The personal-life liabilities of pursuing a Pulitzer Prize

About a month ago, I realized that my apprehension about talking to men here was impeding my work. The feeling, I decided, was an overcorrection. I’d dropped myself in Kigali with the same universal trust of strangers I apply everywhere I am. This leads me into dicey situations sometimes, and my mother is often telling me she wishes I applied the same healthy skepticism to people I don’t know as I do to, say, international affairs. But until the course of events suggests otherwise, I generally tend to assume people are good-natured and benign.

Now, I’m not a total idiot. I read social cues and body language. So it didn’t take me that long to realize most of the men who talk to me are looking for something more than a conversation. Granted, it took me a long time to learn to say, “I don’t give out my number”—I admit I succeeded in doing this, for the first time, only yesterday. It also took the cultural intervention of a good friend to explain to me that when that guy I met on the street and talked to for 3 minutes calls me 14 times a day, it’s because he has a certain idea of white women in his head: they’re here for a short time, and if they’re alone, they need…company. Infer what you will.

Still, these moments of learning aside, it’s pretty easy to tell when someone is just trying to keep the conversation going long enough that they can get your number, which is really just a necessary nuisance on the path to getting laid. It’s easy to tell because talk is stilted, and not because English is not their first language, and goes nowhere. The third (max) question is, “Are you married?” Every single white woman I know who has lived in “the developing world” (I hate this phrase) always says, “Yes.” But I don’t like lying to people, even if they are strangers. So I don’t.

Instead, for the first months here, I’d try to be kind, to smile and exit gracefully, but it never worked well. American men would certainly read “Not interested” in my behavior, but all those non-verbals just weren’t translating here. Which, eventually, gets exhausting.

So I retracted. I didn’t speak unless spoken to, kept my answers short, and tried to visually cue distance. Which is a successful strategy, if you’re trying to be left alone. But that’s not really an option if you’re not a journalist.

A couple of weeks ago, I realized I wasn’t learning as much as I could from people because I was so nervous about talking to them–to men. So I decided I had to suck it up and just figure out how to deal with the weirdness.

The blissful result, I told myself triumphantly a few days ago, is that this got rid of the weirdness altogether. Case in point: I spent the two-hour bus ride to Butare talking to a guy about his research, which interested me personally and which suggested an article possibility. He was easy to talk to, although his English isn’t great, and I didn’t feel that latent agenda, hovering like alcohol on someone’s breath.. I took his number so I could follow up and get more information, made an appointment to meet this morning. And I felt great—returned not only to my professional capacity, but also to the autopilot of the kind of human being I just generally am. I like talking to people. It’s just what I do. So I congratulated myself: I had somehow simply willed the weirdness away.

This is what I thought, anyway, until this morning when I called to confirm our appointment. We said we’d meet at 11 in town.

“But you know Rwandese time,” he told me, laughing. “So I’ll be there at 11:30. Is that okay?”

I hesitated, thinking that 11:30 likely really meant 12, but what are you going to do?

“Er, yes, yes, it’s fine,” I said.

“Good, good. I will see you.”

“Okay, see you,” I say, about to hang up.

“Thank you so much.”

“Thank you, see you soon,” reaching for the ‘end call’ button.

“Okay! I love you!”

Damn it.