African Bagel Company

On Saturday morning I went - with two other muzungus - to find the African Bagel Company. I had heard that you could buy freshly made doughnuts on a Saturday morning for just 500frw (50p). You can.

You can also buy - as the name suggests - bagels.

The place was hidden away down a lane behind a big metal gate with the letters ABC written on it. None of us noticed this so we went for a 30 minute walk down some rural lanes asking confused Rwandans about bagels. None of them knew of it and, when we eventually found it, we saw why. Inside the gate everybody was a muzungo. The place is run by some Americans living in Kigali, and is frequented by an almost entirely white clientele. The doughnuts were delicious, but I think African Bagel Company is a misleading name; it should be called the American Bagel Company.

Igitoki (Plantain)

It occurred to me that I should dedicate a post to this mysterious entity, cousin to the banana, substitute for the potato. Igitoki grow on trees just like bananas, and to the amateur banana spotter, they look the same. Some certain igitoki can be sliced and fried to make a delicious sweet treat (think banana), but the usual, everyday igitoki are boiled, just like a potato would be. If you were to look at it - innocently - for the first time, you might ask why is there a peeled banana on my dinner plate. And if you were to close your eyes and put it in your mouth, you might ask why is this potato so long. Boiled plantains are very similar in texture and in taste to boiled potatoes. This might disappoint or relieve you, depending on what you were expecting. In Rwanda they are grown as a staple - a vital, versatile, carby food - along with, 'Irish potatoes' (to distinguish from sweet potatoes), Cassava (for sombe) and rice (umuceri). Oh and igitoki is said as it's spelt. i-gi-to-ki or i-gi-to-chi depending on your accent.

This is a huge clump of igitoki that had just been delivered outside somebody's house. They are cut down when green; I don't think they ever turn yellow. Now, plantains are bigger and beefier than bananas so you can see that there is a lot of food on this clump. I was told that this would easily feed a family for a few weeks. The price: 1000frw (about £1).

Here they are, just hanging about. What's that purple dangler at the bottom? No idea

People I Look Like (to Rwandans)

Do you watch movies? Yes. You look like this actor, Matt Bomer.

Do you support the Liverpool Football Team? No. You look like Suarez.

Scott, are you related to the Queen? No... Because you look like the Royal Family.

Hello, I am very good to meet you sir, you are the image of Michael Jackson.

Day 20: Lunch

What I have learnt, is that a lunch of nuts, olives, is not acceptable in the eyes of a Rwandan: Are you sure you will not have some stomach problems from eating these things? But but four bananas is absolutely fine because I am not hungry after my breakfast.

So today, this is my lunch. I might not eat them all now.

I bought them from here, the Kigali City Market. 600 francs for the small bunch, and 100 each for the ordinary kind.

Killing Things

After Saturday's outing to the local church, the boy brought a heavy-looking, black book to me. This, bibble, he said. (I had left mine in England.) A few days later, I was sitting in my room when I heard something walk in under the door (there's a large gap). It was an enormous ant. I'm not usually bothered by insects, but when they're so big that you hear them before seeing them, I'd rather they're not in my room; also, I had been told a horrible story by an English boy who'd been bitten by one of these ants, and I wanted it gone. I looked at the mosquito spray next to my bed, but I couldn't bear the thought of the thing writhing around on the floor squealing in pain. Then I noticed the bible.

Two days later, I was sitting in the office, and there was a mosquito buzzing round my head. I caught it in my hand, squashing it, and all of its previous victim's blood in my palm. This might be the most unpleasant thing that's happened to me here. I must have looked unhappy, because when I returned from the toilets after washing my hands, one of the office girls said, I have seen you look your face when you kill the mosquito, you have to vomit, isn't it?

I'm sure it's a terrible thing to use a bible to kill things, and I feel sorry about this. I'm not usually a fan of killing anything, but with everything determined to bite me, and suck my blood, my only options are to fight back or be a victim.

Day 14: Lunch

A few days ago, I met two English girls, who told me about a lady at a market in Kigali, who makes tailored shirts at a reasonable price. Her name is Josephine.

In the afternoon, I took a moto to the market. There were ladies sat in front of vast piles of beans, moving each one around with their finger tips, and carefully examining them, before moving them to the correct pile. Tall, wooden market stalls formed dark and narrow lanes, about three feet across. Walking through these lanes was more exciting for the surprise of what would be round each corner, all the way a background mumble of muzungo.

