The dress...it is here!

Yes, the dress.

Last week I completed my first foray into the world of fitted, made-for-you clothing in Rwanda, and to tell the truth I was left a little bit dazed by the venture, however, still ready for more.  I was a little bit knocked-for-six as who knew that a seamstress in Rwanda would be so serious about their craft and also so exacting of their models?   I guess when you are an experienced and gifted made-to-order specialist you are entitled to this uncompromising attitude.

When I first heard that having clothing made to order here was a real art and possibility I initially  thought the hardest part of this endeavor would be actually choosing the material for the dress as there are perhaps a thousand different designs to choose from. Well, maybe not a thousand, but that is certainly the way it seemed to me each time I looked.  For this first styling project I had gone fabric shopping four or five times before I could actually stay in a shop long enough to buy something without leaving glassy eyed and muttering, “There are so many…so many…”   On that sixth try at about hour three of going in and out of shops on Fabric Alley, I found a nice half measure of fabric and shelled out the 2,500 Rwandan Francs (about $5.00), breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled my way down the street.  

The second part of the project, finding a seamstress, was easy as I had the assistance of my friend and neighbor on this, and was brought to Mama Ana who has a shop setup in her family compound and just a few blocks from my own home.  Arriving at her shop I knew I was in good hands when after the expected niceties she got very serious and quiet as I presented the dress I would like, got out her design book and tape measure, and gave me a serious looking over.  As she measured me and sketched in her design book, neither my nervous antics nor her teen age children’s movements in and out of the shop could distract her from the measuring and figuring zone she appeared to be in.  Seeing that she was in the zone and didn’t need any more of my Midwestern chattering I relaxed, let her measure and figure, and spent some time looking at the posters on the wall of the many designs I could chose from if I was ever invited to a Rwandan wedding or could in any stretch of the imagination ever pull off such flamboyant designs and colors.  After the final figuring, bargaining, and date setting we left with plans to return a week later.



What I might have chosen.



Returning exactly one week later, I was thrilled to see this dress that had been made especially for me finished, freshly pressed, and smart looking hanging up on a wooden rack.  However, when I was asked to step behind the curtain to try it on to make sure it fit, I could see right off that this was going to be the type of fitting that stars do when they are headed for the red carpet in a dress that fits so well they have to be sewn into them.  The basic problem with the fit was that the side zipper was far too short to allow me to get into the dress.  I was already starting to sweat a bit as I tried to explain this to Mama Ana, however, she was having none of my chatter, set her jaw, stepped behind the curtain, and quite literally shoved me into the dress.  Once I was shoved, zipped, and buttoned into the dress it did fit perfectly and looked very nice on me.  I think, in part, it looked especially nice as I was forced to stand with perfect posture with such a tight fit and we all look better when we remember to stand up straight.  


 

Tools of the trade.

Beads of sweat were forming in earnest on my brow as I praised the handiwork of the dress and negotiated a longer zipper as well as just a tad more room in the ribcage area. Mama Ana made measurements anew, and I am sure that her sidelong glances where asking me what I had been eating in the past week as her measurements and design were spot on and the problem somehow lay on my side.  Stepping back behind the curtain I had a curious moment of trying to decide if I should consider panicking or breaking out into somewhat hysterical laughter as I could see that there was no way on this green earth that I was going to get this dress off by myself.  Luckily, I wisely chose laughter and pleas for help, “Mafasha!” over panicked ripping and tearing at the seams of the dress for my escape from the dress.  When Mama Ana stepped back behind the curtain  I couldn’t even look to see how tightly clenched her jaw must be by now as she mercilessly readjusted bone and flesh to get my pretty new party frock off my now profusely perspiring body.  I must have made a few wincing noises from behind the curtain as my friend and neighbor did seem seriously concerned for my well being as I emerged from behind the curtain. 



Beyond requesting a small donation of forty-five cents for the purchase of a new zipper and a command to return the next day no more was said to me by Mama Ana who had already gone to work with a razor blade to rip out the offending undersized zipper from the dress and ordered her son to go out to buy a new one.  My neighbor quietly and quickly ushered me out of the shop onto the dark street and I was left wondering how I was going to make it up to Mama Ana for the millimeters of fat I may have gained over the week on my rib cage.  



The master at work.



I returned the next day alone, a little nervous, with ready praise for the seamstress, and further apologies for not fitting into the dress while all the while knowing that if anything I have been losing a few millimeters here and there while in Rwanda. 

Usually, I drag my feet a bit on going back into a place where someone is so obviously irritated with me, whether rationally or not, but I was still excited about that dress.  I was excited as it is the very first garment that was made just for me, and the very first garment that I have ever had that actually looked better on me than on the hanger.  I wanted it irritation or not.



This time it fit, and while my praise and payment seemed to have little effect on the mood of the seamstress she did have her son run to the nearest store to buy a fresh brown paper bag for a proper and professional presentation of the dress.  I waved good-bye, wondered if my dreams of more garments made by Mama Ana were lost, breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled my way down the street.

Post Script

By the way, driven by another need greater than avoiding people that may or may not be irritated with me I just returned to Mama Ana’s shop today.  The need that was greater was to have puppets as part of a lesson for first graders, and the return I am happy to say was a good one.  I will even go so far as to say that as we worked on the design of the puppets that Mama Ana was having fun and finding me and my fat rib cage a little less irritating.  Adieu.