Bachelorette Pad

Get between people who

Scream rock 'n' roll

Heavy, drunk, raucous and wild

Amped

Cranking it loud

One anthem of love

My contribution to the fridge poetry before leaving today. Up there along with: 

I smell like jam

And the rather poignant:

My song is only music

Eat power

Drink slowly

Well, today was moving day. After a whirlwind viewing last week, I decide to splash out on an apartment in Gikondo, two minutes down the road from my friends Jo & Pierre of pizza fame. Momma Zuba and Miss Flip came to collect me this afternoon, and we had melange with Pierre before they dropped me off. She's collecting me again in an hour to go stock up on groceries.

I realised on the drive over how very much I owe this lovely lady. Life here would have been a lot harder had it not been for her support. I'm very glad to be back in Gikondo, in a neighbourhood I remember well, with such lovely friends close by. 

The apartment is such a bachelor pad (which, for some inexplicable reason, makes me feel like I should rush out and buy a top-hat, cravat and cane... maybe that's just my fantasy). It's attached to a hotel, and definitely feels like a hotel. For instance, I don't have any mosquito nets. You only have this in hotels, because they spray. I'm a little bit nervous about sleeping without a net. Partly because I'm used to them, partly because I find them comforting (a little bubble to sleep in), and partly because I wonder whether breathing in air that can kill mosquitoes is technically a good thing.

Still, who cares? It is mine. All mine.

Take the tour.

Compact, but perfectly formed. 

The windows are tinted, so they look
like a mirror from the outside.

Yes, that is someone carrying a sack of coal on their head.

It's a two-bedroom apartment, both with en suite shower rooms. There's electricity, water and the first month's gas included, as well as wifi and TV. Which is a shame, because the only thing I'd watch on TV is Wimbledon, which finished yesterday... and let's not talk about that. I'm still a little broken-hearted, but Djokovic dedicating his win to his unborn child sort of made up for that. Would have been nice to see Federer make it eight though.

Moving on.

Laundry is also supposed to be included, according to my agent, but there's a disagreement about this. I've left them to sort it out. In the meantime, I'll just enjoy my oven and my huge, shiny refrigerator, safe in the knowledge that any food I put in there will still be there in the morning.

I really am grateful to my former housemates. It was the perfect place to start from, but shared living is though at the best of times, perhaps tougher the further over thirty you get? It means a lot to have your own little sanctuary. Especially with so much work to get through over the next few months.

Plus, like, all the major hardships of moving to a new country...

Hey, let me tell you about my first world problems.

What am I supposed to do with this, huh?

It's, like, growing. Really long.
Seriously.

Forgive me father, it has been four months since my last haircut. It's growing out of control. Must be the heat or something. Yet I have no idea where I can get it cut.

*

Just been shopping with Jo. Yeah, she has no idea either.

Anyway, I've stocked up good and proper. I have spent a small fortune in the past week, now I intend to stay home and nest for at least a fortnight. A new home, a fresh beginning. I had a coffee and cigarette morning reminiscent of Laos, and now I'm done. Stocked the fridge with fruit and veg, have rice, pasta, even some foofoo powder (tastes of nothing, but packed with calories, easy to make, goes with beans).

Rule number one: Eat, and eat well. More home cooking, less going out.

Rule number two: Do some exercise! Swim once a week, start on some reps in my room. Jo is even talking about yoga. 

Rule three: Sleep! Get plenty of it. Stop going to bed at stupid o'clock. Turn in early with a good book (Four: Read more).

A Good Start

But Still - Beer.
Some Things Are Necessary.

Home now. Met my Tunisian neighbour. Seems okay, but I'm hoping to turn this place into a hermitage for a few weeks at least. Found the mood lighting switch. Opened a Primus. It is a very comfortable couch. Six-month countdown begins tomorrow.

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.

Swimmingly Good Monday

Aaah, it's a tough life. Worked the entire weekend away, so decided to hold my Monday meeting at Nyarutarama Tennis Club, which has the largest pool (I think?) in Kigali. Also the most expensive, but I felt like a bit of pampering.

I'm feeling awesome for the exercise. Got there a little early and did some lengths. I am so out of shape. All this beer and sitting at a desk is doing nothing for my health. New resolution: concerted exercise at least once a week and a change in diet. I ate an entire tub of Nutella last week...

Just trying to survive the business start-up phase at the moment. Everything else will sort itself out in the fullness of time.

Mondays ain't so bad.

A productive meeting and a beautiful sunset on the way home.

 

Just what the doctor ordered. I'm feeling relaxed, but sleep deprived. In the two years I lived in Rwanda before, I think I had maybe three really vivid nightmares. 

The first one was by far the worst. I woke to find myself sitting bolt upright, with this strange apparition standing at the end of my bed.

[7th December 2007]

Eventually, I guess I must have dozed off.

