Giving a lift

I think I mentioned before how people give rides to others on the back of each others' bikes. I always want to give people lifts on my bike, but I normally only give people lifts in the most necessary situations. The bicycles that we have here are some of the shoddiest bicycles I have ever ridden. When you first buy them you anticipate certain, let me say... treats. The pedals invariably break and fall off, leaving just a metal rod to push against. It's pointless even trying to get by for one day without replacing the factory pedals. Often there are parts missing that you wouldn't know were missing just by looking - like bearings. The spokes may be loose, making the wheel bend like a taco the first major bump you hit, which inevitably happens when you are the farthest point possible from home. The grips are painful. The chain rings slightly bent. The bolts are made out of reconstituted aluminum foil so that when you tighten any of the nuts on the bolts, it strips the bolt, leaving it even looser than it was when you needed to tighten it. This is a classic problem for the seat posts. Even when the seat is as high as it goes it is too small for my six foot three frame. Then imagine the seat all the way down to the frame because it can't tighten. Many refugees have been quite amused by the sight of me pedaling back home with my knees coming almost up to my face. Sheer delight.

 

But I'm used to all that. My point is that the bikes are weak. Weaker than you can imagine. And I am over two hundred pounds. Add another person of significant weight, and the chances of getting to the destination go from slim to toothpick width. At this point I never even consider carrying someone on the back of my bike. It just doesn't occur to me anymore.

 

Today I was on the way to road 36 where I could use electricity to type this very message you are reading when I saw a little boy in a school uniform and flip-flops running. I've been learning Luvale greetings lately (it's about time after being here for several months) so I thought I'd test it out on him, figuring he was Angolan since the place I was in is dominated by Angolans.

 

"Ngachiri."

"Ngachiri yenu."

"Where are you going?" I asked him after the long pause when I was using my pneumonic devices to remember how to say it.

"To 36." he said, huffing and still running.

 

He couldn't have weighed more than 60 pounds. And while my wheels weren't any more trustworthy than usual this morning, the rest of the road to 36 was relatively smooth and I figured an extra few pounds wouldn't matter too much. This was my chance to give someone a lift. Maybe the only chance I would have for a while. I stopped and pointed to my rack. He said nothing - just hopped onto the rack, straddling it - and off we went.