My Church has a Strobe Light and Other Fantastic Tales

If you ever thought church was boring, you’ve never been in a church in Africa. 

It’s basically a non-stop party.

My church is more conservative than most – in remembrance of its Anglican roots - with a clear focus on foundational and biblical principles, but worship is off the chiz-ain.  The congregation is constrained by the presence of around 70 people in a small area, but I would still extend a warning to watch for flailing arms and euphoric fist pumps.  We haven’t had any accidents yet, but as I’m generally unobservant and the fervent dancers usually have their eyes closed, I’m trying to avoid them until I am able to find a life mushroom or a star.   

Standard features are ululating to indicate your joy at Jesus’ salvation, and a multi-coloured strobe light spinning fractals over our growing music team on a rickety wooden stage surrounded by pink and blue fabric and ribbons.

Which brings me to my next point: ideals of what is normal or pretty are very, very different here.  In Asia, we hold on to Western standards with our teeth.  It’s best to be white (but not too white), skinny (but not too skinny), tall (but not too tall); with bonus points for finding ways to show skin (such as paying exorbitant charges for a pool of piranhas in the back room of American Eagle to rip through jeans made by a small, blind Bangladeshi foetus). 

Here, there is literally no ideal that I have been able to discover.  The wearing of pantaloons by females is vaguely frowned upon – the really good Christian girls know that tight skirts are the best way to lead us not into temptation – but almost anything goes as long as the no-man’s land between collarbone and calf is mostly covered.  Bonus points for random frills, a neckline that either reaches nostril-height (hopefully asymmetrically) or bosom-busting, or multi-coloured polygons.  Then there are the women and children in bright salwar kameezes or ghagra cholis – don’t ask me how.  The hair is an adventure in and of itself.  I tend to prefer it natural, in long, sleek braids, or in dreadlocks, but I think these indicate poverty, childhood, or anarchy.  Mature femininity sometimes tends to express itself by way of a used, frazzled mop cloth on your head.    

[Men’s fashions are not even worth talking about.  Older men tend to enjoy the multi-coloured polygon look, which is usually a miss for me.  However, slap a button-down shirt on a tall, clean-shaven young man with razor-sharp cheekbones and he looks like he’s stepped out of GQ.]

In terms of features, I have carefully examined the standards of pretty here and am at a total loss.  The women I find gorgeous don’t seem to have a very high idea of themselves (or tend to hide it well).  The ones identified as beautiful, on the other hand, tend to be plump or look like lizards.

It’s inexplicable.

[I haven’t really asked about standards for men - both because they are less universally discussed and because I, uh, have no problem judging for myself.]

I’ve heard that to look Rwandan is to look pretty, but it’s also dangerous, especially in more rural areas.  I have literally no idea what Rwandans are supposed to look like (and neither does anyone else – evidenced by the fact that our Rwandan teammate is flourishing in a village and our Congolese teammate has been addressed in Kinyarwanda multiple times), but I’m not sure I agree.  There are, no doubt, many Rwandans, Congolese, and Burundians whom I would find stunning, but they likely wouldn't meet cultural standards of beauty.   

This should put into perspective the fact that I am considered pretty here.  Add that to the ‘white’ skin, long hair, and a nose that reaches an extreme on the y-axis instead of the x and – ding ding - we have a winner.  I'm getting even prettier as I gain weight, apparently, which is a dangerous correlation.  Especially as (to supplement my peanut butter habit) I’ve gone straight to the source – homemade salted, spiced peanuts.

With all of these factors, it is dangerous to walk slowly or, heaven forbid, stop on the road at any point on the way to work or back.  If, for example, one is forced to stop due to a deal on onions or the theft of one’s ipod, one is – to put it politely – royally nailed. 

I’ve already described the Great Onion Sale of 2016; the Lesser Ipod Theft of 2016 was less pleasant.  I was walking in the rain to discuss housing with Carrottop, Captain, and Butters; as per standard regulations, I was wrapped in a large scarf, weighed down with a Mary Poppins bag containing everything but a functioning zipper, and my hair...

My hair is now sentient.  It has grown at least 5 inches in the past seven months (mostly during the humid rainy season), and it is hungry.  I usually have it in a tight bun as the other option is to break my neck by sitting or leaning on it or getting it stuck on stair rails or doorknobs. 

...My hair was down, I’d taken off my glasses to walk in the rain, and I was listening to Bollywood.  Until suddenly I wasn’t. 

I assumed the earphone had just fallen out of my ear.

Then I assumed my hair had eaten it. 

Imagine this – a basically blind person fighting through a straitjacket of soggy hair and fabric to find a machine a quarter the size of her palm in the depths of her bag.  Luckily, I suddenly had a helpful, uniformed schoolgirl and growing crowd of people to watch my struggles.

It was a nightmare. 

When the friendly girl asked me what I’d give her to find my ipod, I frogmarched her to her friend a little ways down the road, where they returned my ipod and received a stuttering, frustrated sermon in French and Swahili about stealing.

People all the way to the market 10 minutes away asked if I’d found my ipod.  I’m not kidding myself – the only reason I got my player back was because these were senior high kids who hadn’t been planning on a theft; this was a gentle reminder that the safety and normalcy I usually take for granted are not guaranteed.

It came at the right time, as Butters and I may be moving from the ‘foreign’ part of town closer to a main market.  It’s also closer to Carrottop and Captain, as well as to their office, so it’s not exactly unsafe – it’s more that I think I’m used to the situation here and am not as careful as I should be.       

The more worrying part is that I will be upgrading from one housemate to two.

No, no, no!  I inwardly railed at Carrottop.  Don’t you understand?!  There will be chaos and madness and blood and unutterable horror; can’t you see?!

“They’ll be great!” she enthused, like any normal person.

I’m not even thinking about them yet – focus, woman!