“The white man does not fill up the wine glass all the way,” Joseph the catering student told me, “because his nose is longer.” I touched my very long, pointy, carrot-looking nose, feeling, intuitively, like this was a somewhat racist explanation but perhaps with equal credibility to the classic and classy "we-fill-halfway-to-aerate-the-wine." Doesn't that reek of after-the-fact pseudo-science? “Is that what you learned in school?” I asked. “Yes. It’s in the text book they use to teach us.” He got up from the bench he was sitting on in the milk shop and pulled at the side of the bench. “You pull the chair out when someone wants to sit down,” he went on, “and then, when they sit, you push them in.”
“Also, it is not important to greet the white man” when working in a hotel or restaurant because it’s not clear, at first, what language he speaks. “Wait for him to talk to you first,” Joseph said, “and then respond.”
We were in Giramata’s milk shop, which has profited greatly from ASYV staff and volunteers choosing her shop as their favorite place. Her greater profit allows her to buy more products to sell, making it even more their favorite place. And truffles – she has truffles. Sort of. They are a little bland, don’t have much coco in them, and are one notch below Hershey’s in quality. But still…truffles.
The catering course is going to learn how to make wedding cake soon. They are currently learning “conservation”. I explain to some who care that “conservation” is usually for trees but “preservation” is for cakes. Not like in French. I think. I asked the important question: “Are the cakes you make going to be sold?” And I got an answer: “We sell all of the food we make.” The food is sold in the little booth in front of the school which I thought was a very lax guard booth until now. Profits go to buy ingredients for the next time the students learn how to cook/bake something. I thought this was a nice self-sustaining system. And an excuse to buy cake. What? I’m supporting local education and development.
Joseph started to talk about other foods they make, and then foods they don’t make but that Muslims in Rwanda make during Ramadan, and this lead to a theological discussion on religion. Joseph asked, “What religion do Jews believe in? Are they Christians, Adventists or Muslims?” I told him that we had our own religion and gave a very rough general outline of it. The man who was overhearing us told Joseph that he had heard that some Jews don’t believe in Jesus. I said that, as a general rule, Judaism don't. Luckily, Rubona has a sizable Muslim population and is fairly tolerant towards different religions. Well, sometimes. Joseph, on a Thursday when he was wearing his Muslim prayer robe (what is the name for these?), changed into jeans and a t-shirt when walking with me from one side of the street to the other, saying that some people did not like Muslims. But, in general, there is respect towards different beliefs, so my Jesus-less theology was taken with a polite chuckle, followed by a casual, “You cannot accept what is in your own family,” as Jesus was Jewish.
I learned that the local nun’s “wine” – actually passion-fruit and pineapple-based – is actually made in Kigali and brought over to be sold in Rubona. Until now, the church’s adorable little garden and tiny little sales booth made me envision the nuns in their nun wear growing, squishing and mixing the passion fruit and pineapples by themselves, then gluing the labels to the bottles, which they fill while chatting about the weather, floral choices, and I suppose God. Perhaps knowing it's Kigali origins will make the wine taste less sweet and more refined. I'm tempted to fill my glass half-way.
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