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.”
“Okay - I'm just going to the main road. Where are you coming from?”
“Bible study.”
“Mom didn't go with you?”
Thrown by this apparent familiarity with my mother, I wondered if she'd mistaken me for someone else, if she'd mistaken another woman for my mom, or if she really knew my mom (not as surprising as you would think – my mom went to school with everyone), I slowly repeated her words.
“Yes, your mom – your biological mom!”
I cautiously responded, “Uh. She's in Canada--”
“Andyourhusband?”
“I don't have--” I saw the tripwire too late.
“I will give you my brother. You can take him.”
I'd really rather not. “Uh. You haven't asked him--”
“He needs a woman!” In truth, she may have meant he needed a wife (one and the same word in French), but it amuses me to think of her brother desperately hunting under rocks for a female of the species.
“I'm... I work with the church.”
“You're a nun?” [As previously noted, the French phrase always makes me want to defensively hiss that I am most certainly not a masseur. This did not endear her to me.]
Yes! Just say yes - for goodness sake, it may as well be true. “No. But kind of.”
“But what if someone really wants you?! Like, really just wants you?!”
“You know, I think we'll just have to cross that mythical bridge when we come to it. Welp, here's my stop. Buh-bye!”
In case you think I'm over-exaggerating these incidents, please know that I only describe the funny/odd ones. That's right – there are some I don't even mention.
But all this was driven out of my mind when I left for Rwanda the next day. Despite intending to go to bed at 9pm to head to the border at 5:45am with Grandma and Grandpa – I let my patent mistrust of Butters' work ethic get the better of me and tried desperately to finish formatting a document that we'd should've split (in my defence, perfectionism in writing, like many boring things, is not in Butters' long list of strengths). Thus, after not finishing the work, tossing in bed for four hours, slipping out before dawn, and waking my landlord to let me out of the building, we were on our way. I had a pleasant drive with Grandma, who took us to Kigali in style (by taxi). I tried to pick her brain about her family and work, but held back to a certain extent in remembrance of summer vacations with my extravagantly carsick mother. My heart squealed through every bend in the road that brought another misty view of Rwanda's thousand hills - terraced and carpeted in green – and the only fly in the ointment was having to stop at a toilet in a bar (while I was thankful to use the facilities without having to pay for the privilege, I quailed at the smell and the pitch black, windowless room, within which I couldn't see a toilet – and thus almost stepped into the hole in the ground).
“How was Rwanda?” asked one smug airport official that night (as I was on my way to Nairobi and then to Mumbai), clearly already knowing the answer.
“You'll come back.” It wasn't a question.
Yes. Yes, I will, drat you and your beautiful country and its lovely people.
The real panic set in when the friendly flight attendant on the first plane welcomed me on board: “Karibu!”
“S-starehe...” I murmured.
I was in Grade 11 again – we were in a science research group that I'd joined just for the overnight trips. We'd had to cross a suspension bridge, and I could see the water passing underneath. The bridge shuddered with the weight of excited feet. I hate heights. I love roller coasters. I never knew how I felt about swaying bridges until then. I forced myself halfway, but then lost all control of higher brain function – I blindly turned around, fought the current of students, and made it back to the other side. Does that make sense? No. Did it feel right? Yes.
I snapped back to the present. I couldn't run off the plane and back into Rwanda; I was coming back in two short weeks! What was wrong with me? If this was how I felt going on vacation, how was I ever going to leave next year?
Somewhere between figuring out that people weren't excitedly calling me a caribou and developing the ability to read Butters' mind (FYI, he said the schwing-g-g was a baby – I was so close), I've developed feelings.
“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.”
“Okay - I'm just going to the main road. Where are you coming from?”
“Bible study.”
“Mom didn't go with you?”
Thrown by this apparent familiarity with my mother, I wondered if she'd mistaken me for someone else, if she'd mistaken another woman for my mom, or if she really knew my mom (not as surprising as you would think – my mom went to school with everyone), I slowly repeated her words.
“Yes, your mom – your biological mom!”
I cautiously responded, “Uh. She's in Canada--”
“Andyourhusband?”
“I don't have--” I saw the tripwire too late.
“I will give you my brother. You can take him.”
I'd really rather not. “Uh. You haven't asked him--”
“He needs a woman!” In truth, she may have meant he needed a wife (one and the same word in French), but it amuses me to think of her brother desperately hunting under rocks for a female of the species.
“I'm... I work with the church.”
“You're a nun?” [As previously noted, the French phrase always makes me want to defensively hiss that I am most certainly not a masseur. This did not endear her to me.]
Yes! Just say yes - for goodness sake, it may as well be true. “No. But kind of.”
“But what if someone really wants you?! Like, really just wants you?!”
“You know, I think we'll just have to cross that mythical bridge when we come to it. Welp, here's my stop. Buh-bye!”
In case you think I'm over-exaggerating these incidents, please know that I only describe the funny/odd ones. That's right – there are some I don't even mention.
But all this was driven out of my mind when I left for Rwanda the next day. Despite intending to go to bed at 9pm to head to the border at 5:45am with Grandma and Grandpa – I let my patent mistrust of Butters' work ethic get the better of me and tried desperately to finish formatting a document that we'd should've split (in my defence, perfectionism in writing, like many boring things, is not in Butters' long list of strengths). Thus, after not finishing the work, tossing in bed for four hours, slipping out before dawn, and waking my landlord to let me out of the building, we were on our way. I had a pleasant drive with Grandma, who took us to Kigali in style (by taxi). I tried to pick her brain about her family and work, but held back to a certain extent in remembrance of summer vacations with my extravagantly carsick mother. My heart squealed through every bend in the road that brought another misty view of Rwanda's thousand hills - terraced and carpeted in green – and the only fly in the ointment was having to stop at a toilet in a bar (while I was thankful to use the facilities without having to pay for the privilege, I quailed at the smell and the pitch black, windowless room, within which I couldn't see a toilet – and thus almost stepped into the hole in the ground).
“How was Rwanda?” asked one smug airport official that night (as I was on my way to Nairobi and then to Mumbai), clearly already knowing the answer.
“You'll come back.” It wasn't a question.
Yes. Yes, I will, drat you and your beautiful country and its lovely people.
The real panic set in when the friendly flight attendant on the first plane welcomed me on board: “Karibu!”
“S-starehe...” I murmured.
I was in Grade 11 again – we were in a science research group that I'd joined just for the overnight trips. We'd had to cross a suspension bridge, and I could see the water passing underneath. The bridge shuddered with the weight of excited feet. I hate heights. I love roller coasters. I never knew how I felt about swaying bridges until then. I forced myself halfway, but then lost all control of higher brain function – I blindly turned around, fought the current of students, and made it back to the other side. Does that make sense? No. Did it feel right? Yes.
I snapped back to the present. I couldn't run off the plane and back into Rwanda; I was coming back in two short weeks! What was wrong with me? If this was how I felt going on vacation, how was I ever going to leave next year?
Somewhere between figuring out that people weren't excitedly calling me a caribou and developing the ability to read Butters' mind (FYI, he said the schwing-g-g was a baby – I was so close), I've developed feelings.
I'd rather have worms.
I don't normally grow attached to people or places very easily – after the labour of moving away from a conservative Indian home, every other transition has come and gone fairly easily. But something tells me The Great Lakes Region won't let go.
I don't normally grow attached to people or places very easily – after the labour of moving away from a conservative Indian home, every other transition has come and gone fairly easily. But something tells me The Great Lakes Region won't let go.
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At the risk of sounding desperate - PLEASE WRITE TO ME!