more thoughts

I think I’ve seen more people peeing in public in the last two months than I’ve seen in my entire life. The little boy whipping it out while we were sitting at an outdoor café was pretty hilarious though. At least, he was courteous enough to stand at the steps and pee into the street.

The restaurants in Musanze with English names make no sense. We have tea at The Smart Family Café and eat buffet at Modern restaurant.

When we had the earthquake a few weeks ago, one of my friends asked her Dean of Studies what the procedure was for the students in an emergency situation. He laughed and asked her why she was afraid to meet God.

Seeing other muzungus (the Kinyarwanda word for white people) around town makes me suspicious. I tend to rubberneck it, just like the Rwandese do. Usually the tourists who are here to see the mountain gorillas stick to the three or four hotels and stay away from the market or the town proper. In Kigali, going in a store called Nakumatt (essentially it’s Kenyan Walmart) makes me particularly edgy because it’s the only place in Rwanda where I’ll ever see more than 5 muzungus in the same place, unless I’m at a WT volunteer gathering of course. They’re just…out of place, I guess. I may be going native.

The tourists are obvious because they do stupid things. After living in Rwanda for only a day or two there are a few things you understand pretty quickly about living here. The first thing is that it’s considered trashy for women to wear shorts above the knee. I don’t know why, it’s just one of those cultural quirks. If you’re Rwandese: it usually indicates you’re a prostitute. If you’re muzungu: it means you’re oblivious.

Some of the city buses in Kigali are themed with different American rap artists. They’re painted in bright colors, blast rap music, and are covered in huge decals of whatever rapper is featured. I’ve gotta say, the T-Pain bus was an absolutely amazing ride and I swear to you I will get on the Lil’Wayne bus before I leave Rwanda. I’ve only seen it once. It’s surprisingly elusive.

I love when I go to market and they try to overcharge me for potatoes because I’m a muzungu. Hey, 10 cents too much is 10 cents I’m not paying. It’s okay, I just find my favorite boisterous market lady, we exchange the two sentences in Kinyarwanda that I know, and she gives me a kilo of potatoes for the correct price. The part I love is when all the other market ladies scowl and tisk and make a ruckus at her for selling potatoes to me at the correct price. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t care because, hey, muzungu or not, money is money.

Musanze wouldn’t be Musanze without the random goat parades. There’s usually a boy or two herding a group of four or five down the same street with the motos and the car-taxis. Sometimes there’s a random abandoned goat tied to a tree. We don’t know where they come from, but no one else seems to know either.

I had a, ‘holy hell I’m on a motorcycle in Rwanda’ moment on the 30 minute moto ride at sunset down the mountainside from Rwaza Secondary school. The view was absolutely breathtaking and it was so peaceful just watching people go about their everyday routines in the countryside. That moment ended when once we got to the small stretch of highway leading back into Musanze, not because the scenery changed, but because my moto driver decided it would be fun to cut around hauling trucks and race the other motos. Then I was only thinking, ‘please let me keep my life today.’

A saw a Rwandese man wearing a shirt with the words ‘beer pong’ on the front of it. I thought it would be a good idea to explain the meaning to a Rwandese friend that was with us. In case you were wondering, the idea sounds incredibly stupid when you’re explaining it to someone who has no concept of drinking games.

There are three types of beer in Rwanda. Mutzig, Primus, and Turbo King. There’s a billboard in Kigali that advertizes for Turbo King with the subtitle: Turbo King: Mark of a Man. One of my colleges renamed it ‘Turbo King: Mark your Manhood’ while drunk one night. It will always be known as that to me now. Most Rwandese won’t touch it because it labels you as a drunkard. I have no idea how it got that reputation, except maybe because I have one and I’m pretty much good for the night. They cost about a 1.50 USD too. Drunkard’s dream.

Everyone assumes I have money because I’m a muzungu. And maybe it’s a true assumption looked at in a relative way. But true or not, I don’t like being reminded of it constantly. I teach computer science, so sometimes I have to do work on my computer in the teacher’s lounge. The first or second time one of the teachers commented on my computer, another teacher said something like, ‘In America, computers are like cars. Everyone has one.’ A fair analogy considering those that own or can afford a car usually have a computer as well. I kept my mouth shut though. It didn’t help my case.

One of the first words I learned in Kinyarwanda was Amafranga. It means money. The reason I know it is because it comes up in Rwandese conversation roughly every thirty seconds.

I like carrying Rwandan Francs around because it makes me feel like I have more money than I actually do. 5,000 RWF is about 10 USD. Monopoly money, right? Their one cent piece feels like it’s made of plastic. It’s probably worth less than what it takes to print it.

The teachers at my school were fascinated by the two American credit cards I have. I had to explain to them that owning credit cards does not mean you have the money to use said credit cards. They thought it was crazy that I could go to the grocery store and swipe a piece of plastic instead of handing over some cash.

It’s ironic to me that the town of Musanze is flatter than Kigali. The roads are more or less straight with the volcanoes framing the background on all sides. I swear you need to be a professional athlete to get around some parts of Kigali.

I’ve found the secret to losing weight. Ready for it? Move to Africa and…nope, that’s basically it. Or more specifically: move to a place where you have to walk to get anywhere worth going and can’t order cheese fries or Quesadilla burgers at a Carside-To-Go.

I really miss ice cream though. And Mexican enchiladas. Some of the WT volunteers enjoy the food game. It’s when you start naming all the foods that you miss from home. Basically, it’s because they’re all masochists.

The Rwandese we’ve met are fascinated by Tanzanian soap operas. I tried to think of some kind of redeeming value, but… no. They’re just awful. They make the tiny bit of myself that I call a feminist want to start a very loud and very violent riot. A riot with pitchforks and tasers.

Speaking of tasers. My friend had her phone stolen out of her hand while she was walking home the other night. She told me she’s going to try to get someone to send her a taser from the states. She’s convinced it will solve all of her problems. I told her pepper spray could do the same job and it’s actually legal to possess that stuff (isn’t it?). In generally, she’s a pretty determined person, so if anyone is able to pull something like that off, it’ll be her.

The other day we were at a restaurant eating a buffet and suddenly it seemed the whole town was running in the same direction, toward something happening a block away. Later, after Kim ran into the crowd to see what was going on and I stayed with my beans, rice, and plantains, thank you very much, we were told there was a thief and everyone was running to watch him get beaten up by the shop owner he stole from. Apparently there are two ways to deal with a thief in Musanze. 1. Call the police and pay for the prisoner’s jail cell as his accuser, or 2. handle it yourself. Easy decision.

This is ironic considering there’s a police academy and a jail across the street from my school. The prisoners have pink jumpsuits and sometimes take escorted walks around the town. It’s equal parts scary and comical.

Why did it take me 23 years to discover how delicious avocados are? I want to literally put them on everything now. I’m currently refining my guacamole salsa brushetta recipe. Be prepared.

I told my students we call ‘chips’ French fries in the states. I still don’t think they believe me.

A week or two ago, one of my students asked me what a hot dog was. I don’t know why I thought it was so hilarious at the time. Maybe because the question was randomly asked right in the middle of a lesson on combining sentences using who and whose. Or maybe I just never expected to have to explain the concept of a hot dog to anyone, ever.