Rally, Ruhengeri.

On the way to Ruhengeri (recently renamed Musanze) in the northwest of the country, you can catch glimpses of the Virungas volcano chain that straddles the borders between Rwanda, Uganda, and the Democratic Republic of Congo, in the distance. Their shadowy figures cut impressive shapes on the horizon, usually crowned by a halo of smoke or clouds. You can see the soil turn from burnt orange to ashen black. One of the most fertile regions of Rwanda, the region boasts those same patchwork hillsides I love covered in crops. People haul unwieldy bundles of fat purple sugarcane. Flimsy bicycles seem to groan under enormous sacks of potatoes that sag close to the ground. Trucks pass packed high with bunches of green bananas.


We had gone there to see a rally, a car race completed in alternating stages of racing and technical assistance over some seriously challenging terrain. This rally ran a course from Kigali to Ruhengeri, one riddled with cliffs, muddy roads, sharp turns, hills, huge pot holes, and precariously steep drops into water. In short, it seemed like a sick death wish to participate in such a sport. Family, friends and other spectators formed a caravan on the road there. Occasionally a racecar would whiz by, and we waved wildly. We stopped in a small village just short of Ruhengeri for the official start of the race and were swarmed by local kids.

They huddle around you with little regard for your personal space, staring at your face, clothes, and trying to peer into your bags. Their intense gaze makes me uncomfortable.

During a lull in the afternoon, we drove up to the Virunga Lodge.

The children stare, wave, and smile as if you’re the first muzungu they’ve ever seen, though surely that road has seen countless funny people traverse its terribly treacherous path, speckled with that porous black volcanic rock. They run alongside the car with huge grins on their faces.

"Muzungu!!!"

One boy in particular really raced himself breathless at my window and kept yelling ‘bic-a, bic-a!’ We thought perhaps he wanted a pen (bic), and so we slowed and I handed over a pen. He ran from the car holding it aloft as if he had just won some trophy.

The Carina (the Corona’s replacement but definitely not an upgrade) took a serious beating on the ascent, but once there, we could see that sacrificing the car to make the climb would have been worth it: the 360-degree views were fantastic. The lodge - completely eco-friendly and powered by solar energy – had unusual ‘dual drop’ toilets (meaning, one hole for liquid waste, and one for solid… yes, be careful how you aim!) that require a bit of skill to use.

There, surrounded by two crater lakes, volcanoes, lush green hillsides, and nothing but the sound of a rather loquacious cow, you feel a little bit like the cherry atop a nature sundae.

Eastern Rwanda: Poo-tastic! Cow dung art and brown waterfalls

Together with another American expat, I took a day drip to the Eastern part of Rwanda and learned that poo has many extensive properties.

Having recently purchased several pieces of “Imigongo” to decorate the house, I was curious to see the factory where this unusual artwork is produced. Textured art work featuring geometric prints, Imigongo is created from cow dung applied to wood pieces, baked, and painted in either black and white schemes or earth-colored hues. Supposedly the dung of youthful cows is the best.

The ‘factory’ consisted of a room with 8 women sitting on mats on the floor. The women to the left were taking clumps of dark green cow dung and molding it to wood planks with their hands like clay. The women to the right were painting. An interesting micro-conveyor belt system that produces around 20 pieces a day. They worked rather morosely, not talking much or really even smiling. Perhaps that was because they didn’t like two funny looking tourists watching them while they work. Or perhaps it was because they stick their hands in cow dung day after day. I imagine it gets old.

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Don’t Eat on the Run

We had packed a lunch for this day trip, but come noontime, we were left with a small quandary: where do we eat our lunch? In Rwanda, it is considered poor taste to eat or drink anything while you walk on the street, drive in your car, or are anywhere in public that is not a dining establishment. We resorted to discreetly munching on our sandwiches in the car, taking a bite when there wasn’t someone staring at us on the road!

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After the imigongo detour, we continued to Rusumo Falls at the border of Tanzania. On foot, we crossed onto the bright yellow bridge between the two countries that hovers over the falls. On one side of the bridge, the falls angrily rush and burst, perpetually churning a small pool of trash and green leaves at the bottom. All the rains of late have muddied the water, turning the falls from a shock of white water (as it says in the guide book) to a rusty brown. It looks almost like someone is pouring out a big batch of butterscotch cake batter. Or – to continue the theme – it could be described as that giant’s very bad bout of diarrhea.

