The Kindness of Stangers

Nikki Kallio commented:  Somewhere I saw a picture of a road sign that was in some rugged mountainous place like Tibet that said, "Bash On Regardless."

That certainly does describe this portion of the tour.  I have it easier than the early Mormon settlers to Utah, but still:  100 degree heat that melted my lipstick and part of the plastic on one of my shoes.  Air conditioning that failed early on.  Coolant crises.  Vapor locks that have to be tended.  A wonky knee from twisting to get at things in the car, made worse by going on hikes. 

Gary keeps calculating the number of miles he'll have to drive to rescue me.  Chris thinks about getting me an airline ticket.  My heroes want to save me, but on I go.

Bash on!

People along the way help.  Yesterday morning, Wendy, another camper from New York, noticed I was limping and came over to help me take up my tent. Charlotte, the children's librarian at Moab, sent her children running errands for me to save me steps. 

On my drive toward my next destination, I had to stop at a high "view area" to rest the Sable again. Once again, steam was pouring out. and there was that ominous bubbling.  With the temperature again at 100 degrees, I figured I would be there for at least half an hour.  I was preparing to mix another batch of coolant
when a young Hispanic couple tried to come to my rescue.  They spoke not a word of English.  I can say "adios", "senor", and "hola" but that didn't get us very far.   She went off to look for water at the restrooms, but I could have told her forget it.  There is no such thing at the waysides in Utah.

He looked at the engine.  From what I could follow, he studied mechanics in Ohio.  He thought the problem was the thermostat, which is what the guys at Jiffy Lube told me.  He also thought that doing anything about the thermostat would require removing parts of the engine, not likely.  So he helped me mix the coolant with the water I had brought, and in a short while I was on my way again. 

During all this, gringo tourists came and went.  Their contribution was to take photos of my car and my friends.  I suspect with the deep tan I now sport, they thought we were all Hispanic and these were photos they could exhibit to show their friends what a shiftless lot we were.  I thought a children's sermon on the Good Samaritan would be in order.

Last night, in a thunderstorm, I stopped at a motel.  The owners, from India, gave me their cheapest room, but then called me back and handed me another key.  They'd noticed my limp and told me I needed a good soak in a tub.  I wound up with their best room at no extra charge. 

I always depend on the kindness of strangers, and so often they are strangers from another ethnic background.  Why is that?