Planes, Planes and Airports – Tuesday, June 17, 2014

In which I diverge from the carefully written out itinerary I sent my parents - because like...why should they be worried about a LAM flight? - to take a flight on a different day from an airport that advertised skydiving lessons in the waiting room.

Car Rental in Tofo, Mozambique. Note the "Bus" is a horse. 

Since you’re reading this, I’m going to assume that you know I’m not much of a planner. I really wish I could somehow track the cumulative dollars I have spent on paying for plane ticket transfer/change fees in my life. Knowing that number might incentivize me to pay the extra upfront fee to ensure tickets are transferrable because I should just admit…I’m not a good enough planner to know something like what flight I want to be on in advance of…the day of the flight.

Anyways, I booked my return flight from Tofo/Inhambane for June 18. Partially this is because I am bad at math when it comes to days (I never understand…do you subtract the numbers and add one?? Or two??) and partially because I was expecting/hoping that I would love scuba diving SO MUCH that I would just want to stay in Tofo for another day/forever after Cory left. But this was not the case and, after a week at the beach, I was ready to leave on the same day as Cory.

When I had learned the Cory’s flight was a day before mine even before we started the trip, I actually had tried to email LAM (Mozambique Airlines) to change my ticket. Those emails weren’t fruitful, so I tried to call them. This required adding more $$ to my Google Voice account (which you can only add in $10 increments) to make an international call. And then when I could never get through to them during their “business hours”, I asked my mom to do it. She miraculously got through to them and they gave her a range of how much extra it would cost and said I’d have to come into a LAM office to change it. At this point, I just gave up and figured I’d figure it out when I got there.

So Cory and I took a chappa back to the airport with ample time before our flights.

Too much time.

There was nobody at the airport when we arrived. In classic Eli-Mitchell-must-check-if-every-door-is-locked-or-unlocked fashion, I found myself on the roof (air traffic control tower?) while looking for an agent. I haven’t been to enough small airports in the US (max 2 flights per day) to know if this is an Africa thing or a small airport thing, but I do have to say…it’s pretttyyy exciting to find yourself on the top of the unlocked roof of an airport!

That gate to the right looks unlocked to me!

So much to see from the top of the Inhambane Airport/Air Traffic Control Tower!!

We eventually found somebody and I discovered why I needed to be in person to change my ticket. Literally everything was handwritten. After ~10 minutes of silent calculations, looking up I don’t really know what and typing frantically onto a desk calculator, the agent handed me a handwritten receipt (in pencil!) showing how much I owed for the change. I paid in cash.

Then she handed over a handwritten boarding pass and I was off to Joburg!

Cory's handwritten boarding pass

OTHER STORY FROM THE DAY:

It was quite a last-minute decision to fly out on the 17^th instead of the 18^th and it meant that I didn’t have a place to stay or any plans in Joburg. I basically emailed the hostel Cory had stayed at while he was in Joburg saying “I will arrive at the airport at this time. Can you please pick me up? I will pay you.” When we got to the airport, I learned that my flight was actually THREE HOURS later than I thought it was going to be. I was flipping out that I wouldn’t have a ride to pick me up in Joburg, but luckily, they were running on Africa time and were actually 15 minutes late picking me up (okay…3 hours and 15 minutes late…), but it all worked out.

Good byeee Cory!! We were actually on different flights. All the times were very confusing. Had we been on the same flight, I would have just been waiting in the Joburg airport for a much longer time for my ride to show up. Maybe so long I would've cried.

OTHER OTHER STORY FROM THE DAY:

Many years ago, I had emailed with an older St. Paul’s Alum who was living in Joburg. Not having plans for my 24 hours there at all, I emailed her off-the-cuff to ask if she was still living there and if she’d want to get dinner. She and her husband came to pick me up at the hostel and treated me to a great Italian dinner out. Love the St. Paul’s community!

Rural Entertainment – Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Woohoo! First day of Scuba diving!

Oh wait…except not. Apparently, first day of scuba diving, consists of sitting in a “classroom” watching “movies” “all day” while hearing the pitter patter and excited laughter of all the real scuba divers just outside and seriously suffering from a case of “why is everybody hanging out without me??”

