Ever Eat a Grasshopper?

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Whether due to language barriers or cultural differences the randomness of some conversations with Fort Portal… (ites? Fort Portalans?) is always perplexing, but often times downright amusing.

I had just spent the evening at Farrah and Emerald’s house; all three of us crowded around a small laptop trying to hold our breaths - straining to hear the pirated DVD through the computer speakers. Recently, this has become our favored pastime, especially when the power is out. After a few episodes of the Office Emerald concedes she doesn’t understand British humor and we decide to call it a night, a fitting end to the slow weekend. Em suggests I stay but my semi-comfy bed and frozen snickers bar in the freezer at home persuade me to decline my hostess’s offer. Lately, frozen snicker bars have become my greatest vice. (Well, then there is also the gin... O.K. let me revise. First, we have the gin and then behind that, in a close second, comes the Snickers bar.) I, myself, have never particularly enjoyed apple pies but I imagine, for most people, they have the same effect. They both remind us of home.
I stumble down the dirt road enveloped in darkness hoping not to twist my ankle in any ditches or puddles, again. It’s rainy season here, and the daily torrential downpours tend to turn the dirt roads into perfect not-so-little scale models of the Grand Canyon. Keen on the idea of not to stepping into another hole, I whipped out my headlamp. When I scanned the road ahead of me something caught my eye. I immediately return the light to the same spot and saw two eyes low to the ground reflecting the light back. This was startling, but what was worrisome was the fact that the eyes were coming toward me and closing ground at a quick pace. Moreover, the beastly devil-creature was snarling! My stomach knotted and my muscles tensed as I became acutely aware that the only thing in my hand to defend myself was a damp t-shirt. My brain raced to think of survival techniques for encountering mystery creatures on deserted backcountry roads. The only productive thing my mind came up with was, “RUN!” However, it seems my brain had exerted itself in devising such a genius plan because it failed to pass the message on to my legs. As the menacing eyes got closer I realized it was just a dog and it wasn’t running at me but at a slight angle to me. It bounded up the roadside embankment to my right, advancing on another growling k9. A bit startled, I walked briskly past the fighting dogs, convinced that every other shadow hid some terrifying creature. My imagination had been switched on and it now seemed every bush was a lion and every shovel and upright bag of cement an ax murder. I was relieved when I saw a motorcycle headlight coming down the road. When he finally pulled up I tried to keep my voice from quivering, but I could tell that the Boda-Boda driver detected my freaked-outness nonetheless.
A low mist had settled down in the valleys of the rolling Toro landscape, and the night air still clung to the smokey sent of fires the farmers used to clear their land. The headlight of the small bike pierced the still darkness presenting the road ahead while illuminating the millions of bugs whizzing past us. Above, the fog gave way to a magnificent starry sky, the Milky Way clearly visible. We don’t have nighttime skies like this back in San Francisco, I thought. Even on the California coastal waters such views are prevented by light pollution. We reached the top of hill and on the far side the Boda driver cut the engine (as they usually do in their on going battle to conserve petrol), letting gravity pull us down the hill and into town. With the putt-putting of the bicycles 720 CC motor gone, only silence remained. Aside from a quiet breeze that gently brushed through the leaves of the banana tree fields, a calm stillness had set in to FP. Lost in the serene moment I was jolted back into the world by a muffled comment from the, until now, voiceless Boda-Boda driver. I leaned in, careful to put my left ear on his right side. “I’m sorry”, I said. “They’re good”, the driver continued in a matter-of-fact kind of way. “What’s that?” I asked. “Grasshoppers… Have you ever eat a grasshopper?”

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