...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.
Knowing that one of these younger men had applied for the Seed program and thus could have been my housemate... Well. Best not go down that route. If he'd been successful, he would have money and contacts without feigning interest in me, I would see him as a brother, and neither of us would be in this situation. Besides, Captain and Carrottop would probably have vetoed the co-ed housing situation if I'd drooled during our meetings.
Speaking of strong, excellent, very brotherly housemates whom I wouldn't trade (and who may occasionally read this blog) - Butters' family arrived this weekend and are staying a few minutes away at the home of BFG and Carrottop. Butters keeps trying to tell me that they've died and carefully steers them far away from me, but I assume he's happy they're here and I'm happy that he's happy.
I'm also happy I got to share pakoras with them – something in me balked at the thought of letting an 'Auntie' and an 'Uncle' walk into and out of my house without at least offering snacks and tea. One out of two isn't bad, especially as they'd just stopped by on the way to dinner – at least my mom wouldn't disown me.
I had a brief inner struggle wherein I wondered why I had no such consideration for my teammates; I know hospitality is valued here, but I always have a hard time wanting to be hospitable. A part of me wondered whether it was because they were white and I was feeding into the cultural inferiority complex that rears in many Indians and Africans faced with white people.
I don't think so. I've had no problem serving friends I've wanted to invite over. I think I have a problem conforming to the social strictures that dictate that a woman's place is in the kitchen when guests arrive. Because Butters' parents would be kind and friendly regardless of my behaviour, I wanted to present myself well. Many people here (and in India), on the other hand, expect certain behaviour to form the basis for my moral character, marriage prospects, and eulogy. In this city, near-strangers ask where I live and want to follow me home in the expectation that I should serve them. So I resist. And I feel our teammates could do with the sight of Butters being a good host while I hide in my room or sit on the couch. Maybe this is a small, petty battle that reflects more poorly on me than it does showcase feminism, but I choose it. In the same way, I also choose to correct the housemaids downstairs when they ask if I am washing my brother's clothes (apparently, stating that you are siblings is the only way to rule out hanky panky, and since Butters and I are both white...).
No, I shout down from the fourth floor balcony, Butters can da--rn his own dirty socks.
This 'ideal' of hospitality even extends to sharing groceries, which is a vile practice. Going to the market requires a Herculean girding of the loins and the appearance of a confident black woman who will take no nonsense. I am none of those things, but I was born for the stage and benzodiazepines. So when I get back to work after having haggled for the best deals and dragged my spoils home under the burning sun, the last thing I want is someone digging through them.
Why is this done? Who thought this was the best way to prove familial devotion? It is a deeply efficient way to leave one party with less food and money and a burning desire to smack the scavenger upside the head. Particularly when they're taking green chillies which are expensive and too spicy for you anyway, you obstinate stoat.
Unfortunately, I was distracted by a hilarious conversation and only found the happy thief after the fact.
“Oh, you Indians and your spices! I was with MONUSCO and we were on a mission in the field and I ate the food and the big need and the big problem and I had to idea and I couldn't and the big need and my intestines.”
After some hysterical laughter on my part, I deciphered that this man had constipation or possibly hemorrhoids after going on a field mission with the Indian or Pakistani MONUSCO troops (we all look the same to... everyone). He had been encouraged to press his suit as one of the few singles in my office, so hopefully the reminder of this harrowing experience with brown people has discouraged him. All's well that ends well – he is my height when I am seated and it would never have worked between us. Never. Ever.
As I was thinking about this and chuckling on my way home from work, I was punched in the solar plexus. Winded, I turned to give my attacker a very dirty look before I died, and saw a young man who literally looked sick at what he'd accidentally done. He apologized; I gave him a ghastly smile and a thumbs up and berated myself for not having a 6-pack.
With this image of the sort of person I am fixed in your mind, I want you to imagine what I would do when faced with the possible interest of cute guy who has invited himself into my home (I confess, I wasn't as discouraging as I could have been). Admittedly, he'd first invited me to see a field a few months before (not a euphemism, I assume), but I'd not planned to reciprocate – I have imaginary situational asthma - and general evasion of that plan seemed to signal the end of his interest. This allowed me to let down my guard enough that when he suddenly started outlining what a good husband and father he'd make in my kitchen (thankfully in jest and not channeling Ted Bundy), I could do nothing but cackle inanely and pray for angelic intervention.
Just then, Timbit staged one of her rare excursions outside her room, and the spotlight was turned; I hope the existence of a proper white girl will refocus the attentions of this man (and those of his friend - I think they have an ongoing bet). Timbit will be safe because she won't often have cause to see him (unless she wants to). I mean, I'll be a little disappointed, but happier than if I'd had to unearth the real intentions of this friendly, good-looking man who seems to want everything from English lessons, to a good Christian wife, to a foreign passport (and his friend wants earphones). I've already offered to help with the part of his vision that I can handle - he's going to have to chat up another tree for the rest.
