The RSFDWFP Syndrome

I have a problem, and I don't think I'm alone in it. Some might classify it as a form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, I prefer the acronym RSFDWSP (that is "Ridiculous Single-Focus Disorder When Facing Problems"). Like when a flash drive of a good friend our ours "disappeared against me" (that is how the Amharic speakers push the blame to NOT say that they lost something). I tell you, for a week or more, I replayed every event from the time I received the flash drive until I realized it was lost, I retraced my steps numerous times, turned the house inside out and upside down, and having buried all other passions in life deep in the trunk, I basically drove myself to the "funny farm" until I finally came to terms with it being gone. I'm a hard-wired problem solver, a sleuth, and believe me, I think this quality pays off in my role in the translation office. There are times, however, I wish I could turn it off. Like I said, I don't think, or at least I hope, that I am not alone in this disorder. And so while the predicaments which set off my RSFDWFP may be a bit more unusual than yours, I hope that other victims to this disorder can find some comfort in me sharing the following stories (one now, one in an upcoming blog).

Friday Morning, August 15^th, 2014 - The 6am alarm was a welcome caller, alerting me of my release from the imprisonment to restless sleep. I slipped on some warmer clothes and shoes and grabbed the truck keys on the way out the door. With my stomach in my throat at this final test, I climbed into the driver's seat and gave the engine a crank. Rarr..rarr…rarr…rarr…rarr… I dropped my head in frustration as the engine turned over with ease, yet without engaging. Without going back inside, I grabbed my bright yellow tow rope and beginning the short walk up to the main road that passes over Gesas mountain, I did a mental review of the multitude of mistakes I'd made leading us into this pickle.

Andrea and I had enjoyed being together these last five weeks, without my having to travel and spend nights away at the translation office (50 km north). We had also been blessed by not having any urgent request from the community to run into town for emergencies, medical or otherwise. All that to say, our truck had sat unused for 5 weeks, that is, mistake #1. But, having recently had battery problems last Spring (see the June 2014 blog "Too Late For Cheeseburgers"), I had been periodically checking the new battery we had put in and found it to be strong and consistent. No worries. Then, as our American and Canadian neighbors were packing up for Addis Ababa just last weekend, my wife intuitively asked me, "Don't you think you should start the truck before they leave?" Yep, you called it, here comes mistake #2! "Nah," I replied, "The battery reads strong and as long as there is power, it should start." And so our friends left.

With our first prenatal appointment for Georgie Porgie on Monday (Aug 18) and Micah starting school on Tuesday (Aug 19), we had planned to leave early morning Saturday, Aug 16. And as is our custom, we like to have all of our drinking water jerry cans filled before leaving Gesas, so Thursday evening just as the sun was beginning to set, we all piled into the truck to drive the short distance to the hand pump well. The truck had started without a problem, although it didn't sound very happy about it. And then, after driving about 100 meters, the engine died an ugly death. Repeated attempts to restart it gave us the cursed sound I had heard again this morning, rarr..rarr…rarr…rarr…rarr. When many of our Gmz friends had gathered around, I asked them to give me a push back down the hill so I could look at it and work on it in some level of privacy. That push, turns out to be mistake #3 on my part. For as soon as the truck rolled to a stop in front of our house at the bottom of the hill, I called a friend in Addis who told me that his truck has a similar problem when it sits too long. "The good news is," he said cheerfully, "we've always gotten it started again with a pull start!"

"Nooooo!" I screamed inside, "I had just been pushed down a sizeable hill and I didn't think to try a rolling start (I thought that that was only for dead batteries). And why had we waited until our neighbors had left? The American family who lives about 8 km away is in the States for furlough. And we knew that the American Catholic priest in Dibate (about 12 km away) was planning on leaving that very morning, which he had. The closest person we knew with a vehicle was the Portuguese Catholic priest 50 km away!"

