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.

Professionally, I go through waves – I either don`t understand or am not told about deadlines, so by the time I receive a report to edit, write, or translate, it was due yesterday and I feel like a blithering idiot for not understanding what hit me.  But my colleagues are kind and helpful and admire my three-word Swahili vocabulary; I’m confident of our potential.  I know it seems like I`m hardly working, but I promise I am – it`s just that I experience most of my non-confidential oscillations between hilarity and panic around work hours. 

My daily walks in Bamako would take me past at least one motorcycle accident every two or three days – despite having a separate lane for them (onto which I would usually step with nary a care in the world as it was roughly the width of a pavement in the West and I never remembered the motos until one zoomed across my chest).  Here, I was privileged to see one in action on the way to work.

The driver drove too close to the sandy gutter and flipped in – the pagne`d middle-aged woman behind him also flopping over.  Both were thankfully okay as he hadn`t been going very fast, but the public response was speedy, if less than helpful.

The woman quickly got up herself, but the driver was a little indisposed.  His brothers on the side of the road graciously lifted him by the shoulders and the legs to try to pull him a little further into the gutter (presumably so he wouldn`t be run over).

The only problem was that he had fallen on his front.  So they were trying to lift him in a way that God had not intended his spine to bend while he yowled and twitched.  If he`d had any spinal injuries to begin with, he would likely have been able to imitate a tanned Christopher Reeves by the end of it. 

Badly shaken by the sight and gaining new resolve for my daily walks, I got to work in one piece, with all my change, sans wardrobe malfunctions.  Later in the day, I was saddened to hear about the death of a loved one in a local family.  I was less saddened when flippantly asked for a (possibly monetary, maybe nutritional) donation to ease the burden of grief. 

So sorry your sister`s dead.  Here`s a $20 – go buy yourself something pretty.  Also perhaps a light brunch.

I can understand a donation for a close friend should I choose to give it, but to be demanded a gift for a funeral is a little forward.  

But laughter during my Swahili lessons more than made up for that dark cloud. 

Not my laughter, of course.

I said valwa when I should have said valiwa and my teacher (a young  receptionist with a lonstanding fascination for the word buttocks who sits in a shack at our gate all day) lost her bananas.  She was laughing so hard I thought I was going to have to call for a clean up on Aisle Shack.  I assumed I`d said something inappropriate (like that one time in South Korea), but no – she was just really amused by my failures.

I try and try to wow people with my Swahili, but then realise the Pastor’s toddler is at about my level and just want to throw in the towel – he waddled into his living room, took one look at me, and said, “Nani?  Awo!”  [Who?  Then an approximation of my name which is pretty good, considering that adults call me anything from Cherie to Shell to Shalom.]

But I was still glad for memories of that laughter the next morning, when I was trying to draft an email to my mother wishing her a happy birthday and basically bawling at my desk.  I`m not one for public emotion, and I don`t often cry over my mother, who is a little bundle of buttery-soft joy with a large wardrobe, so this psychological meltdown was unexpected.  I think as I slowly become both her and my dad in my old age, it`s fitting that I’m at silent war with myself. 

So on the weekend, I organized my extensive social calendar to make room for more tears (if necessary) between sleeping and eating – because organization is next to godliness and the Queen of Sheba had moved to her village and I was blissfully, extravagantly alone.

And then the regular apartment renter made a surprise visit to pack up her stuff (before having to move out at the end of the month) and enticed me to an expat party with promises of pizza.

I need you to imagine this:  A shy nerd in glasses and pyjamas, busily taking in some of her shirts, being convinced to go to a party and meet people.

It was like university all over again, except now I`ve gone through partying and drunkenness and blackouts and embarrassment and realized it`s not entirely for me.  But chronic FOMO coupled with visions of pizza dancing in my head convinced me – I tied my hair into a bun and changed, and we showed up early.  I recognized some people I`d met in various inter-organizational meetings, we chatted, and there was no pizza.

By the end of the night, my hair was down, there was weed, hard liquor, a DJ, some seniors, awkward dance moves, goat skewers, no pizza, and I was being chatted up by guys who would upend their booze after going on an unplanned guilt trip with me. 

“Can you come and sit over there?”

“But what about if we sit here?”  [And not where you can quietly kill me.]

“Come on – it`s just over there; I`m not asking you to come to my base.”

“Yes, well.  Fine.”

“When I first saw you, I knew I wanted to see you again.”

“You don`t say.  I mean, really, I think it`s the alcohol.

“No!”

“...So... um...  What do you think about Anwar el-Sadat?”`

“Anwar... el... Sadat.”

“Yes, I’ve been reading a book about him!”

“Oh, you were reading a book...”

I can imagine that it was at this point that he realised he`d wasted his drink.  But being nothing if not helpful, and still hopeful of meeting my future soulmate in a yard full of brilliant professionals acting like hormonal tweens, I soldiered on. 

“Or, you know – the president before...  Nasser?”

I was fairly certain he was Not a Very Nice Man, so I thought I`d hit on the perfect conversational topic.  My partner likely wanted to plead a headache, but it was too late.

“Nasser...”

Thankfully, my friend came to save us both – snagging one last skewer on the way out while I mourned the lack of pizza and a sober man in my life. 

I know I come across as a prude, but I don’t mind different lifestyle choices as long as I see a sense of peace, contentment, or satisfaction.  The trouble is that I rarely find it - the sheer age range of people desperate to meet and belong with each other, even for a night, was more than a little sad.  From the vivacious young Congolese enjoying a more Western party, to the driven humanitarian workers from Europe smoking like angry teakettles - all seemed to be trying to drown fears, expectations, and sights of war and corruption in alcohol and music.   

I believe there was the same desire for belonging among expats in Korea (and, let's be honest, aging singles in Canada), but as most of us met at church, we were mainly into hardcore ice cream and karaoke – maybe with some beer on the side.  I’m not sure that being middle-aged and heavily into drugs or drinking is my idea of maximizing potential and work-life balance – but perhaps if my 9 to 5 consisted of desperate refugees, trauma survivors, and child soldiers?  I enjoyed myself for the most part, but I'm too socially awkward for this sort of thing; my real desire (only partially realised) was to invite them all into a church community because this furious, channeled desire to be home reminded me why I prefer to be sewing with God. 

One the other hand, there isn’t really anything to do in the evenings but drink and party – even young adults at church can’t often afford to go out (and, again, do what?).

The greatest victory from that party was that I met the gregarious owner of a new local grocery store who would later replace a malevolent jar of peanut butter that tried to escape me.  

On the home front, my war with the house helper continues; after calling me at work on Monday to inform me I’d left the tap on and locked him out (the former was untrue - the tap leaks – and the latter was intentional), he began busying himself in the kitchen while I struggled between gratitude and crankiness because I hadn’t expected to see him that day.

Deciding against rudeness as he is actually a very hardworking, efficient soul (despite treating me like the Pippin to his Gandalf), I thanked him and was on my way back to work when he quizzically noted, “Someone had left me a note in Swahili last Friday: ‘I’ll see you on Tuesday!’   Who wrote that?”

I stared at him.  I’m fairly sure my eyes bugged out a little. 

I live alone.  I’ve left you notes before.  You understood that someone wanted you to be here on Tuesday...

“It was me.”

“Oh.  It would do to speak Swahili,” he said somberly.

Working on it.