Today brings you a bundle of Grace and Nyanja stories. (Medefinds, I know these are your favorite, so buckle your seat belts and enjoy.)

I've been very elitist so far - riding only on Moto Taxis, in the white private taxis or in 4 wheel drive vehicles owned by the bank. Today Nyanja insisted I experienced my first "taxi" (they previously have been called minibuses). This is the form of transportation used by common folk here. So, we rode the taxi together to the expo. Ours wasn't the mini-est of mini buses in the taxi park. Everyone pilled in, 5 people sitting the width of a normal sofa, 7 to 10 rows deep. Thankfully no one was generously endowed (p.c. for fat). A little boy, sitting next to me on his mothers lap, starred at me with frightened eyes the entire trip. I could hear a father talking to his little son about the "muzingo" as everyone poured out of the taxi, into the mob at the expo entrance. Mob almost seems like an understatement. 7 people came up to me, trying to sell a 500 RFW ($0.91) expo ticket. Swarms of children pressed against my closely clutched purse, eyeing my wallet and I carefully, as I paid for our expo entry tickets.

Things calmed inside the expo. The expo reminded me of the annual Wisconsin State Fair...except that there weren't cows or really any animals at all. The vendors came from all over Africa - Egypt, Kenya, Uganda, and Congo - to sell their wares. Nyanja was obsessed with finding herself a pair of leather flip-flops. After disappointing nearly 20 vendors, she found the perfect pair for 4000 RWF. For me, however, it was more a case of love at first sight. With a painting. Obviously, I spent more than 4000 RWF. Still, it was a typical Grace purchase, the "premeditated impulse buy" as Anna Chambers so aptly described them. The colors in the painting are beautiful. (It will perfectly compliment my brown leather couch...So, umm, Katie and Betsy please, please please be willing to have it prominently displayed in our living room.) The artist perfectly controlled his washes to create a sense of depth and he used a type of material I'd never seen before. Like a mud-plaster. Nyanja said it was very Rwandan - portraying a family in traditional garb. I thought about the painting the entire time we perused two of the three large tents, looking at a gazillion pairs of earrings, necklaces, peace baskets, terracotta tiles, passion juices, Rwandan foam, banana wine, wood carvings and flip flops. I thought about the painting as we sat, sipping Fantas and watching the teenage Rwandan boys and girls, prowling the fair grounds to find each other. Nyanja described it as the universal language of flirting. I was still stuck on my first love, the painting.

Nyanja told me I wasn't allowed to do any bargaining myself. Muzingos can never get good prices - which proved true every time I tried to start bargaining on my own. I'd learned my lesson (i.e. let Nyanja barter) by the time we meandered back to the Rwandan Prison Services tent. The painting was still there. I tried to busy myself amount the woodcarvings, so they couldn't tell she was acting as my agent. She went to inquire as to the price. $300. (If I'd asked it would have been $500.)

Meanwhile, this tall Rwandan stopped me, insisting we had met before. We had? I was clueless. Yes, he insisted. Across from the craft place. I don't ever remember being anywhere near a craft place. Was his name William? Oh, no. It was Mark. Awkward. Nyanja came over, with that wry little smile in her eyes. She thought the handsome Rwandan was speaking the universal language that I, apparently, am not fluent in. (Frankly, I only had eyes for my painting.) She had gotten the artist down to $200. I didn't have that much on me...only the...well, I'd be willing to spend $100. She went back to work. By now, the artist/seller figured out we were associated. He wouldn't budge. We perused the tent a little longer. The artist started trying to talk directly to me. Then we started to walk away. All of a sudden, he said that I could have it for a $100. In shook, I whipped the $100 bill out of my bra and, before you knew it, he was holding my cash, and I was holding his...now my painting. With such a large painting, we decided our time at the expo was done. Stumbled through the crowds, out of the parking lot, past the mob, into a private taxi home (again negotiated by Nyanja for half what it would cost me).

Tom arrived while Nyanja was sipping a tonic water with me on the Gazebo and philosophizing under a swarm of mosquitoes. Would Nyanja be so kind as to help him communicate with Ingas? Of course. What about? Well, I should give you all a little bit of background. Two weeks ago, Ignas wrote Tom a letter, asking for support. He was being paid $45/month by his employer, Intersect Security Company. Not enough to live on in expensive Kigali let alone pay his school fees. (To give you a comparison, I spent $2oo on groceries this past month and that would only be for breakfast and dinner since my lunch is provided.) Tom, had decided to help him, but wanted a system. Ignas would provide him with invoices for his school fees. Tom would lend Ignas the money to pay the fees on condition that, one day, Ingas would do the same thing for someone else, someone not related to him. Since Tom wanted to make sure the arrangement was clearly communicated, he asked Nyanja to translate for him. Nyanja agreed. After coming back from their discussion, she said it was wonderful to be part of that.

