Dave was…
Lying about that whole not drinking cause he’s sick thing.
I may be sick, but I’m a Souljah
Ween – Dont Shit Where You Eat
I confess I started the day still on the DL. In fact I told the girls to go in without me and spent the first part of the day sleeping, too exhausted to move much less get out of bed. But I also felt guilty for not being at work so eventually I hauled myself up and stumbled into the office around 11am. I didn’t feel particularly ill or nauseas just very depleted and weak.
Luckily we didn’t really have to leave the office today. Instead the interesting stuff came to us. The morning saw a woman walk in hoping for help. She apparently is being persecuted in her village after she was charged with witchcraft for the second time. She had been charged once in the past and had to undergo a test to prove her she wasn’t in fact a witch. Amazingly enough, and quite honestly terribly disappointing, the test did not involve weighing her in huge scales against a duck. No instead the village council made her lick a red oil and then poured the rest of the oil in a line on the ground. She then had to cross the line and if she did so and didn’t die within a couple days than she wasn’t a witch. (Witch’s apparently are quite susceptible to the deadly power of spilled liquids.) She passed but apparently this method of proof must not be as airtight as those pioneered by Sir Belvedere (Don’t they know they should just throw her in the lake and see if she floats?) as now, a few months later, she is once again up on witchcraft charges. Personally I don’t get it, the not dead despite walking across a line of wet dirt would seem to definitely prove she wasn’t a practice of the black arts but then the last movie I think I saw about witches was Hocus Pocus starring Bette Midler and the fat nun from Sister Act so it’s safe to say my knowledge of the subject is limited.
Anyway this second charge has come because some dude in her village is complaining that he dreams about her choking him. I confess I don’t quite get this either. If she were really a witch why would she cast a spell where a dude dreams about her choking him? Wouldn’t she just use her magical powers to actually choke him to death? Seems that would more effectively achieve her ends than publicizing her witchy tendencies and dislike of this particular individual. And does this mean that anytime someone appears in your dreams its cause that person is casting a spell on you? Cause I have this dream all the time about Grace Park from Battlestar Galactica, and I don’t know how she knows who I am or why she’s targeted me out on such a regular basis but let’s just say she is more than welcome to come cast that spell on me in person.
Not a witch, just Kumba’s premier dry cleaner
Still all in all fascinating stuff, and while this area probably has more to do with The Girls and their village council project, today’s case fell to Ebony and Karen to sort out and I think we might do some more research on it and do it as a subject for one of our upcoming radio segments. Be a nice change of pace from bail.
If conversations with Satan’s minions dominated the morning, discussion of God’s greatness dominated the afternoon. Somehow I fell into conversation with Alan and a friend of his about God (instigated of course by my growing reputation as a religious figure). There was a lot of debate about whether God has mapped out everything that will happen to us or is a hands-off let them choose type of deity. And there was a lot of debate over the implications of that answer when confronted with tragedies like the death of a young child. It sounds quite serious, and it was, but it was also interspersed with theological insight by such revered religious figures as the apostle Paul and Tu-Pac.
I also got a lot of insight into the cultural view of marriage when they asked me the hypothetical question, “Say you’re married and your wife and your mother are both drowning and you can only save one . Who do you save.”
Now Pablo forgive me but after first declaiming that the question couldn’t be answered, I said my wife (making the basic assumption that I in fact loved my wife) my thought being that my mother would want me to save my wife and live out our lives cause that’s the kind of insanely giving, loving mother that I have (despite her storied history as a coke mule for Escobar in the 70s). Alan and his friend openly laughed at how wrong my response was. Apparently this has recently been a wildly debated question on local radio.
The correct answer is your mother cause you can only have one mother and she gave birth to you and loves you. You can always get another wife. In fact if you want you can get a couple wives. And besides you know women are players and they will leave you if you can no longer provide for them, or if you become a cripple because they won’t want to take care of you. As Alan’s friend pointed out, women may say they love you but they only get married for one reason: to procreate. Alan, a true romantic, disagreed on this point saying definitively that it wasn’t just for procreation. That was only 40% of it, in the best of cases the other 60% could be out of love. That said 60% loses to 100% in flood situations.
A plea from a simple farmer: Dont shit where you eat. See the Ween song makes sense now doesnt it.
