There is one word in Kinyarwanda that is used very sparingly: “Murabeho”. It means goodbye, or farewell, and is only used when you know you will not see someone for a long time. I think I can count on one hand the number of times I said “murabeho” while I was in Rwanda, and they all occurred as I left training for my permanent site in Musanze. As I left for vacation, and subsequently for my med-evac time in DC, the only words of farewell I used were “bye” (in English) and “nzagureba vuba” (my literal translation of “I will see you quickly”, though I’m sure there’s an actual verb or saying for that in Kinyarwanda). But why didn’t I say “murabeho”, you ask? It’s because as far as I was concerned, I was coming back. I would see them all again quickly. But as you and I both now know, that “see you quickly” turned into “farewell for possibly forever” while I was thousands of miles away from them all.
Over the past few months I’ve been plagued by guilt over being unable to truly say goodbye to people. I’m missing the closure that most Peace Corps volunteers get, regardless of whether they’re leaving at the end of their service, or going home because of medical reasons, or because they chose to. I had the option to simply leave. I could have medically separated straight from Rwanda, saying my farewells and being home in Ohio on February 6th, done with Peace Corps. But I wasn’t ready; I was barely ready to even admit what I was going through and seek the help that I needed. And I had convinced myself that my feelings were just a phase. So I said “see you later” and came home, leaving my belongings, my job, my friends, and a part of my heart in Rwanda. It’s been exactly five months to the day since I arrived back in America, and only today I was reunited with all of my wonderful Rwandan keepsakes and a large amount of incredibly smelly market clothing. But I still feel like a fraction of that heart remains in the house and community I left behind.
So, back to this guilt. I feel guilty for leaving without saying goodbye, for not finishing the projects I had started, for never fulfilling promises I had made. I wondered what my neighbors thought when I never came back to my house. What did my boss say when he visited health centers without his tiny white girl accomplice? Do they even notice my absence in the market, or at the library? My greatest fear was that they would compare me to the numerous other Muzungus who have come into their lives and then abandoned them in their time of need. I was swirling in a whirlpool of regret and self-doubt about my decision when I realized I might be being a bit overdramatic about the whole thing.
I was only there for a year, spent just as much time alone in my house as I did outside. I did some awesome work at the health centers and library and made friends with more kids than anyone else in my town. Without a doubt I know that I impacted a lot of lives while I was there. Did I change lives? Probably not, really. But I fully believe that the ability to change one’s self lies solely within that person. So “impacting lives” is good enough for me. “Making lifelong friendships” is good enough for me. “Having one heck of a kick butt vacation” is good enough for me. At the end of the day, maybe it was better to not have had to say “murabeho”. Rwandans are notoriously non-emotional people, so maybe it was actually right of me to allow them to avoid a possibly emotional situation. As well as letting me avoid what would have been, for me, an absolutely emotional situation.
So where’s this guilt coming from? Turns out, it’s just me. I feel bad for leaving, I feel bad for not seeing my service through, for not finishing my projects, for not completing what I dreamed about for so very long.
Then a few weeks ago, I got an email. It was from my librarian, Gilbertine. It was riddled with spelling and grammar mistakes, barely comprehendible at points, but the message was clear. We miss you. We wish you well. We think of you often. And we thank you for what you did for us. Honestly, that’s all it took. All I needed was for the person who I had worked with most closely in Rwanda on the project dearest to my heart, to say “thank you”. And just like that, part of the guilt disappeared. Not all of it, but such a big chunk that I’m really able to look back and see so many more positives. So many happier days and wonderful moments.
These happy thoughts gave way to thoughts of “living in the present” and “planning for the future” and ultimately, to one word: reinvention.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the person I am today. In reality, I feel more happy, more accomplished, more confident, more self-aware, and more passionate than ever before. And I without a doubt loved my time in Peace Corps. But coming back from an experience like Rwanda has given me this overwhelming sense of closing one door and opening another. To be extremely cliché, I feel as if I’m ending a chapter of my life and beginning another. Reinvention, beginning anew, improving on what’s already present. My brain started moving a mile a minute with new hobbies, new passions, new career paths, new friendships, new viewpoints, and an overwhelming number of new things to write about.
But, as I started to draft new blog entries, about the books I was reading, the trips I was taking, the design projects I was undertaking, something didn’t feel right. That’s when I looked at the title of my blog… “And then I moved to Rwanda”, followed by the URL… “Amy goes to Africa”. Well, I’m not sure what the future will hold, but at the moment neither of those titles seems accurate.
So, I think it’s finally time to retire this wonderful website. It’s played so many different roles in my life, and my PC experience wouldn’t have been the same without it. It’s been a friend I could tell anything to. It’s been a consistent venue for receiving encouraging words and support from all of you. But mostly, it’s been a canvas on which I’ve been able to create and share my story. I hope you’ve laughed, I hope you’ve cried, I hope you’ve thought “geez, Amy, could you please stop using so many run-on sentences and parentheses?”.
But, never fear: in true “opening a new chapter” fashion, I’ve created a new blog for your reading enjoyment, aptly titled: Rants of Reinvention. Click it. Read it. Bookmark it. Follow it. ENJOY it.
So, on that note, I guess this is my final Murabeho to some of you! But for others, especially those who follow me to my new blog, I’ll just leave this at…
Nzagureba vuba!
Until then, all my love and thanks,
Amy “Umugwaneza” Studenic
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
After the fog lifts
There was nothing particularly special about that day. I didn’t win the lottery, I didn’t run a marathon, nor did I finish a book. Come to think of it, I didn’t even leave the house. I was simply sitting; sitting on the screened-in patio, listening to music, enjoying the warm spring breeze beckoning summer to Ohio, staring at the buds emerging on neighboring trees. And then Meddy’s singing voice began to drift from my computer. Meddy (for my non-Rwandan readers) is a famous Rwandan singer, known for his love of singing about love and comical music videos that Rwandan’s blare out of their TVs on a daily basis. So there I was, sitting in a bright red Adirondack chair on the porch of our cozy log cabin outside of Wooster, Ohio…listening to Meddy. And a single thought poured into my head: “Holy shit, I’m so happy I’m not in Rwanda right now”.
