The Villager Goes to TB Joshua- Man of God, Please Help Me (Part II)

There is heavy pounding on my door at 3:00am. I wake up to find my cheek pressed to a bare dirty pillow; the scarf has unwrapped itself and is now dangling onto the floor. I groggily take in the sarong, which is tangled and bunched up to a corner near my feet. The tired dread-lock woman staring back in the bathroom mirror is obviously not happy with me. I ignore her. It’s time. I squeeze myself among the Ghanaians in a hotel car feeling rather sheepish. The previous day I had flatly refused the car -offered for a fee- and had instead made separate arrangements with my kekeman. He never showed up. Nobody makes a fuss about it and we are soon at the church. It’s 4:30am. We all stand milling around the same toilet-corner I had stood a few hours earlier, uncertain how to proceed. Should we go straight to where the little girl from the hotel said we should? Or should we wait until 6:00am? Or should we wait by the church entrance, as others had suggested? And do we really need tickets to get inside the church? I decide to strike it out on my own. The Ghanaians follow. We find a large crowd waiting outside the ‘processing’ building (where ushers decide whether you enter the church or stay in a tent). Someone had told me that foreigners can get inside if they have a valid ID. So I try playing ‘hey I am a foreigner’ card, holding out my passport. The church official doesn’t even blink. I feel deflated.

I am rudely ushered into one of the upstairs processing-room; the same one recommended by the little girl from the hotel. My hopes rekindle but nothing is certain at SCOAN. Not only are the ushers wearing that scowling face, they are rude too. Giddy with power, young men bark orders at confused and frail elderly people, whose only crime has been the attempt to get inside the church to see the Man of God with their own eyes or to receive their healing. I keep my rising rage in check by reminding myself of Naman. I am handed a small blue paper. I look up to the ceiling and mouth a silent 'thank you'. I don’t know what has happened to the Ghanaians. The last I saw them, was outside the processing-building holding their passports. I find out later that they too had managed to get inside. Dawn is starting to break as I join a 200-metre queue snaking its way slowly into the church. Men, in neatly pressed suits, clutch their bibles and some literature by TB Joshua. Heavily perfumed women adorned in fine laced-cotton attires and glittering sequined dresses shuffle along with me. I look down my blue jeans and plastic sandals uncertainly. But after security check, I finally find myself walking into the SCOAN mega-church. It’s 6:30am. 

The church service starts at 8:30am with the wise men (TB Joshua’s anointed disciples) praying for invited guests in another part of the church. The rest of the church follows the proceedings on TV screens. Thanks to my relations back home, I am familiar with them all. But being physically here feels different somehow. The atmosphere is electric and pregnant with expectations. Although people flock to TB Joshua in search of a cure for incurable diseases/conditions, barrenness, bad luck, etc, rarely do the pilgrims come with afflictions related to evil spirits. However, deliverance of evil spirits (exorcism) seems to take a larger portion of prayer service. For most, deliverance is swift and short; they freeze for a few seconds, collapse to the ground in undignified heap and rise up free of the malevolent spirit. Others are not so lucky; big mamas heaving and swaying like sumo wrestlers take down five ushers with them to the ground; zombie men with glazed staring eyes and slack jaws emit moans so ghoulish, it makes me shudder. The manifestations are bizarre; ranging from diabolic sniggering, to fast blinking eyes that so much remind me of the flattering eyes of a macaque monkey, to twitching limbs that seem to dance to some internal electrocution. Some helplessly thrash about like beached whales; others fast-spin and roll - ties and jackets flying in every direction, and elaborate hairdos and sequined dresses unravelling. Some challenge the wise men to a physical fight, mimicking an uncoordinated boxer. Others flee while the surprised ushers make chase right behind their heels. It's quite comical and we all laugh, but not without anxiety and uneasiness. 

The wise men demand answers from the demons. "Who are you?" "What demonic deeds have you done?" They respond that they are either a spiritual husband/wife, or some queen of the river, or ancestral spirit, or a spirit of death, etc. The spirits also attribute to themselves all the bad things that have happened to the possessed person. Then they are ordered out in Jesus's name. Finally the poor demented souls are brought out from a prolonged agony of spiritual delivery. By the time they come round, they are a disoriented dishevelled mess with crumpled suits, wild hair and humbled eyes. As I watch, one of the wise men starts praying for a white woman. Surely, I say to myself, she is immune to this madness. Apparently not. She too turns into a zombie and starts shaking her head from side to side as her mouth grotesquely rearranges itself to form a long hideous wail. Her kids, unsure of what is going on cling, to their father. I wonder if there will be any long-lasting psychological effects to these kids’ view of God and religion. At this point I also start to contemplate what could be in store for me. I have always been conflicted when it comes to the spiritual realm. Growing up in Africa, I am convinced there is a dark spiritual world out there, and the bible makes certain the existent of demonic powers. But I also do not underestimate the power of mass hysteria. And I am the type that gets easily incited. I am seriously worried.

