Loving the Players

The landlord’s housemaids are gradually becoming more loving.  And thus more terrifying.  I try to creep up the four flights of stairs to our apartment without breathing, but am inevitably caught by my name screamed in varying tones of ecstasy, depending on what I’m wearing, if my hair is down, or if I’m carrying groceries.

The most recent order of business is English (though I’ve also been graciously offered the chance to do primary school maths and technology homework); one day the youngest maid asked me in careful English what my name was.

First of all, they have never really understood my name (like half the population here) and offer me vague semblances to which I deign to respond because the alternative is to... talk to them.  Furthermore, I generally dislike my name, but in French, it is unutterably worse – the harsh ‘r’ forever sounds as if people are angry with me. 

“[Kerrrrrmit]!”

“I didn’t do it, I swear!  Please don’t write an Incident Report!”

Awareness Rising

Over the past 21 months, I have been a part of many meetings, trainings, discussions, and seminars.  The common denominator, in the end, is the firm belief that the real problem is everyone outside the room: from the colonisers, to the Banyamulenge, to the president, to the civil servants, to the NGOs, to the planning/implementation/monitoring/evaluation process of any given project, to the village chiefs, to the villagers, to the gas in the lake.

Everything is the problem.

Everything but you and me.  And I’m not too sure about you.

Highs and Lows

I had made a presentation on biopsychology in French to a roomful of nurses, who learned that hugging releases oxytocin, which is for bonding and trust – not only for inducing contractions.  My sheer determination to not faint in this situation impressed me deeply, if no one else, so I was content.  Weeks later, when I tried to explain to the Medical Director of that health zone that we would like to invite some of his head nurses to a four-day seminar on mental illness (diagnosis and treatment), he was disgusted with the proposed budget.

“Change it to two days.  That’s all that’s necessary.  None of them understand about the hypothalamus anyway.”

Now, I am by no means a highly trained individual, but this is equivalent of saying of a doctor “Oh, forget about the pancreas; it doesn’t make sense to him anyway.”

A Thousand Words

The sun pours lazily over the mists and slanting tin roofs of a Central African city.  The irrepressible growth of dense greenery, like a daisy in the cracking sidewalk of a seedy neighbourhood, makes the place look hopeful, alive.  Birds signal the dawn along with the screeching car alarm that heralds anything from the fact that it is being cleaned, to a slight wind, to the realisation that existence is futile in a chassis of metal and oil. 

The intrepid human, in her natural habitat of pyjamas, surveys the scene with the same quiet satisfaction of Mufasa watching the circle of life from Pride Rock. 

In the distance, there is a thorax-shaking boom! 

Perhaps I should not be making breakfast outside today, she thinks. 

Bodies and Souls

The training on diagnosing and treating mental illness went smoothly right up until it didn’t - which was the point at which we offered $5 to each participant for coming, staying on our tab for four days, and learning how best to care for their patients. 

One older head nurse began drinking during the last meal and wouldn’t stop – apparently, we were to be his DD in order to see the condition of the route to the hospital where our seminar was held. 

I had given up a precious Saturday for the closing of this training and was doing everything except literally flapping my arms and hooting to herd everyone to the door like a bunch of lost (or drunken) sheep.  Unfortunately, 3:00pm to 4:30pm saw a steady stream of complaints and a lovely zigzag of pointing fingers that would’ve intrigued a seasoned knitter. 

Hearts and Minds

This is the struggle – between hearts and minds, between words and actions.  

Like struggling between giggles and a facepalm when asked if I wanted to ‘cuddle legs’ with my date in the car rather than having him sit in the passenger’s seat (I chose the latter). 

Some of us don’t fight this good fight – some of us have very little to hide.

“Hey, gurrrrl!”

How the Mighty Fall

Well, I’m dating. 

And it’s about as lovely as you’d expect. 

You know, long walks in the mud, experiencing behavioural segregation, having dinner with my roommate, listening to a rat die in the next room... 

...Perhaps I should start from the beginning.

Just a Spoonful

I am slightly sociopathic.  Just a little. 

This epiphany was brought to you by Butters (and the letters F and U) during an argument in which I raved that he was never on my side, didn’t love me, and never would.

Unmentionables

...It’s been a while.

You’ll never believe what happened.

