horses--the moist rice like mire under hoof, the smacking lips and groans like a horse chewing oats. All in all, Solomon's wisdom is just right for this trek, "There is nothing better for a man than to eat and drink and find joy in his labor."

The water is too cold for showers and I choose comfort in the evenings over cleanliness. My long fingernails are full of dirt. Wet clothes do not dry in this cold, wet mountain air. Damp things are soaked by morning. Dry things don't stay dry. I have a black trash bag full of goodies-- bandaids and cotton for cuts and a sweat shirt and one pair of socks, both dirty but dry.

Drew, Yogya and I walk in single file: Yogya sets an expert pace on the ascent. Drew and I rotate between middle and last position. We keep our raincoats near--Drew in black, Yogya in yellow, me in blue. Yogya has thick, sure, hobbit feet. Drew has hobbit hair and Tintin shoes and socks. We race across puddles and liquid paths and stepping stones over waterfalls. Packs of horses, heavy laden, bear down on the trail with cows and sheep, leaving big droppings.

The sun crept up on us the first day and ripened my skin. Then the cold shriveled my fingers and toes. Frail integument! Our second day was full of alarm at leeches. We filled our shoes three times with salt and kept an eye on each other's calves and shoes. " The leech has two daughters," the BIble says, "Give and give, they cry." They grasp our bags from wet branches and say to each other as we approach, "Let us lie in wait for blood; let us ambush the innocent with out reason."

Sam

Action-Man, 14 July, Deurali, Nepal

2006-07-24T08:04:00.001-07:00

Deurali is the first village on this trek into the Himalayas. Tonight, we are gathered at our lodge around a big dining room table. Next to me the innkeeper is playing cards with a boy. There is little separation between management and customers up here. On the other side of the table, Drew is reading. The wooden table between us is huge with a heavy carpet skirt. Drew just pulled on some long brown socks, dry from last night's kerosene fire in Sinuwa. Yogya is stretched out next to Drew, flipping through a thumb-worn magazine.

It's cold in this room. The price of daal baht rises as the temperature falls in these vast altitudes. We didn't buy lunch today, because we couldn't find anybody in the last village. But I had a tin of sardines and tuna in my bag. Yogya cut open the tuna with his knife. And prudent Drew unpacked Clif bars and beef jerkey from America. We are looking forward to dinner.

Across from me is a mural entitled, "Our Local Wild Life." It shows creatures that we in Iowa and North Carolina only see in our dreams--the satyr tragopan, a red, speckled bird, and its next of kin, the Himalayan monal impeyan. A fierce snow leopard prowls in the forgeround and above is its prey--the yak-like Himalayan thar and the musk deer. The last animal is the langur, an elderly primate with a rim of frizzy white hair around its head.

I do wish there were a roaring fire and big logs and a soft hearth-rug in the corner. It's so cold and wet. My numb fingertips are white and yellow. Drew and I both have bad circulation in our hands. But I am glad to be inside as the rain picks up, as the mountain torrents rush and break against the rocks.

Here at 3200 meters above sea level, I have unanswered questions. How do these villagers get around so easily? What are their methods of trekking? How do they get water filters and crates of Fanta and heavy ceramic toilet seats all the way up here? Are the hoofs of horses agile enough for the steep rocks?

Sam

12 July, Color-Man, Ghondruk, Nepal

2006-07-24T08:04:00.000-07:00

Somehow, here in Ghodruk village, 2000 meters up in the lonely Himalayas, they have a TV. Yogya is glued to it as Nepali popstars sing in open fields and dance in fashionable clothes. I thought it was strange when Seinfeld showed up on the network in Pokhara. It just gets weirder. Where in the world can you escape American culture?

In a lot of ways I hate TV. I hate the distraction it provides for millions of people, keeping them from real life. I hate the fact that as I sit here with the Himalayas on my right and a TV on my left, I find myself looking at the TV.

The one thing that man fears more than anything else, says Blaise Pascal, is that he would be left alone in his room to think. Simplify, simplify, says Thoreau. Why can't we do it? Why do Americans lead the pack in creating distractions? It's because they have the money and the culture. So distract, distract, till the end of the world.

Distractions are the devil's greatest ploy. Millions delay the time when they will sit down and decide what it is that they believe. They run after everything. "They are destroyed for lack of knowledge," says Hosea. They don't know what will satisfy them. Linger, linger, whispers the devil, and then it is too late.

Christ calls us to wake up. It's like Plato's cave. Life is even more fascinating if we turn from shadows on the wall to see real, flesh and blood figures, walking in the broad daylight.

But it takes steadfastness to keep looking for reality. Distractions are easy. It is hard to remain amazed with clouds rolling over mountains. We let our wonder grow old, until it dies and we need to replace it with something else. TV is just one road that leads people towards apathetic lives.

Meanwhile, the Nepalis are watching an elf on the screen with neon green eyes warp children magically into fantastical lands.

Drew

12 July 2006, Action-Man, Kimche, Nepal

2006-07-24T08:01:00.000-07:00

The eagle looks down and laughs as we toil up the hill. It's a thousand-meter climb today, from Nayapul to Ghondruk. Thousands of stony steps snake up through hundreds of rice terraces. The local women descend the steps from their mountain villages to the markets below, then carry everything back up again in baskets with cloth straps, resting the weight on their heads. Children with runny noses clamber down the rocks in bare feet.

It rained hard this morning. We taxied to Nayapul, a small village where the road into the mountains ends. We began our trek to Annapurna Base Camp under the downpour. Midmorning we stopped in the gorge for daal baht (rice and lentils) and raksi (a local drink that warms the bones). Now we are stopped in Kimche, over half-way up. The sun breaks through the clouds now. A strange wind lifts them off the mountains like someone whisking a handkerchief off a covered dish.

The guesthouse owner here has a wall of painted flags. They represent the homelands of climbers who have made it this far. They are old--among them are East and West Germany and Zaire. He sips milk tea and chats with our friend Yogya, looking out over the deep valley.

The mountain springs gush forth water down through the stony paths. The monsoon season is in full swing. We'll keep hoping for patches of light.

Drew

10 July, Color-Man, Pokhara, Nepal

2006-07-24T07:06:00.000-07:00

Even in these modern days of 2006, some countries still preserve many ghostly remnants of the distant past. Insulated and unalterable Nepal is one of those countries.

Through my window, I see a rice field. A yoke of black oxen are dragging a plow through knee-deep mud. The farmer is standing on the plow, prodding and steering. The oxen shuffle back and forth and the mud becomes liquid. In the next paddy are four women, hunched over, each with a sheaf of green sprouts in hand. They draw their red frocks up to their knees and bend over to stick the sprouts in the gorund. Meanwhile, the farmer goes on scolding and driving the beasts as he prepares the ground for the planters.

I think Nepal is primitive. Yet, what is the definition of primitive? That's the question the doctor on the airplane asked. Who is to say that we rich Americans have it better? Nepalese people seem happy and content with their way of life. Is Western prosperity the ultmiate goal for a nation like Nepal?

Perhaps, Nepal will benefit from the economic boom of its giant neighbors China and India. God's blessings brings wealth. But his blessing is more than material. Pray, pray that America would not forget or exchange the inward blessings of joy and spiritual life for money. Christians all over the world are praying for us to turn to God. The world is watching America; what a witness that would be for the leader of the world to stand for God!

Sam

10 July 2006, Color-Man, Pokhara, Nepal

2006-07-24T07:04:00.000-07:00

I listened to a man on a flight to India say some things that ticked me off. He was adamently against "nationalistic flag-waving," countries having boundaries, and all forms of foreign occupation. He said that no occupation had ever benefitted the occupied (i.e. Britain in India, the U.S. in Iraq). He was an elegant speaker and knew his history facts. In fact, he even had his Ph.D. But he beat around the bush in our conversation.

Sam brought up British and French occupation of West Africa. "How did that help?" asked the doctor. "Well," said Sam, "those countries were primitive..." The Indian interrupted. "What's your definition of primitive? That's just your perspective. Did the Africans really need that help?" But he never really let us answer.

I'd like to answer him now. Those countries were primitive. The West is better in many ways. The people who argue about American imperialism are, in fact, often enjoying the benefits of Western civilization. The Indian Ph.D. was a democratic thinker arguing, in English, against the effects of democracy. Ironically, those who hate the West often flee to it. I've listened to immigrants to the U.S trash our government. But they love our culture and opportunities. Somehow, to them, those two are disconnected. They'll eat up our language and books and movies and music, but despise the hand that makes these all possible.

The world needs America. It's kind of like Superman; the world hates him because he makes them dependent. But if he were to disappear they'd all cry out for a new savior. America extends its graces to hundreds of countries that need our help. We have the sanitation and medicine and language and technology that everyone else wants. Most importantly, we have a vibrant church family that is spread across the world in missions. AIDS-ridden Africa needs that. They are primitive, and are suffering for it. Overcrowded, poverty-stricken Asia needs that, in many places. Look at the Western influence on South Korea. Look at their technology and booming churches. Look at the mere fact that they have power and hot water. That's more than their neighbors to the north can boast.

America's pride could kill her. But who else would we have leading the world? I'm tired of people being thankless for America. I love hot showers, and even Walmart. I love clean food and filtered water. I love the U.S . Army. I love freedom of speech. I love Johnny Cash and the American Revolution and sweet tea. Maybe I've just been in a blackout country too long, but I must not be alone. Why have millions left their homelands to go to the States? Why do they still? There must be something to the land of the free.

Drew

9 July, Action-Man, Kathmandu

2006-07-24T07:03:00.000-07:00

Mountains surround Kahtmandu on all sides. Huge clouds and thick fog settle and shift on the peaks The city itself reminds me of a West African capital--busy, dirty and struggling. But Kathmandu is cooler than West Africa and the green mountains give it inviting warmth. And the Hindu shrines and priests and Brahmin priestesses in red provide color. But brick, I think, adds the most to this city. Huge, cone-shaped brick kilns tower in the valleys and piles of clay bricks everywhere wait to give a classy exterior look to shoddy concrete buildings.

Kathmandu is also full of alcohol advertisements, painted on the walls of houses and shops. These beers appear: San Miguel, Tuborg Gold, Iceberg, Tiger, and Oranjeboom. And I see these whiskeys with their mottos: Bagppiper ("Nepals' largest , world's no. 3), Kingfisher Premium ("King of good times") Playboy ("Play safe, drink safe"), and Gill Marry ("More joy, more happiness"), Caravan ("A good friend in hard times").

Kathmandu is dirty, too. Cows roam and defecate. Temple goats and wild monkeys and dogs make their own mess. But the real culprits are humans, littering and spitting and urinating in public spaces. Humans neglect sewage and water drainage, road and building maintenance. Humans neglect the cows and dogs. I know what Paul meant when he wrote, "Creation waits with eager longing for the sons of God to be revealed?" Creation is eagerly waiting for people to step up, take care of it and cherish it. Its greatest hope for good stewardship is in the sons of God. And we are the children of God.

Finally, yesterday, Yogya led us to a Buddhist temple. On both sides of a dirty river were shrines and idols. All the worshippers had gloomy faces. Families burned the bodies of loved ones on pyres by the river. I saw feet and heads through the flames and logs. Nearby, monkeys gathered and quarreled. They're nasty animals! They pick at each others' orifices and gnaw each others' tails. I saw a melon fall from the top of a tall tree. When it hit the ground, it burst. The monkeys screamed and feverishly took pieces for themselves betweeen their little fingers. What an insult to say that we came from such brutes!

