Ethiopian Coffee Ceremonies – November 22, 2015

This blog could just as reasonably be titled: “Dancing, Drinking and Other Regrets”, but I figured I’d go with a more wholesome suggestion.

I was really excited to hear that the Great Ethiopian Run would be going on while I was in Addis. Basically any expat/Ethiopian I talked with the day before the run asked me if I was planning on going. It seemed like such a huge event – I obviously enthusiastically replied “YES!” every time I was asked.

Then I woke up at 10am. The race started at 9am. And was in the city. So I didn’t make it.

At first, I blamed the dancing, drinking and other adventures from the night before. Anxious that I only had one weekend night in Addis, I had called Ishy and INSISTED that he take me out dancing. I never think it’s reasonable to say you’ve visited a city if you’ve never gotten drunk with locals – so I saw this as necessary. Ishy was a little surprised by my enthusiasm to go out drinking after arriving at 7am that morning (and sleeping next to none on the plane – I have already submitted a formal complaint to Ethiopian Airlines – I DO NOT understand why they turned the cabin lights off for the first part of the flight and ON for the second part – the flight landed at 7am! We should’ve all been sleeping right up til the landing!) but, as I’ve said, drinking with locals = necessary.

So after a great dinner with Gondar house, complete with Ethiopian coffee ceremony (a true ceremony that includes roasting beans and drinking three rounds of very dark coffee out of tiny little cups, often laden with sugar), Ishy picked me up and off we went to downtown! 

Injera dinner at Gondar house. Fuzzy picture because - yes - I was embarrassed to be #instagramming my food.

We started at a sports pub to watch the Real Madrid – Barcelona match, continued onto a “fancy place” where they had more Tanquery in one place than I’ve ever seen in my life and ended at a dance club/ hookah bar where we pushed through the blackout** and stayed until the wee hours of the morning…where then we really ended the night at a pizza joint. I got home around 3am and was still so energized that a lucky someone got to spend 20 minutes on a combination of Facebook/GroupMe/Whatsapp calls with a very drunk and happy (and sappy) me.

So…needless to say, that 8am alarm got turned off pretty quickly. (Not that I had a way really to get to the GER since Ishy didn’t wake up until around noon…)

I did spend most of today in a haze of confusion however because I have always INSISTED that jet lag doesn’t impact me/ only impacts the weak. I was a bit terrified that in my old age*, I had become weak.

This was up until I was at Menelik House for dinner tonight and, after dinner, we started the coffee ceremony again. Eyob kindly explained to me that it is traditional in Ethiopia to drink three rounds of coffee during the ceremony (the “Abole”, the “Tona” and the “Bereka”). As we were drinking the Abole, he asked me if I would do all three rounds. Eager to please and to accept the hospitality, I said yes. Everybody in the room reacted to my agreement though – with a universal “REALLY?!? How are you going to SLEEP!?!”

And that’s when it hit me: I have a rule of saying yes to anything that I am served in somebody’s house***  – it’s actually the reason I started eating meat before I moved to Rwanda (the reason I continued after Rwanda is bacon). This rule has given me a generous list of foods that I can brag about having tried (generally, once) – but I’ve never thought that I should get credit for drinking something as common as COFFEE.

But for those of you who don’t know me that well…I DO NOT drink caffeine. This little body has enough energy in it that caffeine is not only not necessary – it’s probably a health hazard. I mean – of course, I’d say yes to coffee without a second thought when invited into a family’s house and when it’s so integral to their culture. But in real life…NEVER.

So now I know why I missed the Great Ethiopian Run. It wasn’t because of dancing and drinking and pizza – it was because of the famed Ethiopian Coffee Ceremony!

Roasting the beans as part of the Ethiopian Coffee Ceremony! Gondar House and Menelik House were both great hosts for my first two dinners in Ethiopia!

*Note: not that old

**In reviewing this - I feel the need to explain that I mean an ACTUAL blackout. Like...when the electricity goes out. Not a drunk blackout. Although maybe it's a reasonable pun here. 

***Entertainingly, I actually broke that rule at the Menelik house when I was offered tap water. I have seen my system handle tap water before, but given the short duration of my trip this time around, I didn’t want to waste being sick for any of it! So I did say “no” to the tap water. And immediately felt incredibly guilty as Eyob ran out to the market to buy a bottle of water for me. And I didn’t have any birr on me so I couldn’t pay him back. And I’m feeling like the worst person in the world as I’m typing this…trust me.

A Day of Boredom (Pictures) – Sunday, June 15, 2014

We had two days after scuba ended to just chill on the beach in Mozambique. This is because we way overestimated the “decompression time” required for our 10m dives. Also, while Googling in anticipation of the trip, we learned that the US Navy and the US Air Force have different decompression tables (not that we knew what one of those actually was before our video lessons), and we didn’t really know which to trust, so we just went conservative. Anyways, we had a lot of time on the beach on this particular day which just reinforced that I am a lakes and mountains girl and I don’t like long walks on the beach.

So rather than recount that boringness, here are some pictures!

Pool selfies!

This is from our story of paying Pedro to bring us beer on the beech. Note bracelet basket and beers in the background. We held the bracelet basket as ransom while Pedro went to buy beer with our $$.

Happier times with Pedro on the beach...note that I am still holding a closed beer bottle. Although we didn't want Pedro to open the beer bottle with his teeth, I bet he had something in his backpack that could have helped us get to our alcohol sooner. 

Cory, taking a first stab the the beer opening. 

Scuba diving.

Okay...pretty sweet scuba diving picture. Cory refused to take a disposable underwater camera scuba diving with him. He said it was "too touristy". I figured I was white, so I already looked like a tourist. Anyways, I got all pissy at Cory about this because I was like "but that means I won't have any pictures of ME scuba diving!" So then when we were underwater (and I guess the fear of being "too touristy" is less), Cory grabbed the camera from me and snapped this shot. Real happy about that because it's way better than the quality of any of the pictures I got of him. Thanks Cory!

Scuba diving was a whole lot of looking at things like this and being like "oohh...ahhh". But then really just being cold and bored and being like "can I go do backflips?" And then the assistant (who didn't get what "New" before "Hampshire" meant) would pull me back to the group thinking I was off getting lost somewhere.

Note the kid in the background. He was also getting his scuba certification. The last thing we had to do to pass our certification test was swim into shore. This was hilarious because I realized that our instructor literally never asked us if we could swim - it was just assumed. Which I guess is reasonable, expect that it seemed our Mozambican companion could not swim. I think he failed that part of the test when the assistant had to swim back out and help him get in. It turns out that many people in Tofo can't swim, despite growing up steps from the ocean. This makes a little sense though, if you think about how difficult it would be to LEARN to swim right where waves are breaking. Although all the hotels have pools, most of the locals don't have access to them. The Marine and Megafauna Foundation set of  a "Little Nemos" swim school for local kids to teach them to swim. Hotels in the area donate some pool time each week to the local kids so they can use it to learn to blow bubbles and float and then finally do some strokes. We saw them in an out of Casa Barry and it was awesome!

I'm actually probably crying in this goggles. Being like "oh my god...what do I have to do this again??"

