Being a white girl in Rwanda is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, people can see me coming from a mile away and like to stare at me, touch me, and sometimes ask me for money. On the other hand, no one really expects me to be able to speak or understand Kinyarwanda, which I’ve found comes in handy for deflecting both requests for money and marriage proposals.
Earlier this week I was walking along the road when a little girl walked up next to me and said “good afternoon” and I responded in Kinyarwandan. Two men who were accompanying the girl rubber necked to me with a surprised look and asked me if I really spoke Kinyarwandan. At that particular moment, I couldn’t remember how to say “I speak a little” so instead I just started listing a few words that I knew, which got the point across and the family lost interest. About ten minutes later a group of children called out to me from the side of the road using vocabulary I’m more familiar with, and we had a little introductory conversation using conjugated verbs about what my name is, who I am, and where I am going. While I was running through this conversation with the group of children, the original family looked over and gave me a look that said “you do speak this language, you were just pretending so you wouldn’t have to talk to us.” I wanted explain again that I speak a little bit and it was nothing personal, but I had already used up all my vocabulary, so I let it go. Then I started to feel pretty good about myself that someone might hear me saying “what is your name?” and mistake me for someone who can actually speak this language but chose to pretend to be unable to understand. So, overall I’m calling that whole exchange a success.
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