Thursday, August 26, 2010

One Evening's Adventure

Many seasoned travelers take special care to ration their water intake when they venture overseas. Some go so far as to set rules for themselves: “I will not drink any water after 4:00.” Others actually measure how much water they drink and make sure they don’t consume any large volume at once. Why do these people bother with such meticulous calculations? It’s because they know that the “bathrooms” they might encounter abroad likely won’t resemble what they are accustomed to, and they don’t want to unnecessarily face unpleasant situations. I used to chuckle at these friends and their particular ways. Not anymore.

It was a beautiful day. A sunny day. A beautiful, sunny, hot day. And it was one of our days off. We spent our time at an incredible resort on the island of Samar. We walked the beach, swam in the pool, played volleyball in the sand, ate delicious food, and tried in vain to digitally capture the breath-taking sights. My roommate brought a hymnal, and we sang throughout most of the ride back to our hotel. The day couldn’t have been much better.

As I was hurrying to get ready for that evening’s meeting, I filled a water bottle and began to drink. I was focused on preparing my heart and mind to preach, and I didn’t think much about what else I was doing. I finished the bottle, refilled it, and ran downstairs to wait for my ride. As I sat in the lobby, I realized that my throat was feeling very scratchy and sore. “Must be from being out in the hot sun all day… or maybe it was all of the singing,” I mused, and took another swig of water.

Soon, my translator’s brother pulled up in their family’s motorcab, and I hopped in the back. My first thought was, “A motorcab! Awesome!” -- I usually rode in an SUV. My second thought, as we started bumpily down the road, was, “Oh, no. Why, oh why, did I drink all of that water?!”

The wheels in my mind started spinning, “Okay, it’s almost 6:00. Only an hour until I preach… Well, maybe an hour and fifteen minutes. I can make it until then. And once I start preaching, I’ll forget everything else. Yes, it’ll be fine. No big deal.” I took a deep breath and tried to enjoy the ride.

We got to my site around the time Children’s Hour began. Children’s Hour was supposed to start at 6 and usually went until the evening meeting began (although starting and ending times were always subject to change without notice). After what felt like 45 minutes, I checked my watch. 15 minutes had passed. Now let me just add that on nights when I wasn’t so eager to begin preaching, I really enjoyed Children’s Hour. But this evening, I was distracted.

By 6:30, I was miserable and too distracted to even think about preaching. So, as calmly as I could, I went to my translator. Pointing across a small field toward a wooden shack with a tin roof, I asked, “Um, is that… uh, is that a bathroom?” “Yes,” she said slowly, giving me a questioning look. I nodded thoughtfully, as though weighing my options. I knew, however, that any “options” had long since disappeared. So, without another word, I picked up the hem of my skirt and trekked across the field.

As I neared the tiny, wooden shack, I heard a loud commotion coming from inside. I was immediately puzzled and a bit dismayed. “Maybe this isn’t it,” I thought. I wanted to forget the whole thing and head back to the tent, but desperation held me there. As I stood there, wondering what to do, the door swung open and a flustered looking man appeared. He immediately began to mutter in Waray, the local dialect. I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to me, or simply voicing some kind of frustration aloud. I stared at him curiously. He was obviously the cause of the commotion from within, but I couldn’t see any reason for it. As I continued to stare, he turned and asked me a terse-sounding question in Waray. Having no idea what he asked, but wanting him to hurry up and leave so I could go in, I answered in equally terse English, “Yes.”

I figured that must have been the right answer, because in a moment he was gone. I hurried inside and shut the door, and was immediately enshrouded in inky blackness. I frowned, opened the door, etched the details of the interior into my mind as quickly as I could, and closed it again.

Suddenly, a deafening uproar stole my attention. It sounded as though one hundred hammers were being pounded into the tin roof above my head. I forced myself to stay, “I’ve come this far. I am not leaving now!” And so stay I did.

When I went to open the door to leave, I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Somehow, in those few moments, the door had become stuck. Not just a little bit stuck. Not the kind of stuck where you just have to “unstick” that one “stuck” part and it will swing open. No, this door would not move. I was dumfounded. I had just opened this door, twice in fact! I shook my head in disbelief. “I’m stuck in an outhouse. I cannot believe I’m stuck in an outhouse,” I muttered. “I preach in half an hour… and I’m stuck in an outhouse.”

The uproar on the roof was momentarily forgotten as I put all my effort into freeing myself from my dank, dark prison. After much shoving, prodding and pushing, I managed to inch the door open just wide enough that I could suck in and barely squeeze through. I sighed in relief, then discovered the cause of the mysteriously stuck door. A large bucket of water had been pushed up against the door after I closed it.

But I didn’t have time to ponder this fact, for I suddenly realized the source of the deafening, pounding sound. The sky had let loose and was pouring rain. I started to laugh, picked up my skirts, and began to run across the field to the tent. One of the girls saw me and hurried out to meet me with an umbrella, but got to me just before I reached the tent. “What an adventure,” I thought to myself, still laughing.

I preached that evening’s message, blessedly undistracted… except for being mildly damp from my jaunt through the downpour. And, funny thing, I never had to use the “bathroom” at my site again. So, go ahead and laugh if you want. I’m not ashamed; in fact, I have proudly joined the ranks of the water-rationing, over-calculating, meticulous, seasoned travelers!

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