Those familiar with some of the fanatical African Pentecostal churches know the principle of ‘never limit God'. So Sunday services can go on foreveeeeer. SCOAN is no exception. But no matter how reverting all this entertainment is, I just have to eat. My stomach is now complaining louder than the possessed. I go out in search of the dreaded cafeteria. Next to it, I find a long line winding its way towards a SCOAN five-star hotel (for invited guests with cash). It’s a queue for the famous anointing water! This is water that has been prayed over by TB Joshua and is believed to hold miraculous powers- another controversy. Since God’s healing power is free, the water is technically not sold. But to get a bottle, one MUST buy a DVD of TB Joshua’s sermon. I join this queue; food momentarily forgotten. An hour later, and a few thousand Nairas short, l am armed with ‘free’ holy water bottles, several DVDs and TB Joshua stickers.

And a few greasy plantains later, I am back to my seat vigorously shaking some woman who is sprawled across my chair fast asleep. This time, the church is in full swing dancing to the Lord. Suddenly there are excited shouts, people are whistling and applauding. The Man of God is finally in our midst! I strain forward to get a glimpse of the Prophet, but my failing eyesight– another petition item for TB Joshua- cannot make out his features. I am sitting way too far- the front is reserved for invited guests. Once TB Joshua is inside, ushers position themselves to stop people from moving around too much. And now with all the cameras rolling, the ushers also take on the responsibility of keeping nodding heads up. My poor neighbour is prodded continuously as she struggles to stay awake.  

We are led into prayer. Now prayer time is an exciting topic for me. I never tire of watching people’s expressions and gestures as they talk to God; the tightly screwed faces, the humble beseeching gestures, the special tone of voice reserved only for God….I probably do all these things myself, but that’s a blog for another day.  As the church prays in unison and with fervour, I struggle to concentrate. The pitch of mass prayer keeps on rising, muddling up my prayer. I give up and watch the congregation. Some shout loudly throwing arms and fists in the air to emphasise their point- I wonder distractedly how I would react if someone talked to me like that. A desperate lone voice here are there shouts above the cacophony “Man of God, please help me!” Others tremble and weep silently in anguish. I avert my eyes. I am reminded that for some, leaving this place without a solution could mean a death sentence. I am brought back from my contemplation by a woman few rows in front who is repeating gibberish so rapid I don’t think it is possible for human tongue to do that. Surely this is not praying in tongues...? Her neighbours, who are now giving her a very wide berth, confirm my suspicions. A guy two rows behind starts gurgling up phlegm mixed with blood while the church attendants run around frantically trying to cover the vomit with disinfectant granules. The jerky movements of his limbs start and stop like some malfunctioning robot. The ushers come and take him away- for deliverance later. The cameras at this point can no longer keep up with all the people going nuts. As the frenzy of prayer ebbs away, and things calm down again, I breathe a sigh of relief.  

After a brief preaching -something to do with engaging the youth, if we are to avoid a global revolution- the Man of God retreats to his chambers or wherever he retreats to. It’s 6:00pm. This is now a record longest church service I have ever attended. Then the wise men start laying hands over the whole congregation. The moment we have all been waiting for. The wise men go row by row, touching people on their heads and leaving mayhem in their wake. The camera men sometimes seem undecided between following the progress of the wise men and focusing on the chaos behind them. As the wise man who is moving across my section, gets closer and closer, I start to get more and more anxious. I should probably be praying fervently at this point but a million thoughts are firing in rapid succession in my head. Is this nonsense or is it real? What will happen to me when he touches me? Will I go berserk? Will my back get healed? What if I am possessed by some evil spirit? –the thought alone makes me hyperventilate. Illogically, I am also wondering; what is it like to have your brain take a backseat while some maniacal disembodied fiend turns you into a raving lunatic and makes a complete spectacle of you…. Before I know it, the wise man is right before me. Bang! It’s not a heavy hand, but I am dazed for a second. And while I wait for an out of body experience of watching myself doing something really nuts, he is gone. My reverie is broken by fast moving people carrying cameras and cables who shout at us to clear the way. One of them treads on my bare toes. @#*%$! I almost holler in pain. Disappointed, relieved and annoyed, I nurse my burning toes while I watch the progress of the wise men with dissipating interest. It was announced earlier that there will be a closing service at 9:00pm, but I am too tired and my back has just about had enough. I wearily seek out some Malawians among the invited guests and unload the anointing water bottles unto them. My people back home are anxiously waiting for them. Then I call my kekeman to come and take me to my dingy hotel. He shows up this time but asks for a ridiculously exorbitant fee. I gave in. I am beyond caring.

