One thing I have to remind myself of is that everyone has bad days. In Ohio, in Poland, even if you don't leave your house...things are bound to go wrong. Yesterday, I had a severe case of the "when it rains, it pours" and here goes.
Last weekend, I attended a teacher's workshop on phonics. It was about a 45 minute bike ride away, so I left in a hurry. Apparently, so much of a hurry, that I accidentally left my gas tank open and leaking out until I came home to discover it 12 hours later. Sigh. So, rather than face inevitable death by fire, I roasted corn over some coals for dinner, and hatched a plan to get my tank refilled.
Two days later, the time came. My host father used his motor bike to lug the big, empty tank to the road; I followed with my bicycle, and we met at the police post, where they agreed to watch my bike while I traveled by hoopty to Bansang with my tank. One hour, 30 Dalasi, and one rare sighting of a 2003 Chingy Tour t-shirt later, and I was there. I walked up and down the dirt road, carrying this monstrous can around, sweating and searching for help. Frustrated, I stopped and bought a few small bananas; they were rotten. I asked some people for directions; they had no idea what I was talking about. Finally, after calling a friend, I found the guy! He was out of gas. At this point, my face grew red and my eyes welled up. I tried to call my host father, but he didn't pick up. I called my headmistress at school, but my predicament was lost in translation. My tears swelled. I had been defeated---hard.
A few bystanders, completely uncomfortable with displays of emotion, jumped in to help. One kind woman, Cumba, took me to her shop and made me "coffee". She explained that a man was going to bring a gas tank from his home. It wasn't full, but it would get me through until he had more gas for sale. I waited about an hour and half, melting in the sun with my hot coffee, trying to talk myself down from the ledge. When the man arrived, the tank felt empty. I clenched my teeth and asked why he would bring me another empty tank, feigning sass while speaking Pulaar and trying not to cry. He continued insisting it wasn't empty. Admittedly, I had no clue if it was empty or not, I just felt the need to assert myself and gain back some degree of control. He persisted, so I took his tank, he took mine, and I thanked Cumba before attempting to stomp off with my giant tank, which in hindsight, probably looked more like I had a disability than an attitude.
After waiting about 30 minutes, I boarded a gele and bought a bag of frozen juice. The bag popped and spilled all over my shirt. I moved to the window to dry off in the wind, but it was stuck in a position which allowed for only enough wind to steadily whistle in my face and get dust in my eyes. Then, when a woman got in and set her naked, crying infant on my lap, I was done. I yelled in English, "You're kidding!?" which apparently translates seamlessly. She took back her child. I sat there, still as a statue, eyes closed, and tried to collect my thoughts. We soon arrived, the man handed me my tank, and I went to go buy a fish. I decided it would be a good sign. Buy a fish, Meghan. Have faith..there will be gas. The woman was fresh out of fish.
There was no coming back from this. I raced to the police, grabbed by bike, shoved the bullshit gas tank into the back and rushed home. The moment I entered my compound, I was relieved to find it empty. I fumbled with the combination lock on my house, stepped inside, and just let go. I think I only cried for about 15 seconds before my host mother and neighbor stood at my door asking what happened. Through heaving sobs and in very broken Pulaar, I erratically explained that there is no gas in the whole of Gambia, that not one human understands me no matter what language I speak, and how the fish lady clearly hates me because how could she possibly be out of fish, it's only 2 pm.
Hawa looked at me with huge wide eyes and said, "Fatoumata, the sun is very hot. Take a bath and sleep." She was right. I slept for the next two hours. When I woke I rode my bike to Tim's to boil eggs that I could keep and eat until I figured out how to fix my gas, but obviously all of the eggs broke in my bag on the ride over. This day was a wash no matter what, so we reviewed the ridiculousness of the day's events while making very scrambled egg sandwiches. We ate, chatted, and I left to bike home before sunset. I was full, feeling better, and ready to lay out under the stars. Then, my tire got caught in the sand and I fell over sideways, spilling all my stuff into the dusk. Mouth full of grit, I rose, collected my things and continued on. Once home, I went to wash my hands and the cap to my only water bottle slipped and dropped into the depths of my 10-foot deep pit latrine.
Cutting my losses, I immediately put myself to bed before I did any more damage. I slept for 9 hours and had an intense dream that my hand was chewed up by a dinosaur-sized crocodile while swimming in the river. But, I'm choosing to take the dream as a sign of perseverance. The croc may have taken a bit of skin, but that bastard didn't get my hand. Now I feel ready for whatever this week may have in store--I just sincerely hope there's some gin in the inventory.
