I Need a Knot…I’m at the End of My Rope!
Navigating the road of everyday life in Kigali remains a great challenge. About a month ago we had plumbing problems in one of the bathrooms. We called the homeowner who promised to send a “technician” to fix the problem. Incidentally, it seems everyone in Kigali is a maid, a guard, a gardener or a technician – all of the terms seem to be assigned pretty loosely even by the most liberal definition. Anyway, the technicians showed up two weeks later with their tools in a wrinkled brown paper bag and determine they need to replace a part. They took what they needed and headed off to parts unknown. Another two weeks pass and they show up early one morning as I was about to go to Bible Study. I asked them how long the job would take since I knew I had to leave in a half hour. Mr. Technician assured me they would be done in 15 minutes. After all this time I should have known better. Twenty five minutes pass, Mo and Larry are still fooling around in the bathroom so I tell them I need to leave the house and they will have to return after lunch. I leave the house for my class and they go wherever technicians go during their downtime. Perhaps 25 women show up for the class and we have a great time in fellowship and prayer. We pick up Ken for lunch on the way home and I’m in very good spirits. Those of you who are regular readers of this blog know this story sounds way too normal to end here. Well we step into the house and just as I begin to smell dampness, Ken yells from the bathroom that we’ve got a problem. Take a guess. That’s right, the bathroom is flooded. Water is shooting from the bathtub faucet onto the floor, rolling down the hall and seeping into the bedrooms. I can feel the afterglow of the fellowship draining from my body and being replaced by that old familiar disappointment I’ve come to know so well.
We get the owner’s representative on the phone and explain the emergency. His response: well your wife sent the technicians home, what would you have me to do? Well DUH?!
How about you send Dumb and Dumber back out here and get this geyser under control? Meanwhile, I get Ken’s lunch prepared and make him sit down to eat as I watch water creep down my hall like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. About an hour later they show up, shake their heads and cluck their tongues at the flood they created.
My friends all know that I am generally slow to anger but just as sure as I am currently living in this time warp, I would have gone off like a rocket had they understood English. My Pastor would have been proud of the way I smiled thru gritted teeth and took on a “hey you didn’t do it on purpose” demeanor. They finally get the job finished while I mop and bail water down the tub. The guy who appears to be the worker finishes and leaves the house. The second guy whom I guess was the brains of the operation has found a paint-splattered pail and decides to help me clean up the mess. You have to imagine a shoeless guy in dress slacks and long sleeve cotton shirt with his pants rolled up to the knees mumbling to himself in some African dialect. He’s bending over, scooping water with his hands into this plastic pail and probably cussing up a storm. Of course, this does nothing to assuage my growing anger and I ask him to kindly leave and let me clean up. He says he doesn’t understand what I’m saying – by the way, some Africans do this selectively. I take the pail from his hands and make shooing motions for him to leave so I can finish mopping. He shrugs his shoulders, turns and walks away on tiptoe with arms outstretched for balance. The next day we had no running water.
Same Sh!t, Different Day
We just came to the end of the first full week with no running water. That’s right folks – no showering, no laundry, cooking with bottled water and my legs look like they should be attached to Queen Kong. Apparently there is a major water shortage here in the capitol city and all I can tell you is that it seems nothings being done about it. I would however, put the smart money on the fact that the president of this country has running water at his house. We do have a water storage tank in the yard, as do most homes here. It holds about 5,000 liters and I suppose if we don’t water the yard, don’t do laundry and share showers it can last about a week. I mention the storage tank because when the city water goes off – which is at some point every day – it’s easy to tell because of the decrease in water pressure. The gardener, who is Rwandan and speaks no English, will use the water in the storage tank to the very last drop taking care of the yard. I always have to watch him from the windows and stop him when he tries to use the water from storage. I tell him, the water is gone, there’s no more. He looks at me with a dazed expression and motions that yes, there is water. He reminds me of a toddler who doesn’t get it when his parents say there’s no money for a new toy and the kid points to a box of checks and says just write a check mom. I talked about this with my friend Jessica who has been here for 18 months now. She said it’s an ongoing struggle to get Rwandans to understand that because we are Americans does not mean that we have bottomless resources. They think somehow that we have some great hookup and never short of resources. This guy simply cannot understand how we can have water in the tank but say there is none for watering the yard. He figures he should just use it until it is gone and then start again until the next day. It is quite likely that he lives in a place without running water or electricity and really does not understand that when the City water is off, we use what’s in the tank for everyday things like dishes, toilets and showering.
