It has always seemed to me that the adjective “creative” in the phrase “creative problem solving” could be understood to modify either the solution applied to the problem, or in some cases, the problem itself. This is likely due to particular aspects of my youth, which now that I reflect on them, lead me to conclude that any creativity I displayed in solving problems was vastly overshadowed by the astounding inventiveness I displayed in creating them. The following story serves as an excellent example.
The next summer, in 1985, I left the Beloved Corona, which was in excellent condition, in the hands of my little brother BOB! I did this because I was packing off to Guatemala for an 8 week internship. I was going to work with a small religious order that was supporting small churches in rural Guatemala. I was sad to leave the car behind but was excited for the trip.
For that summer I lived just outside of Guatemala City with a small community of people from all over the Americas. They were fascinating and dedicated people. My roommate was a young guy named Carlos from El Salvador. He was about my age, and we got along well. There was a lot of newness to get used to. The food was new, the landscape was new, and most of the conversations were in Spanish. But I loved it.
Anyway, over the course of the summer, I couldn’t help but share stories about my Beloved Corona with all my new friends. Finally, one of them said, do you have a picture of this …car… with you? Sadly, I did not. So, I sent a letter home to BOB! I told BOB! that he must send me a photo of the Beloved Corona. True to form, he complied immediately, and a short two weeks later I was holding said photo.
Reflect with me for a minute on all that was required for that photo to appear in my hand. First I had to send an air mail letter to BOB! which would take a minimum of 4-6 days in transit. Then, BOB! had to locate our camera and probably make a special trip to the store just to buy film (assuming he had ready money). Then BOB! had to recruit a photographer because of course he wanted to be in the picture himself, and selfies hadn’t been invented yet. Then he had to have the film developed (this is an ancient process similar to alchemy). Once the photo was retrieved from the alchemist, he had to send it to me via air mail which would take another 4-6 days in transit.
These days, people find the instant transmission of a selfie via social medial astounding. I think that BOB! getting a photo to me inside of two weeks was the real miracle. To stage the photo, BOB! had pulled the beloved Corona onto the lawn in front of the little house. In the photo itself, BOB! sits perched atop the roof the Beloved Corona with a wide smile on his face and a hand-lettered sign reading, “¡Hola!”
I gazed at the photo, my eyes clouding with a reminiscent mist. I loved that car. My friends in Guatemala didn’t seem immediately to understand my affection. But they did admire my brother’s hand-lettering. BOB! has always been very good with signs.
The weekend after the photo arrived, I headed off with Carlos to a rural part of southern Guatemala bordering on El Salvador. I particularly remember the two nights we spent in a village called Pasasagua. It was a very small village on a very small river. We arrived on a beautiful evening as dusk was setting in. Along with the many free-range chickens and swine, we entered the village by walking up the well-traveled dirt paths that separated the small wooden houses.
At the very top of the hill, Carlos acquainted me with the outhouse that would be our seat of ease for the weekend. He also let me know that we would be sharing it with many of the other inhabitants of the village. He then led me back down the hill about two hundred yards and showed me into the small, one-room wooden house we’d be sleeping in. The simple shelter contained two beds, a couple of shelves, and a large stone water filter hanging over a basin. No electricity. No plumbing. Hence the outhouse.
As darkness fell, we sat on the front stair enjoying the food we had brought with us. The village was immensely peaceful and quiet. As we chatted amiably, I noticed that there were only two sources of light emerging in the deepening night. One was a solitary light bulb that had been switched on—perhaps the only electric light in the village. The other was the most glorious night sky I had ever seen, full of stars I could not name but that none-the-less filled me with wonder.
The next day was full of meetings with the residents of Pasasagua. Carlos was wonderful to watch. He told stories to the children and made them laugh. And later in the day, we joined in a lovely church service with some of the villagers. The afternoon passed in a charming, slow, companionable way. As evening approached, a woman came by our little wooden house selling tacos from a basket on her head. Feeling both magnanimous and quite hungry, I purchased dinner for Carlos and me. Carlos offered me some water from the huge stone filter that hung in the one-room house. I gratefully accepted. We ate our delicious dinner together bringing a close to our wonderful day.
