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.
He called in the head housekeeper, which resulted in more frantic searching, the accumulation of an audience, an errand to buy phone credits to call the other receptionist (which was for naught as the credit-seller had none for that specific network), and giving another random woman the phone number (I like to think she was a superhero from the future, preventing some major catastrophe of which we knew naught – because she certainly didn't contribute to the ongoing crisis). He eventually managed to call the other receptionist – I'm unsure as to why this method didn't work before; perhaps they'd been expecting me call her – and carry out this very audible Swahili conversation.
“Yeah, remember the jewellery you found?”
“What?”
“Earrings! That you found!”
“What?”
“EARRINGS FOR THE MUZUNGU IN ROOM 7!”
“Eleven.”
“Uhm. Eleven.”
“Yes, eleven. Where are they?”
“In the matchbox.”
“In. The. Matchbox.”
And then he hung up, glaring at me as though I should have just told him they were in the matchbox.
***
Last night I was woken by vague rustling in my bags. I didn't really think much of it, being a generally optimistic, happy-go-lucky person by nature, one who forgets all that lies behind her in hopes of a brighter future. In the morning, I woke up and began to heat my breakfast of spaghetti (I'm a growing girl), idly noting the rat poop on the windowsill...
My eyes narrowed.
I forced myself to relax – we generally didn't leave food out, and we were on the fourth floor, so it couldn't be rat poop. Perhaps large lizard poop; I could handle that. I carried out my morning ablutions and noticed, by the mating cry of the wild goose, that Butters was also up, at 'em, and suffering from allergies. I unfortunately chose to wish him a good morning on my way out.
“Look what happened to my avocado!”
It had a chunk taken out of it. Does he think I did this? Do I seem capable of covertly attacking avocados at nightfall with the hope that no one notices? Is he deranged?
“This happened to my banana the other day too! HEY--”
My eyes flew open in dawning horror.
“--Look what happened to my banana again!”
My hands flew to my mouth as my skin fought to escape the presence of a canoe-shaped banana. “[Butters.] We have rats. Oh no, we have rats--”
“I know!”
“--they're here--”
“I know!”
“--and they're rats and if you knew, why did you keep leaving your food out within reach, you--”
“[Kermit,] why do good things happen to good bananas?”
I stared at him.
“I mean bad things?”
And then I left for work, where our driver (who rejoices in talking politics and teasing me about my lack of faith in Trump) told me I was well dressed.
I stared at him.
Very well dressed.
My eyes narrowed.
Like Melania Trump.
***
In India there is a saying that if you laugh too hard, tears will come your way soon. It's just a superstition, but sometimes...
Even the frenetic joy of celebrations here have that same underlying assumption – tears will come soon. Now, I don't put much stock in these stories, but sometimes...
Sometimes there's news waiting for you at work...
Sometimes there're unforeseen circumstances on the road...
And I think... maybe we laughed too hard, maybe there was so much success and joy that it resulted in tears – maybe that is a reality of the developing world.
Though I don't feel like laughing now, I know I will, one day. And so will everyone else who is crying now. The fact is that laughter and tears are inextricably entwined – it comes with the joining of our fingers. Events that never would have meant anything once upon a time, now inspire tears of joy. People whom you've never met can make you groan with agony. And the cycle continues.
But one constant through the companionship and the loss is prayer. It helps me keep my eyes open – whether I'm laughing or crying, I am part of a war that is already won. I just have to be a witness, even as the light fades on another battlefield of shallow graves. And maybe that's something you have to remember too – whether this view a reality for you or not.
When we cannot see the heavenly hosts around us, only we can remind each other.
“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.
He called in the head housekeeper, which resulted in more frantic searching, the accumulation of an audience, an errand to buy phone credits to call the other receptionist (which was for naught as the credit-seller had none for that specific network), and giving another random woman the phone number (I like to think she was a superhero from the future, preventing some major catastrophe of which we knew naught – because she certainly didn't contribute to the ongoing crisis). He eventually managed to call the other receptionist – I'm unsure as to why this method didn't work before; perhaps they'd been expecting me call her – and carry out this very audible Swahili conversation.
“Yeah, remember the jewellery you found?”
“What?”
“Earrings! That you found!”
“What?”
“EARRINGS FOR THE MUZUNGU IN ROOM 7!”
“Eleven.”
“Uhm. Eleven.”
“Yes, eleven. Where are they?”
“In the matchbox.”
“In. The. Matchbox.”
And then he hung up, glaring at me as though I should have just told him they were in the matchbox.
***
Last night I was woken by vague rustling in my bags. I didn't really think much of it, being a generally optimistic, happy-go-lucky person by nature, one who forgets all that lies behind her in hopes of a brighter future. In the morning, I woke up and began to heat my breakfast of spaghetti (I'm a growing girl), idly noting the rat poop on the windowsill...
My eyes narrowed.
I forced myself to relax – we generally didn't leave food out, and we were on the fourth floor, so it couldn't be rat poop. Perhaps large lizard poop; I could handle that. I carried out my morning ablutions and noticed, by the mating cry of the wild goose, that Butters was also up, at 'em, and suffering from allergies. I unfortunately chose to wish him a good morning on my way out.
“Look what happened to my avocado!”
It had a chunk taken out of it. Does he think I did this? Do I seem capable of covertly attacking avocados at nightfall with the hope that no one notices? Is he deranged?
“This happened to my banana the other day too! HEY--”
My eyes flew open in dawning horror.
“--Look what happened to my banana again!”
My hands flew to my mouth as my skin fought to escape the presence of a canoe-shaped banana. “[Butters.] We have rats. Oh no, we have rats--”
“I know!”
“--they're here--”
“I know!”
“--and they're rats and if you knew, why did you keep leaving your food out within reach, you--”
“[Kermit,] why do good things happen to good bananas?”
I stared at him.
“I mean bad things?”
And then I left for work, where our driver (who rejoices in talking politics and teasing me about my lack of faith in Trump) told me I was well dressed.
I stared at him.
Very well dressed.
My eyes narrowed.
Like Melania Trump.
***
In India there is a saying that if you laugh too hard, tears will come your way soon. It's just a superstition, but sometimes...
Even the frenetic joy of celebrations here have that same underlying assumption – tears will come soon. Now, I don't put much stock in these stories, but sometimes...
Sometimes there's news waiting for you at work...
Sometimes there're unforeseen circumstances on the road...
And I think... maybe we laughed too hard, maybe there was so much success and joy that it resulted in tears – maybe that is a reality of the developing world.
Though I don't feel like laughing now, I know I will, one day. And so will everyone else who is crying now. The fact is that laughter and tears are inextricably entwined – it comes with the joining of our fingers. Events that never would have meant anything once upon a time, now inspire tears of joy. People whom you've never met can make you groan with agony. And the cycle continues.
But one constant through the companionship and the loss is prayer. It helps me keep my eyes open – whether I'm laughing or crying, I am part of a war that is already won. I just have to be a witness, even as the light fades on another battlefield of shallow graves. And maybe that's something you have to remember too – whether this view a reality for you or not.
When we cannot see the heavenly hosts around us, only we can remind each other.
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At the risk of sounding desperate - PLEASE WRITE TO ME!