Pedal for Hope

They arrived in the neighbourhood the same year that we did. Muslim Harji was tall and genial, and his wife whom we always called “Mrs. Harji” was warm and spontaneous. They had fled Uganda when Idi Amin’s regime threatened. Now they were a very busy couple setting up a small food shop on Avenue du Parc, in the midst of a heterogeneous community. Hassidim, Italian and Greek Canadians, Quebecois(e) and Anglos such as ourselves.

Then a daughter, Ayesha, was born to them, and a son two years later. The little store thrived as a family enterprise. Sadly, they retired after some thirty years of hard work. We picked up on their story at the library a few days ago, when Muslim, after warmly embracing us, recounted the Cairo to Cape bicycle journey which he and his daughter made last year. It was part of a fund-raising effort by the Aga Khan Foundation. Muslim didn’t have enough time to tell about the whole 12,000km trip, so he focused on Sudan. This was the Sudan you never hear about. Ayesha’s blog reveals the no strings attached kindness they encountered amidst the material poverty.

One day, in the small town of Karima, we were invited into the home of a man we didn't know, who didn't speak any English at all. Being the cautious traveller, I was worried that this was going to be some sort of scam with a request for payment at the end, but we went in and sat down on the floor of a thatched little open-air hut surrounded by palm trees.

After some small talk where, with some difficulty, we explained to them that we were on a bicycle expedition (only to get the same incredulous response), a young boy came forward with an enormous tray that he put down on the floor. He uncovered four bowls of food - salad, a delicious curry-type dish similar to what my mom makes at home, beans (called foul, pronounced "fool") and a sweet vermicelli dish (like sev for all you Indians out there). Around the four bowls were round pieces of bread and we all sat there on the floor and ate together. The man also gave us a tour of his compound (including his home, a wheat-grinder, a kitchen and a women's section - there were a lot of them, don't know how many wives this guy has, but anyway) and also gave us fresh figs right off a tree.

After all this, they just led us back into the street, we all said our goodbyes and they pointed us back in the direction from whence we came. No money, no payment, no nothing. It was just plain and simple hospitality, and he disappeared back into his home like this was nothing out of the ordinary. Everywhere along the road, many members of our group have experienced similar displays of openness and good will from the people in this country.