I immediately texted Jenny (one of my PC BFFs), as I always do when I’m encountering positive (or negative) feelings about Rwanda and Peace Corps. I don’t recall her response, but whatever it was I’m sure it made me laugh. Then a second thought came to my mind: “How did I get here?” Wasn’t it just four months ago I was listening to Meddy from my bedroom in Rwanda? Four months ago that I was listening to Meddy while we danced the night away at Silverback, or was watching Meddy on Janvier’s television while she shoved plate after plate of food into my hands. Three months ago I was in DC, fighting a battle between wanting to be strong and return to Rwanda, and needing to be even stronger and stay in America. Three months ago I was catching up with old friends, becoming reacquainted with western food, retail stores and an endless supply of hot water. And then two months ago I was home, an unemployed Peace Corps drop-out, living with my parents and validating my deteriorated emotional state by pointing to my paperwork from the Dept. of Labor qualifying me for worker’s compensation for my craziness. I must admit it was a new low, one that I might have just avoided had I returned to Rwanda. But that would have been the easy road; going back, falling into old ways, and allowing my sadness to hide away, cozily slumbering in the depths of my mind. It turns out it’s wildly more burdensome to carry emotions on your sleeve than inside your heart.
So I relished in the sadness. I mourned for Rwanda. I mourned for myself. I ate a lot. I watched an obscene amount of horrible, terrible reality television and shows designed for those aged 12-17 years. I’m ashamed to admit, I even stopped enjoying hot showers (my apologies to every Peace Corps volunteer reading this right now…). I was numb. For days (weeks?) the outside world didn’t exist. My parents, rightfully so, started to worry. I shrugged off their suspicions, stating “I’m not depressed, I’m just bored!” All things considered, that wasn’t a total lie. You try returning home at age 27, after living in another state and country for 9 years, without a job, without a driver’s license, without a plan, without a future. You’d be bored too! Then again, more often than not, you’d be depressed too.
And then, poof, spring inched its way into summer. And there was Meddy. And I looked around and realized I was alive. Still alive, alive again? Does it matter? ALIVE! It was as if I’d emerged from a heavy morning fog, a morning that lasted months. I started talking to people again, and even making plans with those people. I went to Michigan, where I explored a liquor shed, enjoyed sunsets over the lake, endured a fun, yet inwardly awkward bar excursion with my brother, cousin and ex-boyfriend, and attended a dinner party where I only knew 3 people in the room. Take that depression! Then I upped the ante…a weeklong, whirlwind vacation to DC and New Orleans. In DC I ate pizza, drank wine, celebrated law school graduations, and enjoyed wonderful laughter with my besties. But most important of all, I was reunited with my soul mate. It was with her and her man-friend that I road-tripped (aka slept in the back seat) down to my beloved city of New Orleans. Most people complain about vacations being exhausting. They say things like “I need a vacation to recover my vacation”, etc. Luckily, I didn’t have that complaint. New Orleans might be the city of debauchery for many, but for me it was a city of family (family being Lucy, our pup Charlotte, and Cleo, the newbie kitty). I slept in, cuddled with the animals, watched movies, sat in the sun in the backyard, and was awed by Charlotte’s ability to go for walks without a leash. There was duck jambalaya, shrimp po-boys, sushi, drinking in the streets, swaying to the sounds of live brass bands, guitarists and sax players, walking through swamps, and one late-night conversation that lingered until the sunrise (Jigga, why do all of our intense conversations occur In kitchens and often include brownies?).
I returned to Ohio with an idea, a plan, a (possible) future. Since then my life has been consumed by three things: jobs, graduate school and BOOKS.
My trip to New Orleans reaffirmed a long desire of mine to take the plunge and move to the Big Easy. And with Lucy and the “animal kingdom” there, now seems to be the perfect time. So I’ve been scouring the internet for jobs in health, education, non-profits, pretty much anything that isn’t in the service industry and is remotely close to public transportation. I loved my server days, don’t get me wrong, but I just don’t think I have the patience for it anymore. Yet, job searching has not been an easy task. I recall my post-college-graduation-summer when I applied to any and every job under the sun, 10 a day at one point. And yet, here I am two weeks into my searching and I’ve only found five jobs even remotely suited to my qualifications and interests. I guess they weren’t lying about the current state of the job market. I’m going to stay optimistic though, because I’m positive that a move to New Orleans would be a lovely step in my transition from mopey lost Amy to independent driven Amy. So fingers crossed for me everybody!!
This all leads to the next part of my master plan…grad school. I’ve been dreaming about grad school since the moment I graduated from undergrad. The main path is clear – Masters in Public Health. But the side paths (bicycle lanes if you will?) are a little foggier. There’s my crazy, nerdy, math geek side, which is pulling me towards epidemiology, monitoring and evaluation, and using GIS software to map disease surveillance and healthcare delivery distribution. But then there’s my other side, equally nerdy, but more words driven, pulling me towards a future of medical librarianship and management. So in my spare time, when not scouring employment sites, I’m scouring grad school websites, emailing admissions directors about GRE scores, prerequisites, and the possibilities of dual degrees. My next education leap could lead me to New Orleans, Seattle, Boston, New York, Pittsburgh, North Carolina, or even (*GASP*) Michigan. So stay tuned on that front as well….
Which leads me to the final task in my life these days. Thanks to an amazing group of middle schoolers in Brunswick, Ohio, their amazing teacher (and one of my oldest friends), Miss Trista Smith, and dozens of friends, family, businesses and strangers, we’ve just shipped an additional 800 books to the library I helped open in Rwanda!!!!! It was an incredibly complex and time consuming project for Miss Smith and her students, but the work will be well worth it once the books arrive in Musanze, to an eager and excited librarian, district and community. I want to thank each and every one of you who supported us through your words and money; it means the world to us all.
So that’s where I am now…out of the fog. Maybe it’s temporary, maybe it will be long-lasting. But regardless, I’m going to take advantage of it. Just as I went to Rwanda for a reason, I also came back for a reason. So stick around, and keep reading, while I figure out why.
I immediately texted Jenny (one of my PC BFFs), as I always do when I’m encountering positive (or negative) feelings about Rwanda and Peace Corps. I don’t recall her response, but whatever it was I’m sure it made me laugh. Then a second thought came to my mind: “How did I get here?” Wasn’t it just four months ago I was listening to Meddy from my bedroom in Rwanda? Four months ago that I was listening to Meddy while we danced the night away at Silverback, or was watching Meddy on Janvier’s television while she shoved plate after plate of food into my hands. Three months ago I was in DC, fighting a battle between wanting to be strong and return to Rwanda, and needing to be even stronger and stay in America. Three months ago I was catching up with old friends, becoming reacquainted with western food, retail stores and an endless supply of hot water. And then two months ago I was home, an unemployed Peace Corps drop-out, living with my parents and validating my deteriorated emotional state by pointing to my paperwork from the Dept. of Labor qualifying me for worker’s compensation for my craziness. I must admit it was a new low, one that I might have just avoided had I returned to Rwanda. But that would have been the easy road; going back, falling into old ways, and allowing my sadness to hide away, cozily slumbering in the depths of my mind. It turns out it’s wildly more burdensome to carry emotions on your sleeve than inside your heart.
