Let loose in Kigali: Five days of chaos.

After three months in rural Rwanda, we were suddenly let loose in Kigali for five days with no curfew. Ostensibly this was mostly for our swear-in ceremony, where we would become real live Peace Corps volunteers. Looking back on it, though, that was one of the more forgettable moments of the week. I was trying to squeeze as much as I could out of the city, since I knew that I would rarely be coming back here. My site is the farthest one in the country from the capital. This meant I would need to get as many things as I could for my site that I could only get in Kigali. Mostly this meant a lot of spices, peppers and coconut milk from the Indian shops.

It also meant as much hanging out and partying with everyone that I wouldn’t see again for a while. There was plenty of time spent at the nearby open-air bar, where I quickly made friends with the staff. Somehow this is something I can never manage to do at bars in America, but  do great with everywhere else. One of the nights I met a guy whose name meant bullet. Nickname, perhaps. He spoke great English, and I eventually found out he had gone to college in Chicago. He was a really interesting guy and spoke many languages. Eventually we were speaking in a weird mix of French, Kinyarwanda, English and Spanish, which he had picked up (very well) in the streets of Chicago. In the end, though, he kept slipping things into conversation about his family’s gorilla safari business and it seemed he was looking for us to hook him up with some gringo clientele. I, nor anyone I know, would be able to afford the $750 permit to see the gorillas, let alone all the other costs of the trip.

Like I said, the swear-in ceremony was a forgettable and formal affair. It was at the US ambassador’s beautiful house. There were speeches, a traditional dance by some of my colleagues, and an ungodly amount of group pictures. I was glad that I was not the only person among us that felt that group pictures might be one of the worst activities you could involve yourself in. After taking the oath (the same one the president takes on inauguration day) we were officially volunteers. Yay.

That night was what it was really all about. We were invited to the home of two Peace Corps Volunteer Leaders in their third year of service. They had created something that was as close to a college house party as I could have imagined. They had bought a couple cases of beer, set up a fire pit, a beer pong table and even had a hookah. I did not expect to be in such a nostalgic setting. After a couple hours there, we moved on to a bar for dancing. A lot of us were, at first, disappointed by the place since it was a little bit upscale and the type of place expats and rich Rwandans would go to. It was the type of place that would search you at the door and confiscate the $1 bottle of gin you had in your shirt pocket. Not that that happened or anything. The DJ was good, though, and we were all there, which was what really mattered. It was an awesome night of dancing and a lot of the older volunteers showed up to help us celebrate. There were a million stores from that night, but I guess that several people were pick-pocketed and three girls lost their brand new Peace Corps IDs with hours of their being issued is enough to tell you it was a fun night.

The next morning the first group of people had to leave at 7AM to get taken to their sites. I don’t know how they did it. I couldn’t even get up to say goodbye, even though I was in the middle of all the commotion of people leaving. 

That night everyone was incredibly tired, and rightfully so. Six of us, though, were able to make it out that night to meet up with some older volunteers who were celebrating a birthday. The first place we went was a place called “The Executive Car Wash”. The kind of big open air kind of place common in Africa. Comfortable and relaxing. This one was a step up, though, and felt almost like a sports bar with big TVs and the nicest bathrooms I have seen in Rwanda by far. The six of us were basically following the older group, and they wanted to go to a place called “Papyrus” next. We had heard mixed things about it being a nice place, but full of gross old man expats. It was nice alright. No, it was aristocratic. I felt like this place was not for Peace Corps types, but for NGO types, business people and embassy workers. I was glad that Nick, one of the older volunteers, was wearing his gaudy green and red Obama jersey. The best part was that my comrades Dan and Luke felt the same way about the place as I did. “I feel like I’m coming here to meet my father-in-law!” Dan shouted as he walked in. The entire time we were there, hilariously rude things like this poured from his mouth. I mean, we were there for the birthday of a guy we barely knew. It was on the roof of a building and had a safari lodge feel. In fact, there was even a handi-craft stall there. Plus, it was almost empty, and it was a Saturday night. When we finally left it was not a moment too soon. It was getting late, but they decided to back to the place where we had gone the night before. Our crew was down for the change. The older group didn’t stick around long, but we somehow had a lot of energy in us and we danced for hours. Luke and I met an Irishman who I swear should have been Australian by his confidence, friendliness and ability to have a good time. He said his name was Larken, which I guess I laughed at. He said he didn’t mind being made fun of for being Irish, and said we could call him leprechaun or  potato-eating bastard if we wanted. We didn’t, but he called Luke and I “uncle drunky” and “caveman”, respectively. Mind you, I was as clean-shaven as I have been in my life. We finally left at some ungodly hour, returning to the Peace Corps quarters with tales of triumph.