Then Nyanja and I went to get dinner at my favorite restaurant in Kigali - the Indian Khazana. It was quite dark after we finished. We started walking. Nyanja quickly hailed a moto taxi. I, however, was only 5 blocks from home. Yes it was dark, but the street was well lit. I could walk home. Well, Nyanja thought I needed an escort. So she and her moto taxi swiveled back and forth behind me, as I scurried home.

So end today's adventures.

Well – I definitely had an “I’m in Africa” moment last night. The Internet was down. AGAIN. (It works about 65 percent of the time). So I poured over two Taste Magazines, brainstorming recipes for my chicken dinner. Unfortunately, all the chicken recipes called for sweet potatoes or pancetta – items I didn’t have. So I decided to concoct one of my staple meals – chicken stewed in fresh tomato, ginger and honey with onion & parsley.

I was excited. I had eaten chicken only twice since arriving in Rwanda and never prepared it myself. When I finally unpackaged my chicken, I was a bit unnerved by what I found. It looked more animal than anything carnivorous I had ever purchased before. Complete skeleton with the gizzards hanging out. Whatever it was, it wasn’t chicken. It looked more like “rat” or “Fido”. It had been under the “Poussin” sign at La Gallette. I thought “Poussin” was French for “Chicken” or "Cornish Game Hen"...at least that is what Julia Child says. Apparently I need to work on my French. Whatever it was, I was thankful for the trimming knife as I tried to skimp the little bit of flesh off the skeleton, into the stew. It was almost enough to make me consider being a vegetarian…for a second before reality set it.

I think, from now on, I’m sticking with beef.

That was yesterday. This morning Nyanja and I were supposed to met at 8 am at Bourbon Coffee (essentially the ex-pat coffee house) and catch a bus to Butare. Well, today is Umuganda. That means there are no moto taxis and buses from 7 am to 11 am because everyone is either doing public service or, like me, hiding at home to avoid hard labor. Nyanja and I won’t meet until 1-ish.

Melissa introduced me to a food magazine from South Africa - Taste Magazine. The pictures make you salivate and make me create massive grocery shopping lists. Saturday I deep fried "Crispy Avocados". No health benefits whatsoever. The Crispy avocado recipe earned the "alright, but not amazing" grade. The lime juice is really what made it taste passable. I don't think it is worth trying again.

Sunday's meal, however, was a work of culinary art. At least, that's what my friends tell me. Steak Bearnaise with Sweet-Potato Straws...except I couldn't find sweet potatoes, so I skipped making sweet potato fries. The beef part and Bearnaise sauce is as follows:

Beef
1 3/4 lb Beef fillet
garden herb rub (rosemary, celery salt, parsley, garlic, salt & fresh ground black pepper)
Olive oil
Red Wine (or red wine vinegar in my case)

Cooking instructions: Marinate. Grill or, if a grill cannot be found, broil or fry to preference. Remember the meat will continue cooking for a bit after you remove it from heat, which will need to be done before making the Bearnaise Sauce.

Bearnaise Sauce
Olive oil
2T white-wine vinegar
2T white wine
1T Chives (I used shallots since that's what I had)
2T chopped parsley
3 egg yokes (I used 4)
melted butter

Cooking instructions: Bring the vinegar, wine, chives and 1/2 the parsley to a simmer in a small sauce pan. Whisk the egg yokes and then add to the simmering mixture. Continually whisk the sauce until it is thick. Add the melted butter in steady stream, always mixing. Finally add the remaining parsley. This sauce should be prepared just before serving the food. It is similar to a hollandaise sauce - it can't be overdone or it will get lumpy.

Tupo, who functioned as preparatory kitchen elf, assembled a salad out of cucumbers, vinegar salt and fresh ground black pepper. I threw together the other two sides, coconut rice and lentil-like beans in a shallot-sherry sauce.

Everything was scrumptious. You can tell, because everyone had the right type of tummy ache at the end of the meal and the meat was almost gone.

My Little Yellow Lizard

I receive all sorts of creaturely guests. Mosquitoes come for dinner, at peril of their lives. The beloved little geckos chivilrously climb walls and ceilings to defend me by eating these bloodthirsty mosquito beasts. Tropical birds swoop and perch on the thatched roof of the gazebo to peer at the strange thing underneath, come from far away. They are endlessly amused - approaching cautiously and then flitting away in a flurry, only to repeat a minute later. Brown and green lizards rustle the bushes and check every once in a while to make sure I like the music they are making for me.

But best of all is my little yellow lizard. He's the perfect mix of bold and shy and barely twice the size of my little pinky. Little yellow lizard seems quite enamored, for he courageously slipped under the door to visit in my foreign world of tile floor. Then he scuttles over to the wall, in fear that I might not receive him kindly. Don't fear little yellow lizard. You're my very favorite.

A lot of leg in Africa...

