FESPAD 2008 (from August...)

So back at the beginning of August (yes, it's taken this long to upload the videos!), the girls and I - along with Franco, the anesthesiologist from Montreal who was staying with Claire at the KHI guesthouse, and Hilaire, a Rwandan friend Claire met on her last trip to Rwanda – went to the closing ceremonies of the Festival of Pan-African Dance (FESPAD). We hadn’t managed to get to any of the other events but the closing ceremony was simply amazing.

We got there around 5pm, after a ridiculously complicated taxi ride. The performances started soon after, in a replica of the King’s Palace, complete with risers carved into the ground. The first few acts were Rwandan artists- almost all in Kinyarwanda, so it made it a little difficult to understand! The music was all very good though. It was too hard to catch the names of the artists, which was too bad as I really liked some of it… I’ll admit, mostly I liked the dancing, which was occasionally pretty ridiculous. After the modern Rwandan musicians came traditional music and dance from different African countries- all the region’s countries were represented (Burundi, Tanzania, Uganda, Democratic Republic of the Congo) as well as Congo-Brazzaville, Namibia and Guinea. The group from Burundi was my absolute favourite – a group of men carrying huge drums on their heads… and actually drumming on them like that! It was amazing. Last came an hour-long performance by traditional Rwandan musicians and dancers… It was INCREDIBLE! Lots of drumming and singing, women dancing with pots and baskets, and finally the Intore dancers… It was just fantastic.

I don’t think I can describe it well enough in words, so I’ll let the videos I took do the talking. In some of them, you can’t see a whole lot- the lighting and distance made it a little bit difficult to get great shots, but at the least, the music is great.

A good old-fashioned rant.

Things I need to get used to in Rwanda…

• Spitting everywhere, by everyone. Kids, grandmothers, men in business suits – doesn’t matter who or where (although people are generally kind enough to direct it away from you). Interestingly enough, there’s a letter at least once a week in The New Times, Kigali’s primary English-language newspaper, from someone asking everyone to please stop spitting in public. I’ve unfortunately not yet met an anti-spitter…
• Somewhat related to the first point… Everyone picking their nose. It’s absolutely acceptable to pick one’s nose in the middle of a face-to-face conversation with someone else, and acceptable still to flick whatever you’ve pulled out of your nose toward the shoes of your companion… I’m still finding it shockingly hard to keep a straight face when whomever I’m speaking to starts digging around…
• Also about snot: people blowing their noses everywhere… onto the ground. The funniest I’ve seen was a man using his handkerchief to hold one nostril closed while he launched snot out the other onto the sidewalk. Katie wins, however, because she saw people blowing their noses off the side of a pool one day. Classic.
• Still related to bodily functions and fluids… The sheer number of men I’ve seen peeing all over the place. On the sides of buildings, next to the street (more often than not facing traffic), in the middle of the sidewalk. I’ve watched men of all ages zipping back up along the roadside. This is definitely a gendered activity, as I’ve not seen any women squatting wherever they please. Needless to say, I’ve seen an awful lot of penises here...
• Everyone’s desire to touch me all the time. It’s never a harassment thing (and in fact, it’s split 50-50 between men and women doing it) so it technically isn’t a problem… but it is interesting. I’ve had women slipping their arms around my waist casually while we’re waiting to get on the bus, men rubbing my arm (one was kind enough to explain it was because as a child, he thought that when you rubbed at white skin, it came off), and children running their hands through my hair. They don’t need to know me (and often don’t); it’s just considered acceptable to touch the muzungu.

I decided over lunch a few days ago that I needed to write a bit of a rant. A lot of the time, my blog entries and my emails home are about all these amazing things about Rwanda – and there are so many amazing things, really. I’m lucky to be here, and I love living here, for all the quirks and things I’ve had to adapt to (like showering out of a bucket, whacking cockroaches with shoes, and having to wash my feet about 60 million times a day so I don’t look as dirty as I am). Most of the time, I wake up happy that I’m here, even if I’m not terribly happy about heading to work unshowered in wrinkled clothes on a 25 minute bus ride. The problem is that through the course of the day, some things just start to wear at me. Another volunteer in Rwanda described living here on her blog as being in a permanent state of PMS, and I’d have to say that’s fairly apt most of the time, as I can swing from loving Rwanda and everyone I meet to feeling like I’m going to turn around and smack the next person who lets muzungu slip out of their mouth.

