Rwanda, the Land of 1,000 Hills, wears its description well. The earth here is incredibly curvaceous, tensing up in places and relaxing in others to form a landscape somewhere between the peaks of a meringue pie and the swells that roll against the shores of California. And, like the waves in the pacific, the hills of Rwanda wander into the distance, forming a futuristic skyline that glows green in the sun.
There is a downside to this ethereal landscape. It is best viewed from afar; not meant for people, it makes walking and driving downright treacherous. The Rwandan road system, evidently designed using the same thought-processes that made Jackson Pollick famous, tilts and whirls along the hillsides. Blind turns, badly graded roads, and crazy motorcyclists make walking dangerous, and driving eye-opening.
Despite this, I have been exploring the city more and more. The hills act as curtains, revealing new neighborhoods–new cultures at every turn. This weekend I wound through one of the poorer sections of town, down through a valley, and up a dirty hill covered with goats, mud-huts, and dusty vans, to one of Kigali’s food markets. Inside, vendors sold everything from zucchini to Bluetooth headsets. The stalls and tables were built into the concrete walls, and the contrast of the darkness of the vendor-areas with the bright light of the walkways made it all the more mysterious.
My job here at the UN is getting very busy. The projects that I am supposed to be championing are huge, messy, and require support from people at more than ten different UN agencies. So, I spend most of my days taking big UN SUVs from one office to the next, meeting with people, trying to get paperwork, and pushing the project forward.
I haven’t had time to take many pictures, but will hopefully get some good shots this weekend.
It’s Saturday now and I’m finally getting a few minutes to take a breath. Since I last wrote, I’ve had a major upgrade in both house and office. I’m now living with a coworker at the UN Development Program in a small house within walking distance of our office. He’s Belgian, has been here almost two years—eons in Kigali’s expat culture—and has a large circle of friends in their late twenties and thirties. Owing to the lack of European food in Kigali, he has taken to buying cheese and wine every time he goes to Nairobi, and on Thursday he threw a great party to eat his most recent purchases and to introduce me to some of the other expats. My first lesson on Rwandan expat life was that they drink.. A LOT. The group of ten went through five bottles of wine, a bottle of vodka, and several beers.
On Wednesday I also moved into the UNDP. My new office is located on the fifth floor of an old building high on a hill above the city and has spectacular views and a nice breeze. From the big windows I can see both the city below and the all kinds of birds above. Yesterday I saw an amazing white spoonbill of some sort fly right by my window.
I’m still trying to get used a lot of things here. First and foremost are the service-people. They’re everywhere. In my office there are four women who roam around scrubbing, mopping, and sweeping, constantly. The minute I get up to go somewhere they’re in trying to neaten up papers, wipe off my desk, and dust my windows. It makes me feel like a slob. In addition, there are drivers that take us to our meetings, gardeners who keep the walkways and gardens spotless, and a whole contingent of guards who stand around looking ominous and opening doors and gates.
Our house is similar. There’s a cleaning lady who comes every morning to wash dishes, make beds, and straighten everything, and I mean everything. Then there are three guards who take turns opening our gate, patrolling the premises, and watching us through the windows. This situation constantly reminds me of how different the culture is here, and I’m still trying to adjust.
The other bizarre thing about Rwanda is the food. Kigali is land-locked, and they have yet to develop good trade routes to the ports in Kenya and Tanzania. This means that the only things for sale at reasonable prices are those grown locally. Most expats are living on large stipends and are willing to go to great lengths to get the things they want. A few local grocers cater especially to them, and most of their goods are flown in from Europe or the Middle East. At the store yesterday I found several jars of pickles for over $15 each, crackers and cereal both for around $8.50, and Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup for around $6 per can. Luckily things like pasta, meat, and vegetables are cheaper, and I’ve already started cooking for myself.