On a more sober note, during the genocide, this bridge became the funnel for large exoduses. As many as 250,000 fled in one day. Sadly as well, the river became swollen with bodies. According to the guide book, journalists on the scene reported seeing 1-2 bodies tumble over the falls per minute...

You Never Walk Alone (or Why You Should Take Motos)

After Adventures in Driving (http://millescollines.blogspot.com/2007/11/adventures-in-driving.html) last week, I have been sans car (while it’s being repaired) for some days now and find myself walking… a lot.

Oddly enough, I never ever seem to walk alone.

The other day, a familiar face skipped toward me as I ambled down the main road of the neighborhood. Her face lit up when I recognized her and even recalled her name – or at least something close to it. Mediah (I thought it was Medinah) is such a pretty little girl, even if she is a bit too skinny. She has light skin and hair cut so close to her head that the curls just barely make it out, looking almost like caramel-colored bubble wrap. On this brisk day, she had wrapped a cloth around her that must have been in the reject pile at a fabric store. It was a burgundy, yellow and white patterned abomination that would have been used to make one obnoxious pair of Bermuda shorts in another life. In spite of the hideous cloth, she looked so pretty, blinking out from under it with her narrow face and elegant eyes. She followed me almost all the way to the Novotel, where I was going to check email and lounge by the pool with other fat and overpaid expats. Again, we couldn’t really communicate even though I am so curious to know about her family, where she lives, where she goes to school, what she likes to do for fun. And again, by the end, she was making pleas for money or some donation in a Kinyarwanda/French mix.

On another occasion, as I was returning home at dusk, a young man from Kenya quickened his pace to catch up to me. David was just looking for some fun and wanted to know if he could buy me a drink at the Planet nightclub, since it was after all on my way. Even if I couldn’t smell the alcohol on his breath, I still wouldn’t have wanted to go. Being rude/bitchy doesn’t come naturally to me and even when I want to be rude/bitchy, I still somehow end up being a shade too nice. And true to form, I was too nice and let him walk with me long after he had overstayed his invitation to chat. He asked for a hug in the end, and then I said that sorry I had to hurry ‘cause I hadn’t been home all day and was worried about my very old dog that has Alzheimer’s. Hey, if you can’t be a rude bitch, at least be an inventive liar.

In those rare moments when I think no one is accompanying me, I have the view to keep me company… The walk from the Novotel to my neighborhood follows the crest of two hills and you can peer into the valley all along the way. You can watch women carry baskets of bananas on their head as they traverse the little red paths that cut shortcuts from one hill to another.

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Motos Operandi

Motos are the little motorbike taxis that abound on Kigali streets. Once banned because the government found them too problematic (lots of accidents, known to be reckless), they’ve since been reinstated much to the dismay of many a nervous driver. Moto drivers wear green and yellow vests and helmets, and they always carry a second helmet for the customer who rides on the back.

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Slightly weary of having to haul my very heavy butt every day, I finally decided to work up the nerve and take a moto.

And it was like opening the floodgates: I now take them all the time. They’re so fun!

Sure, they’re horribly dangerous and you don’t know who or what was wearing that helmet last. In fact, I felt especially uneasy today as we weaved past a long queue of cars in the small space between the (rather deep) concrete drainage ditch and the right lane. If the stress of these moments doesn’t age me quicker, then all the noxious fumes I inhale will surely deduct several months off my total lifespan.

But c’mon, those are minor cons. The pros include

-They’re convenient and fast. You can hail one almost anywhere, hop on, and zip off in no time flat. Practically door-to-door service.

-They’re cheap. The longest trip in Kigali will probably cost 500 Rwandan Francs . That’s less than $1.

-They’re kinda… cool. I have caught myself being fixated by my shadow, watching my hair whipping out from under the helmet. I can’t help but feel a little proud that I am throwing caution to the wind and, quite frankly, enjoying it.

Finding Zen in Kibuye

I took a weekend trip to Kibuye with a group of friends to celebrate birthdays and, for the woefully overworked among us, to enjoy some much needed R&R.

And oh the view on the way to Kibuye – every bit as lovely as the one to Gisenyi.

(photo to come)

We had the company of James and Maniza on the drive there, and with an iPod in the stereo, we sang songs at the top of our lungs and sipped some Belgian beer (spoils from Brussels) as we wound through the hills. A particularly raucous rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ – complete with Wayne’s World-esque head banging – turned several villagers’ heads.