Cory and I powered through the five lessons, which consisted mostly of listing out all the different ways one could die from scuba (or at least those were the only bits I remembered), and were out of there by lunch. Only to immediately discover that there was no reason  really to power through and get out of there by lunch because…now what was there to do??

Classroom selfies! Also...I think the only pics of me and Cory together from this trip were selfies. So don't hate.

Besides scuba…not all that much.  We discovered the town and market, which was embarrassingly close to our hotel (and on the beach!) to have missed the night before. We went on a loooonnnngggg walk on the beach. I learned (or most likely…re-learned) that I will never be adding “likes long walks on the beach” to any online dating profile.

Long walks on the beach do lend themselves to make great pictures however. And this might one day appear in an online dating profile. 

And then we hurried back to our hotel for “Whale Shark Wednesday”, an educational lecture put on by the Marine Megafauna Foundation for the benefit of locals and tourists alike. We were upset that we had missed Manta Ray Monday but were very excited for Fauana Friday. Except…oh no! The lecture was cancelled because the scientists in charge were stranded somewhere between Durban, Safrica and Tofo Beach, Mozambique. Their car had broken down as they were returning from “The Shark Conference” (which is how it was referred to by everybody around…as if they were referring to “The World Cup” or “The Olympics”…like obviously I knew that “The Shark Conference” had been in Durban – a place I knew – the week before). TIA.

But all was not lost, we learned some something else…A THING TO DO! A nearby hotel was having **MOVIE NIGHT** so, armed with our pre-downloaded versions of Google maps, off we went. It had been a long day of doing nothing and drinking on the beach, so I obviously had to make a pit stop. And when I came out of the bushes, I realized that I didn’t have our room key in my pocket.

“Umm…Cory…do you have the room key?”

[He slapped at his pockets] “No”

I was already back in the bushes with my phone flashlight – sun sets early in June in the southern hemisphere! – looking around for the key. It was nowhere to be seen.

“We need to backtrack.”

“When was the last time you remember seeing it?”

“I remember locking the door when we left, but don’t really remember having it after that.”

“Okay let’s go back to the restaurant.”

“And if it’s not there, we need to go back to the hotel and let them know.”

[It was 6:45 and the movie started at 7pm.]

“I say that if it’s not there, we just go to the movie. I don’t want to miss it! And it’s something to do!”

“CORY! This is a REALLY BIG DEAL…African hotels don’t have spare keys…if we don’t have the key we have to go back to the hotel and figure out what to do!”

“Well that sounds like your problem not mine.”

I understood. A day in Maputo followed by a day of travelling followed by a day of walking along the beach was really eating away at both our spirits…we were both just so excited for something to do that we didn’t want to miss the movie. And it would have been a little more understandable, had he not, 15 seconds later, patted his breast pocket and realized that he had actually had the room key all along. J

We made it to the movie. It was The Grand Budapest Hotel, which can actually go down in history as the first Wes Anderson movie I have watched all the way through, a tribute to the true extent of my boredom that evening.  

What is important to understand from this image is that when I went to take a screenshot of the supposed 16 minute route from Casa Barry (our hotel) to Mozambeats (the hip, movie hotel), I had flashbacks to the night that we were lost on the very dark, very uneven roads of Tofo Beach, circling the place that Google maps said was "Mozambeats Motel". We eventually asked some local children who led us quite a distance from that location to the real Mozambeats Motel. Just in case anybody else ever tries to use Google maps to get their in the future, I have now updated the location for them. You're welcome, future traveler!

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.

“Pampering”

Given that my last mani/pedi was in June, I only just hit my threshold/6 month limit and decided that it was absolutely vital that I pamper myself. To the point where, for about 15 minutes this morning, I was considering driving 2 hours to and from Kigali just so I could treat myself to a mani/pedi at one of the hotels while Marvin was dropping off Ro and Zack at the airport. Thankfully, Nathalie corrected my assumption that there was no place for a mani/pedi in Musanze before I jumped in the car headed to Kigali.

