Drinking Games with Nuns

I AM a good host.

Being a good host is an important part of Rwandan culture, one I thought I had finally mastered during my parents’ stay, but with my brother George’s arrival two weeks ago it become clear that I still have much to learn.

My first mistake was taking George on a bus from Kigali to Save. It was a struggle getting his two huge bags up the very long hill to the street where the buses depart, but once we made it on the bus – and bought two extra seats for the bags – everything was a breeze. My bicycle taxi friends were thrilled to see another muzungu to pay them twice the normal rate for the trip to Save (200 Rwf instead of 100, a difference of about 20 cents) and practically fought each other to take us or the bags. By the time we made it to my house we were hot and tired, and George had experienced the highest and lowest levels of travel in Rwanda (the express bus being the nicest, and the bikes being the cheapest, though not necessarily the most uncomfortable).

And then we told the sisters. Their reaction would have been suitable (in my coarse American opinion) if I had tied the bags to George’s back and had him hike to Save, pulling me behind him in a cart. They scolded and yelled and shamed me for the first hour of our welcome tea and returned to the issue whenever I made the slightest slip for the next few days. These other mistakes – not peeling his orange for him, not refilling his beer after every sip – might have slipped by unnoticed if I hadn’t proved to be so in need of their correction.

For the first week we ate dinner with the sisters every night. So for two hours I was chided and reproached in French while George sat by unable to argue on my behalf. When he didn’t eat enough (basically every night, since ‘enough’ seems to be equivalent to about three servings at least), it was my fault for making him feel uncomfortable eating since I was eating so little myself. When I translated his insistence that he did like the food, and just felt very full, the sisters’ response was “Stop lying, we can see he is still hungry.” All of their persistence came from the best intentions and for the first few nights that was enough to keep me from getting really angry. But each night it wore me down more until I had to resort to the clownish antics that keep me sane in the classroom. I would pour George’s beer until it threatened to overflow and then keep pouring so he had to drink while I poured to prevent a mess. The sisters loved it! When I was told to offer him food I would bow down with exaggerated servitude. As I have found before, sarcasm is generally lost on people here, so the sisters were entertained and I was able to partially vent my anger. (This was a good quick fix, but after a full week, I finally convinced them to allow us to come only on weekends.)

With our newfound freedom, George and I have had the chance to make a huge breakthrough in low resource cooking: brownies! You start with some simple ingredients – aunt Jemima mix (an import, I admit), Cadbury’s cocoa powder, sugar, eggs and Blue Band imitation butter…

Mix it all up and cook it in your kids camping gear sourced solar over (basically a box with a clear plastic top and reflective fins making a big collar).

Et voila! Brownies!

NB: This may seem like one small step, but try going for six months without warm from the oven baked goods and you'll realize what a big deal this is.