The Chinese Are Coming

I can do many things in Africa, but one thing I can’t do is blend in. Comes with the territory, and for the most part, I’m used to it.

Entering my second month in Rwanda – 4th month, cumulatively, counting last year – I’m in the weird gray area between ‘traveling’ and ‘living’ in Rwanda, between making first impressions and really getting to know her. I’m not living out of my backpack anymore. For the most part, I have a handle on the geography of the country and the city, and for the most part, I can make my way around. I know how to haggle with a taxi man. I can gnaw a hunk of sugar cane with the best of them. Maybe I should say I’m traveling deep rather than wide. But again, no matter how long I stay here, no matter how comfortable I feel here, I’m going to be obvious in a crowd.

I have a blast with neighborhood kids who seem to think my presence is just the most hilarious novelty of the season. I don’t think I’ve ever been so entertaining as when I get to show off my limited Kinyarwanda skills to the kids here around Ndera. I’m talking shrieks of joy, all their munchkin jaws unhinged with awe. It’s rare to be such the king of the show like that, so that’s fun. And on the more professional side of things, my fascinating presence – especially accompanied by a guitar – can pave the way for some great teachable moments to a rapt classroom audience. So that’s good too.

Of course there’s a dark side of always being so inescapably obvious. As I get more comfortable with the country, I would like to expect a respectful reciprocation from the country, some sort of sign, a tip of the hat, something simple – anything, really – to show that yes, we, too, are getting more comfortable with you, you strange-looking outsider. And you’re not so bad after all! But it doesn’t happen like that. Sometimes I’m frustrated at my unending power to distract (and this is true more in rural areas than the more cosmopolitan Kigali). Sometimes I feel like I'm not really experiencing the bustling bus park of Kigali as much as I'm experiencing a version of the bus park where I'm a little asterisk, where the crowd parts around me like a stream around a rock. Sometimes I’d just rather just exist and observe, a body among the bodies. But instead I’m a big, white sore thumb, and, you know, c’est la vie.

Anyway, I am many things here, but so far inconspicuous has not been one of those things.

The other night I sat down for a goat brochette during the Japan-Denmark match at a loud bar down the road. It was loud because its World Cup season. In World Cup season, places with TVs are always loud and fun. Looking for some characters, looking for some action, looking for some stories, I'm drawn to these matches like a bug to a porch light, not so much for the football as for all the richness of atmosphere and encounters that surround it. And for the football. I'm growing used to the frustrating 90 minute matches.

Now, anyway, why were a bunch of Rwandans sitting around watching Japan and Denmark kick a ball around? I can understand the continental pride in rooting for Cameroon or Ghana, but why Denmark? The easy answer is that during World Cup season, they will watch anybody kick a ball around. While a very small representation of the population makes actually playing football the national sport, the rest of the people earn their stripes by yelling at a TV with a beer in their hand. It' no less a national pasttime for lacking a ball.

The perhaps deeper answer to this question is that Rwanda is a country pretty focused on their own population, their own heroic rebuilding efforts, their own divisive differences – ethnic and political – right here in their own country. And even though Rwanda is a patchwork society made up of many East African cultures and tongues – Swahili, Lingala, and Kirundi, not to mention two colonial languages still vying for the top spot – brought in and out largely by the past half century of movement by refugees… and even though you can’t throw a rock in Kigali without hitting a Land Rover with USAID or AUSAID or some foreign NGOs logo stuck to the door… and even though, for the record, no one would dare to throw a rock in Kigali for fear of being confused as a political dissident and thrown in jail for a very long time, or at least until after election season… still, the point is, most of their international attention is E.Africa-focused, and they generally have enough drama at home to keep them engaged inwardly. The World Cup, however, gives Rwandans a rare excuse to really focus outward and beyond their borders. And as the obvious outsider, the resident authority on the American promised land of Kenny Rogers (he’s really popular, I swear), Michael Jackson, Obama, and the LA Lakers, I find myself the subject of some really good questions.

Watching the Japanese players, the man next to me observed, “They are so little! But so fast. Yes, very fast.” This seemed to get him thinking. He yelled in my ear, over the din of the crowd, “In your country, do the Chinese have the supermarkets?”

It’s a shame sometimes, but I’ve learned to recognize the situations where, due to limited English, its futile to start to explain subjects like American population demographics or something called a Harris Teeter, and, in a loud bar buzzing with grunts and vuvuzelas (*), this was definitely one of those times, so after a pause I decided on a simple ‘no’ to answer his question.

(*Here’s a test: you know you’re in America if you haven’t heard the word “vuvuzela” this month)

The stranger smirked and settled back into his chair. “Don’t worry,” he said, “they will come.”

P.S. I went to a Quaker church service today and a Pentecostal one yesterday. Interesting in many ways in both cases... stay tuned.