The situation with the water has gotten so bad that the guys who rent houses as we do have had to send water trucks to the homes to fill our storage tanks. Ken arranged for a water truck this afternoon just before lunch. It was our hope that the gardener would be gone to lunch when the truck came so he wouldn’t know there was water in the tank. Unfortunately, he crossed paths with the truck and spent the first 15 minutes of his lunch hour watching the tank being filled. I promptly wrote a big note saying DO NOT USE THE WATER and taped it to the spigot he uses for watering. It then dawned on me that if he could not speak English, he likely could not read it either. Truth be told, he could certainly be one of the thousands here who cannot read or write. What to do, what to do? I took an oversized roll of tape and covered the opening of the spigot several times. Care to guess if he gets the message? I intend to leave the sign on until the City water is back on.
July 21, 2006
We finally have water in the house! It’s amazing how good a hot shower feels after going several days without.
I’ve turned into something of a news junkie since we have been here. We get CNN and BBC. I watch Larry King Live just before lunch. We get the international edition of CNN and as you probably would expect, coverage is not so focused on America. There’s a fairly limited selection of shows from the States and the only thing we really watch regularly is National Geographic, Discovery and History Channel. I was channel surfing recently and some of the U.S. programs from the satellite include Oprah, Tyra Banks Show, Jerry Springer, Touched by an Angel, Matlock, X-Files, 24, The Practice, Boston Legal, Seinfeld and Days of Our Lives. Trinity broadcasting network is on 24 hours and you can catch 30-year-old broadcasts of Oral Roberts and other televangelists. They show lots of British programming and several African soap operas. Every now and then I find a decent movie to watch. Fortunately for me, I was not a huge TV fan to begin with so I can’t really say that I miss it. One thing I do miss achingly is reading the New York Times, other American Newspapers and magazines.
The Eyesore Next Door
I’ve written previously about how we live in a virtual fortress with ten foot high walls, a locked iron gate and 24-hour security guards. It is typical of nicer homes here in Kigali City. Another common sight is unfinished construction projects. In the immediate vicinity of our house alone are two abandoned homes in various stages of construction. There is a third one next door that we affectionately refer to as the Eyesore Next Door. It seems someone has actually decided to turn it into a home. When we first moved in, we seldom saw anyone on the property. They have recently stepped up their efforts at construction during the day. The abandoned property immediately to the right of the Eyesore seems to be occupied by squatters. We see people making fires, cooking, bathing and washing clothes all outdoors. It is not an uncommon sight all over town. At this point, only the frame and outside walls are complete so it is barely more than shelter from the rain. You can probably imagine what home construction is like here. There are no ladders, machinery, scaffolding, safety shoes, hard hats, regard for safety of the workers, electricity, etc., etc. The only thing close to a tool I have seen is a saw, a sorry looking drill and a hammer. I have no idea how they got the concrete masonry in place since it was already standing when we moved in. I suppose the recent flurry of activity next door is an attempt to get as much work done before the rainy season sets in.
