Long Time, No Post

It's been much too long since I've posted anything. This is partially due to a large workload and partially due with a lack of creative juice. I have not however stopped writing altogether. I adjusted one of my previous blogs and had it published on my friend's online journal The Fly Came Near It (July issue). In the new August issue, I had another essay published "The Mitten Shaped Hole in My Heart." It's a reflection on missing Michigan while being gone. You can read it this month at http://www.theflycamenearit.com/Site/Mitten-Shaped_Hole_in_my_Heart_%28Essay%29.html .

Solving the Bazo

There is a new addition to our house in Musanze…a kitten. A few weeks ago, Emma and I were in Kigali to run a few errands and to get a change of scenery. Around 10pm the first night we were there, Emma came in the room we had reserved and announced that she was going to rescue a cat. When she was walking down the hill to the hostel, she heard one meowing in tortured lament in a nearby tree. I was eager to help, so we grabbed a towel and our phones (they have flashlights in them) and set off on a mission. Unfortunately, all attempts to scale the tree failed, due partially to the fact that it was a bad tree for climbing, partially to the fact that it was growing out of a particularly steep part of the hill, and partially to the fact that we are not cats. With each try, the cat grew more terrified at the shaking of the tree and inched itself up another foot or so.

We soon decided to abandon Plan A (climb the tree) and move to Plan B (locate a ladder). As it was now 10:30pm, we knew we would not be able to find any handymen around the hostel or nearby church, so we went to the bar that was right next door. After a minute or two of a mixture of Kinyarwanda, French, and English (turashaka, save the ipusi de l’arbre) we managed to discover that the bar did not possess a ladder, that they had also heard the loud calls for help from the cat, and that Rwandan cats liked trees, so we should just leave it there. Hoping someone would have some other ideas for us, we humored everyone by greeting several groups of barflies, satisfying their curiosity about who we were and why we were in Rwanda, and explaining our cat problem. We got the same response: leave the cat in the tree.

Undeterred, we attacked Plan C … stand under the tree and coo at the cat. This plan turned out to be effective. No, the cat did not climb down, but a few passersby heard the cooing and stopped to see what was going on. One young woman started meowing back at the cat. Not helpful. But after surveying the situation, one man grabbed the tree and started shaking it as hard as he could. This was not a tactic that Emma and I had wanted to use as it was horribly distressing to the kitty. It started climbing higher and higher up the tree which was becoming thinner and thinner towards the top. Finally, the challenge of climbing a shaking tree overcame it, and the cat dropped right into the outstretched towel that Emma was holding.

We wrapped it up in the towel, took it to the nearby 24-hour shopping center and bought it a covered basket and some tuna. We took it back to the room with us and spent the next several hours in and out of sleep while the cat loudly lamented its pathetic life. Somewhere around 4am Emma decided that the cat had to go, so she took the basket outside, turned it on its side and scooted the cat out. But the cat had already decided that the towel was better than trees and drainpipes and ran right back into the basket, casting a pitiful look at her. What can you do? Nothing but take the darn cat back inside, crying or no crying. But, it seems as though a lesson had been learned because after a few minutes of stroking, it calmed down and fell asleep, giving us a few hours of peace.

After an hour or two of sleep, Emma woke up inspired with a name: Bazo ("problem", or "trouble" in Kinyarwanda). So now Bazo lives at our house. She eats dried minnows from the market and sleeps under my covers at night. Aside from a few small issues (eat anything close to cheese and she goes bonkers trying to get at it) she is a perfect cat. Her favorite activities, after cuddling, are all computer related: sitting on laptop keyboards (a good substitute for itunes shuffle), batting at my internet modem stick, and sitting on your lap while you type so she can watch the mouse move, as she is doing right now.

