Cell Phone Marketing in Rwanda

Constantly changing percentages written on the screen of MTN cell phones stand for constantly changing discounts on the amount charged per-minute. Depending on where you are in Rwanda, and even where you are within Agahozo-Shalom, you will be paying different amounts for calls if you use MTN. Strangely, when I learned this, and saw 90% on the phone, it was like seeing "90% Off" at the Gap. You think, "oooh! I am in a 90% zone! Quick, I should make a call to take advantage!" I haven't actually called anyone because of this, but there is that initial irrational yearning that I am sure some percentage of the population, when given some percentage, will give into.

This was introduced in light of Tigo, another cell phone service provider, entering the market in 2009 and MTN, perhaps, not wanting to admit that they actually lowered prices in light of new competition. Yvonne Makolo, MTN Rwanda Senior Marketing Manager, said in a New Times article that "Price cuts have never been the key to driving subscriber numbers." It's not price cuts, it's offering a "special discount" just for you, because you happen to be in just the right location. But you are almost always in the right location: calls from MTN used to cost 100 francs (around 17-20 cents) per minute. Now it's more like 10-50 francs (2-8 cents) because you are virtually, or literally, always in a "discounted" zone.

Interestingly, it differs from other cell phone service providers because the prices vary by location rather than periods of time. While MTN claims it doesn't really lower or raise its normal prices, there is no real way of checking this, because if everyone's discount is going up or down simultaneously without any connection to their location, then that is, in essence, a change in the base price based on time.

Because you buy airtime ahead of time, the amount per minute can change after you have purchased airtime. If you buy, say, 300 francs (50 cents) worth of airtime and think you can talk for 25 minutes, you may only be able to speak for ten minutes if the rate changes in your particular zone or period you are making the call. The more people using a particular zone, the more expensive it is to provide service, so the lower the discount is. Another way of looking at the discount is as an alternative to surcharges for speaking in an area with a dense population of MTN cell phone users. Loss aversion makes people happier about getting a discount for speaking on their cell in an area with fewer cell phones, compared to getting charged more for being in an area with a lot of cell phone users.

And just to maximize on this irrational happiness, the "discount" is always, and I mean always, above 50%.

In a perfectly rational economy, people would be more likely to buy airtime if it's cheap, then everyone will buy airtime, and then it won't be cheap. In countries with contracts specifying how much you pay ahead of time, this is a dilemma the cell phone companies need to deal with. But with airtime bought beforehand, the customer is faced with this little dilemma.

At the Gap, God bless the them, when they have a sale, they don't increase prices for a particular shirt that has already been marked down after you have purchased it. They don't even increase the price of a particular shirt before you have purchased it, if they have already marked it down. So even if everyone comes running to the Gap, you don't show up at the cash register, have them swipe your credit card, and then have that cute unisex white blouse show up on you bill as twice the price you thought you were paying, because everyone else also wanted to buy the cute unisex white blouse. So, in a way, developed countries' cell phone customers want to buy their airtime like they buy their merchandise, even when that doesn't quite make sense. We may be paying more for cell phone coverage because we are paying for the luxury of knowing, ahead of time, how much our calls will cost, even though the service changes based on how many people are buying it.

The market competition-induced zone discounts are convenient from a social welfare perspective. Areas where fewer people use cell phones are areas, in general, where people have less money. And those are the areas where airtime will be cheaper. Though at 10 francs a minute with the "full discount," it ends up the same price as Tigo's 10 francs a minute all the time to other Tigo phones - but few use Tigo, especially outside Kigali.

Rwandatel, the other third provider, was 80% owned by Libya. For a reason that "wasn't related" to the bombing in Libya, it lost its license to provide mobile services right after the decision to bomb Libya. A major Libyan-owned hotel in Kigali, Laico Hotel, also had its assets frozen. At first I heard the government was claiming it had nothing to do with the bombing in Libya, but Reutors reported Rwandan Finance Minster John Rwangombwa as saying that the freezing of assets was to decrease Lybian government influence. It may be that Rwandatel really wasn't doing so well - I have never met anyone who uses them.