After one wrong Josephine, I eventually asked my way to the right Josephine. who was very friendly, and spoke fantastic English. Naïvely, I had imagined her range of fabrics to include stripes, checks, and other European styles. I was wrong. But since I had been escorted to her by an old lady and her entourage of small children (muzungo!) I had to follow through. I promise you will like it (the shirt), Josephine kept saying. She used a long, wooden stick to hook down each fabric on which my eyes paused for more than half a second. They were all as bright and bold as each other, and mostly imported from the Congo. How do you see Rwanda? she asked. Everybody asked this question, in the same phrasing. Eventually a small man in an ill-fitted shirt turned up to measure me. It turns out he's the one who makes the clothes. Josephine is just the front-man. I paid for the fabric (5000frw) and said goodbye. I will pay for the making when I collect the shirt on Wednesday. I promise you will like it, Josephine said again, before I left.

On my way back to the sunlight (rain actually) I stopped in the food section to buy some miniature bananas for lunch. At this point, five or six hands began to thrust different fruit in front of my face. 200! 100! 300! These were the only English words they spoke. Eventually I bought more than I wanted, and a man called Eric sold me a bag. I go by the name Eric. I work in the market no problem. Unable to dissuade him, he escorted me round, holding my bag, and I felt obliged to buy some oranges (they were brown). I gave him 200 for his trouble and thanked him. Next time you are here I will come. I am Eric work in the market no problem.

Unfortunately I didn't take my phone to the market so I have no photographs, but here is my pile of fruit. I don't know what I'll do with it since my breakfasts and dinners are made for me every day.

Day 14: Breakfast

For breakfast were the usual eggy-chapatis, and for once I had company. Albert's cousin sat watching me daintily trying to cut the plate-sized chapati with my knife and fork, without knocking it off the plate and onto my trousers. We eat them like this. He took a chapati in hand, folded it in half, and half again, and bit into it like a slice of pizza. Now I knew.

I saw the boy after breakfast. To go to the church? he asked. When the person who makes your food, washes your clothes, and polishes your shoes, asks this, I'm sure the only polite answer is Yes? And I like to think that you get a lot more out of life when you say yes to things. In fact, that was my answer the first time I was asked about coming to Rwanda: Yes?

Getting to the church involved a fair bit of clambering down dusty dirt tracks, and jumping over ditches filled with old flip-flops and discarded vegetables. This experience is not unique to that route; most residential areas and footpaths (ie. not busy main roads without pavements) are like this. It makes me appreciate how privileged Albert is to live on a street with a surfaced road (and a pavement which the motos sometimes use because it's smoother than the road).

As soon as we arrived, I realised I was under-dressed. I hoped the novelty of being a muzungo would distract their attention from my terracotta chinos. At least I hadn't spilt eggy-chapati on them. We sat outside, under a stilted roof. It was a sort of linear amphitheatre, with rows of steps sloping down to the front. On each step was built a simple wooden bench. I sat, with the boy near the back until a roundish lady at the front started waving at me and we moved. You are living with Ernest (one of Albert's cousins). I am his colleague. He must have told her but I was still confused how she knew it was me. You are very welcome, she said, a typical, friendly Rwandan greeting. I shook the hands of the starers around me and we sat to face the front; all except one child, who sat on the back of the bench in front, facing me, repeating the word muzungo at me every few seconds. The whole service was in Kinyarwanda, but the lady next to me translated every now and then, whilst intermittently quizzing me: Do you accept Jesus? Do you pray every day? Do you know the holy spirit?

I should say that this was an Adventist church, which is why we were there on a Saturday. It isn't something I know a lot about so I can't elaborate.

 
There was a choir, separated into two parts: those wearing lime green, and those wearing bright red. The lady limes wore green togas; whilst the men had much less conspicuous green ties. The red ladies wore red shirts with flaring collars, under white trouser suits; whilst the men settled with red collars and cuffs on white shirts. The service ended with a cheerful sounding song. Its mean thank God for everything, the lady explained. She waved her arms passionately as she said everything. Irrespective of the religious aspect, it was quite nice to see a group of people so appreciative of life, and the world around them. It made me think of how cynical we can be in England.

As the pastor closed the service, a boy, of apparently five or six years, ran up and touched my shoulder. His mother told him off and dragged him away. He wants to take your hand. The child who had been saying muzungo at me, in every noticeable silence - he could have been saying it throughout but I couldn't hear - had fallen asleep on his mother's lap.