On the Move

Mum, Dad... this is where your parcels end up.

I am not a number!

Well, I kinda am.

Kigali Central Post Office, right next to my mate Kalisa's bar. I've been helping him out with a website this week. I'm particularly proud of the photo saturation. Check the tutorial. It's highly therapeutic. I used it on the Bar, Menu, Motel and Tourism tabs. Nice effect, huh?

Also played with colour enhancement on the panoramic view from the bar. Think it worked well.

Before

After

It's been creative fun. In return, my friend kits me out in the back room with all the tennis I can watch, beer, brochettes, and a lake of coffee.

Typical Rwandan goat brochettes with ibirayi (potato) and pilipili (hot chili)

Private Viewing

Compliments of the House

Things started to get a bit scary, though. Kalisa and I agree not to talk about politics or religion, because we end up arguing. But everybody needs something to argue about, so we started on the menu. How to market zingaro to muzungus?

Translation of zingaro = intestine.

It's a Rwandan delicacy.

When I pulled a face, my friend told me that I had never tasted his intestines. It's true, I hadn't. But I have memories of trying it in other places. When I likened it to chewing rubber, he insisted on getting the chef to serve me up a plate for comparison. I pleaded, but to no avail. We sat and chewed intestine together... and, well, I must admit, it was okay. If I didn't know what it was, I think I might actually have enjoyed it. It was fairly palatable in comparison to crunching chicken feet in Laos. But, still...

Zingaro, Rwandan Delicacy

So I put this to Facebook:

UGANDAN: I love it.

MUZUNGU: So it's basically African Haggis... looks tasty.

MUZUNGU: It looks better than described.

MUZUNGU: :( not nice!

BURUNDIAN: Great... I miss it.

MUZUNGU: Dislike.

Bit of a divide - like Marmite.

Anyway, it turned into a great evening. The back room soon filled up with tennis-loving Rwandans. We drank beer and shouted at the telly. Was a lot of fun.

I needed to unwind as the rest of the day had been a bit of an ordeal.

I was supposed to be viewing a house, so I got up early to get to the rendezvous for 9am.

The agent never turned up.

I then mistakenly called the wrong agent and shouted at him. When I finally got the right agent, they had completely forgotten about the appointment, and the only apartment they had was more expensive than originally stated. I was fuming.

Thankfully the agent I had shouted at, being a forgiving sort of bloke, called back and asked if I'd like to see one of their apartments instead. I grovellingly replied that I would.

I went. It was fabulous. I'm moving in on Monday. A small but perfectly formed two-bedroom place, both rooms with large beds and en suites. Living room, kitchen with fridge, microwave, cooker. Every room has a TV and wifi. Back-up water and electricity, all inclusive, plus laundry service. Brand new, very shiny. Very happy.

In between these two meetings, I received a random call from Immigration, who informed me they were coming to conduct a premises check in relation to my work permit. Which meant it was kind of fortuitous the first agent didn't show up. Only, Immigration said 'we'll be there in forty-five minutes'.

Two hours later...

Itsuarok: The frustration of waiting for someone to turn up.
From Eleven Untranslatable Words.

Mildly intimidating. Little bit Men in Black. One very chatty guy who spoke to me in English, the other wore shades and sat silently to one side, occasionally speaking to his colleague in Kinya. It wasn't too traumatic, though. I now have a six-month working visa, which is a little short of the two-years I'd hoped for, but having spoken to friends this is apparently normal. Provided I'm making money by January, I should be able to apply for a full extension. It's certainly better than the three-month interim visa they could have issued, but the six-month permit does costs the same as the two-year one.

Things are a little different here. Back in the UK I am registered as a sole trader, because it's just me working for myself. I work from home because, in my line of work, nobody ever comes to visit you, you always go to your clients. I don't know many sole traders doing my job who have a separate office.

Here, there's no such thing as a sole trader, you have to register as a company. Hence I'm going all out with it. I've branded myself and I'm building up a network of Associates to bid on larger contracts. It's not so bad. The extra paperwork is made up for with limited liability cover. But they do seem to want you to have an office. It appears to be quite important. It may be a prestige thing, but it's also an overhead that any start-up could do without. My new home is quite swanky, but perhaps I will talk to friends and see whether they can suggest a place I could use just for show. There's also The Office in town, which is possibly a compromise, but again it's an unnecessary overhead.

A conundrum to ponder. 

The important thing is that I'm now legal.

This weekend has been much like the last. I've had my face glued to the computer screen, working away on a couple of contract proposals and organising my contacts. 

The only exception to this was Thursday night, when I went on a Scenic tour of Kigali with a friend of a friend, who is now a friend. We met for a drink and food at Milles Collines (yes, Hotel Rwanda).

Look - Salad!

It's an extremely nice place to hang out, with a swimming pool and large outdoor bar and grill. When I left five years ago, it was starting to look a little run-down, but they've really invested since then. There was a completely incredible band. It was too dark to take good photos, but I captured some of their final set. They covered all sorts of music: some blues, soul, some Bob Marley, Shaggy (Strength of a Woman) and some of my schoolgirl memories (Sweat, and Mysterious Girl - Bubbler Ranx, nostalgia!), early 80s ballads, Luther Vandross, P Squared, some South African and Kenyan classics. Honestly, I haven't heard live music that good in a long time.

Then we went on a little nighttime tour. Slightly depressing sight: Kigali's only alternative bar, which was closed down for being too alternative. It's now reopened as a mainstream bar. Don't think the landlord was too impressed. Apparently he used to do a roaring trade, but the place was practically empty when we went in. Such a shame.

Still, it was good to get the skinny. I was so lame, though. Knackered by 10pm on a Thursday night! How crap am I?

Walking to the motos, we passed a lot of men in camouflage carrying very big guns. They were providing security for Liberation Day (yesterday).  For a Brit who comes from a country where the police don't carry guns, and you only ever see the army on the streets if there's a flood, it was a little intimidating, but we stopped to chat to them and they were all smiles and good cheer. Twenty years since the end of the Genocide. An historic day indeed. I remember being here for fourteen. Now I meet young men and women who were born afterwards. Like grass growing through the ruins of an old house, or a burnt field. Time surges forward and fresh thoughts grow in each generation. This is a country of huge resilience and hope.