Uzbekistan: Tales from the Bar: Elvis Bar

It was our first weekend in Uzbekistan, so when a colleague invited Eitan and me for a drink, we were more than happy to accept.  We were heading to Elvis Bar for some live music.

From Tulepo to Tashkent

Elvis Bar is a modest establishment, but, already aware of this fact, our friends had reserved a table.  A few other people joined once we arrived, and we ended up with a party of six.

Eitan and I ordered vodka sodas, and our friends, whisky cokes, and soon enough the band set up and began their show.

The band was a trio, and the lead singer, with his falsetto vocals and wide range, was well suited to cover musicians like Radiohead, Cold Play, and Robbie Williams.

In such an intimate venue, we were only a few meters from the band, and it struck me how the performers seemed to avoid eye contact.  The lead singer spent much of the time with his eyes closed or looking down, and the other two seemed to prefer staring off into space.

I'm told much of the Elvis artwork was acquired at a U.S. Embassy auction.

The performance went on for quite a while, and our focus on the music waxed and waned.  There was plenty of chatting at the table, some hearty laughs, numerous drink refills, and random bits of food appearing, usually inspired by something we saw on a neighboring table.

Our group also spent a lot of time on door duty.  The bar's main door fit snugly (overly so, it would seem) into the door jamb, and getting it closed required a strong tug (or a push from the opposite side).  Without fail, person after person would walk outside, lightly pulling the door behind him as he exited the room.  And without fail, the door would pop open, exposing us to a draft.

Often times, someone at my table would shout out some helpful advice - "Close the damn door!" or a variation thereof - but it would generally go unheeded.  As such, one of us had to get up every two or three minutes to handle it, and naturally, this was a bit of a nuisance.

When the band eventually finished, they packed up their gear and the bartender turned on some Top 40 hits.  Then something interesting happened at the door for a change.

Two Uzbek men, clearly intoxicated, got into a scuffle.  The less drunk of the two was trying to force the other one out of the bar, so we had a front-row seat to some aggressive pushing.

It didn't take long for the security guard to intervene, but his response was not what I expected.  In most places around the world, a bouncer would have, well, bounced these two guys.  Or he would have at least thrown out one of them to end the drama.

In this case, the guard did the opposite.  He locked the door and counseled the guys until things calmed down.

The discussion was just out of earshot, and in a language I don't understand, but I like to think it started with a classic Simpsons' line, "Let's stop the fussin' and a-feudin'."

Whatever was said, the three guys eventually came to an understanding.

Like I said, this was not what I expected to happen.

"What gives?" I asked my friends.

As explained to me, if the guard had ejected the men and they continued fighting outside and created a disturbance, it could have potentially attracted the attention of the police.  If that happened, the police could close the whole establishment for promoting unruly behavior.  Thus, to avoid this fate, the guard played the role of peacemaker.

We got the check not long after the fight broke up, and I had my first Uzbek sticker-shock moment.  The bill came to 1.5 million soum.  That's about $180, which is totally reasonable for six people drinking and eating for five hours, but all the zeros on the receipt were shocking at first glance.

We scraped together enough to pay, and when we left the bar, I made sure to pull the door completely shut.

As we stood on the curb trying to hail a taxi, a friendly group of drunk Brits showed up from another bar, also in search of a taxi.  They found a ride before we did, and as one chap in the group fell particularly ungracefully into the back seat, he implored us to join him at some club I had never heard of.  I wouldn't be surprised if he had extended the same invitation to the lamp post.

Ethiopia: St. Patrick's Day Charity Ball

Heading into a big party weekend, I was unfortunately dealing with another gastrointestinal problem.  My condition, while not dire, was not especially comfortable, and I decided I would rather stay home than go out.

I backed out of parties on Thursday and Friday night, and I cancelled lunch appointments for Saturday and Sunday. The one thing I did not scratch off my calendar, however, was the St. Patrick's Day Charity Ball on Saturday night.  The biggest reason for this was the cost.  I still felt like crap, but I didn't want to lose the 1,300 birr (about $72) I had paid for my ticket.  Plus, much like Oktoberfest, the St. Patrick's Ball is one of the biggest parties of the year in Addis.

No dress code was specified for the ball, so I decided to honor St. Patrick with some green.  Specifically, I paired a striped green shirt with black pants and a grey jacket.  I thought my outfit looked pretty cool until about two minutes before my car arrived.  At that moment, the green shirt suddenly seemed tacky.  It was too late to do anything about it, though, so I loaded up in the car and headed toward the Sheraton.

As we drove along, my driver marveled at how he had only seen me previously on one occasion in the six months I had been working in Ethiopia.  This tidbit wasn't so amazing to me, however, considering the huge motor pool we have at the Embassy.  There are more than 60 drivers, I think.

We also discussed where I might go after I finish my assignment in Addis Ababa, and then things got awkward.

"Did your wife move in yet?" the driver asked me.

"I don't have a wife," I replied.

"Really?  Why not?" he pressed.

"I guess I haven't found the right person yet," I answered.

"Yet?!?" he gasped. "You need to start taking it seriously!"

He then went on to lecture me for several minutes about the necessity of marriage.  He kindly explained how it's written in the Bible that man should not live alone and how it's everyone's duty to raise a family and how a man outside of marriage is only half a person and blah, blah, blah...

I didn't think my marital status was any of his business, but, on the other hand, I do appreciate a good rant.  I  let him continue his sermon uninterrupted, and I dutifully nodded along.

Sadly, though, we soon reached the Sheraton, and I had to bid the Reverend Dr. Driver farewell.

The doors to the ballroom were set to open at 7:30 PM, and I had arrived about 15 minutes too early.  I wasn't the only early-bird, however, and when I went to wait in the Office Bar, I ran into several friends.

After one drink, we moved over to the ballroom.

The St. Patrick's Ball is hosted by the Irish Embassy, and the embassy staff were working the check-in tables.

When I presented my ticket to the Irish lass at the desk, she was most complimentary.

"I love the shirt!" she exclaimed in her Irish accent.  "Thanks for making the effort!"

Maybe the shirt wasn't so bad after all.

As I mentioned earlier, there was no dress code specified for the ball, so it was basically anything goes.  The styles in the lounge ranged from tuxedos and formal gowns to jeans and polos and mini-skirts.  I'm sure he was just too fashion-forward for me, but one man even looked like he was wearing pajamas.

The ticket included admission to the ball, of course, but also dinner, unlimited drinks, and entry in the raffle.

I approached the bar with my little group of friends, and I started with a Guinness   This was not the right choice for my stomach.  It was so dense and bitter, I could only manage half a glass.

I decided that a gin and tonic would be more appropriate.

Nearly all of the ball's sponsors were alcohol companies, Gordon's gin among them, and there were banners all around the room promoting booze.  The Gordon's signs featured a big photo of a gin and tonic with the words, "Enjoy Gordon's gin and tonic".  So, ordering a G-and-T seemed like a no-brainer.

There was, however, one small snag.

"We don't have any tonic," the bartender told me.  "How about a gin and Sprite?  It's very delicious."

To be technical about it, they didn't even have Sprite.  He was saying Sprite while holding a bottle of 7-Up.

I took a gin and 7-Up, but the lack of tonic was astounding to me.  As I already mentioned, there were signs for gin and tonic everywhere.  Beyond that, what self-respecting 4- or 5-star hotel runs out of tonic?

The gin and 7-Up was too sweet, but it was good enough.  I choked it down.  ha ha.

After about 30 minutes, they opened the doors to the dining room.  We all filtered in and found our tables, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that in the whole dining room my seat was the absolute closest one to the bathroom.  Score!

At the tables, bread was waiting on the bread plates.  Since it was already after 8:00, everyone was hungry, and people started eating the bread straight away.  One of the people on my side of the table took the bread plate on her right (which is incorrect, I think), and the rest of us followed suit.  Then someone on the opposite side of the table started eating the bread on his left (which is correct), and the people on that side followed suit.  Caught in the middle of these competing approaches, one colleague ended up with no bread at all.  There was, of course, an extra plate of bread for her on the opposite side of the table, but she insisted she didn't want it.

There were approximately 600 people at dinner, and the dining room was understandably chaotic.  When they first opened the doors, some people took their seats.  For many others, however, the cocktail hour had simply moved locations.  People were still moving around and talking, and in many cases quite loudly.  This became a problem when it was time to get the show started.  The emcee, an Irish woman, repeatedly called for people to take their seats.  Unfortunately, the din of the crowd, coupled with an anemic microphone, left the emcee completely neutered.  She tried getting the crowd seated for 5 or 10 minutes, but her pleas were falling on deaf ears.

Finally, they started the formal program despite the uncooperative crowd.

The emcee announced something that I couldn't understand, and then music started playing.  People across the room quickly rose from their seats.  It was the national anthem.

After the song concluded, the room was finally quiet and the emcee made another announcement.

"Please remain standing for the Irish national anthem," she requested.

After this announcement, there was some momentary confusion.  People all around were whispering, "Didn't they just play that?"

The first song had been the Ethiopian national anthem but being unfamiliar with either song and having not heard the announcement, many people were left scratching their heads.

Once the national anthems were finished, everyone sat down, and the Irish ambassador took the stage. He started out by telling us that he was the last obstacle before dinner was served, but that we needn't worry because he would be brief.  We've all heard that before.

Then he congratulated everyone for getting tickets since the event had completely sold out within two days.

The ambassador was soft-spoken with a thick accent, so along with the weak amplification system and the background noise of the crowd, he was harder to understand than the emcee.  He started his remarks by trying to teach us an Irish greeting.

Translated it was something like this: "God be with you."

