Although most people here are Christians (which in Rwanda means no drinking), I had noticed that the city has an inordinate number of saloons. Signs are painted directly on the building, and with the abundance of saloon signs, I began to question the no-drinking rule.
Fast forward to this afternoon. I was about to take a well-deserved nap (aren’t they all well-deserved?), when Etienne arrived at the house to ask me to accompany him to get haircuts for the kids. Reluctantly, I got out of bed and went with him. He had some of the kids, and more joined us as we walked. As we climbed the dirt “road” (I’m not sure if it’s a road if you can’t navigate a car on it) up to the main drag I looked back and saw about 20 of our kids walking behind me and in front of Etienne. I knew the afternoon would be long with 20 heads to shave (girls too!)
When we arrived, I looked into the small room with four chairs and three guys cutting hair. The place was totally simple—just chairs, mirrors, scissors, hair clippers and not much else. The name of the place? BM Saloon. So see, folks, spelling is important because a saloon and a salon just aren’t the same thing. And guess how much the haircuts cost? 20 cents apiece.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Here is a cow
Nothing you can imagine is as dark as a Rwandan night. Few streetlights illuminate our dirt road, and because many people live without electricity, they don’t have porch lights to help passersby see where they’re going. Moonlight helps, but last night was cloudy. The street is partially illuminated near our guesthouse, but as we make our way in the direction of our house, the street becomes inky-black. I can’t see my feet or where they’re going.
I suspect that before she left for the U.S., Arlene instructed the guards, John, and Etienne that they were never to allow Micaela and me to walk in the dark unaccompanied by a man. Last night after I was finished using the internet connection at the guesthouse, Olivier, a worker there, offered to walk me home. I accepted, knowing that even if I declined, he would accompany me anyway. Olivier has a little English and is very soft spoken and a bit shy about using his English. I had forgotten my flashlight, so the night was especially dark. (Micaela and I are the only people in town who use flashlights. Rwandans walk in the pitch black as if the sun were shining.) As we strolled along the street on the 6- or 7-minute walk to our house we talked only a little, with Olivier occasionally pointing to puddles for me to avoid.
We walked somewhat slowly, as is the custom in Rwanda. Without even a hint of alarm or surprise, Olivier mentioned slowly in his quiet voice, “Here is a cow.” Simultaneous to his quiet comment, I realized that I was about to run smack into a cow! It was less than a meter away and I hadn’t even seen or heard it. We both laughed at my surprise at narrowly avoiding running into a cow and then walked on.
I suspect that before she left for the U.S., Arlene instructed the guards, John, and Etienne that they were never to allow Micaela and me to walk in the dark unaccompanied by a man. Last night after I was finished using the internet connection at the guesthouse, Olivier, a worker there, offered to walk me home. I accepted, knowing that even if I declined, he would accompany me anyway. Olivier has a little English and is very soft spoken and a bit shy about using his English. I had forgotten my flashlight, so the night was especially dark. (Micaela and I are the only people in town who use flashlights. Rwandans walk in the pitch black as if the sun were shining.) As we strolled along the street on the 6- or 7-minute walk to our house we talked only a little, with Olivier occasionally pointing to puddles for me to avoid.
We walked somewhat slowly, as is the custom in Rwanda. Without even a hint of alarm or surprise, Olivier mentioned slowly in his quiet voice, “Here is a cow.” Simultaneous to his quiet comment, I realized that I was about to run smack into a cow! It was less than a meter away and I hadn’t even seen or heard it. We both laughed at my surprise at narrowly avoiding running into a cow and then walked on.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Being 50 in Rwanda
I remember, after being in my 20s for the usual number of years, the first time someone asked me how old I was after I turned 30. Same thing for 40. It was hard to say it out loud. The good news is that I’m getting a lot of practice saying that I’m 50 because people in Rwanda don’t have the Western hesitation about asking how old you are. People ask your age as a matter of introductory information like whether you speak French or English, where you’re from, why you’re in Rwanda, and how many kids you have. When I tried to explain the Western custom of lying about your age to the students in one of my English classes, they just looked confused even after Etienne translated into Kinyarwanda. In Rwanda, where the average life expectancy is about 53, advanced age is a badge of honor.
