Dear neighbors: Despite having a separate electricity bill it seems that if you do not pay your electricity bill my power and water go out too. Let’s be a little bit more punctual about paying, shall we? Although, I did get a one night mini vacation in Americaland where I enjoyed good food, fast internet and a hot shower. So I can’t be too mad at you.
Dear counterpart: You might need to think about a new automatic response to anything I say. It works for when I tell you I’ve finished a report or need to take a day off to go to Kigali. But when I say “I’ll be right back, I’m going to use the bathroom” maybe you should say something other than an enthusiastic “oh, that’s great!”
Dear library: Every day I discover another positively amazing thing about you. Most recently was the realization that I will never again lack for an outlet for my obsessive compulsiveness. Especially as long as I’m still teaching the kids and the librarian the art of putting the books back so that all of the spines face the same direction, let alone alphabetizing by author.
Dear owner of Volcana: I might never get used to your profuse amounts of affection but I can get used to the free cognac when Eli and I come in for Thirsty Thursday drinks. And I like that despite being Moroccan, you are seriously impressed, just like a Rwandan, when I speak Kinyarwanda to you.
Dear self: I believe it’s perfectly acceptable that you attempted to ignore the man next to you on the bus (who was giving you a play-by-play translation of the news and a tour of the Northern Province) by turning up the volume on your iPod and keeping your left eye closed so that he would think you were asleep.
Dear Mother Nature: There was a rumor going around that in December and January a short dry season appears. And yet, here we are, well into December, and it seems the rainy season is continuing, with newfound determination even. Care to explain?
Dear woman I passed on my way to the library: I guess you had every right to laugh at me; I did have 12 children grabbing at my hands, arms, bag and hair while jabbering away to me in Kinyarwanda. But I had every right to laugh at you too; considering you were carrying an umbrella…on your head.
Dear all the men who work in the carpentry area of town: It seems it’s strange for you all to see a woman in your section of town, even more strange to see a white girl, and unheard of to see a white girl pay 200 francs for a bag of wood chips. If you only knew I use them for my cats litter box.
Dear official stamp of the District of Musanze: It took me weeks to track you down and only got you after an impromptu meeting (and subtle pleading) with the Mayor. Then you arrived, in an engraved black box, with your own personal bodyguard (Mayor’s receptionist) and weren’t able to be used unless you were in her presence. You are like the Rwandan Holy Grail.
Dear self (again): Do not, I repeat, DO NOT accidentally leave your kerosene stove on all afternoon while you’re at work. Not only does it waste petrol, but it’s SO not safe. Bad self.
Dear Taylor Lautner: I know this is very, very wrong for me to say at my age, but mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Dear mosquitoes: No one else in my region has mosquito problems, so why do you love my house so much? Please, for your sake and mine, GO AWAY.
Dear sushi: Oh how I miss you. But our reunion might be sooner than we both envisioned. I’ve scoped out the possible sushi eateries in Zanzibar, Dar Es Salaam and Mombasa, which equals at least three opportunities for raw fish goodness over vacation. Commence the “I’m gonna devour you” happy dance.
Dear Trude and her random couch surfer friends: A thousand thanks for owning a pdf copy of every Lonely Planet written in the past 10 years. Sure is making my research for Amy and Andy’s European Adventure 2012 super easy.
Dear librarian: You’re teaching the kids English on a daily basis and showing the kids cartoons about hygiene. And then there was the week that you broke up the children by grade level so that you could give them age appropriate English vocab. You should have been teacher. Seriously. But I’m exceedingly happy that you’re our librarian instead.
Dear Muhabura Hotel: I sure do love your buffet lunch, especially when I get to watch 20 hungry Rwandans pile up food onto their plates. But next time we are having a luncheon with speeches can you maybe try not to blare horrible 80’s soft rock and country over the loudspeaker. It’s distracting, and I already have a hard enough time concentrating while listening to two hours of speeches in Kinyarwanda. Next time let’s skip the Dolly Parton, k?
Dear ladies who sell shirts near the Stella bus stop in Kigali: You’re kind of hilarious. And actually make me think that I speak Kinyarwanda. And after one short trip to you I pretty much doubled my Rwandan wardrobe for only $10. I’ll be back soon.
Dear feet: It’s rainy season, you deserve to be spotlessly clean. And yet you’re still not tan, you’re still only dirty. And you have no one to blame for this but me, and the fact that I have now adopted a Rwandan hygiene schedule. I’ll try to work on bathing more, promise.
Dear PiliPili cat: More than a few people have commented about how big you’re getting these days. Part of this might have to do with the fact that you’re not a kitten anymore. But I think most of it has to do with the fact that you’re becoming a fatty.
Dear yard: It seems there are perks to spending an entire morning clearing you of annoying, overgrowing weeds. It’s exercise, I got a tan, and I surprisingly found celery of all things growing amongst the weeds near my plantain trees. Yum yum yum.
Dear Christmas: As you’re drawing near I’ve been attempting to get myself into the holiday spirit. Today I tried listening to Christmas music all the way to Kigali. But it didn’t have the same effect, considering I was passing hill after hill of banana trees instead of hill after hill of snow. I’ll keep trying, but considering I’ll be spending Christmas Day on a safari in Tanzania, this isn’t looking too likely…
Dear Musanze District Library: You’re officially open! There were balloons and streamers, the Mayor ceremoniously checked out two books, and I miraculously avoided giving a speech in front of everyone. Took you long enough, but you were worth every struggle. Next challenge: English classes and science days. Nzagureba muri janvier. (I will see you in January).
Dear Papa wanjye, Mama wanjye na musaza wanjye: Umuryango wanjye, muzaza hano ku wa gatandatu! Murakaza neza mu Rwanda!! Ndishimiye cyane cyane PE!
Dear blog readers: I just want to take this opportunity to thank you for all of your support, love and well wishes this past year. Despite the constant ups and downs, my time in Rwanda has been an incredible experience and I’m looking forward to what the rest of my time here will bring. I’ll be traveling in Rwanda, Tanzania and Kenya with my family and friends until January 10th. Happy holidays, be safe, and I’ll be “seeing” you all next year!!
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Insta-Thanksgiving + PiliPili escapes the compound + “I have to cook how many turkeys?!?!”
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Dear…
Welcome to another wonderful installment of "Dear..." where I write notes to all of the people, places and things I meet along the way.
Dear Pilipili cat: I understand that you’re enthusiastic about my new workout regimen. But could you refrain from attacking my foot every time I do ballet? And maybe not decide to lie on my stomach when I’m doing P90X Ab Ripper? But feel free to join in during Tae Bo, you’ll be one buff kitty in no time!
Dear rainy season: I’m still glad you’re here, promise. But doesn’t your presence mean that I should always have water? I would like an essay (10,000 words or more) on why that one time I went without water at my spigot for almost 5 whole days. As well as a guarantee that it will never happen again. Mk?
Dear Stieg Larsson: You were taken from this world too soon. Especially because you’ve done it again. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest. Remarkable. Intriguing. A page turner. Unlike no other. Captivating. Perfect. Shall I go on?
Dear GRE (yes, you, the Graduate Record Examination): Darn you and your 5 year expiration date. I took you in the summer of 2007. Which means you expire in the summer of 2012. This presents a problem considering I was planning to apply for grad school AFTER I got back from Peace Corps. You’ve given me no choice but to apply next year for admission for Fall 2012. That being said, can you please put a good word in for me at the University of Washingon, Tulane, and Columbia? That might make it up to me. Just maybe.
Dear Dad: I’m so utterly sad that I missed being there for your birthday. Like cried a little, sad. I hope it was wonderful. And I promise to make it up to you when you visit in December. LOVE YOU!
Dear two secondary students who were standing in the rain outside the library: I’m so glad that you stared at me. Even more glad when you said hello and asked if you could come inside. And most glad when you went straight for the science textbooks and spent the next 45 minutes flipping through them. That being said, I’m so sorry that I was unable to say yes to your kind request to tutor you in Organic Chemistry. I haven’t taken chemistry since high school, and if I remember correctly I wasn’t that good at it to begin with. But come back soon!
Dear child who I kept hearing say “Amy” as I began walking to work: I heard you. I heard you repeatedly. But WHERE WERE YOU? I looked and looked but could not actually figure out where you were hiding. I’m pretty sure you found this amusing though considering the length and volume of your laughter as I gave up and continued on my way.
Dear patients at Bisate Health Center: It’s official, in a month you should have running water in all of your hospitalization rooms and consultation rooms. Thanks Water Charities! Yaaaaay!
Dear Concubine: You had me at “chorizo”.
Dear Hamimu, my faithful market egg man: I’m so sorry I haven’t visited in awhile. You can blame my parents for sending cat food from America. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. Because at the rate she’s scarfing down this Purina Cat Chow, I’ll need to go back to buying eggs within the month.
Dear faithful package senders among my readers: I’m out of chocolate. I repeat, my chocolate stash is empty! Please send reinforcements immediately. Particularly in the form of dark chocolate, heath bars and M&Ms. I’ll send you an honest to goodness letter in thanks, Rwandan postage stamps included. Merci!
Dear boy sitting on the curb, holding out a hand and saying “give me one thousand”: I asked you “kuberiki” which means “why” in Kinyarwanda. Answering “I’m fine, thank you, teacher” in English is not exactly what I was expecting. Nor did it make me want to give you any money. It did however make me laugh all the way to work.
Dear carrot lady: You’re back! You’re back! You’re back!!!!! But, um, where’s this baby I heard so much about for months?...
Dear gecko living in my bathroom: I like having you around. Especially whenever I catch you eating spiders and other bugs. Keep it up, little guy! And I promise I’ll keep Pili out of the bathroom so as to keep you alive; we all know her love of turning lizards into toys/meals.
Dear Glee: You outdid yourself with Season 2, episode 1. Empire state of mind, telephone, AND billionaire. Nice job. Suriously.
Dear imineke: You are the smallest, yummiest, sweetest bananas I’ve ever encountered on this planet. I don’t think twice about scarfing down 6-10 of you in a day. Adding you to my peanut butter sandwiches was the best idea ever. That was until I added you to flour, sugar, water, cinnamon and vanilla and then fried you in oil. Talk about fritter perfection.
Dear itty bitty baby next to me on the bus: You were utterly adorable. So adorable that I didn’t even mind that you spent the entire ride alternating between tugging my pinky finger and pulling my earphone out of my ear.
Dear Rwandans: I’m pretty sure I finally figured out the difference between “to think” (gutekereza) and “to wait” (gutegereza) in Kinyarwanda. So from now on I promise that when you ask why I’m standing at a certain place I will now correctly say “I’m waiting” for my friend instead of “I’m thinking” for my friend.
Dear feet: You’re clean. You’re actually clean. I’m not lying! I’m not just trying to make you feel better. Enjoy it! Dry season is just around the corner…
Dear anonymous staff at an anonymous health center: The mosquito nets were already neatly and perfectly contained in their plastic bags. So, what exactly was the reason for taking them out of the bags, and taking 10 minutes to stuff them into brown paper bags before taking them away??
Dear pool shark at Volcana: You have cost me a lot of pride and a lot of money. But thanks for letting me win that one time, I felt so special.
Dear box of wine thoughtfully gifted to me by the RPCV that I hosted one night: You + Eli + me + season 6 of Weeds + homemade chapatti and curry = a wonderful evening was had by all.
Dear self: It’s perfectly acceptable to feel accomplished when you read two books in two days and cook yourself six wonderful, yummy culinary successes. Keep up the good work!
Dear neighborhood kiddies: I LOVE that you now come to my gate everyday to ask if you can visit the library to study and read. It seriously brings the happiest tears to my eyes. But I won’t be mad if you want to visit and pick avocadoes or help me weed my yard either. And just wait, I fully plan on tricking you into neighborhood dance classes very, very soon.
Dear Pilipili cat: I understand that you’re enthusiastic about my new workout regimen. But could you refrain from attacking my foot every time I do ballet? And maybe not decide to lie on my stomach when I’m doing P90X Ab Ripper? But feel free to join in during Tae Bo, you’ll be one buff kitty in no time!
Dear rainy season: I’m still glad you’re here, promise. But doesn’t your presence mean that I should always have water? I would like an essay (10,000 words or more) on why that one time I went without water at my spigot for almost 5 whole days. As well as a guarantee that it will never happen again. Mk?
Dear Stieg Larsson: You were taken from this world too soon. Especially because you’ve done it again. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest. Remarkable. Intriguing. A page turner. Unlike no other. Captivating. Perfect. Shall I go on?
Dear GRE (yes, you, the Graduate Record Examination): Darn you and your 5 year expiration date. I took you in the summer of 2007. Which means you expire in the summer of 2012. This presents a problem considering I was planning to apply for grad school AFTER I got back from Peace Corps. You’ve given me no choice but to apply next year for admission for Fall 2012. That being said, can you please put a good word in for me at the University of Washingon, Tulane, and Columbia? That might make it up to me. Just maybe.
Dear Dad: I’m so utterly sad that I missed being there for your birthday. Like cried a little, sad. I hope it was wonderful. And I promise to make it up to you when you visit in December. LOVE YOU!
Dear two secondary students who were standing in the rain outside the library: I’m so glad that you stared at me. Even more glad when you said hello and asked if you could come inside. And most glad when you went straight for the science textbooks and spent the next 45 minutes flipping through them. That being said, I’m so sorry that I was unable to say yes to your kind request to tutor you in Organic Chemistry. I haven’t taken chemistry since high school, and if I remember correctly I wasn’t that good at it to begin with. But come back soon!
Dear child who I kept hearing say “Amy” as I began walking to work: I heard you. I heard you repeatedly. But WHERE WERE YOU? I looked and looked but could not actually figure out where you were hiding. I’m pretty sure you found this amusing though considering the length and volume of your laughter as I gave up and continued on my way.
Dear patients at Bisate Health Center: It’s official, in a month you should have running water in all of your hospitalization rooms and consultation rooms. Thanks Water Charities! Yaaaaay!
Dear Concubine: You had me at “chorizo”.
Dear Hamimu, my faithful market egg man: I’m so sorry I haven’t visited in awhile. You can blame my parents for sending cat food from America. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. Because at the rate she’s scarfing down this Purina Cat Chow, I’ll need to go back to buying eggs within the month.
Dear faithful package senders among my readers: I’m out of chocolate. I repeat, my chocolate stash is empty! Please send reinforcements immediately. Particularly in the form of dark chocolate, heath bars and M&Ms. I’ll send you an honest to goodness letter in thanks, Rwandan postage stamps included. Merci!
Dear boy sitting on the curb, holding out a hand and saying “give me one thousand”: I asked you “kuberiki” which means “why” in Kinyarwanda. Answering “I’m fine, thank you, teacher” in English is not exactly what I was expecting. Nor did it make me want to give you any money. It did however make me laugh all the way to work.
Dear carrot lady: You’re back! You’re back! You’re back!!!!! But, um, where’s this baby I heard so much about for months?...
Dear gecko living in my bathroom: I like having you around. Especially whenever I catch you eating spiders and other bugs. Keep it up, little guy! And I promise I’ll keep Pili out of the bathroom so as to keep you alive; we all know her love of turning lizards into toys/meals.
Dear Glee: You outdid yourself with Season 2, episode 1. Empire state of mind, telephone, AND billionaire. Nice job. Suriously.
Dear imineke: You are the smallest, yummiest, sweetest bananas I’ve ever encountered on this planet. I don’t think twice about scarfing down 6-10 of you in a day. Adding you to my peanut butter sandwiches was the best idea ever. That was until I added you to flour, sugar, water, cinnamon and vanilla and then fried you in oil. Talk about fritter perfection.
Dear itty bitty baby next to me on the bus: You were utterly adorable. So adorable that I didn’t even mind that you spent the entire ride alternating between tugging my pinky finger and pulling my earphone out of my ear.
Dear Rwandans: I’m pretty sure I finally figured out the difference between “to think” (gutekereza) and “to wait” (gutegereza) in Kinyarwanda. So from now on I promise that when you ask why I’m standing at a certain place I will now correctly say “I’m waiting” for my friend instead of “I’m thinking” for my friend.
Dear feet: You’re clean. You’re actually clean. I’m not lying! I’m not just trying to make you feel better. Enjoy it! Dry season is just around the corner…
Dear anonymous staff at an anonymous health center: The mosquito nets were already neatly and perfectly contained in their plastic bags. So, what exactly was the reason for taking them out of the bags, and taking 10 minutes to stuff them into brown paper bags before taking them away??
Dear pool shark at Volcana: You have cost me a lot of pride and a lot of money. But thanks for letting me win that one time, I felt so special.
Dear box of wine thoughtfully gifted to me by the RPCV that I hosted one night: You + Eli + me + season 6 of Weeds + homemade chapatti and curry = a wonderful evening was had by all.
Dear self: It’s perfectly acceptable to feel accomplished when you read two books in two days and cook yourself six wonderful, yummy culinary successes. Keep up the good work!
Dear neighborhood kiddies: I LOVE that you now come to my gate everyday to ask if you can visit the library to study and read. It seriously brings the happiest tears to my eyes. But I won’t be mad if you want to visit and pick avocadoes or help me weed my yard either. And just wait, I fully plan on tricking you into neighborhood dance classes very, very soon.
Friday, November 12, 2010
My kids, meet my library
As I approached my gate at dusk on Sunday I was greeted by the usual sights and sounds: yells of “Amy” and a herd of children skipping and running towards me. The typical questions were asked: whether I had a good weekend, where I was coming from, and if I’d seen Jess (to which one of my favorite gals, Grace, exclaimed “Of course she didn’t see Jess. Jess lives in Kigali and Amy was in Rwamagana for the weekend”. That a girl, Grace). When I asked what they did over the weekend, they all quickly responded that they played and went to church. My follow-up question of if they had studied or read at all was met with blank stares and giggles. This of course, was the response I was expecting, as it provided the perfect opportunity to tell them all about the new library and beg them to visit it. Let’s just say begging wasn’t necessary. At all. As soon as they heard the word “isomero” (library in Kinyarwanda) they started jumping up and down and babbling quickly about kwiga (to study), gusoma (to read) and icyongereza (English). We all agreed they would come to visit on Wednesday, and I locked my gate and retreated into my house to the sounds of their singing and laughing.
