Sunday, November 06, 2005
Going to war with the goats and the others.
Sean and Tuuli had been positive about their seating arrangement at the bottom. Sean was eager to teach me how to fight with goats and he and Tuuli looked less filthy than I did. At the beginning it was alright. Our corner of the truck was clearly feared by sheep. The Nigerians were the first to figure out that you can launch a goat nearly two meters away from you (up and over other goats) by squeezing brutally on the base of its tail. There were two shepherds who waded through the animals to lift the ones that had become covered after falling; they were very unimpressed with the Nigerian's discovery and scolded them in Hausa. Sean and I were extremely impressed with their discovery because hitting them in the face and kicking them in the nuts had proven only mildly successful. At first I was a bit disgusted with Sean's brutality towards the animals that would move into our region. But after a couple of stubborn muscular ones stepped on my feet, pissed on my leg and scared me with their horns I began to accept the beating of goats. If a goat came into our area quickly enough it would get beaten harshly by five people at once. The people across from us were simply smashed by goats, unwilling to battle them. With regards to our corner, I felt local pride and a sense of community. The goats were responsible for our misery. We were scapegoating.
But when darkness fell and everyone grew tired and vexed the truck's bed began filling up. The rail straddlers, fearing perhaps that they would loose their grips while dozing off after fifteen hours of driving, were crawling down onto the floor with the sheep and their excrement. My space diminished, the goats came closer and I realized that the only joy on this truck was smacking them. I preferred a sound backhand to the face or an upward slanting kick on the hindquarters to throw off their balance. I didn't like grabbing their tails because they were constantly defecating and unclean. Whenever we could knock the goats down in front of us we would do so, enjoying the protective barrier that the prone goats formed between us and their mobile counterparts. One of the shepherds eventually grew tired of our aggression and stationed himself right above us, ruining our goat free zone and complicating our self-defense. He was in a foul mood because he hadn't noticed one of his fallen goats in the afternoon and it had broken its legs—again without a sound. He didn't like the Nigerians, so he blamed it on them and yelled for a while.
Personal space disappeared and then someone's feet were dangling just in front of my face, swaying slightly. In the darkness it seemed as if I was always about to be kicked. I couldn't look in any other direction and I couldn't stop my brain from panicking at the impending face impact. I tried closing my eyes, pushing his feet away, holding my hand between them and all the while a grumpy little woman dug her knees into my thigh. Eventually the dangling foot man tried to slap my hands away when I pushed his feet away from my nose. God bless it. I stood up to get fresh air and figure out who it was. It was a punk ass twenty something from Chad. He had already threatened to throw a skinny little Malian off the truck for taking his seat (which the Malian hadn't done—he'd just vacated the seat temporarily to vomit off the back and waiver there for a while) and I had tried defusing their little macho threat session. Whatever. My Arabic isn't good enough to bollock someone, so I asked him if he knew French and he said yes. Then I yelled at him for a while about how he was the only person on a truck full of fifty people who thought it was okay to have his feet and his dirty shoes directly in front of other passenger's faces. Feet are offensive in Arabic cultures and there wasn't anyone else in his position. He should've got that. Most of our audience did. I yelled at him for a couple of minutes and repeated myself until I felt better and got his friend asking him to move. He shifted a bit and looked mean. He became someone else's problem. What am I doing on this stupid truck venting on a desperate semi-refugee from a dismal semi-failed state? I am having a wonderful evening. I forget what Sean and I were talking about after that because I think we were getting a bit delusional and stupid. Our conversation either circled around violent fantasies or lists of things we hoped to eat.
The truck stopped. I was too drained to eat. I think Sean and Tuuli had some raw garlic and chili peppers. Tempting, but I slept. It was colder than before and there were goat hairs woven through everything that I owned. The next morning we reached Dirkou after a speedy hour and a half. The police who supervised our arrival were shocked with the rapidity of our voyage; but when they saw the driver, they understood; he had a reputation. They whistled, still impressed. The other trucks that we passed were probably cruising at 10km an hour. This demon had just flung his vehicle 600 kilometers through the world's least truck friendly location in about 24 hours of driving time. We had planned for six days of desert camping. We had barely touched our water and we had eaten next to nothing. My test paunch was almost completely gone. That was the best voyage of my life.