Sam

8 July 2006, Action-Man, Kathmandu

2006-07-24T07:02:00.000-07:00

As I write, our friend Pusa is busy in the kitchen. The ladies here at the YWAM base are unstoppable. They sing as they work. Across from me, a lady named Sabina feeds her children. They hungrily share a breakfast of bread and milk tea. Like all kids, they bicker. But mostly, they share. Adurs is seven. He dips his bread in his tea. Sundes is five. He scampers around barefoot and throws crumbs to the dogs under the table. Ayusa, baby of the three, watches me as she sucks up tea in her 18-month-old way--lips pursed and bobbing back and forth. Her big brothers take good care of her. When she was just one month in the womb, the Maoists killed her father. They attacked his bus as he rode to a gathering of Christians in the outlying villages of Kathmandu. Everyone here at the base speaks well of him; he was a mover and a shaker in the community. Sabina pointed to her side as she told me the story: "They hit him here with...grenade, because he was Christian." She abounds in joy most of the time, but tears well up as she remembers. Yet she remains strong. And she has a family of young Christians here at the base who love and care for her children.

Now they've trapped a bird in the room. They chased it around as it crashed into clear windows, weakening with every hit. Finally, one of them caught it behind a curtain and grasped it with two hands. A successful hunt! Dinner, perhaps?

Drew

8 July 2006, Action-Man, Kathmandu

2006-07-24T06:59:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Yogya (our Nepali guide and friend), Drew and I were walking in Kathmandu, when I noticed a big white gate and crowds and music on the other side. Yogya said that it was the front gate to the king's palace, and since it was the king's birthday, the people had come to honor him. We asked a police officer if we might see the king. We could, but like everyone else we needed a flower for his majesty. It was drizzling and there was no place to buy flowers.

At that moment, a woman offered me flowers. So I took them and passed through the gate and a metal detector and found my place in the long line of people. The king provided his waiting birthday guests with tents for shelter from the rain and tables with cups and drinking water. Some guys had the gumption to pick the king's flowers and to throw their plastic cup on his pavement.

The rain picked up and everyone dispersed for shelter. We huddled under some trees, where I could hear the music of bagpipers and drums. The drummer kept a steady, but pleasant beat with the bagpipes. When the rain stopped, everyone crammed into new lines to see the king. I was packed between thick Yogya and a short Nepali man, who gave me some evergreen sprigs to boost my meager bouquet. Farther back in the line, Drew and I noticed a tall man with red hair and freckles and a baseball cap, an unmistakeable American.

Finally, an usher let our line through. We walked ahead and faced the front of the palace. The walls are high and pink stucco. Near the entrance is a tower with pipes like a huge church organ. Four black statues sit on the wide stone staircase leading to the entrance. First, on the bottom stair, is a a big catfish, and second a horse with its front hoofs in the air, and third an elephant, and fourth a tiger-god. The four huge front doors are engraved with images of Buddha and swastikas,

There were soldiers in camouflage and officers in dark green and ushers in gray. Two bands played--one with bagpipes and the other with brass. Gold and black bands criss-crossed the tromboners' chests. Shining medals marked their shoulders and red clasps held their collars.

Then our line turned toward the king. A soldier with a stoic face pointed us towards the king's table. The soldier had a pistol and other leather holsters. I caught sight of the glinting hilt of a curved Gurkha knife. Our line passed quickly before the king and my turn was coming up. In half a second, I deposited my flowers on the table, folded my hands and bowed to the king. Sadness, or maybe loneliness, disfigured his face. I went my way and the line continued. But when I looked back, the king was looking at me.

Sam

7 July 2006, Action-Man, Kathmandu

2006-07-24T06:57:00.000-07:00

The king of Nepal is a sad, sad man. In the past three months he has lost his kingdom and all his power. The Nepalese people wanted freedom and democracy; he wanted otherwise. The people won out. They rallied in the capital streets in April and May--thousands of them. I can see why they won out because today I stood in those same crowded streets and felt the pushing and shoving of these small but powerful people. They will have their way. They had had enough war, so they rose up together against it. And when an entire people revolts, what can the government do? Their own heart is against them. Today I watched the royal guards' futile attempts to organize the crowds into lines at the king's palace. Strangely enough, the people came out to see him on his birthday, bearing flowers. Though they've stripped him of his power, they still regard him as a figure. I suspect, though, that even that will be taken from him soon enough.

I, too, gathered in the lines to see the king outside his palace. Yogya and I had no flowers to present when we entered his courts, so we swindled a few out of some young girls in exchange for coconut cookies. Then we picked more from the king's own garden to complete our bouquets. When I bowed and delivered my gift, he seemed to be having the worst birthday of his life. The drooping pile of flowers before him was wet from the rain. A long line still waited to greet him late into the afternoon. What a sad, sad, man.

Before we saw the king, Yogya took us through the Hindu temples in Durbar Square. Prayer wheels spun and incense burned. Goats waited for the slaughter. Nepal alone hosts 33 million of the Hindu gods, and the pantheon must be pleased by sacrifice.

After he took us through his country's temples, we took him to ours--the cinema. Superman was showing near the palace for 175 rupees. That's a high price for most Nepalis (about three bucks), so you'll find only the most elite at the theaters. When we stepped in, apart from bits of Nepalese chatter, we had entered the West again. During the movie I completely lost my sense of place. We ate popcorn and downed cokes. We watched Clark Kent save Lois Lane and New York City, all in English. But when the doors opened at the end, we entered eastern streets again, grit and cows and all. We ate daal baht (rice and lentils) and momos (dumplings)--Nepal again.

Drew

Thoughts after the Middle East

2006-07-24T06:54:00.000-07:00

In Mafraq, Jordan at the hospital where Aunt Collyn Schmidt worked, an old Christian couple hosted us for the afternoon. The husband was born in the West Bank, and we pummeled him with questions. "Why is the West Bank talked about so much and why is it shaded differently on the map?" I asked, simply. He smiled and said, "That's a hard question." He told us about spending joyful Christmases as a boy in Bethlehem in the Palestian West Bank. All the hotels would be full, he said, so European and American children would pile into his house. Now, he said, nobody wants to visit the West Bank.

He went on: the peace and prosperity of the Middle East depend on Israel. Israel is give up the West bank. That would solve most problems, he said. As for the war in Iraq, he warned us, it won't end soon, so long as America supports Israel. Eagerly I asked about the fall of Islam, and he assured me, "It will fall soon, like Communism fell--maybe in the next ten or twenty years."

Certainly, the mindset of Muslims is changing. People are tired of Islam's restrictions, and they want to be rich and free. Also, the West's relativism makes Muslims more tolerant of all religions. MTV lures the youth away from radicalism. Terrorism, one pastor told me, is only a reaction of fear against the encroaching West.

But Drew objected to the old man's comparison. Islam isn't like Communism, he said. It's older and deeper. And Islam is religious in a way that Communism never was, and that makes its roots go deep. Millions of people set their whole lives on Islam; it is an empire of hearts and minds. Yes, Islam's roots are deep like the roots of an old oak tree, but Christians all over the world are praying for it to fall. One day it will.

Sam

Action-Man, 5 July, Nepal

2006-07-06T05:39:00.000-07:00

This is a long bus to Kathmandu. Our bus driver seems petulant, but I can't know for sure, because I haven't even seen his face He's behind a glass compartment. Three conductors stand in the doorway. One collects money and one is in charge of starting and stopping. He hits the side of the bus and presses a buzzer. The third looks like the apprentice. The doormen balance themselves on metal bars, and one of them pulled back a tottering old man from falling out of the open door.

Drew and I sprinted out of the door of our hotel at the Nepal border this morning across a puddled, muddied bus station parking lot and took hold of the bus as it pulled out. It rained for the first time on our trip last night. We've been driving for many hours, and we are stopping too much. It wouldn't be so bad, if it didn't get so hot and sticky as soon as the bus stops. The windows are small and I am wrestling with the passenger ahead to divide the glass evenly. These seats aren't designed for long legs and high heads. The ceiling is low and when the boy ahead of me reclines his seat, the back threatens to crack my knee-caps.

A comatose gentleman with pursed lips and a faint patch of mustache and fez is next to a forlorn man with a thick purple turban. The second man likes to stretch out on the floor of the aisle. Ahead of him is a blind man with a hooked wooden cane. Many of the men have long pinky nails and small pony tails that look like rodent tails. At the last stop, a group of boys my age swept the dirt on the shoulder of the road with the heads of push brooms. Drew and I wonder if it isn't totally useless work

The demographer across the aisle says that there are 25 million people in Nepal. Drew says the language is beginning to sound more like Chinese. Faces are changing. Our innkeeper last night looked distinctly Korean. I see some Asian faces, like the doorman apprentice ahead, and I see some Indian faces.

Action-Man, 4 July, northern India

2006-07-06T05:23:00.000-07:00

East now by bus from Delhi, we draw near the mountains. The Himalayas promise to be unlike anything I’ve seen before. Our bus driver is a hoot. Before we took off from Delhi, he wrapped a royal red seat cover around his throne and instructed us in a strained Indian voice. Then, he pulled out his Bedouin bag and fingered through some dusty tapes inside. All the hits, I’m sure. On his tray table he stacked them one by one. From there, he chooses them knowingly and pops them into the deck.

Mammoth-like, our bus rumbles through the streets, packed with people. Frequent ructions break out on board when hawkers climb on without paying. One boy flourishes a pail of cucumbers. Another boy auctions off an anatomy book. A third has fresh coconut slices.

The Indians make the most of their two-lane roads, turning them into three, four, even five lanes. Motorcycles and bicycle rickshaws squeeze through any open holes. Three-wheeled “autotaxis” nose in from intersecting lanes. Holy cows wander aimlessly, untouched.

Our driver has many horns. He uses the standard honk with mopedders and other small fish. Other toots come from buttons and wires below the wheel—general warnings to bigger trucks and jeeps. Sometimes I think he sounds them for fun; no one is near. It’s a kind of game. But then there’s the regal alarm siren. It is saved for passing in the opposite lane. Two oncoming buses bear down on each other, careening closer and closer, each roaring forth in a polyphonic spree. Then they swerve at the last second, clearing each other by centimeters.

We’re passing straw huts and fields of crops now. Shirtless children squat by the roadside. Cows bathe in muddy waters. Big brick kilns rise across the horizon. The hawkers persist.

Drew

Color-man, 4 July, northern India

2006-07-06T05:00:00.000-07:00

We're back on our bus after a ten minute break. The bus driver held up ten fingers and said through a gold-toothed grin, "Tea and toilet." So for 24 rupees, Drew and I bought two cokes, and for 25 rupees, a plate of gepato (flat bread) and two bowls of spicy sauce. One sauce was thin, one thick. A crowd of ten or fifteen watched intently from the first dip of gepato to the last sip of coke.

Most of you Americans, I suppose, are warming up for parades and barbeques and fireworks for the 4th of July. Truly, America is worthy of great praise and celebration. I am looking expectantly for some sign of the Himalayan Mountains, some dark outline at least. Seeing all the idle men on the roadside makes me think of Queequeg in Herman Melville's Moby Dick. He is a cannibal from a Pacific island, who tells his friend Ishamael about kings and chiefs in his own country who fatten lazy men of the "lower order" for ottomans and chairs. To furnish a house, they only had to "buy up eight or ten lazy fellows, and lay them around in the piers and alcoves."