The next thing I know, I’m awake, bolt-upright in my bed. Literally, I must have sat up and then woken – terrified because there’s someone in my room! I’m not sure what the hell’s going on. My eyes adjust to see a headless African woman in a red shirt standing at the end of my bed ‘looking’ at me.

After a yelp of fright, I’m desperately fumbling for the torch whilst shouting ‘WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?’ For want of a weapon, I'm kicking my foot at it. But it didn’t move...  I got the torch on and shone it straight ahead.

There was nothing there.  

I promise you, I'm not someone who spooks easily, but these dreams were so incredibly vivid. There was a person standing at the end of my bed. Not a shadow, not a coat on a chair... a person. I could see every detail clearly.

The past couple of nights I've slept terribly, which is odd, as I usually drift off quickly. Last night, I woke to see a man standing next to my bed. Exactly as happened before: I gave a yelp of fright and started screaming 'WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?' like a woman possessed. 

I thought I was being burgled and screaming at him might make him go away. Instead, he smiled, reached his hands through the mosquito net, and gripped my arm!

Then the room was dark again and there was just me in bed. I was terrified. I reached for my phone and lay there with the light on for a long time. 

I have no idea whether I was actually screaming or not, but I think I heard our guard walk past the window. Maybe he was checking, or maybe he was off to the loo. It was more the fact that I was shouting exactly the same thing as before that really spooked me.

Anyway, I'll expect the men in white coats round tomorrow.

I blame it on Lindsey's pancakes.

In an attempt to find something other than pasta and rice to eat, I've taken to making flour-based food. My friend Lindsey up in Killin makes them with turmeric, nutmeg and cinnamon. I couldn't find cinnamon, so I make them with cardamon instead, which is possibly my favourite of all the spices.

• 1 egg
• Four or Five tablespoons of plain flour
• Spices
• Mix in enough milk for a thick but runny paste
• Pour the batter into a frying pan with very hot oil

Then I add bananas and honey.

Makes for a yummy breakfast, but nutmeg is renown in folklore for causing crazy dreams.

Not that I wasn't crazy before I started making pancakes, but I don't think it helps.

The other thing I did yesterday was this:

I had completely forgotten how difficult it is to eat a coconut!

Just getting into one is quite an accomplishment.

As this is turning into a food-related post (I've been here just long enough for the cravings to start kicking in...), there are few pleasures in life as simple as fried egg on toast. Black Pepper is probably my second favourite spice, after cardamom.

Less mentally agressive breakfast than pancakes.

On the way back from the pool, I discovered this! It caused my spoon to sparkle like Excalibur. Can you guess what it is?

Ice-cream! Or some such variant. Slightly more like a slushy, but still quite nice on a hot afternoon in Kigali. I think it's sort of chocolate.

And, finally, I've started craving these. I don't ever remember having a boiled-sweet addiction last time around (gosh, sounds like pregnancy!) but I can't seem to stop buying them. They're like Werther's Original (in fact, I suspect they were just re-branded for the UK). Not something I'd ever usually eat, and I'm trying to find a substitute for the sake of my teeth. Think I just really need to start cooking better, which will happen once I sort out my domestic arrangements. 

For now I think I'll just pop another Alpenliebe and shake it all out. I'll probably burn off the calories worrying about my business. Maybe I can feed them to the apparition and we can hold late-night poker matches over a bottle of waragi. 

My roomie can be the croupier.

Man... I really need some sleep.

He's so diddy! About the size of my little finger.

Umuganda

Text to Jo this morning: 

EPIC FAIL. Which numpty totally forgot it was umuganda today and went out shopping? Doh!

The last Saturday of each month is umuganda. It's basically national community service day, when everyone gets together in their local community to do something like plant trees, build a road, tidy up. The best way to describe Rwanda on umuganda is sort of like Spain during siesta: nothing is open, you can't get public transport, and the streets are deserted.

There's me, having lived in Rwanda for over two years, tramping up the street thinking 'Ooh, I wonder why all of those people are sitting on the village green listening to that man talking?'... 'Ooh, I wonder where all the motos have gone?'... 'Ooh, I wonder why there's no traffic on the street?'

I was wandering about because I had run out of food. I decided to check out Sawa City, as Jo said it sold good bread. I managed to hook a moto up to the MTN Centre to grab some cash, but then I couldn't find a moto to take me to town. There's usually half-a-dozen of them outside the gate.

As I was standing there, scratching my head, this guy came up to me and told me about a new restaurant opening near where I live. He handed me a voucher for a free goat brochette, so I think I'll check it out.

When I finally managed to get a moto, I headed down to Sawa City which was, of course, closed.

In a quick change of plan, I decided to wait it out in Brioche, so on we went to mumugi (town).

It was, of course, closed.

As was all of town. Not a soul on the streets.

I felt like a complete melon. 

Luckily umuganda ends at around mid-day, and the staff at Brioche took pity on me, taking my order so that my food was in front of me dot-on twelve. I treated myself to their club sandwich and a pot of tea. It's a really nice place to hang out.