Great Expectations (an ode to Kelly Jo)

Warning: The following is being written after the culmination of a week of negative Rwanda experiences (not the least of which was the discovery that my camera had been stolen and also that the electricity would be out for several days). At the risk of sounding whiney, I decided I just had to get it out. It is a reflection of the difficulties in cultural differences and how it comes out in dealing with institutions.

After handing over enough francs to cover 3 months of rent, a house full of furniture, and the general costs of moving, my pockets (and my bank account) were empty. So on February 24^th, I asked the head accountant if my February salary would be deposited in my account on the 24^th or 25^th. I had been told that deposits were always done on one of these days each month. And I believed. Ha. The response was: "On Friday we will do the paperwork."

"So I can get money out on Friday?"

"No, it will not be sent to the bank until Monday."

"On Monday then, I can get money out."

"No, it will take the bank one day to put the money in."

"So Tuesday, I can get money from the bank?"

"Yes…on Tuesday."

I decided that I should throw in a few italics to create some drama and help insure that I would in fact be paid for my work.

"Okay, on Tuesday. It is very important that I receive the money soon because I need to buy food."

"Yes, yes. On Tuesday. No problem."

So I borrowed a bit of money from Emma to tide me over for the next 5 days and on Monday night said a prayer, crossed my fingers, and wished on a star. Tuesday I made my way to the bank. After a few mishaps I was able to check my account balance. (My slip of paper was momentarily detoured from the line of bank notes by the teller window when someone decided it didn't look official and took it off the table, crumpled it up, and threw it on the ground. I rescued it and returned it to its place in the long line.) From my account balance, I was expecting one of two things: A nearly empty account, or an account with about 400,000 francs. But what I got was an account with about $150 less than what I should have been paid. I was relieved enough that I had plenty of money to live on that I decided not to be too disgruntled by the numbers and just go to the University the next day and see if it was a bank mistake or an accounting mistake.

The next day I went to the accounting office. "Yes you have been paid," they said, and showed me the same number that the bank had given me. I told them that it was not the correct amount and they pointed in the general direction of the CA (Chief Accountant) whose office is on a different floor, in a different part of the building. So I went up, and explained to him the problem. He pulled up the payment records and after a few minutes we hit upon the mistake. I had been paid the salary of a Tutorial Assistant, not an Assistant Lecturer. The month before I was given the salary of a Lecturer, so why did this happen? Probably because the other American working at the school is a Tutorial Assistant and no one in accounting had bothered to figure out which one of us was which. Never mind that they had a copy of our contracts (which I personally had to bring to them because everyone at the university had seemed to have lost their own copy of my contract.)

After clearing up the cause of the problem, I was told that a check would be written to me for the remaining amount I was owed. "When can I come to take the check?" I asked. "Tomorrow" was the answer. "Ah, problem easily solved!" I mentally sighed. But, unfortunately, I forgot to mentally knock on wood. And so, here is the rest of the February Salary Saga, day-by-day.

Wednesday: The source of the error is discovered and I am told the check will be available for me to pick up the next day.

Thursday: I go to the accounting office in the afternoon to pick up the check. When I ask for it in the accounting office, they point up to the CA's office (which, by the way, is in the room called "alleluia.") When I go upstairs the door is locked and the lights are off. I go home.

Friday: In the morning I go to the accounting office and again ask for my check. They point at "Alleluia." Upstairs, the door is closed. I return in the afternoon, again no one is there.

Saturday: I stop by "Alleluia." Empty.

Sunday: A day of rest.

Monday: I go to the accounting office. Finger pointing. Upstairs is dark.

Tuesday: No one in "Alleluia."

Wednesday: Finally "Alleluia" is occupied. I am told in French something about my check. I think he is telling me to go down to the accounting office, but I'm not going down there again unless he comes with, so I ask him to speak in English so I can be more clear. He tells me to follow him and we go downstairs. After 20 minutes, the reason why I need a check and the amount it is for is communicated to the women who is the official "check writer." The receipt is printed off and it is signed by the CA. He then leaves and tells me it will be taken care of. I sit and wait for more paperwork to be finished. Then I am told that I should go and come back later because they need to get three more signatures.

