I thought stepping out of the tiny overcrowded bus and drawing my first breath of fresh foreign air would be like a doctor slapping the ass of a newborn child; a rush of life to chill the soul. But sadly the little sardine can, topped with a mountain luggage, rank with the BO of a culture that knows no pulsing shower heads or Old Spice body wash was far better then the stench that greeted me in the intense flame of the late afternoon sun. It was like biting into a York Peppermint patty filled with curdled mayo and rotting rat meat. Stacks of tires burned on every corner. Garbage lay strewn everywhere baking in the sun for months. Animal corpses mixed with those of humans in heaps and all were picked fleshless to the marrow [I hoped by buzzards]. a young boy, probably the drivers child, climbed to the roof of the dirty little bus and began disassembling the tower of trunks and backpacks that loomed over him. His dark blue head rap bobbed in the orange sky as he passed down blankets and pots, possessions of the refugees who left their tribal homes turned war zones in search of a better life. I was shocked that anyone could see this shithole as an improvement. My trunk was all the way at the bottom of the stack, and i knew it would take the little guy awhile to get to it, so i hung back from the group surrounding the auto and soaked in my new home.
This wasn't the first time i had moved to a new city. I was a southern boy at heart, however shortly after my seventeenth birthday my father lost his bout with cancer, and rather then moving in with my grandmother who didn't have much time left on gods green earth, i decided to push my pops old 89 ford pickup as far as it would take me. I was aiming for Canada but fell a little short. I had gotten lost and broke down on the highway just outside the city of Philadelphia, which is where I ended up settling for the five years prior to my current position. Thinking back to those first few days in Philly, I tried to remember how confident I was towards assimilating into my new environment. The money and ethics my father had left me with helped me start a new life in a world I had only known through television and the movie screen-
suddenly I was snapped back to reality by the sound of a dull smash. The young boy had dropped a large clay pot bigger then himself, and crouched on the roof with his head in his hands, being bombarded by shouts from the men in the crowd. An old bearded man who's skin resembled the red scaly texture of one of my grannies old purses cracked him over the back of his head with his cane, hard.
"Whoa, Whoa!" I yelled as I ran to the young boys aid. "Come on Bro, he's just a kid!" I knew none of them spoke english, but I figured compassion was a universal language. That was my mistake. The mob silenced and the old man slowly turned to me. His proud chin and large nose cast his silloet on the desert ground between us. slowly he walked towards me, speaking quietly at first, then louder so that his people could hear him, and didn't stop till our faces were but an inch apart. his breath was hot and stale as he lectured, prodding my chest with a bony decreapped finger. I starred into his passionate eyes, white gunk carroding the sides of his mouth. I was tempeted to give him a big fat smooch like Bugs Bunny did to Elmer Fudd in the old Loony Tunes cartoons, just to freak him out. Then i pictured my severed head being paraded around the disgusting metropolis streets on a pike for the cheering muslim masses. So instead I reached into the backpack that hung from my left shoulder. I smiled at him cynically as I produced a bottle of CopperTone sunscreen and forced it into his empty hand. "It might be too little too late," I said, not breaking eye contact like a cowboy just before a shootout. "But that Melanoma don't play Ol' G..." I palmed his shoulder firmly as i walk past him, through the dumbfounded mob and assisted the boy with the rest of the baggage.
The boys father didn't stray his attention from inside the bus the entire time. He simply sat in the drivers seat, listing to crazy sitar music, counting his fat stack of foreign multicolored Monopoly money. When we had finished, the masses disassembled, slowly wondering their way into the maze of third world streets that towered over them. The sun was sinking on the impoverished labyrinth as I helped the boy down from the roof of the bus. he gazed up at me. wide eyed, grateful for the assistance. I could see the knot at the base of his skull, and knew he didn't have an ice pack waiting for him at home, or a mother to kiss it and make it feel better. I remembered when i was a little kid. My Ma always kept a jar of lollipops in the medicine cabinet next to the band-aids. I reached in my pocket and pulled out my last piece of Hubba Bubba bubblegum. I cant remember the flavor, but it was greener then five hundred dollar an ounce marijuana and as thick as a quarter is round. It was so sugary you could smell it and with one chew you feel the cavities burning away at your enamel. I unwrapped it and held it out in my palm.
"Go on Hadji!" I said with a smile. "Its all you!" I had named him Hadji after Johnny Quests ethnic companion. He looked at the gum, then at his father in the bus. His dads head was propped on the tattered rest. His eyes closed, quietly singing to himself. Sadly the young boy shook his head.
