Truth really is stranger than fiction…way stranger. Although Nyagatare is growing rapidly and attracting new business, there is not a large, for lack of a better term, foreign community. At last count the number of abazungu stood at five, present company included. We have a tendency, more like bad habit, of conspicuously staring at other white people who visit Nyagatare (who inevitably stay at the only decent hotel in town where we also occasionally grab cold beers). ‘Sightings’ are rare and oddly wondrous things. What follows is a brief recount of a month long effort on the part of my roommate and me to track down a pair of German volunteers who apparently live in Nyagatare district.
The saga began more than one month ago. A fellow WorldTeach volunteer working in an outer suburb of Kigali known as Kicukiro (which, by the by, is truly an ordeal to find the damn bus for) had a chance encounter with a young, blond German volunteer. After a brief exchange, it came to light that the German volunteer, Betty, worked at a small, Catholic primary school in Nyagatare. What’s more, she knew both Evan and I by sight and by name. Our friend called us shortly thereafter to inquire about how we knew Betty and whether we hung out often. Of course our immediate reaction was, “Wait, who the hell is Betty, and how in the world does she know our names?” More importantly, how could someone with blond hair have escaped our keen sense for white foreigners? Blond, that’s outrageous! Our Japanese neighbor, who has been here for seven months, also reported having seen no Germans (and I’m fairly certain the two VSO volunteers here before us would concur).
No additional details were gathered, no new evidence uncovered for weeks about the mysterious Betty. We neither saw any other foreigners matching her description, nor found anyone amongst our growing contacts at bars and restaurants who knew Betty. And yet, she had given our friend accurate physical descriptions, plus our names to boot (pronounced correctly even). This unidentified umuzungu was mystifying my roommate and me. I began to secretly suspect our friend in Kigali had played a very inventive and unexpected but nonetheless cruel practical joke on us (I should remember to do the same to someone else ha!).
Then last weekend Evan went to Kigali to run a couple errands and enjoy some R&R. Saturday night he accompanied some other volunteers to a favorite spot, called Papyrus, that is part outdoor restaurant, part bar and dance club. It’s a popular establishment with the expat crowd and well-off Rwandese and usually very relaxing and enjoyable. Unbeknownst to Evan, his world was about to be turned upside down. Turned upside down by, of all things, a pugnacious, won’t-take-no-for-an-answer prostitute with a bizarre arm pit hair fetish. Just wait, bear with me.
Upon arriving, our little band of volunteers commandeered a table outside. The beers began to flow, in particular a potent newcomer called Turbo King (that I am convinced is part knock-off trappist ale, part LSD given its power to impair all logic, reason, and self restraint – luckily I steer clear). Once soft inebriation began to set in, the dancing commenced. All was happy and gay, until like a bolt from the blue a prostitute aggressively interjected herself into the group and latched onto Evan. Now perhaps you’re asking, “How do you know she was a prostitute?” All I can say is, you know it when you see it. Yes, it’s always that clear.
Evan tried every trick in the book to break away and finally managed to sneak back to the table. There he put up a defensive wall thick with other volunteers. But as time leaked away and the drinks continued to flow, volunteers began to evaporate around him to go dance, get more drinks, or go home. Suddenly he turned to his left and there was the prostitute in all her scandalousness. Surprised but not to be shaken, Evan turned to shut her out and converse with a friend from Butare (southwest; location of prestigious National University of Rwanda). Unfortunately for Evan, the ignore tactic did not send the cease and desist message strong enough. Before he knew it, the prostitute had placed her hand on his upper arm, and then began inexplicably plucking at his arm pit hair. This continued for a brief period while Evan confoundedly tried to work out what to do next.
Eventually he made a deft move to escape her grasp and swiftly made for the crowded dance floor to ditch her. Already thoroughly intoxicated but in need of respite from the crazy prostitute, Evan strode up to the bar and waited directly next to a cute young white woman. Although not his natural inclination, Evan briefly struck up a conversation with the woman, asking the usual battery of questions: name, occupation, where do you live in Kigali, etc., etc. To his great surprise, and later my own, this woman was not just another umuzungu.
In fact, her name was Sarah and she is Betty’s roommate! Evan said his mouth physically hung open and he vaguely remembers uttering something like, “You’re f-----g joking, right?” Here was irrefutable proof, given freely and unsolicited, by a person with direct contact with Betty, confirming that she did actually exist. Now, Rwanda is a small country, and there are relatively few foreigners, but the community is not insubstantial. The likelihood of Evan bumping into Sarah by chance in Kigali is incredibly slim. We go to Kigali infrequently now, and it seems that Sarah and Betty do the same. So, with mildly giddy bewilderment and a skull-splintering headache, Evan called me Sunday morning to break the news.
I was floored, utterly astounded. No way, uh-uh. Well, Evan, Sawa, and I now have a rendezvous scheduled for later this week with Sarah and Betty. I will not accept their existence until I slap my own eyes on them, but once I do I’ll report back. Until then, here’s to all the wild prostitutes in your life. Cherish them, you never know who you might meet running from them.
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