Sharon Kathleen Barclay
© 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Friday, July 14, 2006
Something to be Thankful For
July 10, 2006
Reflections
I received so many Independence Day wishes from our friends and family back in the States and I appreciate them; but one that really touched me was from my friend and former manager, Rick. His reflections on the meanings of freedom and independence just reminded me that it truly is a privilege to live in America – flawed though it may be – it’s my home and will always be. So many Americans consider it an inalienable right to turn on the tap and have clean water, to flip a switch and have electricity and to worship or not worship as their conscious dictates. Now that I have lived in China and Africa I am not ashamed to say I have gotten on my knees and thanked God for those things and for my country. Certainly, there is crime, poverty, injustice and racism in America but I don’t think I will ever be convinced that there is a better place on the planet for me to call home. One of the greatest consequences of this international lifestyle Ken and I have chosen is experiencing other cultures and being constantly reminded and humbled by how fortunate we are. I’m sometimes homesick and often frustrated, I miss the comforts of home but at the end of the day I laugh more often than I cry. I find comfort in prayer, reading, writing, electronic communication with you guys and especially from being married to my best friend; my heart’s twin.
The Littlest Africans
I went to a local orphanage with an American friend who happens to be a Baptist missionary. They are always in need of workers to help out with the children so we went one morning to help with the morning feeding. Out of respect for the institution, I am not going to give their name but will say that it is run by local people. If you look at the place through the eyes of an American, conditions are dismal. When I walked into the room where the babies sleep, the first thing I noticed was the strong smell of urine. I confess that I had to immediately ask God to humble me and take away my notions of how things “ought” to be. These volunteers were children of the same God that I serve and they were surely doing work that was pleasing in His sight.
It has taken me several days to process my experiences and feelings about that day. I wish a loving home for every single child in that orphanage but the reality is that the majority will not be adopted. Without giving the exact number, I will tell you that they house several dozen babies and toddlers. Each infant has his or her own crib but there are never enough workers for every one to get extended periods of physical contact and personal attention. The babies appear to be well nourished, they all looked clean and I was told they get daily baths. Nonetheless, someone is always crying to be held and there are never enough arms. I asked why there were so many young babies and where the moms were. As I understand it, many of the babies are the children of prostitutes or of poor families who just could not afford another mouth to feed. One of the infants was found by neighbors in a plastic bag with the umbilicus still attached. Some of the babies have HIV but no one gets tested until a family expresses interest in adoption. The fortunate few who do get adopted always go to foreign families since the locals simply are not adopting.
Like infants all over the world, these babies calm down when you rub their backs, they sigh with contentment when you rock them and they smile back at you. I fell in love with a two-month-old named Joseph. Joseph has eyes like mine, chubby cheeks and an adorable baby’s bald head. More than one person commented that he looked like he could have been my biological child. I suppose that’s why I was instantly drawn to him. As I walked him up and down the isles I fantasized about taking him home and raising him as mine. If we were ten years younger and about to end this international lifestyle it might have been a possibility. It was really hard to leave him there but my prayer is that he won’t be there when I return. I hope another woman sees the things in him that I saw and gives him a chance at a wonderful life.
On a Lighter Note
We’re looking for a dog. In this country where pets are rare, it is no small task to find one. If you see someone with a dog, they are definitely foreign. A friend of a friend is a missionary and also a veterinarian. So the good doctor is on the lookout for healthy pups on our behalf. We don’t care what breed – it can be a mutt – as long as it’s healthy with a good disposition. Hopefully, we will find one soon.
So many things happen over the course of my normal day that make me just stop and shake my head in disbelief. I’m constantly laughing at myself and the wraparounds I come up with for daily living like using the tea kettle to heat water for washing dishes or keeping a flashlight under my pillow for the inevitable power outage.
I frequently see items in the grocery store and while they look interesting, I hesitate to make the purchase because I simply don’t know what they are. However, I have learned that if I see something I like to buy it right then since it’s not likely to be on the shelf the next time. We like to eat beans and rice so I’m always checking out interesting looking dried beans to experiment with. I found a small red bean that looks sort of like a kidney bean and thought I would try to create some version of red beans and rice. I bought a bag, soaked half and put them on the stove to cook. I fell asleep. I burned the beans. Next day I soak the other half, put them on the stove and go sit on the terrace to read. Yep, I burned the beans again. The next time I go to the grocery store I buy the beans again and the clerk looks at me like this lady must really like beans. Anyway, I get the beans home, add seasonings and chopped onions and determine that I will not burn them this time. I spend the day going back and forth to the kitchen stirring and adding water trying to get them tender and just right for when Ken gets home. After cooking them for about five hours I begin to wonder if there’s something different about the beans here versus the ones back home. Anyway, I’ve got these beans seasoned really nicely but they are still a bit on the crunchy side. It turns out they taste pretty good and Ken likes them. Over dinner we both comment about how different they taste. Yeah, Ken says, they taste kind of nutty but he likes the way they seem to “pop” in your mouth. I count it a success and decide to buy them on my next grocery outing.
