Kigali snippets: B.O.

I’ve avoided mentioning this for a long time as I didn’t know how to describe it politely.

When I first started work I had my own small office. Every now and then I would stop work and sniff my armpits. It took a while for me to work out that the incredibly pungent smell of stale sweat was coming from my colleague walking past in the corridor, and not from me (phew). The same happened frequently on the bus.

I don’t know quite what has happened, but I must have grown used to the smell because I now notice it rarely.

So why do I smell so much sweat and BO in Rwanda? Firstly, the majority of people don’t use deodorant. Secondly, I think it is Europeans who have developed an aversion to a natural smell which perhaps Rwandans don’t find offensive at all. Thirdly, there doesn’t seem to be an automatic principle of wearing clothes for a day and washing them the following day. When I bought my first African fabric and had an outfit made I was told not to wash it too frequently (‘like your European clothes’) because the colour would wash out.

Kigali V Camberwell: Moving House

In April 2007 I moved house. Searching for the house had taken several months of wandering around the neighbourhood asking people if they knew of anywhere. I was on a budget and few houses have indoor bathrooms, not to mention anything resembling a kitchen. Having my own enclosure was also a priority.

V

Moving house in Camberwell involves lots of internet searches, phone calls to individuals and estate agents followed by complicated contracts, deposits etc… Criteria are the amount of sunshine coming into the flat and location.

The night before moving day I packed my few belongings into my two rucksacks and the usual overflow stuff into a box. On moving day I went to work, leaving the domestique to dismantle my bed frame and move the furniture outside.

V

A week before moving day I start to pack my many, many belongings into boxes, suitcases, plastic bags and any other container I can get my hands on. I am incredulous at the amount of stuff I own, especially how little of it I actually use. Its tiring and I wish I had a moving company to help me.

After lunch I borrow the work pick up truck (complete with driver) and go to my house. My belongings are loaded onto the truck by the driver, my domestique and all the other domestiques working in the enclosure (without being asked). I barely lift a finger and it takes twenty minutes.

V

I’ve hired a van for the actual move. It takes hours and hours for me, my Dad, Mum and brother to carry everything down two flights of stairs. I’ve packed badly and there is still stuff left over in the flat which needs packing into carrier bags.

At the new house, workers who have been employed by the owner to re-paint and clean immediately rush out to help carry in my belongings. Again, I just have to stand and direct where I want everything. The whole process takes about ten minutes.

V

At the new flat my loyal family of helpers are exhausted and someone makes tea while we start the grind of carrying everything in from the van to the new place. There is constant stress about having things stolen from both the van and flat.

Kigali Snippets: Stuff

One thing I noticed early on here is that people don’t have much stuff. Either on them when they are out and about or in their houses – even those people who could afford to have ‘stuff’.

Houses tend to have a few items of furniture, a few pictures (often religious, holographic and probably of Chinese origin) on the walls but otherwise very little.

When I was attending the Labour Day celebrations on May 1^st last year my handbag was searched by security as I entered the stadium. This was because the President was also attending. The security guard started to look through my bag and quickly said to my companion in Kinyarwanda “Is it full of Muzungu stuff?” before they exchanged knowing nods and she abandoned the search.

Kigali Snippets: Traffic Lights

When I first arrived in Kigali none of the few traffic lights were in use. Then a few months ago a global HIV/AIDS conference was held and all of a sudden all the lights were switched on and everyone was very confused. Did it make Kigali appear more sophisticated?

For the past few months we seem to have had a half and half situation. Sometimes they’re on, sometimes they’re all on flashing amber only and sometimes they’re off. When they’re off people have to proceed slightly slower than normal and work their way across the junction with plenty of hooting. When they’re on plenty of drivers just chose to ignore the red light and apply the same principle.

Work snippets: Toilets again

Apologies for yet more toilet stories!

We have a new Head of Logistics. His role is to control use of the organisation’s vehicles and purchasing. All employees get free tea in the morning (very generous) and free toilet paper. In case you’re confused, this is because Rwandans don’t seem to keep toilet paper in the toilet. They keep it in the house or office somewhere and take it with them when they use the facilities. So in the office we each have our own toilet roll on our desks. I’ve suggested to my colleagues that we could bang a nail into the wall and just leave one roll in the toilet but they’re convinced that someone will steal it and that anyway it is a stupid idea. The new Head of Logistics has, rightly so, decided to restrict some purchases – we’re now allowed only a certain number of spoonfuls of sugar and powdered milk in our tea (much to the frustration of most of my colleagues, who tend to pile in five or six sugars and a similar amount of milk per mug) and we’re allowed one roll of toilet paper per month each. As I had flu at the start of the month I used my supply within a day or two thanks to a runny nose. And as I keep forgetting to bring a roll from home, I now have to go around the office asking my colleagues to lend some toilet paper to me. It turns out most of them have also run out, so they too do the rounds of each desk asking for a toilet roll donation. So much for privacy.