Much to my surprise, the next day as I walked to the library after lunch I saw a group of girls who looked surprisingly like my neighborhood kids, walking out of the driveway at the district office. Within two seconds I not only realized they were in fact my girls but they came bounding at me like a pack of antelope. I welcomed them into the library where they scrambled for seats around the large table in the “reading room”. After they had all found a seat, they suddenly became silent and all turned to look at me. It was like they were afraid to touch anything. It was as if they were waiting for me to give them instructions. So I did. “Soma!!” I exclaimed. “Read!!” And pointed them to the two bookshelves brimming with children’s books. They each pulled out a book (or two, or three) and fell back into their chairs, burying their noses into the spines. A couple of the bravest readers came and sat near me, asking if they could read aloud to me. We slowly moved our way through the stories, with me correcting their pronunciation or translating words for them. As the time went on, I listened to the stories coming out of the mouths of the 10 little girls seated all around the room. R.L. Stine’s monsters were scaring a summer camp, Barbie was meeting a deer in the woods, Big Bird was taking photos, Noah was building his ark, and a Kenyan boy named Otoyo was falling out of a tree. I was so proud of their effort, even more proud of how well they read. At one point I began talking to them in Kinyarwanda and Tonya (who has become my personal ten year old translator) scolded me, saying in English “No, at the library we speak English only, Amy!” As a smile spread across my face, a giggle spread across the room.
After every girl had the opportunity to read out loud to me, I announced it was time to go, and glanced around at how disheveled the room was. Yet, within seconds and without me even saying a word the girls went to work cleaning up. They rearranged the chairs and stacked the books into neat piles on the table, before somewhat quietly filing out the door. As I waved goodbye, they animatedly asked me if they could come back again tomorrow, and I’ll never forget how excited they got when I told them they could come back every day.
It was an incredible moment. I finally got to show the kids in my neighborhood where I actually go whenever I tell them I’m going to work. And I got to introduce the first real kids to the library. It was all the more special that these first kids were from my street, my neighborhood, my community. I can’t wait for them to come back. I can’t wait to do health and science lessons with them, and read with them. They are an amazing group of kids, and I’m so thankful that the library is here now, and that I’m able to be a part of it.
Much to my surprise, the next day as I walked to the library after lunch I saw a group of girls who looked surprisingly like my neighborhood kids, walking out of the driveway at the district office. Within two seconds I not only realized they were in fact my girls but they came bounding at me like a pack of antelope. I welcomed them into the library where they scrambled for seats around the large table in the “reading room”. After they had all found a seat, they suddenly became silent and all turned to look at me. It was like they were afraid to touch anything. It was as if they were waiting for me to give them instructions. So I did. “Soma!!” I exclaimed. “Read!!” And pointed them to the two bookshelves brimming with children’s books. They each pulled out a book (or two, or three) and fell back into their chairs, burying their noses into the spines. A couple of the bravest readers came and sat near me, asking if they could read aloud to me. We slowly moved our way through the stories, with me correcting their pronunciation or translating words for them. As the time went on, I listened to the stories coming out of the mouths of the 10 little girls seated all around the room. R.L. Stine’s monsters were scaring a summer camp, Barbie was meeting a deer in the woods, Big Bird was taking photos, Noah was building his ark, and a Kenyan boy named Otoyo was falling out of a tree. I was so proud of their effort, even more proud of how well they read. At one point I began talking to them in Kinyarwanda and Tonya (who has become my personal ten year old translator) scolded me, saying in English “No, at the library we speak English only, Amy!” As a smile spread across my face, a giggle spread across the room.
After every girl had the opportunity to read out loud to me, I announced it was time to go, and glanced around at how disheveled the room was. Yet, within seconds and without me even saying a word the girls went to work cleaning up. They rearranged the chairs and stacked the books into neat piles on the table, before somewhat quietly filing out the door. As I waved goodbye, they animatedly asked me if they could come back again tomorrow, and I’ll never forget how excited they got when I told them they could come back every day.
It was an incredible moment. I finally got to show the kids in my neighborhood where I actually go whenever I tell them I’m going to work. And I got to introduce the first real kids to the library. It was all the more special that these first kids were from my street, my neighborhood, my community. I can’t wait for them to come back. I can’t wait to do health and science lessons with them, and read with them. They are an amazing group of kids, and I’m so thankful that the library is here now, and that I’m able to be a part of it.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Busy Amy + a lot of rain = the weeds have officially taken over my backyard
I didn’t realize how truly busy I’ve been until I had my Rwandan friend, Janviere, and new friend, Betsy, visit my house today. And what made me realize it? The fact that Janviere took one look at the atrocious state of my yard and wide-eyed and open mouthed yelled “Amy!” at me. I looked around, and was immediately embarrassed by the large weeds and overgrown grass that have sprouted up everywhere. Hadn’t I just spent three straight mornings weeding the entire thing? Oh wait, that was a couple of weeks ago. And considering it rains for at least a couple of hours every day these days it’s no surprise that my backyard has turned into a jungle.
So where has the time gone? Mostly I’ve been sucked into the awesome black hole that is the district library. We’ve catalogued all of the books, have sorted almost all of the books and are currently planning our official opening ceremony! More and more people are glancing in the windows and wandering in to see what’s going on with all of these books. I showed up today to see a 12 year old with his nose buried in The Lion King, and by the end of the day two secondary school students had pulled out the Organic Chemistry textbook and asked if I could tutor them.
I’ve also been jumping back into my work with the Access Project. I spent Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of this week visiting 6 health centers to conduct pharmacy management activities with Zimy, the Access pharmacy specialist. Ever since working for SCMS back in the states I’ve been interested in pharmacies in the developing world, and this week was definitely an immense learning experience for me. We toured stock pharmacies, giving recommendations on their organization and ensuring they didn’t have any expired drugs present. We sat with the distribution pharmacists as they handed out drugs and checked their registers against what they were actually distributing. We retrained some of the pharmacy managers on the quantification formulas they should be using when they reorder drugs from the district pharmacy. And I guess it goes without saying how happy I was to stare at mathematical formulas once again. I’m even going to begin IT training next Monday with the pharmacy manager at the health center in my sector.
Oh, and how could I forget, my first water project was approved!! I should receive the money next week, so I can pass it on to the Director of Bisate Health Center and they can begin putting running water into their hospitalization and consultation rooms. The project has been fully pre-funded through Water Charities Appropriate Projects, but if you’d like to donate money to support it, have a look here!
http://appropriateprojects.com/node/397
On top of all this, tomorrow I’m going to Kigali to have the first planning meeting to bring more needed books into Rwanda. The Rwanda Books for Peace Project has already brought more than 20,000 books into schools, community centers and health clinics around Rwanda, and my group of health volunteers wants to continue this amazing project. I’ll have a lot more information about this in the future, particularly since we’ll be needing to raise a bit of money to cover the shipping costs for the books.
So I guess that explains the current state of my backyard, but considering how busy and happy I am right now I don’t mind too much. Though, that didn’t stop me from grinning from ear to ear and shouting “Yego!” (yes) when Janviere asked if I’d want her to come over on Saturday morning to help me weed.
So where has the time gone? Mostly I’ve been sucked into the awesome black hole that is the district library. We’ve catalogued all of the books, have sorted almost all of the books and are currently planning our official opening ceremony! More and more people are glancing in the windows and wandering in to see what’s going on with all of these books. I showed up today to see a 12 year old with his nose buried in The Lion King, and by the end of the day two secondary school students had pulled out the Organic Chemistry textbook and asked if I could tutor them.
I’ve also been jumping back into my work with the Access Project. I spent Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of this week visiting 6 health centers to conduct pharmacy management activities with Zimy, the Access pharmacy specialist. Ever since working for SCMS back in the states I’ve been interested in pharmacies in the developing world, and this week was definitely an immense learning experience for me. We toured stock pharmacies, giving recommendations on their organization and ensuring they didn’t have any expired drugs present. We sat with the distribution pharmacists as they handed out drugs and checked their registers against what they were actually distributing. We retrained some of the pharmacy managers on the quantification formulas they should be using when they reorder drugs from the district pharmacy. And I guess it goes without saying how happy I was to stare at mathematical formulas once again. I’m even going to begin IT training next Monday with the pharmacy manager at the health center in my sector.
Oh, and how could I forget, my first water project was approved!! I should receive the money next week, so I can pass it on to the Director of Bisate Health Center and they can begin putting running water into their hospitalization and consultation rooms. The project has been fully pre-funded through Water Charities Appropriate Projects, but if you’d like to donate money to support it, have a look here!
http://appropriateprojects.com/node/397
On top of all this, tomorrow I’m going to Kigali to have the first planning meeting to bring more needed books into Rwanda. The Rwanda Books for Peace Project has already brought more than 20,000 books into schools, community centers and health clinics around Rwanda, and my group of health volunteers wants to continue this amazing project. I’ll have a lot more information about this in the future, particularly since we’ll be needing to raise a bit of money to cover the shipping costs for the books.
So I guess that explains the current state of my backyard, but considering how busy and happy I am right now I don’t mind too much. Though, that didn’t stop me from grinning from ear to ear and shouting “Yego!” (yes) when Janviere asked if I’d want her to come over on Saturday morning to help me weed.
Riding the waves of the Cycle of Adjustment
They warned us about it in training. The dreaded “Cycle of Adjustment”. It’s the emotional ups and downs that pretty much everyone goes through when they move to a culture much different than their own. Did I ever think that I could somehow avoid it? Hell no. But did I think my life would actually mirror the Cycle of Adjustment chart that they included in our health manual? Not particularly. And yet, here I am, 8 months into my 27 months in Rwanda, and like clockwork I can map my experiences and feelings to this tattered piece of paper in the back of a notebook.
The beginning is the honeymoon phase, the initial euphoria that accompanies arriving in a new country: meeting new people, having new experiences, learning a new language, a new culture and a new way of living. I lived it, I loved it. Everything about Rwanda was beautiful and intriguing; everyday brought a new adventure, a new story.
This “high” followed me from training in Nyanza to my site in Musanze. I setup my house, determined to make it a home. I explored my new town, wandering into store after store and greeting everyone I passed on the street. I made new friends, both Muzungu and Rwandan, and shared incredible experiences, from hiking up a mountain, to attending a baptism, to doing yard work together. I worked hard at my job, going to health center after health center, attempting to understand how they worked and where I would fit in. I experimented with cooking and patted myself on the back every time I successfully created another culinary masterpiece on my simple kerosene stove. I laughed my way through everything, including the communication and cultural barriers, and mistakes I made while completing such simple tasks as washing my clothes, cleaning my house and paying my electricity bill. I let my neighborhood kids visit often, even if it only resulted in them jabbering away to me in Kinyarwanda while they climbed my avocado tree and posed for photos. I was wide-eyed and overwhelmed, but busy and content.
Then it hit me. Right between months 5 and 6. Culture shock. And it hit me like a ton of bricks. Suddenly it felt as if my primary activities were eating, sleeping, movie watching and reading. I followed my boss around on health center visits like a sad puppy, unable to understand what was being said or what he was doing, let alone what I should be doing. I felt like I couldn’t speak a word of Kinyarwanda, and understood even less. I avoided the food market like the plague, and attempted to make my visits as short and embarrassment-free as possible, which meant greeting people but not lingering (since lingering meant actually having to fumble through a conversation in Kinyarwanda) and probably paying more for food than I ever should have. I told my neighborhood kids I was busy despite not having anything to do, and often hid in my house when I heard someone knock on my gate. This mood coincided with my largest intake of macaroni and cheese and chocolate to date. Vegetables? I’m not sure I knew what those were. I didn’t want to leave my house, but could barely stand the guilt I was feeling by staying in my house. Reading the symptoms of culture shock was like checking off a grocery list of my emotions: homesickness, boredom, withdrawal, oversleeping, overeating, irritability (did I mention I had the desire to hit a child? More than once.), loss of ability to work effectively. Check, check, check! Of course, all of this was compounded by the fact that I was taking the anti-malarial medication Mefloquine, which I’m fairly certain was slowly making me go insane (can you say hallucinations?!).
And then, almost overnight (or more like about two weeks after I switched malaria meds) things changed again. This time for the better. Much better. Work began to pick up, as I conducted data management activities and started writing grants to bring running water to health centers lacking it. The books arrived for the library and I spent days cataloguing, sorting and planning science experiments for the library’s future “Science Days”. I once again made a conscious effort to greet strangers and visit friends I’d been neglecting. I went to the market far more often, forcing myself to stop and talk to the vendors, to the point where people smile and wave when they see me, know my name, and give me extremely fair prices on their food (and even sometimes give me free things!). I let the kids enter my gate once again and we’ve spent numerous visits singing and dancing, drawing pictures and making Play-Doh animals, jumping rope and teaching each other games. I began cooking again, giving up mac&cheese out of a box for spicy curries and homemade chapatti. One of the biggest differences came when I realized I was beginning to really understand and speak Kinyarwanda. I was having conversations with my neighborhood kids and even asked a pharmacist to switch from speaking French to Kinyarwanda because I could understand more of it.
So yes, I guess I’m on the “upswing” as they say. I’m finally feeling at home here, finally beginning to feel accepted by my neighbors, colleagues and community. I’m positive, I’m healthy, I’m busy, and I’m motivated. I have so many things to look forward to, especially Thanksgiving with my Musanze family and a visit from my American family over the Christmas holiday. 8 months down, 19 to go. The cycle of adjustment says months 12-14 are the absolute worst, so stayed tuned. Until then, I’ll be here at the high point, enjoying life “mu Rwanda”.
The beginning is the honeymoon phase, the initial euphoria that accompanies arriving in a new country: meeting new people, having new experiences, learning a new language, a new culture and a new way of living. I lived it, I loved it. Everything about Rwanda was beautiful and intriguing; everyday brought a new adventure, a new story.
This “high” followed me from training in Nyanza to my site in Musanze. I setup my house, determined to make it a home. I explored my new town, wandering into store after store and greeting everyone I passed on the street. I made new friends, both Muzungu and Rwandan, and shared incredible experiences, from hiking up a mountain, to attending a baptism, to doing yard work together. I worked hard at my job, going to health center after health center, attempting to understand how they worked and where I would fit in. I experimented with cooking and patted myself on the back every time I successfully created another culinary masterpiece on my simple kerosene stove. I laughed my way through everything, including the communication and cultural barriers, and mistakes I made while completing such simple tasks as washing my clothes, cleaning my house and paying my electricity bill. I let my neighborhood kids visit often, even if it only resulted in them jabbering away to me in Kinyarwanda while they climbed my avocado tree and posed for photos. I was wide-eyed and overwhelmed, but busy and content.
Then it hit me. Right between months 5 and 6. Culture shock. And it hit me like a ton of bricks. Suddenly it felt as if my primary activities were eating, sleeping, movie watching and reading. I followed my boss around on health center visits like a sad puppy, unable to understand what was being said or what he was doing, let alone what I should be doing. I felt like I couldn’t speak a word of Kinyarwanda, and understood even less. I avoided the food market like the plague, and attempted to make my visits as short and embarrassment-free as possible, which meant greeting people but not lingering (since lingering meant actually having to fumble through a conversation in Kinyarwanda) and probably paying more for food than I ever should have. I told my neighborhood kids I was busy despite not having anything to do, and often hid in my house when I heard someone knock on my gate. This mood coincided with my largest intake of macaroni and cheese and chocolate to date. Vegetables? I’m not sure I knew what those were. I didn’t want to leave my house, but could barely stand the guilt I was feeling by staying in my house. Reading the symptoms of culture shock was like checking off a grocery list of my emotions: homesickness, boredom, withdrawal, oversleeping, overeating, irritability (did I mention I had the desire to hit a child? More than once.), loss of ability to work effectively. Check, check, check! Of course, all of this was compounded by the fact that I was taking the anti-malarial medication Mefloquine, which I’m fairly certain was slowly making me go insane (can you say hallucinations?!).
And then, almost overnight (or more like about two weeks after I switched malaria meds) things changed again. This time for the better. Much better. Work began to pick up, as I conducted data management activities and started writing grants to bring running water to health centers lacking it. The books arrived for the library and I spent days cataloguing, sorting and planning science experiments for the library’s future “Science Days”. I once again made a conscious effort to greet strangers and visit friends I’d been neglecting. I went to the market far more often, forcing myself to stop and talk to the vendors, to the point where people smile and wave when they see me, know my name, and give me extremely fair prices on their food (and even sometimes give me free things!). I let the kids enter my gate once again and we’ve spent numerous visits singing and dancing, drawing pictures and making Play-Doh animals, jumping rope and teaching each other games. I began cooking again, giving up mac&cheese out of a box for spicy curries and homemade chapatti. One of the biggest differences came when I realized I was beginning to really understand and speak Kinyarwanda. I was having conversations with my neighborhood kids and even asked a pharmacist to switch from speaking French to Kinyarwanda because I could understand more of it.
So yes, I guess I’m on the “upswing” as they say. I’m finally feeling at home here, finally beginning to feel accepted by my neighbors, colleagues and community. I’m positive, I’m healthy, I’m busy, and I’m motivated. I have so many things to look forward to, especially Thanksgiving with my Musanze family and a visit from my American family over the Christmas holiday. 8 months down, 19 to go. The cycle of adjustment says months 12-14 are the absolute worst, so stayed tuned. Until then, I’ll be here at the high point, enjoying life “mu Rwanda”.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Ibyishimo (happiness) – Not to be confused with ibishyimbo (beans)
So I must tell you all that I currently find myself in an amazing mood. Actually, I’m probably at one of my highest and happiest points since arriving in Rwanda. I’m extremely busy, I’m healthy, I have professional and personal future prospects, many things to look forward to, am learning so much every moment of every day and am just very happy. And yet, it has been ages since I told you what is making me happy. So without further ado:
Things that make me happy these days:
- The day my tomato lady gave me two extra tomatoes. Free.
- Realizing I’m finally starting to understand the jibberish that comes out of my neighborhood kiddos mouths.
- When we finally reached the exciting conclusion of “Last Photo Standing” on my bedroom wall. It (ironically) came down to a photo of me and Carol taken at the National Geographic Museum with a tiger in the background, and a photo of Lucy, wearing a gorilla mask, Bud Light in one hand and a thumbs up with the other. And the winner is…Jigga the Gorilla. Obviously. (Don’t worry, Miss Chow, keep reading below…)
- Spending hours alphabetizing books at the library and squealing with delight as I discovered such childhood gems as “When You Give a Mouse a Cookie”, “The Hot and Cold Summer”, “Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel” and all things Beverly Cleary and R.L. Stine. And simultaneously pondering how books such as “Big Dummies of the Bible and How You Can Avoid Being a Dummy Too”, “Hillbilly Cookin: Mountaineer Style” and “Men Who Hate Women &The Women Who Love Them” ever got published.
- Playing ridiculous junior high party games that I was terrible at back in junior high. And am still apparently terrible at now.
- Having a schedule that allows me to sleep for over 12 hours a night.
- Salsa dancing in Kigali with actual salsa dancers.
- Cat food arriving from America so that I don’t have to bother Hamimu, my egg guy, twice a week, and spend just as much on my cat’s food as I do on my own.
- Mutzig Fest. Beer, food, music, friends, dancing, insanity.
