Going home / What I miss

In anticipation of my upcoming trip home to the US, I have begun to fantasize about the under-appreciated treasures I will rediscover there, the land of limitless creature comforts and den of unbridled consumerism.

So in honor of this homecoming, I am dedicating this post to a retrospective on all that I have missed about the States, having now spent 5 months here in Rwanda…

I miss…

Bathrooms at the workplace that a) don’t require the cleaning staff to bring buckets of water to manually fill the toilet tanks and b) feature sinks that run consistently and are regularly equipped with soap.

Going to the store and being able to recognize more than 1 out of every 5 brands.

Not having to wish I could read labels in Arabic. (Goods are shipped from Dubai.)

Being able to buy cereal that doesn’t cost $10/box.

Having my choice of cheese. (One can only rotate the local gouda and goat cheese for so long.)

Not feeling like my brain becomes dislodged inside my skull and thanking God for the modern bra every time we drive on dirt roads.

Cable service that doesn’t go out every time there’s a thunderstorm.

Not having to fight armies of ants who march around like they own the place, carrying out crumbs of food in what looks like one long undulating trail of black pepper.

Not being afraid to go into the back bedroom ‘cause I saw the BIGGEST cockroach in there, and Garron could you please kill it when you come home.

Fast, reliable internet connectivity. (Don’t even think about sending me a link to something on youtube.)

Having a car with a CD player.

- Oh well maybe that’s asking too much -

Having a car with a good, working radio.

- Or even better yet –

Just having a car that doesn’t require you to cut off the air conditioning when you drive uphill (to give it more power).

Street signs.

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Directionally-challenged

Only a handful of streets actually have names so signs and addresses don’t really exist. In their absence, directions can sound like this:

Lost Person: “How do I get to x?”
Helpful Rwandan: “It’s no problem. You pass the La Fiesta sign and turn left.
“Then you go, you go, you go.
“You pass a woman carrying bananas on her head.
“Turn right.
“You go, you go, you go.
“You’re there.”

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Not being constantly stared and gawked at, in the manner of rubbernecking or stopping people dead in their tracks. (It’s only a matter of time before I erupt in a “TAKE A PICTURE WHY DON’T YA?! IT’LL LAST LONGER!”)

Peacefully sleeping through the night without being woken up by the sounds of a mosquito buzzing by my head.

Not having to come home and worry if the featherweight-one-foot-in-the-grave guard is dead when he doesn’t open the gate after 5 minutes.

Not having to feel annoyed when he comes trotting up 10 minutes later, having spent some time getting soused at the little ‘bar’ down the street.

Phone etiquette, the way I’m used to it. (This means a) identifying yourself within seconds of the call, b) not taking calls during meetings, and c) not calling me, letting it ring once, hanging up, and expecting me to call you back – a practice known as ‘beeping.’)

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Hello?

Rwandans will always exchange pleasantries before even stating who they are.

“Hello?”
Caller: “Hi, how are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
Caller: “I am fine. How is your family?”
“Oh, fine but Emmanuel is sick.”
Caller: “Oh I’m sorry.”
“Eehh yes, he’s not well.”
Caller: “Eehh, I’m sorry. Ok, this is Concilie.”
“Hello. How do I know you?”

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A coffee culture. (I like to take my coffee only one way: with VOLUME. Unfortunately here, outside of the one coffee shop that has been my savior, restaurants rarely serve it and customers seldom order it. And instant coffee – if you can find it – will set you back $10 for a 100g canister!)

Clean money. (No, I don’t mean money that hasn’t been laundered by the mafia; I mean money that isn’t physically DIRTY. I'm often handed bills so utterly filthy, discolored, smelly and flimsy I wonder if they will disintegrate in my fingers and I shudder to think where they’ve been.)

Not having to wonder if this salad will give me amoebas if it wasn’t washed in filtered water.

Not having to only occasionally purchase diet coke as a “splurge.”

Not being constantly viewed as a dispenser of money.

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Faranga!

Amafaranga = money, in Kinyarwanda. No need to take a class to learn that one – as a muzungu, you will hear it in constant refrain.

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Not having to see children with yellowed eyes from malnutrition.

Not having to witness crushing poverty at almost every turn..............

Zanzibar... the Spice of Life

Some say that variety is the spice of life.

I would argue that vacation is the spice of life.

And a vacation in Zanzibar? That’s like an extra spicy, spice of life.

We spent the first week of 2008 on this exotic isle, one at the intersection of Arabic, Indian, and African cultures, where the influences of all 3 are strongly reflected in the language, people, and food. During its heyday in the 1800s, the island became one of the most important outposts along the spice route, trading in cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, cumin, and ginger.

The highlight of the first few days in Stone Town included the lively outdoor market that starts at sun-down with vendors lined along the waterfront, selling irresistible treats like fresh-squeezed sugar cane juice (made by pressing thick stalks of sugar cane through large cranks) and grilled seafood of every variety on huge outdoor spits. Vendors hawk clothes, jewelry, and spices in vibrant display. The atmosphere is colorful, aromatic, electric, and inviting. Everyone wants to be your friend, and everyone wants to sell you something.