My organization offered me a position after the ending of my placement, even going so far to ask whether a certain salary would be acceptable.  This nebulous offer (the second of its kind) felt good but, as I sat on a moto for an hour to get to a health centre where we would be carrying out a supervisory field mission, I had time to reflect on it.

As that happened to be a day on which being female and taking a long moto ride just did not go well together, I decided I would rather set my head on fire.

What Happened – Part II

This is a detriment to anyone's
mental health

On that same field visit, I faced a room of around 20 seniors who had been abandoned by their families for having outlived their usefulness.  At the end of my scattered speech about strength, catharsis, and encouragement in togetherness (all translated into Maashi and possibly stalagmites, capitalism, and encephalopathy in Togo), and much ululation and clapping, I prepared to leave and wondered who was supposed to be treating whom.  At the door, I was halted by a decrepit old woman with her feet wrapped in square blocks of what looked like dinner napkins.  After speaking forcefully to my translator, she turned to me, grasped my hand with unexpected strength, and made a speech that ended with pointing firmly at her cheekbone.  As I have been eating deep-fried sweet bread for quite some time now, I decided she must be calling me out on my skincare routine.  I opened my mouth to answer in Swahili--

“She’s thanking you for coming.  And she’s telling you she’s blind.”

What Happened – Part I

Having to keep secrets makes me less of a writer. 

Staying out late, having to be let into our building by Butter’s smirk and pretend-casual, “So did you have a hot date?  Did you kiss?!” is a level of punishment that I don’t deserve. 

Yes, and no, respectively.

Throwing my newly-washed fit from our fourth-floor drying line was likewise undeserved - although he claimed it was preemptive revenge for the next night, when he had to step out of the shower to let me into our building again.  It’s a good thing friendship is all about keeping score. 

The Difference

N2O has given up being worried about my civil status and instead wants to make sure I’m not going to be homeless when I go back to Canada.  I assured her that I have some money tucked away and would be able to find a job soon, but she seemed unconvinced.  She may have been trying to get me to start a business in order to name herself my partner, but I like to think she just thought I was a helpless little bird who couldn’t possibly make it in the world without Mobutu’s Debrouillez-vous speech.

Rain, Forest, Rain!

“You shouldn’t be so scared to die!”

I goggled at our accountant.

“We’re all going to die one day!  You can’t escape it,” she continued earnestly, mistaking my exasperated wrath for an epiphany that I wasn’t actually Peter Pan.

This was just one of the many, many times I’d been accused of being scared to go somewhere or do something when the reality is that I’m just too dumb and inexperienced to feel fear.  Instead I try to base my decisions less on the emotional roller coasters around me and more on the facts people share – assuming that they’re being honest about the information they have at their disposal.

This is a stupid assumption.

Mounting Doom – Part III

We arrived home, I settled down to scribble memories, and my friend had the first crack at a hot shower to remove the grit of Nyiragongo from her skin.  Around an hour after arriving, when I was stepping out of a steamy shower, running my hands fondly over the rock wall and mirrors of the dream bathroom, I heard the faint patter of rain outside. 

Mounting Doom – Part II

Finally packed with what I thought were far too many jackets and socks – as I knew for a fact that I would be an icicle at that altitude regardless of how many layers I wore – we headed off in a taxi towards the station and our tour.

Mounting Doom – Part I

Last week, I had a visit from an old friend who once had to fish me outof a lake and inexplicably still liked me.  We headed off on a boat to see a volcano because I am a masochist. 

After having battled our way through the port and into our seats, I was a little disappointed when the TV was fixed on a channel of gospel music, but decided to use the time to sleep.  This was mostly foiled when a pastor in a shiny grey suit strode in between our seats and began roaring that everything would be okay with God.  No one was overtly contradicting him, but he still felt the need to rail in order to increase our enthusiasm.  A few hapless women who halfheartedly muttered Amen or hummed a few bars of a given hymn he had chosen were immediately ordered to stand and sing or pray.  I had stealthily tried to unearth my camera to capture the moment, but gave up on this in case the man, like any predator, could sense movement. 

These Moments

There was a moment…  As I was sitting down to write the post, to relax from numbers, reports, French, suffering - there was a sharp crack! and I thought, Gunshots.

It was the first time I’d ever thought that.  I didn’t think of fireworks, of the chime of bracelets dancing, of the heat of cayenne and closeness.  I didn't smile at silvery memories of a childhood brilliant with magic spells and house colours.  I thought of violence.  And realized something had changed.  Certainly someone had. 

