ramblings both physical and verbal

Warning: this post contains implied swearwords. I’m warning you because I realize that not everyone thinks, as I do, that Jesus probably enjoyed an occasional vulgarity, too.

I just missed a mosquito that was in the act of biting me. One more pest lives to bite someone else. Or more likely, to bite me again in a few minutes.

Every day, I get massively depressed while sitting trapped in the training room. It’s hot (stupid metal roof with no ceiling) and boring (stupid not actually learning anything), and I get very agitated by the end of the day. But then, ‘round about five p.m., we are released into the world, and by the time I go to bed, I’m enamored with everything again. If I could capture the best of today in one scene, it would be this:

Walking up the road toward the shops, I saw a motorbike coming toward me. For one brief moment, as it passed, I saw one of my colleagues, the one with the widest, biggest smile, peering out from behind the driver, beaming at me and trying to wave despite all the packages in his hands.

After that, all the world seemed well. I walked to town with another (Southern Sudanese) colleague I met on the way, talking about whether he has noticed the fact of the white people occupying all the top positions in his organization (he has, of course; everyone I’ve asked so far – about ten people – has noticed). This conversation led me to two conclusions: one about a concept paper I can write that might help with at least the “boring training” aspect, and one about the book that I need to write someday, which is now tentatively titled, “How Not to be an A%$hole when You Go to Africa.” (Subtitle: If You Must Be an A*&hole, Stay in Your Own Country.) It will begin with a brief self-test, your responses to which will determine into which of the following categories you fit:

1. Stay the *$&# away from this continent. Do not move from your current location; someone is on the way to revoke your passport.
2. Serious concerns exist about inflicting you on any other country. Please stick to England; they are used to boorish Americans and anyway there are Starbucks in London.
3. Your travel is contingent upon certain conditions. Please read this book, read some more books, meet some actual Africans, and then vow to keep your mouth shut for the duration of your time on the continent. Please note: final approval of your travel depends on the results of the post-test at the end of this book.
4. Enjoy your stay in Africa.

Ideally, my colleague and I concluded, there would be an extensive interview before white people are allowed in Africa. People from the country you wanted to visit would ask you questions designed to determine the level of cultural superiority you feel, as well as your willingness to see the good in things. Only upon that panel’s approval would you be allowed a visa.

Then I realized that I’d better start back if I didn’t want to walk in the pitch dark, so we parted ways. I walked back, in mostly companionable silence, with a short, stout man named Joseph, who somehow fell into step with me as I was turning around for the return walk, and introduced himself. (He wants to go to America and marry an American, but I just nodded and smiled.) He shook my hand and said goodbye when I stopped to buy some toilet paper, and then some of what I thought were lemons but turned out to be other strange yellow wrinkled fruits that I didn’t want so I didn’t buy them, and then a bottle of mango drink. I knew from previous experience that the mango drink was one Sudanese pound, and there were women crowded around the stall, so I had one of those classic duka interchanges with the guy leaning against the wall behind. Reaching in from the side, I put my hand on the bottle and lifted my eyebrows at him. Without moving, he held up one finger. I pulled out a pound and handed it over to him, then took the bottle. (Then his friend said, “Where is mine? You can’t buy one for me today?” and I had to laugh and say, “Next time, next time.")

Not long before I got back to the compound, there was a little boy standing in a doorway. He called to me. “Kawadja!” I turned, smiled, and waved. “Kawadja!” he said, “Kawadja!” I smiled, but it wasn’t enough. “Kawadja! Kawadja!” I turned again, and waved again. “Kawadja!” I finally turned and waved a third time, but even as I passed out of sight, I could hear him calling hopefully behind me, just in case I might turn again. “Kawadja!”