They also asked what I would do if I caught my wife cheating on me. I repeated their point that it’s easy to get a second wife. This too was the wrong answer as they laughed in shock at that. No, when your wife cheats on you you should make it clear you know but never actually ask them about it and this lack of closure will torture them much more than any fight, or divorce or throwing out of the house ever would. I expressed some dubiousness at this tactic but they related some story about a guy who found his wife cheating so not saying a word he set fire to their bed (not while they were in it) and once it burned got a new one (that didn’t have such painful connotations) and then demanded his wife return from her parents where she had been hiding and never once mentioned anything that had happened. Which apparently tortured her way more than anything else. Maybe it’s a cultural thing but I still feel more comfortable with a 50% divorce rate than a 50% chance of me or my wife dousing our bed with lighter fluid and setting it on fire at some point in the relationship.
Nevertheless it was quite an edifying day. But the cultural exchange didn’t end there. After work, despite an impending downpour and my still weakened condition, I accompanied The Girls into the market while they shopped for native fabrics that Minet’s mom will be making into dresses. While the fabrics were very cool and very beautiful, the touts were more high pressure than most and I generally remember why I dislike shopping in any context. I will confess though if I had seen any of that elusive President Biya fabric I would’ve snapped it up like a hawk. I am not leaving this country till I get someone to make me a pair of President Biya cargo shorts. They are gonna be spectacular.
Anyway the heavens opened while we were fabric shopping so we ended up waiting the worst of it out near the entrance to the fabric area, right next to a couple middle aged ladies manning a food booth. One of them was particularly interested in finding out if my “sisters” were available. Of course, despite the death stares I said they were, specifically Casey cause she happened to be the one standing there. So they proceeded to try to entice her with stories of their sons etc and try as Casey might she could not get them to turn their attention to pawning a daughter off on me (must not have had any daughters). The conversation was already hysterical with just about everyone other than Casey laughing uproariously when a new lady, who kind of resembled a Sherman tank, came up, got right in Casey’s face and started firing off a rapid string of inquiries in a true African language. This was no pidgin this was fully formed and foreign.
She proved too much for Casey who at a loss as to what else to do decided to put her hands over her ears and scream. I thought we’d all die laughing. But it got the Sherman tank to switch to English, and fortuitously enough, she too had a son who was available. “He big man,” she said, trying to imitate a bouncer’s stance, “like me.” God knows what kind of endorsement that was supposed to be but even I was frightened by it. Luckily for Casey’s quickly retreating sanity Laura showed up with an umbrella and we made our exit, though I made sure to pause and thank each of these wannabe matchmakers for the entertainment.
Finally back home, and tired from such excursions, I was still scheduled to finally make the much postponed trip to see Elvis’ home. But the rain hadn’t really let up much all day and was now once again coming down in droves and Etienne had never shown up to work his shift Elvis suggested we retire across the street to the Mbwetcha Hotel for a beer (the Abama being out at the moment) so we did.
With Mbwetcha Hotel and Bar owner Raph
Cept the rain wouldn’t dissipate and Etienne wouldn’t appear so he bought a second round, and then we were joined by Raph, the hotel owner, who insisted on buying a round. And it was all I could do to finally put the brakes on and refuse a fourth. Here I was, tired, weak and recently ill and their hospitality is so overpowering that I have to consume three before I can be polite in my refusal (and just barely). I’m greatly appreciative of it, it’s just hard sometimes. I mean I had things I wanted to catch up on this evening. And now here it is 830 and I’m toasted. That’s what happens when you evacuate everything in your system the night before and don’t eat anything all day.
I staggered home. At some peanut butter and collapsed into bed before nine. Other than a phone call from home that was the last coherent activity I was capable of before passing out.
Elvis, no matter what, keeps it pimp
That is not to say I didn’t have a really good time with Elvis and Raph. Elvis is an awesome awesome kid and we covered a wide range of topics from my love of porcupine (which never fails to thrill locals) and plans to get some as group sometime this week to the WWF’s weekly schedule (Elvis is a huge fan) to the problems of the government to how pimp we can be. See accompanying photographic evidence. (While I can’t match Elvis for pimp styling’s I am proud of my ability to rep the Midwest. MW mothafuckers. Respect.) But it wasn’t all silliness. I spent some time learning about Elvis and his life. Turns out his father was Saudi Arabian and died in a plane crash on his way back from there a couple of years ago. A few years before that Elvis’ sister, the family first born, died of malaria and he has hopes of someday continuing his studies to be a software engineer that were disrupted by lack of funds and the family’s losses. Some really moving stuff and I get the feeling that many here could relate similar stories. I spose an unwanted drunk is a small price to pay for the opportunity to get to listen to people tell their stories. And that couldn’t happen holed up in my room soberly watching a movie. Least that’s my go to justification for such frequent social boozing.