Friday 30 December 2016

Eve

I don't really need to write a post.  I'm not doing anything other than eating.  Honestly, I don't think I've gained a lot of weight.  Also honestly, I can now talk to my potbelly.  And have it talk back when I've gone a whole hour without eating.

Vacation in a vacation home, while still getting to see my friends and eat ice cream, is the best.  Sometimes I go to work to show solidarity with my coworkers, who have basically only had Christmas day off.  And that's because it was on a Sunday.

I would like to show more solidarity, but this conflicts with my desire to dance around in my mansion and do the opposite of tan.

Thursday 22 December 2016

Bright with a Chance of Faith

I don't want to see a war.

I prefer to think that sharp bangs outside are firecrackers at a celebration.

I like believing that normal people wouldn't hurt neighours for their skin colour or accent or the shape of their noses.

I don't want to be scared.

And I'm not.

Yet. 



Tuesday 20 December 2016

...Was This Stupid Blister

Okay, so here is my perception of this meal – not that of my coordinators', my teammates', nor the recipients of the meal; subjective value can be a beautiful thing.

Not here, but it can be.

Monday 19 December 2016

...And All I Got...

In Goma, I learned that the chikudu is a valid mode of travel.  I had assumed, on my first sight of this makeshift bike with a holding area for one knee (sort of a raised scooter), that the man pushing it was slightly handicapped.  Then I was informed otherwise – they were used by perfectly healthy men to push around large loads.  I thought cycle rickshaws were a morbid travesty, but they have been magnificently outdone.


Friday 16 December 2016

I Went to an IDP Camp...

Last week saw a confession of love from a seller of phone credit.  There's usually some sort of hullabaloo going on at the phone store when I pass, but I determinedly avoid gazes and scurry past as though I had somewhere to be (ha).  One day, a kind old man took it upon himself to let me know in English that the vendors wanted to talk to me.

I ignored him as well, but he just kept shouting after me in an unforgiveably rude fashion until I gave up, pulled my earphones from my ears, gave an Oscar-worthy performance of innocent shock and waved at the lot of them.  They excitedly shouted and waved back and my kind old informant took the opportunity to make a small request:

“Can you give me a job?  You are young and I am old and we can run a business.  You can see that I speak English so we can run a business because you are young and I am old now.”


Thursday 8 December 2016

By Any Other Name

Though he tends to ruin my innocent joys – at the reception of my new nationality with laughter instead of polite disdain, he only bemoaned the noise level, showing a level of distress rarely seen outside of unauthorized spatula-usage – Butters and I do not, as has been insinuated, hate each other.  We're... friends.  Of a sort.  We're just... very different... and...  Look, this would be easier if I didn't feel like I were explaining our imminent divorce to our children.

Tuesday 6 December 2016

Wait, Weight - What?

Butters, happily not vomiting, joined our church group for a visit to a large general hospital in Carrefour at the end of November.  The medical director was eager to see what we’d brought, perhaps expecting the muzungus to hand out keys to five Mercedes Benz, but he masked his disappointment well.  Both Butters and I were a little unnerved to learn that they kept people who hadn’t paid their bills, which explained the locked gate we’d had to bypass, but it seemed par for the course for our teammates.  As the director earnestly tried to explain that people had to pay bills to keep the hospital running, I silently cheered him on.


Monday 5 December 2016

On Thanksgiving

Somewhere between wistfully watching a woman undergo a desperate hot flash while I was shivering in my scarf... and unwillingly listening to people slowly kill a dog just by my workplace... I gave up trying to understand why I’m here and what I’m doing.

I’m caught in the strange position of realising that I write about the rape of a 12-year-old girl with little finesse and yet have trouble sharing the story of a dog being killed for food on the street.

Do you understand? 



Thursday 1 December 2016

...What the Problem Is

The underlying assumption, the truly painful implicit belief in all of this is that efficiency, honesty, and integrity are Western ideals that cannot rightly be expected to flourish in other cultures.  The equally mortifying corollary holds that if you are efficient, honest, or trustworthy, it must be due to a Western influence. 

I can’t count the number of times I’ve caught myself thinking of some positive behaviour as ‘Western.’  Even when it comes to Pastor, we wonder whether his down-to-earth attitude, analytical skills, and dedication to the Word of God are due to his post-secondary education outside the country.  As if poverty and necessity breed an acceptable, ethical form of sin and weakness, while democracies and accessible healthcare and education breed a resume of virtues.  As though the reality that God changed him is not only laughable, but impossible.  As though goodness comes from somewhere out there rather than in here


Tuesday 29 November 2016

...I Don’t Know...

The Set-Up:  A long-standing partnership is straining at the seams due to the local organisation’s inability to find sufficient additional funding.  It is debatable whether this is due to shady business practices or a true inability to generate overseas interest in a vital peacebuilding effort. 

The Argument:  “But I don’t want to be the one to end this relationship.  If we pull funding, local employees will be laid off and we will break ties with a hardworking community unique in its field.  Anyway, we’ve been close to them too long to back out now.  Besides, maybe this time will be different; they’ve been going through a difficult socio-economic situation.  What more can you expect?”

