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!

I’m doing really well, thanks for asking!  

I walk a lot now, for personal, very noble reasons, and I love it.  This town was built for me - major landmarks are all on the single main road, and the others are easily found within the next few streets.  My spatial reasoning is likely still nil, but at least I can successfully  pretend I'm not handicapped.  

My American teammate and I were invited to my French teacher’s church this past weekend.  It was Captain’s church as well, and our teammates had all visited before, when we’d been MIA due to our passport and visa troubles.  It consisted of a small room almost entirely occupied by the choirs, musicians, and celebrants - so I think the founder may have been a die-hard fan of Mobutism who wholeheartedly adopted the previous dictator’s concept of the Mouvement Populaire de la Revolution (the single political party into which all citizens of Zaire were given membership at birth).

Like the Isla de Muerta, it can only be found only by those who already know where it is, and is only accessible by a single, steep, tightly-wound metal staircase with gaps between each step.  I imagine that, if there were a fire or some other emergency requiring the quick evacuation of roughly 100 people, this would serve as the gauntlet; it would either sear us to medium or well-done, weed out the plump, or force those with stylish high heels and small offspring to make a difficult choice.

I actually witnessed it in all its efficient glory when what looked like the entire Sunday School made its way down  behind an overweight, very stiff, grandmotherly woman who was not going to move faster than molasses for love nor money.  Instead of pushing her to her certain death, the children slowly, slowly followed her down until they burst from the confines of the red metal staircase like a dam of sheer potential energy. 

We tried to make our way up once and had to turn back – no easy task as I was porting my usual sunblock/gas mask/noose, tiny heels, and a tinier toddler in my arms who could sense that I was one small mistake away from both our dooms and desperately wanted the safety of his father – because the Swahili service was still going.  For our second attempt to make it to the French service, my arms were thankfully childless and I could clutch the banister to survive the oncoming waves of children and buxom women in heels – stragglers who also seemed scared to look death in its dusty red metal eyes.  I handed children down with the air of the captain on the sinking Titanic, tried to suck in my ribs and toes (so they would not be in guilty of harassment or in danger of pulverisation, respectively), and eventually made it off alive. 

The service and music were great – low points were introducing myself and, later, silently disagreeing with some of the sermon (like asking fellow church members for money because that’s how we’re supposed to take care of each other).  It was much better than the one other Swahili church service I attended, which included a female band member who enthusiastically screamed her way through the entire thing (likely with the help of the Holy Spirit as that decibel level is usually unreachable through natural means).

My weekly life is very different from idyllic Sunday mornings.  Both involve death traps in the form of sharp peanut butter jars, threadbare skirts, and staircases, but at least on Sundays I can endure it with thanksgiving for the sake of worship – if Jesus were to return on a weekday, my highest aspiration would be to say I was a big fan and ask for an autograph.

You judge me now, but wait until you hear my trials and temptations. 

Our house helper is a wonderful man.  He makes spicy food, delicious lasagna, hooks up our gas canister in a way that will not blow me up, and I generally wish him the best in life (especially as he has nine children and needs it). 

Some days I feel like getting him with a ninja kick in the spleen. 

We are currently locked in an entirely silent but fierce battle of wills because he insists on making my bed.

I do not like people touching my sheets, blankets, layers of pyjamas, or fuzzy frog socks without extremely good reason.  I am entirely committed to people-pleasing in my daily life – but I rather think one benefit of being a single adult is that I can darn well leave my bed unmade like a messy, barn-dwelling gremlin if I want.

I don’t usually see him – he normally comes just once a week to mop our floors (I would sell my soul to keep from doing this) and do some minor chores.  But as Carrottop and BFG are now overseas for language study, he is at our apartment nearly every day, making my bed and utterly failing to do valid tasks like filling our water filter.

I tried to dissuade him, first by folding my sheets, then by shoving them under my pillow, then by arranging an obstacle course of chairs to my bed.  He overcame all of these like the glorious, plump phoenix that he is, returned everything to its rightful place, and made my bed. 

Every time.  

I imagine he assumes that I do arcane rituals in my room every night, but politely chooses not to confront me about it - instead hoping that a regularly well-made bed will strengthen Christ's influence.    

Yesterday, I left him a note on my doorknob

He ignored it.   

The Queen of Sheba advised me to leave a note in the kitchen and corrected my French (it turns out that Leave my lajfQ*SfEjl&@jkl*achd bed alone doesn't translate well).  

My patience is wearing thin.   

Join us next time for Flamingo vs. Phoenix – Round Four

But first:  How to deal with friendly people who think your email signature is a personal invitation to discuss Biblical principles and send you emails regarding God's love in patchy English that makes your eyes hurt and your heart melt.