Amos Lee's wistful lyrics tell a story of a changing neighborhood, an evolution of life as time passes, as money changes people's circumstances. He reflects "but sometimes, we forget what we got, who we are, who are are not."
We do forget what we've got, don't we. Or maybe we remember too much - and get wrapped up in these things we've got, forgetting (ignoring?) that across the globe, we are an anomaly. Yet we hold our belongings as a sense of pride, collecting more and taking inventory. Which easily feeds into us forgetting who we are, and who we are not - trading our true identities for ones we've crafted and built with our stuff, and have then faked others into believing.
I imagine what the lives of my colleagues - outside of our almost uncomfortably close work-life imbalance - might be like, and then start to have occasion to put the facts to the imaginings. I have created these pictures in my mind of how people here have grown up, based on what I see around me. I dare not ask where people buy their nice clothes - there is no Gap or Ben Sherman, but rather all I see are dilapidated market stalls, or roadside stations with clothing - sometimes new - in rice bags or laid out neatly on tarps, or young guys walking around the city carrying shoes or belts to sell to passersby. I am surprised when our vehicle stops by a colleague's family home to pick him up before heading to Kigutu - he lives behind a giant wall with a guarded gated entrance in an exclusive neighborhood. He was educated in France. He speaks three languages fluently. I am embarrassingly reminded of how important it is to me that people have the right image of me - the image I want them to have, that in some ways I've crafted - and this encounter, which scolds me about misperceptions I've created out of nothing, reminds me of how beyond my control that all is. As I type this, I am silently wincing, wondering why it matters at all.
As I watch life roll along here, and hear the new and mysterious sounds, smell the vaguely familiar smells, and feel my reactions to the chaos, wonder, danger, and energy around me progressively shift, I am also struck by this reminder, this truth that we do all have the same blood flow. Why do I feel that these people are so different from me? Is it this image I've created of who I am, which differs so vastly from who I think they are?
A day in the life of most Burundians does however tell the story that, while we do all have the same blood flow, the realities of our lives are, as a simple point of fact, vastly different. It's a stark reminder of what we've got - and in some ways, who we are and who we are not. And to me, in this context, "who we are not" is not a source of pride. I see my inner accusatory finger scolding me, imploring me to remember that at the end of the day, we are all people - a simple and undeniable (and beautiful) truth.
So without further ado, a small glimpse into a day in the life ...
The day starts with cooking breakfast:
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| cooking in our houses is done outside over open wood-burning embers, as in most households and restaurants |
a brisk walk
Errands fill the to-do list:
Swing by Home Depot to pick up some building materials for the weekend's home improvement project ....
Also need to pick up some underwear
Stop by the shoe store to feed the guilty pleasure ...
Drop some alterations off at the tailor ....
Quick trim at the salon
Out of phone credits, so a quick stop at the payphone to check messages ....
Also need to grab a case of bottled water.
Pick up a friend at the taxi stand
Have a nice lunch together at an old local stand-by.
Pick up the kids from day care (need the double stroller)
Traffic jam on the way home!
Whoops forgot to refill phone credits - stop by the corner shop ...
Now rushing home for the new furniture delivery!
Landscapers are there cutting the grass.
grass being cut by hand with a machete - the typical method
Finally at the end of the day, a moment to rest ... sunset.
In the chorus of the song, Amos Lee implores us: "... we got a chance, to make it right. Keep it loose, keep it tight." It's up to us to decide what's important and real, and what's simply our own fabrication for the sake of striving so determinedly for that American ideal of setting ourselves apart. Can we not just embrace that we've all got the same blood flow? This small realization makes me feel a sense of camaraderie with Leance who runs the shipping-container kiosk across the road from my Bujumbura home, and Pierre who washes my clothes, my dishes, and my bathroom. Even if I can't communicate much with them beyond greetings and gestures and smiles, at our core there is blood flow. And it does all flow the same way.
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