What Happens Here…

Butters, who often self-identifies as a delicate flower with all the arrogance of a young white American male, had long worried me with his penchant for standing with one hand supporting his fractured rib.  The thought of the long (but mainly smooth) drive to and from our retreat location added to this worry.  Luckily, Butters is strong (and usually silent – except about stupid things) and he (along with Carrottop) even managed to catch or recover my truly miserable Frisbee throws – despite looking like Napoleon caught in a nightmare of taking a left turn at Albuquerque on his way to the Battle of the Waterloo and finding himself in swim trunks in the middle of a lake.

Upon arrival at the border, he introduced the topic of our water situation, which is his equivalent of retirement planning.  I’d naturally been thinking about this for weeks (especially since Timbit was due to return from her vacation soon) and had some ideas, but Butter’s involvement at this stage was truly a sign of our mental compromises as roommates.

At home, I quickly revised every good opinion I’d ever had of him, ever, in the history of all time.

What Happens in Rwanda…

Truthfully speaking, I’d been worried about this retreat.  Not only because I was to be presenting on leadership in French (an unholy trinity of detestable things), but because I’d disputed African solidarity with my African teammates and... it hadn't gone over well.

Android that I am, I tried to broach the topic; my teammates avoided it because of a human desire for connection and avoidance of confrontation.  Now, if I thought that a friend working in international humanitarian aid in a missions organization was racist, I would probably have tried to discuss her beliefs with her, but maybe that’s just me.  In reality, I know that my teammates were probably joking a little bit, but… I can’t.  I get jokes – I do; this is the one reason I wouldn’t diagnose myself with autism or Asperger’s.

Racism, sexism, corruption… these aren’t really jokes to me.  They exist, they can be hidden very well in the twists of the psyche, and they destroy people and lives.

This is not funny.

Defeating the Leopard – Part III

I found more notes from the seminar with the wonderful expert on sex- and gender-based violence.  I think I’d decided to skip them because I was tired of myself idolizing the speaker, but then my computer broke down and I was finally forced to read an informative book on Congo’s history that Butters had loaned me many, many moons ago.

In light of those notes, enlightening passages from the book, and arguments I’ve had with myself and basically everyone around me, I thought it was important to  rage fruitlessly  outline my thoughts and feelings around the state of this world.  Remember that my tribute to the speaker is reflected in the use of her words as much as possible.

Priorities

I am a month behind - that's four posts in blog time!  This was scribbled towards the end of June – before our team retreat in Rwanda and the final collapse of my snowflake laptop.  I probably only had a vague grasp of what I was trying to say then and I certainly don’t remember enough to expound on it now – hopefully it’s mostly English…

Life never goes as planned.  This means arguments in which I try to convince myself that I'm not neurotic (I lose).

On Life as a Racist Extremist

I've been called a feminist in tones varying from rueful to angry, but never have I been called a racist or an extremist, and certainly never in one phrase.

Until Summer Solstice 2017.  I will remember this date forever.  Or until tomorrow, at the very least.

Martyrdom

It's nice to be loved.

But I sometimes wish it wouldn't manifest itself as N2O hurrying up behind me when I'm alone in my office and asking for kisses.  This inexplicable behaviour has intensified since her marriage, so I've politely asked her to confine her antics to her bedroom.  (Or I've wheezed this while fighting to hold her hands away from my ribs.)

She just laughs and continues attempting to fondle me.

Defeating the Leopard – Part II

Then participants shared challenges they'd faced on the field and asked how to deal with them.

Example 1: An organisation handed out contraceptives to fight HIV/AIDS.  Catholic churches spoke out against this, and another organisation offered 200Fc for each contraceptive handed over to them – which they then burned.  The organisations started offering $20 to people who would decorate their cars for one camp or the other.

“Retreat!  Strategically.  Learn from more successful partners in the area, bring real-life cases to justify your position – so people cannot blame horrific deaths on some neighbour's hairy eyeball.  Seek support from trusted members of society – remember, we don't have the perfect recipe.  It's up to you on the field to work this out.”

Example 2: Similar to the first, but the speaker just wanted to add a catchy slogan:  'Say no to contraceptives; yes to body on body!'

“Great, explain to them that this means syphilis.”

