lost in the Sahara

In the summer of 1990, I was working with a large Christian organisation as the lead for its global health portfolio. My wife Raija and I, along with our preschool sons – Joshua, five, and Jason, almost three – lived in a suburb of Los Angeles. Raija was a paediatrician, but she had taken time off from her career to raise the boys until they finished elementary school. Part of my work responsibilities was to visit public health projects in remote locations in the developing world.

California weather turns hot in June. My next trip, however, was to northern Mali, where temperatures rise to the mid-50s Celsius at midday. As a family routine, whenever I travelled to a location where phone calls were uncertain or prohibitively expensive, the whole family drove to the airport with me.

That Monday morning when I was to leave for Africa, the traffic to the airport was super-heavy, and I missed my Pan Am flight to Paris and my connecting flight to Bamako, Mali. I was re-routed to Niamey, Niger’s capital. From there, directly north across an international border into Mali lay my interim destination, Menaka. The itinerary included travel by a four-wheel drive vehicle to desert hamlets scattered across thousands of square miles of parched territory. Not too far away was the better-known city of Timbuktu.

Raija later said that even then, as I kissed her and our boys goodbye, she had a premonition that something unusual was about to happen during this trip.

The trip to Niamey was uneventful, and we crossed the border easily into Mali. The day after I arrived Menaka, my ad hoc team of two foreigners (myself and a female British nutritionist) and three Malians (two Tuaregs – a driver, a community development worker, and one Bambara nurse) set out from our project compound mid-afternoon to avoid the blistering heat earlier in the day. We packed into our Land Rover food, water, gasoline, and several changes of clothes. The distances between the points we were to hit were long and we were unsure we could return to project base after three days of travel.

Historically in Mali, there is a north-south socio-political divide between the light-skinned Tuaregs of the north and the darker-coloured Bambaras in the south. The conflict stemmed from the desire of the Tuaregs to create a homeland in the desert that would divide the country, and the Bambaras, who were more numerous and who objected. Conflict was inevitable, and the central government in Bamako periodically crushed the aspirations of the Tuaregs in the north with a mailed-fist policy. Unbeknownst to us, earlier that day when we set out, the Tuaregs had declared a rebellion against the central government in Bamako.

After about 40 miles into the heart of the Sahara, I could see, from my front seat beside our driver, a phalanx of fifty to a hundred young men suddenly blocking the desert trail we were following. I initially thought they were in the middle of a local polo game with sticks raised overhead. But as we came closer, we saw they were not on horses, and they were not playing. I slowly recognised that the sticks they carried were bayonets and rifles drawn to inflict harm. We had literally driven into a local uprising.

We were ordered out of our vehicle, and the Bambara male nurse with us was forcibly separated from the group. I saw the men who got hold of him start dragging him and beating him up. Sadly, we never saw him again. Later, we were told he was killed, and his body dumped into a dry well.

The men then took the remaining four of us to another group of their compatriots. I recognised that this second group included young men in western clothes. Their leader was a man in his mid-30s who wore a neatly pressed short-sleeved top and slacks, not a traditional boubou, the gown-like clothes of a West African man of distinction. He began to interrogate us, but he could speak neither English nor French. His questions, by default, were directed to me as I was the most senior in our group. An interpreter was summoned from the ranks of the rebels; he spoke only French. My teammates were too stunned to help me respond to the onslaught of questions. My worry was that I could not assess how good the interpreter was. He might misunderstand, make a mistake, or mischievously misrepresent what I was saying.

The first question thrown at me was why foreigners like us were present in such a remote place on such a day as this one. ‘Are you spies?’ the leader barked. I responded with a resounding, ‘Non, Monsieur,’ with an explanation drawn from all the French grammar I acquired from high school, and the additional vocabulary gained during our assignments as a couple in Cambodia and Senegal.

