Sunday afternoon, my supposed day-off, was quite busy. I went to church for the first time since arriving in country. The service was in Mooré so I understood nothing. But the music was nice. My host brother, Richard, whom I call Dick, strapped plastic chairs to our bikes before we left. The church service was BYOChairs. I nearly crashed on the way to church when one of the legs of the chair got caught in the spokes of my rear wheel. I skidded to a stop and cussed out my brother, in English, for not knowing how to properly jimmy rig a chair onto the back of a bike. We both had a good laugh.
Having returned from church, I was tired and craved nothing other than a Sunday afternoon nap. I guess old habits die hard, even when on the other side of the world. After my nap, my host sister/aunt coaxed me into accompanying her to soccer practice. I don’t know how she managed this considering how much I hate soccer. [Clarification: I don’t hate soccer. I just suck at it and I hate things at which I suck]. During the scrimmage, I insisted that I be goalie. I was thankful for my decision as these girls were vicious. It must be explained that we were not playing on grass. Even describing the field as a cement parking lot would paint to soft of a picture. Half the girls were playing barefoot sliding to stop as if they were Nadal in a French Open final. I was more than content with my space in between the goalposts.
One instance summarizes more than just this isolated football experience. After a collision that left a smaller girl on the ground, the Venus Williams-esque counterpart of the collision said without missing a step, “C’est comme ca, c’est come ca, lèves-toi.” This literally translates “It is like this, it is like this, raise yourself up.” Clearly there was nothing the girl could have done to avoid, or win, the collision, but she was on the ground none the less.
I stood there comfortably in between my goalposts, in between wealth and opportunity, and the disparity between my reality and the reality of the girl on the ground was never more real.
Once we got back to the house, my family asked me how the football match was. My sister/aunt laughed saying I didn’t even play as I was only the goalie. In a sense she was right. I can live and work among the people here, but I will never be subject to the same rules. I can never play exactly the same “game”. I’m not sure I would want to. C’est comme ca.
