Turi Kumwe, We Are The Same

Yesterday I bought a pineapple.

In another context this would not be worthy of a blog post but here the simplest interactions hold equal potential for incredible successes and terrible calamities and more often than not both occur in equal measure. Also, buying a pineapple in Gihara is not a simple transaction for the following reasons:

First, market day is Saturday in Gihara. That is, every Saturday people come from all over to sell fruits and vegetables on blankets and rice sacks laid out in the town square. Yesterday was not Saturday. Yesterday was a Wednesday, and during the week fresh fruits and vegetables are difficult to come by.

Second, whether on market day or not, produce must be purchased directly from the farmers. This means prices are not set, so everything must be bargained for.

Third, muzungus (white people and other obvious foreigners) are often given prices that are two or three times what is standard because it is assumed that foreigners are tourists and tourists have money. That and we’re easy to cheat because we don’t speak the language very well or at all.

Lastly, I really, really, really hate bargaining.

In this context, I went into town on a Wednesday evening to try and find a pineapple. I knew I might not succeed, but I was hopeful. Fortuitously I found a vendor selling an assortment of fresh fruit on a table outside her shop. She only had one pineapple. It was small and oddly shaped but it looked edible so I asked her how much she wanted for it. She said 200 francs. This is the standard price for a really good pineapple. The one she had wasn’t worth more than 100 francs and I knew it but I really, really, really hate bargaining and I was in a hurry to get home before dark so I accepted her price.

While I was fishing around in my bag for the money a woman came over and asked me how much I was paying for the pineapple. I said 200 francs. She looked affronted. She asked why I would pay 200 francs for such a small pineapple. I don’t know how to say “I’m in a hurry” in Kinyarwanda so I just shrugged and gave the vendor the money. The woman told the vendor to give me back half. The vendor started shouting something about amafaranga (money) and umuzungu (foreigner) and the woman started shouting back and I started yelling “It’s no problem, it’s no problem” over the din as loud as I could and pretty soon there was a huge crowd of people standing around us staring. At some point I ducked out of the crowd and ran home, vowing silently never to buy a pineapple in Gihara ever again.

This evening I was out for a walk and I saw that same woman sweeping in front of her house. When she saw me she waved me over. She said in Kinyarwanda, “Do you remember me? The market? The pineapple?” I said I cannot forget a friend. I thanked her for helping me and explained that it’s difficult for me to bargain because I don’t speak much Kinyarwanda and she nodded gravely. She said she hates it when people try to cheat muzungus. I said, “Well, I understand, it’s because they think I have money.” She said yes, but it should not matter - your skin might be one color and mine might be another color but we are the same. For most Americans this kind of rhetoric of racial equality is familiar to the point of being cliché and disingenuous. But when I heard this woman in rural Rwanda say that she and I are the same I knew that she meant it with all her heart, at that moment at least, and I was almost moved to tears.

The woman’s name is Goreti. I think next week I will visit her. Maybe I will bring her a pineapple.