I have been to hell, and it is the third stall of the Johannesburg bus station women’s bathroom.
After making a dash from the pigeon-poop covered station waiting room seats, down the hallway to wait in a line 17 deep of women all as worried as me about missing their bus, I ducked into the first available stall and shut the door.
Well, I would’ve, had the door actually shut. Whatever. So there I am, and I’m doing my bathroom thing, one foot propped up against the door and the other trying to hold my weight over the blackened toilet seat, sincerely concerned about the intestinal fate of whatever poor soul was in this stall before me - this toilet doesn’t appear to have any way to flush itself.
Job done. All I want to do is wash my hands and return to the timely comfort of my bird-poop seat.
Bursting out the door of the stall, I keep my offensive hands clenched and eagerly punch the sink faucet handle, positioning myself to receive a cool stream of water.
Nothing.
Even though in the trenches of my frazzled mind, I understand that this is likely the only result I will receive, I persist in punching the faucet, like something in my anger or desperation will magically cause water to come bursting forth.
Punch. Punchpunchpunchpunch.
This is how it ends, my brain whispers. One hour you’re on the World Race in a bus station avoiding crapping pigeons and the next you’re standing at a broken sink with dirty, bloody hands, about to miss your bus.
My foot hits against something hard. I glance down, a dirty mop bucket full of water being used by the maid to wash the floor.
I look down at the water, and back to the sink. Then down at the water.
Sweet Jesus.
I plunge my hands into the water, and immediately pivot to make a beeline for the exit door.
“AY AY AY AY AY! Whatchu doin’, eh?!”
Before I know it, I’m five years old again, getting an elementary lesson in personal hygiene. This maid has me by the skin of my elbow, and is dragging me back to the toilet I’ve so desperately tried to repress. She kicks open the unclose-able door and motions to the un-flushed toilet.
At this point, all social graces are gone. I just washed my hands in your mop bucket, girlfriend, I want to yell. Consider making a list of hygienic priorities. Instead, I pull my elbow skin from her grasp and look her straight in the eye.
“Yah? IT DOESN’T FLUSH. I know, I’ve tried. What would you like me to do?!”
Bathroom Maid gestures at me to watch her, and leans over to flush the toilet.
Punch. Punch.
(You and I already know that nothing happens.)
I’m already halfway down the hallway.
Hello from Africa.
Europe is now in the rearview mirror, and I’ve been living on the property ground of a local church in my two-person tent for over a week now.
Can I tell you a secret?
The pit of a bathroom in the Johannesburg bus station looked more beautiful to me than any church in Europe. I would chose Africa, with all its red dirt, alien bugs, flash thunderstorms and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches a hundred times before I would choose a hazy café in Europe. Here in Africa, everything moves a little slower. Europe moved slowly, too, but the slowness of the pace seemed to stem from the poison of depression. Everything dragged and people were always late; but you got the sense that no one really wanted to be anywhere or do anything, anyway. Here, time slows down and moves in accordance with the sun – lazily, eager to soak in the joy of every moment, lingering and also knowing exactly when to let go and continue on.
Last Friday, our team had our first opportunity to travel into a nearby village and put on a Christmas party for hundreds of HIV-positive children. Most of these kids had never seen a bounce house in their lives, and watching crowds of beaming six year-olds struggle to get their footing inside one of the blow-ups was better than any episode of AFV. In spite of a yard full of colourful toys and balls, most of the kids just wanted to be held and played with.
We were more than happy to oblige. :)
I’ve already fallen head-over-heels in love with this place. Not only are the locals vivacious and outgoing, the land itself looks like the Garden of Eden. Trees of every shape, flowers of every colour and plants of every texture burst from the ground and reach for the sun with twisted brown hands, the sun responding to their adoration by calling them higher and higher.
I’m dirtier, hotter and more out of control than at any point on the Race so far, but I’m thriving. I sweat through my clothes on a daily basis and, yes, my towel smells like cheese. Not the good kind, either. But for the first time, I don’t feel that I’m operating in survival mode. I’m letting go, and taking each hour as it comes.
And, man. Are those hours beautiful.