In my experience, in Africa, everyday is a new adventure.
Most afternoons I take walks around the various villages within my sector, in an attempt to become more familiar with the area and allow people to become more familiar with me. Slowly, I am beginning to feel more comfortable with my site and with Kinyarwanda, which allows me to go a little bit further each day. Last week I walked two hours to a neighboring sector where market was being held, and where a British VSO (a slightly more sophisticated version of Peace Corps) volunteer is posted.
Passing a primary school, I put recess to a halt as all kids either froze or ran closer to the road to see me. This is a school I’ve visited before so there were less “umuzungu!” and more “Arrrrma!” which I assure you is no small feat.
As I edged toward the dividing line between my district and the next, I saw Mama Theofile, a very friendly woman I visited a few weeks ago. She was also going to the market, and so we continued together. Inevitably, we ran into several of her friends and stopped to greet them.
This particular market is a big one, set on a very steep hill. The “ground level” is a mostly animal—lots of rabbits, chickens, and very cute piglets! The second level, about half way up the hill, is what I call the general stuff section (baskets, pots and pans, and lots of plastic junk). The third and final level is where all the fruits and vegetables vendors sit, and all the used clothes. On my favorite screen print shirt of the day read: DO THE MACARENA!
Looking around, I felt a little bit like I was in the opening scene of a spy movie. You see George Clooney in sunglasses, walking through an African market unnoticed, until he realizes large scary men in khaki vests with earpieces and walky-talkies are following him. Next thing you know he’s back at the CIA operative office talking to his boss about an arms trade gone wrong.
Except here, instead of George Clooney it’s me, and I am very much noticed by everyone, and instead of being followed by large scary men, I have a long trail of small laughing children. I am not heading to any important office to discuss arms deals or potential coups; I’m just trying to find the only other native English speaker for miles so we can grab a Fanta and maybe complain about our latest outdoor latrine troubles.
While I walk through town, I realize I have no cell phone reception and no idea where exactly my friend lives. Luckily, I am in a remote African village so this presents absolutely no problem. I ask the nearest three-year-old where the umuzungu lives, and suddenly I have fifteen people (kids, adults, old people) offering to take me there. Te minutes and four different guides later, I reach her! After lunch, I take a bumpy motorcycle cab ride back home. This, all in a day’s “work”. 
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