"When will I come back?"

"Later. The person who needs to sign is not here."

"Why aren't they here and when will they sign for my check?"

"I don't know, one of them is not here and another is going to Kigali."

"Kigali? Will he sign before he leaves?"

"I think he will just go."

"But not before signing my check."

"I think he will sign it first."

"Yes, he should sign it first. And the other person should sign it soon also."

"But we do not know when. Come back later."

"I will come back in an hour."

"No problem."

An hour later I return and am told that it won't be ready until tomorrow. Emma has arrived and is arranging for a check to be written for her. Her check is sent off with mine for signatures. She is also told to return tomorrow. We pull out the italics. "It will definitely be ready tomorrow. In the morning. Tomorrow. We will come here, tomorrow in the morning and it will be here for us to take?" "Yes, in the morning. Tomorrow."

Thursday: We wait until the afternoon just to give them a little extra time. There is only an assistant in the office and she looks for the check but can't find it. She tells us there will be someone else in the office at 5. So we return at 5. They find Emma's check and give it to her. I am told that mine is not ready. "Why is mine not ready? It was sent for signatures with Emma's and her's is ready. It is not possible." I am told that a mistake was made on the check and they ask me to have patience. It will be ready tomorrow. I decide that this is not the time for passive politeness. It is the time for protest and action. (No Emma, not Taser action). I put down my phone so that I can use my hands for emphasis. I raise one weary foot and then the other and step onto my soapbox.

"I will have patience and I will come tomorrow to get my check, but this cannot happen again. I have been waiting for 10 days to receive my full pay. I have come many times to take my check. It is a very bad problem. You must be more organized. I know that sometimes mistakes are made, but this is not okay. You need to fix this." I step down, resolved to write a report on my accounting experiences and give it the Vice Rector for review.

Somehow I think that the check will be there for me tomorrow. And I don't anticipate having anymore problems in the following months, but the idea that trying to get my full salary has turned into a part-time job is slightly infuriating. But, part of the reason why Emma and I were hired was to give input into how the University is run. And this salary debacle will serve as a big motivator to fulfill that part of my job description!

If you can't beat 'em...join 'em.

I was walking through Mukinga on Saturday evening (Katy refers to Mukinga as the Hooligan Town), and a bunch of kids were sitting on the railing of a cement bridge covering a creek that runs through town. They saw me coming and two of them were eager to speak to me in English. They got up and followed me. It soon became apparent that while their teacher may not have been teaching English to them, he/she certainly was using it in the classroom. The interaction went something like this:

Kid 1: Good morning!!

Me: Good evening!

Kid 2: Good morning!!

Me (enunciating slowly): Good evening!

Kid 1: I am fine!

Kid 2: Sit Down!

Me: What?

Kid 2: Be quiet!

Kid 1: 2, 3, 4...2...3...4

Kid 2: Sit down!

Kid 1: Sit down!

Kids 3 &4: Sit down!

Me: Sit down!

The Mattress King

One of my first purchases after arriving back in Musanze was a mattress. You can get real mattresses here, but most people just have foam ones covered in fabric. Secondary students usually have to bring their own mattress to school with them, so you can buy them all over the place. They roll them up for you, tie them with twine, and you're good to go. Before I bought the mattress, Jessie and I went to the market to get some food. At the market, I usually am swarmed by a group of boys who want "a job." They want you to pay them a hundred francs or so to carry your bag while you shop and to give you advice on where to get the best food for the best price. Usually I give them a piece of gum or a firm "Oya" and they decide I'm not worth the effort and leave. But on this day, one boy decided to stick with it.