‘Why do you have a camera then?’ He noticed my camera that had an impressive lens. I responded that I needed to take photos I could use for my reports. He then took the backpack I was holding, interested in what other items I hid in it. He fished out the medical textbook I brought with me to read in my spare time. He asked what it was. I said it was my internal medicine book; he was not interested in it. He fished out another book – my Bible! Surely, this was going to be my end.

To distract him from recognising the book he was holding, I fished out a calling card from my pocket and read my name and profession to him. Somehow, I was no longer afraid; I wanted to be playful. I declared to him an offer: ‘This card has my name, title, and telephone number. Once you win your independence, call me at this number and let us design a project to benefit your people!’ God had given me the right words at the right time as he promises in  Matthew’s Gospel! 1 Miraculously, my interlocutor returned everything to me, including the camera. I promised not to take photos. He seemed satisfied, and ordered his men to bring us to a prepared enclosure so that we would not go away.

In the enclosure, we met another local employee who was apprehended earlier by the rebels. His vehicle had been taken away from him when he stopped. He told us that a public health physician was also apprehended that morning. The rebels wanted his vehicle, but he would not give it. They killed the doctor and got his vehicle anyway.

That night, we prayed fervently and asked God for wisdom as we plotted what we should do next. Our driver and the community development worker who arrived at the enclosure before us said they were going to run back to project base. They knew the terrain and could report that we were alive. We, the foreigners, remained and one of the Tuaregs stayed with us as an interpreter for the rest of the journey. We slept fitfully that first night, more awake in prayer for God’s protection. We did not know until later what had happened overnight in Menaka where the project base was.

The rebels attacked Menaka town that night and confiscated project vehicles, supplies, gasoline, and other items. They released everyone from the town jail and ransacked shops. They killed many people who were in the way. Fortunately, our staff, foreign and local, were warned by the townspeople and were discreetly hidden from the rebels while the looting happened. None of the foreign staff were harmed. The only thing left intact was the radio communications system which was later used by the two from our group in the enclosure who ran back to project base to report to headquarters in California the fact that ‘Milton and his team are alive in the Sahara, but their exact location for now is unknown.’

Shortly after noon the next day, the rebels’ convoy from Menaka arrived at our enclosure. I counted a dozen vehicles full of people and supplies. Some of the vehicles had blood smeared on their sides, indicating that people were shot or harmed. I suspect that the additional people were the released prisoners. The rebels seemed to be in a hurry. And their leader did not forget us. He summoned me and through the interpreter abruptly asked me, pointing north, ‘Are you coming with us?’

Not knowing where they were going, I promptly again said, ‘Non, Monsieur!’ That meant we were on our own; we were going to walk our way to safety – without food, without water, and without any means to communicate with the outside world. In this part of the globe, there were no definite road maps, and the terrain was unfamiliar to all of us. There was no telephone connection with the outside world.

I did not have to think. I firmly said, ‘No!’ He accepted my decision. That meant, however, that my remaining team of three including me was now on its own.

For the next three days, we walked in the desert. We survived by looking for any shelter like small shrubs or dead tree trunks during the hottest hours of the day. For water, we survived by following a dry river bed. There is water if you dig deep enough into the sand. Some of my most memorable recollections during the four days and three nights include the following:

■      We encountered a boy who had just dug up a hole in the sand and was giving water to his flock of goats from the murky water. We approached him with anticipation as we were thirsty to the core. I looked into the can he was using to draw water with, and I saw the turbidity in it. I said to myself, ‘I am a public health physician, a graduate from the Harvard School of Public Health, and I know I should not be drinking this water’, but I was so thirsty that I drank it with a prayer. ‘Dear God, I am drinking this dirty water because I am dying of thirst. I may still die of dehydration if I contract diarrhoea, but I am bargaining for a few hours.’ After drinking, I looked back to the hole where the water came from. The young boy had his feet soaking in it!

■      The Sahara, believe it or not, is not all sand. It has rocky parts and some desert-resistant plants. And among the rocks and gravel, I found shells and fossils that indicate it was once under the sea. I collected shells as I marvelled at how the desolate landscape had changed – probably over many centuries after its creation!

