On A Clearer Road I Feel, Oh You Could Say She's Safe.

We (Lauren and I) live in Nyakabanda.  My address (as some people have been asking lately) is as follows: Second house behind the red gate one block north and west of the Kobil in Nyakabanda, Kigali.  There are no numbers on anything, and street names exist only for those blessed with pavement, and even then I would be extremely surprised if even the savviest Rwandese were in the know.

The road we live on is of the constantly-eroding-red-dirt variety, and is an ordeal to walk on, especially coupled with copious amounts of Primus and a lack of night vision.   I often have epic fails - being a known klutz, somewhat challenged in the general balance and grace area – that are followed by “Oh! Soly soly!” (r’s and l’s are interchangeable, didn’t you know?) by the  always attentive locals.

At the end of the dirt road, we meet the pavement.  Say hello.  Across the street is the Kobil (gas station) and matatu hang out – where they can be serviced, washed, and where the beautiful vehicles are put to sleep each night.  Matatus are sixteen seater busses that remain the cheapest method of transportation in the city, besides your feet.  They will run from the various areas of Kigali to mumugi (town) and back, costing a whopping 100-180 RwFs (Canadian equivalent: 20-40 cents) They are dedicated to Western heros like Spiderman, Young Jeezy, and Justin Bieber.   Ever elusive to photographs, Lauren and I have developed a new tactic:  Every time we come home (inebriated) in the wee hours of the night, we stop for some snappy photographical evidence with the Kanye West and Rick Ross shrined vans.  I’m sure there will be enough disorderly nights to allow us to return home with a mighty collection of shots.

Lauren and Rick Ross

Continuing up the hill from Kobil, (because down the hill will be reserved for another day, as there is a new spot that first needs to be broken in called “Obama Restaurant”) we arrive at the entrance to isoko Nyamirambo (aka Nyamirambo market).  My life revolves around markets.  This is no different.  First up on our usual stops is Peace Akon (the name stems from what is spray painted on the front grate).  This is the one-room stop that has quickly become our “spot”.  They sell chipattis, eggs, amandazi, and tea.  Need I say more? No.  But I will.  It is not only the abundance of our favorite foods that make this our spot.  There are three stunning men who work here (of course), and who have gotten used to expecting us. The guys that work here are chill, solid guys.  Yes, we speak different languages and anything besides small talk is impossible, but they just have a good vibe.  We have become regulars, no longer needing to ask for what we want, and they’ve even agreed to supply chipattis for a night if we supply the Primus and Happiness (mighty fine deal if you ask me).  Other than them, there is one other important - and sometimes most important – detail.  There is a curtain on the entrance.  This is critical.  All day long, we are stared at and it is painfully obvious most of the time that we are outsiders, as we are the only white people living in this part of town.  So, when we walk into Peace Akon (or sometimes known as Love Stella, painted on the side) suddenly we are not stared at, we are not outsiders.  No one knows we are there, and for a short time its like we don’t exist.  Rather than becoming reclusive hermits to avoid the classic stop-and-stare, we can watch Nyamirambo’s happenings from behind the curtain, while munching on our favorite 20 cent snack in the company of the most attractive men in the hood.  Word?

Peace Akon (minus three stunners)

Next up at the isoko is the actual market market.  You go inside, and are consumed.  Depending on where you come in, you immediately see vendors selling shitty Made In China nicknacks, Dollar Store greeting cards splattered with weenie white people from the 80’s, Kagame and Obama (they are comparable, surprise?) belt buckles, and Roy Bon sunglasses.  There are tables and tables of shoes and more Converse than I have ever seen in my life (will be coming home with a rainbow).  Hair pieces are a dime a dozen here, with the peer pressure of a weave never escaping me.  Around the corner are semi-structured shops selling clothing, with designated curtained off areas to try things on and white mannequins and shelves.  Then circling around you get to the men with white aprons hacking at goats (goat head soup is pretty good I’m told), all of the meat covered in flies and lacking any method of preservation (have stopped eating meat by the way).  Then, when you get to the heart of the market, meaning inside of this circle we just drew, it’s all there.  Women selling fabric, seamstresses, tables and wooden-beam-type-walls supporting clothes that were rejected from Frenchy’s sixteen years ago (including lingerie…tempting?) with more gems than I could ever hope to list.  There are rows of women selling piles of fruits and vegetables, sugar and flour, peanuts and lentils, fish and chickens.  Bartering is the required form of communication here, especially when you’ve got white skin – as that small detail tends to double and even triple the asking price.  I could and do spend hours in this market.

Back outside of what is technically the market, we come back into open dirt road, where more women are selling more fruits and vegetables, and men walk around with stacks of jeans and t-shirts flung over their shoulders, unfolding them and holding them up to you as you walk by with what you can only assume are approving words.  Shops litter the sides of the streets selling “fresh milk” and random household items.  Then, coming around a corner towards the paved road again, we arrive at Monique.  Monique sells veggies alongside about 6 other women on the side of the road.  They are there everyday without fail.  We cut a deal with Monique when we first got here:  We will buy from her for six months if she agrees to give us the right price.  Getting the “right price” isn’t that big a deal in terms of monetary savings – it’s the difference of 300 RwF compared to 200, the difference between 60 cents and 40 – but rather it’s avoiding the feeling you get when you know you are being charged more because of the colour of your skin.  Monique happily agreed, and we have been friends ever since.   It sounds insignificant, but Monique’s kindness in her willingness to give me a fair price in return for loyalty made a huge difference in how I feel about food.  If I had to constantly barter for the price that everyone else gets with no questions asked, I’m sure it would have worn on me after a while.  I would probably even start to dislike buying food.  And, well, that is just blasphemous.  Thankfully, Monique has made all the difference.

Coming off the dirt road and back to pavement again, there is a moto hang out spot, and across the street there is the glorious “Splendid Mini Market”.  Here you can buy juice, blueband, samboussas, amandazi, and chocolate.   In other words, everything you need to survive.  Again, we are regulars.

These are the scenes of my life these days, my hood, my spots.  I always think of how fictional this all must seem to the people reading (aka my mom and sister).  Even going home, I know this will all start to feel imaginary.  But, until then, I’m going to keep munchin on the ollll chipattis at Peace Akon and just enjoy the dream.