And our response was: "God and Mary be with you."

And his response to our response was: "God and Mary and St. Patrick be with you."

"As you can see," the ambassador quipped, "Irish greetings can quickly become a litany of the saints."

Unfortunately, most of us non-Irish people were not doing justice to the Irish language, and our responses sounded nothing like what the ambassador had taught us.  Oh well.

After the greetings, the ambassador moved to the meat of his speech.  There were still people talking (someone at the next table was even rudely singing, "Frosted Lucky Charms, they're magically delicious..."); waiters were coming in and out; and there was a lot of traffic to the bar and the smoking area.  Try as I may, I couldn't focus on the remarks at all.  I glazed over and in about 20 minutes, the speech was done.

Hear, hear... it was time for the food!

The first course was Killarney salmon with mayonnaise, and it was pretty good.  It was a salmon salad served on a bed of cucumbers with a boiled egg.

I ended up eating two because my friend Louise doesn't eat seafood, and I volunteered to help her out.

My table-mates were aware of my intestinal issue and of my desire not to move around too much, so they generously hooked me up whenever they went for a refill at the bar.  On my second gin and 7-Up refill, my friend Don was handling my order.

When he returned with the drink, he brought along some bad news.

"I'm sorry," he told me, "but all they had was tonic.  I hope that's OK."

There was no need for apologies; this news was most welcome.  Apparently enough people had complained that the Sheraton staff had procured some tonic from one of their bars or restaurants.

My friend Kathy raised a toast at my good fortune.  "Praise the Lord..." she began.

        "...and pass the ammunition!" I finished.

We both had a laugh.  Sometimes a 1940's saying is just what the doctor ordered.

While I was celebrating my drink, my friend Brooke, who was about three chairs over, was lamenting hers.

"This is just awful," she groaned.

Of course we had to ask her what she was drinking.

Well, she had ordered a Jack and Coke, but unfortunately, neither of those products was a sponsor of the event, and neither was available.

Instead, Brooke was served a Johnnie and Pepsi - a different animal completely.

I was keen to try it, though, so Brooke passed it over.

"You can keep it," she said.  "I'm not going to finish it."

And so I did.  It wasn't that bad.

My friend Paul was sitting to my left, and after the first course he called the waitress over.

"Can you bring us some salt and pepper?" he asked.

The waitress assured him this was no problem, and she hurried off to the kitchen.

She returned several minutes later and presented Paul with a shaker of salt and a stack of napkins.

"Here you are, sir," she told him, "salt and paper."

Paul's salt and paper.

Classic!

"Not paper," Paul replied, "pepper."

The waitress stared blankly at Paul.  We had reached an impasse.

The waitress left after a few more awkward moments of silence, and Paul flagged down the next one who passed by.  The shaker of pepper arrived a few minutes later.

Before long, the mains came out of the kitchen.  The choices were beef, chicken, and vegetarian, and I had opted for the beef - New York Gaelic Steak, to be precise.  I had high hopes for this tenderloin, but unfortunately it was dry and tough.

Where's the beef?  Here it is.

No matter, I thought to myself, they can redeem themselves with dessert.

The dessert was described as a Bailey’s Irish Cream crème brulée, but there was something not quite right about it.  The dish was basically a bland square of custard with a thin chocolate wafer on top.

"This isn't really a crème brulée," I complained to my table-mates.  "It's missing the layer of caramelized sugar [which is a crucial part of the dish].  If I'm not mistaken, I think crème brulée even translates to burnt cream."

If there was anything burnt on this dish it was barely perceptible.  Kathy, however, was keen to take up the debate.

"Crème brulée doesn't mean anything," she told me, "it's just the name of a dish."

Kathy speaks French, and I do not, but still I was inclined to argue my case.  (And I still think I'm right.)

"Just shut up and eat it before I stab you with my fork," she threatened.  She was half-joking (I think).

Meanwhile, during and after dinner, the official program continued to play out.

The first event was an Irish dancing competition.  The emcee announced the event and a few dozen people made their way to the dance floor.  Amanda, who was also sitting at my table, admitted to having studied Irish step dancing in her youth, but she wasn't willing to strut her stuff.  The prize was 6,000 birr (about  $333), but that wasn't enough to entice her.  As an American, I suspect she didn't want to outshine the Irish on their special day.  Anyhow, once the emcee was satisfied with the number of participants, the band, which Lufthansa had flown in from Ireland, started into a festive jig.  After about five minutes of fancy footwork, a winner was announced.

Next up was the Ethiopian dance competition.  To kick this off, the emcee called to the stage a professional Ethiopian dancer.  Then the band jumped into another Irish jig, and this guy danced to it in a very vigorous Ethiopian style - with plenty of shoulder flapping, chest shaking, and hopping.  This was pretty cool.

After the dancing showcase, the emcee announced that the professional dancer would be the judge for the Ethiopian dance competition, and she called for participants from the crowd.  There were many Ethiopian guests at the party, but they weren't exactly flocking to the dance floor.  So, the emcee kept pressing, and eventually the floor was filled with a lot of faranjis.

Instead of an Irish jig, they played a recording of Teddy Afro, Ethiopia's most popular current singer.

The song seemed to run quite long, but eventually a winner was crowned.  I couldn't see who it was, but my money was not on the white guys.

Several minutes after the Ethiopian dance competition, the emcee was back on the microphone.

"Is there anyone with clean underwear?" it seemed she was asking.  "Clean underwear?  Anyone at all?"

"What a curious competition!" I remarked.

Even stranger was the fact that only one guy rushed the stage.  So we had one guy out of 600 with clean underwear...  That was good for a laugh.

Maybe you already saw where this was going, but it was a simple misunderstanding.  I had not understood the emcee's accent (again), but she had been calling for green underwear.

My confusion led someone at the table to make a joke about underwear that was green, but definitely not clean - about some drawers so old they had molded and changed color.

Come on people; are we six years old or are we adults?  ha ha.

There was also a mini-conversation at the table about what color underwear people actually were wearing.  Black and white were the most popular, so no real surprises there.

Getting back to the competition, though, one guy showed up, and a lady wasn't too far behind.

Then after a judge verified their green underwear, they got their money - quite possibly the easiest 200 bucks they ever made.

Unless this event was new for this year, I was surprised that more people who had attended in prior years had not come prepared.  Like I said, it looked like easy money to me.

After the underwear showdown, there was one final bit of business remaining: the raffle.

Don had warned us earlier in the night that he was super lucky, so we were all mentally prepared for him to win big.

The first few prizes were some weekend get-aways at lodges around the country.  They came and went, and none of us won anything.

Then it was time for the grand prize: airfare for two from Addis Ababa to anywhere in Europe (within reason, I suppose), courtesy of Lufthansa.

The emcee reached into the box, and just like a Hollywood movie, she pulled out Don's name.  It was amazing!

Sorry, I was just having a bit of fun.  The real winner was a Polish guy who was sitting across the room.  Don and the rest of us were Grade-A losers in that raffle.

The raffle marked the end of the official program, and after that the DJ opened the dance floor up for dancing.

Right about that time, our colleague Scott, who had been sitting at another table, came over and invited us to smoke cigars.  About half of us took him up on the offer, a quarter went elsewhere in the ballroom, and the remaining people headed home.

Cigar smoking is still quite popular apparently because the number of cigar-smokers on the back patio must have been 30 or 40.

As we were smoking, we continued drinking, and when we all had a round at hand, we started toasting in different languages.

"Anyone know how to toast in Gaelic?" I asked.

At this, one of my colleagues made a special point to correct me.

"FYI," she told me, "Gaelic is the language of Wales, not Ireland."

I'm not sure of her source, but after a quick check on the internet, it looks to me like Irish is the preferred name of the language, but Gaelic and Irish Gaelic are also acceptable.  Furthermore, I didn't find any references to Welsh Gaelic, although it seems there is Scottish Gaelic and Manx Gaelic.

Anyhow, not long after I was corrected, Kathy stepped in to offer an Irish toast (in English): "To Jesus, Mary, and St. Patrick!" she announced.

Close enough.  We all drank to the saints.

Once my cigar was finished, I left the U.S. Embassy cluster and walked around.  I saw several people I knew, and on four different occasions, I was introduced by a friend to his or her friends as being the funniest person ever.  This is flattering, of course, but it's also a tough introduction to own.  Without fail, I was left standing there with some stranger expecting me to break into a comedy sketch.  I can't just turn on the good times like a light switch, though, so I ended up looking a bit flat and decidedly unfunny.

"I guess you had to be there," I would offer.  And the strangers would look at me as if to say, "how sad."

Tough crowds, I tell ya!

I did have one embarrassing moment where I "recognized" a guy from Oktoberfest, but in reality I knew him from a house party.  He was quick to call out my mistake.

I also had a portly Brit swear that we knew each other, although I'm quite sure we had never met.  I got the impression, however, that some of the other people around bought his story and decided that I was the confused one.  Damn his authoritative English accent!

I left his company and scanned the room for trouble.

According to the stories that I heard from last year's ball, it had been a true case of diplomats gone wild.  There were tales of vomiting at the dinner table, of disappearing clothes, of table-dancing.  This year, I didn't see any such shinanagins, which is sad.  A bit of mayhem is always good at a party.

Then again, maybe I just left before the party kicked into high gear.

I decided to throw in the towel around 12:45, at which time the crowd was noticeably leaner.  I had had two unpleasant bouts in the toilet, but overall I felt pretty good.  Still, I decided it was best not to push it.  I left, and the party raged on until around 4 AM I would later learn.