The next morning we lost another group of people as they were dragged off, kicking and screaming to their sites to serve the people of Rwanda. There were still about a dozen of us, though, that got to stay for a few more days.

I used this time to go to one of the cities bigger markets. It was one I had not been to before, but it was awesome. I had a ball, bartering over all sorts of kitchenware, jerry cans and plastic tubing. It was the best. I could have gotten most of the stuff at the nearest town to my site, but I figured it was easier to get it now, and let the Peace Corps bring it all to my house, rather than be responsible for transporting giant pots and containers. The highlight of the day, though, was when I saw a guy riding this modified green bike. It said, “igare ikawa” or “coffe bike” on it. It was almost twice as long as a normal bike and had a sprawling rack on the back, I assume to transport large loads of coffee. I asked the guy if I could take a ride and he told me to hop on. So I strapped on my Peace Corps approved bicycle helmet to be in compliance with policy, and hopped on the back. We took a ride around the block on the weird contraption and returned me to where I was. It was a ride enjoyed by all.

That night, with most of us having had a night to recover, were preparing to hit the town again. We went to the nearby bar for a couple beers while trying to figure out where to go and what to do. During the debate, a bunch of people got tired and decided to go back home. I chided them, asking if they wanted to be on the A-team or the B-team. I managed to salvage a few of them, to which I responded, “We’re all the A-team tonight! Cheers!” And so there were seven of us to take on what would be the crown jewel of our nights in Kigali.

A few others had gone out to a place near the bus station on or first night in Kigali. They had had a great time because it was nothing like any of the bars people had been taking us to. It was all Rwandans, and very seedy. I mean, it was by a bus station. Somehow, though, they had failed to get a taxi at the end of the night. They walked for three hours through Kigali’s hilly sprawl to get back just before sunrise. We decided this would be the best option for a good night.

I ran to negotiate with a taxi driver. I knew it was a slim chance that he would take seven of us, since it can be hard to get them to accept five passengers. I told everyone to wait at the table, so the driver didn’t know yet. After getting a good price, we all started piling in. The driver would have none of it. I told him it would be fine, and offered him a little more money for the risk of getting caught by the police. He accepted.

As expected, the bar was seedy, and just my type. It was underneath this six-story building that looked straight out of a horror movie. It had a big sign on top that said, “Resident Hotel”, where crows would perch. I don’t think it has operated as a hotel in a while though. The bar had a pool table, a guy making chapattis (flat breads), and a dance club inside. Everything you could ever want. After having a beer outside, we paid the $1.50 cover to get into the dance club. There were not many people inside. Just six guys dancing with their reflections in the wall-length mirror. I joined them, but eventually decided dancing with my reflection was getting kind of weird.

With our group doubling the population of the club, we were able to get the party started right. Within a few songs everyone was dancing recklessly. Slowly more people started to trickle in. Eventually I pulled out my secret weapon: Flash drive! I had just a few of the most essential tracks on it, and luckily for everyone, the dj was willing to pop it on. And the crowd went wild. Or at least a few of us went wild enough for the whole crowd. We all had moves that night. Luke, Casey, Caitlin, the Rwandans. When the Rwandans started getting into our dance circles, I was actually surprised how seriously they could dance, since they are so reserved in real life. Dance move of the night, though, went to the middle-aged man that was with us most of the night. It was the high-five dance. And basically you would just give loud high-fives to the rhythm as long as you felt was necessary.

At some point, Casey and I didn’t know why our shirts were still buttoned. So we fixed that. Then we made sure that the Rwandan guys with button-up shirts got the memo that buttoning your shirt was passé. All the guys in polos looked on disappointed that they couldn’t join the new fashion movement sweeping the dance floor.

When it got late, and we were all drenched in sweat we started to leave. We were outside the dance club, just about to leave, when someone yelled out, “Is that ‘shorty fire burnin’ on the dance floor?!” So we all sprinted back into the club and danced for another half an hour.

