One thing I think I haven’t communicated over my blogs thus far is just how much we laugh out here. So to rectify this situation, here are a few short stories that didn’t quite make the cut for their own blog, but I hope you will find some amusement in them here.
This first one is for you slapstick humor lovers. Part of our ministry in Ghana is a sports ministry with local kids. So I was playing basketball, dribbling down the court, when this boy (maybe 10?) tried to steal the ball from me. I successfully pivoted away… And kept sliding. The kid got the ball, and I got scrapes on my knee and hand. Later that evening, I was eating dinner. I made an offhand comment about hot sauce being my sixth love language, so our host gave me some ghost pepper sauce to try.
You see where this is going, right? I pour ghost pepper sauce on my plate, and then pick up my food. Yep. Ghost pepper sauce ends up in the scrape on my hand. And let me tell you, if you’ve never rubbed ultra-hot sauce into your wounds before, I don’t suggest it. It stings. Seriously stings. And that’s coming from the same left hand that got swollen from ant bites and bee stings earlier in this Race.I played it off as well as I could, but I wasn’t entirely able to hide my pain. I think the host just thought the sauce was too spicy, but it was actually quite good. I just prefer to stick with my hot sauce burning my mouth, rather than my hand.
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About a week ago, we passed through Accra, the capital city of Ghana. Our bus left us in Accra, and we had to wait awhile for the van that was going to take us to our final destination. Now, in Ghana, they have something they call “hawking.” They have hawking everywhere else too, but this is the first place I’ve heard an actual name for it. Hawking is when a stranger walks up to you and tries to convince you that the greatest need you will ever have in this world is whatever item they’re selling. And sometimes their tactics are… Unorthodox.
One man gave us what first appeared to be a hellfire and brimstone sermon. But eventually we discovered it was something even more serious. He was actually selling supplement pills. With frothy spit flying out of his mouth, he yelled at us for probably five minutes about how we don’t get all the energy we need from our food, and our health would never be truly good without his supplements. It was hard to even get a word in. But eventually, we convinced him we didn’t want any, and he left us there, doomed to our unenergetic, supplement-less fate.
The next “hawker” we heard before we saw. And what we heard was the fakest sounding crying I’ve ever heard. After a few moments, a bearded man, probably in his forties, appeared, making what I assume was supposed to be a pathetic wailing sound. Honestly, it sounded more like a dying bird. And his eyes were completely dry. He tried to hand me a duffel bag, but in the middle of his performance, he lost control of himself and started laughing hysterically. He walked away, duffel bag still closed. I still don’t know what he was selling.
Then a third man walked up to me. I waited for the inevitable sales pitch. He wasn’t carrying anything, which was strange, but why else would he want to talk to me if not to sell something? Take a guess. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
If you guessed “To ask me about British Universities,” give yourself a round of applause. You are correct!!! This man saw me on the street and decided I was the perfect person to ask about whether Oxford and Cambridge were real colleges, and where they were. When I told him they were indeed real, and located in the UK, he proceeded to ask where he could find some information in case he wanted to attend there. I had to tell him that, sadly, I didn’t know of any places in Ghana (or anywhere) where he could obtain this information, and he might just have to consult the internet. He thanked me for my help and walked away as if nothing odd had occurred. Alright then. Good luck to you, sir. When you become an Oxford grad and successful lawyer, I hope you know where to send my commission. I do accept checks. (I kid).
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Probably my strangest story from this trip happened on Thanksgiving. I was sitting in a room of 60+ people eating dinner when my phone vibrated. Now I had no intention of actually looking at my phone, but my hand went into my pocket reflexively. And in addition to my phone, I felt something else in my pocket. Something squishy. Odd. I didn’t remember putting anything else there. My mind flashed to Bilbo’s riddle exchange with Gollum in The Hobbit. “What has it got in its pocketses?”
Feeling curious, I subtly pulled the unknown object out of my pocket and kept it under the table for examination. It was white and squishy, made of some sort of fabric. It was a little bit bigger than my hand, and shaped like a disfigured half-sphere. I studied the strange object for a full 15 seconds before realization hit me. Oh dear.
How it had gotten there, I didn’t know. It most certainly didn’t belong to me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know who it belonged to, or how it wound up in my pocket. What I held in my hand was, undeniably, a cup-shaped piece of padding from someone’s bra.
Um, what? My mind began working overtime trying to find an answer to the obvious question. What on Earth happened that I should find this in my pocket? I hope you’ll believe me when I say I don’t just steal pieces of people’s undergarments in my spare time. That isn’t my hobby of choice. But thinking quickly, I did find an explanation that made some sense, and continues to be my hypothesis.
When we first arrived in Nicaragua, one of the first things we did was send our dirty laundry to a local woman who we paid to wash our clothes (it’s a really nice luxury when I don’t have to handwash my clothes myself). This woman didn’t really keep our clothes separated, so when we got it back, we had to sort through it and find our own stuff. No big deal. At least not until you find bra padding in your pocket. I can only imagine it came off in the wash and the laundry lady stuck it in the closest pocket for safe keeping.
Now that resolves that question well enough I think. But picture, if you will, my discomfort. Here I am eating Thanksgiving dinner, surrounded by a crowd of people, most of them strangers, and now I have part of someone’s bra in my hand. My mind quickly zoomed through my options.
Option #1: Just take it to the next room and find out where it goes later.
Cons: Walking through a crowded room of people with part of someone else’s bra in my hand seems likely to bring the type of questions I’d like to avoid at this time. Also, I can’t explain myself to the Spanish speakers present. Heck, I can’t explain myself to the English speakers here.
Option #2: Stick it back in my pocket. Just keep it quiet and reevaluate my options later.
Cons: I don’t want to keep this thing in my possession! It’s already weird to me that it has sat in my pocket unnoticed for the past several hours (and in fact, the past several days before I put these pants on). I don’t want to put it back!
Option #3: GET RID OF IT ASAP!!! Throw it on the ground and deny all knowledge of it. And if you’re wondering, yes. I did briefly consider this course of action.
Cons: It doesn’t really resolve anything. Just removes the awkwardness from myself, and it’s inconsiderate in that it dirties someone’s (thankfully) freshly cleaned bra padding. Of course, that’s assuming this thing can even be used again. I don’t know, I’m no bra expert.
Given three undesirable options, I opted for #2, stuck the thing back in my pocket, and self-consciously returned to my meal. Later on we had a good laugh as I tried to return it to its rightful owner, and eventually even succeeded after four wrong guesses. Hopefully it’s still usable. I never asked.
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