The portable sawmill was set up in the bush only an hour’s hike from our village to cut timber for our new house. The wheelbarrow I was pushing was loaded with a chainsaw, mixed fuel, bar oil, two gallons of gasoline for the sawmill, a few tools, a jug of drinking water and enough food to feed 15 hungry workers. Yes, it all fit in one wheelbarrow. It was a heavy load, but I positioned most of the weight over the wheel, which made it feel lighter.

The hard part was the hills, which got steeper near the end of the trip when my energy was spent. However, that was also the point where I left the hot grasslands and entered the welcome shade of the “rubber block” where songs of exotic birds echoed in the majestic chambers of the towering rubber trees.

In the woods, the trail became wet and slippery. I had three hills to climb. The last one, the highest of the three, I nicknamed “killer hill.” It started with a gradual incline that got steeper and steeper. Just before the crest when I was most exhausted, as if to mock my fortitude, the trail rose sharply and curved abruptly to the left. Fortunately, there had been no rain that day, so my boots didn’t slip much as I heaved my burden to the top.

The rest of the trip was all downhill, which allowed me to catch my breath, but it was more treacherous than going up. At one muddy bank, my feet slipped, and I almost dumped my load, but I managed to keep myself and the wheelbarrow upright.

Ramming the wheelbarrow through a particularly sloppy stretch of trail, I reminisced about the smooth, paved roads back in the States. Even gravel would be a huge improvement. Tripping on tree roots hidden in the mud, I thought, “How do people walk through all this with bare feet and keep from mangling themselves?”

I came to a clearing where the sawmill had once been. The trail was dry, and I knew I was getting close. I heard men’s voices in the distance. Forced to leave the wheelbarrow by a fallen tree across the path, I finished my commute to the sawmill empty handed. As I glanced at my watch, I missed seeing a low tree limb in the way. Whack! Back in the States, OSHA (Occupational Safety and Health Administration) would cite this path for numerous safety violations. But here every man watches out for his own safety.

Proceeding further, I saw the guys through the trees. As I looked up to greet them, I stepped onto a large piece of masana bark, which has a slippery skin the men use to help them pull logs through the jungle. I went down. Fortunately, the only thing I hurt was my pride.

The safety hazards aren’t limited to the bush. One day, some men and I were unloading our dinghy at the canoe landing and I noticed a large hole in the ground near the water’s edge. There were no guard rails around it to keep unsuspecting victims from falling in. “That looks like an accident waiting to happen,” I thought. “Is someone trying to trap an animal? Maybe some kids dug it.” I asked one of the guys about it. “Oh,” he replied, “every canoe place has one of these. When our canoes leak, we patch them with clay from this hole.” As dangerous as I imagined they could be, I’ve never heard of anyone falling into one of these holes.

Hazards lurk even in the villages. Houses here are built on stilts. Their flooring is strips of palm wood with wide cracks between. When people wash dishes, they pour the dirty dishwater through the floor to the ground below.

One night, Laurie asked me to deliver some charcoal to our neighbor. I had just taken a shower and put on clean clothes. I made my way through the darkness by the dim light of my flashlight. Instead of taking the normal route around the neighbor’s house to get to the front steps, I decided to take a shortcut under their house. Whoosh! My feet flew out from under me, and the next thing I knew I was lying on my back in stinky muck. I quickly stood up and pretended nothing had happened, but there was no hiding the black, smelly ooze dripping from my backside.

“How do these people survive with so many hazards and so little protection?” I wondered. I come from a culture where just about everything is dummy-proofed. We have smooth roads and sidewalks. Mandatory barricades surround any holes in the ground. Abrupt changes in grade require guard rails, and there are minimum height requirements for headroom clearance. But out here in the village, everyone is careful about each step they take. They have to be. I’ve started paying attention to how people move, and I find myself mimicking their walk. Because of this, I’ve become a bit less clumsy.

Cross-cultural evangelism includes learning how to walk like the locals. Jesus learned to walk on this earth the same as you and I do. The hazards He found here were gigantic compared to the heavenly bliss He left. But He risked them for you and me.

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