Love from Africa

Happy Valentine's Day!
I hate Valentine's day. As many of you know, there is something about the sight of red foil wrapped chocolates and roses that makes me want to hurl. For some strange reason, people all throughout North America (and Europe and Asia and Africa) are buying pink and red colored crap to give to people they love or like or simply want to sleep with. But, despite my hatred, a funny thing is happening to me in Africa: I'm learning, painfully, to go with the flow.

Tonight a bunch of girls are coming over to a meal I've prepared that is made entirely of red foods: red lentil curry, kidney bean salad, beetroot salad, pasta with tomato sauce, peri peri sausages, and chili chicken. Of course la piece de resistance is the heart shaped cookies and cheesy Nigerian movie for dessert.

But, on the theme of love, I'd like to offer you a humble story of an early Valentine's gift. It's not romantic, but it certainly leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy and perhaps even a little red.

The sun was fiery, much like it is today.
We were packed like sardines into the back of the bukki (pick-up truck)on our way to the creche in Weldverdien.
It was a day for giggling as Simon flew over the perilous dirt roads that sent us flying into each others' laps. (It's bonding to be flung into a neighbor's arms.)
Lacey, Danny, Mike, Jessi and I jostled around in the back discussing what we would do if suddenly abandoned on the side of the road.
Mike's insistence that his debit card would save him sent us into convulsions.
And then, suddenly, as though foreshadowed, we were on the side of the road. Or should I say, in?
The bukki, in one dramatic thunk, sunk right into the road, which apparently, was no road but rather a cleverly disguised mud bath.
We got out, spirits light, and assessed the situation.
The angle of the truck alone indicated the severity of the situation.
We tried to push.
The tires spun and the exhaust smoked and we watched in horror as the truck sunk further and further into the thick, red sludge.
Simon joined us outside the bukki.
We shook our heads, hands on our hips, as we helplessly looked around us.
No CAA.
Hours from the nearest city.
What to do?
And then, Africa happened.
Dressed in pressed trousers and gleaming white sneakers, two men wandered down the road toward us.
Abushene. (Hello)
Mjani? (How are you)
We shrugged, motioning to the truck.
A minute later, 4 women in skirts and scarves appeared from the creche and wandered down to check out the activity.
Abushene.
Mjani?
Before long another villager appeared, shovel in hand.
Moments later school children poured out of their yards, barefoot, struggling under the weight of old wooden planks.
Abushene.
Mjani?
In no time, nearly twenty people were standing around the bukki: two in white sneakers shoveled mud from under the truck, ladies in skirts shoved planks under the wheels.
Again we pushed.
Again, we sunk.
Simon got out of the truck, again, and joined the sizable group standing around, hands on hips, shaking their heads.
More planks.
More digging.
More pushing.
More sinking.
More shaking heads.
More people, curiously wandering toward the growing spectacle.
More digging.
More instructions.
Forward! No, backward! No, rock it!
More digging.
More pushing.
More pulling.
More sinking.
More shaking of the heads.
It was around this point that we noticed Danny, our fair faced Englishman, turning a slightly pinker version of himself. He welcomed a shirt to tie around his neck. We giggled at him looking like a tennis player amid the muddy, truck rescuing mission.
The ancient gogos shook their heads, this time at Danny, and tucked in their shoulders to heave again on the belligerent vehicle.
By the time 30 people had assembled, and every wheel had sunk into the unstable road, it became obvious that our only option was to lift the truck out of the mud.
And so that's what we did.
36 people - some kids, some ladies in skirts, some grannies, some men in white sneakers and some white people began the arduous process of lift-push-pull-shoving a pick-up out of a mud bath.
Sweating and panting some 20 minutes later, there stood the bukki, on solid ground.
The white people waved affectionately, sweating and covered in mud, to the gogos and ladies and children and the men who, somehow, had worked the hardest and remained completely immaculate.
Simon backed up, relieved, right into the next mud bath.
Slapping our heads, we got out, and did it again.
This time experience made us wiser.
The group quickly got to work again, snickering to themselves.
Thank-you! Thank-you! We said.
No problem. They said, shaking our hands heartily.
No problem.
Back in the bukki, a short lifetime later, we giggled again.
It was a wearier giggle.
It's bonding to sweat alongside 30 strangers who have assembled for the purpose of rescuing you.
The valentine message:
African's are rad.
Oh, and white people should wear sunscreen or they turn into Valentine's Day decorations.