- Rain. Torrential, never ending, glorious rain.
- The fact that the rain is slowly scaring away all the haze so I can once again see the unfathomably beautiful volcanoes as soon as I step foot outside my front gate.
- The way a certain Rwandan says “I’m just calling to greet you” when they ring me on their way home from work.
- Reading the word “phlegm” in a New Yorker article and giggling to myself as I think back to that bet I won senior year of high school. (Muah, C.J.!)
- Brainstorming project ideas, writing proposals, feeling like the ball is definitely beginning to roll around here.
- Making and devouring SUSHI from scratch. In Rwanda. Cucumber/avocado rolls. Heaven. (Thanks again, Genna!!) Oh and ice cream sundae birthday parties.
- Every word that Stieg Larsson wrote in “The Girl Who Played with Fire”. Genius. Pure genius.
- Getting a super special secret package delivery of Jeremiah Weed Sweet Tea vodka. (Oh Concubine, you know me too well!)
- Having my iPod freeze, sending me into a panic attack thinking about life without music, only to wake up to a working iPod and realizing all is well in the world.
- Doing P90x exercises with my 3 best friends; especially halfway through, when, as Jenny would say “Amy just starts doing ballet, I start doing yoga, Sonya starts acting like a fool and Jessi’s still actually doing P90x”.
- Chilean miners rescue! VIVA CHILE!
- Realizing my parents and Big Bro are visiting Rwanda (and Tanzania...and Zanzibar!) in only two months. TWO MONTHS! AAHH!
Things that make me happy these days:
- The day my tomato lady gave me two extra tomatoes. Free.
- Realizing I’m finally starting to understand the jibberish that comes out of my neighborhood kiddos mouths.
- When we finally reached the exciting conclusion of “Last Photo Standing” on my bedroom wall. It (ironically) came down to a photo of me and Carol taken at the National Geographic Museum with a tiger in the background, and a photo of Lucy, wearing a gorilla mask, Bud Light in one hand and a thumbs up with the other. And the winner is…Jigga the Gorilla. Obviously. (Don’t worry, Miss Chow, keep reading below…)
- Spending hours alphabetizing books at the library and squealing with delight as I discovered such childhood gems as “When You Give a Mouse a Cookie”, “The Hot and Cold Summer”, “Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel” and all things Beverly Cleary and R.L. Stine. And simultaneously pondering how books such as “Big Dummies of the Bible and How You Can Avoid Being a Dummy Too”, “Hillbilly Cookin: Mountaineer Style” and “Men Who Hate Women &The Women Who Love Them” ever got published.
- Playing ridiculous junior high party games that I was terrible at back in junior high. And am still apparently terrible at now.
- Having a schedule that allows me to sleep for over 12 hours a night.
- Salsa dancing in Kigali with actual salsa dancers.
- Cat food arriving from America so that I don’t have to bother Hamimu, my egg guy, twice a week, and spend just as much on my cat’s food as I do on my own.
- Mutzig Fest. Beer, food, music, friends, dancing, insanity.
- Rain. Torrential, never ending, glorious rain.
- The fact that the rain is slowly scaring away all the haze so I can once again see the unfathomably beautiful volcanoes as soon as I step foot outside my front gate.
- The way a certain Rwandan says “I’m just calling to greet you” when they ring me on their way home from work.
- Reading the word “phlegm” in a New Yorker article and giggling to myself as I think back to that bet I won senior year of high school. (Muah, C.J.!)
- Brainstorming project ideas, writing proposals, feeling like the ball is definitely beginning to roll around here.
- Making and devouring SUSHI from scratch. In Rwanda. Cucumber/avocado rolls. Heaven. (Thanks again, Genna!!) Oh and ice cream sundae birthday parties.
- Every word that Stieg Larsson wrote in “The Girl Who Played with Fire”. Genius. Pure genius.
- Getting a super special secret package delivery of Jeremiah Weed Sweet Tea vodka. (Oh Concubine, you know me too well!)
- Having my iPod freeze, sending me into a panic attack thinking about life without music, only to wake up to a working iPod and realizing all is well in the world.
- Doing P90x exercises with my 3 best friends; especially halfway through, when, as Jenny would say “Amy just starts doing ballet, I start doing yoga, Sonya starts acting like a fool and Jessi’s still actually doing P90x”.
- Chilean miners rescue! VIVA CHILE!
- Realizing my parents and Big Bro are visiting Rwanda (and Tanzania...and Zanzibar!) in only two months. TWO MONTHS! AAHH!
Monday, October 4, 2010
Village life, Hallelujah! and The Waiting Game
Ah, IST. Peace Corps In-Service Training. A week in Kibuye on Lake Kivu, at a gorgeous hotel-ish oasis, with yummy food, breathtaking views, wireless internet, swimming and oh yeah, those important trainings and meetings too. But first, I had to get there…
A little background: Kibuye is in the Western Province, in the middle of Lake Kivu, which creates the western boundary between Rwanda and Congo. For me in Musanze, there are two ways to get to Kibuye. 1) Take a two hour bus ride to Kigali and then another 3 and a half hour bus ride to Kibuye. Or 2) take a one hour bus ride to Gisenyi, then a 5 hour bus ride on a dirt road that lines the lake. Of course, me being the travel princess that I am, I had already decided to take the express Kigali route. That is, until my friend Tiffany suggested I stop at her site on the way down to Kibuye. Tiffany lives halfway between Gisenyi and Kibuye on that infamous dirt road, in Rutsiro district, in the sector of Kayove. Our other friend Portia, who lives in Gisenyi, agreed to meet up with me so we could make the trek to Tiffany’s together, and so begins our saga.
Bright and early on a Saturday morning, I hopped on a 7:45am express Virunga bus to Gisenyi (I got the front seat, so I was already feeling the good travel karma). By 9am I was in Gisenyi, where I attempted (yet again) to get my favorite samboussa’s from Habib’s. But (yet again) they had none and I settled on mango juice and biscuits. Portia arrived and we wandered over to the bus park to see when the next bus to Kayove might leave. When we asked, the man said saa yine (10am), but then scratched on his arm 11am and nodded when Portia asked “onze heure” in French. Fairly certain that the bus would leave around 11 we stopped at the bank and then hunted around town for ijana icyayi (100 franc tea). Failing miserably we settled for 200 franc black tea, a little bitter over having to spend extra money for a subpar product, and then returned to the bus stop at 10:45. We were quickly ushered to a waiting matatu (small “18 passenger” vans that I’ve seen cram in at least 22 passengers plus all of their bags, food, mattresses, small animals and babies) where the driver exclaimed “we are leaving”! Portia and I jumped in to the front seat, and quickly noticed that there were only two other people on the bus. The number one rule about buses in Rwanda: unless they are express buses, they don’t leave until they are full. So we sat, optimistic that maybe we would still leave at 11, and simply pick up additional passengers along the way.
We didn’t. At 11 we asked if we were leaving. The driver responded “at 11, yes!”. “But it is 11” we pointed out. “In 20 minutes, we leave. We leave at 11:30” the driver said, smiling. Portia and I exchanged knowing glances; we weren’t going to be leaving anytime soon. Then at 11:30, the driver miraculously started the car (despite only having 5 people on the bus)! Suddenly, slight chaos broke out, as what looked to be the head driver at the bus park came running over screaming at our driver in Kinyarwanda. While I’m not exactly sure what was said, I’m pretty sure the conversation went something like this:
“I’m leaving”
“You can’t leave, you have to have at least 10 passengers, and you only have five”
“But look, I have muzungus, I need to leave”
“You’re not leaving”
Of course, the fight took more than 10 minutes back and forth; but regardless the end result was our driver getting kicked off the bus and walking off in a huff, us getting kicked off the bus too, another driver jumping into the bus, and the bus driving off, empty. So, now it was noon, and Portia and I found ourselves sitting on a curb as the rains started, wondering what the heck to do next.
Soon, another option presented itself in the form of an Onotracom bus, leaving at 2pm. Onotracom’s are huge green buses that basically go where no other bus will go: the crazy dirt roads, the tiny villages high in the mountains and low in the valleys. Technically, they seat 50ish people, but they are one of the only forms of transportation here that you can actually stand up in. Because of this, they pack the people in like sardines; they get friendly in the aisles, they sit on each other’s laps, they lie on top of things in the luggage area, they cram into the stairwell. I have no way of knowing how many people were actually packed into our bus (I’m going to estimate close to 100), but all I know is we sat (yes, luckily we had actual seats) on that bus until close to 2:45 before finally leaving (oh, and I can’t forget the ticket taker who got on at 2pm and sat herself down in the front of the bus, forcing every passenger to push their way forward to pay; though she and the other passengers sure got a kick out of me busting out my Kinyarwanda). So, we bumped and jolted our way down the dirt road and around 5 finally found ourselves in Kayove. Or rather, the “bus stop” at Kayove, which included one shop with snacks and tea, a barber shop, and an abandoned gas station. We were met by a smiling Tiffany who welcomed us to the bush, and then pointed up the mountain, which we now had to climb to get to Tiffany’s house.
On the way we stopped to see the “village sights”. Tiffany’s “bar” where she drinks tea, her umudozi (seamstress), her snack shop, her “market” (aka a few ladies sitting on the side of the road selling cassava and potatoes, and if she’s lucky avocadoes and bananas). I suddenly realized I should never ever again take for granted 1) how easy it is to get to and away from my site, and 2) how wonderful my market and other store offerings are. We got to Tiffany’s house, which was cozy and adorable, with a shockingly gorgeous view into a misty valley, and spent the night drinking tea, eating a yummy rice concoction and watching episodes of Gossip Girl. We turned in early, as the next morning was going to be quite eventful: church.
I’ve attempted to go to church numerous times here, but always end up being out of town, or not feeling well, or actually succeeding at sleeping in. I’ve been warned that church is long here. The Catholic’s are actually the shortest, coming in at around 2 hours, but the Protestants are known to go on for at least 3 hours. Tiffany’s church is Protestant, and she’s a member of the choir. Service started at 9, so after a fantastic breakfast of sweet banana fritters, Portia and I were ushered to seats right beside Tiffany’s choir, and what happened next can only be described as…well, I can’t really think of the words to describe it actually. Let’s just say:
1) We were seated at a prime angle to be the recipients of the largest version of the “Abazungu Stare” I’ve experienced in awhile.
2) There were actually seven choirs, and I had every intention of remembering what all of them were, but the details escape me currently. But I know for a fact that they came in every age, gender and shape, and the people who were not in one of the choirs were definitely in the minority. Each choir was different but the music was joyous and always accompanied by lots and lots of dancing.
3) At one point there were introductions and as special guests we had to be properly introduced to the church. Tiffany did the introducing in Kinyarwanda and afterwards we were expected to pump our first in the air yelling “Hallelujah!” Needless to say our lack of volume and enthusiasm was borderline embarrassing, but we were still greeted by the usual response of a long Kinyarwanda phrase that in essence means “We bless you in the name of Jesus Christ” while the parishioners held their hands up to bless us (mixed in of course with giggles of laughter from the masses).
4) During the sermon, the choir member next to me decided it would be helpful to attempt to translate the pastor’s words to me. (As much as I enjoyed and appreciated his attempt, it wasn’t.)
5) Halfway through church the skies opened up, and the rain continued to pound on the roof for the duration of the service, so as service winded down, the dancing escalated to sheer “dance party” proportions, and the dust on the floor (accumulated during the long months of dry season) soon swirled into the air, clouding the entire room, as the number of dancers increased. We soon joined the fun, and it was quite surreal dancing in a sea of Rwandans, young and old, mimicking their steps to the music. I’ll never forget the smiles on all of those faces.
6) They lied about the three hours. More like almost four and a half hours. I’m impressed with my stamina and ability to pay attention. Thoroughly impressed.
When the rain let up, we said our farewells, scurried home, grabbed our bags and trekked down the mountain to wait for the bus to Kibuye. Thus begins the Waiting Game. We arrived at the bus stop a little before 2, drenched, cold and starving from our walk. We quickly bought samboussas and then stood. And waited. And waited. Finally at four, a bus arrived! However, the ticket taker yelled out he was not going to Kibuye, only to Congonile, the next big town on the dirt road, only halfway to Kibuye. But, he said, another a bus is coming going to Kibuye. When we asked him what time it would get there, he quickly said four, and the bus began to pull away. “But it is four” we yelled after him, but were greeted only by exhaust fumes.
The waiting continued. The samboussa eating continued. The rain continued.
Finally at 6pm, we decided it was best to call Peace Corps to let them know we would either be very late, or not arrive that night at all. We were promptly told that we should not come that evening, but wait until the morning. So, we trekked back up the mountain, attempted to warm up and had one of the most delicious but disastrous dinners ever. (Aka we realized that Tiffany didn’t really have any food since she was planning to be away a week, decided to make chapatti since that only took flour and water, went to turn on the kerosene stove and realized that Tiffany’s lighter wasn’t working and she didn’t have matches, climbed the hill to “town” to buy matches, and then devoured chapatti and tea until we passed out.)
By 7am the next morning we were out the door to begin the Waiting Game: Take Two. At 7:45 a matatu passed…no room. At 8:30 a second matatu arrived and we quickly elbowed our way onto it, I even resorted to elbowing a man into a pile of mud in order to make my way on (don’t feel bad; we were there first and I’m fairly positive he would have done it himself if given the opportunity). Shoved into a jump seat, I quickly noticed that the mechanical condition of the matatu could only be characterized as “questionable”. For the first half of the ride I attempted to thwart the man seated in front of me’s attempt to lean back and insert my backpack into my lung cavity, all while praying that the matatu wouldn’t break down. And then I spent the second half of the ride staring at the man who replaced Leaner Backer, who had decided to wear the shiniest, purpliest shirt ever created; and of course, I continued my prayers.
Three hours of horror later, we arrived in Rubengera, where we had to switch buses. After a large squabble over the fare (go figure), we boarded another matatu for the quick, 20 minute journey to Kibuye. We stumbled off the bus in Kibuye, hugging each other that we had finally arrived. All that was left was a 20 minute walk, uphill, in the noon heat, to our destination: Centre Bethanie. When we walked into the conference room, applause rang out from our fellow volunteers. We smiled, accepted the homemade cookies another PCV, Emily, had made, and were extremely happy to realize that not only had we finally arrived, but it was just in time for lunch break.
So there ends our saga, an ode to how hilarious yet frustrating the simple act of travel is in this country. At the end of the day we had fun, and we made it. But I’m extremely thankful that my best friends, free food, free wireless, and many days staring at the beauty that is Lake Kivu awaited us at the end.
A little background: Kibuye is in the Western Province, in the middle of Lake Kivu, which creates the western boundary between Rwanda and Congo. For me in Musanze, there are two ways to get to Kibuye. 1) Take a two hour bus ride to Kigali and then another 3 and a half hour bus ride to Kibuye. Or 2) take a one hour bus ride to Gisenyi, then a 5 hour bus ride on a dirt road that lines the lake. Of course, me being the travel princess that I am, I had already decided to take the express Kigali route. That is, until my friend Tiffany suggested I stop at her site on the way down to Kibuye. Tiffany lives halfway between Gisenyi and Kibuye on that infamous dirt road, in Rutsiro district, in the sector of Kayove. Our other friend Portia, who lives in Gisenyi, agreed to meet up with me so we could make the trek to Tiffany’s together, and so begins our saga.
Bright and early on a Saturday morning, I hopped on a 7:45am express Virunga bus to Gisenyi (I got the front seat, so I was already feeling the good travel karma). By 9am I was in Gisenyi, where I attempted (yet again) to get my favorite samboussa’s from Habib’s. But (yet again) they had none and I settled on mango juice and biscuits. Portia arrived and we wandered over to the bus park to see when the next bus to Kayove might leave. When we asked, the man said saa yine (10am), but then scratched on his arm 11am and nodded when Portia asked “onze heure” in French. Fairly certain that the bus would leave around 11 we stopped at the bank and then hunted around town for ijana icyayi (100 franc tea). Failing miserably we settled for 200 franc black tea, a little bitter over having to spend extra money for a subpar product, and then returned to the bus stop at 10:45. We were quickly ushered to a waiting matatu (small “18 passenger” vans that I’ve seen cram in at least 22 passengers plus all of their bags, food, mattresses, small animals and babies) where the driver exclaimed “we are leaving”! Portia and I jumped in to the front seat, and quickly noticed that there were only two other people on the bus. The number one rule about buses in Rwanda: unless they are express buses, they don’t leave until they are full. So we sat, optimistic that maybe we would still leave at 11, and simply pick up additional passengers along the way.
We didn’t. At 11 we asked if we were leaving. The driver responded “at 11, yes!”. “But it is 11” we pointed out. “In 20 minutes, we leave. We leave at 11:30” the driver said, smiling. Portia and I exchanged knowing glances; we weren’t going to be leaving anytime soon. Then at 11:30, the driver miraculously started the car (despite only having 5 people on the bus)! Suddenly, slight chaos broke out, as what looked to be the head driver at the bus park came running over screaming at our driver in Kinyarwanda. While I’m not exactly sure what was said, I’m pretty sure the conversation went something like this:
“I’m leaving”
“You can’t leave, you have to have at least 10 passengers, and you only have five”
“But look, I have muzungus, I need to leave”
“You’re not leaving”
Of course, the fight took more than 10 minutes back and forth; but regardless the end result was our driver getting kicked off the bus and walking off in a huff, us getting kicked off the bus too, another driver jumping into the bus, and the bus driving off, empty. So, now it was noon, and Portia and I found ourselves sitting on a curb as the rains started, wondering what the heck to do next.
Soon, another option presented itself in the form of an Onotracom bus, leaving at 2pm. Onotracom’s are huge green buses that basically go where no other bus will go: the crazy dirt roads, the tiny villages high in the mountains and low in the valleys. Technically, they seat 50ish people, but they are one of the only forms of transportation here that you can actually stand up in. Because of this, they pack the people in like sardines; they get friendly in the aisles, they sit on each other’s laps, they lie on top of things in the luggage area, they cram into the stairwell. I have no way of knowing how many people were actually packed into our bus (I’m going to estimate close to 100), but all I know is we sat (yes, luckily we had actual seats) on that bus until close to 2:45 before finally leaving (oh, and I can’t forget the ticket taker who got on at 2pm and sat herself down in the front of the bus, forcing every passenger to push their way forward to pay; though she and the other passengers sure got a kick out of me busting out my Kinyarwanda). So, we bumped and jolted our way down the dirt road and around 5 finally found ourselves in Kayove. Or rather, the “bus stop” at Kayove, which included one shop with snacks and tea, a barber shop, and an abandoned gas station. We were met by a smiling Tiffany who welcomed us to the bush, and then pointed up the mountain, which we now had to climb to get to Tiffany’s house.