The following morning, I am up at some uncivilised hour again- 4:00am. But this time, I am going back to Abuja. I bid farewell to my host and to the Ghanaians, some of whom are nursing personal disappointments. During the flight, I allow myself to reflect over the madness of this mission. What were my motivations? What did I expect? What did I think of it all? Answers are not easy to come by. But one thing I am sure of; I am glad I had followed my impulses to explore not just the lake, but went searching for the Man of God and his controversies. Two hours later, I am back in the office, back to the mundane, but sane and familiar reality of preaching the gospel of disaster risk reduction to African governments.  

The Villager Goes to TB Joshua- Man of God, Please Help Me (Part I)

There is a saying in Chichewa, which goes; 'He who went to see the Lake, also saw the hippopotamus'. So when I happened to be in Abuja- Nigeria with nothing planned for the weekend, I thought, why not go to Lagos to TB Joshua's church. Pastor TB Joshua, also referred to as Prophet TB Joshua and the Man of God, is a controversial figure within and outside Nigeria. According to Forbes website, he is one of the richest pastors in Nigeria and the most philanthropic. He is famous for his divine but controversial miracles and prophesies. He has predicted major events such as the Boston bombings, and the demise of Bingu wa Mutharika; former president of Malawi. The biggest controversy is probably the miracles performed by himself, his five ‘wise men,’ and his ‘anointing water’. Whatever the truth about TB Joshua and his ministry, he has a huge global following. Pilgrims flock to his church from far and wide answering to the promise of healing, miracles, and financial breakthrough. I decided to go and find out for myself. I should emphasise, however, that this blog is not about whether TB Joshua is for real or not. I am purely writing about my own experiences of getting and being there.

Saturday morning I find myself on the plane heading for Lagos. The flight is only one hour, but it takes my taxi more than two hours to navigate through the sluggish Lagos traffic before making our way to a dusty town of Ikotun; the home of TB Joshua’s church. I remember little of the taxi journey except for this huffing hefty woman standing in the middle of moving traffic. Thickset arms in akimbo, she boldly stands in front of a car and challenges a frightened driver inside to come out and settle their disagreement. The driver stays put. The endless journey finally comes to an end at an imposing gothic looking stretch of TB Joshua’s church- Synagogue Church of all Nations (SCOAN).  

The place is chaotic, as is confusing. Revving engines belch thick acrid fumes while honking minibuses, taxis, kekes (tuktuks) ceaselessly regurgitate out people in search of hope, healing, and salvation. The smell of fumes and a hint of a sour sewer permeates the dusty air. The dust is kicked up by endless pairs of legs frenetically criss-crossing the façade of the church. Some stumble around in bewilderment as they try to figure out the place; others shuffle along in pain or are helped along by relatives. Vendors sell greasy fried chicken and dust covered yams as they weave in and out around the masses. A few odd white folk, perspiring in the heat, wonder around aimlessly. Amidst the hive of activity, is a different breed of vendors- the ones waiting to pounce on the vulnerable. They know a ‘very good’ hotel, or they have a new NIV or NKJV at a good price…..