I just made a phone call in a densely populated, wealthy area of Kigali where everyone has cell phones. Sure enough, I was charged 50 francs a minute rather than my normal 10 francs. But I am waiting for the day when I am charged the "base rate" of 100 francs.

One day I walked to the center of Rubona and every shop had massive blue Tigo signs above the entrances. But no shop seemed to actually sell Tigo minutes. This seems to be the case even in Kigali - there is advertising for Tigo in random shops that sell airtime. Often, only MTN airtime is available at these shops with Tigo signs, though sign-wise, the store is MTNless. But the blue color is lovely.

Girls in School

In the office of a local public primary school, a school employee was looking over a chart comparing the number of girls and boys who had dropped out. It was divided by class so, from an outsider, things didn't look too bad: Perhaps one or two more girls than boys had dropped out in any given term in any given class. "Well, things are looking up," I said. He shook his head. "I have seen more girls than boys drop out," he told me. "Maybe 2010 was just a random good year." Even looking at 2010, there was statistical significance of more girls dropping out if all grades were combined.

A teacher was passing by with exams he was marking. "How are the students doing?" I asked. This particular teacher has excellent English that he has picked up over the years from random aid workers and volunteers who have made their way through Rubona. He's a chatty one so, like many chatty people, his spoken English is exceptionally well. He is almost American, except for his salary which is insanely low for what he his contributing: 24,000 franc a month, or around $40. Also un-American is his taste for bulky-yet-effeminate knit sweaters, the kind both genders in America grudgingly get as gifts from older relatives and then donate to goodwill, which can't sell them either. So goodwill charities and shops donate them to Africa, where they end up on English teachers in Rwanda with questionable style taste or an ironic, edgy style taste, depending in your perspective. And in this heat, it really is an aesthetic choice, not a necessity.

"How are the kids doing on their English exams?" I asked. I peered at the exams. "Are the girls doing well?" He proudly showed me his top student, who was a girl.

I asked where the son of the local bar owner was - I couldn't remember his name, but I was curious to know how he was doing on his exams. I hadn't spoken to him since first arriving, when the longer vacation time gave the boy more time to hang around the bar and talk. Back then, his accent made him sound like an New England prep school kid, which stands out in an area where most elementary school kids don't know much more than "Good morning" and "Fine, thankyou." A local Peace Corp volunteer (maybe the product of a New England prep school?) had taught him English, and he was young enough to pick up the accent. Nobody knew who I was talking about, so they started to call over every student who had really good English to come talk to me, though I told them, really, they didn't need to interrupt anyone's recess and game of handball. Handball has become a huge hit in the last few months since rubber balls one day started appearing in Rubona and breaking school windows.

One of the students had recently immigrated from Kenya. His mother, who was Rwandan, wanted to return. His English was excellent, as Kenya is where Rwanda hopes to be in the future with regards to English in school. His Swahili was fluent, of course, but his Kinyarwanda was struggling. "How are you doing in school?" the vice principal asked. "I am doing well in science and African history, but not on information connected to Rwanda." He explained that he could not remember all the different ministries that the other children knew perfectly well. "Also, I'm not doing so well in math." Oh, who ever is?

Next in line of the kids-dragged-away-from-recess-to-meet-me was the son of the bar owner. He was a bit less chipper than when I first met him. Maybe because his recess had been interrupted. Also, his English did not seem as well as before. Also, maybe because his recess had been interrupted.

To his right stood the top-ranking student, a slightly tall girl with slight features who also seemed to really want to go back to playing handball. I swear, that game is addictive. She was incredibly shy with her eyes downcast and did not understand what I or the vice-principal asked in English. Her top subject was mathematics which perhaps explains her talent for English grammar, even though she cannot speak it. "Do you want to study in a boarding school for secondary school?" the vice principal asked. She did not understand so we asked a lot of different variations of this question, and asked in increasingly slow paces and increasingly heightened annunciation. She finally showed her understanding with a simple answer: "Yes." We asked her where she wanted to study and she answered, as expected, "Kigali."