I had finished buying everything I needed and made my way out of the market entrance with Jess before I noticed that he was still by my side. I ran through my Kinyarwanda small talk routine with him "What's your name? Where are you going? No, I'm not giving you money. How old are you? No, I don't have a pen…" until I ran out of words. And still, he stayed with us. Even after Jess and I started our own conversation. When we walked up to a store selling mattresses, he planted himself right next to Jess and watched while I tried to haggle with the owner for a good price. But I couldn't get the vendor to lower his price enough. He was offering me the muzungu special: An 18,000 RF mattress for only 30,000 RF. I knew 30,000RF was definitely too much, so I turned around and started to leave. Usually this is enough to drastically lower the asking price, but it didn't work this time. I translated to Jess what had just transpired and then looked over and realized our friend Neo from the market was still dogging us. "Well, as long as he's here, I might as well put him to work" I thought. So I asked him how much I should pay for a simple mattress. He cocked his head for a moment and then replied "10,000 or 12,000." Then he beckoned to us and took off towards the other market. He brought us to another store and stood in front of the pile of mattresses out front with his arms crossed, waiting for us to catch up to him. He didn't say anything to the owner, but he made it clear that we were his muzungus, and he better not try any funny business.

I was able to talk the vendor down to 12,000RF and before handing the money over, I looked over at Neo. He gave me one head nod/eyebrow raise of approval. As the man brought out twine for me, I fished a few hundred francs out of my pocket and gave it to Neo for his services. He stuffed it in his pocket and then proceeded to roll my mattress up, bind it with twine, and tuck it under his arm. Before we could say anything, he took off back in the direction we had come from, his two muzungus trailing behind him. No longer was he the boy shadowing the white girls, now he was the Guide…the Escort…the Mattress King. As we followed behind our sauntering local expert, we both looked at each other as we realized where he was headed. Soon an extra spring was added to his step and his chin lifted a little higher. He strutted right past the first store I had stopped at and without slowing down, gave a head nod to the man who had tried to overcharge me. The man pointed at the mattress and asked him how much I had paid. Neo answered him with exaggerated nonchalance and kept right on walking. By this point Jess and I couldn't help but laugh and we followed right behind him, teasing him and giving him jovial shoulder slugs. Once back at the food market, I handed him an extra 100RF piece and took the mattress from him.

Yesterday, when I was leaving the food market after another grocery trip, I looked over and noticed Neo was by my side again. I gave him a friendly hello. He must have thought that I didn't recognize him because he pointed at the first mattress shop and then at me. "Yeah, yeah, I remember you" I told him, nodding furiously. Then I tried to solicit his help for today on finding a bamboo table. I don't think I got the point across very well, but I'm going to keep my eye out for him at the market from now on. That much gumption earned him a spot on my gold star list…he's probably got a few well paid "jobs" coming his way.

Only in… Part II

 

…Michigan.

On the way to the MBS airport , in the middle of the day on a Tuesday, it had begun to snow pretty heavily. We were driving down a neighborhood road close to home. At the end of the driveway of a house, there were two men standing, watching another man on a four-wheeler with a plow attached to the front. The men watching were both skinny and had donned hats and coats. The man on the four-wheeler was about 150lbs over weight and was wearing only bright red sweatpants, a hoodless gray sweatshirt, and untied boots with the tongues hanging out and the sweatpants tucked into the tops. The snow hadn't actually accumulated that much, so I'm not sure what they were doing with the "plow". Probably just grown-up boys having fun in the snow. I wonder if they wished they could make a snow fort with that thing.

…LA.

I've got two for this one: While I was sitting in the coffee shop (see previous post) I saw a 20-something woman walk by with her dog. She was radiating a very calculated "I just got out of bed and don't care what I look like" look. Her dark hair was in a ponytail and strands of it were strategically pulled out to get the "tousled" look. She was wearing ugg slippers, tight fitting jeans and a blue sweatshirt. Her slimness wasn't exactly proportional, making it obvious that she had gone under the knife at least once in her lifetime. In one hand was the pink leash for her dog (I'd like to say it was a chihuahua in a sweat suit to paint the perfect picture, but it was actually just a medium sized, naked mutt.) In the other hand was an environmentally friendly, to-go coffee cup. In the words of some 1920's author which I vaguely remember: "there's nothing like being picturesque!"