We had heard from the people that had gone here before that the club was rife with prostitutes (again, the place is next to a bus station) that were trying to dance with the guys, and even pick-pocketed one of them. We didn’t notice any of this, but even if there were, our dance moves were far too overwhelming for any two-bit hooker to even try to keep up with. We were far too engulfed in the music to be aware of any dirty biz trying to creep up on us. I needed some water badly, but the bar apparently had no taps and I wasn’t going to buy bottled water. Somebody walked me out of the bar, up some stairs through the abandoned second floor of the “Resident Hotel”, where dozens of people seemed to be squatting, or at least conducting some sort of clandestine business and sleep. It was like a maze of people and walls, but somehow we arrived a grimy bathroom and I filled an empty water bottle. Then I put my iodine purification tablets in the water and waited thirty minutes before drinking so as to be in compliance with Peace Corps policy.

When we finally did leave, we were worried about getting a taxi. Somehow, though, our coach was waiting for us just outside the ball. Without hesitation, he accepted all seven of us. It was a Christmas miracle and it was only December 9^th!

Needless to say, our final day in Kigali was pretty lazy. I had to get myself to town at some point for some last minute errands, but it was the bare minimum. I was curious if I could rally another A-team victory that night. I think I felt as tired as anyone, but knowing that we would all be saying goodbye for a while the next day made me open to another night out. In the end, though, a few of us just had a couple beers at the little local bar.

As fun as Kigali was, I didn’t feel like I would miss the city. I guess I do love cities and all there is to explore, but during that five days I felt like I had not done as much of my own exploring as I normally would have liked to. Maybe this is why I didn’t feel bad leaving the city. I just felt a little sad to have to leave such a good time with my friends. At the same time, I was yearning for some solitude. After the three months of training and almost a week cramped into the Peace Corps house with dozens of other people, I needed desperately to unwind in my own space and integrate into Rwanda on my own terms, alone.

The End of Training

My host brother stylin'.

After we finished model school, we suddenly realized we only had about two more weeks of training. Almost done, finally. Before we could get to those two weeks, though, we had to celebrate Thanksgiving. It was never my favorite holiday, but this felt like it was going to be a fun one. It was going to be a big effort for the 34 of us to create a Thanksgiving dinner for us and all of our training staff. I was lucky enough to get myself on the turkey committee. This was fortunate because we all got permission to stay at the training center the night before because all the prep work we would need to do. To have a night in which we didn’t have to be home by 6:30 was a real treat. Then again, we still had to be in the training center. In the afternoon I helped dig the giant pit that we would be cooking the turkeys over. I had also somehow gotten in charge of arranging the dinner for the turkey crew, a group that eventually grew to the unnecessary number of 12. We tried to get some live chickens in the nearest market town for dinner, but that didn’t work out. I had figured while we are butchering 8 turkeys, we might as well do some chickens too. Hannah, our resident butcher ran the show when it came to turkey butchering. The training staff had arranged for a local to come and help us with the process, but when he saw that he was unnecessary, he left. Watching everyone slit the turkey’s throats was entertaining as the turkey’s bloody neck stump splattered them. Then we dipped them in hot water to ease the feather-plucking process, a step I somehow did not know about the first few times I involved myself in chicken slaughtering.

Once the turkeys were plucked, gutted, cleaned and in a brine for the night, I went on the town to pick up ingredients for dinner. I had wanted to make pasta with a spicy peanut and tomato sauce, but that sounded too much like Rwandan food to everyone, even though Rwandan peanut sauce is flavorless. So instead we did a more traditional tomato sauce. The power went out as all of us helped out to make the sauce, which I think made the atmosphere even more fun. The slumber party that proceeded after dinner was one of the most fun times of training. I was finally starting to realize how much liked all the people I was with. It was a very different feeling from the first few weeks of training, when I didn’t feel very close to anyone, and usually felt like secluding myself. I couldn’t wait for training to be over so I could get to site. Now I was starting to realize that I would miss all these people. The events of the rest of the night. Will remain classified due to the fact that the P.C. has people that reads people’s blogs and I wouldn’t want to get anyone into any trouble.

At 4 AM everyone got up to start the turkey pit. For whatever reason nobody could wake me up. This was disappointing to me because I wanted to help. Anyway, they filled the pit with charcoal, put the turkeys on a spit above the coals and wrapped the turkeys in banana leaves.

