Our drivers soon looked like rusting androids – with all that dark skin and the copper dust that we threw up caught in their curly beards. I would have laughed if I wasn't busy squeaking. I loved the 15km stretch covering rough green hills under a bright sky, but the guilt of dirtbiking without helmets marginally spoiled my fun. I'd dreamed of this view, this heat, this exhilaration - only with friends or possibly a man I loved – not a rather weedy-looking youth who only spoke Swahili.
But he was serious about his responsibility. He rarely talked, didn't flirt at all, and laughed at others' misfortune – basically meeting all my criteria for a close friend. We were third in the line of motos and arrived safely past rickety wooden bridges that sincerely made me question my intelligence and sanity. The team sent off the drivers to amuse themselves in one of the shacks of the tiny village while we conducted the evaluation at the local clinic.
Roughly an hour later, our moto drivers returned, the most outspoken demanding more money for some stupid reason. In truth, it was because they'd brought us to a remote village that was 15km away from any other modes of transportation and could request our kidneys if they so desired. My driver coolly slouched away from the ruckus while the loud one tried to convince me to pay them more because he might one day marry my sister. It was during this particularly persuasive sally that I smelled the alcohol on his breath and remembered that he was fourth in our little convoy – behind me - and likely soon to be the cause of all our deaths. I continued to be firm, I think they vaguely agreed, and we set off – I asked my driver if he was still happy with our rate and he said he was fine although he could have misunderstood me; it didn't matter either way as I planned to pay him more than we'd agreed on for his dedication to the task. Driver #4 continuously honked and shouted that I should sit closer to my driver to help him steer and control more effectively. I contended that he was steering and controlling just fine. Which happened to be very true. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite fast enough for #4, who fell backwards down a hill with my coordinator.
My driver and I bonded over our laughter. #4, in a state of mildly drunken rage, zoomed by us and right into another hill, whereupon my coordinator flew off again. We regained our position as third in line, after some continued yelling from #4 that I shouldn't sit so far back, and set off in short order. Along the way, I did pull closer (just in case), though I swore that my driver was very good and that he was doing a great job.
Utterly maddened by this treachery, #4 obstinately shrieked that he would marry me if I continued to say that. As he was a chatty drunk, we soon learned that he was married with three children and that he planned to improve his country by becoming a good rebel leader in the near future. My driver muttered that he was scared of falling with a muzungu, that he was scared #4 would do something stupid – I murmured sweet Swahili nothings into his ear, since I was basically sitting in his lap by that point, and offered him water as a placebo.
We snapped some logs crossing what could loosely be termed a bridge on the way back, and now I'm afraid the people of that potentially isolated village may develop different traits like the Galapagos finches. At the end of one of the best days in this country, nearly unable to walk and definitely unable to move my shoulders, I offered my driver his fee plus a tip. Unfortunately, this also resulted in the others demanding more money and #4 being indirectly rewarded for his drunken antics.
We returned to the regional office for a stamp, a request for a t-shirt from the secretary, and a request for phone credits from the official himself – who was dressed for success in a bright red shirt, an extra helping of self-importance, and reading glasses with the power still stuck on them. The funniest thing is that these requests, like most instances of begging here, were more instructional than anything else – as though they were being helpful in telling us what they'd be willing to take off our hands.
The next day we bounced back home, making a stop at every village to pick up everything from sacks of foufou flour to charcoal to branches of bananas and plantains to huge cans of palm oil. Buying all these items for themselves and various friends and families outside the city was much cheaper for my coworkers - in all honesty, it was probably no harder than maneuvering around the chia-high soccer moms with SUV-sized shopping carts at Costco.
On the way, I found out that my friend's wife (who'd left him) was now apparently asking to let bygones be bygones. You've got to hand it to the woman – three days after taking her four children, leaving their father, and selling everything from their TV to their mattresses, she has the ovaries to ask for forgiveness. I couldn't even laugh; I just wanted off this roller coaster.
Upon leaving a national park zone, we were stopped and our purchases were examined. The sack of foufou flour - which had made me feel as if we were in a snowglobe as we jolted between ruts - was extravagantly split and sniffed by our driver, presumably to prove it wasn't 60kg of cocaine. His subsequent choking fit on the side of the road must have passed the stringent standards applied by the park officials. One of them was so dedicated to tracking this possible threat to his countrymen that he took the opportunity to ask for my number and Facebook details.