The next day, I was walking down the street peeking in some of the local shops…knitting stores, used book stores, gourmet cupcake shoppes, etc. I passed one called Zinnia's and decided to go in. From the outside it looked like a trendy gift store. Walking around I soon realized that it was a store selling things of absolutely no value whatsoever. There was a big table with cute trays filled with what I first thought were beads, but were actually just pieces of plastic that were in fact eye-catching, but had no holes. The next tray over was random Scrabble letters; the next, pieces of children's blocks cut into small pieces; the next, assorted keys with no locks; the next, mismatched buttons; and the next, wheels from toy cars. On a shelf were vases filled with pipe cleaners. Next to the shelf, on the wall, were mounted spools of colored plastic string. I couldn't find a single thing in the store that could actually be used for anything except for maybe use in a Martha Stewart type crafting activity or to picture in the "O" magazine. I will admit though, everything was fun to look at.

…DC.

Unfortunately most of my time spent in DC was spent sleeping/shivering on the floor of an airport terminal so I have nothing to report on here. Although I do recommend the Dulles Dunkin' Donuts!

…Rwanda

One of my first days back Jess and I were walking into town from the house we were staying at and passed a group of teenage boys hanging out on the corner…the Rwandan equivalent to hanging at the mall. One of the things I most appreciate about Rwanda is that societal expectations for dress are: 1. Dress professional when working. 2. Women should not show their knees. 3. Anything else goes. Outside of Kigali, there's very little pressure on teenagers to dress a certain way. And these boys on the corner were a case in point. One was standing next to a bike. He was wearing a hot pink, girl's polo shirt. Another had on a girl's winter jacket with a fur-lined hood. On him it looked like a very warm belly shirt. A third had on a yellow mesh tank top. What was so great about the situation is that when we walked by they started laughing at us. I guess we looked weird.

Anyone else have any "only in…"s yet?

Pre-Return: Only in Michigan

Right now, I’m sitting in a coffee shop in South Pasadena, CA. I’m soaking in the mixed sounds of English conversations, an espresso machine, and indie-elevator music. I dropped $3 on a delicious apple turnover because the closest thing I’ll get to a pastry in the next 6 months is a chapatti (also good, but no apple turnover). I’m sitting in front of a window and have seen at least 10 people in the last hour walk by with a dog on a leash. (yes, I am jealous).

Sitting here makes me feel like it’s a very odd world we live in. Over the course of a week, I will have spent a significant amount of time in Michigan, Los Angeles, Washingon D.C., and Rwanda. I realize that I may currently be an extreme example of globetrotting, but still. In no other time but the most recent years, would this be possible. I’m not sure, if this is a good thing or bad thing. Maybe the reason why no one from my volunteer group suffered from major culture shock after returning from a year in Africa is because of how close Rwanda seems. Sure an American grocery store is a bit ridiculous at times, but when I’m there, I know there is a place I can get to in less than 24 hours where none of these difficult choices (face wash brand, for example) have to be made. Africa may be a world away in some respects, but not in distance. I wonder…if distance is no barrier anymore, maybe everything else is sure to follow. Again, I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing…probably it’s just something to be taken into grave consideration in issues such as travel, international relations, global and local economics, etc. I guess it’s something to think about while I’m plane hopping.

In each of the four places I’ll be in this week, I’ll probably have a coffee, a meal, and people watch. On my way to the airport in MI, I saw a person that made me think: “only in Michigan.” So, I decided that this week, in the course of my people watching, I’m going to find one person that stands out in each location I’m at. I’ll report back. And here’s an invitation for fellow people-watchers: Seen anyone lately who’s the epitome of your location?