American for a change.

Le 30 decembre   Any American that takes one step out of the country quickly realizes just how “American” he truly is. Maybe we’re a country without a specific culture due to our mélange of backgrounds, but there’s no denying our Americanity. In Geneva, surrounded by the chic-est of the chic from around the world and living in a community of Italians, not only my language (mostly pronunciation) and behaviors set me apart from the rest. It was a common occurrence for my dear Italian friend Maria to hush me on the bus or for the sisters to laugh at the way I pronounced an actor or actres’me na, (Italian accents always win, by the way).

In Rwanda, I’m having a very different experience, but nonetheless I always stick out like a sore thumb. No, this time it’s not because I’m just being loud or butchering names with my not-so-suave American accent, but my skin says it all: muzungu. Muzungu = white = likely European, Canadian or American. I’ve been immersed fully in an entirely new culture and more than that, in a different race. Therefore, it’s easy to see a bond with each other white person I meet.

A few weeks ago in Kigali, I had a Muzungu Moment. Walking through downtown with a Rwandese friend of mine, I asked if we could stop in at Simba Market to get a taste of the first-world. Passing by a display of Christmas decorations which strangely enough included a fan blowing a strong wind down the aisle, Violet exclaimed, “Ah! Christmas breeze.” I burst out laughing and so did a passing muzungu. Quickly exchanging remarks, it was quite clear he was not just muzungu but American.

A few minutes later, we passed each other again in the store. As it turns out, we both are, in fact, from the States, both here to do volunteer work, and both confused as to how it could truly be December without snow or cold. We agreed that the next time I was in Kigali, we’d get together.

Well, I am in Kigali this weekend, so we got together. Joselyne’s cousin Soso was defending her thesis for university, and so her family was having a great fete. Conveniently, this was also the weekend of New Year’s, so we took full advantage of this opportunity to go to Kigali for a few days.
 
On Thursday, Joselyne, another friend and I met up in their neighborhood of Kicukiro (Kih-chu-kee-ro) and later were joined by Kyle. Boy, is it interesting how quickly your old American mannerisms come back like a bad habit. We sputtered away in rapid-fire English (which I usually try to control as best I can) about all of the bizarre experiences we’ve had here in Rwanda. He’s in the capital city of Kigali, I’m in a little town of Gisenyi; he’s living an Anglophone life, I’m giving Francophone my best effort; he’s farming, I’m teaching and cooking. Truly, we’re having different experiences, but our first impressions about the culture and people and food and language are very similar.

Though I may try to share with friends and family back home, it’s hard to convey exactly what this world is like. If I have a peculiar experience and try to explain to a Rwandese friend, a lot gets lost. (My first trip to the post, for example – I spit out the story in a fit of laughter and frustration to my friend Vincent and he found nothing out of the ordinary about it!) An exchange of stories with another American was long overdue and greatly cherished.