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.
Added to this existing tension was the fact that we were staying in a convent without an internet connection (filled with honeymooning couples who apparently thought nuns provided just the right ambience). While I would usually approve of this location and disconnection, my priorities have recently shifted slightly (for which I still blame Butters).
Then I became violently ill – but hopefully my poker face was such that very few people recognised that I was both emphatically not pregnant and that my stomach was treating any and all food as a toddler would treat a bowlful of Cheerios. On a roller coaster.
Finally, thankfully after my presentation on leadership in French, my laptop suffered some sort of supercharge (in Rwanda, of all places, which usually boasts regular power), and completely refused to face the world.
I made it through with caffeine, fish, soup, caffeine, the grace of my teammates, caffeine, and the inspired guidance of our co-facilitators.
By the end of the retreat, I’d succeeded in being so late for everything (mainly because my bathroom and our conference room were in different time zones) that I was identified as having been corrupted by Congolese practices. Coming from an enthusiastic believer of African values (himself Congolese), I found this deeply ironic.
I was also congratulated for finally discovering my feminine side - because I passed around a few bowls of soup at lunch. My smile could have have cut glass, but at least I held on to it. Then my female teammates and I were further congratulated on not getting pregnant for over a year. I’d like to think this was a joke, but am forced to admit that it may have been an attempt to encourage and strengthen us for the last leg of our contract, when the temptation to burst into spontaneous pregnancy may be too overwhelming to bear. Some tribes here encourage girls to get pregnant before marriage – it is a sign of fertility – and the child is given to its grandparents as a ‘gift’ when its mother gets married. So perhaps we were being encouraged for not bowing to cultural pressures… Friendship is such a stretch sometimes.
Another special mention was when my African teammates made fun of Chinese and Korean names in a nasal accent. I love when we can join together in humour and the obvious fact that only Indian names are normal…
To be perfectly honest, I think the reason more people didn’t die that week was because I was just too weak from blood loss and dehydration.
Then, of course, there was the requisite insanity in the form of this country’s border crossings – where ink from a stamp is treated as more precious than gold and neither logic nor proof are welcome – during which time I wondered if I could request to be relocated to a permanent residence in Rwanda.
Eventually, we all made it to the real attraction of that week: Big Chicken’s big fat Congolese wedding! He’d been looking forward to it so much that everything from bananas to passionfruit to the word ‘presentation’ to upending a sugar bowl was made into a joke about sex while I silently wished I were a lesbian. His big day involved a rather feminist sermon at the district office for the civil ceremony, a church service wherein all the music contained the bride and groom’s names (as well as those of the guests) and the choir gave advice to the couple in song, a photoshoot by a lake, and a reception filled with gifts and laughs. Big Chicken, dashing and poker-faced, winked in our direction a few times, and the boys of our team received front-row seats to impromptu lap dances – though they were identified as cultural – sometimes by buxom women, sometimes by sweaty men in costume shorts with a dangling tiger tail. Butters, good sport that he is, did the bump and grind with both the men and women, and we ended the night with Kamatia Chini – my jam.
In a few days, we headed back home, this time with Butters in a state of violent illness – and apologizing for possibly having to vomit. This is important because he’d mocked me when I’d mentioned apologizing to Cinderella (with whom I’d shared a room at the convent) for my weak gurgles all night. However, with a consideration that is truly admirable – especially with regard to something he thinks is stupid, as he does most of my beliefs and practices - he remembered to excuse himself in advance for making the sounds that I hated (and, in all honesty, would probably have joined him in).
On the way, we again passed dedicated Rwandan construction workers who were doing a wonderful job of building a road through hill and dale. We were passed by a car with our city’s license plates and a black driver whom Captain promised us was probably American due to his terrible driving. We saw him again with blown-out tires, among a crowd of people, his little car facing us, where Captain stopped to ask how he was doing and gently answer his befuddled question of where our town lay.
It’s not just trauma that causes bizarre interpretations of events – on that trip, I was identified as being thinner than one of our teammates, which was an obvious lie. Later, I realized they had confused thinner with less curvaceous. My female teammates have hourglass figures – I am a blocky exception. I don’t even mind because, as my dearly departed grandmother once said: The Lord giveth and the Lord withholdeth. It’s not easy to channel Shakespeare in the rolled consonants of a South Indian language, but it was an effective life lesson disguised as criticism of my cup size.
It was with this idea of withholding in mind that I returned to a land in the grip of a long dry season.
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.