...is not a lot of leg. Visible knees equals too much leg.

In the corner of our garden is a pump. In order for a shower to saturate my mass of long, curly hair, the pump must be plugged in. Otherwise, the shower is an unpleasant trickle. My very first day, Tom instructed me to shout "the pump" so that either Ingas or Damacine would plug in the pump for me, creating that magical water pressure. The challenge comes with Grace shouting. I don't specialize in being heard. So, after a futile shout (okay it wasn't a shout. More of a quiet plee...I don't like shouting instructions to people), I tried to sneak out in our walled garden to plug in the pump myself. Well, I wasn't as stealthy as I hoped. Damacine turned the corner and froze - eyes locked on my long white legs, sticking out of the little blue pj shorts. Damacine couldn't look at me normally for days. Very awkward. Now we've developed a system, so that I don't continue to scandalize Damacine and Ingas.

It's funny. Rwandan woman wear tight, strappy, off the shoulder garments. Their pants are often painted on...but said painted paints always cover the knees. Therefore, deemed modest. I totally support feminine modesty - it enhances mystery and, ultimately, enchantment. It's just funny to me that knees are deemed immodest. I always thought knees weren't exactly attractive. Knobby comes to mind.

Prior to my flight, Matt told me "most women choose not to wear shorts or skirts that don't cover their knees due to the extra attention that it draws." Groan. Being tall and thin means that any shorts actually covering my knees would have a waist two or three Graces could fit into. No formless blob cloths for Grace. Particularly in fashion conscience Africa. You laugh. I'm serious. Africa is rampant with great dressers. In fact, staff actually respect their ex-pat manager when that person dresses well,though not obstentatiously. I did go buy a pair of stylish, long, thin shorts that end just above my knees. All my skirts cover my knees and then some. Still, men and woman stare at my lower legs as I walk down the street. They're just so long. And white...comparatively.

To minimize the "comparatively", I love to spend my Saturdays at the pool in Kigali baraqueing, swimming, reading and chatting with Melissa. We had a great conversation about the Christian's call to steadfast disposition and nail polish.

The Novotel is one of the two swanky hotels in Kigali. It boasts the best bakery in all of Kigali, where I always get two loaves for the next week. The pool is laid out in such a way that you don't feel like a spectacle for the pleasure of the Novotel guests. The grounds fell like a park, with tennis courts, crested cranes strutting through the tropical plumage and said pool. The Novotel has the only "healthy club" that you can find in Kigali, so each Saturday has its standard slew of guests. There are the Rwandan children learning how to swim. Lessons are around eleven-ish. . Then French speaking Italian Alexandra and her handsome little son, Samuel, who arrive around 9 am. British Andrea sometimes comes. Young aid workers with their first child. The older Rwandan who swims the butterfly stroke beautifully. The group of hung-over aid workers role in around 13:00 - the 35-year old Chicagoan who still hasn't grown up, the spiky-haired, blonde South African, two nondescript Americans and then someone new this week - swaggering Mr-I'm-handsome-
and-know-it. They love to talk loudly about how drunk they got last night. They plugged their speakers into an outlet on other peoples tables, to the consternation of people who had been there all day. Not very considerate. Not at all classy.

I guess I was showing a bit more than a little leg, cuz Mr I'm-handsome-and-know-it, decided I shouldn't be left to my book. He kept watching me. Twice he tried the "Interesting book. Can I read the back of it?" trick. Something creepy about him. The second time he came over I answered sweetly "of course" and then immediately walked off to talk to someone else. Mr I'm-handsome-and-know- it was totally embarressed in front of is friends. (Katie - that's how you get ride of unwanted men.)

For someone I chatted with for a long time Friday, from Oswald Chamber's "My Utmost for His Highest":

"I have been crucified with Christ." Galatians 2:20

The imperative need spiritually is to sign the death warrant of the disposition of sin, to turn all emotional impressions and intellectual beliefs into a moral verdict against the disposition of sin, viz., my claim to my right to myself. Paul says - "I have been crucified with Christ"; he does not say - "I have determined to imitate Jesus Christ," or, "I will endeavour to follow Him" - but - "I have been identified with Him in His death." When I come to such a moral decision and act upon it, then all that Christ wrought for me on the Cross is wrought in me. The free committal of myself to God gives the Holy Spirit the chance to impart to me the holiness of Jesus Christ.

". . . nevertheless I live. . . ." The individuality remains, but the mainspring, the ruling disposition, is radically altered. The same human body remains, but the old satanic right to myself is destroyed.

"And the life which I now live in the flesh . . . ," not the life which I long to live and pray to live, but the life I now live in my mortal flesh, the life which men can see, "I live by the faith of the Son of God." This faith is not Paul's faith in Jesus Christ, but the faith that the Son of God has imparted to him - "the faith of the Son of God." It is no longer faith in faith, but faith which has overleapt all conscious bounds, the identical faith of the Son of God.

