At the end of things...

It’s a rainy Tuesday morning in Kigali.  This isn’t all that special.  But what makes today different is that it’s my last morning in Rwanda.  At 4:45 pm, I get on a plane and fly back to the States.  Of course, I have to go through the Nairobi airport, so Africa might not let go of me quite that easily.

It’s been 25 months, almost to the day, since I last set foot on American soil.  Right now, the USA doesn’t feel real.  Real is red clay roads and endless banana leaves.  Real is foggy mornings and afternoon thunderstorms.  Real is the old mamas that grab my hand and won’t let go, the children that hug me in the marketplace, people that stare, people that smile, people that greet, people that shout, people that beg.  Real is eating an entire pineapple for dinner. Real is a clear night when I can see the stars forever or a cloudy night when it’s too dark to see my hands. Real is watching the mold grow on my ceiling and the pieces of mud brick wall that fall on me while I’m sleeping.  Real may or may not be the rat that I think lives in my rafters.  I’ve never seen it, but there’s something squeaky up there.

I can’t neatly sum up what the last two years have meant to me.  If this were a movie, the critics would likely praise its artistically ambiguous ending, while the audience would leave full of popcorn and lingering questions.  The good and the bad, the amazing and the heart-breaking, went so hand in hand here.  It was little good things like finding perfectly ripe bananas at the market and getting them back to my house unsquished, or little bad things like stepping in a puddle on the way to school and having to feel ashamed of my dirty all day.  It was amazing things, like my students telling me, “Teacher, now we have confidence to speak English,” going to a baby-naming ceremony and watching the father hold his daughter with so much love in his eyes, or walking through my village and not feeling out of place.  It was the heart-breaking things, like going to a friend’s brother’s funeral where even the priest cried, listening to my neighbor scream with night terrors all during genocide memorial week, or a close friend at site telling me that she was recently diagnosed with HIV and simply saying “bibaho” (it happens).

I’m leaving Rwanda a different person than when I came.  That much I know for certain.  When I get on that plane this afternoon, it won’t be the same person that got off a plane 25 months ago.  But I’m looking forward to finding out what that will mean back in America.  So friends, for the last time in Rwanda, thanks for coming with me on the journey.  Let’s meet up for coffee.  I’ve heard rumor of a magical place called “Starbucks”…

Pants on Fire!

A recent break-through in the field of stress management promises stunning results for the often beleaguered and overwhelmed Peace Corps volunteer community.
In the past, researchers and psychologists have advocated the therapeutic benefits of tranquil indoor activities such as knitting.  But new evidence has cast doubt on the efficacy of such endeavors, especially in equatorial climates.  As one Rwanda PCV reported, "Knitting is very calming.  I have 27 sweaters.  Then I step outside, and I have 27 personal saunas."  Researchers have found similar pitfalls for hobbies such as origami, recreational plant cultivation, and bagel making.  Determined to find a solution to the growing problems of tedium and frustration, researchers took a hint from early man.
"Fire,"  states one researcher.  "Fire revolutionized life on earth.  Just think of all the myths surrounding its creation.  We thought, if fire could help our first ancestors in so many ways, why not put a modern twist on it?"
Project Prometheus was officially launched in Rwanda last month, and the results thus far have been promising.  One volunteer, who wishes to remain anonymous, has agreed to give her testimony under the name PCV Smith:  "Well, I was going through kinda a rough patch a while back, when I heard about this experiment.  I looked into it and thought, why not?"
The premise for Project Prometheus is simple--some might say primal.  In the project's proposal, researchers state: "life is often filled with situations beyond our control.  Why not burn away your troubles?"
PCV Smith agrees:  "I had my doubts.  But the first time I tried it--wow.  Burning up my trash, watching all the useless crap I've acquired in my life fade away into ashes...yeah, that felt good."
PCV Smith entered Project Prometheus at Level One, which comprises burning paper and cardboard.  Within days, researchers sensed that she was ready to progress to Level Two--Plastics.
"It was great," she admits.  "As a kid, we had a woodstove, and my parents always told us not to burn plastic.  This is like a belated teenage rebellion.  And it makes pretty colors."
This is, in fact, one of the purported goals of Project Prometheus: "..to allow participants a safe place to dispose of their physical, personal, and emotional trash...as with sexual promiscuity, you run the risk of getting burned, but at least there won't be an embarrassing rash."
Of course, there are critics of Prometheus' methods.  Greenpeace recently launched an online "Chain Prometheus" campaign, citing the environmental damage caused by recklessly burning plastics.  And doctors remain skeptical about whether or not the project's short-term mental health benefits will outweigh the harmful effects of repeated smoke inhalation.
Despite these naysayers, Project Prometheus has found a home in over 20 countries.  And PCV Smith has no intention of quitting:  "I'm almost up to Level Three--Batteries.  There's no stopping me now!"

Raiders of the Last Chalk

Indiana Jones has nothing on the kindergarten students at my school.  Well, he has a jaunty hat, but the "babies" have spiderman pajamas and Disney princess dresses.  It's really no contest.  And when it comes to persistence and a keen eye for chalk nubbins, these babies could put even the most accomplished treasure hunter to shame.
The Scene:  A dusty late morning.  The sun hangs high in the sky, lazily burning off the last of the clinging fog.  The air is calm, the children are in the classrooms, a lone dust-devil whirls its way across the dirt playground.
I sit beneath the awning, correcting exercises.  Then I hear it.  A squeak.  From the corner of my eye, I see the rusty sheet-metal gate swing open.  They come through in twos and threes, arms linked, quiet voices whispering in each other's ears.  They see me.  Across the playground, our eyes meet.  Somewhere in the distance, a goat bleats.
They are sly, these babies.  With a wisdom far beyond their four or five years, they know a direct assault cannot succeed.  They stand to the side, a huddled mass of mismatched clothing.  I can sense their determination from forty feet away.
The group breaks.  Three little girls approach.  It's a charm offensive.  They move toward my desk, eyes widened in feigned innocence, an innocence betrayed as they steal furtive glances at the almost empty box of chalk beside me.
They greet me.  We shake hands and exchange "good mornings."  They know I am the keeper of the chalk.  They know they must prove their worth.
The first girl steps forward.  "Wampaye ingwa!" she demands in a resolute voice.  Slowly, I remove a piece of chalk and hold it up to the light. We examine it together.  It is a good chalk--still snow-white, not yet worn smooth by too much use.
I break it in half and draw a heart on the desk.  I hand her the chalk.  She makes a blob, a more anatomically correct heart than mine.  I let her keep the chalk.  She has passed the test.
The next girl approaches.  "Gooda monini, fine teacha!" she stutters with nervous enthusiasm.  I break the chalk in half again, and toss it up in the air.  She reaches out and deftly catches it.  I let her keep the chalk.  She has also passed the test.
The final girl comes up to me.  Our gazes lock over the remaining stub of chalk. 
I speak first: "What is your name?" 
She stares at me blankly.
I continue:  "What is your quest?" 
She stares at me blankly.
I continue:  "What is the airspeed velocity of an African swallow?" 
She stares at me blankly.  I give her the chalk.  She too has passed the test.
The babies fade into the banana trees, clutching their hard-earned chalk triumphantly.  Emboldened by their victory, they will no doubt raid again.  And I'll be waiting, with the last of my colored chalk, and a few riddles up my sleeve.

