New Clothes

People often ask me if it’s stressful living in Africa, which to be honest I find a bloody ridiculous question!

I mean the pressure, trauma and lack of basic resources is a nightmare when you’re trying to cobble together a fancy dress costume for the International Military Training schools’ Halloween ball!

Can you believe, Amazon don’t do next day, or any other day delivery for that matter, and there is a distinct lack of fancy dress shops in the city. And don’t get me started on the lack of charity shops!

And where’s my mum, when I need her eh!! I’m sure women must be given a secret of book of how to do things like make fancy dress costumes out of nothing with one days notice.

I however have not been granted that gift and so just I’ve thrown down out of frustration the net curtain and fishing wire that I was trying to fashion into some wings, and taken to ranting about it instead!!

You see I accidentally agreed to go to this party. A friend of a friend asked if I wanted tickets, so I said ‘yes’ not actually knowing that all my other friends had said no and that ‘oh by the way its fancy dress’!

 Fancy – effing – dress…….in Africa…….. I ask you!!

OK I may have been a little hasty in my response when I heard it was being held at the military barracks (mmmm soldiers), but that is purely for professional reasons of course. (Although I can’t remember the last time that my eye’s glazed over and I started secreting a little bit of droll out the side of my mouth when I was offered a so called professional opportunity, but anyway)

You see at the moment I am the acting Director, and therefore by default I am also head of security. Apparently I am now part of a ‘tree’ and people below me in the trunk are dependent on me. Oh so I see, so not only am I responsible for the safety of everyone working for the organization in 2 countries I also have dependants from about 6 other organizations – marvelous that, just fab!

So you see I NEEEED connections with the military and a man with a rather large weapon by my side. This is especially pertinent as I have managed to acquire my new surrogate family at the time of a large pre-election political rally, planned for tomorrow. Joy!!

To be honest I’m not too worried although I swear politics here is nothing like we’re use to. Each party has a day to rally and from the outside it actually looks as though the aim is to throw the biggest street party ever, and that’s how you win votes. Think carnival and there in lies African politics.

I am sure it must be more complex but all I’ve heard this election is whistles drums, loud music and lots of cheering, no actual political statements!

So you see tomorrow is officially party time so I have no choice but to go really. And given my shameful display at last Saturday’s party hosted by people from South America it’s best that if I go out in public again, it is under the cover of a costume. Seriously though, who thought letting me near the tequila was a good idea.

Well I can tell you that it was not a good idea.

In fact it was a very, very silly idea.

I know. I was the one crawling on my hands and knees between the bathroom and the bedroom.

And the one who was complimented this week in the supermarket by a complete stranger on ‘what I did with the hat’. I have no idea there was a hat.

I certainly do not have a hat!!!.

But obviously now I need a hat if I’m going to brave another party. But I haven’t got one. Because I’m in Africa and Amazon doesn’t deliver!

So, it’s either Lady Godiva or the Emperor then?

Nice.

Pride comes before a .......Pizza??

Now I know I’m nowt special, (and don’t bother with the “special needs” comment either thank you!!). In fact by my reaction to the first political pre-election rally this week I think I must actually be somewhat of a coward. I still stand by the fact that checking the British Foreign and Commonwealth Travel section and the British Consuls’ website every 5 minutes was just good plain common sense (No restrictions in place, all is well. In fact I think there’s more risk warnings about travel to the UK. Quite understandable when you consider the threat associated with deep fried mars bars and Birmingham’s broad street on a Saturday night!)

But there are some days when I am still a little bit proud of myself. Today is one.

Oh I haven’t done anything particularly grand or note worthy. I haven’t taken on the national debt problem or tried to affect the 1 in 5 infant mortality rate. Oh God no, all I have done is drove myself home all alone.

You see that lovely monster truck at the end– I parked that little beauty. OK yes it is in the bush and I am covered with scratches from the foliage that attacked me as I got out (left hand flippin drives), but not a bad first attempt.

This streak of independence has been building all week and I was in fact sat in the drivers seat on Thursday night. The problem was that after I switched on the engine and went to depress the clutch, it transpired that 4x4 pick up trucks are not built for fat little short arses like me! You cannot imagine the mix of resentment, bitterness but just a little sense of irony I felt handing the keys back to the French bloke who had every so gallantly presented them to me not 5 minutes before. A deep primeval noise emitted from the back of throat and I’m sure I saw the Frenchie’s pupils expand with fear. So now, this little beauty is mine for the weekend.