Drinking in Rwanda...

...is a little bit different. First of all Rwandan Christians typically don't drink at all...anything alcoholic that is. (Thankfully my ex-pat friends do.) While beer is locally brewed (see the Primus and Mutzig bottles) wine is imported and therefore not-so-refined (i.e. bad, cheap) wine is really expensive here. Quality wine is a rare pleasure.

"Fountain Sodas", particularly "Coke" and "Fanta", are as cheap and, in many cases, cheaper than water. It is often safer too, if you are a guest in someones home. People open the drink they are serving in front of you. Then, if you visit a home, they give you a straw to sip out of the soda bottle. In a nice restaurant, you will be given a glass. Everything is bottled in glass. Glasses are kept. When you have a crate full of empty bottles, you take your crate of empty bottles to your particular soda vendor. It's really the best form of recycling. So much less waste.

I got to meet Nyanja's grandma today. Ancient - slightly tottering, but amazingly strong. It was the first time she'd seen Nyanja in 15 years.

Grandma seemed almost as excited to see me, a token American with whom her long lost granddaughter had grown up. After the standard greeting (three kisses), and after finding out who I was, she fumbled back across the tiny living room (it felt 10x10), grabbed me, kissed me and kept patting my back. She said something in Kinyarwanda. Nyanja laughed. Grandma just told her that, in her village, they said people like me ate people like her. I was her granddaughter's friend.

They washed our hands and served us fresh fruit and Orange Fanta sodas. I listened to Kinyarwanda/French banter for the next three hours, mostly clueless. But I was starting to sort out certain words, even if I had no idea what they meant.

As promised, here is a picture of Ingas, our night security guard who loves having conversations of "______... Is it correct?" to learn English. I reply "and how do you say in Kinyarwanda?"


Now - here is a taste of the adventure of making Rwandan produce safe for consumption. First, you buy the produce from the grocery...or better yet...you're cook purchases the produce at the large market (we will be having an excursion the the market next week). I'll make sure to get pictures for you. Then you come home and fill a bowl with some twice boiled and then filtered water with just about a teaspoon of a special purple die. Let them soak for a few minutes and then you can eat without fear of African bacteria. That is the adventure of making fresh fruits and vegatables safe for consumption, complete with pictures of my kitchen and the bowl. It's a little different than the normal Rwandan kitchen.

I like having conversations, with Tom, my host too. With three sons my age or a year or two younger, he fits into the fatherly-ish, protective genra of friendships. In Rwanda, besides managing the guest house, Tom acts as general council for the bank and focuses networking to build contacts for a new NGO that Dale Dawson and Bishop John are setting up (Bridge2Rwanda). In his past life, just outside LA, Tom was a very successful claims attorney. He was not a successful husband. (Both Tom and Melissa are divorced....different divorces. I've appreciated and learned from their perspectives.)

This morning, Tom told me a story about a 14 year old girl found/rescued by International Justice Mission in Indonesia. The girl had been a slave of sex trafficking. the following psalm had been written on her wall. It is pretty moving to think about the context of

Psalm 27, Of David.

1 The LORD is my light and my salvation—
whom shall I fear?
The LORD is the stronghold of my life—
of whom shall I be afraid?

2 When evil men advance against me
to devour my flesh,
when my enemies and my foes attack me,
they will stumble and fall.

3 Though an army besiege me,
my heart will not fear;
though war break out against me,
even then will I be confident.

4 One thing I ask of the LORD,
this is what I seek:
that I may dwell in the house of the LORD
all the days of my life,
to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD
and to seek him in his temple.

5 For in the day of trouble
he will keep me safe in his dwelling;
he will hide me in the shelter of his tabernacle
and set me high upon a rock.

6 Then my head will be exalted
above the enemies who surround me;
at his tabernacle will I sacrifice with shouts of joy;
I will sing and make music to the LORD.

7 Hear my voice when I call, O LORD;
be merciful to me and answer me.

8 My heart says of you, "Seek his face!"
Your face, LORD, I will seek.

9 Do not hide your face from me,
do not turn your servant away in anger;
you have been my helper.
Do not reject me or forsake me,
O God my Savior.

10 Though my father and mother forsake me,
the LORD will receive me.

11 Teach me your way, O LORD;
lead me in a straight path
because of my oppressors.

12 Do not turn me over to the desire of my foes,
for false witnesses rise up against me,
breathing out violence.

13 I am still confident of this:
I will see the goodness of the LORD
in the land of the living.

14 Wait for the LORD;
be strong and take heart
and wait for the LORD.

I enjoy orienting myself to a foreign place. People speak of preparing for the culture shock of coming to Africa. I don’t like the word “culture shock”. It doesn’t fit me or at least my experience. Rwanda is just a different way of living. In many ways, learning Rwanda feels similar to learning NYC in the summer 2001. Sensations of uncertainty and adventure seem to parallel the experience of that summer, when I was on my own for the first time and in New York. Really, how much more culturally shocking can it be than for the girl from the conservative Christian bubble to live in Manhattan’s East Village? In fact, I enjoy the Africa adventure more.

