a *typical* weekend

On Sunday I started a post about how normal my life is here and how I do the exact same things in Kigali as I do at home in the States. I was dead set on documenting everything I did this past weekend and relate it to what I would be doing at home. While there is some definite truth to that approach, in some ways, my life really is completely different. So here is the completely honest, only mildly censored account of my weekend. Some events will be completely normal, others not quite as much. You can judge for yourself.

Fridays in Rwanda are a bit different. After lunch, most people leave work and get together to play sports. The government pays for all of its employees to participate in team sports. This Friday was basketball but it changes each week. Since I am only an intern, I do not get to participate but I can watch. Which is probably for the best anyway considering my mad basketball skills. I’d hate to make anyone feel inferior. Instead of actually watching the basketball game I got lost trying to find the building and gave up. I grabbed a couple veggie spring rolls from the shop across the street from my office and called it quits. I went home and worked on the research policy I’m drafting for RDCG until about 4 pm.

Last week I thought it would be fun to take Agnes and Dinah out for dinner Friday night. This also meant my first time trying brochettes. Brochettes are basically kebabs. But magically more delicious. And they are very cheap. Each one costs about a dollar and so with some chips (fries) dinner costs under $4. Those of us staying at the compound, sans Michael, ventured off with Agnes and Dinah for an evening of great food and excellent company. On the walk home, I tried to convince Agnes and Dinah to come with James, Calum, and me to play pool and watch the ACN football game at Zinc. My pleas could not defeat twenty some odd years of societal norms so they both passed. We met friends at Zinc to watch football and hang out. I was accused of having a Hobbit fetish. We argued about whether Chris Brown was a repugnant human being and discussed the finer points of milking an elephant. No big deal.

Usually on the third or fourth Saturday of the month, each household participates in Umuganda. From what I understand, one person from each home, usually the head male, meets in a group to do community service projects in the neighborhood. The rest of the family stays home and works on projects around the house. It usually lasts from 7-8 am to 11 or 12 depending on how much work needs to be done. Activities include digging trenches for rain drainage, picking up garbage, pulling weeds, and filling holes in the streets. If a household does not send a member to participate there can be fines and other sanctions at the discretion of the Umuganda leader for the neighborhood. Each household also gets an Umuganda card and certificate to prove they participate which is required to apply for a passport. I love this system.

So I went to Umuganda Saturday morning with my neighbor and friend, Ferdinand. I suspect he was more bringing me for amusement than to actually make a meaningful contribution to the group. This did end up being the case. This week, Umuganda was pulling up weeds and sweeping them into piles to be collected into waste bags. After several attempts by my neighbors to show me how to work the tools, I was handed a broom and told it would be best if I just swept. Then they asked me if I knew how to sweep. Yeap. Thanks. I must say that I did an impeccable job sweeping. And I was still followed by another woman with a broom *fixing* everything I did. I talked a bit to the people who were interested in talking with me and generally just got laughed at constantly.

At around 11:30 I headed home to do some household Umuganda with Agnes, Dinah, and an alarming number of men I have never seen before gardening in the compound. I asked Dinah what I could do and she set me the task of mopping. She showed me where the supplies were and then asked, in a completely serious and condescending manner, whether I knew how to mop… 

I seriously wonder how Rwandans think Americans and other Westerners live. I am regularly asked if I can perform basic tasks such as sweeping, doing dishes, cooking, or walking more than one hundred yards without taking a break. If there is rain involved, my assumed competency and physical capacity drops to about that of a toddler.  Seriously?

I mopped the porch and cleaned the bathroom which took me to about 1 pm. Feeling pretty good about my morning, I showered and settled down to do some scrapbooking. Agnes came to tell me Dinah was making me lunch because I must be far too tired from all that work to cook anything myself. I agreed simply because I cannot achieve the miracles those girls make in the kitchen.

I scrapbooked the afternoon away waiting for lunch and made plans with Calum to go to Kimoronko (wahoo I spelled it!) since neither of us would have time on Sunday. I have no idea what I ate but it involved the small yellow eggplants I have come to love. Calum and I went to the market with surprising success. We bought all of our veggies form Tomato Man who actually gave us a decent price AND kept his paws to himself. I haggled for mangos when the proprietor tried charging me 1400 RWF for one which is over double what it should cost. I got her down to 800 and bought two which I was pleased with. After eating the mango yesterday, they were so good I would have happily paid 1400. Best. Mango. Ever.