What is the meaning of this?!

Family vacation.  Two little words that strike fear and dread in the heart, but also trigger fond memories of long summer days and even longer road trips.  Family vacation in Rwanda? Well, that is another case...
Family vacation kicked off the afternoon of August third when my older sister, Margaret, arrived in Kigali via Ethiopia.  Her flight was on time, and on a continent where time is relative, I took is as a good sign that my relatives were able to arrive relatively on schedule.

The waiting area at the airport is designated by a quasi-official rope barrier.  I disregarded this, and lurked casually on the other side.  Through the clear glass doors, I saw my sister arrive, try to exit, get pulled aside by the customs agent, have her illegal plastic bags confiscated, and finally make it out.  Obviously, the Howells do not come from a long line of even semi-successful smugglers.

After getting settled in at the hotel, we headed out to explore the town.  First stop?  The cafe at Simba supermarket to get African tea.  African tea is one of the things in Rwanda that is always guaranteed to contribute vastly to my happiness.  It's very simple--Rwandan tea, whole milk, and fresh ginger boiled together and served hot.  At Simba, you also get a cookie.  This too contributes to my happiness.
African tea was as safe bet.  One of the major themes of this vacation was: "Do you think that has gluten in it?"  My mom and sister recently learned that they have gluten allergies, which meant that family vacation was dominated by talk of wheat, and the graphic detailing of its effects on the digestive system.  I'll never look at a loaf of bread the same way again.  But on the upside, I got a lot of left-over cookies.

Next, we went for a wander through the back lanes of downton Kigali, counting stacks of neon colored mattresses and the number of vendors who tried to sell us airtime.  It's a proven fact that the number of MTN hawkers that approach you on any given day is inversely proportional to your actual need to buy airtime.  Eventually, we found our way over to the ibitenge mecca, a warehouse filled to bursting to room after room of printed fabrics.  Margaret immediately began scheming up craft projects.

After a much-needed afternoon nap, I introduced my sister to the starchy wonder that is Rwandan buffet.  Starch is to go-to food staple here in Rwanda.  Potatoes, rice, sweet potatoes, cassava, plantains, pasta--at a nice buffet, you'll find all of these, plus some variety of unidentified meat, a vat of beans, and a vinegar-heavy cabbage salad.  The truly class establishments offer unlimited mayonaise.

The next day, we had plenty of time to kill before the parents arrived in the evening.  I, of course, was up at the crack of dawn.  Margaret managed to sleep in significantly later.  She is somehow not a villager.  By the time she'd finished dozing away the best hours of the day (Vacation Theme II: "Is Moog awake yet?" "Hahahaha"), is was lunch time.  I decided that we should trek out to Kimironko market and buy out the fruit section.  After living in Rwanda for two years, I think I've forgotten just how amazing the food can be.  Sure, there's only about fifteen things you can find at any given market (the market I go to never makes it past ten), but the fruits and vegetables are incredibly fresh and perfectly ripe.  As Margaret commented after taking a bite of the mango we bought, "I had a mango in Baltimore last week, but it was nothing like this!"  Rwanda has probably ruined me for tropical fruits.  But the apples here are crap.

Kimironko market is a sight to behold.  The produce section is open-air, housed under a lofted tin roof.  When you first walk in, the smell of ripe fruits and vegetables, cut with an undercurrent of dirt and sweat, can be overwhelming.  We threaded our way through the throngs of buyers and sellers, settling on mangoes, a pineapple, baby bananas, maracuja (passion fruit), and tree tomatoes.

Maracuja and tree tomato are what I affectionately refer to as "Bite and Suck" fruits.  First, you bite a small hole through the tough outer skin.  Then, you suck out the juicy, seedy innards.  This skill takes time to perfect.  More than one unsuspecting bystander (my dad included) has fallen victim to another person's seedy shrapnel.  When eating a Bite and Suck, proximity isn't exactly deadly, but it sure can get messy.

Finally, it was the evening, and time for the rest of the family to touch down.  Now, before I continue, a word about my parents.  They do not hesitate to call themselves "two old farts."  But for two self-described old farts on their first trip to Africa, they did amazingly well.  I basically made them live my Peace Corps lifestyle (with a limited budget, it was necessary), and they survived ten kilometer hikes, squishy buses, rainstorms, Rwandan buffet, limited ammenities, medieval plumbing, and moto rides.  There was the occasional threat to pee in a trash can (cough, cough MOM), but they took everything in stride.  I think they could better be described as "two old sharts":  they might be full of hot air, but there's some substance there too...

Once we'd settled into the hotel, we continued the Howell family's love affair with Simba (Vacation Theme III: "Where should we eat?"  "Oh, let's just go to Simba.")  It also began what was to be a two week romance with the fried potato, more specifically, the French fry.  The advantage to having gluten intolerant visitors straight from the States?  Not only did I get their bread, but I got their mayonaise too.

Monday was safari day.  Rwanda has a small game park, Akagera, in the east on the border with Tanzania.  We left Kigali bright and early.  Out driver, Charles, picked us up at 4:30 so that we could get to the park by 7:00.  We were almost at the park entrance when Charles got a phone call: the south gate was closed.  So, after a harrowing 7.5-point turn on a bumpy dirt road, we headed up toward Uganda and the north gate.  Charles drove with typical Rwandan abandon, and at one point the side mirror broke off and went flying into the bush.  With the classic Rwandan gift for understatement, Charles merely remarked, "It was repaired badly."  As he ran down the road to find it, the rest of us waited in the car, watching smoke billow out from beneath the hood and wondering if we would ever make it to Akagera.

Rwanda might be the land of 1000 hills, but only three of them are in the eastern province.  The east looks more like the traditional image of Africa that most people have in their heads--long yellow grass, acacia trees, rolling plains.  Until I saw it, I hadn't quite believed reports that a place like that could exist in Rwanda.  I just assumed that my friends had wandered into Tanzania by mistake.

Eventually, we made it into the park.  Mom immediately went into bird-watching mode, although to her credit, she didn't bring a bird book with her.  Despite being one of the smallest and least visisted game parks in East Africa, Akagera was more than worth the trouble it took to get there.  We saw: monkeys, baboons, warthogs, giraffes, hippos, many varieties of antelope, water buffalo, zebra, and too many birds to count.  We visited Akagera during the height of the dry season, when everything was covered in a thin but noticeable layer of red dust.  The zebra weren't black and white, they were black and red.  Knowing the Rwandan obsession with avoiding the dirty, I half expected to find a squadron of women armed with brooms, hiding in the underbrush and waiting until nightfall when they could emerge and dust the animals.

