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. 

Recently, Mr. Why-Am-I-Surrounded-By-Blacks decided to go straight to the source and simply wait for me at my gate.  I had gone to church for a movie after work and was thus at least an hour late in getting home, but he persevered.

Part of me wanted to apologise. 

Part of me thought I was overreacting.

Part of me desperately wanted to be married (to anyone but this individual).  

After first admiring my ‘big’ hair in tones you would usually reserve for Olympic athletes, he informed me that he no longer wanted to live on the major international base here (which has abnormally good power and water as far as we’re aware); he would prefer to stay in my apartment building.  I tried to dissuade him by saying that it was full, that we also don’t always have power or water, and that sometimes it is a gateway to hell and home to all of Satan’s demonic forces.

He insisted.

I let him in to speak to our guard and escaped to my apartment, glancing out the window to make sure he left before breathing a sigh of relief. 

A few minutes later, burying my woes in my fourth jar of peanut butter in three months, I heard a knock at the door and opened it to find my guard. 

And my new best friend.

I briefly, very briefly, considered plastering myself to Butters and pretending we were at it like rabbits on a regular basis. 

I discarded this idea as I don’t believe Butters' sanity and innocence should be casualties in my war for single independence. 

It turned out one of the young entrepreneurs from whom I’d promised to buy something was at the gate.  Apparently my Best Friend saw this as a clear opportunity to make like Lassie and come back into the compound and to my door.  I left him with Butters (who knew The Situation and still had a chance to rescue me by pretending to be everything he is emphatically not – i.e. large, violent, and jealous).  

After putting out the small fire in the form of a lisping Muslim youth who wanted me to buy cookies – by promising that I would search him out when necessary (dear Lord, help me find this specific grubby child whose address is 'By the MONUSCO base') – I headed back to my apartment with leaden feet.

Thankfully, my Best Friend was happily in conversation with Butters and offering to teach him Swahili, which is truly good news.  I’m very happy for them and once again berated myself for overreacting to a friendly stranger.

Butters’ first words after my Best Friend left were, “Oh my God, I am so sorry you’re a woman.”

...While that’s not exactly how I would have worded it, at the very least I’m certain that Butters will have a new appreciation for the plight of women and will make one very happy one day (and she will, in turn, thank me for not assaulting him).

Then I sat in the dark eating peanut butter until I felt better (i.e. until the power came back). 

Remember the hot plates I was excited to use?   

They’re not.

Lukewarm at best. 

In fact, I am certain John had them in mind when he was writing about the Laodiceans.  Perhaps he, like me, had recently tried to make rice on one such appliance and eventually found a gelatinous, half over-cooked, half granulated mess that he would have to choke down for a week.  Perhaps he also struggled through a dinner of plantain that had been on the stove for nearly two hours but was less ‘steamed’ and more ‘steel.’

Only in such a frame of mind, with no tap water, would he have been able to leave such an apt cautionary description of his vision for future Christians. 

Though I could also have written a fire-and-brimstone epistle, it would definitely not have been inspired by the Holy Spirit, so I ate dinner and stayed up late to wait for water instead.  Workers at REGIDESO must have conducted studies and found this country’s citizens to be the most thirsty and dirty at midnight, because that’s when they opened the pipes - which is a cultural adjustment because my people tend to sleep then.  But in the generous spirit of missionary-hood, I filled all the buckets and the water filter and continued to pray that God would help me adjust to local time. 

The next day – perhaps to make up for the fact that I have a male roommate - I dressed extra conservatively in a long skirt that had our receptionist at work in stitches.  Our driver and passers-by, however, heartily approved, so I am confused about fashions – this is fairly normal for me as I wear what I like, but it would be nice to know why some people laugh at me. 

Luckily, my effervescent charm was still hard at work, as I gleaned from a regular visitor to my office (which I share with the Coordinator of Socieconomic Reinsertion).

“Hi again!  I trust I’m not irritating you?”

“Of course not!”

“Of course not, especially not [Kermit]!”

“That’s right!”  *I laugh*

“She’s good!”

“Thank you!”  *I laugh again*

“She’s not a foreigner, she’s Congolese.”

“Awwww...”  *more laughter* 

“We’re going to find her a Congolese husband.”

*laughter turns slightly hysterical*

“Oh, do you want to get married?”

*more hysterical laughter and helpless shrugs*

“Because I have a son...”

If I believed in reincarnation, I would think I’d been Rasputin in a previous life.

“...he’s still a student...”

Perhaps Queen Mary Tudor...

Thankfully, they gave up at that point, possibly because I was foaming at the mouth.  

On the way home, I was forced to stop my Roadrunner pace to send a text.  This is widely regarded a a terrible move; I blame myself entirely.  A grizzled, somewhat homeless-looking man struck up a conversation, first trying to sell me a sieve, proceeding to ask me where I live, identifying my neighbourhood because he’d seen me walking there, and finishing up with a leering desire to visit me.

I have previously noticed that waiting for friends in public causes everyone to stare as though you've grown an extra, deformed Voldemort head, so I wondered if prostitutes have some sort of monopoly on standing in the street and texting.  This did not bode well for his visit. 

Correctly interpreting my look of abject horror, he hastened to reassure me, “For marriage!”

Very relieved, I scuttled home to a soundtrack of Look at Me, I'm Sandra Dee...