Where has the time gone?

I have just 10 days left in Rwanda. 32 days left in East Africa. 32 days till home. Where has the time gone? Just five months ago I was beginning to pack, and working my way through an online grammar course. I was saying my goodbyes to friends and family, and spending many melancholy moments with Ollie. Where has the time gone?

The last few weeks have been a blur of dinners out, weekends away, lazy afternoons (on account of my having very little work to do) and nights out with my girlfriends. We’ve formed a sisterhood of like-minded ladies. Don’t be fooled. It’s not all pedicures, boytalk and sunbathing. We drink beer and watch football, though not without getting distracted by our dinner. Men feature very low on our agenda. Any Kigalites reading? I strongly recommend Shokola – I’d not eaten houmous since the new year, and it tasted every bit as sweet and wholesome as I fondly remembered. See there, distracted by food! I salivate at the drop of a hat these days. Food I’m looking forward to eating:

Mum’s vegetarian lasagne

Dad’s vegetarian chilli

Tex-Mex – my Mexican-American friend from Texas sympathises

Cheese - stinky cheese, mature cheese, cheese that melts!

Good bread – brown with seeds, crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside

The list is long so I’ll stop there. Despite the Rwandan stodge – potato, matoke, cassava, rice, beans – I’ve lost weight here. Mostly because my culinary imagination is going at full speed, burning calories as it goes.

What A Mug.

Friday evening, Linda and I decided we were very much in the mood for a night out, and salsa at the Sun and Moon sounded like just the ticket. We arrived fashionably late at 9pm, to discover an empty dancefloor. We ordered a couple of beers and waited for our friends to arrive. Before too long we had a full table, and were comparing Rwanda's choice of beers - Primus (cheap and cheerful), Mutzig (masquerading as a European, therefore more expensive), and finally Amstel (not half bad!). Finally a few die-hards made it to the dancefloor, and one by one we followed. At one point Linda wandered back from the toilets munching on a piece of pizza - she'd smelt something tasty and made friends with the owner of a Hawaiian. Nice work!

At midnight, feeling merry, some bright spark suggested we make our way to Papyrus - sort of what the Wedge is for Bristol students (for those of you who know it). It's the place you end up in when you're tipsy and in need of a dance past midnight. You'll regret it in the morning. The place was rammed, but somehow we found a table. Linda then convinced a waiter that it was my birthday, so we shared a free dessert. Word spread. Before long the owner was sauntering up to me, wishing me happy birthday and offering me a free bottle of wine. Yes please!

Several hours later, bouncing around in the back of a taxi negotiating Kigali's many dirt roads, we felt content with our Friday night. Linda's dirt road is considerably longer than mine, so, feeling chivalrous I offered to be dropped off at the corner and walk the rest of the way - about 200m to my house. As soon as I turned the corner, I heard heavy footsteps behind me, and before I could do anything I was pushed onto the road. Two men shoved me this way and that, whilst I (perhaps foolishly) struggled. If I'd known they only wanted my bag I may have just given it up straight away. With the bag around my neck I finally gave in. I ran most of the way home, hysterical. My sobbing awoke my housemates before I had even reached the door. Unfortunately my keys were also stolen so I spent the night in the living room, and the morning feeling sorry for myself whilst our locks were changed (for a cool $100). Camera. Phone. Keys. Purse (most of its contents had been spent on beer and taxis). Saddest of all was the bag itself - a Mulberry satchel worth around £400, unearthed in a ramshackle charity shop in Woodford Green for £5. I'm feeling its loss.

Three visits to the police station later, I'm no closer to obtaining a police report for my insurance claim. The first time, (what looked like) a prisoner interpreted for me, with limited success. The second time, the 'man that writes the reports' was away watching a football match, and the third time, the 'man that signs the report' was nowhere to be seen. Curious system.

Peace

My friend Linda, organiser-extraordinaire - rented a jeep and planned to take me and a couple of friends to see the chimps at Nyungwe National Park at the weekend. With a full jeep - two Kiwis, two Brits and a token American - we called a couple of Rwandan friends for directions. My google image print-out, displaying about five roads in all of Rwanda wasn't going to get us there. Granted though, there may only be five (tarmacked) roads in this country. The friend exclaimed "Oh no, it is not possible, you have never been there before?". We didn't much fancy the thought of getting stuck in the backcountry and spending the night in the (very small) jeep. Change of plan. Kibuye it is! So I rushed back into the house and grabbed my swimming costume and a towel, looking forward to a weekend beside Lake Kivu.

After two hours of hairpin bends, climbing into the rural highlands, and then descending to Lake Kivu, we alighted at Hotel Bethanie, the lakeside resort for Presbyterians. A night of beer and cards followed, whereby we all took turns in having our nationalities ripped to shreds.....being a dual national I tried to sit on the fence, but my accent gave me away.

