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.