Rwandan Conversations: Invitations

Acquaintance : Hi Jo, I want to invite you to my graduation ceremony/wedding/confirmation on Saturday

Me, smiling gratefully: Oh thank you, that’s really very kind of you. I’m very sorry but I have another commitment so I won’t be able to come I’m afraid, but I hope you really enjoy the day.

Acquaintance: Oh dear, well actually I was hoping you’d come so you could take photos with your camera.

Me, trying to maintain a smile: Oh, well, sorry, erm. I have to run right now I’m afraid because I’m very late for an appointment, but see you soon!

I refuse to lend my camera to Rwandans because if they were to drop it or get it stolen then they would not have the money to buy a replacement – and frankly, nor do I right now! Apologies if this seems mean, but generally I don’t feel that Rwandans look after things very carefully – cars, equipment all seems to be beaten up and/or lost instantly.

Kigali January 2007 V Kigali January 2008

In January 07 I was living in a tiny house, with very damp walls, no kitchen, no running water and intermittent electricity.

V

I’m now living in a lovely house, with three bedrooms, a huge lounge, a kitchen (i.e. a room with a sink) and I have constant running water with rare power cuts

I washed by mixing boiling water from my kettle with a little cold water from a big yellow jerry can, squatting in my big bucket and splashing water over me. I washed my hair by squatting on the floor next to the bucket and pouring it over my head. I didn’t bother with conditioner and longed for a hot bath.

V

Thanks to constant running water and a gadget I bought for £20 which is attached to the showerhead, I have a fantastic hot shower twice a day. My hair once again looks like it did when I was in the UK and I no longer yearn for a bath (though I wouldn’t say no!)

My food was cooked on a coal stove (like a tiny barbeque) in the outbuilding/domestique’s bedroom near my house. I rarely cooked for myself because I didn’t want to squat outside and I hated not having any surfaces to lean on or having running water to rinse my hands. The average meal cooked by the domestique took about two hours.

V

I’ve splashed out on a double gas burner and gas tank. The gas lasts four months and it is cheaper than coal, not to mention faster and cleaner. I also bought a small fridge from a VSO who was leaving Rwanda. The combination of the two means that I now cook all my own meals, often stir-fry style, quickly and simply.

I had a domestique who cleaned, shopped, cooked, washed my clothes and generally did any chore I needed doing. My evenings were mine to fill as I pleased because I’d arrive home from work to a meal and afterwards I’d leave the washing up for the domestique.

V

I now do most chores myself, only clothes washing is still outsourced. I had grown tired of being woken up at 6am on a Sunday because the domestique decided to wash the floor. I couldn’t get used to the idea that I had to feed this person – now that I’d started cooking for myself I effectively had to cook for him…basically a role reversal. When I wasn’t at home, he’d cook for himself in my kitchen. When I returned home I’d feel like a student sharing a house as I wiped up the grease splashed all over the cooker and looked at the food in the fridge which had disappeared. As a result, my evenings are once again busy, just like in the UK.

As soon as I opened my curtains in the morning or stepped outside of my door I knew that all eyes would be on me – my neighbours, the five domestiques constantly in the yard and other random passers-by who came into the enclosure to use the pit latrine on their way home from the market.

V

I have a very large garden and a big wall around the entire house for privacy. I can happily sit outside the house in my dressing gown enjoying the morning sunshine. I now have a night guard who lives in the outbuildings, but he is very discreet and makes himself scarce if I’m enjoying the garden.

Kigali V Camberwell: Business Meetings

I attend many meetings, normally organised by NGOs (both international and Rwandan) in a venue somewhere in town. The highlight is frequently the buffet lunch, which in a good meeting venue, can compensate for a day’s worth of frustration.

V

I attend many meetings, often short and sweet in the office where I’m working. A well-run meeting makes me feel very satisfied, a job well done. I remember with fondness meetings with a platter of sandwiches from Pret. Yum.