Unless you are officially invited by the church, you are literally on your own. There is no visitors’ centre to guide uninvited and perplexed guests like me. Nothing!! Getting basic information regarding the time Sunday service starts, where to eat, which building to go to for the Sunday service, is very frustrating. Every single person you ask, including the church officials, gives you different information. And approaching a church official takes courage. They welcome you with a sullen ‘what do you want now’ scowling face. I must pause here for a second and say that West Africans do know how to scowl. I am not even sure ‘scowl’ is the right word. The face is a cross between a sneer and a frown all happening at the same time. It conveys the message that you are insignificant, annoying, and are certainly wasting his or her time. Encountering this expression from church officials, in a church environment is very disconcerting, if not upsetting. I can understand that the attendants are probably overburdened by their church duties, not to mention endless disorderly foreigners asking the same stupid questions again and again, but hey it’s a CHURCH and we expect church people to be at least welcoming…

To get away from the noise, I decide to stand in front of the church and wait for a friend who has kindly offered to help me find my way round the confusion. I am not allowed to. Armed security men positioned along the façade of the church make sure there is no loitering. The criss-crossing legs hug the fence opposite the church- away from the guns. As soon as one stops for a second, the soldiers whistle and motion him or her to keep moving. So one has the choice of either standing near the entrance of church where all the minibuses and kekes are, or facing the sharks at the other end of the church- the car park or keep walking up and down. Frustrated, hungry, and not to mention a start of an annoyance, I choose the fumes. At this point I am also beginning to question the sanity of this impromptu trip. But I quickly remind myself of the bible story of Naman who almost missed his blessing because he was too proud. I also reassure myself that it would totally worth it if my back pain could be resolved- not to mention those aches and pains I have been ignoring for years. Facing the minibuses, I stand at the edge of the road next to a tiny two-walled structure, which is balanced upon an open drain. Its floor is made of evenly spaced wooden slats and gaps. I presume it's a guard house. I soon find out that it is a make-shift toilet, but I am too tired to care. I stand my ground. Men routinely go behind me and stand with their backs to the crowd to pee. In my musing I think, how typical! They only thought of the convenience of men. But then a woman goes behind me and stands with her legs apart, half lifting her sarongs. She then reaches deep inside the skirts and pushes her underwear aside. An arcing stream of urine soon appears from within the folds!!! I smile. I am impressed. It brings fond memories of agogos in the village doing the very same thing among tall grasses and bushes.

Taking the advice of the friend who is still caught in traffic, I decide to visit the SCOAN canteen and get something to eat. Having eaten in a few Nigerian restaurants in other countries, I thought I was familiar with Nigerian food. I am certainly not. Nigerian food is way more than pepe (pepper) soup and fufu. The first time I realised this, was in Abuja when I asked the office driver to take me to a nearest restaurant. He asked if I wanted rice, chips or ‘swallow’. What the hell is a swallow! Apparently swallow is a generic name for all pap food such as fufu, ugali or nsima, (polenta-like), which you can just ‘swallow’ without having to chew. While I am crazy about pepe soup, it takes some getting used to pulling out bits of fish, goat meat, okra, and other leaves from other types of Nigerian soups. Walking into the SCOAN cafeteria; I am completely bewildered by an array of unfamiliar food laid before me. Hanging heavy in the air is an overpowering fetid sweet smell of long-boiled meat. Not helping matters is the sight of the masses sitting around plastic chairs attacking their food and scoffing their faces; hands and implements tearing into flesh, grease and congealing liquids dribble down their fingers while their greedy lips latch onto bones sucking and vacuum cleaning them of mash, marrow and gristle. It’s not the people, it’s me. I have issues participating in mass feeding. As I settle down with my own oil-slick plate, I can’t help but wonder just how many chickens, goats and cows give their lives every weekend to feed the relentlessly devouring souls walking this place.

Mercifully my friend finally shows up and we embark on the task of finding a ‘hotel’. It soon becomes apparent that the once impoverished neighbours of SCOAN church have converted themselves to comfy hotel owners.  Every house we pass, no matter how rickety, is a hotel. Only a few hundred metres from the dust and the fumes, we are suddenly in a different landscape and I am reminded that this is actually rainy season. Our keke, which was bouncing happily just minutes ago, is now heaving and lurching on a muddy sludge of what should be a road. With no storm-drains to channel the rainwater away, the run-off empties into the road, gets trapped, and becomes stinking slurry as it’s churned by passing vehicles. The tyres of our Keke are completely submerged with the exhaust pipe emitting laboured bubbling farts through the churned butter of mud.  But our skilled kekeman navigates us through.