Looking out the window, I wonder if the British cut through the jungle and layed this road from Delhi to Nepal. On the plane from Jordan to India, we met a professor from Calcutta, who boldly denounced British colonialism in India. They came under the pretence of giving to the people of India, he said, but came with ulterior motives. Britain bled the veins of India by taking laborers and material and giving little in return. National healthcare and education during Britain's rule, he noted, were appalling. When I was asked about British colonialism in West Africa, I began to answer by saying, "Well, Africa was primitive and the British . . ." but he interrupted me, saying, "Who defines primitive?" He also said the Africans were only becoming Christians for the soup kitchens and free food.

Gandhi admired Jesus and upheld much of Jesus' teachings, but he never received him as Lord. He couldn't separate Christ from the blood-shedding "Christian" British and their "fat steaks and big beers." After the atomic bombs in Japan, Gandhi decided that the West had completely forfeited their responsibility to lead the world. "Now we must look to the East," Gandhi said, because at every point, he decided, Hinduism was better than Christianity. But what I don't want is people to judge Jesus Christ the Son of God by hyocrites that take his name--not the British, not the American church, not me.

Sam

Thoughts after Europe, Part II

2006-07-06T04:59:00.000-07:00

Most people in Europe don’t care about litter. In the past few weeks I’ve seen the thrones of great empires of old scattered with trash. It blows about like autumn leaves in London in Venice. It lies in piles in Rome. These aren’t even third world countries, but the people have lost interest in upkeep. Anyway, they say, other people are hired to pick up trash. Why should they do it?But that kind of mindset is death to a country. It says that as individuals, many of the citizens want little to do with the country’s welfare. “Let the system take care of it.”

In Citizen Soldiers, Stephen Ambrose says that America won WWII because of the efforts and courage of individual soldiers—each man doing the right thing. They won not because of a superior system or smarter leaders, but because each citizen soldier lead with individual initiative.

It takes that kind of mindset to sustain a country. Otherwise, empires decay and fall into ruin. They forget God and trust in a system. Will America follow the course of the world? Great men have lived and died to prevent it. Will death creep in, lulling her to sleep?

Christians should pray—pray for the welfare and preservation of faith in our country. God has blessed America. Will we turn and forget him like the Israelites? There are still millions of Christians in the States. That’s more than most countries can claim. If those millions would turn to God, daily, for his blessing, would he turn his face away? More than that, it is our duty to look to him to set up wise Christian leaders and to preserve his Word among us. Paul urges us in I Timothy that “supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for all people, for kings and all who are high positions…This is good and it is pleasing in the sight of God our Savior.”

Drew

Action-Man, 3 July, Agra, India

2006-07-03T10:35:00.002-07:00

India. I think of Kipling and Orwell and Malcolm Mugridge. I think of Britain, dazzled with this crown jewel of the empire. I think of their long grasp of India and of Gandhi’s non-violence. People are everywhere in this country of 1.1 billion people. India has more people than North and South America combined.

Through the window, I smell that familiar West African rot. It’s not strong from here, but sort of sickly sweet, of garbage and soil and fried foods. I see a congregation of cows in the median, happy to be holy and protected by law. I see piles of droppings in the street from horses and cows. I see a man kneeling to the cows and talking to them. Indians drive on the left side of the road and everywhere there are men on bikes and motorcycles. At one stop, I saw bears and monkeys with muzzles and ropes and staves. Women in kurtes and pajamas and scarves sit sideways on the backs of motorcycles behind their husbands. It’s romantic to watch.

Oxen pull heavy loads and so do men. I see old Lorries with decorated rumps and red gas tanks. There is a lot of old machinery. At stop-lights, cars and rickshaws and crowded three-wheelers with green chassis and yellow canvas bonnets line up incongruously. The motorcycles and bikes fill the gaps. Scrawny dogs nose through garbage. Earlier, a young girl holding a younger girl with leprosy asked us for money.

But at the moment, I suspect our taxi driver. Last night was a sleepless night on the airplane. And today in the midst of our naps and grogginess, he exacted 300 rupees in “tax.” It makes it especially difficult that we don’t speak Hindi. Oh for black hair and dark skin! Then taxis wouldn’t be such a hassle. Oh to be Indian! Then I could drink their water and eat their food at diners and not get sick.

Sam

Action-Man, 2 July, Bahrain

2006-07-03T10:35:00.000-07:00

My khaki pants are clean and it is the second day of July. Two days ago, I washed them for the first time in over two weeks. Micah Hilliard’s mom did a load of laundry for us in Switzerland. They have been in constant use since then. On my pants was chocolate ice-cream from Venice, spaghetti sauce from Rome, rust, black marks from some train seat, and sticky, crusted spots from the salt of the Dead Sea. The salt of the Aegean Sea was milder and made my pants feel freshly ironed and starched. But there is nothing like a real wash.

In our guest house in Amman, Drew and I not only had our own room and beds, but a bathroom with a shower and washing machine, a kitchen, a dining room, and a long, lighted sitting room. I only saw two other people in the guest house while we were there. Yesterday morning, I hopped out of bed and opened the door and there was a woman. She was cleaning. I was shirtless, which is totally gauche here in the Middle East—a strange shirtless man in the presence of a woman. Also, a young Lebanese guy had a bedroom on the other side of the house. We caught sight of him in his boxer shorts a couple of mornings. One morning, I found him in the sitting room recording his own singing voice.

This morning, he told us that there was a church service at 10:30 at the Baptist Church in second circle. So Drew and I walked to second circle, and after walking in some lost circles, we found the church. We took our seats in the balcony, and behold, there stood the Lebanese house guest behind the pulpit. He was leading worship. He had a clean white shirt on, his hands up, and his face forward with a big smile. He seemed to know all the words to all the songs.

But now our plane is coming into Bahrain. I must finish up, before the captain turns off the “fasten seat-belt” sign. I am looking at the digital map, which shows our position, and I am curious about the scattered kingdoms of the gulf—UAE, Bahrain and Kuwait. What are they doing with all their money? Ahead and to the left is a row of three Muslim men in white gowns and white head coverings. Three men with dark skin and black mustaches and white gowns bring to mind Tintin and the Land of Black Gold. Ahead of them is a Muslim girl in burke and scarf, who, I think, is thirsting for elegance. On our way into the plane, she stopped at an advertisement with a pretty model in it. She looked on longingly and touched the smooth cheek of the model.

Sam

Color-Man, 2 July, Amman, Jordan

2006-07-03T10:33:00.002-07:00

A distressed Muslim mother sits across from me here at the Amman airport. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes weary. An infant rests on her lap, and two other youngsters crowd around her knees. One of them wails inconsolably. The mother wears the traditional burke. I see other women too at the gate in the same garb. Ten or so of them are traveling solo. Where are their husbands?

Islam is oppressive. It asks for everything—body, mind, and soul—and gives very little back. It does not offer freedom, or equality, or justice, or mercy. It suppresses women. It brainwashes children. It satisfies none.

Some people say that Christianity brainwashes people in the same way. The prayer-emitting mosques crowning each street corner are much akin to the Medieval churches of old, as I think of it. I think of Tetzel and his indulgences. Both religions have offered—at one time or another—salvation through works and acts of penance. Both have deceived nations, waged wars, and killed thousands. So what is the difference? Why do I believe in Christ? Why not Mohammed? Or even better, why not forsake all religions and their deceptive ways?

Because there is a difference. It lies not in the actions of a religion’s followers—radical or otherwise. The difference is at the core. What did Jesus teach? What did Mohammed teach? If we look to the true heart, there are no similarities. C.S. Lewis tells us that we can’t look at Christ as a mere moral teacher. What Jesus said was radically different than anything that had been said before. He said that he was the Son of God, and that to have life we need to eat his flesh and drink his blood. Either he was a liar and a lunatic, or he was who he said he was. And if we believe he was God, we can also believe in his teachings. But not before. And at the core of those teachings is justice and moral law, but also freedom, mercy, joy, forgiveness, reconciliation. There’s no place for those things in Islam, or any other religion in the world. I pick the religion for sinners and mess-ups, who need—more than prayer wheels or Mecca—grace.

Drew

Color-Man, 1 July, Amman, Jordan

2006-07-03T10:33:00.000-07:00

I’m watching three guys lead a youth worship service in a Baptist church here in Amman. One is on trumpet, one on the keys, and one on guitar. They are talented, but listless. I have the feeling that they are interesting fellows, but none of their faces communicate joy. The songs are all in minor keys. It’s not that they are joyless. The smiles return to the youths’ faces when they chatter amongst themselves. But there’s a worldwide apathy among my peers in worship. It’s the same at my own high school chapels. No one wants to sing those praise songs, or at least it doesn’t appear that way. When young people lead the service, we focus on maintaining a level of comfort and security. In the process we forget joy. It’s not a judgment on these kids. We all just need to learn to worship with as much joy as we play, if not more. New City in Chattanooga remains my standard for joyful worship.

Sam and I have talked about the power of optimism. Especially on this trip, it’s been crucial to remain positive. As Christians, we should have an honest and sobered perspective of the world. But we must live with uplifted spirits in the midst of it. Indeed, we have the most to be joyful about. That should translate into our lives and worship. After all, “A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.”

Drew

Thoughts after Europe

2006-07-01T05:08:00.000-07:00

In the last couple of weeks, I have seen Corinth and Athens and Jerusalem. I have thought of Paul's struggles and suffering in those places. I can always encourage myself with the prospect of going back to America, where we are free and comfortable. But Paul didn't have any place like that. In most cities the Jews were waiting for him, breathing out threats and slaughter.

Our last day in Greece, I swam in a deep part of the Aegean Sea. I don't like deep, murky water. I thought of Paul who was shipwrecked three times and spent a night and a day in the deep. Are others ministers of Christ? Paul was more--in labors more abundant, in stripes above measure, in prisons more frequently, near death more often. Paul was the greatest missionary.

But after all the adventure and suffering and heroism, Paul says, "If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness." We should boast gladly of our weaknesses. Jim Cymbala writes in his book Fresh Wind, Fresh Fire, "That evening, when I was at my lowest, I discovered an astonishing truth: God is attracted to weakness. He can't resist those who humbly and honestly admit how desperately they need him." And people aren't put off by honesty either, because "Whoever gives an honest answer kisses the lips" (Proverbs 24:26).

Two thoughts about Europe:

From England to Norway to Greece, immigrants from the third world are piling into Europe. They come to make a better life for themselves. And on one hand, I support them. I myself am the descendent of many poor immigrants. And with Europe's dwindling birth rates, foreigners fill the gaps. They bring good food and color and variety to the drab corners of Europe.

But on the other hand, a begrudging voice (I ashamed to write it) within me says, "Why don't those Pakistanis stay in their own country and improve things there, rather than escaping to Europe, bringing their Islam and all its problems?" I am not racist. It's my question of fairness, "Why do they get to take part in something that they don't deserve--the prosperity and opportunity of Europe? It rightfully belongs to the Englishman and the Norwegian."

But who am I to judge who is worthy and what is fair? Certainly, I am not. It's all grace--grace that I am a child of America and my bread and my opportunities are plenteous and grace that the Pakistani gets to come to Britain. God said to Israel (and I see why): "The stranger shall be as a native of the land. There shall be one law for the native and for the stranger who sojourns among you. You shall remember that you were a slave in Egypt and the LORD you God redeemed you from there; therefore I command you to do this" (Exodus 12:48, 49; Deuteronomy 24:18).

