Anyway, I found myself in the office of the Assistant Director for the visa branch once again pleading my case. This time I had my boss with me who was working on getting her own machine-readable passport and had gained the respect of the Ass. Director the previous week by tearing a strip off of everyone in his office. I commend her. He had told her that if she needed anything else at all, she should go straight to him. And so there we were. Sometimes things just work out well.

I think it’s the fourth time I’ve been in this guy’s office, and on each occasion, he’s started shouting at a subordinate while I’m sitting there. Since I don’t understand what he’s saying, and he seems so upset, it makes for a fairly intimidating experience. However, this time I was expecting it, and when it happened, I started wondering whether he sets it all up on purpose to show how important he is. “Ok, when the white guy’s been here five minutes, you come in and I’ll scream at you in Urdu… Theak Hai?.. Watch his face, it’ll be hilarious.”

In any case, as soon as the stage show was over, he asked me why I was still in Pakistan. Now, you would think that by now I would be prepared for this question. Apparently not. I reiterated that I was enjoying the country, that I was travelling and writing and volunteering for TRC. This apparently was not a fully satisfactory answer. “But Why?” he demanded. I thought I had just answered that, so I stalled for time and said, “Pardon?” He stared at me for a long moment and then said, “No one wants to stay here this long. Before this you were here for six months. You leave for one month and now you are back? Who likes Pakistan so much?” For a fleeting moment I thought of launching into a diatribe about how Pakistanis don’t value their own culture enough, but quickly thought better of it and simply replied, “I do… I’m strange.” “Yes you are,” he said, which I didn’t really know what to make of.

We sat in silence for a while, my boss spoke up for me and they chatted in Urdu a bit. The mood was lighter than some of my previous visits so I figured that things were going well. I heard him offer tea, which was politely refused. Then he turned to me and said, “You will have tea.” I tried to refuse as politely as I could. “If he wants to be Pakistani, then he will have real Pakistani tea with me,” he said to my boss. I tried to protest that I had just had a mug of thick, milky chai only an hour before, but he would have nothing of it. My boss told him how I eat local food every day, and that when it comes to food I’m more Pakistani than she is. “If you like Pakistan…” he said cryptically, tapping his finger on my passport with every word, “You will have tea.” He raised his eyebrows, glanced down at my application again, set it to one side and said, “Chai?”

I blinked. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like he was only going to give me my visa if I had tea with him. Was this really happening? Was this some sort of Chai-Way Bribery? (sorry…) This is ridiculous, I thought to myself. But then, I continued to think to myself, it’s not like he’s asking me to kill someone (which was the last I saw of Ecuador). I looked up. “Yes,” I said, “I will have chai.” He smiled and made the order. This meant we had to sit for another fifteen minutes while tea was made. But in the meantime, my passport application went flying through the ranks and arrived back at the desk ready to be processed. The tea arrived and I tried to sip it with an appreciative air. I didn’t even flinch when the thick skim on top escaped from the cup, slid across my teeth and lodged at the back of my throat, tickling my gag-reflex.

With a slurp, the Ass. Director finished his tea, set down his cup and then picked up my form and signed it with a flourish. He smiled and handed it back to me. I stood and thanked him, and then got the hell out of there.

I had hitherto underestimated the power of chai.

How can such little people take up so much space?

I arrive at that Pakistan Consulate. The lobby is blessedly cool and air-conditioned. Ben explains my situation to the man at the desk. I am expecting a work invitation letter faxed to this office. I’m told that although the office opens at 8:00, the window for foreign passports does not open until 9:00. That is Fantastic I think. Ben leaves for work and wishes me luck. In my estimation, I will need it. I read the paper, and not being all that interested in the happenings of the UAE, I am done quickly. It is only now that I realize that I have left my book at the apartment.

9:05 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 39 C

I stand in line for the foreign passport window. Being a “window” it is of course outside and I no longer have the refuge of the air-conditioned office. I patiently wait in line as people slide in and out in front of me. Sometimes they ask quick questions, sometimes they have obviously skipped in front of me in line. Sometimes I wonder how much value a line even has in this part of the world. But still, I wait patiently. I am a model of calm and patience.