Sunday afternoon/evening, I went over to Nyanja’s house. The moto taxi driver ripped me off. I had to pay a whole $1.90, instead of the $0.95 I should have been charged. The $0.95 cents was worth it – I got to see how real Rwandan’s live. Nyanja kept telling me that everything takes so much longer hear. I definitely got a taste of that at her home. Nyanja’s mother lives in a house, high up the hill. While the view is beautiful, water is not pumped up the hill – so everyone on the street has to go down to get water from the well. I also had the special privilege of being in the kitchen while Nyanja’s mother, Josephine, cooked. I guess she never lets other people in her kitchen. The kitchen if very different – the stove/oven are two metal stands that are filled with Charcoal. It was Nyanja’s birthday celebration. In Rwanda it is the birthday girl/boy, who treats everyone else on his or her birthday. While Nyanja did preliminary things, her mother was the real mistress of the kitchen. Josephine is Francophone...but that didn't stop her from battering me with questions via Nyanja translation and side commentary.

One question that I've gotten very frequently from Rwandans is "are you married?" When that question came from Nyanja's mother, it must have been the 7th or 8th time. Her reply was much more animated then most (except the lawyer's proposal). Josephine proceeded to tell me that very pretty, I'm too picky and independent and that I should start having children right away. I laughed. I retorted that most men weren't tall enough. She laughed and retorted in french "See. Too picky." She sounded frightfully like an American mother. She's probably right on point three, but that isn't going to change. I'm not going to give my independence up for just anyone. I guess some would say she's right on point two.

Josephine has quite a story. She's this energetic happy woman. She'd been in prison for 11 years after the genocide even though she was Tutsi and had protected others. Nyanja's family is one of the few I've met who where here during the '94 genocide. Nyanja is quite open with their story.

Josephine made a traditional dish – ugali – that is a staple in Sub-Sahara, Africa. In each country it is called something different. Josephine served the dish with a saucy-chicken dish and carrots & peas. Ugali is eaten by hand from a communal dish. The first step of the meal is to wash you hands in the presence of everyone else. Using a canteen from the well, we poured water over our hands into a big red bucket on the floor. Then, we proceeded to eat – with our hands. I sat quietly, listening to the Kinyarwanda banter of Nyanja’s family as I tried to master the art of gracefully eating with my fingers. There is a technique…I never quite got it. While I didn’t understand most of what was said, Nyanja would translate conversation cliff notes. With gestures, they were able to see my response. At the end of the meal we all washed our hands again, using the canteen from the well, the big red bucket and (this time) soap. Then it was time for the Nyanja birthday family photo shoot, at the opposite end of the front porch.


The next day – Monday - I was walking down the street to grab lunch and I felt a tap of my shoulder. I turned around and there was Nyanja. It’s funny. I’m in a foreign country where I know one person, outside of my co-workers and, the one day I go out to get lunch, that person grabs my shoulder. Nyanja came and sat with me while I ate lunch.



Rwanda seems to be one of the “Africa for beginners” places as Helen described it last night. It’s like Hobbit-town – in the countryside, the fields are cultivated in nice orderly little rows. Except, hobbits are peaceful. While Rwanda is peaceful now, that’s not exactly the history. Who is Helen you ask? Well – she can’t be defined by place. Born in Bahrain, early childhood in Jamaica, raised partly in the UK, lived in Mozambique for 9 years as well as other parts of Africa, currently based out of Melbourne in Australia but doing a 9 week project for Angola and visiting the Rwanda for a week. See what I mean? Not defined by place. She is one of the wittiest women I’ve met – but then what else would you expect of an expat part-Brit? Helen came to visit Melissa. They had been prayer partners in Mozambique, with 3 other women. They are the closest of friends. During Helen’s visit, Melissa served a delicious dinner – 3 courses, each accompanied by sparkling conversation.


I think I mentioned Ingas (pronounced EE-nahs), the night security guard. He, and my coworkers are teaching me a little bit of Kinyarwanda. In return, I am teaching them a lot of English. All university studies are in English. Ingas is security guard by night and student of finance by day. Sunday, he mentioned that there were certain words in his notes that he didn’t understand. So, I suggested that he make a list of words and I could try to help explain them. It is quite difficult explaining English, in English, to someone just learning English. After a few minutes I grabbed my French to English lexicon. It was fun to see the light come into his eyes as he read the definitions. I ended up giving the lexicon to him, as I thought it would be much more useful for him than I.