I sat and read my book, munching on a baguette, until most of town was buzzing again, then decided to head over to UTC and shop at Nakumatt. This is a Kenyan chain store which revolutionised Rwanda shortly after I first arrived in 2007. 

When it first opened, you would see dozens of Rwandans and Muzungus alike bumping into each other because they were so dazzled by the display of white goods (washing machines, fridges, toastie makers, televisions) - it was like snow blindness. 

Today, I relived that experience. There are now twice as many washing machines, fridges, toastie makers and televisions. There is also a shoe shop, a bookshop, clothes, children's toys, an entire floor devoted to garden furniture, and... well, just about everything really. 

It used to be the really expensive place to shop. I still reckon you can get vegetables cheaper at the market, but quite a lot of it was cheaper than T2000 (the big Chinese supermarket), and I managed to buy a giant bag full of stuff for under £30. I'm definitely going to head there for shoes in the near future.

I pinched those from a Google Image search, but it truly is quite incredible. The quality has improved a lot since I was last here. There's something comforting about knowing Nakumatt exists. I hardly ever shop there, but at least I know that if I desperately need something, they're pretty much guaranteed to have it.

I stumbled out of there barely able to carry the bag I had taken with me (you remember plastic bags are illegal here, right? Groceries come in cloth or paper bags - great for recycling).

Managed to do a circus-style balancing act on the back of a moto. I know it's naughty, but I couldn't resist doing a little covert filming, just to show family back home my neighbourhood. Not great quality or camera work, but this is my daily commute. The area is known for its big posh houses, but, as you can see, we do a bit of off-roading to get to our place. It's like living in a council estate in Bath, with all its magnificent facade. Normal people still live behind all of that stuff.

I had a bit of a sore bum when I got back. Having balanced a half-hundred weight of shopping on my lap and travelled over just about every speed bump in Kigali, I think I crushed my coccyx. Serves me right for not doing umuganda, I suppose.

Filled this with rice, flour, vegetables, fruit (including mangoes, bananas, green peppers, courgette, a grapefruit and a coconut), fresh brown bread (sliced before my eyes), (liquid) milk (now quite prevalent in Rwanda), toiletries: shampoo, conditioner, soap, body lotion, eggs, some fizzy pop and a bottle of this stuff. 

It's marakuja (passion fruit) cordial made in Rwanda. One of those quintessentially Rwandan things like peanut butter, cheese, and ikivuguto (sour yogurt). I'm sure it used to be about FRW 1,800 for a large one, but it's now about 8,000 in T200. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but I remember being quite shocked at the price. So I treated myself to a mini bottle for 2,800 as it is really nice.

Plus, I can make it last a long time with all the water from our mega filter. I'm going to get all geeky now. I just find it fascinating that chalk candles can turn yellow tap water...

...into crystal clear drinking water. I mean, that is pretty impressive, right?

One of the down-sides to sharing a house is that you sometimes need to be a little protective over your food. The line between what's communal and what isn't gets a bit blurred, so I've started only buying for myself. Especially when you have that craving for a cheese toastie, you don't want to get to the kitchen to find your cheese is there but there's no bread. So, this is pretty much my pantry.

I always make sure to have something sweet in there. Either chocolate sent from home, some chocolate biscuits from Ndoli's, or a tube of sweets. It's almost as important to have a treat cupboard as it is to remember to top-up the water filter.

The other thing water is good for, is making tea. This made me laugh: Highland Tea (made in Rwanda). What I found particularly interesting is that this is about 300 francs cheaper than the leading brand, only it's so much better! Rwandan tea tends to be pretty weak. I think this is to do with the teabag. The leading brand seems to have a slightly smaller bag, plus a piece of string attached to a paper tab, so that you can take the bag out without needing a spoon. I think that's what you're actually paying for. These, on the other hand, are just bog standard square teabags. But they seem to allow the tea to move around better, leading to a stronger cuppa.

Excuse me for being anal - I am British. Still, 300 francs less and you get better tea. What's not to like?

Talking about better deals... We always used to refer to MTN as the Missing Telephone Network. I used to get so pissed off with their service that I once wrote a poem about it, basically suggesting that if there was one other competitor in Rwanda, they'd lose all their business.

How wrong was I? There are now two competitors: Tigo and Airtel. What have MTN done in light of this? 

Improved, it would seem. 

Airtel ripped me off a blinder. I have a receipt saying I bought one month's internet from them on 27th May. Yet it stopped working at midnight on 25th June. I was fiddled out of a whole day's internet!

In desperation, I went down to the MTN Centre. The staff were lovely, kitted me out for less than Airtel, and hopefully it will work for the full month I've paid for.

With both Airtel and MTN I get 1.5GB a day usage. With Airtel, I could only stay connected for long enough to use about 500MB of that, and only then if I sat in a very particular spot in the garden. With MTN I am happily typing this from the desk in my room. I love it.

So, some things do change for the better. 

Quite a lot, actually.