Grrr…. Filled with self-loathing frustration for the mistakes I made which brought about this predicament, and stressed by the implications of having a dead truck way out here, my entire night had been ruined. I couldn't eat supper, (neither the delicious sausage cooked on an open fire, nor the Smore's which typically follow), I couldn't concentrate on anything else, and then at bedtime I was entirely impotent to turn off the constant idle of situation analysis and re-analysis ad nauseam.

And so now, 6:05am, there I sat, waiting on the road with my tow rope, hoping to flag down a passerby willing to help. "Where are you going?" several Gmz people asked me. "I am not going anywhere, I'm waiting for a good (ie. nice) person." The dim morning light did nothing to warm the morning chill which was creeping through my fleece and the unsettled feeling was reaching new heights. Even if I could flag someone down to help tow us, there was no guarantee that the pull start would work for our truck, as it had for our friend's. I cringed at the realization that if I couldn't get the truck started in these 12 hours of daylight, then it would be Andrea, Micah, Grace and I standing at this very same spot tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn to flag down a big bus and begin a 2-day stress-filled journey on public transport. Not to mention, what am I supposed to do with a dead truck out in Gesas, when our schedule doesn't allow us to return for 11 weeks? I played the million and a half scenarios over and over in my exhausted mind, most of which did nothing to ease my churning stomach.

After 30 minutes, a pickup truck came and stopped at my signal. I pleaded with the stranger behind the wheel, "My truck won't start, can you come and pull it?" The man immediately rejected my request, "It is not allowed," and he hit the gas before I could ask why. As I sat back down on my rock and thought about it more, I realized that he likely thought I was asking to be pulled the 12 kilometers into town. Hmmm…I'd have to be more clear next time. Some 45 minutes later, after several people whizzed right by my outstretched hand, finally another vehicle stopped. "My truck won't start, can you come pull me a little bit, just to the top of the hill?" The driver responded favorably, "Sure, where is your truck?" Overjoyed, I pointed into the trees, "It's in there! Come on!" Immediately, the man's expression changed, "No, we cannot do it, goodbye." And off he went. Dumbfounded again, I sat on my pondering rock, "It is rainy season and if I say that my truck is stuck in the woods, any reasonable person would assume that it is stuck in mud. And helping to pull someone out of mud, brings with it the great risk of also getting stuck!" He was right to move on.

Finally, after another 45 minutes, another truck came and so, having reworked and rehearsed my plea yet again, I spoke in Amharic, "My truck won't start, would you be willing to pull me a little bit to get it started. It's just in front of my house there (pointing as if you could actually see it through the trees)." The man thought for a moment and responded with confirmation of my earlier suspicion, "Is there any mud?"  "No," I responded with a surge of excitement, "Come, follow me!" And he did! I ran down the hill as he backed into position. After pulling just 20 meters or so, I let off of the clutch and rejoiced to hear the engine sputter and gasp and eventually spark into life. Parking, I jumped out of the truck and showered my savior with thanks. It wasn't a pretty idle, but after a few minutes, the stammering engine settled down into the smooth chugga…chugga…chugga I had dreamed of hearing all night.

Finally, released from its enslavement to problem solving and analyzing worst-case scenarios I've come to accept as part of the RSFDWFP syndrome, my mind began receiving input from other sources. "I'm hungry," I said to Andrea with a smile, as we walked back to the house (leaving the truck idling at the top of the hill). It certainly wasn't the first time I'd gotten so yoked by a problem so as to not be able to function. Why is it like that? Overseas workers (the "M" word) are trained over and over again on the importance of being flexible and rolling with the punches. And that I was prepared to do (mentally repacking for the restrictions associated with taking public transport), but why can't I walk through the trials with a peace knowing that some way or another, things will turn out just fine, as they most often do?

My second story, involving disguises and avoidance tactics to escape heated conflict with an angry Egyptian, I hope shows more improvement on my part. Then again, the real possibility of the whole scenario being fabricated in my over-analyzing mind doesn't argue in my favor. More on that in the next blog.