The worst of my frustrations can be put into two categories, as follows:

• Men. I almost feel like not bothering to explain as any woman who’s travelled through Africa will likely understand, and everyone else can probably make the leap to understanding quite easily. I meet a lot of men here – for a population where women outnumber the men (one of the many consequences of the genocide and subsequent imprisonment of a large number of men, there are roughly 88 men for every 100 women), I meet perhaps 10 men to every 1 woman. Perhaps “encounter” is a better word than “meet,” because so often these meetings take the following form:
  o Man (or group of men) on sidewalk/sitting outside a building/guarding a parking lot/guiding people onto the buses/you name it: “Muzungu! Hey, sister! Hey, hey! Bonjour! Good morning! How are you? Sister, sister, come here. Where are you coming from? Your name? Muzungu! Tst tst tst [this ridiculous hissing noise Rwandese use to get someone’s attention, be it a waitress, moto driver, or white girl] Muzungu! Where are you going? Sister, how are you?” and on and on and on.
  o Me: Usually an awkward, tight smile, a nod or if they’ve not hissed or used muzungu to get my attention, I’ll generally politely answer their questions or say “hi.”
  I’m always torn. I don’t want to be rude, but I also don’t want to encourage the unwanted attention, so I generally resort to the least contact as possible without actually being rude or ignoring them. I just get so tired of the constant stream of attention and would give anything to blend into the background most of the time; it just gets old hearing the same thing day in, day out, over and over and over. Part of me keeps trying to remind myself that while I’ve heard it a million times already today, it’s rarely the same guy trying to talk to me over and over, so I shouldn’t get so annoyed with it… But at the same time, they’re all aware of how many times I and every other expat woman hears it. Also tiresome, the constant demand for my phone number. Originally I was giving out my Rwandese friend, David’s, phone number as a ploy to avoid unwanted calls… The problem is that Rwandese often have a habit of ‘beeping’ your number when you give it to them, to check if it’s the right number or not. Having been a bit embarrassed by this before, I’ve given in and give my number, usually taking care to save theirs into my contact list with something that tells me if it’s someone I’d ever want to speak to again. Don’t get me wrong – I’ve met a lot of great people (men included) and have begun to make some friends and contacts that are really nice and sincere people. But I’m also getting chatted up regularly by men of all ages (coming back from lunch when I wrote this the other day, a man in his 40s started talking to me from the balcony of the building next door… Could barely understand him and yet he still asked for my number. Worse still, he works right next door, so avoiding him may become a daily activity). I just would like some peace once in awhile.
• Children. I wrote before about how difficult it is to see mothers with young infants and toddlers begging on the streets, especially when the children are the ones with their hands out. It’s still hard to see, and it still occasionally makes me struggle inside a bit with my no-money policy. Luckily, the sheer numbers of painfully obnoxious children who beg from me regularly just for sport snap me back out of that struggle. There are the kids who beg because they have to, and you can tell those ones from a mile away – the kids wearing discarded winter jackets for clothes, barefoot and still out on the street at midnight. Interestingly enough, they’ve been some of the most polite kids I’ve met here. Then there are the kids who are just plain awful, really. The kids who will see me coming up the street and yell “Muzungu! Give me money! Donnez-moi l’argent!” It’s so frustrating! This happens multiple times a day and it never gets any less tiresome. The worst was Saturday when Katie and I were in the new grocery store that opened up downtown. A little girl, maybe about ten and very well-dressed with packets of cookies in her hand, stopped to talk to me. It started out pretty innocently- a “bonjour, comment ca va? Comment t’appelle tu?” etc. And then “Donnez-moi l’argent!” It just blew my mind. I hate that I’m seen as this infinite source of money – when in fact I’m here volunteering and my monthly stipend is less than what my coworkers earn. I get that a lot of the time, whites who are working here do have quite a bit of money, and I get that other people have set a bad precedent in giving kids money/candy/pens/you name it… but I do have such a firm stance against it as a whole and I really dislike the kids who expect you to hand over whatever you have happily because they demanded it. I think it’s the expectation that really does me in, as the children who ask politely rarely grate on my nerves like this. From the street kids downtown, it’s a pretty regular chorus of “Cent francs a manger” (100 Francs to eat) but more often than not, they’re the ones who back down quickly when you say no and more often than not will tell you to have a good day as you walk on.

