"You made us wash our hands."

I have been up in Burasira (photo is of view) for the weekend visiting Jodi, an MCC volunteer, and soaking up the opportunity to attend daily mass at the grand seminary there and taking some time to read and relax. I really felt as if I had entered a bird sanctuary on my first walk. A number of brightly coloured birds flitted around me, chirping cheerfully, as if to invite me to slow down and find some joy here. The pace of this internship has been constant as I have struggled with integrating the images of poverty and the cultural adjustments, learning the basic elements of four new languages (French, Kiswahili, Kirundi, and Kinyarwanda), and trying to find some balance as an introvert who has easily met over 100 people, many who expect me to remember their names. I cut myself a lot of slack so don’t worry!! I am not too hard on myself in this regard.
I was able to reflect a little more on the workshop that I gave for the Mi-Parec Staff and having checked out one of the comments that was made during the evaluation feel more comfortable with how things went. One participant told me that I had made them wash their hands. I knew the comment was related to a hand washing ceremony that is done in Burundi after a death but I was not totally clear on the context so I asked today when I returned. Because the graves are dug by some of those in attendance, it is necessary to wash one’s hands afterwards. It also symbolizes the end of the life, perhaps initiating the beginning of closure. The staff seemed quite happy to see me and welcomed me back. In fact, three had come up to Burasira to fetch me so that I would not have to take public transport back down the winding dirt road, filled with crate-sized potholes. After checking in, I found that one woman was fine but that the other had had dreams about her mother and was deeply missing her but I still stand by my assessment that this type of thing is a step forward on the grief journey.
The discussion moved on to what I thought about Burundi. Bridget married a Burundian at the end of last year so the question came up as to whether I might also want to marry one. I laughingly said yes and made an instant friendship with my three travel mates. When I asked about their marital status, all were married with children. One woman responded with yes, and four. I asked in French if she meant four husbands or four children. After a startled pause, great gales of laughter arose, followed by a “high five” like gesture of hand slapping and holding. I had done well in making my joke. Of course, my response about a Burundian husband got me in trouble when one of my travel mates brought her brother to meet me today. Trouble is, he looked 20 years old. I love Africans who think I am 23 and cannot believe I am over 40. Of course, part of their disbelief is that I have already surpassed the mean age of survival here—most people don’t live much beyond 40. Hence the grieving process is carried out often and while people are still quite young. I have given thanks for each year of my life for quite some time now, but now I do feel privileged that I am “middle-aged” and not near the end of my life.
A lot of hand washing goes on here by people who do not get to live long. This weekend after Sunday mass several people stopped in to see Jodi with a variety of ailments though it was my antibacterial ointment we used for a burn, a scrape and a cut toe. I held a baby in my arms whose mother had already lost three infants due to disease and this one looked like he had the same unidentified malady. We sent her off with some money to a nearby hospital. I am not sure that I will know the end of that story but I sure hope it has a happier one as most people simply cannot afford healthcare and so do not seek it. Perhaps having been given the means, a solution was found. One can only hope.