No idea what that means, but I had to pull out the Toto at some point.
New York to Amsterdam I had to sit next to some bizarro Clay Aiken: white tie over white button down, black dinner jacket with white stitching, blue jeans, frosted hiptard hair. Jackass stole my headphones halfway through the flight.
Amsterdam to Nairobi: wall to wall southern accents. You'd think we were on a Greyhound to an evangelical event in Murfreesboro.
But the plane touched down, and I wait for my bags to come out. And wait. Stomach sinking. Exhausted southerners drawling at each other across the baggage claim, Kenyans jawjawing, everyone bustling for their bags. Flow of luggage slows to a trickle, then finally my little bag of books comes through. Then the clothes bag. Oodalolly.
My old taxi driving guy Odhiambo is there, and he drives me home. With his seat belt on. WtF? No one in Nairobi wears a seatbelt. Kenyans cling to the sides of VW buses; they do not buckle up. Or they didn't. Now the govt has passed an is enforcing a seat belt law. And the roads: where the hell are the car-swallowing pot holes? What the hell happened?
Anyway, he drops me off, I falls asleep. Wake up, it's seventy-five degrees and partly cloudly, and people are having breakfast on the verandah. I walk down to the supermarket, with the noonday equitorial sun shining on my bald patches. Now I'm back in the same internet cafe, where all the Indian girls IM their boyfriends back home for hours on end. Bizarro. Extra-triple bizarro: I hear Atkins has come to Africa.