The Counter-Argument:  You can expect that if this happened in your home country, the organisation would be shelved pending a restructuring and clarification of its practices, mission, and strategic plan.  You can expect to be regretful, but hopeful that this focus on the proper means to achieve realistic goals will result in more effective future intervention - which will better serve vulnerable populations – rather than continuing on a tightrope of polite omissions and great expectations.  


Monday 28 November 2016

The Problem Is...

The most distressing facet of humanitarian aid in developing countries is its attitude towards recipient people and cultures.  This insidious whisper of Well, what more can you expect?  It’s never spoken out loud, of course.

That would be racist. 


Wednesday 23 November 2016

On Making Sense Of It All

Last week began with ice cream - which is a good way to begin any Herculean effort - because Grandma and Grandpa are beautiful people who redo kitchens and share homemade peanut butter ice cream like it ain’t no thang. 

Personally, this was not an ideal time of the month to be around innocent members of the human species not armed with silver bullets, but I managed to chat with our team (give or take a few members) through the sparkling cloud of a devastating sugar high.


Tuesday 15 November 2016

Towards Understanding

I stared at them.

There is no reason to call me a masseur.  Is this a kind term for prostitute?  What about a floor-length beige skirt and a thigh-length salwaar kameez top screams ‘Strip and lie facedown on the table while I warm the oils’? 

Why does this always happen to me.



Wednesday 9 November 2016

Seeking Good

This is in commemoration of Obama’s presidency. 

Of the leadership of an intelligent, charismatic, well-spoken – frankly, damn hot – man of colour with an intelligent, charismatic, well-spoken wife and two daughters of whom I know nothing. 

I didn’t always agree with him, but I had the strange sort of confidence that even if he were a Muslim jihadist who secretly (very secretly) wanted America to burn, at least he’d do it with some level-headed thought and planning.  Heck, with his tactful drawl, I might even be convinced of the idea myself. 


Tuesday 8 November 2016

Shake it Off

Life over the past few months has been like being run over.  Usually gently.  But repeatedly. 

Only when it almost physically happened did I really protest. 

That’s right – the inevitable almost happened last week:  I thought I could make it across the street before a moto got me.

I was wrong. 


Friday 4 November 2016

How Novel

I am always reminded that I don’t belong in the culture in which I currently find myself.  Always.  Sometimes I make the mistake of thinking I am more or less Western until I am forcibly disabused of this notion as well.  The most recent occasion was staring out at the view of our city through the as-yet unfinished third floor of our apartment building.  Foreigners, of whom I am one, seem to take one look at it and fall in love with the apartment.  Immigrants, of whom I am also one, would glance out the window, ask the price, the relative accessibility to resources (like, oh, let’s just choose one at random - water), and evaluate whether a move would be worth it in terms of cold, hard benefit.  Foreigners, from which class my international organization prefers to disassociate itself, seek privacy, security in separation.  Immigrants tend to seek others of their kind, others who understand, and congregate in families – with a preference for an inner sanctum that only real family can access, because blood is thicker even than patriotism. 

I fall on the immigrant side of this more than the foreign.

The reason for today’s rambling is this tension. 



Monday 31 October 2016

Alice's Tea Party

The last Tuesday in October saw a short, fierce earthquake in the wee hours of the morning.  I was having trouble sleeping due to strange dreams (some involving not finding my crush – even my dreams are realistic), and the earthquake barely registered.  I clearly remember thinking I wonder if there’s water...  No, no water, and then turning over and going back to sleep.  Nothing seemed affected in my room or in the kitchen, so I really thought it was a dream.

Until our short devotion at work the next morning outlining the many ways God could kill us if He so wished.


Monday 24 October 2016

While Rome Burns

On Friday, on a quest to find a new Egg Person, I was witness to a police raid on the major market nearby.  This involves dark, weathered men in blue uniforms and a sky-high view of themselves scattering fields of women trying to rescue their wares.  I think this is due to the fact that these women shouldn’t be there – they should be renting stalls within the market.  Buses and motos (and likely taxis) are also prohibited from stopping in that area as their presence creates a bottleneck. 

I think (desperately hope) that the officers just run through to scare the women – they scatter like flies and then resettle again in a few minutes.  I’ve even seen them grinning as though it’s a game. 

This particular Friday, one of the women was not quick enough to get away and lost a fish.  A police officer ran through the melee like a naked toddler trying to evade his mother and stamped on it with a gusto rarely found in mature adults, much less rifle-toting protectors of civil society.


Friday 21 October 2016

Thank God It's Friday

Today, I hate everything. 

Except Coolio, our new fridge, whom I pet lovingly sometimes.  I can make chapattis on him and he is cold and beautiful.

Except that Butters has gone away somewhere for the weekend and I will cook and eat until it comes out my ears. 

Except that we have a lot of water. 

But I hate everything else.


Tuesday 18 October 2016

The Nitty-Gritty

I have put a halt to French lessons with the gregarious chaplain of the hospital next door (mostly to get out of my essay on Calvinism), and now have Swahili lessons with him instead.  His cheery grandfatherliness has carried over; I expectantly await the threat of the chicotte as well.  

