It has been suggested that I was remiss at failing to add this to the OT branch, so here you go!
Enjoy!
Another Friday in the sandpit! I awoke late, 0745, and sat nursing a mug of tea, giving my body time to sort itself out sufficiently for me to commence cleaning the flat without losing balance. Laundry and floor-swabbing complete, I prepared for today's big event, a party at the GM's weekend retreat by the banks of the Nile. I had found out about the “do” 3 days ago, through the grapevine, but refused to consider going without a direct invitation from the Deputy GM, my purported boss. Last night, before I returned to the college for my evening stint, The Wee Man (I alternate the use of this name and “The Little Shit”, depending on his daily level of managerial incompetence) had accosted my fiancée, asking her to invite me on his behalf, only to be rebuffed,”Do your own dirty work!” Such a lovely lady.
He was unfortunate to be there when I came in, not 5 mins later, and was forced into confronting me:
“Ah, Mister David, er, there is a party for all staff at the GM's house at 2 o'clock sharp tomorrrow, can you be there?” in his best wheedling tone. I was not letting him off lightly and in a voice that carried, replied:
“That's a bit bloody late notice, isn't it! Happened to overlook the only white man around, did you?” He put on a semi-professional Uriah Heap pose and pleaded with his beady little eyes.
“I'll check my diary and see if I can fit it into my social programme,” produced a slackening of the facial muscles as he sighed in relief.
I picked my better half up at two, then collected another brace of Sudanese beauties, before joining the Friday exodus from town to country. Tearing along the highway is not only dangerous from other vehicles but pedestrians wander across with gay abandon, expecting madcap drivers to be able to stop or change direction, instantly. This was right in the middle of prayer time too, when everyone was hastening to their local mosque; ladies in their Friday finery, men in their cleanest sheet. You need your wits about you here!
At the second attempt I found the piste that led into the bundu toward the distant treeline that marked the Nile. Bouncing over washboard tracks, my fully-loaded mini Hyundai bottomed several times as we slowly made our way partywards, until we entered the farming settlement of low-roofed, mud-brick huts that bordered the Boss's weekend retreat. Without much problem (head for the river and turn left) we arrived as Sudanese music blasted from oversized speakers. Attentive security guards politely opened the gate, their puzzled look at this white man escorted by 3 local lovelies matching my look of satisfaction in intensity, and we passed into the landscaped garden:
“We are here, the party can really get going now!” I quipped, to much mirth.
The ladies commenced their round of greetings with the many brightly-clad beauties already there and I headed for the biggest and most splendid canopy, beneath which the Boss lounged. Normally preening himself with self-congratulatory vanity, he looked troubled:
“Only about half have bothered to come,” he grumbled as I took my seat at his right hand.
“Don't worry, the important ones are here!” My breezy attitude raised the frown from his brow and he smiled with pleasure.
“Yes, you're right; I knew you would bring happiness to the party!” We chatted for some minutes before I excused myself and slid away to sit with my intended. Chicken and rice was served with cold lemonade, before the dancing got underway. Most managed to get up and jig about under the spreading acacia and a fun time was had by all; even the Bosswas persuaded from his chair in a smart move by my fiancée – we need to stay on the right side of him to negotiate favourable contract terms next week.
The sun eased its way down, the temperature dipped below 40C, the dancing remained sedately enjoyable, the singer yelled his lungs out, the party went well. As is the custom here, it all came to an abrupt end just as bodies were about to lose their semi-rigidity and actually groove about with feeling. We drove back to town into the setting sun, an extra hazard with which to contend in addition to the maniacs who had overindulged at their Friday blowout lunches. Fortunately, most wrecks had been shifted sharpish, and the road wasn't too bad. We dropped the girls then my fiancée and I settled into a quiet corner on the balcony of Havana, the Lebanese restaurant we have made out favoured local, for an intimate evening.
Another Friday in the Sandpit comes to a close.
Dave
