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…