Saturday night we had plans to meet with Ali, a guy who moved out of the compound a couple weeks ago and moved into a house in Kigali. We got together and caught up over burritos. The burrito thing is not at all Rwandan. The burrito place, Mezze Fresh, is a Chipotle transplanted into Kigali. The only Rwandans you will see there, work there. And this coming Sunday Calum and I are bringing a few Rwandans friends to watch the Super Bowl there. Okay so post burrito, I grabbed a moto home and met up with Scrm to hang out for a bit before going to bed. I was pooped.

Sunday morning found me curled up in a chair on the porch with an enormous cup of coffee, attempting to do some homework but actually procrastinating by writing a blog post. I got a call from Scrm inviting me to a music video shoot. Scrm produces music videos and other audio visual projects for weddings and other events. He is also working with one of my coworkers on collecting audio testimonials from survivors of 1994. So I go. In full disclosure, I have been spending a lot of time with this particular friend. While I would not consider Scrm and myself to be dating, the people at the video shoot did which meant that the men were totally comfortable talking and joking with me while the women treated me like rubbish. It also helped that I already knew one of the actors in the video because he’s in my usual group of friends so it almost balanced out to be a pleasant experience. It was cool to see how a music video is made, though I’m sure it’s different from the states, the ideas and methods are the same. 

The video shoot ended around 3 pm and Scrm and I met with some friends to go to football. I played the part of supportive fan while the boys played and I got a few good pictures (they are on facebook for those who are interested). Nothing too interesting happened during the game and they won 4 or 5 to 0. Calum (who injured himself during warm ups and couldn’t play) got a call during the game inviting us to meet Ferdinand’s grandfather. I have heard nothing but wonderful things about this man and I have been campaigning to meet him since my third night in Kigali. Finally, my dreams were to come true. 

Ferdinand was raised by his grandparents since he was very young. His grandfather is now 98 years old and only speaks Kinyarwanda. He is also very religious and disapproves of Ferdinand doing a variety of things one of which is sleeping too much. Ferdinand is a pretty typical 21 year old guy in some respects. He drinks and stays out late and sneaks back into his house at 3-4 am. His grandfather wakes him up at 6 every morning and Ferdinand, being the respectful grandson, wakes up and pretends to be a functioning human being on 2-3 hours of sleep and at times mildly hungover.

When we arrived, his grandfather was stubbornly refusing to let Ferdinand help him fold his laundry so Calum and I just kind of sat for a bit. Soon they came and we were later joined by a pastor from nearby. The pastor was thrilled to see us. To the point that he performed a song. And dance. It was awesome. We ended up staying for two hours talking and having Ferdinand translate. We talked about stereotypes and friendship and culture and how difficult it is to learn Kinyarwanda. The grandfather requested we leave so that he could pray with the pastor and we went outside. Ferdinand then asked me the dreaded question, do you want to try coffee gin? Mind you, I’m not one for hard alcohol on a Sunday evening, especially with a pastor within about 20 feet. He looked so excited and I heard such good things about coffee gin that I agreed.

First of all, coffee gin is not gin. To my delighted surprise it is spiced rum. And of course coffee. Ferdinand brought out a couple small bottles of it and began mixing it with coke. I asked him to pour just a little bit because the coke has caffeine and it would keep me up all night. He laughed and said okay. He opened the bottle of coffee rum, smiles, and says: Don’t worry Erika, it isn’t really alcohol. Do not trust Rwandan boys. Especially when they smile. He then pours in the coffee rum until the concoction is about half coke half alcohol. He does the same for Calum and then makes one for himself. I take a hesitant sip and it is delicious. Calum doesn’t drink alcohol so he takes one sip to appease Ferdinand and I end up with the rest of it. As I’m happily drinking my coffee rum, Calum looks at the label: 'Ferdinand, this is 37% alcohol by volume.'

Grrrreat. 12 hours without eating and I’m drinking 37% alcohol. My weekend ended with me tottering home, nomming up some left over rice and beans, and trying to get some homework done while sobering up. 