So instead of a 2 hour, vomit-inducing car ride (update: I’ve developed motion sickness since moving to Rwanda), I took a 2 minute moto-ride into town. Consolate led me to her usual hair “saloon,” and, I can only assume, told them that the white girl in tow wanted a manicure and pedicure. In retrospect, I realized that I probably didn’t really need Consolate to chaperone/translate for me, since I rarely understand manicure/pedicure artists in the states, but it was nice to have her guidance to navigate through the crowded and stuffy saloon.

The mani/pedi itself was surprisingly nice. I was initially skeptical when I wasn’t put in a massage chair with a bubbly basin at my feet, and Consolate translated for me that the guy doing it asked “What do you want?”

“Umm, what do you mean what do I want? A manicure and pedicure…does he not know what that is?”

Whatever clarification he was looking for, I didn’t give it to him – but he still functioned quite well. Complete with nail strengthening serum, a wash basin of warm soapy water, and a hand massage.

I felt delightfully pampered – which is much, much more than I can say about all the other women in the salon. Everything they were doing just looked … so painful. This was not the peppy, bright Vogue-ready salon that I’m used to. First, it was very dark and crowded. Second, most of the stylists were (straight) men – and there was a soccer game playing in the background. (Potentially because nothing else is ever on the 3 TV channels.) Third, I think all the women were one threshold of pain away from screaming and punching their stylist.

They were all either getting their hair relaxed or braided. I’m going to go ahead and say it: I’ve never been happier to have limp, greasy, bone-straight, only partially blonde hair. Because at least when I go to the hairdresser, it does not take two people to pull at my roots hard enough to make sure that my braids are in tight. Nor does somebody use an actual needle to thread extensions into my roots. And I just can’t talk about the ones who were getting their hair relaxed; suffice it to say that I will forever have nightmares with visions of the worst hair day possible, and being forced to comb through snarls with the finest toothed comb imaginable. WHO WOULD DO THAT TO THEMSELVES?! IS BEAUTY ACTUALLY THAT IMPORTANT?! (Oh right…I guess it is.)

Not only was I a sight because I’m white (over it)…but I’m sure that all the women I the salon were staring at me in wonder of why I would come there to enjoy myself. How could you associate the place that pulls your hair out of its roots – en masse – with pampering and comfort?

Je ne sais pas (update: I haven’t gone to French lessons in like 3 weeks – so much for that attempt), but maybe I’ll start asking. At ~$4 for a fairly decent mani/pedi, I might start going through this routine a little more often than once every 6 months.

A Visit to the East

Last weekend I finally had the opportunity to experience actual small town living in Rwanda. With its 5 bars, Musanze is a large town by Rwandan standards…I had not realized this because my only comparison up until last weekend had been Kigali, which has 5 NIGHTCLUBS.

Early Saturday morning, my Peace Corps friend and I met up at “our” Tea House (it’s a toss-up for if we are more regulars at the tea house or at the local bar – usually because one (the bar) implies we will go to the other (the tea house) the next morning) for some tea and chapatti before our 2 hour bus ride to Kigali – followed by a 2 hour bus ride into the rural Eastern Province. (Keep in mind that Rwanda is about the size of Rhode Island – but the mountains/hills, the poor road conditions, and the poor road network (all roads lead to Kigali) makes the drive about 3 hours longer than it could be.)

“Wow, it’s really flat” was my only comment as I looked out the windows and saw further than I’ve seen in 4 months.

We got off the bus in a town the size of Norwich – no, Etna – and quickly started playing “spot the other muzungu” because Jessie wasn’t waiting for us. Turns out she was at the market so we just wandered down the road to find her. Thankfully, Saturday was market day (another luxury of “large town” living is that we have a market every day), so we were able to enjoy a feast of vegetable and bean stir-fry on (more) chapatti, while downing some boxed wine that Amy had carried from Kigali.