Several days later, I went to the market with my friend Jessica who is American but also speaks the local language. We were both buying produce and chatting about what’s good and so forth. I say to her, oh you know what’s really good is those little red beans up there on the top shelf. They take a long time to cook but they have a nice nutty flavor. She looks at the beans, looks at me, looks back at the beans then says something to the clerk in their language. The ladies behind the counter all break into gales of laughter. I giggle nervously because everyone’s laughing but me so I surmise that I must be the reason. Jessica smiles at me and says, Sharon those are peanuts. Nothing I could do but laugh at myself.
Reflections
I received so many Independence Day wishes from our friends and family back in the States and I appreciate them; but one that really touched me was from my friend and former manager, Rick. His reflections on the meanings of freedom and independence just reminded me that it truly is a privilege to live in America – flawed though it may be – it’s my home and will always be. So many Americans consider it an inalienable right to turn on the tap and have clean water, to flip a switch and have electricity and to worship or not worship as their conscious dictates. Now that I have lived in China and Africa I am not ashamed to say I have gotten on my knees and thanked God for those things and for my country. Certainly, there is crime, poverty, injustice and racism in America but I don’t think I will ever be convinced that there is a better place on the planet for me to call home. One of the greatest consequences of this international lifestyle Ken and I have chosen is experiencing other cultures and being constantly reminded and humbled by how fortunate we are. I’m sometimes homesick and often frustrated, I miss the comforts of home but at the end of the day I laugh more often than I cry. I find comfort in prayer, reading, writing, electronic communication with you guys and especially from being married to my best friend; my heart’s twin.
The Littlest Africans
I went to a local orphanage with an American friend who happens to be a Baptist missionary. They are always in need of workers to help out with the children so we went one morning to help with the morning feeding. Out of respect for the institution, I am not going to give their name but will say that it is run by local people. If you look at the place through the eyes of an American, conditions are dismal. When I walked into the room where the babies sleep, the first thing I noticed was the strong smell of urine. I confess that I had to immediately ask God to humble me and take away my notions of how things “ought” to be. These volunteers were children of the same God that I serve and they were surely doing work that was pleasing in His sight.
It has taken me several days to process my experiences and feelings about that day. I wish a loving home for every single child in that orphanage but the reality is that the majority will not be adopted. Without giving the exact number, I will tell you that they house several dozen babies and toddlers. Each infant has his or her own crib but there are never enough workers for every one to get extended periods of physical contact and personal attention. The babies appear to be well nourished, they all looked clean and I was told they get daily baths. Nonetheless, someone is always crying to be held and there are never enough arms. I asked why there were so many young babies and where the moms were. As I understand it, many of the babies are the children of prostitutes or of poor families who just could not afford another mouth to feed. One of the infants was found by neighbors in a plastic bag with the umbilicus still attached. Some of the babies have HIV but no one gets tested until a family expresses interest in adoption. The fortunate few who do get adopted always go to foreign families since the locals simply are not adopting.
Like infants all over the world, these babies calm down when you rub their backs, they sigh with contentment when you rock them and they smile back at you. I fell in love with a two-month-old named Joseph. Joseph has eyes like mine, chubby cheeks and an adorable baby’s bald head. More than one person commented that he looked like he could have been my biological child. I suppose that’s why I was instantly drawn to him. As I walked him up and down the isles I fantasized about taking him home and raising him as mine. If we were ten years younger and about to end this international lifestyle it might have been a possibility. It was really hard to leave him there but my prayer is that he won’t be there when I return. I hope another woman sees the things in him that I saw and gives him a chance at a wonderful life.