This is just a great selfie.

OTHER FUN STORY.

Conversation with our English scuba assistant:

Her: Where are you from?

Me: New Hampshire

Her: Ah! There’s a Hampshire in England!

Me: ...

Scuba Diving – Friday, June 13, 2014

[#sorryimnotsorry for the lack of updating over Fourth of July weekend]

I think it’s not a good sign if the most exciting part of my day was going to the market, and not scuba diving for the first time in open water.

The day started with remedial scuba. I had to meet my scuba instructor and apprentice at 7am to plunge into the freezing pool while Cory got to sleep in and stay warm (and very much enjoy my absence from our shared bed…his fault…he booked the hotel). This, simply because during our pool session the day before I refused to fill my mask up with water and blow the water out of it. I mean…this is an absurd exercise. I have a solution: build a better flippin eye mask! One that doesn’t fall off or fill up with water. Give me an astronaut helmet! It doesn’t make sense to me to purposely fill my mask up with water (or, worse, take it off!) “just in case” it actually happens. Just ensure that it doesn’t actually happen! Worse, in order to really do this properly you have to breathe through your mouth. I’m not a mouth breather and I’m actually quite proud of myself for that. Middle school could have very easily been worse than it was if I were a mouth breather.

That said, I did feel a huge sense of accomplishment when I did successfully do this. Sense of accomplishment was lost when I then dislocated my shoulder. A conversation about my frequently-dislocating shoulder ensued and my instructor threatened to banish me (and therefore Cory) to the ridiculous-sounding “Clownfish” reef if it was an issue in the ocean. (Because, maybe there was a chance that it would only be an issue in the pool?)

So with a successful remedial scuba lesson, off to Clownfish Reef we went. This is where I learned that my least favorite part of scuba was not the stupidity of filling my mask up with water, it was transferring from snorkel to respirator because – I swear – the snorkel was too big for my mouth. I just kept on breathing in water. Eventually, I either did this correctly or my instructor gave up because we were going to be allowed to actually go down to the reef.

And that’s when I learned that my least favorite part of diving is “equalizing”, aka the process of helping your ears adjust to descending to 10m of depth in water, aka 2 ATM OF PRESSURE. My ears were not psyched about this. I tried to scream at my instructor that THIS IS NOT NATURAL – WHY AM I DOING THIS TO MYSELF/MY EARS but I was inhibited by my respirator and the logistics of being able to talk under water. Thankfully, though, at this point in my African adventure, I had become quite adept at communicating without using words. My instructor understood what I was trying to communicate (possibly because I was so good at “communicating” this, possibly because this happens every time the instructor does this with a new student), but instead of turning around and letting me abort right there, he just stopped and waited for me to calm down and “equalize” at that level before dropping another dreaded meter.  

We finally reached the sandy bottom. And that’s where I finally learned my actual least favorite part of scuba diving: buoyancy. We had to figure out how exactly to use our “breathing” to stay buoyant in the water. This was confusing to me because it was drilled into our minds that the number one rule in scuba diving is to never hold your breath but then it seemed that we were supposed to hold our breath to “fill our lungs” to ascend a bit. As a last resort, we were allowed to put some air in our BCD [buoyancy control device], but put too much in and you would shoot to the top, accidentally but definitely actually putting your ears through the gauntlet of “equalizing” again.

No. I did not like scuba diving.

OTHER MOMENTS FROM THE DAY

-          Sitting on the beach and paying the boy trying to sell bracelets to go up and buy us beers from the market (we were never going to buy those bracelets). Then he offered to open the beer with his teeth and we screamed at him to stop. Didn’t want to be responsible for any broken teeth. Of course then, when he walked away, we realized that we didn’t have a way to open the beer, and going up to the market to get a bottle opener would’ve defeated the process.

-          Going to a nearby hotel to watch the Netherlands-Spain game but being without internet and too embarrassed to ask anybody so we didn’t know the significance of the game or which team was which until there was a goal.

[The local CVS just told me it will take at least1.5 weeks to develop my disposable cameras. Apparently if I go to a different CVS, it can be done in 1 hour. But I'm just not sure I'll get to the other CVS within 1.5 weeks...]

It was inevitable…

First, the obligatory apologies and excuses since my last update: apparently all those times that I was complaining about the rainy season, it was actually the dry season. I know this because it is now, definitely, (hopefully,) the rainy season. During the dry season, it rained every day for about an hour. It now pours every day for hours on end. Usually starting around 4:30pm, which coincidentally tends to coincide with when I usually scamper the 50 feet from the office to the house for an afternoon snack. And then, without fail, as I stretch the minutes of my snack break…for however long is needed…the skies open up, the laundry on the line is soaked, and I am confined to the house until the next morning. Although this has proven to be a sneaky (potentially incredibly obvious) way to end my work day early (did I just say that? NO! I mean…to spend my last half hour every day working from the comfort of my room of course)...it does tend to leave me without a computer for the rest of the evening, as I’m not willing to brave even 50 feet in Forrest Gump rains just to write a measly update for you (or even to be able to watch a TV show for myself…lots of reading recently). After a few weeks of this, I’ve smartened up and now I just work from the dry comfort of the house all day long. You’re welcome.

Second, the admission of the slightly inevitable event: last weekend I threw sense to the wind and hopped across the border to the Democratic Republic of Congo (note how it’s dropped its previous antecedent) to enjoy a night partying and the post-apocalyptic charm of the city of Goma. I know, I know. I’m an idiot.

In truth, every time I heard a story about how unbelievably ridiculous the Congo is (starting with the mass rapes right outside the UN headquarters, ending with the line “we’ve had 13 park rangers killed in the last month”), only part of me properly reacted in horror. The other part went into ADVENTURE!!! overdrive. Let’s be serious, this blog would not be called “Adventures in Rwanda” if I was one to shy away from the incredible adventure of the Congo; the simple fact that I chose to live in rural Rwanda for a year suggests that I am the sort of person who would be inclined to an adventure in the Congo; potentially, I am turned on by danger.

My rationale for this evening of mayhem (honestly/disappointingly, it was fairly calm…but we did go to “Mirror Bar” where every surface is covered in mirrors) was because this upcoming weekend I was planning on doing something much more stupid: camp on the rim of a live volcano in the Congo. By comparison, a night out in Goma felt like a good stepping block.

Oh…and I just wanted to be able to say that I did it.

Some observations:

1. Goma was once described to me as having “post-apocalyptic charm”…this couldn’t be more accurate. Imagine London circa 1945: all the infrastructure is there as evidence of a has-been country, yet the city appears bombed out. I would have preferred dirt roads to the paved-50-years-ago-pot-holed-back-to-dirt-making-the-strips-of-tarmac-the-most-dangerous-part-because-they-launch-you-5-feet-every-time-you-hit-it. (I chose to say 5 feet there so it doesn’t look like I’m exaggerating.) And, somehow I missed this part of town, but apparently nothing has been done to the section of town that was covered by volcanic lava a few years ago: people just moved into the second floor of their houses and have been living their ever since.

