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).  

The Queen of Sheba had told me a while ago that a guy and girl couldn’t be in an apartment alone together – she had had male friends from church over, but apparently that was only because my presence ensured chastity.  After I'd been alone for a few glorious weeks, Captain came over one weekend to check on the status of the apartment - which I think was acceptable as he’s Congolese, married, and we were chaperoned by his toddler.  However, my American teammate also visited and we talked for a while after Captain and his child left.  The next day:

“You were alone with that boy for some time.”

“Yes.”  Say it.  Just say it.  You’re not sleeping together.  It doesn’t matter what they think.  “He’s, um, he’s-gonna-move-in-soon.”

"Really?!"

"Uh-huh."

“Ohhh realllllyyy.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s going to stay there.”

“Yup.”

“With you.”

"Yup."

“Tomorrow.”

“Yup.”

“Oh.”

“Yup.”

“Good.”

“Yup.”

I have been advised to say simply that I ‘live with my brother,’ but I think my pastor and coordinators underestimate the level of interest that locals have in my heritage, my job, my lifestyle, etc.     

My pastor and his family are normally one of my few lifelines in this mad world (even though we sometimes watch TV and I am forced to see heart-wrenching scenes such as a tour guide at Jagalchi in Busan and then the release of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child).  I tried to explain this to my enthusiastic African friend who preferred non-black people when he accosted me another day. 

“When can I see you next?!”
[You seem to be doing a fantastic job so far.]  “Um, maybe church?”

“Yes, we can meet on Sunday!!”

“I’m at church all day.”

“The whole day?!”

“Yes; in the French service in the morning, then I spend the afternoon in my pastor’s house, and then I go to the English service.”

“You just sit in his house?!”  [You psycho.]

So, again, I’m thankful for unofficial adoptions that allow me to immerse myself in the Word of God and TV and thus escape unwanted dates. 

Sometimes, however, my dates are with Dutch girls who enjoy serving God; infinitely better as I doubt they’re into me for money, sex, food, or a Canadian passport!

...Okay, so this was just one date, and she’s leaving soon, so I’ll be back to avoiding all those things with desperate guys soon enough.  Making friends with people overseas is what I imagine taking an overdose of heroin would feel like - but because it feels really good in the short term, we (and by this I mean 'she') decided we should go boating on the lake.

We walked to the hotel where we could rent a kayak for an hour, signed a form absolving the hotel of any responsibility to even bring flowers to our possible funerals, and intrepidly paddled out into the middle of the vast, nearly empty lake.  She was unsure as to whether she’d be able to climb back on if she went swimming, but as she is a tall, graceful, and lithe (and I would intensely dislike her if she weren’t also kind and intelligent), I assured her she’d be fine.

I neglected to say that my bigger worry was that I’d float off the edge of the earth and leave her to the birds.  I have been canoeing before in frigid Canadian waters (you’re in a bucket with a stick; it’s not hard - unless you’re actually trying to go in a straight line towards a certain point), and I do technically know how to swim (in a pool with a life jacket and preferably holding onto a small floatie or child for support), but I owe this more to the fact that I have a stupid lack of fear of water rather than actual skill.

I stayed on board and frantically tried to paddle around her while she mermaid-ed around and then climbed back on.  The problem began when she convinced me to swim. 

I should have put my life jacket on. 

I should have known I wouldn’t be able to climb back on. 

I know these things – God created me able to read, write, know myself, and be useless in nearly every other way. 

And yet there I was – dangling off the side of the kayak in the gloriously cool water with a singular unwillingness to let go, especially after her delightfully accented, “I vos afraid you vill go too far avay from me – se vind vos pushing you faster than I could svim!”

When she gently suggested I climb back on – and I just as gently suggested she start rowing us back to land as fast as her slender arms could go in order to be back by the prescribed hour – we had a very real problem.

Eventually, after some panicked manoeuvring and prayer (Move to se other side so se waffes don't push you unter.  There is no other side where the waves don't push me under!), I flopped onboard with her help like a harpooned beluga and rested my abs from laughter and more exercise than they had seen in years. 

As we rowed back in the coruscating rays of the setting sun over the hazy greenery of this beautiful country, I profusely thanked her for not clubbing me over the head with an oar and rowing back alone.  She just smiled happily.

“Are ve closer now?”

“Lady, after pulling me on and not capsizing us both, we’re practically twins!”

“Uhm, I mean to se shore.”  [You psycho.]

We eventually made it back - a task more difficult than you would think as the pier was at least a mile off from where we’d estimated – soggy and smiling.  After my run-ins with bus conductors (most recently, when one just drove away chuckling when I asked for my proper change), I expected to be charged limbs I didn’t have for returning a rental a full hour late to a high-end hotel, but we were waved goodbye with a happy smile.

I almost skipped home, where there was electricity, hot water, and chocolate-chocolate chip cookies to complete my perfect day.   

The next day, my American teammate (henceforth Butters) moved in and my life grew just a little bit more difficult.  I will have to share the kitchen, when it is clearly mine. 

No longer will I be able to wander out of my room in a towel to check on the status of the kettle.  Goodbye to awkwardly loose/low t-shirts and laying on the couch with my skirt around my thighs after my city-wide walk.  In short, I will have to act fairly normal and decent and this is distinctly unfair. 

Butters came with quiet peace, a mattress, a mini-electric stove, and glorious, glorious books to share.  He chatted a while before politely excusing himself for a goodbye dinner with his host family.  The Dutch girl and I enjoyed our own alone, and then I cheerfully assembled and set up our new appliance.  

[Translation:  At the natural end to the equivalent of a heroin overdose, I morosely upacked what appeared to be a microwave oven and was ready to pitch it out the window, yodelling my coordinator's name as a war cry.  Upon seeing the hot plates I'd requested on top, I grudgingly calmed down and plugged it in as Butters was on his way back to live with me in sin.]

It worked, but the ticker, for some reason, continued long after I’d turned it off.  Which is why, when my white American male roommate walked in, I felt obliged to address our first major cultural clash.  I slowly put my hands up, “Listen, I know I’m brown and something is ticking, but it’s okay..."


Part I