On the way we stopped to see the “village sights”. Tiffany’s “bar” where she drinks tea, her umudozi (seamstress), her snack shop, her “market” (aka a few ladies sitting on the side of the road selling cassava and potatoes, and if she’s lucky avocadoes and bananas). I suddenly realized I should never ever again take for granted 1) how easy it is to get to and away from my site, and 2) how wonderful my market and other store offerings are. We got to Tiffany’s house, which was cozy and adorable, with a shockingly gorgeous view into a misty valley, and spent the night drinking tea, eating a yummy rice concoction and watching episodes of Gossip Girl. We turned in early, as the next morning was going to be quite eventful: church.
I’ve attempted to go to church numerous times here, but always end up being out of town, or not feeling well, or actually succeeding at sleeping in. I’ve been warned that church is long here. The Catholic’s are actually the shortest, coming in at around 2 hours, but the Protestants are known to go on for at least 3 hours. Tiffany’s church is Protestant, and she’s a member of the choir. Service started at 9, so after a fantastic breakfast of sweet banana fritters, Portia and I were ushered to seats right beside Tiffany’s choir, and what happened next can only be described as…well, I can’t really think of the words to describe it actually. Let’s just say:
1) We were seated at a prime angle to be the recipients of the largest version of the “Abazungu Stare” I’ve experienced in awhile.
2) There were actually seven choirs, and I had every intention of remembering what all of them were, but the details escape me currently. But I know for a fact that they came in every age, gender and shape, and the people who were not in one of the choirs were definitely in the minority. Each choir was different but the music was joyous and always accompanied by lots and lots of dancing.
3) At one point there were introductions and as special guests we had to be properly introduced to the church. Tiffany did the introducing in Kinyarwanda and afterwards we were expected to pump our first in the air yelling “Hallelujah!” Needless to say our lack of volume and enthusiasm was borderline embarrassing, but we were still greeted by the usual response of a long Kinyarwanda phrase that in essence means “We bless you in the name of Jesus Christ” while the parishioners held their hands up to bless us (mixed in of course with giggles of laughter from the masses).
4) During the sermon, the choir member next to me decided it would be helpful to attempt to translate the pastor’s words to me. (As much as I enjoyed and appreciated his attempt, it wasn’t.)
5) Halfway through church the skies opened up, and the rain continued to pound on the roof for the duration of the service, so as service winded down, the dancing escalated to sheer “dance party” proportions, and the dust on the floor (accumulated during the long months of dry season) soon swirled into the air, clouding the entire room, as the number of dancers increased. We soon joined the fun, and it was quite surreal dancing in a sea of Rwandans, young and old, mimicking their steps to the music. I’ll never forget the smiles on all of those faces.
6) They lied about the three hours. More like almost four and a half hours. I’m impressed with my stamina and ability to pay attention. Thoroughly impressed.
When the rain let up, we said our farewells, scurried home, grabbed our bags and trekked down the mountain to wait for the bus to Kibuye. Thus begins the Waiting Game. We arrived at the bus stop a little before 2, drenched, cold and starving from our walk. We quickly bought samboussas and then stood. And waited. And waited. Finally at four, a bus arrived! However, the ticket taker yelled out he was not going to Kibuye, only to Congonile, the next big town on the dirt road, only halfway to Kibuye. But, he said, another a bus is coming going to Kibuye. When we asked him what time it would get there, he quickly said four, and the bus began to pull away. “But it is four” we yelled after him, but were greeted only by exhaust fumes.
The waiting continued. The samboussa eating continued. The rain continued.
Finally at 6pm, we decided it was best to call Peace Corps to let them know we would either be very late, or not arrive that night at all. We were promptly told that we should not come that evening, but wait until the morning. So, we trekked back up the mountain, attempted to warm up and had one of the most delicious but disastrous dinners ever. (Aka we realized that Tiffany didn’t really have any food since she was planning to be away a week, decided to make chapatti since that only took flour and water, went to turn on the kerosene stove and realized that Tiffany’s lighter wasn’t working and she didn’t have matches, climbed the hill to “town” to buy matches, and then devoured chapatti and tea until we passed out.)
By 7am the next morning we were out the door to begin the Waiting Game: Take Two. At 7:45 a matatu passed…no room. At 8:30 a second matatu arrived and we quickly elbowed our way onto it, I even resorted to elbowing a man into a pile of mud in order to make my way on (don’t feel bad; we were there first and I’m fairly positive he would have done it himself if given the opportunity). Shoved into a jump seat, I quickly noticed that the mechanical condition of the matatu could only be characterized as “questionable”. For the first half of the ride I attempted to thwart the man seated in front of me’s attempt to lean back and insert my backpack into my lung cavity, all while praying that the matatu wouldn’t break down. And then I spent the second half of the ride staring at the man who replaced Leaner Backer, who had decided to wear the shiniest, purpliest shirt ever created; and of course, I continued my prayers.
Three hours of horror later, we arrived in Rubengera, where we had to switch buses. After a large squabble over the fare (go figure), we boarded another matatu for the quick, 20 minute journey to Kibuye. We stumbled off the bus in Kibuye, hugging each other that we had finally arrived. All that was left was a 20 minute walk, uphill, in the noon heat, to our destination: Centre Bethanie. When we walked into the conference room, applause rang out from our fellow volunteers. We smiled, accepted the homemade cookies another PCV, Emily, had made, and were extremely happy to realize that not only had we finally arrived, but it was just in time for lunch break.
So there ends our saga, an ode to how hilarious yet frustrating the simple act of travel is in this country. At the end of the day we had fun, and we made it. But I’m extremely thankful that my best friends, free food, free wireless, and many days staring at the beauty that is Lake Kivu awaited us at the end.
Ibitabo benshi cyane (very many books)
I fully anticipated the emails from my friends and family asking where I was and why I haven’t posted on my blog in awhile. But when complete strangers who happen to read my blog begin to comment on if I’m ok because it’s been a month since my last post, I believe it’s time to update you all!
So where have I been hiding? Well I’ve been traveling a fair amount, got sick (luckily it wasn’t malaria), experimented with cooking (can you say SUSHI?!), made new friends and said goodbye to one of my best, celebrated birthdays, succeeded in finding a banana market mama, trained my cat to leave the room when I say “out”, and finally got to watch Eclipse.
But mostly I’ve been living at the library. Did you know that I’m helping open a public library in my district? It’s true. The books are being supplied by the Rwanda Books for Peace Project (started by the first group of PCVs to return to Rwanda last year, in partnership with Books for Africa) and they arrived in Rwanda about a month ago. Since then, the librarian, Gilbertine, and I have been incredibly busy cataloguing and sorting close to 2,000 books of every size, genre and reading level, playing in Excel and alphabetizing up a storm. The isomero (the Kinyarwanda lessons continue! isomero = library) will be housed in two rooms at the Musanze District office, and will also have three computers for public use. We’re currently wrapping our confused minds around how to arrange the books (considering the Dewey decimal system is kind of out of our league here), but hopefully the front room will have Gilbertine’s desk as well as reference books (we have a complete set of Britannica encyclopedias!) and professional level texts; then the second room will be broken up by genre (science, math, english/reading, art/music, geography/travel, religion/spirituality, and novels for adults and children). As Rwanda’s National Police Academy and INES (a very well respected university) are located in Musanze, I’m hoping to eventually increase our collection of books on criminology, health, economics and science during my time here, since I’d really like the book offerings to cater to the needs of my community. I’m also applying for grants that will help fund decorations (can you say huge world map mural?) and other special educational events. I have grand plans for the library: English and IT classes, monthly “Health Day” and “Science Day”, reading groups, a bulletin board to connect kids in America to kids in Rwanda, and so much more.
So that’s where I’ve been and where I’ll continue to be for the foreseeable future! My work with the Access Project is continuing to plug away, I’m writing newsletters and grants to bring running water to health centers in need, and hope to get orientations on IT and pharmacy management sometime this month. So never fear, I’m alive and well and very happy and super busy. And with all this I’m still trying to find time to study Kinyarwanda, play with my kiddies and talk with my neighbors. More vendors than just carrot lady remember my face and name at the market now and I finally got the cucumber lady to stop ripping me off. I’m exploring new parts of the country and new areas of my neighborhood, and we’re all anxiously awaiting the next group of education volunteers who will arrive in Rwanda later this month! I hope you are all well and enjoying life wherever you are. Keep the updates coming, and I’ll try to do the same!
So where have I been hiding? Well I’ve been traveling a fair amount, got sick (luckily it wasn’t malaria), experimented with cooking (can you say SUSHI?!), made new friends and said goodbye to one of my best, celebrated birthdays, succeeded in finding a banana market mama, trained my cat to leave the room when I say “out”, and finally got to watch Eclipse.
But mostly I’ve been living at the library. Did you know that I’m helping open a public library in my district? It’s true. The books are being supplied by the Rwanda Books for Peace Project (started by the first group of PCVs to return to Rwanda last year, in partnership with Books for Africa) and they arrived in Rwanda about a month ago. Since then, the librarian, Gilbertine, and I have been incredibly busy cataloguing and sorting close to 2,000 books of every size, genre and reading level, playing in Excel and alphabetizing up a storm. The isomero (the Kinyarwanda lessons continue! isomero = library) will be housed in two rooms at the Musanze District office, and will also have three computers for public use. We’re currently wrapping our confused minds around how to arrange the books (considering the Dewey decimal system is kind of out of our league here), but hopefully the front room will have Gilbertine’s desk as well as reference books (we have a complete set of Britannica encyclopedias!) and professional level texts; then the second room will be broken up by genre (science, math, english/reading, art/music, geography/travel, religion/spirituality, and novels for adults and children). As Rwanda’s National Police Academy and INES (a very well respected university) are located in Musanze, I’m hoping to eventually increase our collection of books on criminology, health, economics and science during my time here, since I’d really like the book offerings to cater to the needs of my community. I’m also applying for grants that will help fund decorations (can you say huge world map mural?) and other special educational events. I have grand plans for the library: English and IT classes, monthly “Health Day” and “Science Day”, reading groups, a bulletin board to connect kids in America to kids in Rwanda, and so much more.
So that’s where I’ve been and where I’ll continue to be for the foreseeable future! My work with the Access Project is continuing to plug away, I’m writing newsletters and grants to bring running water to health centers in need, and hope to get orientations on IT and pharmacy management sometime this month. So never fear, I’m alive and well and very happy and super busy. And with all this I’m still trying to find time to study Kinyarwanda, play with my kiddies and talk with my neighbors. More vendors than just carrot lady remember my face and name at the market now and I finally got the cucumber lady to stop ripping me off. I’m exploring new parts of the country and new areas of my neighborhood, and we’re all anxiously awaiting the next group of education volunteers who will arrive in Rwanda later this month! I hope you are all well and enjoying life wherever you are. Keep the updates coming, and I’ll try to do the same!
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Dear...
Dear snack crackers in the yellow package: You taste like ritz crackers. (Yum.) You came all the way to Rwanda from Saudi Arabia. (Huh?) You only cost 60 cents. (My measly Peace Corps bank account thanks you.) You are amazing in every way. (Seriously.)
Dear driver: You continue to provide me with a constant source of entertainment, especially when you stop the car on random dirt roads to inquire about the prices of everything from fruit to shoes to goats. Then you got a portable dvd player, to pass the time while we’re on health center visits. Totally understandable, but I’ll never forget the time I came back to the car to find you watching an “artsy” film. And yes, you know exactly what I mean by “artsy”.
Dear Lake Kivu: Swimming in you was totally worth the shistosomiasis I may or may not get from swimming in you. And your beach wasn’t half bad either.
Dear PiliPili cat: I love you. But I love you most when you’re asleep on my lap. It’s the only time these days that you’re not crying/meowing at me.
Dear stupid bug: First, you scared the crap out of me by repeatedly launching yourself at my windows. Then you miraculously found your way under my door, only to fly around my living room randomly dive bombing my face while I was trying to enjoy Across the Universe. But I sincerely appreciate you allowing my cat to chase you around, providing her with amusement for a solid 20 minutes. Oh, and sorry again about Pili eating you.
Dear Shantaram: You are a fascinating, intriguing, thought provoking book. I am so sorry for ever putting you down and cheating on you with Eat, Pray, Love. It’s a mistake I shall never make again. Except for the fact that I just got The Girl Who Played with Fire. So…no hard feelings, k?
Dear Justin Bieber: I heard one of your songs finally. It was called Baby. Rwandans may love it, but I’m still not sure if I do. But I’m keeping an open mind, and I’ll continue to let Lucy put lyrics from your songs at the beginning of every email she sends me.
Dear various friends who have sneakily sent me alcohol from America: You all are geniuses. Inside a crayon box, pill bottle, Bank of America checkbox and toothpaste carton. What will you think of next? Regardless, just keep ‘em coming!
Dear Tigo: 3 francs per text, 10 francs a minute for calls, and 30 francs a minute to call America. Will you marry me?! (What, you heard that I’m still seeing MTN? Well, I have a dual sim phone, yes, but I put you in slot 1 and MTN in slot 2. Does that adequately demonstrate my allegiance?)
Dear dry season: I’m over you. I’m sick of not having water. I’m sick of being dirty. Go away please.
Dear rainy season: I know, I know, you’re scared that if you come I’ll be as mean to you as I was to dry season. But I promise that won’t happen. Well, as long as you don’t ruin my garden.
Dear neighborhood boy: Maybe I shouldn’t have commented about how “thug” you’ve become lately. I honestly didn’t think you even understood what the word “thug” meant. But you definitely proved me wrong when a few days later you greeted me at my front gate…wearing a dress.
Dear mefloquine: You’ve been replaced. I don’t even feel bad about it. And I’m looking forward to many nights without crazy dreams, hallucinations and anxiety attacks.
Dear Nyanza: So, after 3 months away, it turns out I actually had been missing you. I missed your market (with piles and piles of amazing clothing), cheap food and drink (I still haven’t seen a red cabbage elsewhere in Rwanda), bunk beds (ok, not really) and communal eating at the training center (the communal aspect, not the actual food). I’ll be back soon.
Dear electrical outlet in our office at the hospital: Holy crap. You were working perfectly and then suddenly started crackling and smoking right behind me. At least you didn’t catch on fire, but still, not cool. Oh, and I wonder if the smell of melting plastic will ever go away.
Dear garden: Jessica took such amazing care of you, I’m embarrassed beyond words that I ruined you. I promise I’ve tried to grow a green thumb and will attempt to rebuild you. Besides, I really really want sweet corn.
Dear Ruhengeri district hospital: Investing in a wireless router was one of the best decisions you’ve made. But could we work something out so that I don’t have to sit under a group of trees in order to get any signal whatsoever.
Dear random man who knocked on my gate that one day: I’m not a doctor. I don’t live with a doctor. I don’t’ want to be a doctor. Ok, I actually have no idea what you were saying to me because the only word I could distinguish was “umuganga” which means doctor. Ok, two words; I also know you said “ntakibazo” (it’s no problem) right before you turned and walked away. Hope you got that all figured out though!
Dear LCFs (Language and Cultural Facilitators): It was glorious to see some of you again at in-service training. I had so much fun studying, eating, laughing and sharing gossip magazines. And I once again became confident that I can actually speak Kinyarwanda. But could you explain to me why when I say something to the average Rwandan they look at me like I have 7 heads?
Dear carrot lady: I know you had a baby, but please come back! I miss you. Your food is there, but you are not, and the lady watching your stand totally overcharged me by 300 francs! Besides, I’m anxiously waiting to say to you “Ni uko, ni uko, and niyonkwe” (Congratulations and happy breastfeeding!)
Dear mouse that found its way into my house: Ok, I’ll admit it you were cute. But first you were in my bedroom and then you were in my bathroom. You really gave me no choice but to let Pili create a new game with you called Catch the Rodent. You won the battle, but I know she’ll win the war. Besides, escaping outside is kind of like cheating.
Dear Amber: I’m so glad you’re back. Rwanda’s not the same without you to stumble through it with me.
Dear Vision 2020: Yes, you win the award for “Best All-You-Can-Eat Rwandan Buffet”. Pasta, rice, fries, plantains, beans, cassava, vegetables, unidentifiable meat, sauce, and fruit. And all for less than $3. The Abba videos you constantly play are just an added bonus.
Dear Raychel: I cannot say thank you enough for all of the pedicure supplies you sent me. I used hot water, I used the nail brush, I used the pumice stone. My feet never looked so fresh and so clean! Until I walked outside…sigh.
Dear water spigot: You knew I had no clean clothes. You knew I had to do laundry. You knew I had just filled up a bucket with water and soap. So why when I had adequately soaked and washed my clothes did you feel the need to shut off and not work for days? My soapy clothes and I did not appreciate your attempt at a joke. PS. I’m thirsty too.
Dear photos I slaved over to tape to my wall: Why do you keep falling down? You know tape is an expensive commodity around here. So, I’ve decided to just not put you back up and create a little game called “Last Photo Standing”. So far it is a 5 way tie for first, who shall be the victor?
Dear magpies/crows/ugly black mongrel birds that have invaded my property: I seriously detest you. I hate when you “hunt” my cat. I hate when you attack my garden. I hate when you knock off branches of my avocado tree. But I hate you most when you frolic, fight and tap dance your way across my tin roof, repeatedly making me think that the world is ending…or at the least that my roof might be falling down.
Dear feet: Nope, still not tan. Still just really dirty. But I hear that rainy season is almost here, just imagine how wonderful you’ll look muddy!
Dear two neighborhood children: You’re a delight to have in my house when there are only two of you. Particularly when I introduce you to Play-Doh and we can sit and teach other Kinyarwanda and English by building animals and other random objects. Oh, and I’m REALLY glad that you finally declared that the odd shaped mold was a boat, and not something else…
Dear Steven Colbert: You and your Report are just as funny in Rwanda as you were in America. Keep it up. P.S. However, car commercials, you are still just as annoying.
Dear Rwandans: Living in a city as large as Musanze has forced me to make a decision to only greet people I make eye contact with, so that I’m not greeting every single person I pass on the street. Unfortunately, every single one of you stares at me as I pass, which means I’m pretty much still greeting every person I pass on the street. Let’s work on this, shall we?
Dear bra industry: I’m not sure if you either just don’t supply to Rwanda yet, or if your marketing campaign here just sucks. But either way, I see a demand in this country. Big demand. And I fully expect to get a share of the profits for pointing out this incredible business opportunity to you. Right?
Dear driver: You continue to provide me with a constant source of entertainment, especially when you stop the car on random dirt roads to inquire about the prices of everything from fruit to shoes to goats. Then you got a portable dvd player, to pass the time while we’re on health center visits. Totally understandable, but I’ll never forget the time I came back to the car to find you watching an “artsy” film. And yes, you know exactly what I mean by “artsy”.