The first third of my family's visit was a wild-life excursion.  Two days later found us trekking mountain gorillas through a rainforest rainstorm (Vacation Theme IV:  "Who's going to fall down next?").  We visited the Kwitonda group, who were as unenthralled by the downpour as we were.  We rounded a corner in the bamboo forest to see two huge silverbacks hunkered down, grunting.  The smell was a combination of wet dirt, wet dog, and other, less delicate, liquids and solids.  We hacked our way through the underbrush to the bamboo nest, where we met more silverbacks, as well as some mamas, babies, and youths.  The rain let up long enough for them to become active, crawling around the nest and coming out to eat, play, and inspect the visitors.  Throughout, our guides kept up a steady "conversation" with the gorillas by grunting a variety of friendly, non-threatening greetings.

Virunga park specifies that visitors much stay a certain distance away from the gorillas at all times.  However, the gorillas themselves respect no such boundaries.  At one point, my dad had to practicaly throw himself backwards into the bamboo to avoid getting trampled by an aimlessly meandering silverback.  By the end of our expedition, we all felt ten pounds heavier, thanks to the rain and mud permeated through our clothing.  We got back to the hotel for much-needed showers and lunch, where my sister accidentally ordered a mayonaise-filled pineapple.  Only in Rwanda...

The next afternoon it was off to Gisenyi, on the shores of Lake Kivu, up by the border with the DRC.  Kivu is one of the few places in Rwanda where you can get good fresh fish.  Sure, there are sushi places in Kigali, but it's hard to be anything less than suspicious about ocean fish in a land-locked third world country.  We took a five kilometer trek out to the penninsula, in search of a restaurant called Paradise.  Once again, I've got to give the old sharts credit:  they trekked up and down those hills in the mid-day muggy heat without any real difficulty.  I had warned them that they should train for Rwanda's hills and altitude, and they did--much to the amusement and confusion of the rest of the Yakima valley, my dad would put on long jeans and walk up and down a hill in the 90 degree July weather.  Well, it paid off.

After Gisenyi, it was time for the long-awaited visit to my village.  My family got their first taste of the squishy bus experience, as we piled into an International twegerane.  The road was windy, but thanks to the alarming squeak that our bus was emitting, the driver drove most of the way at about 20MPH.  So we were all able to enjoy the scenic beauty of Rwanda without the usual terror that accompanies that stretch of road.  Of course, the trip took about an hour longer than it should have.

I had decided not to make my family stay at my actual site, Rubona, for their visit.  My house is somehow not set up for visitors.  Instead, we spent two nights at the Catholic parish in the town about an hour's walk from my village.  It had electricity and mostly functional western-style plumbing.  Neither of these things exist in my village.  The town, Rusumo, isn't large enough to warrant paved roads, but it has its fair share of shops and restaurants.  I took my family to my favorite bar for dinner.  The waitstaff there all know me, and after we staked out one of the cabanas, the waiter came over, examined us, then exclaimed to me, "What is the meaning of this?!"

We ordered rice and beans, which the waiter promised would be ready in an hour (Vacation Theme V: "Yeah, they're just placating you.").  According to my family, I am not guilty of operating on African time, always telling them, "Oh, just fifteen more minutes," regardless of the actual timeframe.  I also apparently now stand way too close to people while talk or waiting in line.  One time, I picked my nose in public.  America is going to be a shock to the system.

My parents had expressed a curiousity to experience African church.  I decided to give them the full experience, and took them to the Pentecostal church near my village.  I go there occassionally with one of my colleagues from school, but I knew that our presence was still going to cause quite a stir.  The children's eyes nearly fell out of their heads, and the same can be said for many of the adults as well.

During the service, there was much singing, much dancing, much testifying, and of course, my parents had to give speeches.  My sister was spared from this quintessential part of Rwandan culture, much to her relief.  At the end of the service (and it only lasted three and a half hours, perfectly reasonable), the pastor presented my parents with an agaseke basket to thank them for visiting.

Next we went to my village, where my family was able to see where I've been spending the last two years.  They also got to meet my umukozi Alice, who had been excited for their visit for the better part of the last year.  It was the school holidays, so most of my coworkers weren't in the village.  We went to my school, and poked around the village, where we were enthusiastically greeted by the few villagers that were out and about.  The old women, in particular, were amazed by my mom, ogling her long gray hair and chattering in Kinyarwanda about how they couldn't believe that such an old woman would come to Rwanda (Vacation Theme VI: "Hey mom, you just got called an old woman.  Again.").

It was a hot, humid day, so after we took Fanta Coca at the shop, we went back to Rusumo for the night.  We were all exhausted from the ten plus kilometers of hiking, but I was slightly apprehensive about the next day--I suspected that it would be my family's first chance to take a real twegerane.  I was right.  When we got tot the main road in the morning, there was not a big bus to be found.  I've told my family enough about Rwandan public transportation that they knew what to expect, but no amount of knowledge can really prepare you for your first time on a tweg.  Fortunately, the convoyer was kind and put the four of us and our big bags in a row to ourselves; the rows in front and behind were each bursting with five or six people.  The road from Ngororero to Gitarama is one of the least traveled and least policed in Rwanda.  So of course, people drive with an imaginative lack of respect for speed limits and traffic laws.  I'm proud to say that none of the Howells vomitted on the bus, but we were all looking a little worse for the wear by the time we screeched into Gitarama.  Buses here are enough to test even the most iron of stomachs.

Our final destination for the day was Butara, home to the National Ethnographic Museum, the National Universtity, and the Nzozi Nziza ice cream parlor.  We made it to two out of the three.  The national museum has a wonderful collection of artifacts and art, although the picutre of "ancient" farming techniques look almost exactly like what I see in my village on a daily basis.  The ice cream parlor has...ice cream.  The university occassionally has blue-balled monkeys roaming the campus, but we chose ice cream over testicles.

With time winding down, we had just one more stop before heading back to Kigali for the last few days.  If the first third of our trip was a wildlife excursion, the last third was a museum extravaganza.  We spent one night in Nyanza, the former seat of Rwanda's monarchy and home to the King's Palace Museum and the Rwesero Art Gallery.  My family loved Nyanza, and it holds a fond place in my heart as well--I spent my first ten weeks in Rwanda there, doing training.

Then suddently it was time to say goodbye.  We'd done it--four Americans gone 'round Rwanda, and we'd emerged relatively unscathed.  Granted, both parents had to pop Cypro, my sister got an ear infection from the shower water (one more reason not to bathe, if you ask me), and I wiped out on the pavement and had a huge bloody scab on my knee--but we were overall unharmed.  No one had malaria, no ebola had snuck across the Ugandan border and liquified our innards.  So it was a successful vacation!