Finally, here are some pictures of Chantal and Damacine. I’ll let you figure out who is the cook, who is the gardener. It isn’t exactly rocket science. ☺ I'll try to get Ingas' picture in the next few days for you.

The Inner Ring

This speech, by C.S. Lewis, intrigued me. I believe you’d definitely find it an interesting read.

Yesterday I visited Kigali's Genocide Memorial Centre. Talk about sad. For me, the hardest exhibit was the children's exhibit - the last exhibit on the guided tour of the museum. It was simply pictures of children, with a brief 5 point list underneath: the child's name, a personal trait, favorite food, best friend and manner of death. After exciting the internal exhibits center, I spent some time in the center's gardens, which are beautiful. They surrounding the graves of about 250,000 victims. I know that sounds morose. I think it is just something I think you have to do when you come to Rwanda. People would come and go. Some in full African garb. Some left flowers.

I took nearly 50 pictures of the gardens (you can't take pictures of the exhibits inside) and tried to upload them onto Picasso for you all to see in an album. However, internet speed was too slow to complete the upload. I also took a 45 second video to give you . There is only one internet provider in Rwanda, so there isn't any competition for them to try to improve.

Going to the genocide Museum meant stepping outside of the sheeshy district in Kigali, crossing the valley and seeing the homes that many of my coworkers live in.

That is the part of Africa I haven't seen yet. I walked 1/2 way home, before getting on a moto taxi to go the rest of the way. So many people are walking the streets in other neighborhoods. Woman, men and children balance huge loads on their heads - loads that look as heavy as them. Other times they push bicycles weighted down with sacks of food or canteens of water. Everyone looks at me though no one came up to beg. If I smile, they smile back.

I was a half hour late to church this morning because I walked up the wrong road. I stopped and asked for directions and a Rwandan walked me to where I needed to go. When I got there I gave him the equivalent of a dollar for his guidance - what he was expecting. From his little english, I pieced together that he was from the Congo, he was a security guard at New Cactus (a restuarant that was on the way to where we were headed), and he was studying at Kigali's university of technology. When we got there, I asked him if he wanted to go to church. he told me that he was going later to his church. This was the the first time I know a Rwandan was lying to me...when I approached him he had been smoking. Rwandan Christians will not touch alcohol or cigarrettes. (The Christian foreign nationals drink or smoke in secret...)

Well. I finally got around to taking an autism test, which a friend sent out several weeks ago. It is a 50 question test designed by Cambridge university to test autism in adults. I scored 13, which they indicate as "average" but very close to the other end of the scale.

It appears that how you score also correlates to your Myers-Briggs personality. My Myers-Briggs results are on the way confusing side. While the "I" (introvert verses extrovert) and usually "J" (judging verses perceiving) are pretty clear, I am split straight down the middle between S (sensing) and N (intuition). Technically, I am supposed to be an N, but I behave a bit more like an "S". However, I do things strong S's struggle to understand. In my personal life, I am more of an F (feeling) but then at work I'm a strong T...and I enjoy having T conversations in my personal life and try to keep the personal life F in check. Sometimes, I like personal life to be a bit less structured (P). While I love closure (J), I can juggle multiple things at the same time (P). I've tested ISTJ, ISFJ, INTJ and INFJ at different times.

So, I'm the Myers-Briggs Chameleon. Go figure. I'd love to find out what other's results are - particularly my family.

Yesterday I crossed the threshold into normal life...at least normalcy for a foreign national in the sheeshy part of Kigali.

After making my breakfast of sunny-side-up eggs, toast and tea, I joined Tom on the veranda to enjoy breakfast. Chantal was in the kitchen when I brought my dishes back. Chantal has three children – ? (his name is Kinyarwanda), Enoch (with a French pronunciation), and Rebecca. Her youngest, 2-year-old Rebecca, she calls "a funny girl". With very little prying, Chantal told me the "funny girl" story of yesterday - Rebecca cooked. With water - pouring from one pan into another and then back again. Rebecca got herself all wet and dirty but insisted she was clean. Chantal even dug out her wallet and showed me a picture of her beautiful little Rebecca. I promised Chantal that I would cook with her - something Tom has encouraged me to do. Opportunity International call it capacity building. Chantal's an extremely trustworthy cook. In fact, she used to be the cook for the old CEO of Urwego's family. However, I'm told that Todd Brogden's wife used to rely heavily on pre-made sauces and pre-assembled spice packets. As these things are either not readily available or extremely expensive, Jessica Brogden would stock up every time she went to the States. I cook from scratch with whatever is fresh and readily available. If something isn't available, I alter the recipe slightly. Teaching Chantal this cooking method for American and French cuisine would actually make Chantal a more marketable cook in the nicest neighborhoods of Kigali.

