Weekend
Friday nights in Rwanda are a big deal - I didn't get the memo about dressing up to the office (heels, tube tops, full makeup) as most begin their night very soon after getting off work.
My old jeans and "Yale Feminist" t-shirt provoked a few comments...
My night began at 8 PM and ended prematurely, as I insisted on going to bed at 5AM amid jeers of "you’re lame", and "come on, it's only 5AM" (Brenda tells me this morning that she got home at 7...). Ugandan "Uragu", which they call a liqueur but really I don't think it qualifies, makes you TIRED more than anything. We first spent a long time at the bar at the MTN center drinking Uragu, and "Guiness-Coke" (and that's exactly what that is... i apologize to the Irish, and to my stomach). I learned a couple of important lessons regarding social maneuvering in Rwanda:
1) Avoid mixing groups - I had met this woman who worked at the Genocide Memorial and she seemed nice, and eager to hang out, so i invited her to join Liz and I and some (Rwandan, female) friends for drinks. Prior to her arrival I was quizzed incessantly about who she is, where she's from, and "I think I know her, she's no good". When she arrived she was subjected to an elaborate, abrupt grilling session by the other women, who knew of her from high school and made a point of emphasizing her single-mother status and her lack of a college degree (she had to take care of her siblings and took on a modeling career). I got the impression that I was witnessing a sort of a routine. Elizabeth had been warned about the cliquiness of women here, but i refused to believe it, and it broke my heart to see. What happened to feminism, solidarity?
... I suppose there are benefits of being such an obvious outsider here.
2) Just as I had to get used to assuming people's parents weren't always married in the US, I have to stop asking people about their families in Rwanda, period. THREE times this weekend I’ve asked about someone's parents only to get an abrupt "I don't have any, I'm an orphan"; and about a young woman's husband to hear that "he died". Most of these deaths aren't genocide-related, I do know that, but I'm not asking any further questions - somebody please stuff a shoe in my mouth.
Saturday nights here are surprisingly quiet, as everyone is recovering from Friday and getting ready for church the next morning - everybody goes to church. I didn't go this weekend, having overdosed last week as curiosity led us to the Temple of Zion (who could resist that?) - an enormous warehouse of a church that fit about a thousand people. They were kind enough to provide Elizabeth and I with our personal translators as the service was in kinyarwanda. The service went on for FOUR HOURS. The choir alone was larger than any congregation I’ve seen (granted I haven't seen that many?), and the music was the best part, the hall was ecstatic as everybody danced, clapped, and praised. But still... FOUR HOURS?
In Remera (my neighborhood), I was at an internet cafe planning our x-mas vacation (which will include Uganda, Kenya, and possible Tanzania if I can afford the plane ticket back. Come on, you know you want to join). Suddenly, I hear an obnoxiously loud, familiar sound - as I look over to the two backpackers right next to me who are speaking very loudly in Hebrew, on skype to Israel. Out of all the districts, all the sectors and all the cells in Kigali, out of all the internet cafes... !!!!
Being rather well-versed in Israeli stereotypes and rather quick to judge, I concluded that these guys must be on their "post-IDF-backpacking-around-the-world-to-forget-all-the-abuse-i've-subjected-Palestinians-to." In the event that I was right, I wasn't going to allow that to happen, and decided to stage a mini-disruption as I alternated my computer screen between Electornic Intifada and provocative Ha'aretz headlines. We then engaged in a stare-down contest, they left, and I celebrated my victory.
If only there could be a bored Palestinian with so much time on her hands at every internet café...
My old jeans and "Yale Feminist" t-shirt provoked a few comments...
My night began at 8 PM and ended prematurely, as I insisted on going to bed at 5AM amid jeers of "you’re lame", and "come on, it's only 5AM" (Brenda tells me this morning that she got home at 7...). Ugandan "Uragu", which they call a liqueur but really I don't think it qualifies, makes you TIRED more than anything. We first spent a long time at the bar at the MTN center drinking Uragu, and "Guiness-Coke" (and that's exactly what that is... i apologize to the Irish, and to my stomach). I learned a couple of important lessons regarding social maneuvering in Rwanda:
1) Avoid mixing groups - I had met this woman who worked at the Genocide Memorial and she seemed nice, and eager to hang out, so i invited her to join Liz and I and some (Rwandan, female) friends for drinks. Prior to her arrival I was quizzed incessantly about who she is, where she's from, and "I think I know her, she's no good". When she arrived she was subjected to an elaborate, abrupt grilling session by the other women, who knew of her from high school and made a point of emphasizing her single-mother status and her lack of a college degree (she had to take care of her siblings and took on a modeling career). I got the impression that I was witnessing a sort of a routine. Elizabeth had been warned about the cliquiness of women here, but i refused to believe it, and it broke my heart to see. What happened to feminism, solidarity?
... I suppose there are benefits of being such an obvious outsider here.
2) Just as I had to get used to assuming people's parents weren't always married in the US, I have to stop asking people about their families in Rwanda, period. THREE times this weekend I’ve asked about someone's parents only to get an abrupt "I don't have any, I'm an orphan"; and about a young woman's husband to hear that "he died". Most of these deaths aren't genocide-related, I do know that, but I'm not asking any further questions - somebody please stuff a shoe in my mouth.
Saturday nights here are surprisingly quiet, as everyone is recovering from Friday and getting ready for church the next morning - everybody goes to church. I didn't go this weekend, having overdosed last week as curiosity led us to the Temple of Zion (who could resist that?) - an enormous warehouse of a church that fit about a thousand people. They were kind enough to provide Elizabeth and I with our personal translators as the service was in kinyarwanda. The service went on for FOUR HOURS. The choir alone was larger than any congregation I’ve seen (granted I haven't seen that many?), and the music was the best part, the hall was ecstatic as everybody danced, clapped, and praised. But still... FOUR HOURS?
In Remera (my neighborhood), I was at an internet cafe planning our x-mas vacation (which will include Uganda, Kenya, and possible Tanzania if I can afford the plane ticket back. Come on, you know you want to join). Suddenly, I hear an obnoxiously loud, familiar sound - as I look over to the two backpackers right next to me who are speaking very loudly in Hebrew, on skype to Israel. Out of all the districts, all the sectors and all the cells in Kigali, out of all the internet cafes... !!!!
Being rather well-versed in Israeli stereotypes and rather quick to judge, I concluded that these guys must be on their "post-IDF-backpacking-around-the-world-to-forget-all-the-abuse-i've-subjected-Palestinians-to." In the event that I was right, I wasn't going to allow that to happen, and decided to stage a mini-disruption as I alternated my computer screen between Electornic Intifada and provocative Ha'aretz headlines. We then engaged in a stare-down contest, they left, and I celebrated my victory.
If only there could be a bored Palestinian with so much time on her hands at every internet café...
posted by Diala at 10:30 AM
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