For our first lesson, we sang a song over and over again. 


Monday 17 October 2016

Changes

Yes, this is inspired by Tupac’s classic.  Also by the word of God.  Also by an encouraging email from someone I barely know who understands.  Or said she did. 

Sometimes that’s all I need.

In search of this understanding, sometimes I discuss issues with Butters.  For example, I am territorial about things I consider to be mine.  This is an unfortunate trait in Central Africa – possibly even a continental faux pas.  If I’m eating or carrying food – it’s fair game.  Visible vegetables from the market are up for grabs.  Beignets and bananas are eaten as a personal favour to me.

”I will take this.”

“Hmm...  This is too sweet.” 

You’re welcome is heavily implied in both cases.


Thursday 13 October 2016

Thanks Past, Present, and Future

First of all, my mom would like to extend a personal thanks and e-hug to Captain and Carrottop, who refused to send me to a red zone for a socioeconomic reinsertion with the rest of my team.  She disliked both of them on general principle for hiring me, but this almost makes up for their past mistakes.  Almost.


Wednesday 12 October 2016

A Memento of Weakness

I need to mention that my face is a mess of zits.  Part of this is genetic (thanks, Mom), but I prefer to blame the soap.  No one believes in facewash here; it’s soap all the way, and though I’ve even tried the more expensive brands, I feel like my face is channeling either Jadis or Exxon Valdez.    

I have no idea why this is so important, but it came to me last night: I realised I’d never shared how hideous I feel and thus have been living a lie. 

There.

I feel better now.


Monday 10 October 2016

All the Matatas

It started going downhill when I was caught in a hailstorm on the way home on Friday. 

A hailstorm.

In Central Africa.


Friday 7 October 2016

But I Don’t Wanna

Adulthood, I have discovered, is pretending to want to do things I don’t want to do. 

Sometimes they are things that I have a responsibility to do, like  saving the world in a tiara and a miniskirt  writing reports all day.  Like Loki, I also am burdened with glorious purpose... to vote, pay taxes, sit in an office, avoid deep fried bread in a quest to achieve the elusive Thigh Gap, and to refuse to pretend I have a long-lost African sister (I've heard of people who've claimed their parents were dead to gain vaunted Refugee status, so this woman's request wasn't too far out).  


Wednesday 5 October 2016

My Church has a Strobe Light and Other Fantastic Tales

If you ever thought church was boring, you’ve never been in a church in Africa. 

It’s basically a non-stop party.

My church is more conservative than most – in remembrance of its Anglican roots - with a clear focus on foundational and biblical principles, but worship is off the chiz-ain.  The congregation is constrained by the presence of around 70 people in a small area, but I would still extend a warning to watch for flailing arms and euphoric fist pumps.  We haven’t had any accidents yet, but as I’m generally unobservant and the fervent dancers usually have their eyes closed, I’m trying to avoid them until I am able to find a life mushroom or a star.   


Sunday 2 October 2016

Empire State of Mind

So there have been a few earthquakes in the past few weeks – the first in my life – and they’ve been… interesting.

The first few were just minor tremors, barely noticeable.  The third Friday in September saw the end of most of our wineglasses (which we had no use for anyway), and the beginning of a newfound love of Canada.

Because I’m sort of empty-headed and have never been through a major natural disaster, I found the earthquakes generally exciting – a cross between Just like in the movies! and a baby roller coaster.    

Upon seeing everyone outside my building and not wanting to huddle under a table on the third floor listening to breaking glass in my kitchen, I strolled downstairs to hang out with my guard (a new one who wasn’t in the habit of subtly threatening me).


Friday 23 September 2016

Welcome to My World

So Butters is back.  He brought with him the rainy season and great power and water, so I’ve decided to keep him.  At least until we move again – at which point I may be sharing with a newly-hired service worker in the area or... something.  I’m on a need-to-know basis.  I think all of us are, really – it’s a regional hazard. 

Work is going... fairly well, aside from a few differences in opinion surrounding teamwork and efficiency.  I’m noting a few difficulties in reporting from the field, and I find myself wondering if I’d be any more consistent if I hadn’t had water in days and my hair was still smouldering from dinner.  Combined with cell phone connections from the Paleozoic era, it’s no wonder we’ve had to strive to attain cohesive monthly reports.    


Tuesday 20 September 2016

All My Single Ladies

Well, I guess it’s time to address the elephant in the room. 

I’m sure it’s the biggest question on everyone’s mind at this point.

Do I have a crush on someone.

Do I - to use the technical term - like-like someone. 

And the answer is yes. 


Friday 16 September 2016

Glimmers of Potential - Part II

On Wednesday, I was followed part of the way home by a cute guy who wasn’t quite as tall as my shoulder.  I tried to give him vague answers to his prying and was unwillingly impressed when he kept up with my roadrunner pace.  When I pretended I only knew English; he manfully soldiered on.  