A close call with an errant goat and we had arrived. The hotel was nestled into a hillside in a small cove of the glassy Lake Kivu.

We had a few good moments for swimming, boating, and for the more intrepid of us, water skiing. Unlike Gisenyi, the lake around Kibuye is free of asphyxiating volcanic gases, so swimming in the lake is no longer extreme sport. The waters were remarkably clean and calm. Such sweet serenity: to swim out, lulled by the sound of lapping water, and face the open water, mist, and somewhere over there, the Congo.

But mostly, it rained. Rain that pelts the lake in a rhythmic staccato, deluges down staircases, and coolly sloshes over your flip-flops.

In the rainier moments, some of us retreated for yoga sessions by candlelight.

Dinner on the hotel restaurant’s terrace was a lovely affair, surrounded by complete blackness broken every few moments by a flash of lightning, illuminating the sky in a strange warm mauve and striking somewhere on the lake’s horizon.

Fat dragonflies swarmed the lights and occasionally dropped onto the table. Everyone except me seemed to take this quite well. The white wall behind our table became the gecko lizard’s playground: they scurried up and down catching dragonflies in their mouths, casually munching on them so that their wings spread out of their mouths like mini oriental fans.

Sometimes I wonder what I did in my past life to deserve the treasures I find in this one......

A Tale of Two Cities: Gisenyi & Goma

Gisenyi (Rwanda)

That shade of blue. I love that shade of blue.

In Kigali, you see this vibrant cobaltish blue sprinkled into the orange/green/white palette of the hillsides; on the long drive to Gisenyi, you see it stand out against the lush greenery of the passing countryside’s villages, sometimes painted on a door, gate, or roof.

We went to Gisenyi for a weekend trip courtesy of Garron’s company. He had some conference to attend and I was more than happy to tag along.

With a driver and a 4x4 (the Corona would not fare well on this trip), we snaked through the hills and countryside. The views were stunning. Every bend gave way to some towering hill, covered in a green patchwork of terrace farms. That mysterious giant who keeps figuring into my blog must have had an artistic streak: it looks like he took square samples of grass carpet – in varying shades of green – and pasted them to each hill. For good measure, he also uncorked a few waterfalls here and there. Banana trees with huge floppy leaves (that look like he took a giant pair of pinking shears to their edges) sprout all over the hillsides; from a distance they look a little bit like that pesky crab grass whose lighter shade of green and thicker blades can interrupt the uniformity of someone’s front lawn.

The road was not without the occasional precarious pass, but overall, the roads were in good condition. Sometimes when we passed through a village, the driver would lurch to a 5 mi/h crawl in order to gently negotiate a pot-holed road. I almost wonder if the locals created the potholes just so that they could have the opportunity to carefully stare at each car and its passengers as it passed.

Even on some of the more remote parts of the journey, there was always someone walking along the road. I marvel at the way women bundle babies to their backs with colorful swaths of fabric. The babies look positively smushed against their mothers’ backs.

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Rwanda Fast Facts, continued: 90% of the population is engaged in subsistence agriculture. Primary exports are coffee and tea.

We passed fields of crops and even caught some glimpses of tea plantations, marked by tea plants with leaves an alarmingly bright, radioactive shade of green.
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Gisenyi lies on the western border of Rwanda, a small town tucked on the banks of Lake Kivu. Part of Lake Kivu lies in Rwanda; part lies in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). As you arrive in Gisenyi, the road slopes downhill, offering a view of the majestic Lake Kivu.

If it weren’t for the faint outline of blue hills on the horizon, you could almost forget that it’s a lake. It’s so vast, you could easily mistake it for an ocean.

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Excuse you! Lake Kivu is gassy.

Given the lake’s proximity to several volcanoes, volcanic gases seep into the earth under the lake and when the gases reach a certain concentration, they can erupt through the surface. A little bit like burping. When this happens, the methane and carbon dioxide clings to the surface causing oxygen-dependent organisms in the area to asphyxiate. The locals know where it’s safe to swim and where it’s not, so follow their lead!
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Saturday, we wandered along the road that hugs the edge of the lake and stopped at Bikini Tam-tam, a restaurant with striped pavilions for beachfront dining. We paid a funny entrance fee and were told that there would be music and a drink included in the fee. As Rihanna’s “Umbrella” played over the loud-speaker during our meal, we had the vague sense that we were fleeced out of some money. But we were pleasantly surprised...

