Rosy

Sometimes it's nice to stay indoors. No trips to the village, no visits to the market, no having to greet every person you pass or risk offending them if you don't (I'm not quite sure who they all are but they seem to know me). No stilted conversations, no uncomfortable pauses while I think of a Swahili word, no haggling for tomatoes, pumpkins or peanuts, no lingering stares following me around each corner. Every now and then it's nice to stay indoors. To forget it's so humid outside that I sweat through my shirt within 5 minutes, that I have to look where I'm going to avoid stepping on snakes, that I can't laugh or joke with people because I don't know enough of the language, to forget that I can't grab a coffee, an ice-cream, a take-out. It's nice to make potato wedges instead of rice and beans. Now and again I like to watch American sitcoms and terrible movies one after the other or listen to my usual 4 albums and forget where I am.

But sooner or later I have to climb out of the mosquito net, go outside to the shower, fight off the insects at the backdoor light and check the toilet roll for creatures before I pick it up. The hospital bells will ring at 6am, midday and 6pm because no-one has a watch, a cockerel will crow below the window or the noise of a piki-piki or someone slashing the grass with a panga will reach inside the house. Maybe there's only rice left and I need to brave the market to buy the usual selection of vegetables, or there's a power cut; the fan goes off and I have to switch off my laptop because bugs flock around the light of the screen and in my face. My insect bites will start their infernal itching or I'll lose more hair from the anti-malarial drugs. Then I remember where I am. And it's all good. 

But sometimes it's OK to spend a day pretending I am back at home.