9:20 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 39 C

I reach the window and attempt to explain my situation to the clerk. As usual, and for whatever reason, our conversation is confused and full of potential miscommunications. This is apparently protocol for visa offices the world over. Speak quickly, be sure not to make too much sense, gesture towards papers and shake your head vigourously, act like you’re listening but keep repeating the same inane things over and over…it’s all there on page 5 of the handbook. I get across that an invitation letter should have arrived for me in the past few days. The clerk insists that it has not. I tell him that there has been a telecom strike in Karachi and it may not have arrived. He insists that it has not. I tell him that it was faxed again that morning and should be there. He insists that it is not. I suggest that perhaps it is upstairs as we speak. He says he will check… later. He looks to the person behind me. I return to the air conditioning.

10:05 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 40 C

I have now read a complete set of pamphlets from Agha Khan University on the effectiveness of an angioplasty. The clerk from the window walks by and gestures that I should meet him at the window. When I arrive there, he tells me that no fax has arrived. I wonder why he couldn’t have told me this in the lobby. Apparently he has no authority without a window. I return to the lobby.

11:00 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 40 C

I talk to a Canadian man who went to Karachi thinking he could buy a visa on arriving, but was sent out of the country. I sympathize with him, as it does indeed say this is possible on the Government of Pakistan website. He is adamant that if it says so on the web, than it must be true. I shake my head. This man has obviously never been to Pakistan. There is no computer in the visa office in Karachi. There are plenty of websites, but they are in the dusty corners of the office, where the spiders live. All rules and regulations are in a big blue tattered recipe book that I was once shown briefly, without time to really look, in proof that I was dead wrong and had to pay full fees for 3 more days visa. I walk out to the window again and am told that no, brother, there is no fax. My new “brother” has an amazing ability to check the fax machine upstairs telepathically.

11:15 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 40 C

I have taken action into my own hands. I have walked several blocks to a shopping complex. I am now quite damp. I find the telephones and discover that they take cards. Fine. I ask a man who is either a janitor, or a man who really loves the bathroom, where I can find said cards. I walk to the kiosk in question and purchase a 30 dirham card. How long will this last I wonder. I call Ben at work and she patches me through to Pakistan. I applaud myself for this cost effective measure. I contact the office and they insure me that they have faxed the letter twice today. I ask them to fax it directly to Ben, who will bring me the copy directly. Excellent.

11:30 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 40 C

I walk upstairs and have lunch at Subway. I am told they have no chicken. Fine. I choose something else, but they don’t have the first three breads I ask for either. You don’t have bread and you don’t have chicken? I ask with some doubt. Oh yes, I’m assured, they have chicken, but it’s all frozen, and they have plenty of bread, just not the bread I want. I’m amused now. I ask them if they can’t thaw the chicken. No sir. Then how will you use it later? I ask. I’m just being pesky now, and I feel a little ashamed of it. I’m told that the chicken must be melted in tip-top ,100% sanitary method. I’m not joking. That’s what he said. Then he tells me that otherwise it will hurt my teeth. My teeth? I ask. Yes, of course, because it’s frozen. Right. I feel this Phillipino sandwich artist has somehow defeated me.

12:00 PM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 42 C

I walk back to the consulate. Ben meets me and gives me a copy of the mystery fax. I take it to the window. My brother is about to tell me that there is no fax, when he sees I have garnered a copy myself. The gig is up, his expression is resigned. He takes it. But this is an invitation letter! He protests. Yes it is, I protest. I can’t see what the problem is. Where is your no objection letter? He asks. I have absolutely no idea what the hell he’s talking about, but this is generally my perpetual state in visa offices the world over. Where do I get that? I ask. He tells me to go to the Canadian Embassy. Excellent. Great to find this out now.

12:05 PM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 44 C

I jump in a cab and say with emphasis: Take me to the Canadian Embassy. The cabbie turns and asks me where it is. I tell him that he is the cab driver, he should tell me. He says that if I tell him where it is, he will take me there. What the hell kind of city is this? I get out and walk back to the shopping mall. I enter a drugstore and buy deodorant. I apply it while talking to Ben on the phone and finding out the Canadian embassy is nearby.

