Walk It Off

Sometimes I try to view my life as you all would view it. Fresh eyes to the seriously strange here. At moments I am able to step back and label something as the quintessential Rwandan moment, hoping to store these moments in quick, snapshot stories for when people ask me about Rwanda but really just want it summed up in cutesy, five minute anecdote. I have had two such moments just this week on my walk home from work.

My first involves my favorite hospital technician. I'm not sure what her name is but as far as I can tell she is the only female in this position. She is forever busy, a working mother of two small children. She often is dressed in beautiful dresses, which she puts her janitor-like smock over. She has a beautiful smile to match and without fail, always greets me warmly. I often see her around town doing other jobs, making me wonder if this woman ever sleeps. One this particular Wednesday, I was walking along the dirt road to my house, with the fortress-like boarding school to one side and an open field with a breathtaking view of the hills to the north on the other. With the convergence of two roads, I find myself walking side by side with favorite hospital technician, who I will fake name Mabel. I always get a mood lift with I see Mabel because she is just such a genuine person. We exchanged our usual greetings, then as if the camera's angle widened, I notice what is perched on her head - a branch the size of a small tree. It is quite common to see Rwandans walking around with all sorts of things on their heads. The most common are jerrycans of water and plastic basins of produce to sell, but you can never be quite sure what you will find on top of a Rwandans' head. One PCV claimed they saw someone transporting 13 mattresses on their head, yes, they counted. Personally I've seen full size suitcases and furniture, and for the humor of opposites, a tiny, tiny bag of sugar. Most times they are using the help of a small circular crown of banana reeds that makes a more flat surface out of their coconut; which is exactly what Mabel was doing. She had one arm up, balancing the length of this sapling, which was easily three times her own length. As I glanced back, I realized Mabel was just the first in a parade of petite, Rwandan women with trees on their heads. A house was being built nearby, so naturally…

The second instance of a purely Rwandan moment happened the very next day. Again I was walking home from work, this time along the main dirt road, not to be confused with the secondary dirt roads. So I'm walking down Main Street, when a couple children on the boulevard start shouting Mazungu at me. I immediately reprimand them because I will not stand for being called Mazungu in my own village. They are two small children around the age of five or six, and they've got three goats with them, all tied together. Immediately after I introduce myself, the goats make a run for it. Most goats have a rope around their neck, serving as a leash. Ninety percent of the time the rope is tied to something, allowing the goat to graze a small section of grass. Almost one hundred percent of the time, the rope has been tied to something feeble, small, and easily undone by a goat…even a dumb goat, therefore the goat is roaming around with a rope trailing after it. To my amusement, ten percent of the time people take their goats for a walk, perhaps to greener pastures. These goats seemed to be taking themselves on a walk. Soon the little boy was being dragged by his goats, but because he had placed the middle of the rope around his bottom, he was being pulled as if commanding a dog sled. I couldn't help but chuckle at this whole scene. Then off went the goats and children were left to run behind as fast as their little legs would allow. The goats stopped for a moment to politely let a honking Moto past- no need becoming a brochette any earlier than necessary. Just as the boy was within arm's reach of the rope, off they went again, heading for the open field. The children sprinted and stumbled and giggled in hot pursuit of their silly goats. Who needs Oprah after work when you can have bubbly children at odds with their misbehaving goats?