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.
Knowing that one of these younger men had applied for the Seed program and thus could have been my housemate... Well. Best not go down that route. If he'd been successful, he would have money and contacts without feigning interest in me, I would see him as a brother, and neither of us would be in this situation. Besides, Captain and Carrottop would probably have vetoed the co-ed housing situation if I'd drooled during our meetings.
Speaking of strong, excellent, very brotherly housemates whom I wouldn't trade (and who may occasionally read this blog) - Butters' family arrived this weekend and are staying a few minutes away at the home of BFG and Carrottop. Butters keeps trying to tell me that they've died and carefully steers them far away from me, but I assume he's happy they're here and I'm happy that he's happy.
I'm also happy I got to share pakoras with them – something in me balked at the thought of letting an 'Auntie' and an 'Uncle' walk into and out of my house without at least offering snacks and tea. One out of two isn't bad, especially as they'd just stopped by on the way to dinner – at least my mom wouldn't disown me.
I had a brief inner struggle wherein I wondered why I had no such consideration for my teammates; I know hospitality is valued here, but I always have a hard time wanting to be hospitable. A part of me wondered whether it was because they were white and I was feeding into the cultural inferiority complex that rears in many Indians and Africans faced with white people.
I don't think so. I've had no problem serving friends I've wanted to invite over. I think I have a problem conforming to the social strictures that dictate that a woman's place is in the kitchen when guests arrive. Because Butters' parents would be kind and friendly regardless of my behaviour, I wanted to present myself well. Many people here (and in India), on the other hand, expect certain behaviour to form the basis for my moral character, marriage prospects, and eulogy. In this city, near-strangers ask where I live and want to follow me home in the expectation that I should serve them. So I resist. And I feel our teammates could do with the sight of Butters being a good host while I hide in my room or sit on the couch. Maybe this is a small, petty battle that reflects more poorly on me than it does showcase feminism, but I choose it. In the same way, I also choose to correct the housemaids downstairs when they ask if I am washing my brother's clothes (apparently, stating that you are siblings is the only way to rule out hanky panky, and since Butters and I are both white...).
No, I shout down from the fourth floor balcony, Butters can da--rn his own dirty socks.
This 'ideal' of hospitality even extends to sharing groceries, which is a vile practice. Going to the market requires a Herculean girding of the loins and the appearance of a confident black woman who will take no nonsense. I am none of those things, but I was born for the stage and benzodiazepines. So when I get back to work after having haggled for the best deals and dragged my spoils home under the burning sun, the last thing I want is someone digging through them.
Why is this done? Who thought this was the best way to prove familial devotion? It is a deeply efficient way to leave one party with less food and money and a burning desire to smack the scavenger upside the head. Particularly when they're taking green chillies which are expensive and too spicy for you anyway, you obstinate stoat.
Unfortunately, I was distracted by a hilarious conversation and only found the happy thief after the fact.
“Oh, you Indians and your spices! I was with MONUSCO and we were on a mission in the field and I ate the food and the big need and the big problem and I had to idea and I couldn't and the big need and my intestines.”
After some hysterical laughter on my part, I deciphered that this man had constipation or possibly hemorrhoids after going on a field mission with the Indian or Pakistani MONUSCO troops (we all look the same to... everyone). He had been encouraged to press his suit as one of the few singles in my office, so hopefully the reminder of this harrowing experience with brown people has discouraged him. All's well that ends well – he is my height when I am seated and it would never have worked between us. Never. Ever.
As I was thinking about this and chuckling on my way home from work, I was punched in the solar plexus. Winded, I turned to give my attacker a very dirty look before I died, and saw a young man who literally looked sick at what he'd accidentally done. He apologized; I gave him a ghastly smile and a thumbs up and berated myself for not having a 6-pack.
With this image of the sort of person I am fixed in your mind, I want you to imagine what I would do when faced with the possible interest of cute guy who has invited himself into my home (I confess, I wasn't as discouraging as I could have been). Admittedly, he'd first invited me to see a field a few months before (not a euphemism, I assume), but I'd not planned to reciprocate – I have imaginary situational asthma - and general evasion of that plan seemed to signal the end of his interest. This allowed me to let down my guard enough that when he suddenly started outlining what a good husband and father he'd make in my kitchen (thankfully in jest and not channeling Ted Bundy), I could do nothing but cackle inanely and pray for angelic intervention.
Just then, Timbit staged one of her rare excursions outside her room, and the spotlight was turned; I hope the existence of a proper white girl will refocus the attentions of this man (and those of his friend - I think they have an ongoing bet). Timbit will be safe because she won't often have cause to see him (unless she wants to). I mean, I'll be a little disappointed, but happier than if I'd had to unearth the real intentions of this friendly, good-looking man who seems to want everything from English lessons, to a good Christian wife, to a foreign passport (and his friend wants earphones). I've already offered to help with the part of his vision that I can handle - he's going to have to chat up another tree for the rest.
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