Sometimes you have to eat the pancake

On my fourth day in Kigali, Milli (a woman who was staying at the center) and I decided to make pancakes. Milli was at the lead while I watched her crazy English ways until it came to oiling the pan. Neither of us could find cooking oil so we tried a strange butter like substance… which didn’t work. Dinah came into the kitchen and Agnes accompanied her. I would like to note here that my kitchen is about the size of a closet. And not a big one. The entire stove structure gets very hot when it is on and so not only is the small space often boiling hot, burns are also likely when cramming people in. If I haven’t mentioned, Dinah and Agnes are the house attendants where I live. They are incredibly helpful at every moment of the day and night but especially in the kitchen. Both assume that as a Westerner, I have never cooked a meal on my own and stoves are completely foreign. 

Agnes and Dinah laugh as Milli tries flipping the pancake which turns into scrambled, burned, battery junk. Dinah proceeds to explain that we need to use a different pan and oil so that the pancakes won’t stick. Okay cool. Hungry and jonesing for a banana pancake, I’m still on board at this point. Break out the non-stick pan and oil. Chuckling, Agnes leaves the kitchen, trusting Dinah to lead us to culinary righteousness. Dinah bends down and starts digging under the kitchen cabinet. My first instinct… Abandon ship.

Right I am. Dinah pulls out a large non-stick black skillet which would normally be a fantastic relief given the circumstances except it was already oiled. Dinah takes the pancake batter bowl from Milli and pours a sizeable amount onto the pan. In complete horror I stand in shock, mentally tracing back the origin of the mystery oil. The best I can guess is that it was used to make matoke (fried plantain chips) my first night… which means it was about three and a half days old. 

I feel I should elaborate on the state of the kitchen and what exactly lives in it. Twice this week, Calum has entered the house to announce that he was just startled by a rat in the kitchen. At the point of this story though, I had not yet seen or heard of a rat encounter. However, the kitchen is by no stretch of the imagination something I would ever consider eating straight off any surface of. Fruit flies would. And do. Regularly. The cutting board is regularly covered in what I assume is dirt and I am terrified of lifting containers and bags in fear that something is going to crawl out. Add to that the heat of several afternoons and the humidity of the rainy season. Yum.

Milli and I are obviously sharing the same repulsion as we lock eyes in horror. We can both only smile and thank her for the help. Of course, she flips the pancake no problem. Waits for the other side to cook, puts the pancake onto a plate and hands it to me. I smile and thank her for the pancake. She eagerly watches and urges me to try it. My skin crawls as I lift the pancake to my mouth, pray for strength for my digestive system and take a bite. 

Another side note, British pancakes are not pancakes at all. They more closely resemble what we know as crepes. They don’t use a leavening ingredient and so they are very thin. This is only important because I added my mango slices to the “pancake,” wrapped it up, and ate the entire thing. It was delicious and I lived. 

Will I do this back in the states? Heavens no. Would I have eaten it if Dinah wasn’t staring at me in elated anticipation? Not a chance. But I had no negative consequences from eating the pancake. Fingers crossed on not finding out about a parasite in a few months…

I didn’t shower or brush my teeth yesterday morning because the water tank was empty. Also, I attempted to do my laundry (by hand) yesterday and half way through gave up on adding soap because I couldn’t seem to rinse it out of the garment afterward and it left a filmy residue. So I basically just soaked my clothing in an accumulation of warm, dirty water. Today I’m wearing a tank top I “washed” and I have no complaints. 

I have never considered myself a germaphobe or “clean freak” but living in Rwanda is breaking down my beliefs in cleanliness. I also suspect that I forgot to apply deodorant this morning. Am I concerned? Only mildly.

For socio-cultural context: Oil is very expensive. One liter costs at least as much as two weeks of groceries for Dinah and Agnes.