On a Lighter Note
We’re looking for a dog. In this country where pets are rare, it is no small task to find one. If you see someone with a dog, they are definitely foreign. A friend of a friend is a missionary and also a veterinarian. So the good doctor is on the lookout for healthy pups on our behalf. We don’t care what breed – it can be a mutt – as long as it’s healthy with a good disposition. Hopefully, we will find one soon.
So many things happen over the course of my normal day that make me just stop and shake my head in disbelief. I’m constantly laughing at myself and the wraparounds I come up with for daily living like using the tea kettle to heat water for washing dishes or keeping a flashlight under my pillow for the inevitable power outage.
I frequently see items in the grocery store and while they look interesting, I hesitate to make the purchase because I simply don’t know what they are. However, I have learned that if I see something I like to buy it right then since it’s not likely to be on the shelf the next time. We like to eat beans and rice so I’m always checking out interesting looking dried beans to experiment with. I found a small red bean that looks sort of like a kidney bean and thought I would try to create some version of red beans and rice. I bought a bag, soaked half and put them on the stove to cook. I fell asleep. I burned the beans. Next day I soak the other half, put them on the stove and go sit on the terrace to read. Yep, I burned the beans again. The next time I go to the grocery store I buy the beans again and the clerk looks at me like this lady must really like beans. Anyway, I get the beans home, add seasonings and chopped onions and determine that I will not burn them this time. I spend the day going back and forth to the kitchen stirring and adding water trying to get them tender and just right for when Ken gets home. After cooking them for about five hours I begin to wonder if there’s something different about the beans here versus the ones back home. Anyway, I’ve got these beans seasoned really nicely but they are still a bit on the crunchy side. It turns out they taste pretty good and Ken likes them. Over dinner we both comment about how different they taste. Yeah, Ken says, they taste kind of nutty but he likes the way they seem to “pop” in your mouth. I count it a success and decide to buy them on my next grocery outing.
Several days later, I went to the market with my friend Jessica who is American but also speaks the local language. We were both buying produce and chatting about what’s good and so forth. I say to her, oh you know what’s really good is those little red beans up there on the top shelf. They take a long time to cook but they have a nice nutty flavor. She looks at the beans, looks at me, looks back at the beans then says something to the clerk in their language. The ladies behind the counter all break into gales of laughter. I giggle nervously because everyone’s laughing but me so I surmise that I must be the reason. Jessica smiles at me and says, Sharon those are peanuts. Nothing I could do but laugh at myself.
Monday, July 03, 2006
This Life We Chose
June 15, 2006
The Crazy House
The house we live in unlike anything I have seen before. A really cute house but, it’s long on form and woefully short on function. Four bedrooms, two baths, living, dining, kitchen, pantry, alcove, two terraces and a big yard make up the place we call home for now. I worked with a very successful architectural firm in San Antonio and of course am married to an engineer so I know just a little bit about how a house should be constructed. Whoever built our house and every other one we’ve visited here is definitely not clear on the concept.
We have windows that rattle because they don’t fit the frames correctly. The front doors that open onto the main terrace are glass and have about a two-inch gap between the bottom of the door and the floor, a virtual welcome mat for lizards, dust and mosquitoes. We have fluorescent lighting on the exterior of the house and in the kitchen. There are times when the lights flicker for twenty minutes before staying on. It kind of gives the feeling of being in a 1970s disco right in the middle of my kitchen. Speaking of the kitchen - - the cabinets are not uniformly sized and some don’t stay closed. I affectionately refer to the stove as my Easy Bake Oven. I’m not a very tall person, but this stove is small even for me. In fact, the stove is precisely 32 inches high (and yes, I measured it). The refrigerator is another petite appliance. It’s a perfect kitchen – for Gary Coleman!
