How the Other Half Lives

We make $3000 a year, $250 a month, $62.5 a week as Peace Corps volunteers in Rwanda. By entering the Peace Corps we are essentially taking a vow of poverty. We will live comfortably, never starving or dirty or homeless. We will be able to afford three meals a day, round the clock tea, travel, etc. This is not difficult when you see the absolute poverty around you and you think that everyone is living this way.

…Then I went to Nakumatt supermarket today. I walked down aisle after aisle. I perused the book section, the Tupperware section, the CDs. Then I entered a whole new world: Lazy Boy recliners, a racecar kiddie bed frame, ski gloves, yoga mats, iPods, a desk that was almost identical to the one I have at home, kitchen tables that I swear I’ve seen in various American homes. Something snapped. How could I be in Rwanda when I see all these material things that remind me of America? How can anyone in this country set up an American home in the middle of Rwanda? Why should this exist here? This is the danger of Kigali. The cosmopolitan, materialistic allure that makes you believe you are home, whether you want to feel that way or not. It may seem strange that I am so disturbed by an American experience since I only left three months ago. All I know is that it created delirious laughter from my friend Anna and I. It was overwhelming, frustrating, and silly.

I had a similar experience a few days ago. I arrived in Kigali and went to Bourbon Café for the first time. Bourbon is the Starbucks of Rwanda. In fact if you were blindfolded and placed inside the restaurant you may believe you are in America. The coffee drinks are DELICIOUS. The food is stellar. It is clean and quick and the waiters speak English. (It should be noted here that it is very common to order food and wait at least two hours until it arrives.) I ordered a Cajun chicken sandwich with fries. By the time it arrived to the table, I was drooling. I had already read over the appetizing menu five times, walked slowly past the ice cream counter and stroked the glass where the chocolate croissants lived. I was elated. I cut it in half, heavily salted my fries (I’ve become much too addicted to salt here), and created a lake of Heinz on my plate. The first bite was ridiculously good. The waitress rushed over with a new plate. Apparently I was eating a veggie burger. The plate was replaced by a new one with my sandwich on it. Instead of returning to the kitchen to trash the food I touched, the waitress turned around and handed the plate to Avery, its rightful owner. Then I snapped back to reality. I was in Rwanda. Standards are different. Enough said.