At the entrance to the hotel, the doorman informed me that the taxi rank had been completely exhausted and my best bet would be to try to hail a cab on the main road.

As I was walking out of the Sheraton's gate, my colleague Emily happened to be driving out.  She kindly offered me a lift, and in doing so, she probably saved me a very long walk or a very long wait.  Taxis are not that common in the wee hours of the morning.

In about 20 minutes, we had reached my house.  When I walked through the gate, my guard was standing duty.

"Great shirt!" he remarked.

Ethiopia: Oktoberfest at the Hilton

The Hilton Hotel’s Oktoberfest is one of the premier events of the Addis Ababa social calendar, so when the date for 2012 was announced there was a certain buzz around the Embassy.  The event was highlighted in the Embassy’s internal newsletter, and I had pinned the announcement to my bulletin board to remind myself to buy a ticket.

The day after I had posted the announcement on my cork board, my colleague Jobie noticed it.

“Hey, man,” he told me, “my driver is going to pick up tickets this afternoon for the people in my office.”  “Want him to grab you one?”

Since I was planning to attend anyway, this was a no-brainer.  I accepted Jobie’s offer and gave him 500 birr (about $28).

“I owe you 5 birr,” he joked.  The ticket only cost 495, but the 5 birr was negligible.

The following morning, Jobie was back.

“Here’s your ticket,” he said.  “Oh, and by the way,” he added, “we couldn't reserve tables, so you are on your own to find a seat.”

“on your own…”

Call me overly sensitive, but this last bit did not sit well with me.  Even if it was not possible to reserve tables, I had no doubt that Jobie and his friends still planned to sit together.  Being fairly new at the Embassy, I had not developed any strong friendships with him or his colleagues, and I understand and appreciate why I was excluded.  I just didn’t care for the method.  It was as if he had said, “Here’s your ticket, and this completes our transaction.  Don’t bother trying to sit with us.”

I am fully capable of having a good time on my own, however, so after my moment of sulking, I got over it.  I was going to go without a crew and meet new people and enjoy myself.

When the big day arrived, I noticed that my ticket did not indicate the starting time.  I set out walking and after about 45 minutes, I reached the Hilton.  It was 6:30 when I arrived, and there was a substantial queue of people waiting for the doors to open.  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one unclear about the start time.

I took my place in line, directly behind a young Ethiopian woman.

“I guess the doors don’t open until 7,” I remarked.

“I hope you’re right,” the young lady answered.  “It’s cold out here.”

We started talking, and it turned out that she was alone as well.

She had on a sleeveless black dress, but I could offer her nothing to block the chill since I myself had only a short-sleeved shirt.

Her name was Sara, and she spoke excellent English.  A few years ago, she had spent a year in Saudi Arabia working for Shell Oil.  While there, she lived and worked on a compound, mostly with Americans and other foreigners.  This helped her to hone her English, as well as her self-taught Arabic.  She enjoyed both her job and her American colleagues.  (The Yanks apparently produced bootleg spirits that would really put hair on your chest.)  Life wasn’t all fun and games, though.  Sara hated the heat in Saudi Arabia, and she faced religious persecution.  She would meet with other Christians in secret for Bible study, and more than once they were raided.  Thankfully, they weren’t subjected to prison or the lash.  Instead, they had to pay.  It wasn’t clear to me if Sara was talking about legitimate fines or bribes, but she indicated that the payments were pretty hefty.  In any case, she had no desire to ever return to the Kingdom.

Now days, Sara was selling cosmetics to make ends meet.

I shared some stories as well, and as we were talking, guess who should arrive.  It was Jobie and about eight other people, and they were right behind me in line.  Jobie was decked out in lederhosen.

I got an enthusiastic welcome.

“Chris, what’s happenin’!?” Jobie asked me.

We shook hands, and he introduced me to his wife.  And then after our brief exchange, I turned around and continued talking to Sara.  It was an obvious and awkward snub, but I was supposed to be on my own now wasn’t I?  (Remember earlier when I said that I had gotten over being excluded… well, maybe that wasn’t entirely true.)

For ten or fifteen minutes more, I talked to Sara with my colleagues behind us.  Then the doors finally opened.

The celebration was taking place in a tent set-up on the back parking lot.  Sara and I presented our tickets and each received a voucher for one beer.

“Which company are you with?” a man in a suit inquired.

“None,” I replied.  “I’m a tourist.”

When they heard this news, two young Ethiopian ladies wearing flashy red Bavaria-inspired beer-girl dresses stepped forward.

“Tonight,” they announced, “you will be a guest of Meta Brewery!”

“Follow us,” they instructed.

The Meta tables were on the far side of the tent, so we weaved through row upon row of wooden tables and benches.  Three rows from my table, we passed by a stretch of tables reserved for the U.S. Embassy.  Interesting, indeed.  Maybe Jobie wasn’t aware of any reserved tables, but there they were.

Sara and I were the first people at our Meta table, so we sat on the end.  There were thick pretzels stacked on wooden stands on the table, but unfortunately (for me anyway), no mustard.

Once we were seated, a different beer girl came to take our drink order.

“Would you like to try our kellerbier?”

“That means ‘cellar beer’,” she explained.

Beer was available by the glass or in a 3-liter tower.

Before I committed to either, I requested a sample.  The beer girl returned with glasses about a third of the way full for Sara and me.

After a few minutes, two other couples joined our table.  The two guys were field reps for Boeing, and their wives had accompanied them on assignment.  One field rep was in Ethiopia for a few months as part of the roll-out of the 787 Dreamliner, and the other was the permanent rep whose assignment will range from 4 to 7 years.  Ethiopian Airlines, by the way, operates an all-Boeing fleet and was the third airline in the world to get the Dreamliner (after All-Nippon Airways and Japan Airlines).

Besides Team Boeing, Sara and I were flanked by groups from the Germany Embassy, the Czech Embassy, Hilton Hotel management, and the UK Embassy.  As I was looking around, I also noticed a man wearing a lusekofte (a Norwegian sweater) a few rows over.  Sure enough, he was part of the Norwegian Embassy delegation.  The Russians were near the Norwegians.

Sara and I enjoyed the kellerbier samples enough that we used our free-beer vouchers to get full glasses.  The Boeing guys, meanwhile, started with the 3-liter tower.  One of the ladies in the Boeing group didn’t drink alcohol, however, so she asked the beer girl for a bottle of water.

“We don’t serve water,” was the surprising response.

There were several breweries and beverage suppliers with stations at the event, so the teetotaler set out to try her luck beyond the Meta realm.  Her quest was eventually fruitful, but it probably took her 20 or 30 minutes.  The take-away lesson: you don’t come to Oktoberfest to drink water!

Once everyone was seated, the program started.

The emcee welcomed the VIPs, and then started acknowledging the different groups in attendance.  The first group he announced was the U.S. Embassy, and my colleagues barely made a sound.  This was somewhat embarrassing since all the embassies and companies announced afterward, many of them with much fewer people, made a much bigger racket.  The last group announced was the German Embassy, and everyone roared out for them – and rightly so since it was their night.

Then the oompah band, which had been flown in from Germany, led us in the first of many rounds of “Ein Prosit”.

The program was short and sweet.  Then it was time for the feast.

With such a massive group of people descending on the buffet, there was a major log jam.  It was definitely worth the struggle, though.

Like the band, the food had been flown in from Germany.  There were sausages, various salads, pickles, red cabbage, white cabbage, potatoes, a roast-pork carving station, roast chicken, sliced meats and cheeses, some fish nuggets (which seemed out of place to me), breads, and several other items.

My plate looked ridiculously overloaded, but this was par for the course.  Nearly everyone had a mile-high portion.

I’m no expert on German cuisine, but the food tasted great to me.  And the beer was tasting better and better.

Sara turned out to be a light-weight, and in the end, she couldn’t even finish her sampler beer.  She ended up giving me the beer she got with her voucher.

She had driven to the party in her family’s car, and her brother called her several times to check on her.  I think he wanted to use the car too.  She hit the dessert table with me and then decided to head home.

Before she left, we exchanged cell phone numbers.  I still have the policy of exchanging numbers with anyone who asks, but this was the first number I plan to use.

It was only 9 PM when Sara left, and the party was just getting started.

After dinner, the drinking continued, and the emcee opened up the floor for dancing.  The first song was Lynn Anderson’s “Rose Garden”.  It’s hard to believe, but that was about as modern as the music got.

Meanwhile, the Meta beer girls (and the St. George beer girls and the Castel beer girls and the Harar beer girls) started passing out swag.  I only got a straw hat with a Meta beer patch sewn on it, but there were also branded t-shirts, polo shirts, beer steins, baseball hats, wallets, and bottle openers.

It wasn’t until after dinner that the fifth member of Team Boeing showed up.  He was the team leader, I think, and he was Japanese American.  This guy was a real one-man party.  He was singing, dancing, jumping around, striking poses from Saturday Night Fever, and when he started drinking he got even more wild.  We were dying laughing.  A lot of people from other tables came over to see this guy – to shake his hand or to snap a photo.  At one point, two guys came over and started grinding on him.  It was like the stunt from Jackass where the two party boys start gyrating against someone who doesn’t expect it (like someone waiting at a bus stop, for example).  These guys were trying to be cool and funny, but it backfired.  The Boeing guy took the bait and started acting crazier than ever.  When he started mock-humping a hat, the two party boys evacuated.

Later the crazy Boeing guy stood on a bench and started shouting, “U! S! A!   U! S! A!   U! S! A!”

He was not only crazy as a loon, but also patriotic.

By now, everyone was up and moving around.  I went over to talk to my colleagues at the U.S. Embassy table.

