Going tribal : fete de la musique, Paris

For one day, the hyper-regulated French society went nuts : people parked anywhere, ignored traffic lights, drank, smoked pot and danced in parks and streets at the sound of rock or ethnic loud music. Sister Lili invited me to a soiree organized by her social group, comprised mostly by intellectuals, artists and professionals, active fighting Le Pen`s xenophobia and other social ills. The party was at a small plaza surrounded by cafés. The one I sat by was ran by North Africans. All walkways were rapidly filled with small tables. and neighbors –blacks, arabs, French came for 18" sandwiches of arab sausage or kabob. Some asked the price (3 euro each) but bought none. Most drank beer, some wine. I ordered Moet & Chandon to impress Lili`s friends. Lili said the only occassion she saw Champagne being served in that watering hole was when a North African neighbor was released from jail. I did not care champagne failed to bring sucess with the girls, as quid-pro-quo is frowned upon there. I was the only there wearing a jacket, one guy walked barefoot as he always did, even in winter. Lili`s friends gossiped about one girl snatching boyfriends from her peers. Musicians played mostly rock in French while people from all ages, colors and socioeconomic levels danced or clapped hands. Lili's club paid musicians with money made selling sandwiches , and the cafe kept the income made selling drinks. Before going home toured the Belville / Menilmontant neighborhood, where homes belonging to the Parisian proletariat had been renovated for the burgueois bohemes. Rode a taxi as the Metro's door were closed by 2am- they are kept open on winter nights to prevent clochards from freezing.

Going tribal: Malawi

People addressed me as "bwana" and that reminded me Tarzan comic books. Went to the grill restaurant (watch video later), friend Yamo ate with his hand as my wife's grandma used to do. Poor kids retrieved leftover french fries ("chips") served in humongous amount. Regrettably I had already eaten most of my share.

Filled up with diesel the Totoya landcruiser- almost two hundred dollars in fuel! Then crossed croc-infested Shire river in the Zambeze basin, not difficult if there was a concrete bridge as in our case. Crossed Mozambican border. Tried to get some Portuguese wine there. Bumped on a Peace Corps volunteer from MD, advised not to buy that cheap wine. I had tasted cheap Spanish wine in Equatorial Guinea, the worst ever, so we returned empty-handed.

In our way back, we told jokes. Most jokes I heard in Africa are about infidelity, I asked my colleagues what was funny about infidelity when AIDS was killing so many here. They insisted infidelity IS funny. That reminded me of an occasion when I told my mother-in-law (MIL) that I had barely managed to flee when a female colleague entered my hotel room and insinuated herself. MIL laughed hard and said the man capable to flee under thse circumstances had not been born yet. My Malawian colleagues said that MIL thought I was a liar. I had concluded MIL believed me but lost all respect for me because from her perspective, I was not a manly man anymore.