After a sleepless night in a tiny double bed with Linda, kept up by a huge storm, we enjoyed a lazy breakfast with some strong coffee. We then took a boat across the lake to Peace Island - complete with a small cafe, campsite, and seemingly all the muzungu we'd seen at our hotel. 11.30am, we decided, was not too early for a beer. Pubs open at 11am back home after all. And so we sunbathed, jumped off the jetty into clean, turquoise, pleasantly luke warm water, and swam around the island, all the while trying to avoid a very hairy, very big man in a pair of very small and very tight y-fronts who had taken a shine to Linda. Luckily, around 1pm we were the only ones left on the island, so we had some lunch and dried off in the afternoon sun. My chips and salad were a little disappointing. Asking for them to leave out the carrots left me with a small plate of onions and mayonnaise...I miss Greer food.

Just as the clouds were gathering we hopped into the jeep and made our way back to Kigali. Whilst dozing off, we took a corner and the wheels locked on the wet road, sending locals standing by the side of the road flying and the car in an almost 360 degree spin. Luckily nobody was hurt, and the road was empty. I stayed awake and alert after that, and was relieved to return to a rainy Kigali, a little burnt, but very relaxed.

I went to the market to buy some fabric to have a dress, bag and laptop case made. Do you approve of my choices?

Out of Kigali

It's been a while since my last update. Let's just say I've been preoccupied with doing things that are update-worthy. I spent the weekend in Butare with my housemate and a couple of Rwandan blokes. Butare is Rwanda's second largest city, but a provincial university town by Western standards, home to the National University of Rwanda and its 14,000 students. Kate and I, for the purpose of discounted accommodation, were a married couple for the weekend. We decided we'd adopt and have a 'rainbow family'. I'm a whole lot less PC since living in Africa. I'll have to clean up my act before coming home, but then now that David Cameron is PM...

After visiting the National Museum - a pretty collection of baskets, beads and reconstructed huts, which successfully skirts Rwanda's recent history - we went to a surprise party of a friend of a friend. What an odd affair it was. It was held in a sort of outdoor pavilion attached to a pub, and we waited around for a couple of hours till the birthday girl arrived. After the initial commotion of "surprise" and the presentation of a funny looking cake (a whole banana and half a papaya stuck to its icing), the event quickly simmered down to a formal and dry occasion. We sat in rows facing the head table where the birthday girl was seated, were each served a soda, and subjected to some God-awful game. We were each given a number, and when our number was called we were asked to perform a task, sing a song, answer a question etc. I was picked on - my number was not called - to tell everyone what my greatest fear was. I said it was 'dying of an allergic reaction' (a blatant lie) - met with silence, exchanged glances and a few giggles. Oh well. Me and Kate escaped to the (dank) toilets at around 11.30pm, and called the boys to meet us out front. Phew!

Back in Kigali, it's been a slow week. I've had very few, if any students, and for two days now I've not had a classroom. Someone has taken the key and run to Butare. They try their hardest to stop me from working. They're succeeding. Monday I took the afternoon off work to accompany my housemates (who work for a charity called As We Forgive) on a trip to a village on the outskirts of Kigali to witness the work of a local association for survivors and perpetrators of the 1994 genocide. The community had gathered at the house of Violet, a 40 year old survivor with three children. They cleaned up her yard, presented her with gifts of food and provisions, and made a collection to pay off her debt to her landlord. A perpetrator also spoke. He had spent 10 years in prison, and through As We Forgive training, had stopped fearing survivors and instead sought forgiveness. Both survivors and perpetrators had put together their land, and were planning on farming it as a cooperative.

It's a hazy day in Kigali.

The pace of things

It's a slow and rainy Monday. I hear my friends and family are enjoying a lovely sunny Bank Holiday. Rwanda decided to make Saturday their Bank Holiday, but strangely enough the banks were open. Go figure.

Sunday my housemates and I all made the early morning English service at St Etienne's. We often cave and end up going to the 10.30 at Christian Life Assembly. Yes, the name does give it a way. Dubious, dubious church. Apart from taking me way outside of my Church of England/Catholic comfort zone (band, waving of arms, thousand strong congregation, you get the picture) the preacher made jokes about incest throughout his sermon. His parents are first cousins, and apparently his clan has been intermarrying for centuries. It did at least jolt me from my mid-sermon nap. St Etienne's is still a little too spangly for my liking. Graham Kendrick hymns are the order of the day - any friend from Marylebone will know where I'm coming from 'Shine Jesus, Shine' *Clap Clap*. The Catholic church, strangely, feels much more familiar, a part from not being allowed to take Communion and having not memorised the order of service in advance. I feel like more of an observer than a member of the congregation.

