What Happened – Part II

This is a detriment to anyone's
mental health

On that same field visit, I faced a room of around 20 seniors who had been abandoned by their families for having outlived their usefulness.  At the end of my scattered speech about strength, catharsis, and encouragement in togetherness (all translated into Maashi and possibly stalagmites, capitalism, and encephalopathy in Togo), and much ululation and clapping, I prepared to leave and wondered who was supposed to be treating whom.  At the door, I was halted by a decrepit old woman with her feet wrapped in square blocks of what looked like dinner napkins.  After speaking forcefully to my translator, she turned to me, grasped my hand with unexpected strength, and made a speech that ended with pointing firmly at her cheekbone.  As I have been eating deep-fried sweet bread for quite some time now, I decided she must be calling me out on my skincare routine.  I opened my mouth to answer in Swahili--

“She’s thanking you for coming.  And she’s telling you she’s blind.”

I closed my mouth.

And continued to keep it mainly closed as we bribed the director of the health zone to let us bring mental health care services at a local level.  Despite continuous remonstrations against the nurses and community leaders in his zone for not continuing the work of the last project (due to the lack of payment), the director himself apparently would not help us until he’d received his share.  I listened to my colleague explaining this to me.  As I’d listened when I learned that we paid warlords in resources in order to help the people they oppressed.  And I listened.

“The foreigners want to do so much, but they just don’t bring enough money!  Why do they want to do so much?!  They should choose a smaller area, less people!”

“Yes, in order to do a good job!”  This came from the provincial inspector. 

I stared at him, this man who worked for the state, which should have been paying its own damn doctors and nurses.  And I listened.

“People need money to work!” he continued.  “They can’t just do it for free!  You really should talk to your donors,” he said, turning to my colleague, who agreed.

“But we’re not asking them to do more work,” I interjected through gritted teeth that looked like a smile.  “We’re just asking them to report mental health cases, refer them to our psychologists, and then continue to do that even when the project is finished.”

“Even one more form is extra work,” I was told firmly. 

Which is how we, as a group, both deplored the fact that people wouldn’t work without extra incentive (even when the work provided better care for patients – what a shame!) and offered an incentive without which the work would not begin.

…It’s a wonder that I’m so cynical and angry all the time, or why I have a hard time understanding people…

Speaking of rats, this was an exciting find for my friend and
his children at home

On the other hand, I did have some great conversation with my colleagues, who disagreed with me on all these issues, but were happy to discuss everything from politics to tribalism to magic.

“My friend told me that people think Indians are sorcerers – hah--”

“Yeah, like, 90% are.”

“--aa-excuse me?!”

“Well, you might be saved because you’re a Christian.”

“Might be?!”

Which sparked a lively debate on the life and times of kimbilikiti – a man who needed to be appeased with blood and could make trees talk.  I tried to explain about group psychology, fear, and ventriloquism, but when the local militia apparently has an Asterix-like potion (which comes with a list of Thou shalt nots that guarantee immunity from bullets… as long as you, say, never think of women), there’s nothing that I (as a believer of a big bearded guy in the sky) can add to the conversation.

But our driver (being from a magical tribe himself) clearly decided I wasn’t much good as a sorceress, as he invited me to his house to meet his wife and growing family of 10 children in a last-ditch effort to convince me that God wanted us to ‘fill the earth.’  Only three were at home, one shyer the next, and the shyest still in the womb.  I had to climb crumbling rocks and stairs-that-weren’t to reach two very grimy children, a very happy old man, and a very tired mother, who graciously invited me into their tiny, gleaming living room.  Hunting desperately for a topic other than birth control, I blurted that I couldn’t see any wedding pictures.

In retrospect, a half-hour later, this was a bad move.  In Congo, there are at least four wedding ceremonies: the presentation of the dowry, the civil service, the religious service, and the reception.  I am currently defending my right to 0-2 of these services (I plan to casually introduce the topic of a hysterectomy when he actually proposes), and the heavily pregnant woman handing me one stack of sepia photos after another was not helping the prosecution’s case. 

When we finally escaped, I was firmer than ever in my certainty that more than three children would kill me dead, and just wanted to be in my blissfully silent office with my computer. 

On our compound, our cleaner greeted me as usual in her conception of English, which reminded me that to locals I sound like a choking goat.

“Ow-a-uu?”
“I’m fine - thanks.”

She looked at me encouragingly.  C'mon!  You can do it!

“…And how are you,” I finished dutifully.

“Iym-fyi.”

“It’s hot!” I continued, because hope springs eternal.

“It twat!”

“IT’SSS – HOTTT!”

“OHH YESHH!”

I have no idea where that came from, but then this is basically my reaction to most things that happen here. 

Part I