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.

“Look, do you have the change or not?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I can see it in your hands.”  [And if you don’t give it to me now, I will twist your ear and bring you to the highest court in this country for the equivalent of 20 cents, so help me God.]

You can think this is regular miserliness, and it is – to a certain extent.  But when you’ve spent the past three months being bombarded with requests for bread, food, money, milk, phones, anything from people who seem like average Joes, you tend to lose some perspective.  I can work here; I can support my church which is striving to empower citizens to succeed on their own turf; I can buy some food for some people who seem down on their luck; I will not feel like I’m owed something for living here; but I darn well will not shell out money to appease my guilt or because you think I was born with blue blood and a diamond in my esophagus. 

Of course, then I had to desperately need a $20, and beg my American teammate to spot me. 

Eating crow is not pretty.  He, of course, proceeded to enjoy an ice cream cone while judging my weekly groceries in an appallingly unChristian fashion.  I mean, how to they vet people for the Seed program; they seem to let all the judgemental sinners in. 

So I paid for cake and two jars of peanut butter with my head held high. 

Because they have flavours of peanut butter here.  

Dark Chocolate and Honey Nut. 

To everyone who told me this country was ‘bad’: it’s hard to be one of the underprivileged, isn’t it. 

Anyway, some of my purchases were treats for my coworkers and friends to honour this country’s independence.  Independence Day itself had been statutory holiday, so I stayed home, read Brene Brown and Anne Lamott, cried over the love of Jesus, and wrote quotes and verses on my walls like any normal introspective person.  Both of these feisty women’s incredible courage in vulnerability helped me handle a few major psychological setbacks I had regarding money matters during the week, as well as my losing battle with three scales in the past five months. 

It’s not that I’m gaining weight (for once in my life) – I seem to be losing it at a steady clip.  In fact - considering my steady supplements of Parle-G biscuits, peanut butter on the rocks, and chocolate – at a literally unbelievable rate.   

[Note:  Allegations that I may have broken three scales will be constituted defamation of character and may be prosecuted.]

So the next day, I co-celebrated Canada Day with some peace of mind (aided by my Pastor) – two holidays for the price of one cake!  I wore red-and-white, shared some baked goods, and generally conveyed some of my well-hidden nationalistic pride for a land flowing with maple syrup and poutine. 

(Phir bhi – kyunki dil hai Hindustani – I had on Indian clothes and will be also be sharing sweets in August for India’s Independence Day.)

That night, the American, the Queen of Sheba, and I went out for her going-away party, which she again refused to have a hand in – whether to choose a venue or guests.  She agreed to invite one of her high school friends after a subtle hint, but seemed to feel I was trying to cheat by asking her desires.  We had a great time and I have been re-invited to karaoke, though I may yet be able to weasel out of it by citing a headache (caused by unfair comparisons to South Korea’s noraebangs and a distinct lack of Disney or Backstreet Boys).  We came home to a raucous party in our apartment building that continued into the wee hours, awkwardly interrupted by a die-hard (drunk) patriot attempting – and failing – to sing the Canadian national anthem.

I’ve realised since that I may even miss the Queen of Sheba’s dignified contempt of foreigners.  She’s taught me more about African hair than any other person.  So much so that I now have a vested interest in her wigs, new hairstyles, and hair implants and desperately ask what she’s planning next (mostly because the last time she went to the salon, she came back with the head of an ankylosaurus and I still have not managed to overcome this betrayal).   

To my morbid fascination at watching her busily attacking her wig with my brush, she responded laconically, “[Kermit], I don’t consider it my wig; I consider it brushing my hair!”

And I consider that I have eyelashes with the help of eyeliner, but I hope we both know we’re lying to ourselves.   

But a short while from now, she will have fabled ‘Indian hair’ fresh from her brother who has returned from India, so I imagine we will be virtually indistinguishable at that point (except that she has eyelashes).  Maybe this will serve to jar me from my horrible sense to entitlement to the ‘white’ label.  I even made a joke at church once about sitting in the ‘white corner.'

If I’m in it, it’s no longer the white corner.

This may sound like a fine point to you, but I have never faced this sort of identity crisis before:  While my comrades’ parents were busy assimilating and baking cookies and handing out condoms, mine were enforcing a 4pm curfew (extended to 6pm at University) and implying that the height of feminine wiles was making perfectly round chapatis.

[Update:  My (mainly) round chapatis have not succeeded in bringing all the boys to the yard.  Must have missed a step somewhere.]   

Luckily, I’m still being well-groomed for good, clean Christian living by my French teacher, who is at least equivalently as helpful (if not more so) than my parents.  The sweet man gave me a ‘small’ gift of honey, as well as a pamphlet on abstinence by Billy Graham along with my test results.

[Upon re-reading that paragraph, I realise it sounds like I was having some sort of medical test that could have been avoided if I’d only practiced abstinence, but it was actually a French pop quiz.  It’s even funnier this way – and it was pretty funny to be handed a sealed envelope (my teacher is a theatrical man who imbues even the most mundane tasks with a sense of gravitas) containing my French quiz (on which he’d stapled an old wallet-sized picture of himself in a graduation cap and gown) and a pamphlet on sex.  FYI, I think abstinence is great, I’m certain that I'm infection-free, and I achieved an abysmal 80% on the quiz, but contend that the scoring system was heavily skewed.] 

If I make awkward mistakes in English, you can imagine how Swahili is going; while I still have no idea how to communicate valuable information, I now know many, many ways to ask how someone’s life is going.  It’s not quite as bad as in Mali, where each conversation had to be preceded by at least five minutes of verifying the continued survival of everyone from your wife to that sick gerbil, but it shows you importance of greetings nonetheless. 

As for me, things are pretty fresh - Mambo ni poa!