I’ve had a difficult few days lately – feeling a little overwhelmed by the constant attention, struggling with language barriers and just generally feeling a bit cranky (let’s blame the heat, shall we?) and writing it all out makes it seem so much less of a big deal… And really, it isn’t. It’s good to know though that even when I forget why I’m here and start to wish I was back home, the people who know me best think I’m exactly where I should be and are there to remind me (thanks, Chris!).

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)

Umuntu mubi, umutima mubi (A bad person, a bad heart)

Last week, Katie and I had a run-in with something I hadn’t yet come across in my three weeks in Kigali – a truly exceptional racist. More specifically – and excuse the alliteration – a racist Russian, who also happens to be our neighbour. We had gone wandering through the compound searching for the American girls who also live there, under the pretence of a visit but mostly wanting to scope out how much nicer their house was than ours. The girls weren’t home… but the Russian upstairs was, and invited us up for a chat and a banana. I can say quite honestly that the banana was the only part of the evening that didn’t make me want to throw up.

Initially it seemed that this encounter was going to be a ridiculous story to share with the other girls. Turns out the Russian is an expert in silkworm breeding and cultivation, and he is here as a consultant with a UN body to teach Rwandese the processes involved. He showed us a book he’s writing, half in Russian and half in English, and showed us some silkworm eggs he kept stored in his fridge… It seemed like a pretty random thing to happen, but quite laughable overall. But then he got away from the topic and neither of us felt much like laughing anymore.

I’ve learned from past experiences with closet racists that they are the variety who will wait until they think they have a sympathetic audience, and then they let comments slip out as if they are logical and shared by all. First it was a diatribe about how Rwandans are lazy, and don’t want to learn or to work. I’m curious about the Rwandans he is working with, as that’s not been my experience nor the experience of anyone else I know – in fact, Rwandans have a reputation as being dedicated and hardworking overall. Then it was how they are all beggars, and how he hates the children talking to him. Then he was singing the praises of the supermarket for “light-skinned people.” Then it was a rant that they have no good restaurants, no culture, and no history – this coming from a man who admitted he rarely leaves his home! Then he started using the word “nigger,” and it was at that point I nearly snapped. Katie’s numerous attempts at redirecting the conversation to his work failed over and over; he was just so set on discussing all the faults he sees in Rwandese and their country. I don’t remember the last time I was so thoroughly offended, and yet in a position where I just didn’t know what to say.

I was truly hoping not to encounter this kind of sentiment here, because I have no time for people who can manage to think so stupidly. What was worse was his constant repetition of “I’m not racist, but…” The second that comes out of someone’s mouth, they’ve given themselves away in my opinion, because they are acknowledging that what they are about to say is inappropriate and unacceptable. I’ve become aware over the past few years that a certain level of paternalism and condescension is not necessarily uncommon among expat populations working in the developing world, but to come from someone here on a grant to do development work… It’s disappointing. Initially when he told us he was going to cut his two-year contract down to one year (leaving him with six months left in Rwanda), I thought it was too bad, as the possibilities for lucrative employment out of what he is meant to be teaching are rather good. Now though, I feel he’d be doing Rwanda a favour if he left.

It’s a struggle for me, because I do understand that this place is not for everyone. But at the same time, it’s so hard for me to imagine how anyone could feel this way about a place that I’ve come to love after such a short time. It’s also frustrating to see someone involved in development can be so close-minded, and brings to mind a lot of the ethical and moral issues of development I’ve studied in the past. I suppose if nothing else, it was a learning experience in Rwanda – but one I would gladly have gone without.

