Routine

You may have noticed a bit of a slow-down on Nayémbi lately. Faithfully, I still try to log in every few days, to think of something to say, or throw in a quote to conceal my lack of inspiration. But the truth is undeniable: I don’t have quite enough interesting material to keep the momentum going. Why? Probably because I am finally beginning to settle in, to leave behind me the times of almost-daily excitement, to fall into some sort of – dare I say it? – routine. A concept I used to abhor above all others, and a lifestyle I used to fear, but one which I now (temporarily perhaps) embrace, like an oasis of serenity after so many months of agitation. Leave me a few months to enjoy my novels and tennis, sunny brunches and outdoor movies in a friend's back yard.

The madness all around us continues of course, and is likely to get only more frenetic as the elections approach (they continue to be regularly postponed, seemingly for logistical rather than political reasons). But as I grow more accustomed to this astonishing country and its remarkable contradictions, I slowly lose my ability to provide a candid commentary; I witness scenes that would have sent my mind reeling just a few months ago, without even really noticing (or wanting to notice) them anymore.

And so I find myself walking down the road to the supermarket on Saturday, casually calling out “Buenos días!” to the Uruguayan troops in camouflage gear, bullet-proof vests, light blue UN caps and rather large guns (did I imagine the 1970s sunglasses?) who are standing at both ends of the street, protecting what? The supermarket?? Then I unceremoniously side-step a middle-aged man who must have lost his legs to polio when he was a toddler, judging by the dexterity with which he is busily shuffling along the pavement on his hands and stumps, his palms pushing against bright pink plastic flip-flops. I come to the front of the supermarket and am immediately surrounded by six or seven vendors, hoping to entice me with their colourful, plump vegetables from the market before I sell my soul to the Devil and allow myself to be tempted by air conditioning and uninspiring but hassle-free imported produce. Today it’s sunny, it’s the week-end, so I’m all smiles and benevolence. “Hey, I’m just here to buy some cereal,” I say, and have to laugh when a few of them excitedly claim that they can get me some, that if I would only just give them a minute they could get it right now.

On other days though, when I’m tired and hungry, when it’s late and I’ve only just come out of work, those same vendors can make me feel so depressingly claustrophobic as they crowd around the car, calling out, “Madame, madame!” over and over again. When I can’t back out of my cramped parking space because a couple of guys in wheelchairs (or the wooden tricycle-like contraptions people use as wheelchairs here) are blocking my way, asking for a bit of cash. They’re rarely aggressive, I must say, and the tiniest bill will usually make their faces light up with pleasure. But sometimes I’m too drained to give them even that.

In case anyone remembers, by the way, those kids who used our training centre as a classroom are now school-less, as of last Thursday. Temporarily, they say. Until the army accepts to move out of the neighbouring buildings they currently inhabit, so that one of them can be rehabilitated as a school with money from Belgium. Sure, like that’s going to happen any time soon, right?!

Sarcasm aside, I should also mention, finally, that I no longer have Internet access at home. With rare efficiency, the Internet company cut our connection on Friday at 5pm because we hadn't paid the bill – a bill which they brought to us on...Friday at 5pm. Maximum disruption, minimum logic. I almost added, “C’est le Congo”, but I’m in a good mood tonight, so I won’t admit defeat so easily.