Suddenly, out in the middle of the bush, we came to a complete stop and started backing up. Very weird. All the other passengers began talking excitedly so I lifted my head to see what was going on. There, on its side, with its top toward us and completely blocking our way was a wrecked fuel tanker truck. It was surrounded by young men. When the truck fell over, several of the lids along the top burst and fuel had been gushing out for some time. The flow had almost stopped. Thousands of gallons were now draining off along both sides of
the road in the ditches. The fuel was being quickly scooped up by the young men who had materialized from every direction with big yellow empty cooking oil jugs and little bowls or tin cans for scooping. Some guys, jugs full and balanced on the backs of bicycles, were heading straight out into the shoulder-high dry grass, not bothering to take any paths, just trying to get away from the wreck with their haul as fast as
possible. Some were still coming in, looking for a way to get in and get their own few gallons of fuel. A few gallons is worth more than any one of these bush farmers could have earned in half a month of field work. There were no women or children there--the usual “big-jug-of-liquid” haulers. The guys were fully aware that setting foot in the expanding puddle of fuel meant that at any second they could get barbequed if the mess lit. They wanted nobody making any false moves. Everyone here has heard the stories of fuel-spill related fires. We actually passed the ruins of such a scene that same day in the town of Hounde, the wrecks of the burnt-out tanker truck and the 15 seat Toyota minibus sitting in the big black spot in the middle of town where they crashed and burned. But these are very poor people.

The bus was backing up to get to a place where it could get off onto the dirt and go around the wreck. We tipped and lurched onto the dirt and then began moving forward again. As we approached the wreck the smell of fuel was overpowering. The driver of the bus was violently yelling out the window at people, trying to get them out of the way so we could get through RIGHT NOW! It was then I realized we were driving right in the river of fuel! I remembered the signs I’ve seen at gas stations, “Turn off your engine”. Our bus was packed. I was a long way from the exit. You can imagine what was going through my mind. I thought about telling people what we SHOULD be doing, like not driving a full bus through a stream of fuel, and I even started commenting on this to people around me. Then they too started to understand the
danger. But by then it was too late to do anything about it. I could see in their eyes that what we should have done we hadn’t and we were just going to have to be quiet, drive fast and hope. After all, should we stop in the middle of the fuel-soaked ditch and get out? They were right. So I shut up.

It wasn’t until we were many kilometers past the wreck that I started talking to God--strangely enough. We were still passing young men on bicycles with big yellow jugs tied on, riding fast to go get their share. I was involved in something but had no power to avoid what was happening. We could have all been crispy fried. I told God that I need His help to handle these kinds of things since I absolutely hate them and feel inadequate in my responses to them. I’m sure some of you have had similar feelings lately brought on by
your own potentially fiery tight spots. It’s so good to know that our God cares. And sees us through.