November (once again) flashed by in a blur and I soon found myself preparing for the Thanksgiving holiday. Only this time, there was no Lucy, no Hannah, no Kaitie, no Charlotte; no Zip-car rental to stock up at Shoppers in NOVA; no need to defend ourselves to the store clerk when we bought enough cheap champagne to make even a sailor wasted; no frozen, prepared turkey that I would name, clean and massage with butter before stuffing into an oven; no America. And yet, so much was the same. Amazing friends traveling from all around to join for the holiday, stocking up on essentials at the market (we even found celery – it barely resembles celery in the states, but is actually even more potent in flavor and smell), an annoying animal constantly voicing her desire to eat everything we were cooking, and many a food coma.
For actual Thanksgiving Day, three of my closest PCV friends arrived in Musanze Thursday morning to celebrate what we are now affectionately referring to as “Insta-Thanksgiving”. Trude and I tackled the shopping during the day, bargaining our way down our list (which included such extravagancies as cucumbers and real butter). And that night, we broke into the boxed wine before beginning to concoct our instant culinary masterpieces: stove top stuffing with canned chicken and instant turkey graving; instant sweet potato mashed potatoes, doctored up with tons of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, butter and marshmallows; and a cucumber, tomato, avocado salad with a small bottle of white wine vinaigrette my mother had sent to me (it took us until the next day to notice that the expiration date was in fact August 1998 – no one’s gotten sick though…yet). Everything was fantastic, even the chicken/stuffing mush which I could only describe as “it looks like vomit, but it tastes like heaven”.
As we were recovering from dinner one of the CCHIPs ladies called to see if we wanted to grab drinks. That’s when it happened. We were fumbling with the keys at the gate, when I saw a dash of white escape through my gate door out onto the road. PILIPILI! Several profanities exited my mouth while I reached into my pocket to turn on my phone flashlight, just in time to see my kitty hesitantly scurry across the road into the corn stalks in my neighbor’s front yard. The following ten minutes involved Trude and I shouting “here, PiliPili…psst psst” and wandering among the corn while I held a bowl of chicken/stuffing mush and avocado. At one point a passing moto driver skidded to a halt to check out what the two crazy Muzungu girls were doing wandering around in the dark. Of course, getting across “my pet cat escaped and is now frolicking in the corn in the dark” in Kinyarwanda was not an easy task. Suddenly PiliPili jetted back towards my gate, only to veer right and run down the path parallel to one wall of my house. It was then that I realized chasing her was a lost cause. Not only was it completely dark, but she’s far too fast and far too ornery to actually let me catch her. So, I resolved myself to the fact that if she wanted to come back she would, and decided to head out for a drink, even more needed at that moment. I can’t lie though, I held back a few tears at the thought that she might be found and hurt before she made her way home.
Before we could even walk away, though, PiliPili crept back, and I was fairly certain she was about to run back through my gate, but instead she decided to have a little adventure by running through my neighbors gate, which stood wide open, since they were outside to watch the Muzungu Chases Her Cat show. Jessi and I took off after her and for the next 10 minutes pursued her around and around their yard. Now, my neighbors moved in only a couple of months ago and ever since they have been a mystery to me. I’ve been told its some sort of construction company but all I’ve ever known is that they use an insane amount of electricity, have several large trucks with engines they rev at all hours of the day and night (and quite often stand on top of for the sole reason of peering over the wall at me and my house), and move around something that sounds similar to sheet metal. Well, mystery solved. Kind of. While searching for the kitty, we encountered a huge truck (ding ding), had to weave our way through and over large coils of some type of metal, and witnessed several power tools. The men just continued working (did I mention it was around 9pm at this point) or stood there and laughed at us as we shouted and chased the cat into every corner of their compound. Then miraculously, PiliPili jumped the wall between my house and theirs. I shouted “she’s in, shut my gate!” as our cat hunt came to a happy end. Needless to say we had quite a story to share with my friends when we arrived at the bar 45 minutes after we said we would; the beer didn’t taste too shabby either.
