Down in the Dumps Truck

Phil opened his eyes and winced. His right tonsil felt as big and firm as a tennis ball. He could almost feel the seams. He had smoked Peter Stuyvesant Reds the night before and had smoked way too many of them. Debris was scattered about the room in which he had slept. I have to work on my unpacking method, he thought. A frantic search (as frantic as Phil could manage) ensued- under clothes, through limp, gutted baggage- for a bottle of ibuprofen that he was sure he had packed as he left his hut two weeks before. Phil furrowed his brow. Had it really been two weeks? Darkness and guilt settled and he knew that he had to go home soon.
Painfully, Phil opened his throat for a drink of water and shuffled into the small shower room across the hall. Finding no soap, he cleaned himself with a small bag of blue laundry detergent paste that smelled only marginally better than his armpits. As he dried himself with a used towel from behind the door, Phil swallowed hard, reflected, and mentally ran over the events in his life that had brought him to his current position.
A cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal with milk- that belonged to someone else- in the upper house were hard to get down, but made Phil feel a little better. He could start the packing process. He made his way back downstairs and started picking up debris.

With an over-stuffed bag on his back and the distinct feeling that he was leaving something behind, Phil dropped an obscene amount of Zambian Kwacha in the house fees box and walked out the door.
The rainy season was just starting and the road to town was damp but still firm. Phil said goodbye to the guard and took a right at the gate. He walked some five-hundred meters and took a left, went up, right, left, up, right, left, and up to the tarmac that runs through Solwezi.
Looking left down the tarmac in front of Shoprite, Solwezi- with its tall storefronts and dusty streets- had the look of a movie set from a 1960’s cowboy film.
Doo ee oo ee ooo… wa waa wa…
Of course it would have to be a very loud, brightly-coloured African cowboy movie.
Banamulume wa Bang’ombe.
Looking left, Phil could almost see his bank and he set off to see if his ATM would yield anything.
The ATM yielded nothing.
Walking back from the bank, Phil’s left hand was in an empty pocket because of an empty bank account. His right hand was in an empty pocket because of a hole that he was perpetually forgetting to fix. Occasionally his fingers would slip through and brush his thigh and he would think about repairing the trousers. Later, he would take them off and immediately forget again. This had been happening for three months. He had already lost two house-keys through the hole.
Back at the corner in front of Shoprite, Phil stopped at a stand under a dark-green umbrella that was selling cigarettes. He bought a pack of menthols- on account of his throat- and turned again to the tarmac. With a twinge- a very small twinge- of guilt, he put the cigarettes in his left trouser pocket and looked across the street. In front of one of the little cowboy-movie-set storefronts there stood a large, orange dump truck. An emblem on the door of the truck let Phil know that they were going in the same direction. So Phil froggered his way across the busy tarmac. Walking up to the truck, he greeted the driver who spoke a broken, halting English.
-No room in the cab… you ride back there?
-Yes, that would be fine.
-Wait.
-O.K.
In the ten minutes or so, the truck was ready enough for Phil to climb into the dump section. He sat on a tarp over unidentified bulk items and struck a conversation with a worker who was also in the dump section. The conversation wound this way and that- in English and out of it- and eventually settled on the subject of beer. Phil was told that a carton of local beer could be purchased for 2,000 Zambian Kwacha. That’s a hell of a deal, thought Phil, and he gave his new friend a K5,000 note.
-One for each of us.
A brief, but heated conversation started between Phil’s new friend and another man in the dump section. This conversation was in a language that Phil couldn’t understand, but he gathered that they were arguing over whether or not there was enough time to buy beer. It would take more than that to stop Phil’s friend, however, and over the side of the dump he went. He returned after a short time. The truck was still there and he clambered into the dump. He was carrying two cartons and no change. He had guessed wrong- beer is K2,500 in Solwezi.
Phil smoked a cigarette (he had forgotten his tonsil with the help of the beer) with his arms on the edge of the dump and a carton of beer in his hand. He looked out on Solwezi. His new friend talked very close to his ear, but Phil couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. He was too distracted by the little bits of corn stuck to the man’s lips and forming a tight mustache over his mouth. So Phil just looked down at the people passing on the tarmac. He noticed especially the girls passing in their jeans and tight-braided hair. Phil realized he knew one of the girls. They had a mutual friend. He called out to her.
-Have you called Spencer?
It was a very tenuous link that they shared, but Phil was determined to make the most of it.
-Not yet.
-Well, you should.
The girl shrugged and continued walking. Phil realized that he didn’t even know her name. He inhaled the cool smoke of the menthol cigarette very deeply and allowed himself to be lonely for several seconds. Then it was back to the beer and his new friend’s corn mustache and feeling happy that they would soon be on their way.

