I was caffeinating myself on the porch, the better to get through the research reading, when Roman the Slovenian Guy came by. I offered him a Coca-Cola Light (same syrup, different marketing).
After about a minute of us talking it seemed clear that it was Miller Time, or beer o'clock, or whatever you call it. But I had no beer in the house. I've got a lot of work to do in the next month, and beer and work are mutually exclusive for my brain, and thus I did not buy what my nephew refers to as "Daddy Juice."
Me and Roman sat and talked about prostitues (there are very many of them in Africa), second hand clothes (everybody wears them, so nobody makes traditional clothing anymore. US college athletics shirts everywhere: worn by your gardener, your driver, your mugger, your corner merchant), and his safari business. But: caffeine and two guys who speak different native languages; we ran out of conversation.
So Roman left and I continued reading. My rotund housekeeper Dina offered me some Kenyan food: corn meal cooked until it looks like clay, eaten with pumpkin leaves covered with yellow grease. Was leery, did eat, was excellent.
Then the sun was going down, so I went inside to continue reading. I turn the lights on, but then the lights go off, along with the computer, and the fridge. (Bizarre Freudian tic: when I begin writing about the drinking phase of the night, narration voice slips into present tense. Troubling?)
And Roman shows up again. "Hey. Thare is a bleckout." The moon's up, so you can see okay outside, but inside is useless. The book in my hand is useless. Alcohol: no longer useless.
I go inside and grab the big jug of California wine I bought when I got off the plane, and two glasses. Roman fires up his oil lantern, and we resume discussion of prostitutes, second hand clothing, and camping trips. But now with cursing!
We end up next door, eating trail mix and drinking more wine with neighbor Teresa from Spain. Teresa just got married to Sudarsan, a Hindu from L.A. They got married twice: first in a Hindu pastel-outfit-and-flower-necklaces wedding in L.A., then in a white dress/black suit Catholic ceremony in Teresa's village, just south of Madrid. Roman and his wife were wed in Slovenia and in rural Kenya, in full Masai garb: Roman had to give a cow to his wife as a dowery. Cow was slaughtered, drinking and partying with the locals ensued.
But last night: more wine, and Roman told about when he was in the army and he got struck by lightning. Then: I doodie you not, ghost stories. That sounds awfully Girl Scoutish writing it now, but no apologies: The night was boozerific.
Thanks to the sweet red stuff, I was in bed by ten. Woke up at eight, still no power. Refrigerated groceries, ruined. Crackers and wine: still dandy.
