Indiana Jones And The Question Of The Golden Barometer

He brought the woolen bundle from his pack, now hanging limp from his shoulder. The tube sock slid away from the bulbous thing, and a seamless, glass droplet about the size of a healthy cantaloupe sat in his careful hands. Inside of its transparent husk, a golden liquid sloshed bits of black fiber.

"What is this?" I said. Was he actually trying to sell me this urine-filled bookend?

Prosper told me that the man had come to find out whether I knew what the thing was. That he had discovered it, mining for gold, fifteen meters under ground.

"Well..." I turned the orb over curiously in my hands. "No, I don't know what this is." I found it funny that this man, whom I'd never met, had come from who-knows-where to knock on the FH office gate, hoping to find me and seek a white man's expertise on this alien artifact. "I hope it's not a--", I made an explosive noise and threw my hands into a mushroom cloud, "bomb."

"No. No. Hehe."

"There are liquid explosives, like nitroglycerin." I assured them. My Indiana Jones image was fading in the miner's eyes.

"When the power's back, we can research it on the internet." I said, and Prosper smiled and offered to help. We were planning on doing some computer tutorial with my laptop, anyway.

Now-- in the breathless window before a major archeological discovery-- I am writing to you all. Because it's been a long time. The office has been emptied out for the holiday break (and still is empty and inactive, for the most part) and there's been issues with electricity. So seasonal dormancy and power-outage have been my main obstacles to overcome in updating the blog. I feel we should get another one in before the New Year, though.

Hopefully this here-and-there recollection of the pastwhile won't be completely disorienting. Let's start with Christmas (kind of skips a bunch, but I don't really remember much of what happened before then).

Christmas Eve, I'm alone and feeling very soar in a twisted sort of way. I'd started a morning karate routine, a couple of days before, and was feeling the pain. Most of what I remember about that day, was just feeling sick. I ate rice and spoiled beans for dinner and suffered the consequences that night. I thought it was a resurgence of malaria and was imagining my Christmas in the UN mobile hospital. But it went away.

Christmas Morning was my family's Christmas Eve and we communed through Skype video, and spent a wonderful time together. I watched them open up all of their gifts, just like I was at home. They were all wearing sweaters and there was a Christmas tree behind them, and it was odd to be so far away and sweating on their wintery night.

After a long nap that docked me dreamily into the dusty afternoon, I arose and dressed and walked out the front gate. The town was sedate; shops were emptied into churches and padlocked bars took the place of chaotic storefronts. Walking the quieted main stretch was peaceful and I perused the few open shops and stands, looking for my seasonal ingredients. Bread and eggs for French toast and Ceres fruit juice, because it's absolutely wonderful. I found everything but the eggs, without a hitch. Though, I suppose my shopping list was small enough to amplify even the slightest mishap into a relatively-large problem. The eggs eluded me. I went by mototaxi to the nearest-by market and found nothing. Resolute in the sanctified image of my idyllic Kalemie Christmas Dinner, I was ready to pay whatever price to find those precious eggs.

David and I toured the entire Kalemie market fair; five different locations that spanned almost the whole of the city's breadth (Which is quite small). It seemed that all of the hens had taken the day off, just like everyone else. Nevertheless, it was great to see some parts of town that I hadn't been to before and meet various interesting people; so while I was displeased by my egg-situation, I was still happy as we puttered over the river-bridge to our last stop-- my last hope for French toast.

Three, nearly unblemished, rose-coloured eggs reclined atop a hill of white rice. I looked at them serenely and the smell of rotten fluids and raw meats and newborn insects gave way to pure contentedness. David plucked each one and held it to his ear. After he didn't find a heartbeat, I payed my due and we went on our merry way. Thus ended my Christmas Egg Hunt.

I made excellent French toast that, refreshingly, didn't make me sick. I dipped it in sugar and watched Forrest Gump while the sun went down and the house grew dark. "Mama used to say that death is a part of life. But, I wish it wasn't." Forrest said.

Here are some photos I've taken, recently. The first ones are from a little while ago, taken at sunrise at the stadium field and lake shore. The ones of me wearing a Muslim man-dress are from today. I breezed through a mention of karate, earlier. To shed a bit more light: Sensei Sable and I meet every morning and he works me out real hard and teaches me punches, blocks, and kicks, and their names in Chinese. Yesterday he gave me a pair of poofy pants like he wears with his kimono. We practice on the landing of the stadium stairs, pictured below.

Not mentioned are the new friends that I made and spent time with, the French tutor that I hired and fired, and other miscellaneous happenings that composed my last couple weeks. Those will have to be left for another time or just lost in sweet, vague reminiscence, because I don't see how they will fit in here-- or how I could possibly hold your attention any longer.

(stadium)

subtle Nazi motif

Well, the mysterious orb is still unclassified. Which means there is still a matter of possible extraterrestrial knowledge and/or fame and fortune at hand. I'll let you know if it starts to glow or grant me wishes. Happy New Year, loved ones!

"I was wack!"