The fun part of being honest about my age is that no one here believes me. They’re actually aghast when I tell them I’m 50. Maybe I flatter myself, but I think their surprise is genuine. It’s not that I look particularly youthful; it’s that they don’t adhere to the Western custom of lying about age. In addition, people have hard lives, so many Rwandan people who are 50 look like they’re 70. Back home in the US, I look my age, but here people think I’m 35.
Last week John got around to asking me how old I am. He just about fell over when I told him. Then he and Micaela started laughing, a private joke or something. So here’s the story…they had to wait a long time for me at the airport when I arrived because I was waiting for my suitcase that didn’t show up. I was the last person out of the baggage claim area. In the meantime, John had gone looking around for me. He knew my age, and he reported back to Micaela and Etienne that he said that he had seen a muzungu in the baggage claim area, but he didn’t think it was me because the woman he had seen was much younger than 50. With this kind of flattery, I may have to consider moving to Rwanda forever.
The fun part of being honest about my age is that no one here believes me. They’re actually aghast when I tell them I’m 50. Maybe I flatter myself, but I think their surprise is genuine. It’s not that I look particularly youthful; it’s that they don’t adhere to the Western custom of lying about age. In addition, people have hard lives, so many Rwandan people who are 50 look like they’re 70. Back home in the US, I look my age, but here people think I’m 35.
Last week John got around to asking me how old I am. He just about fell over when I told him. Then he and Micaela started laughing, a private joke or something. So here’s the story…they had to wait a long time for me at the airport when I arrived because I was waiting for my suitcase that didn’t show up. I was the last person out of the baggage claim area. In the meantime, John had gone looking around for me. He knew my age, and he reported back to Micaela and Etienne that he said that he had seen a muzungu in the baggage claim area, but he didn’t think it was me because the woman he had seen was much younger than 50. With this kind of flattery, I may have to consider moving to Rwanda forever.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Driving in Rwanda
Yesterday for the first time I drove in Rwanda. To be more precise, I drove a Toyota SUV with four-wheel drive around town, up to the building site (dirt road), and up a hill on another dirt road, impossibly long and full of huge rocks, massive holes, mud, and deep ruts. Micaela said I was brave to drive here, but it’s really not a big deal. I’ve been driven by others a lot here and have observed the locals’ driving habits. So all I have to do is drive like them, which sometimes proves a bit counterintuitive to me, but isn’t difficult.
In Rwanda, people drive on the right side of the road, so that’s good for me. However, the driver’s side of the car is also on the right. Fortunately, Arlene’s SUV is an automatic; I think driving a stick using my left hand would have thrown me off too much. Other than that, most things are where you expect them to be except the turn signals, which are opposite from my car at home.
We were going to the site of the new house in the morning. When John arrived with the car, he handed me the keys, got in the passenger’s seat, and asked if I would mind driving. “Fine with me,” I said, and off we went. I had offered to drive a number of times, but he always declined before.
Several challenges present themselves when driving in a town like Gitarama. One is that many more people walk in the street than drive cars. Pedestrians are everywhere, including the middle of the street. Also chickens, goats, and the occasional cow. A two-way trust exists between drivers and walkers. Walkers make way for cars, trusting in a way I certainly don’t count on while walking in Hyde Park that the drivers will not try to hit them. Drivers trust that the walkers really will get out of the way. Sometimes while driving you have to get uncomfortably close to walkers, but both you and they know it’s safe.
Mototaxis provide another challenge. Guys hang out all around town waiting for passengers to ride on the back of their motorcycles. They provide a helmet for the passenger, then you sit on the back on hold on real tight. They travel slower than cars and usually more or less stick to the right side of the road. To get anywhere on time, you have to pass mototaxis quite often. Etiquette requires that you give a short honk on the horn as you approach behind the mototaxi to let the driver know you intend to pass. He (it’s always a man) then turns on his right turn signal, not to turn right, but to notify you that he heard you and will stay over to the right side while you pass. This signaling routine also applies to passing larger vehicles.