After lunch, we sauntered over to a grassy plot where we were treated to a chorus of singers, some bongo drums, and inspired traditional dances. The male dancers wore colorful patterned sarongs and beaded suspender type straps draped over their bare chests. Some had maracas-like noise makers tied to their ankles that looked like rows of roasted chestnuts. The female dancers sashayed in coordinating fringed sarongs and thin iridescent ribbons around their foreheads and necks in the colors of the Rwandan flag. The dancing looked positively exhausting – plenty of aerobic jumping, stomping, and tumbling.

The concert also included a brief departure into pop music… A group of young hip-hop dancers – outfitted in baggy jeans, un-laced sneakers, and hats cocked at funny angles – lip-synced and grooved to Dr. Dre, Tupac, and Justin Timberlake. The chorus of singers – in their traditional garb – kind of sulked in the background, some with their arms crossed, giving off the impression of ‘I’m so annoyed that we have to include these jokers in our show.’

Outdoors, under shade of trees and against the backdrop of the beach and lake, it was a fun little cultural interlude.

Afterwards, we continued wandering on the road as it split from the edge of the lake, and curled steeply upwards into the hills. There was plenty of traffic on the road – people traffic, that is – and it was hysterical the way some people stopped dead in their tracks as we passed. The road boasted spectacular views of the lake and dramatic drops into wild green hillside.

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Less Agreeable Fauna #1: Bird with koosh ball on its head.

I don’t know this bird’s technical name, but a group of 3 pranced around our hotel grounds like flamingoes, with the same type of rhythmic, legs-bending-backward gait. These black and grey- plumed birds had unusual tufts of yellow feathers sprouting on the top of their heads reminiscent of that 90s phenomenon, koosh balls. In spite of my pleading to stop, Garron liked to antagonize them by hissing their way. When the feathers on the back of one bird's neck stood up, I quickly moved to another table. Far away.
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Goma (DRC)

Sunday we traveled a whole 5 or so km to the border of DRC which was surprisingly unfortified. Despite the lack of arms and (relatively) smooth visa process at the border, I was still uneasy. There’s a low-level WAR going on just 20 km north of this area, and Mike – Garron’s colleague and travel companion this weekend – stridently suggested that I remove my watch since mugging is a bit too common there.

Once inside the DRC, a taxi driver picked us up and drove us through the city. In 2002, the city was devastated by an eruption from the volcano Nyiragongo. Lava flowed into the city and buried parts of it up to 2m deep. We drove over dirt roads the color of coal. We saw homes from their 3rd or 4th floors and thoroughly rusted trucks buried in the ground. Like a junk graveyard.

Although Goma is bigger than Gisenyi and apparently sees a healthy number of tourists, it seemed much less inviting than Gisenyi. Piles of old trash were a real eyesore, the roads were noticeably much worse, and the city felt dead. Moreover, the volcano – still active – bubbles in the distance and the specter of eruption hangs over the area like the mist that clings to a hill.

But, like most everything, it’s worth a visit………………

A Roast

You're never too old to stick sharp objects in your eyes.

Happy 30th Birthday, Garron!

Love/Hate

I am in love. A healthy yellow glow, an intoxicating aroma, chubby but firm, and bursting with… juice. Handle with care, or he might spring a leak. Yes, his name is Pineapple.

I would cheat on Pineapple with Fried Banana though. Mélanie prepared Fried Banana for dessert and a new obsession was born. If I can figure out how to get her to cross that with a donut, I might never go back to the States.

The electricity regularly goes out, sometimes as much as multiple times a day. One night, we were leaving Garron’s office, and with one loud clap, the lights on the whole road – every single building on either side and the street lights – went dark. Very eerie. Sunday we were sitting in Bourbon Coffee Shop and the whole place became washed in black. It’s fun the first few times, but after a while, you really do want to get back to reading your book.

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New Favorite Haunt #1: Bourbon Coffee Shop.

This little Starbucks incarnation (waaaay more character, though) serves up sprout-hair-on-your-chest Rwandan coffee, yummy smoothies and blended coffee drinks, and other treats sure to threaten the waistline. I have made it my new ‘office’ – spending hours on end there, abusing their free wifi, adoring the funky décor, and loving it when the rains come in and jostle the canvas tarps that hang off the terrace.