I hope her brilliance will make up for her extreme shyness. And I am happy that her teacher is a chatty one who has put the effort into learning fluent English over the years. Even though I am extremely unhappy that he is absurdly underpaid. And a smidgen unhappy with his questionable taste in sweaters.

Plans for Permanence and Pyramids

Grand plans for a new permanent market are under way in Rubona Center. Most of the welding for the metal door frames and windows is being done right outside of Dativa's milk shop - the milk shop that used to be the best location, being the first shop one passes when entering the center from the direction of Agahozo Shalom and Ntunga, the closest sector with a paved road. The welding makes a loud noise and looking at welding is like Superman looking at Kryptonite or, well, human beings looking at the sun. Welders in Rwanda wear only sunglasses.

"Does Davita, the owner, mind?" I asked another customer. "They asked her if she minded," I was assured, "and she said it was fine." They have now moved on to weld in a different location, and in their place are long tree trunks with workers hitting the tree trunks really hard with the back of shovels until the bark comes off. At first I involuntarily mentally scoffed, "That has got to be the most inefficient way to take off bark." But the hitting really hard does seem to remove large chunks at once.

After the workers have gone home I have seen small children hitting the trees hard as well, taking the bark off. I am not sure why they are doing this - if it is just playing-professional-bark-remover or because they want to bring the bark home to burn.

So the long tree trunks are slowly being transformed into long beams, either to hold up

the new market building or perhaps to add new electricity wires - they are the same types of beams I have seen for this purpose in other locations.

There are permanent markets being built all over Rwanda - in Ntunga near by, in Gisenyi, and on the way to Gisenyi. Some seem to be actual buildings, but others are dozens of rows of permanent concrete blocks which serve as tables outside, underneath a metal roof held up by beams. On the right is a photograph taken by another blog called Off to Rwanda Again.

The completed permanent markets have a distinct classiness. Rather than items layed out in small bunches on plastic sheets, the fruits and veggies on the permanent blocks are stacked in nice parallel pyramids, cost more, are more varied, and are are of better quality - or seem to be of better quality because of the nice parallel pyramid stacking. I imagine this is because the permanent markets I have seen are found in cities, closer to wealthier shoppers. Time will tell if rural permanent markets will offer similarly tasteful (in both senses) displays.

A few months ago, while sitting in a milk shop right outside the open market that is around every Tuesday and Friday, a woman was sitting with stacks of coins and bills on the table, while two young men, perhaps in their early 20s, stood next to her, arguing with her. They were pointing to a paper with dozens of names written on a neat hand-drawn table on a pad of paper, with numbers next to each name. She was giving them some money and they were arguing or negotiating about something related to this money. She looked very boss-like, had serious looking glasses in a rural area where almost nobody wears glasses, and she wore a bright cloth turban that makes some woman look distinct and important. I desperately wanted to know Kinyarwanda at that moment. I only understood the numbers, the word "Faranga" for money, and the many different forms of "go" and "come" and "here" which are sprinkled throughout all conversations but which don't help me because I can't understand the grammar well enough to make sense out of these building blocks of language. They eventually sighed and left the woman, who rolled her eyes at the shop keeper and began complaining about the two who had just left. The feeling in the air and the tones in everyone's voices were one of heated business negotiating, and was distinct from other conversations I have listened to; but it went well with the building of a new market.

Glossy Glow

A few months ago I did an art “family time” with markers and paper, and everyone was sort of bored. Reviving the art idea, I decided to take my sister's advice of introducing collage making. I grabbed colored papers, tissue paper, scissors, glue and some of those soft colored mini palm-palm thingies that you may remember from kindergarten as serving close to no purpose in this world. Ah, and on the way there I grabbed a few magazines.

In the end, it was all about the magazines.

I remember how Sudanese, Congolese and Eritrean refugees in Israel used to hang up cut-out images from magazines as wall decorations. I remember how I used to hang up cut-out images from magazines as wall decorations. But I forgot just how much I used to and just how rare glossy magazines in Rwanda are. At family time, the combined culture of high school and magazine rareness created a crazy rush of magazine cutting and lots of anxious, eager and quick ripping off of any image that caught anyone’s eye.

