I need to start this
blog by warning you that I might overshare.
I’m sorry. It can’t be helped. The fact of the matter is that my sister
has historically served as my social filter and she’s thousands of miles away
and couldn’t be reached by phone in time for me to post this. And I feel that in order for you to sense the
urgency of this situation, you have to know some things about me.
So here we go. Last
week my friend Peter asked me to do him a favor. His church was holding a crusade in a small
village and they needed help transporting their speakers, keyboard, sound
system, etc to the village. (You know, everything that is a must at a crusade
here….) Since Peter has been SUPER
helpful in the whole process with Marie, I was happy to be able to help. Also, I’ve never really been to a crusade
here so I was interested to see what it was going to be like.
The crusade was to start on a Thursday and go through Sunday
so on Thursday morning we loaded up my car and headed out. Of course part of my
“load” was a giant banner on the front of my car announcing the crusade. First time to travel with a banner so….I can
mark that one off my bucket list now. We
headed out and after 30 minutes reached the river that we had to cross with the
super sketchy ferry. When we got there,
we saw that the ferry was on the other side of the river. And it was in
pieces. We asked how long it was going
to take to make the repairs and got some vague answers. We decided to wait a
little and see. After about an hour we
saw the ferry cross over to our side and got all excited. After waiting for 2 ½ hours we hunted down the
man in charge and tried to get a final answer.
Was it going to be repaired today?
“No way.” Huh. That would have
been nice to know a couple hours ago. Oh
Salone.
So we headed back the way we came in order to go around to
some other ferry. Fortunately, it was on
one of the worst roads I’d ever been on so….that made it easier. After a couple hours of going around we met
the other ferry. Unfortunately it’s the end of dry season, so the river was
very low. They couldn’t just pull the
ferry across using a rope like they usually do, but instead had have five guys
jump in the water and literally push the ferry around a sand bar to meet up
with the rope on the other side where it was deeper. When it came to negotiating a price, the men
wanted Le50,000 (about $12). It seemed
reasonable to me, but the pastor who was with us was outraged! When Peter started negotiating and they agreed
on Le25,000 (about $6) she said that he was acting like a white man. She had only wanted to pay Le20,000 and
thought that he gave up too easily. I
was on the “white man’s” side though and agreed that sitting and arguing for 10
min. over $1.25 didn’t seem like the best use of our time. Especially since Peter was the one paying for it. J
 |
| The "ferry" under repairs. Unfortunately it pretty much looked the same when the repairs were finished..... |
Our initial plan was for Peter and I to go and drop the
crusaders off at the site and then return the same day. It didn’t take long after crossing the ferry
to realize that that wasn’t going to happen.
The road was just awful and I don’t like traveling at night. As much as
I love my car, it’s having some starting problems and sometimes doesn’t like to
restart if I happen to accidentally kill it.
Those factors combined with the fact that we went hours without seeing
another person and we had no cell phone coverage made me think that an attempt
to return that night probably wasn’t the wisest decision. When contemplating a decision I often think “What
will people say at my funeral if I die doing this thing? Will they say, ‘We’re
sad that Emily’s gone, but she sure was an idiot to do that thing……”’ I decided that traveling in the remote bush
at night and being eaten by some jungle animal or inadvertently stumbling into
some secret society business might earn me the title “Dead because she’s an idiot.” So I began to mentally prepare myself for
sleeping in the village.
I’ve done this a few times.
And it takes a little mental preparation. Sure, I don’t always have running water and
sometimes my solar is low so we sit in the dark. But I’m comfortable where I live. Spending the night in a strange place with
people I don’t know who have different customs from me pushes me outside my comfort
zone. (And I was praising God that I’d
left Marie with my two roommates!!)
One of the benefits of the horrible road was that I got to
practice using my low gear. Did you know
that when you put it into low gear it doesn’t mean that you have to keep it in
first gear? I didn’t know that. I know
that now. The small overheating problem that resulted from my previous
ignorance gave us a few minutes of much needed rest. Everyone in the car headed off to their
respective areas of bush to “ease themselves” (the polite way of saying they
needed to pee). And this is where my
oversharing begins.
