“Heavily Soiled”

This morning, I daydreamed about the dial on my mom’s washer at home.
Oh, to have a setting called, “Heavily Soiled” or something.
I scrubbed clothes for two hours this morning, working out the dirt from my ride the other morning.
The UNIMOG—sent out for supplies—hadn’t arrived back from Kenya the night before, like it was supposed to. That’s not such a tragedy—oftentimes the trek takes longer than we’d expect, be it because of rain filling up the rivers or trouble at the border or whatever.
Since I normally ride in the mornings, I set out to find them on their way. There’s 28K’s (‘bout 17-18 miles) of rough, muddy track between us and the main road, so I figured I’d either find them stuck in some pit on that stretch or making their way along it, having bunked up at some village the night before.
I’ve been enjoying using the bike as a little ministry lately. I ride out on the road and meet new people and find out where they’re from and try my dialect of the Lopit language on them. Sometimes I have to coax them back on to the road, after they’ve seen my white face and fled. Haha!
It’s always so neat to meet new people. I met these three hilarious women on the way. I’d stopped to check on a soft tire and a few of them came up the track. Whenever I greet them in Lopit, it always shocks them and they just start rolling in laughter. But it’s funnier when I’ve been on a muddy ride, because they gawk at how dirty I am. Remember, they’re used to only seeing mud on coal-black skin. Mud on my pale whiteness looks quite stark to them. (It’s the same with bruises or scratches, they’re always very concerned about our scratches.) Anyway, these women “lu-lu-lu-lu”ed at how messy I was, and one of them snatched my bandana from me and started wiping me down with it. We did our best to chat and they finally let me go.
About 25K’s out, I had a flat, but I was right at a village I’d greeted people at before, so it worked out well. I got to the village—the name of which rings more of Asia than the bush of Sudan (to me, anyway)—at rush hour, as the women were coming out to go to the garden. So as I sat there tinkering with my flat, I tried to greet people. Between the bike and I, we’re quite a show. Always draw a crowd.
After about five minutes, I saw all the Munimiji, armed, flying out the village and to the road. It’s always funny to watch them run past. The schoolmaster—who I had met and was talking to—told me casually that there was an “enemy” in the field they were off to track and kill him. He also told me he was upset because the teachers were at school, but the children refused to come. Africa is so weird to this Western girl…
Anyway, all ended well. I finally got the tire patched and met the truck only a kilometer more up the road, then we headed back together. The roads are much kinder to a girl on a bike than driver in a truck—I can pace with, if not beat, most lorries on this stretch. :)