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.
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.
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