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(photo of bourbon coffee)

For all the adventures I may take, at my core, I am still a very risk-averse person. I’m not exactly a princess, but I would be lying if I said that I didn’t like to be pampered and protected now and then. So, while I like to see security guards patrolling an office building, I can unequivocally say that I do not like to see them brandishing Very Big Guns. The other day, I went to a meeting and the guard escorted me to the 5th floor in a very small elevator. I had to inhale a little to make sure the rifle slung across his back wouldn’t brush the front of my suit. Yesterday, I was in the cell phone store (I bought a cell phone! Email me if you’d like the number, but a word of warning: calls are very expensive!) and as I was admiring the display case, the security guard passed behind me and the tip of his gun rubbed against my butt. And that marks the first time I have actually touched a firearm. Truly titillating.

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That’s Contraband?!?

Plastic bags have been banned here and if you’re caught with one by the police, you have to pay a fine!
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The ubiquitous Armed Guard is not a sign of a totalitarian state, but the government isn’t exactly loosey-goosey with the populace either… A Rwandan colleague of Garron’s told a story about how another American colleague of theirs once equated Bush to a monkey (without turning this into a political rant, I’ll just say that the comparison is rather apt) and he just clapped his hand over his mouth in shock and astonishment. Apparently, the American colleague further demonstrated his hypothesis by typing “bush – monkey” into a google browser and voila – you even have photographic supporting evidence. The Rwandan colleague couldn’t believe how people could insult their President so brazenly. He then said that he actually prefers that people here tread very cautiously when it comes to criticizing the Rwandan government. It made me wonder if people here truly revere the government or if they fear it. Nearly every business or home you enter has a photo of the President, Paul Kagame, prominently featured in the lobby or over the hearth. It’s a little bit like a school dress code: good for order but maybe stifling for self-expression?

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They killed Kenny!

They love their Kennys here, in particular the Rogers and G varieties. At first, hearing “Songbird” was oddly charming and nostalgic. Now, it’s downright jab-a-needle-in-my-ear.
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Muzungu means ‘white person’ or ‘foreigner’ in Kinyarwanda. Though little kids use it liberally, it’s not exactly a word of politesse. When I leave the house to go for a run at the roundabout at the top of the hill, I hear muzungu at least twice before I’ve made it there. Growing up in tiny little Athens, PA, Asians weren’t exactly in large supply, so I had grown accustomed to getting the occasional stare… But this is something else altogether. On Sunday, Garron and I were followed by a gaggle of little kids who insisted on trying to run with us around the circle. It was cute and charming at first, but when they started to pant and take off their shoes (if they were even wearing them), I started to feel supremely guilty. At one point, I stopped, gave them each a high-five (and they were all very confused by this act… definitely not the hip-hip-hooray I was hoping for) in order to indicate, ‘Wow, good job! Now go on your merry little way’, but they continued to huff and puff alongside me. I tried.

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New Favorite Pastime #2: Being that weird muzungu __________________________________________

(photo of the weird phallic cactus)

Today, as I walked up the hill, like clockwork, a small flock of kids followed me… One little boy, maybe 2 or 3 years old named Fidèle wanted to hold my hand. He had lovely curled eyelashes and was just chattering away, smiling and laughing. And as the cliché goes, I just melted. So cute. His mother followed just behind us, carrying an enormous something on her head. When she needed to head off in another direction, he stuck out his lower lip and stamped his foot. Two older girls (maybe 10 years old) – Angelika and Madinah – followed me all the way to my destination. As is typically the case, my French is bad and theirs was too, so carrying on a conversation had its challenges. At one point, Angelika said, “Donnez moi kamembiri.” In French, “Donnez moi” means “Give me” in the polite form, but I had no idea what “kamembiri” meant… Then she pointed at her feet and I realized that “kamembiri” must mean “shoes” in Kinyarwanda. Neither she nor Madinah were wearing shoes.

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The Nihao Factor

From a land full of mostly white people to a land full of mostly black people, people seem to think that while I’m running I like it when someone yells “Nihao!” to me when I pass by. Even if I were Chinese, I might appreciate it, but since I’m not, I usually want to yell back something obscene accompanied by my middle finger. Thankfully, I don’t feel that same aggression here but in Belgium you would think that people knew better.