So take it as you will. Pool, burritos, good friends, football games, a music video shoot, community service, coffee rum, and a dancing pastor. All the makings of an awesome but relatively normal weekend. 

No matter how normal my life feels here, I miss the heck out of one furry, orange man. And spending weekend mornings cuddling my life away with him.

Round II

I was doing really well with my resolution. When I saw a roach I would remain relatively calm, back away, and ask Calum to remove it from the house. The only sticking point we had is that he wants to kill them once they are on the porch or they will come right back in. I stand inside and yell about how the roach shouldn’t have to die just because I’m afraid of it. He laughs. I lose because I’m too afraid to get near enough to save it. So I guess it does die because I’m afraid of it…

Anywho, I’ve been pretty darn proud of myself.

Flashback to yesterday evening…

Calum: That is the second roach in my room tonight.

Erika: They just love you so much. I haven’t had any in my room.

Calum: Haha. Just wait.

I think we all know where this is going.

Fast forward to an hour or so later and Scrm and I are watching a movie in my room. I feel something on my left arm and look over. There it is, chilling on my arm.

Pandemonium is about all that can describe it. I simultaneously begin screaming, throwing the left side of my body into the wall and hitting Scrm with my right arm. He cannot make out what I’m trying to communicate through my incomprehensible bellows. I jump up, try taking my shirt off but in my panicked frenzy I just get tangled up in it. Don’t ask why I thought the removal of my shirt would help the situation… it must be another wonderful component of my fight or flight reaction. 

After about a minute of running in circles in the living room I make my way to my bedroom door. Still screeching, I “instruct” Scrm to get the roach out of my room. He is laughing so hard he can’t stand up straight which only aggravates me further. At this point Calum has noticed the commotion and sticks his head out the door. Seeing the look of terror on my face and the manner of which my clothing is tied around my body he asks where the roach is. 

Note: Scrm is interested in me and since Calum and I live together and get along well he gets unreasonably jealous of him. 

So I calmly and rationally tell Scrm that if he cannot handle the roach himself I will send Calum in to help him. Yes, indeed I did question Scrm’s manhood as means to rid my room of a roach. Calum chuckles and goes in to help Scrm. I run into Calum’s room and barricade myself against the door. They find the roach and Scrm escorts him outside. Calum tells Scrm I don’t want it killed and Scrm just laughs as he walks away.

The only positive here is that I didn’t pee on anything or anyone. 

About twenty minutes later I enter the bathroom to use the facilities and I see a roach lying upside down in the shower. They do this all the time so that other living creatures don’t try to kill them. But I know better. I calmly enter my room and politely ask Scrm to remove the roach. He obliges and gets rid of it for me. No fuss.

I think I just really value personal space.

pictures

Breakfast: honey and bananas on bread with coffee

 Yes, I am finally posting pictures. I thought I could rotate them after uploading them but it turns out I can't. So... turn your heads people, it took too long to upload them to do it again.

Enjoy :)

The view from my office

The view from another window in my office

One more from my office windows...

Soaking beans to make for dinner with the help from Agnes and Dinah

The dreaded kitchen

The common area in my house.

The porch. Most meals are spent here.

The water tank for washing clothes and dishes and such.

pretty trees

My wonderful bathroom

The other half of my room

In order to get a picture of my bed I had to take it from outside the window. Creeptastic if you ask me..

Shower Adventures

I must begin this post by explaining the shower mechanism in my bathroom. The shower head is attached to a hose that supplies the water from the tank outside. Although, I’m suspicious of this hose because it falls out frequently and the water sprays everywhere… but from the attachment on the showerhead, not from the hose. It is all very confusing.  The showerhead is also plugged in to the outlet in the wall. The electricity is what heats the water so that it isn’t freezing when it comes out. If you touch the showerhead or cord while showering, you get electrocuted. Not the fun little zap when you lick a battery. The bone shaking kind. Similar to trying to stir anything cooking on the stove with a metal utensil.  Luckily, I have only heard about this from Calum and Michael because I’m not tall enough for this to be an issue. They are both very tall men. But the showerhead still makes me rather nervous. 