The bathroom fixtures are a constant source of aggravation – leaking, slipping, sticking, you name it. The floors are all white or near white tile and need to be mopped frequently just to stay on top of the red dust that blows in daily. The shingles while awfully cute rattle incessantly at the slightest gust of wind – imagine rain on a tin roof.
The house is surrounded by an iron gate and a cement wall that are about ten feet high. Walking around the single-family neighborhoods, you can only see the roofs. We have no idea who our neighbors are and could live here two years without seeing them. Concern for personal safety is very high as evidenced by the gated and guarded homes. It can be pretty spooky at times. On the one hand, we here in security briefings that Rwanda is probably the safest country on the African continent but on the other hand, they have guards, gates and a strong police presence on the streets. I’m not sure which one drives the other – safety or security.
June 16, 2006
We finally had satellite TV installed – not without some drama, however. Before the process can even begin someone has to go to the cable company and pick up the installer and bring him to the house. The technician arrives with the equipment to be installed but, alas, no tools. The dish was to be installed in the yard atop a pole and the cable would be run from the pole into the house. Just looking at the equipment, I knew he was ill-prepared to perform the installation. For some reason, it took him about an hour to decide he did not have everything he needed to be successful. He finally asked me for money to go buy the concrete and pole, promising to return the next and “finish” the installation. It seemed to me that since he never started, the appropriate verb would have been to “begin” the install – but I digress.
The next day we start all over again – driver goes to pick up the installer and brings him to the house. Now he needs to dig a hole in the ground. Do I have a shovel? Of course not; he improvises and uses a garden hoe. In my writer’s mind, I see a story unfolding so I park myself on the terrace to watch. This skinny little man looks to be no more than 18, and that’s probably generous. I’m watching him swing this garden hoe for all its worth trying to get a deep enough hole to accommodate the pole. Because he was wearing flip flops, I flinched every time the hoe got within striking distance of his feet but I couldn’t make myself turn away. When he looks like he’s at the point where he might begin using the concrete, I go around to the back of the house for a pail and offer it to him. No, he motions, he does not need the pail. Granted, I am no construction aficionado but I do know concrete needs water to perform and the user needs to mix the two in some type of container.
The guy then dumps the concrete under the spigot where we connect the water hose and mixes it right there in the grass. The next step is to scoop the freshly mixed concrete in his hands and run relays until he has enough in the hole with the pole to make it stand. Once the pole is secured in the ground, the next obstacle is how to get the cable from the yard to the house. Of course, the technician has no ladder so Ken has to bring one home from the job site. Once the install is finally finished, I am only too happy to give the guy money for a taxi and get him on his way.
Not the Garden of Eden
By now we’ve hired a guard, gotten all of our furniture moved in, have appliances installed and can watch TV when we have electricity. The next thing we need to do is hire a gardener. In Kigali, everyone “knows someone who is a gardener”. We had a couple of false leads – people who did not show up for interviews and incomplete referrals for the drivers on the project. This went on for a couple of weeks. In the meantime, Mother Nature was quietly turning our yard into a meadow before my eyes. The owner of the house had helped me negotiate a trash collection contract with a local company a couple of weeks ago. It just so happened that I decided to read the contract over a cup of tea one day last week and though it’s written in French, I was able to figure out that the company also does gardening. Silly me, I figured we probably could not go wrong if we hired a business instead of an individual. Nothing is ever as simple as it could be here.
After our experience with the satellite TV installer, we knew some of the basic questions to ask up front like does the gardener come with his own tools and whether we would be expected to provide transportation. One of the administrative people in the office speaks the local language and a respectable level of English, so she often gets used for translation services. Through her, we did a couple iterations of the gardening contract and arrived at what we thought was a mutual understanding of expectations. The gardener showed up on day one at 1:00 instead of 8:00 and put in about a half day’s work. The second day he showed up at shortly before 7:00 and proceeded to clean the exterior of the house – mopped the terraces, washed the pillars, washed the window ledges and glass doors. Needless to say, I was quite perplexed since the contract stated clearly what the gardener’s responsibilities would be. I like a clean home, probably more than many, but we were paying for someone to care for the yard not the house. I determined that left unchecked, we would be paying for part-time gardening and part-time house cleaning. Not acceptable. We made more phone calls to the company and this time I wrote the contract and laid out exactly what I expected. This morning, the president of the company stopped by the house in what I interpreted as an attempt to salvage the account. The gardener and the supervisor are now working in the yard. We shall see what happens.
