Dear...

Dear three women carrying tree trunks on your heads on my way to work: There’s no need to stop, turn around, stare at me for 20 seconds and discuss my skirt. Not only do I understand most of what you’re saying, but I don’t know if you noticed, you’re balancing a tree on your head, which seems far more important than my outfit decision.

Dear Mother Nature: I explicitly asked my friend in Kigali if I needed my raincoat and left it at home after she told me it hadn’t rained in days. You cooperated the entire weekend (thanks!), but why did you decide to pour rain on me as soon as I stepped off the bus in Musanze and force me to trek 20 minutes to my house in a downpour? I might forgive you, but can’t speak for my now water-logged copy of Eat, Pray, Love.

Dear woman I pass at least once a week wearing the “I’m a Keeper” t-shirt: I wonder if you have any idea what that actually means. I’ll attempt to figure out the Kinyarwanda translation and then maybe we can discuss.

Dear hole I constantly trip into at the end of my road: Yes, you’re winning the battles, but I shall win the war. Oh, and stop it, because I hate looking like the clumsy white girl in front of all the staring moto drivers.

Dear carrot lady: I’ll never forget the day you showed me that you also sell amazing onions. You were always my favorite, and now you always will be. But maybe you could start selling tomatoes and big green peppers and bananas, and then I’d never have to wander anywhere else.

Dear plantain tree that decided to suddenly crash to the ground in my backyard while I was cooking lunch the other day: Oh.My.God. You seriously scared the crap out of me, I thought the world was ending. And yes, second tree that followed the first, you also scared the crap out of me, just as much as the first one. At least I got a lot of yummy plantain-filled meals from the frightful experience.

Dear Kigali: I love you. You are beautiful and lively and feed me very well and I’ve greatly enjoyed our time together. But considering how little money I have every time I leave you, I think it’s time we take a little break. It’s not you, it’s me. Well, me, and my tiny Peace Corps bank account.

Dear cute, adorable, loving, neighborhood children: You make me happy every day when you greet me, help me carry my groceries and beg to visit me. You make me smile when you pick avocadoes from my tree or come in and read or color. However, you will stop making me happy and I will stop smiling if you continue to leave trash outside my door and using my gate as your classroom chalkboard. Where did you even get chalk? And FYI, 5x6 does not equal 24. We’ll work on multiplication tables next time you visit.

Dear volcanoes: I haven’t seen you in at least a week. Where are you? Stop hiding, I miss you.

Dear kerosene stove: Bet you thought you could just keep exploding in my face, huh? Well, let this be a lesson that you can’t mess with a resourceful Peace Corps volunteer wielding dental floss and pliers. I’m like the Rwandan MacGyver. Let’s never fight again, ok? My eyebrows will be forever grateful.

Dear Nokia phone: I know I only paid 16 dollars for you. I know we both know you are crappy and cheap. But I thought we had a good thing going. Then why have you suddenly decided to turn off and reset yourself every time I press the Clear button? I’m a terrible texter, that button is really important. Shape up, or you’re going to force me into buying the 20 dollar model.

Dear feet: No, you’re not tan; you’re just really, really dirty.

Dear truck that is currently stuck in the mud outside of my house: Sorry, that totally sucks. But I’m kind of trying to enjoy my Joshua Redman, almonds, tea and blog writing right now. Think we could be a little quieter, maybe?

Dear PiliPili cat: I love our new game, and I know you do too. However, my scratched-up hands and arms do not. Let’s play nicer, shall we?

Dear random moth that was clinging to the window of my bus: Kudos, you clung to that window in the roaring wind for a solid 42 seconds before being blown away. Impressive.

Dear Joshua Radin: Ok, ok, I guess one day I can have your babies too. Just don’t tell Mat Kearney, alright? It’ll be our little secret.

Dear lighter that either refuses to light or ignites fire more similar to a blow torch: You’ve been replaced. And your replacement even has a flashlight attached.

Dear USA soccer team: I rooted for you until the end, promise. But considering I live on the African continent, would you be terribly upset if I switched my support over to Ghana?

Dear person who now owns my wonderful, black cardigan sweater from America: You’re right, I forgot it in that room at the district office, so it’s not technically “stealing”. But I’m still very sad, since that was probably my favorite article of clothing that I owned. And honestly, I’ll notice when you wear it around town and most likely will try to ask you where acquired such a nice h&m sweater here in Rwanda. Consider this your warning.

Dear person who sent Sally that brownie mix and whoever decided to put an oven into the EDC office in Kigali: thank you times a million. My taste buds and tummy also say Murakoze!

Dear Gossip Girl: Thank you for existing. Especially you, season 3. Xoxo.

Dear spiders that like to crawl under my door every night: Ew, I hate you. You’re not wanted. Go away or I shall be forced to let Pili use you as her new playtoys.

Dear people who might be willing to send me a CD with music on it: I’m desperately in need of more blues, jazz. folk, hip-hop, reggae, classical, r&b, international, pop, rock…ok, make that just ANY type of music.

Dear Rwandan man at Cadillac: You are by far the best dancer I’ve encountered yet in this country. Thanks for picking me as your partner for the evening.

Dear Jigga: I can’t believe you’ve turned emails to me into a drinking game now. I’m still determining if this is a low point or high point, but regardless I discovered how truly embarrassing my current alcohol tolerance level is. *GOLD star*

Dear Andrew the psychologist and the cleaning lady whose name I haven’t asked yet: You are my only two friends at the hospital and I’m perfectly ok with this. But I think we should take our friendships to the next level and speak more than just greetings to each other in passing. Agreed? Ni byiza.

Dear citizens of Musanze: I need a Kinyarwanda tutor. The sooner the better. Any takers?

Dear America: Happy almost birthday!! I’ll celebrate from afar, but can’t promise fireworks. Though, rumor is I might actually get to have a hot dog. *fingers crossed*

Dear every Rwandan on that bus back from dinner on Friday: Thanks for being awesome and talking to us crazy, giggling Americans. And you pretty much made our evenings when you all turned and waved to us as the bus pulled away from our stop.

Dear first shower stall at St. Pauls: Oh how I already miss you and your hot water and your amazing water pressure once again. Until next time.

Dear boy who sells the tiny Rwandan flag pins near the bus station: You should just give up, I’m probably never going to buy one of your pins. Oh, and just so you know, it’s pronounced FLAG, not FRAK.

Dear woman walking past my gate the other day: I only realized halfway through my “Amakuru yawe?” that you were walking down the street with one hand holding your son while he nursed on your fully exposed boob and the other holding a bucket of green beans on your head. I was pretty impressed that I was able to still choke out a perfect Kinyarwanda greeting despite my shock, but you win with that impressive multitasking-balancing act.

Dear every Titulaire in the district of Musanze that I had to stand up in front of last week: I promise I know more Kinyarwanda than “Nitwa Amy. Muraho! Murakoze.” But I still appreciated your grinning and round of applause nonetheless.

Dear creature that lives in my avocado tree: I have yet to see you, let alone decipher what you are. But you sound like a horrid mix between an injured cat and a crying child. Please find a new home, I’d like my peace and quiet back.

Dear mashed potatoes I just made for lunch: You would have tasted better with real butter and real milk as opposed to blue band, nido and water, but you were still bomb.