Kilabuni Nights – Episode XV: Marooned

25 Feb 2010  0815 local Madibira, TZ

Wherein Boots and The Traveler Find Further Calamity

I was stymied by uneasiness this morning whilst prepared my penultimate Mathematics lesson.  What hardened the pit of my stomach was not only the odyssey of the twenty-four hours past, which had left me footsore and bug-bitten, but also the dread grip of ennui.  I will be leaving the village in two days and it feels as though the heady visions of my tenure’s outset – Will Huntings unlocked and Todd Andersons brought to the sublimity of the factored numeral – have gotten burned through by more phlegmatic and quotidian ends; a correct homework assignment, learning to pronounce a student’s name.   Not a set of troubles that would persist in the psyche, just the unverified guilt that things could have been more.

In any event, these cogitations were cast aside directly once Boots Himself returned from chapati break to tell me that the school’s entire student body and male faculty had been dispatched to the school’s rice field to work on the upcoming crop.  (When I inquired as to the puzzlingly ad hoc nature of the decision, Boots disclosed that the school withholds such information because advance notice usually brings about “stomach pains” amongst the children on account of the difficulty of the labour.)

Our young charges kilometers away as the crow flies, we managed a fair lunch and pondered what young expeditioneers might do when presented with an unforeseen spot of found time.  It being the exact middle of the hottest, sunniest day in some time in this, the hottest, sunniest part of the world, our election was to obtain a set of bi-cycles and see that the work at the rice fields was proceeding in productive and humane order.

Following excerpt from the pocket journal of THE TRAVELER

“1215 HRS.  In town meeting bi-cycle dealers.  Boots is actually procuring his second bi-cycle of the week.  One had been secured a few days prior, but Deo is privy to a superior make recently arrived and believes Boots would be better served with one of those.  The transaction, unlike so many in this markedly un-English corner of the map, sems to be going without a hitch.  I myself will be taking saddle with Deo’s personal bi-cycle, a smart chrome outfit with the words “THE CONFERENCE!”[1] stenciled up the strut in lightning bolt letters.

1330 HRS.  Newly arrived at the rice field junction.  The jaunt out was quite lovely, if sweat inducing and bumpy (much like a schoolboy’s first proper dance har har).  It has been ages since my last turn on a bi-cycle.  Should a lioness fall upon us, out-pedaling her would be utterly out of the question — we would do the honorable thing and slay the beast with our boot-knives and bare hands.

The rice field junction is little more than a crossroads with a few soda-toting lean-twos aligning two of its four “avenues.”  The intersection serves as the drop-off point for and workers lucky enough to pass the ride from the village in the back of a truck or lorry bed.  From the junction, the rice fields spread in two directions: South, parallel to an irrigation canal and a nearby set of foothills and East, over a canal and perpendicular to the aforementioned mountains.  Our first trip will be on the southward branch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1430 HRS.  The road has been good thus far (albeit narrow).  Boots and I have been impressed by the favourable conditions and have decided to hazard a

In Formation. East Village Hockey League, 2010 AD

chance at some “in action” pictographs – our image as dashing members of the cycling set will be instrumental in penetrating SPORT HOCKEY into the critical French and Chinese markets.  I shall examine the prints on returning stateside, but our suspicion is that we might be mistaken even for airmen!

The rice fields to our east are largely deserted by this hour.  The shallow waters of the patties warm rapidly in the equatorial sun and I relate to the reader firsthand that the glare emanating from the specked surface[2] is far from benign.

Spirits high, we are returning presently to the junction to explore the Eastward path.  It is rare in one’s life to have enjoyed such easy success on the road less traveled by, but it seems we have the gods on our sides this day, and that has made all the difference.

 

1545 HRS. Ah, the good purge of exertion!  This eastbound path was no more of a challenge than its gentle southern compatriot for a span of two miles or so, but in the past two-thousand metres the surface has become cratered and craggy, resembling Antietam or perhaps one of the Lunar battlefields of the future.  Bi-cyclemen of such alacrity as we tackled the challenge acceptably well, the novelty and good winds of the day inspiring us to stop for a tripod[3] mounted still shot for later framing in the EVHL Central Office:

1600 HRS.  Calamity!  The dramatized pose the reader sees above was not our first attempt at such noble capture.  Several times over the course of the half-hour we endeavored to similar glamourizations, but each time were repudiated by the Boots’ bi-cycle (our defacto camera tripod) tumbling over.  Casually, we attributed these mishaps to the irregularity of the ridge on which the bi-cycle was perched.  Set to leave, we found a much more unfortunate case.  Somewhere along our road of thigh and buttock bruising toil the machine’s entire rear tire had been punctured and now sat utterly deflated.  Completely unrideable!

We are a great distance from base camp.  I must take stock of our field provisions.

1605 HRS.  We are without field provisions.  I feel as Robert Falcon Scott after the malfunction of the precious motor sledges – some solace, knowing we are not the first explorers to hazard a scurvy demise after betrayal from our tinny colleagues!

1710 HRS.  We rest now; our first respite during this forced march across the pitiless moonscape, the yellow sun bullying down upon us with hot contempt.  Some time ago we saw an old man wading towards the opposite bank of the rice fields, a crate of golden Fanta™ held above his head.  We called to him, but the distance was too great and our voices too weak. I am reminded now of the Finn’s fondly held saying regarding the gods: they are more game than just.

1740 HRS.  The bi-cycles have become a true hardship.   Walking them along like ladies of the court has taxed our deltoid and lateral muscles palpably.  We must make a greater progress!

My bi-cycle at the least comes along obediently, the other is something of a stubborn cog.  There is no doubt that Boots is a good deal run down at this point.  His walk takes on a marked list and he sets about with a wild look in his eyes.

We have a plan to improvise a rapid flight from these fell circumstances.  It is an unlikely thing, but if it fails to work the end cannot be far off.

1830 HRS.  The square-cycle moves!  Engineering and ingenuity deliver a thrilling prospect of escape:  by sitting back to back on the working bi-cycle, the rear man is able to pull the crippled cycle alongside.  The results are unstable and a terrible effort on the legs and hind parts and we cannot move in intervals greater than 100-yard bursts before crashing in a heap, but this speed will have us to the junction before night!  A schematic:

Top View

Side View

 

2030 HRS.  Have returned to the village.  Glad, extremely fatigued.  A handyman was about at the junction and provided Mr. Boots a tire patch and re-inflation for 5,000 Tsh.  By no means a long-term fix but sufficient to see us home.  I sit now in Madibira’s early evening revelry as Boots and Deo negotiate a new bi-cycle purchase.  By day’s end, the number of bi-cycles Boots Himself has owned during our brief time here (three) will come to exceed the number of bi-cycles I have called my own during the span of my life (two).  Haggling is in full fervor now.  Boots and Deo are meticulous acquisitors, but the cycle merchant is something of a wizard in his own right.  Two days remain in Madibira.

[1] The name originates from the source of acquisition.  Some months ago Deo accompanied Katelyn to a conference in Dar at which each attendee was afforded a generous per diem.  Deo, Spartan as ever, simply pocketed the hard currency and parlayed the event into one of the village’s top personal vehicles.

[2] Riceing plots are normally arranged in shemba – thirty-six 30×30 squares, flooded with 36-48 in. of water.

[3] Bicycle

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