Passing larger vehicles can be quite unnerving, but it has to be done if you’re going to get anywhere. In this mountainous terrain, if you stay behind a large truck chugging its way slowly uphill, you will never get where you’re going. So you do the same as passing a mototaxi: honk, then pass. The problem occurs when several vehicles get lined up behind a too-slow truck and three or four of them pass it at once. So you have the truck in the right lane going ever more slowly up the mountain, and four or so cars passing it at the same time in the left lane, facing oncoming traffic. One of the local assumptions is that no oncoming traffic is actually on its way. This is often the case, but not always. In the event that cars are approaching in the other lane, they slow down and let the passers pass. Everyone know what’s expected and no one gets angry about being passed or about seeing cars approaching them in their own lane. They just slow down and wait.
A convenience in driving is that if the road is rough (and many roads are rough; I’ve read that only 6% of roads in Rwanda are paved) you can drive on the wrong side of the road. No one gets excited about this, even if you’re coming their way. They expect it. They know you’re avoiding holes and ruts and have to select the best path around them even if unconventional driving is necessary.
The wife of one of the guards here had a baby by C-section over the weekend. She was being released from the hospital yesterday. Theogen’s (the guard) plan was to take her and the baby home by mototaxi. We just couldn’t imagine riding a mototaxi after having major surgery, so we offered to pick her and the baby up at the hospital and take her home. Theogen was thrilled, so off we went. Our experience at the hospital is another story for another day.
Anyway, we traveled down the road toward Kibgayi with the car loaded with five people and the baby. We turned off the main (paved) road onto a wide dirt road. I’d been on this one before to see one of the kids who just started in a secondary school up that road. We passed the turn to the school, and road got narrower. As we crawled along at 10-15 km/hr we laughed after each big bounce. Micaela and I were with three people who knew no English, but you don’t need a common language to understand how difficult this road was. Occasionally I looked toward the back seat, afraid the baby had bounced out the window, but the mom always gave me a thumbs up.
I have no idea how many km this road was, but as it narrowed, it got steeper, rockier, and more rutted. A few times, I slowed the car way down and studied the best way to get over whatever obstacle presented itself. After what seemed like forever, we arrived at Theogen’s house way up the mountain, where he got to present the baby to his waiting family. He is so proud of the baby, and he was even prouder to be driven home in a car by a couple of muzungus. John said that Theogen would remember that for the rest of his life and that being with us brought him new high status in his neighborhood. I find this attitude toward people with white skin uncomfortable, embarrassing, and unwarranted, but people here cannot be talked out of it.
In Rwanda, people drive on the right side of the road, so that’s good for me. However, the driver’s side of the car is also on the right. Fortunately, Arlene’s SUV is an automatic; I think driving a stick using my left hand would have thrown me off too much. Other than that, most things are where you expect them to be except the turn signals, which are opposite from my car at home.
We were going to the site of the new house in the morning. When John arrived with the car, he handed me the keys, got in the passenger’s seat, and asked if I would mind driving. “Fine with me,” I said, and off we went. I had offered to drive a number of times, but he always declined before.
Several challenges present themselves when driving in a town like Gitarama. One is that many more people walk in the street than drive cars. Pedestrians are everywhere, including the middle of the street. Also chickens, goats, and the occasional cow. A two-way trust exists between drivers and walkers. Walkers make way for cars, trusting in a way I certainly don’t count on while walking in Hyde Park that the drivers will not try to hit them. Drivers trust that the walkers really will get out of the way. Sometimes while driving you have to get uncomfortably close to walkers, but both you and they know it’s safe.
Mototaxis provide another challenge. Guys hang out all around town waiting for passengers to ride on the back of their motorcycles. They provide a helmet for the passenger, then you sit on the back on hold on real tight. They travel slower than cars and usually more or less stick to the right side of the road. To get anywhere on time, you have to pass mototaxis quite often. Etiquette requires that you give a short honk on the horn as you approach behind the mototaxi to let the driver know you intend to pass. He (it’s always a man) then turns on his right turn signal, not to turn right, but to notify you that he heard you and will stay over to the right side while you pass. This signaling routine also applies to passing larger vehicles.