2. I missed laws. Especially ones requiring moto drivers to provide helmets (and to be certified – this is the case in Rwanda). Perhaps the nearest-to-death experience that I’ve had so far was on a moto in Goma. Probably top 3 were my 3 different moto rides there. (On the note of laws, hotel signs advertised “Security” before other amenities like “Electricity.”)

3. After going through immigration, there was this long road full of UN trucks and armored cars. Assuming that this was because we were still at the border and that another check point was coming up, I kept my passport out. Apparently not. It meant we were in the Congo, where tourist shops sell replicas of UN cars made out of trash and where more than half the cars I saw were UN.

4. The largest bill in Congolese currency is equivalent to 50 cents. Which would be sweet, if that suggested what prices were like. In fact, shit was pretty expensive: our dinky hotel room was 65 USD (potentially because they received good reviews for being secure). As a result, they eagerly accept US dolla dolla bills…so that they don’t have to count out 130 ripped/torn/shredded bills for one hotel room. Which would be fine, if they kept their currency pegged to the US dollar…which they (obviously) don’t. The Economist in me just could not imagine the nightmare of a society where all prices are in one currency, all bills are in another currency, and where the two are not interchangeable at the same rate. Ah!!!!!!!!!!

5. My mom asked me if I had any pictures. I might be idiot enough to go to the Congo, but not to take a camera with me…or to take it out!!

I go back from more in about 24 hours…wish me luck/life!

How to Make a Friend in Rwanda

…if the potential friend is a Rwandan male…
Step 1: Exist.
…if the potential friend is an American female…
Step 1: Find her…mostly likely at 'The Lounge.'
Step 2: Exchange NGO information and determine the mutual benefit of
your exchange.
Step 3: Exchange phone numbers. (If you ever want to call me, mine is
+250-78-246-8532. Fun fact that my (technologically inept) mother
recently learned: you actually have to dial the '+' part of the
number, otherwise everything else just doesn't work, no matter how
many times you try.)
Step 4: Show up at her house. No worries…given Steps 1-3, you're
already friends, so this is okay.
…so it's really not too hard either way.

In this case, I met my new friend at 'The Lounge'…not surprising given
that me and every other white girl in Musanze goes there about 4
nights a week, so there's a guaranteed overlap in there somewhere. In
this particular story, I met Devin at The Lounge while my mom was
visiting (we went there twice in the 24 hours that I was in Musanze –
I swear, even when I'm living in NYC next year, I'm going to crave
this pizza) – Devin works at an orphanage and I work at health
centers. The mutual benefit of our interaction was that my mom's
dedication to Selamta in Ethiopia means that she is interested in
visiting/touring orphanages in other developing countries…and then
Devin was interested in how I could help her get vaccines for her
children. Obviously, this was good enough to exchange phone numbers.
My mom and I did end up going to the orphanage 2 days later, but Devin
wasn't there. We got a tour from the one other American that lives
there. The tour was nice, but was overly concentrated on the
gardens…which were absolutely gorgeous…but I was a little disappointed
at the lack of interaction with the children.
…so I jumped at the 'opportunity' a week later when Lyndsey mentioned that she
was going to go up to the orphanage.
It wasn't so much an opportunity as her asking for a ride, but I
offered before she even got around to the asking, because I was hoping
to actually be able to hang out with the kids this time.
(Even as I'm writing this, I'm starting to question my own sanity. It
looks like 7 months in Africa, with no interactions with children has
made me think of them as more tolerable, and potentially cute.)
Not really knowing Lyndsey's plans, I jumped in the driver's seat for
the 45 minute drive on smooth paved road, followed by the 30 minute
drive through glorified ditches. When we got to the orphanage, it
appeared that Lyndsey had planned an all-girls' slumber party. She'd
packed a change of clothes and a bottle of wine…and there were 3 other
girls there. (Okay, so we gave one of them a ride too, but I figured
that she was also just coming up for a tour.)
Devin (who I would not have recognized had she not been coming out of
a house that I knew was hers and only hers) and I hugged, asked how
the other was doing, and generally acted like we were old friends
meeting up.

So that's the first story…the second story is just about this
orphanage, which is AMAZING. There's a book about it, called Land of a
Thousand Hills, which I tried to read. But I accidentally bought the
book called A Thousand Hills and read that one instead…I kept on
wondering when the part about the orphanage would come up, and then I
finished it. A Thousand Hills, though, was actually a pretty good book
that gave me a great understanding of recent Rwandan history and
values. So, I recommended it to Lyndsey for background reading before
coming. She picked up the correct book, and passed the recommendation
on to Jared, who bought Land of a Thousand Hills. My lesson from all
of this is that one day, when I write my own book, I should name it
something very similar to a very popular one, and just let my sales
run wild from there.
Land of a Thousand Hills is about Rosalie Carr, the longest ex-pat
resident in Rwanda's history. "Roz" started her African adventures
when she married a British explorer in the 50s, they bought a
pyrethrum plantation 20 kilometers north of Ruhengeri, divorced her
husband, and bought his share of the plantation. She then became good
ole pals with Dian Fossey (she's pretty famous in the gorilla world)
and many diplomats (such was life in Africa in the 50s and 60s). She
was forced to evacuate a few days into the genocide and returned in a
cargo plane a few months later, where she rescued groups of orphaned
children and set up a home for them in the barn of the pyrethrum
plantation. Over the years, she continued to rescue children whose
parents died in refugee camps or during other various (not officially
recognized) insurgencies…eventually building actual housing for an
orphanage of about 100 children.
And I got to spend the night in her house.
Which essentially looks like an English cottage, and gardens,
transplanted to Africa. I actually thought I was in the Secret Garden
(remember that movie?) when I first saw it with my mom…and was not
disappointed when my friendship with Devin allowed me to enter the
house. It was so classically little old lady homey and cozy that I
wanted to curl up and never leave. We had tea at 4pm in mismatched
china teacups. (Devin poured the water from the electric boiler into a
china tea kettle.) And we used silver silverware (hehe) to eat dinner.
I slept on a bed of (name of random/potentially extinct or endangered
African mammal) fur. When Molly opened up a random book, a picture of
the man who discovered mountain gorillas, standing next to the first
gorilla he ever discovered, fluttered out of the book and fell to the
floor (and almost into the fire --- eek!), behind that was a picture
of 2 (apparently very famous) National Geographic photographers,
standing outside that very house, with the easily recognizable garden
in the background. On the walls, were pictures of Roz with the pope,
Dian Fossey, and Romeo Dallaire's replacement (given that I didn't
know his name, I would never expect you to – but you should know
Dallaire, Google him if you don't). I essentially stumbled upon the
opportunity to sleep in a museum, and was constantly torn between
wanting to touch everything, and not wanting to touch anything.

…And yet again, this was an experience/weekend that just would not
have been possible in the US.

A Very Drunken Christmas

If I could describe my Rwandan Christmas experience in one word, it wouldn’t be “different,” or “Rwandan,” or “spiritual”…no…it would be “drunk.” Granted, I’ve had my fair share of drunken Christmases, with “caroling” at the Minturn Saloon, sneaking glasses of wine from Mr. and Mrs. Flowers, and having a fresh brew-ski at Two Elk Lodge…but nothing that would compare to the 24 hours that just happened to me.