I was grappling with exhaustion and more than one epiphany (you can read about them here), but I could expect very little psychological support from Butters, who wanted me home just to demand toilet paper at bedtime.
Sweet -- mackerel, how do you consistently forget the need for toilet paper?! If I hadn't come home, would you not have gone to the bathroom? How do you live inside that messy head of yours? Why do men exist?
Unfortunately, I was dazed enough to say most of this out loud, so I had to leave him a Post-It the next morning apologizing profusely in case he died on his trip to a neighbouring country. Full disclosure: He rarely, if ever, listens to me, and I'm terrible at apologies.
It's good to be home.
Part I
Part II
Appendix
But he was serious about his responsibility. He rarely talked, didn't flirt at all, and laughed at others' misfortune – basically meeting all my criteria for a close friend. We were third in the line of motos and arrived safely past rickety wooden bridges that sincerely made me question my intelligence and sanity. The team sent off the drivers to amuse themselves in one of the shacks of the tiny village while we conducted the evaluation at the local clinic.
Roughly an hour later, our moto drivers returned, the most outspoken demanding more money for some stupid reason. In truth, it was because they'd brought us to a remote village that was 15km away from any other modes of transportation and could request our kidneys if they so desired. My driver coolly slouched away from the ruckus while the loud one tried to convince me to pay them more because he might one day marry my sister. It was during this particularly persuasive sally that I smelled the alcohol on his breath and remembered that he was fourth in our little convoy – behind me - and likely soon to be the cause of all our deaths. I continued to be firm, I think they vaguely agreed, and we set off – I asked my driver if he was still happy with our rate and he said he was fine although he could have misunderstood me; it didn't matter either way as I planned to pay him more than we'd agreed on for his dedication to the task. Driver #4 continuously honked and shouted that I should sit closer to my driver to help him steer and control more effectively. I contended that he was steering and controlling just fine. Which happened to be very true. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite fast enough for #4, who fell backwards down a hill with my coordinator.
My driver and I bonded over our laughter. #4, in a state of mildly drunken rage, zoomed by us and right into another hill, whereupon my coordinator flew off again. We regained our position as third in line, after some continued yelling from #4 that I shouldn't sit so far back, and set off in short order. Along the way, I did pull closer (just in case), though I swore that my driver was very good and that he was doing a great job.
Utterly maddened by this treachery, #4 obstinately shrieked that he would marry me if I continued to say that. As he was a chatty drunk, we soon learned that he was married with three children and that he planned to improve his country by becoming a good rebel leader in the near future. My driver muttered that he was scared of falling with a muzungu, that he was scared #4 would do something stupid – I murmured sweet Swahili nothings into his ear, since I was basically sitting in his lap by that point, and offered him water as a placebo.
We snapped some logs crossing what could loosely be termed a bridge on the way back, and now I'm afraid the people of that potentially isolated village may develop different traits like the Galapagos finches. At the end of one of the best days in this country, nearly unable to walk and definitely unable to move my shoulders, I offered my driver his fee plus a tip. Unfortunately, this also resulted in the others demanding more money and #4 being indirectly rewarded for his drunken antics.
We returned to the regional office for a stamp, a request for a t-shirt from the secretary, and a request for phone credits from the official himself – who was dressed for success in a bright red shirt, an extra helping of self-importance, and reading glasses with the power still stuck on them. The funniest thing is that these requests, like most instances of begging here, were more instructional than anything else – as though they were being helpful in telling us what they'd be willing to take off our hands.
 |
Which
rut would you like?
|
 |
This
rut? Or that rut?
|
 |
When
taking the rut less travelled by
becomes a necessity rather than
poetic morality.
|
I was grappling with exhaustion and more than one epiphany (you can read about them here), but I could expect very little psychological support from Butters, who wanted me home just to demand toilet paper at bedtime.
Sweet -- mackerel, how do you consistently forget the need for toilet paper?! If I hadn't come home, would you not have gone to the bathroom? How do you live inside that messy head of yours? Why do men exist?
Unfortunately, I was dazed enough to say most of this out loud, so I had to leave him a Post-It the next morning apologizing profusely in case he died on his trip to a neighbouring country. Full disclosure: He rarely, if ever, listens to me, and I'm terrible at apologies.
It's good to be home.
Part I
Part II
Appendix
No comments:
Post a Comment
At the risk of sounding desperate - PLEASE WRITE TO ME!