I'm going to barf. Dear Jesus, please let me barf.
The rest of the squad is situated out on the front porch of our ministry building, and I'm curled up inside, a migraine threatening to spilt my head in two. The increasingly-violent sound of rain battering the tin roof above me has escalated to near-deafening volumes, and I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I fight back another wave of nausea.
Here in Lesotho, we share everything. This also means that if one person gets sick, it's only a matter of time before everyone is sick. For the past six days, a nasty stomach virus has been going around, and I'm the latest recipient. Teammates make their way back inside, and I try my best to lie still as I become aware of a roof leak directly above my bed, forming a small, hateful puddle on my sleeping pad. I grab a dirty coffee cup and angle it to catch the drips, sighing as more drips materialize around my blankets.
"Uhhh...guys, what's that?"
From the back entrance of the church, a puddle of dark brown water has begun to creep across the floor, gaining speed and snaking in between plastic chairs and toward the ground laid head to foot with mattresses, laundry, laptops and blankets.
For a minute, no one says anything. We stand frozen, watching the water move across the floor, unable to comprehend what this means.
"It's flooding!" Aubrey shouts, and like snapping out a daydream, everyone is immediately on their feet.
"Move the chairs! Get the speakers up off the floor!" All 21 of us begin throwing items from the ground up onto whatever elevated surface we can find, only to realize that the roof has begun leaking in countless places. A boom of thunder shakes the building, giant drops of dirty water trickling down from between cracks in the tin roof, pooling on keyboards and books. The muddy river is now pouring in from the closed door, and people begin screaming as it rushes over things remaining around the room.
Stacked mattresses are now half an inch deep in water and shoes begin floating away, the majority of us clothed only in t-shirts and shorts, feet now covered in mud as we shiver and splash our way to the leaking doorway. One of the boys, donning a headlamp and a rain jacket, forces open the door, and is met with a surge of floodwater that pours down from the doorway and into the already flooded interior of our room.
People pick up brooms, mops and any other tool they can find and begin forcing the water across the room towards the exit door. It feels like an eternity passes before I can look down and see the colour of my toenail polish again.
One of the girls comes into the scene, unzipping her windbreaker and wiping water from her eyes.
"Four of the tents are completely underwater, and some are flowing away," she reports. I do what I know every other person did in that moment: pray one of those tents wasn't mine.
Lindsay nudges me. "Wanna go check?" With nothing to put on other than a denim overshirt, I slip and slide out the door in bare feet, squishing through mud and standing water. "Jesus, Jesus...." I whisper as I come to my tent, which has taken a noticeable beating. I bend down and unzip my rainfly, hands trembling as I shine a light inside.
Everything I own is floating in four inches of muddy water. Everything. Like an iceberg set adrift, my big pack is the only recognizable item, it's red straps protruding from the fray. The rest of my belongings - makeup, toiletries, Polaroids, souvenirs, books, all my clothes - are either underwater or floating.
Lindsay turns to me, her blue eyes wide. "I think," she says solemnly, "that this would be a good time to sing a song."
An hour later, with my tent emptied out and storm beginning again, I load my soaking wet clothes and pack back inside, nearly everything else too brown to identify. The only thing more covered in mud than my tent is me. I stumble back into the church shivering head to toe, the lightening once again cracking across the night sky. Some teammates are crying, holding destroyed journals, letters, gear and memories they'll never be able to recreate. Others are walking barefoot in the layer of leftover mud, checking on one another in quiet, gentle voices.
"Everyone is safe." I'm not sure who says it, but the atmosphere of the room is suddenly a little lighter. Each person has lost at least one important item that can't be replaced, most more - but none of us have more than a scratch to show for it.
The adrenaline has worn off and my migraine has come back, my vision blurring over as I sink to my knees on the dirty floor.
From the doorway, my squad mate Cassidy raises her hands towards the raging storm, throws her head back and yells, "God is SO COOL!!!" As if on cue, another roll of thunder rips through the room. For zero reason, I start giggling, releasing a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
I'm sitting in mud, again. The few things I own are either ruined or damaged. The solar power is out. I really, really have to pee. But taking another look around the room, I have one of those special Race moments when important things come back into focus and in a burst of clarity, I remember exactly where I am, what I'm doing and of the insane, cinematic masterpiece that my life has become.
I'm Walter Mitty, the Hobbit, Don Quioxte. I'm still living my dream.
I'm on an adventure.
"Hey guys, guess what? We're on the World Race."
