This Time: October 2013

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Memorial Week

I didn’t do much interesting during our first break from school. Some people went on vacations to Zanzibar or Uganda, but I felt like saving my money for something I really wanted to do. During the break, though, I did follow a small group on a little trip to Kigali and up to the lake resort town, Gisenyi. It was nice to see some of the people, but in the end I felt like I had spent far too much money for how much I enjoyed my time. I think the group was too big, and I am too selfish for that kind of traveling. I just can’t enjoy following a pack of people to do things I am barely interested in. Maybe the lesson was worth the money I spent though. The highlight was stumbling upon a concert on the lake where Tom Close, one of Rwanda’s biggest stars, was performing (well, lip-syncing). Nobody else was that interested in the concert, so they stayed at the nearby bar. Luckily Luke was adventurous enough to venture with me into the crowd. It was definitely a highlight of the short trip.

I spent a lot of the break at site since it was memorial week. Every year, on April 7, Rwanda commences a three month memorial period to mark the anniversary of the 1994 genocide. It begins with a memorial week, which is full of ceremonies, meetings, quiet streets and heavy military presence. Just before the memorial period there were a couple of grenade attacks (supposedly to protest the Rwandan government and the 2010 election), but they generally stop during the memorial period, possibly due to heightened security. I remember that on the road from Gisenyi, which is on the border with Congo, we went through a big police checkpoint where they were searching people and their bags. Interestingly, when we arrived and everyone started to file out, for the inspection, we were told to get back in as soon as the soldiers saw us. The police in Rwanda almost seem to avoid giving foreigners a hard time. However it also made me suspicious that maybe they didn’t want foreigners to see what they were doing.

So anyway, the morning of the beginning of memorial week, I left the house and walked to the memorial site an hour away. I was dressed nice and a little nervous about what it would be like. There were surprisingly few people on the road, even though everyone I had talked to the day before said they were going. In fact, I think it is mandatory to attend. About twenty minutes into the walk, I acquired a walking friend. This is the kind of friend that sees you, catches up or slows down, matches your pace and ponders for a few hundred meters about how to begin a conversation. He started with casual conversation about where I was from and what I was doing in Rwanda. Within about ten minutes he started talking about how he was an orphan. I would not have thought he was old enough to be orphaned as a result of the genocide. I asked him how old he was , and he said 16. Too young. He kept telling me how he was poor and both his parents were dead. I asked when they died, and he said they were killed in the genocide. This became a very awkward situation. He began to ask me for money because he was a poor orphan. Whether he was an orphan or not, I could not know. However, given the fact that the genocide happened for three months nine years ago, it seemed obvious that his parents were not killed in the genocide. I felt very awkward because it seemed that he was trying to exploit the weight of this day to garner sympathy and monetary gain, potentially on false pretences. I had begun my day in a very somber and respectful mindset, but this boy was wearing on me. It put a sour taste in my mouth. People, especially children frequently ask me for money, candy, jobs, food, etc. Generally I don’t get bothered by it, but I also don’t give anything outright. This boy giving me a sob story about his poor situation was depressing whether it was true or not. If he was telling the truth it was depressing for obvious reasons. If he was lying, it was depressing that someone would try to exploit the tragedy for their own gains. So many people in Rwanda, and in my community have very difficult lives, and I cannot possibly help people on an individual basis even if they are in need. I will say this, though. At the time of the interaction, I thought his story was impossible. However, I later found out that a friend of mine had lost is father to the genocide when he was a baby, in 1999, about five years after the genocide was officially over. At that time, my understanding was that the lingering ethnic violence had been isolated to the northeast of Rwanda and Eastern Congo, so I didn’t think it was possible for this boy to be telling me any truth.

I was hot and sweaty when I arrived at the memorial at 10 AM. I seemed to have timed it perfectly. Many people had attended the church service (which I had not known about) at the Catholic church next door to the memorial, and were making their way into the small area for the ceremony. I waited outside for a while, looking for someone I knew or getting a grasp on where I should go. I ran into a friend I play basketball with and we entered together. The memorial is a small building (many villages have them) with a grim statue in front of the upper half of a genocidaire, or one who committed genocide. The genocidaire was holding a bloody machete in one hand and a club with nails sticking out of it in the other, common tools used in the genocide. He wore a brimless hat, was painted with nearly black paint, and had a gaping mouth with big red lips and wide eyes that gave him a crazed look. By American standards, it seemed in the style of now-offensive 1920’s portrayals African Americans. But this statue was disturbing on a different level. Could you imagine putting a statue of a soldier from the 3^rd Reich outside of Auschwitz or Pol Pot outside the Tuol Sleng museum in Cambodia?

