Upon waking up today the muscles move slow like syrup oozing out of a tipped over bottle. Aching legs struggle to lift a sore body to its swollen feet. Hunched backs make it near impossible to stand up straight.
At first we can’t bear to consider ourselves or look at each other so we simply nod off into the past recounting the gruesome tale that left us battered, bruised, trampled and beaten. Distracting the physical pains we suffer an alarm clock breaches past our ear drums rattling in our heads like a tab trapped inside a pop can.
We shuffle around wondering where our enthusiasm has gone; where our excitement and drive has been left. Listlessly players gather their gear in order to prepare for another round of morning exercises. Each player drags their feet towards their belongings like zombies roaming aimlessly through a deserted city.
The air smells like stale bread, and sits still like fallen mist on a deserted highway. Speechless, we slowly gather into a large circle together and once again give thanks to Jesus for all of his splendid gifts. In the gravity of the situation I am not asked to lead this prayer, which consists mainly of petitions to God to let the team be victorious in the following match.
After the walk we once again gather at the park. The team wants to play rugby with the futbal, but I insist that in the spirit of a proper warm-up we prepare for the upcoming game by using our feet. I know a perfect game for this, its called soccer. I’m wondering after the team’s last performance if they’ve ever heard of it.
The field is covered by coarse grass and the sky with thin clouds. The blades of grass are as dry as a well in the desert, and struggle to maintain a tinge of green. Today, knowing there would be no jogging, I wear only my sandals and at the field am forced to play in bear feet.
I rip across the field feeling the straw like pitch pass between my toes as I hunt down the ball with a new found swiftness that impresses my friends and team mates. Kicking the ball, running the field, and defending the net all feel natural in my new nakedness.
The nudity of any playing gear makes me feel nimble as my feet act as the strongest class of cleats a set of feet have ever known. My toes drive into the dry ground as my heels turn direction in an instant. If the grass is still indeed breathing air into its dry lungs than it’s surely living in fear of everything existing below my ankles. Kick pass shoot save. Kick save shoot pass.
We have a great warm up under the heat of a seven O’clock in the morning sun. Though it may sound mild the sun sets around 5:30 in Fiji and already the heat has actually picked up some. We work up a great sweat and head back to camp for breakfast and showers.
Shower, The Second Coming
This time I feel confident and even a little excited as I prepare for my shower. I get my gear once again and head out to the bathroom, knowing exactly where it is. As I round the corner I see the same player showering in the same trench, quite possibly still wearing the same underwear. We exchange greetings as I head past him to the fence, my old bathing ground.
I noticed right away that the hose is gone from the fence and feel sad for a moment. Just than a Fijian player comes out of the bathroom, I ask him as he walks past, “There any hot water still?” He stops and replies before leaving, “No, no water”. ‘Damn’ I think, can’t win em all.
Just as I enter the bathroom I realise I have no soap, but before I can even curse my forgetfulness I notice a bar sitting by the sink. This hand soap just became shower soap. With my new found luck I feel more chipper and am defiantly ready for a nice cold shower; and as I’m about to find out there aint a better time to take a cold shower than first thing in the morning.
The bathroom conditions are far from clean, as is common in developing countries, and I find it hard to place my clothes and towel in a clean place above the floor. Though there’s a shower head this is no shower bathroom. There is a single toilet stall at the far end, and a sink at the other end. In the middle is the shower head right out in the open.
I strip down naked and carefully hang my clothes up on the stall door; even the dirty ones are too good for the floor. Once they seem sturdy I grab the bar of soap and get ready to get wet. Eagerly I turn the tap and brace for the cold spray. Instead of a blast of freezing water I get blasted with cold air. I turn the taps again, but already know that the water supply has run dry.
I stand in shock for a moment with my hand resting on my chest. The dry sweat begins to steam off my body as I stand there naked trying to get a hold of the situation. Outside I can hear kids running in the distance, but inside only the hollow echoes of silence bouncing off the porcelain walls.
I look at my clothes and can’t bear the thought of redressing in them. I turn the tap again but get treated with only the smallest of tinkles of water. I pace around for a moment and re-consider my options.
My options are one. But better one than none, and if you’re thinking my one option is to wear my so fresh and so clean clothes over the dry sweat suit I’m already dressed in, than your wrong. My one and only singular option is to bath in the sink. It’s not glamorous, and won’t be fun, but with that sink and this bar of soap, I’m gonna be one squeaky clean Irish lad in no time.
Just in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation I’ll give you the run down of how this goes. You turn on the tap (which works than God) and cup water in your hand. You than throw that water onto the body part you wish to clean. Rub with soap than rinse soap suds away with water. Repeat if necessary.
Having a shower out of a sink is a process that leaves you feeling surprisingly refreshed. Though I wouldn’t recommend trying it where it’s not necessary, I do encourage anybody to give it a go if the situation calls for it.
After the shower everyone eats, prays, dresses, prays, heads down to the field for final words, and final prayers. Since I have a bus to catch back to Suva I unfortunately can’t stay for the game, but I none the less give a last prayer at their request, say good-bye to all the players and head on my way.
I keep in touch with the guys to see how they do, and find out that they also lost the second game, though by less points. Beyond this they also go on to lose their third and final match. In the end they never scored any goals. I can only imagine that the cook spent the rest of the weekend walking around cursing, “It’s all fucked up”, as he began to do shortly after the first loss.
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