Mfite ibitotsi, and here are some pictures.

The first picture I took in Rwanda, out the window of a Jeep.

One of the views off my office balcony.

I'm getting some use out of my new Kinyarwanda-English phrasebook I bought yesterday for 4000Rwf (a bit less than $8). I did manage to have a very short, very hilarious conversation with the Kinyarwanda-speaking cleaning lady here this morning; we were both very pleased with the use of this impressive little book. Hard to believe I willingly paid $8 for a 32 page pamphlet but it has its uses. Or so I'm hoping.

A pothole map of Africa.

Work is still... not quite what I'd hoped for or expected. But I do expect some changes in the near future and hopefully everything will be just fine. As it is, I've plenty of time to admire the view out my door (as pictured above- the fuzziness is due to the haze [and the air pollution...] that interferes with every Rwandan landscape shot...)

I'm managing the language issues with as much grace as I can muster, and luckily, people are amused by my party-trick Kinyarwanda. The best of my act is "Umwana mwiza," which means "beautiful baby" and is immensely useful in charming the sometimes-suspicious mothers whose babies I admire constantly. I've seen my French improve by leaps and bounds in the last two weeks as well, although the real issue is that no one will correct my grammar or gender mistakes... I do hope that just remedies itself in time, or that people will become brave enough to just tell me I've said it wrong!

I have some interesting experiences to write down at some point- especially now that photos appear to upload in less than 6 billion hours. There might even be some videos! Until then, muraramukeho!

Un jour a Kigali...

Funny how one day can go back and forth from good to bad to great.

I had a hell of a time rolling out of bed this morning... the idea of leaving the (relative) comfort of my blankets was just unpleasant. But I finally talked myself into it and attempted to make coffee in my new coffee press (we visited a store called T-2000 last night... we affectionately dubbed it Kigali's Wal-Mart, as it had everything). While getting dressed, I heard an unfamiliar noise- the toilet flushing! We briefly had enough water this morning to flush, one and a half times. We also got home from Claire's house to find a refridgerator (!!!), a garbage can, and various kitchen utensils. My new bed is apparently supposed to arrive today... I may actually be able to stretch out with smacking my hands/head/feet against the bedframe. Our electrocuting hot plate is still in disrepair and some of our lightbulbs are still missing... but it's a start, and one we're all pleased to see.

So I was optimistic heading to the bus park, although I shouldn't have been... I've had bad bus luck as of late and have revoked my "superstar" status. On Tuesday, I waited an hour and a half for a bus to Kicukiro- only one came and there was no chance of getting on. A Belgian-Rwandese here visiting and his Rwandese uncle tried in vain to help me find a bus home but in the end, I took a taxi. I was so frustrated- 3000 francs out the window when I could have paid 170. The next morning, I waited over an hour. Three buses from Kicukiro to downtown came and went and again- no chance. I was almost pushed over in the rush of people trying to get on, as was the mother and baby I'd been waiting with. Finally, a German woman had picked up two Rwandese women I'd been waiting with, and they had her stop to pick me up as well, which was so nice. This morning, I waited, and one came and went... Kept waiting. A nun came over and said she and another nun were going to take a taxi downtown and would split the 3000 franc fare with me... I gave in. Today was the first day I arrived at work before 830.

I got to talk to my mum and Leah today! Definitely a highpoint, especially her little voice saying "I love you... BYE! BYE!" I had a shopping list prepared to go searching for over my lunch break(and I even knew where to go!) as I'm making supper tonight (or attempting to). So I leave my office... and here is the bad.

There is constantly construction going on all over Kigali; the city is really developing at a rapid rate. Part of these efforts includes the digging of ditches, presumably for water pipes. All week, dozens of Rwandan men have been digging with pickaxes and shovels in the hot sun, and now the ditches are dug and the pipes are laid. The problem is that the ditches are still open, and a ditch about a foot wide lies between my office's parking area and the street... I tried my best to get over but sure enough, I slipped and fell and my legs are scraped to pieces. And of course, to the amusement of alot of Rwandese around... it would be the silly muzungu who fell! Cue the rest of my unpleasant lunch, where my favoured market was closed and none of the others had the ingredients I needed... Frustrations galore today!