Christmas started with a family Skype call – me on one computer, James on another, the rest of the family at 17 RFR – to read the Polar Express at 6pm my time and ridiculously early hours their time. This did mark the occasion as the first family Skype call this year where we did not all cheers a beer to each other during the call. I then went to the local Catholic Church to meet with the CCHIPs Project Director and her family for the service. It was an awesome service: there were sooo many people packed at all the doors, and even standing around a bonfire outside, singing Christmas carols – which all had the same tune, at least, of the common carols I know. The biggest frustration was recognizing the song, but not having a clue of the words to sing along…

Mitchell Family Christmas Photo!
(James on the computer)

My last fully sober memory of the 24 hour period was arriving at Jeanne d’Arc’s house, noting the lack of emphasis on presents/her absolutely beautiful crèche, and thinking how wonderfully religious a holiday Christmas is when it’s not marred with distractions of presents and stresses of vacations.

And then Jeanne d’Arc handed me a glass of Mutzig.

Let’s pause, as I introduce you to Jeanne d’Arc. Firstly, she is an absolutely amazing woman: she was the youngest of something like 30 children (her father had 4 wives), escaped her way out of 2 arranged marriages, became the most educated person in her family – by 10 years, and is now the Project Director of a growing NGO. She’s also incredibly nice, but in a frightening and demanding way.

Examples:

- When I got sick, JD comforted me by saying “You will get better” but in a way that made it come off more like an order than words of comfort – in addition to getting sick, my newest problem was now the fear of how JD would react/punish me if I didn’t get better.

- At Elie’s brother’s funeral earlier this year, JD kindly took care of me, in a situation where I had no idea what was going on or how I should act. But, her way of taking care of me was by forcefully linking my arm and dragging me along with her saying “You will stand here now” and “Now we pray”…which again instilled more fear than comfort, as I started to worry of what would happened if I did not stand still, or pray correctly, or did not do exactly as she said – even though she was only saying it so that I felt more comfortable about what I did.

Let me also add that I only just learned recently that the story that she goes around beating up husbands who beat their wives is just that – a story. For about 3 months, I had fully believed that her way of “doing good” was actually beating up men.

Now, you hopefully understand why I HAD to drink the beer that was handed to me. And by handed, I mean JD walked up to me, pretending to put her arm around my shoulder and say something comforting to me, but instead grabbed my hand, pried open my fingers and forced a glass into my hand; set the still half-full bottle at my feet and forced me to sit down on the couch.

And then the game began. The game being: Eli trying to drink as little as possible to stay sober in front of her boss, and everybody else trying to make Eli drink as much as possible – either for the entertainment value or in order to be good hosts.

At first, I started to realize that every time my glass got about half empty, it magically became full again. This wasn’t good for me, because I like finishing things, and will generally continue drinking (or eating) if my glass (or plate) is still full – no matter how full or drunk I am. I’m pretty sure it’s genetic.

So I tried to drink a little more slowly. But the slower I drank, the faster my hosts re-filled my glass. It soon became difficult to take a sip without instantly being topped off.

Next, I started to realize a few more things:

1. I was drunk.

2. I was the only person that was drunk.

3. In fact, only one other person in the room was even drinking alcohol.

My tolerance is actually only about 2 Mutzigs. I was definitely 4 in at this point. There’s a fabulous video of me dancing to Shakira’s Waka Waka…a video that I must get my hands on if I ever have any intention of running for political office, or maybe even advancing within a company.

Around this point JD said to me “You will spend the night. Here is a toothbrush I bought for you.”Again, this is an example of JD not so much inviting me to do something as demanding it. I considered going home for one moment, before I realized there was no chance that I’d get home…so I agreed…and was awkwardly guided to a bedroom that had obviously been cleared out for the guest (I wonder how far ahead JD planned for me to stay? When did she buy the toothbrush?)…drunk dialed my parents…and fell asleep without even brushing my teeth.

Times when you don’t want to wake up at your boss’ house:

1. Ever

2. When hung over

3. After hooking up with your boss

…thank goodness Christmas morning constituted only 2 of these for me.

Secondly thank goodness JD’s family decided to give me until 1pm before starting again to force-feed me alcohol. This time including Scotch at the neighbor’s house…with the 4 single and eligible men. I can only describe this afternoon as slightly less nightmarish than the night before…because I had a better idea of what to expect ahead of time. It was only during the pause in my glass-refilling, caused by somebody running to the store to buy more beer that I was able to make the madness stop and get a word in before the next bottle was automatically opened, guilt tripping me into finishing it. By the time JD rolled me into the family car to go out to a restaurant for Christmas dinner, I was well on my way to drunk…again.

At the restaurant, I had to only hear the word “Mutzig” come off JD’s mouth as she ordered for me to yell “No! Please! No more beer! Just a tea! That’s it! That’s all I need!”

JD looked at me with the most confused expression: “You will have a beer” she said. Exhibit F of the 24 hour period of JD being forcefully nice.

Exhibit A of me finally standing up for my liver: “But JD…I’m drunk.”

Confused look from JD.

And then I finally realized…something I had forgot to think during this whole bender is that JD doesn’t drink. She has no sympathy or understanding for my lack of tolerance or ensuing drunkenness. So in the spirit of Christmas, I chose to forgive her for her lack of understanding, just not drink my beer when served, and thank her for my very drunken Christmas when she returned me home 24 hours after I first left the house.

Rwandan Culture 101

Because I am generally not an attentive person, and because I live in an America-land compound, I got very excited today when I obtained a "Rwandan Culture 101" document from my Peace Corps friend. Peace Corps people are also actually trained about culture, social things, etc. Personally, I've been mostly functioning in social situations by making a fool of myself -- mostly what I've picked up on is Rwandan humour which is pun-heavy and make-fun-of-muzungu-heavy. I've been relying on the second.

But to no further ado...if you've been curious...these are apparently the cultural norms of the country where I've been living for 4 months, followed with my commentary in italics:

Greetings/Meetings


Greetings are probably the most important formality to Rwandans. Even children hold out their hands when they see someone they know (or want to know) for a handshake or high five. Don’t be surprised if random kids or adults (especially old ladies) come up to you and hug you—you get used to it.
When you first meet someone, you go into a loose hug and touch your cheeks together 3 times (starting with right cheek to right cheek) then finish the greeting by briefly shaking right hands. For less formal meetings or to greet someone you already know, you can just shake hands or touch shoulders then finish with a hand shake/loose hand grab.

You must greet someone you know/say goodbye to someone you are leaving with at least a handshake every time. Although everybody shakes hands all the time, it's the limp-fish handshake...I think their lives would be consumed by shaking hands if they actually gave firm handshakes...but limp-fish handshakes still give me shivers and now nightmares.



I’ll teach you some basic greetings in Kinyarwanda which will make people extremely happy and scream “Eeeeeehhhhhhh bazi Kinyarwanda!” (aka, they know Kinyarwanda). Then you can just smile, nod and say “yego, ndakizi” which translates to yes, I know it. You’ll fool them in no time! Interesting...just learned that's what that means.