After Stone Town, we spent some days on Kizimkazi Beach in the south, known for dolphins. One morning, aboard a simple fishing dhow with two fisherman who spoke Swahili and a few words of English, I rode out into the vast Indian Ocean, past the point where the water turns from a clear turquoise to an opaque sapphire, to ‘track’ dolphins. As soon as we came upon a family, I sort of wished I hadn’t gone… While they were lovely to see (arcing above the water just like you would imagine and chattering and chortling among themselves), as soon as we were close enough to see them, they would become spooked and swim off… and we would chase them. Something that was more predatory and less of the ‘swim with them and feel healed’ experience than I was envisioning…

Wanting to swap one white sands beach for another (such difficult decisions!), we moved to Nungwi Beach in the north. While Kizimkazi felt a bit sleepy and isolated, Nungwi felt more like a ‘party’ beach with plenty of young people and a healthy variety of restaurants and shops. I spent the remainder of the vacation wishing it wouldn’t end…

Race in Africa

One evening, while strolling along Nungwi Beach at dusk, a young Tanzanian man approached me. By this point, I had become fairly numb to all the local people who try to befriend you in an effort to sell you a tour package or some tchotchke painting or handicraft. And this gentleman was no different, I assumed.

"Eeeehhhh… Jambo” (= hi in Swahili) he says.
“Jambo,” I reply.
“My name is Adam,” he says as he extends his hand.
I shake it.
“What is your name?” he asks.
I answer, still shaking his hand. (Handshakes tend to last longer here.)
“Ok. So where you from?”
“The US.”
“Ohh.”

A long pause.

A furrowed brow.

He steps back in a lazy swagger, stretches his arms out as if measuring the width of a refrigerator, looks me up and down, and asks, totally incredulously,

“Then… Why you look so China?!?” (emphasis on the CHI-na)

Since he didn’t necessarily bowl me over with his salesmanship, I declined his offer to see his little shop where he apparently sells very nice art work that’s “almost free.”

So while he was no different than the tens of other entrepreneurs who approached me there, he did, however, give me a gem of a catchphrase that really encapsulates an African take on race, one that would suggest that race trumps nationality…

In most cases, the Africans I meet don’t find it a satisfactory response when I say “I’m from the US.” They see my face and think that that cannot be the whole story. So, I often feel obliged to answer their puzzled glances or their “but…”s with some explanation. Though this type of reaction is understandable (given most people’s limited exposure to the world beyond Africa) and completely inoffensive, I still rankle a little each time I have to explain myself. And it has given me pause to reflect on how refreshing it is to have grown up in a country where the population is so wonderfully diverse that someone like me is not an oddity but something totally ordinary.

Akagera… Reflections on Mother Nature

With friends Arwen, Chris, and Heike on the continent too, we kicked off two weeks of holiday fun with a trip to Akagera National Game Reserve in eastern Rwanda, on the border with Uganda.

A 4x4, a driver, and guide in tow, we basically went off-roading all over the park territory, only occasionally staying on dirt roads. Our guide had some super-human ability to sense where the animals would be and could spot them in the distance long before we even knew where to look.

Being in the park and observing wildlife in their natural habitat really made me reflect upon Mother Nature and extol her virtues…

1. She must be a feminist.

Why else would she make all giraffes – male or female – look so girly, with their wide-set, flirtatious doe-eyes and long lashes? We crept up on the giraffes, and watched the elegant beasts, silently chomping on leaves, intently watching us.

Making eyes at you.

2. She has a great sense of style.

Only a true fashionista would think to outfit the zebras in stark black and white coats. How au courant.

Showing your stripes.

The zebras’ shape reminded me more of donkeys than horses, and the little ones had stripes that were more brown and white than black and white.

3. She is so wise…

… for harmonizing an animal’s anatomy with its environment. Like designing the hippos' eyes to be able to poke above the surface of the water like two periscopes.

Snorkeling.

We caught the hippopotamuses enjoying a morning swim. For hippos, water represents safety, so you would do well never to come between a hippo and the water! We would have liked to see them in all their immense glory, but they stayed mostly submerged with only their close-set, beady eyes and snouts breaking the surface. I could swear that one laughed at us as we waited for them to make an appearance, playing with the papyrus rods and swatting the small black butterflies in the bush.

“I peeled my papyrus and now it’s all clean”

4. She has a healthy sense of humor…

…for giving baboons those angry pinkish bottoms.

Unlike the hippos, the baboons were all too happy to make an appearance… everywhere! I find their pinkish bottoms rather disturbing. It’s almost like Mother Nature forgot to finish the baboon’s coat and as a joke, left them the way they are, so that they can perpetually moon their onlookers.

Cheeky Monkey… Stop looking at my bum!

5. She is industrious!

So much wildlife... So worth protecting...

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......