He was a short man and only reached to the bottom of my chest. His deep brown eyes suggested that his head contained a storehouse of wisdom. They began to whisper to me about events and places I never imagined. They freaked me out a bit, but at the same time they provided me a small ounce of comfort: at least someone in the room knew something.
Deep, ancient scars were carved directly beneath both those brown eyes. His worn face suggested he was an older man who experienced a life full of pain. A dark red scab, positioned directly over his left eye, jagged upward into his hairline and then disappeared. The scars were not only facial but were all over his exposed skin. They were his tattoos and declared he was very familiar with battle wounds. Immediately I was struck with the reality that I was incapable of producing any pain he had not already tasted. This led me to silently ask someone outside of myself to make this man my friend.
Then I saw his arms. If you were there and saw those arms I'm convinced you would have been tempted to stare at them and marvel that such arms even existed. The muscles in his forearms were modest, firm and distinct, but his biceps and triceps were bulging. They looked as if they were being squeezed and suffocated by his shirt sleeve. I wasn't intending to schedule a play date between his fist and my face any time soon.
Silence...Brown eyes...Scars...Brown eyes…Huge arms…Silence.
I didn't know what to say. He was a short man that demanded respect by his scars, his confident posture and deep intimidating eyes. So, I looked at the man. Then his eyebrows furrowed with a puzzled expression. Immediately I became worried that he was disturbed by the way my eyes were sizing him up.
"What's he going to do?"
"Will you bathe?" he asked.
"What kind of question is that? Do I stink?" I took a whiff. The inside of my nostrils were scratched by the tangy smell of stale feet and a hint of something best labeled as raunchy.
"Yes. I think I will. A bath seems good."
"I fetched some water for you. Your bucket is outside the door," he informed me.
So far it was good. I assumed that only a kind, friendly man would fetch water for someone else. But then I began to wonder about where my bath should be taken, “If my bucket is outside the door, then does that mean I bathe outside?”
"Umm...where should I bathe?" Believe me; I didn’t want to ask that question.
"Anywhere, there are many places to bathe," he replied as he crouched down and began digging deeply into one of the backpacks lying on the floor. Then he stopped moving.
Not one single body part moved. Odd is the only way to explain that split second. Then slowly and mechanically his head was turned my way and his eyes shot arrows into my own. Without warning, he lunged at me and clasped my right hand and yanked me down to his level. His nose brushed my own as he stared into my eyes as if he were trying to read some foreign inscriptions scribbled on the inside back of my head.
After analyzing and calculating what he saw in my eyes, he let go and said, "They hit you powerfully. You're bad. More bad than we thought. Go and bathe. Afterwards, we talk. Before you bathe, take your bandage off. There is too much dry blood. You need a new one."
I obeyed and walked out the door in a daze. Disturbing feelings of violation and confusion sloshed all over the interior walls of my chest. His mention of my wound made my shoulder ache.
"Why did he look at me that way? What exactly did he see?"
"At least he is talking to me as a friend and not an enemy." I audibly whispered to myself hoping spoken words would bring comfort.
Then I looked down at my bucket. I needed help. I didn’t know where to bathe. All I knew was that someone had 'hit me powerfully,' and now I was having trouble taking a simple bath. I asked the bucket what I should do, but he just looked at me with that blank stare all buckets have. So, I slowly and reluctantly put one foot in front of the other and went back inside the one roomed house. I was forced yet again to ask an intelligent question.
"Where did you bathe?"
"Behind the building," he said with a chuckle while searching diligently through the bag. "Samina is beside you. Also, a towel."
I looked down and saw soap. I wondered why he called it samina. I thought that maybe samina was the dove or zest of this new world. I thought of this world as 'new' only because it was beginning to seem much different than the world with which I was familiar. At this point of my journey I thought it strange to be daily greeted by surprises. I no longer think that way. In fact, surprises can be exciting if you're looking for them, but they're completely annoying if you're not.
The man kept scrounging through the bag, laying numerous contraptions on the floor beside him. I assumed they belonged in that small bag. How he ever squeezed then in there, I'll never know. Some of those gadgets looked ancient and some looked like they would only feel comfortable on a flying saucer. Anyway, I'll deal with that latter.
I marched back outside determining to take a bath. Grabbing the bucket by the handle, I circled around the building and what do you think I found? It was a concrete stall that was barely rectangular seeming to have a length of about six feet and a breath of five. I ventured inside and began to take care of business. Then I smelled urine...Ugh.
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