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.
Can I get an amen.
In the sudden silence after his strident request, wherein I feigned a
deep coma and everyone else wished they’d had my sense, the pastor waited. Sounding like a chain letter from my high
school days, he promised that God would bless whoever donated freely and that
he, personally, would ensure this through prayer. Eventually, out of sheer embarrassment (which
seemed foreign to the pastor himself), I believe some women contributed (I was
too busy sleeping). Other passengers
were encouraged to clap for them and the pastor probably prayed that they
received a blessing equivalent to their contribution – of course, they wouldn’t
receive their money back if their blessing was missing or damaged, but I’m sure
something could be worked out if they called St. Peter at tech support.
After this, when our immediate neighbours were occupied with my pretty
white friend (everyone should have one of them – they’re so convenient),
management suddenly decided to change the channel from praise and worship to
sexy music videos. My friend, a
level-headed Christian, played intelligent games on her tablet while I watched
2-minute clips of uniformed students passing notes in class, bursting into
twerking, being whipped by the teacher, ending up in bed where the guy holds up
a badly written poster saying he wants to cook for his little high school
sweetheart, then setting a plate of foufou
before her, within which she finds a ring!
Oh la la.
I was utterly enthralled by the bulging women and the plotlines that
varied from complex (as the one described above) to basic sex, but I did tear
myself away every so often to have wonderfully rational conversations with my
friend, which I was soon to learn is a very Dutch trait.
She informed me that relationships and guys were mainly stupid and that
life was absolutely fine single, so why go through the hassle?
I fell in love with her ideals (which
used to be my own damn ideals until I was worn down by this entire country
asking me why I didn’t want to be feminine) and wondered how I came to be sharing a home with a lunatic
instead of a normal person who could encourage me to continue to believe that I
was always right.
There’s probably some reason God did this.
We had our share of laughs when we noticed that one of the men next to
us on the boat was industriously talking into the back of his phone, and when
we were asked if we were twins on the streets of Goma. This is the only country in which I - a
distinctly Indian woman with a large nose, nose ring, dark hair, dark skin,
dark eyes, and large amounts of dark eyeliner – have also been identified as
Chinese, Norwegian, American, and Dutch.
Personality-wise, I wish I could be Dutch – I learned on this trip that they
are direct, independent, lovely people.
We were staying at a house rented by a Dutch couple who worked with the
UN; when I heard the wife say, “Yes, well, that is stupid,” to one of our plans
without a trace of anger, pride, or distaste, I decided I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.
Another reason I wanted to be adopted by this dynamic young couple was
that their house was surrounded by a lovely garden and almost always had power
and water in the dry season – I attribute this to the wife’s incredible
organization and drive in viewing 25 houses in a month before deciding on this
enclosed Eden. Carrottop, who usually
doesn’t lie to me, recently grievously hurt me with her insistence that no such
paradise exists in the Congo. I am now
forced to accept that she is not as omniscient as she appears.
I win.
The best part was stepping into their warmly lighted bathroom that
looked like a page from… some homemaking magazine that I wouldn’t be caught
dead reading. There was a rock wall
separating a hot shower from the rest of the room and I only just kept from begging
to rent their bathroom for the next six months.
You’d understand this level of desperation if you lived in Bukavu in the
dry season with our shower apparatus – the one time I tried using it, I laughed
so hard I nearly fell into our toilet.
Something about the way the fixture reluctantly dripped on my collarbone
and the thought of Butters patiently standing under this dribble of blessing
was too much for me to take.
As our home now boasts a single awkward, framed picture of the three of
us during worship at a local church – donated by a friend and hung on a window
by the industrious Phoenix after we kept shunting it off various chairs and
tables – seeing a beautifully decorated home made me long for my own. I’m not sure that it would be any less
Spartan than the one we live in now, but at least I wouldn’t feel guilty for
avoiding the scattered cutlery that line our counter, sink, and dusty drying
rack.
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At the risk of sounding desperate - PLEASE WRITE TO ME!