Despite the gathering ominous thunderclouds, my parents and sister made it out of Kigali on their respective flights with no problems.  They're still famous in my village.  When I walk by, one of the old mamas will often start telling everyone in earshot about their visit.

So that was the highlight of my holidays!  I have a months and half left in Rwanda, and then...America!  I finish my Peace Corps service on November 20th, and plan to fly out that night.  Getting home right in time for Thanksgiving?  After 25 months away, I can't think of anything better!

Cool Feats, Sore Feet

It was easy to play “Spot the Kenyan.”  In the crowd of participants milling around outside Amahoro Stadium, waiting for the Kigali marathon to begin, the Kenyans were the ones that looked like it was causing them physical pain to be walking, not running.  Everyone else looked like they were repressing the thought of the physical pain that they were about to inflict on themselves by running.  As I leaned against the wall, admiring set after set of well-defined calf muscles, I reminisced on how I, a dedicated couch potato, found myself in this precarious position.

Mostly, I came to ogle the ex-pats.  Kigali is an excellent place to white-watch, and last year’s marathon had no shortage of eccentric European, avid Asians, and questionable Canadians.  There was team Greece, named both for their nationality and the state of their slicked-back hair.  We knew they were Greek because of the Greek flag emblazoned across the front of their none-too-flattering spandex tanktops.  Had they actually moved faster than a casual Mediterranean saunter, they no doubt would have been weighed down by the pounds of gold bling around their necks and on their fingers.  They did not participate this year.

Also not making an appearance was the Flashing Fauxhawks, named for their speed, hairstyle, and lack of supportive undergarments.  Whatever styling product they used must be a state secret, because they all finished without ruffling a single hair on their painfully metro heads.

However, this year did feature the grand redebut of Naked Girl, this time with pants AND a shirt.  Perhaps, last year’s ensemble of a sports bra and booty shorts convinced her that there is never a proper public context for showing that much skin in Rwanda.

I participated in the relay.  In a perfect world, this would mean that each team member would run 1/4 of the marathon.  Unfortunately, due to various circumstances beyond our control, by the eve of the marathon, team White Rightning found itself reduced to only two runners.  We must have angered Thor with our blasphemy.  Still, we decided to persevere.  After all, we got a t-shirt.  Literally, A t-shirt—each relay team got one shirt to share between its four members.

Sunday morning dawn bright and hazy with the implied threat of afternoon showers and afternoon self-medication.  Sometimes the universe sends you little warning signs.  For example, being tired after walking thirty minutes to the stadium.  But sometimes, you choose to ignore those little warning signs.  For example, running in a marathon despite being tired after walking thirty minutes to the stadium.  Sometimes, you get what you deserve.

Caroline and I, the two remaining members of White Rightning, surveyed the track and discussed the possibility of each running half of the marathon.  We knew we were lying.  Instead, we ran the first two legs, then hobbled back to the Peace Corps office to take hot showers before the rest of the contestants finished.  We both agreed that this was a good life choice.  The best part about running in a marathon?  You can spend the next week lounging around without feeling even the slightest twinge of guilt.  And sometimes the weeks become months…but that’s okay too…

Backyard Saloon

Rwanda is full of salons (or “saloons,” spelling here being a bit of a free-form art).  They tend to have such entertaining names as “New Look Salon,” “Number One Superstar Saloon,” or “VIP Culture Salon.”  I do not frequent these establishments.  Instead, I usually cut my hair in the privacy of my own backyard. 

Occasionally, however, that privacy gets invaded.

One morning, as I was in the middle of giving my hair a much-needed shortening, Alice (the woman who fetches me water) came over.  It had never really occurred to me that my method of hair hygiene might seem strange to a Rwandan villager.  So it was with a combination of amusement and bafflement that I observed Alice observing me.  As my dull scissors lopped off each curl, Alice made the Rwandan signal of surprise: a low grunt accompanied by a slight widening of the eyes.  Then she started gathering up my fallen hair.  It’s probably a sign of how long I’ve been in Rwanda that I didn’t find that odd.  I just figured she was picking it up so as to prevent the hair from dirtying up the dirt in my courtyard.  As with most of my assumptions about Rwanda, this one was wrong.

That afternoon, as I was walking home, Alice’s young son came running out of the forest to greet me.  This was fairly normal.  But what was not normal was the pile of bright orange curls perched atop his head.  We exchanged polite “Good mornings,” and went our separate ways, leaving me to wonder just how many little pieces of myself were currently scattered around the village.

So now after cutting my hair, I deposit it safely out of site in my shower shack.  The birds there are constructing a palatial nest, and the orange accents provide a nice contrast to the otherwise drab, brown exterior.  I just hope they’re building a saloon for all their fashion-conscious, well-coiffed avian friends…