The meeting starts approximately two hours late. If there is a VIP guest, it cannot start until that person has arrived. Everyone else just sits around waiting.

V

The meeting never starts more than ten minutes late. Participants arriving five minutes late mumble an apology with an embarrassed grin and quickly sit down to concentrate. There is no VIP guest.

The meeting begins with speeches by the various VIPs (normally the head of any organisation present and potentially a government minister). In the speeches everyone is thanked, including Rwanda’s President ‘for creating such a stable country which is developing so quickly’.

V

There are no formalities and the chairperson may even say something like ‘I think we can dispense with the formalities and get straight to business’. One or two participants add comments about just how busy they are and therefore anxious to finish the meeting asap.

It is perfectly normal behaviour to take phone calls, send SMS messages, talk to your neighbour or sit and do other work throughout the meeting. This includes the VIPs – I have actually watched a VIP interrupt his speech in front of 50 people to take a phone call and then type an SMS while he continued talking. Someone feeling slightly embarrassed to take a phone call will fix their hand firmly over their mouth (rather as you might do if it was very windy) and talk whilst leaning down as if to get under the table. It makes no difference whatsoever to the disruption caused and just looks very silly.

V

Phones in meetings are a source of embarrassment. A nice chairperson might remind everyone to turn off their phones at the start. Anyone who forgets and is subsequently disturbed by a phone call looks mortified and rummages around in their bag trying to reject the call as quickly as possible.

The meeting room is set up with a head table rather like a British wedding reception. This has always been draped in blue and white fabric decorated with a hideous fake flower arrangement from China. Invariably there are microphones, even in a tiny room. This table is for the VIPs. Participants are arranged in rows facing the VIPs

V

The meeting room is arranged, where possible, so that everyone can see everyone else face to face. If necessary, time will be taken to re-arrange furniture so that this cosy, personal set up is complete.

The meeting has an MC as opposed to a chairperson. This person’s job is not only to introduce speakers but also then to summarise each speech made. It is incredibly time consuming, not to mention tedious.

V

The meeting always has a chairperson with an agenda. The chairperson’s accepted job is to keep contributions to a minimum and move things on. Most people manage the role fairly well.

Throughout the meeting all sorts of other things are going on in the room. There seems to be little expectation that participants are there to actually listen. Several people, loosely associated to the organiser will be fiddling with the dodgy sound system, getting up to take photos (including standing right in front of the speaker), coming in and out of the room to take phone calls or just generally faffing around and muttering to each other in the back etc… Much of this I perceive as incredibly rude and distracting, but clearly Rwandans don’t see it this way at all.

V

Meeting attendees get very irritated if there is anything else going on the room and much time will be spent ensuring the noise from the road, corridor or air conditioning isn’t too intrusive. All attendees remain seated and concentrate, or at least pretend to concentrate, on the discussion. A confident chairperson or participant will sometimes point out behaviour which he or she considers rude and there’ll be apologies all round.

The meeting concludes with another round of speeches (often the VIP will have left the meeting after his or her morning speech and will return to make his or her closing speech). Participants then crowd around the organiser to collect their per diem and transport money. This often involves a fierce debate about how little is being provided.

V

The meeting concludes with a quick review of who has agreed to do what and setting the time for the next meeting. Participants stand and immediately start all sorts of other work-related discussions ‘ooh, could I just have a quick word with you while we’re both here…’.

Things Cats Eat

Since December 2006 I’ve had two cats. At Christmas 2007 one of them had four kittens, thankfully all successfully adopted now.

In a country like the UK where there is ample, cheap cat food I think we assume that cats like fish and meat and not much more. I also happen to know (thanks to a due diligence project several years ago) that the pet food industry spends millions each year on palatability enhancers which explains your cat's addiction to their Whiskers.

Here’s what they actually like to eat (in case you ever run out of proper cat food):

Sardines in tomato sauce

Cheese (they rip open my fridge door hunting this down)

Eggs (raw, or ideally the omlette I’ve just cooked for myself)

Bread (especially with cheese spread or butter on it)

Toast with butter and marmite

Cucumber

Salted crisps

Milk

Rice or pasta with mixed vegetables

Avocado

Instant chinese noodles

Conservative volunteers

Please forgive me a terribly out of date post, but in July 2007 David Cameron and some conservative MPs visited Rwanda to carry out some volunteer work. I believe the aim was for MPs to experience development work for themselves to help them develop better policies for using UK aid money.