Second thought: How can Europe continue its peace and prosperity with an upcoming generation that is so undisciplined and self-indulgent? My European peers don't value the same things as their parents and their grandparents. I can't see how Europe will avoid being undone if they continue to forget God and fail to train their children. It only takes one or two generations to spoil greatness, and Europe was great. My generation loves fun and pleasure too much. How can a nation stand on the shoulders of a bunch of softies? The children of my generation are like seed sown in stony places, where there is no depth of soil. The seed springs up, but it has no depth of soil. When the sun rises, the sprouts are scorched. Because they have no root, they wither away.
Sam

Color-Man, 29 June, Gilead

2006-07-01T05:06:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I am at Gilead Camp on the heights of Gilead above the mountains of western Jordan. This is a Christian summer camp for Jordanian high-schoolers. Sixteen and seventeen year-olds have gathered here this weekend for drum and drama lessons, games and fun, and seminars about sex and security and God's love.

You have to be a certain kind of person to be a youth director, and it's the same guy in Jordan as it is in America. America leads the pack for evangelical Christian camps. Twila Paris and Darlene Zschech are in the vanguard of worship songs right after the motivational speaker and the reckless, frivolous youth group games.

The big octopus of American culture has wrapped its lanky tentacles around the kids at this camp in Jordan. "My name is Samuel," I told a group of guys. "All right, Samuel L. Jackson," the chorus replied. They watch our movies, buy our style of clothes, listen to Tupak and say that truth is relative. American Christians could do more good for the world if we worked to renew our own culture. But how is American culture so successfully sweeping Jordan? Two girls told me they liked our culture because American guys treat girls much better than Arab guys. Certainly, our culture is glamorous and appeals to human nature.

Worst of all, it breeds discontentment and self-consciousness. Boys and girls pull at their shirts and their pants, when they stand up, making sure that they are just how they want them. They change their way of talking and walking to give just the right impression. Each of them thinks that everyone else is looking at them. In the end, I think MTV will have more effect on weakening Islam, softening its sharp edges, than anything else. But which is the lesser evil?

Sam

Action-Man, 29 June, the Dead Sea, Jordan

2006-07-01T05:04:00.000-07:00

Today we descended through desert wadis and dunes to the Dead Sea. My ears popped as we dropped from the heights of Mt. Nebo, where Moses looked out over the Promised Land before his death. Deuteronomy says the Lord showed him, among other things, "Judah…to the western sea." That's a miracle. The Mediterranean lies at least a hundred miles to the west. From our vantage point, we could barely see Israel in the haze. But I pictured the sky clearing before Moses, his eyes being given super-human sight for those last few moments, piercing through the land even to the Great Sea. What a bittersweet moment! Having seen the Promised Land, he was not allowed in. His tomb lies in the valley of Moab, but to this day it remains hidden.

The salt sea lies at the foot of Mt. Nebo. Even from a distance it looked still, stagnant. Reaching the shore, we waded through shallow water, thick like mercury. We were thankful to have no fresh cuts, knowing the salt would burn, burn. As the shallow shelf dropped off, we bobbed to the surface of the water, effortlessly. We floated about, tasting the thick salt on our lips if we happened to kick up some water. When we finally got out, a white glaze of salt was caked on our skin. You could have eaten us with a fork.

Drew

Action-Man, 28 June, Amman, Jordan

2006-07-01T05:02:00.000-07:00

Sam and I have just settled into our spacious flat in Amman. I think back to my senior year, studying into the early hours of the morning, and consider these nights a blessing. It is early yet, but I may go to bed if I choose. Often, though, we stay up, eating through books, writing, and reviewing our day. They are nights free of care and full of hope.

This morning, we toured Trans World Radio with our friend Rania. The organization broadcasts Christian programs in hundreds of languages. Their base in the Arab world is right here in Amman, where Rania works in administration. However, they are forced to broadcast out of Europe on medium-wave frequency—from Cyprus and Monaco. The Jordanian government won't allow a Christian organization to put up a radio tower. The radio business seems daunting to me in the first place—the endless preparation, recording, editing. Add to this a need for a covert presence in the Muslim world, and you have the daily task of those here at TWR.

Later, we caught a bus to the American Hospital in Mafraq. Mafraq lies an hour north of Amman, through the hot sand dunes. In the 1950's, our Aunt Collyn worked as a nurse in a hospital outside of Bethlehem. They treated tuberculosis and other lung diseases in those days. Since then, the hospital has moved across Jordan, growing into its location in Mafraq. They still primarily treat chest ailments, but have expanded their service to cover other healthcare as well. They see a thousand patients in a month from all parts of the Arab world. No patient leaves the exam room without the opportunity to take a free Bible and some Christian literature. The American hospital, like TWR in Amman, is a strong presence of Christianity in the Middle East. It's a city on a hill, a lamp on a stand—carefully treading the line between obeying the government and boldly proclaiming the gospel.

Drew

Action-Man, 28 June, Mafraq, Jordan

2006-07-01T04:59:00.000-07:00

Amman must be named for the "children of Ammon" in the Old Testament. Most of Jordan's population lives in Amman. Jordan doesn't have many big cities. East Amman is developing and moderate, but west Amman is rich and Western. Last night, three Jordanian girls took us to the Mecca Mall and other hotspots. Girls with cell phones, girls with money, girls with cars—these are the things a young traveler looks for. They drove us past towering hotels and tall new bridges.

We sleep in a guest house near first circle, Jabal Amman. Amman is built on seven hills, and jabal is the Arabic word for hill. First circle is the first of eight circles on circle street. In the valley below, white stone houses are built on the many slopes of the city. I see row after row of houses, each row higher than the row before—flat roofs and plain white walls. Valleys of houses rise and fall and dwellers reach them by dusty trails, narrow roads and concrete paths of innumerable stairs.

Now I am on a bus to Mafraq. I am three seats behind the driver. Ahead of me, on both sides of the aisle, are a dozen men, each with slacks and a button-down shirt. Their necks bear the tropic tawn. Each of them looks fresh from the barber. The barber must have paid special attention to the back of their heads on that line of hair from the middle of the nape to the ear.

Drew is reading Plato. He has pulled aside the thick gray drapery from the window to let in the breeze and sunlight. The bus driver has flipped on the bus speakers and a man is chanting prayers in Arabic to Allah. Could the words of those prayers be words of love to Allah? I don't think so. Islam is a religion of bondage not love. We are in the middle of the Muslim empire, where mosques appear at every corner, as often as churches and cathedrals in Christian Europe of old.

Sam

Action-Man, 26 June, Jordan border

2006-07-01T04:56:00.000-07:00

I am writing in the dark in the backseat of a taxi. Our driver has the same name as the handsome King Abdullah of Jordan. There are no lights in this backseat and few lamps on the roadside. As I write in the dark, I remember that dying Russian sailor aboard the Mersk submarine a few years ago. He jotted a final love letter to his wife from a dark, damp cell. The submarine sank and the sailor died, but we have his note.

Drew is struggling to communicate even simple phrases to the driver. Our road to Amman from the Israel-Jordan border is smooth. That to me is a sign of a pretty good national infrastructure, at least. West Africa had such bad roads that now I am sensitive to those things. Beyond the road, the land looks like West Africa. I see cinder-block buildings, unfinished and sparse. Some have concrete porches and closed garage doors. Behind those doors is the merchants' stuff. I see trash and rubble and lots of people. African cities, too, teem with people at nighttime. But it is the smells most of all that remind me of Africa--burnt things that shouldn't be burning, the fruit and oil of tropical trees, the drone of evening insects in the weeds.

Now we approach a military checkpoint. Drew has been courageous and diligent tonight. I admire him for it. Amman is 60 km away.

Sam

Action-Man, 26 June, Galilee

2006-07-01T04:53:00.000-07:00

I am in seat 37-38 on the 10:30 bus from Jerusalem to Tiberias in Galilee. A troop of Israeli soldiers boarded the bus ahead of us and took all the window seats. The soldier next to me has arms like a hairy garment, red all over. He has a big round watch on his left hand. He is asleep and his beret is tucked in his shoulder strap. A black rifle is set between his legs and leans on his right shoulder. Twice I offered my seat to this fair lady standing in the aisle in front of me. Twice she refused.

An American girl named Ginga, an Andrea Ratzloff Kaufmann connection, met us at our hotel this morning and led us to the bus station. Plenty of Americans are in Jerusalem. I see them struggling with vendors and kids on the street. Shopkeepers flatter and click at them and coerce. I remember my feverish groping for words in Africa. I know the fear of being cheated and the hesitation to give too much ground. I know the physical encroachment. We Americans don't want to be pushed around, but we also want to be nice.

All Israel lives in a heightened terror alert perpetually." Our neighbors just don't like us," the woman in the aisle told me. There is no peace for the Jews. Meanwhile, the bus continues, soldiers debark, and Israel goes on with normal life.

Sam

Action-Man, 25 June, Jerusalem

2006-06-30T08:38:00.000-07:00

Drew is out for round two of foraging. He is looking for leftovers from the Christ Church kitchen. A few minutes ago, I tried my luck, and came back with hands full of yogurt, cold Armenian pizza and apricots. Tonight we have our own beds and bathroom and air conditioning. But my brightest prospect is tomorrow morning's breakfast downstairs.

Christ Church is an old Protestant church in the old city of Jerusalem. It has a guest house and a chapel and a "heritage center." Many Jews, they say, have believed in Jesus after walking through the heritage center. Christ Church is just inside Jaffa gate of the old city. "Jerusalem," Jesus said, "is the city of the great King." It is is built on Mount Zion, encompassed by a Crusader wall, and divided into four quarters--Armenian, Jewish, Christian and Muslim.

Last night, Drew and I played soccer with some Jewish boys in the Armenian quarter. Old men with big beards like Russ Kress were driving their families home from Shabbat evening service. Meanwhile, daytime in the Jewish quarter, Orthodox Jews in black suits and white shirts and old-fashioned, black brimmed hats hurry down the cobblestone on bike and foot. The two ethnic groups that suffered genocide in the 20th century--the Jews and the Armenians-- live next to their oppressors--the Christians and the Muslims.

In the Christian quarter is the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which was a boring visit. In the Muslim quarter stands the Dome of the Rock, which is a very holy mosque to the Muslims. We walked under a big stone arch onto a spacious courtyard, and behold, the mosque, brilliant blue and marked with Arabic words and tesselations. Its dome is bright gold. At that big archway, some say, Jesus will come back.

Sam

Color-Man, 26 June, on a night in Athens

2006-06-27T04:18:00.000-07:00

Sex today is a great abuse. God's original will for it was an ingeneous creation. It was made for our good in so many ways, but from the very beginning we perverted it and it began to decay. We see this everywhere. The big cities teem with lustful ads and magazines. It's a tragic loss in theory, and even more painful in real life.

A few days ago, in Athens, Sam and I saw this decay in a new way. It's taken me a few days to figure out how to write about it. We'd been looking for Christian fellowship in Europe, and found it in a ministry called "Nea Zoi" (New Life). It's a street ministry for the prostitutes and transvestites of downtown Athens. From Nea Zoi, groups go out three nights a week to serve tea and speak with the prostitutes. They invited us to worship at 11 at night, and we accepted. Worship was simple. There were twelve of us, and the prayer and praise was powerful. We finished in strength an hour later. Then, they told us that we'd be going out on the streets. Seven of us split off to the female prostitute rings, outside slummy hotels in the red light district.