As my friend and I entered, one of the community/church leaders from my village saw me and guided me into the VIP section. Luckily my friend was able to ride my undeserved coat tails, although I was given a front row seat near some of my community’s most important figures, including the Major that lives next door to me. It’s a difficult decision to take a stand and sit with the people you know from your community or disrespecting people by not taking the honored seat offered to you.

Until this year the official color for the memorial was purple. This year, however, it was changed to gray. I heard that the gray was to represent death and ash, but also heard a suggestion that purple, in many societies, is a color associated with royalty. Somebody gave me a gray bandana to put around my neck. I was not wearing any gray, so I needed the bandana. Until this day I had thought that purple was the color. I didn’t have any purple clothes, or else I would have worn them, as is tradition at memorial ceremonies. The other change, which happened a couple years earlier, is the official name of the genocide. It is no longer just called genocide, but, “The Genocide of the Tutsis”. During the ceremony, every speaker referred to the even as “The Genocide of the Tutsis”. It is a semi-controversial move by the government, although few people dare to question it. I find it incredibly hypocritical for a government that wants to eliminate the culture of ethnic identity to emphasize the focus of this tragic event along these ethnic lines. Yes, the Tutsis were the primary targets and the vast majority of victims. However, many Hutu sympathizers were killed, innocent bystanders were killed opportunistically for monetary gain and many people from the Batwa extreme minority were killed. People have been jailed for questioning this change, so I should probably not say much more.

Unfortunately I was not able to understand most of the speeches, but I could feel the emotion. I could see it, for almost the first time since arriving in Rwanda. Periodically a random woman would stand up and run out of the ceremony with their face covered. Crying in public is generally frowned upon in this culture and it was the most emotion I had ever seen out of people in Rwanda. When one of these women would make their exit, they were usually accompanied by one or two friends or family members. Then a man would chase after them, with a bottle of water in hand. I had seen a single box of bottled water be carried in and wondered what it was for, since it was not enough for the VIP section, let alone the whole crowd. No, it was for the people that needed to cry.

The most emotional part of the day was when we entered the memorial building. I did not know what to expect the entire day, and entering the memorial was no different. I had passed the building and its morbid statue many times, but had never been inside. I was among the first group to enter. I was given a candle. The first room contained several glass cases filled with skulls and bones in stacks. We lit our candles and filed into the next room to pay our respects. In the center of the room was a raised platform that came up to our waists. At the top of the platform were glass windows so we could see what was in the ground below us. There were two coffins. They were so small. These basic wooden boxes held people people that couldn’t have been more than 8 years old. With our lit candles we circled the platform. I’ve always said that no matter how many books I read, no matter how much time I spend here, no matter how many memorial and massacre sites I pass, none of it seems real to me. Circling these tiny coffins, as unfairly heartstring-tugging as they were, started to make it just a tiny bit more real.

We circled back into the first room where I meditated on the bones and wasted life. We were not rushed, by any means. However, I didn’t want to leave so soon. I felt like I was really starting to have a stronger emotional connection to this country’s tragic recent history. I wanted to be in the presence of this pain for just a little longer. I needed to feel something. I wanted to understand a little more. I felt like standing there a little longer. Focusing would bring me a little closer to understanding the sadness I always see in one of my neighbors’ eyes, who suffered a big loss almost 20 years ago.

It’s impossible though. I sometimes get emotional when contemplating the genocide, but I don’t think any foreigner can truly understand what actually happened here so recently unless they were there.

