Mrs. Butterworth's Withdrawal Pains

No syrup in Rwanda. Why, I’m not sure. There’s definitely an ex-pat market for the stuff. Since there are other imported items of questionable popularity—sauerkraut in huge gallon tins—I’m not sure why no one has thought to import some Mrs. Butterworth’s or even the South African brands we saw in Namibia, but no syrup. There are even areas that grow sugar cane, but nope, no syrup. How, we wonder can a people exist without syrup?

My kids have been eating pancakes with powdered sugar or yogurt or just plain sugar. Plain sugar by the way is of the variety we get in Louisiana straight from the mill—the brown chunky kind of crystal stuff which doesn’t exactly dissolve into the butter of one’s pancake. So, the complaints have abounded regarding appropriate pancake toppings. Having made simple syrups for things like pralines, I thought I’d give it a try for the more tasty variety.

I downloaded a simple recipe from the internet that contained available ingredients. I managed to find “real” brown sugar at one of the importers in town. This fellow is a Greek who speaks impeccable French and good English. He gets shipments from Europe on a weekly basis. One has to be quick because he’s somewhat of a wholesaler and the smaller shops buy from him to stock their shelves. What he receives varies from week to week. So one week he may have American style cereal, the next he may not. The smaller shops mark up the products considerably, so buying from him is actually cheaper although anything imported here is outrageously expensive. Virtually all manufactured goods are, so living on a budget just isn’t very feasible if one is used to Western-style products.

So, this kilo of brown sugar I bought cost 6000 RwF, about $10 US! One of my friends asked to split it with me because out of principle she just couldn’t pay $10 for brown sugar! I agreed even though I probably could have used 2 or 3 packages of the stuff. I was finding it hard to swallow forking out $10 US myself! But, what to do, what to do?

Last night was breakfast night and we tried out the syrup. It was a little runny, but the flavor was good even though I hadn’t the requisite maple extract to add to it. The kids ate all of the pancakes and gobbled up all of the bacon (one of the few things here that resembles its American equivalent). The syrup got an appreciative nod, but it wasn’t like they were falling over themselves to compliment it. And to think I buy Mrs. Butterworth’s in the gallon container at the Super Wal-Mart at home!

I hope my kids are learning about being a privileged breed in this world from their Rwanda experience. From their behavior and comments though, it sounds like the only lesson they’re getting from this is that their parents are enjoying their deprivations! Perhaps, one day, in retrospect they’ll get it. A parent can only remain hopeful.

(above: Brown sugar or gold? Luckily I brought the huge bottle of vanilla extract with me because that can't be found here either. Vanilla sugar is sold in packets here, just not the same!)

Le Marché

There are really no adequate words to describe the marché experience. We met an older American couple here visiting their son, daughter-in-law and grandchild. He summed it up as follows, “Well, it’s not the St. Paul’s Farmers’ Market for sure.” So, if you think you’ve got a conceptual model of what the marché is, based on any American experiences, forget it. Not even New Orleans’ French Market approximates the ambiance of this place as things there are way too neat and orderly.

I’ve already described what it was like driving up to the place in a fancy vehicle reeking of disposable income with our kids in tow--definitely not the way to go. So, I returned with my friend Patricia via the bus and the previous welcome was non-existent, thank goodness. We perused the “stalls” virtually un-molested and bought everything from used clothing, to souvenir trinkets to fruits and veggies. We could have also bought hardware, cheap Chinese household goods, fabrics and tailor-made clothing had we so desired. But the urge for such items had not yet struck us and so we passed.

I’ve used the word stalls, but that really doesn’t do this justice. The covered surface area, about the size of two or three football fields does demonstrate some sort of organization, however. On the right, as one faces the building from the bus rank, are all of the fabric merchants. There are crude wooden structures built from ceiling to floor to display the goods. Brightly colored fabrics adorn the wooden beams and samples of embroidered, wildly printed skirts and tops are hung out for display. There’s literally about 2 feet of space between “stalls” and the stalls appear endless. If there are more than two people in the “aisle”, which is frequently the case, one is required to turn sideways and bump booties to get through the maze. In the larger aisle between the fabric merchants and the used clothing vendors, (used shoes represent an especially large segment of this part of the marché) tailors are seated at their foot-pedal Singer sewing-machines making clothing to order. Show them the style you want and they’ll make it in the fabric of your choice for a very reasonable price.

Moving right to left in the market from fabrics, then household goods, then hardware, one eventually reaches the fruit and vegetable “department”. First there are the ladies sitting atop stools at the manioc flour tables. The fine white piles reach about two or three feet in height like little pristine snow covered mountains, in between the valleys of which the shopper must walk to reach the vegetables. Carrots, tomatoes, onions, broccoli, cauliflower, etc. abound in huge mounds on tables that stretch for yard upon yard. Each merchant’s produce looks better than the next’s. It’s really hard to choose from whom to buy. Bunches of green bananas still on the stalk, as large as toddlers, line the floor of the aisles.