12:30 PM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 45 C

I unknowingly walk by the Canadian Embassy four times. Who could guess that a Canadian flag could hide behind a palm tree like that. I finally enter a bookstore and grab a book on Dubai and look up the embassies. I try to write down the address, but the clerk comes over and tells me it is illegal to write things down in the bookstore. No it’s not, I tell him. It is against store policy. You’re telling my you don’t write anything down in this store. I do, he says, but you don’t. I ask him if I’m allowed to memorize in the store. He is unsure. I do it anyway and hand him the book with a scowl. He says, sir, my boss, he would be angry, that’s all. I tell him to tell his boss I would have bought the book if he hadn’t been rude to me. The heat is getting to me.

12:35 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 45 C

The Canadian Embassy, as it turns out, is two buildings away. I take the elevator up and find that the passport window is open between 8:00 and 11:00 AM. I am not angry, as there is nothing I can do, and the full sized cut outs of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police are somehow comforting to me. I return to the apartment, swim in the pool and watch desperate housewives. My day is done.

08:10 AM, June 7, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 38 C

I return to the Canadian Embassy. Everyone is polite and very Canadian. I even take a number when there is no one else in the lobby. I have found a line in the middle east, and I’m the only one in it. I overhear one of the secretaries say “Eh” and a single tear comes to my eye. My number is called and my no objection letter is made with absolutely no objections. I do however have to pay 60 dirhams, which almost gives me objections, but what are you going to do?

09:25 AM, June 7, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 38 C

I return to my favourite window and wait my turn. A nice man sees that I’ve been waiting and pulls me forward in line until I am next. Mr. Atta, the clerk, looks up and smiles… Ah, brother. I give him all my forms and photos. He looks at the forms and scowls. No. Not work visa. I can only get a work visa if I live in Dubai, I will have to apply from either Pakistan or Canada. I sigh deeply. Somehow I knew this was coming. I tell him that in Pakistan they told me to go to Dubai and apply from here. He shrugs as if to see, wow, you are stupid. He tells me to apply from Canada. I look at him as if to say, wow, you are stupid. I will give you a visit visa he says, then you go and upgrade it. I’ve heard that one before, but I accept readily since I have already overstayed a visit visa once and he obviously hasn’t noticed this fact. I go to the bank section and pay 444 dirhams, bring him the receipt and he tells me to pick up my passport in two days. I tell him my flight leaves tomorrow night. He says, ok come back at 2:30 today and he’ll give it to me. But only because he likes me.

2:00 PM, June 7, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 47 C

After four hours in the mall, most of which was spent at an internet café and checking the chicken stock-piles at Subway, I return to my favourite window. Mr. Atta is all smiles. Brother, he says, and hands me my passport. I check it quickly and shake his hand. All is well between the brothers. You enjoy my country, he says. I do enjoy your country, I say, which confuses him a bit. I wonder why I do things like that. I hail a cab so that I can get out of my soaking shirt and hit the beach in celebration of my most successful, unsuccessful visa venture yet.

My God that ended up really lengthy… sorry folks.

Woman: We told him not to Dig!
Man: But he would not listen.
Woman: We told him to watch out for power lines!
Man: But he just kept digging.
Woman: We told him to check with the power company!
Man: But he would not listen, he just kept digging.
Woman: (sighs) Ah, that one is dead now.

…

It seems to me that for an informercial to be considered effective in Uganda, someone has to die. At least in this case the unfortunate man, so intent on his digging, is the focus of the ad. I’m still baffled by the guy who is celebrating because his girlfriend died of AIDS but he didn’t. But you know, I remember our local NB Power company, used to have commercials on TV with kids trying to climb on electrical towers, and guys cutting down trees (or digging) without checking with the power company first. Those would always end with the screen going to inverse, skeletal black and white and resound with this sickening electrical shock sound. It used to scare the crap out of me as a kid. So I guess that isn’t all that different.

So I called up Emirates in Uganda and told them I would like to change my flight. All well and good, I was told, I could do it at their office in Kampala. Right, I said, but I’d like to do it over the phone because I’m four hours away by bus. No, apparently that was no longer their policy. You’re sure? I asked. They were very sure.