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For one second, I wondered if her feet were similar in size to mine and which shoes she would like. In the next second, I felt simultaneously sad and angry. On the one hand, it’s awful that they don’t have shoes. (It should come as no surprise since 83% of the population here lives on less than $2 a day.) On the other, (and my seat in hell will get upgraded for this) it’s annoying that they see me and see an opportunity to ask for shoes or money or the like. It made me wonder if Fidèle’s mother had trained him to sidle up to muzungus, unarm them with his cuteness, and thereby butter them up for some money or other donation. Isn’t that just terrible for me to think??? I certainly have money (and more than enough pairs of shoes) to give away to people who need it more than me, but once you give one person something, how can you not give something to the next person who asks? Surely, someone will ask me for something tomorrow, and sadly, I don’t have enough shoes for everyone…

A Day in the Life

People always honk when they pass me on the left. It startles me every time even though I really try to make a concerted effort to stay centered in my lane. The problem is, I just haven’t gotten the hang of this steering wheel being on the right, and I find myself drifting too far to the left all the time. I usually break a sweat once they honk, overcompensate by swerving to the right, and then cuss loudly that the curb shouldn’t be so close.

(photo of the house + corona)

Between the honking, the people milling about, the Atraco Town Service (festive yellow and green striped VW-like vans usually filled to the brim with people) vehicles that dart in front of you, combined with the whole steering wheel on the right thing and the fact that I only know my way to 5 places (further complicated by no cell phone) and I can assure you that driving here is a wholly unnerving experience.

If that isn’t enough to make you pee just a little, there’s rumored to be a fierce sense of vigilante justice here… Apparently, if you kill someone in a car accident, you should just keep going and not stop, as the angry mob might avenge the poor sap’s untimely death by killing you. Eye for an eye, in the flesh.

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Mosquito bite count: 16

3 of which were on my face. Why do they bite my face? If I was a mosquito and I had the sad choice of dining on my forehead or upper arm, I think I would choose my upper arm. But nooooo. Fortunately, many of those angry red and swollen welts have healed and I no longer look like a leper. I’ve taken to dousing myself in DEET nightly. Stay tuned for gene mutation.

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Every time we pull up to the blue gate of the house, one of two ‘guards’ is there to swing it open. By day it’s Sambiri; by night, it’s Edouard. And they are as different as day and night…

Sambiri is maybe 17 years old, tall and lanky. He has a bright smile and mischievous glint in his eye, particularly when I pull onto our road and find him dashing to the gate from across the street where he often hangs out with other neighborhood folk. I often wonder if he feels bad about ‘abandoning his post’ but as soon as I think that, I want to slap myself, ‘cause really, what is there to protect here?! He should be off doing whatever he pleases – or more importantly, he should be in school! He perpetually has ear phones on – part of an unwritten dress code for teenagers worldwide I think.

(photo of the front garden)

Edouard – who must be pushing 70 – reminds me of a wire hanger under clothes. He is short, a little hunched, exceptionally frail, and friendly (although Garron says that he’s known Edouard to cop some ‘tude now and again). He shook my hand warmly and smiled broadly when I met him but I couldn’t help but be a little shaken inside by his teeth. He has two large, yellowed front teeth that point in slightly opposite directions and are separated by a good 2 cm gulf. During the night, Edouard rests on a very sad mattress in the garage (it really kills me to see it) and we speculate that he must be going deaf because we often hear his tinny radio echoing down the hallway well into the wee hours of the morning.

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Days ‘til Paris Hilton arrives: oh wait, I don’t care

See Garron’s blog (http://millescollines.blogspot.com/2007/09/news-that-has-kigali-abuzz.html) as well as this recent article on cnn.com
(http://edition.cnn.com/2007/SHOWBIZ/TV/10/15/people.parishilton.ap/index.html ).

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If we return to the house for lunch, we usually enter to find Mélanie industriously mopping the floors, out back doing laundry, or cooking up something delicious in the kitchen. She is fantastic. She’s a very cute, smiley lady who – I imagine – has youngish kids who adore her. (We need to talk more, but I like to use the excuse that my French is utter sh*t so we don’t say much really. I know, I’m terrible.) Part of me feels super guilty that she works so hard to clean up our disasters. I feel especially bad when she serves lunch to us at the dining room table like a waitress. I can’t wait to give her a Christmas bonus. Or maybe two.