The colors, the smells, the noise of haggling merchants all lend to an experience approaching sensory-overload. One can’t spend too much time in there without getting a bit claustrophobic, but it is however, extraordinary. Patricia bought a whole kilo of an unknown variety of beans just because they were so lovely. I don’t think the marché in Yaoundé, Cameroon was quite as big as this one. Or perhaps I just didn’t appreciate it back then with the same eyes that I do today. (Pictured above, Patricia's lovely beans)

Bourbon Café and Coffee

Believe it or not one of the most frequented places in Kigali, especially by ex-pats, is the Bourbon Café. The Bourbon has two locations, one in the Union Trade Center and the other in the MTN Center (MTN is the cell phone service provider). It also has locations in the US, I’m told--DC. The Bourbon is more than just a café in that it is part of a coffee cooperative that actually produces and processes the beans. So, one can also purchase Bourbon label coffee in the supermarket. Apparently, Bourbon coffee is also exported to the United States as well.

Now why is it called Bourbon? Why does the owner have New Orleans memorabilia for décor? I’m not really sure why he’s actually got a Bourbon Street sign nestled among the African artifacts. I understand that he spent a lot of time in the States, but I’m not sure that it was in New Orleans. It’s all so mysterious to me, but I am determined to find out.

It’s just a bit weird and disorienting to have coffee there for a native Louisianian. Something is just not quite right about being in the heart of Africa and yet being surrounded by all these reminders of home amidst the African art. I must say though that the coffee is excellent and so is the banana bread. Additionally, there’s free wi-fi, which is a huge plus, and the main reason that so many Muzungu hang out there with their lap-tops in tow. Most of the tables at the MTN location come with their own electrical outlets positioned nearby as well, so it’s really customer friendly.

Maybe when I get back to the US, I’ll open the Rwanda Coffee House or some such entity and decorate it with African artifacts from all of our various travels . Of course, it would be exceedingly difficult to compete with CC’s but maybe the African motif might be a big draw. Who knows!

The First Public Library in Rwanda

The first public library in Rwanda is slated to open soon (its original date projection was 2010, but they didn't make that deadline). Access the following link for ways in which you might contribute: http://www.kigalilibrary.org/index.html
Organizers are seeking book donations, materials, money and expertise.

Muzungu

Muzungu
This is the term that applies to white people in most of East Africa. Walking down the street, kids will stop and stare and call out “Muzungu”, as if we need to be reminded of what we are. My kids are embarrassed and somewhat offended by it. I guess they don’t like to be singled out. I, on the other hand have had a good deal of practice with being a minority white among a large African population. In my Peace Corps days in Cameroon, we were referred to as “Nasara”. Kids several blocks away would spot the whitey and yell it at the top of their lungs, attracting the attention of those who might miss the spectacle.

Here in Rwanda, there are a great deal more whities than there ever were in l’Extreme Nord of sub-saharan Cameroon, but kids and adults alike will actually stop and openly stare and yell out “Muzungu”. On the way to Nyungwe, as we travelled through village after tiny village, kids would yell it at the top of their lungs with such enthusiasm, joy and complete abandon, we began to think we were long lost cousins or even long awaited dignitaries visiting our subjects. Reid would energetically wave at each kid and yell back, “Yes, we are Muzungu and we have come!” Of course, our kids just about died of sheer embarrassment. I can’t even imagine why.

Today, my friend Patricia and I went to one of the big local markets (another blog post to follow on that) and took the bus to and fro. On the way back into town, we saw a whole string of white people walking down the sidewalk—perhaps they were with a touring company or something, I’m not sure—but before I even realized what I was doing, I yelled out “Muzungu” in that melodic, joyful voice I’m so accustomed to hearing as I walk down the street. Needless to say, my friend about jumped out of her seat. She laughed so hard she was crying. She vowed never to go anywhere again with me. I laughed till I cried too because it was such a spontaneous thing, I didn’t even have time to draw down the filter. Remarkably, many of our fellow Rwandan bus riders laughed as well indicating that they got the joke. Others, the non-laughers, probably chalked it up to crazy white people behavior given that we are such an inexplicable breed to Africans.

The craft center down at the foot of Kiyovu has t-shirts emblazoned with the word “Muzungu” that I’ve been eyeing recently. I’m thinking now that maybe I should buy one for Patricia!

Rwandan Baskets

This post is dedicated to my friend and avid basket collector, Kelly Powell. We bought these for a song on the way back from Nyungwe. Some of the local people have little outdoor stalls set up along the side of the road. They were much, much cheaper than the ones offered for sale in Kigali proper. Kelly, I'm working on a way to get one out to you. This one is about 1 meter tall and has such a lovely shape.

Alarm Clock?

Yet another window tapper. In addition to the wagtail, this little guy has been showing up at an ungodly hour to tap on our windows. They have really rendered our alarm clocks immaterial.

Where do you live? Now that's a tough one....