■      My worries were most acute at night. We took advantage of walking during the twilight and dawn hours, but we had to sleep as well during the night. I imagined wolves and hyenas – or even rattlesnakes – attacking us while we slept. I calmed my thoughts as I remembered my mother’s blanket that had an embroidered prayer, ‘Lord, I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.’ Nothing nightmarish happened during the three nights we were on our own. I simply entertained myself counting planes flying from the southern African capitals towards Europe until sleep overcame me.

■      The thought of being so alone, stripped of all but faith, humbled me. I had a solid education, including being a doctor and a graduate of Harvard. I worked for an organisation with a presence in 100 countries. I had some US dollars in my backpack. All were useless in my situation! I was only drawing from my faith in God, and I rested in the assurance that he was going to preserve me for his purpose.

Early on the fourth day after being left in the desert by the rebels, I realised that beyond that day, we might as well give up walking if we were not going to be shortly rescued. I woke up before it was light and went a distance from my two other companions. I prayed like never before, bargaining with God for what should happen next.

I stated boldly, ‘Lord, if this is now my time to come home, I am ready to die. You know my past, my present predicament, and my future. I am in your hands.’ I struggled to bargain for a different outcome, ‘Lord, I have a young wife back home and two small boys. Should you think they still need me, please spare my life. However, the final decision is yours.’ I repeated those prayers in tears again and again, until it was dawn. At some point, I felt a warm embrace that I had never felt before. My situation had not changed, but I felt God was communicating to me that I was going to survive the Sahara. And I looked forward to how he was going to send me a miracle.

Shortly after 7 am, a man came across our path with two donkeys. Through our Tuareg colleague interpreting, I struck a bargain with him. From the money I had, I promised to give forty dollars. He would be responsible for walking us to a safe point for rescue. He would receive the rest of the money I had once he completed the task. He had a kind demeanour, and he accepted the deal gratefully without any questions.

For another three days and two nights, the man with the donkeys took care of us. He fed us, using bread that he cooked over a bonfire. I did not know where the water or flour came from, but the bread tasted good after not having eaten for three days and nights. He guarded us while we slept at night, keeping the bonfire going to make sure no wild predators, especially the dreaded hyenas, attacked us. Best of all, he knew where we might get rescued.

So, we walked until we reached Intidayni, a project site we were going to visit originally. Not long after our arrival, I had to go to the toilet, dreading the diarrhoea I had been thinking would come sooner. Instead, I was constipated from being partially dehydrated while in the desert.

Before 5 pm that day, a squadron of the Malian military arrived to fetch us. They had received the radio message from our satellite office in Intidayni that we were alive. I also gave the rest of my money to the donkey man, who returned to walking to where he came from.

In twelve hours, I was back in Bamako, and that same evening, I was on a flight back to Los Angeles. I hugged my family and thanked God I was still there for them because God had wanted it so.

I learned later on that Raija was on an emotional roller coaster when she received the message that ‘Milton is alive, but nobody knows where he is in the Sahara.’ This confirmed her premonition of an unusual trip for me earlier that week. She had contacted relatives and church friends to pray for me. My brother, also a doctor, asked her if she was going to pack and leave for Mali to help search for me. She declined, knowing that I was aware that my job was a calling. She had seen me when I was injured in Thailand, and yet I had remained in humanitarian and development work. She also knew that Mali was unfamiliar to her. To this day, she is my heroine for taking our boys as her priority.

Months later, Raija was asked to visit our organisation’s regional office in Manila. There she was handed a cheque book with our names. It was picked up by someone who had found it beside the desert road where the contents of the suitcase I left in our project compound had been dumped.

This story has been, in human terms, the lowest point in my career. But looking back, I would not exchange the experience for anything else. It was a time when I wrestled with God and he embraced me, confirming that in the most unlikely place to find him, he was there!

And that is why, even after forty years, Raija and I have been involved in serving the poor, honouring them and the God who called us to international ministry. That is also why, after working 33 years overseas, we finally returned home to serve in the Philippines.