After paying respects, the ceremony continued with speeches and songs. Occasionally someone, usually a middle-aged or elderly woman, would burst into tears and rush out of the ceremony with their face covered with cloth. Someone would chase after them with a bottle of the aforementioned water. I could not understand most of what the speakers were saying, but one phrase that always jumped out at me was “jenoside w’abatutsi”, or genocide of the Tutsis. This was the official name of the genocide. It had been changed to to include “of the Tutsis” a few years ago. This was at least a little bit controversial since Tutsis were not the only people killed in the genocide, although they were the vast majority of the victims. It also felt strange since this country has made such an effort to eliminate discussion of ethnicity since the genocide. People are no longer Hutu, Tutsi or Twa, but instead simply Rwandan. As foreigners, most of us take this pretty seriously and never come close to discussing the sensitive topic of ethnicity with people. So to hear this word “Tutsi” constantly during these speeches felt very strange.

When the ceremony wrapped up after a few hours we were in the heat of a sunny day. The promised April rainy season was not taking effect and nothing but sun was beating down on us. I sweated disgustingly through my long-sleeved dress shirt and slacks. Just as I started to make my way home, I ran into my friend Mwizerwa, the barber. He was heading my direction too, so he insisted we walk together. I kind of wanted to be alone, but didn’t really have a choice. Mwizerwa, as I’ve mentioned, is a fast walker. Exceptionally fast. People in Rwanda are not particularly slow walkers, but I still tend to go faster than them in my typical American rush. He grabbed my hand (like much of the world, male-male hand holding is normal) and we quickly moved ahead of the large pack of people leaving the ceremony. Within minutes we were hundreds of yards ahead of everyone else, cruising, with my slippery, sweaty hand gripped tightly by my barber. Of course I don’t feel any awkwardness about holding hands, but I do find it pretty uncomfortable, especially when it is hot and humid out. After thirty minutes of power-walking I was dripping with sweat, and far beyond pitting out. I had to simply let go of Mwizerwa’s hand and tell him to slow down. It had taken me an hour to reach the ceremony, but we returned in 40 minutes.

During the memorial week the village was pretty quiet during the day. There were daily meetings in the afternoon that lasted a few hours. Shops were closed and military was on patrol to ensure compliance. I was interested in going to the meetings, but did not go unless someone was going to invite me, and hopefully help explain what was going on. Somewhere in there I had my 27^th birthday, but no worries. I would celebrate after the memorial week.

At the other end of the week was the closing ceremony. It was much like the opening ceremony. Speeches, songs, a sketch, women running out with their faces covered. The next year will be the last annual memorial week. It will be the 20 year anniversary of the genocide and after that it will only be every five years.

It’s really hard to describe how the genocide affects me and my service. It is something that, I can honestly say, I think about every single day, but still feel no closer to understanding it. I know that workers at the factory by my house were killed. I know that people I know fled the country, and others had grown up outside the country and returned after the chaos. I know some stories of stories of people I know who lost family. In reality, though, I feel so distant from it all.

Monday, October 7, 2013

MALI FOOTBALL

March 2013

I hadn’t been to the capital since arriving at site more than three months earlier. The term was over and I was on my way back to Kigali for a visit. I wasn’t that excited to be back in the city, however. To me, Kigali lacks the excitement, movement and chaos that a capital city should have. Most people say that the city is clean and ordlerly, which is generally true. However, between the pristine boulevards and manicured landscaping, down in the valleys below the embassies, supermarkets and government buildings, there are plenty of poorer neighborhoods that almost resemble village life. Their chaos is generally kept sequestered and out of sight. It’s a city that seems like a college grad, bright-eyed and hopeful on its way to a mediocre job interview.

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So I had come to Kigali mainly because there was a football game between the Rwandan national team and Mali. I had heard that a lot of volunteers would be there, but in the end, I was the only one going. My official reason for going to Kigali (because I needed a Peace Corps acceptable excuse to be in the capital) was that I needed to see the doctor. This was true, but I might not have made the trip if it had not been for the match. For at least a year I’ve had a little bump under my skin on my back. Suddenly it had grown in size and was very painful. So at least it had good timing.

I headed to Nyamirambo, my favorite neighborhood in Kigali. All that stuff I said above about Kigali, well, Nyamirambo’s different. When I later told Harley (former volunteer in Cameroon) to visit Nyamirambo, he reported back with a lackluster review. “Well, it just seems like a normal African neighborhood, it’s nothing special,” he said. Exactly! Kigali is not a normal African city, but Nyamirambo is like a normal African neighborhood within it. Perhaps it is because of all the immigrants from Mali and Senegal. Maybe it is because it is the oldest neighborhood in Kigali. Either way, I like the neighborhood’s atmosphere and it even has good night life.

