After a lovely early morning of lounging around, I decided it was high time to get some work done at my neighborhood coffee shop. I drove up the hill to the cafe, not because I'm a lazy American who can't walk ten minutes up the road, but because I wanted to check to see if the filling station across from the cafe was going to get fuel this weekend. There is a fuel shortage in the country, and getting fuel has been a major problem. I just haven't had time to queue for hours in order to possibly get a few gallons of gas. As I crested the hill, I saw a few cars already lined up in the parking lot of the station. Even a few cars meant that the fuel was probably coming later that day. Excellent.
At the cafe, where large trees shade tables on the lawn, and a patio -- dotted with large potted plants -- houses other tables, I sat at my usual table, ordered an ice coffee, and determined to get through the stack of essays that should have been graded yesterday. I had just finished two essays when two of my favourite (note: that spelling is just for you two...and all my other lovely British and Canadian and Australian friends) British doctors walked up. Instead of getting a stack of essays graded and then heading to queue at the filling station, I had a long, leisurely lunch with the docs, discussing a strange array of topics (from dairy farmers in England to the NBA basketball strike) that somehow connected to a few central themes of morality, consumerism, human rights, and democracy. This was far more interesting than grading research papers where two-thirds of my students made up the sources and the quotes. (I'm pretty sure there is no academic journal called The Journal of Internet Dating or books published in New York City, England, but I could be wrong.)
We leave the cafe around two, and the docs go home -- probably to look at a bunch of pictures of eyes of people with malaria; I've yet to see any of these pictures, but apparently they are, compared to my boring astigmatism, quite fascinating and exciting. Hey, I get excited about grammar, so it's only natural that ophthalmologists get excited about eyes, right?
Right. So I get in my car and in the queue for fuel. I don't know how many cars back I am, but I definitely can't see the petrol station from the back of the line. Luckily, I have essays to grade, and I'm on the side of the road with some shade. It's been hot here lately, so even in the shade with the windows down and a slight breeze, it's still hot enough for me to be sweating. I get in line around 2 pm, telling myself that I will get fuel before it gets dark. For at least an hour, I don't move at all, and then a car pulls out of the queue, so we all get to move up a car length. Then another car pulls out, and I get worried that these people ahead of me are getting texts or phone calls telling them that the fuel isn't going to come. Or that it went to another station. But I wait nonetheless. And then, at one point, the cars in front of me move a car length, and I can't see a car moving out of the line. And then another car length. I stop grading, get out of my car, and ask the guy in front of me if the fuel has come to the station. YES! And he tells me that we'll probably get fuel because we're not so far back in the line. I want to hug him, restrain myself thankfully, and get back in the car with renewed hope and energy. I look behind me and cannot see the end of the line of cars parked on the side of the road, all hoping that they'll also be able to get fuel before it runs out.
I start tackling the essays in my pile with renewed vigor. I'm determined to get all of the essays graded before I get fuel. Slowly, little by little, the pile of ungraded essays shrinks as I move closer and closer to the filling station, until finally (trumpets sound!) I can see the station itself! Like a beacon in the night, the station appears over the crest of the hill. I'm so close to the station, I can start to smell fuel (or perhaps start to imagine the smell...at this point I think I'm quite dehydrated, so it's very possible I was imagining things). And then, finally (drum roll, please) I turn off the road, into the station, with just a few cars ahead of me. I watch each car fill up, thinking "Please, please, please don't be taking the last of the fuel!" At one car, I think the attendant is telling the driver there's no more fuel, as he puts up his hand, but he's only letting the driver know he should stop, as the car is aligned with the fuel pump. Three more cars. I feel like a kid at Christmas, my stomach filled with anticipation. I have one more essay to grade, but once there are only two cars ahead of me, I can't concentrate and just throw the essay aside for later. The white Toyota in front of me doesn't take long at the pump, and it's my turn. I pull up, hop out of the car, greet the attendant, and tell him to fill the tank. I imagine him saying, "Sorry only 5 litres left," but he just nods and starts pumping the gas. 12,000 kwacha (about $65) later, I have a full tank. It is the happiest I've been to have a full tank of gas ever in my life, I think.
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