So this was troubling. My flight was scheduled for Sunday night and here it was Friday morning. So I did the only thing a man in my situation could do, I grabbed my brother in law for moral support and headed off on a crazy cross-country odyssey. We packed two bags and within half an hour were standing on the main road, waiting for a lift. Within five minutes a taxi pulled over that only had 7 people in it, so, plenty of room. We drove the 40 minutes to the town of Mbarara where we arrived at the bus-park just as a bus was leaving for Kampala. This meant that the bus was nearly full to capacity, but it also meant that it was leaving right away. I didn’t realize how lucky this was until later in the week when we got on the 2:00 bus and waited until 4:30 until it filled up and departed.

Mike found a seat about midway back and I made my way all the way to the back and sat beside an old man and his daughters. As soon as I sat down, I knew this was going to be a long ride, since these folks were obviously right off the farm, and by the smell of things, it was some kind of manure farm. My only consolation was that I stayed exactly in the middle, so I could stretch my legs out and read. The man to my left introduced himself as a Pentecostal minister and bragged of how he was married to a white woman. I said, that was very nice, and that I approved of his choice of wife, since I knew many nice white women. I suppose I should have anticipated the next question: “Are you saved?” I considered this slowly and carefully. “Yes.” I said, with a definitive nod of the head and a big smile that I hoped affirmed my love for Jesus while avoiding all further discussion. It seems my response was adequate, and I breathed a long sigh of relief that I had somehow avoided the single longest ride of my life.

We arrived in the capital city just under four hours later. We jumped on boda-boda’s and headed to the travel agency at the local shopping mall. They informed me that since I hadn’t made my original booking there, I would have to go to the Emirates office directly. We got directions and headed out. On the way down the stairs, Mike said, “That cute girl with the Afro was totally checking you out.” I looked around, “Really? Where?” “The girl on the bus.” I stopped to consider this. “The bus we were on a half hour ago?” … “Yeah” … “The bus I was on for 4 hours between the Shit Family Robinson and God’s own personal accountant, desperately looking for any distraction?” …”Uhmm, yeah, that’s the one.” I shook my head and marveled again at Mike’s amazing wingman skills.

We jumped on two more boda-bodas and headed to the Emirates office. There, after a few false starts in the Ugandan system of “no real use for any line or system whatsoever” (much like the Pakistani system), I used my “Big White Man” status and walked up to the desk. I kept expecting trouble, but my flight was changed with no hassle and as I sat there waiting for her to tell me the service charge, she just kept sitting there waiting for me to leave. Finally I said, “Is that it?” waited for the confused nod, and then rocketed out of there. I guess I’m still a little too used to Air Canada and their bullshit.

We rode over to the International Clinic, where I found a yellow fever shot for just $35. The same thing would cost me about $180 at home. Sweet I thought. I’m getting all my shots in the third world, even if the nurse’s fingernails are dirty. I asked her if I should sit for twenty minutes to wait for any effects. She told me to just make my way back if I felt funny. Fair enough… fair enough.

Then it was off to Nando’s and a quick lunch, where I was also able to use the internet café and email off my changes of plan to everyone concerned. As we sat and ate, Mike and I both silently agreed not to mention how well everything was going, since this was, after all, the third world, and we had a long way to go before we were home. No need to jinx it now.

We grabbed a rid to the bus-park, and may miracles never cease, we caught another bus within five minutes of pulling out. Even more surprising, Mike and I found seats together. That is, until a huge, arrogant black woman (why do I keep describing Africans as black I wonder?) slapped me on the back and started yelling at me for stealing her seat and throwing her stuff on the floor. As most people know, I’m very slow to anger, but suddenly my blood was on boil. This was the only Ugandan I had ever met with an attitude. What a huge, fat, bitch. “Fine. Fine!” I said, “Sit!” And then under my breath, “If you can fit.” … “What?” she said.” … “I said…I’ll just switch.”