“I think you made the right choice not to sit here,” my friend Connie told me.  “I see these people every day at work; I don’t need to see them after hours as well.”

Another colleague was of the same opinion.  “You certainly didn't miss anything,” he told me.

All across the tent, there were towers of beer rising up from the tables like chimneys.  If you had a glass in hand, you were never far from a top-off.  To further hydrate the crowd, shot-girls also started working the floor.  They were doing a brisk business selling schnapps and vodka.

After I had talked with my fellow Americans for a while, I migrated back toward my original table.  I chilled a bit longer with the Boeing crowd, and then the group started to fragment again.

At this point, a drunken Brit named William entered the scene.

“How’s it going, mate?” he asked me.

Everything was fine, and I admitted as much.

Then we started talking about what each of us was doing in Ethiopia.  He was working at the UK Embassy in a military capacity.

When I told him that I was at the U.S. Embassy, he had another question:  “Is this your first time abroad?”

“Actually, I’ve been out for ten years,” I replied.

William was visibly surprised.

“No offense intended, mate,” he fumbled, “but most Americans don’t travel.”

His point was valid, but his question had also been a touch condescending.

We got along fine, though, and had several laughs and one or three shots.

I met another of William’s colleagues, Niles, and they were both the “I’d-tell-you-what-I-do-for-a-living-but-then-I’d-have-to-kill-you” kind of people.

“I’m sure you understand,” they told me.

“I have the opposite problem,” I countered.  “I’ll gladly tell you the details of my job, but then you’d probably want to kill yourself.”

This was a joke, of course, and they appreciated it.

As the conversation was moving along, something else crossed William’s mind.

“Say, if you’re American,” he asked me, “how come you don’t speak with an American accent?”

“I thought I did,” I told him.

“No, you don’t,” he insisted.

Maybe he was right that my accent has become watered down.  It reminded me of when I had checked out of my hotel in Washington and was about to go to the airport to catch my flight to Ethiopia.  The doorman at the hotel called me a taxi, and we were chatting as I waited.  “So, are you flying back to your home country now?” he asked me.

My time with the Brits had been good fun, and they invited me to come to an after-party at Club H2O.  Having never been there before, I was intrigued.  At the same time, I realized that I was in no shape for more partying, and I declined.

They understood, and we agreed to meet up some other time for drinks.  We didn’t exchange contact details, though, so if we do meet up, it will likely be by chance.  The same goes for the Boeing delegation.  We all talked about meeting again but never got around to swapping digits.

At around 1 AM, the band capped off the night with a lively rendition of Nena’s “99 Luftballons”.  And simultaneously, all decorum left the building.  People were spilling drinks; a conga line precariously perched on a row of benches collapsed and left a dozen people hugging the floor (still laughing, of course!); young men were popping the balloons used to decorate the tent; and many people looked like zombies.  There were red eyes, stained clothes, and matted hair.  (But enough about me, ha ha!)  All around the tent, you could hear the sound of breaking glass.

But before the band packed it up for good, the emcee had one more trick up his sleeve.  He called the German Defense Attaché to the stage, and the attaché closed down the party with a Sinatra song.  Quite possibly it was “My Way” but I can’t swear to it.

As he was singing, the Hilton waiters scurried around the tent clearing tables and stacking benches.  The party was officially over.

I was prepared to walk home, but one of my colleagues kindly offered me a ride.

Fifteen minutes later, as I came waltzing in through my gate, my night guard was keen to hear about the happenings of the night.  We talk most evenings for a bit, but the play-by-play from Oktoberfest took an hour and a half.  Since he is required to stay awake until 7 AM and has very little with which to occupy his time, my guard was hanging on every word of my story.

When I headed to bed at 3 AM, I was well and truly exhausted, but I had no complaints.

I had alienated a few colleagues perhaps, but overall, it had been a choice night.

Ethiopia: Tales from the Bar: Gaminiwari Grocery: Part II

Coming freshly shorn from the barber, I decided to stop in at Gaminiwari Grocery for a pint.

The staff recognized me from the week before, and they were very smiley as I entered. Most of the patrons were different this time, but there were a few familiar faces in the crowd.

I ordered up a beer and took a seat on a bench. This time there was news on the TV instead of music videos, and no one was really watching.

During my first beer, not much happened. The guy sitting next to me was talking to me, but the conversation wasn't terribly interesting. He was explaining how he preferred a drink called red aperitif, which was basically non-alcoholic. The drink consisted of a shot of 4.5% alcohol mixed with tonic, so the entire drink was like 1 or 2% alcohol. He liked the taste, and it allowed him to be social in the bar without fear of intoxication.

After the discussion of red aperitif, we discussed the basics of where I came from and why I was in Addis Ababa.

Then the man's attention was diverted to buying a bootlegged DVD from one of the young men who walked the sidewalks and popped into bars and cafes to sell their wares.

While he was perusing the DVD selections, I ordered my second beer.

Then something fun happened: the electricity went off.

The power goes off frequently in Addis Ababa, but since my home and office both have back-up generators, I'm largely shielded from the inconvenience of black-outs. Well, there was no back-up generator at Gaminiwari Grocery.

When the power went out, the bar went black. And the funny thing to me was that nobody cared. People still came in and out like normal, and drink service was uninterrupted. One chap did have a bit of bad luck when he managed to spill the contents of his pocket out on the floor. As he was crawling around on all fours, using the light from his cell phone screen to collect coins and keys, I was thinking what I'm sure everyone else was too: "Sucks to be you!"

His friends were really razzing him, but he was laughing along.

Only after about five minutes of darkness did the staff produce a single candle. They placed it on a table near the door, and it brightened the room slightly.

About ten minutes after that, a waiter fired up a kerosene lantern. He placed it on one of the tables, but, as the saying goes, no good deed goes unpunished. All the guys started complaining that the lantern was too bright, so the waiter relocated it to the top of a refrigerator. This new location definitely cut down on the glare, but it also rendered the lantern useless for it now cast very little light on the room. It's the thought that counts, I suppose.

I had a feeling that the black-out was going to be highlight of the night, so I finished my beer, fumbled around in the darkness to pay, and headed home - back to my generator-powered cocoon.

Ethiopia: Tales from the Bar: Gaminiwari Grocery: Part I

When I walked into Gaminiwari Grocery, there was that nice record-scratching moment when everyone stops what they're doing and stares. With everyone's eyes on me, I walked up to the bar and ordered a beer.

"What kind?" the barman asked me.

"This one," I said, pointing at the tap.

I didn't care which brand it was; I just wanted whatever was in the keg.

My pointing had clearly been misunderstood, however, because the bartender and a few other guys shouted out: "That's not beer!"

They thought I was pointing to the bottles of spirits behind the tap.

"I know that's not beer," I replied. "This is what I want."

This time I touched the beer tap.

"Oh, St. George?" the bartender asked.

Then he drew me a pint, and I paid. The damage was 9 birr (about 50 cents).

There were half a dozen small tables in the room with benches on the side of the tables facing the wall and small stools on the side facing the center of the room. On this particular night, no one was sitting on the stools, but the benches along the wall were full. A TV near the door was blasting Ethiopian music videos. There was also a second sitting area in the back.

After I paid for my beer, I took a second to survey the room and scout out a seat. My only option was going to be one of the stools in the center, but then a young man near where I was standing scooted over and made room for me on the bench.

People continued to stare at me off and on, but soon enough the novelty wore off and everyone went back to drinking and talking.

The guy who was sitting next to me couldn't speak much English (nor I Amharic), so I sat and watched the TV. All the while, people were coming and going. Part of the ritual for some of the guys who were leaving was to shake hands or fist-bump with all of the people at the bar on the way out the door. I was at the end of the line, but everyone shook my hand and fist-bumped me along with the rest.

And that was the extent of my interaction.

No matter how boring or awkward the situation is at a bar, I have a personal two-drink minimum. I think it's too easy to retreat after one drink, and it's often not until the second that things start to get interesting. If things are still boring or awkward after two drinks, then I will leave.

With the two-drink rule in mind, I put a 10-birr note on the table. Then one of the waiters appeared, collected my money and my empty glass, and returned with a fresh pint and my change.

The waiters, as well as the barman, wore what looked like lab coats, and they were quite proficient in serving drinks and keeping the tables wiped down.

Many of the guys in the bar were drinking mixed drinks, and I thought the system for serving these was pretty slick. The waiter would come to the table with a tray stocked with ice, the spirit of choice, the mixer of choice, lemons or limes as appropriate, and a shot glass. Then he would mix the drink on the spot. When I would later mention this system to one of my Ethiopian colleagues, he would explain to me that it was a necessity because barmen in Ethiopia were notorious for shorting drinks and no one would take a drink that he hadn't seen being made.

My second beer was nice and frosty, but I was still sitting in virtual isolation. I didn't plan to stick around for a third.

Then, when I had about a quarter of my beer remaining, the guy sitting two people away from me started up a conversation.

"So, are you are tourist?" he asked.

"No, I'm working here," I replied.

"Are you living around here?" he continued.

"Yes," I told him.

"At the Global Hotel?" he interjected.

"No, I live in a house."

"Oh, so you are staying for a while?"

"Yes, I've been here a week so far, but I have a two-year contract."

And at this, he shuddered.

"Wow! Two years is a long time!" he exclaimed.

We both laughed, but I told him I was sure the two years would fly by.

At this point we made our introductions. My new friend was named George. He was a retired sailor (commercial not military), and he had two sons who were both living in the U.S. The older one was an air traffic controller in Birmingham, Alabama, and the younger one was a graduate student in biotechnology at George Mason University in Virginia. Apparently, I was the same age as his older son, although George thought I looked younger.