“Okay!  You’re good!  Good!”
*people-pleaser given the best of all gifts*  “I... am?  R-really?”
“I mean, beautiful!  You are beautiful!”
*hopes dashed again*  “Right, yeah.”

We eventually progressed to French because I slip into it naturally (and then proceed to drown in it) now and he confessed that he was very happy – whether to see me or whether to get some exercise, I have no idea. 


Glimmers of Potential - Part I

I am going through a bit of a personal crisis and, for the first time, am too tired to write. But as I can’t ask to be let off this ride, here’re a few salient memories of the past few days...

***

I have officially been through two earth tremors – one on Saturday and one on Wednesday.  This last felt much stronger as I was lying down on the couch and eating my weight in cookies.  Added to the earthquakes in South Korea, I found myself envisioning a zombie/ice age crisis.  

As all scenarios end in me lying on my couch and eating, I’m not as worried as I should be. 

***


Tuesday 13 September 2016

Discovery

This is a Discovery Channel unlike you’ve ever seen.

Some episodes are just reruns - reminders that Butters used to be in a semi-famous band (even if he did play the saxophone), with the lifestyle  that entails.

I usually (unwillingly) tune into an ongoing series about lizards – ones that are getting larger, braver, and louder.

Did you know they click?  I remember getting slightly hysterical over this with my favourite namesake in Mali, but still have not discovered the cause.  Are they evolving to enjoy slam poetry?

Thanks for nothing, David Attenborough.

Thursday 8 September 2016

(Another) Strategic Retreat - Part II

The Fam Jam
Rwanda, September 2016

Throughout the weekend, Pastor preached and we went through a Bible Study of 2Timothy, which reminded us of our goal as Christians (to share the good news of Christ’s salvation) despite our chains, and how to keep the faith in the face of opposition and false doctrine.  The answers still seemed somewhat rehearsed (rather like this summary, in fact) and I’m not always sure about application, but the fact remains that we are trying – it has always been Jehovah Jireh who has made a perfect sacrifice from simple willingness.


Wednesday 7 September 2016

(Another) Strategic Retreat - Part I

As I write this, we have received little to no water since Sunday afternoon (actually since Friday morning, but we haven’t felt the pain quite so hard as we were away for most of the weekend).  I have been hallucinating dripping pipes (actually someone banging on something outside), I twitch every time the pipes gurgle (Tetris forgotten, tensed on the couch, ready to spring for the buckets with all the velocity of a guinea pig turning a corner on tile), and I’ve been setting my alarm for midnight as this is REGIDESO’s favourite time to gift us with water from the giant lake that lives five feet outside our back door.  

On the plus side, the power’s been great, and I have many new experiences, successes, and failures that I’m excited to share!


Thursday 1 September 2016

Home Again - Jiggety-Jig

All in all, I’m happy to be home, and have just been reflecting on a whole host of recent experiences.  My Egg Lady had seen me at the Rwandan border and was glad to have me back.  My young friend who’d wistfully asked if I’d date him if he were older recognised me as I was waiting at my gate one night, said he hadn’t seen me for a week, and wanted to know where I’d been. 

These welcomes, though slightly creepy, remind me that I’m really home.

Where else can you have a moto driver tell you seriously that he loves you and respond with a helpless, "Okay.  Have a nice day."


Wednesday 31 August 2016

Going to Town

I’d been looking forward to our team retreat for some time.

Professional, mature reasons included wondering how my teammates were getting on, what they found strange, what was normal, which battles were not worth it, and how we could encourage each other to keep fighting the ones that were.

Personal reasons included a need for cheap facewash and conditioner and a deep, abiding love for Rwanda, which I screeched at the top of my lungs the minute anyone said anything about our surroundings.

Going to Town - Appendix A

When I realized I was writing a 6-page essay on the role of women in the middle of my blogpost on a team retreat in Rwanda, I decided to condense and separate it. 


Monday 29 August 2016

Learning

 [NB:  This was meant to be posted before I left on my retreat a week ago, but I had a last-minute meeting (like there's any other kind).] 

Yesterday, I was vibrantly ill.  Not like the time in Mali when my ribcage felt like it was being crushed by a giant, but ill nonetheless.  My first cold at around six months – that’s a good milestone. 

I’d thought I was suffering from allergies due to my giant nose (which made everyone in my office laugh as apparently ‘beak-like’ doesn’t constitute ‘large’), but when my throat felt like I’d swallowed a cactus and I was bundled up in three shirts, socks, and a blanket and exhausted by 10am, I realized I had a bigger problem.   


Tuesday 16 August 2016

Woman shall not live by water alone

After three days of no water – literally not a drop (as our shared tank, which I had never before tried to access because I’d been trying to prepare myself for village life, was also apparently bone-dry) – I was a bit delirious. 

I ran out of co-ed - appropriate pyjamas (due to a freak shower of yogourt) two days ago and simply go to bed at around 8pm now – ostensibly to wait for water at midnight, but also in a fervent and totally unappreciated desire to preserve Butters’ sanity and innocence (I once screamed at him to get away from my door when he knocked to politely ask permission to use a pan – in my defense, I’m used to living with friends and family who usually use knocking as a prelude to walking in).  Thank the triune God for our differing schedules in the morning and REGIDESO for opening the pipes at midnight – both of which allow me to use my towel as armour (barring a few minor knot malfunctions).   