So I relished in the sadness. I mourned for Rwanda. I mourned for myself. I ate a lot. I watched an obscene amount of horrible, terrible reality television and shows designed for those aged 12-17 years. I’m ashamed to admit, I even stopped enjoying hot showers (my apologies to every Peace Corps volunteer reading this right now…). I was numb. For days (weeks?) the outside world didn’t exist. My parents, rightfully so, started to worry. I shrugged off their suspicions, stating “I’m not depressed, I’m just bored!” All things considered, that wasn’t a total lie. You try returning home at age 27, after living in another state and country for 9 years, without a job, without a driver’s license, without a plan, without a future. You’d be bored too! Then again, more often than not, you’d be depressed too.
And then, poof, spring inched its way into summer. And there was Meddy. And I looked around and realized I was alive. Still alive, alive again? Does it matter? ALIVE! It was as if I’d emerged from a heavy morning fog, a morning that lasted months. I started talking to people again, and even making plans with those people. I went to Michigan, where I explored a liquor shed, enjoyed sunsets over the lake, endured a fun, yet inwardly awkward bar excursion with my brother, cousin and ex-boyfriend, and attended a dinner party where I only knew 3 people in the room. Take that depression! Then I upped the ante…a weeklong, whirlwind vacation to DC and New Orleans. In DC I ate pizza, drank wine, celebrated law school graduations, and enjoyed wonderful laughter with my besties. But most important of all, I was reunited with my soul mate. It was with her and her man-friend that I road-tripped (aka slept in the back seat) down to my beloved city of New Orleans. Most people complain about vacations being exhausting. They say things like “I need a vacation to recover my vacation”, etc. Luckily, I didn’t have that complaint. New Orleans might be the city of debauchery for many, but for me it was a city of family (family being Lucy, our pup Charlotte, and Cleo, the newbie kitty). I slept in, cuddled with the animals, watched movies, sat in the sun in the backyard, and was awed by Charlotte’s ability to go for walks without a leash. There was duck jambalaya, shrimp po-boys, sushi, drinking in the streets, swaying to the sounds of live brass bands, guitarists and sax players, walking through swamps, and one late-night conversation that lingered until the sunrise (Jigga, why do all of our intense conversations occur In kitchens and often include brownies?).
I returned to Ohio with an idea, a plan, a (possible) future. Since then my life has been consumed by three things: jobs, graduate school and BOOKS.
My trip to New Orleans reaffirmed a long desire of mine to take the plunge and move to the Big Easy. And with Lucy and the “animal kingdom” there, now seems to be the perfect time. So I’ve been scouring the internet for jobs in health, education, non-profits, pretty much anything that isn’t in the service industry and is remotely close to public transportation. I loved my server days, don’t get me wrong, but I just don’t think I have the patience for it anymore. Yet, job searching has not been an easy task. I recall my post-college-graduation-summer when I applied to any and every job under the sun, 10 a day at one point. And yet, here I am two weeks into my searching and I’ve only found five jobs even remotely suited to my qualifications and interests. I guess they weren’t lying about the current state of the job market. I’m going to stay optimistic though, because I’m positive that a move to New Orleans would be a lovely step in my transition from mopey lost Amy to independent driven Amy. So fingers crossed for me everybody!!
This all leads to the next part of my master plan…grad school. I’ve been dreaming about grad school since the moment I graduated from undergrad. The main path is clear – Masters in Public Health. But the side paths (bicycle lanes if you will?) are a little foggier. There’s my crazy, nerdy, math geek side, which is pulling me towards epidemiology, monitoring and evaluation, and using GIS software to map disease surveillance and healthcare delivery distribution. But then there’s my other side, equally nerdy, but more words driven, pulling me towards a future of medical librarianship and management. So in my spare time, when not scouring employment sites, I’m scouring grad school websites, emailing admissions directors about GRE scores, prerequisites, and the possibilities of dual degrees. My next education leap could lead me to New Orleans, Seattle, Boston, New York, Pittsburgh, North Carolina, or even (*GASP*) Michigan. So stay tuned on that front as well….
Which leads me to the final task in my life these days. Thanks to an amazing group of middle schoolers in Brunswick, Ohio, their amazing teacher (and one of my oldest friends), Miss Trista Smith, and dozens of friends, family, businesses and strangers, we’ve just shipped an additional 800 books to the library I helped open in Rwanda!!!!! It was an incredibly complex and time consuming project for Miss Smith and her students, but the work will be well worth it once the books arrive in Musanze, to an eager and excited librarian, district and community. I want to thank each and every one of you who supported us through your words and money; it means the world to us all.
So that’s where I am now…out of the fog. Maybe it’s temporary, maybe it will be long-lasting. But regardless, I’m going to take advantage of it. Just as I went to Rwanda for a reason, I also came back for a reason. So stick around, and keep reading, while I figure out why.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Want to help a child read?
So, I’ve been home in Ohio now for a full month. Trust me, I’m fully appreciating all of the perks of being home: hot water, home cooking, my childhood bed, trashy television, reading Harry Potter on the porch, and of course endless amounts of chocolate. But not a day goes by when I don’t think about Rwanda, miss Rwanda.
And what I miss most are those beautiful, brilliant children.
As many of you know (either from me telling you or from my blatant favoritism/bias in my blog), while I loved my primary job of working for the Access Project, what really got me out of bed in the morning and made my experience in Rwanda so rewarding was opening up the first public library in Musanze. It turned out beautifully and I’ve been assured that despite my departure it continues to run smoothly and be visited by all types of community members.
Throughout my year in Rwanda, I was consistently in contact with Edwards Middle School in Brunswick, Ohio, through my childhood friend, Trista Smith. Trista teaches 7th grade Science and brilliantly led her classes through lectures and activities about the culture and environment of Rwanda. We exchanged letters, emails and photos every month. Often her students asked me questions about kids in Rwanda; “Are kids in Rwanda just like kids in America?”, “What sports do kids in Rwanda play?”, and “What kind of books do kids in Rwanda read?”
Around that time, Trista mentioned the library I was opening to her students, and they immediately were eager to help in a big way. Over the next few months they donated an astounding 800 books (that’s 270 pounds of beautiful literary material!) ranging from children’s books to accounting and science textbooks. Now she has been working hard to spread the word, gain support and most importantly raise the much needed funds to pay for shipping and customs costs (estimated at between $1200 and $1500).