As I heard the sunset call to prayer stream languidly from the two mosques that flanked my guesthouse, I headed into the street. I was mostly wandering, but also had an idea of visiting a bar I had heard about on the opposite side of the neighborhood. As I passed by one of the many West African clothing shops, I noticed some men inside folding what clearly looked like a large Mali flag. I assumed they were preparing for the game the next day. I walked in and greeted them in Bambara, Mali’s most common language. They looked at me strange and responded, “bonsoir.” Poor start, Joey. I wasn’t feeling the usual warmth I had known from the people in Mali. We talked for a few minutes, though, and indeed, they were preparing for the game the next day. I told them I was going there to root for Mali. They warmed to me and before I left, they gave me one of their large homemade Mali flags. I was so happy for this interaction.

Later in the evening, as I was getting closer to the edge of the neighborhood, I walked into a boutique to buy some peanuts. This was the kind of boutique that I wish was more common in Rwanda. The kind of boutique with a couple small tables, a refrigerator, beer, and friendly people. A casual place, but not so casual that it was filled with sloppy, aggressively friendly drunks typical of the seedier establishments. I instantly earned the attention from a middle aged man and young woman when they heard me speaking Kinyarwanda. They indulged me in some small talk before revealing that they spoke great English. I appreciated that they would speak to me in Kinyarwanda even when they spoke good English. The girl was around my age and said she had lived in Belgium for 12 years. I didn’t know what their relationship was, but assumed they were family of some sort. After having a beer with them, she whispered something to the man and he nodded. She asked if I wanted to go to a ‘cabaret’. Cabaret usually refers to a very simple bar, sometimes serving locally made grog. I assumed we were all going together, so I agreed. So we walked out, but then I realized the man was not coming with us. This surprised me. As we walked into the street, she suddenly turned right and whispered that her mom was there and we needed to take this other street. That seemed incredibly strange. Originally she had said the bar was a five or ten minute walk away, but as we started to walk up a hill on a side street she decided it would be better to take motos for 500 francs. If the moto ride cost that much, there was no way it was as close as she had originally said. Then she asked if I had a girlfriend and I said yes. She seemed disappointed, and I got uncomfortable. I said I didn’t want to take a moto anywhere, so after some disagreement, I said I was tired and wanted to go home. As we walked back, she saw someone she knew. She whispered to me not to speak Kinyarwanda when greeting them. I don’t know why, but I went along with it. Then I left her at the bar we had come from and went home. This whole interaction was very puzzling. First, it’s not common for a Rwandan woman to be that congenial with a male stranger, but it made sense since she had lived abroad so long. She didn’t seem to dress or act like a prostitute in any way, but her intentions had suddenly become clear. Part of me wishes I had been adventurous enough to go to this “cabaret”, but it seemed clear that something bad was definitely going to happen if I had.

The next morning I went to the stadium to buy my tickets. It was 11:30 and the ticket booths weren’t opening until noon. As I walked away, I saw a group of men sitting at a table outside of one of the string of bars across from the stadium. I greeted them as I passed and they called me over. They were drinking beers and asked if I wanted to have a drink with them. They were all dressed in athletic clothes and seemed fairly affluent. They told me they had just finished doing “sport” and were hanging out before getting ready for the game. I ordered a beer and when I finished it, they brought me another one. I tried to say no, but they insisted. It was the first time Rwandans bought me drinks. They had different jobs, but some of them worked for various government ministries. They all seemed privileged. One of the guys asked me what my three favorite things about Rwanda are. It is a straightforward question that I wouldn’t have had difficulty answering in most other countries. The first reason, the easiest and most obvious, was that it was beautiful. I paused and thought before saying the second reason was that it was an interesting place to be. This is definitely true, but is not something I would have wanted to elaborate on. Rwanda is interesting to me because of its history, its current politics and for how unique it is. I was panicking to think of a third reason why I like Rwanda. As I was thinking, a hawker passed by our table, offering pants. The man at the end of the table stopped the man and wanted to try on the pants being offered. Saved. The third reason I like Rwanda, I told him, is that you can buy new pants without even leaving the bar.