Anyway, due to a series of misunderstandings involving personal motivations, Butters vaguely hinted that I was irrational; I believe his exact words were, “You’re being irrational,” but I read between the line.  As we discussed my concerns, I realised that his (completely insane) conclusion was due to a difference in assessment of the grades of water here. 

I have thus compiled a list for posterity.


Monday 15 August 2016

Rarely my circus; never my monkeys

Some say sarcasm is the lowest form of humour. 

I say that it is the best cover for abject stupidity, and will hold to it like a remora.  It saved my pride after listening to ten minutes of sustained gunfire from my office.

“Where’s the party?” I said happily. 


Monday 8 August 2016

And On and On...

Someday, I may think it’s no big deal to be followed around and chatted up.

That day is not today. 


Friday 5 August 2016

Marked

Sometimes, and you may already have noticed, I do this thing where I focus on a small event which takes on epic proportions.  Usually, I'm laughing and I want you to laugh too.  Other times I'm just frustrated.  This was one of those times - it lodged like a splinter and hurt until I picked it out with a bleeding pen onto various sheets of paper strewn across my bed.  It was likely also spurred by Antjie Krog's book on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa and not understanding why normal people do such horrible things to each other.  Meanwhile Butters tried to interrupt with questions about our house helper and other Normal Grown-Up Things, and I just had no time for his nonsense in the midst of my pyjamas and Feelings... 

Wednesday 3 August 2016

Heading for Peace - Part II

At home, I face the careful questioning of my guards, who likely think I am the village bicycle by now.  They had been intrigued by my new living arrangements ever since the Queen of Sheba moved out and they saw a table, six chairs, a shelf a foot taller than me, and an electric stove leave on the heads of four men.  This was partially because they were eager to create replacements as all of them also happened to be carpenters, but they'd also been curious as who would live with me.  

Especially when a mattress and a bed also made an exit (in a car, for a change).  


Tuesday 2 August 2016

Heading for Peace - Part I

There is a moment – after the power and water have been out for hours, after you’ve delayed dinner and a bath past your usual grandmotherly hours – when you’re absently itching a mosquito bite on your ankle...

...that you realise it’s all hopeless.


Monday 25 July 2016

Yours, Mine, and Ours

I like being alone.

I’m resigned to power outages.  

I don’t like being alone during power outages. 

They are a fairly common phenomenon in India, but as I have always been with family or friends, the dark never used to feel so... overwhelming.

I think this fear took root when I lived with my aged grandparents in India for a few months, obsessing over something happening to one or both of them.  I would feel most helpless in the dark, with a grandfather in his early nineties - deaf as a post, and walking mostly by memory rather than with the help of vision or strength - and a grandmother in her early eighties and fond of planking (in that she’s most comfortable when horizontal).  One night, for example, after I had lit some candles to wait out the power cut, I watched Apachen attempting to climb Amachi to place a lighted candle God-only-knows-where while she asthmatically wheezed epithets he thankfully couldn’t hear.  In all fairness, he’d patted her grizzled head a few times to make sure, but still mistook her for a high stool or an armoire of some sort – an unstandable error as she is also brown and tends to collect dust. 

Thursday 21 July 2016

On the Rocks

I was cutting up some steamed plantain the other day when I was surprised to see gunshots in the peel.

I squinted at the fruit in total bewilderment for a few moments before realizing it was where I’d stabbed my fork in and not, as immediately assumed, a stealthy Mai-Mai attack (hey, they apparently have supernatural powers and you just never know).  The fact that it resembled the marks on one of the unused emergency vehicles in our front yard was purely incidental and reflected a subtle change in my perceptions since living here.

Wednesday 13 July 2016

I Put My Head in the Sand; Therefore I Will Be

“There are no opponents in Zaire, because the notion of opposition has no place in our mental universe.  In fact, there are no political problems in Zaire.” –Mobutu Sese Seko

...Not far from where we sat, a paraplegic was busy capitalising on the latest twist in market forces.  Helped by friends, he was struggling to balance a pair of giant jerry cans filled with petrol onto the back of his tricycle.  At that moment, the militia fighting in Brazzaville meant fuel there was scarce.  Kinshasa’s petrol, itself in short supply, should sell for a high price over the river, high enough, in any case, to justify this polio victim running the risk of becoming a tricycling firebomb if a cigarette spark went astray.  “Thanks to the war, I should be able to sell the petrol on the other side for twice the price,” he said.  “Then I’ll bring milk back in the same jerry cans.”