And that’s where you, my faithful friends, family and blog readers, can come in. Want to help support me? Want to help support Trista and her class? But most importantly want to help the wonderful community of Musanze, Rwanda and bring books to the children…my children!
Trista and her school have already raised over $600 and we’ll be working to raise the money for shipment costs as long as it takes, but hope to get the books to Rwanda sometime this summer. I promise you, no donation is too small (or too big) and every penny will be appreciated more than I can ever put into words.
If you would like to make a donation, please make checks payable to: Edwards Middle School.
They can be mailed to:
Edwards Middle School
Attn: Trista Smith
1497 Pearl Rd.
Brunswick, Ohio 44212
Receipts will be given for tax purposes of course.
However, if you feel more comfortable working through me, send me an email at amy.studenic@gmail.com and we can discuss!
A huge MURAKOZE (THANK YOU!) for any help you can provide to make this huge project a huge success! You all were a tremendous source of support for me during my time in Rwanda and know how much this community and library meant to me. I look forward to the day when I can update you all to tell you “We did it!” and show you pictures of the new books being delivered to the library!
More updates soon, but until then, take care!
And what I miss most are those beautiful, brilliant children.
As many of you know (either from me telling you or from my blatant favoritism/bias in my blog), while I loved my primary job of working for the Access Project, what really got me out of bed in the morning and made my experience in Rwanda so rewarding was opening up the first public library in Musanze. It turned out beautifully and I’ve been assured that despite my departure it continues to run smoothly and be visited by all types of community members.
Throughout my year in Rwanda, I was consistently in contact with Edwards Middle School in Brunswick, Ohio, through my childhood friend, Trista Smith. Trista teaches 7th grade Science and brilliantly led her classes through lectures and activities about the culture and environment of Rwanda. We exchanged letters, emails and photos every month. Often her students asked me questions about kids in Rwanda; “Are kids in Rwanda just like kids in America?”, “What sports do kids in Rwanda play?”, and “What kind of books do kids in Rwanda read?”
Around that time, Trista mentioned the library I was opening to her students, and they immediately were eager to help in a big way. Over the next few months they donated an astounding 800 books (that’s 270 pounds of beautiful literary material!) ranging from children’s books to accounting and science textbooks. Now she has been working hard to spread the word, gain support and most importantly raise the much needed funds to pay for shipping and customs costs (estimated at between $1200 and $1500).
And that’s where you, my faithful friends, family and blog readers, can come in. Want to help support me? Want to help support Trista and her class? But most importantly want to help the wonderful community of Musanze, Rwanda and bring books to the children…my children!
Trista and her school have already raised over $600 and we’ll be working to raise the money for shipment costs as long as it takes, but hope to get the books to Rwanda sometime this summer. I promise you, no donation is too small (or too big) and every penny will be appreciated more than I can ever put into words.
If you would like to make a donation, please make checks payable to: Edwards Middle School.
They can be mailed to:
Edwards Middle School
Attn: Trista Smith
1497 Pearl Rd.
Brunswick, Ohio 44212
Receipts will be given for tax purposes of course.
However, if you feel more comfortable working through me, send me an email at amy.studenic@gmail.com and we can discuss!
A huge MURAKOZE (THANK YOU!) for any help you can provide to make this huge project a huge success! You all were a tremendous source of support for me during my time in Rwanda and know how much this community and library meant to me. I look forward to the day when I can update you all to tell you “We did it!” and show you pictures of the new books being delivered to the library!
More updates soon, but until then, take care!
Monday, March 21, 2011
From the “Hardest Job You'll Ever Love” to the “Hardest Decision I’ve Ever Made”
Back during training I vaguely remember hearing some crazy statistic that only 1 out of every 3 Peace Corps Volunteers actually complete their entire 2 years of service. I also vaguely remember thinking that it was all rubbish and that I would in no way be included in the group that goes home; I’d make it through, I’d accomplish what I came to do…and more. And yet, here I am, almost 13 months to the day after I arrived in Rwanda, writing you all to tell you about how my story has taken a completely different turn, one I never quite expected.
As some of you know, I was sent to Washington, DC in early February to receive treatment for a few mental health issues that arose during my service. They call it “medical evacuation”, which sounds far more ominous than it actually is. Basically I needed support and services that just weren’t available in Rwanda. At the time, I was shocked to leave, but also welcomed the opportunity to get better so that I could get back to Rwanda as soon as possible. The past six weeks have been filled with good days, bad days, worse days, self reflection, and a WHOLE lot of talking about me, my thoughts, my feelings, my past, my dreams, my experiences, my reactions, my…well, you get the idea.
While I’ve been here so many friends have said to me (rightfully so) “I had no idea things weren’t going well for you, your blogs always sound so upbeat and happy!”. Ah ha! I fooled you! Ok, ok, all joking aside, so many things were happy and upbeat about my life in Rwanda. And many things weren’t. As a writer though, I decided to keep my blog positive, telling the funny anecdotes and introducing you to the never ending hilarious cast of characters that entered my life. And yet, there was another side to my life in Rwanda. There were tears and anger, fear and frustration. And I’m ready to be honest with you all.
First off, it’s impossible to be anonymous in Rwanda. And unfortunately that was something I could never get past. You can’t just walk down the street. Instead, life stops as you approach. You’re a mixture of a celebrity, zoo animal and circus freak. People stop, they stare, they point, they laugh, they talk about you behind your back, they talk about you to your face, and they constantly call out “Muzungu” and/or “give me money” and other things I’d rather not type here. Living in a town as big as mine, it was impossible for everyone to know me, so I made myself a comfort zone, found myself a community. At the market, I had my Mamas. They knew my name, what I wanted to buy, what I was willing to pay, and how hard I was working to learn their language. They appreciated that I came to the market to buy my own food, interact with them, and ask them about their families. At work, I worked to build relationships with my colleagues, spend time with their families and gain their trust. In my neighborhood, I made myself a home. There, I was just Amy, a neighbor, a part time baby sitter, part time librarian, and part time health center worker.
But despite all this, I was still a white, single, female, living alone in a post-conflict developing African country. The hardest experience I went through happened in July. I was hiking with some friends near Lake Burera and was threatened and almost attacked by a mentally disturbed lady in the middle of a busy town center. While I’d rather not go into the details of the incident, the majority of my immediate and long term mental health issues stem from this incident. What bothered me the most at the time, and to this day, is the fact that as I walked away from the incident the Rwandans who had witnessed what happened laughed. I could not understand their reactions; in what culture is it appropriate to laugh at someone who has been traumatized? What kind of a human being thinks that is amusing?