More thankfully, Jessie managed to find a man to bring water to her house, so we weren’t waterless for the weekend – although I was prepared with handi-wipes and large water bottles. (Another luxury: running water.) The handi-wipes came in common because the bathroom was actually a hole in the ground in a little building outside her house. (Another luxury: toilets.) I’m unsure how I have managed to avoid such “toilets” since coming to Rwanda, but I have. After peeing in the complete dark, the only question I had for my host was “what happens when you have to poop, but you can’t?”

“I crouch for as long as I can, and then I stand up and take a break. And then I crouch again.”

Dear porcelain goddess, Even if I can’t flush toilet paper down you and I keep on forgetting, making me scared that you’re going to break and everybody will blame me, I love you. And will never flush toilet paper down you again, because I have no idea what I would do without you.

Our evening entertainment consisted of staring at stars and watching movies because in a small town it is highly inappropriate for girls to go to a bar unaccompanied by a man and impossible to go outside after dark (another luxury: and I thought Musanze was sexist! NEVERMIND!). I will give credit to the Eastern Province: the stars were actually amazing. I am from New Hampshire, and have stared at stars in the middle of a dark lake…but I have never seen as many stars as I saw that night. All 3 of us just stood outside of Jessie’s house for 15 minutes, mouths open, staring in awe at how many stars there were. If you stared at any “empty” space long enough, you began to see more stars.

In a stark comparison, the next day I treated myself to an afternoon of luxury at “The Manor” in Kigali. It’s a hotel reminiscent of Constant Gardner luxury in the middle of poverty: pure white, an everlasting pool, and multiple terraces and bars. I felt right at home, if not slightly embarrassed for my dirty fingernails, greasy hair, and unwashed clothes.

Thanksgiving in Rwanda

Don’t you fear, I was still able to celebrate America’s best holiday while in Rwanda. CCHIPs invited about 30 people over, including Americans (of course), Rwandans, French, Germans, and South Koreans, for an afternoon of Kill Bill II and appetizers, and an early dinner of ridiculous portions and variety of the classic Thanksgiving dishes. It would have been more, had most of the NGOs in Musanze not been busy repatriating gorillas to Congo…nbd. Zack’s mom came to visit and packed with her Thanksgiving decorations galore and all the American necessities for a good meal: cranberries, brie, and wasabi vegetable dip. (Okay, maybe not necessities, but all fabulous.) We were also armed with all the Thanksgiving meal makings that came in a package from my mother: 2 pie pans, pie crust mix, canned pumpkins, canned cherries, gravy packets, boxes of stuffing, canned green beans, mushroom soup, fried onion rings, canned cranberry sauce, and instant mashed potatoes.* (I hid the hollandaise sauce for later/Eggs Benedict.)

Pros of celebrating Thanksgiving in Rwanda: Ability to talk about how happy the first Thanksgiving of Pilgrims and Indians was without anybody correcting me; Killing my own turkey.

Cons of celebrating Thanksgiving in Rwanda: The power went out an hour before dinner started, making carving the turkey really hard and identifying the dishes harder; the kitchen sink got overwhelmed and broke, making clean-up the next day a ridiculous mess of bucket washing dishes; not seeing my family.

Memorable cultural interaction: As the Americans were destroying the FOUR baked bries, eating each in one bite per person, Marvin explained to the Frenchmen present: “See, this is what Americans do to French things: we take something that you think is really good, and we make it better.”

Line that most made me miss my brother/Dan Wheelock: Given that we had French and Germans present…and we were watching The Expendables: “Don’t worry about it; Americans are used to covering for the French.”

Traumatic experience of the evening: Watching Zack’s mom bring out the canned cranberry sauce – which she had mashed up with real cranberries to make it look less…processed. I had joked with her earlier in the evening about how the ridges in the cranberry sauce were my favorite part of Thanksgiving. She either did not take me seriously, or doesn’t love me.

Most adult experience of the evening: Not crying when I saw the non-ridge cranberry sauce.

Frattiest experience: Almost instantaneously turning one of the “dining tables” (aka, office table) into a pong table after dinner, courtesy of a package from Abbe Sokol and an appearance by Dani Levin.