Walking down the streets, all was dark and heavy. An oppressive techno throb came from some upper windows. Our friend Jim from England held us on one side of the street as our girls crossed over to the first hotel. Prostitutes leaned out of dark doorways and over benches, enticing male customers on mopeds. The women were mostly Nigerians, slaves to a pimp who paid for them and keeps them at work. They looked up happily as the ladies approached. Jennifer from Nea Zoi told us that they'd begun to form fruitful relationships already. The girls on the streets seem to look forward to the distraction. They've even escaped on occasion to worship with Nea Zoi. But they are chained to their work.

We men stood on the other side of the street, praying over the situation and making sure no one bothered our girls. It was hard not to hate all the people involved. The darkness was scary. But as we prayed, I realized that my hatred was misdirected. It was particularly to such people that Jesus came--to the sick, not the healthy. It was his joy to come to the slums and trash, to love the woman at the well and the guilty prostitute. If our Lord would do this, can we shirk them?

I'm convicted of how I avoid sinners in search of my own comfort. Our God is the God of the straight way and the narrow gate. That means living like Jesus, among the poor and sick and sinful and even perverted. He calls us to His sort of life.

Drew

Action-Man, 24 June, Athens, Greece

2006-06-25T11:46:00.000-07:00

Athens improved everything for the 2004 Olympics. Matthew Gutman, an Israeli correspondant for USA-Today, told me that Athen's metro is one of the best in Europe. Its signage is clear, escalators and stairs and platforms all tidy. Drew said that the stations in Paris are more beautiful. In the city, there are new hotels and clean squares. Many roads are freshly paved, and they built a new city tram and a scintillating international airport. I hope that it all lasts and keeps its luster.

Drew and I spent the afternoon on the sunny island of Egina between Athens and Peloponnesus. Our hydrofoil docked and as we began walking, much to our joy, we found a quiet beach with blue seats and white umbrellas. The water was salty, but open eyes under the clear, warm water revealed smooth rocks and sand. Sweetly situated and free! But no sooner had we sat down than they slapped down a six-euro charge. Immediately Drew resolved to escape and not pay.

So I took my shoes and Drew's books in my hands and started walking down a dirt path away from the beach. The guys at the counter were busy talking to a man on a moped, so Drew followed lightly, his shoeless feet pattering on the sand behind me. I saw a path up a hill to my right and broke for it. The way was steep and I felt small pricks on my feet from thorny things. "After them, or we'll have no man-pies!" the giants bellowed as Jill and Eustace and Puddleglum fled in The Silver Chair. I raced through trees bearing summer fruits and sparse plants that looked like tumbleweeds to the highway above.

It is the middle of the night in the Athens airport. We cut it close coming here tonight. We left our beloved hotel in Metaxourghio at 11:30 and caught the red line in Syntagma. The doors of the metro cars shut like a guillotine. We went east to Doukissis Plakentias, but the metro closed at midnight. We were still 30 kilometers from the airport, so we caught a taxi. He gave us a break on the price, and shook our hands at the curb.

Sam

Action-Man, 23 June, Egina Island, Greece

2006-06-25T11:34:00.000-07:00

Sam and I are sunburnt. Not scorched, but ruddied up a bit. We spent much of the day by the Aegean shore. It was into this sea that (in myth) King Aegeus threw himself when ships returned to him with the sign that his son was killed by the minotaur.

Sam reminds me of Fritz in The Swiss Family Robinson. He plunges into the turqoise water with blonde hair and pants rolled to his knees. All he needs is a large belt buckle and a machete. We wrestle in the ocean.

We've escaped the summer crowds here on the island of Egina, south of Athens. A hydrofoil bore us here after a morning on the Acropolis. There, tour groups swarmed as we ate bread and cheese saved from the hostel breakfast.

It's been inspiring to walk in the steps of the great men of Greece. The marvelous light and food clear the mind. I see how it spawned such pure and rational thinkers; I wish I could emulate them. Plato was much more moral than many Christians. He had an unswerving concept of truth. Why can't the followers of Christ have such resolve more often? I know such Christians exist, but much of the world sees only hypocrites within the church. We need to be modern day martyrs for the truth.

Drew

Action-Man, 23 June, on a ferry in Greek water

2006-06-25T11:07:00.000-07:00

Two days ago, we entered Athens on a train from Corinth. An Albanian man in the next seat said that Athens is a concrete jungle, and it is. He also strongly urged us to eat a Greek food, called suvlaki. So after we settled in Hotel Neos Olympos, we set out. Everywhere we asked, friendly Athenians (in general, Greeks speak better English than Italians) pointed us towards suvlaki. We searched Syntagma square and walked to Monastiraki, which is below the Acropolis. It was like pursuing the white stag of Narnia. Finally, at Thanassis grill, we found it. Suvlaki is sausage kebab, and is served with tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers with sprinkled red pepper in a grilled pita. For maximum taste, we dipped our three wraps into a zazigy, which is cool yogurt with onions and cucumber.

Tonight was our last meal in Europe. At a seaside tavern, on the island of Egina, Drew ate sea bass and tuna salad. I ate spaghetti and octopus. We smeared our bread in oil and vinegar and washed it down with wine. We will have an ice-cream cone at the soft-serve place when we get back. We have had days of fasting and hunger and lack. Today was a day of plenty. It is feast or famine on this trip.

Our ferry back to Pireaus is cool inside. The lounge has light green carpet and green and yellow sofas. A soccer match plays on the TVs. The guys next to us talk loudly in Greek and are eating a bowl of pistachio nuts. A bar is in the middle, and the whole ferry is nicer than any other ferry so far. Just now I felt dizzy, so I went on deck for a breath of fresh air. The bosun in the bridge said that we were going 16 kilometers per hour. On starboard side a flock of seagulls flew with the ferry. I saw dozens of them--their orange feet tucked closely to their soft, white bellies, their beaks twitching, bodies floating, upheld by healthy, outstretched wings.

"Three things are too wonderful for me; four I do not understand: the way of an eagle in the sky, the way of a serpent on a rock, the way of a ship on the high seas, and the way of a man with a virgin" (Proverbs 30: 18, 19).

Sam

Color-Man, 21 June, the Adriatic Sea

2006-06-22T02:49:00.000-07:00

"But now in Christ Jesus you who were once far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ. For He Himself is our peace...abolishing the law of commandments and ordinances, that he might create in himself one new man...and might reconcile us both to God in one body through the cross." Paul wrote these words to the church at Ephesus as a call to unity in Christ. I needed that call this morning.

Earlier in the chapter Paul says that we were "dead in our trespasses and sins...following the course of this world." Sin is in the air that we breathe. If we examine ourselves, we see that our thoughts are hostile towards God, and in a sense we willfully separate ouselves from Him every day.

That is the very definition of Hell. Yet we thrust it upon ourselves by clinging to what we know is wrong. My sins abound--pride (from which the rest spring), lust, anger, perfectionism. If you truly got to know me, you wouldn't like what you'd see. I know, though, that I'm not alone. On a train two days ago we spoke with an American guy who was trying to get back to the church, but couldn't understand "what it means to truly follow Jesus." To him, the church is full of hypocrites who condemn others and justify themselves. Will they enter heaven? What about drunks like himself who don't have it all figured out?

My friends at home struggle through addictions and fears, battling every day. This is the state of our world. But Jesus stands in the gap, reconciling us sinners with God and with each other.

It is fun to adventure far from home. But what is an even greater thought to me is that even now, as I sit at the prow of a ship sailing to Greece, I have a family at home. More than that, I have the family of God at home, and we are one. I could be running right now, running from house and home, trying to separate sin by the seas. I could fear that my family would break with me because I have not kept "the law of commandments and ordinances." I could be utterly estranged.

But I'm not. I was sent out from my doorstep with blessing. Here even, on the Adriatic Sea, I have been "brought near by the blood of Christ." We are all brought near by that one man, no longer strangers and aliens, but "members of the household of God."

Drew

Action-Man, 21 June, the Adriatic Sea

2006-06-22T02:12:00.000-07:00

It would be super indeed to have a blanket! The room inside where we are sleeping is very cold. I'm sure that Blue Star Ferries has big closets full of thick, folded blankets. But I don't get one, the receptionist said, because I didn't rent a cabin.

Out on the deck, the air is balmy. We crossed the bottom of the Adriatic Sea to the port of Igounemitsou in northern Greece. We are over halfway to Patras, and I suppose will touch the Ionian Sea with our unwieldy prow.

Last night, Drew and I raced ahead of the crowd of last-minute passengers. We were the first in a host of backpackers to get our tickets. We boarded the ferry and at the top of each escalator, there stood a man in a blue waistcoat. Each of the stewards has black pants and a white shirt and a blue waistcoat. They are swarthy men with black hair and Greek names. One man behind the counter looked like Jon Schimpf.

Drew and I are both excited about Greece. I don't think of modern Greece as prosperous or internationally involved. But they did build the Acropolis and invent democracy. We are hungry, but so glad to be on the road again. Our trip should have ended in Italy, but it didn't. Now I feel that each hour is borrowed time. Are we not always debtors to God?

Sam

Color-Man, 20 June, the Adriatic Sea

2006-06-22T02:04:00.000-07:00

LACK. Sam and I have spoken the word to each other countless times on this trip. Just now as I wrote it my stomach growled. This trip began on a tight budget, and it is even tighter now after yesterday's loss. We spent nearly two euros on food today: half a loaf of bread and an apple. They are delicasies. The bread has lasted us all day. We relish it now in small bits with honey, saved in packets from a free hostel breakfast in Rome.

After two days that began with terror and have settled into lack, we are finally on board the long-awaited ferry to Greece. As I watch the World Cup projected on the ship deck's wall, two sun-weathered Greeks feast on skewered meat, big gulps of beer, and settle back with their cigars. Yet somehow they're not happy. The food no longer excites. They are coldly content.

I am content. We are on the road again. We've counted our losses and moved on. What is left from our debacle is a better understanding of lack and a greater hope in God's providence. Psalm 126 says that "when the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream." I've dreamed of this trip for years, and for two days it seemed to be falling apart. But my hope was restored, and I can tell you that dreams are even better on this side. I know now that misfortune has made us taste our fortunes in a fresh, new way.

In Orwell's 1984, Winston Smith tastes nothing but gray soup, oily gin, and crumbling cigarettes for years. Finally, he escapes the metallic world and brews his first, real, coffee-bean coffee: "The smell was so powerful and exciting...What was even better than the taste of the coffee was the silky texture given to it but the sugar." Winston wasn't numb to those tastes; he was starving for them and to him, it was beautiful.

At home, I could stick my hands into the pantry at any hour, and fill my belly. And meals are a real event in our house. I don't think that many Americans have ever experienced true want. My needs have always been met bountifully.

But each experience of lack reminds me how good is a choice meal. Each growl in my young stomach makes me cherich the bread and honey all the more. I've fasted before, and I will fast again. It does the heart and soul tremendous good to need something.

Drew

Color-Man, 20 June, Southern Italy

2006-06-22T01:54:00.000-07:00

Again we are on Trenitalia, Italy's national train, between Rome and Bari. This is our third trip between Rome and Bari. The trip is five to six hours long, but this time it is a final goodbye to Rome. Drew has my new passport and his passport and our train tickets and our dollars and cards girt around his waste. I must act wisely.

