Food

Two nights ago, I ate at a Michelin star restaurant in Bordeaux. Tonight, I am sitting under the stars, at a roadside food station on the side of the main road, eating grilled beef tongue and barbecued tilapia, served with heads and skin. I am serenaded by the competing music bleeding from the night clubs on either side of us, as I feel for my food guided by the spill from the harsh fluorescents at the phone repair shop across the street. Motorcycles zip by constantly, carrying passengers about their evenings, and people flow by on the side of the road in front of us. I am anonymous in the darkness at this un-named food stand owned by a woman who argues vehemently that she has never given a receipt in her life and she will never give one, no matter how much I insist. The air cools off and starts to circulate, giving relief from the Tchadian hot season on this first day of April, the hottest month of the year. As I settle in to wait for the food, I stare at the stars, which filter through the dust and minimal light pollution to give a little more illumination to work with. Tomorrow I go back to work negotiating, inventorying, consulting, summarizing, explaining, reporting, cajoling, deciding. But for now, I breathe.