As Tom had some errands in "Central" yesterday morning (I think it was another excuse to drive me to work...), he drove me to the German Butcher, La Gallette, where I selected 2 nice cuts of meat, spices and a few other essentials - tea and cheese, in preparation for cooking with Chantal today. She made granola for me this morning. When I came home from work, we made a roast - with a rub from herbs in the garden. It was quite yummy...though I really miss my meat thermometer. I asked Chantal what she cooked at home, and she replied rice and beans. Every night. Her children love it. While they get good local produce, meat is too expensive for them. After we finished cooking our roast, I sent Chantal home with some of the roast.

The real reason I feel a bit more like a adjusted ex-pat is that I had my first moto taxi ride yesterday. In fact - my first 3 moto taxi rides. I was wearing a pencil skirt (for the less fashion conscience...or obsessed...that means I was in a tight skirt straddling a motorcycle). It was quit interesting. The driver laughed at me as I got on and off the moto taxi. I was laughing at myself. My friend Dave tells me that in South Africa Moto Taxi drivers are on speed to stay awake during their long shift. Rwanda doesn't have any drugs (at least according to Matt), so speed isn't an issue here. In addition, the moto taxi industry is regulated by the government - drivers are required to provide their rider with a helmet and their cell phone number is printed in bright yellow on their helmet and the back of their green shirt, so you can report the moto taxi driver if they are reckless. Riding a moto taxi is really fun - they zip up and down the hills of Kigali. I live a 20 minute walk/5 minute drive from the office. So, I was planning to walk to and from the office. However, Melissa didn't want me to walk with my laptop. She and Tom have finagled into giving me a ride every time I've needed to go somewhere. I knew they'd be more comfortable with me on a moto taxi than on foot. The fiery, independent streak in Grace, wants to prove that she can take care of herself. The moto taxi was a major step in that direction. I was just nervous about being ripped off. (They're notorious for overcharging Muringos.)

Nyanja is the reason I finally collected the courage to hop on the moto taxi. She assured me that - where I am - and anywhere I'd want to go, I shouldn't have to pay more than 300 RWF (55 cents).

Nyanja and I met up at Bourbon UTC for lunch. Bourbon UTC is the coffee shop 3 blocks from work. (Some of you know Nyanja. She lives in DC and attends my church - Grace DC. She's Rwandan, but came to the States shortly after the 1994 genocide. Nyanja has quite a story. However, that story is hers to tell...not mine.) We were getting ready to order at Bourbon, I mentioned that I lived close to one if Kigali's best restaurants - the Indian Khazana. I'd never been and she'd never heard of it, so Nyanja insisted we leave Bourbon and go to the Indian Khazana for lunch. It was delicious - the best Indian I've had in years. I also learned first hand that Rwandan restaurant serve isn't like American restaurant service. American runs on the principal of efficiency - the more people in and out the more revenue generated. In Rwanda it is assumed that you want a relaxing time. Our lunch ended up being a three hour lunch. I went back to the bank with my tail between my legs, and then realized no one cared...and the lady I needed to work with was out.

Finally, some pictures of places:


Above is the street where I purchased my cell phone, my first day in Rwanda. This street is called the Mall. As Matt explained, here you can find everything you don't want and a few things you do want.

One of the new groceries will be down the block from Urwego Opportunity bank, in this tall building - the one with the reddish facade and the wall of windows. I can't wait until there are more grocery stores.



Many Rwandans ride in these things called Mini-buses. Picture squeezing about 18 people into a minivan. There you have a min-bus. The fair is about 150 RWF (27 cents). Matt says they are extremely dirty. In Uganda, there is a line strung in front of the mini-bus, were people hang their fresh fish before getting into the bus.

I might have received my first Rwandan proposal yesterday, but I’m not really sure. He was explaining how Rwandans date. I couldn’t tell if he intended to be hypothetical or whether he was actually proposing. The “I am cutting things short between us and going straight to the proposal” made me extremely uncomfortable. So, I did what any sensible girl would do in a situation like that – I laughed. He remained serious. I squirmed. I’m still learning to navigate my way through the cultural differences and the language barriers. I’m not certain I understood Mr. Hypothetical and I don’t think he understood me. Given that, it’s hard to be adept as I usually am at manipulating my way out of awkward, undesired dating conversations.

Rwandans have plenty of cows – that was how the dowry used to be delivered. I haven’t seen any horses yet. So, I’ll say that I’m a 21 horse woman. If I see horses in Rwanda then I’ll change to a 12 lion woman…and each has to be a male lion, with a mature mane. In fact, I should start off saying I’m a 12 live lion woman. (That would bring a totally new meaning to cat lady…) Rwanda has no lions. The little country is too densely populated. That should scare away anyone looking for U.S. citizenship via Grace.