Déjà vu/are you me personified in an older man experience: Libbey’s roommate lost his phone on the bus from Kigali to Musanze, so he just showed up in Musanze and started looking around for a Thanksgiving party. I was oddly reminded of the time I did this in the Hamptons for 4^th of July.

I-love-my-brothers experience: Both times I Skyped with my family on Thanksgiving day and during Mitchapalooza, John had a beer in hand. Better, John couldn’t actually talk with me during Mitchapalooza because he was on table. I back those priorities, but now that I can play pong at my house, we need to figure out a way to Skype-pong – 4D communication anyone?

*Please note: Potatoes is the staple dish of Rwanda. 

Don’t Even Talk to Me About Chinese[Food]

It’s a rare night that a nice Gabby-cooked dinner is not sitting out on the table at 6pm. And an even rarer night that this is not because we’re all going out for dinner. Actually…I think that in my 3 months (gasp! That long!) in Rwanda, tonight was the first time that this happened. And just to add to the horror, we had absolutely no food in our locked cabinets or locked refrigerator. (Gabby had the whole day off, I had a grilled cheese for breakfast and a grilled cheese for lunch…and was not the only person on the team to do so.)

Around 6pm, when we realized we couldn’t even make ourselves plain pasta, we started to brainstorm our options…meaning…listing the three hotels down the road and trying to decide whose fries we were most in the mood for. (Answer: Hotel Muhabura because we steal their internet less so it’s less awkward to go there.)

And then…nobody made a move. The thing with restaurants in Rwanda is that you’re making a 2 hour commitment by going to one. And we were all lounging on the couches before the workday was even over. Today was not a day for me to put on legitimate clothing (that covers my knees) and sit up straight at a table for 2 hours. Nor was it for anybody else. And that’s when we went to THE BAD PLACE.

The bad place is when you start talking about what you miss from The Land of the Plenty (also known as the land of the Right Side in Congress – woo!). The bad place is also the name of one of the Class V rapids on the Nile where Marvin (who only learned to swim to pass his test to graduate college) got stuck during our rafting trip. But…we went to the first bad place:

“You know what would be great right now…pizza.”

“C&A’s pizza.” [Am I home?? Am I hearing voices?? I was not the one that said that!]

“The number for EBAs is 643-6135…do you think they’ll deliver to Rwanda?”

“It’s before 2am there…they must!”

“You know what would be better than pizza delivery? Chinese take-out.”

This hit me hard. Much harder than I thought. But with tastes of twice fried noodles and dumplings in my mouth, I freaked:

“DO NOT EVEN TALK TO ME ABOUT CHINESE FOOD! JUST DO NOT DO THAT RIGHT NOW!”

Yep…we had definitely gone over the edge of the bad place.

And worse, once we went there, there was no going back. Once we started talking about how easy life is in the land of the plenty, there was about no chance of us rallying to sit in uncomfortable chairs until 9pm waiting for food. So, we did the only thing we thought we could do in such a situation…we called one of our Rwandan team members and we asked him to order take-out for us, with the expectation that everything is possible if you’re Rwandan. The biggest difficulty here was coming up with what we wanted to order. Not only does Gabby’s timely cooking keep us from realizing that we eat rice and beans every evening, but it also allows us to happily go through life without having to make any tough decisions as they relate to food. Having to decide what to order proved to be too difficult for most of us…resulting in 4 orders of fries and 12 orders of sabusas.

Sure enough, HALF AN HOUR (this is unheard of) later, we got the call that they were packing up our food and we should come pick it up. The result can only be described as nothing less than amazing. Obviously, Rene had no idea what we were talking about when we desperately asked him to call a restaurant and order food that we could take-out. And neither did the restaurant. They sent Zack home with a full box of food…and only once he got back did we realize that in the box they packed a table cloth, silverware, and our orders on actual plates.

Check it out:

It was pretty good. And the convenience (given that nobody actually trusts me to drive even though I am proudly DRIVER APPROVED) was fabulous. But…it was definitely NOT Chinese food.

Running?