This wasn’t the first time I had brought magazines, but it was the first time I had brought them with scissors.

A life of practice in precise scissor cutting is something I now know is a luxury. Scissors dexterity is one of those usually useless skills you may have picked up if you grew up in a country with a plentiful supply of scissors, and I tried to show the students how Angelina Jolie and the Rolex could be removed from their backgrounds and placed next to or on other images that were cut out – say, adding bunny ears to Angelina or making the watch fall from the sky. But eagerness to get as many images cut out as possible before I left overshadowed the careful art of cutting along the lines. “Do you have tape?” one girl asked. “What,” I responded, “anything to stick things?” She nodded and I gave her glue stick, which a few students tried to use to hang up pictures on the wall. When that didn’t work, I needed to break the news that there was no tape, another rarity round these parts.

Magazines really are placed on a rare-commodity pedestal. Above pastels, fancy 8H pencils and glass beads. If I had to choose between pretty beads and old magazines from 2009, I would choose beads. But if you walk into the art room at ASYV, beads abound, even as magazines mysteriously disappear.

As the end “family time” grew near, one girl was left on the floor, turning a page a millisecond, ripping whole pages out with this nervous face full of fear that time would run out and I would be taking the magazines back before she maximized the total number of interesting and semi-interesting images she could find. “It’s ok,” I told her, “I will leave the magazines here.” I picked up scraps of construction paper and put them in the recycling box, cleaning up. It was getting late. But she kept on going.

In the end she reached the last page and joined me in cleaning up, carefully tucking away her new collection of glossiness, perhaps with plans of creating a glossy magazine shrine as soon as she found enough tape.

Though she, like everyone else, ignored the colored, soft, palm-palm thingies.

Party Vacay Bus to Gisenyi

I was on the party bus. On the way to Gisenyi. Everyone was snacking, which was fabulously different than the usual strict three-meals-or-less-a-day norm. I will never, ever understand how Rwandans can eat no more than three big meals a day and not touch the tiniest bit of edible energy in between. It's usually a matter of money – snacking is pricey. Also, bread is expensive in Rwanda, and Cassava bread (it's not bread, it's mush) doesn't last so long, so you can't just wrap what you have leftover for later. You need to eat it all in one meal. It also is, perhaps, a matter of being polite – snacking in public when not all can must be somewhat rude. But a vacay bus is a vacay bus, and these passengers were clearly more interested in maximizing the enjoyment in their vacation.

It may have been a Tanzanians-and-Kenyans-going-on-vacation-in-Rwanda bus or a Rwandans-who-grew-up-in-Tanzania-or-Kenya bus, because everyone was chatting in a mix of Kinyarwanda and Kiswahili. When the second-hand-clothing sellers gave their sales pitches in the last stop before leaving Kigali, a woman was checking our a very frilly, girly, leather jacket. It was apparently for her hubby, who wore it the whole trip to the vacay spot. Men often wear womens' jackets. Or well, what was manufactured for women, anyways. And in between munches on their kabobs – totally inappropriate for Rwanda and awesome – passengers were swigging down their Waragi, the Ugandan hard liquor that is the poster boy for what not to drink in secondary schools throughout the country. As passengers were becoming more and more pissed, the driver was becoming more and more pissed at them. “I will report the police on you!” he yelled to them, and everyone begged in him not to, including the most drunk passenger in between giggles.

There are police checkpoints in Rwanda to check I.D's. At one such checkpoint, the driver,

who was beyond irritated at that point, pointed to the passenger who was the most drunk and making lots of noise and giggling. We'll call him “giggles.” Everyone in the bus, in full party-drive, begged the driver to give Giggles a break. A lot of explaining and yelling and threatening ensued between the driver, the police, and the passengers, until the driver gave Giggles a break and we went on our way, stopped every second for the really drunk passengers to pee, which added an hour or so to our journey.

The music was a great mix of terrible American rap with an insane amount of expletives and detailed sex descriptions but in really clever rhyme. And in English, thank God. It's a long drive to Gisenyi.