Their placements were developed in collaboration with VSO. I believe David Cameron got some stick from the papers in the UK as there was flooding back home. Personally, I think he was right to continue with his planned trip here.

This is a link to the BBC diary of the trip.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk_politics/6910602.stm

The True Cost of Eating European-Style Food

Previously I have mentioned some of my treats: having a glass of wine at the InterContinental Hotel, enjoying a hot chocolate in the Starbucks-style Bourbon coffee shop etc…

I’ve realised that even my visitors – and people visiting other volunteers – find it hard to understand why this is such a treat.

It is not just that Rwandan food doesn’t offer much variety and that a taste of home is nice. It is mainly about money.

Few volunteers here live a luxury life. Some of the older volunteers top up their VSO allowance with their pension from home, but most of the younger volunteers -myself included- do try to live within the £130 we are given each month.

To help you understand how this feels, I will list all prices from now on with a UK comparison. The average wage in the UK is just under £25,000 per year. This means the average Brit has £1500 a month to spend. So:

A glass of wine costs £3 here – 2% of my monthly income.

This is the equivalent of spending £30 on one glass of wine in the UK.

A modest meal (main course only and one drink) at the fantastic Indian restaurant in Kigali costs £8 – the equivalent of spending £92 on one meal in the UK.

So please understand that going out for a meal or having a glass of wine is a BIG DEAL (especially if you plan to visit!).

About Rwanda

I am aware that my contract expires in September 2008 so I’m trying to fill in some gaps in my blog based on questions people have sent via email.

If there is anything you would like to know about the country and my life here, then please feel free to send me questions and I will do my best to reply.

Thanks

Work Snippets: Getting to Work

I either walk to work up a very steep hill, complete with ipod and sunglasses (I’ve resorted to using celebrity tactics to avoid Muzungu’ing – it doesn’t actually work, but it somehow helps me to stay calm as I can at least pretend not to hear the shouting and demands for money).

On lazy days I take a moto for 300F (30p). This is a luxury but I really enjoy it and it helps if I’m running late.

Today it is raining so I asked for a lift. My boss lives further along the same road as me and is driven to work everyday. The driver arrives at his house at 7am everyday (we start work at 7.30am). The boss leaves his house at 8am. When he arrives at work he doesn’t close the car door behind him – he leaves it open for the driver to close.

Work Snippets: Punctuality

At 10am today my organisation was due to hold a mini graduation ceremony for disabled students who have completed some professional training. It is now 11am. One colleague is sitting at a table in our office writing names on certificates and the driver is off buying crates of fanta. This is perfectly normal and seems to bother no one. I’m sure the students are sitting patiently in the training centre waiting.

Lafique Update

You may remember that when I returned from my trip to the UK in February 2007 Lafique, my domestique, had disappeared. He had taken with him my lovely radio and a pile of cash. He reappeared some time later claiming all sorts of difficulties which had forced him to vanish – including having made his girlfriend pregnant. I was thoroughly forgiving – though not about the radio, which I insisted he return to me. He made promises, but I haven’t seen him since and the radio has yet to be returned to me.

During my third month in Rwanda I had accompanied Lafique to his home town where he was due to testify in a Gacaca trial against the men who have killed his family. Lafique wanted me to meet his family, and I was happy to explore the countryside and see a Gacaca trial underway. Sadly, by the time we arrived (after a three hour bus journey and 45 minute motorbike ride) the trial had already moved onto other defendants and he had missed his opportunity to testify. His adoptive mother had testified on his behalf though so he didn’t seem too concerned. The court had found the defendant guilty and ordered him to give Lafique a cow (considered to be very valuable here) and a motorbike, two items which had been stolen during the attack on his family. Some time later though I found out that the guilty man had not returned any of those items and had run off to Tanzania.

In January 2007 Lafique had disappeared for a week following the death of his adoptive mother. He had spent a week mourning her and sorting out what would happen to her house and the small aids orphan she had recently adopted.

In July 2007 I received a letter from Lafique apologising for his theft and promising to return not only my radio, but also the money he had taken. And then I heard nothing.

Imagine then my surprise, in November 2007, when I climbed out of the work truck after a long, uncomfortable journey to what seemed like the middle of nowhere only to be greeted by Lafique’s ‘dead’ adoptive mother. She greeted me with a hug and by the time my colleagues and I had left the town we were weighed down with bananas galore. It had all been a lie – her death, his pregnant girlfriend and goodness knows what else!

