Getting back in Juba yesterday was, as usual, a whirlwind of social activities. This place really is like high school. Why it is that when you take normal, rational, sometimes quite old adults and put them in a hot, sticky, foreign environment they turn in to drunken, randy, loud, flirty teenagers? Socially maladjusted teenagers.
There were three parties last night, and it will be boring for me to talk about me standing around in my tube top, drinking Bell Beer and having very stilted conversations with people I don't know about things I don't care about.
Anyway, the last party was packed and, being 1.30 in the morning, a bit...ya know. We were in a bar called Bedouin which is run by white Kenyans and looks like a safari lodge on the Masai Mara. Lots of soaring vaulted thatch ceilings and tile work in the bathrooms. Quite nice, obviously. For whatever reason, whenever I go to Bedouin there is lots of dancing, and last night it was like that scene in the third Matrix movie (or is it the second?), the one in Zion where all the zillions of people are smashed up against each other bouncing up and down in a slightly icky mass.
I, of course, who do not dance and particularly do not dance in Africa, was sitting on the wall mocking others and holding handbags when what should come on but Sweet Child O' Mine. Immediately, the flip flops were kicked off, the tube top was hitched up, the warm Bell Beer cast aside and around 10 friends and I played air guitar and screamed our heads off on the dirt dancefloor of the Kenyan owned bar in Juba at 2 am.
As you do.