Defeating the Leopard – Part I

I have been part of a few conferences and seminars by now.  I've mentioned them here, but I've mainly taken them with a Canadian winter's worth of salt because I know the leaders to be either corrupt or flippant about the topic at hand.

This one was different.

Head Space

People are difficult to understand – their motivations are so obscure.  At times, I see more clearly than the people themselves what they're searching for in all the wrong places.  At others, I can ignore a plea for help in perfect innocence.  I suppose this is the human condition.

And sometimes it's just because people are bat-guano cray-cray and I'm the only bastion of sanity in this fire-lit cave.

As the Pearl is to the Oyster

I had a vexing week.

While diligently working on a mental health promotion project, I somehow came perilously close to being propositioned by a man who is very cute - for a leggy bullfrog.  N2O can never talk about him without puffing out her belly and shuttling around at high speed.  I asked her what she'd do if I actually loved him; she sincerely assured me she didn't care.  Then she hurtled across the room again, stomach-first, cackling all the way.

Re-Evaluation

My coordinator so enjoyed our internal evaluation that he decided we should do another this week.

On one hand, the organizational evaluation had been informative and fun, and was vital to accountability and good work practices.  On the other, I was due to have an internal evaluation of my own soon, and have never been able to adequately justify my flagrant disregard for potential lives at my monthly shareholders' meeting.  Perhaps I should recommend Butters' phone company and its wide variety of apps to our leadership?  I could include it in my evaluation report, but this would require that my coordinator actually read it...

There and Back Again – Appendix A

Finally home, in a fugue state that had begun the first night that Butters had kindly woken me, I could finally begin to process everything we'd seen and heard in the course of three days. 

...Again

Our drivers soon looked like rusting androids – with all that dark skin and the copper dust that we threw up caught in their curly beards.  I would have laughed if I wasn't busy squeaking.  I loved the 15km stretch covering rough green hills under a bright sky, but the guilt of dirtbiking without helmets marginally spoiled my fun.  I'd dreamed of this view, this heat, this exhilaration - only with friends or possibly a man I loved – not a rather weedy-looking youth who only spoke Swahili.

But he was serious about his responsibility.  He rarely talked, didn't flirt at all, and laughed at others' misfortune – basically meeting all my criteria for a close friend.  We were third in the line of motos and arrived safely past rickety wooden bridges that sincerely made me question my intelligence and sanity.  The team sent off the drivers to amuse themselves in one of the shacks of the tiny village while we conducted the evaluation at the local clinic.

...and Back...

The day dawned bright, but not early enough, so I lay in bed and plotted Butters' untimely demise.

After breakfast, we carried out some evaluation activities; I will outline what I saw as the major challenges and lessons of this work in a later post.  40km (one-and-a-half hours) later, we were in one of the nearby villages to meet the beneficiaries and local partners of our project in order to glean strengths and weaknesses.  There were two stellar points that morning.

There...

The following three posts about my field mission may be liberally laced with expletives.  I don't really use them, but sometimes it's so satisfying to just leave a gap between words for emphasis.

Testament

The end of the third week of May saw an invitation for a field mission: an extended monitoring and evaluation effort in a yellow zone - my first ever.

Did I want to go?

In the Trenches

There are some things I would like to explain.  But rarely get the chance to.  In person, I usually can't find the words, or am interrupted, or really don't care enough to argue about it - since a lot of our beliefs are subconsciously planted early and drive our attitudes and behaviours, and hearing from someone who confidently shares an opinion contrary to yours makes your homunculus metaphorically dig trenches and open fire.

I know because sometimes I'm in the trenches.

These blogposts are the peace accords: they make sense to the sovereign me, and help me come to terms with the crazies armed with uninformed opinions on the other end.

Fidelius

My best conversations are when my partners have no other choice, nowhere to hide.

This sounds frightening; baring your soul always is.  Which is why we choose to be in large parties rather rather than quiet with each other, why we choose alcohol and smoke rather than a bright dinner table, why we'd rather flirt with love than commit to it. 

Or maybe I'm defending my own introverted agenda. 

Herd Life

After a month of fighting a near-deadly peanut butter craving, I finally gave in on Friday.  As I'm about as impulsive as a slug, this mainly involved mental capitulation to my inner Pandora.  I would buy peanut butter that very day, go home, and then decide whether I wanted to eat it defiantly in front of Butters or hide in my room like any self-respecting addict.