Dear Lake Kivu: Swimming in you was totally worth the shistosomiasis I may or may not get from swimming in you. And your beach wasn’t half bad either.
Dear PiliPili cat: I love you. But I love you most when you’re asleep on my lap. It’s the only time these days that you’re not crying/meowing at me.
Dear stupid bug: First, you scared the crap out of me by repeatedly launching yourself at my windows. Then you miraculously found your way under my door, only to fly around my living room randomly dive bombing my face while I was trying to enjoy Across the Universe. But I sincerely appreciate you allowing my cat to chase you around, providing her with amusement for a solid 20 minutes. Oh, and sorry again about Pili eating you.
Dear Shantaram: You are a fascinating, intriguing, thought provoking book. I am so sorry for ever putting you down and cheating on you with Eat, Pray, Love. It’s a mistake I shall never make again. Except for the fact that I just got The Girl Who Played with Fire. So…no hard feelings, k?
Dear Justin Bieber: I heard one of your songs finally. It was called Baby. Rwandans may love it, but I’m still not sure if I do. But I’m keeping an open mind, and I’ll continue to let Lucy put lyrics from your songs at the beginning of every email she sends me.
Dear various friends who have sneakily sent me alcohol from America: You all are geniuses. Inside a crayon box, pill bottle, Bank of America checkbox and toothpaste carton. What will you think of next? Regardless, just keep ‘em coming!
Dear Tigo: 3 francs per text, 10 francs a minute for calls, and 30 francs a minute to call America. Will you marry me?! (What, you heard that I’m still seeing MTN? Well, I have a dual sim phone, yes, but I put you in slot 1 and MTN in slot 2. Does that adequately demonstrate my allegiance?)
Dear dry season: I’m over you. I’m sick of not having water. I’m sick of being dirty. Go away please.
Dear rainy season: I know, I know, you’re scared that if you come I’ll be as mean to you as I was to dry season. But I promise that won’t happen. Well, as long as you don’t ruin my garden.
Dear neighborhood boy: Maybe I shouldn’t have commented about how “thug” you’ve become lately. I honestly didn’t think you even understood what the word “thug” meant. But you definitely proved me wrong when a few days later you greeted me at my front gate…wearing a dress.
Dear mefloquine: You’ve been replaced. I don’t even feel bad about it. And I’m looking forward to many nights without crazy dreams, hallucinations and anxiety attacks.
Dear Nyanza: So, after 3 months away, it turns out I actually had been missing you. I missed your market (with piles and piles of amazing clothing), cheap food and drink (I still haven’t seen a red cabbage elsewhere in Rwanda), bunk beds (ok, not really) and communal eating at the training center (the communal aspect, not the actual food). I’ll be back soon.
Dear electrical outlet in our office at the hospital: Holy crap. You were working perfectly and then suddenly started crackling and smoking right behind me. At least you didn’t catch on fire, but still, not cool. Oh, and I wonder if the smell of melting plastic will ever go away.
Dear garden: Jessica took such amazing care of you, I’m embarrassed beyond words that I ruined you. I promise I’ve tried to grow a green thumb and will attempt to rebuild you. Besides, I really really want sweet corn.
Dear Ruhengeri district hospital: Investing in a wireless router was one of the best decisions you’ve made. But could we work something out so that I don’t have to sit under a group of trees in order to get any signal whatsoever.
Dear random man who knocked on my gate that one day: I’m not a doctor. I don’t live with a doctor. I don’t’ want to be a doctor. Ok, I actually have no idea what you were saying to me because the only word I could distinguish was “umuganga” which means doctor. Ok, two words; I also know you said “ntakibazo” (it’s no problem) right before you turned and walked away. Hope you got that all figured out though!
Dear LCFs (Language and Cultural Facilitators): It was glorious to see some of you again at in-service training. I had so much fun studying, eating, laughing and sharing gossip magazines. And I once again became confident that I can actually speak Kinyarwanda. But could you explain to me why when I say something to the average Rwandan they look at me like I have 7 heads?
Dear carrot lady: I know you had a baby, but please come back! I miss you. Your food is there, but you are not, and the lady watching your stand totally overcharged me by 300 francs! Besides, I’m anxiously waiting to say to you “Ni uko, ni uko, and niyonkwe” (Congratulations and happy breastfeeding!)
Dear mouse that found its way into my house: Ok, I’ll admit it you were cute. But first you were in my bedroom and then you were in my bathroom. You really gave me no choice but to let Pili create a new game with you called Catch the Rodent. You won the battle, but I know she’ll win the war. Besides, escaping outside is kind of like cheating.
Dear Amber: I’m so glad you’re back. Rwanda’s not the same without you to stumble through it with me.
Dear Vision 2020: Yes, you win the award for “Best All-You-Can-Eat Rwandan Buffet”. Pasta, rice, fries, plantains, beans, cassava, vegetables, unidentifiable meat, sauce, and fruit. And all for less than $3. The Abba videos you constantly play are just an added bonus.
Dear Raychel: I cannot say thank you enough for all of the pedicure supplies you sent me. I used hot water, I used the nail brush, I used the pumice stone. My feet never looked so fresh and so clean! Until I walked outside…sigh.
Dear water spigot: You knew I had no clean clothes. You knew I had to do laundry. You knew I had just filled up a bucket with water and soap. So why when I had adequately soaked and washed my clothes did you feel the need to shut off and not work for days? My soapy clothes and I did not appreciate your attempt at a joke. PS. I’m thirsty too.
Dear photos I slaved over to tape to my wall: Why do you keep falling down? You know tape is an expensive commodity around here. So, I’ve decided to just not put you back up and create a little game called “Last Photo Standing”. So far it is a 5 way tie for first, who shall be the victor?
Dear magpies/crows/ugly black mongrel birds that have invaded my property: I seriously detest you. I hate when you “hunt” my cat. I hate when you attack my garden. I hate when you knock off branches of my avocado tree. But I hate you most when you frolic, fight and tap dance your way across my tin roof, repeatedly making me think that the world is ending…or at the least that my roof might be falling down.
Dear feet: Nope, still not tan. Still just really dirty. But I hear that rainy season is almost here, just imagine how wonderful you’ll look muddy!
Dear two neighborhood children: You’re a delight to have in my house when there are only two of you. Particularly when I introduce you to Play-Doh and we can sit and teach other Kinyarwanda and English by building animals and other random objects. Oh, and I’m REALLY glad that you finally declared that the odd shaped mold was a boat, and not something else…
Dear Steven Colbert: You and your Report are just as funny in Rwanda as you were in America. Keep it up. P.S. However, car commercials, you are still just as annoying.
Dear Rwandans: Living in a city as large as Musanze has forced me to make a decision to only greet people I make eye contact with, so that I’m not greeting every single person I pass on the street. Unfortunately, every single one of you stares at me as I pass, which means I’m pretty much still greeting every person I pass on the street. Let’s work on this, shall we?
Dear bra industry: I’m not sure if you either just don’t supply to Rwanda yet, or if your marketing campaign here just sucks. But either way, I see a demand in this country. Big demand. And I fully expect to get a share of the profits for pointing out this incredible business opportunity to you. Right?
Monday, September 6, 2010
Meeting Rwanda(ns), one greeting at a time
Greeting people in Rwanda is extremely important. It seems as though no conversation can continue without an adequate and complete greeting. First, there is an elaborate physical greeting, composed of a hug, with three cheek-to-cheek touches, followed by a handshake. The verbal greetings are just as elaborate. There is of course the usual “Mwaramutse” or “Mwiriwe” (Good morning, good afternoon/evening). This is usually followed by “Amakuru?” (What’s the news?) or “Bite?” (What’s up?) – Standard responses are “Ni meza” (It’s well) and “Ni byiza” (It’s good). Then comes “Umeza ute?” (How do you feel?), to which most people respond “Meza neza” (I’m feeling well). Often the next questions inquire about if you’ve been strong (Warakomeye?), how your family is doing, how work is going, where you are coming from, where you are going, etc. Yes, as you’re undoubtedly realizing, it can take several minutes to even begin an actual conversation.
At this point, I’ve got the greetings down. I am a greetings master. I greet my neighborhood children, my neighbors, the shop-owners I pass on my way to work, the staff at the hospital, all the market mamas, etc. But more importantly, I greet random strangers I pass as I walk anywhere. Now, I don’t greet everyone (if I did that I’d be saying good morning about every 1.8 seconds), but I’ll tell you who I do greet:
1) Those people who greet me first. Sometimes they greet me in English, sometimes in French, sometimes in Kinyarwanda; but no matter which they language they greet me in I always greet them back in Kinyarwanda. I figure if they’re going out of their way to speak my language, I can afford them the same courtesy.
2) Those people who make eye contact with me and smile. I can only imagine that they are wondering if they should greet me, and if so in what language they should do so in (or maybe they’re just inwardly laughing at how sunburned and dirty I am). But, it makes my day when I see the shock and excitement on their faces when I greet them in their own language.
3) Those people who are openly talking about me. It’s not difficult to hear the word “Muzungu”; I can hear it from miles away at this point. My Kinyarwanda is also progressing enough now that I can start to figure out what they’re saying about me (usually such mundane things as what I’m wearing, my hair, wondering where I’m going or if I speak Kinyarwanda). These are my favorite people to greet, as it downright floors them usually when I can speak even a little of their language. They exclaim “Ahhhh, she knows Kinyarwanda!!” and giggle up a fit. Then usually blabber away to me in Kinyarwanda that is too fast for me to ever decipher. So I usually throw around an “Ehhh” with an eyebrow raise (I’ll save “Rwandan communication strategies” for another blog post) or a Yego (yes) and attempt to walk faster.
Luckily, this greeting strategy has afforded me the opportunity to meet so many interesting people as I wander this country: people transporting every type of food or object on their head (imagine everything from baskets of tomatoes or corn, to bunches of plantains, to rice bags of potatoes, to tree limbs and eucalyptus tree branches, to bed frames, to their purse), numerous school girls and boys, a priest, a woman who runs an orphanage near my house, nurses, doctors, shopekeepers, a school headmaster, and so many others. Overall, though, it’s taught me the power of greetings, how they immediately brighten someone’s day and instantly begin to build relationships. So, if you need me, I’ll be here, greeting Rwanda, one Mwaramutse at a time.
OH, but I must add one final thing. With ALL of these elaborate greetings, do you know how people end their phone calls? With nothing. No “see you later” or “goodbye”. They just hang up. Usually with me still babbling to them to have a good day. Interesting, huh?
At this point, I’ve got the greetings down. I am a greetings master. I greet my neighborhood children, my neighbors, the shop-owners I pass on my way to work, the staff at the hospital, all the market mamas, etc. But more importantly, I greet random strangers I pass as I walk anywhere. Now, I don’t greet everyone (if I did that I’d be saying good morning about every 1.8 seconds), but I’ll tell you who I do greet:
1) Those people who greet me first. Sometimes they greet me in English, sometimes in French, sometimes in Kinyarwanda; but no matter which they language they greet me in I always greet them back in Kinyarwanda. I figure if they’re going out of their way to speak my language, I can afford them the same courtesy.
2) Those people who make eye contact with me and smile. I can only imagine that they are wondering if they should greet me, and if so in what language they should do so in (or maybe they’re just inwardly laughing at how sunburned and dirty I am). But, it makes my day when I see the shock and excitement on their faces when I greet them in their own language.
3) Those people who are openly talking about me. It’s not difficult to hear the word “Muzungu”; I can hear it from miles away at this point. My Kinyarwanda is also progressing enough now that I can start to figure out what they’re saying about me (usually such mundane things as what I’m wearing, my hair, wondering where I’m going or if I speak Kinyarwanda). These are my favorite people to greet, as it downright floors them usually when I can speak even a little of their language. They exclaim “Ahhhh, she knows Kinyarwanda!!” and giggle up a fit. Then usually blabber away to me in Kinyarwanda that is too fast for me to ever decipher. So I usually throw around an “Ehhh” with an eyebrow raise (I’ll save “Rwandan communication strategies” for another blog post) or a Yego (yes) and attempt to walk faster.
Luckily, this greeting strategy has afforded me the opportunity to meet so many interesting people as I wander this country: people transporting every type of food or object on their head (imagine everything from baskets of tomatoes or corn, to bunches of plantains, to rice bags of potatoes, to tree limbs and eucalyptus tree branches, to bed frames, to their purse), numerous school girls and boys, a priest, a woman who runs an orphanage near my house, nurses, doctors, shopekeepers, a school headmaster, and so many others. Overall, though, it’s taught me the power of greetings, how they immediately brighten someone’s day and instantly begin to build relationships. So, if you need me, I’ll be here, greeting Rwanda, one Mwaramutse at a time.
OH, but I must add one final thing. With ALL of these elaborate greetings, do you know how people end their phone calls? With nothing. No “see you later” or “goodbye”. They just hang up. Usually with me still babbling to them to have a good day. Interesting, huh?
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Posh Corps. Not to be confused with Peace Corps.
In many ways this is not the Peace Corps experience I originally envisioned. I must admit, part of me applied to Peace Corps with idealistic and grand visions of life in a rural African village, cut off from the world. There would be no electricity, I would wake with the sun, and write letters to my family by candlelight until I fell asleep, usually by 8pm. Running water would be non-existent, and every day I would find myself clustering around the village well with my neighbors, gathering water to drink, wash with and cook with. I would have a simple house (though I wasn’t naïve enough to picture a mud hut with a thatched roof) with a grass fence and no gate, welcoming neighbors, children and all sorts of animals to cross in and out freely. I would toil for hours over a wood fire, concocting spicy stews and carb-filled porridges. I would walk everywhere, to work, to the market, to visit friends, to do anything; or maybe if I was lucky I’d have a bike! My days would be filled with interacting in the community, dreaming up projects, attempting to get funding for them, attending weddings and baptisms and most likely even seeing babies delivered constantly. I would speak fluently with my neighbors and be basically adopted into the community, know everyone, know everything. But every day would still be a challenge as I dealt with language barriers and cultural barriers, adjusting to a solitary Peace Corps life.
So here I am, in Peace Corps, in Rwanda. I live in the 4th largest city in the country, where foreigners are rather abundant (everything from NGO workers to tourists off to visit the gorillas). I live in a rather beautiful four room house, with tall brick walls on all sides and an imposing brown and green metal gate. I have electricity (most days) and running water in my house (most days) with an indoor toilet and shower. I write blog posts, type emails to friends and family back home, listen to music, watch movies and do most of my work all on my laptop. There are more hotels in my town than I can count on one hand, offering yummy Western food, Fanta’s and beer, and fast wireless internet. I cook over a kerosene stove, concocting spicy stews just as much as grilled cheese sandwiches. I can buy wine, olive oil, peanut butter and jelly, Pringles, mustard and so many more “Muzungu” things at numerous stores in my town. I ride in a truck more often than I ever imagined, either for work or getting rides home from some American friends. I can easily go to a bar quite similar to one you would find in America, order a pizza and a glass of wine, and watch a soccer game on a flat screen television. I have an office in the district hospital and travel around to 17 health centers in two districts getting my bearings working for a large project founded and funded by Americans. I get outside and walk around every day, but considering the size of my town have an incredibly difficult time identifying even what my “community” is, let alone integrating into it. My Kinyarwanda is coming along, but conversation is limited when I can really only talk at the level of a five year old. I have yet to be invited to a wedding, though have attended a baptism; and despite seeing women about to give birth and several newborn babies, I haven’t witnessed one single baby being delivered so far. But every day is still a challenge, as I deal with language barriers and cultural barriers, adjusting to a solitary Posh Corps life.
So, there we go: Peace Corps vs. Posh Corps. Yes, it’s different, yes it’s not exactly what I expected, yes it presents its own unique set of challenges that I never even contemplated before coming here. But every day I’m still very much aware of who I am, where I find myself and what an amazing experience this will still be, hopefully even better than what I envisioned. Every day is new. Every day I learn a new word. Every day I explore a new part of town. Every day I talk to someone new. Every day I notice something new. Every day I hear a new animal sound. Every day I find a new solution to a problem.
And yet, I am constantly struggling with how to balance my desire to absorb and embrace Rwandan culture, integrate into my neighborhood and build relationships with Rwandans, with my need to remain sane as an American living in a foreign country. This manifests itself in a variety of ways. I spend the entire day in a room with two dozen Rwandans receiving Quickbooks training entirely in Kinyarwanda (two things still very foreign to me), and then retreat into my house in the evening to eat mac and cheese and M&Ms and watch The Hurt Locker. Or I spend a few hours gardening with my Rwandan neighbor and her three children, attempting to discuss everything from my job, to religion, to my family in America, and by the afternoon am at Americaland (or rather the home of my American friends) using their wireless internet, eating hotdogs and pickles, and watching a movie on their projector screen. But which of these is my life? Which one is “right”? When does support become a crutch? While attempting to be Rwandan, I often feel awkward and uncomfortable and long to be back in America. But while being “American”, I often feel guilty and awkward and long to be speaking kinyarwanda with my neighbors and colleagues. It’s the epitome of split personalities. My name is Amy and my name is Umugwaneza. I’m an expat working in Rwanda, but I’m also a Peace Corps Volunteer working and living amongst Rwandans. I like pizza and hamburgers, and I like cassava and dodo. But this contradiction is inevitable, right? And maybe it’s even necessary. Maybe it will be my ability to balance these two “personalities” that will allow me to not only survive, but thrive, here. Maybe by embracing these two sides I’ll be able to endure the successes and challenges of the next two years; learn, teach, give, take, adapt, grow.
So here I am, in Peace Corps, in Rwanda. I live in the 4th largest city in the country, where foreigners are rather abundant (everything from NGO workers to tourists off to visit the gorillas). I live in a rather beautiful four room house, with tall brick walls on all sides and an imposing brown and green metal gate. I have electricity (most days) and running water in my house (most days) with an indoor toilet and shower. I write blog posts, type emails to friends and family back home, listen to music, watch movies and do most of my work all on my laptop. There are more hotels in my town than I can count on one hand, offering yummy Western food, Fanta’s and beer, and fast wireless internet. I cook over a kerosene stove, concocting spicy stews just as much as grilled cheese sandwiches. I can buy wine, olive oil, peanut butter and jelly, Pringles, mustard and so many more “Muzungu” things at numerous stores in my town. I ride in a truck more often than I ever imagined, either for work or getting rides home from some American friends. I can easily go to a bar quite similar to one you would find in America, order a pizza and a glass of wine, and watch a soccer game on a flat screen television. I have an office in the district hospital and travel around to 17 health centers in two districts getting my bearings working for a large project founded and funded by Americans. I get outside and walk around every day, but considering the size of my town have an incredibly difficult time identifying even what my “community” is, let alone integrating into it. My Kinyarwanda is coming along, but conversation is limited when I can really only talk at the level of a five year old. I have yet to be invited to a wedding, though have attended a baptism; and despite seeing women about to give birth and several newborn babies, I haven’t witnessed one single baby being delivered so far. But every day is still a challenge, as I deal with language barriers and cultural barriers, adjusting to a solitary Posh Corps life.