Kapture in Kampala, Part II: The Ledge of Glory

When we last left or intrepid but increasingly annoyed heroine, her visa debit card had been heartlessly snatched by a greedy ATM machine and was being held hostage until the end of the so-called "Easter Monday" holiday.  What happened next is a tale of betrayal and redemption, the story of one woman's rise from poverty and rides on escalators.  And like most stories from this part of the world, it ends with vomit on a bus.
I wasn't sure what to do with myself on Monday.  My traveling companions headed up to Jinja for two days of adventures on the Nile; I decided to try to join them on for bungee jumping if I was able to get my card back in a timely fashion.  The common sense nodule of my brain whispered at me that this was unlikely to happen.  I ruthlessly suppressed it.
With very limited funds and no real idea what to do, I went into my default travel mode: aimless walking, people-watching, and caffeine abuse.  Although, caffeine abuse usually results in the walking being aimed toward finding a public toilet.  I have to say, the restrooms at the National Theatre are pretty darn nice, at least by my low and rapidly falling standards.
After a few hours of wandering, I found The Mall.  Even now, I can only speak of it in reverently hushed and capitalized tones.  There was a food court.  There was a movie theater and a bowling alley.  There was a store devoted entirely to lamps.  There was an escalator going up.  There was an escalator going down.  And next door, there was Another Mall.
That afternoon, I was faced with the classic hero's dilemma.  I was very hungry, but also very broke.  I would smell the fried aromas of the food court tempting me, even as I stood outside the National Theatre and read a poster for the musical adaptation of Twelfth Night that was being staged that afternoon.  My food hole was empty, but so was my culture hole, and I only had enough money to satisfy one desire.  I chose culture.  Ugandan traditional dance is nothing like Rwandan traditional dance.  Rwanda is all about the arms and the feet.  Uganda is all about tying a giant piece of fur onto your booty and shaking it.
Tuesday dawned bright and clear and full of the tantalizing hope of getting my card back and going bungee jumping.  The common sense nodule of my brain still under lock and key, I headed out to Barclay's and arrived right as it opened.  I was promptly informed that the ATM fairy had not yet visited, and that I should return at two.  I decided to come back at noon.
Twelve rolled around and found me once more at the bank, where I was told that I could not be given my card because the system was down, and that I should return at two.  At two o'clock sharp, I went through security for a third time, the common sense nodule of my brain quietly being bludgeoned to death by the paranoid fear nodule of brain.  Sure enough, the system was still d own.
So I waited.  By three, paranoid fear had been replaced by indignant annoyance.  I went once more to the ATM lady's desk.  The following conversation happened:
      "Is your system still down?"
      "Yes.  But we have your card."  She holds it up for me to see.
      "But you can't give it to me."
      "No.  The system is down."
      "Why is that a problem?"
      "When the system is down, we cannot photocopy your ID."
      "Can I go out and make a photocopy?"
      "Yes."
Twenty minutes and one more trip through security later, I had my card back.  I resolved to never use a Barclay's AT again.  Fortunately, Kampala is a city of banks, and I quickly fond a KCB that let me use my card, no strings attached.
Obviously, the only thing left to do was go spend my new-found wealth at The Mall(s).  Specifically, at the food court.  It was a good afternoon.  By the time I waddled back to the hostel, I was content with my vacation.
On Wednesday, I decided to while away the morning at the Kasubi Tombs, a museum dedicated to Uganda's still-present monarchy.  Let's just say, it's good to be king.  Later in the day, I met up with my erstwhile traveling companions.  Of course, we went to The Mall(s).  Then we went bowling in our socks.  I choose to believe that my game would have been dramatically improved with the aid of proper footwear.  To cap off the night, we ate dinner at a Korean restaurant with a dizzyingly extensive menu.  I could have eaten the tofu all night.
The only buses going to Rwanda depart at night, so we had all day Thursday to hang out in Kampala.  We went to The Malls.  Steph convinced me that I would be a fool to squander this opportunity to go to the cinema, so we headed to the matinee showing of Man on a Ledge.  The plot is only slightly more complicated than the title might suggest.  Maybe this is merely a side-effect of not having been in a movie theater for 18 months, but I can honestly say that Man on a Ledge was one of the most riveting cinematic experiences of my life.
Suddenly it was night, and after a few minor misadventures at the bus station, we boarded the 10 p.m. GAAGAA bus to Bujumbura, via Kigali.  The roads in Uganda are not as well maintained as the roads in Rwanda.  There are many potholes and no noticeable speed limits.  I went airborne at least half a dozen times.  But maybe I should have stayed in flight, because during one particularly twisty portion of road, my seatmate vomited on my shoes.
Later, when safely back in Kigali, Steph and our channeled our inner monsters in order to text our feelings about the GAAGAA bus experience:

      - "GAAGAA coach had its license revoked in January because of to many fatal crashed.   I'm not that    surprised."

     -"I'm shocked.  I guess I can't read their p-p-p-poker face."

     -"They want your psycho / your vertigo stick / Gonna bounce until your neighbor gets sick. /   Gonna  vom on you / Vom vom vom upon your shoe."

     -"Eh eh, nothing else I can say.  So sit back down where you belong / in the back of the bus / where my thighs feel numb."

There was more, but it's now been lost to eh great inbox in the sky.  In the end, we made a solemn pact never to ride GAAGAA again.  Some puns are just not worth dying for.

So that was my relaxing holiday getaway.  Maybe one day I will return to Uganda, armed with an ample supply of cash.  But until then, it's back to real life in Rwanda...

Kapture in Kampala!

In Rwanda, there are many things which can capture you.  I have been held hostage by the rain, church, staff meetings, slow-moving goats, and mildly interesting spectacles on the road, to name just a few.  Uganda has a different approach.  Here, they capture you with machines and public holidays, then give you santimonious receipts to prove it.
This spring break, I went up to Uganda with two other PCVs.  After a ten hour bus ride, we spilled out into the hot Kampala afternoon, tired, hungry, and in desperate need of a place to change money.  But we'd forgotten that it was Easter, and there were no places open.
In what I had assumed was a brilliant move, I brought my American visa card, intending to simply withdraw cash once I got to Uganda.  But clearly, I had forgotten the number one rule of doing anything, ever, in Africa--Nothing Is Simple.  This is closely followed by rule number two--Any Day Can Be A Public Holiday.  And, of course, rule number three--Haha, Stupid White Man.
There was a Barclay's ATM right down the street from the bus stop.  We set off, with not a shilling to our names.  I put my card it, went through all the necessary steps, and just when I thought the vacation would be financially feasible, the ATM began to shriek in what I can only assume were the throes of agony.  After almost a minute of this, the ATM spit out a most unhelpful receipt.  "Card Capture," it read across the top.  "Please bring this receipt to your nearest branch."
So now we were left with the double problem of having no shillings and no way to get any.  This is when we were saved by rule number four--There Is Always A Guy For That.  In this case, it involved questionable modes of transportation, a semi-deserted side-street, and a guy with chapati in his hands and a fat stack of bills in his pants.  Long story short, we got cash.
As today is Easter Monday (who knew?), I'm capture in Kampala until the bank opens tomorrow.  With any luck, we'll soon be celebrating Liberation Tuesday...

Spring Cleaning? Not!

Some mornings, my first though upon waking is "I should bathe today."  This is almost immediately followed with another though: "But why?"  I'll leave it to the perceptive reader to guess which though presents a more persuasive argument.
Whenever I finally do get around to making the hygiene, I enlist the aid of my trust partner in grime, Baldric the Basic.  Baldric is your standard-issue Rwandan basin: fire-engine red and big enough to sit in.  Baldric helps me to do unspeakable acts of hygiene.  He is my bath, my sink, my cutting-board, my rain-collector, and my occasional conversation partner.  And, when I'm feel particularly Rwandan in my pronunciation, I refer to his as Bardlic.  Then I picture a scene straight out of a scandalous Elizabethan palace drama:
     "Didst thou espy the latest play by that rakish Will Shakespeare?"
     "Aye. Verily, that's a bard I wouldn't be loath to lick."
     "Tis true, 'tis true."
When you live along with no computer, no electricity, and an ever-shortening attention span, you get a lot of time to sit around with your imagination.  Obviously, things can get weird.
Making the hygiene in Rwanda is a constant process.  During the dry season, dust runs rampant, coating everything and everyone in a thin layer of red.  I always feel so disillusioned after my weekly bath, as the dust comes off to reveal the fact that I am not actually tan.  And even after you bathe, the dirt is quick to reassert its superiority.  One time, after an especially satisfying hair washing, I shut the door of my shower shack only to have a large chunk of mud-brick fall directly onto my head.  The dirt here blitzkriegs you, and there is no appeasement.
In the rainy season, the dust is contained but the mud more than makes up for its absence.  The red mud here is composed of three parts dirt, one part glue.  I've arrived at school with mud half an inch thick clinging to the soles of my shoes.  And this phenomenon never seems to affect my Rwandan counterparts.  I suspect they know how to hover.
It's safe to say that Baldric and I have our work cut out for us.  The dishes are piling up, the hair needs washing, and the underwear sure ain't cleanin' itself.  So here we go once more into the breach, armed with soap and bleach.  Wish me luck.