Herd Life - Appendix A

The concert, involving songs in English, French, and Swahili, started out well enough.  Though no lyrics were projected (the powerpoint seemed to alternate between the theme – Genesis 17:1 – and fleeting images of cats bearing what had to be a subliminal message), I could keep up because the worship seemed to involve a lot of frenzied repetition.  Then we heard a short sermon regarding a verse in Zechariah that said we were the prunelle of God's eye.  I assumed it meant apple, but I'd never heard that word before – maybe it meant iris.  So while the pastor revelled in trilling that word over and over again, I was stuck on the image of someone poking God in the eye because I was half deaf from the concert anyway. 

The Nerve

Today, I'm going to rant.

I know - you're thinking, But you're normally so very sweet!

Well.  Hell hath no fury like a scornful woman.  Or something.

During the retreat in Bujumbura, I learned about the incidence of sexually transmitted points in school.  This refers to the increasing of a grade in exchange for sexual favours.  While I don't deny that this can and does happen elsewhere, I have experienced a singular shift in values here and I don't quite know how to put it into words. 

Life, the Universe, and Everything

A chubby, short old man ran after me on the way home after church to say I was pretty and ask if I was married.

This is my life.

I realise that I look old for my age and that I should not have 5-star standards.  However, if he is shorter than me and in possession of more than one chin and more grey hair than black, the only thing he has that I want is confidence.

BFG asked why I hadn't gotten married in the month he and his wife had been away.  I could choose, he said, between having babies and getting married - but I had to get on it right away.

I happily surveyed my (very) extended family from behind a mound of store-bought Indian food and and reflected that it was a good thing all these people had clearance to joke about my life; it would be a waste to have to upend my plate over his head.

This is my very small universe.

Staying Classy

Life's a beach.

I mean, really – everything's pretty, it's usually sunny (here, anyway), sometimes you get burned, and white people think some things (like sunscreen) only apply to them.

Or maybe because it's kind of messy and uncomfortable, but there was a moment with the waves and the sun where you felt so small that your heart would burst with it... and when you go home at the end of the day, your skin is still warm from its brush with the universe.

This Little Piggy

...Went to market, went to church, swooned over a member of the band (who is at least 5 distinct levels of hot – only one of them being that he is a drummer), and then was followed home by someone I'd really like to keep.

I mean, uh...  This feels more awkward when I know I have a varied readership that probably wants to know about war and peace in Congo and not that my eyes and heart are gone with the wind.  Nevertheless.  You should know that repressed aid workers also have desires.  I usually outrun mine, but when said drummer sits next to me in church or said cute churchgoer ditches a moto to walk me home, my mantra changes from I want a man who sees more than a ticket out of here to I want a man.

My Brothers' Eyes

Butters goes out of his way to be considerate sometimes (although he still appears to care more for the Phoenix's delicate sensibilities than mine).  Suspiciously so.  I think he occasionally reads this blog for tips on how to be a better person.  Which is the only reason to read, really – if you don't feel like a better person in comparison to me, you should stay away from... very nearly everything and very definitely everyone. 

Cruisin'

Sometimes you're the truck; sometimes you're the tired cyclist.

Keeping Up with the Chaos – Part II

On Sunday, I was supposed to get a ride to a church with the bride and groom who were shortly going to get married in it.  I'd been to this Swahiliphone church before and was happy to be there again to forever bid farewell to N2O's  freedom   peace   empty uterus  singularity, but as the time of the ceremony came and went, I reflected that this may be late even for this culture.  So I made my way over to the church from memory, arriving only an hour late thanks to a bus whose back door kept flying open every few feet.

I was worried about looking like a muzungu in a poor area of town; I'm not sure if this was prejudice, or if unsavoury types were just just too shocked at this golden-egg-laying goose waddling into their midst, or if they were ashamed to attack it on a Sunday morning.  In any case, kind people helped me arrive at the door of the church safe and sound.

Keeping Up with the Chaos – Part I

I regret using the word depression in my last post.  I did say it was far too strong for what I was going through (which is what a psychologist might call 'a rough couple of weeks'), but I think it gave people images of sleeping pills, alcohol, and a bathtub.

I currently own none of those things.  And I'm not depressed.  And I'm heartily sorry for these my misdoings and for the Anglican liturgy rising up within me like a latent superpower.