Food/Drink

When someone invites you to eat or drink something, it is very impolite to decline and implies that you do not trust them not to make you sick. Be expecting everyone whose home you enter to offer you a Fanta, water or beer. warm

Don’t sniff or smell your food! I know you’ll want to, but it’s highly culturally inappropriate. If you do be prepared for a lot of quizzitive and/or angry looks. Didn't know this

It is also impolite to leave a lot of food on your plate, so try to keep your host/hostess from piling food on your plate by serving yourself. Otherwise, be expecting a 6” high pile of food to get through. Though I’m not sure if we’ll be dining at anyone’s house, so you might not have to worry about this. This fact was especially painful on my birthday when the family I was visiting kept piling on food.

It is not standard practice to tip at restaurants or bars in Rwanda, but I usually leave a little something behind in places that I frequent. I used to do this...and then I saw a waitress wearing a sweater that I lost. That $70 will suffice as my tips for the rest of the year.

If you order a bottled beverage (fanta or beer) the waitress must open the drink in front of you. Poisoning is taken very seriously around here. Knew that they always opened it in front of me. Didn't know why.

Traditional foods

The Rwandan Buffet: Towns are covered with them, these hole in the wall buffet restaurants that cost about $3. I’ll take you to my favorite one in Musanze, where you can pile your plate with starches (you’ll have a pick of fries, pasta, rice, plantains, cassava), beans, veggies, salad, fruit, and if you’re feeling like splurging, some meat. The trick is that you're only allowed to fill your plate once -- the "skyscrapers" that some Rwandans build require years of practicing the art of piling food.

Brockettes: Grilled meat on a stick. Usually goat (“ihene” in Kinyarwanda). But some places have beef, pork or even fish. Fish brouchette is my jam.

Akabenzi: Also known as…pig. Not sure if we’ll have this (since I nixed Butare from our itinerary) but it’s grilled pork mixed with onions and spices and it’s wonderful.

“Ibitoki” – plantains, usually cooked in a tomato or peanut sauce The peanut sauce is purple...took me a while to learn what it was.

“African tea” – made with a base of milk, hot Rwandan tea, sugar and ginger, a delicious favorite but very heavy and filling. If you’re at a small milk house (again not sure if we’ll go to one of these) it’s called “icyayi”. So yeah...I thought this was actually Chai...pronounced in a Rwandan way (adding extra syllables)

Rwandan snacks (Which way do you want it fried?):

• Samboussas – fried pastry with either veggies or ground meat, onions and spices inside aka...somossa

• Amandazi – fried balls of dough – kinda sweet, crunchy but soft, great dunked in icyayi aka...doughnut

• Chapatti – similar to a tortilla, but not. I make my own at home, not to brag or anything aka...tortilla

• Imineke – little bananas. Not fried. They’re tiny, sweet, and amazing. And the reason that I’ll probably never be able to eat a banana again when I return to the states. aka...organic bananas

Dress:

Rwandans dress conservatively, but as they say “smart”. Their clothes are clean! But they will wear the same outfit every day for 3 days. Haze would love it. You’ll see a huge difference between how people of a certain education or professional background dress (quite Westernized) and abaturage (village people) who will wear igitenge (traditional fabric) and plastic shoes (or no shoes at all). It’s a fascinating aspect of Rwandan culture, so make sure to observe people. Besides, they’ll be staring at you, why not stare back? Becuase it's awkward and I don't like staring back. I once thought that this would make them feel uncomfortable and look away. Turns out it just encourages them to stare more.

That being said, many Rwandans have a poor view of tourists because of their unkempt appearance and clothing. So, my only request is for the days we’re at the health centers and at the market in Musanze that you don’t look like dirty American hippies in tattered clothes or all “safari-ed out”. You know what I mean, right? Shoot...I've given in and have stopped tucking my shirts in etc.

Things that will make you go “huuuuh?!” but please don’t embarrass me by reacting too much: ...this was written for her parents

People pick their noses; intensely and constantly and in all contexts; even when you are having a full out conversation with them Have seriously NEVER noticed this
People don’t make lines and will push you out of the way; you’ll probably only notice this on the buses, but don’t worry, I’m Rwandan now so I’ll do my best to push ‘em out of the way first. There's also no sense of "women first"...actually...maybe it's "women last"?

There is no personal space. People will touch you as soon as they’ve met you, sit super close to you on the bus, possibly even with their arm around you or leg on yours. This is nice though because it means that it's also totally acceptable for you to curl up with your busmate and sleep on his shoulder.

People smell. Yes, some people smell good, but most don’t. I don’t really notice it anymore, but I’m sure you will. Be prepared. I still notice it.

You sit 4 to a row at minimum in mutatus (mini buses); not sure if we’ll get on any of these, but something to be aware of. They’re Kinyarwanda name means “let’s squeeze together” so you know…

People will call you muzungu, so just deal with it. Often it will be in amazement, but must often it will be in making fun of you or even being a little aggressive. Try to ignore it, but don’t worry too much about it.

People will stare. They will stop and stare, jaw gaping. If we are walking down the street we will attract a crowd, if we are sitting in a car we will attract a crowd, if we go to the market we will attract a crowd, if we visit a health center we will attract a crowd. For those 5 days in Rwanda you can officially consider yourself a celebrity. Embrace it! They will walk across the street just to be closer to you so they can stand and stare. They will run up in front of you just so they can turn around and stare. They will walk right next to you, staring.

Don’t feel bad when people, especially children or disabled people, beg or try to sell you trinkets. Just say no thank you (“oya, murakoze” – I’ll give you a pronunciation lesson when you get here!)

You will see machete scars on peoples’ heads, faces and hands.

Rwandans are extremely clean and will be seen sweeping dirt, scrubbing their floors and windows, washing their shoes every day, etc.

Of course you can take photos (especially of those glorious volcanoes), but don’t take photos of a specific person or group of people unless I ask them first. Often they’re going to say no, or ask that we give them money, which I will not do. Taking a picture in town where people are milling around is ok, but just don’t be too obvious. This rule gets thrown out the window when you’re hanging out with any of my neighborhood kids. They’ll beg you to take photos of them!!

Men hold hands. Men and women usually don’t. PDA’s are rare, except sometime at twilight when inshuti’s (boyfriend/girlfriends) are out for strolls.

Weird things Rwandans do that you may also see me doing because I’ve become one of them: Saying “eeehh” or “mmmm” as a response (it’s sometimes just like saying “oh” or “yes” in a conversation, but they also use it when they are surprised); teeth/lip smacking (don’t know how to explain this in word form, you’ll understand it when you hear it);

If we’re walking around we’re going to pass people carrying two things that can be a little unsettling at first: machetes and machine guns. Many workers carry machetes as they go from job to job or field to field. Trust me, it’s not threatening, but I still find it strange sometimes. And any policeman, prison guard or soldier (and there are many of those all over the country) will be carrying a large gun. Obviously have never seen them use it, but just to be warned.

People will grab your arms/hands to lead you around. Or just grab your arms and hands because they want to.