And so I found myself beside a Muslim natural herbalist. I hit him with an Asaalam and we were on our way to fast friends. Besides, I’ll take a Muslim herbalist any day over a Pentecostal priest or a bulky bush bitch. Poor Mike. I pitied him sitting with her. But not too much. I was still irked about the Afro girl.

And so we arrived home almost exactly 12 hours after we left. Everything accomplished exactly according to plan. It was so extraordinary and out of character that I just had to tell the tale.

You can’t pick your friends I guess.

6 Km and a blistering hot hour later, a truck pulled up beside us. Anna told the driver where we were headed and he replied that that was exactly where he was going. We asked how far away it was and he replied, “56 Kilometers.” I started to curse. Anna declined the ride since it couldn’t possibly be where we were headed. We walked around the next corner, only to see the sign for the wetlands we were searching for maybe 500 feet away. Our friends in the truck had pulled up beside it, honking and pointing, apparently now in full awareness of where we were talking about. When we finally strolled into the centre, sweat coursing down my back, who should pull in behind us, from our own campsite, but the damned Dutch Dyke Trio. I could barely look at them I was so irritated.

Anyway, we set out with our guide Josea, who was a kind of timid little guy, with a less than perfect command of the English language. I started to wonder whether he was related to Wilson, master of the velocity safari, because every time he tried to point out a rare bird to us, he would cough or trip over something and scare the bird away. I was getting a kick out of it really, because every time it happened, he would get this pitiful look on his face and say, “oh.” I also noticed that every bird we were seeing was very rare. I almost expected him to say, “Here you see the ‘Common Swamp Warbler’… very, very rare.”

But suddenly I lost all interest in birds, rare or otherwise, as something inside me shifted, and those who know me (or have read this blog more than twice) will recognize that I was back in one of my common scatological predicaments. My face started to sweat as I simultaneously tried to squeeze the cheeks, hike through a swamp, and appear interested in bird life. Every time Josea tried to show me a new bird before he scared it away, my answers were becoming shorter and more curt. “Yeah… nice bird.” My sister turned to me, “What’s wrong with you?” Then she looked at my face, and with a knowledge born of many years of siblinghood said, “Oh Lord.” I ignored her and concentrated on not losing my shit.

After a harrowing twenty minutes, something shifted again and I was in the clear. But of course, new problems had arisen. Given my strange, clenched stride, my unexpectedly long hikes that day, the dampness of the swamp, and my generally poor choice of undergarment that morning, I had set in motion a painful process of chafing that was impossible to reverse. That’s right, I was in the possible grips of Jungle-Rot. Still, it was better than dropping a long call in my drawers.

As we were walking along a shoddily maintained board walk, I heard Josea say something in front of me. “What?” I asked. “Mind the….” He mumbled. “Pardon?” I said. Finally he turned around and pointed at my feet, “Mind the Ants.” I looked down and sure enough I was being swarmed by fire ants. I ran forward like an idiot, shaking my feet and trying not to fall in the swamp. I reached the field and brushed the last of the insects off my feet. “You’re in the clear,” said my sister. I breathed a sigh of relief and kept walking another twenty yards before I yelped, “Like hell I’m in the clear!!” I ripped up my pant leg and swiped off the ants that were biting their way indiscriminately up my legs. Fire in my pants, and not in a good way. I managed to head them off at the pass, but after that I felt creepy-crawly for the rest of the day. And what with the intermittent pain of my chafing issue, I started to worry that maybe some ants had made it past the knee-cap. Oh the mind is a powerful fear monger. And I have to say, that in the end, Mom was right, when we were in the back of the car as kids, we did act like we had ants in our pants.

I almost forgot about the ants when the boardwalk collapsed beneath us and the boots I had so desperately tried to keep dry were soaked. At least it’ll drown the ants, I thought to myself, just marvelling in how much I was enjoying this hike. Then however, things began to look up. We spotted a very rare primate called the L’Houest Monkey. I started cracking up, because as we were watching this majestic black monkey with a beautiful white beard and whiskers, Josea kept saying to Anna, “Look! Look at the tests!” Anna was confused. “The what?” “The tests! The tests!” Finally he used the full term of “testicles” thus clarifying his attempt at “testes.” Either way, a little black dude, urging my sister to stare at a monkey’s package is hilarious any day. But I have to admit, it was interesting, as the monkey’s genitalia are a bright blue, thus, I assume the L’Houest Monkey is the most frustrated of primates.