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Cockroach sightings: 0

(angels singing)

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By midday, the sun often becomes so intense and turns the Corona into one sweltering sauna. I wilt a little. I think to myself, ‘I’m about as close to the Equator as I will ever be, so maybe this is true, unadulterated sunlight. If sunlight were water, this must be what it’s like to drink it from the firehose.’

Fortunately, this is the rainy season, and by mid-afternoon, clouds roll in and the skies empty themselves with gusto: sheets and sheets of water that turn the drainage ditches into raging rapids and even wash out entire sections of brick wall. Yesterday I saw a group of school children gleefully running in the rain. One little girl had even taken off her periwinkle uniform top and was sloshing it in the gurgling runoff along the sidewalk. I imagined that she is some free-spirited student who will one day travel the world; I wondered if she would look back on this day as a fond memory of her childhood and yearn to go back. From the look on her face, you would think it was nothing less.

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New Favorite Pastime #1: Waving to groups of school children.
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In the rush hour crunch to get home, plumes of black smoke billow from every fourth car, and it feels a little like you can’t breathe. Your eyes burn and you taste bitter exhaust in your mouth. Garron: “This is what it must have been like to live in the US in the 70s.”

When we finally pull into our neighborhood “Kimihurura”, I take a deep breath as we rumble downhill. The pavement gives way to a now familiar burnt orange dirt road, one that looks like it has been clawed by a giant hand from all the rain and little valleys it leaves in its wake. I sometimes sigh when I see the hills in the distance. It’s just a nice sight – one that I hope I don’t tire of too quickly.

(photo of the view beyond the house fence)

Refueling the "interesting encounters" series

Friday, October 5, 2007.

I suppose it was no accident that, on my way to the Belgian employment office, I stumbled upon Rue Florence, the street of the hotel I stayed in during my very first trip to Brussels in the summer of 2005. The trip that resulted in losing both of my big toenails. Years of obstinate running and pounding pavement and I never lost a single toenail; a day of trekking all over Brussels and I lose both big toenails. It was enough to make you wonder if it was some sort of sign that Brussels would be some sort of painful experience. Perhaps some sort of cautionary metaphor that Brussels would strip off some sort of protective shell. Or maybe I just needed to get shoes that fit better. Who knows.

In any case, I saw the hotel and in that moment, there came the attendant self-reflection about whether or not my stay in Brussels had in fact come full-circle: was it what I had expected/hoped for? And in case you’re wondering why I even needed to pause and have this internal discourse, it was because I would be leaving my dear Belgium the very next day. For hills. In Rwanda.

I hadn’t really planned on leaving Belgium… at least not so soon. My life had become so comfortable there – my job was going well, I was living in a great apartment, I had a car that I loved (the PMP!), and I had a great group of friends with whom I could travel and in general cause a ruckus, swilling beer and cava, dancing on tables, and occasionally clicking our heels (shout out to the bru crew :)).

But what I guess I failed to notice was that I had built again a comfort zone composed of cozy little routines that didn’t really feed me creatively. Fortunately, I can always count on Garron to provide some serious cage-rattling… this time in the form of a job offer in (wait for it…) Rwanda. He had grown weary of his job at McKinsey and on a whim applied for a job in Rwanda. And of course, they extended him an offer. Given his long-burning desire to work in development/Africa, it became an offer he couldn’t turn down.

So then the question became, should I go too? And in the face of such an enormous change, it’s amazing how quickly your life can come into focus. I could suddenly see that the life I had created for myself in Belgium had taken on shades of my former life in the US: my job was vaguely interesting and important but did nothing for my long-term career goals (still so unformed), my French had stagnated and I was losing interest fast, and the bright bulb of my wanderlust had dimmed. I had become content to just get that monthly paycheck and be a homebody. In short, my inspiration had dried up and the radio silence on the “interesting encounters” email series (for those of you kind people who actually read and can remember those emails) was a perfect indicator of that.

The mechanics of the move (the perks of Garron’s new job combined with a healthy boost from the Belgian state for me) made it rather palatable… The possibilities seemed not endless, but at least, far-reaching. I could perhaps work for a Rwandan/African telecom company or maybe teach English, work for an NGO or (if I’m lucky) even the UNDP. So, it seemed the move would be good for both selfish and maybe even selfless reasons.

And beyond that, it would be Rwanda for chrissakes. Talk about an adventure.