People will call you fat—don’t be insulted; it’s actually a compliment, usually to say that you are strong or healthy. I actually rarely get the compliment these days, people keep scolding me for losing weight. Alternatively, your house cook will tell you you need to diet...this is not actually meant as a compliment, and is a little awkward coming from the person who prepares all of your meals.

So...there you have it...now...who's ready to come visit?

Pool and Cheating

I realize I’ve failed in introducing my co-workers through my blog entries. Partially, this is because I won’t give them access to the blog; partially, this is because you can just go to the website (http://www.wwhps.org/cchips-staff/) and read all about them.

But it is important for this story to know that one of my co-workers, Marvin, went to MIT. Because I approve of stereotypes and he’s real nerdy. Last night, I played pool with him and a few other co-workers. I couldn’t help myself but laugh as he tried to measure exact angles for the ricochets and everything. He took it so seriously! I just drank my Waragi and laughed as he crouched at table-height to inspect the layout of the land, despite playing on an uneven table with a cue ball half the size of a normal one, with no chalk and a pool stick half the length of a normal one to account for the walls being awkwardly close to the table.

I am happy to report that street smarts, not MIT smarts won out as he lost to one of the Rwandans on our staff.

And next, buzzed Eli was up.

I started off the game strong: my break (losers break?) did not even hit the triangle of balls. I quickly covered up this mistake by claiming that I thought we were shooting for the break, (If we were, I would have lost this too, as my ball came all the way back and hit the far wall…) and they let me try again. It was another five shots before I got a ball – the wrong one – in a pocket. And probably another five before I got one of my own. Near the end of the game actually, I think all but one of my balls were still on the table, and only one of my opponents’.

Just like my mother playing pong though, I was not worried. Because I knew that there was always that chance that the other team would knock over a cup and lose the game by default; or, in this case, that my opponent would scratch on the 8-ball. Despite most of the rules for pool being different in Rwanda (if you knock your opponent’s ball first, your opponent gets two shots in a row; there are no table scratches; etc. etc.) … you still lose if you scratch on the 8-ball.

Eli wins. Take THAT Marvin.

Eli feels the need to celebrate her win and rub it into the exacting-MIT Marvin by absolutely insisting that they stay for another game, despite it being very past her bed time (about 9pm) on a work night.

The next game didn’t go too much better. I might have gotten a few more balls into the pockets, but more by luck than by skill. The only better part was that I was starting to understand the rules so my opponent had fewer opportunities to have rounds of 5 shots in a row. But the landscape near the end looked pretty much the same as the game before: dismal for me. And then…I kid you not…my opponent scratched on the 8-ball! (Different opponent.)

Eli wins again!
I quickly checked my outfit…no exposed kneecaps and not too much cleavage…I can’t even credit these chance wins on my…skill.

At this point, I was making history at the bar. The longest winning streak is 4 games…and I’m not sure a girl has ever won a game. I’m being loud enough about the fact that I’ve won two games in a row and quiet enough about the fact that they were both by default that people in the bar are starting to think that this muzungu girl is a real pool player. Hustler. (Seriously hustling though, as the loser has to pay for the game.)

And finally, Marvin, who has essentially taken on the role of boring/responsible older brother (I don’t have one of these in real life, so I can only assume that’s how one would act), gathers me and tells me it’s time to go home. At the time I’m mad…but this morning and all day at work…I’m madder that he didn’t make me come home earlier.

Beer…mmm

I’m not going to claim to be a beer aficionado – Bud Light Lime is my favorite beer – but I do think that New Hampshire’s obsession with micro-brews gives me some expertise to speak on the issue. And, in my expert opinion, Mutzig and Primus are both terrible. They also both happen to be the only options in Rwanda.

Popular opinion seems to be that Mutzig is better than Primus…because it costs 100rwf (about 20cents) more, but I have not been able to taste this. Usually they both just taste like warm Keystone…because Rwandans also think beer tastes better when it’s warm.

Last night, my point was proven. We had a blind taste test between Mutzig and Primus.

Three glasses: 2 of Primus, 1 of Mutzig – or was it 2 of Mutzig, 1 of Primus? (And, as MIT grad and I discussed, did it make a difference to the probability of randomly guessing all 3 correctly if all 3 were the same, and you knew it?)

Of the 3 American staff members guessing, all 3 guessed differently…and all 3 guessed incorrectly…twice. Just to review this math: there was a 37.8% (6 in 16) of at least one person randomly guessing correctly. And yet, of all 3 that insisted they could tell the difference, all 3 were wrong.

I am vindicated.

When a Rwandan staff member showed up to this game, he took one sip of each and guessed all three correctly.

So maybe there is a difference.

Recent discovery: Mutzig and Primus are produced by the same company in the same factory.

Question: Is My Life Real?

Answer: I’m unsure.

I have asked myself this question and have given myself this answer too many times to be healthy. Examples of memorable occurrences include when I ended up being mentioned in The D (see http://thedartmouth.com/2010/05/17/news/weekend) and right before jumping out of an airplane in South Africa.

Most recently, I asked myself this question when looking out over Kigali from the porch of a house belonging to the Tony Blair Governance Initiative, dressed up in 20s flapper wear, and instructing a Mutzig representative how to properly tap a keg.

After a full 2 months in Rwanda, I have finally broken onto the Kigali social scene. The Hash helped. As did my birthday party (have I still not talked about that in a blog? Eek! Maybe that’s subconsciously on purpose?) at making connections with people living in the big city. I was warned when I first arrived that Kigali is a bit surreal in its muzungu culture…and only came to appreciate it this weekend with the “Last Days of Decadence” party thrown by the Tony Blair Governance initiative. Mutzing on tap (when properly tapped) was free-flowing, along with boxed wine and more hidden makings for “tails.” Out back was a grill with brochette and in the main room was a DJ and strobe lights. It truly was a frat party on coke. (Too soon.)

I wore the best outfit I could put together, which included none of my own clothing and flip flops…and was quickly overwhelmed by the CFM heels, the knees, the shoulders, the cleavage, and the sheer fabulousness of everybody else in attendance. But my small-town girl self is used to being underdressed, so I knew to just focus attention towards my other talents instead. Which is when I found myself behind the bar, tapping the keg and pouring beers for the other guests.

The debauchery ended quite early for a night in Kigali: about 3:30am, and we were in our cab ride back home.

The next morning proved to be the most ambitious I’ve ever felt about making a hung over breakfast of grease and eggs. Without any Bagel Basement (or bagels) near, I’ve been forced to learn how to cook an egg. (The shock! The horror! The…did anybody put money on that?) This hasn’t been easy, but I’ve at least mastered the scrambled egg by now, which is a skill I whip out in emergencies when Gabby is not around. Saturday morning was such a morning.

First, I could find no matches. I searched every cupboard, basket, and drawer in the kitchen for 10 minutes, and then searched Jess’ room (oh yeah…I was staying at a house rented by 3 other girls) for a lighter that she promised was in there…it wasn’t. Jess was not being helpful even though she lived there. She just lied down on the couch and instructed me that matches existed somewhere in the house. Eventually I found some in another girl’s room.

Then there were no pans. Whatever. I just used a pot.

No gas for the stove. You’ve got to be kidding me. I woke up Jess and she told me I had to go outside and turn on the gas to the house. Check.