Although I am angry, I think it is important to remember that this is a 19 year old orphan who witnessed the murder of his entire family aged 6 and who has been working as a servant since the age of 13. In the UK I think we’d forgive him far more than a few lies and petty theft.

Impact of Kenya Problems in Kigali

Rwanda is landlocked so just about everything comes overland from neighbouring countries (before you reach for your atlas, they are: Uganda, Tanzania, Burundi and Democratic Republic of Congo). Apparently many things also come from Kenya (via the port of Mombasa in many cases). Since the fighting began following the elections in Kenya, fuel has been rationed in Rwanda. This hasn’t had an impact on work so far but I suspect it will if the situation continues for much longer. Each customer is only allowed to buy £5’s worth of fuel at a time. Inevitably this will just mean we’ll drive around town stocking up in each petrol station if we’re doing a longer trip. On a normal day though, my organisation only ever puts £5’s worth in the car anyway. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve done the rounds of the petrol stations – on two previous occasions we’ve driven to three or four stations looking for one which had some fuel.

I can see the shortage becoming more disruptive in terms of generators. We have a power cut at least once a day causing the cleaner to runs outside to turn on the generator and then five minutes later she runs off to buy more fuel for it. If petrol stations do start to run out then I can picture us sitting in the office in silence wondering what to do while the computers are off.

Some people have told me that prices for some food items have gone up but I haven’t noticed this yet myself. A friend who works for a construction company has had to stop work on a house they are building because they don’t have any materials.

Rwanda has a strategic plan rather like a large company would. Perhaps the UK has a strategic plan too, but I’m not aware of it. Rwanda’s plan is called Vision 2020. Because of the disadvantages of being landlocked, tiny (with the highest population density of Africa) and the high price of moving goods, the idea is that Rwanda will be a hub for East Africa, with a well-qualified labour force specialising in IT and other services. Most days this still seems a very long way off to me (90% of the population currently works in agriculture), but certainly Rwanda is already popular as a destination for international conferences (the cleanliness of the city is one of the reasons I’ve seen given). One newspaper article recently described Rwanda as a future Singapore. On the television news I’m always surprised and impressed to see ministers sitting in the equivalent of the House of Commons tapping quietly into their laptops, no paper in sight.

You can read more about Vision 2020 here:

http://www.rwandagateway.org/article.php3?id_article=106

P.S. Vision 2020 is very well known by the general population. It is also a popular name for any kind of business – including hair salons!

Helping & Hierarchy

My organisation’s vehicles are falling apart. If the pick up conks out then the driver will just call out of the window to some passing men and tell them to give us a push. Three or four guys, without questioning, will then run for a good hundred meters in hot sun pushing our truck until it gets started. The driver doesn’t give them money or call out thank you. Its just normal that people should help each other. I love this aspect of the culture.

Inevitably, it doesn’t always apply to me as a Muzungu is considered too easy a source of money, so people are generally only inclined to help me on the assumption that I’ll be paying them afterwards.

I think there is an element of hierarchy too. Perhaps then ‘help’ isn’t the right word exactly. Rwandans will happily summon a street boy or random poor-looking person when in town and send them off on a small errand without paying. The boy, woman or man always complies without comment. Everybody here has a very keen sense of where they are in the hierarchy in any situation. The drivers at work are extremely subservient in their behaviour to the boss, but they treat the dogsbody lady (cleaner, errand-runner) like a slave. I remember when I first arrived being shocked at the way in which domestiques (house boy or girl) are treated. This isn’t helped by the fact that there is no word for Please in Kinyarwanda, and saying Thank you regularly isn’t part of the culture. The domestique industry means that everyone but the truly poor has their own personal servant at their beck and call day and night.

There seems to be no shame in being explicit with this hierarchy. While I was waiting for my friend to have his hair cut in a salon I was offered a seat in the VIP room (exactly the same as the rest of the salon and with the same prices but with a TV and a bit more space). I was identified as a VIP thanks to my skin colour, but I noticed other people were identified based on their clothes, shoes, mobile phone or even simply their behaviour. These people are called ‘boss, I get stuck - of course - with Muzungu.