Fast-forward through the resignation, the moving companies, 6 vaccinations, hallucination-free malaria meds (so far… knock on wood), a visit from my parents (preceded by a mild disapproval of this move and eventual acceptance that they couldn’t change my mind), a lovely short vacation to Spain (a last hurrah in Europe), and little farewells to la Belgique…

And I’m here. I arrived on Saturday, October 6.

While I’m here, I hope to refuel the earlier “interesting encounters” email series, so to that end, and in an attempt to be less of a luddite, I have started a blog. (For nostalgia’s sake I may even add the old emails in the archives.) I feel a little intimidated by it, mostly because I have hard time believing that my stories/thoughts/ramblings are interesting enough to justify Internet real-estate...

RWANDA FAST FACTS

Big City: Kigali, population ~650,000 (the capital and where we’re living)
People: ~8,800,000 (84% Hutu, 15% Tutsi, 1% Twa)
Languages: Kinyarwanda, French, English, Swahili (unofficial).
GDP per capita: $290
Size: 26,000 km2 (10,000 mi2, or about the size of Massachusetts and land-locked)
Elevation (Kigali): 1500 m (5000 ft) and hilly!
Nickname: “Le Pays des Milles Collines” = “The Land of a Thousand Hills”
Average Temperature: 23 C (73 F)
Number of Volcanoes: 5
Number of Lakes: 23
Trivia: Dian Fossey, author of ‘Gorillas in the Mist’ and renowned researcher, studied gorillas and died (under suspicious circumstances) in Rwanda.
Quick History:
1885 Germany creates “German East Africa” (comprised of present-day Rwanda and Burundi).
1923 The League of Nations hands Rwanda to Belgium as a “spoil of World War I.”
1962 Rwanda becomes independent from Belgium.
1994 The population of 7.5 million is decimated in just 100 days. 800,000 perish.

Garron has already been here a month and has regaled many of you with some great posts on his blog (www.millescollines.blogspot.com), and so far, my impressions have been very similar…

Some preliminary remarks:

1. At every turn and at every hour, the hills provide an amazing vista. By day you see a vibrant mix of verdant vegetation and burnt orange soil; by night, you see the twinkle of lights cast across the hills like a sparkly bedspread over a sleeping giant. Lovely to see but also comforting to know that the infrastructure is good enough to bring electricity to so many.
2. There are luxury hotels, tennis/golf clubs, and sprawling new villas occasionally abutted against mud/clay shacks. A strange dichotomy of prosperity and poverty.
3. People are everywhere, walking, socializing, and occasionally carrying everything except the kitchen sink on their heads. Yesterday we saw a man carrying two fully feathered dead chickens by their feet. Garron mused that one day that will be him and the unlucky bird will be the $%&! rooster that crows incessantly just outside the house. The bird must die.
4. I cannot shake the feeling that the house feels like… camping. It’s spacious and modest and lacks some furniture and personal accoutrements, but fixing it up should be a fun little project, I’m sure. More to come on the house and ‘staff’… No comment on the bugs just yet…
5. There’s a reason why there are so many all-terrain 4x4 vehicles here: the dirt roads here are a special breed. Steep, rocky, ragged, and multi-planar, they never fail to elicit a chorus of squeals from me or make me squirm in my seat or in other ways annoy Garron who has grown so accustomed to these roads that he just barrels over everything. I would have difficulty navigating some of these roads on bike let alone by car, not to mention a low-riding Toyota Corona (no, not Corolla, Corona) sedan like Garron’s. (As he’s mentioned in his blog, the steering wheel is on the right even though people here drive on the right side of the road. Apparently he often engages the wipers when he means to use the turn signal.) To be fair, the paved roads are generally quite nice but some of the more residential roads have pot holes the size of kiddie swimming pools. Negotiating them has become something of sport for Garron: if he hits one, I get 4 more grey hairs. Joy.
6. We might be the first people to go to Africa and get fatter. The food is good! Saturday night, we stuffed ourselves silly on some fantastic paneer and chili chicken at a lovely Indian restaurant. Sunday night, we had dinner with James and Maniza (a coworker of Garron’s and his wife) at a cozy little neighborhood restaurant with yummy bruschetta, beef brochette, and pizza.

The plan was to upload all the pictures I’ve taken so far, but the Internet connections here are agonizingly slow. So, in the interest of just letting you know that I’m here safe and sound (and sparing my very thin patience), I have only added a few photos here. More to come later, I promise.

As always, I would love to hear from you so please comment on the blog/email me/or look me up on skype!