pooltime

today when i woke up, there was no water in the house. instead i heard maria screaming into her phone, presumably to the owner. "we live 1km from the largest river in africa and you can't find water for me to shower? the moral of this story is that you are incompetent!" the owner was giving the usual excuses - the water ministry is closed on saturdays, his chauffeur is sick, blah blah blah. i asked her where the owner was from and she spat in a isn't it obvious kinda way, "he's jewish!"
so no better excuse than to move my lunch time meeting from the office to the fancy hotel with the olympic size pool, where the fat russian guys who never stay in their lane smoke cigars with their prostitute girlfriends. besides, i need to get a bit of color or else people won't stop asking me if i'm sick. 
maria and filiberto were kind enough to drop me off on their way to do errands as they berated the chauffeur for his not even that aggressive by kinshasa standards driving habits. when you finally get us killed you will be happy, eh? eh? meanwhile, when their son drives me to the office i keep putting my foot through the floor in a braking reaction every time he turns or nearly plows into the heaps of pedestrians banging on the doors.
lunch was disappointing as usual. even though there was reggae music blaring, we were informed there was no power, and that we could only order things that can be cooked on the bbq. i want the club sandwich. 
but we need to grill the bread madame
can't you grill it on the bbq?
no. 
fine, i'll take the soup. (?) 
cooked on grill i guess. i also order an iced tea and she comes back, we need power for that madame. which is funny because it is not well known in congo that hot tea and iced tea are the same product..
what about an iced tea that comes in a can?
oh.
then i see 4 or 5 club sandwiches get served to other people, grrrr. 
so now i am ipading next to some lebanese guys and tanning my legs and figuring out how to get around without my favorite taxi papi! he's un dubai and i'm going to have to resort to the creepy unreliable dudes with cars with no windshields...or, hoping the UN guy who asked for my digits on the plane can arrange transport...