...Depressingly, the people who led the soldiers to the farm each time were local villagers.  Far from regarding the farm as a project worth encouraging, or at least tolerating, for the investment and employment it might bring to the area, they monitored the farm through the years like schoolboys watching a ripening fruit, waiting for the moment when a breakdown of law and order would provide the cover for some neighbourly appropriation...  [The farmer] appeared to harbour little rancour, attributing the repeated pillaging to the hunter-gatherer instincts on which the Congolese relied for survival until so very recently.  But something... appeared to have snapped [after the third looting], perhaps overwhelmed by the realization that those around him had never regarded him as anything more than just another white colonialist to be taken for a ride at worst, deferred to at best. 

...Between the start of the Zairean economic crisis in 1975 and Mobutu’s departure in 1997, Zaire received a total of $9.3 billion in foreign aid...  The corruption in Zaire, [Erwin Blumenthal] argues, is not a generalised blight, a plague without face or source...  Yet the IMF and the World Bank were still giving Mobutu’s reform plans serious consideration at the start of the 80s...  “There will certainly be new promises from Mobutu and the members of his government and the ever-growing foreign debt will be rescheduled.  But there is no – I repeat no – chance on the horizon that Zaire’s many creditors will recover their funds.”  ...By the time of the report, there had already been four failed IMF stabilisation plans.  But the rescheduling of Zaire’s debt went on – nine times between 1976 and 1989.  ...It was to take eight long years before the two institutions finally reached the same conclusion as the testy German banker had spelled out in 1982:  money was not the answer to Zaire’s ills, rather, it lay at their very root.

...Mea culpa.  Throughout my interviews, I had kept expecting to find signs of it, only to be constantly surprised by its failure to make an appearance.  There was precious little from the Washington financiers who granted billions to a known thief, whose institutions will one day have to explain why the Congolese should be held accountable for leans made in bad faith.  Even less from the US and French officials who, motivated by strategic reasons, decided with cool cynicism what was best for this most fragile of post-independence states.  There was none at all from the Congolese aides, ministers and generals who helped mould [Mobutu’s] policies, still adopting the ‘I was only following orders’ excuse judged insufficient at Nuremberg.  And... the colonial power that first sent Congo on its wayward course had nimbly succeeded in dismissing the very notion of blame.  To explore the roles they played – from the raids of the slave traders to the amputations carried out by the Force Publique and the wishful thinking of the World Bank – is to move from exasperation at a nation’s fecklessness to wonderment that a population has come through it all with a sense of humour...  Now that the US, France, and Belgium have distanced themselves, now that Mobutu is dead, the country has lost the last excuse for its predicament.  A population that has set its sights little higher than survival has to learn to take responsibility for its own destiny.  ‘What do the French want of Congo’  ...alternated with the equally infuriating, if equally understandable ‘What do the Americans want?” ...must now become ‘What do the Congolese want?’

-- Wrong, M. (2000). In the Footsteps of Mr. Kurtz. London: Fourth Estate, a division of HarperCollinsPublishers

Wednesday 6 July 2016

And... Action!

Missionary Runner:  The Bus Trials continues with our intrepid heroine facing down a bus conductor who is holding out the correct change. 

Why? 

Because if she accepts the bill, she will have to step away from the bus in a hurry as it has a tendency to shift and hurtle forwards, backwards, or sideways with distressing unpredictability. 

So?

Her toe is caught somewhere in back of her twice-thrice-many-times mended skirt and her foot is now dangling in the air as though her rather weedy conductor has said something delightfully romantic and she is feeling particularly flirtatious.  In reality, she is struggling with an inability, heretofore only metaphorical, to put her foot down.  To regain her footing, she will have to risk tearing her skirt again or, alternatively, just pulling it down for a quick peep show.

So she wobbles there on one foot, staring at the befuddled bus conductor like an affronted flamingo, praying desperately that God would just take her as He had Enoch.

Eventually, she catches her balance and manages to snap the thread with her hand nonchalantly.  She snatches the change and flounces away, damning her skirt to a newly constructed tenth circle of hell for possessed items that break, snap, or otherwise fail to function around her.  The next day, she walks home (across the city) to come to grips with the realisation that she may be literally too awkward to live.

She pragmatically does some errands on the way and indulges in her expensive drug of choice because steamed plantains are to her what a rainbow was to Noah.  Tune in for the next exciting installment in this ongoing, two-year series!

Monday 4 July 2016

Poa!

I keep feeling the need to say that ‘Life is normal.’  Like, I feel like starting each of my posts this way.  As if somehow if I convince you, it’ll be really real.  Life is normal only in that it goes on – its path is quite different than it would be in Canada.

For example, I’d never have a battle of wills with a bus conductor half my age who didn’t want to return my change.

“You want me to give you change?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“I want to buy something.”
“Why are we--?  I can’t even--  I. don’t. care.”
“But I want to buy something something.”

By this time, I was seeing a delicate shade of fuchsia as he was cutting into my running time to make it to work, so I have no idea whether he wanted to buy a kidney for his ailing gerbil or buy a vowel – I was having none of it.

Tuesday 28 June 2016

Suffering

I am suffering. 

I have what feels like a gangrenous wound on my finger from a heroic effort to save a small child from an anaconda.

It’s definitely not from an overzealous attempt to get the last bit of peanut butter from the jar.

