I dreamed last night that I was in Kampala and there was a Taliban-like religious coup. I was trapped in a hotel room, hiding behind the curtains, taken completely by surprise, while they herded citizens onto my balcony to Make a Moral Point. One of my colleagues had left to rent a car and drive someplace by herself; the coup-leaders dressed me up like a prostitute (though I was wearing my favourite Danish winter boots) and let me go outside, where I went, with great fear, to someplace where they were rounding up children. It turned out that they were lining up the kids to give them a chance to run through a doorway and possibly win prizes. My nieces appeared, and I woke up.
Clearly, the prep, hope and anxiety is pouring itself through my cells. Emails flying like a calendar-flip time-passing trope about logistics, fulsome panegyrics to our general Goodness and generosity, pleas for more money and laptops, disciplinarian edicts about those Bad Boys who need to go back to their village early for the holidays because they are refusing to slash the compound and will not even practice their songs for the Canadians.
Sprouts of where I’ll be a week from today.