But back to good- I returned to the office, prepared to wallow in my boredom, frustration and pain... but in came Dr Laurien with actual, honest-to-God WORK to do! I have a call for proposals to read and summarise for him, and then apparently he and I will be working on the actual proposal. I am so excited! And tomorrow evening, I've been invited to "cocktail" in honor of a guest we have from Nairobi. I'm finally feeling a bit like I'm a part of things here...

Notes on Buses and Begging

I am officially a bus-taking superstar. This morning, I managed to get a prized place on a government-run bus from Kicukiro to downtown... Prized because the seats are only 100 Rwandan Francs rather than 170. At the current exchange rate, 100RwF is about 19 cents Canadian. Previously, I'd only taken the slightly more expensive buses (the 32 cent ones) and was a bit confused about the different price. Luckily, the two men sharing my seat with me (that's the one thing about government buses I liked less; they'll put three to a two-seater and four to a three-seater... a bit snug) both spoke great English and explained. The two also came in handy when the bus stopped in a totally different part of downtown than the other buses do... One of the men was walking to work next to the normal bus park (from which I know how to find my way home) and showed me the way... Thank goodness for kind strangers, of which Rwanda has an abundance.

The interesting thing about the bus was the absolute rush to get on- because it is comparatively so much cheaper, everyone wants to get on the government buses. It was quite interesting, actually, watching everyone fight and clamour to get a seat before it was full. A bit dangerous too, especially in thin ballet flats... my toes hurt a little bit from being stepped on so many times. As well, there appeared to be some sort of incident with pickpocketing- a woman appeared to accuse a younger man of stealing something (I assume this was what happened, although of course the conversation was completely in Kinyarwanda) and two other older men searched him (as well as the other young man the former pointed out). Very different from home.

Anyway, I'm not sure the saved 70RwF was worth it, as I then had to walk a good 15 minutes or so. On my walk however, I was joined by a young guy from London who just arrived in Kigali yesterday. He's here for four weeks doing research on the gacaca system of justice used in Rwanda to cope with accusations of participating in the genocide. Today was a good morning for making friends, Rwandan and otherwise.

One thing I think I will not ever get used to in Kigali is the begging. The first few days, I saw only very few people asking for money on the street, and all were adults with a physical disability (amputations, for the most part). But last night, the four of us walked from near my office to Claire's house in Kiyovu, through what in the daytime is a fairly nice part of town. At night, it's still quite nice and quite safe (as is all of Kigali that I've seen) but there were quite a few women sitting on the sidewalk with infants and toddlers. I don't believe in supporting a begging culture as I do think there are better and more sustainble ways of offering support... but it has never been so hard to say no. Just the realisation of how lucky I am, and how lucky my child is... It's hard to cope with when the comparison between mine and theirs is so apparent in my mind. I knew coming here that I would be confronted with overwhelming poverty and I was aware that it was going to be difficult to cope with, but I had tried quite hard to prepare myself as well as I could. Most people are well aware that I'm sappy and tend to cry at everything remotely sweet, sad or romantic, but it's rare for things in 'real life' to hit me hard enough to bring on tears. I know I am going to love the work I'm doing here with ARBEF, but I've been thinking quite a bit about where else I can get involved during my time here. I'm on the lookout now for an organisation working with children, I think.

The unilingual Kinyarwanda-speaking woman just brought me tea (I still wish they would just show me how so she wouldn't have to) so I'm going to get to work. I'm not sure where my exec director is just now, but on Friday I compiled some resources on refugee reproductive health so off I go to read like a mad woman.

ETA: My boss just came to my office with a stack of reading material. The majority is on IPPF (some in French), which is good as I like IPPF and we're an affiliate, so it's always interesting to know what one is aligned with. Also in the pile? African Woman magazine. I love Dr. Laurien.