I lost my white waist pouch, in which was my passport with a $70 Indian visa, my drivers' license, my debit card, (which the thief used a little), $200, 200 Euro, and my vaccination recordS. Drew did some bookwork in the station and my total monetary loss is $638, not including the visa and the extra debit card charges. Attention, travelers! Check, double check, and triple check the location of your passport. Wear it your body; don't put in your bag. Separate your money, keeping some with you and putting some in different pockets of your bag. Don't put it all in one place. Keep also your forms of identification separate, not together.

"But that was to make us rely not on ourselves, but on God who raises the dead. He delivered us from such a deadly peril and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will deliver us again. You also must help us by prayer, so that many will give thanks on our behalf for the blessing granted us through the prayers of many" (II Corinthians 1:9-11).

I delight to see beloved Latin in modern Italian and French and the other Romance languages, six in all. Each of them has its own earmarks. And Rome is an untidy city and full of beggars.

Finally, Italy is to Europe, what southeast America is to the United States. Italy is a hot-climate culture in cold-climate culture Europe. In the front cabs of trucks, three men sit side by side, like Georgia, unlike Iowa. Italians are loud and relational and group-oriented. Like Africans, they don't mind crowded buses and trains. In fact, they prefer rubbing shoulders. But I am sure the old folks would say that it is not the same. "People now are so much more reserved and private than they used to be," they might say. I do think that's the way it goes. Prosperity brings division, and with poverty comes unity.

Sam

Color-Man, 19 June, Bari, Italy

2006-06-22T01:17:00.000-07:00

What crushing moments are these--empty and nervous and lonely. Is it true that earth's inhabitants are like grasshoppers before Him?

And truly here is no hope of recovery. Like David, I pray and wait until it is no longer called today. And when his sick baby died, he ceased and said, "Who knows whether the Lord will be gracious to me, that the child may live?" But my human eyes can't see any way that we wouldn't have to go back to Rome. My passport and money could be on any street in Rome or Lecce or Bari.

And it usually goes this way! I pray very hopefully, even that the Lord would mircaulously thrust my white wallet into my lap at this moment. He's able, but he never does things like that for me. When I succeed, it is through natural, predictable means. Yet, He is able.

Who took my passport? Lord, why did it have to be this way? Yet I trust in you, and hope for some immeasurable grace. Yes, Lord--a miracle between now and 15:47.

Sam

Color-Man, 19 June, Bari, Italy

2006-06-22T00:57:00.000-07:00

Just now I felt not at all like writing. We've just lost over $500 and Sam's passport. That's a blow. We think it was stolen last night as we slept on the train. There are a number of things we did wrong that led to this mess, all of which we've turned over and over in our heads.

We're both in a severe funk. At first I thought this was the end of our magnificent trip, that without a passport we couldn't go on. Thank God for American embassies. Sam should have a new one in the morning, if all goes well. For now we are looking forward.

I felt like not writing because I feel so deflated by our circumstances. We've been bouncing all over Europe with little trouble, and someone just kicked the air out of us.

But what good is a writer who can't write of struggle or heartbreak. Tolkien said no story was complete without them. What if Solzhenitsyn or Dostoevsky or others, who bore up under tremendous struggle and pain, had simply felt too poor to write? What if they'd simply disappeared with their troubles into the forgotten ground? It would be to their loss, and ours.

Our struggle is light in comparison to prison camps and death, but it is important for me to realize this fact: I must write it! Harboring up troubles or simply forgetting them is death to any soul. Pouring words onto a page is a catharsis. It opens floodgates that could prove deadly if dammed up. It teaches you lessons as the writer. For me, it has been an exercise in forgiveness. I've also seen a new dimension of the providence of God. I must trust in it at all times. Can you believe in providence in a lightless tunnel? I must keep asking myself this question, because it brings me back to God.

The trains beside me screech to a hault like the Nazgul in flight. We've been in Bari Centrale for hours now. Sam and I look like broken men. We are, but I think we needed to be.

Drew

Color-Man, 18 June, Rome, Italy

2006-06-22T00:28:00.000-07:00

On the eighteenth day of the sixth month, as I sit on a rocky ledge, I lift up my eyes, and behold, the Colosseum. It is colossal. The high north-east wall is made of blocks of stone, with three floors of arches beneath, arches like Busch stadium. The sun is setting and Drew has his camera on to catch the fullness of night.

Here on this dusty ground stood a Roman sentry or centurion. And there inside the Colosseum, men became judges of life and at the turn of a thumb, gladiators would die. Beast tore beast, man slew man. From Rome, there went out commands to all the world: Capture Jerusalem, Attack the tribes in the north, Send the fleet to Carthage. Roman soldiers crucified Jesus and a Roman spear pierced his side. The world was subdued before them.

And Rome was also home to another great empire, the Roman Catholic Church. It held sway over the hearts of countless men and moved kings and countries. Truly, Rome was highly exalted! But it was brought down. The bows of its mighty men are broken.

I see two homeless men. I feel more sympathetic to them now, after a week of traveling and lack. The excitement at a good find, the boredom and the reproach, the seeing and not having, eating, but never filled, people staring. But these men live like that every day. That is far beyond me.

Sam

Action-Man, 17 June, Rome, Italy

2006-06-21T23:56:00.000-07:00

Last night, Drew and I found a short, old woman on a corner near the train station. We were hunting Rome for a hostel when she called to us. She showed me a crumpled list of three hotels, so I called a man to help us find them on the map. The man was exactly twice her height. None of us could help her--this old woman from Brazil, who spoke neither English nor Italian, without directions, without family, and carrying two heavy bags, late at night in downtown Rome.

So Drew and I took her to our prospective hostel. It was a youth hostel, and when the three of us walked in, the throbbing music seemed to stop, and twenty or thirty kids my age turned to stare at us. There were no vacancies. But at the next hostel, there were three beds left, so we took them. This morning, I met her on the staircase, "What will you do today?" I said loudly and slowly. She made some vague hand motions and said "baggage" and "hotel" and "I prefer." She whined and chirped her English. Then her face lit up, and she said, "Then I go Vaticano."

Drew and I also went to the Vatican today. We saw the Colloseum and Altare de la Patri, a white temple on a hill that honors Italy's military. Drew ran half around the Circus Maximus and then we crossed the Tiber. At the Sistine Chapel, Michaelangelo beautifully presented creation and the fall for all the American and European and Asian tourists. On one wall was a ship dropping men off in hell. The demons tugged at the muscular men and Hades itself drew in the ship. But there in front of the wall was gaunt Jesus hung on a spindly cross.

The second half of the USA-Italy game has started. I am writing in the hostel lobby. Drew and I are hoping for an upset tonight. We have heard trash talk all day. Eddie Pope just got America's second red card of the night. There is one Italian man here in a pink polo, who talks very loudly. I hope to gloat over him in 40 minutes.

Sam

Color-man, 17 June, Rome, Italy

2006-06-21T23:22:00.000-07:00

Memory is often sweeter than experience. I've returned to Rome after three years, quite unexpectantly. We never planned to be here on this trip. I was in the city in 2002 with my family on our trip around the world. We stayed nearly five days at a spacious hostel, reveling in the Italian cuisine and history. It was our first resting place on a long trip, and I remember it fondly. The local ristorante made excellant spaghetti, and the waiter took a liking to our family. (I think it was because of Sara's dimples and curls.) We even took a picture with him.

Last night, as Sam and I scrambled to find a cheap hostel at nearly midnight, we stumbled across the same old ristorante, waiter and all. Eating pasta under that same light, with the old smells drifting in, drew out some delicious memories. I remembered the whole feel of that life-changing trip, but more than that I remembered remembering. The month after our return from that trip was full of stabs of remembrance. At school or at the dinner table, I would close my eyes and return to the adventures. It was like the warm feeling in your belly after some wine; the taste going down was good, but how much more so afterwards! That warmth came flooding back last night.

Memories don't decay, unless you let them. They grow stronger with age. Even if you do forget for a year, two years, twenty years, a small man at the back of your head keeps the file. Occasionally, he falls asleep, but all you must do is return to the right place, or wave the right smell beneath his nose, and he will pop up and take you for a royal ride.

Think back to the times when you felt God deeply--those rare moments when you were stabbed with joy. If you cannot remember this, and don't know what I'm talking about, perhaps you must first begin to form those experiences. It's like depositing money in the bank; you have to start somewhere to reap later on. But first, you must begin to know God. If you have been "surprised by joy," perhaps it's time to revisit those memories. Go back to that place. "Remember the signs!" as Aslan instructs Jill Pole.

What we need is a more diligent remembrance of his faithfulness, and of his promises. The Israelites wrote Psalms to remember Him as they ascended the mountain of Jerusalem. We don't need to repeat the past--that's impossible. We must, though, remember the signs.

I began writing this as Sam disappeared into the Colloseum. I'm waiting outside; it's 11 Euros. Where is he?

Drew

Action-Man, 16 June, Venice, Italy

2006-06-21T12:14:00.000-07:00

Clay apartment buildings close me in on three sides on the island of Murano. I am on a bench in an empty square. I see two old Italian ladies and a boy at a table full of miniature glasswork. There is no one else. Drew is looking for a free toilet, but the island will surely force him to pay a euro. How can they charge for a basic human need?

Murano is an island off Venice. It is famous for its glass blowing and glass products. Drew and I just watched a man pull a glowing clump of orange from the furnace. He sat down and pulled and twisted, and in less than a minute, he formed a horse with a head, a mane and a tail.

I can see Venice from here. Is it true that Venice is supported over the sea by posts? Why didn't they build it on solid ground? Yesterday at the train station, an old gentleman won us over to spend the night at his hotel. He led us through the city to our room as he told us his disgust with the governor of Venice. He pointed to some litter, saying, "He doesn't do anything. He says he's a philosopher, but he's not even that! If he took a shower, he wouldn't get himself clean."

Early this morning, I went out along the Grand Canal for breakfast and got lost. There are no cars here. Everyone walks and uses the water. The water of all the canals is very dirty, because there is little circulation. I bought some bread and fruit and milk. I tried to remember landmarks, but on my way back, each small canal looked like the other. The layout of the city changed as shops opened. I walked past restaurants with tables and trinkets behind windows. The labrynth seemed to have no end.

Sam

Color-Man, 14 June, Southern Switzerland

2006-06-18T02:21:00.000-07:00

Birth rates are dropping all over Europe. Experts in Switzerland have already predicted when the Swiss people will die out. Italy has the lowest birth rate, I’ve heard, even though they are a Catholic country. I stayed with an older couple with one child in France. To have one child is stylish and convenient in France.

Drew and I are much alike in many ways. We both like writing and good books and The Chronicles of Narnia. We like to talk about ideas and enjoy good, warm thinkers. We love a Proverb a day. We both tilt our heads back and open our mouths and breathe hard when we sleep on trains. We are practically the same height and weight and arm length. And Drew and I are two of seven name-bearers in the Belz family. The other five are Aaron, Elijah, Adam, Max and Matt. As for birth rate and pro-creation, Drew and I are determined to do our part.

Traveling through Europe with him makes me think of the missionary journeys of Acts. The gospel is new and exciting to a lot of people in Europe. Five or ten have asked us why we read our Bibles. Some people are hostile too. Europe is rich and well-built, but needs spiritual life. I can also more clearly understand the conflicts of those early missionaries, like when Paul and Barnabas separated.

