Everydays

Disclaimer!
The below only reflects my personal views, they should under no circumstances be considered as those of my employer, my neighbour, my flatmate, the guard, or the market lady. And they are not trying to be an exhaustive, correct, un-biased description of the local people, those who work here, their friends or against-workers. I just tell what I see, and how I see it.


Other disclaimer: some of you may not find some of the stories brand new or unheard of. It's because some of you readers are occasionally listeners as well, and sometimes I need to feed you with witty stories between two lectures on the ebola.


So. I knew from the beginning that I would be a visible minority here, but I didn't expect the children on the street calling me mzungu (white person) every time walk by. First I thought they tell me in case I didn't notice, but later I learned that it's just their way of addressing me, they actually have something to say after that. Most of the time they probably just don't understand why I'm walking on the street when I could be in my white jeep as usual. Or they can't quite figure out why I came here, at all, but I can't really tell them that it's a bit like it was on the Camino, when somebody pulled the most cliché question of all Northern Spain "why are you walking to Santiago?”, only to receive the most cliché answer of all Northern Spain "I hope I will know by the time I get there”. I couldn't possibly say this all in swahili anyway.
Another disclaimer: anybody who can't stand my naive blond girl ways, should stop reading right now. Those who want to prove me narrow-minded and un-PC, … well, I haven't shared this blog with them :)
Thing is, it's a bit embarassing now, but it was a surprise to me when I first saw a wedding procession here. I don't know what I was expecting, I probably just didn't think about it at all, but that one Saturday when I saw the cars with the ribbons and all that jazz, I was puzzled that hey! people get married here too! I never considered that Goma being a non-family duty station for the internationals doesn't really stop the people actually living here having a family.
After that, the wake after a death wasn't that much of a surprise. Actually, I think I accepted it more easily that people also die here. There was even something funny in it. Not in the fact that people die, but in that my colleague couldn't really sleep for four days (nights), because the priest of the neighbouring church passed away and the wake lasted four days. Nights, actually. With music and singing. And loudspeakers.

The other day I was contemplating on... school uniforms. I often see children going to or coming from school, and I have noticed that depending on the schoo the attend, they have skirts and trousers of different colours. The girls are always in skirts, but the boys are not always in trousers. I've been trying to come up with some pattern to explain this, like age or height, but then I decided that the mothers must be making the uniforms at home, and it depends on their skills. Skirts are a lot easier to produce than nice fitted trousers. I think.   

Dedicated to Gina. And inspired by Shari.

When I write these posts, I often think about Kadri, the Estonian girl on my Camino. For a while I thought she was Finnish, because of the way she spoke English, and now I had to think twice whether her name wasn't Siri instead. So much for not working along stereotypes. She had a blog she started for her family and friends at home, about her experiences on the Way, but soon she decided to stop posting. She told me it worked against every purpose the whole walk may have had, because she spent all her time thinking what she would write about and how she would phrase what she had to say to make it sound interesting and smart and witty. It's a bit like the constant urge of ou r times to take pictures of moments and events and places instead of just being present in them.
Yes, I also kept sort of a diary with notes. But my notes were mainly about songs that played in my head. So the day we decided to ditch the (relatively, you stop being picky fast in such conditions) hot Irish guy and take the bus to León, I was humming Gina dreams of running away and then the following lines in the unique gibberish every decent Hungarian kid used all through the '90s when singing along Anglo-Saxon hits. What a discovery it was when we understood what those songs meant. And very often, what a disappointment as well.
What I'm trying to say is that I often feel a bit like that: I collect and store every impression and experience with the mental note that this would have to figure in my next blog entry or witty facebook post. And for the time being, I quite like this way of looking at life. Some of you told me that if nothing else, this year is going to be a good opportunity for soul-searching, for finding out who I am, who I want to be and other Big Answers to Big Questions. Thing is, I kinda like who I am, and if nothing else, this all is getting me closer to who I may want to be. Which is, as you all know, a drunk writer in Spain.

Sunday morning

The average one
The average Sunday morning starts on the average Saturday evening, when we gather at somebody's place who has a kitchen bigger than mine and thus can cook for more than two people. It also often means that somebody came back from somewhere where good quality meat or other goodies were available and now wants to share their joy and meat. Yesterday it manifested in some lamb from Kinshasa. Plus my flatmate was driving so I could afford to make good friends with a sparkling wine named Jacqueline. Jacqueline is a good girl.
Average Saturday evening means that you eat at somebody else's place, so you get home last. At least last among those in the apartment building having a car. This is a bit iof a problem because there are too many cars and not enough parking space, so if I park last the evening, nobody else can go anywhere afterwards, and for sure I will not be the first one willing to leave on Sunday morning. So the guard comes upstairs and bangs on the door until I get up, go downstairs, let the other car leave and park mine back. This usually happens between eight and half past eight. Luckily today the upstairs neighbour decided to destroy his entire flat as early as 7, so I was up anyway. Although, he probably heard my thoughts contemplating that I should kill him, because he paused his hammering until eight. I appreciated that.

The other thing that may be important to know is that on weekends you never know when you can cook or shower, because as long as there is daylight, they won't turn on the generator, even if the electricity cuts. I know, I don't need light for showering, but thing is that water doesn't come up to the second floor without electricity, and it just drips really sadly from the tap like it has prostate problems.

And more pictures

Pictures from the weekend