I don't really know how it happened.
Our plan was to go out for drinks, grab some dinner and return to our shady, rat-infested hotel in plenty of time to lay awake the entire night sweating. The evening started out innocently enough: he had a few beers, I spilled a few beers and we watched a couple of prostitutes play a few clumsy rounds of pool; all-in-all, your average Sunday. Four hours later I’m in a karaoke duet with a Ugandan man, clutching a flea-ridden kitten whose rapid heartbeat suggests an inexplicably-strong dislike of our “I Will Always Love You” rendition and quite possibly all classic 90’s hits. My stomach gurgles loudly; it’s full of what I’ll later learn was liver and gristle. I turn toward the “audience” to avoid my karaoke partner’s increasingly-intense stare and see my boyfriend smiling and shaking hands with Willy, a Filipino man, in a way that convinces me he’s just negotiated the terms of my arranged marriage. I think I’ll like the Philippines; I wonder if I can bring my kitten.
Arranged Marriage Negotiation Time-Minus 3 hours:
We hear a familiar melody, an old American traditional tune that immediately makes us think of hairspray and Coca-Cola. American Idol! We follow the bewitching theme song into the back room of the dimly-lit restaurant and there He is: Ryan Seacrest in all his spray-tanned, Crest-White-Stripped glory, prominently displayed on the most beautiful 40” flat-screen television that ever existed. We can’t take our eyes off Him. He is America. We sit down, vaguely aware we’ve just invited ourselves into a Filipino family’s make-shift living room.
Arranged Marriage Negotiation Time-Minus 2 hours, 55 minutes:
New judges? Who’s that freaky looking woman sitting in Randy’s old seat?
Arranged Marriage Negotiation Time-Minus 2 hours, 21 minutes:
I begrudgingly go to the bathroom during a commercial break, extremely cognizant of the fact I’m missing the latest T-Mobile commercial. Meanwhile, two prostitutes take advantage of my absence and proposition my boyfriend for sex. I’m more distraught over that commercial.
Arranged Marriage Negotiation Time-Minus 1 hour, 55 minutes:
The show’s over; Travis is in the bathroom. An older Filipino man turns to me, introduces himself as Willy and asks if I’d like to stay and sing karaoke. I tell him I don’t really sing but then realize wherever that giant television is, that’s where I need to be. So I do what any flat-screen-deprived person would do: I tell him my friend with the bladder problem absolutely loves to sing, what a great idea! And Willy, buddy, in the meantime, do you get HGTV?
Arranged Marriage Negotiation Time-Minus 56 minutes:
I’m listening to Travis sing his sixth song of the night. In fact, I can’t get him away from that microphone.
I’ve finally had enough beer to boost my karaoke confidence. I’ve even chosen a song: Desperado. Not your traditional karaoke tune, but it has just the amount of vocal range I’m looking for, which is to say: not much. I tell Karaoke-Idol my plan and he decides he’s going to sing Desperado, that that song is actually his song, obviously meant for his Kansas accent all along. I halfway consider telling him I’ve decided to sing Ke$ha’s “Blah Blah Blah” instead, just to see if he’ll follow suit. Something in me wants to hear him belt the lyrics, “Come put a little love in my glove box. Want to dance with no pants on?”
Arranged Marriage Negotiation Time-Minus 28 minutes:
We’ve been invited to join the restaurant/living room owners in a traditional Filipino meal. I make it a point not to ask what I’m eating, but it’s delicious. I spill another beer, this time into my lap. Nobody seems to notice.
T-Minus 7 minutes:
I find a kitten. I name him Charlie.
T-Minus 6 minutes, 51 seconds:
Charlie’s fleas find me.
T-Minus 4 minutes:
Why yes, random Ugandan man, I’d be happy to sing a duet with you. But for-the-love-of-God, please stop calling my kitten “pussy”.
T-Minus 2 minutes:
Uh-oh. I’m actually starting to believe this man will Always Love Me. What was that they taught us about making eye contact with Ugandan men during powerful emotional ballads? Do or Don’t? Do or Don’t?
I decide I should probably just let someone love me before it’s too late.
T-Minus 0:
What the…? What the hell is going on over there? Why are those two shaking hands and winking at each other?
There are some magical nights when the rats in the ceiling annoy you just a little bit less.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
button-up blazers and whimsical anchor embellishments are out for spring
For those of you who don’t know, which should be just about everyone, I was considering joining the Navy after Peace Corps service until I discovered I could be held in much higher esteem stocking spring cardigans and capris at my nearest Old Navy retail location:
U.S. Navy: 288,501 people like this.
Old Navy: 1,756,965 people like this.
Thank you Facebook for steering me in the right direction! That was a close one.
U.S. Navy: 288,501 people like this.
Old Navy: 1,756,965 people like this.
Thank you Facebook for steering me in the right direction! That was a close one.
Friday, April 8, 2011
eat the damn fish
I’m somewhat used to food recommendations: You simply must try the goat-cheese-&-olive-stuffed chicken breast! Or, more likely given my socioeconomic class: You simply must try the Chicken Grilled Stuft Burrito Extra Value Meal!
