Welcome to my world

It seems so strange, but my life here has become a routine just it would anywhere else. Hard to believe for some, but a major part of the reason that I forget to everyone interesting things about "living in Africa" is because they're now just parts of my day! I will try and be more conscious of some of the details of my days - because there are so many things that make me laugh or smile or turn around and stare (like the man a few weeks carrying a full-sized refrigerator on his head... I kid you not!). But for now, I thought I'd do a run-through of what my days are like, for a bit of a fuller understanding of exactly what it is I'm doing here in Rwanda.

I wake up sometime before 6am, usually to the banging of pots and pans coming from the back of our compound, or the screams of the little boy next door. I allow myself a short period of pure laziness, during which I try desperately to fall asleep again until my alarm actually goes off at 615 (and this *never* works, of course). Eventually I stumble out of bed, boil some (bottled) water to make coffee and choose clothing for the day (important considerations here include how flipping hot is it going to be today and how much am I likely to sweat? Am I planning on taking a moto anywhere, because in which case a skirt is not an option; etc). Around 730, Katie and I head out on the short walk toward the market. Now recently, they started digging up the normal buspark location directly across from the market, so now instead of mini-buses jam-packed with passengers, the parking lot is filled with prisoners in their rather infamous pink pajama suits (just imagine if Canadian prisoners had to wear pink uniforms in public...) digging trenches with hoes and pickaxes. So now the buses to downtown pick up passengers further down the road, near the National Council for Higher Education. I usually attract more than a few stares and comments along the way and while waiting for the bus, as I'm often the only muzungu on the buses out of Kicukiro-Centre. Sometimes it's positive attention, sometimes it's negative, and sometimes it's just blatant curiosity about what I'm going to do next. So then comes the waiting game- when will the buses come, and will I manage to grab a spot on board? There's a huge crowd most mornings waiting to get to mumuji (downtown) and the fight to get on the buses is sometimes amusing but occasionally downright scary- as the bus approaches, people will grab on near the door and hold on as the bus comes to a stop. There's often a big shoving match as the crowd waits for passengers to get off, and then there's a huge surge forward until the bus is filled. I usually just wait - I've got plenty of time and no desire to get trampled! Eventually I do find my way onto a bus; if I'm lucky it's one of the ones where they do regulate how many people get on so I might find myself with enough room to fully sit down. The bus ride downtown takes about 25 minutes on a good day, but sometimes longer- there's just no telling. The bus will pull into one of two bus stops, depending on whether it's a cheaper government bus (in which case, I've farther to walk) or a normal bus. I spend a few minutes weaving through the crowds of commuters, MTN airtime-salesmen, motos, beggars and the guys who call the names of where the buses are going at a frantic pitch - it's a constant blur of "Kacyiru-Ministere-Gikondo-Nyeneri-Kimironko-Kicukiro Centre-Rwandex-Sonatibe-Remera!" Fortunately I've developed the skill of singling out the exact name of where I'm headed off to so it's not quite as frustrating at as it was. I wind my way around the traffic circle at the centre of town (beautifully-landscaped with an amazing fountain... but no Rwandese ever seem to sit and enjoy it!) and start the descent to my office. I walk past groups of shirtless, sweating men tearing up cement parking lots with axes (to what purpose, I've not yet discovered), clusters of well-dressed men and women waiting for a bus to Nyabugogo, and troupes of school children in matching uniforms, most of whom reach out to grab my hand and shout "Bonjour! Good morning! Ca va?" and then giggle with great delight when I reply in Kinyarwanda. I go past a number of quincailleries (hardware stores), shops selling spare parts for cars, a few furniture and appliance stores and my local buffet, Florida Bar and Restaurant (I'll get to this momentarily). I finally manage to get through the piles of dirt and broken pavement until I reach my office, where I greet each and every person who happens to be outside (they love the token white girl and her party-trick Kinyarwanda... it's a fun game of "Mwaramutse!" (good morning), "Amakuru?" (how are you?) and the appropriate responses). Up two flights of stairs I go, past the clinic and through the ‘cafeteria’ (i.e., a room with a sink where they make the tea) and onto the balcony, where I can access my office.