With two sons living in the U.S., George had visited several times, and he would be returning soon for his younger son's graduation.

He asked me from which state I hailed, and I told him Tennessee. And being a self-proclaimed expert on the U.S., he told me that he knew Tennessee very well. I had my doubts, however, as we continued talking since he was unfamiliar with any of Tennessee's major cities, personalities, or claims to fame. We talked about Elvis Presley, country music, blues, and gospel, Nashville, Memphis, and Chattanooga, barbeque and the Smokey Mountains, and then I was going to pull the ace from my sleeve. I turned and scanned the bottles on the bar, and - lo and behold! - Tennessee's most famous export, Jack Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey, was not in attendance. Doh! Without the visual aid, I just had to mention Jack as one of Tennessee's highlights.

For his part, George didn't much care for Tennessee, Alabama (and definitely not Birmingham), or Virginia. For him, it was all about California.

After we finished talking about Tennessee, George started telling me about his life on the sea.

"I went all around the world as a sailor," he told me. "Go ahead, try me. Name a country."

"OK," I said, "did you go to Australia?"

"No."

"Papua New Guinea?"

"No."

"Chile?"

"No."

This game was going nowhere fast.

I decided to throw him some easy ones.

"What about Singapore?" I asked.

"Yes."

"China?"

"Yes."

"Turkey?"

"Yes."

He even went to Norway a few times - to Kristiansand, I think.

By now my beer was finished so I pulled out 10 birr and laid it on the table.

The waiter collected it and returned with a fresh beer.

"You know," George said, "here in Ethiopia we drink what we want and pay at the end. Why are you paying as you go?"

Before I could answer, the barman chimed in: "It's a down payment!"

We all had a laugh.

I had assumed it was like in the U.S. where a patron could either pay by the drink or open a tab, but I guess opening a tab was very much the preferred method in Ethiopia. That said, I don't think the bar staff was terribly inconvenienced by my paying by the drink either.

Some of the other guys were listening to our conversation now, and soon one spoke up.

"Do you smoke?" he asked.

"Sometimes I do," I told him, "but not very often."

"So it doesn't bother you if we smoke?" he asked.

"No," I answered. "Go right ahead."

And I'll be darned if the whole bar didn't light up. All the guys had been holding back because they had assumed that I would be bothered by the smoke. This was both funny to me and also kind of touching that they cared if an outsider such as myself was bothered.

We were all having a good time by now. The third beer turned into a fourth, and that too was soon finished.

It was 11 PM, and early the next morning, I was going on my first trip in Ethiopia, to Bahir Dar. Having not yet packed, and with my 5 AM pick-up looming, I told George that I was calling it a night.

"Can't you stay for one more?" he implored. "If you are worried about security, some of us can walk you home."

I chose to do the responsible thing and passed on that last drink. I also declined to take a security escort.

As I was walking home, I thought back to the medical briefing I had had just a few days prior at the Embassy.

"Remember," the nurse had told me, "at the high altitude of Addis Ababa, one drink has the effect of three at sea level."

And then I felt short-changed. I had consumed four pints, and I was nowhere close to having a 12-pint buzz.

Norway: Tales from the Bar: The Queen's Pub

With another Friday night at hand, I had a few shots of Jack and then set out to meet some friends downtown. I hopped on the bus and got off as I had been instructed. The bus dropped me off close to the bar, but being unfamiliar with the area, I had to seek out assistance to actually find the place. I asked several people for help, and after a few dead-ends, I was there - the Queen's Pub.

I was meeting my lovely and talented Norwegian friend Kandi, and she brought along two of her fellow countrywomen, Kamilla and Karolina. I had actually met Kamilla and Karolina previously, but we hadn't spoken much on our initial meeting.

The three ladies had a prime spot at the bar, and the alcohol was flowing freely. I hitched my coat on the hook under the bar, and then I ordered up some more whiskey.

In Norway, there is an antiquated law on the books that prohibits the serving of drinks with more than one shot of alcohol. I normally order a double Jack on the rocks, so I learned about this law the first time I went out.

On that first night out, I walked up to the bar, and after demonstrating that I couldn't communicate in Norwegian, the bartender effortlessly switched to English. Business as usual. I ordered a double, and he told me that he couldn't serve it because it was illegal.

"OK," I responded, "can I get two singles?"

And sure enough, he served them up, knowing full well that I was going to drink both. He might have been following the letter of the law, but not really the spirit.

Having learned my lesson earlier, though, I started out at the Queen's Pub by ordering two single Jacks on the rocks. Then as soon as the bartenders turned away, I just combined them in one glass. I don't know if they would actually have cared had they seen me combine the drinks, but I figured that I would show some respect and wait until their backs were turned.

Kandi, Kamilla, Karolina, and I drank and talked and laughed for a few hours. We were having a choice time.

We were a self-contained pod up to this point, but that was about to change.

Sitting next to us at the bar were an older, slightly intoxicated, white-haired man, and his friend, a younger man who was a good measure more sober. The older man - let's call him Bjørnulv - was hungry for conversation, and he engaged all of us in turn for long stretches. Actually, he engaged all of us but Karolina. She seemed to think that he was a dirty old man, and she did not appreciate him worming his way into our group. She deliberately ignored him the whole night.

For our part, Kandi, Kamilla, and I were well compensated for befriending Bjørnulv. He was buying us drinks right and left, and poor Karolina didn't get anything.

I ended up with an odd array of drinks before me thanks to Bjørnulv. I was drinking bourbon when we met so he bought me some bourbons. Then he asked me if I liked scotch. When I told him that I did, he ordered me one. Before the scotch was finished, he asked me if I drank cognac. I told him that I did, and - voila! - a snifter appeared before me. A few minutes later, he was like, "Do you like beer?"

Anyhow, at one point I was sitting at the bar with four different drinks. Yet, it's illegal to serve a double...

Most people avoid mixing drinks for fear of the repercussions, but I worked my way through my entire portfolio. I think that a drink given in friendship should never go to waste.

Bjørnulv was an interesting guy. He and his friend were farmers, and they had spent the day driving some of their farm machinery from the countryside to Oslo. The machinery that they brought would be used for snow removal during the winter.

They were set to return to the farm the following day, so we ran into them on their only night in the big city. Bjørnulv especially seemed poised to let his hair down.

While interesting, Bjørnulv was at the same time a bit needy. After he had cornered someone for half an hour to tell the tale of, say, his trip to Bruges in 1989, that person would be looking for an escape route with some sense of urgency. Going to the bathroom or going outside for a cigarette were two safe bets.

As busy as Karolina was ignoring Bjørnulv, she still found time to mock the rest of us for talking to him. "He is only buying you all drinks," she told us, "because he wants to sleep with you." Her choice of words was actually a bit more colorful.

Then to make sure that there was no misunderstanding, she turned to me and said, "He wants you especially."

She was obviously saying this to get a reaction, but her attempts fell short; it was clear to everyone that Bjørnulv only had eyes for Kamilla. Kamilla was the oldest member of our posse, but she kept herself in good shape. Blond, tall, and thin, she had a somewhat sporty look, and a slightly tangy personality.

I think that Bjørnulv was buying the three of us drinks because we had been nice to him but also because he fancied Kamilla and wanted to create a positive mood within her circle so as to create a good impression.

The night wore on, and Bjørnulv grew bolder with each passing drink. Before long, his requests for a dance with Kamilla crossed into the annoyance zone, and she put an end to the fun. She politely told Bjørnulv that, while he was very nice, she was not romantically interested in him and nothing was going to happen between them. At least that's what she told us she was going to say. I didn't witness the actual moment when she tossed his heart in the blender.

Regardless of how Kamilla delivered the message, the die was cast at this point. Bjørnulv's wing man could see that their welcome had worn out, and he convinced his drunk friend that it was time to move on.

And thus the free drink service dried up.

Once Bjørnulv was gone, the party continued, and Karolina finally let her guard down. She became quite energized and, truth be told, a bit frisky. She was putting down the drinks faster, laughing a lot more, singing along to the music, and dancing around our small square of real estate at the bar. She was like a different person.

As Karolina was dancing, she kept pulling me over to dance with her. I did "dance" for a few songs, meaning that I faced her and kind of moved from side to side. This was good enough, though, and Karolina was having a ball. She was definitely tipsy.

In Kamilla and Kandi's opinion, she was having a little too much fun. I stepped away to the men's room, and when I returned I couldn't help but notice that something was missing.

"What happened to Karolina?" I asked.

Well, what happened to Karolina is that Kandi and Kamilla thought that she was too drunk and had shipped her home in a taxi.

And then there were three.

This particular outing was on October 30, and that same night, some of my colleagues were hosting a Halloween party. I had intended to go, but as the night progressed it was looking less likely. When it was 9:00, 10:00, and even 11:00, I was telling myself, "OK. There's still time." When the clock struck 12, I was like, "It ain't happenin'."

Sometime between 11:00 and 12:00 the pub instantly became popular. Masses of people swarmed the place and somehow Kandi, Kamilla, and I lost our prime spot at the bar. The circumstances surrounding our displacement weren't much of a mystery actually. I again went to the men's room, and the ladies either went to the ladies' room or out to smoke. With no one standing guard, our seats were quickly filled.

When the three of us returned and found the squatters in our former home, we were reduced to hugging a wall. More inconvenient our spot could not have been, and we found ourselves constantly jostled by people coming and going.

Things were going downhill fast, and Kamilla decided that it was time for her to call it a night. She also had something to do in the morning.

And then there were two.