Walk Like a (Wo)man

Gutembera is one of my favorite verbs in Kinyarwanda.  Literally, it means to walk, but that's just what the black and white pages of some dictionary know.  Gutembera is to walk, to stroll, to amble, to lallygag, to hike up steep hills and slide on your butt down muddy slopes, to have feet stained red with dust, to hop on rocks across trickling streams, and to practice coming back from market with a bag of avocados on your head.
Rwandans like to ask me "where are you going?" every time I leave my house.  The beauty of gutembera is that you don't need a destination--you can just go.  There are some wonderful hiking trails, perfect for an afternoon gutembera, and the various conversations that ensue:

"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to walk.  I like to see the hills."
"Yes, very."
"Mmmmmmm."
"Mmmmmmm."

"Katerina, you are walking."
"Yes.  You are washing clothes."
"Yes, my child's clothes."
"Mmmmmmm."
"Mmmmmmm."

"Katerina, you are walking."
"Yes.  It is a good day to walk."
"But you have not for many days."
"Mmmmmmm."
"Now you are fat."
"Very."
"Mmmmmmm."
"Mmmmmmm."

"Katerina, where are you going?"
"Nowhere."
"Where are you coming from?"
"Over there."
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing.  I'm just walking."
"Mmmmmmm."
"Mmmmmmm."

The best gutembera is one that shakes me out of my daily monotony.  The best gutembera is one with a quirk, a twist, a little glimpse into the unexpected, or an unexpected reminder that life is beautiful.  One of my frequent gutembera encounters is with Goat Man.  He's one of those classically Rwandan character that is difficult to explain to anyone that hasn't lived in this country for awhile.
Goat Man wears the standard old guy uniform--tattered suit jacket, baggy blue pants, dusty orange foam flip-flops.  He's choses to forego the usual fedora; instead, his wiry hair sticks straight out, the odd gray strand providing a sharp contrast with his deep brown skin.
His eyes don't quite focus and his hands tremble, but his grip is like iron.  Handshakes with Goat Man end if and when he chooses.  The only English he knows is "Good Morning" and "Come Here," both of which he will shout at you while capturing your hand in a death grip.  And wherever he is going, he always leads two goats on a tether.  He scared the living bejeezus out of me the first time we met, but now I begin to to worry if I go a week without seeing his blissfully smiling face and faithful goat companions.
So friends, come gutembera my mountains with me sometime! You never know what you'll find...I'm sure that somewhere out there, there's a Rwandan with a story about how he was out walking in the hills and met with an orange-haired strangers wearing pants and picking daisies...

A True American Hero?

Awhile back in Tanzania, I bought some ibitengi with Obama's face on it.  It came in two pieces-- I'm saving one for when I get back to America but have been using the other as an all-purpose wrap for doing "works at home."

I'm torn as to whether I should feel patriotic or treasonous while wearing it.  One the one hand, you can't get much more American than wearing your president's face around your house all day.  But on the other hand, I am frequently wiping my dirty hands, spilling food, or sitting on Obama's face.  Hero or traitor?  This could very well be the Supreme Court's toughest case yet.  I can just picture it:

In the case of Howell vs. America, the prosecution will now present its evidence.  Witnesses state that the defendant did willing, and repeatedly, make remarks and actions of questionable patriotism with reference to her wearing of the president's likeness on her posterior region.  Some examples highlighted include, but are not limited to:
1.  On January 18th, 201, the defendant did unthinkingly wipe her avocado-smeared hand across the president's face, followed by fully three minutes of helpless laughter by the realization that a particularly large green glob was positioned directly below the commander in chief's left nostril.  The defendant was heard to remark aloud, "Why Mr. President, snot a smart look for you!"
2.  On February 7th, 2012, phone records show that the defendant send a text message to an unknown recipient, stating "I'm stargazing on Obama's face!"  The Secret Service was quickly alerted, only to discover the president safely in a cabinet meeting.  Satellite imagery later revealed that the defendant was, in fact, sitting outside on her ibitengi, gazing up at the constellations.  Still, the cost to the taxpayers of mobilizing the Secret Service for such a false alarm cannot be overstated.  The public cries out for justice.
3.  On February 13th, 2012, the defendant did, while using her ibitengi in the course of ordinary domestic chores, spill a small portion of bleach across the president's likeness.  The prosecution acknowledges that such an accident is not, in and of itself, worth mentioning; however, inside sources reveal that the defendant then comtemplated sending a text message to the aforementioned unknown recipient, reading "Hahaha, I just made Obama white."  Furthermore, the same source can authoritatively state that the defendant was only prevented from taking such reprehensible action by a lack of airtime.
4.  Finally, the prosecution has irrefutable evidence that on February 21st, 2012, the defendant did, while wearing her ibitengi as a cape, spend fully thirty minutes standing next to a hole in her wall, killing termites with a shoe and gleefully proclaiming, "Captain America demands that you die!"
The prosecution rests its case.

I don't think the defense can make an adequate rebuttal in the face of all that evidence.  I just hope I can keep up with my blogging from federal prison...

Muffins and Musings

Next week marks the 16 month anniversary of my arrival in Rwanda.  I know that some people read Peace Corps blogs expecting tales of adversity and epiphany...well, this week I had my own moment of quiet reflection, and thought I would share.
It came from what we PCVs like to call "student gems."  That's when a student writes something that isn't quite correct, but is still somehow true.  As I sat at home, grading exercises on antonyms, I stumbled upon this unexpected revelation: "A ship is not the muffin."  It was such a profoundly simple statement, yet so profoundly...right.  You can't argue with its logic: a ship IS not the muffin.  Why, just a few weeks back, I bought a muffin in Kigali and sat staring at it in utter bewilderment for fully five minutes.  Should I butter it?  Should I set sail on it?  What if pirates try to snatch my muffin?  How will I defend it?  What if I want my ship toasted?  Can I outfit raisins in the hull?  And why is it A ship and THE muffin?  Is there only one muffin that a ship cannot be?
So, this little blog post goes out to all my fellow Ed 2 PCVs.  Here's to the last sixteen months--sometimes we love out jobs, sometimes we want to quit, sometimes we find inspiration where we least expect it.  And sometimes, just sometimes, if we're lucky, we can have out ship and eat muffins too.

