The Mondays

1/25/2008

Monday morning, 8:30 am, January 21, 2008, as suspected, my counterpart/homologue is a no show for the formation/training session I planned for 9:00 am of the same morning, 10 kilometers away. I spent the weekend prepping for this formation and intended on stopping by my homologue’s house to verify we were on track for Monday, but seeing as how I am inherently lazy, I figured if something had come up he would have stopped by to tell me so. And not-to-mention, I just did not have enough time during the weekend between prepping for Monday’s formation and Tuesday’s tutoring and club meetings to bike the 5-10 minutes over to his house. Shoulda, woulda, coulda, as my Mother would say. So that brings me to Monday morning. I hopped on my trusty bike and pedaled on over to my homologue’s house all the while getting myself worked up to give him a tongue-lashing for being inconsiderate and irresponsible and that now we would have to take his moto/motorcycle (gas is expensive, by the way) to get to the formation on time. Instead, what happened was my bike hit a patch of roots in the middle of the dirt path in which I was riding and opposed to just going over the roots like it should have done, my trusty bike does me dirty and stops dead in its tracks, sending me flying like superman over the handlebars and into the dirt below. Mostly what I remember feeling while I was skidding face-first was perplexed. What the hell happened? I was shocked, confused really. I wasn’t supposed to be hugging the ground as if I was sliding into home plate. Once the dust settled, I realized there was no way I was going to make 2 years with a bike as my primary mode of transportation and never crash and burn. I was just disappointed no one was around to bear witness; I’m sure it would have been magnificent sight to see. Some curse words were uttered; I felt pain. But I was too shocked and stunned to cry, which is what I wanted to do most. In fact, I kind of half whimpered, half laughed. I was mostly annoyed at myself for being so careless. Surprisingly, I neglected to check my wounds and opted to scan my bike for any injuries. The bike was fine, for the most part, unlike the first time I crashed it in which I was fine but the bike was pretty much totaled – at least the gear system was completely shot. A stage/pre-service training incident. Anyhoo, I got back on my bike and rode the last 200 yards to my homologue’s house. Now, I thought, he’s really going to feel like an @$$ now! We are for sure going to miss the formation since I would need to go home to treat my wounds tout de suite. My arrival was greeted by a whole slew of women who didn’t speak any French. Now I cried. I did it unabashedly. I didn’t care what they thought. I was the injured white girl, with pools of blood gathering in the heels of my fancy, leather flip flops. Don’t you people care?! I screamed – internally. Of course they were not blind and wanted to help me, but when it comes to my own health and sanitation here, I would rather do it myself. Sorry. I am one of those people that likes to be prepared, so I whipped out my alcohol wipes, antibiotic ointment and Band-Aids that I had in my handy-dandy backpack and put them to good use. After calming down, I asked to see my homologue ready to spread the misery around like cake frosting. But alas, I was informed he was not at home. Of course he’s not at home! He’s in the fields! He’s a farmer! Where else would he be at 8:30 am on a Monday morning, except maybe at my house ready to help with a formation! Couldn’t they send one of his 22 children to go fetch him?! So, I was mildly irritated. I was wounded damn it! I didn’t bike down there for nothing! Fortunately, I got the next best thing – 1 out of 3 or 4 (I’m not sure) wives spoke French. I relayed the situation, to the best of my ability, to her and then, hobbled back to my bike seeking the refuge of my home and Med Kit. It wasn’t until I got home that I was able to take stock of the bodily damage. First of all, I was wearing a helmet when I crashed so this face, baby, is intact. You’re welcome. However, the rest of my body didn’t fare so well. Let’s start at the top: one dime-sized gouge on my right palm, scrapes and a blood blister on the left palm, scratches down my right forearm, scratches on my right hip/pelvis bone, one large black and purple bruise the size of my hand on my right hip, another black and purple bruise with a bump or knot the shape of my handlebar on my right thigh, more scratches below my right knee, bruises, bumps and knots down my left shin, one quarter-sized gash on my right ankle and to top it off, my favorite, one sliced heel in the shape of a bike pedal. That’s right. This is a pity party for one! Oh, and did I forget to mention I had dirt and dust ingrained into my clothes? I was gorgeous! While I was happy to be home, this meant I had to clean my cuts and scraps. I suppose I can tolerate a certain amount of pain, having broken my leg twice, however, there is a new level of discomfort when the pain is self-inflicted. I’ll be honest – I don’t enjoy scrubbing the dirt out of my wounds. It hurts – a lot. I can’t imagine having to saw a limb off… My heel was the worst since it was the deepest and wouldn’t stop bleeding (until a day or two later). My primary concern was inflection; as you can imagine, I live in a world teeming with all sorts of maladies. Again, curse words were uttered, even some yelling, but what was odd was the laughing. I tried to cry – I was upset. I had a right! But every time I tried to cry, it turned into a cackle. I suppose I was laughing at the ridiculousness since the accident could have been completely prevented had I just gone to my homologue’s house over the weekend like I knew I should have done. This will be a lasting lesson – no? It’s no good regretting what I could have or should have done – I told this to myself over and over. But I was annoyed because being injured or even sick out here is a major inconvenience in trying to get anything done except lying about the house in a foul mood. My homologue did in fact come over to check on me, but not at the noontime repose/nap but instead around 4:30 pm in the evening. I asked him why he didn’t show up as cold as I could get without being too overtly rude. Well, the funny thing is that he did come over to my house to tell me something had come up and wouldn’t be available Monday morning. He came to my house the prior Thursday – the one day I was out of my village to deal with a furniture issue. Did I tell him I was leaving for a day? No. But I did tell everyone else in my neighborhood. So when he came to chez moi on the previous Thursday, my neighbor informed him I was gone but failed to mention when I would be returning. So, my homologue never came back after that to check. And the rest you now know. Like I said before – lesson learned. Thanks. I now have the scars to prove it.