Taco Cat

If you’re an adventurous traveler, you’re likely familiar with the subculture of truck and minibus drivers and their decked-out vehicles: Karachi’s commercial trucks, Paramaribo’s “wilde bussen,” Manila’s jeepneys, Nairobi’s matatus. They range from garish, flashy, and not-a-little-bit gaudy to vibrant expressions of popular culture, working class struggles, and marginalized voices. Sorry about that last one—that was part of the deal for going to graduate school. You have to use “marginalized,” “agency,” or “social dislocation” at least once every few musings or they take back the degree.

These tricked-out trucks are the opposite of what I often drive: an A-to-B hunk of metal… McMidsize sedan or McMini-SUV…the height of mediocrity and middle class America. I’m looking at you, Toyota. And Honda.

While the matatus in Kigali don’t even come close to their colorful, intrepid, loud, and proud counterparts in Nairobi, they still drive at an unhinged pace and are a popular, if dangerous, means of transport for the lower-middle class commuter. Part celebration, part masculine bravado, these minibuses are a small show of anarchy in a pretty orderly city.

The minibus names and accompanying decorations in Kigali range from football-themed (Chelsea, United) or reptile-loving (Black Cobra) to the religious (I Trust in God…Express) or aspirational (Fabulous). I hear the Michael Jackson matatu turns into a roving disco at night with flashing lights and deafening music.

What do they symbolize: are they are asserting power within the cultural space, like God Bless Rihanna, which was near downtown Kigali? Are they trying to provide a narrative on class struggle, like Che: The Revolution, which I spotted on African Union Boulevard? Or an outlet for creative expression in a highly regulated state, a la Rainbow Wizzy, which had only half a rainbow on it?

I know what you’re wondering—if you had a matatu, what would you name it? Either Taco Cat, which is the same spelled backwards (I know, right?!), or I’d share a little bit of Bluntcard humor to provide a window into American values. Or, let’s be honest, a window into this lay-day’s sense of humor.

Unfortunately, unlike the mashrutkas in Uzbekistan which we could take as Peace Corps Volunteers, (and were as empty of decoration as the drivers were full of machismo and rapscallion-ness), we are not allowed to take them here in Kigali. So, I will have to analyze them from afar and photograph them from anear. Alright, less analyzing and more photographing, I get it.

Celebrating Motherhood with Kate and Will

“Yoda! Yoda! Come here, buddy!” I yelled, trying to get Yoda from the landing on the stairs leading down to the locked door to the apartment below our duplex. Yoda knew exactly who Dr. Patrice was and why he was there.

We welcomed Yoda as the newest member of our family on Sunday evening. A Rwandan dog, he has lived with various American expat families in the past 11 years. According to our night guard, Yoda lived in our complex a few years ago with another family.

Yoda has an ear infection, so the vet came out Monday morning to do a cleaning procedure on his ears. I didn’t realize this would involve anesthesia. I also didn’t realize I would be the vet’s assistant, as the doctor has one working arm and is a bit older. And I didn’t realize coming off of anesthesia is a messy business.

As soon as Dr. Patrice walked in, Yoda ran down into the stairwell, shaking. We were able to give him the anesthesia while balancing between the two sets of stairs, but it wasn’t enough. We had to give a second shot after waiting futilely for 20 minutes for him to fall asleep.  Carrying all 60 pounds of him, I was able to get him up the stairs and on top of our coffee table, which served as the operating table. After the procedure was done, the vet asked where I wanted Yoda to be when he woke up (which could take up to two hours). I said the spot on the carpet next to the coffee table was fine and looked comfortable. The vet looked at me like I was crazy, and I later learned why.

Yoda woke up after about two hours. Woozy, drooling, and struggling to stand up, he then proceeded to vomit and urinate for the next three hours in almost every room on the first floor as well as the stairs.