Eventually all the other volunteers arrived, and the day of massive cooking began. Most of my job was done, so I spent the day helping to start charcoal stoves, peeling vegetables, or throwing around a football. Occasionally some of us would take a break for a beer down at the nearby bar. At one point during the day, I heard someone say that one of the turkeys had fallen into the pit. Luke, my good friend, and I ran to the pit, and found that one of the sticks had burned through, and three turkeys were on fire in the pit. We each grabbed a half of the flaming turkey sticks. Once it was in my hand I didn’t know what to do with it, since the turkey was still on fire. Luke threw his on the ground where there were some banana leaves. Luckily he had gloves on and could beat the flames out of the turkeys. It seemed like it was going to be a real disaster, however, we recovered remarkably well. Luke went to find a new stick while the rest of us re-wrapped the turkeys in the leaves. Just as we were finishing this part up, The other turkey spit burnt through and we had to make another quick rescue. Again, we got a new stick and wrapped those leaves up.

In the end, the turkeys were about as good as most Thanksgiving turkeys, which is to say, dry, and lacking much flavor. Luckily, though, we had plenty of other food. Cheesy mashed potatoes, gravy, macaroni cheese (new to me as a Thanksgiving food, but it was the highlight), green bean casserole, stuffing, candied sweet potatoes, and a huge variety of desserts. It was fun to watch how the Rwandans approached the food. Some had no idea what to do with it, and picked through their meals. Others, however, piled it on fearlessly. For how bland most Thanksgiving food is, I figured most Rwandans would find it palatable.

Because  the dinner, with clean up, was getting too close to our curfews, we were given permission to stay there that night too. It is amazing how exciting something small like that can be in the overbearing situation we were in. With or busy daily schedules and early curfews, our free time with each other was usually limited to lunch and maybe a beer at the bar every once in a while.

With almost all of us crammed into the little training center, there were definitely not enough beds, mattresses or even indoor floor space. I was in a group of four that ended up being the last group to go to sleep. Since there was no place to sleep, we found a sheet and laid it on the lawn in front of the building. Unfortunately Rwanda is at a very high elevation and gets pretty cold at night. I decided to set up my tent. Then, because it was only a two-person tent, we all decided to just sleep next to it. I will always remember that Thanksgiving as the one where I froze at night while sleeping right next to my tent.

***

One evening two of the language teachers came over to my house to visit my family. Sometimes they visit because they want to check in on me, and sometimes it is simply to visit the family. Everyone was surprisingly somber that night, and I could not figure out why. Instead of chatting they were just listening to the radio. It seemed to be the news in Kinyarwanda. I sat quietly, waiting to involve myself in the conversation, but everyone just sat. We ate dinner quietly with the radio as background noise. Afterward one of the language teachers led the family in a very intense prayer session. I did not understand much of anything, but it was different than our normal dinner prayers. As his voice came to a crescendo my host families joined him, praying, almost chanting, softly under their breath. It lasted for ten or fifteen minutes.

The next morning, I heard that there had been a heavy amount of fighting in areas along the Congo-Rwanda border. Over night, Congolese rebel group M23, which is believed to receive funding from Rwanda, took Goma. Goma is eastern Congo’s biggest city and sits right on the border. There had also been an attack on a Rwandan village on the border, allegedly committed by the FDLR, a rebel group in the Congo that is made up of “genocidaires”, the people that committed genocide in Rwanda in 1994. A ranger from the gorilla reserve had been killed and some others injured. There were also reports of exchange of fire across the border between Goma and the Rwandan town of Gisenyi, and the possibility of Rwandan military briefly advancing across the border. We had seen the fall of Goma coming, as the M23 had been threatening it in the bush for some months. I had known they were advancing, but I was obviously not as in tune with the imminence of violence as my host family was. I was disappointed that they had not even mentioned it to me. They knew I was trying to keep up with what was going on over there and they saw me reading a book about conflict in the eastern Congo. At the same time, I understood. They had family over there, and at some point had even lived there. This was far more serious for them than it was for me.

There was one volunteer close to where the FDLR had crossed the border and she could hear the explosions from her house. She was evacuated the next day. Within the next week, the Peace Corps put a travel restriction on the northwest of the country. Two of my fellow trainees were informed that the sites they were preparing to go to were in the restricted region, and would therefore would be reassigned. They were pretty heartbroken, since they were exceptionally excited about the location of their sites.