A Very Unlucky Weekend

Superstition has it that bad things happen in threes.  In Rwanda, irksome things happens in threes.  To my face.
Somedays, the universe sends  you an unequivocal sign that you should just crawl back under your mosquito net and stay there all weekend.  I received one such omen last Friday and foolishly chose to ignore it.
Rwanda is excellent bird-watching territory.  There's a dazzling variety of colors, shapes, and sizes flitting about.  Some volunteers are proud to have identified as many as 13 different species.  But what the guidebooks unanimously fail to mention is that the birds of Rwanda are equally adept at spotting you.
The back window in my living room room overlooks the nearby valley and banana groves.  In true Peace Corps fashion, I can spend hours standing there, staring out it, watching the mist come in and recede across the hills.
It's also the best source of light in my house, so of course I lurk next to it while doing my morning hygiene routine.  Apparently, my lurking skills aren't quite up up to skulk, because last Friday I was viciously attacked.  In the face.  By a hummingbird.  On the plus side, I decided to claim it as a new species.  So next time you're in Rwanda and a hummingbird dive-bombs you, you my dear friends, have just positively identified the Howellus Intheface-us.  Most bird-watchers go their whole lives without catching so much as a glimpse of this rare and dangerous avian.  For those who do encounter it, its sharp feet and pointy beak often it the last thing they ever glimpse.
The trials of my face continued the next day at the Ministry of Justice.  I'm involved with a really awesome program to teach English to the judges and staff at the Supreme Courts of Rwanda.  And it gives me a perfect excuse to shout "lawyered," even if only in my head.
So there I was, revising prepositions of location, with a room full of professional adults, feeling quite professional (if slightly precarious myself) in my high heels, when the fold-out whiteboard abruptly collapsed.  Into my face.  It was, however, a great teaching moment.  Howe often can the phrase "the whiteboard is on my face" be both true and applicable to the lesson?
By Sunday, I was firmly gripped by paranoia.  And I was going to be spending most of the day on buses.  Vomit seemed likely to be the crowning glory of my unholy trinity of facial unpleasantness.  But I made it back to my village completely unscathed.  My nose didn't even get sunburned.  I got smug.  Complacent.  I let my guard down.  I made tea on my petrol stove.  A giant fireball exploded in my face.  Thankfully, my eyebrows remained intact, even if my dignity was slightly singed.
So, I will no longer scoff in the face of superstition.  Monday passed without a single facial incident.  It would seem my bad luck has run its course...for now, at least.  Although I did stub my toe on a goat this morning...

A Public Service Announcement

I think that it has happened to all of us in Rwanda.  Your phone rings at 4:30 in the morning; you blearily answer it only to find yourself being yelled at in incomprehensible English.  You hang up and check the number.  It's not one that you know.  Then it hits you...you've been NARGed.
Nonsensical Anonymous Repeat Greeting (NARG) can strike anyone, anywhere, at any time.  Don't be fooled into thinking that you are safe.  Anyone can be a victim of a NARG.  Take this real-life testimonial, as recounted by one brave survivor of a brutal, unexpected NARGing:
    
"I was walking home from the market one beautiful Friday afternoon, enjoying the cool breeze and the scent from the gently swaying pine trees.  The sun was just beginning to sink behind the ridgeline...basically, it was the kind of afternoon when you really feel at peace with the universe.  Then my phone started ringing.  Well, I was expecting a call from a friend later that evening, so it didn't even cross my mind to be suspicious.  I dug my phone out of my pocket and saw that the call was from an MTN number that I didn't recognize.  I remember that the last two digits were 88.  Something, some little voice inside my head, whispered at me not to answer.  But I guess I thought I was safe--who expects to be NARGed in the open like that, in plain view, with the sun still shining?"

The harrowing events that followed can serve as a cautionary tale we must all take to heart:

"I can still recalled almost every detail of the NARG.  I hit the answer button and said, 'Hello?'  The voice on the other end shouted at me, 'Are you so okay?'  There was no static--he might as well have been standing right next to me.  I managed to stutter out a feeble 'y-y-yes' before he exclaimed 'Thank God!' and hung up.  I was left standing stunned and speechless, his words and the hollow beep of the ended call echoing in my head.  I was too shocked to move.  Somewhere in the distance, a goat bleated."

As painful as this account is, it presents us with a textbook NARGing, one we can all learn from.  There are three (3) main points we can draw from this lesson:
1.  When in doubt, wait it out.  NARGs often happen when the victim is distracted.  In this example, the victim was expecting a call from a friend, thus  rendering her more likely to answer her phone, even to an anonymous number.  But remember, the classic NARGist will usually call many times in a short span.  Has the same number called you 15 times in the past five minutes?  Chances are, the caller is attempting to NARG you.  Wait for a text message offering some form of identification.  This is one of the surest methods to keep yourself safe from a NARGing.
2.  Speak the language, spare the anguish.  Answer your phone in Kinyarwanda.  This throws the potential NARGer off balance and allows you to gain the conversational upper hand.  Let's review the dialogue from our case study:
        Hello?
        Are you so okay?
        Y-y-yes...
        Thank God!
Most NARGers operate under the assumption that their victims only speak English.  Most NARGers do not speak English.  By speaking in Kinyarwanda, you may be able to downgrade the NARG to a mere AARG (Annoying Anonymous  Repeat Greeting).  While the effects of an AARG can still be debilitating, most people agree that AARGs are far less devastating in the long run.
3.  Keep it secret, keep it safe.  Most victims have only met their NARGer briefly or--chillingly--not at all.  The NARGing community is more widespread than many of us would like to acknowledge. Numbers are passed from person to person, to the extent that you could walk right by your NARGer and not even know it.  Don't let this happen to you!  Just because you sit next to a person on the bus for twenty minutes, you are not obliged to give him your number.  By limiting the number of people that have your contact information to those people with whom you actually desire contact, it is possible to dramatically reduce your likelihood of being NARGed.

So let's learn from this example and work together to create a NARG-free world!  Spread the word, my friends!  Just don't call me about it.  Chances are, I won't pick up.

Christmas!

Rwandans occasionally find me somehow androgynous.  It might be my short hair or perhaps (more likely) as one Rwandan put it, while gesturing emphatically at his own chest, “I did not know, because you do not have here.  Why?”

Well, the Tanzanian government, apparently determined to one-up its neighbor, made it official.  According to the visa that I got on my recent vacation, I am a 51 year-old man.  Not only did I get a new gender, but I got an awesome pseudonym to go along with it: Patrick Richard Guyver.  Luckily (and perhaps also a bit frighteningly) no one at customs and immigration seemed to notice this very obvious discrepancy.  But don’t worry, Mr. Dick Pat McGuyver (as we dubbed my exciting new alter ego), I didn’t do anything too questionable while using your identity.  Aside from snorkeling with the mafia, that is…

Alanna and I had been plotting, if not actively planning, our trip to Tanzania, for several months.  Finally, December 17^th rolled around.  Picture, if you will, a crowded bus stop at 5 a.m., filled with bleary-eyed passengers about to board the bus for a 30-hour jaunt to Dar Es Salaam.  Feel the dread and resignation in the air, clinging to your skin as palpably as the early morning fog.  Alanna and I visualized this for about five seconds, then decided to fly instead.  I was still braced for a long and difficult journey given that we had a layover in an airport so closely resembling Dante’s 7^th circle of hell.  Well, Italian poetics aside, things went off without a hitch.  I got to Dar  in one piece, was issued my fake ID without any problems, and was more than ready for my long-awaited holiday to begin.