So, there we go: Peace Corps vs. Posh Corps. Yes, it’s different, yes it’s not exactly what I expected, yes it presents its own unique set of challenges that I never even contemplated before coming here. But every day I’m still very much aware of who I am, where I find myself and what an amazing experience this will still be, hopefully even better than what I envisioned. Every day is new. Every day I learn a new word. Every day I explore a new part of town. Every day I talk to someone new. Every day I notice something new. Every day I hear a new animal sound. Every day I find a new solution to a problem.
And yet, I am constantly struggling with how to balance my desire to absorb and embrace Rwandan culture, integrate into my neighborhood and build relationships with Rwandans, with my need to remain sane as an American living in a foreign country. This manifests itself in a variety of ways. I spend the entire day in a room with two dozen Rwandans receiving Quickbooks training entirely in Kinyarwanda (two things still very foreign to me), and then retreat into my house in the evening to eat mac and cheese and M&Ms and watch The Hurt Locker. Or I spend a few hours gardening with my Rwandan neighbor and her three children, attempting to discuss everything from my job, to religion, to my family in America, and by the afternoon am at Americaland (or rather the home of my American friends) using their wireless internet, eating hotdogs and pickles, and watching a movie on their projector screen. But which of these is my life? Which one is “right”? When does support become a crutch? While attempting to be Rwandan, I often feel awkward and uncomfortable and long to be back in America. But while being “American”, I often feel guilty and awkward and long to be speaking kinyarwanda with my neighbors and colleagues. It’s the epitome of split personalities. My name is Amy and my name is Umugwaneza. I’m an expat working in Rwanda, but I’m also a Peace Corps Volunteer working and living amongst Rwandans. I like pizza and hamburgers, and I like cassava and dodo. But this contradiction is inevitable, right? And maybe it’s even necessary. Maybe it will be my ability to balance these two “personalities” that will allow me to not only survive, but thrive, here. Maybe by embracing these two sides I’ll be able to endure the successes and challenges of the next two years; learn, teach, give, take, adapt, grow.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
A day in the life...sorta.
I’ve gotten many requests from friends, family and blog readers, asking what a typical day is like here in Rwanda. And I’ve struggled to figure out how to even answer this question, let alone attempt to write a blog post about it. The problem is, no two days are the same. One day I’m insanely busy with work and health center visits, with little time to eat or relax; the following day I may have little actual work or housework and spend my day reading, writing, watching movies and perusing the internet. So…condensing this into a “day in the life” would be difficult to say the least. But as I’ve recently made a life decision to not only embrace challenges, but overcome them, I’ll do my best.
A somewhat ordinary, somewhat un-ordinary Friday:
5:36am – I’m awoken (as usual) by the sounds of my neighbors beginning their days: Babies crying; pots banging; bicycles, trucks and motos passing on the street outside my house; a ball bouncing against a wall. Rolling over, I do everything in my power to fall back to sleep.
6:22am- Awake again. I glance at my clock, instantly excited that I still have 40 minutes to doze and lay in bed. (insert more of “the world is awake and starting their day, you should too” sounds).
7:00am- My alarm goes off, I hit snooze.
7:04am- I remember that I keep meaning to change the snooze time on my alarm to something other than a ridiculous mere 4 minutes.
7:08am- I decide that snoozing for 4 minutes is really unnecessary, turn off my alarm and text my boss to see what time I should meet him at the office
7:10am- I attempt to quietly un-tuck my mosquito net and get out of bed, but she can’t be fooled.
7:10:30am- PiliPili cat begins her loud, obnoxious, “feed me or I’ll die, woman” cry/meow from the living room.
7:11am- I get an egg and a granola bar out of my storage closet and peel the egg while attempting to ignore Pili’s meowing and caressing of my ankles.
7:14am- Back in my room, I switch on music, eat my breakfast and get ready for my day (insert mundane activities such as getting dressed, brushing my hair and teeth, washing my face, taking my anti-malaria pill, putting on deodorant, sunscreen and makeup, etc)
7:40am- Almost ready to leave my house, I get a text from my boss saying he’s at the bank and won’t get to the office until 8:30. I settle into more music and playing with the cat, then get my bag ready for the day.
8:25am- I refill Pili’s water dish, open up a window (Pili’s version of a “cat-door”), lock my house, and emerge from my gate.
8:26am- “Amy, Amy, Amy! Bite? Tuzagusura ryari?!” I receive my usual morning greeting from the neighborhood children (Amy, Amy, Amy! What’s up? When will we visit you?) Three of my favorite girls, Sifa, Deniz and Marvee, run up to me for morning hugs and high fives. I tell them “ngiye ku kazi” (I’m going to work) and wave goodbye.
8:28am- I get to the end of my road, where the waiting moto drivers rush to me saying “Sister, twagiye?” (Sister, we go?) “Oya, murakoze” (No, thank you), I respond, (fighting the urge to say, “But if I am your sister, how is our mother?”) and begin my trek to work.
8:34am- I pass the oogling bicycle taxi boys and make my usual turn onto my shortcut to the hospital. A group of market ladies fall in step beside me, muttering something about the muzungu and if she knows Kinyarwanda. “Buhoro, buhoro” (slowly, slowly), I respond, only mildly hoping that they actually hear me. “AAAAHHH, azi Kinyarwanda!” (Ahhhh, she knows Kinyarwanda!), they exclaim. We exchange the normal greetings and questions (where are you going, where do you work, etc). As we near the hospital the one question I’m hoping they don’t ask is finally uttered: can you give me one hundred francs? Followed of course by my usual response:“Ndi umukorerabushake, simfite amafaranga, sorry” (I’m a volunteer, I don’t have money, sorry).
8:40am- I’m on the hospital grounds now, and pass my favorite cleaning lady, exchanging a smiley “Mwaramutse!” (Good morning)
8:42am- Bertin, my counterpart, is cheerily sitting at his desk when I enter our office. As we haven’t seen each other in a couple of weeks (Bertin’s been on vacation and then I was in Kigali for a couple of days) we exchange hugs and handshakes. I inquire about his wife and daughters (and cows of course), then we get down to business, planning our activities for the next few weeks, bearing in mind my training schedule and the arrival of the Books for Africa shipment.
10:19am- While I’m working on a memo to the Executive Secretary regarding further requirements for the library, Bertin suddenly tells me that he’s going to go see if the internet is working. Huh? Excuse me? Can you repeat that? I must not have heard you correctly. Apparently the hospital finally got wireless, but the signal doesn’t quite reach our office. I go back to my music and memo writing, anxiously awaiting his return.
10:56am- And Bertin’s back, with excellent news! The wireless does work; he was able to get a very fast signal while sitting in the hospital parking lot, under a grove of trees.
11:04am- Yep, he wasn’t lying about the grove of trees, the internet signal is quite impressive. I check my email, I check facebook, I check the news and download a few documents I need.
11:52am- Freezing from sitting in the shade with the cold Musanze wind whipping around me, I retreat back to our office to finish my memo and see what the plan is for the rest of the day.
12:10pm- Lunch time! I head home (fairly uneventfully actually) and get started on some lunch (totally gourmet pb&j) and chores (insert mundane activities such as bleaching water, washing dishes, sweeping, watering my plants and gathering my dirty clothes to wash)
1:51pm- Lunch is finished, chores are finished and I’m waiting for Jessica and her parents to finish their gorilla trek so that they can stop by and see the house, cat and babies; I switch on Harry Potter 4 and lie down for some relaxation time with the cat.
2:46pm- Bored with movie watching, I decide to rearrange my room, something I’ve been meaning to do ever since Mosquito Invasion 2k10. Of course, rearranging my room turns into sweeping and mopping the entire house, in anticipation of Jessica and her parent’s arrival.
3:35pm- Jessica calls, they’re on their way!! I return to my movie and start texting with Jenny, relishing in the fact that with Tigo each text is a fraction of the amount it used to be when I used MTN.
4:37pm- I hear commotion outside my gate, and then a quiet knock. Upon opening it, I see Jessica and her parents, with at least 20 neighborhood children swarming around them talking and laughing. “Jessica ari hano!!!” (Jessica is here!) Yes, kids, I see that.
4:38-5:28pm- Pandemonium. Children in the avocado tree, children in the garden, children in the trash, children in the latrine, children talking to Jessica, children babbling to her parents, children asking for photos, children looking at photos, children dancing, children screaming, children singing, children piling avocadoes into two warring piles much like they would snowballs before a snowball fight, children reading magazines, children speaking incoherent Kinyarwanda to me about the pictures in the magazine.
5:29pm- Silence. The children have departed and Jessica, her parents and I settle into the living room to talk about their visit and allow Pili to come out of her usual hiding place to be fawned over and told that not only is she a teenager, but she’s also a princess. On cue, Pili jumps into “her chair” and assumes her “princess pose”.
6:03pm- Jessica and her parents depart, leaving me with a hungry cat and a strong desire to wash off the kid germs from my hands.
6:24pm- Princess Pili has an egg in her bowl and a new flea collar around her neck. I press play on Harry Potter 5 and receive a text from my next visitors of the night, Jessi and her friends, who will be arriving from Gisenyi a little after 7 for dinner and a (free) sleepover. I lose myself in the world of Hogwarts.
7:25pm- Jessi texts, they’re at the post office, a mere 4 minute walk to my house!
7:29pm- There’s a knock on my gate and I open it to three smiling Americans, backpacks on their back and hunger on their faces.
7:45pm- After a quick costume change we’re out the door, heading to Volcana for pizza (Yes, my town has a pizza place! For $8 I can get a personal pizza with salami that in no way reminds me of Red Rocks in DC, but still satisfies my occasional pizza craving)
8:09pm- Pizza’s ordered, fantas are on the table and conversation moves from my December vacation with my parents and brother, to my 2012 European adventure with my brother, to the differences between Uganda and Rwanda)
8:53pm- Pizza arrives, commence eating.
9:22pm- There isn’t a crumb left on our plates, as we pay the bill and head home, not before being stopped by a random Rwandan saying “Amy!” in the parking lot who I must have met at some point (not that knowing my name in my town automatically means that we’ve actually met). Yes, Kevin, I’ll be sure to return to Volcana to hear you spin music one day…maybe.
9:34pm- Back at my house, we all get ready for bed, tuck in our mosquito nets and turn off the lights
Sometime before 10pm- I am passssssssssed out, exhausted from another wonderful day in Rwanda.
A somewhat ordinary, somewhat un-ordinary Friday:
5:36am – I’m awoken (as usual) by the sounds of my neighbors beginning their days: Babies crying; pots banging; bicycles, trucks and motos passing on the street outside my house; a ball bouncing against a wall. Rolling over, I do everything in my power to fall back to sleep.
6:22am- Awake again. I glance at my clock, instantly excited that I still have 40 minutes to doze and lay in bed. (insert more of “the world is awake and starting their day, you should too” sounds).
7:00am- My alarm goes off, I hit snooze.
7:04am- I remember that I keep meaning to change the snooze time on my alarm to something other than a ridiculous mere 4 minutes.
7:08am- I decide that snoozing for 4 minutes is really unnecessary, turn off my alarm and text my boss to see what time I should meet him at the office
7:10am- I attempt to quietly un-tuck my mosquito net and get out of bed, but she can’t be fooled.
7:10:30am- PiliPili cat begins her loud, obnoxious, “feed me or I’ll die, woman” cry/meow from the living room.
7:11am- I get an egg and a granola bar out of my storage closet and peel the egg while attempting to ignore Pili’s meowing and caressing of my ankles.
7:14am- Back in my room, I switch on music, eat my breakfast and get ready for my day (insert mundane activities such as getting dressed, brushing my hair and teeth, washing my face, taking my anti-malaria pill, putting on deodorant, sunscreen and makeup, etc)
7:40am- Almost ready to leave my house, I get a text from my boss saying he’s at the bank and won’t get to the office until 8:30. I settle into more music and playing with the cat, then get my bag ready for the day.
8:25am- I refill Pili’s water dish, open up a window (Pili’s version of a “cat-door”), lock my house, and emerge from my gate.
8:26am- “Amy, Amy, Amy! Bite? Tuzagusura ryari?!” I receive my usual morning greeting from the neighborhood children (Amy, Amy, Amy! What’s up? When will we visit you?) Three of my favorite girls, Sifa, Deniz and Marvee, run up to me for morning hugs and high fives. I tell them “ngiye ku kazi” (I’m going to work) and wave goodbye.
8:28am- I get to the end of my road, where the waiting moto drivers rush to me saying “Sister, twagiye?” (Sister, we go?) “Oya, murakoze” (No, thank you), I respond, (fighting the urge to say, “But if I am your sister, how is our mother?”) and begin my trek to work.
8:34am- I pass the oogling bicycle taxi boys and make my usual turn onto my shortcut to the hospital. A group of market ladies fall in step beside me, muttering something about the muzungu and if she knows Kinyarwanda. “Buhoro, buhoro” (slowly, slowly), I respond, only mildly hoping that they actually hear me. “AAAAHHH, azi Kinyarwanda!” (Ahhhh, she knows Kinyarwanda!), they exclaim. We exchange the normal greetings and questions (where are you going, where do you work, etc). As we near the hospital the one question I’m hoping they don’t ask is finally uttered: can you give me one hundred francs? Followed of course by my usual response:“Ndi umukorerabushake, simfite amafaranga, sorry” (I’m a volunteer, I don’t have money, sorry).
8:40am- I’m on the hospital grounds now, and pass my favorite cleaning lady, exchanging a smiley “Mwaramutse!” (Good morning)
8:42am- Bertin, my counterpart, is cheerily sitting at his desk when I enter our office. As we haven’t seen each other in a couple of weeks (Bertin’s been on vacation and then I was in Kigali for a couple of days) we exchange hugs and handshakes. I inquire about his wife and daughters (and cows of course), then we get down to business, planning our activities for the next few weeks, bearing in mind my training schedule and the arrival of the Books for Africa shipment.
10:19am- While I’m working on a memo to the Executive Secretary regarding further requirements for the library, Bertin suddenly tells me that he’s going to go see if the internet is working. Huh? Excuse me? Can you repeat that? I must not have heard you correctly. Apparently the hospital finally got wireless, but the signal doesn’t quite reach our office. I go back to my music and memo writing, anxiously awaiting his return.
10:56am- And Bertin’s back, with excellent news! The wireless does work; he was able to get a very fast signal while sitting in the hospital parking lot, under a grove of trees.
11:04am- Yep, he wasn’t lying about the grove of trees, the internet signal is quite impressive. I check my email, I check facebook, I check the news and download a few documents I need.
11:52am- Freezing from sitting in the shade with the cold Musanze wind whipping around me, I retreat back to our office to finish my memo and see what the plan is for the rest of the day.
12:10pm- Lunch time! I head home (fairly uneventfully actually) and get started on some lunch (totally gourmet pb&j) and chores (insert mundane activities such as bleaching water, washing dishes, sweeping, watering my plants and gathering my dirty clothes to wash)
1:51pm- Lunch is finished, chores are finished and I’m waiting for Jessica and her parents to finish their gorilla trek so that they can stop by and see the house, cat and babies; I switch on Harry Potter 4 and lie down for some relaxation time with the cat.
2:46pm- Bored with movie watching, I decide to rearrange my room, something I’ve been meaning to do ever since Mosquito Invasion 2k10. Of course, rearranging my room turns into sweeping and mopping the entire house, in anticipation of Jessica and her parent’s arrival.
3:35pm- Jessica calls, they’re on their way!! I return to my movie and start texting with Jenny, relishing in the fact that with Tigo each text is a fraction of the amount it used to be when I used MTN.
4:37pm- I hear commotion outside my gate, and then a quiet knock. Upon opening it, I see Jessica and her parents, with at least 20 neighborhood children swarming around them talking and laughing. “Jessica ari hano!!!” (Jessica is here!) Yes, kids, I see that.
4:38-5:28pm- Pandemonium. Children in the avocado tree, children in the garden, children in the trash, children in the latrine, children talking to Jessica, children babbling to her parents, children asking for photos, children looking at photos, children dancing, children screaming, children singing, children piling avocadoes into two warring piles much like they would snowballs before a snowball fight, children reading magazines, children speaking incoherent Kinyarwanda to me about the pictures in the magazine.
5:29pm- Silence. The children have departed and Jessica, her parents and I settle into the living room to talk about their visit and allow Pili to come out of her usual hiding place to be fawned over and told that not only is she a teenager, but she’s also a princess. On cue, Pili jumps into “her chair” and assumes her “princess pose”.
6:03pm- Jessica and her parents depart, leaving me with a hungry cat and a strong desire to wash off the kid germs from my hands.
6:24pm- Princess Pili has an egg in her bowl and a new flea collar around her neck. I press play on Harry Potter 5 and receive a text from my next visitors of the night, Jessi and her friends, who will be arriving from Gisenyi a little after 7 for dinner and a (free) sleepover. I lose myself in the world of Hogwarts.
7:25pm- Jessi texts, they’re at the post office, a mere 4 minute walk to my house!
7:29pm- There’s a knock on my gate and I open it to three smiling Americans, backpacks on their back and hunger on their faces.
7:45pm- After a quick costume change we’re out the door, heading to Volcana for pizza (Yes, my town has a pizza place! For $8 I can get a personal pizza with salami that in no way reminds me of Red Rocks in DC, but still satisfies my occasional pizza craving)
8:09pm- Pizza’s ordered, fantas are on the table and conversation moves from my December vacation with my parents and brother, to my 2012 European adventure with my brother, to the differences between Uganda and Rwanda)
8:53pm- Pizza arrives, commence eating.
9:22pm- There isn’t a crumb left on our plates, as we pay the bill and head home, not before being stopped by a random Rwandan saying “Amy!” in the parking lot who I must have met at some point (not that knowing my name in my town automatically means that we’ve actually met). Yes, Kevin, I’ll be sure to return to Volcana to hear you spin music one day…maybe.
9:34pm- Back at my house, we all get ready for bed, tuck in our mosquito nets and turn off the lights
Sometime before 10pm- I am passssssssssed out, exhausted from another wonderful day in Rwanda.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Remember that time.
Remember that time you were thoroughly impressed that the restaurant staff were actually cleaning the tables, until you noticed that they were cleaning them with insecticide.
Remember that time you saw the moto driver chug a beer, place the bottle back on the bar, put his helmet on and go to work. (Eeek.)