After a few beers, the guys went home to get cleaned up for the game. I had a couple hours to kill, so I took a bus to my favorite market in Kigali. As I was walking into the market, I realized I was walking right behind another white guy. Suddenly he turned, saw me, did a double take, then said, “Eres Mexicano?” I was caught off guard and said, “Si…Eres Mexicano?” “No, soy de Argentina.” Then I realized I had completely lied and corrected myself, saying I was American, but that I had Mexican blood. I hadn’t spoken Spanish in a while and was still caught off guard, so I was curious what other language we could communicate. For some reason I asked if he spoke Kinyarwanda. Stupid question. English? No. French? Yes. So we continued in French. My French is still worse than my Spanish, but it was easier to reach at that moment. He was a med student doing an internship for a few months. He seemed like an interesting dude and I asked if he was going to the game. He said he already had plans. It was a brief, but startling exchange. Since leaving my village I felt like I had met more people and had more interesting conversations than I had had in my previous three months in my village. Maybe Kigali wasn’t such a bad place. Also, within the first 48 hours since leaving home, I had been mistaken for Spanish, French, German, Portuguese, Chinese, Moroccan and Mexican. I also got to use a little of almost every language I know more than a few words in, which was exciting. Maybe Kigali wasn’t so bad.

Before the game I made my way back to the now crowded strip of bars across from the stadium. I was wearing pants I had had made in Mali from a cloth celebrating the Mali soccer team’s efforts at the 2010 African Cup of Nations in Angola. I also had the Mali flag draped around my body. My allegiance was clear. The Rwandans were surprisingly welcoming, considering the circumstances. They saw me as such a novelty that they didn’t even mind that I was rooting against them. They were just happy I was drinking beers with them.

The atmosphere was getting uncharacteristically wild. The sidewalks were packed with people decked out in blue, yellow and green, some covered in body paint, and plenty of vuvuzelas going wild. Half an hour before the game started, I saw a bus drive up that was overflowing with red, yellow and green, Mali’s colors. It was their fan bus. I ran across the street, waving my flag and greeting them. They were loud and spirited. As they started to line up at the entrance for the VIP section, somebody asked me if I had a ticket. I showed them my cheap, 1,000 franc ticket. They promptly handed me a 5,000 franc VIP ticket and told me to come with them. I was happy to stay in the cheap seats, but it was clearly better to be cheering among my fellow fans.

The VIP section was definitely the choice spot for foreigners. I saw all sorts of westerners. Young volunteer types, older expats, large groups of high schoolers with matching shirts that looked like they were on some sort of mission trip or study abroad program. And Malians.

Rwanda got off to a shockingly good start and actually led 2-1 at halftime. Rwanda is not a powerhouse in East Africa, let alone Africa in general. Mali, on the other hand, regularly makes appearances at the big African tournaments and has a strong football tradition. It was actually kind of exciting to see the underdog doing so well on their home field. I actually would not have minded if they had won.

Mali scored right as the second half started. I immediately saw my cheering face on the jumbotron. A minute later I got a text from a fellow volunteer that said, “Are you at the game?” I assumed she was also there and had seen me on the screen. In fact, I was on TV, and she was watching the game in her village.

Mali ended up winning, and after the game the Mali fans headed back to their van. I veered away, but one man asked me if I was coming with them. He said they were going to a hotel to celebrate. I was tempted, but I knew what it would be like, and I knew I would feel out of place. They were well-dressed, successful people with money. I actually felt like it was time to go back to humble bar full of Rwandan soccer fans. I knew it would actually be more fun. And it was fun, for a while. I met a lot of friendly Rwandans, but when some people started to get too drunk, they got annoying. I ended up meeting a group of abazungu (gringos) and sat down with them. They were from France, Belgium, Holland and Finland. They were making plans to go see some live music and invited me along. This day, no, this weekend, had become very unpredictable.

The bar was basic, and the music was awkward. They played a lot of covers of cheesy western music at a high, distorted volume. It was a relief when the bar lost power, and we were left in dark silence. Still, it was nice to meet some westerners that weren’t volunteers, or American for that matter.