Telling the Time

Did you know that in East Africa the time isn’t the same as in the UK? I don’t mean that Rwanda is on a different time zone. I mean that counting starts at 6am (when the sun comes up in Rwanda).
So 7am is 1, 8am is 2, midday is 6 etc…. This means that I had to learn not only the words for time telling in Kinyarwanda (confusingly, Swahili numbers are used rather than the Kinyarwanda numbers), but also how to add or subtract six (depending on whether its before or after midday) from the time in my head before saying the time out loud. Rwandans also struggle with this when they’re speaking English or French and often tell you a time for a meeting before correcting themselves: “Let’s meet at 10 this afternoon, er, I mean 4”.
Add to this confusion, that Rwanda was once a Francophone country (in which 4pm is 16hours) but is now a trilingual country using a mixture of French, English and Kinyarwanda to speak and a mixture of French, English and Rwandan conventions.

Rwandan Conversations: Too rich to push

Colleague: Will you have a baby one day? You’re the only person working here who doesn’t have a child.

Me: Well, yes I hope so, but I don’t know when.

Colleague: When you do, will you push like us poor Rwandan women or in England does everyone have a Caesarean?

Me: I think that people only have a Caesarean when there is a problem, so assuming all is ok, I’ll be pushing just like you.

Colleague: Well, you really shouldn’t. Its much better to have a Caesarean and as you can afford it I don’t know why you’d push.

To Muzungu vb.

I’ve been in Rwanda fourteen months now and I find getting Muzungu’d still drives me crazy. Its hard to explain how constant it is. The minute I leave my house someone will call me Muzungu, the little kids who live next door will shout out ‘Bonjour Muzungu’. The other day at lunch, my colleague even referred to me as Muzungu when talking to the waitress. I gave him my dirtiest look possible and he immediately apologised.

There are several things about it which annoy me:

Firstly, it’s the fact that people just say it as you walk down the street. Adults. Not just children. I understand and accept that small children just say whatever comes into their heads and if they’re surprised or shocked to see me then they blurt it out. This actually makes me laugh. But adults say it, they just shout it AT me as I walk past. They don’t shout “old man” at old Rwandans (who are shown lots of respect) and they don’t shout “fatty” when a huge Rwandan mama walks past. I feel hurt most of the time – I’m like a village idiot in a cage and it is perfectly acceptable to shout at me, laugh at me, poke me, touch me (my hair is fascinating apparently) etc…..

Secondly, its because it is just so absurd – in this country – to be naming someone according to their race. 13 years after the genocide, not a day goes past when I don’t hear the radio or community leaders (who are far more important here than in the UK) talking about “the importance of eliminating genocide ideology”. The country is trying so hard to ensure that nothing resembling a genocide ever repeats itself. You never ask someone if they are Hutu or Tutsi – if you do, they reply “We’re all Rwandans”. People will happily lecture me on how important it is not to differentiate between ethnicities. But even university-educated Rwandans, when I challenge them on why it is ok to call me Muzungu, don’t seem to see that it is exactly the same as calling someone a Hutu or a Tutsi. This ‘training’ on racism and ethnicity has worked well, but only with regards to Hutus and Tutsis…every other ethnicity or race doesn’t count and it is fine to differentiate between them, including making far-fetched assumptions about that person (‘every Muzungu is rich’ being my favourite).

I have several responses:

1. Completely ignore the person shouting at me
2. Reply “Bonjour Umwirabura” (Hello Black person) – this elicits laughter
3. Reply “Sinitwa Muzungu” (I’m not called Muzungu)
4. Ask the person why they can’t just call me Madame because I think they’re being rude

In contrast to my normal teeth grinding, I once burst out laughing when a tiny girl of about 3 years old shouted “Akazungu Keza” (Pretty little Muzungu).

Photo of my kitchen sink

Draught Excluder

You wouldn’t think I’d need a draught excluder in tropical Africa would you?

There always seems to be a gap of a couple of centimeters underneath front doors in Rwanda, I assume it is to help air circulate. When I first arrived in I used to ask Lafique to roll up the floor cloth to block the gap because of the huge cockroaches which came in, along with the odd rat. Then in December I acquired two kittens so the rats stayed away and any cockroach which dared to enter was swiped around the house for ten minutes before being eaten (by the kittens, not me). So, the end to all of my problems…

…until I moved house a few months ago. Julie had kindly provided me with purpose made ‘draught excluders’ just to be 100% sure there’d be no cockroaches anywhere near her during her stay at my house (she had no confidence in the kittens!). The old house was on the top of the hill and the new house is right at the bottom. (A Rwandan friend who once studied in England looked at me in disgust when I told him where I was living “why are you living in the swamp?”) I’d got out of the habit of using the draught excluders until recently when the rainy season started and frogs of all sizes have started wandering in as soon as the sun goes down. Reluctant to find half eaten, mangled frogs all over the house I dug them out again.