No butter. Used vegetable oil.

Only 3 eggs. Rwandan eggs are small and I was cooking for two. Only 3 pieces of toast. One and a half eggs and one and a half pieces of toast is not enough food for me. Luckily, Jess was asleep on the couch. I ate one slice of bread and served our meal pretending there were only 2 all along. I also cut up an avocado because they cost about 20 cents so I felt no guilt eating it.

No grater for the cheese. Whatever. I used my hands.

By this point, the pot that I intended to use was SIZZLING hot. As in way too hot to cook anything without burning it immediately. Solution: I went outside to turn on the water to the house, and quickly ran the outside of the pot under cold water. It created a frightening amount of smoke in a house that was not mine and was not owned by the people I was visiting…but it did the trick.

Eggs cooked, bread toasted, avocado cut … perfect post-last-days-of-decadence breakfast.

And less than an hour later I was paying ~10usd for a burger at a hotel.

Gates, Keys, and Breaking In

I’m like a lost middle child when I talk about where I’m from. I love pointing out that grew up and went to college on the same street that I was born on, but I’m also quick to dismiss my naivety by bragging that “my parents live in downtown Newark!” I usually use whichever background is most convenient for the situation: if I’m lost in the city, I’m just a small town country girl, and if I’m arguing a point in a classroom, I am sure to bring up my worldly point-of-view.

But, in Rwanda, it is becoming increasingly obvious that I am, indeed, from Hanover New Hampshire. Through and through.

For one, Kigali overwhelms me with its size. Secondly, I enjoy hiking. And finally, I have no idea how to use a key, a skill that is critical in Rwanda.

Everything  here is lockable. And everything that is lockable is locked with a key. I’m talking drawers, dressers, bedroom doors, house doors, office doors, gates, cupboards, refrigerators…I JUST SAID THAT REFRIGERATORS ARE LOCKED I DON’T THINK I NEED TO LIST ANYTHING MORE. Everything has its own key. For the most part, keys are kept in the lock and treated as any lock in America where you just twist and open. But, as a reference point, my high school didn’t even have locks on the bedroom doors and I once broke a window to get into my house rather than figure out the code for the garage or look for a hide-a-key. I cannot use even the simplest keys.

The key to the bathroom door always seems to fall out right when I slam it shut on my bolt for the toilet. And then I’m stuck in a pickle, deciding whether to pause and actually try to lock the door, or just leave it unlocked and hope nobody comes wandering in. This decision would be easier if the bathroom door stayed shut without being locked, if I had confidence that my key-abilities could get the door locked in less than 30 seconds, and if I wasn’t always suffering from some form of Rwandan gastro-disease.

Such are daily dilemmas in Rwanda.

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Gates, also, have proven to be a problem. Pretty much every house that has a gate also has a muzehe or umakoze who is responsible for opening, closing, and locking the gate. After nightfall, it is necessary for this person to let you back in. In general, our muzehe has a sixth sense and has our gate open for us before we even turn down our little side road. But this is not always the case, especially when you’re walking instead of driving.

1. 1.       Knocks just don’t seem to garner the same reaction time as does a loud Land Rover horn. I’ve had a few instances where I’ve played with neighborhood children at the end of my runs because I tried knocking on the gate in vain, and then I just give up and hope for a car to come by soon. Technically, I could take a set of keys with me on my runs…but I know that it would probably take longer for me to unlock the gate than to just wait for the muzehe to hear my futile knocks
2. And then there was the time that Marvin and I came home in the car particularly late. We honked. And honked. And honked. And then we realized that Marvin is the houseman and has all the keys on his keychain. So he got out and started testing each key in the gate, which didn’t seem to be working. I only just pulled out my cell phone to shamefully call somebody on the inside, when I looked up and suddenly Marvin had leaped on top of the car and started pulling himself up the gate, and then over the barbed wire and spikes and landing safely on the other side. Only to realize that he still could not let the car in because the keys were not in the keyholes as they usually are. He was forced to go wake up the muzehe and get him to come and let us home. At that time, I was happy I had Marvin.
3. Last night introduced a whole new challenge. I was coming home in the car by myself (I can drive now!) after dark, when the horn of the car broke. I realized this during the drive because horns are necessary in Rwanda to scare people out of your way and off the road. So before even turning down our alley, I had my cell phone out to call somebody to let me in. My cell phone was out of minutes. (I haven’t bought any more since I drunk-dialed the states last weekend and used up $10 of credit in 3 minutes.) I have long given up being a conscientious tourist and always traveling with a copy of my passport, my Amex emergency number, local currency, and US dollars…so I couldn’t run to the corner store to buy more minutes. I’m not going to lie; I was actually pretty useless when I realized how helpless I was. I sat frozen in the car, right in front of the gate, wondering what on earth I could do in such a situation.

It took me a full song to decide that I should inspect the height of the gate to determine if I could copy Marvin’s aerobics from the week before, and then another full song to decide if I should leave the car running or not while I went for the jump. I decided to keep it running just in case somebody heard it, knowing full well that I would be ridiculed for risking having it stolen. (My rationale here is that it took me a month to learn how to move a standard car anywhere, so no Rwandan thief could learn in 2 minutes.) Just as I was inching out of the car, Marvin, my night in MIT armor, opened the gate to inspect why a car had been running outside of it for 6 minutes. I bashfully explained that the horn was broken and quickly settled back in the driver’s seat in hopes that he wouldn’t notice that I was actually considering repeating his feat and jumping it.

Weekend Adventures

I haven’t talked much about my weekend adventures yet, and I’ve already forgotten some of the things I’ve done, so to keep my mind young and fresh, here’s a quick overview with commentary:

1st Weekend: Wedding, Sleeping, and Father of the Bride

My only real memory of this weekend is that Placide and his groomsmen wore matching gold ruffly shirts and I thought I woke up really early one morning, only to learn that my clock was set to Eastern Standard Time and it was actually noon…but I didn’t realize this until dinnertime.

2nd Weekend: Silverback, Eggs, Leisurely Stroll to a Convent

My introduction to Silverback, before I fully appreciated how amazing it is. Amazing eggs cooked by Lauren by noon the next day. And then we pulled ourselves together to walk 3 miles to a convent that overlooks Lake Rhondo from on top of a cliff. Not a bad place to pray, or to awkwardly tell a priest that you’re not Catholic. This was also the only time I attempted to go to church, which I failed at because my Christian escort forgot that it was school holiday so there was only one English service.

3rd Weekend: Whitewater Rafting in Uganda

I think I talked about this enough…but I love Uganda and its food. And I kind of loved being hardcore while rafting.

4th Weekend: Silverback, Giseyni

The first time that I truly appreciated Silverback. And then the next night we rented a house in Giseyni, the “Hawaii of Rwanda.” No campfire, but lots of night swimming, Rwandan card games (good thing I was drunk enough that my competitive edge did not show), gazebo dance parties, and skipping stones. Led to my 2nd worst hangover ever, when I got a stomach virus for 2 days.

