Last week I was at a party–or, rather, a graduation celebration for a typing course. That’s right. Huge stereo speakers, a DJ, brouchettes everywhere, lots of drinks….to celebrate a typing class. It was, some of these newly-certified typists said, the best day of their lives.
And indeed, it was a pretty awesome party. The music and dancing was fun, but the thing that made it special was the vibe. There was some kind of special bond between these people, of all education levels and professions (or, for that matter, employment status), having spent a few weeks together learning how to hit the ‘g’ without looking at their fingers.
The friendships made were so special that the Rwandans decided they wanted to do a cacahuete–I don’t even know if that’s the right verb for this. You write everyone’s name on a strip of paper, mix them up, and everyone draws a name. It’s a secret, and you all meet at a given date and then you give your cacahuete a gift.
But what kind of gift? My cacahuete is a young man. It’s hard enough to be a girl and buy a gift for a boy, but in this country, where I am getting a bit old to be unmarried, and where marriage proposals to mzungus are as common as banana trees, what can I possibly offer that will exude friendship but nothing more?
Eh…let’s be honest. Forget cultural appropriateness or trying to avoid becoming engaged. I’m really just worried I’ll pick out something stupid. I mean, I can’t even pick out gifts for myself. I wanted a Babysitter’s Club sleeping bag for Christmas one year, for God’s sake.
an extra pair of binoculars? ;>