Everything is Fine

What’s up, you ask?

Burundi has still not regained its footing in the aftermath of its 2015 (re)election and the Republic of Congo is now in minor convulsions (with the side effect of seventeen fatalities) following rumours of a rigged (re)election.  

This does not bode well for other ‘mandated’ elections in central Africa, despite international pressure to follow through on constitutional promises.  I gather members of the opposition are encouraging people to protest in major cities, which sounds like a great idea – only these members and their families will likely not take part in the marches because they are probably allergic to gunfire.

The future looks bleak for economic and psychological reasons as well.  I am now worried about getting a cursed bill that will make the rest of the money in my wallet disappear ("Je te dis!"), and I have learned more about sorcery and demonic dogs than I ever wanted to ("Eet is real!").  If I don't offer my hair as a kickstarter for enough cooking fires in the village, I may be cursed; if I so much as step out to pee at night, I may see a skinless, talking goat (after which I will probably no longer need to pee).  My relationship with goats has long been strained due to their rolling eyes and smug faces, but I hope they take into consideration that I have never knowingly eaten their flesh or intestines.  I giggled over these stories at the dinner table, but my shower was very lonely and held the sinister threat of a faraway bleat, let me tell you.  I initially scorned the idea of a chamberpot for the night, but after that slightly panicked shower, I'm contemplating a diaper and a hit of opium when the sun sets.

(Prayer, I mean prayer.)

Meanwhile, I am being trained in the arts of Frisbee (despite the fact that I once had a Frisbee hit my throat in high school because I literally forgot I had arms – hey, these things happen).  In keeping with the true essence of Me-hood, during practice I threw it in a wide arc that landed in the cesspool area of the lake where everyone burns garbage.  BFG pretended it could have happened to anyone and consoled me with the reminder that it was a broken Frisbee (but I still sleep with one eye open because Frisbee is really important to him).   

On the social front, I went to a large market on the solemn promise that I would not talk or think white thoughts as this would result in high prices.  My long-suffering Congolese team member haggled for good deals while I tried to avoid all eyes and shouts of Muzungu!  In my one attempt to buy a bag of piment (for a great price!), I somehow picked up an attachment in the form of a small, turbaned woman who seemed certain that I owed her something more in life.  Involving one more man and more Swahili than is strictly healthy for me, I attempted to convey that I had paid most of my debts and Jesus had paid the rest on the cross; I was not giving either of them a franc more.  In the melee, I lost my teammate and clawed my way out of the market because I was unable to guard my purchases, my money, my organs, and my sanity with the few arms God had given me.  My little leech tagged along, happily munching something.  I desperately tried to call my teammate and wondered if my cheap brown heart could stand paying double for the exorcism of this particular demon or if she would follow me home. 

Just then, my plucky teammate found me and slayed all my dragons with ferocious Swahili. 

So a few days later, I decided to brave a smaller market on my own.  With a minor fracas over salt, I sallied forth into the realm of flour.  I had been instructed by our cook to ask for the vice president of the market and possibly offer him a penny for a lamp, which would contain a genie, which would grant me a wish to…  Regardless, I forgot the instructions and just bought some white powder which could well have been chalk dust for all I knew. 

Guess what kind of flour it was.

Foufou, my nemesis – we meet again.

After a panicked evening of poring over dark pots on a dark stove and discovering that – far from making round, golden chapati ­– the flour was barely holding together, I was forced to make fried rice.  This was another misery as I haven’t yet figured out how to make rice here, which is a disheartening thing for an Indian woman to face.  Remember that this Indian woman had already spent money on flour (of which we already have  roughly 20kgs) that literally cannot be used to make anything other than chemical warfare in blob form.

It was a rough night.

Anyway – with some much needed peace and help from my American teammate – I made it through another meal, swearing once again never to enter the kitchen for more than eggs and ramen.  The power returned for the last moments of setting the table and I could do no more than gurgle in wordless rage and desperate gratitude.

The thing is that even once food is prepared, we’re not home free.  One team member arrived late and was disappointed to realise that we’d eaten without him.  After much pleading with each of us to eat again with him, our American teammate wanted to know why he couldn’t just eat alone.

“Because I’m not a wizard!”

What.

“Um.  A wizard?  Is someone?  Who does magic?  Is that what you mean?”

“Yes!”

“Righto.  Have you, um, heard of Harry Potter?”

“Hairy whaaaaaat?!”

In the end, we agreed to disagree and our poor Congolese teammate went to bed hungry so that he would not be considered hairy or a wizard.

The next day, I decided to skip the weekly round of Ultimate Frisbee – mostly out of concern that BFG would find a way to assassinate me during the game (not hard – running brings me closer to death than many realise), but partly because I would finally get to Skype with my mother!

(Read that again with more excitement.)

After minor technical difficulties (involving my mom repeatedly sending me emails to tell me that she could hear me – rather than chatting on Skype), we were on air and my teammates got to meet her when they got back from Frisbee!  That evening, I received confirmation of all my worst fears:  “Your mom is so beautiful!  You don’t look like her; you look like your dad.”

This level of confidence despite the fact that my teammate had never seen my dad - must be my male-pattern baldness and luxuriant goatee.

So the next day, I flooded our living room and made her clean it up.  (I tried the tap during a dry spell and left the house – when REGIDESO deigned to open the pipes, water overwhelmed our living-room-with-a-nonfunctional-sink hybrid.  She got home first and finished cleaning up while I wailed apologies from the doorway like a lonely siren.)

Since then, I’ve had heart-stopping moto rides (I love them, but I’ve realized that death seems a lot nearer when I’m not behind one of my friends), I’ve had a group of old Congolese women form a circle around me and shout prayers (I love the spotlight), and I’ve given fabric to a tailor who will stitch clothing that looks nothing like I imagined (but probably very much like I described in French).

So.  The next time you worry about me... remember that I am blessed with joy and grace upon grace.