I awoke this morning tired. Film followed by skype followed by late-night emailings. Yawn. Luckily, I was able to take a two hour lunch break, including one hour for nap-time. My new(ish) house is just around the corner and down a dirt road from work. I could probably stay at home and never return, but I have to fight the lethargy. Oh the pace of things! I do at least have a new project, doing some research for Aegis Trust and the Kigali Genocide Memorial Centre. It's good to be donning my history hat again, though I miss the Bodleian. Even the History Library would do. Books, good books in particular, are a scarcity here.

It's been raining for over an hour now. And when I say raining, I mean raining. Nothing quite like an African shower. I wish my shower had this kind of water pressure, just a wee dribble.

Rwandan Bureaucracy

It's been a week of excruciatingly painful journeys into the African bureaucracy. Who'd have thought extending your visa would be quite so complicated? It started on Monday when I attempted to have a simple letter stating 'Yes, Mary Greer works for the government' signed. Oh no. It took four drafts before the deed was finally done. On the third draft I was told that a letter could never be addressed to "Sir/Madam." Only "Sir" would do.

Documents in hand, I trekked to the Ministry of Immigration, took my number, and tucked into the final 100 pages of the Da Vinci Code. After an hour, I was told they needed a copy of my CV. I asked the officer if he was offering me a job. He didn't catch my sarcasm. I suspect they're used to irate Muzungu, and have grown immune to our dry sense of humour, and rantings against the bureaucratic machine.

On leaving the office, the sidewalk ended so I took to walking along the side of the road....not a crime in East Africa I thought, where the government has opted to supply every main road with one rather than two sidewalks. How wrong was I. I soon found myself being hissed at by two police officers, which I chose to ignore. Call me crazy, but hissing is not an acceptable form of communication in my book. I then found my way blocked by a soldier with a huge machine gun. "Ok ok" I said, turning around and hanging my head whilst passing the two amused police officers.

And so this morning, I forsook glamorous occupation at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs for a morning at the Ministry of Immigration. All went smoothly, but not for the man beside me. Whilst venting our mutual frustration, he told me they were asking for his original degree certificate - seemingly for the same visa as mine. I suspect I may get a text (Immigration's preferred method of communication) informing me to return with more money and/or degree certificates. We shall see.

Last night I met with Joseph and a couple of people from the Royal Commonwealth Society, visiting Rwanda to organise the big youth conference in September, Nkabom. I feared I'd be in for a dry evening with some right old codgers, so I was pleasantly surprised to be met by two twenty-something girls with Masters in interesting subjects (Human Rights and Visual Anthropology). The RCS has most definitely made it to my newly formed list of places I want to work. After enjoying warm chocolate brownie (real cake, not just sweet bread) we made it to drinks at the High Commission...I'm becoming quite a regular. There we joined a rabble of Brits huddled around a projector screening the final leaders' debate. Our fellow Rwandans, Americans, and miscellaneous Muzungu couldn't see the attraction, and kept popping their heads in the room, and making disparaging remarks. Joseph lasted over an hour, but finally gave up. Next week the High Commission crowd will hopefully keep vigil for what promises to be an interesting election.

60 days till I eat good cheese...

I don't count the days every day, but today I'm in an exceptionally bad mood, made worse by the fact I was the only person in the office all afternoon. My colleagues abandoned me for a funeral. The cheek.

On days like these I make a few calculations:

13 weeks, 91 days down. 8 and a half weeks, 60 days to go.

60 days (plus a few spent touring African beaches with my dear friend Katie) till I...

• eat good cheese
• have a shower that doesn't take 40 minutes to warm up
• get to watch the new sex and the city movie
• sit and listen to my dad playing his guitar
• speak to my loved ones without being distracted by making funny faces on skype
• can see my feet well and truly clean for more than an hour
• eat a G&D's bagel in Oxford
• can drink water from the tap

and finally, 60 days till the mosquitoes finally have their fill.

60% complete.

Moving in Muzungu Circles

"Muzungu Muzungu Muzungu" - white person in Swahili - follows me around East Africa. This week however, I lived up to the Muzungu-in-Africa image. Thursday evening I finally made it to the British High Commission drinks night. Since Rwanda joined the Commonwealth in November, it's no longer an embassy. I took two friends - British Sam and American Karen. After all I am a dual national. My friend at the High Commission got us on the list. The HC has a pub called 'the goat and gorilla', and was screening the leaders' debate in Bristol. The beer was expensive but the wine was cheap. Unfortunately we were sitting with a big bunch of Swedes with zero interest in British politics, so I only caught enough of the debate to remark that Cameron's eyes are too close together, Clegg is marginally attractive, and Gordon comes up for air like a fish with gills. I was introduced to the High Commissioner himself (looking like an overgrown public school boy) but I wasn't in the mood for brown-nosing. Instead I got chatted up by a Burundi-man, then escaped, only to meet a doctoral student from Baliol - this world is too too small.