Dar was a shock to the system.  From the heat to the architecture, the lack of hills and the abundance of street food, it was a wonderful but sometimes disorienting shock to the system.  Or maybe it was a wonderfully disorienting shock to the system.  Things in Rwanda that once seemed complicated and confusing are just part of ordinary life now, and as Alanna so aptly put it, “I need to go places where I don’t know what’s going on, so I can figure it all out.”

So, what did we figure out in Dar?

1.       1.  Pants are not appropriate.  It’s hot in Dar.  We were not adequately prepared for how swampy pants can get after five minutes in 90 degree heat and 90 percent humidity.  Within 10 minutes of arriving at the hotel room, I became a strict adherent to Alanna’s “no pants in the room” rule.  I adhered to that rule with a religious fervor seldom witnessed outside of Dateline investigative specials.  The next day, I bought a flowy dress and amended the rule to “no pants.  Ever.”  The one time I broke it, fate was quick to administer retribution.  Word of warning to the fair-skinned: If you wear pants with holes in the in a tropical climate, be certain to apply sunscreen to ALL relevant areas.

2.     

       2.  Rickshaw drivers are dubious after dark.  At one point, Alanna and find found ourselves somewhat stranded late at night without any immediate source of transportation.  We couldn’t really walk far, as my shoe had just broken.  The only solution was, of course, to flag down a rickshaw driver.  The conversation that followed, or failed to follow, was undoubtedly influenced by one or more illegal substances.   As we watched the rickshaw weave unsteadily away from us into the night, Alanna summed up the encounter nicely: “Do you think he realizes we aren’t actually in his rickshaw?”

3.    

       3.  The long way is the only way.  I have never claimed to be good at reading maps.  When it comes to that, I am functionally illiterate.  Alanna reads maps at about a sixth grade level.  To only compound the problem, our guidebook’s map had the level of detail barely exceeding that of a cereal box treasure map.  So we were lost.  Frequently.  Luckily, we are both fond of wandering, and often ended up in interesting if unexpected places

      

      But after two days in Dar, we were ready for some quality beach time on Zanzibar.  We had originally planned to go out west to Arusha and poke around Kilimanjaro, but a lack of money or desire to spend ten hours on a hot bus made us opt for island life instead.  Zanzibar, and especially Stonetown, might be one of my favorite places that I’ve ever visited.  The old heart of Stonetown is a labyrinth of narrow winding streets, none of which go where you think they will.  It’s easy to get lost, but only if you make the mistake of having an actual destination in mind.  It was far better to just wander, and we did.

      

     Of course, sometimes you set yourself up for failure.  On the ferry ride over, Alanna and I flipped through the increasingly suspect guidebook and picked out a lovely sounding hotel.  Then, we spent an hour and a half trying to locate it, only to eventually learn that it no longer exists.  Even Dick Pat McGuyver couldn’t rig up a GPS to find it.  But eventually we ended up at a very nice hotel—with airconditioning.  I am not ashamed to admit that I draped myself all over the thing, on multiple occasions.  It was an almost religious experience, and I send many prayers of thanks to Our Lady of Perpetual Air-Conditioning.

      Stonetown was a fascinating  mix of locals—with Arab, Indian, and African cultures—and tourists—mostly beautiful Germans.  Walking down one street, I would see women in saris or full burkas, men in prayer robes, brightly color kanga prints, and little girls in pigtails.  The variety of food was equally amazing.  Oh, the seafood.  I’ve been eating sardines from a can for the last year.  Needless to say, my standard for good fish had sunk  to fairly shameful depths.  One week in Zanzibar was enough to float my culinary nautilus back up the surface.  The night market was a great place to get fresh, delicious seafood, and a prime location to people-watch.  Each evening, as the sun began to set over the Indian ocean, dozens of vendors would set up their stalls in the waterfront park.  Lobster, prawn, shark, tuna, barracuda—if it could swim, it could be grilled on a plate.  There was also an intriguing dish called “Zanzibar pizza”, which featured meat or fish, onion, egg, and mayonnaise all fried up in a crepe.  The dessert version nutella and banana.  I’m pretty certain that it shortened by life by a few happy, fattening years. 

      Despite my firm belief that fish belong in my stomach, Alanna and I went snorkeling one morning.  The boat we rode out in was called “The Gladiator.”  Less mature people would have made many jokes at this.  We went with a group and beautiful Germans and a branch of the Spanish mafia.  Our first stop was at Prison Island, where we got to get up close and personal with the island’s giant tortoises.  The Spanish mafia, of course, sat on the tortoises while the beautiful Germans, huddled quietly next to the sign that read “Do Not Sit On The Tortoises” were politely horrified.

      

      After the tortoises, we hitched up our skirts, remounted the gladiator, and headed back out to sea.  In a moment of collective stupidity, neither Alanna nor I had put sunscreen on our backs that morning.  As I paddled happily amongst the coral, watching the rainbows of fish that swarmed around me (and wondering how many people the Spanish mafia had sent to sleep with these same fish), the sun was shining steadily overhead.  Let’s just say that no one rides the gladiator without getting burned.

      For Christmas, we headed out to Jambiani on the east coast.  The guidebook (which by this point, neither of us trusted) described Jambiani was a “village.”  False.  It had a post office, an internet café, and more than one shop.  That, my friends, is a town.  It was a wonderfully quiet and relaxing time, and one the rare occasion I could peel myself out of the hammock, the warm waters of the Indian Ocean were just a few feet away.

      Our hotel was staffed exclusively by Rastafarians.  I reached by Bob Marley threshold after three days.  I also realized that my manners have become increasingly African in some regards.  Take two examples:

1.       At the post office/minimart, a nice older (probably German) tourist was attempting to mail some postcards.  Rather than wait in line behind her, I did was felt normal:  I edged in front of her, demanded two water bottles from the shopkeeper, paid, and left without apologizing.  Only as I was walking away did I realize that this behavior could be construed as rude.

2.      On the way back from Jambiani, Alanna and I rode a dala-dala, the Tanzanian  equivalent of a twegerane bus.  As more and more people piled on, we were forced to squeeze closer and closer together, much to the discomfort of the Germans riding with us.  I had an old Tanzanian mama on my right and a German man on my left.  My arm was draped over the mama’s shoulder, while her hand was resting gently across my knees.  This felt comfortable.  There was a clear line of demarcation between me and the German.  We did not touch.  This felt uncomfortable.  Alanna and I both got off the bus laughing, but wondering how we are going to manage to go back to a world where personal space is so rigidly define and easily violated.

So, to make a long and rambling story short, Tanzania was wonderful. It was good to leave Rwanda for awhile, and it was good to come back, too.  School “begins” on Monday, so my lifestyle of leisure must come to an end.  Well, a merry very belated Christmas, and a happy somehow belated New Year!