I live near the edge of the village. I have to twist and turn down some bumpy narrow sand tracks and past some pretty awesome trees that never fail to take my breath away. The lengths I’ll go to to keep the Jehovah’s Witnesses from my door.
I do get a surprising number of cold callers though. Having once been a door to door salesman (selling karate lessons on Brighton’s deprived estates whilst “in between” jobs) I’m sympathetic to their lot. A lady brings freshly picked salad, kids sell us fish direct from the beach, a mechanic visits most days to polish my windscreen and so on.
|Oh what a feeling, when you’re dancing on the verandah|
On Saturday, I returned from posting my last blog just before a crowd arrived, dancing, blowing whistles and generally making a racket. It was for a male initiation ceremony and they dance around the village, like African Morris Men, collecting some pennies before the boys go into the forest to do secret things. They kicked up a storm on the verandah, even firing a cannon at one point. Khady started dancing with them and I raised a little cheer when I stomped around doing my Mick Jagger impression. In fact I once did that when the Jehovah’s Witnesses came to my house in Brighton, but I think I’d misjudged their sense of humour.
|Khady (right) does the boogaloo|
From cold calling to another mundane activity: the washing up. Here’s evidence for why you shouldn’t leave it long in Africa:
|the revellers depart|