Remember that time Zackhshowed what his director’s cut of Troy would look like on the projector screen, cutting down almost 3 hours into a 25 minute highlight reel.
Remember that time you came home late from watching a World Cup game and your cat was nowhere to be seen, but after searching your entire property you finally found her high up on a branch of your avocado tree crying and meowing, unable to get down; and it only took 45 minutes, a lot of coaxing with cat food and you finally scurrying up the tree branch at midnight to get her safely back on the ground.
Remember that time you came home again to a missing cat and found her either fighting or frolicking with a stray cat amongst your vegetable garden; and that you woke up at 3am to find the stray cat meowing outside your window, hoping Pili could come out to play again.
Remember that time you bucket bathed and washed your hair on the same day (and for the first time in too many days to even mention here) and you jumped into the CCHIPs car and Lauren exclaimed “oh my goodness, you smell like marzipan”. Maybe you should bathe more often?
Remember that time you wished you hadn’t walked into town and weighed yourself down with three bags of food for the long trek home, but then suddenly looked up and saw Mbonesa, your driver, who stopped, pointed to the front seat, and gave you and all of your bags a much needed ride home.
Remember that time you caught your 4 year old neighbor wearing a plastic bag on her head like a chef’s hat and using sugarcane to “conduct” the cornstalks in front of her.
Remember that time you went to Gorillas hotel on a very cold day for internet and mentioned to your waitress how cold you were, and within 10 minutes had yummy hot chocolate, mini waffles to snack on and a blanket over your lap, all courtesy of your lovely hotel friends.
Remember that time you discovered that your garden was in fact producing yummy but mutant carrots the size of your forearm.
Remember that time your favorite bank teller was wearing a pin stripe suit with matching bright pink shirt and tie, and you got to use your favorite Kinyarwanda compliment: Wambaye neza! (which means, “you put on clothes well!”)
Remember that time you realized you live just off of Umuhanda w’Amahoro, which means Street of Peace.
Remember that time you were putting on the lotion that your grandma sent, once again saying “geez, this lotion is the weirdest lotion ever” and then looked at the bottle and realized that it was in fact body wash, not lotion at all.
Remember that time you went into the bathroom at the bar and realized there was (as usual) no toilet paper, but then remembered that you actually had two rolls of toilet paper in your bag that you’d just bought at the store. Good timing!
Remember that time Mama Providence brought you an entire bag of ibigori (corn) so the next day you decided to return the favor by giving her a bunch of ibitoki (plantains), and what started as Providence and three children in your yard turned into every child from your neighborhood invading your compound talking, laughing and singing. If only you’d been able to capture on video the hilarity of Providence whacking at a tree with a machete while two dozen children hung from the branches of your avocado tree.
Remember that time you were walking to work and noticed that all the corn had been cut down and maybe you needed to think of a new name for the Children of the Corn.
Remember that time you were about to tell the middle-aged man in the full suit, tie and shiny shoes that he looked smart, but then he turned around and you noticed his messenger bag was plastered with pictures from High School Musical.
Remember that time the sewing kit your mom sent you actually came in handy, as you and three of your friends went to work putting new wicks into your kerosene stove and your foyer began to resemble something more like an operating room with people calling out “thread, scissors, pliers!” much like they would “suture, scalpel, forceps!”. That grilled cheese sure was worth it though!
Remember that time your shoes, hairbrush, stove and bed all broke in the same week. Yeah, that sucked.
Remember that time you had some friends in town for a training and they were staying at a super nice hotel, so you borrowed one of their keys and had what was probably the best hot shower of your entire life. And don’t forget later that night when you ended up actually sleeping at the hotel in her king size bed and watching CNN on the television.
Remember that time you woke up from a nap curled up with the cat and realized you may not be only a dog person after all.
Remember that time you walked out of your gate and three separate groups of children yelled “Amy” while grinning and waving like crazy, and you fell in love with your life just a little bit more.
Remember that time you reached the final page of your journal and decided to re-read what you had written from cover to cover, once again experiencing the ups and the downs, the good times and bad, from the mundane to the extreme, and everything in between. And remember when you got to one of the most difficult entries and a butterfly fluttered through your window into your room. Remember, you’re never alone.
Remember that time you saw the moto driver chug a beer, place the bottle back on the bar, put his helmet on and go to work. (Eeek.)
Remember that time Zackhshowed what his director’s cut of Troy would look like on the projector screen, cutting down almost 3 hours into a 25 minute highlight reel.
Remember that time you came home late from watching a World Cup game and your cat was nowhere to be seen, but after searching your entire property you finally found her high up on a branch of your avocado tree crying and meowing, unable to get down; and it only took 45 minutes, a lot of coaxing with cat food and you finally scurrying up the tree branch at midnight to get her safely back on the ground.
Remember that time you came home again to a missing cat and found her either fighting or frolicking with a stray cat amongst your vegetable garden; and that you woke up at 3am to find the stray cat meowing outside your window, hoping Pili could come out to play again.
Remember that time you bucket bathed and washed your hair on the same day (and for the first time in too many days to even mention here) and you jumped into the CCHIPs car and Lauren exclaimed “oh my goodness, you smell like marzipan”. Maybe you should bathe more often?
Remember that time you wished you hadn’t walked into town and weighed yourself down with three bags of food for the long trek home, but then suddenly looked up and saw Mbonesa, your driver, who stopped, pointed to the front seat, and gave you and all of your bags a much needed ride home.
Remember that time you caught your 4 year old neighbor wearing a plastic bag on her head like a chef’s hat and using sugarcane to “conduct” the cornstalks in front of her.
Remember that time you went to Gorillas hotel on a very cold day for internet and mentioned to your waitress how cold you were, and within 10 minutes had yummy hot chocolate, mini waffles to snack on and a blanket over your lap, all courtesy of your lovely hotel friends.
Remember that time you discovered that your garden was in fact producing yummy but mutant carrots the size of your forearm.
Remember that time your favorite bank teller was wearing a pin stripe suit with matching bright pink shirt and tie, and you got to use your favorite Kinyarwanda compliment: Wambaye neza! (which means, “you put on clothes well!”)
Remember that time you realized you live just off of Umuhanda w’Amahoro, which means Street of Peace.
Remember that time you were putting on the lotion that your grandma sent, once again saying “geez, this lotion is the weirdest lotion ever” and then looked at the bottle and realized that it was in fact body wash, not lotion at all.
Remember that time you went into the bathroom at the bar and realized there was (as usual) no toilet paper, but then remembered that you actually had two rolls of toilet paper in your bag that you’d just bought at the store. Good timing!
Remember that time Mama Providence brought you an entire bag of ibigori (corn) so the next day you decided to return the favor by giving her a bunch of ibitoki (plantains), and what started as Providence and three children in your yard turned into every child from your neighborhood invading your compound talking, laughing and singing. If only you’d been able to capture on video the hilarity of Providence whacking at a tree with a machete while two dozen children hung from the branches of your avocado tree.
Remember that time you were walking to work and noticed that all the corn had been cut down and maybe you needed to think of a new name for the Children of the Corn.
Remember that time you were about to tell the middle-aged man in the full suit, tie and shiny shoes that he looked smart, but then he turned around and you noticed his messenger bag was plastered with pictures from High School Musical.
Remember that time the sewing kit your mom sent you actually came in handy, as you and three of your friends went to work putting new wicks into your kerosene stove and your foyer began to resemble something more like an operating room with people calling out “thread, scissors, pliers!” much like they would “suture, scalpel, forceps!”. That grilled cheese sure was worth it though!
Remember that time your shoes, hairbrush, stove and bed all broke in the same week. Yeah, that sucked.
Remember that time you had some friends in town for a training and they were staying at a super nice hotel, so you borrowed one of their keys and had what was probably the best hot shower of your entire life. And don’t forget later that night when you ended up actually sleeping at the hotel in her king size bed and watching CNN on the television.
Remember that time you woke up from a nap curled up with the cat and realized you may not be only a dog person after all.
Remember that time you walked out of your gate and three separate groups of children yelled “Amy” while grinning and waving like crazy, and you fell in love with your life just a little bit more.
Remember that time you reached the final page of your journal and decided to re-read what you had written from cover to cover, once again experiencing the ups and the downs, the good times and bad, from the mundane to the extreme, and everything in between. And remember when you got to one of the most difficult entries and a butterfly fluttered through your window into your room. Remember, you’re never alone.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Returning to my roots
As I pass the five month mark in Rwanda and two month mark at site, I thought it time to return to where it all began: The Southern Province. It was perfect timing too, as one of my friends in Musanze, Kelly, was hoping to see a bit more of the country before she goes back to America next month. With our other friend, Lauren, we planned an epic weekend touring Nyanza and Butare; there would be ice cream, there would be pork, there would be host family visits, there would be French baguette and there would be market exploration.
After spending Friday evening with Peace Corps friends bidding goodbye to one of our own, I met up with Lauren and Kelly in Kigali and boarded the always adventure-filled Volcano bus to Butare. As we drove out of Kigali, I was comforted by the familiar ride: familiar sights, familiar twists and turns in the road. And yet, as I gazed out the window, I couldn’t help but notice how brown everything was. To the non-Rwandan eye (or eye of someone who hasn’t lived in Rwanda for 5 months) it would still seem to be beautiful, green Rwanda. But for me, I saw the toll that dry season had taken; the effects were much harsher than they are even in Musanze, which still sees rain every couple of weeks. The bus continued hurtling down the road, carrying us on our way South. I settled into my iPod and staring out the window; Lauren settled in for a nap; and Kelly settled into a conversation with the Rwandan next to her. After an hour and a half, we passed the turnoff to Nyanza, so I knew we had anywhere from 30 to 45 minutes left on our journey (depending on how suicidal the driver was) and started to get excited. Two rows in front of us, a little boy was excited too. So excited he kept looking back at us, waving, smiling and giggling. We looked back, we waved back, we smiled back, we giggled back. Then all of a sudden, the boy was being passed back. To us. As he sat on Lauren’s lap, we started asking the usual questions. Witwa nde? (What is your name?) Ugiye he? (Where are you going?) Utuye I Kigali? (Do you live in Kigali?) Ufite imyaka n’angahe? (How old are you?) And wouldn’t you know, he started answering back to us in English. This little man, with the beautifully large brown eyes, answering in perfect English. His name was Gardise and he was five years old, though looked the size of maybe a 3 or 4 year old. He was a perfect angel and spent the rest of the trip flipping through a magazine, listening to music with the headphones of the Rwandan next to Kelly, and sleeping on Lauren’s lap. And then suddenly we were climbing the familiar hill and entering the town center of Butare.
The first people we saw were Jessica and Aime, who we’d been hoping to have lunch with, but instead had to settle for a quick five minute chat in the gas station parking lot before they boarded their bus to Kigali. After they left, we ventured across the street to Matar Supermarket and sat down for lunch at Cheers with Madison and Jacelyn, two PCV friends. Madison recommended the burrito, which wasn’t even on the menu, and although it was nothing like Chipotle (oh, Chipotle, how I miss thee!) it still did not disappoint. After lunch Madison showed us to the Africana hotel, where for $6 a person we got a room with a huge bed, private bathroom and even a small sitting room. Then we got to wandering. Our first stop: ice cream. Many of you probably know about the ice cream shop ( http://bluemarbledreams.wordpress.com/our-projects/inzozi-nziza-rwanda/ ) that opened in Butare, since it was opened by American’s who own a Brooklyn ice cream shop. It’s called Inzozi Nziza (which basically translates Sweet Dreams) uses local products and hired an all Rwandan women staff. Well we made it to the ice cream shop, but due to a city wide power outage, there was no ice cream to be had, although the carrot cake was delish! Afterwards, Jacelyn pointed us in the direction of the National University of Rwanda (NUR), nonchalantly mentioning that just past the campus there’s an arboretum, with monkeys. Huh? Monkeys you say? We were sold, and quickly walked down the road towards the university, in search of monkeys. NUR’s campus turned out to be beautiful; simple brick buildings tucked into grounds covered with towering trees, and a labyrinth of walking paths carving their way through green grass. As we were attempting to find the alleged “arboretum” Kelly turned to her right and exclaimed “monkey!!”. Sure enough, there were the monkeys, and not just a couple, but dozens of them! They were in the trees, they were in the grass, they were in the road, they were frolicking with the goats. There was a man and a small child there too, feeding them. We greeted them and I asked what he was feeding them. Ibumbati, he said; cassava. The little kid was playing with the monkeys, walking up to them and making growling noises at them, only to run away quickly giggling. The moment was perfect and soon we were surrounded by monkeys in every direction; I think I took enough pictures to cover an entire wall of my house with them.
After the monkey show, we returned to our hotel in town, to relax before finding dinner. That’s when I looked down and saw how ridiculously dirty my feet were. Thank you, dry season. I remarked that if you looked at just my feet I looked like a different ethnicity. Lauren and Kelly did not disagree. Needless to say, it was time to see if the shower worked.
Following our relaxation time, we met up with Lindsay, a current education PCV, at Igichumbas for beer and akabenzi! Akabenzi is pork; more like amazingly delicious pork, onions and spices that you order by the kilo and devour in less than five minutes. Wash it down with a room temperature Primus over some delightful conversation, and you have yourself a wonderful evening in Butare.
The next morning we caught an early bus to Nyanza, my old home. As we drove into town I was struck by a flurry of emotions; happy with how familiar it all looked, excited to show my friends around my old stomping grounds, nervous to see my host family again after a couple of months away. Our first stop was the French bakery in town, to buy a crunchy on the outside/soft on the inside three foot long baguette, for the grand total of about 60 cents. Baguette in hand, we wandered to Blue Bar, my old hangout bar from training, which was luckily open despite it being 9am on a Sunday. We ordered fantas, and began munching on our yummy breakfast, ignoring the stares of the two men drinking beer in the cabana next to us. After we ate I gave Lauren and Kelly a quick tour of town, showing them where our training center was, the road to my old house, the market, and the stores we frequented for Rwandan fabric, yogurt and Snickers. And then we were off to my host family’s house, after a quick stop for lollipops for the kiddies. Unfortunately, our timing wasn’t the best, as most of my family was at church, but I was still able to catch up with my mom, Jeanne, and two of my host brothers. It was nice to see them, to chat with them, and to realize I haven’t lost as much Kinyarwanda as I thought I had. The visit, while lovely, was too short, and after a quick photo op we boarded another Volcano bus bound for Kigali.
The final highlights of the trip included scrumptious coffee at Bourbon, buying out all of the earrings at the Kimironko market and making an unscheduled stop on the ride back to Musanze so that two passengers could scurry into the woods for a potty break. At home later that night, all I wanted was a hot bucket bath and a long night’s sleep, but I couldn’t help but reflect on the hilarious adventures from the weekend. It’s great to remember where I’ve been, all the things I’ve already done these past five months, and look ahead to the future. Future weekend trips, future new experiences, future work endeavors, future successes, future challenges. So, stay tuned to see what the future truly holds.
After spending Friday evening with Peace Corps friends bidding goodbye to one of our own, I met up with Lauren and Kelly in Kigali and boarded the always adventure-filled Volcano bus to Butare. As we drove out of Kigali, I was comforted by the familiar ride: familiar sights, familiar twists and turns in the road. And yet, as I gazed out the window, I couldn’t help but notice how brown everything was. To the non-Rwandan eye (or eye of someone who hasn’t lived in Rwanda for 5 months) it would still seem to be beautiful, green Rwanda. But for me, I saw the toll that dry season had taken; the effects were much harsher than they are even in Musanze, which still sees rain every couple of weeks. The bus continued hurtling down the road, carrying us on our way South. I settled into my iPod and staring out the window; Lauren settled in for a nap; and Kelly settled into a conversation with the Rwandan next to her. After an hour and a half, we passed the turnoff to Nyanza, so I knew we had anywhere from 30 to 45 minutes left on our journey (depending on how suicidal the driver was) and started to get excited. Two rows in front of us, a little boy was excited too. So excited he kept looking back at us, waving, smiling and giggling. We looked back, we waved back, we smiled back, we giggled back. Then all of a sudden, the boy was being passed back. To us. As he sat on Lauren’s lap, we started asking the usual questions. Witwa nde? (What is your name?) Ugiye he? (Where are you going?) Utuye I Kigali? (Do you live in Kigali?) Ufite imyaka n’angahe? (How old are you?) And wouldn’t you know, he started answering back to us in English. This little man, with the beautifully large brown eyes, answering in perfect English. His name was Gardise and he was five years old, though looked the size of maybe a 3 or 4 year old. He was a perfect angel and spent the rest of the trip flipping through a magazine, listening to music with the headphones of the Rwandan next to Kelly, and sleeping on Lauren’s lap. And then suddenly we were climbing the familiar hill and entering the town center of Butare.
The first people we saw were Jessica and Aime, who we’d been hoping to have lunch with, but instead had to settle for a quick five minute chat in the gas station parking lot before they boarded their bus to Kigali. After they left, we ventured across the street to Matar Supermarket and sat down for lunch at Cheers with Madison and Jacelyn, two PCV friends. Madison recommended the burrito, which wasn’t even on the menu, and although it was nothing like Chipotle (oh, Chipotle, how I miss thee!) it still did not disappoint. After lunch Madison showed us to the Africana hotel, where for $6 a person we got a room with a huge bed, private bathroom and even a small sitting room. Then we got to wandering. Our first stop: ice cream. Many of you probably know about the ice cream shop ( http://bluemarbledreams.wordpress.com/our-projects/inzozi-nziza-rwanda/ ) that opened in Butare, since it was opened by American’s who own a Brooklyn ice cream shop. It’s called Inzozi Nziza (which basically translates Sweet Dreams) uses local products and hired an all Rwandan women staff. Well we made it to the ice cream shop, but due to a city wide power outage, there was no ice cream to be had, although the carrot cake was delish! Afterwards, Jacelyn pointed us in the direction of the National University of Rwanda (NUR), nonchalantly mentioning that just past the campus there’s an arboretum, with monkeys. Huh? Monkeys you say? We were sold, and quickly walked down the road towards the university, in search of monkeys. NUR’s campus turned out to be beautiful; simple brick buildings tucked into grounds covered with towering trees, and a labyrinth of walking paths carving their way through green grass. As we were attempting to find the alleged “arboretum” Kelly turned to her right and exclaimed “monkey!!”. Sure enough, there were the monkeys, and not just a couple, but dozens of them! They were in the trees, they were in the grass, they were in the road, they were frolicking with the goats. There was a man and a small child there too, feeding them. We greeted them and I asked what he was feeding them. Ibumbati, he said; cassava. The little kid was playing with the monkeys, walking up to them and making growling noises at them, only to run away quickly giggling. The moment was perfect and soon we were surrounded by monkeys in every direction; I think I took enough pictures to cover an entire wall of my house with them.