"Oh I got you homie... Papa wouldn't approve..." I gently slipped the gum into the pocket of his little purple vest and gave him a devilish down south grin. "Ol' mans gotta go to bed some time, right?" The little boys eyes flashed a slight wink before turning away. I patted his back in farewell like that of a life long friend as he knocked on the door and hopping up the steps into the cab. He held up his hand as his Pop fired up the engine and pulled away, leaving a trail of dust and dirt wafting in the twilight sky behind them.
"ZimZim Zala Bim, Hadji..." I murmured, as I hoisted up my trunk and began walking into the desolate ghetto that I was now to call home.
***
I woke the next morning to the harsh orange sun shining threw the thin blinds of my hotel room window and immediately sandwiched my head between the rock hard mattress and featherless pillow in protest. The dingy little room reeked of a waterlogged ashtray and a thick yellow layer of tobacco resin stained its every inch. Upon my checkin I was informed that all of the utilities were out. I wasn't sure if it was the pealing wallpaper or the moss like shag carpeting, but I got the feeling they had been for sometime. The bathroom was so unappealing a dog wouldn't shit on its floor and the multi rings of gruesome grim that circled the bathtub identified its only use was kidney theft. I didn't mind not taking a shower. I rose and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling homesick and ashamed for the longing of commodities I had always taken for granted. My hygiene ritual of toothpaste and hair jell, televisions morning news, and a hot cup of coffee to start the day where but a distant dream in this bullet riddled, brick and mortar style hell on earth.
There were nicer hotels in the cities northern district, but this was my mission.. assimilation. To live amongst these penniless people and adapt to their way of life. Gain intelligence and insight as to why this part of the world was in its current state. However at the same time I had to remind myself that I wasn't SuperMan and wasn't there to save those people. I was there to prevent the rest of the civilized world from becoming like them. A failed state and destroyed social system that had no hope for improvement except complete decimation.
This is what i had instead of coffee...
Wiping the sand from my eyes I spun the digits on the combination lock and opened my trunk. Under several pairs of scuffed tan kakis and lightly stained white T-shirts, I found a fat stack of cash, that I was guaranteed would, "Last a fucking lifetime," where I was going. Also a Macintosh laptop, a box of bullets and a 9mm pistol with an extra clip. I stuffed the glock into my waist, after making sure the safety was on. The last thing I needed was a Plaxico style shot to the cock in a city without a single functioning hospital. After replacing the majority of the money I locked my treasure chest and headed out.
The dirt road felt good under my Salvation Army bought military boots as I stepped out into the flow of foot traffic before me. Negroes of South Africa and Middle Eastern Arabs commingled in a slow paced daily routine. Black women carried baskets of produce on their noggins back to their shanties. They bought vegetables, fruit and bags of rice from muslim women that ran the roadside table stands donned in flat colored burkas. It felt like I was walking through a living, breathing cover of National Geographic.
I watched two middle aged Arab men arguing intensely, as I purchased a half dozen mangos, that I had squeeze tested for ripeness along with a dixi cup of shaved ice. The flow of pedestrians pushed their way around me while a leathery old lady sung a toothless, whistley tune from her wrinkled sagging lips and shaved the huge block of ice. I took the cup from quivering hands and smiled at her pair of half open, dismal eyes. Just then the larger of the two men pushed the other causing him to stumble backward and bust his ass in a puff of dirt. The wiry man sprang up with a yell and speared the latter like an offensive tackle. A few people gathered to watch them wrestle it out on the ground till they ran out of steam, gasping from shortness of breath, the larger of the men on top grappling his adversary into submission. This was a good cue for me to keep it moving.
My walk took me several blocks north to a restaurant without walls. The outside seating accommodated several men who sat in groups politicking around hookahs, most of whom wore turbans, big puffy pants and slippers. I stole glances of their tan bearded faces as i passed, remembering my strict orders on outside dining.
Shaped by large stone columns, the dimly lit interior was actually quite cool and inviting. I sat myself at a small two top in the far right corner near a pair of old Hindu men sitting on large silk pillows. One lightly hammered a santur [an instrument that resembles a lap harp played with sticks shaped like little golf clubs] while the other tapped a beat on a small pair of bongos. As I opened one of the menus I was approached by the waiter. He was a grumpy, old curmudgeon who aggressively flipped my tee cup and filled it, carelessly spilling a bit of the pots contents on the table. His blank stare was the closest thing to a "May I take your order" that i was going to get, so with my index and middle finger I pointed to the only two thing I could read on the menu. Soup and Hashish.
The old man rolled his eyes and returned from behind the bar a few moments later with a silver platter decorated with a half of a dozen different kinds of hash. Out of all the little bricks and cakes i chose a hockey puck shaped one with the color of peanut butter. The waiter slapped it on the table and pulled a speechless about-face. I was actually happy with his rudeness as i witness him snatch up the dirty dishes from a group of negro men in the same fashion I was being treated.
