Good businessmen diversify; good farmers are good businessmen; so, there we were: 7 pigs and 4 men in one Toyota Land Cruiser. After said pigs had been sold, we need to restock. And thus, with substantially more room in the truck, we began the adventure of resupplying ourselves with pigs.
After surveying the options, we purchased a piglet and a large sow. The piglet we picked up popped in the truck. The sow we herded outside the compound, into a type of three sided box—one side was the compound wall and the opposite wall was a bricked off cliff face. In between was a dirt road. The Land Cruiser’s open bay doors formed the third wall to the box—the fourth wall wasn’t a wall at all—it was the open dirt road. After shutting the compound gate, Kwizera and I stood beside the truck, waiting on the rest of our company to begin the unpleasant task of catching and lifting a 300lb mama pig into the back of the truck.
As happens in Africa—particularly the more rural areas—I stood out. Every few minutes I am greeted by children rabidly exclaiming, ‘Muzungo! Muzungo!.’ Translation? Whitey. For them it’s like seeing a unicorn—but it also provides the rare opportunity to practice their three phrases in English—Good morning, how are you, and give me money. That last is occasionally repeated by old women, but that’s rare. However, on this day in particular, three grown men found me, grabbed hold, and repeated the phrase—albeit in Kinyarwanda, but those words I understand.
As a rule, I don’t give money to beggars—I could go into the details, but the short version is it’s not a sustainable. I’m in this for the long haul; I live here; I ain’t a tourist with a budget to blow. With that said, I understand the kids predicament, and don’t squander the opportunity to say hello and give high fives. But three grown men, with all their limbs, in the middle of the day?
Honestly, I started laughing. They were laying it on thick, even calling me ‘old man’—a term of respect.
Thankfully, Elise is a sharp tack, and seized the opportunity. I don’t know the exact words he used, but it essentially translated to this: ‘if you want some money, load the pig in the truck. And, it worked: the three immediately let go of me and started running towards the pig, arms outstretched.
It was like watching, well, three grown men chase a pig up and down the street. It was beautiful pandemonium. Schoolchildren and mothers attempted to pass by, avoiding the gigantic sow—and screaming when this failed. The pig-herders were particularly pathetic at their job. They were truly trash at catching this pig—sure it wasn’t an easy job, but they lacked all sorts of finesse. They weren’t catching ears, they weren’t using sticks—it was really mediocre work.
I stood there, holding a bay door, side by side with Elise. And then, he leaned in to add a key detail about our freelance contractors. He whispered: they’re stoned. They’ve been smoking marijuana. Look at their eyes. Suddenly, the Charlie Chaplin/three stooges skit, Nyamasheke edition, tripled in hilarity.
As the seconds turned into minutes, random passerbys began joining the task. It became a beautiful demonstration of the strength of a community—and eventually, we all pounced on the pig, deadlifted her, shoved her through the back door, and slammed the truck shut.
Now, I'm not entirely sure our freelancers made the money they were hoping to. I did see the agronomist reaching for a wad of bills, but I also know we left out of there like we had just shot someone. Given my time in Rwanda, there's no telling what transpired in those final moments between a pig, and the rest of the company, getting into the back of a truck.