For the Days I Can't Remember

There's a saying that says that friends sing the song of your soul back to you when you forget. 

That's stupid.

My friends give me essays when I'm too tired to read.  They push me to think, to question, to get back up and fight when I'd really rather just taste iron as the countdown ends.  If I'm argumentative, if I am stubborn, if I tend to growl in public – this is why.

I'm depressed.

That's far too strong a word, but it was the first that came to mind as I was washing dishes in a fugue state one day.  Not only was I carrying out tasks on autopilot, I wasn't completing them to my usual standards, I  was skipping out on church events because they seemed like too much work, I was oversleeping, and food seemed like an unnecessary luxury.  I was okay during the retreat with the rest of my team, but going back to work left me listless and eager to be home.  Home home.

Spiritual Connections

While I was in India, I think the disparate citizens of DRC found unity in the fact that I was literally too fat and too single to be left to my own devices.  Thus, dear friends have taken it upon themselves to tell me that the weight I've gained is directly proportional to the loneliness I should feel. 

For the Peacemakers

I suppose that, as our one-year anniversary has passed, it is fitting that the honeymoon period is officially over.

Never before have I fought tears over the faith of parents who, in the face of the murder of their son, have painfully asked for the prayers for the perpetrators and their families.

Never before have prayed desperately for the faith of a mother who has lost her talented, driven daughter in the work of peacebuilding.

Never before have I laughed so hard in the face of a bizarre reality that death is so close, you can tie it to a smell, a taste, a single night.

A Very Stupid Thing

We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for a message from our psyche.

This is story about a stupid thing.  A really very stupid thing.  It will be difficult to spot in the cavalcade of stupid things, but try to find it if you can, for it is the crux upon which the story is built.

In Joy and In Sorrow

In the hotel where we'd stayed for our retreat last week...

“Uhm.  Hi!  Have you found a wallet or some earrings in any of the rooms?”

The receptionist dug around in a cardboard box of lost-and-found items, murmuring that the daytime receptionist had found some earrings...

“Uhm.  Maybe they're in that matchbox?”
“Nooo...”  It's a box for matches, you silly foreign twit was heavily implied.

A Semi-Charmed Kind of Life

In Burundi, we met a hippo and Cinderella's uncle (in no particular order of importance).  Both were very nice, though Uncle was rather more talkative and fun-loving; the hippo mainly... breathed.  Which was good.  We loved him for breathing close to us.

I mainly loved Bujumbura for the humidity – which did beautiful things to my limp hair and bloody nose (Jai Hind) - but the people were lovely as well.  No one felt the need to publicly identify me as a muzungu!  They still stared, but it was as if - for the short time between leaving and re-entering the DRC - I was just a normal person.

A Real Trip - Part II

Note:  Still more a summary (honestly) of events rather than an entertaining flow.  

Upon arriving in Kigali, I learned the horrifying news of the kidnapping of a UN worker in the DRC and found it hard to settle down for thoughts of what this much-admired man and his friends might be going through.

I finally managed to pass out for a few hours on 'Big Bertha' – a tiny air mattress that I eventually just rolled off because it was easier – at our Area Directors' home.  After a dry breakfast and a pleasant conversation during which I prayed that I would not follow in my mother's footsteps after nearly thirty years of devoutly avoiding nausea, I was driven in style to the bus station, where I pretended I could take care of myself.

A Real Trip - Part I

Note:  This is less a coherent essay and more a catalogue of the madness of the past month so I don't forget.  Proceed at your own risk.  

India, as usual, was a trip.  Being a young, innocent, demure dame sellin' this dress (or something), I was forbidden on pain of death to travel to my family's house – 3 hours away from the international airport in Mumbai – alone.

(I fully I plan to do this next time.)

Let('s) Go!

The DRC didn't quit even after my last post.  On the way home from an evangelisation course offered at our church, I was forthrightly propositioned by a woman who somehow cleverly planned our meeting.

“Can I walk with you?”

Thinking she didn't want to walk alone in the dark when I – a big, strong, protectress - was striding along with my cellphone flashlight, I responded, “Sure!  My house is nearby, so we can walk together for a while.”

An Invincible Summer

I know we're going to be apart for our actual one-year anniversary, DRC, but that doesn't mean anything; I'll love you just as much in India, baby.  We've had our highs and lows (not just in terms of water pressure and temperature), but we made it. 