When the truck started, it went a ways on the tarmac and turned left down a hill- stopping to pick up four bags of cement. The bags were lifted with some effort over the rim of the dump and dropped onto the bed, sending up a great white cloud. Then it was back up the hill and a right on the tarmac. The next stop was to pick up a living-room set. The furniture was loaded and Phil was moved into a corner of the dump section to sit on bulk items again. Then the truck went back in the direction from which they had come and they began to load people.
Every time someone crawled into the dump, the space for sitting on the tarp would get smaller and the corn- mustache friend would smile and give a thumbs-up.
-No problem, bwana.
Phil lit another cigarette.
After what seemed like hours of people stepping on Phil, he realized that he had smoked nearly half his pack and was making himself sick. He plucked a half-consumed cigarette from his lips and stuffed it into the carton of beer in his lap.
A little girl was sitting on the floor of the dump and Phil leaned down to adjust his bag so that she could sit on it. As he did this, a dribble of beer spilled on to his bag and left a small white trail of corn pieces. A woman- the girl’s mother, Phil thought- made a sound and Phil righted that carton. The girl avoided the spilled beer, but sat down and looked up sweetly in thanks. Phil threw his half-full carton over the side of the dump.
As the fully loaded truck rumbled out of town, Phil was slowly pushed from his seat on the tarp by an elderly woman sitting above him. Soon he was squatting on a small edge of tarp and after some time Phil was forced to stand on a small patch of exposed dump-section bed. The truck rumbled on- stopping occasionally for more passengers. As the space began to dwindle, Phil was soon standing on one foot- leaning with his outstretched arms on the rim of the dump.
It began to rain.
Phil remembered his tonsil and again felt the tennis ball in his throat. The corn-mustache man still occasionally gave him a thumbs up, but Phil tried not to look at him. Instead, he set his face in a scowl and looked out at the passing trees. Cold rain water ran down Phil’s cheeks and a Beach Boys song ran trough his head. Phil hated the Beach Boys, but couldn’t keep the lyrics out of his head at times like this.
…Oh captain and sure, let me go home… let me go home…I want to go home.
A lady at Phil’s side began to elbow him in the thigh. Looking down he could see that she had a comparably roomy place to sit. Phil’s development-worker cool began to leave him.
-I’m standing here! Look… one foot! What do you want me to do?!
-Baji problem.
Phil began to mentally calculate the number of days left in his contract. He contemplated getting off the truck early. The possibility that it was a free ride was the only thing keeping him onboard. Even so, it was tempting to abandon ship. But the truck rumbled on and Phil tried not to think about his aching leg.
…Oh won’t you let me go home… yeah, yeah…
Mentally, Phil left the truck. He floated over the trees- watching Zambia get smaller and smaller…
Then there was ocean stretching on and on and then more forest. Soon he let down naturally in a deer stand in central Minnesota. A light snow was falling and all was perfect quiet in the trees…
A yell jerked him back to Zambia. It was the corn-mustache man.
-No problem!
… This is the worst trip I’ve ever been on.
Phil looked at the ridiculous, corn- spattered, smiling man and very slowly his scowl melted. He laughed in spite of the rain and ache in his leg. No problem, he thought and nodded to his new friend.

Gradually, the dump section emptied and soon Phil had a place to sit. He was once again next to the corn-mustache man. He turned to Phil and spoke through bits of corn that flew from his upper lip.
-Everything’s O.K. That’s my wife.
He pointed to the woman that had elbowed Phil.
Baji problem.
Phil let out a short laugh and his development-worker cool returned.
-Hello. How are you?
-Fine, and how are you?

The truck stopped in front of Phil’s village and Phil climbed down the rough ladder and dropped to the shoulder of the tarmac.
-Thank you.
He handed the driver a K5,000 note for a drink (or two) and the dump truck rumbled on.
Phil swallowed hard and turned toward his village. A group of babbling children met him to help carry his bags to the hut. Once inside, Phil took some ibuprofen from the bottle on the nightstand where he had left it two weeks before and laid down on his bed for a nap.