Rwanda has a national law that every workplace must have “sport time” once a week. This is their way of fighting American obesity before it happens. It’s a good idea, but in reality it doesn’t quite work. CCHIPs usually just spends our sport time drinking together at a restaurant, being that it’s at 4pm every Friday.

Last Friday I decided to actually take advantage of sport time and go for a run – mostly convenient because I had a 6pm phone call scheduled with people back in the US.

The fun thing about running in Rwanda – besides the children that chase you and the calls about being a muzungu – is that there are road markers every kilometer. So, despite the fact that there’s no USATF to map the routes, it’s pretty easy to calculate the distance of each run. Plus, kilometers are so much shorter than miles that “just one kilometer more” is actually possible.

My plan, when I set out, was to run 6k straight and then flag down a moto to drive me home. I’d never done this before, but I thought it would be a good idea because all the pretty views come after the 4k mark.

It started to become less of a good idea when I stopped seeing motos on the way. By all meanings of the word, I live IN town, so I didn’t even realize how quickly rural and moto-less it gets outside of town. This started to worry me. Plus I am apparently slower than I thought I was – or the 6k marker was a lot further away than I thought it would be – because the time on my iPod was getting uncomfortably close to 6pm, when I had to be back at the CCHIPs house for the phone call.

But I forced myself along, refusing to quit. And then it started to torrentially downpour. This was absolutely the last straw. The time, the lack of a ride home, the rain – I decided that I would hitch a ride with the next car I saw. (Hey Mom and Dad, I’m being safe in Africa?)

Which is okay, because it turned out to be a mutatu, which is a local bus. I of course caused a complete spectacle, being a muzungu girl stuck in the rain, wearing a short skirt and all. And because of the rain, it was a PACKED mutatu. Like so packed that the money collector had to sit on my lap.

Oh shit. Money collector.

It wasn’t until this point that I realized…I had no money to pay for the mutatu ride. (Hey Mom and Dad, I’m being real safe in Africa?) Nobody in the mutatu spoke any English. My only way of communicating this unfortunate fact was tapping the money collector on the shoulder, pointing at the money, and shrugging my shoulders. This of course caused everybody in the mutatu to howl with laughter, but at least not with anger.

I tried to promise that I would keep money with me during future runs, but to nobody who speaks English, so I just quieted down and accepted my position as the charity ride that I was. (Hi Lucy!)

In talking with some Peace Corps girls later on, it sounds like the only smart thing that I did during this adventure was NOT offer my phone number to the money collector to “pay him later.” This was an idea that I considered, so thankfully I didn’t do it, because doing so would have confirmed to everybody on the bus that I am a prostitute. Great.

This is actually the saddest I’ve been in Rwanda

In every single room, we have international extension cords, which magically turn crazy Rwandan outlets into everything else. There are so many holes in these extension cords that I really don’t know what to do with them. I guess at one point, I heard something about voltage or surge or something, but these magical extension cords seem to work with everything even hairdryers…so I guess I assumed that this whole voltage thing didn’t really matter. I don’t understand what it means anyways. (Two years in a row, I consciously decided that I didn’t have to learn the electrical unit in physics because my other grades were high enough to make up for it.)

…onto the part where I cry:

I don’t really know why I asked for an iPod blaster for my birthday. 99% of the time I’m too embarrassed to show anybody else my music selection, and the 1% of the time that I’m not embarrassed, the other person usually has more country than I do. In fact, I recently came across the flash drive of all flash drives…it was loaded with music! To cover up my embarrassment of having a 12 year old’s maturity and iTunes library size, I quickly copied every single song on the hard-drive onto my computer. The next time I looked at my iTunes, I had more songs that had never been played than songs that had. In about 10 minutes, I more than doubled the size of my iTunes library.

…I’m really putting off this crying thing:

But for whatever reason, I did ask for an iTunes blaster. And then I was embarrassed when I brought it, still in its box, to my birthday party in Giseyni. Max showed up with a speaker that is larger than I am and with two computers of music selections. I hid my iPod blaster. Compared to the 2xme sized speakers, it was more embarrassing than my music collection.