We are coasting into southern Switzerland, to an Italian city called Chiasso. South of the mountains is the Italian part of Switzerland. East of Basel is French-speaking, and the rest speak German. You can see it in the names—Chiasso, Zurich with an umlaut, and Geneve with a French acueil. The mountains are warm and green and full of forests and waterfalls right up to the clouds. Some are bare and snow. They are wonderful mountains, but it isn’t the mountains I marvel at. It’s Him.

Sam

Color-Man, 14 June, Stabio, Switzerland

2006-06-18T00:22:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you about two troublers of the Belz boys, two men so churlish, we couldn't talk to them.

Last Saturday morning, we sat down in first class on our train to Oslo. The Eurail lady on the phone the night before had told us to sit in first class, because there were no other seats available. It will be no extra charge, she said. The conductor came down the aisle to check our tickets. "First class, that's 75 kroners each." We tried to explain and we offered to move to second class, but he cut us off each time. We had to pay and I agonized over it. It wasn't needful, because (as we found out) there were second class seats available.

Two days later, towards Copenhagen, the conductor came to us and said, "These aren't tickets. They're not validated. 50 Euros." Of course, the Norwegian man should have told us that. We protested, but then his body stiffened and the veins of his cheeks tightened and he raised his voice, "Do you want it to be 50 Euros each? That's what it should be, but the sun is shining today." We couldn't win. Hours later, I found him and pleaded with him in a gentle voice. A gentle tongue is a tree of life, but he wouldn't yield.

Some pointers:
-Eurail passes are good. Get one if you want to travel around Europe.
-Be sure to make reservations for ferries and overnight trains. Reservations cost extra money.
-Use the bathroom on the train, because train station bathrooms cost money.
-There are no water fountains on trains or in stations. There is no free water in most of Europe.
-Make sure your Eurail pass is validated with an official stamp and your passport number. Be sure to get it in writing, if it involves a discount of money.
-Make sure that you are in the right class. Some unjust conductors will charge you even for accidentally sitting in first class. The youth Eurail pass is second class. At the doors of each cabin are written 1 or 2. Check your class.
-When you come to a crowded train platform, go to the very end, away from the crowd of people.
-If you arrive late and the doors of a train or a city tram are closed, but it hasn't left yet, know that there is a button on the outside of the doors. Push it and open the door to get on. -Check and double check that you have your tickets with you.
- You won't get your passport stamped in most European countries, so don't be disappointed about that.
-Take along a paperback timetable. And use the big timetables hung in the stations. But don't be afraid to ask lots of questions.
-Don't be afraid to show bus drivers your Eurail pass for a free ride.

Sam

Action-man, 13 June, Pilatus, Switzerland

2006-06-17T23:43:00.000-07:00

I'm riding with my good friend Micah Hilliard on a gondoli through the Swiss Alps. From the bottom, in the city of Luzern, the hanging cars rise 7000 feet to the peak. They glide over evergreen forests and herds of cows, their bells echoing melodiously. There are three stations at strategic locations on the climb up. Facing the view at my back--which grows as I ascend--it would be tempting to get out at any of these stations. The view out over the Alps is pretty good even one third of the way up. The stations even offer attractions: cafés, a ropes course, a bobsled, and gift shops.

But one look forward reminds me not to get off just yet. The cliffs and snow caps are rising before me precipitously. The cable car tilts--angling steeply to overcome a pass between two peaks. There's more coming!

Turn back around. It wouldn't slow us down too much to stop for lunch, or to climb on the ropes course. Or perhaps it would. Perhaps we would learn to like it there, tasting one meal after another. Perhaps we'd build a village even, with fortifications. Would we ever miss the top?

I won't know. We stayed in the car, staring ahead "wide-eyed and ambitious," as my friend would say. We reached the top, and what a scene! Chasms fled before us. Large sheets of snow draped over the cliffs, like a tablecloth overa table's corner. Glorious light hit us smack-on.

Somehow this place feels like heaven, and this whole climb like everything before it. There's more coming!

Drew

An explanation

2006-06-17T23:32:00.000-07:00

Let me make a quick explanation about our posts, to clear any misconceptions.

When we stayed with our Aunt Al and Uncle Julie in England, we were asking for advise as to how to write and format the blog. We said that we wanted to write both pieces about the events of our trip and the ideas behind them. Aunt Julie said that it sounded like reporters at a sports event. You've got an "action man" and a "color man." The first covers the events; the second covers the color behind the events. Sam and I have adopted those names as we write about both the action and the color. We switch off, as we feel led to write.

Secondly, the first date on each blog is just the publish date. This is just the day in which we had time to enter our journal entries onto the blog. The date below, in the main title, is the date it was written.

Please write us with encouragements, rebukes, advise, or news from the states. Samuelbelz@aol.com or Drewbop@gmail.com. It was refreshing yesterday to receive 50ish emails about the engagement of my cousin. All our best from Roma, MCD/S and Jon. Keep reminding us of home.

Action-Man, 10 June, Goteburg, Sweden

2006-06-17T01:10:00.000-07:00

Drew and I are waiting at the bus station in Goteburg, Sweden. A girl acrss from me is helping me pronounce Goteburg and the number seven in Swedish. French people, she says, have the oddest pronunciation of Swedish. I am writing in part to slow down the conversation. Sofia is pretty with a small nose and brown hair past her shoulders. She has a baby brother with her, whose name is Sebastien. He's spinning and rolling on his own stroller. She thinks he is a monster. He has blond hair and lots of energy tonight. Their mother is quiet. I don't think she speaks much English.

The clock nears midnight. Drew is putting on some finishing touches to our departure at 2:30 to Copenhagen. I read in Judges today about men who held fast to the Lord and were blessed for it. Drew and I also listened to The Silver Chair. C.S. Lewis draws me to a higher standard of writing--better descriptions, shorter words, sparser sentences, more talk of redemption and Christ. Across the barren tableland, Jill and Eustace stopped talking about King Aslan and the lost prince and talked and complained only of warm beds and hot baths at the giants' castle. Drew and I agreed that it was convicting.

I never thought I'd be in Goteburg. What happened here and in Norway? Why did men and women so completely turn from God? Meanwhile, Sebastien still rolls recklessly on the stroller. He just missed me on his last screeching stop. And here comes Drew. He is back with cash for the trip tonight.

Sam

Color-man, 11 June, Germany

2006-06-13T17:44:00.000-07:00

We've been on trains, buses, and ferries for two days now. Across from me a blonde-haired, blue-eyed fellow stares longingly into his blonde-haired, blue-eyed sweetheart. They're both Swedish and earthy. They nurse between them a large bottle of "Gammel Dansk" liquor and a couple Carlsbergs. Chattering to each other in Swedish, then to us in English, we learn that they are eloping to Berlin. Fascinating. They left Sweden yesterday with 4-weeks pass on the rails and no plans. Such is the European way. I wonder whether their guidance counsellors in high school ever mentioned 4-year plans or other paths to success.

Last night we caught the 2 o'clock express from Gotheberg to Kopenhavn. It was a night of little sleep for me, sardined in a tight bus seat. Though the hours of travel are tiring, they provide precious time to think, especially with Sigur Ros's Takk soothing my cerebellum.

I've just filched a cup of tea from the first class cabin. Just yesterday I read a short biography on Ghandi, who refused to ride 1st class trains when offered by religious figures and dignitaries. Instead, he always preferred to travel 3rd class, showing favor to no man, least of all himself.

At any rate, Eurail doesn't serve tea or treats to us "Untouchables" in second class. Though there's much to learn from the great Mahatma, I'm not quite so humble, and this stolen tea tastes good. “Stolen water is sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.” Soothing juices clear my head of the smoke and heat in this cabin. I won't wax poetic though; ask Brian Gillikin for some tea poetry if you're unenlightened.

We have been remarkably safe on this trip so far. Tales of adventure are usually full of evils, horrors, sloughs and snares. Somehow, we've avoided them so far. Tolkien says in The Hobbit, "Now it is a strange thing, but things that are good to have and days that are good to spend are soon told about...while things that are uncomfortable, palpitating, and even gruesome may make a good tale, and take a good deal of telling anyway." We may not have any gruesome tales, yet, but I promise that even here in the comfort of Europe, our minds are being shaped daily. The greatest joy for me here has been digging into the Word. It's a fresh spring, and always a new adventure.

Drew

Color-man, 10 June, Somewhere between Bergen and Oslo, North Norway

2006-06-13T17:43:00.000-07:00

Efficiency is an act. Ironically, being efficient means not worrying too much about the organization of time. It is will following action--the last confirming the first. In simple terms, efficiency in all things is putting one foot in front of the other. In writing, as my mom says, it is laying one word after the next, ceaselessly. And when at last you must cease, you pick up another thread- working, reading, discussing, arguing, loving--actively.

On our trip, I've thought a lot about the concept of efficiency. How do I make the most out of this remarkable time that I've been given? I've always hoped to transform the world, but there is no greater danger than to remain in that hope without action. It turns sour. It becomes dissatisfaction with something unattainable, leading to apathy. This is frightening. It's horrible. I catch myself in this very apathy, and realize that I am emptied; my mind is blank and I don't want to work, think, or do anything. It is there that we are most vulnerable.

I want to avoid becoming like the Russia's high class that Leo Tolstoy described, who had all the time and money in the world, but found no joy because they were bored: "...in reality almost all the feelings of our class amount to but three very insignificant and simple feelings--the feeling of pride, the feeling of sexual desire, and the feeling of weariness of life." This is why the peasant, working life was so appealing to him, and is to me. Putting one foot in front of the other, looking forward eagle-eyed, leaves little room for such feelings.

Besides those who do it out of necessity, there are two other types of people who work tirelessly and avoid those three deadly and numbing feelings. Our Norwegian friend Glenn is of the first type. He lives a life guided by moral and ethical principles. In return, God blesses him, though Glenn may not be leaning on His grace. Glenn has an open mind and good judgment. He's been blessed financially and works towards his ideals with these tools. He's often successful. Such a person is remarkably strong. I don't understand their motivation to do good. They are continually satisfied with their work, perservering even unto old age.

The final group of people has the most reason to work without ceasing. Christians--those redeemed by the blood of Christ and leaning in His grace--have great reason to live, work, and hope. It is our calling to do so, and it brings us great joy. More than this, we have an inheritance waiting for us. So I must continue to write, and to learn. and to work, and to keep my eyes open, pressing on towards that inheritance.

Drew

Action-man, 10 June, Kobenhavn, Denmark

2006-06-13T17:42:00.000-07:00

We took a bus through the night from Goteburg to Copenhagen. The seat made my head and legs and neck uncomfortable. At 2:00 AM, Kent, a fat Swede with a mustache twirled on the end, explained that we were stand-by.

Now, I sit in a chair at a table in a plaza near downtown Copenhagen. Three wicker chairs circle each wooden table, across a pavement of bricks. The bricks are wide and bits of grass grow between with cigarette butts. Two tables near me are full of college-aged girls. They're taking their time with half-finished plates of Sunday dinner. They look wealthy and one has a bull-dog on a leash. They drink and chat in Danish.

Beyond the tables is a fountain, carved with ugly Norse heads. From their mouths comes the water. Five or six men and women sit there, smoking and drinking, still sloshed from Saturday night. To my right is Drew, stretched out for a nap with his big baggage and mine at his feet. He could pass for a vagrant too.