I have a problem. I
have dubbed my problem “shy bladder syndrome.”
I don’t know if it’s an actual condition, but if there was a medicine
for it, I’d take it!! My problem is just
like it sounds. When there are other people
around me, I often just….can’t go!! It’s
really odd!! And it doesn’t happen all the time. It sneaks up on me! One of the biggest problems it’s caused me
has been with the mandatory drug testing I have to do when I get a new nursing
job. Just knowing that there’s someone
on the other side of the door waiting for me to pee makes my bladder clam up
and I can’t go! One time I spent almost
3 hours at the drug testing place, with 4 or 5 false attempts and I don’t even know
how many liters of fluid before I could go.
I had to get to the point where I was literally seconds away from….embarrassing
myself…before my bladder could overcome the shyness and I could give them the
sample they need! Annoying! And a little bit awkward!
Well let me tell you. Africa is not a great place for people
with shy bladders!! As I headed off to
my tree, I tried to talk to myself…and my bladder. It’s ok bladder! Don’t punk out on me now!! It’s a long way to
the village!! My pep talk seemed to help
because I went…..but then all of the sudden I just stopped! And that was it. I tried to relax, envision myself in a plush
bathroom in the States…..nothing. My
bladder was rebelling! And I still had
to go. It was a long, bumpy road to the
village!
We arrived to the villa I realized just how remote we were.
We were only 7 miles from Guinea. They
used Guinean currency. They only used
Guinean Sim cards in their phones. We
were in the sticks!!
The first thing I did was ask where I could go use the
rest room. I saw what looked like one of the typical bathrooms here but wasn’t
sure…and you don’t want to just go peeing somewhere you shouldn’t. I asked the
pastor and she told me to come with her.
As we approached the little bathroom hut, we both went in and she
plunked down and started going. I
tried. Not happening. I told her really
awkwardly about my shy bladder problem and she looked at me like I had horns on
my head but went outside to wait for me.
I tried again. No luck. When she asked me if I’d gone when we went
outside….I lied. I’m a missionary and I lied right to her face and said, “Yup!
No problem!” Blast! I still have to go!
The host pastor works for the military so we were staying at
the immigration outpost. I was sharing a bed with the pastor. Everyone went to take their stuff to our
lodging place (of course Peter and I had nothing because we weren’t planning on
staying) and freshened up before the crusade began that night. When we reached the site for the crusade it
was in full swing with the singing and dancing.
As we started looking for a place to perch, I realized that Peter was
leading me up to the stage. Negative.
Negatory. Absolutely not. For the first
six months I was here I would get sick to my stomach every time I went to
church because I felt so out of place. And that was when I was down in the congregation with everyone else! The thought of going up on stage during the service and having
everyone watch how much I don’t know the songs, how I can’t dance to save my
life, etc. sounded like my worst
nightmare. Peter looked a little confused
at my reluctance to go onstage but we stayed on the ground. Until they called
his name. Good! Go up on the stage!
Secretly I was glad because now I knew where the bathroom was and I wanted to
sneak off and try to finally empty this stupid shy bladder of mine! But then they called my name too. D.A.N.G.I.T.
I knew it would be more awkward to refuse to go up….so up we went.
After 20 min. or so of singing I couldn’t take it anymore. I
just kept thinking about that bathroom….all alone, in the dark. Perfect for my shy bladder! So I told Peter I’d be right back and headed
off the stage. After I got a little ways
away from the stage I turned my flashlight off.
It’s hard to go anywhere alone when you’re the white girl and the last
thing I needed right now was some kids to attach themselves to me and spoil my
plan for privacy! So I stumbled along in
the dark….and totally biffed it. I mean I fell hard! And I must have fallen on
a rock or something because it hurt!
Darnit! Fortunately, because I
didn’t have my flashlight on nobody saw me. I scrambled up and renewed my mission of the
bathroom. I made it there in one
piece. But my bladder hates me. I don’t know if it was the fall or all the
pressure there was to make use of this one precious opportunity….but the
suspense was too much and my bladder didn’t cooperate. After waiting just long enough to keep Peter from sending out a search party for me, I reluctantly headed back…with my full
bladder. And my new bloody knee.