During the following months I struggled with an at times paralyzing mix of anxiety and depression. I dealt with panic attacks, hallucinations, days where I couldn’t get out of bed, let alone leave my house. I was sad, I was angry, I was irritable and worst of all, I lost all motivation to go to work or socialize with anyone. Yet, throughout all this I somehow managed to have days where I put on a happy face and went to work when I needed to; I wrote happy blogs with funny stories, went on a crazy vacation adventure with my family and friends, and most surprisingly opened up the library.
But eventually I had to listen to myself and my friends, and approach Peace Corps for help. Within a week I found myself in DC, having daily counseling sessions and in essence attempt to find myself again. When I arrived, I didn’t think twice about the fact that I wanted to go back. It wasn’t even a question; I WAS going back. But over the past month and a half I’ve been forced to acknowledge and face so many things about myself and my past, and honestly I haven’t had enough time to process it all and get back to an emotionally stable enough place where I feel comfortable to go back to Rwanda. The support I’ve received from family and friends and the Peace Corps staff has been incredible. While I’m utterly heartbroken to not be going back and know that I will miss so many things about Rwanda every day, I’m feeling more and more ok about my decision, and look forward to the day when I can finally feel comfortable about it.
But I refuse to leave this on a negative note, because I want to look back on my time in Rwanda as one of growth, laughter, challenges, long nights of laughing and dancing, days full of fumbling around in Kinyarwanda until I made a breakthrough with a pharmacy manager, watching a child read their first full book in English, smiling faces, a daily alarm clock of goats and cows, and shouts of “Amy” as soon as I walked outside of my gate.
So with that, I’ll say:
I loved Rwanda. From the moment I stepped off the plane, on a muggy, rainy night in Kigali, I loved it. It is by far the most beautiful country I have ever laid eyes on. My favorite times were spent in the back of our white pick-up truck, Mboneza and Bertin chattering away in Kinyarwanda up front as we bumped and jolted our way on the dirt roads of Musanze, surrounded by plantain trees, corn stalks and towering volcanoes.
I loved my job. I met Jacqueline, the charismatic and smiling Director of Bisate health center. We worked together to find much needed funds to connect running water to the hospitalization rooms at her health center. I met Gertrude, a single mother who had lost her husband during the genocide, raising four kids while working full time as the pharmacy manager at Muhoza health center. We spent hours fumbling around on her computer, learning less about excel formulas and more just about each other. I met Bertin, my counterpart. With him towering above at 6’3” and me at 5’1” we made quite the comical pair walking into health centers and district meetings. But our differences ended there. He was my mentor, my cheerleader, my right hand man, my friend. And I had the privilege and honor to meet with and work daily with Gilbertine, my librarian. She showed up to the library and immediately made it hers. I realized that her true calling was as a teacher the day I walked into the library to find her reviewing English vocabulary with 20 eager schoolchildren. She put her heart, soul and time into the library, constantly learning, listening and improving. She was one of the strongest women I met in Rwanda; having lost almost her entire family during the genocide, she lived her life separate from her husband, who worked in Kigali, so that they could both provide for their two daughters. I’ll never forget the day she looked at me, grabbed my hand and said in Kinyarwanda “You are a Rwandan, you are my family”.
I loved my Rwandan family, all of them. My host mom, Jeanne, host dad, Alexis, and host brothers and sisters: Clement, Carve, Kevine, Karine, Jacques and Josiane. They taught me Kinyarwanda, I taught them English. I taught them how to blow bubbles, they taught me to dance. I gave Karine a bonbon (lollipop), and then another, and another, and another…. I loved my neighbor, Providence (aka Mama Sifa), and my go to gal-pal, Janviere. I loved Carrot Lady, and Egg Man, and Cucumber Lady, and my Banana Mama. I even loved the guy from the corner store who gruffly gave me bread, toilet paper and phone minutes, and most likely questioned why I never bought anything else. But most of all I loved my best friends. They may have all been under the age of 12, but they taught me the most about Rwanda and myself. There was Sifa, the mama of the group, always making sure that each kid got at least one avocado before leaving my yard. And Grace, the diva, who would sing and dance and pose as if she were constantly a contestant on Rwanda’s Next Top Model. Michaela, with a smile that could melt my heart; she started to lose her baby teeth and wouldn’t smile any more for pictures, until I figured out how ticklish she is. There’s Deniz, sweet and beautiful, but with a fire within, she was always the first to reach me as the children came running in a herd towards me. Shadia, the bully, who despite her antics managed to make me laugh so hard that five minutes later I couldn’t remember why I was mad at her in the first place. There was Jono, the boy with the gorgeous eyes who would often show up at my gate in an outfit that could only be described as Little Boy Blue. And Mugisha, the thug, who talked a big game, but would still grab my hand when no one else was looking. And Jackson, who honestly I could never find because his favorite spot was at the very top of my avocado tree, presiding over the entire land.
And I loved my friends (though they really should be referred to as family also). They were from Rwanda, America, Europe, Asia; drawn from all walks of life to do everything from teach to train to minister. We cooked food, we ate even more, we watched movies, we drank boxes of wine, we started singing groups, we danced until dawn, we took sketchy cab rides, we swapped clothes and stories, we spent hours at hotels staring not at each other, but at our computers, we would take walks and endure the calls of “Muzungu” (to which we would of course reply “umm, there are more than one of us, the correct terms is ABAzunugu”), and we would share everything: our life stories, our thoughts, our experiences, our ups and our downs. I know many of these people like the back of my hand. They’re in my soul now, and always will be.
I’ve written about all of this because I want it to be clear that in no way did the things and the people above contribute to my decision to leave Rwanda and Peace Corps. If anything, they are the reason that my decision was so utterly difficult. I feel blessed to have been given the opportunity to go to Rwanda, to meet those people, work at those places, open a wonderful, fabulous library, and make friends that will last a lifetime. I’m coming away from this experience a smarter person, a stronger person and full of memories and experiences that no one can ever take away.
So before I part, to my Rwandans I want to say:
Murakoze cyane! Nzabakumbura byose buri munsi! Muri abagwaneza. Murabeho kandi muri muri umutima wanjye.
Urukundo n’amahoro,
Umugwaneza (cyangwa Amy)
And to you, my readers, I want to say…this isn’t the end. I’m not sure what the future holds as I temporarily move back to Ohio to recover fully and spend time with my family. But I’m sure the months ahead will be full of adventures and stories that I will continue to share, if you’ll continue to read them. I thank you all for the love and support you’ve shown me over the past year (and beyond); I’ll never fully be able to express how much it meant to me. Murakoze!!