July 3, 2006
Tomorrow is the 4th of July and not surprisingly, it doesn’t mean anything here. The guys on the project will work their regular 10 hours. There was a barbeque at the Ambassador’s residence this past Saturday but again, it was a regular work day for these guys so no one went. Anyway, happy 4th to all of you. I think the first holiday Ken will get off of work will likely be Thanksgiving or Christmas. By that time we will be weeks away from our six-month vacation. Yea!
On a pleasant note, I met an American woman who along with her husband is a Missionary here in Kigali. They are affiliated with Skokie Valley Baptist Church in Skokie, IL. Fortunately, she lives just a few houses away and we just connected right away. She's taking me to a local orphanage later this week to do some volunteer work. So, I'm happy to report that it looks like I'm finally going to be able to do something that I consider socially meaningful. Will keep you posted.
Keep those cards and letters coming!
The Crazy House
The house we live in unlike anything I have seen before. A really cute house but, it’s long on form and woefully short on function. Four bedrooms, two baths, living, dining, kitchen, pantry, alcove, two terraces and a big yard make up the place we call home for now. I worked with a very successful architectural firm in San Antonio and of course am married to an engineer so I know just a little bit about how a house should be constructed. Whoever built our house and every other one we’ve visited here is definitely not clear on the concept.
We have windows that rattle because they don’t fit the frames correctly. The front doors that open onto the main terrace are glass and have about a two-inch gap between the bottom of the door and the floor, a virtual welcome mat for lizards, dust and mosquitoes. We have fluorescent lighting on the exterior of the house and in the kitchen. There are times when the lights flicker for twenty minutes before staying on. It kind of gives the feeling of being in a 1970s disco right in the middle of my kitchen. Speaking of the kitchen - - the cabinets are not uniformly sized and some don’t stay closed. I affectionately refer to the stove as my Easy Bake Oven. I’m not a very tall person, but this stove is small even for me. In fact, the stove is precisely 32 inches high (and yes, I measured it). The refrigerator is another petite appliance. It’s a perfect kitchen – for Gary Coleman!
The bathroom fixtures are a constant source of aggravation – leaking, slipping, sticking, you name it. The floors are all white or near white tile and need to be mopped frequently just to stay on top of the red dust that blows in daily. The shingles while awfully cute rattle incessantly at the slightest gust of wind – imagine rain on a tin roof.
The house is surrounded by an iron gate and a cement wall that are about ten feet high. Walking around the single-family neighborhoods, you can only see the roofs. We have no idea who our neighbors are and could live here two years without seeing them. Concern for personal safety is very high as evidenced by the gated and guarded homes. It can be pretty spooky at times. On the one hand, we here in security briefings that Rwanda is probably the safest country on the African continent but on the other hand, they have guards, gates and a strong police presence on the streets. I’m not sure which one drives the other – safety or security.
June 16, 2006
We finally had satellite TV installed – not without some drama, however. Before the process can even begin someone has to go to the cable company and pick up the installer and bring him to the house. The technician arrives with the equipment to be installed but, alas, no tools. The dish was to be installed in the yard atop a pole and the cable would be run from the pole into the house. Just looking at the equipment, I knew he was ill-prepared to perform the installation. For some reason, it took him about an hour to decide he did not have everything he needed to be successful. He finally asked me for money to go buy the concrete and pole, promising to return the next and “finish” the installation. It seemed to me that since he never started, the appropriate verb would have been to “begin” the install – but I digress.
