May 19, 2011
It’s never a good sign when you wake up to the smell of gasoline. Apparently the motorcycle had been leaking gasoline all night. There is a tube that comes from the side of the bike and lets air into the engine. I’m sure there’s a name for it, but I’ve only heard the Spanish version. Let’s call it the air hose. I learned about the air hose yesterday. After buying the bike. I went to get gas before heading out of town. After getting the gas, the bike fell over. I picked it up. Gas came out the air hose. I drove the bike back to the shop and asked why gas was coming out of my bike. They told me that’s normal when the bike falls over. The gas stopped coming out, and I went on with life.
This morning, however, it was no longer a few drops coming from the air hose. It was a stream flowing onto the floor which low looked like a small lake or giant puddle. I picked up the air hose to stop the flow, but the flood continued. It was also coming from another unknown location in the side of the bike. Now I was going to have a bike that weighed too much and had no gas. The gas was falling out the left side of the bike, the same side as the kickstand, so I decided to tip it to the right against the wall in the hopes that the tank wouldn’t be completely empty before I could figure out what to do. I mean, seriously, how does a bike spring a leak overnight? I looked at Regino and said, "Que disastre," (What a disaster). He laughed and agreed.
I called Gustavo, but he didn’t answer, so I left a message. Then I tried cleaning up the gasoline. I was sweeping dust over the gas to soak it up when Oscar wandered by. I asked him if he knew anything about motorcycles. He said not really but we found a little switch thing that said fuel on the side of the engine. I remembered Carlos playing with it before driving up the hill so we decided to switch it to the off position. The stream from the air hose seemed to slow down, but it still leaked. I thanked him, and he went back to school. At about 10 I heard another motorcycle stop in front of the clinic. Gustavo had come to help me out. But first, he made me look him in the eyes and tell him if I was hurt. I’m glad he asked that first because my frustration with the motorcycle would otherwise have put me in danger of bursting into tears in front of a near stranger. This question, however, made me feel indignant. Of course I was fine - I’m a fourth year medical student. I would know if I were seriously injured. I said something along those lines, but he stared me down, so I showed him the bruises and scrapes on my legs and told him that was it.
I guess that satisfied him because he laughed and told me I should have let him come with me to get the bike. Apparently I had miss translated that offer. I thought he was just saying I could go out to the communities with him. (I realize that also sounds like a good option, but it takes me an hour to do 4 surveys. I really thought that having my own transportation would be better because he doesn’t stay in the communities long enough for me to finish.) Whatever. This just added to my raging internal battle between knowing that I desperately need help and hating to ask for it.
An advanced inspection of my motorcycle began. Well yes, the gas was supposed to come out the side after the bike fell over. Maybe turning the fuel switch had been helpful, but in any case he let the gasoline drain into a bowl until it stopped of it’s own accord. This really only took a few minutes. Then he tried to start the bike. Did it start? No. Brand new bike. Did not start. He gave the bike a pretty good once over and discovered that there was almost no oil in it. Hah. Really? Why not? Also I suspect that I may have put the wrong fuel type in it… Still haven’t mentioned that… Ayyyyyyy. His final verdict was that it is a beautiful bike but the bike is sick. He has a friend who knows more about motorcycles that he will have come look at it. The only up side was that Gustavo is going into La Esperanza tomorrow and can give me a ride.
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