Passing larger vehicles can be quite unnerving, but it has to be done if you’re going to get anywhere. In this mountainous terrain, if you stay behind a large truck chugging its way slowly uphill, you will never get where you’re going. So you do the same as passing a mototaxi: honk, then pass. The problem occurs when several vehicles get lined up behind a too-slow truck and three or four of them pass it at once. So you have the truck in the right lane going ever more slowly up the mountain, and four or so cars passing it at the same time in the left lane, facing oncoming traffic. One of the local assumptions is that no oncoming traffic is actually on its way. This is often the case, but not always. In the event that cars are approaching in the other lane, they slow down and let the passers pass. Everyone know what’s expected and no one gets angry about being passed or about seeing cars approaching them in their own lane. They just slow down and wait.
A convenience in driving is that if the road is rough (and many roads are rough; I’ve read that only 6% of roads in Rwanda are paved) you can drive on the wrong side of the road. No one gets excited about this, even if you’re coming their way. They expect it. They know you’re avoiding holes and ruts and have to select the best path around them even if unconventional driving is necessary.
The wife of one of the guards here had a baby by C-section over the weekend. She was being released from the hospital yesterday. Theogen’s (the guard) plan was to take her and the baby home by mototaxi. We just couldn’t imagine riding a mototaxi after having major surgery, so we offered to pick her and the baby up at the hospital and take her home. Theogen was thrilled, so off we went. Our experience at the hospital is another story for another day.
Anyway, we traveled down the road toward Kibgayi with the car loaded with five people and the baby. We turned off the main (paved) road onto a wide dirt road. I’d been on this one before to see one of the kids who just started in a secondary school up that road. We passed the turn to the school, and road got narrower. As we crawled along at 10-15 km/hr we laughed after each big bounce. Micaela and I were with three people who knew no English, but you don’t need a common language to understand how difficult this road was. Occasionally I looked toward the back seat, afraid the baby had bounced out the window, but the mom always gave me a thumbs up.
I have no idea how many km this road was, but as it narrowed, it got steeper, rockier, and more rutted. A few times, I slowed the car way down and studied the best way to get over whatever obstacle presented itself. After what seemed like forever, we arrived at Theogen’s house way up the mountain, where he got to present the baby to his waiting family. He is so proud of the baby, and he was even prouder to be driven home in a car by a couple of muzungus. John said that Theogen would remember that for the rest of his life and that being with us brought him new high status in his neighborhood. I find this attitude toward people with white skin uncomfortable, embarrassing, and unwarranted, but people here cannot be talked out of it.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Just so you know...
I promised to post a picture this weekend...well, I just tried and failed! The picture wouldn't upload even though I was willing to sit here forever waiting for it. I tried three times, and each time got an error message telling me that the internet couldn't access the page I requested, or something along those lines. So for now, you'll have to read my ramblings unembellished. I'll try again tomorrow or Tuesday. Sometimes things that don't work one day go smoothly another day.
Micaela and Etienne
I promised to try to post a picture this weekend, so here I go. I hope I can get it to upload without technical difficulties. This is a picture of Micaela, my housemate, and Etienne, who works at the children's home. It was taken a couple weeks ago when we went for a walk up to the highest point in Gitarama.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
The muzungu price
One thing people here feel sure of is that muzungus have a lot of money, even if we’re aid workers, students, or people on leave from work. And they have a good point–if you have the means to board a plane and make your way to Africa, by default you have more money than most of the people in Rwanda.
