I have never been a big fan of funk. Really, I don’t even know what funk is. The song “Funky Town”? But Africa has finally truly taught me what funk is.
I love this experience, Africa is amazing. I love the smiles, the attitude (I don’t even know if these boys have ever even watched a rap video), the people. I love the people, even if the guys insist on doing all weird handshakes and then don’t let go of your hand as they speak. Their smiles are so genuine, so warm, the laughs so real. The funk so strong.
The air in some of the buildings rivals Guyana. Stifling and humid and funky. The border crossing was my first real experience of this funk. People don’t understand waiting their turn, pushing for the front, cutting in line. So…the person behind you spoons you, even if no one is behind him. No matter what you do, the person behind you is velcroed on. And we get cut in line. But the funk.
The weather here is warm, the sun is strong, but we get a breeze at least off of the Native American Ocean. But, in the passport buildings and customs crossing into Mozambique, there was no AC. Four hours of church also had no AC, but at least it was fun, and my first time witnessing someone drunk in the spirit. Looked fun, but would definitely get me kicked out of any other church I have ever attended, and I wonder if he has a hangover the next day. There was so much funk.
I cut onions for half an hour in Buenos Aires, until I could not open my eyes. Then Shawna taught me a trick, how to breathe while cutting onions. So I stood in line and breathed through gritted teeth. My mouth started to feel like I had eaten a whole bag of Salt and Vinegar chips. That is what funk tastes like.
As I rubbed my chest (due to a workout with Josh, Ryan, and Jake) and felt like I was going to pass out. It was stifling, and I wondered who was the genius that patented this cologne. PT Barnum said there was a sucker born every minute, but here in Africa, everyone has bought the fragrance. If I named the scent it would be “Eau de Armpit”. Memories of the football locker room, the tshirt I wore under my shoulder pads, the clothes I wore for wrestling practice (every single practice, until they turned yellow), and the cabin in Maine for mountain bike week, those were funky.
One memory that made me laugh, as I stared at dust particles in a sunbeam, was of a foster girl we had. She was ‘not petite’ and never spoke. I was kind of scared of her, so I pretended she was not there. She just stared at the television screen, whether it was on or not it did not matter. I still wonder what station she was getting in her head and I hope she doesn’t read this. But, she was funky. I finally rode my bike to the store and bought some deodorant, ph balanced for an elephant, and threw it at her. I guess this is not a funny story, because she later took a whole bottle of pills and had to have her stomach pumped. I don’t know if I ever saw her after giving her that speed stick. Weird stuff, but in my mind, that is funk.
So, as I am learning Portuguese and Sena I am also developing a funk of my own, I just hope it doesn’t get me kicked out of my tent.
