Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

Wendy and Vincent pop into my office a little before five and say they're organizing dinner, everyone will meet in the lobby of the Imperial at 7pm, “be there or be square,” says Wendy. Wendy, director of Inner City Health Services in Ottawa, Canada, is a spitfire. When she leaves Kisumu next week, she's meeting friends to climb Kilimanjaro. I tell Wendy and Vincent I'm not sure about dinner and Wendy says, “I have cranberry martinis and we're going to drink them on the balcony at St. Anna's Guest House.”

I immediately begin packing up my stuff. Not that I'm into martinis, but the thought of having a drink and lively conversation on St. Anna's balcony is more civilization than I can resist. So we sit on the balcony, enjoying the view of exotic, giant plants all around while we sip cranberry martinis poured from Wendy's silver flask into borrowed glasses. The front desk orders two taxis so we shuttle over to the Imperial. This is my first time being in the hotel and it messes with mind. The walls are dark wood, paneled, and leather couches sit on nice, huge rugs. There are plants and mirrors and marble. This must be the nicest place in town. And it has air conditioning!! With just a little imagination, we could be standing in a Frankfurt or Seville or Rome hotel. (My imagination has been working overtime lately).

We have quite a large group; Ilan Bar Yossef and Michael Gorelik, from Israel, Wendy Muckle, Frances Legault and Joanne Binch from Canada, Vincent Maugis from France, and Susanna Williams, Jack Bryant and me from the US. We walk to the Grill House for Indian food and Ilan is gracious enough to order multiple choices and to pay for the entire meal! What a treat for a volunteer. Seated on the patio, we start out with part of our table exposed to the sky, so after shifting further under the overhang, we're all safe from the rain. And the food is fantastic: chicken curry, kabobs, corn relish, chappatis, tofu curry and beef skewers, plus a few other things we can't identify at our end of the table. It all goes down beautifully with cold beer.

Joanna leaves for Zanzibar the next day, so its her farewell meal. Jack Bryant tells us wonderful stories about his travels and Frances moves around the table throughout the evening, talking with everyone. Michael works at the Weitz Center for Development in Israel and his job takes him to developing countries around the world. He tells us about being in Ethiopia one time, traveling into the very isolated Southern region. He was transported in a white Range Rover by a hired driver. They have not reached their destination though it is growing dark, so Michael says they should spend the night in this very tiny village they're now passing through. But the driver disagrees and suggests they turn around and go back to the previous village. Michael is feeling “privileged,” traveling in this nice vehicle and avoiding the most poor areas, so he insists on staying in the tiny village. But the driver will not stay. He drops Michael at a “hotel” returns to the other town.

Michael is shown into his room, which is about six by six feet with a wood bed frame covered by a straw mattress with bugs of all ilk crawling inside and out. A hole in the corner of the packed earth floor serves as the latrine and the stench is almost unbearable. He gets his flashlight out but the battery is weak, so he takes the battery to the nearest “store” to buy a replacement. As he walks along the road to the store, he hears shuffling and bumping and turns to see a mass of people silently following him. They are old, old and lame, bumping along without limbs. They are very young and diseased, they are mothers holding skinny babies with large eyes and they move behind him as one organism, quiet. Erie. When Michael buys the new battery through a store front window, he asks the shop keeper to throw the old battery away. The shopkeeper tells him to simply toss it on the ground. Puzzled, Michael tosses the battery and suddenly the entire group of people, old, young and in-between, pounces on the battery.

Michael returns to his room, slips into a pocket sheet set and tries to read. But in front of the hotel is a fire where the locals gather. And where they drink. And where the prostitutes ply their trade. The noise is endless and Michael doesn't sleep. It seems the prostitutes and the men do not go to the rooms for privacy but, instead, conduct their business around the fire. As Michael reads, he thinks of the fading taillights of the Range Rover and wishes he had run with full force to catch up with his driver, who is by now enjoying a clean, quiet hotel room.