The next morning we were up early to get to the CCHIPs house to prepare the big Thanksgiving dinner. Earlier in the week, I had unexplainably been tasked with cooking all the turkeys. How many turkeys, you ask? Five. Five fresh Rwandan turkeys. And I do mean fresh. Apologies to the vegetarians and the squeamish out there, but the birds were actually transported back from Kigali and killed, gutted and cleaned on Wednesday, and while I was not present at their death, I hear they died peacefully and quickly (or at least that’s what I’m going to tell you). So upon arriving at the CCHIPs house I surveyed the birds, checked my supplies, had a mini panic attack, collected myself and then got started. Jessi and I made sausage stuffing, before I tended to my birds. They’d been brining in the fridge all evening, and as I pulled them out of the bucket one by one I realized that these were not the American turkeys I was used to. They were skinny. Where was the meat? If I laid them on their backs they were just going to tip over! Commence mini panic attack #2. Right around this point I was thankfully told I only had to make three turkeys in the oven, as the other two were going to get grilled (yep, grilled turkey, the Rwandan version of deep fried?). So, I didn’t name my three birds but they still got a pat down and a butter massage before two of them were filled with stuffing and the third filled with oranges, shallots, garlic and spices. Jessi and I got them into the oven around noon, filled glasses with wine and said cheers to our efforts. A couple of hours later, I went to check on them and the horror(!), the oven temperature had been turned up to double what it was supposed to be. Commence mini panic #3. I looked at the turkeys and well, they didn’t look so good. They looked dry and they looked rubbery, though they still smelled intoxicatingly good. We turned down the temperature, basted them a little with oranges and broth and said a little prayer. A little bit later (after some more wine and my first taste of turkey balls – yes, they taste as bad as you think they should) it was about time for the turkeys to come out of the oven. But where was the little red button that would pop when it was finished? Where was the meat thermometer? I could feel the mini panic attack coming…and then out of nowhere, Gabby (the CCHIPs cook extraordinaire) produced a meat thermometer! And just like that panic attack #4 averted! We let the birds rest for a little bit, while everyone else dashed to make and finish their side dishes. The kitchen was soon overcrowded with people mashing potatoes, stirring sauces, mixing green bean casseroles, and baking sweet potatoes and brie. And with all of those familiar dishes, came the most extraordinary familiar smells. Rwanda, and the CCHIPs house, officially smelled like Thanksgiving.
Once the side dishes were done, the carving of the turkey commenced outside on the back porch. Until Mother Nature decided to play an evil, terrible trick on us, by rolling in one of her signature afternoon monsoon thunderstorms. My entire back was quickly drenched before we ran to move the carving inside, where of course, the electricity went out. So there we were, huddled over three turkeys, carving knives in our hands and headlamps on our heads to ensure we didn’t chop our fingers off. It was by far one of the most hilarious “this is Africa” moments I’ve had to date.
But soon everything was done: the turkey was carved, the fixings were ready, we’d made a gallon of gravy and the tables were set. And for a moment we just stared at the table, being thankful for all of the people who had worked so hard to organize the feast, being thankful that we could share the meal and the day with so many friends, and being thankful that even here, in this Equatorial paradise so far from our homes, we could have our very own Thanksgiving.
The food was of course amazing. Followed by equally amazing pies and ice cream. After dinner, the turkey comas (and for some us…hangovers? - I mean, no, I wasn't drinking whiskey and wine at the same time...) set in quickly and the girls and I retreated to my house for naps before heading out to make our own Rwandan Thanksgiving tradition: dancing the night away at Musanze’s most happening nightclub, Silverback. Let me tell you, there’s no better way to burn off a Thanksgiving feast than by dancing until 3:30am! As we collapsed into our beds that night I want to say that I took a moment to think over the events of the day and reflect on how lucky I am to have such a wonderful family here in Musanze. But honestly, I was asleep as soon as my head hit my pillow.
So there you have it folks, Thanksgiving in Rwanda. Many things different, many things the same. Full of memories, and laughs, and a couple of tears. I’ll be honest and say that I’m already looking forward to next year and all the hilarity it will bring. Well, most of it. Maybe I’ll skip the turkey balls.
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