Where do you live?
Such an easy question in the US and typically meriting an easy enough response in return. In the States, we begin in 2nd grade or even earlier teaching kids their address and how to label envelopes with the address of others. Well, here the concept of an address exists somewhat, perhaps in theory. Purportedly the streets have names and indeed there are a few that actually exhibit signage in the business district, but for most residents the above question is a source of much consternation.

The word street hardly begins to describe what runs in front of our house (pictured above with our house on the right below surface level). At best, it can be described as a dirt path. If it has a name, no one is aware of it. We have no number decorating our gate. Typically when asked where we live, we tell people, “behind the Ministry of Justice.” If more specifics are required, we continue with yet another possibly recognizable landmark, the International School of Kigali (ISK). Foreigners will recognize this landmark but Rwandans rarely do. We continue with further precisions like, “Take a left at the bar that’s really a converted shipping container, when the cobblestones end, descend the hill and look for the 2nd dirt road to the left; go down a short way and our house is just after the cornfield on the right. Our house sits below the level of the street and has a driveway set at a 45 degree angle. It’s got a white colonnade fence and is recognizable by its KK Security sign attached to the front gate.” (Whether the sign is a deterrent or an advertisement that there’s stuff within of value to potential criminals remains to be seen.)

Of course, we Americans take such simple “amenities” for granted. Precise addresses are vital to American businesses and commerce and contribute to the overall efficiency of our country. Home delivery of mail, what a concept, does not exist in most of Africa, and with little wonder given such realities. It is so unbelievably time consuming just trying to figure out where something is located or where someone lives. Reid and I heard about a Greek restaurant that we wanted to try out. We’d been able to get a general low-down on its location, but after several attempts still haven’t been able to find it. Seems like with all of the NGO’s on the ground here, one of them would take on the challenge of ascribing street names and numbers!

Once again, we can’t help but compare Kigali to Windhoek which was so well organized and labeled (we actually had made acquaintance with an urban planner who taught at the Polytechnic in Windhoek) and can’t help but wonder why the Rwandans haven’t mastered such simple basics yet especially given the government’s big push to be cutting edge. Large sums are being spent on instituting a fiber optics network throughout the country (we saw evidence of it on our trip to Nyungwe) and yet no one can tell me on which street we live! Heavy Sigh!

Nyungwe Accommodations

In our ignorance, we were unaware that options existed for accommodations near Nyungwe. The guidebook we purchased to help us navigate Rwanda is dated by a couple of years and one would think that the info contained within ought to be fairly accurate, but Rwandan businesses and enterprises seem to be springing up before our eyes hence the disconnect between reality and the written word. But I digress. We had already made reservations and were committed to Nyungwe Forest Lodge before we learned there were much cheaper options. Nyungwe Forest Lodge is managed by Mantis Group, a subsidiary of Dubai World (a Saudi outfit where money just flows freely out of the desert…) so to say that it was expensive is to make a gross understatement. In fact, I am embarrassed to have spent that sum of money in a country where the average per capita yearly income is no doubt quite a bit less than what we forked out for one night.

In all fairness, however, the lodge was absolutely gorgeous and serene. Situated in the heart of a tea plantation, the “chalets” overlook the forest on one side and the tea plants run right up to the door on the other. The staff is extremely attentive and will attempt to meet any and all needs even to the extent of placing the napkin in guests’ laps at mealtime.

The interior of both the lodge and the “chalets” were gorgeously decorated and exceedingly comfortable. All of the meals and drinks were included in the cost of the room, however just as in Namibia, guests are charged on a per person basis. Aside from the view and the idyllic setting, the other attraction was that a troop of monkeys made their hangout in the trees behind the chalets. We got a great view of them foraging on the evening of our arrival as we made our way back from the pool to our room. Room is also quite an understatement; ours was a suite with 2 bedrooms and an adjoining salon. All of the furnishings and décor were very well appointed and of the greatest comfort.

It was truly a grand experience that we’re glad we had the opportunity to enjoy, however, we found that all of the attention was a bit over the top, being quite unused to having people wait on us hand and foot. Invariably we had to compare this lodge experience to those of Namiba and we found that although beautiful and well-serviced, Nyungwe lacked the charm and quirkiness of Roy’s Camp or the personal touch of eating dinner and being taken on a game drive by the owner of Ndovu in Nambia’s Caprivi Strip. We’ve just been terribly spoiled, haven’t we?

Another Primate Inhabitant of Nyungwe

We think this guy is an example of L'Hoest's Monkey otherwise known as the Mountain Monkey. We spotted these guys easily from our vehicle as they foraged in groups along the sides of the road leading through the park.

Primates at Nyungwe

This guy was hanging out behind the "chalets" at Nyungwe Forest Lodge foraging for food with 2 or 3 of his friends. We think it's a Blue Monkey also known as a Diademed Guenon. There are 13 varieties of primates in Nyungwe representing 20% of all African primate species according to the guidebooks.