…

And then it mostly just sat in the corner of my room, still in its box, for about 2 weeks, as I had the harsh realization that I had no reason to have an iPod blaster because I don’t really want to share my music with anybody and I’m perfectly happy listening to 5 songs on repeat for 2 weeks straight.

…

But tonight I couldn’t find my iPod charger. (Turns out Zack borrowed/stole it…so we can blame all of this on Zack.) I had an ingenious idea: I’d actually USE the iPod blaster and charge my iPod at the same time! So I plugged it into the magic outlet. And plugged in my iPod. And sat down to clean-up my desk while enjoying some smooth country music.

I had about 30 seconds to think about how wonderful this was, and to start thinking about how maybe I could start spending my nights doing GMAT study problems while listening to some soft music on my iPod blaster…when…pop. It just…stopped. It was such a soft pop that I didn’t really understand.

And the room started to smell funny.

And no matter what I did, it wouldn’t turn back on.

But I wouldn’t admit it to myself, until I complained to 4 other people. And finally one of them told me to check the back of it, and if it said a number less than 240V, then it just blew it out.

“AC120V~”

I guiltily looked at Amber, and thanked her for lugging the iPod blaster over here. And thank you Mommy and Poppy. I’ve never felt like less of a true ex-pat that understands all these things. This is hopefully my last/only story about not understanding voltage. But still…I’m not so happy I learned about it. I might have preferred to have learned it in school. Okay…off to cry at my stupidity now.

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.

The Hash

If I don’t return to America in a year, you can blame it on The Hash. The Hash is supposedly some world-renowned/known/recognized event that I only just learned about, but that everybody I mention it to seems to know. For the sake of having a blog to write though, I will pretend that you are as ignorant as I once was about The Hash. I will quote liberally from the Wikipedia article, because I think that it just so accurately capture some aspects of the Hash.

First: “Members often describe their group as ‘a drinking club with a running problem.’” This is fairly accurate. On Saturday afternoon a group of 4 of us wandered to the Rwandan Development Bank parking lot as instructed by Kigali Life and eagerly awaited the mysterious convoy that would bring us to the even more mysterious event. The convoy arrived, we piled into cars and were off down some dirt roads to a bar right outside Kigali. Most members of the ~40 person convoy were already drinking. Drinking was interrupted for a 6k “run.” The trail, which changes every week, is designed so that walkers can catch up with the runners. By this I mean…there are fake trails that go on for quite some time before learning it’s fake…so the runners are the ones to test all these fake trails and back track, giving the walkers an opportunity to catch up and just be told (usually by pointing children standing right at the fork) which trail is the true trail. The 6k trail brought us up a mountain, through fields, through yards, through actual houses (actually that was just a bathroom break, not sure anybody else did that), over log bridges, and down rural roads. It was a great way to see the beautiful countryside, and it was a fabulous opportunity to run on dirt roads, wearing shorts, surrounded by partners in a similar crime.

When we got back to the bar, crates of beer and water were already out and being aggressively consumed. (I guess it’s actually a race up at front.)

The atmosphere quickly devolved into what can only be described as Meetings (sorority/fraternity/rugby) with 40-60 year old ex-pats whose respectable employers would not approve of their shameful behavior. (I should add here that one unforeseen benefit of participating in The Hash was the networking opportunities and the opportunity to be in awe of/admire/want to emulate some of the incredibly dedicated members of the ex-pat community. I got to speak with somebody who is working on HC filing for the Ministry of Health and to many other who have dedicated their lives to service and adventure. It was a great group of people that I cannot wait to see again.)

Sigma Delts reading this, you would be proud. Wikipedia quote: “Hashers who wear new shoes to an event can be required to drink from their shoe. In some chapters the beer is further filtered through the persons [sic] sock.”

Once everybody returned to the bar, we circled up and partook in the meetings ritual. Various members of the group were called out for dishonorable acts recently committed (sex on the run??)…they were then forced to the center of the circle, we sang a drinking song, and they chugged their drink. But of course, only “hash names” could be used. The names ranged from the respectable (Hostess) to the uncomfortable (Booby Trap – “you can guess why” or Tsunami – “you’ll learn why”) to the oh-my-goodness-I-simply-cannot-write-some-of-them-on-this-blog.