We finally made it back to base-camp, put up our soggy feet and waited for the Flying Dutch Dykes to return, to see if we could get a ride. We had a little tussle with one of them, who, when Anna asked her whether she spoke French to try and aid in the conversation, replied. “No, I speaks English.” I almost said, ” I beg to differ,” but we were looking for a ride after all. Still, these damn women, my Ugandan Nemesis, were unsure whether they could give us a ride back. Finally we approached their guide, who said of course they’d drop us off at the campsite they also were returning to.

Thank God… I was swamped.

Luckily for us, our friend J.B. decided to guide us. We were leaving the Dowdy Dutch Dykes behind, so it was going to be just the two of us (we can make it if we try). I liked J.B., even though he was still ribbing us about the Black Mamba. He reminded me of Forrest Whittaker, except with no lazy eye, in fact he was fully binocular (with binoculars). I must say he was an amazing guide. He could identify birds by their calls and could often whistle out to them and get replies. I was so intent on the hike and all the birds and monkeys we were seeing, that I started to follow J.B. off the path at one point. “No,” he said, holding out his hand like a traffic-cop, “Short-Call.” I was a little embarrassed, as short-call is Ugandan terminology for taking a piss, and I was about to follow J.B. into the bush to help him do his business.

After about an hour and a half I was starting to worry whether we would actually see any chimpanzees. After two hours, I was starting to calculate how much money I had spent to get there and how much more cash these damn monkeys must rake in a month than I do. But then suddenly J.B. stopped and pointed up in the trees. I craned my neck and saw absolutely nothing. Just as I was about to smack J.B. for getting my hopes up, from high in the canopy came a low grunting noise that escalated and built to a screaming cry that echoed across the rainforest. From three other locations in the forest rose responding calls and the air was allive with the eerie, echoing correspondence. I felt a chill pass through me as I took in one of the most powerful auditory experiences I have ever encountered. “They are talking,” said J.B. in case we missed it. I was pretty sure they were saying, “Look, the dumbass humans are back.”

Anna and I watched as two chimps worked their way along the tree-tops, having breakfast and grunting in satisfaction. I was struck both by how large they were, and, as I presume most people are, by how human and familiar their actions seemed. At one point, the big male swung out, holding a branch over his head for balance, and stood facing us. “Short-Call,” said J.B. I marvelled at the weakness of his bladder but moved to get out of his way, until with a spattering like raindrops, I realized he was talking about the chimp. And boy, could that monkey pee. A cascading, golden shower (of sorts) fell before us, steaming in the new morning sun (which brought a whole new meaning to Gorillas in the mist). “I wouldn’t want to be caught under there!” I joked with J.B. “Yes, That would be a warm shower,” he replied in such a way that I couldn’t quite tell if he would have liked it or not. As we watched, something fell down through the trees into the undergrowth. “Long-Call,” stated J.B. with a nod of his head. I looked to him for comfirmation. “Poop” he said, in case I had misunderstood the nomenclature. “I got it.” I said. “Do you want to see?” asked our intrepid guide. I declined the opportunity.

After breakfast and his retinue of bodily functions, our chimp started to descend. Incredibly, he chose a route that landed him about two metres from our position. Luckily enough, my camera failed completely and I missed a fantastic shot. And I could have sworn that damn monkey stuck his tongue out at me. So I gave him the finger and said, “How’s that for sign language?”

We followed the chimp calls over to another tree where three chimps were grooming each other. I was engrossed in watching this while I slowly massaged my now aching neck. “David!” called J.B., urging me over to where he stood. Pointing at a nut infused mass on the ground he said, “Feces.” I didn’t respond right away, so he said, “Poop!”… “I got it.” I said.

Our time with the chimps was up, but I can’t say I was too disappointed. We had seen a spectacular show, and besides, the grumpy Dutch contingent had reached our location, so I wasn’t all that keen to stay anyway. We gave J.B. a healthy tip, which brought him smiling up to greet us for the rest of our stay. He must have thought I really enjoyed that poop.