After awkwardly swaying and clapping my way through the
crusade, it was over. Everyone was loading up the sound equipment so I took a
look at my knee. I was dabbing it with a Kleenex when Peter and the pastor saw
what I’d done. I was reprimanded for not
telling them earlier. Those of you who
know me well know that me falling down is not an unusual occurrence and
therefore no reason for a lot of hoopla.
There was a time in the not so distant past where if I went a week
without falling I would congratulate myself.
But they were all concerned. And
insisted they wanted to “Spray it.” What
do you mean “spray it?” Spray it with what?
Perfume. That’s what. They wanted to spray my open wound with perfume.
Apparently this is the standard practice when there are no other first aid
supplies around. I tried to use my six years of higher education in the medical
field and nine years of nursing experience to convince them I could wait until
we got back and clean it with soap and water….but to no avail. They kept insisting I should spray it. But I too was adamant. I’ll just wait.
When we arrived back at our lodging place I was at the car
cleaning my wound when the pastor came up and asked to see it. I was happy to
show her my nice clean, non-sprayed wound but when I did she SNEAK SPRAYED me!! She seriously pulled out the perfume and
started squirting it on my knee. I
screamed! (Not that I’m dramatic or
anything…) What the heck just
happened?!?! That hurt!!!! She tried to keep doing it but I started
running away. “See?” she said. “Isn’t
that better?” Better! Well, it hurts
more and smells better so….ok, that’s better.
Sneaky spraying pastor!!
After our long day I was glad to head to bed. But I still had to go! While everyone else was getting changed I snuck
out to the back. I found a nice private
area but this time was surrounded by cows.
They were watching me. I told them to stop, but they wouldn’t
cooperate. And neither would my bladder.
It let me go a little bit, but then it rebelled, I still had to go.
Frustrating!!!!
As I was getting ready for bed I had a dilemma. I wear contacts. The last time I’d slept with my contacts in I
hadn’t been able to drive home because my eyes were so sensitive to the light.
I knew that I HAD to be able to drive home the next day, so I had to figure out
something to do with my contacts. The
problem was that I didn’t have any contact solution. And I can’t use water on my contacts. But I can use my spit. So ensued the conversation with my roommates
about what exactly contacts were and why exactly I was spitting into a cup and
putting said contacts into a cup. I
grossed myself out….I can only imagine what they thought of me.
I made another attempt to go outside and relieve myself, but the pastor
caught me. “Are you going to the bathroom? I’ll go with you.” Great.
When we got to the side of the house she copped a squat, pointed next to
her and said, “Pee here!” I mentioned my
shy bladder again and moved a little farther away from her. No use.
When we got back into the room she told me that if I needed to go to the
bathroom during the night I needed to wake her up. Awesome.
I understood her reasoning. We’re
in a strange place with lots of soldiers around etc. But I knew I was going to
have to disobey. At this point it was
nearly midnight. I lay down and tried to
sleep….I was exhausted from the travelling.
But there was no way. I had to go too badly! It was painful to lie down because of the pressure it put on my
stupid shy bladder! But I had to wait
the pastor out. I knew if I made my move too quickly, before she was really
asleep, then I would lose my window and I’d have a urinating buddy. So I waited.
And I waited. After about an hour and a
half I felt her breathing was deep enough that she had to be asleep. So I quietly and very sneakily got up and
started praying. Please Lord!! I have to go!! Please!!! I’m not going to sleep tonight!! Is it
possible for bladders to explode!?!?!? (Name that movie).
And Jesus loves me. At
1:30 in the morning, after 12 hours of really needing to “ease myself” with the
cows as my witnesses, my bladder finally cooperated. I thought I might cry in relief. I snuck back into the room and was asleep in
3-5 seconds. The next day Peter and I
headed home and I got to use my very own bathroom.....with success on the first try.