The other night, Matt and Susan came over for dinner. (Susan is the executive admin for the management floor – i.e. COO, CEO, CFO, HR director, etc.) She grew up in Uganda and recently returned to Rwanda with her family. Her visit ended with a lesson on how Rwandans say hello. The men have all different types of hand shacks, depending on the level of intimacy. Woman just go straight to kissing – first one cheek, then the other and finally on the lips. I should have known something was up when Mr. Hypothetical tried to greet me that way this morning and then followed it up with are you married…very-shall we say cross-culturally disconcerting. (How’s that for an attempt to be P.C.?)

Many Rwandans have an impressive grasp of the English language – it’s just that English is so variable. There is English, scot English, Australian English, and a slew of 2nd language English. I’m just grasping how challenging it is for others to learn and speak our language. However, Kinyarwanda is no easy feet either. In fact, some language experts say it is one of the most difficult languages in the world. First, it is a tonal language. So, you can say the same word two different ways and it will have two completely different meanings. Second, Matt tells me they don’t really have sentences. The words just get longer and longer. Third, spelling is not standardized. At lunch Felix (an IT specialist at Urwego), explained that to me there could be 10 people in the room and they each would write the same sentence differently. Its sort of intellectually humbling to consider the complexity of the language as well as the fact the Rwandans I work with speak 2, 3 and sometimes 4 languages.

Home Sweet Home - Kigali

Rwandans don't like having their picture taken. It is best to ask their permission first. So far, I haven't worked up the courage - so you have very few pictures of Rwandans. However, they'll come. I promise. Taking pictures of things is another issue. That I do with reckless abandon.

I've finally moved into what will be my permanent residence in Kigali - Urwego's guesthouse for donor (i.e. investor) relations. Tom manages the guesthouse. He's originally from Southern California, somewhere around LA. He works for two organizations - Bridge2Rwanda and Urwego. He is one of Urwego's logistics people...I'm not exactly sure what he does. He hasn't been in the office since I've been here. He has three sons and used to be a claims attorney. One of his sons, Nathan, is visiting him right now. Last night, after dinner, the princess side of Grace imposed on Tom and Nathan to help hang her mosquito net. (I hate mosquitoes more than anything. If one buzzes around my head at night I'll wake up and stay awake until I send the little pest to its grave.) Hanging my mosquito net ended up being a bit of an adventure as neither Tom nor Nathan are very tall...and the ceilings are. Tom doesn't have a ladder and mine wouldn't fit in the suitcase, so there was a bit of creative stepping on windowsills and backs.

The guesthouse has a cook, Chantel, who is Anglophone. I have yet to meet her as she works weekdays, but they tell me that she'll love to cook with me - learning my recipes and sharing hers. The gardener/day watchman, Damacine, is Francophone. Damacine is very proud of his garden and I don't blame him. His garden is what makes the guesthouse feel like home to me. Yesterday afternoon, I traipsed around the garden with Damacine, pointing to plants asking their French and Kinyarwanda names. Unfortunately, all I remember is that the Citron tree is near the gate. I'll have to do it again, with a notebook. I remember things when I write them down. I want to learn a little bit of French or Kinyarwanda - enough to say, hello, how are you, your garden is beautiful, etc.

Ignas, the night security guard, is both Anglophone and Francophone. They tell me He'd be delighted to teach me a little French and Kinyarwanda.

Tom's current interior decorating is on par with the typical bachelor...though to be fair, he's still setting up house, having furniture made in Rwanda. He does have some excellent ideas, which I'll have the pleasure of seeing implemented while I'm here.

The garden, however, will be my favorite spot. There are a whole slew of herbs, including parsley, celery, mint and rosemary. You'll also find a variety of fruit trees - papaya, lime and orange. Then there are the flowering trees, the palm trees, the ferns, the little purple ground plant, the bamboo plants and my two favorites - the coffee tree and the avocado tree. The coffee tree is little - more bush-like than tree-like. Coffee is one of Rwanda's largest exports. Rwandans grow good coffee beans I'm told. I can't confirm, as I'm not a coffee aficionado. I can, however, verify that I've never had more delicious avocados then those I've had this past week in Rwanda. (I've already thrown out Dr Darko's "NO FRESH FRUITS or veggies" rule. I'm going with the more widely accepted "peel it, boil it, cook it or bake it" rule in travel books. However, I am wishing I ignored Alison and brought all the Pepto-Bismol. Last nights goat stew and spinach-ish something didn't sit well.


There is a gazebo in the middle of the garden, that looks down on the valley below and off to the hills on the outskirts of Kigali. Right across the valley, on the opposite ridge, is the American embassy. It stands just as it was first described to me: something big on top of the hill.

The birds who visit the garden are as different as the music they make.

Worship this morning was beautiful. Melissa picked me up and took me with her to the Anglophone service at St Etienne Cathedral, which is the "mother" church of Church of the Rez in DC). Reverend Samuel Mugisha preached on Romans 12:1-9, being transformed after Christ. The preaching was thoughtful and singing was magnificant. Worship was really refreshing. It hasn't been that refreshing and worshipful for me for a very long time.