However, after climbing up the thirty-foot ladder to our arboreal home for the night, the coolness factor of sleeping in a tree house in the jungle quickly reestablished its footing in my mind. Black Mambas be damned! I’m sleeping in a tree in Africa! So after dinner, my sister and I settled in for the night. We played a little cards and chatted away into the wee hours until we doused our lantern and curled into our bunks for the night. The tree frogs and cicadas soared into a symphonic crescendo and serenaded my attempts at sleep.

Just as I was sliding through that stage where thoughts become dreams, I heard a hissing noise. I stiffened, but it was just my sister. “David!” she stage whispered again, “There’s something in here!” I sat up and listened. “Anna,” I whispered back, “You’re a friggin’ nut-case.” “No, seriously, I can hear something.” The tension was palpable as I strained to hear the faintest sound. Suddenly I heard a scratching, scuttling noise, and I had to admit, it was loud. “You see!” hissed Anna. “No… I can’t see anything, it’s dark.” “Shut up.” “You shut up.” (Sibling nonsense dies hard.) “What is it?” she asked me. “I don’t know Anna, you’re the one that lives in Africa” I whispered, and then added “And why are we whispering?” She had to admit this was a good question. I was irritated that my heart was beating so fast, but I couldn’t get the images of snakes out of my mind, as much as I told myself that they can’t possibly scuttle and scratch.

Quite suddenly, I heard the noise again, and this time I definitely heard little footsteps and was somewhat relieved. Anna heard them too and proclaimed, “Maybe it’s a Bush Baby!” (A Bush Baby is a tiny little nocturnal monkey, and not, as you may be thinking, another derogatory name for the American President.) I realized that the delirium of sleep and darkness was taking its toll on my sister. “Anna, there is no possible way that there is a cute little monkey in our tree house!” “Then what is it?” “I don’t know, maybe it’s a rat, but why would it be in here?” My sister was struck with another epiphany, “It’s eating our Mangoes!” I had forgotten about the mangoes, but reason quickly intervened, “Look Anna, for God’s sake, nothing is eating the mangoes, They’re in a plastic bag and it would make a huge racket.” Besides, I still wasn’t dead sure that this thing was actually inside. I suspected we were psyching ourselves out in the dark. She admitted this was true, but at the next assault of the pitter-patters she cried out, “David I think it’s on my bag… Oh god!.. Our Samosas! It’s going to eat through my bag!” Besides being irritated at having so much food in there that I had forgotten about completely, I was getting cranky and sleepy. Before Anna could leap with wild abandon toward any more conclusions, I grabbed her bag and hung it from the roof. “What about the Mangoes?” she asked. I was emphatic, “It’s NOT eating our mangoes!” We lit the lantern, since we could hear nothing when the light was on, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

A couple hours later, I awoke in the dark, in a cold sweat, hoping it wasn’t jungle fever because I’ve heard that can be awkward. But no, I heard a distinct chomping noise directly above my head. Something was on the roof. Now it was my turn. “Anna!” I whispered repeatedly until I woke her ass up. In retrospect, I really don’t know why it’s more comforting to sit in the dark with someone else and listen to something crawling on the roof, but it is. I smacked the roof with a book a few times, but nothing would deter our visitor. There was nothing for it, and eventually I fell into a restless sleep, clinging to the knowledge that whatever it was, it wasn’t actually inside the house.

When the alarm went off at 7:00 for our Chimpanzee tracking, I was exhausted. Anna didn’t wake up at all, and she’s the lightest sleeper I know. I shook her awake and we hurriedly got ready and started cleaning up the tree house since we only had it for one night. I picked up our random belongings and then reached down to pick up a bag out of the corner. Slowly, I turned to my sister and said, “Anna. I apologize,” … “For what?” she asked.

I didn’t answer, and instead just held up the bag of four, half-eaten and destroyed mangoes….

I really hate being wrong.

In the middle of a rainforest, in a National Park, in a country with two official gradations below “Outhouse,” is just about the worst possible time to get the shits.