In Uganda food recommendations are much less commonly made than back home, mainly because there’s never the guarantee a restaurant will actually be stocked with arbitrary things like food, water, waiters or other such predictable lavishes so very standard in America. You learn to ask “Is there food?” the moment you sit down, a question that’s usually met with a thoughtful expression, followed by a furrowed brow, followed by your waiter disappearing for ten to twelve minutes, followed by the disappointing news that “Food is not there. But I can offer you a selection of room temperature beers and an arrangement of three to two Ugandan pop songs played on repeat at a volume guaranteed incompatible with human conversation. If you’d like to further reduce your conversation risk, as you’re still in danger of being able to lip-read your dining companion, we can pair tonight’s pop medley with the deafening dialogue and distracting images of a homemade Nigerian film.”
I recently had the opportunity to stay in an upscale lodge in Queen Elizabeth National Park, the sort of mythical place I’ve heard about where food is always “there”, where beer is served at a temperature colder than my mouth and where one bottle of water costs about the same as my weekly food budget. For the average Peace Corps volunteer, the word ‘upscale’ can be used loosely to mean a variety of things: The mosquito net was virtually hole-free! The rats in the ceiling were really quiet! I was easily able to incorporate the 5 a.m. call to prayer into my dream! Yes, I did happen to be dreaming about teaching sign-language to gorillas inside a Muslim mosque. What about it?
Call me a snob but I try to reserve the word ‘upscale’ for the rare occasions when the toilet is actually connected to the hotel room, toilet paper or not. That is, that was my definition of upscale until my weekend at the lodge, a charming world where wake-up calls involve hippos splashing outside your window and honest-to-goodness brewed coffee brought directly to your door, a world with the sort of water pressure you long ago forgot existed, a world with a convenient turn down service that saves you the overwhelming trouble of removing decorative pillow after decorative pillow; a world where decorative pillows actually exist.
My second morning at the lodge a man brought tea to my door instead of coffee. I was pissed.
Rewind just one week and I’m back in Queen Elizabeth National Park with my sister, this time in a hotel with no electricity, an inadvertent flush-to-activate, Bellagio-style fountain in the bathroom caused by a broken toilet pipe, an interactive bedspread comprised of hundreds of ants and a single menu option of: fish. To be fair, we were told we simply must try the fish; we just didn’t realize we actually…MUST try the fish. Ever tried eating an entire whole tilapia in the dark? How I would have killed to wash down my fish bones with an overpriced bottle of water or mistaken cup of tea.
In Uganda food recommendations are much less commonly made than back home, mainly because there’s never the guarantee a restaurant will actually be stocked with arbitrary things like food, water, waiters or other such predictable lavishes so very standard in America. You learn to ask “Is there food?” the moment you sit down, a question that’s usually met with a thoughtful expression, followed by a furrowed brow, followed by your waiter disappearing for ten to twelve minutes, followed by the disappointing news that “Food is not there. But I can offer you a selection of room temperature beers and an arrangement of three to two Ugandan pop songs played on repeat at a volume guaranteed incompatible with human conversation. If you’d like to further reduce your conversation risk, as you’re still in danger of being able to lip-read your dining companion, we can pair tonight’s pop medley with the deafening dialogue and distracting images of a homemade Nigerian film.”
I recently had the opportunity to stay in an upscale lodge in Queen Elizabeth National Park, the sort of mythical place I’ve heard about where food is always “there”, where beer is served at a temperature colder than my mouth and where one bottle of water costs about the same as my weekly food budget. For the average Peace Corps volunteer, the word ‘upscale’ can be used loosely to mean a variety of things: The mosquito net was virtually hole-free! The rats in the ceiling were really quiet! I was easily able to incorporate the 5 a.m. call to prayer into my dream! Yes, I did happen to be dreaming about teaching sign-language to gorillas inside a Muslim mosque. What about it?
Call me a snob but I try to reserve the word ‘upscale’ for the rare occasions when the toilet is actually connected to the hotel room, toilet paper or not. That is, that was my definition of upscale until my weekend at the lodge, a charming world where wake-up calls involve hippos splashing outside your window and honest-to-goodness brewed coffee brought directly to your door, a world with the sort of water pressure you long ago forgot existed, a world with a convenient turn down service that saves you the overwhelming trouble of removing decorative pillow after decorative pillow; a world where decorative pillows actually exist.
My second morning at the lodge a man brought tea to my door instead of coffee. I was pissed.
Rewind just one week and I’m back in Queen Elizabeth National Park with my sister, this time in a hotel with no electricity, an inadvertent flush-to-activate, Bellagio-style fountain in the bathroom caused by a broken toilet pipe, an interactive bedspread comprised of hundreds of ants and a single menu option of: fish. To be fair, we were told we simply must try the fish; we just didn’t realize we actually…MUST try the fish. Ever tried eating an entire whole tilapia in the dark? How I would have killed to wash down my fish bones with an overpriced bottle of water or mistaken cup of tea.
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