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.

I have been defensively told that this is because Bujumbura and Kigali are capitals – of course they're used to mythical  white  brown-skinned people walking around like it ain't no thang.  This seems like a shoddy excuse to me – half the people in our homebase are expatriates, and I've been walking the same route for over a year now, and adults and children still stare and point and laugh and identify me as the muzungu-with-long-hair.  A flock of women who identified me as such this morning burst into laughter at the sight of me buying my favourite kind of bread (deep-fried ndazi) - whether because I was a foreigner buying it or because they thought I was dressed like a clown or just because, we will never know (though this question may keep me up at night).  When I tried to explain this facet of xenophobia to my coworkers, one returned with, “When I first saw you, I thought you were Norwegian.”

I might be able, one day, to come to grips with the fact that I have been mistaken for a Chinese person (I'm not holding my breath); understanding the grounds for any Caucasian ancestry is beyond my capacity.

Eventually, they decided that I was yellow and I decided to give up before they started commenting on my zits, my big nose, or my apparently ballooning weight.

That's right – despite the fact that I (reluctantly) fit into all my clothes, and Butters swears that I am really very skinny (he's actually quite mad) – I am being questioned every day about my struggle with obesity.

“Did your family tell you that you're fat?” was one teammate's passive-aggressive method of censure.

In reality, my family (like any self-respecting Indians) said I was nearly skeletal and tried to stuff me – although this may also have been guilt over the fact that I'm an old maid.  I tell you, if my mom didn't think I was beautiful, I'd be a mess.  I don't deny that I've gained weight, but this is what my body does when it's happy - I'm not fat, nor am I trying to enter the 'fashion parade' (which is how my father refers to... the catwalk, I think), so let me eat nutella and fries and mayo in peace.  

Other reasons to love my vacation and retreat period were 'Bajaj' (rickshaws that were happily pointed out to me as Indian imports) and receiving some of the (currently) best music I have ever heard.  It's secular rap but – hear me out – it's about racism, about finding a home, about feeling pride in more than one culture, about love, and about poverty.

Do you ever wonder about the books you'll never read?  The songs you'll never hear?  The people you'll never meet?  That one Japanese businessman has written an essay that could change your running theory of business models?  That one Aboriginal musician has exactly played your grief or joy over an intensely personal event that could complete your experience of it?  That one Nigerian could be your best friend (even if you don't have a bank account)?

I do.  All the time.  Especially the one about the books.  And poetry.  And song.  Not that I'll be any less for not knowing these things, but that I won't be my best because I don't know how to be without those words.

I am incomplete without the rest of the world - I believe we were all created with that gap for our fingers to intertwine.  If you cannot learn and adopt from at least one culture other than your own (whether it is through travel, research, friends, or in prayer), then you aren't at your best – either for yourself or for the rest of the world.  And if you aren't sharing that pride, that knowledge, the weird beauty of you and what you know and love, then you're part of the problem too.  

...All that from a man who calls himself Black Mesrimes, from a hip-hop group called Sexion d'Assaut (wordplay on 'attack unit' and 'sex' - don't love 'em til you try 'em!).  When the world feels too prickly to walk in, sometimes there's nothing to do but pull a Hema Malini:  Haaan, jab tak jaaan, jaan-e-jahaaan, main nachungi...  ('As long as I have life, love, I'll dance' - from a very famous Bollywood movie.  The scene involves a woman dancing on glass.  Whilst singing.  For the life of her love.  Which is basically what Indian women are called to do for their husbands, so it was a nice introduction to married life.)

The Road of Princes 

My family counts on me but I'm afraid of drowning 

I was told to go far away, my friends are leaving 

The streets testify 

The north has seduced us 

Here the dreams are exhausted 

I would have liked to walk without doubt

I stumbled upon my illusions 

Every day that God gives, Mom suffers 

It's my turn to manage the house
Yes, I dream of touching the summit
At home there are no buildings
If you see that I shine - it's just the sun
No one knows my life
I'm on the road of princes but there's nothing charming about it...
...My son never gives up, that's what Mom says to me
We deal with it
I walk with nothing to do
My brother if only you knew
I wish that everything would stop