Kandi and I stayed on a bit longer. Having spent our entire night thus far in the bar area, we hadn't ventured up the few stairs to the rest of the pub which was slightly elevated. Now the chaos of the lower floor forced us upward.

The top level had a dance floor and a man wailing away on a piano. The piano was completely surrounded by patrons, and everyone was merrily singing along. I felt a bit stupid because after all the hours we had spent in this place, I hadn't realized that it was a piano bar until this point. The pianist was a natural entertainer, and he seemed to have a wide repertoire.

The top level was packed nearly as tightly as the lower level, and Kandi and I again found ourselves on the move in search of some breathing room. We ended up on the lower level again, this time near the door. There were actually several open tables there - owing to the fact that these tables were subjected to a blast of cold air every time the door was opened. For some reason, people did not appreciate this.

While we were in our new location, Kandi went to the ladies' room again. As I was waiting for her to return, I was just sitting at the table, drinking my whiskey and minding my own business. Then the roving security man approached me.

"You need to go outside for some fresh air," he told me.

I had seen him walking around the bar throughout the night, weeding out people, so I didn't think much of it. I went outside for my "time out". I left my coat inside because I didn't expect to stay outside very long. Unfortunately, though, there was another bouncer outside, and he was like, "you can go back inside in 15 minutes."

As I was sitting out there in cold storage with a handful of smokers, one thing quickly became apparent: sitting out in the cold for 15 minutes will kill a buzz for sure.

When I was released from the penalty box, I came back inside and found Kandi. She had been wondering where I had gone.

By now, we had both had enough fun for one night. I finished my drink, and we left. It was around 2:00 AM, I think.

It had been a long night, but neither of us seemed too much worse for the wear.

Things, however, are not always as they seem.

I was walking Kandi home, and we had barely gotten around the corner from the pub when she just stopped. "No big deal," I thought, assuming that she was feeling sick or something.

This wasn't the case, though. The reality was that she had completely run out of gas.

"I just need to rest for a minute," she told me. Then she laid down on the sidewalk and refused to move.

I didn't realize what was happening at first, but after several minutes of trying to coax her to her feet, I was like, "Houston, we have a problem."

I figured that Kandi was probably especially cold sleeping on the frozen concrete, so I gave her my coat and she quickly wrapped up in it. Then I continued trying to rouse her. All the while, she was talking all dreamy-like, telling me that she just needed to rest for a few more minutes.

At one point, she looked at me and asked me why I wasn't wearing a coat. When I told her that she was sleeping on it, she just curled up more and still made no effort to get up.

The minutes ticked away, and a sea of humanity passed us by. A few people asked if we needed any help - which we declined - but most people kept their distance. Since this was all taking place at 2:00 in the morning, most of the people we encountered were either heading to a party or returning from one. With this particular demographic, I'm sure that plenty of people knew exactly what Kandi was going through.

Some of the passers-by were definitely not helpful, however. One man called Kandi a gypsy and told me not to waste my time with her.

After 15 minutes, we reached another milestone in the stand-off - the police arrived. Oh, joy!

The cruiser pulled up with its lights flashing, and two police officers - a man and a woman - approached us. They sized up the situation, and I started giving my side of the story. They apparently thought that I was a complete stranger who had found someone passed out on the sidewalk because when they learned that we were friends they immediately stopped scrutinizing us. They asked Kandi if we were in fact friends, and she managed to give a very drowsy affirmative response. Then they came back to me.

"Are you prepared to take responsibility for her?" they asked me.

I told them that I was, and after repeating the question a few more times, they left Kandi in my care and left.

Perhaps the police could have helped us, but I was just happy that they were gone. Norway is at least as uptight as the US, so I figured that we (well actually just Kandi) must have been in violation of some public drunkenness ordinance.

Besides the fact that they didn't hassle us, the other thing that I appreciated in the whole police encounter was that I was a bit intoxicated myself, but apparently not enough to concern them.

When the police left, I was back to square one. Kandi was barely responsive, and I had no ideas.

Some of you might be wondering why I didn't just strong-arm Kandi and force her to her feet. My answer to that is that it wasn't necessary.

Different situations call for different responses. While it would be acceptable to manhandle someone to save them from a fire or a crashed car, there was no immediate danger in the situation with which we were dealing. I was convinced that Kandi could and should get home under her own power.

Several more minutes passed, and I was wishing that I had my coat back.

Probably 10 minutes after the police left, we hit the next milestone in the stand-off: Mya appeared.

Mya was a young woman who happened to have been walking by, and she for sure had been in exactly the same situation as Kandi. She told us her story; it was the same scenario except she ended up getting arrested.

I told her that we were fine on that front because the police had already come and gone.

"No! That's what they always do!" Mya shouted back at me. "If they catch you twice, you will get arrested!"

She asked Kandi's name and apparently misunderstood what was said.

Very forcefully and deliberately, she barked out her orders: "Kammi..... get..... up.... now! Come on, Kammi. GET UP!"

Then she grabbed her by the collar and started shaking her. Kandi was unimpressed and continued to lounge.

At this, Mya dredged up her own prison story once again. On the verge of tears, she was like, "Do you have any idea what happens in prison? I do. I was there."

Then for emphasis, she repeated her opening line several more times, "Do you have any idea what happens in prison? Do you??"

All the while, I was thinking, "Yeah, I do have an idea. I own a TV."

Getting stabbed with shivs, strip searches, working all day for 7 cents an hour, rough toilet paper, gang fights, prison meatloaf, limited television programming, big manly girls buying and selling you for cigarettes...

Yes, indeed, I had some idea of the horrors of prison. It was all most unpleasant.

Anyhow, Kandi still wasn't inspired by Mya's ranting, so Mya and I finally just grabbed an arm each and hoisted Kandi to her feet.

Even at this point, Kandi was still unable to muster the strength or motivation to stand up. We started to move with Mya and me shouldering the bulk of Kandi's body weight.

All the while, Mya continued ranting about the horrors of prison and the humiliation of it all. She did have a strong back, though, so I can't complain.

Mya was keen on getting Kandi into a taxi, so she tried to steer us toward an intersection for this purpose. I didn't know how close Kandi lived exactly, but she was very adamant that a taxi was absolutely unnecessary. Mya tried to overrule Kandi, but I told her that if Kandi didn't want a taxi we weren't going to get one.

Mya did not appreciate being challenged, and so she kicked us to the curb at this point.

When she left us, Kandi immediately started to shrink down for more sidewalk sleeping. Mya rushed back over to keep her from reaching the ground and she helped us walk a little bit further.

Soon Mya was relieved by a group of three young men who looked to me to be of South Asian heritage (Pakistani or Indian).

Mya now left us for good, and Kandi, me, and our three new escorts continued on. The young men were very excited about Kandi's condition, and they suggested flagging down the police or getting a taxi. We weren't enthused by either idea, of course. By this point, however, Kandi was participating a bit more with the walking, and I sent the three guys away. They were making too much hoopla.

Kandi's apartment really was close, and I supported her the rest of the way.

When we got to her apartment, I put her in her bed, and she immediately went to sleep.

The night had ended so strangely, I didn't know what to make of it. Had Kandi been drugged? Was she just drunk? Did she have alcohol poisoning?

I decided that it wasn't safe to leave her alone, so I took off my coat and formed it into a pillow. Then I sprawled out on the floor just outside her bedroom door for the night. The combination of the hard floor and the freezing cold night ensured that I didn't get much sleep. This was ideal, though, because every time I woke up, I was able to confirm that Kandi was still breathing. When she first went to sleep, her breathing was very labored and noisy, so it was very easy to determine that she was still alive. By 8:00 AM, her breathing had returned to normal, and it was barely audible. Around 8:30, I left her apartment, and Kandi snoozed on unaware.

As I made my way back home, I looked a bit disheveled and it was pretty obvious that I had slept in my clothes. People were looking at me like I was taking the walk of shame, but I couldn't care less. Exhaustion aside, I felt like a million bucks.

Papua New Guinea: Tales from the Bar: Ozzie's

When Friday rolled around, Stewart called to make sure I was still interested in drinking steam at Ozzie's. I was, so Stewart proposed that we meet at 7:00. This seemed way too early to me, so I countered with 9 o'clock.

Stewart stuck to 7:00, however, insisting that 9:00 was too late.

I didn't much care either way, so I agreed on 7.

In the past, I had shown up at the agreed upon time, only to find that everyone else was late. They were running on island time. Assuming that everyone would be late again, I showed up to Ozzie's at 7:30. And darned if I still wasn't the first one there!

The place was about half full at the time, so I took a seat at an empty table and ordered a drink. The band was rocking out, as usual, playing music that was entirely too loud for the size of the room.

Not two minutes after I settled into my bourbon, some guys at the next table got my attention.

“Are you alone?” one asked me.

“Yes,” I told him, “but my friends are on the way.”

“Why don't you join us while you wait?” he asked.

I had nothing better to do, so I accepted his invitation and moved to his table.

The three guys at my new table were named Frank, Manny, and Mac, and they were reporters for major newspapers in PNG. When I told them that I was working at the Embassy, they assured me that our conversation was off the record, in case I was worried.

We went through all the normal pleasantries and talked about all the normal things, and things were going fine. I finished my drink, and Frank shouted the next round.

He asked what I was drinking, and I told him bourbon on the rocks.

And – like always seems to happen – he returned from the bar with a bourbon and coke for me. This is also what he happened to be drinking. I thanked him for the drink, while, at the same time, pointing out the mistake. I was trying to prevent the same thing from happening again in future rounds.

