(continued from last week)
Wumpa wumpa wumpa wumpa.
um, i say under my breath in a sort of whisper, I think we have a flat tire. My Sweet Husband, typical of his species, does not have an overdeveloped appreciation for commentary from the shotgun position. one wonders, at times, why do they call it "back seat" driving - did the women used to ride in the back?
anyhow, it becomes evident even though I don't repeat myself, that something is most definitely off in the vehicle and so we pull over to find that in fact, the left right tire, or tyre, is indeed punctured and flat.
now I will go on record at this stage so as to say that my suspicion at that moment, and for all the years since, is that the flat tyre is a result of the fact that MSH has overcompensated slightly for the driving on the wrong side of the road factor and has, in fact, been driving OFF the wrong side of the road for the trip off the main highway to see the oldest stone paining in sub saharan africa at diana's vow. it's not really his fault, it's a crap road and the disorientation factor on account of the wrong sided driving is not insignificant. add to that the adrenaline and posttraumatic stress factor of the momentary belief that his beloved was carjacked, and I guess you cannot blame the guy.
the theory that is spawned at that moment, circa 4PM on the side of the road in the middle of, well, in the middle of nowhere really, is that the purported carjackers had pierced the rear tyre. we don't push too hard on this one, as if we do we might draw the obvious conclusion: if you want to rob someone of their vehicle, giving them a slow leak so that they get a flat tyre 100 kilometers or so up the road might not be the best way to do so. we go with it, and drive on a bit to a flat piece of the road with the hopes of quickly addressing the issue. What I don't know until later that evening is that MSH is quietly scanning the horizon for some sort of dwelling, imaging us cozying up perhaps with the local pharmacist reading poetry to each other by the light of the kerosene lamp, in his rondavel hut.
I, on the other hand, am very optimistic because I know how to change a tire. it wasn't my dad - for whatever reason his automotive training did not extend beyond the stick shift lesson and a copy of his texaco charge card. my tire changing skills were hard fought on a dead end "camping" trip in corsica with the daughter of my college summer italian host family and her horrific boyfriend. after 4 days in a tent at a camp sight crowded with french and italian people who's long hair clogged the drain in the communal shower; more bowls of corsican fish stew than one can imagine (it was the only item on the menu we could afford) and an ill fated ferry trip to a secluded beach that was actually covered in dried seaweed, ending in a bar and ultimately hitchhiking back on a sailboat, I was desperate to get off of corsica and back to florence where I could be ALONE. So on that trip, as we raced along the winding cliff hanging hairpin turn roads in a fiat uno, I was particularly able to feel the flat tire as I had assumed a crash position of sorts lying on the back seat with my feet on the left side of the car and my arms on the right so as to brace myself when the car went over the cliff. the flat tire came alongside a road perched atop a cliff (no guard rails in corsica) just at a moment when it became clear to me that if we didn't get back to Ajaccio that we were going to miss the last ferry back to italy. I moved to the tire and the jack and activated changing with a speed and strength otherwise associated with women pulling burning cars off of their children. My efficacy in completing this task prompted massimiliano to inquire if I had experience as a rally team member. If I had the nerve, i would have replied to him with the truth that was in my heart: no, but if i have to spend even one more hour with you that I have to, I am going to hurl myself over the edge of this cliff.
But we are in Zimbabwe in 1997, a far cry from Corsica in 1987. And the vehicle is of a high-end sort with a spare tire compartment and organized in a meticulous fashion that for some unknown reason I associate with the pantry of an English country house. In fact, it is so neatly packed that at first we don’t recognize the hydraulic jack – we are looking for the two-piece metal manual kind. So we are rather deep into the boot trying to sort this out when the first person comes up the road – a young man in a mechanic’s jump suit leading a pair of yoked oxen on a rope. Clearly it is not an everyday occurrence to have an American couple in a range rover with a flat tire there on the road, so as the minutes pass, a variety of people who might have otherwise been walking home (from where, I have no clue) aggregate there on the side of the road to watch us deal with the flat tire.
The best way to for me to stay out of trouble with MSH in a situation like this is to act as a conduit for information and/or instruction prepared by authoritarian figures or third parties, as opposed to interjecting my own opinion. So my role is to read aloud from the manual is a clear and loud voice so that MSH can execute the changing of the tire/tyre. This surely adds to the spectacle that entrances the road side gathering: jump suit man; a man riding a bicycle carrying a long pole; a set of twins with a cow; and an older man in a suit carrying a brief case who seems to have some level of authority and respect from his assembled peers.
What’s curious about the situation as it unfolds is that the gentlemen watch with keen interest but offer no help. Perhaps it’s my command of the manual and MSH’s manly swagger as he lifts the spare and uses the automatic bolt tightener. At the end of the operation, I read from the manual slowly and steadily:
Now, release the pressure valve on the hydraulic lift slowly and steadily
MSH pops open the valve like he’s cracking open a can of beer and the vehicle lurches down onto the spare with a loud WHABOOM.
Our gentlemen actually break out into a quiet round of applause and the man in the suits declares: GOOD
And in fact, it was. We pulled off of the side of that road after a perfect photo op: me with the gentleman next to the repaired vehicle – in our album from the trip on the shelf in the living room to this day. The sun went down almost immediately thereafter and we flicked on the headlights and headed off to our resort hotel destination tired but triumphant having no idea as to the adventure that was to unfold as the evening progressed.
No comments:
Post a Comment