Then last night I’d forgotten to put them in place and I woke up this morning to find the floors covered in hundreds of beetle-like insects with big wings that fall off almost instantly. My night guard was out sweeping them up into a bucket. He told me he was going to give it to local children who apparently like to fry and eat the bugs.

Rwanda Conversations: Rich Muzungus

On a recent worktrip to Gisenyi in the North my colleague and I have stopped for something to eat in a roadside café. The television is on showing footage of the Brazilian plane crash.

My colleague: “I have never been on a plane, but before I became disabled I was hoping to fly to Canada to finish my studies.”

Customer on neighbouring table: “Well now you know a Muzungu (nodding towards me), you probably will because she can pay.”

Rwandan Conversations : C’est comme ça en Afrique

I’m getting a lift to the end of the road in the car of a member of parliament. We’re making small talk when he says:

MP: “Look at all these people walking so slowly.”

ME: “Yes, people often walk behind me making fun of how quickly I walk.”

MP: “Well, they’re walking slowly because they haven’t got anything to do. It’s a big problem. I mean, you just see people sitting around waiting for something to happen. People just sit outside their houses waiting to see where their next meal will come from. It’s a real problem here in Africa, but I don’t know the solution.”

ME: “Is it cultural?”

MP: “Well, we have big families and you always know that someone in your family is working even if you’re not. And you know that when you find work you’ll be paying for all of your family. So maybe that’s part of it.”

ME: “It’s true that in the UK life is much more focussed around the individual, not like the collective thinking here. But that’s not the ideal solution either……”

Rwandan Conversations: Colonialists

At the border crossing from Rwanda into Uganda I see the person in the queue next to me reading my landing card.

Him: “You are coming home”

Me: “No, no, I live in Rwanda, I’m just visiting Uganda.”

Him: “No, but you are coming home.”

Me: “Well, no, I’m English but I live in Rwanda.”

Him: “You are English, Uganda is your colony, so you are coming home!”

Me: “Oh yes, well, hum….”

Rwandan Conversations: Hygiene

I arrive back from a lunch break to find my colleague sitting outside the office drinking milk and eating bread which is wrapped in a serviette.

Me: “I’ve noticed that Rwandans will never eat anything with their hands, it always has to be wrapped in a serviette. Why is that?”

Him: “Well because of hygiene of course. You have to remember that we are very poor. Take me for example, if I became ill I wouldn’t have the money to go the doctor so I might die!”

Me: “Why don’t you just wash your hands?”

Him: “Well you know that because we’re poor we don’t have water and anyway, in pit latrines there isn’t a hand basin.”

Me: “Well you do have water, it just comes from jerry cans and although you don’t have a hand basin you do have a small bucket. So you could just leave a small bucket of water and a bar of soap in the pit latrine so its there for you to wash your hands every time you leave the toilet. That way you know you’ve always got clean hands.”

Him: “Ha! What a funny idea. But the houseboy doesn’t ever leave water in the pit latrine.”

Me: “Well you could ask him to. He’s there to do what you tell him, isn’t he?”

Him: “You have no idea! Can you imagine how long it would train him to always leave a bucket of water and soap in the toilet? You’re rich, you have no idea.”

Rwandan Conversations: It’s like that in Europe

Crossing from Rwanda to Uganda took two hours thanks to queues on both sides. While passengers queue, the coach waits on the other side for us to re-board. Julie and I decided to join the queue, rather than push to the front as most people were doing. After over an hour and a half of queuing we are approached by the conductor from the bus:

Conductor: (Aggressively) “What are you still doing in the queue? You’re not serious. I told you we had to be quick.

Us: “Well we joined the queue immediately, we haven’t been doing anything else.”

Conductor: “Well now you have to come to the front. We need to leave.”

Us: “Well we don’t really think it is fair to skip the queue, but….”

Conductor: “Well you don’t have queues in Europe so you don’t understand.”

Us: “We do have queues, we just respect them, that’s all!!!”

As we get to the front, the border employee controlling the queue shouts at the group of passengers and the conductor to get back in the queue. Mortified, we blush and return to our place in the queue. Two minutes later a random guy is back asking us for our passports. He is holding the passports of the other people on our bus.