After the monkey show, we returned to our hotel in town, to relax before finding dinner. That’s when I looked down and saw how ridiculously dirty my feet were. Thank you, dry season. I remarked that if you looked at just my feet I looked like a different ethnicity. Lauren and Kelly did not disagree. Needless to say, it was time to see if the shower worked.
Following our relaxation time, we met up with Lindsay, a current education PCV, at Igichumbas for beer and akabenzi! Akabenzi is pork; more like amazingly delicious pork, onions and spices that you order by the kilo and devour in less than five minutes. Wash it down with a room temperature Primus over some delightful conversation, and you have yourself a wonderful evening in Butare.
The next morning we caught an early bus to Nyanza, my old home. As we drove into town I was struck by a flurry of emotions; happy with how familiar it all looked, excited to show my friends around my old stomping grounds, nervous to see my host family again after a couple of months away. Our first stop was the French bakery in town, to buy a crunchy on the outside/soft on the inside three foot long baguette, for the grand total of about 60 cents. Baguette in hand, we wandered to Blue Bar, my old hangout bar from training, which was luckily open despite it being 9am on a Sunday. We ordered fantas, and began munching on our yummy breakfast, ignoring the stares of the two men drinking beer in the cabana next to us. After we ate I gave Lauren and Kelly a quick tour of town, showing them where our training center was, the road to my old house, the market, and the stores we frequented for Rwandan fabric, yogurt and Snickers. And then we were off to my host family’s house, after a quick stop for lollipops for the kiddies. Unfortunately, our timing wasn’t the best, as most of my family was at church, but I was still able to catch up with my mom, Jeanne, and two of my host brothers. It was nice to see them, to chat with them, and to realize I haven’t lost as much Kinyarwanda as I thought I had. The visit, while lovely, was too short, and after a quick photo op we boarded another Volcano bus bound for Kigali.
The final highlights of the trip included scrumptious coffee at Bourbon, buying out all of the earrings at the Kimironko market and making an unscheduled stop on the ride back to Musanze so that two passengers could scurry into the woods for a potty break. At home later that night, all I wanted was a hot bucket bath and a long night’s sleep, but I couldn’t help but reflect on the hilarious adventures from the weekend. It’s great to remember where I’ve been, all the things I’ve already done these past five months, and look ahead to the future. Future weekend trips, future new experiences, future work endeavors, future successes, future challenges. So, stay tuned to see what the future truly holds.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Tales from Rwanda (and a vocabulary lesson)
Guhinga: To farm; to cultivate (or in this case: to weed)
I’m apparently incapable of taking care of my property. I’m going to blame the fact that 1) I’ve never really had a green thumb, 2) my backyard is twice the size of my house, and 3) I’m not home too often during daylight hours for long stretches of time that I can commit to weeding and gardening. That being said, I wasn’t surprised when Mama Providence (my favorite neighbor who lives across the street) came over one night to take some of my plantains and exclaimed how unkempt my yard and driveway were. Or at least I can assume she was scolding me for my lack of property maintenance, since I only understood every 3rd word she said as well as her animated hand gestures. She said her and her children would be back on Saturday to help me, took her plantains and bid me good-night.
Fast forward to Saturday morning when I was attempting to sleep in (of course I call it sleeping in when it was 8:30am) and there was a knock on my gate. I opened it to a smiling Providence and three of her children, Jono, Grace and Sifa, who have all become three of my favorite neighborhood children. We quickly got to work pulling weeds and sweeping my driveway, while I settled Jono down on my porch with some coloring books and a yo-yo. We chatted while we worked (in a wonderful mix of Kinyarwanda, French and English), discussing where I was from, where I work, church and how I’d like to attend (and how ecstatic my parents would be if I went as well), the children’s school schedule, and my family’s visit in December. As the morning went on I stole glances at Mama Providence, observing her weeding technique in the hopes of perfecting my own. It was a slow process (considering in what disarray the driveway was…cue blushing from guilt) but within a couple of hours we had the driveway and the side of my house completed. Mama Providence said they would return the next weekend to help with the backyard, and I thanked them profusely, shared lollipops with the kids, and bid them good-day. When I looked down at my hands, I realized how dirty and cut-up they were, but I didn’t care a bit. Not only did I have a pristine driveway to admire, but I was breaking out of my comfort-zone, embracing moments where I was forced to converse in Kinyarwanda, and attempting this crazy thing called integration.
Batisimu: Baptism
I woke up one morning to a text message from my Rwandan friend, Janviere. The text was written all in English, which Janviere is only beginning to learn, and yet it was sincere and elegant. It read: “Dearest! With great pleasure we are happy to invite you in baptism ceremony of our adoptive orphan child which will take place on 10th July at 2pm. It will be greatest of your presence with all of your friends at our home. You are welcome!!” I couldn’t help but smile, knowing how much effort she must have put in to construct this text in English. Then I remembered the day Janviere had told us about the girl she adopted, a genocide orphan, now 19 years old, who she had met one day on the street. Janviere became my first Rwandan friend in Musanze, after we were introduced to each other by my old sitemate, Jessica. Janviere works at the house of some NGO workers in town, and her husband, Damien, is a chef at a restaurant in town. They are young, lively and two of the kindest and most welcoming people I have met here. Janviere taught me how to cook plantains, and we’ve spent time sitting in my living room reading American magazines, smelling the perfume ads and disapproving of all the ridiculous American fashion trends. Whenever I visit their home I eat like a queen: brochettes, fries, beans, cassava, fruit, tea, fanta. We giggle as I attempt to speak Kinyarwanda and they attempt to speak English, all while enjoying the latest Rwandan music videos on their television. I was incredibly touched to be invited to join them for such a special occasion as the baptismal party of the newest member of their family, and looked forward to it all week.
We were already going to be arriving fashionably late, as Jessica, Aime, Emma and I were coming straight from a librarian training in Kigali. I ran home to change and then meet the others at Janviere’s house. I decided to wear the same dress I’d worn for swear-in, so it goes without saying I got many a glance, double-take, stare, and comment as I walked in my bright, flowy dress on a busy road that goes all the way to Uganda. As I turned to walk down the hill to Janviere’s house, the first thing I saw was the large canopy they had constructed in their compound, and the second thing was the dozen of Rwandan faces that turned to look at me as I approached. I entered the tent, searching frantically for a recognizable face; luckily it was Damien’s, followed by Jessica, Emma and Aime. But before I knew it I was being paraded around to meet all of Janviere’s family and friends, including their new baptized daughter, dressed beautifully in a crisp white skirt suit with matching hat (absolutely adorable). Finally, I was given a towering plate of food to eat while sitting in front of all of the other guests. I quickly asked Jessica and Emma if this had happened to them as well and they gave me a knowing glance with a hushed “Yes, of course”. So I settled into my feast, with 100 eyes watching my every move. The food was great, but all I could think was “Please, let me not accidentally miss my mouth and drop food all over my dress and the floor with all of these people staring at me.” Then the dancing began, which I was more than happy to simply sit and observe, as per usual it did not disappoint. At one point a huge horde of children came running in, creating a huge dust-storm that they then danced around in before giggling and retreating back outside. Then suddenly it began to rain, a much needed downpour in the middle of the dry season, and it was as we were being ushered inside to wait out the storm that I reflected on how equal parts awkward, hilarious and lovely my first Rwandan social event was, despite not even seeing the actual baptism.
Ibitabo: Books; Amahugurwa: Training
One of Jessica’s biggest projects since arriving in Rwanda has been the Rwanda Books for Peace Project; 8,000 donated books from America are currently being shipped to Rwanda, where they will be distributed to districts around Rwanda to start libraries at schools, health clinics and district offices. Musanze is one of those lucky districts, and next month (thanks to Jessica’s blood, sweat and tears) I’ll help to open Musanze’s district public library. The district has already set aside rooms for the library, desks and bookshelves and has hired a librarian, Gilbertine. In early August, 1,000 books and four computers will arrive and Gilbertine and I will begin the long process of starting and maintaining a public library.
Last week Gilbertine and I attended a two day librarian training in Kigali, covering such topics as library organization, cataloging, creative library usage, and fostering a culture of literacy in our communities. I must admit, memories from my years of working at the university library at GW came flowing back to me; all those years behind the periodicals desk and pushing my cart around the third floor while I restocked the newspapers, magazines and literary journals (yes, it was as fascinating as it sounds, it’s ok to be jealous of the thrilling life that I led). I’m not embarrassed to say that I’m extremely excited for every aspect of starting up the library, despite the inevitable challenges that we’ll encounter along the way. The library will be an ongoing secondary project for me, somewhere I can spend a couple of days a week, encouraging reading and research skills among the community; and hopefully soon I can even begin English and IT classes there. It’s a perfect way to promote the 2nd and 3rd goals of Peace Corps: “Helping promote better understanding of Americans on the part of peoples served” and “Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans”. And as such, don’t be surprised if you not only hear a lot about this over the next two years, but are even asked to contribute in some way. Until then, though, you can find me cataloging and organizing 1,000 books and designing library membership cards.
Gusura: To visit
After the baptism on Saturday, Jessica stayed in Musanze so that she could get a rejuvenating dose of her old home town. She came over Sunday morning, bearing fresh, greasy, delicious chapatti. We had some breakfast and looked through American gossip magazines, judging the fashion, the people, the stories, per usual. Then there was a knock at the gate, and we immediately knew who it was. And so began Kid Invasion 2k10. Soon my backyard was overrun with neighborhood children: climbing the avocado tree; lining up on one of my fallen plantain tree like a log laying across the banks of a river; sneaking into my trash pit to see what articles they could steal to make toys out of (Jessica told me that she once saw children wearing jewelry they had made out of her bank statement papers); reading magazines; dancing and singing Rwandan songs before breaking into a fantastic rendition of Shakira’s Waka Waka - This Time for Africa, dance moves included. (Yes I got video, so one day you shall see it too!). After the kiddies had amassed a towering pile of avocadoes we helped take them across the street to their respective homes, and visit Mama Providence. As we sat in Providence’s living room with her brother we discussed (and by “we” I mean Jessica, Providence and her brother, with me simply trying to follow the conversation and usually only responding in one word answers to any question that Providence or her brother asked) why Jessica moved to Kigali, our jobs, church and Jessica’s parents upcoming visit. It was a lovely time, over too quickly, and soon we were on our way back to my house, Providence following behind asking if we wanted any corn to take with us. We retreated back into my now quiet and peaceful house and relaxed for a bit, laughing about all the events of the past few hours. Then we were off to town for a yummy Rwandan buffet lunch at Vision 2020, where we made fun of the ridiculous 90’s American music videos they were playing on the tv and agreed what a wonderful visit it truly had been.
I’m apparently incapable of taking care of my property. I’m going to blame the fact that 1) I’ve never really had a green thumb, 2) my backyard is twice the size of my house, and 3) I’m not home too often during daylight hours for long stretches of time that I can commit to weeding and gardening. That being said, I wasn’t surprised when Mama Providence (my favorite neighbor who lives across the street) came over one night to take some of my plantains and exclaimed how unkempt my yard and driveway were. Or at least I can assume she was scolding me for my lack of property maintenance, since I only understood every 3rd word she said as well as her animated hand gestures. She said her and her children would be back on Saturday to help me, took her plantains and bid me good-night.
Fast forward to Saturday morning when I was attempting to sleep in (of course I call it sleeping in when it was 8:30am) and there was a knock on my gate. I opened it to a smiling Providence and three of her children, Jono, Grace and Sifa, who have all become three of my favorite neighborhood children. We quickly got to work pulling weeds and sweeping my driveway, while I settled Jono down on my porch with some coloring books and a yo-yo. We chatted while we worked (in a wonderful mix of Kinyarwanda, French and English), discussing where I was from, where I work, church and how I’d like to attend (and how ecstatic my parents would be if I went as well), the children’s school schedule, and my family’s visit in December. As the morning went on I stole glances at Mama Providence, observing her weeding technique in the hopes of perfecting my own. It was a slow process (considering in what disarray the driveway was…cue blushing from guilt) but within a couple of hours we had the driveway and the side of my house completed. Mama Providence said they would return the next weekend to help with the backyard, and I thanked them profusely, shared lollipops with the kids, and bid them good-day. When I looked down at my hands, I realized how dirty and cut-up they were, but I didn’t care a bit. Not only did I have a pristine driveway to admire, but I was breaking out of my comfort-zone, embracing moments where I was forced to converse in Kinyarwanda, and attempting this crazy thing called integration.
Batisimu: Baptism
I woke up one morning to a text message from my Rwandan friend, Janviere. The text was written all in English, which Janviere is only beginning to learn, and yet it was sincere and elegant. It read: “Dearest! With great pleasure we are happy to invite you in baptism ceremony of our adoptive orphan child which will take place on 10th July at 2pm. It will be greatest of your presence with all of your friends at our home. You are welcome!!” I couldn’t help but smile, knowing how much effort she must have put in to construct this text in English. Then I remembered the day Janviere had told us about the girl she adopted, a genocide orphan, now 19 years old, who she had met one day on the street. Janviere became my first Rwandan friend in Musanze, after we were introduced to each other by my old sitemate, Jessica. Janviere works at the house of some NGO workers in town, and her husband, Damien, is a chef at a restaurant in town. They are young, lively and two of the kindest and most welcoming people I have met here. Janviere taught me how to cook plantains, and we’ve spent time sitting in my living room reading American magazines, smelling the perfume ads and disapproving of all the ridiculous American fashion trends. Whenever I visit their home I eat like a queen: brochettes, fries, beans, cassava, fruit, tea, fanta. We giggle as I attempt to speak Kinyarwanda and they attempt to speak English, all while enjoying the latest Rwandan music videos on their television. I was incredibly touched to be invited to join them for such a special occasion as the baptismal party of the newest member of their family, and looked forward to it all week.
We were already going to be arriving fashionably late, as Jessica, Aime, Emma and I were coming straight from a librarian training in Kigali. I ran home to change and then meet the others at Janviere’s house. I decided to wear the same dress I’d worn for swear-in, so it goes without saying I got many a glance, double-take, stare, and comment as I walked in my bright, flowy dress on a busy road that goes all the way to Uganda. As I turned to walk down the hill to Janviere’s house, the first thing I saw was the large canopy they had constructed in their compound, and the second thing was the dozen of Rwandan faces that turned to look at me as I approached. I entered the tent, searching frantically for a recognizable face; luckily it was Damien’s, followed by Jessica, Emma and Aime. But before I knew it I was being paraded around to meet all of Janviere’s family and friends, including their new baptized daughter, dressed beautifully in a crisp white skirt suit with matching hat (absolutely adorable). Finally, I was given a towering plate of food to eat while sitting in front of all of the other guests. I quickly asked Jessica and Emma if this had happened to them as well and they gave me a knowing glance with a hushed “Yes, of course”. So I settled into my feast, with 100 eyes watching my every move. The food was great, but all I could think was “Please, let me not accidentally miss my mouth and drop food all over my dress and the floor with all of these people staring at me.” Then the dancing began, which I was more than happy to simply sit and observe, as per usual it did not disappoint. At one point a huge horde of children came running in, creating a huge dust-storm that they then danced around in before giggling and retreating back outside. Then suddenly it began to rain, a much needed downpour in the middle of the dry season, and it was as we were being ushered inside to wait out the storm that I reflected on how equal parts awkward, hilarious and lovely my first Rwandan social event was, despite not even seeing the actual baptism.
Ibitabo: Books; Amahugurwa: Training
One of Jessica’s biggest projects since arriving in Rwanda has been the Rwanda Books for Peace Project; 8,000 donated books from America are currently being shipped to Rwanda, where they will be distributed to districts around Rwanda to start libraries at schools, health clinics and district offices. Musanze is one of those lucky districts, and next month (thanks to Jessica’s blood, sweat and tears) I’ll help to open Musanze’s district public library. The district has already set aside rooms for the library, desks and bookshelves and has hired a librarian, Gilbertine. In early August, 1,000 books and four computers will arrive and Gilbertine and I will begin the long process of starting and maintaining a public library.
Last week Gilbertine and I attended a two day librarian training in Kigali, covering such topics as library organization, cataloging, creative library usage, and fostering a culture of literacy in our communities. I must admit, memories from my years of working at the university library at GW came flowing back to me; all those years behind the periodicals desk and pushing my cart around the third floor while I restocked the newspapers, magazines and literary journals (yes, it was as fascinating as it sounds, it’s ok to be jealous of the thrilling life that I led). I’m not embarrassed to say that I’m extremely excited for every aspect of starting up the library, despite the inevitable challenges that we’ll encounter along the way. The library will be an ongoing secondary project for me, somewhere I can spend a couple of days a week, encouraging reading and research skills among the community; and hopefully soon I can even begin English and IT classes there. It’s a perfect way to promote the 2nd and 3rd goals of Peace Corps: “Helping promote better understanding of Americans on the part of peoples served” and “Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans”. And as such, don’t be surprised if you not only hear a lot about this over the next two years, but are even asked to contribute in some way. Until then, though, you can find me cataloging and organizing 1,000 books and designing library membership cards.
Gusura: To visit
After the baptism on Saturday, Jessica stayed in Musanze so that she could get a rejuvenating dose of her old home town. She came over Sunday morning, bearing fresh, greasy, delicious chapatti. We had some breakfast and looked through American gossip magazines, judging the fashion, the people, the stories, per usual. Then there was a knock at the gate, and we immediately knew who it was. And so began Kid Invasion 2k10. Soon my backyard was overrun with neighborhood children: climbing the avocado tree; lining up on one of my fallen plantain tree like a log laying across the banks of a river; sneaking into my trash pit to see what articles they could steal to make toys out of (Jessica told me that she once saw children wearing jewelry they had made out of her bank statement papers); reading magazines; dancing and singing Rwandan songs before breaking into a fantastic rendition of Shakira’s Waka Waka - This Time for Africa, dance moves included. (Yes I got video, so one day you shall see it too!). After the kiddies had amassed a towering pile of avocadoes we helped take them across the street to their respective homes, and visit Mama Providence. As we sat in Providence’s living room with her brother we discussed (and by “we” I mean Jessica, Providence and her brother, with me simply trying to follow the conversation and usually only responding in one word answers to any question that Providence or her brother asked) why Jessica moved to Kigali, our jobs, church and Jessica’s parents upcoming visit. It was a lovely time, over too quickly, and soon we were on our way back to my house, Providence following behind asking if we wanted any corn to take with us. We retreated back into my now quiet and peaceful house and relaxed for a bit, laughing about all the events of the past few hours. Then we were off to town for a yummy Rwandan buffet lunch at Vision 2020, where we made fun of the ridiculous 90’s American music videos they were playing on the tv and agreed what a wonderful visit it truly had been.
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