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…