Now, on any given day, I do the following:
- struggle with the internet connection (this is often an hourly battle);
- check my email incessantly (because despite the five hour time difference between here and home, I expect you all to be sending emails at 230am your time!);
- rearrange the papers on my desk at least three times, to make myself feel busy;
- drink a full thermos of Rwandan tea, black with no sugar (I have finally come to an understanding with the cleaning/tea-making lady, who speaks only Kinyarwanda- she has given in and no longer brings me a dish of powdered milk, but proudly presents me with a bowl of sugar and waits expectantly until I dump at least one rounded spoonful in… It’s like drinking syrup);
- and occasionally do a little work, when such a thing exists (and well… often it doesn’t). Luckily these days I am a bit more occupied than usual (although not enough to prevent me writing this!) as I have two sets of reports on my field visits to write (in French and English, to really keep me busy) and a proposal on a new project that will be submitted to GTZ, the German development agency.

I do some variation of these activities until 1230 when I am suddenly presented with the freedom of an hour and a half long lunch break. Most of the time, I am uninspired to walk far, so I tramp up to the buffet where I can nearly always be assured to be the star of the lunch-time show. I walk in and the whispers of “muzungu” start… I have only ever once seen another white person eat at this place. I’ve been reassured by my coworkers that eventually people will stop noticing my presence… We’ll see about that. So buffets here consist of about seventy-million kinds of carbohydrates, sometimes a vegetable dish, a chunk of meat (goat or beef, of a texture nearly impossible to cut, chew, or swallow) and a mysterious red sauce to pour over the whole deal. Today, my plate was a testament to the Rwandan love of carbs and white-coloured food: rice, chips (which make their appearance at every meal… sometimes even at breakfast in your omelette!), Irish potatoes, sweet potatoes, spaghetti, white beans, and a vegetable dish of stewed carrots and cucumbers (which added a nice splash of colour to the meal). I skipped out on the cooked bananas, the meat, and the sauce, as per usual… I’ve given up on meat in Rwanda, unless I’m at a restaurant where I can more easily identify what’s on offer. I read through my meal, which is apparently a bit amusing to the other patrons, and then a short while I make my way back to the office long before the hour and a half is up. The rest of my afternoon is spent in much the same way as my morning, until around 4 when I am free to make my way back home. Back to the bus stop I go, where I can never a find to my actual neighbourhood so choose one that will make a stop nearby on its way. People tend to be more chatty on the afternoon buses, so I often have a short conversation with a neighbour that usually revolves around what I’m doing here, whether I’m staying after my contract is up, and whether I am Christian.* Eventually I get off the bus at the end of the long road up to Kicukiro-Centre, paying a fare that varies depending on the bus, the number of passengers and the mood of the money collector. From there, I might sneak into one of the small but surprisingly well-stocked shops at the end of the road before trudging up to the road to Katie’s office, usually accompanied by a gaggle of children who aren’t dissuaded from asking me for money despite repeated “Oyas” (no) and “namafaranga” (I have no money). I endure the stares, giggles and “muzungu, muzungu” until Katie comes along and we begin the 20+ minute walk up to home sweet home. Our evenings consist primarily of laziness, talking and reading. Then I go to sleep (usually early- 10pm is late for me these days) and start the whole process over again!

Next up, a discussion of the actual project I’m assigned to and what I’ve seen so far.

*For everyone’s amusement, the top questions I’m asked here on a daily basis:
- Are you Christian?
- Are you “une fille ou une femme?” (Literally, are you a girl or a woman – I struggled initially with exactly how this was intended (dirty mind, etc) but have come to realise it’s a means of differentiation between single and married women… This is also usually followed by “When are you going to get married?”)
- When are you going to get fat? (Although yesterday, a friend of mine I hadn’t seen in two weeks greeted me by telling me with great delight that I had gotten fat since we’d last seen each other… Thanks a lot, Innocent!)
- How do you see Rwanda?
- Donnez-moi l’argent/Give me money! (Not ever phrased as a question though, only as a demand)