Moving Forward

I know it's a tiresome slogan that nearly led to the defeat of Julia Gillard at the last Australian election, but things have moved forward since the last episode. Not of course in the political sense of invoking a bright new future under the steady stewardship of the great helmswoman. No, our 'forward' is much more prosaic. Joseph, our surplus to requirements night guard, has gone. He hung around for nearly two weeks, a mysterious phantom appearing out of the darkness at the oddest moments, creating, for us, an ethical pickle about protocols regarding correct procedures on how to offload inherited human beings. It's not in the VSO handbook. The owner of the house, charmingly called Chaste, failed to appreciate our quandary. Just tell him to leave was his simple advice.

This is very hard when you feel like an utter bastard, quite apart from not having the local language skills to be able to tell the time let alone inform some poor bloke that his days are numbered and he's going to soon find himself out on the street. However, it turned out he had another house to go to and was probably just using our pad as a bolt hole to get away from the chores and the squawking brats who just wouldn't give him enough time to be alone with his thoughts and to read the little book that he carried around with him everywhere.

Nice view and immaculate courtyard

My boss Valence, who has responsibility for ensuring our domestic wellbeing, finally turned up one day and gave Joseph his marching orders. He had been the guard under the old regime. There had been a legitimate transfer of power and we were the new occupiers requiring a fresh palace guard - or something like that. I, of course, being a guilt-ridden bleeding heart wanted to thank Joseph for his sterling surveillance efforts on our behalf and made a convoluted speech which was twice as long when translated into Kinyarwanda by Valence. Adjectives like impassive or inscrutable do not do justice to the man's countenance.

Justin

On the upside, Valence brought a delightful young man called Justin to be Joseph's replacement. He has a charming smile and loves sweeping up every last molecule of vegetation that dares to violate the spotlessness of our surrounds. Sweeping is a national obsession. I went to get a late evening beer from the local bottle shop just now and nearly tripped over two hunched women desperate to remove a few leaves from the public dirt path before nightfall. To all intents, it looks as though Rwandans must run Tidy Courtyard competitions similar to our Tidy Towns' ones. More likely, the neatness fixation is at least partly a result of householders risking rebuke or a fine for not keeping up with the immaculate Emmanuels next door.

Oops, there's a leaf in the yard

Justin's other duty, as well as his watching and sweeping briefs, is dealing with the rubbish. There is no public collection. It is normally burnt or buried but if there is a piece of unhoused land over the back wall, as in our case, then why bother going to the trouble of digging a pit or burning it when a quick heave does the business. Stella is determined that Justin's first rubbish drop over the wall will be his last! For turning up at 6 in the evening and leaving at 6 the following morning seven days a week - no sickies or holiday leave I'm afraid - Justin receives the princely sum of 20,000 Rwandan francs a month ($34) which I have somewhat daringly paid him in advance. (Gosh, he might rush off with the loot into Tanzania and set up a Blue Band factory!).

The salary is actually 5000 francs above the rural average for a house guard which is considered a relatively well-paid and easy job for a family man with two children like Justin. By comparison, a starting teacher only earns around 30,000 francs or $50 a month. I earn 170,000 francs a month ($285), which we will struggle to survive on given that Stella isn't in paid work. She will, however, be volunteering at the local college. We have already eaten substantially into our three month salary advance so will definitely be using our savings especially for occasional trips away when we have to stay in a hotel.

Grey-crowned Crane

Which is what we decided to do on the weekend where we stayed at a delightful spot by a lakeside appropriately called Seeds of Peace situated right next to Jambo Beach ('hello' in Keswahili). A grassy embankment and a tame Grey-crowned Crane overlooking water may not a standard beach make, but whoever said that sand had to be the key constituent? We wandered around with our binoculars and examined an enormous and grotesque Marabou stork perched on one leg on the electricity pole directly opposite the entrance. A bus arrived to take us homewards and we piled into the already overcrowded vehicle to once again be intimate with a bunch of complete strangers. An attractive woman was sitting on my left thigh and I was inadvertently caressing her neckline. Honest guv! There was great hilarity with many 'muzungus' dropped into a conversation which probably went something like this:


"I thought these muzungus were standing there with cameras."

"Weren't they?"

"No, turns out they're big eye glasses (amalunetta)."

"You're taking the mickey. Not taking pictures. What were they doing then?"

Expectant faces all round. "Okay, steady on now 'cos you're not gonna believe it. They were looking at birds (inyoni). Yes, they were looking at BIRDS."

The Marabou culprit back on two legs

The bus then exploded uproariously with laughter and several passengers needed treatment for hyperventilation. Altitude (and the presence of daft muzungus) does that here.

Okay so I made the last bit up but the moral of the story is still sound. If you are a birding nerd (similar to being a trainspotter) then don't broadcast it unless you have a very thick skin, have a face that doesn't redden easily or, in my case, a face that is already red through a combination of time spent in the outdoors and the taking of Doxycycline antimalarials. It's got nothing to do with the Mutzig beer!