The ‘hotel’ is OK.  I scan the walls for bedbugs; I see none. The toilet flushes and I decide the room will do. Every room in the house has been converted into a guest bedroom. The family sleeps in a tiny room which was once a kitchen and the cooking is now done on a paraffin-stove outside. The place is occupied by Ghanaians who are sitting outside on plastic chairs with their expectant faces glued to a mounted Emmanuel TV; a Christian TV network also owned by TB Joshua. Their faces are velvet blue; taking on the blue tinge of the TV reflection. They tell me they had travelled for two days overland to get to TB Joshua’s church. Although I would rather lie down in my room, I somehow felt obliged to join them and watch the TV too. The daughter of the family fills me in on all the information and tricks I will need to get inside the church tomorrow.  Please understand that for uninvited guests, getting inside the church for a Sunday service is no easy feat.  Everyone’s mission is to get inside. But the church building, though massive, cannot accommodate everyone and several huge additional tents are erected to house the spill over.

My friend long gone, I eat some delicious okra dish. I reassure my host, yet again, that I have my own alarm and there is no need to wake me up in the morning. Then I bid goodnight to the blue faces and retreat to my room. I lay my sarong over the dirty bed linen and warp my scarf around the pillow. I settle in for the night wondering what tomorrow will bring. 

THE VILLAGER GOES TO NEW YORK: Anonymity, Hurricanes and the City

The Villager Goes to New York: Anonymity, Hurricanes and the City

So much has happened since I said goodbye to Cambodia and dragged 90 kilogrammes of bags through four cities to start a new life in New York. Hurricane Sandy, US elections, being locked out of my blog, Nor’easter, navigating my way around leasing an apartment without credit history, getting lost on the subway etc, have all been part of my new affair with the Big Apple. New York is very different from Chantulo Village but I suspect that the people here are just as crazy. The first culture shock came when my request for a porter to ferry the 90 kilos to my hotel room only drew blank looks. Apparently they are called bellmen here. I am slowly but surely being assimilated into a New Yorker. I now ask for a check- spelt with ck and not que -instead of a bill and I have to tip regardless the quality of the service –frankly, I think Americans should find another word for‘tip’; something along the lines of legal thieving. I am resigned to the fact I will be living in a most expansive closet I have ever resided and will not be able to control the pressure on my shower, which, for me, defeats the whole point of a shower. I have had to accept the fact that as much as I hate the subway, there is just no way getting round it. I am trying not to go crazy choosing a bed among a million other options- you need to buy a bed, which is just a frame with a hole in the middle, then buy a spring box to fill in the gap, and then a mattress to put on top of the box, then a mattress cover, all of which makes the bed so high that you actually need a ladder to climb it. I ditched my ancient mobile phone for a smart one so I can find my way around Manhattan easier, only I can’t figure out the navigation applications. I am beginning to understand that organic food in USA is anything BUT organic and that Americans are so averse to calling a spade a spade that they prefer to call sugar ‘evaporated cane juice’! The brainwashing from TV ads on drugs has been so effective that I am absolutely convinced that I urgently need a prescription of Cymbalta. And yes, I am now able to understand black people’s English, only now I wish I didn’t: ‘Uhmmm nice aaass’. ‘Hey peaches, Am takin y’ home with me; y’comin with me peaches….?’

Despite the assimilation, I will never get used to the cold and dry air. The combination of cold and grayness makes me miss the muggy and steamy Phnom Penh. I miss using my secret but indigenous knowledge of measuring humidity; the pleasure of picking my nose, rolling the harvest into a ball, and depositing it in a strategic place where it could not easily be found by the maid. Then coming home after work to see how humid the day has been. Snot harvested in the morning would still be moist and doughy like putty 12 hours later. The longest record was four days. De-boogering in icy and wintery NY is risky business. So crusted and super-glued are the dry mucus silvers that removing them without humidifying in a shower first, risks taking with them strips of tender nasal lining along with the hair.

Since my arrival, I have hauled my 90 kilosto different dwellings three times - they probably now weigh close to 150kilos and yes, I still can’t get my head around pounds, ounces and Fahrenheit degrees- from Roosevelt Hotel, to Clinton neighbourhood, to my current sub-let on Roosevelt Island, and one last move to Brooklyn is planned for December.

