Last week saw a confession of love from a seller of phone credit. There's usually some sort of hullabaloo going on at the phone store when I pass, but I determinedly avoid gazes and scurry past as though I had somewhere to be (ha). One day, a kind old man took it upon himself to let me know in English that the vendors wanted to talk to me.
I ignored him as well, but he just kept shouting after me in an unforgiveably rude fashion until I gave up, pulled my earphones from my ears, gave an Oscar-worthy performance of innocent shock and waved at the lot of them. They excitedly shouted and waved back and my kind old informant took the opportunity to make a small request:
“Can you give me a job? You are young and I am old and we can run a business. You can see that I speak English so we can run a business because you are young and I am old now.”
I politely declined this well-researched proposal and we parted ways.
The next day, I stopped at the herd of Tigo vendors because, frankly, four months of this was enough. I smarmily apologised for not stopping to say hello and gave another Oscar-worthy (Foreign Film category) Swahili speech about how I hadn't known, honest, li'l ole me, teehee, forget my own head next.
As I walked away, waving, from my chuckling audience (a foreigner mangling Swahili is a great icebreaker), my paramour - whom I now understand was the cause of all this ruckus to begin with as they'd usually been trying to get his attention along with mine - confessed his love. I continued smiling and waving woodenly because I'm an idiot.
And then I ran hand-in-hand with my crush through the rain. Thankfully, this was the day before three zits formed a conglomerate on my upper lip and started paying taxes to export to China, so it was a victory on many levels. This almost-birthday present proved that miracles do happen, they do happen to me, and that my life is fully ruined – at least the Bollywood-inspired entwining of rain and love instead of a more practical rain-and-influenza will ensure that I am put out of my misery at an early age.
Unfortunately, this admission of weakness may result in more teasing by certain unnamed persons who feel like Amish romances are my style. I resisted the urge to blurt that I went through a long phase (still easily regressed into) of skeazy Harlequin romances with covers I had to cover in order to protect my family's delicate sensibilities – I am consistently a let down to the missionary and Indian communities.
Regardless, I am here, they are my communities, and I still like Fabios in kilts (kidding, that really was a phase).
My birthday involved a seminar on Monitoring and Evaluation, bindis (which mean I will no longer have to tape a sequin to my forehead when I come over all ethnic), a dinner, peanut butter ice cream swirled with peanut butter, games that Butters won thanks to his mom's gruelling training, and a pancake breakfast (which wasn't actually for my birthday, but will be henceforth claimed as such). All the sweet things were provided by Grandpa, who hides his halo very well.
Over the weekend, we went to a large city nearby to visit the rest of our team in that area, one of whom (Big Chicken) had a birthday and wanted to share food with the children in one of the communities in which he worked (an IDP camp). This was perhaps the third time I'd left my city for an overnight trip elsewhere (the other two had been retreats in Rwanda), and I was excited. I don't regret not leaving my home base often – I did the same in South Korea and Canada – but I enjoy trips with a goal in mind.
So we travelled by boat for six hours, docked in a volcanic crater, and I first set foot in the crowded port of Goma. The boat ride itself was uneventful, made more so by the fact that Carrottop handled all our paperwork while I kept trying to hand her more – Second Class looked like an economy flight, a sight I am well-used to, and First Class was a series of large, comfy couches of questionable hygiene. I watched people posing for selfies and asking others for help when their arms weren't long enough to capture the lapis lazuli lake, the peridot islands drifting under the sun's punishing smithy, and their own pearly grins which they evidently assumed to be equivalently majestic creations – perhaps with the glittering edge of panic that this view had and would last a lot longer than they.
I rarely take pictures because cameras make me look ugly. Instead, I enjoyed the waves, trees, and sun, interspersed with leftover conversations - about what, exactly, The Problem was, how to solve It, and why It hadn't yet been solved – seasoned with nostalgia for the future.
I ignored him as well, but he just kept shouting after me in an unforgiveably rude fashion until I gave up, pulled my earphones from my ears, gave an Oscar-worthy performance of innocent shock and waved at the lot of them. They excitedly shouted and waved back and my kind old informant took the opportunity to make a small request:
“Can you give me a job? You are young and I am old and we can run a business. You can see that I speak English so we can run a business because you are young and I am old now.”
I politely declined this well-researched proposal and we parted ways.
The next day, I stopped at the herd of Tigo vendors because, frankly, four months of this was enough. I smarmily apologised for not stopping to say hello and gave another Oscar-worthy (Foreign Film category) Swahili speech about how I hadn't known, honest, li'l ole me, teehee, forget my own head next.
As I walked away, waving, from my chuckling audience (a foreigner mangling Swahili is a great icebreaker), my paramour - whom I now understand was the cause of all this ruckus to begin with as they'd usually been trying to get his attention along with mine - confessed his love. I continued smiling and waving woodenly because I'm an idiot.
And then I ran hand-in-hand with my crush through the rain. Thankfully, this was the day before three zits formed a conglomerate on my upper lip and started paying taxes to export to China, so it was a victory on many levels. This almost-birthday present proved that miracles do happen, they do happen to me, and that my life is fully ruined – at least the Bollywood-inspired entwining of rain and love instead of a more practical rain-and-influenza will ensure that I am put out of my misery at an early age.
Unfortunately, this admission of weakness may result in more teasing by certain unnamed persons who feel like Amish romances are my style. I resisted the urge to blurt that I went through a long phase (still easily regressed into) of skeazy Harlequin romances with covers I had to cover in order to protect my family's delicate sensibilities – I am consistently a let down to the missionary and Indian communities.
Regardless, I am here, they are my communities, and I still like Fabios in kilts (kidding, that really was a phase).
My birthday involved a seminar on Monitoring and Evaluation, bindis (which mean I will no longer have to tape a sequin to my forehead when I come over all ethnic), a dinner, peanut butter ice cream swirled with peanut butter, games that Butters won thanks to his mom's gruelling training, and a pancake breakfast (which wasn't actually for my birthday, but will be henceforth claimed as such). All the sweet things were provided by Grandpa, who hides his halo very well.
 |
| I think this is the view of my city from the boat |
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| I think this is a peninsula where I wanted to live |
I rarely take pictures because cameras make me look ugly. Instead, I enjoyed the waves, trees, and sun, interspersed with leftover conversations - about what, exactly, The Problem was, how to solve It, and why It hadn't yet been solved – seasoned with nostalgia for the future.
 |
| LOOK AT THAT |
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