Expat, dude

My expat guilt has evolved over these last two and a half years in Gulu. I’ve run the gambit. From extreme guilt and self-flagellation about pampering myself with ex-pat niceties such as cheese and gin-soaked dance parties to frustration and resentment of being far away from home and hitting countless cultural loggerheads. Just try to explain to someone here what “alone time” is…it’s not possible! Rather than jam my expat guilt into this one blog, I think I’ll tell an expat scene story now and revisit expat guilt on a regular basis.

So last weekend Johnny G, whose favorite word is “dude,” had a barbeque. The whole of the Gulu expat scene was there: the grumbling thirty-somethings – jaded and torn about being stuck in the middle of nowhere, but trying to justify it because of the good money (ahem, yours truly) and the silly twenty-somethings, all happy to be volunteering in Africa and making out with each other. Each group is peppered with Americans and Europeans in mostly equal parts. Miss a week of expat parties and the faces change, but the characters are perennial. The only expat not represented was the elusive bible-basher. These are usually transient expats that come to build a church or save heathens or whatever it is they do. That’s harsh, I know, especially since I have enjoyed working for faith-based organizations. However, I cannot condone evangelism. It’s just not right.

Anyway, Johnny G’s invite said: “Croquet starts at 4pm. I have 15 kilos of pork and I’m slaughtering a turkey. Dare you to bring more!” Ok Johnny G. I’m there. I arrive to an already packed house. The twenty-somethings had just finished a game of drunken angry croquet, while the thirty-somethings were dithering about with Johnny’s hootchie mama wait staff organizing the dinner. The hootchies were scantily clad and hacking away at turkey gizzards, while I stood idle but anxious and a thirty-something vegetarian friend of mine tried to edge her curried pumpkin pasta onto the meat-soaked menu. I shouldn’t diss the pumpkin curry, because when dinner was ready, it was the first to go!

After dinner, we start the dance party. Gulu and Uganda have its own sound track that varies between Akon, Rhianna, Gulu Boys and Kenny Rogers. This party was no different. We were all bumping and grinding to Akon and “Oooobama. Obama is a true African king.” Apolo was manning the Ipod. Apolo is the coolest expat in Gulu. He grew up in London, but his parents are from Gulu, so he often acts as an interpreter for us, and well, mostly he’s just really, really fun. He suddenly switched it to the Killers “Mr. Brightside.” The crowd went nuts. Twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings were shouting the lyrics and jumping up and down. I lost it myself. The Killers are my Gatorade, my Red Bull, my “do it fluid” as my mom would say. The joint was jumping.

Enter English Muppet. Now, admittedly, being Irish and all, I have a natural inclination toward annoyance around most English people except Julian. But this guy has a special place in the English doosch hall of fame. He comes up to the Ipod right at the most intense Killers crescendo and changed the song. The crowd screamed: “heeeeeeeeeeey!!!! WTF!!!” This English f-er turns toward them, and of course I just happened to be standing right next to him so got it full on, and shouted “this song f-ing sucks and you’re all wankers.”

Oh no he din’t.

Oh yes he did. I immediately launched my best De Niro “are you kidding me?” and then started plotting my revenge. It is so difficult being a pacifist with a bad temper. Kick him in the shins? The gut? Curse him with some good old Acholi “cen?” (evil spirits) As I stood there fuming and trying not to enjoy his selection, even though it was that kickass Arcade Fire song, Apolo saved me. He enacted the most wonderful revenge that was so sweet yet so gentle that it could even have been entered into the pacifist transformation power annals. Right as the song built to the incredibly frenzied “oh, oh, oh oh oh oh.” Click. He changed the song.

Genius! Right then and there I pledged by undying love for Apolo. It was the perfect move, the crowd was behind him and our “friend” skulked away. In hindsight I think the thing that was most shocking was his rude behavior. Although the twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings have different agendas and aren’t necessarily all best friends, we all get along pretty ok. We don’t really fight, save for an occasional break up. This guy’s harsh words were way out of place in Gulu expat land. And his hatred of the Killers was just stupid.