That morning, when we’d climbed into the ill-fated car, Roy, the driver, told us that he was originally planning to leave at 5am, but it must have been angels that had made him late so that he could pick us up. Well, I’m not sure about angels, but we were certainly thanking God when we climbed into the minibus and began our 50 mile trip to Caia. So were the other passengers. Gracias a Dios (thanks to God) was muttered by several of the people we squashed on top of (which is a bit strange because they use obrigado instead of gracias here for thank you.) The only person who didn’t seem happy we were alive was the driver of the bus who seemed to be arguing with everyone else about who knows what.
On the way to Caia, I mainly focused on not passing out and dying. I felt spacey. At one point, Roy and his buddy got off and encouraged us to get off too, telling us the hospital was nearby. Immediately after we’d disembarked, the bus began to drive off with our backpacks still tied on top. I jumped onto the side of the bus and yelled at the driver to stop. Everyone inside was yelling unintelligibly, and the driver stopped only long enough for Liam to hop back in before we were off again, destination unknown. NO one spoke English but someone indicated to us that the hospital was up ahead.
Six miles further down the road, we encountered the mighty Zambezi river. No bridge spanned the flow, but instead, cars and people were taken across by a ferry...which was of course closed for the evening. Worn out, Liam got out of the minibus, removed our bags, and finally found an English speaking truck driver who informed us that there was a clinic about 6 miles back the way we’d come. Ah! So frustrating.
While Liam was gone in search of more information, I stood outside the minibus and a large crowd of children gathered to stare at me. Normally, being white, children like to stare and wave, but being white with half my face and my shirt covered in blood brought the attention to a whole new level. I was sighing and saying hello to my jaws-to-the-floor audience when a local guy approached. Though he spoke some English, he was very drunk and kept trying to grab my backpack and get me to follow him and leave my “husband”; loudly volunteering of course to be my new one. While I fended off my admirer and grasped my things with all of my might, the mysteriously cranky bus driver began driving away. There were only a few people inside the vehicle and I began screeching about Liam. Angrily, the man slammed on the brakes and began honking nonstop until Liam came running back. Undeterred by the arrival of my boyfriend, the drunk guy hopped in with us and demanded we proceed to the hospital.
Desperately and unsuccessfully, we asked the oddly impatient (especially for an African) minibus driver if he was going back to Caia by pointing at him and the road and repeating “Caia?” He gave us only a growl in response, but ten minutes later, dropped us off in front of a rundown white building. It was the clinic. He barked “$3.00 each”. We paid. My drunk suitor then demanded money from Liam. What? Why? For translations of course. Not a chance, and the man left with neither money nor a wife.
Squaring our shoulders, Liam and I walked into the hospital, determined to get me cleaned up. Of course no one spoke English, so in Spanish I tried to explain our situation to the kind looking doctor who informed us that before being treated, we needed to go file a report with the police. Weighed down by our increasingly heavy backpacks, Liam and I trudged through the mazelike village asking everyone we saw where the police station was. Finally, our tired eyes spotted it. I sat down on a cement step for a moment and Liam and I had a pow wow to discuss our options:
Need #1: A western doctor, trained in scar prevention, to clean and stitch up my face and remove the glass shards from my arm.
Need #1 deemed: Impossible.
Need #2: A public phone to call my family and tell them what happened and that I was ok.
Need #2 deemed: Impossible.
Need #3: Warm, clean, running water, soap, tweezers, and a butterfly bandage.
We realized that Liam would be able to do as much as a dirty, underfunded African clinic could to get me patched up, at least temporarily, and without the potentially very expensive hassle of going to the police and filing a report in a language neither of us spoke.
Need #3 deemed: Possible (except for the butterfly bandage part).
Need #4: A place to stay for the night that wasn’t too expensive because we only had the equivalent of about $20 between us.
Need #4 deemed: Possible (hopefully).
Need #5: Dinner. Though after dark now, we’d only eaten a light breakfast.
Need # 5 deemed: This we could take care of. We could eat at the restaurant across the street, and, at the very least, check that need off of the list. Ha! Just kidding! Liam ordered rice and chicken without checking the price, and after waiting an HOUR, we were given half of a chicken and charged $12 (a live chicken isn’t worth $5). Mouths gaped open, we argued for awhile. This was an unimaginable price, and twice what we’d been paying at the most expensive places previously. It wasn’t just that it was ridiculously expensive, we needed money for a hotel. Normally camping would be ok, but I NEEDED water.
A local man heard our balking and came over to ask if we were alright. I fought back tired tears trying to explain our situation in Spanish. Kindly, he offered to take Liam to an ATM on his motorbike. Honestly, it had not previously occurred to us that a village that rural would have an ATM, but Liam jumped at the opportunity. Twenty minutes after he’d gone, Liam returned. The ATM was out of order. Of course it was. Dejected, we paid the outrageous bill, and picked at our meal quietly.
I watched the road for good Samaritans. Though I have already in my life (especially my travel life) had far more than my fair share of strangers appear out of thin air and save me when I needed them most, it seemed implausible that this much bad luck could befall us without someone stepping in to help. Any second, a car full of tourists or NGOs would show up and we would temporarily hand in the reins to them, and they, more organized at that moment, would fix everything.
No one came, and weighed down with life, we trudged back to the hospital to leave a note for Gavin in case he knew of our accident and went to the hospital to find us. When the doctor I’d spoken to earlier asked about the police slip, I tried to explain how the chicken was expensive and the ATM was broken and we couldn’t pay for a doctor because we needed money for a hotel, but if he could please give this note to our fri…
The fatherly doctor cut me off with a scolding babble. Too tired to fight the day any further, we allowed ourselves to be dragged into a back room where I was seated on bed with a seriously stained sheet. Knowing Africans were far tougher and braver than their western counterparts regarding pain and injuries, I let out not even a whimper while my glassy arm was scrubbed, my excess skin torn off and my wounds cleaned and disinfected with burning iodine. When it was over, I whispered a thank you and Liam began nursing his unfortunately mashed hand.
Back at reception, the doctor doled out 3 Tylenol pills and explained 4 times that I was to take one that night, one the next morning, and one the next night. He was admirably, if not a bit comically, determined not to let the exact dosage get lost in translation. In the end, the bill was only $0.05. This we could afford, and the fact that we didn’t have change for a 15-cent piece bothered only the fair minded man. If the 450lb restaurant woman got an extra $10 off of us, we could tip this man $0.10.
We paid for a little, but adequate hotel room that night with the last of our cash and though there was no running water, the manager pumped us a cold bucket from the outside well. There was a mirror in the room and we agreed that I should have had stitches or at least a butterfly bandage…but without these things, Liam gently re-bandaged my face with scar reduction in mind. I had never loved him more.
FINALLY FINALLY FINALLY the day was permitted to end and we lay down on the worn mattress together. I was exhausted, but terrified to sleep because I imagined I might go into a coma and die. I demanded that Liam rouse me in the middle of night should he awaken.* Sleep at last enclosed and though it was deep, black, and dreamless, I did not die. It was not yet my day.
*Liam did apparently wake me up and I am told that I snapped at him irritably. I am very sorry about that.
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