We continued talking and drinking, and before long the conversation was only between Frank and me. Mac was preoccupied with some phone calls, and Manny was now too drunk to discuss anything. He was staring off into space with a big smile on his face, rolling his head from side to side like Stevie Wonder. He was off in his happy place.

Eventually, there came to be a lull in the conversation, and Frank and I just sat in silence for a few moments.

Then Frank laughed.

The laugh was completely contrived, and I knew that Frank wanted me to ask him what he was laughing about. I wasn't going to play that game, though, so I ignored it.

Then he laughed again, and it was just as forced and phony as the first time.

Again I ignored him.

Frank could tell that I wasn't going to take the bait, and he couldn't stand it. “You know why I'm laughing?” he asked.

“No,” I told him.

“I was just thinking about how different our lives are,” he explained. “You spend your whole salary on yourself; I'm supporting 8 people with mine.”

I didn't see anything particularly funny about this, and I was glad that I hadn't responded to his stupid laughing.

I wasn't interested in exploring this line of conversation any further, so I freely admitted that my life was frivolous. Frank couldn't do much with this, and the conversation fell silent once more.

When Frank had told me that he was supporting 8 people, I wondered to myself how many of those eight people could have been supporting themselves. Some of his dependents were probably legitimate (his children, for example), but there were surely at least a few who were beneficiaries of the wantok system.

In PNG, a clan is called a wantok (“one talk”) because everyone in the clan speaks the same language. There are over 800 wantoks here, each with a unique language.

Wantoks take care of their own, and the haves are obligated to give to the have-nots. This has its obvious advantages, especially if you are a have-not. The wantok system builds community bonds, and it gives everyone a safety net. It also encourages laziness, though, for what motivation is there for someone to work when he can sponge off his relatives instead?

Living here, you hear numerous stories of the wantok system run amuck. In one of these stories, of which I've heard a few variations, a person excels at work, gets promoted, and moves into a nice home. Almost instantly he finds his new yard is filled with squatters from the wantok, and there is a line of people a mile long waiting for hand-outs. The story often ends with the breadwinner quitting his job in order to terminate his golden goose status.

Like I said before, I was sure that Frank's story fit into this framework somehow. I chose not to go into it, though, in large part to deflate him. I could tell that he was already feeling superior, and I didn't want to encourage that.

The next stop for our conversation was the cost of fuel, which was climbing in PNG like it was all around the world.

Frank asked me what I thought about this, and I told him that I thought it was a bad situation. This did not sit well for some reason. Apparently I hadn't shown enough outrage.

“A bad situation? This is a huge problem!” he ranted. “The fuel prices are driving up transportation costs, and the prices of goods are increasing! Rice costs so much now, it's hard to afford it!”

“Then again,” he continued, “what do you care? You're just passing through. You don't know anything about a hard life.”

What do you do with that? I admitted that my life was both frivolous and comfortable, and the conversation died again.

Even as I was killing the conversation, I thought about how ridiculous Frank was. He was sitting in a nightclub downing bourbons and coke, a few meters away from a band butchering Steppenwolf's Magic Carpet Ride, and he's carrying on like he's one step from the poor house. If he was in such dire straights, it would seem to me that he might want to cut out the partying.

Maybe I'm not one to talk and maybe Frank did live a “hard life” but I've seen plenty of other people around the world who would trade places with him in a minute.

As our conversation limped along, something else started rubbing Frank the wrong way. I was making what I consider to be a normal amount of eye contact, but it was too much for Frank.

He was originally from the Highlands, and he considered my eye contact to be very aggressive. I was challenging him with my gaze.

As he was explaining all this to me, it appeared to my untrained eye that he was also making eye contact with me. Well, I was wrong.

He was like, “Do you think I'm looking in your eyes now?”

It did, so I said yes.

“Well,” he proudly announced, “I'm not. I'm actually looking right at the corner of your eyebrow.”

Another time he was looking at the top of my nose, so it also appeared that he was looking at my eyes but he really wasn't. How clever.

This all seemed very silly to me. If you think eye contact is aggressive, then why pretend to make eye contact? It would seem to me that the Japanese style of looking at the ground is a better strategy for avoiding eye contact.

After the whole eye-contact sidebar, I amused myself by looking Frank in the eye at every possible opportunity.

He would repeatedly correct me.

“See what you're doing right now?” he would ask me.

“Yeah.”

“That's very aggressive.”

“Oh, right.”

So I would look away briefly and then resume.

Around this point, the band started into a PNG song, after a long string of American covers.

Frank enjoyed the song they were playing, and it naturally led him to another question.

“Do you like PNG music?” he asked.

I told him that I did, so he pressed me further.

“Oh, yeah? Who do you like?”

So I named a few singers.

Then Frank wanted to know what songs I liked by these singers.

I'm not well versed in Pacific music, by any stretch, but I still managed to list several songs and several artists. My knowledge was soon exhausted, though, and Frank was still going at me like a bulldog. “Who else do you like? Who else?”

So I looked him right in the eye. And I told him, “You're right. I'm just a poser; I don't really like PNG music. Also I live a frivolous life.”

“The way you are looking at me is very aggressive,” he responded.

Thank goodness for the eye contact. That was my ace in the hole.

Around this time, Stewart and his entourage finally showed up. It was well after 8:00.

They parked themselves at a pair of tables by the door, and I excused myself from the table of reporters. Frank was a bit miffed that I was leaving, but I bought a round of drinks which helped to soften the blow. Before I left, all three of the reporters gave me their business cards so that we could hang out again.

Frank was like, “It was really great to talk with you. Give me a call sometime so we can continue the conversation.” And he seemed earnest about it, like he had enjoyed the conversation.

We clearly had different ideas on what constituted a good conversation. I felt under attack for much of the discussion and was just waiting for it to end. I go to a bar to have fun, not to discuss issues and certainly not to get lectured.

Anyhow, Frank was happy, and I was happy to be leaving.

Back at Stewart's table, the guys were all happy to see me again. It had been 2 days since we had last been drinking together.

As planned, they had brought along a bottle of homebrew. Back at the Beehive, they had told me that they knew the manager at Ozzie's and that he wouldn't mind if they brought homebrew inside.

Well, that wasn't completely accurate. My first clue was the fact that the bottle of steam was conveniently stashed inside a potted plant on the floor. Basically the manager, whose name was Graham, didn't mind because he didn't know.

The guys ordered a pitcher of beer, a pitcher of ice, and a few cans of coke for mixing, and then we got started.

Naga was sitting near the plant, so he became the bartender by default. He gave us all a shot (or a nip as they say here) of the A-grade. Everyone else started adding coke to theirs, but I didn't want any mixer in mine. The guys were all shocked, but I generally like my spirits straight.

After my first sip, I was a fan.

No offense to the peeps back home, but the PNG homebrew was better than the Tennessee moonshine I've tasted. Tennessee moonshine tastes like sour mash, but PNG homebrew is finished with coconut, mango, or banana, and the end result is potent, smooth, and slightly sweet. It was a real treat going down, and as I would discover the next morning, the hang-over was nonexistent.

Over the course of the night, we put a good dent in the bottle of steam. With all that drinking, I worked up an appetite, and I ordered a pizza for the table. In PNG, following the Australian example, many pizzas are made with barbeque sauce instead of regular pizza sauce.

I don't like this, so I purposely ordered a pizza with regular sauce on it. When it arrived, I was surprised to see the guys requesting a side order of barbeque. People like what they grow up with, I suppose.

When the pizza was gone, our evening likewise finished.

It had been an interesting night, and I was ready for some shut-eye.

Papua New Guinea: Tales from the Bar: The Beehive: Part III

Ready for a midweek drink, I found myself back at the Beehive's Wednesday happy hour.

I was meeting up with Stewart again, and this time, he arrived before I did. He had already ordered the usual table full of drinks when I turned up.

Stewart was with four other guys, one of whom was named Naga. This name was easy for me to remember because it reminded me of Naugahyde, the famous fake leather product. The other guys had less exotic names, and I soon forgot them.

One of the guys, who I'll call Reggie, was trying to lose weight and get in shape for rugby. I'm sure he's probably a cool guy ordinarily, but he was playing a game with his girlfriend that was getting on my nerves. She called him several times while we were drinking. Each time, he would talk to her briefly and then hang-up on her. After a few hang-ups, she started calling the mobiles of the other guys. So all around the table, the guys' phones were ringing one after the other, and each time it was Reggie's girlfriend on the line. She was obviously well acquainted with the whole crew.

The guys would answer the call and pass the phone to Reggie. Then he would revert to the same stupid game of hanging up on her. Then another phone would ring, and the cycle would continue. The guys all thought this was a hoot, but I wasn't amused. It was freakin' annoying, and I was glad when little miss desperation stopped calling after more than a dozen fruitless attempts.

Apparently Stewart had briefed his friends about me before I had arrived because they were all conversant on my earlier adventures. This was all good and well, but a strange dynamic developed at the table. The guys all thought I was hilarious for whatever reason, so whenever I would say anything - even if it wasn't remotely funny - they would crack up.

“You are too much!” one guy told me. He was doubled over, laughing, and smacking the table, and this was in response to some mundane comment I had made about grocery shopping.

The guys didn't seem overly drunk, but it was clear that they were well ahead of me. I upped my consumption to try to catch up.

Over the course of a few hours, we covered all the usual topics. We all had a few dances as well, and the guys had a field day when Margaret, my little friend in uniform, asked for a dance. She's like 20 years older than me, about 4 feet tall, and a bit stocky, so I'm sure we did make a funny couple.

At one point in the night, the conversation turned to moonshine. In PNG, moonshine is referred to as homebrew or steam. It is also referred to by its quality, so if you say A-Grade, B-Grade, or C-Grade, everyone will know that you are talking about hooch.

