The Rwandan Episodes: 3

Subject: In which I'm an unwilling participant in many things

Captain's Log,

I thought I had escaped flu season along with the cold seasons in NYC, but I was so so wrong. I'm even now, at 11AM, fighting the urge to curl up in a fetal position on the couch in my office. I commiserate with you all.

The Haunted Mansion

As mentioned previously, I live in a huge 8 bedroom (I keep discovering more bedrooms) mansion all by my damn self. And in the Halloween spirit, I'll expound on some of the creepy aspects that comes with this type of living arrangement. Sunset in Kigali is before 6PM and therefore I always arrive home at night. And each night, upon my arrival, I greet the night guard, always in pitch blackness (because this city seems to be opposed to lighting any areas appropriately) and receive the creepy response in the voice of Lurch... "Yes." Therefore, because he barely speaks and I've never seen his face so he very may well look like the guy too: he is now named, Lurch.

More creepiness: each night, I am awakened by howling dogs and also frequently fall asleep to some strange bird-like sounds like the swarming of a dozen crows, reminiscent of that Hitchcock film. Mosquitos whisper in my ear on a frequent basis, their menacing threats of malaria and somehow I manage to get 8 hours or so of rest before work, because for damn sure otherwise I'd be sleeping in the office.

Good thing I'm used to horror movies. 

"They will grab your vagina"

I persist in my goal to penetrate the expat scene. However, I'm starting to suspect that once I get to the center of the Gansito, there will be no cream or jam... I've likely mentioned before that their socializing tends toward house parties and dinners. Unfortunately (perhaps because I've come from a city where you couldn't claim 2 inches as your own), there seems to me to be quite a dearth of people. The dance floor at a house party or one of these expat clubs looks like the mixers thrown in the student center back in college. Or, if outdoors, a party thrown on somebody's rich parents' backyard. 

Enter the threat to my vagina. One evening, as I was falling asleep at a table in one of said bars, my friend laments, "if only you were wearing jeans or something less fancy, I would take you somewhere cool." My interest was more than piqued... somewhere cool?!? Yes! For the love of God, YES. I ignored his protestations and claims that the local spots were grimy and rape-ly. BS. This is Rwanda. I don't even know how Dominicans descended from what I'd seen of Africa so far. There seemed to be nowhere near their level of grabbiness. 

Off I go. In the first two minutes, a dude did try to cop a feel but without the commitment to make me muster the slightest bit of anger to yell at him. I think I waved a finger at him and told him to knock it off, just to save the man's dignity. BUT, my friends, the music was tight, the place was packed, the people were looser, and the drinks were crazy cheap. Heaven! As for the supposed "grittiness." Come on, I'm latina and lived in New York. 

More unfortunate tales (but at least this one is funny) of being a "muzungo"

Not entirely unused to attention (I am dead sexy, after all,) being a "white person," led to celebrity status. Kim Kardashian has entered the building. I avoided dancing closely with men, to avoid any stalkerly behavior and therefore danced with my friend and women (per usual, as even in NYC). Boy was my strategy OFF. Apparently Rwandan women can get rather enamored with Muzungos too!!! I practically had to beat them off with a stick and one actually shoved (her passion giving her super human strength maybe??) my friend and practically dragged me off. It was like marriage by capture, people. 

Love in the time of Malaria 

Also part of the evening described above, I also found a hot guy... and the dude can't dance. Considering he didn't speak English, we thus could not communicate in any language of love and thus twas not meant to be. Again, Carribean latinos definitely do not have ancestry in East Africa. 

My only friend in Rwanda and he's revealed himself to be a godawful meddler. In addition, to trying to grease the wheels for an expat lesbian acquaintance (polyamorous mind you *eyeroll*), he also managed to turn my search for independent transportation into a fullblown DATE. I am renting a scooter from a friend of his and arranged to pick it up this evening. Because you have no secrets in this tiny ass community, the purely practical meet-up has been supposedly turned into a date! For dinner. Near my damn haunted mansion. While I'm sick. Tonight. $%^2@?>3*!!!! And I thought I had left my days of people trying to wife me up behind. JUST GIVE ME MY DAMN SCOOTER. 

FIN.

Til next time, my loves. The telenovela continues..