So being with you means that the toilet seat will invariably be up – though when I said I didn’t mind living on the edge, falling into the toilet is not what I had in mind.   

So we're never alone together anymore – as I realised when hours of blasting and featuring in Bollywood and Eminem classics were interrupted by a tiny, polite cough.

So what? 

I thank God for each and every day I walk in your sunshine!  Here are some of my favourite memories of you over the past few days.

'Acting' Natural

The world needs more female cashiers.  Is anyone willing to march with me on this?  Sometimes I want – nay, need - to buy things that I do not want to hand to a young man.  Especially when cashiers and guards may jokingly ask “So what are you getting me?” as they're ringing in and packing up your purchases.

On Plans

I have to fight to get into and out of my bedroom every day.  I'm used to the creative license taken by local builders, but when even my full body weight on the door doesn't work, there is a problem.  I have to full-on run into the door and some days I think I'd rather have one of my roommates watch me sleep or catch me mid-bra-rotation.  In addition, there is an unexpected step in the path to and from the front door/bathroom region, which is a nightmare for naturally clumsy people; I've ruled out nighttime jaunts unless my desire to empty my bladder is greater than my fear of losing teeth.

Moving Day Version 6.5

Butters has been looking forward to this day for some time, carrying out a multitude of tasks like washing sheets and sweeping and mopping floors, all while murmuring, “I am a man – a big, strong man.”

The Congo affects each of us in different ways. 

On Monday, for the 6.5th time since February 21st 2016, I moved all my DRC-ly belongings and settled down somewhere new. 

It's All Coming Together

I have been being encouraged to go on vacation for a while – I'm not sure if this was due to my crazed smile or the blog where I joke (really) about harming my roommate(s) – so I'm finally taking the advice to heart.  I hope to be off for a short while, collecting toiletries and possibly human hair for the Congolese women who have been eyeing mine a little too fondly.  I'm unsure as to where/how to find the last, and sincerely doubting my ability to enter this country with the first as border crossings into this country usually feel like a prolonged exercise in futility (or, alternatively, a free shopping spree for the officials involved).

On Coming Together - Appendix A

In trying to learn more about the WoC vs. WW smackdown, I cruised the Internet to find what made coloured feminism better or more valid than white feminism.  I mostly found sites that wanted to teach me how to be an ethical slut and a bad bitch who changes the world.

News Feed

07h00
Facebook Status:  Single, seeking to want to be in a relationship

Guys are weird.  I realize now that I have descended so deep into spinsterhood that I can no longer see the light of Disney – and, quite frankly, it's not so bad.  I know a guy who told his then-girlfriend that she'd be a stunner if she lost some weight.  Thank God she let him live (even going so far as to marry him for the greater Good).  Why men concern themselves with our weight when we're already so deeply concerned by it is a mystery to me; it's just resulted in an entire industry built on sweating instead of eating ice cream the way God intended.

As I Walk

I was angsting over this post until a lizard came to see what was taking so long.  I pulled myself together; he waddled away with dignity.  I finished up with nostalgia for when there were 5 good things about this apartment.

This came out of a conversation with a friend who was facing another disappointment out of many here.  She's had victories and joys here as well – don't get me wrong – but her optimistic trust has taken a hit, and I've seen how this has changed her words and perceptions over the past few months.  Her easy altruism has been one of the traits I've most admired about her, and to hear that openness change to guarded anger and pain at times has been sad.

“I felt bad for them, helped them out again, and this is like a slap in the face.  I just felt so hurt.  I was played again – each time I think it will be different, and it's not.  I feel so stupid.  Why would they do that?”

The F Word

Today's post is brought to you by the word FLEXIBLE.

I tend to think I'm flexible, but I also have a hard time doing pointless things for some imagined benefit and some loss to me.

Maybe I should take it off my resume.

Thank goodness I'm still a quick typist with an excellent grasp of spelling and grammar.

A Walk in Beauty

I'm done with vacation.  Apparently.  I'm still staying at my friend's mansion a hop, a skip, and a jump away from one of my new favourite people, the weather is beautiful, and I am so happy.

Everybody still tells me I'm fat, but I ain't even mad – jiggly thighs are a well-known side-effect of ice cream and joy, and even my philandering crush can't get me down.

The main reason I'm so happy is due to my new favourite person (comes with PhD Barbie; family sold separately) whom I'm unexpectedly territorial about.