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. 

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.   

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.

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. 

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. 

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... 

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).  

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.