The next day, as I walked around Nyamirambo, a lot of people actually recognized me as the Mali fan. Clearly these were West Africans as they seemed happy to see me. Two weeks later I was in the neighborhood again. I was standing on a corner, talking on the phone, when a tall man walked up to me and looked like he wanted to talk to me. I was close to waving him off as I assumed he was going to ask me for something or make typical awkward conversation. Instead, he was a Malian guy who recognized and greeted me in Bambara as soon as I hung up the phone.

Finally, I had to go see the Peace Corps doctor about the weird growth on my back. He felt around and suggested I stay in Kigali for a couple more days so they could watch it. This was annoying because I had been expecting to leave that day. At least they let me stay at the Peace Corps headquarters so I wouldn’t have to pay for a guesthouse. In the end, the doctor gave me some ibuprofen and said if it got any worse to call him. I still have no idea what it was. Within a week, it was back to its original size.

With my extra days in Kigali I managed to meet up with a big group of volunteers. Since the term was over, they were all heading off to Zanzibar for a couple weeks. I hadn’t seen most of them since New Year’s so it was good to see them again.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Collapsible Wooden Coat Hanger

17-2-2013

We had some sort of Peace Corps meeting in mid February. I didn’t know much about it, but it seemed out of character. Our administrators were traveling to different regions to accommodate everyone. My region was the least accommodated, since we are the most remote. Others were annoyed by this, but I don’t mind traveling long distances, especially if it gives me an excuse to miss a couple days of school. In fact, I was one of two people in the country that would have to spend two nights away from my site, and miss three days of teaching in order to attend a five-hour meeting.

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So I arrived in Butare in the late afternoon, with plenty of time to explore before this meeting. It was really one of the first times I felt that I was truly traveling freely and alone since I had arrived in Rwanda. It felt great. I had been given a few suggestions from fellow volunteers, but they were the exact kinds of advice that I don’t bother with. Over-priced hotels, western restaurants and nice bars. This was one of the few times I could be anonymous in Rwanda, and I wasn’t going to waste it on doing what Rwandans would expect of me. After finding a much cheaper hotel than the one a volunteer recommended (I mean, come on, we’re Peace Corps volunteers, we don’t have any money, right?), I went next door to have, what I thought was, a well-deserved beer. The bar was the “El Dorado” or “El Dolado”, depending on which sign you looked at. Kinyarwanda doesn’t differentiate between the letters “l” and “r” to such an extent that people regularly interchange the two letters in their own names.

When I sat down in the bar and realized there was a man there with an eye patch, sitting at the next table, I knew I was at the right place. I really needed this. I don’t go to bars in my village, and usually when I am in a town, I am with fellow volunteers and we stick together and don’t interact with the Rwandans as much as we should. Finally I felt like I was acting more like I normally do when I travel. I hung out for a while, ate a brochette and watched the second half of a football game with the crowd.

I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening wandering town. It was Sunday, so the central market was low key. I could tell, though, it would be good the next day. As Rwanda’s “second city” Butare’s center of town is heavy with western restaurants, hotels and expat-oriented grocery stores. I steered clear. I walked the opposite direction and, just past the market, I wandered into a street that seemed like a ghost town. It was bizarrely deserted, even though we were just steps away from the center of town. I was getting the impression that this town, although large and relevant, still had a long way to go in the new, refurbished Rwanda. My nearest town, Kamembe, is actually a new, soulless town, built above the old town of Cyangugu. In Butare, you can see how one town is being built right on top of the other. Just past multi-storied malls, there is about 300 meters of abandoned shops and buildings. Literally, every single storefront and building was completely abandoned. Except for one. As the sun set, and the dusty street got even more deserted, I suddenly heard a familiar sound echoing from somewhere nearby. It was the call to prayer, and it was coming from what appeared to be an abandoned pharmacy. I saw the faithful gathering inside, spreading out their mats oriented east, toward Mecca. Next door there was a barber shop with a painting of a man pointing at the words, “SHAVE TIME!”.

At the end of the road, I saw some enter an iron gate, beyond which, appeared to have great views. I entered the gates confidently, since I wondered what was going on there. I immediately saw pristine lawns, manicured gardens, and a good view of the hills beyond. And a security guard. He smiled at me, and I knew that if I kept my confident air, I would be able to walk right past him. But now that I had seen the view, I just wanted to know where I was. It turned out to be the world’s largest training center for students of tae kwan do. No, it was actually just a technical school, but that is incredibly boring.

