To those who have had the recent misfortune of hearing my incessant crowing about a flight to “outside countries”, I must confess now that the only outside country I was journeying to was Tanzania. Not impressive, I know, for we all consider Tanzania a step down in terms of urban sophistication from Wakirundannimilo Subcounty, Kooki.
The trip itself was horrible, fraught with perils and trials and treacherous hazards including my having to eat a rolex in Port Bell while I waited for a large an chaotic flock of nuns to get their papers in order. Port Bell, the entire place, that is, stinks of rotting leaves. And there is a constant hint of decomposing human in the air.
I shall not go on about the airport food and how exhorbitantly it is priced. I already mentioned that on facebook and for that was labeled a whoremonger.
I said “20k for buffet? This food had better taste like some sex.” Of course I was just suggesting my PG way that for that price, the food should give me an extraordinary amount of pleasure. Unfortunately my facebook buddies never miss a chance to run my self esteem into the ground so they spent the next twenty comments asking me what 20k worth of sex is supposed to taste like and suggesting that I was an experienced customer and therefore should know.
I shall not belabour the part about how I was stranded at the airport because the organisation that invited me to Tz didn’t pick me up, and how I spent all my money on theiveing taxi drivers and a nice but not nice enough hotel.
I eventually made it to Coral Beach, and decided that, well, Tz is not that bad.
For those of you who have Flash Players (which should be most of you, though I can’t speak for all staff of The Monitor, and that jibe is aimed squarely at Phoenixlulu) fire up your computers and behold the splendour that is Coral Beach Hotel.
Yeah. I was in there somewhere, in one of the luxurious rooms, surfing wireless all night for free and thinking, “I should be mad about not being picked up and all, but this is nayiss.”
Excuse my Ugandan accent, but it gets stronger when I am around other African accents. The lower half of Africa, I noticed from my interactions with my fellow workshop participants, pronounce nearly every vowel as “eh”. It is very distracting. Even the Tanzanian dudes do it.
Tanzanians are a mystery in many ways. How they manage to change presidents without guns is a matter of constant bewilderment to most of the rest of Africa, but this, too, will stymie you.
Yes, but what the hell does it do? Is Foma engine grease or toothpaste?