As some of you know, I was sent to Washington, DC in early February to receive treatment for a few mental health issues that arose during my service. They call it “medical evacuation”, which sounds far more ominous than it actually is. Basically I needed support and services that just weren’t available in Rwanda. At the time, I was shocked to leave, but also welcomed the opportunity to get better so that I could get back to Rwanda as soon as possible. The past six weeks have been filled with good days, bad days, worse days, self reflection, and a WHOLE lot of talking about me, my thoughts, my feelings, my past, my dreams, my experiences, my reactions, my…well, you get the idea.
While I’ve been here so many friends have said to me (rightfully so) “I had no idea things weren’t going well for you, your blogs always sound so upbeat and happy!”. Ah ha! I fooled you! Ok, ok, all joking aside, so many things were happy and upbeat about my life in Rwanda. And many things weren’t. As a writer though, I decided to keep my blog positive, telling the funny anecdotes and introducing you to the never ending hilarious cast of characters that entered my life. And yet, there was another side to my life in Rwanda. There were tears and anger, fear and frustration. And I’m ready to be honest with you all.
First off, it’s impossible to be anonymous in Rwanda. And unfortunately that was something I could never get past. You can’t just walk down the street. Instead, life stops as you approach. You’re a mixture of a celebrity, zoo animal and circus freak. People stop, they stare, they point, they laugh, they talk about you behind your back, they talk about you to your face, and they constantly call out “Muzungu” and/or “give me money” and other things I’d rather not type here. Living in a town as big as mine, it was impossible for everyone to know me, so I made myself a comfort zone, found myself a community. At the market, I had my Mamas. They knew my name, what I wanted to buy, what I was willing to pay, and how hard I was working to learn their language. They appreciated that I came to the market to buy my own food, interact with them, and ask them about their families. At work, I worked to build relationships with my colleagues, spend time with their families and gain their trust. In my neighborhood, I made myself a home. There, I was just Amy, a neighbor, a part time baby sitter, part time librarian, and part time health center worker.
But despite all this, I was still a white, single, female, living alone in a post-conflict developing African country. The hardest experience I went through happened in July. I was hiking with some friends near Lake Burera and was threatened and almost attacked by a mentally disturbed lady in the middle of a busy town center. While I’d rather not go into the details of the incident, the majority of my immediate and long term mental health issues stem from this incident. What bothered me the most at the time, and to this day, is the fact that as I walked away from the incident the Rwandans who had witnessed what happened laughed. I could not understand their reactions; in what culture is it appropriate to laugh at someone who has been traumatized? What kind of a human being thinks that is amusing?
During the following months I struggled with an at times paralyzing mix of anxiety and depression. I dealt with panic attacks, hallucinations, days where I couldn’t get out of bed, let alone leave my house. I was sad, I was angry, I was irritable and worst of all, I lost all motivation to go to work or socialize with anyone. Yet, throughout all this I somehow managed to have days where I put on a happy face and went to work when I needed to; I wrote happy blogs with funny stories, went on a crazy vacation adventure with my family and friends, and most surprisingly opened up the library.
But eventually I had to listen to myself and my friends, and approach Peace Corps for help. Within a week I found myself in DC, having daily counseling sessions and in essence attempt to find myself again. When I arrived, I didn’t think twice about the fact that I wanted to go back. It wasn’t even a question; I WAS going back. But over the past month and a half I’ve been forced to acknowledge and face so many things about myself and my past, and honestly I haven’t had enough time to process it all and get back to an emotionally stable enough place where I feel comfortable to go back to Rwanda. The support I’ve received from family and friends and the Peace Corps staff has been incredible. While I’m utterly heartbroken to not be going back and know that I will miss so many things about Rwanda every day, I’m feeling more and more ok about my decision, and look forward to the day when I can finally feel comfortable about it.
But I refuse to leave this on a negative note, because I want to look back on my time in Rwanda as one of growth, laughter, challenges, long nights of laughing and dancing, days full of fumbling around in Kinyarwanda until I made a breakthrough with a pharmacy manager, watching a child read their first full book in English, smiling faces, a daily alarm clock of goats and cows, and shouts of “Amy” as soon as I walked outside of my gate.
So with that, I’ll say:
I loved Rwanda. From the moment I stepped off the plane, on a muggy, rainy night in Kigali, I loved it. It is by far the most beautiful country I have ever laid eyes on. My favorite times were spent in the back of our white pick-up truck, Mboneza and Bertin chattering away in Kinyarwanda up front as we bumped and jolted our way on the dirt roads of Musanze, surrounded by plantain trees, corn stalks and towering volcanoes.
I loved my job. I met Jacqueline, the charismatic and smiling Director of Bisate health center. We worked together to find much needed funds to connect running water to the hospitalization rooms at her health center. I met Gertrude, a single mother who had lost her husband during the genocide, raising four kids while working full time as the pharmacy manager at Muhoza health center. We spent hours fumbling around on her computer, learning less about excel formulas and more just about each other. I met Bertin, my counterpart. With him towering above at 6’3” and me at 5’1” we made quite the comical pair walking into health centers and district meetings. But our differences ended there. He was my mentor, my cheerleader, my right hand man, my friend. And I had the privilege and honor to meet with and work daily with Gilbertine, my librarian. She showed up to the library and immediately made it hers. I realized that her true calling was as a teacher the day I walked into the library to find her reviewing English vocabulary with 20 eager schoolchildren. She put her heart, soul and time into the library, constantly learning, listening and improving. She was one of the strongest women I met in Rwanda; having lost almost her entire family during the genocide, she lived her life separate from her husband, who worked in Kigali, so that they could both provide for their two daughters. I’ll never forget the day she looked at me, grabbed my hand and said in Kinyarwanda “You are a Rwandan, you are my family”.
