Wednesday 30 March 2011

Rhythm 6 – Peter Crouch or Jesus Christ?

After some inertia, the rhythms are starting up again. For anyone intrigued by my perspiration, we are again connected to the power. It was a long ol’ four weeks without it, and we’re pretty privileged to live next door to the Vice President – who finally had enough and moved his house and Laura’s office (and still our abode) onto a different line!

So I’m writing this from Kenema, where I’ve been working ‘in the field’ for the last week. There’ll be a blog devoted to the trip very soon, as I’d like to strike while the iron is sizzling. But for now, these are my latest musings...

Crouchy or Christey? You decide!
So as you might have worked out, I appear to be a doppelganger for two historical figures. From place to place across Sierra Leone, it’s either one or the other. Previous football choices have been Jonathan Woodgate or Gabriel Batistuta (my personal favourite), but since donning a beard Jesus has been a constant.

Egotistically, I have to admit that the Crouch comparison doesn’t quite compute. I think it’s simply because I’m (a) white, (b) thin and (c) tall, and because football is so ruddy popular. But maybe I’m wrong.

So the question to anyone reading is...am I more like Peter Crouch or Jesus Christ? Answers on a Facebook comment, please. I won’t be offended, unless of course you insinuate that I look like that idiot from My Family, or Rodney Trotter.

The King of Pop is alive and well
Taxi journeys here are quite the experience, and there is something of a non-religious leap of faith whenever you choose to part with the standard 1,000 Leones (14p) for a fare. They travel on set routes and people hop in and out, so it’s much like mini London buses scooting around – with a little imagination, I’ll admit!

There are various characteristics of drivers and their vehicles, all of which mean that you never quite know what you’re going to get. The last few weekends, we’ve headed into ‘town’ to buy a bike for Laura (currently I’m chickening out) and then to get material for clothes making. On the most recent occasion, we were lucky enough to happen upon what can only be described as a Michael Jackson impersonator.

He’d chosen the (ahem) angsty 20 year old Michael era, fully complete with wet-look-mini-fro. The taxi was something of a shrine, too, with pictures of his idol plastered on the dashboard and windows. Something also tells me he could moonwalk, but thankfully he didn’t attempt that whilst driving – that would be plain foolish and probably painful. What topped off the experience was the fact the gearstick was covered in a cuddly toy (not a life size model of Bubbles, before you ask) that got thrashed around as he up and downshifted through the gears!

The elusive hangover cure
Talking of taxi journeys, on a few occasions recently I’ve had the fortune of staying up until 5am painting the town old gold and black – with the misfortune of drinking too much (all my fault, yes) and having to wake up at around 9.30am to get a taxi we’ve booked to get to the beach.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I get hangovers. Bad hangovers. The ins and outs of why are not for this arena, but needless to say I am something of a wreck when I haven’t (a) slept it off and (b) drank any water when arriving home from said dance and drinkathon. Back home, I have a simple solution – get out of bed, take Sinutab, go to shop, buy Lucozade and Observer, walk to park while drinking Lucozade, sit down on bench, read Observer, finish Lucozade, walk home. Job jobbed in around one hour.

Sierra Leone hangovers do not allow for any such escape. The fan helps, but the overriding heat (thus rendering a slow walk pointless) being the silent killer. That along with the not-so-silent killer, the ongoing street noises and loud discussions by all and sundry of Murray Town. I’m still working on my cure, but currently nothing works until five hours of consciousness when I can finally manage some salted popcorn, that hits the spot. Diving into the sea is also a big help. Only then do I feel like me again.

Arrogance does pay off in the end
Since we’ve been here, we’ve been to a number of pub quizzes at the slightly cliché but well located Irish bar. Sadly, none of these have had a sport round. As you definitely won’t recall from Rhythm 1 back in December, I stated “show me the sport in any quiz and I’ll get at least 8 by myself” which was quite the prophecy.

At a recent quiz in aid of Aberdeen Women’s Centre, not only did we get 10 (yes, that’s full marks) in the sport round but we actually won! Only the second quiz win in my life, after the halcyon days of Sixth Form quizzes circa December 1998. This means that the only thing I’m arrogant about in my whole life is justifiable! I mean, who else would have known that Kenya reached the Semi Finals of the 2003 Cricket World Cup? 

This blog’s random sport shirt
The congruence is tangible, as this blog’s shirt emanates seamlessly from the previous sentence. Not the Kenya shirt – that would be ridiculous – but I recently happened upon the following:

Pakistan’s Cricket World Cup shirt from 2003!

The days when the Rawalpindi Express really was express, Inzamam’s beard was black and good ol’ Wasim was swinging it both ways (this sentence will make no sense to most readers). Cricket here is known about but not really popular, and thus there will be little fanfare and jibes about England getting mullered by Sri Lanka over the weekend. Lucky me.

Signing off
As I said at the beginning, I’ve been in Kenema District for the past week. I’m actually tinkling the keys to write before my last night’s sleep here. I have many tales to tell, some of which will be winging their way to the blogosphere pretty darn soon.

Hope all are jolly well grandioso. I most certainly am.

Ciao, for now,

D.