Raciest son of a bitch... I thought to myself with a grin, If this was Philly, we'd whoop your ass! I figured my ruse was working. I was just another local refuge living my meager existence.
I broke a small piece of hash off of the cake and popped it into the head at the top of the single tubed water bong. A screen was placed over that, separating a checker shaped piece of charcoal that would stay lit so you could leisurely toke without burning up the sticky product inside. With a sigh and a smile I struck a match on the table, I'd keep a low profile like this any day of the week...
Within a few minutes I was completely on my ass. A warm breeze flowed through the open aired establishment and left with my mind. The old mens music was picking up its pace in a tribal tempo as i lightly pulled on the wooden mouthpiece and held the smoke down deep in my abdomen.
I lost track of time as my conscious sense of reality slowed and my perception completely introverted.
My eyes were half shut as i slumped in my chair, taking full advantage of the back rest. I slowly bobbed my head to the groove of the tunes and reminded myself of the bus driver from the night before.
Hadji's pops burns big.. I thought with a smile. Who would have thunk it...
After an undeterminable amount of time my attention began to wander, so i reached into my backpack and retrieved a yellow legal pad and a blue ball point pen. I began summarizing my endeavors since leaving the US in list form, but when this proved to be more then my bladdered mind could handle I switched to sketching the two musicians, rocking out for the growing lunch crowd.
The soup had arrived after what seemed like a week, delivered by a sexy young woman who appeared to be more asian then anyone i had yet to encounter. She wore a beautifully colored dress [probably enhanced by the drugs] that fit her form like a glove. Gold jewelry hung from her ears and a little diamond stud pierced her left nostril. A red dot on her forehead distracted me from her mesmerizing cat like eyes. I smiled my appreciation as she refilled my cup and felt lost for an eternity in the flash of eye contact we shared. She glanced at my notepad skeptically then back, before sauntering away to the next table. I wondered how hard it would be for an infidel like myself to get a date in these parts.
The ruby red colored contents of the large bowl of soup should have been a dead giveaway, but in my diluted state of mind the unexpected molten heat from my first sip almost sent me out of my chair and straight through the roof! Goddamn! I mouthed, quietly choking with tears in my eyes. This made the couple in front of me shift their attention for a split second before returning to their lustful sounding conversation. I knew if I didn't eat my meal it would peg me as an outsider so after a tremendous hit of hash and a sip of tea I began pounding the culinary lava. My nostrils flared uncontrollably as every inch of my skin perspired. The taste of heated habanero guts and Sriracha chili sauce numbed my mouth completely. I mannaged to get down three quarters of the bowl before i knew one more mouthful would make me puke. With that visualization I surrendered. It felt as tho the fiery hands of Satan were strangling my throat and sealing my windpipe. I chugged the last of my tea and pushed the bowl as far away from me as possible. I took a deep fulfilling breath and exhaled with a long sigh of relief.
It was then that i observed an Arab looking man walking around from table to table. At first i thought he worked there, but as I noticed his military style clothes I knew that wasn't the case. The love birds a table ahead of me waved him off almost instantly, so when he approached it was with a bit of frustration.
"How about you?" He asked in a foreign dialect. "Would you be interested in buying a car?"
I looked up at him with a relieved half grin,"Sorry dude," I replied in his native tongue. "I only drive Mercedes..."
***
The mans discolored teeth shone brightly as he smiled. I struggled to stand on rubbery knees as I stood to shake hands. I felt weak as he placed his grizzly left paw over my right in a firm but friendly grip. He pulled out the adjacent seat and moved the hookah so we could see eye to eye. "Sorry for keeping you waiting." he began. "Looks like you've been keeping busy." he said, nodding towards the bong. I shrugged contently. He reached into his olive green jackets inside pocket and produced a pack of clove cigarettes that reeked as he lit two with a Zippo style lighter. He offered me one, which I excepted in a fictitiously grateful manner.
"Did you eat all this?" he asked after a few drags, as he looked down at the almost empty bowl of soup that sat before him.
"I tried," I replied. "Shit almost blew my cover!" He chuckeld in a warm boyish murmur.
"Never underestimate the local cuisine."
"God honestly, it was the only thing on the menu I could read." I confessed. He tisked sarcastically, shaking his head and ashing his clove into the bowl.
"You haven't been doing your homework.."
"I've been more concerned with the social and religious aspects of the operation." I said.
"Well at very least your conversation skills are topnotch." he complimented. "You sound like a native!"
