Friday in Kigali

In the morning, we went to Kigali's main market. It was remarkably Mzungu-free (the Kinyarwanda word for white person, which is repeated constantly when Rwandans see you walking around).

Long rows of stacked, filthy vegetables, cones of arranged flower and sugar, bags of dried fish, thousands of flies circling. Towards the back, clothing, cloth, and African artwork for tourists rising high on stockades.

I wander through the aisles, and the merchants try to get my attention. HEY, MZUNGU! OWARRYUU? MZUNGU, MZUNGU!

I spend an hour negotiating in my limited French, and make some purchases. One of the merchants speaks great English. She was raised in Uganda by parents who had left Rwanda (presumably as Tutsi refugees in exile). Two of her brothers joined the RPF, the rebel army that successfully invaded Rwanda (and which is is currently the official army of Rwanda).

We talked for a long time about how hard it was for people without a lot of money to make a good living in Rwanda, and about her kid, Uganda, my life in NY, etc. I made the mistake of asking her if she was/considered herself a Tutsi... to which she replied that she was Rwandan.

She told me to come back sometime and bring her a blackberry, like the one I had. We took a picture, and shook hands in the Rwandan style.

That night I went to a Mzungu party at Pasadena, a dance bar. It was relatively boring, though there were single (paid) male dancers performing break-dance moves and lip-synced acts for the entire audience.

Also, I was told that one should not date or do business with a Nigerian by a well-established NGO worker.

I started to walk home, but was offered a ride by a drunk accountant.