Today was one of those days where I alternate between loving being here and hating it. I guess start with the bad. Someone has been stealing from us and although we arent sure who it is, its very disconcerting. My roommates have had over 500 dollars and a phone stolen and we have all decided that we are not comfortable with someone else having a key to our house, so we are letting our domestique go (isnt that a nice term. So much nicer than fire). There have been multiple times when the gate and the house have been unlocked and unfortunately, we are targets for theft. It is very easy to avoid being robbed here, just lock the house and the gate. But unfortunately this has not been happening. It is a difficult position to be in. On the one hand, we are expats here and we are comparatively wealthy; however, by US standards we are poor, the money we make qualifies all of us for poverty level, and in order to pay loans, we all have to save. No matter what, we are white and no matter what we say, that will always mean that people expect us to be rich. And despite the beneficence we feel in being here and the comfort that we give ourselves in "helping people" and "saving the world", that doesn't fly without generating some resentment.
But why I love this place... So after going to the embassy to cast our emergency ballots (Go Obama!) a month early because the US government somehow forgot to mail the absentee ballots to people overseas, I had to go to the post office to pick up two packages from my wonderful mother. Since there are no street names or building or home addresses in Rwanda, when packages are delivered, they are brought to the post office, which then generates slips saying that packages have arrived. Twice a week, someone from the office goes to the post office at approximately 3 in the afternoon and checks to see if any packages have been delivered. But of course the worker cant actually pick up the package because they are in our name and we have to have ID. They can only get the slip, return to the office, and give us the slips. This is always done at 3 when the post office closes at 330 so it is impossible to get your package the day you learn of it. Rather you have to wait eighteen hours to wonder about what possible treats are sitting in a locked room. Now although the post office is in a very official looking building with marble floors and high ceilings, that is not actually where you go to pick up a package. Nope. You go to "eight". What is "eight"? "Eight", which is for no discernible reason called eight since there are only two rooms in the post office, is the room where the packages are stored. It is located in the back and the basement of the post office, with the entrance in a gravel parking lot catering to taxis and buses and getting there necessitates exiting the post office, walking a block past craft stores, post card sellers, and a barrage of "foreign exchange bureaus", which are from what i can tell men sitting outside of shops yelling "sister, you need change?". Now "eight" is broken up into four rooms. The first room comfortably fits about three people and is where you go if you are a customer waiting to pick up or ship a package. The first room leads directly into the main storage area where a man sits at a desk full of papers and surrounded by pictures of Jesus and a rasta singer named "Cool Dube". When I arrived today, I put down my things on a small table in the entrance area to look for my claim slips and of course proceeded to drop all of my change that I have accumulated in the past two months all over the floor. Now even though there were three men sitting in a directly adjoining room watching every move I made and a man at the "Cool Dube" desk, no one made a move to help me. So, after scrambling on the floor to pick up my change I stand back up and immediately a gust of wind blows my two claim slips into the storage area. Keeping in mind that there are very few "official" areas in Rwanda, I just ran after the slips into the middle of the storage area. Three men and a cool dube continue to stare. Finally, I stuff my change and the slips back into my bag and retreat to the correct side of the window. Not a word has been uttered. While I have been running around "eight" a Japanese couple has entered the small room and has started to try to mail a package. Only English isnt their first language nor is it the first language of the man attempting to examine their packages so their communication is basically limited to hand gestures and broken french/ japanese/ english. Until the woman starts repeating, at first very quietly and then escalating with each word "food... food... SNACK! food... food... SNACK... food... food... SNACK" and her husband just clings desperately to the box to keep the postal man from cutting open the package. Finally, the couple relinquishes the package, the postal worker open it and the woman repeats "food... food... SNACK" and the man retapes the package. After the package has been taped, the couple walks away saying in perfect, unaccented english "Thank you. Have a nice day." I swear to you this happened. Moving on, I give the cool dube my slips and my drivers license which he takes stares at and then says "Linnea? Your name is Linnea?" as though perhaps I made up that particular name, printed a drivers license, and was conducting an elaborate ruse to get someone elses package. So I reply "Yes, my name is Linnea." Disgusted sigh and incoherent hand gesture. Umm ok. And then out of nowhere a general worker appears. The general worker dissapears into the fourth room and comes back out with a huge box and another balanced very precariously on top, puts them on a table, and then takes the two thousand francs I was holding out of my hand and walks away without a word. Suddenly, one of the men in the other room who up until now has stayed securely on his chair, comes out dressed in a full-pressed uniform and in a very official voice says "Hello, Im the customs official. What is in these boxes?". Please keep in mind that the boxes are securely taped and sealed and the man has been watching every single second of this scenario. Obviously I have no idea, so I say, "Obviously, I have no idea, They are from my mother." To which the original postal worker from the other room wisely says "ahhh mother" and nods his head. Im still not sure if he was saying "ahh yes mothers send very nice care packages" or "ahh yes I understand the word mother". So I just nod and say "ahh mother" back to him. During this exchange, the customs official has taken the customs form off of only the small box and apparently that satisfied him because he turned around, went back to the other room, and sat back in the chair to stare some more. By this point, another man has entered the waiting area and is talking to the general worker who has miraculously reappeared, still holding the 2000 francs, and the postal worker. The general worker takes a log book from the postal worker, walks around his desk, and comes over to my side of the wall, puts the book on the table and says "name, date, sign". So I find my name, print, date, and sign. He then finds another entry "name, date, sign". Puts the original claim slips down and says "name, date, sign". Meanwhile the other man waiting to be served is simply staring at me. Right when I have finished signing the various forms and the general worker has collected his books and returned to the other side of the wall, the man asks me "Are you German?" Uh... no. "Where are you from?" US. "Are your parents German or perhaps someone farther back in your family?" Sure, my grandfather. "Ahh yes. You look German. I am very good at identifying Germans. Have a nice day." And with a nod, he turns and goes. During everthing I have just related to you, other than when chasing my claim slips, I did not move an inch. It was an entire universe of bizarre brought directly to swirl around me. And that is why I love this place. Because there is no predicting when something absolutely wonderful and weird is going to happen.
Oh and just in case anyone is wondering what was in that giant box...
Food... food.. SNACK. I love my mother.
The summit of Mount Kabuye is actually behind the mountains. Which at the time was very intimidating. However, no matter how high we climbed, there were always children with us, usually barefoot and running ahead and running back while we struggled up the hill with backpacks, hiking books, and books telling us where to go. Felt a little foolish.
