*Warning - VERY gross details ahead! Oh ok, but don't say I didn't warn you!*
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And there I thought I was being all gallant, taking one of the ladies who work in the bush camp's kitchen to the doctor, after she broke out in huge bulgy welts shortly before lunch time. Ag shame, I reflected, thinking how she would have to walk at least a kilometre to the main road into Dundee, and from there catch a taxi (that alone is enough to give anyone the hives!) into town, where she'd have to sit in a queue at the clinic for at least a couple of hours. By which time she might look like a booger. So, I offered to drive her into town and grabbed some cash to pay the doctor (my own doctor, take note!) to have a look at her.
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I must admit I had to twist my own arm a bit. You should have seen those welts. I almost asked her if I could take a photo for my blog. Which just goes to show the lengths I will go to, to share my life with y'all. But my camera is at home I thought better of it. Exploiting a person in distress = v callous.
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Instead I whispered "What Would Jesus Do?" over and over to myself as we drove together into town. In almost silence. It was very tempting to make a slight detour past our house on the way in. My camera was so close, and yet so far. So very tempting. But I repeated my mantra silently to myself, and pointed the nose of my bakkie* firmly towards town.
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The doctor's appointment appeased my fears that whatever she had wasn't going to attack me too went well and we set out on our ten minute drive back out to the bush. I even started humming a tune merrily to myself, thinking how very brave I was to take her into town in my very own 4x4 when she could have had Some Funny Jungle Bug lying in wait for me.
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And this is where the *** hits the fan. Or the hootch, as the case may be.
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*Note to self: whenever transporting a sick person of the Zulu persuasion, be advised that when ill, Zulu people do not talk. As in AT ALL. Even if they are feeling really green. Rather load said sick person on rear of vehicle and avoid disaster. And I mean that in the kindest way possible. Because they WILL NOT warn you that they are about to pimp the interior of your ride.*
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It happened almost in poetic slow motion. The retching sound, followed by frantic clawing at the windows and doors and then the splatter of partly chewed bits of food against the glass and upholstery of the door.
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I would have joined the chorus. In harmony too. If I hadn't been in my car!
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I'm sure that stage whisper of mine must have upped a notch or two as my "What Would Jesus Do?"s became a strangled gasp of distress, followed by me clapping my hand over my own mouth in a desperate attempt to stop from shooting a few cats of my own. If you know what I'm saying.
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Needless to say, I'm wishing there was a good valet service in town right now.
And a "rewind" button.
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The drive home was a contest between me wanting to floor the pedal to get back to the bush camp as QUICKLY as possible, so as to avoid her giving my bakkie* another interior spray painting; and me thinking that the slower I drive, the quicker I'll be able to stop, should spray painting the interior of my vehicle a second time become an inevitable likelihood. It was a dilemma of epic proportions. I landed up doing the kangaroo petrol thing. One minute flooring it, the next thinking better of my decision and slowing down to a meandering drive through the countryside.
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Either way, driving with all four windows wound right down still didn't help with the aromatic odour of recycled breakfast.
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It's dang hard to feel good about your good deed when you're blocking your nose on the ride home. And that's all I have to say about that.
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Oh, and I doubt I will ever be able to eat a bowl of kell*ggs corn flakes ever again.
The memory of That Splat is just too fresh in my mind.
*Bakkie - South African for truck or pick-up
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