However, inquiring minds want to know: What bashi-bazouk makes plastic jars with serrated openings? Are we living in an Indiana Jones movie?!


Friday 24 June 2016

My Story

First of all, I’m updating job requirements/qualifications for assignments in developing countries:
  • Must love squatty potties – if female, must increase bladder capacity
  • Must be willing to feel stupid for 6-12 months or entire assignment period if unwilling or mentally unfit to learn new language
  • May require re-learning of basic skills – e.g. How to boil rice enough to be edible-but-not-white-cake (even if you’re Asian)
  • Must have experience developing/refining verbal filter for unfamiliar context – i.e. “But that’s so stupid/unfair/wrong/weird!”  Ã   “That’s life [insert chuckle here].”
  • Must be willing to adjust concept of ‘clean’ – organization will take no responsibility for obsessive compulsions resulting from silt in bathwater (organization may provide stipend for house helper – note: he is untrained to clean applicant’s hair/nostrils/brain/soul/etc.)
  • Total immersion and forgetfulness that life goes on in other countries may be helpful – e.g. Brexit should sound more like a delicious cookie than a historic change
  • Goats are food, not friends
  • Negotiable:  20/20 night vision and the ability to transport large bodies of potable water using telekinesis (non-mutants may be considered) 

Friday 17 June 2016

Home

So I’ve been asked why I don’t just take a taxi to work and back.  It’s cheaper, so that’s really answer enough, in my view, but I actually really enjoy the hilarity of bus rides.  I assume the novelty will wear off soon, but for now, it’s another adventure in a culture I've adopted for the next two years. 

I’ve explained that buses here are somewhat equivalent to sotramas in Mali:  A 12-person van usually containing up to 14 or 15 passengers-plus-children-and-or-baggage on rickety, worn seats, a door that is even more ephemeral than a wish your heart makes, and containing a driver and a conductor who look like they should be in nappies.  When the ‘bus’ is relatively empty, the conductor pushes his upper body through the sliding door’s window, hollers where the passengers are headed, and tries to entice pedestrians in.  The driver knows to stop and let someone on when he bangs on the roof, or to let someone off when they bang on the walls and yell Apa! (which actually means here; not stop as I’d previously thought – in other news, Swahili is still a struggle).  If the bus is full, the conductor bends double over the first of three rows of seats or wedges himself between the driver’s seat and the first row, facing the passengers.

Monday 13 June 2016

Categorical Living

The world is divided into black and white – you are one or the other.

"How come whites create and blacks don't?"

"God must really love whites [to give them hair like that]."

Let’s be clear – the ‘white’ world is made up of Chinese, Indians, Koreans, Brazilians...  I think everyone who was not born and raised in Africa, but I’m not sure.  By this definition, I don’t think the black world includes Obama, Beyonce, or Kanye West.  

Wednesday 1 June 2016

Until it Hurts

I am in the business of having my idealistic notions shattered.

Thursday 19 May 2016

Why is the Chocolate Always Gone

This day marks the beginning of the end of my chocolate stash. 

Very well - the end of the end of my chocolate stash.  Three months was a good run, and it will be cheap Nutella and natural peanut butter from here on out. 

This, my friends, is what we in the bush call ‘roughing it.’

Wednesday 18 May 2016

Just Say No

Do you know your basic rights as a human?  I’ve never had to because the governments of the countries I’ve lived in have usually handled that sort of thing well.  I’ve never had to because my background is such that I’ve accepted these rights in the same way that I’ve accepted oxygen.  But there are millions of children born in developing countries who need to fight their families, their governments, and their cultures for them.  And the Charter doesn’t mean anything to them either.


Tuesday 10 May 2016

In Translation

Swahili is going about as well as you’d expect, really.  I’d jokingly recruited the Maman who guards the hallowed gates to our office to teach me Swahili.  The best way to do this, she feels, is to bombard me with it until I somehow understand and begin to respond.  The fact that I usually stare at her in frozen terror doesn’t seem to faze her in the slightest.  For example, here is my perception of our conversation to share that she was about to shut off the generator (power is usually out in the morning - slash most of the day - and in order to conserve power, she usually turns out the generator by noon):

Somethingsomethingsomethingsomethingsomethingsomethingsomething.

“Timmy’s in the well again!”

Wednesday 4 May 2016

No, Copernicus

I have read that shyness is a form of narcissism – the idea that everyone is as interested in your foibles as you happen to be, that everyone must notice everything about you. 

Here, it’s not just a feeling. 

Saturday 23 April 2016

No Worries!

It’s cold. 

Cold enough that I sleep with a scarf and socks under a blanket like an anemic grandma. 

If I’m outside for more than a few minutes during the day, I’m usually dreaming of a fan (unless it’s raining), but all the tank tops and shorts I brought to sleep in may have to be slowly burned in order for me to see the golden light of each dawn. 

Wednesday 20 April 2016

Werk It

"Iko wahipi?!” 

The three other men in the unmarked white van burst into surprised laughter as I hung on for dear life at the back.   