5th Weekend: Party @ CCHIPs House, Volcana Lounge, Umaganda, Baking Extravaganza

Lots of Peace Corps volunteers were visiting Musanze for the weekend, and we also decided to invite over many Rwandan co-workers and acquaintances. Good thing because it meant that we showed up at Volcana Lounge, which is usually pretty quiet and boring, with a large enough group to start a real party. The next day was Umaganda, which is a public service day for all Rwandans. Us Americans were constrained to our compound for the day. We did not suffer though: we took advantage of this time to make fried egg and BACON sandwiches with pre-cooked bacon that Amy’s mom mailed over (don’t care if that’s not safe/healthy/whatever…it was amazing), bacon/cheddar/chive biscuits, and oatmeal/chocolate chip bars. I was a very full little fatty by the end of the day. I’m pretty sure that we couldn’t even bring ourselves to eat dinner that evening.

6th Weekend: Hiked Bisoke, East African Expo in Kigali

Girls bonding weekend: We watched 10 Things I Hate About You on Friday. Three of us hiked Bisoke (3711m volcano) on Saturday. We all watched Slumdog Millionaire Saturday Night. And then three of us bought matching jewelry at the Expo in Kigali on Sunday. The boys spent the weekend at Giseyni…again. The only interruption to girls bonding was that a man joined us on our Bisoke hike. This was not too bad though since he had volunteered in Rwanda for 3 years after college, had met and married a Rwandan woman, had a nice camera and shared his pictures, and treated us all to a dinner of brochette and fries after the hike! On Sunday we proved that traveling as 3 girls continues to have its benefits, as we bargained with the owner of a restaurant in Musanze and got him to offer us free soup.

It’s Cold in Africa

It comes with the territory of growing up in New Hampshire to be skeptical of any person who tells you that some place is “cold.” So, even though I was warned that Rwanda might be “chilly”, my geographic senses (the equator is a 2 hour drive on mountainous dirt roads – I’m going to estimate that it’s about the distance of Hanover to Woodstock, or NYC to Newark) told me otherwise. I should have known. I will take an excerpt from my blog post about my first experience in Africa:

"1. It’s fucking freezing in Namibia.
2. Those things jumping in front of the ship – they weren’t dolphins – they were fucking PENGUINS.
3. Like I was convinced that the captain made a wrong turn and accidentally brought us to Antarctica.
4. Because the fog was also so dense that you couldn’t even see the front of the boat.
5. And there was no Lion King music blasting from the country. Which I was really expecting would happen.
6. So, overall, it was the worst sunrise ever."

Let’s just lather, rinse, repeat to describe my current thoughts about Rwanda. And add that the rainy season has started and we haven’t had electricity for hours. I feel that I am being cursed for all my prior complaints about the dust.
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Now that I’m four weekends in, I feel a bit obligated to tell you all about nightlife in Rwanda. Here’s a make-your-own-adventure of a typical Friday/Saturday night:

1. Beer at Dinner? (Dinner = homemade pizza)
a. No – Go to Question 2
b. Yes – Go to Question 3

2. Great! You held off for an hour! But you do succumb to peer pressure. Go to Question 3.

3. Amstel or Primus?
a. Amstel – Go to Question 4
b. Primus – Go to Question 4

4. Feeling a little tipsy and everybody starts to show up. “Everybody” includes the normal crowd of muzungus (Peace Corps Amy, Christian Griffen, French Max), muzungu friends of the muzungus, Rwandan CCHIPs staff (Rene, Doctor Nathalie, Placide and wife), and other Rwandans (neighbor Felix, district data manager Gaston, professor from local university…). Do you…
a. Play card games/drinking games/teach Rwandans Up and Down the River – Go to Question 5
b. Escape the madness and shower/Skype/watch a movie – Go to Option 1

5. Oh boy…it looks like you’re actually going to drink this evening. But what do you ultimately choose?
a. Straight beer, gotta love knowing how your body will react – Go to Option 2
b. Beer + gin + banana beer + whiskey + banana liquor + strawberry wine + anything fermentable…because it’s more fun and more “Rwandan” that way – Go to Option 3

Option 1: Stay in and read Atlas Shrugged

Wow Eli! You’re such a rager and represent the SD so well! I hope your new Rwandan friends can at least appreciate the irony of reading Ayn Rand while volunteering in Africa. If not, too bad, at least you’ll wake up at 6am tomorrow so that you can…do nothing because it’s a Rwandan work day and no muzungus can be seen outside of their compounds. At least, then, you got a good night’s sleep.

Option 2: Go to Volcana Lounge

The exorbitant prices at Volcana (by Hanover standards, not by African standards) keep it a little classier than other places. I’m not entirely sure why “lounge” is linked to its name…perhaps the owners are referring to the few couches on the sides of its dance floor? There is also a pool table in a back room and they make amazing/expensive pizza (also by Hanover standards). It’s a little far from the main drag and pretty damn pricey, so it’s usually pretty empty. This is ideal if we have a large group and want to listen exclusively to MJ on the dance floor, but less ideal if we want to have adventures of any sort. Few exciting stories have come out of nights at Volcana, and all those that have are somehow associated with the DJ booth and a muzungu physically taking over the music selection. Or stories of one in the group hustling another at pool (only the loser has to pay to play…it’s a great rule and slightly reminds me of pong).

Option 3: Go to Silverback Dance Club, where the magic happens

My first time in Silverback I was so offended and disgusted that I immediately retreated from the dance floor to the bar, where I always feel safe. I had to be dragged back to the dancing by Lauren, who insisted that this was NOT a Chi Gam dance party, and despite the fact that the guys felt comfortable putting their hands on my pants, they had no intentions/hopes/desires of getting in my pants. This explanation made me feel much better…and I soon came to fully embrace the Silverback culture.

For one, all the guys are very liberal with sharing their drinks, which are mostly flasks or fifths hidden under their jackets. I know I need to stop accepting drinks from strange men in a foreign country – but it’s just so much cheaper than Volcana that I can’t stop! (You will be proud to know that I did make the rule to only accept a drink if the guy has a sip first. I think this is a very reasonable, responsible, and resourceful system I think.)

Second, I’ve never been such a confident dancer. I do not know how I will ever transition back to the US. There’s just something about knowing that every guy in the club will dance with you (to the chagrin of all the prostitutes hanging around) that makes you incredibly confident in your dancing abilities. (Or maybe it’s the banana beer/wine/liquor hitting the system.) I have no qualms teaching my partner how to swing (at least that part you’ll be proud of, Poppy), or literally doing fast feet drills and pretending it’s a dancing move. You can be incredibly silly and nobody knows or cares. It’s a great work out.

Third, there are many adventures to be had. Last weekend I got lost on my way to the bathroom and found myself locked in the kitchen, unable to get out. My solution was to follow the door through to the back of the bar and to sneak out that way. But this did not go unnoticed and I was even able to serve up a drink on my way out! (We’ll add that experience to times when knowing Kinyrwandan would be helpful.)

So there you have it with a summary of nightlife in Rwanda…given these descriptions, I think it might be possible to replace some key words (“banana liquor” = “99 bananas”…remember that one Frances/Isabelle?) and you might think I was somewhere in America. Okay, maybe not Silverback. Silverback is quite uniquely Rwandan.