I loved my Rwandan family, all of them. My host mom, Jeanne, host dad, Alexis, and host brothers and sisters: Clement, Carve, Kevine, Karine, Jacques and Josiane. They taught me Kinyarwanda, I taught them English. I taught them how to blow bubbles, they taught me to dance. I gave Karine a bonbon (lollipop), and then another, and another, and another…. I loved my neighbor, Providence (aka Mama Sifa), and my go to gal-pal, Janviere. I loved Carrot Lady, and Egg Man, and Cucumber Lady, and my Banana Mama. I even loved the guy from the corner store who gruffly gave me bread, toilet paper and phone minutes, and most likely questioned why I never bought anything else. But most of all I loved my best friends. They may have all been under the age of 12, but they taught me the most about Rwanda and myself. There was Sifa, the mama of the group, always making sure that each kid got at least one avocado before leaving my yard. And Grace, the diva, who would sing and dance and pose as if she were constantly a contestant on Rwanda’s Next Top Model. Michaela, with a smile that could melt my heart; she started to lose her baby teeth and wouldn’t smile any more for pictures, until I figured out how ticklish she is. There’s Deniz, sweet and beautiful, but with a fire within, she was always the first to reach me as the children came running in a herd towards me. Shadia, the bully, who despite her antics managed to make me laugh so hard that five minutes later I couldn’t remember why I was mad at her in the first place. There was Jono, the boy with the gorgeous eyes who would often show up at my gate in an outfit that could only be described as Little Boy Blue. And Mugisha, the thug, who talked a big game, but would still grab my hand when no one else was looking. And Jackson, who honestly I could never find because his favorite spot was at the very top of my avocado tree, presiding over the entire land.
And I loved my friends (though they really should be referred to as family also). They were from Rwanda, America, Europe, Asia; drawn from all walks of life to do everything from teach to train to minister. We cooked food, we ate even more, we watched movies, we drank boxes of wine, we started singing groups, we danced until dawn, we took sketchy cab rides, we swapped clothes and stories, we spent hours at hotels staring not at each other, but at our computers, we would take walks and endure the calls of “Muzungu” (to which we would of course reply “umm, there are more than one of us, the correct terms is ABAzunugu”), and we would share everything: our life stories, our thoughts, our experiences, our ups and our downs. I know many of these people like the back of my hand. They’re in my soul now, and always will be.
I’ve written about all of this because I want it to be clear that in no way did the things and the people above contribute to my decision to leave Rwanda and Peace Corps. If anything, they are the reason that my decision was so utterly difficult. I feel blessed to have been given the opportunity to go to Rwanda, to meet those people, work at those places, open a wonderful, fabulous library, and make friends that will last a lifetime. I’m coming away from this experience a smarter person, a stronger person and full of memories and experiences that no one can ever take away.
So before I part, to my Rwandans I want to say:
Murakoze cyane! Nzabakumbura byose buri munsi! Muri abagwaneza. Murabeho kandi muri muri umutima wanjye.
Urukundo n’amahoro,
Umugwaneza (cyangwa Amy)
And to you, my readers, I want to say…this isn’t the end. I’m not sure what the future holds as I temporarily move back to Ohio to recover fully and spend time with my family. But I’m sure the months ahead will be full of adventures and stories that I will continue to share, if you’ll continue to read them. I thank you all for the love and support you’ve shown me over the past year (and beyond); I’ll never fully be able to express how much it meant to me. Murakoze!!
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Dear… (East African holiday edition)
Muraho my faithful blog readers, and happy 2011 to you and yours!! As you know, I happily spent the holidays traveling through Rwanda and Tanzania with my family and then up to Kenya with two of my Peace Corps friends. It was in a word...well, honestly there’s not one word that could describe the trip. It was a once in a lifetime experience, from beginning to end, with breathtaking scenery, scrumptious food and the most wonderful hot showers of my life. But how to explain this all to you? How to describe it without it turning into a novel? Well what better way than another installment of “Dear”? But first, just a little about what we did, when and where.
December 18th – My family arrived in Rwanda where I whisked them up to Musanze for unfortunately one of the worst dinners of the entire trip.
December 19th – Finally saw the mountain gorillas!! (with my brother, Jessi and Sonya). And then introduced my family to the neighborhood kids. Chaos ensued.
December 20th – Showed my family around Musanze – highlights included the library, a health center and the market.
December 21st – Drove down to Nyanza to show my family the Peace Corps training center and spend time with my host family. My mom cried when she met my host mom (of course), my host sister cried when she couldn’t have more than one lollipop (of course) and my brother entertained my host brother, Clement, with the art of the Hacky Sack.
December 22nd – A fairly relaxing day in Kigali, visiting the genocide memorial, Peace Corps office, and Nakumatt before eating dinner at Heaven (which happened to include a spontaneous Intore dance performance – couldn’t have planned it better myself).
December 23rd-24th – We moved onto Tanzania where we toured Serengeti National Park and saw our first wild animals far away and up close.
December 25th-26th- Lake Ndutu, just outside of Serengeti National Park. This was by far my favorite part of the safari, as were able to get closer to animals than ever before and spend Christmas at a wonderful lodge. Oh and can’t forget breakfast with cheetahs and almost getting charged by an elephant.
December 27th – Ngorongoro Crater – Striking scenery, but a little bit of a disappointment after Serengeti and Ndutu…until a rhino walked across the road in front of us.
December 28th – Lake Manyara – Don’t think we ever saw the lake, but we did see hippos out of their hippo pool.
December 29th-January 2nd – ZANZIBAR! We spent two days at the southern end of the island at Fumba Beach, sunning, swimming, drinking, eating and reading; then to Stone Town to ring in the New Year, get lost in the labyrinth of alleys and shops and buy up all the souvenirs they offered. Unfortunately it was here where I had to part with my family – they returned to the states and I joined Jessi and Sonya to head to…
January 3rd-6th- Dar Es Salaam. Sadly, I was stricken with a terrible ear infection and spent the majority of the trip lying around watching movies. Luckily, my friends Wendy and Peter generously welcomed us into their home and pampered us with air conditioning, hot showers, a huge tv, and our first taste of real sushi since leaving America. (Thank you, thank you, again!!)
January 7th-10th – We spent our last days of vacation in Mombasa, Kenya, wandering the streets, eating tasty food, and pretty much buying out a fabric store. Oh, and I was violated by a crazy lady on the street, and people actually cared. Thanks, Kenya, you rock.
And now…Dear…
Dear Tanzania and Kenya: You sure do have a little thing like “hospitality” down. I felt like a princess from the moment I arrived until the moment I left. Keep up the good work, and maybe send some people over to share your talents with Rwanda?
Dear elephants: I never knew how you ate, sweeping your feet across the ground to break the grass. It’s fascinating, purely fascinating. And I’ve got video to prove it.
Dear Rwanda: So you know what I found out on vacation? Other countries use this thing called “spice” when they cook. It miraculously gives the food this thing they call “flavor”. Maybe we should give it a try, huh?
Dear Lake Ndutu: You call that a lake? Large puddle seems like a more appropriate term. But the flamingoes around your edge made up for it. As did the ability to go off-roading with our guide, watch a female cheetah ward off the advances of two males, witness sibling rivalry within a pride of lions, and of course, get nearly charged by a mama elephant.