I fit right in and felt right at home. Especially when they started singing “Why was she born so beautiful? Why was she born at all?” And I of course start screaming, along with the UK rugby player next to me “She’s no f*cking use to anyone! She’s no f*cking use at all! Sooooo drink bleep bleeper! Drink bleep bleeper! Drink bleep bleeper! Drink!” Awkward pause. The rest of the group did not sing /know the second part of that song. Whoops. But not really because it actually just made everybody like us more.

And The Hash did not end there, we exchanged phone numbers and met up with everybody later on at a dance club. Definitely, I am excited for my new group of friends. After running in 10 hashes, you are officially hazed, named, and initiated. (I already offered up my newb name and my pledge name to them.) Unfortunately, it’s all the way in Kigali…but it’s also every weekend, so I think I’ll get 10 runs in throughout the year. Next one: Oktoberfest weekend when we all go stay in a hotel together and do multiple hashes over the course of the weekend.

Final Wikipedia quote:

“The Constitution of the Hash House Harriers is recorded on a club registration card dated 1950:
• To promote physical fitness among our members
• To get rid of weekend hangovers
• To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer
• To persuade the older members that they are not as old as they feel”

!!!!!!!I love my new friends!!!!!!!

Second, Third, and Fourth Packages!

Omgomgomg today is a very exciting day!

I got not one, not two, but THREE packages from America! All three from 17RFR. As I was looking at the listing of items in the first package I saw "scarf" and thought to myself "that's strange...I never asked mommy to send me a scarf." And then I opened it and saw two wrapped items. (My birthday is coming up, fyi. I'm turning 22 on the 22nd of September. This is not the first reminder y'all will get.) To uphold my surprise at the second wrapped item, I quickly shut my eyes and tore up the list of the items in the package. And then I smooshed and shook and smelt the second present at an attempt to figure out what it is. And then, like a good 12 year old, I put them under my bed to wait until the Birthday Fairy comes on September 22 (that's my birthday, I'm turning 22).

[Note here: As I observed to John this summer...it's awesome being the youngest because I know that James got "Birthday Fairy" presents for his 26th birthday this summer. That means I have at least 4 years left of Birthday Fair presents. Gotta be fair parents.]

Other than that...there was a lovely assortment of powerbars and Cliff bars (fyi...definitely don't need them as much as I thought I would), 5 Hour Energies (definitely need those more than I thought I would), soap, sunscreen (only need it because I lost mine already), and a hairbrush (definitely have needed that). Oh yeah...and beef jerky and tuna and peanut butter and jelly. Gosh life is awesome. Mommy did a very good job of wrapping all the jellies and 5 Hour Energies in baggies, but forgot to do the same with one of the sunscreens, which was, of course, the only thing to burst. So the peanutbutter now smells like sunscreen. Yummy.

I think that if you account for the fact that the packages were sent on a Friday...it only took about 5 weeks for them to get here. Which really, is not as bad as the 2 months the Peace Corps volunteers were telling me it takes.

Thank you and love you Mommy and Poppy!

First Package!

I just paid 120rwf (~20 cents) to pick up my FIRST PACKAGE! (Correction: another CCHIPs staff member did this, but I found the package and the receipt on a table in the project house.) It’s from Kat Smith and has 3 disposable cameras.

I can take a hint. You all want pictures.

Solution: the WWHPS/CCHIPs facebook page! At least it has some pictures of me rafting…and the rest of the staff before I arrived. You can search for “Wyman Worldwide Health Partners” on facebook, or just click on this link:

http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=795193825&ref=search#!/pages/Wyman-Worldwide-Health-Partners-CCHIPs/140470209320685?ref=ts

Thank you so much Kat! I guess this proves that the cheaper, smaller package method is more effective than mommy’s method? (Still waiting on those sunglasses, tuna fish, and chocolates.)