The first time I ran out of gas, I had had my driver’s license for about half an hour and was headed home on an Oregon country road on a beautiful summer day. The car rolled to a stop in front of an abandoned farmhouse, while my mom and I pondered what had happened to it. The Herling women are not known for being mechanically minded.
The second time I ran out of petrol, it was a hot Sunday afternoon on the way home from the Cape Town airport after having dropped off a friend. (Mona, if you’re reading this, don’t you dare feel guilty over any of this.) We had intended to get petrol on the way to the airport, but had run into bad traffic and had no time to spare, and my petrol gauge told me I had enough to get to the airport. Leaving the airport, I knew I had to find a petrol station quickly. I blew right past a BP station on the outskirts of the airport and considered weaving my back through the tangle of highway, but was confident I would see another petrol station soon. (I’m optimistic like that.)
A few kilometers later, I still hadn’t seen another petrol station, and traffic on the highway had slowed to a painful crawl between concrete barriers, with no shoulder. I resolved that I needed to get off at the next exit, in search of a petrol station or at least a place I could safely stop. The fact that my gas gauge had been telling me that I had 20 km. left for at least 30 km. should have been a dead giveaway that in fact I didn’t have 20 km. left. (But I’m optimistic like that.) Sure enough, about a kilometer after I had exited the main highway to another 6-lane highway, my engine sputtered to a stop and I coasted onto the shoulder.
I called Joel, who called emergency roadside assistance. I wasn’t feeling particularly anxious. I had stopped right next to an informal settlement, but it was broad daylight, my doors were locked, and help was on the way. I cracked my windows and settled in to wait.
A few minutes later a car pulled off right in front of me,
and a man approached my car. Through my cracked window, he asked me what was
wrong. He told me that he was an off-duty policemen, that I was stopped in a
dangerous place, and that he was going to call traffic police to come wait with
me until roadside assistance showed up. In the meantime, he was going to stay with me himself
until the traffic police showed up.
For nearly half an hour, we both sat in our cars in the hot
sun. He came to check on me several times, just to make sure I was still okay.
I contemplated the prominent sticker on his back window, proclaiming the name
of a church. During one of his check-ins, I thanked him for the tenth time and
told him, “God sent you.”
Finally the traffic police showed up, and my guardian came
to say good-bye. I thanked him again. He said, “I’m just obeying my Chief.” I
said, “He’s my Chief, too.”
Just for the record, it took seven South African men to get
this white woman back on the road: one off-duty policemen, four policemen in
two cars who took turns waiting with me for the hour it took the roadside assistance to arrive, and the two guys who finally showed up in a bright pink car to pour petrol
into my tank through a Coke-bottle funnel. Just for the record, every single
one of them was unfailingly gracious and professional. Not one of them asked me
for anything.
One of the on-duty policemen told me again that I was in a very dangerous place, and pointed out that I was right next to an opening the residents had made in the concrete fence between the highway and the informal settlement. From where I was sitting in the car, I couldn’t see the hole without leaning forward, and so I hadn’t even seen it. He also told me that he was so impressed that the off-duty policeman had stopped to help me on his way home from church, and kindly suggested that I email the off-duty policeman’s supervisor to commend him. It was only then that I realized I had never even asked the off-duty policeman’s name. (Thankfully, the policemen who made the suggestion had collected that info for me, and the email address of the supervisor.) Mr. Zikeshe, I will be emailing your supervisor to tell him how grateful I am that you went above and beyond, and to ask him to apologize to you for my bad manners in not even asking your name.
Men are often given a bad rap in Africa. Particularly policemen. Especially black men. So it’s important to me to tell this story of six African men who did their jobs with integrity and kindness, and one African man who took nearly half an hour out of his Sunday to sit by the side of the road and protect a perfect stranger.
I also want to tell the story of God’s care and protection. I was reminded again today of the amazing reality that wherever I am in the world, I am not far from someone who serves the same God I do, who is also part of God’s good work in the world. (Psalm 119:68: You are good, and you bring forth good.) I meet people all over the world who are strangers and yet not really strangers. It’s amazingly wonderful every time.