I had yet to try PNG homebrew, but it was on my list of things to do. When I told this to the guys, they laughed like I had just told the best joke ever. This reaction was no surprise, though, since they were no closer to sobering up than they were before.

When I convinced them that I was serious, they stopped laughing and started up with the warnings. “You'd be better off drinking kerosene, man!”

Undeterred, I asked if one of them would buy me a bottle. They were all more than willing to help, and they told me that a bottle of A-Grade would set me back 10 kinas (about $4).

Still convinced that I didn't know what I was getting into, the guys decided that they should be with me when I tried steam for the first time. They were after the entertainment value, no doubt.

I didn't mind if they joined me, so we agreed to meet on Friday at Ozzie's. They told me that they knew the manager there and he wouldn't care if we brought our own alcohol.

Soon after we settled on our plan for Friday, it was time for me to leave. I had pre-booked a ride home, and Sam was waiting for me in the parking lot.

When I left, the others also called it quits. We all walked downstairs together, and then they peeled off and went to their car.

Before I got in my car, Margaret came rushing out of the bar. She had something on her mind, and it was money.

She asked me for 100 kinas (about $40) to put toward bail money. Unbeknownst to me, she had been arrested the week before.

Margaret then proceeded to tell me her side of the story.

In her capacity as a guard at the Beehive, she had been forced to deal with an obnoxious customer. While short and stocky, Margaret was also a practitioner of judo, and she had really put the hurt on this man who had crossed the line. PNG is a testosterone-heavy society, so any bodily injury Margaret inflicted on this man was completely secondary to the bruised ego she gave him. Surely owing to this bruised ego, the man pressed charges, and Margaret found herself on the wrong side of the law.

Jail is no picnic anywhere, and a women's correctional facility in Port Moresby is certainly not a place anyone wants to go. In order to avoid this fate, Margaret posted bail with the help of her extended family, making her a free woman until her day in court. She was asking me for money to pay back some of the people who had loaned her the bail money. One person noticeably missing from her list of benefactors was Bernard, the owner of the Beehive. He had washed his hands of the whole affair and told Margaret to sleep in the bed she had made. Nice boss.

The story seemed plausible enough to me, so I decided to contribute to Margaret's fund. I only had 50 kinas (about $20) on me, so I gave her that. Margaret was very appreciative, and she assured me that she would have the money back to me in a few weeks.

The whole transaction had taken place under Sam's watchful eye, so when we finally headed for home, he brought it up. He thought Margaret's whole story was suspicious, and he was quite sure that I would never see that 50 kinas again. Having reached the same conclusion myself, though, I had already written it off as charity.

Papua New Guinea: Tales from the Bar: The Beehive: Part II

The Wednesday after Cathy punched Maymay's lights out, I returned to the Beehive. I wondered who would be there, and how I would be received.

When I walked in the door, there was the standard moment of shock when everyone in the place felt compelled to stop and stare at me. This happens on a regular basis, though, so I didn't much care. Many people recognized me from the week before, so I got a “hey, bro” here and there, and then everyone resumed their activities.

This time Stewart and some of his friends were going to meet me for happy hour. I was the first to arrive, so I went to wait at the bar.

When Bernard, the owner, saw me, he was overjoyed. “It's good to see you again,” he said. “I didn't think you'd come back.”

“Don't worry,” I told him, “I have very low standards.”

We had a good laugh over this, and then he bought me a drink.

Bernard was busy with other matters, so we chatted briefly and he moved on.

So, there I was – sitting at the bar, sipping my bourbon, listening to the band, and minding my own business. The surly waitresses were hanging around behind the bar, and two young ladies were sitting to my left.

The waitresses ignored me like I figured they would, but the two young ladies didn't last two minutes before they started asking me questions.

Their icebreaker was a question of nationality. “Are you Australian?” they asked.

When I told them that I was American, they were duly impressed.

They were concerned that I was alone, though, so I told them that I was waiting on my friends to arrive.

“We'll keep you company until they get here,” they told me.

Then we started in on the usual conversation about who I was, why I was in Papua New Guinea, how I liked it, where I had traveled, and all the rest.

These young ladies were named Medley and April, and they told me that they almost never came to bars. They were more into the nightclub scene. Specifically, they were Gold Club junkies.

Regardless of where they normally went, they sure were thirsty when I met them. They were downing the whiskeys and coke like water. This was OK, though, because the 2-kina happy hour was going strong.

By the time Stewart and his friend turned up, Medley, April, and I had been talking and drinking for half an hour. In that time, we had exchanged cell phone numbers; they had invited me to visit their village, and we had danced to several songs. Things were going fine, in other words.

Then Stewart showed up.

Medley, April, and I were still at the bar, and Stewart walked up to place an order.

“Hey, Bro,” he greeted me. “We've got a table over there.”

In the time it had taken him to place his order, I hadn't moved. Stewart took note of this and then went back to his table.

I was a bit conflicted. No matter where I decided to sit, I would offend someone.

I told the ladies that I would be back, and then I went to talk to Stewart.

Since he was a guy, Stewart obviously wasn't going to beg me to sit at his table. He did, however, make his case for why I shouldn't stay with the ladies. To paraphrase just a bit, he thought that they were bad girls.

This observation was in line with the advice several other people had given me already: You don't meet nice ladies in bars in Papua New Guinea.

I figured that Stewart was probably right, so I bought Medley and April a final drink and excused myself. They were a bit miffed that I had chosen Stewart over them, but they masked their disappointment with attitude.

Back at Stewart's table, I received a lesson on how to take full advantage of happy hour. Shortly after I sat down, the waitresses brought his order over. As they emptied their trays, our table began to look like a water station at a marathon. The entire surface of the table was covered with white plastic cups, and each contained some variety of cheap alcohol.

I had seen other tables covered with cups like this the last time I had come to the Beehive, but it didn't really register with me what was happening. Well, what was happening is that people were ordering 40 or 50 drinks at once so that they could lock in the happy hour price of 2 kinas per drink. Then they would work at clearing their tables, one drink at a time, throughout the night. This strategy would never work in the States, by the way, because most places that have happy hours of this type have a strict limit on how many drinks you can buy at once. For example, the bar I used to go to in DC that had a 25-cent beer happy hour would only allow a customer to have 2 beers at any given time.

Anyhow, Stewart ordered the three of us a boatload of drinks. This was nice and all, but I must say that I found his selections to be a bit puzzling. Of this sea of cups, there were probably only five cups at the most that contained the same thing. So we had five cups of red wine, five cups of bourbon and coke, five cups of gin and tonic, five cups of scotch and soda, and a variety of other random drinks. In order for the three of us to clear our table, we were each going to have to consume the full spectrum of drinks in one sitting.

“Who drinks like that?” I ask you.

I'll tell you who: people destined for hang-overs.

Unfortunately for me, my preferred drink is bourbon on the rocks, and Stewart didn't order a single one of these.

Not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, though, I started drinking what was on the table along with Stewart and the other guy whose name I forget. I'll call him Trevor.

We drank and shot the breeze for a while, and then the dance floor started filling up. There were plenty of women looking for partners, so we all got called out at some point. One familiar face on my dance card was my homegirl Margaret, the security guard who had taken a liking to me the week before.

Margaret started calling me her small brother that night, which she thought was hilarious. The funny thing to her was that I was her “small brother” age-wise, although I was a good two feet taller than she was. I was her big small brother.

Coincidentally, this wasn't as funny to me as it was to her.

Anyhow, I had a few dances, and then I returned to the table.

Up to this point, I hadn't seen hide nor hair of Maymay or Cathy, and they were no longer fresh on my mind. Then Cathy, the Moresby Mangler herself, walked in the door.

She spotted me straight away and walked over to my table.

“Whazzup, Bro?” she asked me.

We went through a quick exchange of greetings, and then Cathy moved on to what was really on her mind.

“What's your involvement with that woman?” she asked. “She's got issues.”

I told her that there was nothing going on between Maymay and me. I also told her Maymay's version of the big fight.

Cathy was proud to know that she intimidated Maymay, and she verified Maymay's account of the incident, or at least the part where Maymay got pummeled. Not too surprisingly, Cathy did not agree with Maymay's assertion that she had started the fight.

Before she left to join her friends, Cathy gave me a message for Maymay. “If you see your friend,” she told me, “tell her that she doesn't need to hide from me. I won’t belt her again as long as she learns to keep her mouth shut.”

It was good to know that the hatchet was buried (sort of). I'm not sure if Maymay ever got the message, though, because I never spoke to her again. She's probably still watching her back.

After Cathy left, Stewart, Trevor, and I finished off our table full of drinks. The party at the Beehive was winding down, so Stewart suggested that we move to Ozzie's which was across town.

We were there in about 10 minutes, and who should we see in the parking lot? Why, it was none other than Medley and April, and they were hanging all over a paunchy, white-haired expat. Stewart's theory that these two were skanks panned out in the end.

Medley and April acknowledged me with a glance, and Stewart, Trevor, and I walked in to Ozzie's. It was deader than the Beehive. It was after midnight on a Wednesday in Port Moresby, and we weren't going to find much of a party no matter where we went.

We didn't need any excuses to stay out later anyway since we all had to go to work in a few hours. We had one round at Ozzie's, and then we went our separate ways. On my way out, I passed Medley and April and their elderly friend again.

My first visit to the Beehive ended with two women that I had befriended getting into a fistfight, and my second visit ended with two women that I had befriended doubling up on a geriatric with a few kinas in his pockets.

I'm almost afraid to see what's behind door number three.