Sunday November 11th: I have a big choke about plucky veterans

Got up at 5.30am!!! Horror. For once, I forgave the Hateful Cockerel its insane screeching, as I had set my ludicrously over-complex alarm system wrong, and would have overslept without it. Today is Remembrance Sunday, and the choir is singing at the Remembrance Service. So. Wriggled into unflattering black skirt, made by one of the house-girls here for a total cost of £4 including material. Tsk over a wonky seam, although for that price I should really be surprised that there are any seams, buttons or zips at all. Pack bag. Zoom off. Realise I’ve forgotten flipflops for comfortable walking later. Zoom off again. Realise I’ve forgotten all my music. Come back at slightly more gloomy and resigned pace. Finally make it to the daladala, which was most cheering, as everyone getting on was off to church and looking very spiffy and all very pleased to see each other.



Start sweating - definitely an activity in its own right, as I mentioned before. This week even my face has been sweaty – I have controlled this through sheer willpower before. But now I finally have a sweaty upper lip – so very very far from being a good look.





Get to Flanders Fields. Quick rehearsal – everyone bitching about the heat and sun. I am most sanctimonious about how people who died in the war would probably have been glad if the heat was their biggest problem. About two minutes later, I regret this, as it’s BLOODY BOILING and I really want to moan about it. Outrageous. My vocal cords will melt, I shall be mute, and then an unspecified “they” will be sorry.



So now I have to admit something terrible. I never knew that Remembrance Sunday was celebrated by other countries! What a spanner. It’s all very moving: I had a big choke and my nose ran. There were Hindu prayers, and Sikh prayers, and Muslim prayers. Someone blew a shell and it was like a trumpet rather than the kazoo it would have been in my inexpert lips: very impressive. Kasia (lovely friend, wife of British Ambassador / High Commissioner / whatever) was beautiful and very elegant in black with a huge hat. Being a diplomatic spouse looks like bloody hard work to me.



There were about 30 soldiers there in very fetching Lincoln Green uniforms. Given that Tanzania is not exactly a militant nation, I fondly imagined this might be the entire army for a brief while, until I remembered that they had previously biffed Idi Amin good and proper on the nose, which would probably take more than 30.
The sky was the normal but still astonishing blue, apart from a few moments of welcome cloud, and it was extraordinary to have Remembrance Sunday in the heat, with glowing red flame trees and frangipani blossom.





















I used to go with Sandra to Whitehall every year, and one time a sweet old veteran asked if he could kiss me and then slipped his ancient old tongue in my mouth. This seemed unlikely today, not least because there was only one veteran there.



After the service, everyone was invited to breakfast at the official British High Commissioner’s Residence. Cracking tucker. Fried bread! I had three helpings and only just finally felt hungry again at 7pm.





After breakfast, I nipped up the road for a fundraising meeting with Kasia’s neighbour, who is the President of one of the Rotary Clubs here. He has hairless feet and his house was extraordinary. He proudly showed me his extensive collection of zebra and leopard skins - and ivory figurines. Yes, ivory. Loads of it. And his dining table alone was worth coming to Tanzania for. It seated twelve. Each chair had a leopard print cushion. Every setting had a chunky ivory carved figure of a naked or half-clothed naked woman. And every figure was standing on top of a sex manual. And there was a pile of miniature sex manuals at each end of the table. I couldn’t believe it at first and had to stare and stare to make sure. He is well over 70. What is going ON??? My customary shamelessness deserted me and I just couldn’t ask in case I didn’t like the answer. But he was wonderfully kind, gave me my first sparkling water for three months, and has invited me to the Rotary Club to present next week. Perhaps I shall ask then.






Then back home, some hand washing, and many hours at a computer doing work for the school, feeding my sewage obsession, and sorting out Christmas decorations orders. And now, to my great shame, I am going to go to bed and read Harry Potter. I know it’s not War and Peace and that I absolutely insisted I was going to read War and Peace and that I got it out of the library and then took it back because it was boooooring. But it’s so hot and I am so tired. I do feel slightly soiled, though.



Tomorrow is more of a working day, so I expect this diary will be a little more brusque. But I will try to take some nice photos, including perhaps me having my morning chai (10am snack), brought to me every day by Bernadeta, the faithful school retainer. She lays it all out, then curtseys and walks out of the door backwards. Good times!