The last apartment change was a day before Hurricane Sandy. I was always a bit disappointed that Cambodia is so well-insulated from typhoons -or hurricanes as they are called in this part of the world- and I never had a chance to experience the fury of one. When news came through that Sir Hurricane Sandy was coming to visit, I was beside myself with excitement and hoping for a big one. I didn’t heed any of the frenzied preparation warnings on TV- to stock up on water, food, torches etc. After all, I lived all my formative years in Chantulo groping around like a blind person at night trying not to scream at things that scuttled in the dark. But so severe and repetitive were the warnings that by Monday mid-morning I had a change of heart and decided to go shopping. I came back with a can of tomatoes and a bottle of water. The locals had wiped the shelves clean during the hysteria. When the storm finally made land fall and the windows started to whistle like a thousand kettles going off at once, I donned on my coat and gleefully went outside to experience the HURRICANE. The wind was howling and screeching like jet engines at times. Horizontal rains lashed my face. I either could hardly walk against the wind, or my legs were practically running on their own will in the wind.  And that was it! I had expected mayhem- missiles of road sign posts whirling past; trees being uprooted and tossed like matchsticks; a skinny me desperately holding onto tree trunks to stop myself from being blown away into the stratosphere. I lay in bed rather disappointed all night, willing the kettles to shut up. So you can imagine my shock Tuesday morning when I saw the pictures of the damage that Sandy had done to other parts of the city. I guess I should be thankful that I only experienced the intensity of Sandy’s destruction through CNN.

For a villager who is used to being connected to everybody in her locality, New York is one big impersonal city. I always hated being gawked at in Cambodia. But now I must admit, I do resent this complete inconspicuousness. I was so used to being recognized everywhere as the dread-locked African who lived on St 322. Here, nobody is curious, nobody stares or even cares!! Yet, anonymity can be liberating. The week I landed in NYC, I saw numerous adverts about a Museum of Sex and made a mental note to visit it. To my delightful surprise, I stumbled upon it during a walk on Fifth Avenue. By the time I realised that the Museum of Sex was anything but a museum, it was too late; curiosity had already gotten the better of me. Imitating the New Yorkers, I nonchalantly strolled around the soft pink and luminous blue bits and pieces, some of which I still don’t know what they are used for. And so as people laughed freely and leafed through pages that would turn my uncle in the village blind, I walked to a dainty little pink thingy, picked it up, and pressed a button.And for the life of me, I could not figure out how to turn off the darn thing. I dropped the buzzing thingy to its shelf with the intention of distancing myself from it but I couldn’t. It was vibrating right off the shelf! ‘Do you need help mom’ asked one of the attendants. I wanted to say yes, but I said no all the while fingering the thingy desperately trying to shut it up. To my relief it stopped vibrating; I put it back and walked out the museum as fast as my legs could take me. I could not understand how I could have mistaken a museum for a sex shop. As it turns out; the shop is actually part of a four story museum. If I had remembered that I am anonymous and hadn’t run out of the shop, I would have made it to the actual museum. But I don’t think I am ever going there again.

When you make a fool of yourself in the Big Apple, it certainly pays to be anonymous; especially if you have a brain that’s so used to being the centre of attention in Asia that it starts to create its own attention-seeking behaviour just to get a fix. I had agreed with a friend to go to an art exhibition. We are both new to the city and we saw this as a good opportunity to meet new people. Once there, it took us a loooong time to meet anyone even though we were surrounded by loads. Viewers were already chattering in their own little groups and neither of us had any witty lines to approach them with. Huddling together, the two of us regarded each other with uncertainty as we started to run out of things to say and were becoming rather desperate for someone, anyone, to talk to us. Then one brave guy approached and remarked on one of art pieces. We were so grateful for his lame pick-up line and latched onto him. He introduced us to other people and soon we were having ‘great and sophisticated’ conversations about future cities, recycling, organic food, etc. I can generally keep up with these ‘intellectual’ talks, except when it comes to art. Which probably makes you wonder what was I doing at an art exhibition in first place. Maybe I don’t really appreciate art because my people are still smearing stick figures on the exterior walls of their mud huts and I genuinely think my feet can draw better abstract paintings than these great artists! Anyway, just when the conversation was getting interesting, I started to feel funny. I asked for water, but there was none. I knew things were getting out of hand when I started to frown at the lips of my companion, which were certainly moving and twisting around his teeth but the voice sounded as if it was coming from another room. I started to black out. My legs couldn't support me anymore and I flopped to the floor in a heap. All conversation stopped and every eye swiveled to me. Hands offering crackers, grapes and water materialised before me. I didn't ask where the water came but drank it gratefully. Somebody brought a chair and I somehow gathered myself and collapsed in it to recover. Mercifully no-one thought to call 911. But above all I was so grateful to go home as an anonymous stranger.