This attitude toward muzungus translates into higher prices for us than a local person would pay. Example…on Monday, Oswald (our driver), Micaela, Etienne, and I traveled to Kigali to pick up some meat, fish, and other items that are better bought in Kigali than here. We had lunch at Karibu, a restaurant I frequented when I was in Kigali in September. (I felt quite cosmopolitan, being able to make a restaurant recommendation in an African capital.) Anyway, a kid was selling very nice laminated maps of Africa and Rwanda on the street. Not wanting to pay an inflated price, I asked Etienne if he would go talk to the boy and find out the price. He talked with the boy then returned to our table. The price: 2000 Frw (about $4). I said I’d like a map of Rwanda and one of Africa; Micaela wanted a map of Rwanda. We gave Etienne the money, and he disappeared around the wall surrounding the restaurant. He returned shortly sans maps. We thought the boy had perhaps relocated down the street, but Etienne said no. He explained that after the boy saw him talking to us and realized that the maps were for muzungus, he raised the price to 2500 Frw, so Etienne wisely declined to purchase. We thanked him for keeping us from getting ripped off and proceeded to enjoy our meal.
After lunch, as we walked toward the car, the same boy approached us with his maps, asking if we wanted to buy. We said no, 2500 was too much, and got in the car. As we pulled away from the curb, he ran alongside the car, banging on the door, yelling, “2000, 2000, I sell for 2000!” So we stopped and bought three maps from him. I’m sure those of you who have traveled a lot have had similar experiences. It always helps when the vendor truly believes you’ll walk away, which we would have.
Another example…the same day, as we were pulling away in the truck from our last stop in Kigali, a man selling The New Times, an English-language Rwandan newspaper, approached me to buy a paper. I’m a bit news-starved here, so I asked how much. Through Etienne, he said 800 Frw (about $1.50). I thought this was a little steep, but we needed to get going and I wanted the newspaper. I shoved it between the seats on the hour-long drive back to Gitarama.
When we got back to the house, I settled into the couch with a cup of tea and my newspaper. Well…not only was the price printed on the front…300 Frw, but to add insult to injury, the newspaper was three days old. So old Mama Warbucks here paid more than double the expected price for a thee-day old paper!
This attitude toward muzungus translates into higher prices for us than a local person would pay. Example…on Monday, Oswald (our driver), Micaela, Etienne, and I traveled to Kigali to pick up some meat, fish, and other items that are better bought in Kigali than here. We had lunch at Karibu, a restaurant I frequented when I was in Kigali in September. (I felt quite cosmopolitan, being able to make a restaurant recommendation in an African capital.) Anyway, a kid was selling very nice laminated maps of Africa and Rwanda on the street. Not wanting to pay an inflated price, I asked Etienne if he would go talk to the boy and find out the price. He talked with the boy then returned to our table. The price: 2000 Frw (about $4). I said I’d like a map of Rwanda and one of Africa; Micaela wanted a map of Rwanda. We gave Etienne the money, and he disappeared around the wall surrounding the restaurant. He returned shortly sans maps. We thought the boy had perhaps relocated down the street, but Etienne said no. He explained that after the boy saw him talking to us and realized that the maps were for muzungus, he raised the price to 2500 Frw, so Etienne wisely declined to purchase. We thanked him for keeping us from getting ripped off and proceeded to enjoy our meal.
After lunch, as we walked toward the car, the same boy approached us with his maps, asking if we wanted to buy. We said no, 2500 was too much, and got in the car. As we pulled away from the curb, he ran alongside the car, banging on the door, yelling, “2000, 2000, I sell for 2000!” So we stopped and bought three maps from him. I’m sure those of you who have traveled a lot have had similar experiences. It always helps when the vendor truly believes you’ll walk away, which we would have.
Another example…the same day, as we were pulling away in the truck from our last stop in Kigali, a man selling The New Times, an English-language Rwandan newspaper, approached me to buy a paper. I’m a bit news-starved here, so I asked how much. Through Etienne, he said 800 Frw (about $1.50). I thought this was a little steep, but we needed to get going and I wanted the newspaper. I shoved it between the seats on the hour-long drive back to Gitarama.
When we got back to the house, I settled into the couch with a cup of tea and my newspaper. Well…not only was the price printed on the front…300 Frw, but to add insult to injury, the newspaper was three days old. So old Mama Warbucks here paid more than double the expected price for a thee-day old paper!
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