The next day we start all over again – driver goes to pick up the installer and brings him to the house. Now he needs to dig a hole in the ground. Do I have a shovel? Of course not; he improvises and uses a garden hoe. In my writer’s mind, I see a story unfolding so I park myself on the terrace to watch. This skinny little man looks to be no more than 18, and that’s probably generous. I’m watching him swing this garden hoe for all its worth trying to get a deep enough hole to accommodate the pole. Because he was wearing flip flops, I flinched every time the hoe got within striking distance of his feet but I couldn’t make myself turn away. When he looks like he’s at the point where he might begin using the concrete, I go around to the back of the house for a pail and offer it to him. No, he motions, he does not need the pail. Granted, I am no construction aficionado but I do know concrete needs water to perform and the user needs to mix the two in some type of container.
The guy then dumps the concrete under the spigot where we connect the water hose and mixes it right there in the grass. The next step is to scoop the freshly mixed concrete in his hands and run relays until he has enough in the hole with the pole to make it stand. Once the pole is secured in the ground, the next obstacle is how to get the cable from the yard to the house. Of course, the technician has no ladder so Ken has to bring one home from the job site. Once the install is finally finished, I am only too happy to give the guy money for a taxi and get him on his way.
Not the Garden of Eden
By now we’ve hired a guard, gotten all of our furniture moved in, have appliances installed and can watch TV when we have electricity. The next thing we need to do is hire a gardener. In Kigali, everyone “knows someone who is a gardener”. We had a couple of false leads – people who did not show up for interviews and incomplete referrals for the drivers on the project. This went on for a couple of weeks. In the meantime, Mother Nature was quietly turning our yard into a meadow before my eyes. The owner of the house had helped me negotiate a trash collection contract with a local company a couple of weeks ago. It just so happened that I decided to read the contract over a cup of tea one day last week and though it’s written in French, I was able to figure out that the company also does gardening. Silly me, I figured we probably could not go wrong if we hired a business instead of an individual. Nothing is ever as simple as it could be here.
After our experience with the satellite TV installer, we knew some of the basic questions to ask up front like does the gardener come with his own tools and whether we would be expected to provide transportation. One of the administrative people in the office speaks the local language and a respectable level of English, so she often gets used for translation services. Through her, we did a couple iterations of the gardening contract and arrived at what we thought was a mutual understanding of expectations. The gardener showed up on day one at 1:00 instead of 8:00 and put in about a half day’s work. The second day he showed up at shortly before 7:00 and proceeded to clean the exterior of the house – mopped the terraces, washed the pillars, washed the window ledges and glass doors. Needless to say, I was quite perplexed since the contract stated clearly what the gardener’s responsibilities would be. I like a clean home, probably more than many, but we were paying for someone to care for the yard not the house. I determined that left unchecked, we would be paying for part-time gardening and part-time house cleaning. Not acceptable. We made more phone calls to the company and this time I wrote the contract and laid out exactly what I expected. This morning, the president of the company stopped by the house in what I interpreted as an attempt to salvage the account. The gardener and the supervisor are now working in the yard. We shall see what happens.
July 3, 2006
Tomorrow is the 4th of July and not surprisingly, it doesn’t mean anything here. The guys on the project will work their regular 10 hours. There was a barbeque at the Ambassador’s residence this past Saturday but again, it was a regular work day for these guys so no one went. Anyway, happy 4th to all of you. I think the first holiday Ken will get off of work will likely be Thanksgiving or Christmas. By that time we will be weeks away from our six-month vacation. Yea!
On a pleasant note, I met an American woman who along with her husband is a Missionary here in Kigali. They are affiliated with Skokie Valley Baptist Church in Skokie, IL. Fortunately, she lives just a few houses away and we just connected right away. She's taking me to a local orphanage later this week to do some volunteer work. So, I'm happy to report that it looks like I'm finally going to be able to do something that I consider socially meaningful. Will keep you posted.
Keep those cards and letters coming!
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