I’ll be staying in then eh!! It’s F’best!!

You see I haven’t told anyone here about my warning from the Saint Helena police for lack of due care and attention  while driving– I still maintain that the wall must have been crumbling for it to fall down like that with just a whisper of a touch!!

But looking at these sunsets from my balcony, I don’t think I’ll be too unhappy by my self imposed captivity!

The other thing I’ve done, is at long last joined the local hotel Gym. Now I quite enjoyed my session last Sunday and was (almost) happy to trot in on Tuesday after work. It didn’t last. I was faced with my idea of hell. Think sauna, no air conditioner, and the place packed with huge sweaty, stinky black and Lebanese blokes, grunting – yes that’s right grunting at themselves in the mirror. Then they saw me - cue tumbleweed moment! I hadn’t walked the 8 steps to the treadmill before I was covered in sweat. However I, and my matching cerise fitness gear brazened it out on the machine with the most nonplussed waddle I could muster! I must have lost at least 6 sodding stone in that 40 minute session. Sadly though the horror of it brought on a relapse of peanut butter finger and Star Beer, what with today’s stress, I don’t think there’s enough minute in the day for me to work off my coping strategies and I think I may have found a new one.

Folks, I have amazing news.

Complete evidence that this country is in fact ‘developing’. There is a pizza delivery place opened just up the road from me.

I AM DOOMED!!

Peanut Butter Will Save My Life

Recently I had one of the best weeks of my life.

And I think you were in it.

It was filled with, fun, love, laughter and most of all a LOT of cake.

I was surrounded each day with people that I love/admire/respect and did almost everything in one week that you can in England (well other than stealing a traffic cone on a drunken night out …..  I DIDN’T steal a traffic cone right??).

I realized I was blessed.

But then like the eejit I am I left it all behind to return to my life in sub-Saharan Africa. Yes I left behind the Spa’s, Tea rooms, Theatres, Cinema’s, Shops, Café’s, parks, Michelin star restaurants, babies, puppies,  for what? Well ‘ants’ it seems.

I must need my friggin’ head testing…

(BTW they do obviously have babies and puppies in Africa, but not my family/friends variety)

On a serious note I think leaving this time was emotionally harder than previously. My screaming like a banshee to the sales assistant in Brussels Airport sort of indicated that I wasn’t perhaps feeling too stable. But I really didn’t want a Versace Perfumes bag. I wanted my free miniatures. I don’t think throwing the aforementioned bag on the floor IS unreasonable when it’s so humongous that it couldn’t be folded to fit in my cabin luggage.

But still, back I came.

Now on the positive side the rains are nearly over, and I see beautiful blue skies and some strange unfamiliar birds reappearing in them. I have my stunning balcony view back, and the seeds that I planted in my tubs months back are now rewarding me with herbs and pretty flowers. And in all, I can once again see the beauty of Africa now that the cloud of constant rain has lifted.

On the other hand it hasn’t been the best of weeks, mainly I think because I put myself on a detox programme. No alcohol, cake, chocolate, crisps, peanut butter finger – nothing. I did very well for 3 days. Then my newly appointed project manager resigned. And the 2 best candidates for my project officer positions cheated in test leaving me with a big round cuddly joker as the only person I can offer a job to.  Think La La. That’s right I am employing a teletubby. In interview he listed his 3 weaknesses as “I laugh too much”, “I joke too much”, but then he couldn’t give a 3^rd answer as he was laughing too much!

Oh and the only other ex-pat who wasn’t a French man has run away, leaving me with just the 3 French. Admittedly I never use to speak to him, mostly because he was generally asleep of the time, but at least his presence in meetings made me feel a little bit less conspicuous amongst the Francophones.  Literally the man went on leave and simply didn’t get on the plane back. Now the way I look at it, if he’s from Bangladesh and finds it too hard being here, it really does confirm that I NEED to go out on a Friday night and get hideously drunk and eat pizza. How else will I cope?

So guess what?

I have a hangover.

It hurts.

I’m going back to bed to wallow in just a teeny bit of self pity, and then I’m going to get me a jar of the finest peanut butter I can find, get my finger in position, and then get on with living and surviving, with the ants and the French by my side.

xxx