Added to this existing tension was the fact that we were staying in a convent without an internet connection (filled with honeymooning couples who apparently thought nuns provided just the right ambience). While I would usually approve of this location and disconnection, my priorities have recently shifted slightly (for which I still blame Butters).
Then I became violently ill – but hopefully my poker face was such that very few people recognised that I was both emphatically not pregnant and that my stomach was treating any and all food as a toddler would treat a bowlful of Cheerios. On a roller coaster.
Finally, thankfully after my presentation on leadership in French, my laptop suffered some sort of supercharge (in Rwanda, of all places, which usually boasts regular power), and completely refused to face the world.
I made it through with caffeine, fish, soup, caffeine, the grace of my teammates, caffeine, and the inspired guidance of our co-facilitators.
By the end of the retreat, I’d succeeded in being so late for everything (mainly because my bathroom and our conference room were in different time zones) that I was identified as having been corrupted by Congolese practices. Coming from an enthusiastic believer of African values (himself Congolese), I found this deeply ironic.
I was also congratulated for finally discovering my feminine side - because I passed around a few bowls of soup at lunch. My smile could have have cut glass, but at least I held on to it. Then my female teammates and I were further congratulated on not getting pregnant for over a year. I’d like to think this was a joke, but am forced to admit that it may have been an attempt to encourage and strengthen us for the last leg of our contract, when the temptation to burst into spontaneous pregnancy may be too overwhelming to bear. Some tribes here encourage girls to get pregnant before marriage – it is a sign of fertility – and the child is given to its grandparents as a ‘gift’ when its mother gets married. So perhaps we were being encouraged for not bowing to cultural pressures… Friendship is such a stretch sometimes.
Another special mention was when my African teammates made fun of Chinese and Korean names in a nasal accent. I love when we can join together in humour and the obvious fact that only Indian names are normal…
To be perfectly honest, I think the reason more people didn’t die that week was because I was just too weak from blood loss and dehydration.
Then, of course, there was the requisite insanity in the form of this country’s border crossings – where ink from a stamp is treated as more precious than gold and neither logic nor proof are welcome – during which time I wondered if I could request to be relocated to a permanent residence in Rwanda.
Eventually, we all made it to the real attraction of that week: Big Chicken’s big fat Congolese wedding! He’d been looking forward to it so much that everything from bananas to passionfruit to the word ‘presentation’ to upending a sugar bowl was made into a joke about sex while I silently wished I were a lesbian. His big day involved a rather feminist sermon at the district office for the civil ceremony, a church service wherein all the music contained the bride and groom’s names (as well as those of the guests) and the choir gave advice to the couple in song, a photoshoot by a lake, and a reception filled with gifts and laughs. Big Chicken, dashing and poker-faced, winked in our direction a few times, and the boys of our team received front-row seats to impromptu lap dances – though they were identified as cultural – sometimes by buxom women, sometimes by sweaty men in costume shorts with a dangling tiger tail. Butters, good sport that he is, did the bump and grind with both the men and women, and we ended the night with Kamatia Chini – my jam.
In a few days, we headed back home, this time with Butters in a state of violent illness – and apologizing for possibly having to vomit. This is important because he’d mocked me when I’d mentioned apologizing to Cinderella (with whom I’d shared a room at the convent) for my weak gurgles all night. However, with a consideration that is truly admirable – especially with regard to something he thinks is stupid, as he does most of my beliefs and practices - he remembered to excuse himself in advance for making the sounds that I hated (and, in all honesty, would probably have joined him in).
On the way, we again passed dedicated Rwandan construction workers who were doing a wonderful job of building a road through hill and dale. We were passed by a car with our city’s license plates and a black driver whom Captain promised us was probably American due to his terrible driving. We saw him again with blown-out tires, among a crowd of people, his little car facing us, where Captain stopped to ask how he was doing and gently answer his befuddled question of where our town lay.
It’s not just trauma that causes bizarre interpretations of events – on that trip, I was identified as being thinner than one of our teammates, which was an obvious lie. Later, I realized they had confused thinner with less curvaceous. My female teammates have hourglass figures – I am a blocky exception. I don’t even mind because, as my dearly departed grandmother once said: The Lord giveth and the Lord withholdeth. It’s not easy to channel Shakespeare in the rolled consonants of a South Indian language, but it was an effective life lesson disguised as criticism of my cup size.
It was with this idea of withholding in mind that I returned to a land in the grip of a long dry season.
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At the risk of sounding desperate - PLEASE WRITE TO ME!