Exam period. Worse for teachers than students, I swear. Though, it may have something to do with my water being more or less off for almost a week now. That means no laundry, sparing showers, frugal cooking, and absolutely no unnecessary cleaning (so much for my mop twice a week plan). My first plan of action (because in my third month I am being proactive, no more moping, no more vegging out to Greys) was to abandon ship. First, I went to Claire’s to see how she managed to get a cold in our 70 degree winter. She didn’t have much water either, but we did make a delicious dinner, enjoy fast-paced English conversation and the next day it was off to Butare for a concert. (Who said avoidance doesn’t solve problems?)
The “concert” was in fact a four hour (and that’s just because we were an hour late – it was six for the people who got their early for seats) awards show, too crowded for us to sit (New Havenites, think Toads floor Saturday night, with intermittent music, no dancing and not a deodorant-user in sight – well except for me and Claire). But we did get to see all the big names in Rwandan music: Rafiki (yes, like the baboon in the Lion King), Ryder Man (or Ride the Man? I haven’t gotten a straight answer from anyone on spelling), the Ben, Miss Jo Jo… Seeing them was pretty cool (esp when I thought about how impressed all my students would be). Unfortunately, we didn’t really see them perform because, in Rwanda, a performance only amounts to lip syncing. (One group did try to really sing, but the mikes weren’t set up properly so all we could hear were the instruments.) Still, how many first time visitors to the States get to go to the Grammys? Ok, this was more like the Teen Choice Awards, but still.
Day three of my No Water tour, brought me back home, hopeful and wanting a shower. No such luck. Instead of being surprised by dependably running water, I met a kitchen full of fruit flies, with a pot full of rotten beans (the sisters insisted on giving me pre-cooked beans – an army’s supply – unable to believe I could manage on my own), red-brown beans gone green-gray with mold. Delicious. Once I cleaned out the beans and the flies followed, the buzzing in my kitchen continued. And so we come to my newest tenant: a wasp, whose name is too profane to type in public text (a six letter word that springs to mind when faced with a confounding person… rhymes with sucker). Before you roll your eyes and say I’m being melodramatic, this is an African wasp, at least two inches in diameter (both body length and wing span, each at least two inches), who knows what kind of venom it carries in its clearly-visible-from-afar stinger? Also, I have already chased this wasp out of my kitchen once, tearing down its nest (still at the foundation stage, luckily) with my floor squeegee. So, we have a history. So there was some yelling involved (no water, bean rot and bugs would put anyone over the top), profanities which I seriously hope my good Christian neighbors next door didn’t hear or understand. But the yelling and cursing didn’t help (while it did make me feel better), the wasp is still there, and we resentfully share the kitchen like divorced parents share kids – I get the sink area and the shelves, but if I head towards the back corner, well then I’m fair game and all (as in life, mobility, happiness) could be lost. So, friends, pray for me. To have patience, and water, and fewer bugs.
[On the fourth day, water came. It was a brief respite, but enough to wash some dishes and take a shower. The next day the torrents of rain finally fell, but thanks to my shower the day before, I kept my clothes on and stayed inside. The bean-mold pot is still in the middle of my courtyard – I’m hoping a few days of equatorial sun will sterilize what didn’t scrape off so I can wash it without gagging.]
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