Friday I was at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. They don't yet have someone working on the Commonwealth, and Rwanda is not entirely sure what to do next, despite spending three years fighting tooth and nail to join. This is where I come in. I am frequently introduced as 'our Commonwealth expert from Oxford'. I've given up trying to explain Commonwealth HISTORY is what I know. But research I can do. So I'm currently navigating the labyrinth of organisations and NGOs and finding out how Rwanda can join. I've encountered some seriously random organisations. The 'family of nations' is a strange beast. I've sent many a sincere email ensuring the Royal Agricultural Society of the Commonwealth and the Association of Paediatric Gastroenterology and Nutrition that the Ministry will encourage the relevant Rwandan institutions to apply for membership. Like clockwork, my colleague took me to a buffet lunch at Afrika Bite.... I always ask about his wife, who lives in Belgium, indefinitely.

Continuing my Muzungu social-life, my housemate and I spent Saturday by the pool at the second poshest hotel in Kigali. We managed not to pay to swim, and just ordered some slightly off pineapple juice. And then in the evening, we went to a movie night at 'Heaven' restaurant - Parenthood (made me cry, I must be emotionally fragile) and then Anchor Man (much better the second time). Apart from a kid spontaneously throwing up beside us, it was the best evening a Muzungu can hope for.

Fondled

White women in Africa have to tread carefully. Many come here in the hope of fulfilling some sort of racialised sexual fantasy, still. And then it doesn't help that every Western film that makes it to Rwanda, depicts Western women as semi-naked and easy. Most of my Rwandan friends here are male, something I have found very frustrating. For the most part though, at least with men my age, I've encountered very few problems. But then I've also encountered bold-faced chauvinism. Here are just a few tidbits, delivered by true alpha males:

• A colleague: "Never tell me you have a boyfriend. A man does not want to hear this"
• My driver: "I want to make love to a white woman like you" (I wish I'd never taught him English)
• A college student: "If a woman keeps her man happy, he will not cheat"
• A group of male colleagues: "We must teach you what you can do to a man to keep him happy" (I didn't press for details)
• A man old enough to be my father: "You studied at Oxford?! Oh you are not an easy woman"
• A female colleague: "A woman must remain thin until she finds a man, but then she must get fat when she marries. If a married woman is thin, her husband is not feeding her properly"

And finally, on greeting a man from church, again, old enough to be my father, he goes for the European two cheek kiss, then to end, a big sloppy kiss on the lips. I was too shocked to dodge.

But then today, it was a woman, not a man that crossed the line. I greeted her at reception and she exclaimed 'You are so fat'. Charming, but then in Africa, to tell someone they are fat is the highest compliment. However, it turns out she was in fact remarking on the size of my boobs. For just as soon as the words left her mouth, she was giving me a right good fondle. "Mmmmm, very good, very fat". I stood dumbfounded. As did the male cleaner who was looking on. Form a line!

Will it rain today?

I'm not sure that me and my blog will agree with each other, but I figure it kills two birds with one stone - emailing and journalling. When in the past I've attempted to spill my heart in writing I've failed miserably and felt like a moody teenager. So do not fear. No angst here, or 'wangst' as me and Sophie like to call it.

Today I taught a lesson! Since the commemorations (17 years since the Rwandan Genocide) people have said they're too busy. I have seen people playing video games and watching prison break on their computers. They are not too busy. So I sat in the library at ten to eight, studentless. But then my friend Ishmael told me he would gather the troops, which he did with great efficiency. So we began our lesson on 'Trauma'. I've given up doing dry grammar lessons - instead I pick a theme, one that is relevant to Rwandans working in the National Commission for the Fight Against Genocide, and facilitate a discussion, which almost always turns into a debate.

Trauma - by which I mean the psychological trauma suffered by genocide survivors, was the theme for this year's commemorations. One man, Charles, always hungover, suggested that the only way to fight trauma is to kill the perpetrators. Whatever happened to a little therapy? Later he told me he only said it because at this time of year, people at the Commission take everything too seriously.

Had lunch at Afrika Bite with my new friend Linda from Texas. What a buffet. Though I was disappointed when I discovered the mashed potato was in fact cassava...dry and stringy. Five kinds of starch. Rwandan food calls for afternoon naps.

I hear thunder.