Somehow in the wonder and joy of it all, I had completely missed the fact that the tacos had been covered in shredded red cabbage. Delicious though it was, I had been warned over many weeks in Guatemala that leafy vegetables contained certain bacteria with which my digestive system was unfamiliar. Lettuce and cabbage had to be washed in a diluted bleach solution to be made safe for the likes of my posh entrails. I also realized much too late that the stone water filter was likely not sufficient to strain out the host of other microbes eager to introduce themselves to my intestines.
I realized this with some frustration, and a sense of impending doom. I was frustrated because I had been bragging all summer to my Guatemalan friends and to Carlos that I never got sick—that I had what was called an “iron constitution.” The impending doom had to do with the fact that I was familiar with the violent lengths to which the human body will go in an attempt to void itself of unfamiliar and parasitic microbes.
I went to bed trying not to think about it. But somewhere in the deep of the night I was awakened by the tectonic shifts in my abdomen that would undoubtedly trigger an eventual tsunami. I climbed out of bed and quickly gathered the necessary items for a trip to the outhouse. With matches, candle, and toilet paper in hand I stepped out of the wooden house. The village light was out but the moonless expanse of sky was nothing short of majestic, the white swath of the Milky Way running from rim to rim. I lit the candle and set out on the two-hundred-yard journey to the outhouse.
If you have ever tried to light your way with a candle outside at night, then you know why humankind invented the flashlight. Consider: First of all, you have to cup one hand around the front of the flame because it is so easily blown out—even by the mildest of breezes. And that necessary hand causes a big problem. It essentially blocks any light from shining precisely where you need it—in front of you so you can actually see where you are going. To compound the situation the rest of the light just bounces off your cupped hand and shines back in your eyes, pretty much blinding you. It’s not a good system.
With a sense of increasing urgency welling up inside me, I managed to stumble about halfway up the hill. At some point I heard the deep throated greeting of one of the village swine just behind me, which helped spur me along. Part of my sleep-addled brain was actually afraid the pig would get to the outhouse ahead of me. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I managed to reach the outhouse door ahead of the pig. I stepped inside and carefully inserted the candle in a holder that seemed placed there for just that purpose.
I can’t really explain what happened next—except to say that I later came to believe that I was already suffering from the delirium-producing effects of a high fever that would not fully declare itself until the next day. What in fact happened was that somehow, the waves of urgency that had propelled me to the outhouse temporarily receded (as they sometimes will), and I became… curious. I found myself standing there thinking, “I wonder what the pit of this outhouse looks like?”
For reasons I’ve already explained, the candle was no help in relieving my curiosity. It just sat there throwing its meager light barely far enough to illuminate the toilet paper.
The idea dawned upon me in a flash of brilliance. I could explore the outhouse pit by simply lighting a piece of toilet paper and dropping it down the toilet hole! Such a clever boy. I tore off the rough equivalent of four squares (for this was un-perforated paper). I carefully lit the corner of the squares and gently dropped them into the hole.
Much like the night of the engine fire, the following series of events unfolded in slow motion.
The slowly burning paper began its orangey-yellow descent. It fell in a lazy fashion not unlike a colorful autumn leaf, gently tumbling and flitting leisurely from side to side. It was actually quite beautiful in its way.
You’ll be glad to know that by the time the burning paper reached the half-way point of its descent, I finally had my moment of abject clarity. I realized, at long last, that most of what was in the bottom of that hole was likely also very willing to burn. I watched in slow-motion horror as the paper continued its lazy journey, finally alighting gently atop the “mound” at the bottom of the pit. And much faster than I had imagined, a larger fire took hold and began to spread.
I had plenty of time to see all of the scenarios unfold in my mind. I saw myself struggling to explain to the good people of Pasasagua how their outhouse had been reduced to a mere blackened crater overnight. Horrified, I saw it all.
And that’s when I finally remembered why I’d come to the outhouse in the first place. I realized I had everything I needed to extinguish the blaze all by myself. Crisis averted.
Creative problem… creatively solved.
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