Yesterday the showerhead somehow became unplugged from the wall. After several attempts to stick it back in while praying that I survive whatever will happen when I do get it plugged in, I give up and take a cold shower. I don’t mean the relaxing room temperature water that just encourages an expedited shower. I mean convulsing with shivers kind of cold which, I must note, makes it very difficult to wash your hair and downright dangerous to shave your legs. I forgot to tell Evode about the electricity issue yesterday so I woke up this morning dreading my shower. 

After a very warm and humid night, I bit the bullet and decided maybe an ice cold shower wouldn’t be so bad. I begin my torturous process of stepping into the freezing water stream to get my hair wet and getting out to apply shampoo when the hose falls out of the showerhead. I turn off the water, pray, reattach the hose, sigh of relief, turn the water back on and the hose shoots off the showerhead like a canon. Two more attempts, I get hit in the face by the projectile hose which has basically flooded the bathroom and I am still covered shampoo. I yell obscenities which now include those of the Scottish persuasion, and give up.

I proceed to fill a small bucket with equally as cold water from the sink and pour it over my head about seventy times. 

We talked to Evode and the shower technician is coming today.

House Girls

I have mentioned Agnes and Dinah a few times at this point. What I haven’t written about is the constant moral and ethical dilemma I am faced with. Agnes and Dinah are what are called house girls. There are also boys who do the same work but those who work where I’m living happen to be women. I don’t feel particularly comfortable disclosing personal information about their lives but I will explain the general system for house girls/boys in Kigali.

Firstly, Kigali is a very developed city. Within the city there is poverty, however the poorest areas are outside of the city in rural areas. Subsistence farming is common and families often cannot support themselves to the end that the older children are sent away to work in cities with wealthy families, hotels, and long term residential compounds like where I’m staying. The simplest way to describe the working conditions is domestic servitude. The girls live in the home/hotel/compound in a small room with little to no access to basic utilities such as running water and electricity. They cook, clean, and run errands for the family or individual they are working for at all hours of the day and night with no legitimate break. The girls are often considered lucky if they can have Sunday off for church. 

They are also treated incredibly poorly. People bark orders at them and make a hissing noise at them to get their attention. They are yelled at if they are not prompt. Most of the homes I have been to in Kigali have a house girl/boy. I cannot understand the interactions because they are in Kinyarwanda but the girl/boy often leaves the room looking dejected or rushing off to get whatever the person has demanded. This is not the case for every household. I have one friend in particular who treats his house girl as his sister and is very polite and caring with her. He speaks of her often in high regard. In general though, house girls/boys are treated with disrespect and considered to be morally and otherwise inferior. 

This is all for the pay of no more than 20,000 RWF a month, or $30. This money is often sent home to help support the family. 20,000 RWF is not very much at all but without it, the girls’ families back home would go hungry. 

And here is where I get stuck. I hate this system and yet I am contributing to it by staying at the compound. I do what I can to keep Agnes or Dinah from cleaning up after me. I do my own dishes and try to straighten up the common room. My struggle is highlighted in the laundry debacle. For Dinah or Agnes to do my laundry each week it costs 3,000 RWF, or about $5. Half of the money goes to soap and supplies and the rest the girls get to keep. I am not one to have others clean my laundry. I have been doing my own laundry for nearly a decade and I generally have it under control. So instead of making the girls clean my laundry, I did it myself last week. Halfway through destroying my hands, arms, and clothing, I realized that having the girls do my laundry means they get additional money to save. But if I let them clean my laundry, it means I am further supporting a system I do not agree with. 

I normally take advantage of opportunities to help them financially within the constraints of my budget. Agnes loves painting nails and wants to open a salon (or saloon as they spell it here). She lectures me about wearing shoes more often as she buffs away at my feet and scoffs at the layers of dirt I have acquired. (I have atrocious feet). And we talk about dating and fashion and how to cook eggplant. She has recently begun the “you need to get married and have children campaign” to which I have simply given up on and said “some day.” Basically, I get really awesome girl time, a fresh coat of nail polish on my toes, and I get to give Agnes or Dinah an extra 5,000 RWF ($7.50) every week or two.  

Most people reading this know my qualms with forced labor and workers’ rights. I do what I can to eliminate my contribution to forced labor. Here though, I see the way entire families rely on domestic servitude to exist. To I help those families and in the process contribute to the system, or ignore hungry families and refuse to help based on some higher moral standard.