do not steal. or i will send you to mogadishu.
do you see the southern cross? just above the broken arms of this dead and dying tree? upright and tilting ever so gently to the left. i like dead trees. and, as you know, i am presently obsessed by star scapes. bear with me, oh bestest beloveds, things could be worse.
it's friday night. and i could be donning little sequinned dresses, feather boas, marlene dietrich red lipstick and silver sparkly eye shadow and hitting the town, doing the occasional casual tequila body shot en route. while driving, smsing. ya know, multi tasking. just because it's friday. and head to, aherm, the, aherm, god, the maasai camp? the greek club? the lively lady? stiggis?she mumbles in very small voice. like when i admit to liking abba.
i mustn't be mean about them. the arusha night spots not abba. they are, all four, arusha institutions (not abba), where many murky glorious moments have been spent. one which leaps to mind, oddly enough, was when the 12 year old pilot tried to pick me up at maasai camp. a beautiful young thing who had been flying weapons of war into darfur sudan for a, (should i even divulge?) russian aviation company. this in itself a conversation stopper. he was on "off" (taking some leave) when he bumped into me. and he was a mess. mad. obviously. he courageously, and almost immediately, tried to convince me that every woman wanted a shining knight on a white horse to rescue her. my eye brows arched. he said i looked like i needed rescuing. . . .my eye brows ticked the cob webbed ceiling. really? well let me tell you something, darlin', i smirked...
he was a mess. and clearly deluded. he had been paid well. but the weight of his actions weighed heavily on his bright young thing shoulders. i thought about rescuing him but instead we dropped him at the impala roundabout never to be seen again. julie and i drove home at one speed, over all the speed bumps, in the middle of the road into a blazing dawn, fried eggs, a hazy sunday morning and a mammoth brain cell killer maasai camp hangover.
what? oh. we were driving a toyota.
my moment of glory at stiggi's was when i single handedly and alone picked a fight with seven scottish road builders who had just climbed kilimanjaro. the climb had not dented their sense of well being. they were looking deep into a whisky bottle. i would like to say they all wore kilts and shoes laced up their very strong log throwing legs. but no. they sported gold chains and bad hair styles. some of them were, i remember, red headed. ish. it was the evening when i said to myself, on finding myself alone and a little bored again, (never a good combination, in my experience):
tsk tsk god janelle, don't be afraid to go out on your own! you can do it! blah blah.
oh okokokok i answered.
and i took myself all the way to the maasai camp. it's all the way on the otherside of town. it's miles away. like an 80km round trip from the ngorobobs. ok. say 70kms then. no one was there except the barman. so we had a few. well i did. and if i rightly recall, so did he. and then popped into stiggis on my way home. it wasn't late. but i was feeling very brave and in need of conversation. i swaggered in, and there they were. the road builders. i sat around the corner of the bar from them. and eavesdropped their conversation. they were rabbiting on in what vaguely resembled english, about how rubbish the tanzanian roads are. (true. but still) i think that's where the argument began. the owner had to rush in and save me after i said something like oh please scotland belongs to england or something careless like that.
how happy am i to be sitting here tonight? under the southern cross. tucked up on the hill. far away from terrible moments like those. and i haven't mentioned the time i argued with the askari outside what i thought was the colobus (a hideous nightclub near maasai camp filled with cheap neon gin, bad music and thieving whores) entrance gate, because he wouldn't open up and let me in...i pleaded formidably until he stuck a machine gun through the window. i politely reversed, smiling and nodding very fast and garbeling asantesanaasantesanaasantesana and realized it was the coca cola bottling plant next door. still. the machine gun was a little over the top, i thought.jeez.
i like to see the sparkly dress twinkling in the corner though. the boa draped temptingly nearby. but, sigh, for another friday night. some other time, she wistfully muses.
Kitchen Board: Friday Night: some time in june 09
list building up for a monday. like the carbuncle on my arm. see two barnacles below board. their performance last night was , well, moving.
toodely toot then, y'all. bisous X X X sparkly friday night ones... x.j