The Trail to Gimbie

ON THE TRAIL TO GIMBIE

Dear Family and Friends,

Dr. Claude Steen, Jr., who started the medical work here in Gimbie in the 1950's recently shared with me a poem by one of his friends who, after visiting Gimbie, immortalized his experience on "The Trail to Gimbie" in a poem, by that same title. I would like to share it with you as it still, in many ways, is reminiscent of our trips to Gimbie. Although it is now more than a "trail," and we no longer have to ford rivers, for many more bridges have been built since 1963, there is still a lot that is descriptive of our experiences today. I hope you enjoy it.

Ken Rose

ON THE "TRIAL" [sic] TO GIMBIE!

Come, Listen, my children, and you shall hear
The tale of a brave, modern Paul Revere,
A man with a message he had to tell
To people living in mountain or dell.

He didn't use horses, for horses are slow,
Compared to the way his Landrover could go.
And furthermore he knew that horses would die
Of sleeping sickness from the Tsetse fly!

Sometimes and in places horses are good,
But horses couldn’t do what his Landrover could!
When we left Addis our spirits were high,
But most of the friends who told us good-bye
Were very sober and I wondered why.

We started our trip with an excellent guide,
With boxes on top and piled high inside.
Now Hugo Palm was commander in chief,
Did all the driving without relief.

The human cargo was held to just four,
For no one could crowd in even one more.
We started out with our heavy load,
And we twisted and turned on a winding road.

We followed a highway marked on a map,
But the boxes kept leaping from lap to lap.
The Landrover bucked like a bucking steer--
It would make a "milktoast" out of Paul Revere.

This auto is called a glorified jeep,
It’s what you use when the roads are steep,
When the roads are bad or the trails are rough
It’s the car you use when the going's tough.

This car, they say, was not made for roads,
But for climbing trees or for heavy loads.
Well, we did both, climbing cliffs and trees,
And bearing the load with apparent ease.

We crossed high mountains and plowed through each vale;
Our brave driver’s courage never did fail.
We spent our first night in a wayside inn:
We called it the Waldorf which made us grin.

‘Twas there the road ended, we looked for the trail,
If they had maps they were printed in Braille.
We acted like blind men groping for light;
We rarely were certain which path was right.

This part of the world has two seasons, they said,
The first one is rainy with a vast watershed.
It seemed the dry season had just begun,
And we could see now where the water had run.

What once had been roads were now ruts so deep,
To see those big holes would make one weep.
Mere words cannot paint the picture we faced;
All semblance of road was completely erased.

How often we stopped to build our own road,
While crossing one river took off all our load.
For over two hours our car was stalled there,
But angels helped us in answer to prayer.

For we had done all that humans can do,
And yet it seemed that we'd never get through.
And when at last we were safe on dry banks,
We shouted for joy and gave hearty thanks.

We started again at the fabulous rate
Of six miles an hour, and sometimes made eight.
We struggled on foot paths through elephant grass.
On much of the road there was no room to pass.

The channels the rain had cut on the hills
Provided real problems and plenty of thrills.
We heard the hyenas, but they did us no harm;
Baboons and the monkeys gave no cause for alarm.

But we can't say that of the tsetse flies;
You can't dispel them, however one tries.
They come like an arrow straight for your face,
And sting on contact on any bare place.

They pester your life to the breaking point--
You forget for some hours each creaking joint.
You battle those flies for your very life,
And you’re all worn out with the mortal strife.

And when we were through with the awful fight,
In spite of our best we had many a bite!
I feared sleeping sickness for several days,
But since we survived we had cause for praise.

At last we reached Gimbie by ten that night,
Received a welcome that made all things right.
The Road to Gimbie had become a Trail.
The Trail a Trial to make strong hearts quail.

We weathered the trip and had stood the test,
And we welcomed with joy a chance to rest.
Though Gimbie is called a "jumping-off" place,
‘Twas a spot I found comfort, charm, and grace.

Though twenty odd thousand people live there,
It has no banks and folks don’t seem to care.
It boasts no railroads or latest bus styles,
The post office nearest is eighty miles,

But when you arrive, and you've reached your goal,
The welcome you get is good for your soul.
The road to Heaven is somewhat the same,
We’ll weather the trip through Christ’s power and name.

We'll soon forget all the trials that are past,
When safely at home in heaven at last.

Adlai Albert Esteb
November 4, 1963
Gimbie, via Lekempte, Ethiopia

Dedicated to Elder and Mrs. Hugo Palm, intrepid missionaries to Ethiopia; to Dr. and Mrs. Kenneth Saunders of the Gimbie Hospital; to Mr. and Mrs. LeRoy Kuhn of the Gimbie Mission School; and to all the members of the EXCLUSIVE CLUB of those who have survived the Road to Gimbie.