The dinner brought another variation on the theme – tables and chairs! That was good news, believe you me! It’s damn difficult sitting cross-legged on the floor and eating with one hand when you’ve got a dodgy knee. Events improved further when a plastic plate and cutlery appeared on the table top from nowhere. Fat of mutton never tasted better, I can tell you, especially from a chair high view, even if the fork did snap in half.
The mass majority of guests were Sudanese – moslems from the now divided northern half of the country. Males and females were still segregated: women sat with the kids in a distant room, doors shut, tittering from within, and the men, with headwear thick and heavy like dough, upright at the far end of a huge hall, and when the waiter asked what I’d like to drink, I said “Scotch, on the rocks” and they all laughed. Then one guy joked that he might be able to help. Although he may have been serious.
Like everything that is taboo and officially banned (cf. Prohibition in 1930s USA, or, heroin everywhere), for those who really want it, they can find it, or make it. For any demand, legit or not, there is usually a chain of supply, whether over the counter or under it. Just the other day a taxi driver mentioned that Black Label whisky sells here for $373 a litre, vis-à-vis petrol that goes for about 15 cents for the same volume. Hehe. So what is more valuable to mankind?
I knew a guy who made wine in his wardrobe. He insisted it was white but I said it was brown. It’s not difficult. All you need is a massive bucket (his held 50 litres) into which are poured 20 litres of water and 20 of grape juice, readily available in a supermarket near you. To top it off, stir in a few spoonfuls of sugar, leave to ferment, and Bob’s your uncle, 40 days later you can get wasted on the sofa.
When imbibed, DO NOT go out, as I did after a particularly smashing Christmas piss-up at his place and walked home, a good mile, through dusty streets regularly patrolled by the cops. The next day, Boxing Day, and falling, thank God, on a weekend, I woke up at 4 in the afternoon with the world’s worst ever hangover, brain truly hammering on skull. I’ve never felt or looked so sick and when I next saw him, I said, “Do not give me that stuff ever again. I repeat, ever.” These days I’m supremely sober in the sand. Holidays tend to be completely different - only 3 weeks to go. Yippee!
After our sit-down supper, I went outside on to a terrace next to the kids’ play area and enjoyed a peaceful smoke. A few minutes later, a door slowly creaked open and a tiny, cute-as-can-be girl poked her head out and smiled and gave me a very shy hi. She ran down the steps, arms flapping, onto the sand and stood wide-eyed at the vast array of entertainment on offer. Eventually deciding what to play on first, she turned and ran back to me. “Push, please,” she said, pointing to the swings. I've had an affinity for swings ever since I saw the Nepalese kids, and adults, having so much fun on them, so we walked over and I had to pick her up and put her on the seat because it was high off the ground and told her to hang on tight. I got her swinging, gently pushing on her fragile back, until we got a good rhythm going and she was flying past my head, every now and then throwing an inquisitive and happy glance my way. I felt almost broody, but long ago recognized, as did various girlfriends, that my wayward nature wasn't conducive to having kids, or much sense of responsibility at all. In an ideal world you would keep them in a cupboard, bring them out for a few hours of an evening, go down the park, make puzzles, play Monopoly, have a laugh generally and put them back in the cupboard before the football starts on telly. But it doesn’t work like that.
After about ten minutes my arm began to ache and I asked if she might want to stop swinging and go on the slide. “No,” she said softly. “Push.” So I swapped sides and carried on pushing left-handed. 45 minutes later she still wanted me to push, and so, for the first time ever, I was relieved when a decidedly odd colleague came out and offered me a lift home. But it was sad to leave the lovely little girl with the oh-so cute demeanor in her prettiest party dress on the swing and when I brought her to a halt and lifted her back to earth, she stood in the sand and waved up at me and I waved back.
Five minutes later in the car, my decidedly odd colleague went the wrong way, which I pointed out would add 4 km onto an 800m journey.
“I can’t go down that road,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because there’s a bridge.”
“You got bridge-phobia or something?”
“No, I’ve got irritable bowels.”
And with that sentence, a delightful evening was shattered.