The Difference

N2O has given up being worried about my civil status and instead wants to make sure I’m not going to be homeless when I go back to Canada.  I assured her that I have some money tucked away and would be able to find a job soon, but she seemed unconvinced.  She may have been trying to get me to start a business in order to name herself my partner, but I like to think she just thought I was a helpless little bird who couldn’t possibly make it in the world without Mobutu’s Debrouillez-vous speech.

Rain, Forest, Rain!

“You shouldn’t be so scared to die!”

I goggled at our accountant.

“We’re all going to die one day!  You can’t escape it,” she continued earnestly, mistaking my exasperated wrath for an epiphany that I wasn’t actually Peter Pan.

This was just one of the many, many times I’d been accused of being scared to go somewhere or do something when the reality is that I’m just too dumb and inexperienced to feel fear.  Instead I try to base my decisions less on the emotional roller coasters around me and more on the facts people share – assuming that they’re being honest about the information they have at their disposal.

This is a stupid assumption.

Mounting Doom – Part III

We arrived home, I settled down to scribble memories, and my friend had the first crack at a hot shower to remove the grit of Nyiragongo from her skin.  Around an hour after arriving, when I was stepping out of a steamy shower, running my hands fondly over the rock wall and mirrors of the dream bathroom, I heard the faint patter of rain outside. 

Mounting Doom – Part II

Finally packed with what I thought were far too many jackets and socks – as I knew for a fact that I would be an icicle at that altitude regardless of how many layers I wore – we headed off in a taxi towards the station and our tour.

Mounting Doom – Part I

Last week, I had a visit from an old friend who once had to fish me outof a lake and inexplicably still liked me.  We headed off on a boat to see a volcano because I am a masochist. 

After having battled our way through the port and into our seats, I was a little disappointed when the TV was fixed on a channel of gospel music, but decided to use the time to sleep.  This was mostly foiled when a pastor in a shiny grey suit strode in between our seats and began roaring that everything would be okay with God.  No one was overtly contradicting him, but he still felt the need to rail in order to increase our enthusiasm.  A few hapless women who halfheartedly muttered Amen or hummed a few bars of a given hymn he had chosen were immediately ordered to stand and sing or pray.  I had stealthily tried to unearth my camera to capture the moment, but gave up on this in case the man, like any predator, could sense movement. 

These Moments

There was a moment…  As I was sitting down to write the post, to relax from numbers, reports, French, suffering - there was a sharp crack! and I thought, Gunshots.

It was the first time I’d ever thought that.  I didn’t think of fireworks, of the chime of bracelets dancing, of the heat of cayenne and closeness.  I didn't smile at silvery memories of a childhood brilliant with magic spells and house colours.  I thought of violence.  And realized something had changed.  Certainly someone had.