There are many incredible, amazing, wonderful things about Rwanda. The food is not one of them. The other day, after yet another meal of rice, plantains, salt, and oil, I decided to vent my frustrations in an iambic fashion. Yup, it's another hate sonnet, this time dedicated to Rwandan cuisine:
They lie upon my plate in disarray,
twix pools of grease and oily sauce unknown:
Potatoes, carrots, beans-day after day,
And what I hope are only chicken bones.
My fork, the only weapon I possess,
seems not enough for this enormous task;
I must now change what I would call success-
Yet would raw veggies be too much to ask?
So here I sit, in heat that steals my breath,
Sweat from my brow, the only seasoning,
Adding some salt on cabbage cooked to death
And fried beyond all human reasoning.
What's this? Some strange new goop, perhaps a soup?
Oh, but alas, it still won't help me poop!
TMI? Absolutely. Let's just say that a lack of Western plumbing, and a traditional Rwandan diet, quickly dissolve all bathroom taboos.
That's all for now, friends!
