A few hours after I wrote that last post, I went to town on the scooter. It was actually quite funny because I took my friend Nathalia. She's in her 20's, Columbian (not South Carolina), beautiful and hilarious. We decided to go through the village to avoid having to go the very, very long way into town. The road is under construction but a cut through the village puts you out just on the other side of the construction. Chickens clucked and children squealed as we putted through the tiny dirt trails. The village is always eye opening, even though both eyes were fixed on the path in front of me and the man in a yellow hard hat on a motorcycle who told me to follow him. The poverty. The garbage. The smoke. The faces. All on the other side of the wall of where I live.
We finally reached asphalt and whipped into the bank, got bread at the bakery, YOGURT!, apple cider vinegar, crackers, and olives. All at Whole Foods prices and Save Rite quality. All except for bread. It's cheap. I had noticed that we kinda puttered to a stop and tried to start the scooter when we left the bank. No dice. So we decided to call a cab, just in case. Sure enough, she would not start. The barefooted man selling mangos nor the mcel boy in the bright yellow vest selling phone credit, could not start it either. I always appreciate their efforts to do exactly what I had just done 10 times, but men are men all over the world and I appreciate their kindness and tolerate their belief in being the superior sex.
The cab driver was incredibly nice and patient and even attempted, much to my absolute shock and then awe and then full entertainment, put the scooter in the trunk of his car! Surprisingly, that didn't work. It just spilled gas all over the place. But then I heard him negotiate and ask the yellow vest boy to push the scooter for me. I had told him that I simply wanted to get it back to the place I bought it and actually said all that in Portuguese. The boy agreed to do it for 50 Mets ($2). Genius. But then there was the trust issue of him doing it and not just pushing it home. So we followed him there at a snails pace as cars whizzed by us, not at all perturbed or surprised, as if this happens every day- a boy pushing a scooter in the middle of the road while one white girl and one brown girl sit in the back of a cab that reeks of gasoline going two miles an hour, texting our friends to let them know we were going to be a little late. I called the scooter shop owner and let him know I was coming. He served me coffee while I waited for what I knew would be the inevitable. The mechanic could not fix the bike right away but he would work on it tomorrow and bring it to me. Tomorrow was yesterday. The shop owner offered for his "driver" to take me home. I realized I needed eggs and, in Portuguese asked him to stop at a barraca and I got eggs. I could not have done that on the scooter, so I was pleased that something worked out. He got out with me and even carried my purchase of eggs in a plastic bag back to the beat up truck that didn't start on the first or second try. A perfect gentleman, he delivered my 12 eggs and overly-caffeinated self safely back to my little house, redeeming the male species.
Footnote: Promised yesterday, I still have no bike and am awaiting Luis, the mechanic's arrival.
No comments:
Post a Comment