There were hardly any girls on the beach. There were lots of weddings. But not a lot of girls just running around, splashing around, and getting time to breath in the lake air. From my ver

y unscientific tiny sample size of ASYV students and galleries in Kigali, it appears that girls are not as good at realistic drawing and composition as boys, and maybe those moments of running down and having fun on the beach contributes to artistic sentiments. Maybe just looking at really nice views with nothing else to think about, which you do at the beach, boosts art development.

There were lots of vacationers doing flips, playing catch, swimming and getting married. The thematic colors of one wedding were very shiny florescent pink and silver. Including for the men, who wore the shiny pinkness on their toga-ish traditional dress (there is a word, no time to find out now...) with the silver shining through on the buttoned-down colored dress shirts under the pink toga.

You walk along the lake on the path on the swanky side and you pass massive villas and scandalously exclusive hotels, perched far from the pathway and covered by foliage but with a small hint of elaborate decorate window frame to make you dream of what it would be like to peer out from these massive monstrosities. They are a few minutes from the Congolese border.

Vacationing girls in Gisenyi wear stilettos, which I think is the result of far more paved roads. They wobble if they must, but vacation is vacation. And not a time for practicality.

On the right are drawings from students which I think captures Gyseni quite well. In different ways, but together they capture the city, whether that was their intention or not. Enjoy.

Monkeo and Monkiette

In Nyungwe National Park there is a Romeo and Juliette story, except they have an infertile monkey love child before dying. A "Ruwenzori Angolan Black and White Colubus Monkey" and a "Central African Red Colubus Monkey" met at a dance (I assume) and their one offspring, who can never have children, became king of fifty members of the Black and White type. Because his dad came from a species of meat-eaters, he's tougher and can scare chimpanzees away, which is good because chimpanzees eat monkeys. When danger is around, all of the monkeys congregate around him for protection. But in a tragic, tragic twist, he lives forever alone, with no one's tail to pull or backside to groom. You see him and his lone red tail climb up a tree, craving meat, while all his black and white frienemies act like lame rabbits and munch on leaves and berries, ignoring him unless they need him.

Nyungwe is a mix between Lost, Shreck and the Shire. The rolling hills of tea leaves, which are grown in part of the park, give the mountains a sheen that Disney-Pixar capture well. The houses' metal roofs are very short and have a stylistic curve that make them look like the small houses of Hobbits. When you go monkey or chimpanzee tracking, the trackers clear a pathway through the very thick vines and you only occasionally reach a tiny clearing, the sun shining a dramatic spotlight. Our trackers eventually got as impatient from our slow pace as I was from watching Lost (I gave up after a season) and told us to wait on the road while they ran around the forest, looking for the chimpanzees who, by the way, do not, under any circumstances, want to be found. Our closest furry relatives eventually ran across the road for half a second. So from seeing chimps in the wild I learned that chimps like to cross man-made roads really, really quickly. We compared our photographs of black swooshes ("this small blob is the baby, I think") and went back to the car. On the way to the car all the butterflies thought I was Snow White and started landing on me, eagerly and frustratingly sniffing me and digging their thread-like dainty front legs into my skin, creating a tingly massage. I don't know why they chose me. Something about how I smell. Like berries and fresh flowers? Perhaps.

On the canopy walk a really impressive tour guide sang to birds who sang back.

We also passed the Toilet Paper and Abortion Tree on the canopy walk, officially known as Hagenia Abyssiniga or Umugeti. Which doesn't mean Toilet Paper and Abortion tree in Kinyarwanda. The leaves are softer than a baby's bum and the thick, soft toilet paper of nice hotel rooms. The bark, we were told, helps indigestion, but should not be eaten by pregnant women, as it can cause abortions, according to traditional medicine. So if you believe in both traditional medicine and abortions, this is your tree.

I have to say: Nyungwe National park has very impressive guides and trackers. No one seemed to know how the Colubus love child's parents met, but they worked incredibly hard and worked up lots of sweat running around absurdly steep, thick, forests in a consolidated, focused effort to find the monkeys and chimpanzees, so we could brag to friends about how we saw chimpanzees in the wild.