I took a new route, this morning, on my run, hoping it would be less hilly. In that, I was sorely disappointed. Three steep hills one way and two on the way back. Well, as I topped the furthest hill and was 50 paces from my turn around point, who should I see striding over the hill but Damacine, our gardener. When we say each other our eyes both lit up. He shuffled over to my side and joined me for the remaining half of my run. Him, running in his nice pressed shirt and his dress pants. And Damicine did more than just keep pace - he pushed me to run faster up the hills. When we got home he told me that he played tennis at the Novotel (where I swim and risk contracting skin cancer underneath my SPF 30 sunscreen).

There are always Rwandans walking on the streets, sometimes with baskets on their heads. Sometimes just walking. When they saw Damicine and I (many were people I'd already past in the first half of my run), they, stopped, stared and smiled at us. Children on their way to school, would join us for several paces, before petering off, laughing. Others cheered us on in French or Kinyarwanda. It was quite a sight for them - Rwandan and "muzingo" (white person), running together. Rwandans never run and never with muzingos. They generally try to cheat muzingos, because, as Adelin explained yesterday, they assume all muzingos are rich. (Talk about racial profiling.) Damacine speaks almost no English, but somehow we manage to communicate.

If I go out to do some shopping, he tells me what the fair price for the moto taxi would be or correct price for the item I want to purchase. I know he's telling me the truth because it is usually half of what they initially quote me. It's fun how much we can communicate when we really try.

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.