We are living out of our suitcases for the most part and are lucky to have paper towels and a few very thin rags in our welcome kit for cleaning. I also had some off-brand “pine cleaner" from the Kenyan grocery store. The color of the liquid matched what Riley was, um, booting, which was handy. I used a a toothbrush from the toiletry kit on our flight over here to scrub the liquid into the carpet.

At one point during his careening around the house (no pet/baby gates yet…it’s VERY much going on the next Amazon order), I stopped cleaning for a bathroom break for myself only to find that he crawled halfway up the stairs to the landing, peeing all the way down behind him. I had to lift him up to carry him off the stairs so he wouldn’t fall down. I put him down next to his crate. Bad idea. Running to get paper towels to clean up the stairs, I found Yoda in his crate with that morning’s breakfast everywhere, along with whatever liquid he had left in him.

By dinner, he was feeling much better, if still a bit disoriented. I’m happy to say he’s fine now, although Dr. Patrice will be coming each day for the next five days to help me administer his ear drops. No anesthesia required for that, thank goodness.

So, while the Duchess of Cambridge celebrates the arrival of the new prince (although something tells me she has people to clean up after her little guy) we celebrated the arrival of our big prince to the family. And instead of blue floodlights, we have the green glow of the “pine cleaner” to welcome him.

It Begins

You may remember that The Guardian ranked my Ho Chi Minh Tale blog as one of the world's 50 most powerful blogs in 2006. I intend to surpass that accolade by getting on HuffPo or BuzzFeed. Even though their audiences can't read, it would still be great to be featured on them.

First impressions? Our awesome house is so big that our bedroom, walk-in closet, and master bathroom put together equal our condo in Arlington. When showing a potential housekeeper around, we had to use breadcrumbs to find our way back to the front door. And the views of the hills and city below us are simply stunning. A few people told me that I would love the weather and so far, I am not disappointed. Our region of the country has two rainy seasons and two dry seasons. We are currently in the latter until mid-September and it's about 80-85 degrees for the daily high with a nice breeze. Our house is near "downtown" Kigali, which is a crazy maze of confusing switchback streets on a steep hill. Rwanda is called the land of a thousand hills, and Kigali does not disappoint.

For my first post, I will try to answer some of your most burning questions, like, How are you getting all 80 of your dresses to Rwanda? And, Why is your blog address "GURL in the Mist? Do YOU know how to read?" In answer to the first question, I have sent our army of rather large cockroaches hiding behind the stove and under the fridge in our kitchen off to fetch them and bring them back. Regarding the second, while I am indeed a functional illiterate, sadly, the address I want is not available. And yes, I realize I'm using a lame blogging platform (sorry, Google), but I have no idea how much I will keep up with this, so why put the effort into WordPress or Tumblr? Besides, they are owned by the North Koreans, and who wants that hassle?

You may be surprised to hear that as in many of our postings and travels, I stand out here. I am called "sister." In Vietnam, it was "madame"; in Cambodia: "lady"; in Uzbekistan, well, it's not fit for print what I was called. So, I am fine with "sister." And it beats "mama," which is what some of the older foreign women get.

Many of you have asked about our dog, whom my husband fondly refers to as Turdburgler McSh#tsalot*. For those of you who don't know, the short version of the story is that we have agreed to adopt a dog that another couple couldn't take with them to their next assignment. It turns out that he is probably closer to 10 than to 5 years old and may be a bit more feisty with the bite than we were led to believe (which was not at all). I shall keep you all posted. We will be anxious to see how TM gets along with our gardener and Gnu*, the adorable dog who also lives in our duplex compound with another neighbor.

For now, what am I doing with my days? Toning up my calves on these intense hills in our neighborhood while running, settling into our house, and exploring the city. I will start looking for a job soon enough and when I do, look out, Kigali. I just need to wait for those cockroaches to arrive with my dresses.

You stay classy, USA,
Shannon

*ALL names in this blog have been changed to protect the innocent and not-so-innocent at their request/directive.