Sean and Tuuli had been positive about their seating arrangement at the bottom. Sean was eager to teach me how to fight with goats and he and Tuuli looked less filthy than I did. At the beginning it was alright. Our corner of the truck was clearly feared by sheep. The Nigerians were the first to figure out that you can launch a goat nearly two meters away from you (up and over other goats) by squeezing brutally on the base of its tail. There were two shepherds who waded through the animals to lift the ones that had become covered after falling; they were very unimpressed with the Nigerian's discovery and scolded them in Hausa. Sean and I were extremely impressed with their discovery because hitting them in the face and kicking them in the nuts had proven only mildly successful. At first I was a bit disgusted with Sean's brutality towards the animals that would move into our region. But after a couple of stubborn muscular ones stepped on my feet, pissed on my leg and scared me with their horns I began to accept the beating of goats. If a goat came into our area quickly enough it would get beaten harshly by five people at once. The people across from us were simply smashed by goats, unwilling to battle them. With regards to our corner, I felt local pride and a sense of community. The goats were responsible for our misery. We were scapegoating.
But when darkness fell and everyone grew tired and vexed the truck's bed began filling up. The rail straddlers, fearing perhaps that they would loose their grips while dozing off after fifteen hours of driving, were crawling down onto the floor with the sheep and their excrement. My space diminished, the goats came closer and I realized that the only joy on this truck was smacking them. I preferred a sound backhand to the face or an upward slanting kick on the hindquarters to throw off their balance. I didn't like grabbing their tails because they were constantly defecating and unclean. Whenever we could knock the goats down in front of us we would do so, enjoying the protective barrier that the prone goats formed between us and their mobile counterparts. One of the shepherds eventually grew tired of our aggression and stationed himself right above us, ruining our goat free zone and complicating our self-defense. He was in a foul mood because he hadn't noticed one of his fallen goats in the afternoon and it had broken its legs—again without a sound. He didn't like the Nigerians, so he blamed it on them and yelled for a while.
Personal space disappeared and then someone's feet were dangling just in front of my face, swaying slightly. In the darkness it seemed as if I was always about to be kicked. I couldn't look in any other direction and I couldn't stop my brain from panicking at the impending face impact. I tried closing my eyes, pushing his feet away, holding my hand between them and all the while a grumpy little woman dug her knees into my thigh. Eventually the dangling foot man tried to slap my hands away when I pushed his feet away from my nose. God bless it. I stood up to get fresh air and figure out who it was. It was a punk ass twenty something from Chad. He had already threatened to throw a skinny little Malian off the truck for taking his seat (which the Malian hadn't done—he'd just vacated the seat temporarily to vomit off the back and waiver there for a while) and I had tried defusing their little macho threat session. Whatever. My Arabic isn't good enough to bollock someone, so I asked him if he knew French and he said yes. Then I yelled at him for a while about how he was the only person on a truck full of fifty people who thought it was okay to have his feet and his dirty shoes directly in front of other passenger's faces. Feet are offensive in Arabic cultures and there wasn't anyone else in his position. He should've got that. Most of our audience did. I yelled at him for a couple of minutes and repeated myself until I felt better and got his friend asking him to move. He shifted a bit and looked mean. He became someone else's problem. What am I doing on this stupid truck venting on a desperate semi-refugee from a dismal semi-failed state? I am having a wonderful evening. I forget what Sean and I were talking about after that because I think we were getting a bit delusional and stupid. Our conversation either circled around violent fantasies or lists of things we hoped to eat.
The truck stopped. I was too drained to eat. I think Sean and Tuuli had some raw garlic and chili peppers. Tempting, but I slept. It was colder than before and there were goat hairs woven through everything that I owned. The next morning we reached Dirkou after a speedy hour and a half. The police who supervised our arrival were shocked with the rapidity of our voyage; but when they saw the driver, they understood; he had a reputation. They whistled, still impressed. The other trucks that we passed were probably cruising at 10km an hour. This demon had just flung his vehicle 600 kilometers through the world's least truck friendly location in about 24 hours of driving time. We had planned for six days of desert camping. We had barely touched our water and we had eaten next to nothing. My test paunch was almost completely gone. That was the best voyage of my life.
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