Later that night, I visited a place called, “Bar Tekano”. It was modestly signed, but looked interesting. I sat up at the bar, which is something I never do. I figured I would have one beer and go back to my room to sleep. Then a few friendly guys arrived and we got to chatting. One of them, the most talkative, was far more outgoing than most Rwandans. I found his company refreshing. We started with Kinyarwanda, then moved to French, and finally settled in English. He was fluent in all three. His name was Jean Paul and he had the bartender play his favorite songs, mostly pop songs by Backstreet Boys and Craig David. He wanted me to try to translate them into Kinyarwanda, which I did my best at. He was an interesting guy and well-traveled. He had done work in Ghana, Cameroon, Congo and most countries in East Africa. In the midst of our conversation, he offered to buy my next beer. I accepted. He did it again after I was finished. Then, after all our conversation, things got a little stranger. He wanted to borrow some money to buy another beer, even though he wasn’t finished with his yet. I thought it was strange, since he did not come off as a scammer at all. He was well-traveled and obviously wealthy (with his blackberry and iPhone that he flashed around occasionally). Then again, those things could have been cause for alarm. I said that I would just pay for my beers and he could pay for his. I paid for my beers, and after ten minutes, had not received my change. I started to sense the camaraderie between him and the bartender as something a little more sinister. I requested my change again and promptly received it, as if they were just testing me. Then Jean Paul invited me to a party at his girlfriend’s place. He was making promises of a great time, with girls and booze. Promises that were shockingly inconceivable. He started to get a little too enthusiastic. I am usually the one to be open-minded and want to say yes to things, but this invitation wreaked, at best, of dishonesty, and at worst a dangerous scam or setup. I was really disappointed. I have met few Rwandans that I have connected with, and this guy seemed to have a rare personality that I found refreshing. In the end, though, I knew I couldn’t trust him, and I went back to my room.

The next morning I had a lot of work to do. There was a whole town to explore, and I only had a matter of hours before some of my fellow volunteers would begin arriving and the day would be lost. I spent most of the morning at the market. I had some errands to run and things to buy. I finally found a large strainer and a large funnel (tools for my winery) and got a pair of sandals that were a little more formal than my tire sandals. Footwear seems to be a serious point of judgment here. Your shoes better be nice and clean. Every time I pass strangers, they don’t greet me, they just look me up and down, usually settling their eyes on my feet. If my shoes are dirty, I might hear them say something to their friend about this fact. My filthy tire sandals, which don’t even match anymore, do not leave a good impression. So I splurged on some slightly nice locally made sandals that, hopefully, would not bring me shame in public.

The hardest thing to find was a locally made collapsible wooden coat hanger. They sold them at the markets in Kigali, and, supposedly I could find them here, but they were nowhere to be found. I asked around all morning and was pointed in all different directions. Someone told me to go to the lumber yard, which I had walked past earlier in the day. That made sense. On the way there, I ran into an older man I had met before. He offered to help me look for the coat hanger. Like most people in town, he thought we could find it and we went to the lumberyard. On the way, I saw some people yelling in the distance, and a little commotion erupting. This seemed especially odd in Rwanda, and it momentarily reminded me of a similar commotion I had seen at a market in Ghana once. In that situation there had been a thief and a mob had formed to give him a beat down. This street justice is standard practice in most African countries. During training, I had asked if it happened in Rwanda, and everyone thought it was a ridiculous question. Well, it turned out that this commotion was over a theft. Someone had tried to steal a woman’s bag. As we turned the corner, we saw a crowd around a young man, who had been thrown to the ground and looked scared. A soldier soon arrived and I assumed he would take it from there. When we passed by again, minutes later, I saw the soldier was gone, but the crowd was marching him back towards the market area where the crime had been committed. I asked my companion what they were doing. He said that they were taking the man back to the girl to apologize. Nice street justice, Rwanda.

While I never found the coat rack, the search did take me through some pretty interesting areas. I found two massive wood-working areas, where people were mostly making furniture. There was also a big metal-working area, where people welded and painted things like colorful bike racks and, well, whatever else people needed made out of metal.

