Oh, Grow Up!

You may be wondering why I never shared more details about my recent trip to Western Kenya. Well, here's one of the reasons--meet my Kenyan alter-ego, the rapper "50 Shillings" (which at the current exchange rate is worth about 71 cents US...which means that I'd be at least worth more than "Fitty..." for whatever THAT'S worth....)

But I digress. Getting back to the point of this posting, it seems whenever I find myself hanging out with people in their 20's, it's sure to result in lots of cringe-worthy behavior. For example, this pose was assumed about midpoint during the gruelling (at least for a 46 year old pre-cardiac patient) hike through the Naandi Hills near Kakamega. Most of the group had long since abandoned me, but my bud Bryan and his bud Ian were graciously lagging back to keep me company...probably sensing a potential duty to wave the buzzards away from my soon-to-be-dessicated corpse.

Anyway, near one fairly scenic vista, I stopped and asked Bryan to take a picture. By that point, I'd pretty much concluded I wouldn't be going much higher up, so at least I'd have proof of some semblance of hiking fortitude. Bryan grabbed the camera as I practised striking a pose. He suggested I turn my cap backwards. I laughed and obeyed his command. And then, of course, I just had to follow that up by flashing a few gang signs.

The rest is just another entry in my steadily blossoming "Secret Shame" photo gallery. Sometimes, I just plain wonder if I possess any sense of judgement or decorum at all! Like the night before the "Bataan Death Hike," when Bryan suggested we go to a Kakamega night club called "Illusions." Now, it's not like I didn't know what to expect...I mean, Kakamega is only about half a step up from the Gulu experience. In other words, you're less likely to DIE from the cholera you'll surely contract eating in any establishment there, because they probably have access to more counterfeit antibiotic drugs than in Gulu.

Anyhoo, I remember jokingly remarking to Bryan that the joint was probably called "Illusions" because you should check your illusions of safety and proper sanitation at the entrance. Less than an hour after we arrived, some stranger tried to shove his tongue down my throat as I made my way to the bar to order crude Kenyan alcohol made from sugar cane. Then, the beef dish we'd ordered arrived at our table....the savagely hacked remains of a cow that looked like it had endured unspeakable trauma before being dished up onto that plate. It was hot, and loud and stuffy in Illusions, and I was more than ready to leave BEFORE the sounds of a broken beer bottle and muffled screams broke through the din.

Just like in any other hell-hole bar in any other country on the face of the Earth on a Friday night, two drunken assholes were fighting over some drunken slut, and having a good go of it, too. But that's not what I remember most. As I stood mute with horror, wondering how on EARTH my family would be able to recognize my shredded remains for identification purposes, the thing I remember most was seeing Bryan's back make a hasty retreat out the front door. Dang, my US Homey didn't even look back to see where I was! I clung to the nearest wall as other panicked patrons pressed past, thinking surely Bryan would return in a few seconds to make sure I was okay.

There was time to finish my Tusker beer and try to calm my pulverized nerves before I finally escaped out front, where Bryan was standing with his hands in his pockets, chillin' like a villain with his German entomologist friend George. I was like, "WTF?? Dude, I could be getting my ass filleted up in there, and you're standing out here on the curb gabbing?"

But just as a hormonal surge threatened to part my lips and rain down on their heads with the demolishing fury of a Category 9 Hurricane, I caught myself. Bryan and George weren't at fault. They're two twenty-somethings doing what twenty-somethings do on a Friday night. In fact, when I wobbled over to join them, they were trying to decide which life-threatening, public health hazard of a bar they should head to next. I was the 46-year-old jackass who had no business being there in the first place, because I could have scripted those events well in advance.

So, instead of turning the air blue with invective, I politely told Bryan that I was heading back to my room at the Sheywe guesthouse, where I would huddle beneath the dingy gray sheets and the torn mosquito netting and thank GOD my hide was still intact. I waved down a young boda boda driver, hopped on the back of his motorcyle, and burned rubber outta there.

Oh....that reminds me of ANOTHER reason I have no business consorting with 20-somethings!! That same weekend, Bryan also talked me into riding in a Matatu bus, one of those rolling convection ovens of death, AND....into climbing onto the back of the other type of boda boda, the glorified Schwinn with the rectangular pleather seat attached. Bouncing along the rutted, dusty roads of Kakamega, with some skinny kid's ass bobbing up and down inches from my face, I vowed to seek long term inpatient psychological treatment as soon as I get back to the States.

Either that, or more age appropriate regular companionship while I'm in Kenya. Whichever opportunity presents itself first.