Drew and I went to church this morning. The bell in the tower rang as 10:00 approached. On both sides of the sanctuary were statues of the apostles. Paulus and Petrus bearded, Johannes with a young and lovely face. Gold candles at the end of the pews glowed the whole service. The preacher wore lovely robes, one blue, one white and gold. He baptized a baby girl, who wore a long, white gown. We took communion, and it was very good. After the service, I asked a kind-looking woman if we could eat Sunday dinner with her or someone else. She went to inquire and returned saying, "I'm sorry we can't help you. It's not the Danish way. We're closed." Norwegians, Swedes, and Danes seem a quiet and secure people. Now I can hear jazz from a window in the top of that building. How nice.

Sam

Action-man, 8 June, Preikestolen, Norway

2006-06-13T17:40:00.000-07:00

My hands smell like roots and tree bark and moss. We are on our way home from climbing Preikestolen fjord. I write in the back seat of Glenn's BMW.

Glenn, Drew, and I left the house in Skudeneshavn this morning at 6:10 for a 6:10 ferry. Glenn sped, risking his license, and we arrived moments before the ship launched. Glenn brought breakfast, and we sat near some men who work with oil in the North Sea. Glenn told us that oil saved Norway. Before World War II, Norway was a poor country. Even Brazil sent gifts to help.

Glenn is good at talking with strangers; therefore, he has friends all over the world. We are a case in point. He has spent hundreds of Norwegian Kroners on us. Glenn is attent to every detail of our comfort--the volume in his car, the air conditioning, our beds, breakfast, wake-up time. Glenn is also a good thinker. He reads and travels a lot, but most importantly, he listens and asks good questions.

We took two ferries. The roads to lonely Preikestolen became more and more narrow. The tunneled passages outnumbered the open road. Beautiful bridges with double arches help connect the rugged west coast of Norway. We hiked for two hours, climbing steep banks and over boulders. We crossed plains of rock that looked like the Giants' battlefield in the Silver Chair. We walked on the brim of dark pools of mountain water. We crossed marshy spots on wooden walkways. We didn't see any wildlife, only hikers and trees and flowers. Only hearty trees and plants survive the tough ground of rock and dirt.

The view at the top of the fjord was beyond comparison. On our side of the fjord were sheer cliffs. Drew and I stretched out and set our heads on the edge for a view. Across the fjord, across a sea of fog, I could see the tops of black mountains.

Nine out of ten Norwegian girls is good-looking. And the sun shines for 21 hours of the day. So at midnight, the sky looks like 8:15 in Iowa.

Sam

Action-man, 7 June, Skudaneshavn, Norway

2006-06-13T16:45:00.000-07:00

Today we stepped off a plane in Haugesund, southwest Norway. Outside the airport, we met the lanky legend, Glenn Landenes. Emily had established a connection with him by conversing for most of a 14-hour train ride in Romania last year. That same amiability came out soon enough, as the Norwegian smiled wide and packed our bags in the back of his slick BMW. Glenn asks good questions, keeps an open mind, and answers freely in nearly flawless English.

Immediately we took off in Glenn's hot 6-series through hills outcropped with ancient stones and spotted with sheep. It was Glenn's birthday, so we stopped and picked up an enormous marzipan cake at the local "KIWI" shop. It was handmade with the words "Glenn er beste" scrawled in drippy icing. Conveniently, Glenn knew the storeowner who made the cake for him. Also conveniently, Glenn knew the owner of some rental cabins in the center of Skudaneshavn, who gave us a warm and wooded one for three nights. To be honest, Glenn conveniently knows just about everyone in the world--billionaires, Hollywood stars, oil tycoons, even the local fishermen. If you don't yet know Glenn, it's more likely your fault than his.

Glenn's first treat for us (for there were many to follow) was a visit to ye-old ship captain Johannes' cafe. Johannes, with white flowing hair and a meaty handshake, hurried back to his waffle batter and started frying. Black coffee and hot "vafler" make a brilliant combo. Smothered in fresh raspberry jam, the vafler melt going down. They generally cost 18 kroners (about 3 bucks), but Johannes discounted us at first. When we came back for more, he gave them to us on the house, nodding his white head happily: "Ja, ja...nice American boeez."

Drew

Action-man, 6 June, Central England

2006-06-09T01:55:00.000-07:00

Stratford-upon-Avon lies 20 miles south of Birmingham. We found ourselves on Shakespeare's old stomping grounds at about 2 o'clock this afternoon. Aunt Julie had prepared a picnic of sandwiches, fruit, chips, and chocolates for us by the river, as punters punted by. She says that she and Uncle Al would rather see old Will's environs than his house, which apparently is loaded with tour-phernalia. In either case, we didn't see the house, but enjoyed the town. Not far from the romance and charm of the riverside, though, punk youths and bums hang out, littering the street with thousands of cigarettes, beer cans, and trashy beatbox music.

South again of Stratford, we wandered through old Cotswald villages in the countryside--Weston Subedge, Buckland, Snowshill (the film site of "Bridget Jones' Diary"). Uncle Al and Aunt Julie like to "feel their way" about the countryside, and we enjoy the feeling, leaning our heads out the windows of their little Ford and feeling the wanderlust hit us smack in the face.

Passing through fields of lavender (which seems much more fun to detasel than corn) and shorn sheep (it's a warm summer here, you know), we made our way to Oxford. In the city centre (which you must say as it's spelled to be proper around here), there are many colleges--Magdalen, Oxford, Christchurch, more. Traipsing the streets were black-robed students with red roses that seemed to have just emerged from Platform 9 and 3/4. ("Once Harry and Hermione had donned their Yule-tide cloaks of red and black and silver and gold and mauve...")

We admired the precision of the university greens and stood awed by the tight design of chapels, bell towers, libraries and all. Their stone spires prick the blue sky. We wanted to see Christchurch's green courtyard, but as Sam stepped through the archway, a bobby chastised him, saying that unless we were "attending the service," the grounds were closed.

So we went to Evensong. The service was a reviving wind, choirboys' voices cutting through the still air, chanting the Psalms to us. It was an hour of pure Scripture, and it's hard to go wrong that way.

Later in the evening, we were winging it with Uncle Albert ("hands across the water") through the countryside and back to the Solihull flat. We passed by Bishops Itchington as the sun drained. Aunt Julie said that he (the bishop) must have been a rather unfortunate man.

Drew

Color-man, 6 June, Central England

2006-06-07T09:14:00.000-07:00

Today, I saw the town where William Shakespeare was born and the pub where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien drank and discussed. I saw Oxford University, its chapels and colleges, greater than Solomon's house and temple. I saw the house where Robert Boyle and Robert Hooke lived. England's history should not be over-romanticized. I know that. But think of its dominion, its colonies, its kings and queens and prime ministers, its poets, novelists, composers, musicians, explorers, scientists, and theologians. God blessed England and made his gospel prevail. And England has blessed us. We have received its language and literature and law and customs.

But England has turned away from God. Everyone does what is right in their own eyes. At Stratford-upon-Avon, I saw some boys who, I fear, have forgotten their history and forgotten God. "That's what happens," Uncle Nat told me, "the old-timers get fat and forget God." And it will only take one or two generations to spoil that greatness.

Before many English soccer games, they sing hymns. One team sings, "Abide with me," and another sings, "Guide me O Thou Great Jehovah." Christopher Hitchens, a brilliant and famous writer from England, knows and admires the Bible. The traditions of Christianity fascinate him. But he attacks our faith, and calls it folly. At the Anglican Church service tonight, the boys choir sang three Psalms and the vicar read from the Bible. But the Church of England is liberal and dying. These three exchange the true glory of the immortal God for mere images.

All day long God holds out his hands to us. Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts. Remember, Jesus gives more grace.

A final, short word on Ms. Dorothy Thompson. After living in England for a year, Aunt Julie says that Ms. Thompson makes more sense. Her parents were British, and she was precise in many ways--in her choosing of cotton and linen, her needlework, mail, laundry, memorizing the psalms, notereading, her speech. Not stylish, but not happy-go-lucky American either. She was precise in a British way.

Sam

Color-man, 5 June, Birmingham, England

2006-06-06T14:00:00.000-07:00

We are novices at this craft. We're not yet the writers we wish to be, but we have been trained to progress--by teachers, parents, friends. And now we put it to the test of experience. We now have the raw stuff--the muscle--to flesh out this bare skeleton. Our daily experiences in each different culture we see will fill us with stories, but beneath all this we hope to find the true color of this trip--ideas affirmed or shattered in our heads. Surely the providence of God will lead us to the right people and places; we have seen it already. Last night, boarding our flight from Philly to Gatwick, we spied out the most intriguing person at our gate, a tall black man with an urban beret and mustache. When we found our seats on board, he was right there with us. Lionel, a Nigerian and a Christian (as we soon found out), told us he had been praying at the gate that the Lord would place him somewhere on the plane where he could pray comfortably and read Matthew Henry's Commentary on the Bible. When he saw Sam's Bible, he saw his prayer answered. Christians are told to live by faith, but we are also given wonderful physical signs of our faith's reality. Just when we need such reminders, or change perhaps, affirmation or chastisement, He provides it in healthy doses. We've seen it already, and trust in it to make all our plans worthwhile.

Snapshots of "pensees" so far/Questions we're asking:

*Antidenominationalists focus not on dividing doctrines, but solely on the person of Jesus Christ. Lionel said as much of himself. He is a joyful and loving brother in Christ. He studies the Bible deeply. But without denomination, does he have a family? Does he have a foundation? I think so, but I want to watch out for those who wish to defenestrate "dividing doctrines." Dividing doctrines often separate the true Jesus from false ones...

*What is a good concept of Christian worship? Beyond techniques of worship, a general rule is that it must be steeped in Scripture. More on this soon...

*How does a woman involve herself in worship without "asserting authority" over men? If she can write hymns, dance, sing, etc, can she not preach? What's the fundamental difference?

Drew

Action-man, 5 June, Birmingham, England

2006-06-06T02:58:00.000-07:00

I am in a flat in Solihull, England. Uncle Al and Aunt Julie live here. Drew and I are sleeping in a narrow double bed. Its corners are low and sharp. I have a purple mark on my knee from a fresh hit. The walls of the flat are white and bare. Below the wide-ledged windows are open radiators. Aunt Julie told me that the kitchen is a "one-man kitchen." She made me leave the kitchen after dinner so she could do the dishes.

Uncle Al and Aunt Julie park their small car (everything is bigger in the United States) underground. An iron fence makes the building look "exclusive" and formidable to thieves. To get in, Aunt Julie punched a five-digit code at the front gate and at the door.

A year ago, Uncle Al came to England to plant a church in Solihull--Solihull Presbyterian Church. Solihull is south of Birmingham. Today, we drove and walked through Birmingham. I didn't see very many white people or hear very much English. The streets are full of foreigners--Middle Eastern women in burkes with varying degrees of exposure, Indian shopkeepers and dark Pakistani boys in English soccer jerseys. Shop crowds shop and merchandise crowds the sidewalks like a street in Monrovia.

But that's Birmingham. Solihull is quiet and private. Ethnic Brits live here and send their children to private schools. By morning, the children walk to school and the parents to work. Aunt Julie calls them the "busy tribes." In the evening, the roads are empty and the shops are closed.

Sam