Spending the better part of the day wandering around Butare revived me. The city had a little more atmosphere and ruggedness than the new Rwanda is supposed to have. Some of the cities have changed so much in the last decade that they have become soulless. I know that is the case with the nearest town to my site. There is an old town, down on the water, which is now only useful for its post office and port, while the new town is up above on the hillside and was basically created in the last decade or two. Butare is definitely in the process of redeveloping itself, but you can still feel what it used to be like. Its couple of dirt roads and crowded market lend it a slightly more chaotic atmosphere.

After a simple buffet lunch, some friends began to arrive. Luke and Caitlan were first and after checking into the hotel, we promptly went to Bar Tekano for some afternoon beers. I was happy to find that the stuffy room at the front of the bar was not its only seating area. There was a sizable outdoor area out back that suited us well. When we entered, we were greeted, or maybe socially attacked, by a large man whose boisterousness quickly gave him away as a foreigner. He gave us big handshakes and bear hugs, spouting something about “love and piss for everyone!”. He was clearly beyond drunk, and after exchanging greetings, he did not want to let us go. He was affectionate, but in a nearly violent way. He clutched my arm tightly as he rambled on about, who knows what. All I managed to get out of him was that he was from Kinshasa, the capital of Congo. This fact, however, would have been assumed even if I had not asked. Throughout the afternoon, any time he saw us, he would get in our faces, grabbing our arms, trying to make friends, but he only made us uncomfortable. His demeanor also seemed to bother the other bar patrons. On the other hand, I appreciated that his personality provided a little more color to the bar’s otherwise drab social atmosphere. I also appreciated that the bar’s urinals were in plain view of our table, and I could wave at my friends while peeing.

Dan arrived soon after, and we decided to order some food. We were pleased to hear that they had rabbit on the menu. For less than $5 we soon had a whole grilled rabbit on our table. It was absolutely delicious and had a surprising amount of meat on it. As often as I complain about the flavorless Rwandan cuisine, the bar food here can be spectacular at times. Every time we get tasty brochettes or grilled pork, we wonder why they don’t do to the rest of the food what they do to the bar food.

Later in the evening, we were joined by a few more volunteers, and an American who works at a local NGO’s ice cream shop, and we eventually moved to a different bar. We had hoped to go dancing, but it seemed that the only bar with that kind of potential did not stay open on Mondays. One can only be disappointed rather than surprised by this situation.

It was the first time in a while that I had seen anyone from my training group, and we made the most of our short time together. As the night progressed, people dropped off slowly, and eventually it was just Dan, Luke and I doing slap shots after midnight. We stayed there far later than we should have, but even when the bar had to kick us out at 2:00, we didn’t really want to go.

The next morning, of course, was a real blast. Caitlan woke us all up at 8:45, about 15 minutes before we had to leave for the meeting. There was no time to contemplate our condition, we just had to throw everything in our bags and get out.

A thirty minute bus ride took us to a fancy hotel where we had our meeting. It droned on for hours. While I really like the Peace Corps administration, there was very little room to make the meeting enjoyable.

Afterward, the Peace Corps was kind enough to give us a ride back to our regional town, since ours was the farthest away, and we wouldn’t be able to make it back before dark on public transportation.

Even with the ride, Luke, Caitlan and I would not be able to make it to our sites before dark, so we had to stay in town. We had a dinner of roast pork and bananas at the hotel. Caitlan went to bed while Luke and I had a beer. After we put the money for our bill on the table, Luke got up to have a cigarette, and I followed him. When we came back, we waited for the change. After ten minutes, we got up and asked the waiter where our change was. He said that he had never received the money. We told him we put it on the table. He asked around and said nobody had seen it. Volunteers had been loyal to this hotel for a while, and I felt there was a trustworthy relationship. I didn’t immediately think they were guilty. There had been a table of middle aged guys sitting at another table, but they had left. We could only assume that they had taken it. The waiter, however, seemed like he had no intention of forgiving our payment, since it had been stolen by somebody. We begrudgingly paid again. I regret not making a bigger fuss, but this was a situation I had never been in before, and had never expected to happen, especially here. This place was not a dive, and the men sitting near us were not poor. They were drinking expensive beers (nicer beers than ours) and eating meat. It was a disappointing end to an otherwise great weekend.