"Its tough." I admitted. "Hell I couldn't even pass Spanish in high school."
"One would never have guessed." Just then he noticed my notepad with the incomplete drawling of the two musicians and seized it. "What the hell is this?" he asked in a low voice. I looked at him puzzeled, speechlessly subdued. "Those who paint pictures would be punished on the day of resurrection and it would be said unto to them, 'breath soul into what you have created!'" he quoted in an angry but discreet manner.
"Shit.." I said. "The Hadith... Look I'm real sorry." I felt foolish and unprofessional.
"Your just lucky your in the nice part of town," he said in with a forgiving timber. "There's people out here that would really fuck you up for an act of creativity like this." he said, taring out the piece of paper and crumbling it into a ball. We sat silently for an uncomfortable moment as he finished his smoke and extinguished it in the cold bowl of soup.
"So are you really ready for this?" he asked. I simply look back at him with a pair of determined eyes, not justifying his question with an answer.
I took a deep breath and exhaled audibly.
"My name is Musoke." I began. My face turned to stone and a passionate flame ignited as i spoke with a forced, but deceitfully convincing North African accent. "I was a Ugandan child soldier fighting in the north for Joseph Kony in the Lord's Resistance Army. I've killed countless from Gulu to Lira. Destroyed the tanks and helicopters of the callow Ugandan army and personally struck fear into the heart and soul of President Museveni! In the LRA, most are abducted and forced into service. However me as a warrior from birth, enlisted at the age of twelve of my own freewill. I am smart! In my youth I did not believe the fairy tales of the evil Jok spirits that reeked havoc on the savannas.. so I knew that sticks could not be transformed into swords during battle, or that our war cries could make us invulnerable to the enemies flesh splitting bullets! I fought with proficiency and bravery defeating men twice my age! Everything I touched turned black with death from rivaling villages and refuge camps, to the western pigs aid stations where they preach the gospel of their white christian power structure! Yet after ten years in the killing fields I began to realize that the battles we fought lacked logic and meaning. We were fighting and dyeing in an unorganized and pointless war just for the sake of it! So thats why I come here... To a place where the fighting has substance... and a soldier can benefit from battle just as much as his commander; economically, socially, and spiritually..."
His hands were folded, pointer fingers and thumbs together in an upper case L, his chin wresting in its crook. He puckered his lips and nodded slowly with eyes closed in an impressed form of exceptance, as he visualize my fictitious life story.
"Well.. I guess that answers my question." he said, bringing light to our gray growing conversation. I sighed with relief, still unsure how authentic my persona would come across to the sceptic union of renegades i had yet to encounter. He clapped his hands together with a smile. "This calls for a drink!"
"There's a super sexy little waitress boppin around here somewhere." I began, as I half stood out of my chair and scoured the busseling smoke filled cafe.
"Sit down." he ordered casually with a hit of annoyance. "The prohibition of alcohol is the cornerstone of the Islamic religion." I then realizied just how much the hashish had thrown me off. "No if we're to have a drink we must visit your people."
"Airports that way." I joked pointing east.
"No I'm afraid I'm not allowed to go there anymore.." I got the feeling he was only half kidding. "Come, the Western Market will be the true test of your deceptive skills!" he said with excitement. I stated my concern by speechlessly staring back with a pair of worrisome, half baked eyes. "I'll get you a snazzy new green jacket just like mine..." he sang as if I was a child being enticed with a new toy for a well behaved trip to the dentist.
"I don't know man. I mean its my first day and everything and I'm just trying to sink in, get situated, know what I'm saying? Plus I'm still pretty blazed..."
"Oh is that so?" he asked, motioning for me to lean in over the table. "Closer." He said. When i was within arms reach he placed his thumb on my chin, turning my face from sided to side, inspecting my profile. He then measured my craniums size by attempting to make his thumbs and pinky fingers meet around its circumference. I was so unnerved and caught off guard that I froze and submitted, becoming a rag doll for the crazy militant to manipulate. Using two dirt stained, mechanic like fingers he stretched my lips to a smile and then to a frown. Pushed my eyebrows up in surprise then forced them down... they stayed that way.
"What the hell are you doing?" I asked with startled annoyance
"Relax! I'm just fitting you for a hijab you big fat lady!" He laughed, playfully slapping my cheek.
"Mann!" I yelled in english with anxiety. I shook off his hands and snatched up the hookah tube. "Load me up," I said with a heavy hart. "if I gotta drink with you and your crazy ass friends I'm gonna get tuned up first!"
He sighed away the laughter and cynical amusement as he struck a match and held it to the head, staring threw the flame directly into my hardened, bloodshot eyes.
***
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