I assumed my new coworkers were laughing from the sheer pleasure of basking in my Swahili glow – most people have that reaction.  Unfortunately, they still didn’t tell me where we were.  We passed a surprised woman in the middle of hoeing her field as I tried to work out how I would start my next blog post…


Saturday 16 April 2016

Minor Adjustments

If you've ever lived in a foreign country, you understand that sometimes things happen that you can neither control nor really explain.  I carry around this foreignness with me at all times because I am somewhere between Canadian and Indian - every situation comes with two possible reactions, two paths of action, and two different outcomes.    

So I laugh at a lot. 

Mostly at myself, but also at the things that Canadians and Indians do and say that seem totally normal to them. 

But aren’t.

I’m now learning a new set of ‘normal’ and trying not to laugh (and failing).

Thursday 7 April 2016

By the Rivers of Babylon

On the plus side, there are usually
roses blooming outside
Let me explain where I live. 

It's a shoebox.

Tuesday 5 April 2016

Only a Day Away

So I’ve completed my orientation and am much less disoriented than before – promise.  I now know that there is a set of Great Lakes in Africa!  (I thought I was applying to work in a trendy suburb in Toronto, but this is fine too.) 

Monday 28 March 2016

Jesus Wept

This weekend was difficult in some ways.  Unexpectedly so.

After a relaxing morning spent catching up with my writing, I had second-hand experience with male chauvinism and, lo, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. 

No, I thought hysterically, I’ve just updated my blog!  You can’t give me more material so soon!  Do you have no care or concern for my wellbeing?!


Friday 25 March 2016

The Sitch - Part II

The history and economics of the armed groups here are fascinating.  And horrifying.  I’d already heard too many stories of women being raped in front of their husbands, children, or parents as a terror tactic, not out of any personal feeling of desire or even hate.  And now I've seen pictures of a village of smiling children born of rape. 

My teammates have seen and experienced things that I cannot imagine.  They are the generation that grew up in the aftermath of the massacres in Rwanda and multiple civil wars for power within the country.  I’ve heard and come to near tears over their stories, but I still can’t believe it.  There’s a total sense of normalcy because… people go on.  It’s what we do.  If the Great Lakes region isn’t the greatest example of the mind’s strength in healing itself, I don’t know what is.  One minute they’re giggling and making silly jokes and immersed in their smartphones, the next second they’re talking about violence, rape, and death.  Because it’s normal.

Thursday 24 March 2016

The Sitch - Part I

I guess now is the time to talk about the actual reason we’re here.  I enjoy talking about the funny parts of community life and creating a fourth culture in a new country, but there are (unfortunately) serious problems in this part of the world.

Wednesday 23 March 2016

Catching Up

There have been so many events over the past few weeks and I have been so behind in posts that I can’t remember them all.

Tuesday 22 March 2016

Weekend Life

Every weekend, I go to my famille d’accueil (host family), which means that I get to stay ‘on’ for another set of people.  I love my family to small, tiny pieces, but they involve long discussions, a very active toddler, and sometimes cooking on a little outdoor stove (which is a pot of flaming charcoal-shaped death).

I am quickly approaching a glut of ‘people time,’ but I really thought that being with a local family would help me with my French and Swahili skills.

They all speak English better than I speak either of those languages. 

Yes, even the toddler.

Monday 21 March 2016

Life in Community

It’s been relatively easy to live side-by-side.

Relatively.

We (and by this I mean I) have argued over women in leadership roles in the church, the treatment of homosexuality in the church, the requirement of women to veil their heads in church…  In the west, I have always thought of myself as hideously conservative – there are things that I believe the Bible says that are inescapable – but here I find myself the voice of liberalism.

Warm Welcome

After arriving in what seemed like the back end of nowhere, I was terrified that one of the eager men offering to carry my luggage through the bus window would set off with my bras and undies to unknown territory.  To prevent this, I carried a grand total of roughly 50 kgs upon my person while they looked on in awe and teasingly mimicked my panicked It's okay, it's okay!  

One said to me, in perfect English, “You are taking our jobs.” 

If that isn’t just the thing for an immigrant to hear. 

Thursday 10 March 2016

That Country

(top left) I like when restaurants don't aim too high
The bus ride to the border of Rwanda has been one of the highlights of my trip so far – barring minor incidents.  First came the screaming over a young woman and her baby who had either paid for a different seat or were being asked to move.  She didn’t budge until at least ten minutes after people started yelling at her, and we were only a half hour late from the station, which seemed to be the norm for a weekend morning.  Different buses played everything from French songs to other songs to news, and vendors sold passport covers, belts, samosas, and cakes.

Tuesday 8 March 2016

Everything I Never Thought


Retreat Centre
Retreat Centre
That time I was white (at the
Apartheid Museum)


The highest recognition













So I should explain that Johannesburg is beautiful.  The retreat centre was peaceful, clean, and picturesque, and recent changes by the area directors made it a welcoming, modern space.  In general, though, the most I feel at large cities is interest in their histories.  It is a city that allowed me to be white and knows more about Gandhi than I do (in retrospect, this is not a great feat).

Rwanda caught my heart and kept it.