A week or two later, the M23 half-pulled out of Goma, as peace talks began in Uganda. In reality, though, their presence was still very strong in the town as they maintained control of certain strategic points, and only pulled back about 20 km. from the town. Right now the peace talks are still dragging on and we will see if some sort of agreements will develop. It is an incredibly complicated region, and while it is relatively quiet for the time being, it will be more surprising if it remains so. 

***

The last two weeks of training suddenly made me feel rushed. I had to get ready to take my language test, prepare to leave, finish Peace Corps paperwork, and enjoy my host family’s company as much as possible. This was hard because suddenly the training group had a lot more free time with each other, and we were spending a lot of it hanging out at the bar, knowing that we would not be seeing each other much any more. I was, for whatever reason, not too nervous about my language test. I had done terrible on my first one and I should have been more concerned.

I took my test late in the day. As people finished their language tests, they slowly trickled down to the bar to celebrate the end of language training. I decided to follow my instinct that I had ignored on my first exam and have a beer beforehand to relax myself. This turned out to be a better idea than I had imagined, and I didn’t have any of the jitters I had had the first time I took it. I walked out feeling confident, knowing that I had passed.

A few days before departure, we had a ceremony with our host families. Not too much to say about it, except that some of the speeches that my fellow trainees gave were quite touching. We had six speeches, two each in Kinyarwanda, French and English. A few of them brought tears to my eyes, making me further realize that, when I wasn’t paying attention, I had grown close to the community I had been living in the past few months.

Morgan and her host sister.

My host brother attended the ceremony in place of my host father.

And my host mom.

 

I had tried for a few days before leaving to get my host family together for a group photo that I would print out for them as a gift. Every time, though, we were missing somebody, or someone refused because they weren’t wearing their nicest clothes. I had made an effort, though, to get a nice portrait of each member and did get them printed as a parting gift for them. 

My host sisters Soleil and Chantal

My host brother Byishimo Jean Legal

 

My host sister Immaculee.

Host Dad, Papa Bonnke.

 I also took a few photos of them around the house.

Cooking beans.

Doing laundry.

Digging a trench.

Papa Bonnke having his son tie his shoes before leaving on his moto.

I had also taken some adorable photos of the tiny kids that hang around  my house all day. They are hands down the filthiest kids I have ever met. It is almost as if their sole purpose throughout the day is to get as dirty as possible. It makes me laugh every time the crowd runs up to me, yelling, “Mzungu! Mzungu! Witwa nde?” or, “White man! White man! What’s your name?” Even though they very well know my name was Joey, or, as they pronounced it, “Jony” since consecutive vowel sounds don’t occur in Kinyarwanda. I would always respond, “uzi.” (you know). “Jony!” I took some photos of them towards the end, when they were getting especially filthy. I printed a couple of them and gave them to the kids. One of the boys loved it so much he decided to eat it. 

Mmm...a photo of myself.

My actual goodbye with my host family was surprisingly anti-climactic. I had been packed and ready to go early, but didn’t actually get picked up until mid-afternoon. My host father, Pastor Bonnke, was distracted because he suddenly had to go to Congo because he had just found out his sister, who lived there, had died of some sort of illness. I was disappointed that he left unannounced when I was still in my room packing. When it finally was time for me to leave, my host mom, Dorcas, was not feeling well, and was sleeping in her room. She didn’t come out to say goodbye because she would see me at the swear-in ceremony in Kigali. I was a lot closer with my siblings anyway, so I was just glad that I had gotten a proper goodbye with them.

The day before we all left, we had placed bets on when we would actually depart our training site. We were told it would be 3:00, but nobody believed it would be close to that. So, naturally, we placed bets on the actual time we would leave. While schedules are beyond flexible in Africa and punctuality is a vague concept, I have not found Rwanda to be as extreme in this case as other places. So, I placed my bet on 3:00 sharp. There were dozens of things going wrong, and even I knew I would be way off. Then, somehow, everything came together, the trucks were packed and we were ready. The vehicles left at 3:01, and I won the pot, which amounted to about $2. I am still trying to collect from most of the people.

I grew a mustache during training, so here it is.