Potato curry, basmati rice, kidney beans balancing slices of chilli peppers, inside metal trays shaped like eggs.
The chapatti still warm, half moon pieces bent backwards in a white plastic bowl under an airtight lid.
Thick soupy coffee in front of a Indian game show on a wide screen TV.
Laughter. Questions for us, foreigners. From their foreign base. And then reversed.
"How do you say thank you in Urdu?" Answered. Tested. Nodding. Best behaviour. Eyes darting at appropriate times between the show and each other.
Everyone smoking cigarettes. The entire army smoking cigarettes. Arching blue smoke mixing with the manufactured breeze of the hair-raising air-conditioned room.
Thick soupy coffee in front of a Indian game show on a wide screen TV.
Laughter. Questions for us, foreigners. From their foreign base. And then reversed.
"How do you say thank you in Urdu?" Answered. Tested. Nodding. Best behaviour. Eyes darting at appropriate times between the show and each other.
Everyone smoking cigarettes. The entire army smoking cigarettes. Arching blue smoke mixing with the manufactured breeze of the hair-raising air-conditioned room.
Sitting in rows on faux leather couches with gaping glass ashtrays by our sides.
Stomach hurting. Stomach feeling queasy. Panic-queasiness. Longing for my own room. On my own time.
Maybe outside. Dark, clean, empty air around me.
Instead walking towards that door, that wide door made of ribbed aluminium. Scanning the inside of the stall. These walls were put together in an afternoon. Could have been a staple gun, OK, a nail gun. One man did this. Maybe two.
And then back. Back on this wrong colour of brown imitation couch. My friend Maryella by my side. Animated in her turquoise headscarf. I envy her efforts.
"I just puked," I whisper.
"Awww," She pats the crown of my head, gently moving her hand down my hair. Like a pet. And then her finger catches in my curl.
Stomach hurting. Stomach feeling queasy. Panic-queasiness. Longing for my own room. On my own time.
Maybe outside. Dark, clean, empty air around me.
Instead walking towards that door, that wide door made of ribbed aluminium. Scanning the inside of the stall. These walls were put together in an afternoon. Could have been a staple gun, OK, a nail gun. One man did this. Maybe two.
And then back. Back on this wrong colour of brown imitation couch. My friend Maryella by my side. Animated in her turquoise headscarf. I envy her efforts.
"I just puked," I whisper.
"Awww," She pats the crown of my head, gently moving her hand down my hair. Like a pet. And then her finger catches in my curl.
"I'm calling Mohammed," she soothes. Her motorbike driver.
"We can drive you," one of the soldiers says in his pronounced lisp.
Flick to an American movie. Leonardo DiCaprio. Kate Winslet.
"You like this?" He asks Maryella.
"I don't know what it is."
"Titanic," I say. But my queasy stomach has apparently managed to stifle my voice box as well. I'm as good as mute, irrelevant.
"We can't watch that. It's not proper," says a soldier. But the game show with the contestant gyrating to studio music seems to suffice.
More cigarettes lit and puffed. Glances. Nodding glances.
I'm going to get up and leave. How would that go? Too much talk. Too many questions. Too many unrehearsed explanations. Not enough energy to rehearse. Not enough energy.
One soldier starts asking for a pen to get our numbers. He questions Maryella.
"You're a teacher and you don't have a pen!" he snorts. Laughter. Overblown laughter. "It's like not knowing where my gun is."
"So where is your gun then?"
More laughter. "It's in a safe place. I know where it is."
Stomach still churning.
I force a smile across my face. Like putting on those plastic red lips thrown from exploded Christmas crackers. Biting that tiny ridge inside, the outside overlapping flesh. They look like real lips in photographs. If the lighting is just right.
I give Maryella a look that says, "I'm making a run for it."
Our knuckles press off the plastic paraphernalia. The man with the lisp speaks again. "The car is ready."
Outside, two pairs of blinding lights. A soldier stands by one vehicle, in a camouflaged uniform topped off by a baby blue UN baseball hat. He's got a gun.
Another jeep behind. The escort. The decoy.
"We can drive you," one of the soldiers says in his pronounced lisp.
Flick to an American movie. Leonardo DiCaprio. Kate Winslet.
"You like this?" He asks Maryella.
"I don't know what it is."
"Titanic," I say. But my queasy stomach has apparently managed to stifle my voice box as well. I'm as good as mute, irrelevant.
"We can't watch that. It's not proper," says a soldier. But the game show with the contestant gyrating to studio music seems to suffice.
More cigarettes lit and puffed. Glances. Nodding glances.
I'm going to get up and leave. How would that go? Too much talk. Too many questions. Too many unrehearsed explanations. Not enough energy to rehearse. Not enough energy.
One soldier starts asking for a pen to get our numbers. He questions Maryella.
"You're a teacher and you don't have a pen!" he snorts. Laughter. Overblown laughter. "It's like not knowing where my gun is."
"So where is your gun then?"
More laughter. "It's in a safe place. I know where it is."
Stomach still churning.
I force a smile across my face. Like putting on those plastic red lips thrown from exploded Christmas crackers. Biting that tiny ridge inside, the outside overlapping flesh. They look like real lips in photographs. If the lighting is just right.
I give Maryella a look that says, "I'm making a run for it."
Our knuckles press off the plastic paraphernalia. The man with the lisp speaks again. "The car is ready."
Outside, two pairs of blinding lights. A soldier stands by one vehicle, in a camouflaged uniform topped off by a baby blue UN baseball hat. He's got a gun.
Another jeep behind. The escort. The decoy.
I've seen too many Leonardo DiCaprio movies.
The cars are white, with UN letters stencilled on both sides. The back hatch is opened and slammed shut behind us. We sit along the sides, facing each other.
Now we are gyrating. We are rattling. In, over, around potholes. Too many potholes on these roads. When will they be fixed? Why is it taking so long to fix these potholes?
"So you will come for dinner tomorrow night?" It's the man with the lisp. He's driving. He sounds so peaceful. This vehicle feels like war.
The cars are white, with UN letters stencilled on both sides. The back hatch is opened and slammed shut behind us. We sit along the sides, facing each other.
Now we are gyrating. We are rattling. In, over, around potholes. Too many potholes on these roads. When will they be fixed? Why is it taking so long to fix these potholes?
"So you will come for dinner tomorrow night?" It's the man with the lisp. He's driving. He sounds so peaceful. This vehicle feels like war.
Shouldn't he be yelling? Yelling at us and directing us into a ditch?
I've definitely seen too many Leonardo DiCaprio movies.
"Here is great, thank you." I say, getting my voice back.
The lisped man swings the steering wheel to the right. Stops the jeep. "See you tomorrow night!" He smiles.
His camouflaged compatriot jumps out of the vehicle, unhinges the back latch. We jump too. Jump into the dusty uneven ground.
Relief.
The nausea is gone. And then so are their cars.
Tu as du talent...so keep it up, Janey!
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