Random guy: “Give me your passports and one of you come with me.”

Us: “No, we’re not skipping the queue again. You think you can get to the front just because we’re white!”

Random guy: “Actually it is because you two need to pay for the visa but the others don’t.”

Us: “Oh, ok. Sorry.”

We’re pushed to the front of the queue and this time we’re let through without a problem. No doubt some money has changed hands.

Rwandan Conversations: - Too much information

During a planning meeting at work for a project closing ceremony to which we will invite over one hundred people, including ‘important people’:

Me: “Will there be toilets at this venue? I only ask because last time there weren’t any and the meeting lasted over 6 hours.”

Boss: “Yes, good question. There are important people coming so we should have toilets.”

Colleague 1: “Well, there are toilets but maybe only suitable for petit besoins.” [literally means small needs].

Colleague 2: “Well, do you think people anyone will need to do grand besoins.” [big needs]?

Colleague 1: “Well it is quite a long day and you never know. Anyway, for the important women who are invited, even if it is just petit besoins, we should still have some water and a proper toilet.”

In the mean time I’m wishing I’d never asked the question.

Kigali V Camberwell: Physiotherapy

I am referred to a physiotherapist because I have sciatica. I’m not sure what causes it, but I have pains in my lower back when walking downhill (which I do all the time here).

V

I am referred to a physiotherapist because I have a trapped nerve in my neck caused by sitting in front of my laptop too much and lugging around a suitcase all the time.

I arrive in the clinic and hand over my little green card with my number to the receptionist. As he is dealing with at least four other people at the same time, I sit down and expect a long wait. In fact, some form of invisible communication occurs and very soon another man in a white coat appears with my ‘dossier’ (an exercise book with the notes from each visit) and asks me to sign one slip of paper before whisking me off to wait outside the doctor’s office.

V

I arrive in the clinic and the receptionist hands me three different forms to complete to ensure the right insurance company will be charged and probably to ensure I won’t sue anyone if I come out in a worse state than I went in.

In the treatment room I get undressed behind one of those old-fashioned screens with gathered green cotton and climb up onto the bed while the doctor fiddles with papers.

V

In the treatment room I get undressed next to the bed while the doctor asks me lots of questions about my problem and tells me I haven’t done enough of the special exercises since the last visit.

I ask some questions about my problem and I’m told not to worry – we’ll fix it with some massage and a few exercises. At this point I always wish I could just be happy with that answer and know I won’t google the problem later!

V

I ask some questions about my problem and I’m treated to a demonstration with the fake skeleton of what exactly is happening in my back. At this point I always wish I’d become a doctor.

The physio fixes a red lamp on my back and I begin to cook. While I’m heating up he does more fiddling with paper work and makes his music selection.

V

The physio is making me do all sorts of movements to assess which muscles and joints are doing what and whether there’s been any improvement.

Lying face down on the bed the physio smears my now toasted back with some potent smelling grease and starts a deep muscle massage, embarrassingly it focuses mostly on my lower back and bottom (this is where the nerve is, I assume).

V

Lying face down on the bed the physio begins a series of manipulations, my favourite of which results is satisfying clicks and cracks from my vertebrae. This is followed by ten minutes of massage.

During the treatment we’re listening to a tasty selection of country music, typically John Denver and Kenny Rogers. I regard it as part of my cultural training.

V

During the treatment we’re listening to the man in the next room yelping every time he is manipulated by his physio.

While I’m being massaged the doctor is silent and I look at the shelves next to me which are full of the kind of machines you might see on a film set of Frankenstein. These include large jars of brown liquid with plastic tubes coming in and out of them and big white machines with just one on/off switch. I conclude that because there aren’t 15 different buttons and there is no digital read out on the machines they must be useless. Thankfully only one of these machines has been used on me so far and I survived unscathed.

V

While I’m being massaged I talk to the physio some more about how I should be sitting, carrying, walking etc…When that subject is exhausted we move onto the usual British subjects of weather, news, the cost of living in the UK and somehow we end up discussing how to train cats to use a toilet.

Baby Name Suggestions

As a service to my many pregnant friends here are some of the names I’ve encountered since being here. Be inspired:

It’s a Boy

Jean de Dieu

Jean d’Amour

Innocent

Celestin

Philosophe

Prosper

Aimable

Bonaventure

Silas

It’s a Girl

Esperance

Devota

La douce

Epiphanie

Liberate