Dear lioness at Ngorongoro Crater: You totally stalked that herd of zebras and wildebeest for hours…and yet sadly you didn’t kill a single one. I’ll admit, I took great photos, but not only did we become slightly bored, but you must have been super, super hungry.
Dear Crater Forest Tented Camp: You were by far the coolest place I’ve ever stayed in my entire life. A permanent tent, with a balcony and rocking chairs overlooking an expansive valley. Wonderful food. Beyond friendly and helpful staff. Pre-dinner drinks around a crackling fire. BUT…maybe you should have thought about the location a little bit more, because the road to get to you is literally the worst road I’ve driven on in my entire life. 45 minutes of hell might not be worth it, especially that day we forgot our lunches and had to drive…all the way back.
Dear Toto: So on one of our drives through the Serengeti it began to rain. Andy and I couldn’t resist the urge to turn on “Africa” and giggle as we heard “Sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti” and sing along with “I bless the rains down in Africa!” Cliché, I know. But also one of the most hilarious moments of the trip.
Dear giraffes: Watching you run is by far one of the coolest things I’ve ever witnessed. So graceful, it’s almost as if it’s in slow motion. I thought it would be awkward, but it was just…beautiful.
Dear dung beetles: When I saw you in the hallway outside our hotel room I thought you were ugly and partially terrifying. Then I saw you on the side of the road, rolling around a ball of dung, and you were instantly adorable and comical. Who knew, all it took was a little poo?
Dear baboons: The way you carry your babies on your back or under your stomach as you walk is awesome and endearing. But, you smell. Really bad. And your constant screaming is really annoying. Maybe you should work on more cute baby carrying and more bathing and less fighting, mk?
Dear Mama Lion with her two cubs: You and your babies were SO CUTE! And the way they just kept following after you, trying desperately to keep up with you on their short stubby legs, constantly falling in the tall grass. I couldn’t help clutching my heart and exclaiming “awwww, I want one”. But then you scared the crap out of me by looking back and (in my mind) giving me the “if you touch my babies I’ll tear you apart, woman” stare. They’re all yours, trust me.
Dear red bananas found in a village outside of Arusha: The whole safari, David kept trying to convince me that “red bananas” existed, and that they were the best bananas I would ever eat. I didn’t believe him, and promised him that they were not better than the bananas I eat in Rwanda. And then he materialized you. I must admit, you were darn good. Not as good as imineke, but a valiant effort on your end.
Dear Zanzibar: You are one of the most gloriously beautiful places I’ve been to in my entire life. Thank you for existing.
Dear pool at Fumba Beach Lodge: You were splendid, especially at sundown when the Zanzibarian air cooled down, but you were still warm from being baked by the sun all day. However, I can’t help but believe you’re partially to blame for my dreadful ear infection. I’ll expect an apology if you ever want me to return.
Dear Baobab Spa: The massage was good. But I’m pretty sure it would have been better if I had not been in excruciating pain because of my ear. Regardless, you were still totally worth the $50.
Dear Beyt-al-Chai in Stone Town: You win the best hotel award thanks to your great location, brilliant charm, arctic air conditioning, impeccably helpful staff, free internet, and the best meal I had on my entire trip: red snapper with mango and caramelized onion, with breadfruit gnocchi in a coconut curry sauce and vegetables.
Dear Forodhani Gardens: Gotta love outdoor food markets, especially one with the freshest fish I’ve ever tasted. Barracuda was especially tasty, and the shrimp, and the fresh sugarcane juice. The guys who work there are pretty insane though (especially OBAMA man), as was your so-called “pizza”.
Dear New Years Eve: You could have proved to be super lame considering we almost spent it outside walking to a bar in Stone Town. But luckily we made it in time to clink a Tusker at midnight, take some ridiculous photos and then find the epic dance party at Mercury’s (named after none other than Freddy Mercury) where we danced the night away and met…
Dear 12 year old dancing machine MJ wanna-be: You have skill. Talent and skill. Why are you wasting it at a local bar on Zanzibar? And actually, what were you doing at a bar until 2 in the morning anyways? Isn’t that past your bedtime? Then again, if you hadn’t been there, my brother wouldn’t have had the opportunity to challenge you to a dance-off...and lose miserably. But goodness, it sure was entertaining. (Heart you, Big Bro!)
Dear taxi driver in Dar: You are inept, incompetent, useless, mean, impatient and borderline insane. Lying to us about knowing where you were going, fighting with us over a price we had already agreed to, never actually taking us to our destination, and then threatening us when we wouldn’t pay you. Holy crap, I have nothing more to say to you. UGH.
Dear sushi: You were just as good as I remembered you, and then some. Can’t wait till my next fix! Love you! *Muah*
Dear ear: You suck. You caused me to lose out on valuable vacation time exploring Stone Town and Dar Es Salaam. You kept me from sleeping and caused me more pain than I thought I could feel from something as dumb as an ear infection. You’re better now, and for that I thank you, but please never do that to me again, ok?
Dear cilantro: I still hate you. And for some reason Tanzania thought that it should put you in many, many things. Salads, soups, side dishes. WHY?!
Dear Jolly Juice: I’d never heard of you before, but after our 15 hour bus ride with you everywhere, in the cargo area, in the luggage racks and blocking the entire aisle, I kind of hate you, but also kind of want to taste your orangey goodness.
Dear Lotus Hotel in Mombasa: You will totally always have a special place in my heart. You took care of us in so many ways, especially by giving us a free nights stay when we didn’t show up until 5 in the morning our first night. Asante sana!!
Dear Chunkky Chicken: You were at a food court! In Mombasa! This in itself is amazing, but then we saw you. Truthfully, though, the only reason we chose your food was because of the extra “K” in your name. But you didn’t disappoint, that was a darn good chicken sandwich. Or maybe anything would have tasted good considering we hadn’t really eaten in close to 24 hours…
Dear Dormans Coffee Shop: We knew we’d reached civilization when we walked past you and exclaimed “Look, a coffee shop…with white people!” Then within minutes we noticed the girls at the table behind us were using distinctive “Peace Corps lingo”. I mean seriously, COS, VAC, site, village. So of course we had to be creepers and interrupt and quickly had our entire time in Mombasa planned out. We have you to thank for this. Oh, and your coffee wasn’t too bad either.
Dear almost every merchant in Mombasa: CHILL OUT. Us saying “no thanks” was usually actually a polite way of saying “your shirt is ugly”. But it should have ended there. So, there was no need to chase us down the street, grabbing our arms and still screaming “best price, best price, BEST PRICE!” because seriously, the shirt was ugly. Oh, and we really didn’t want the scarf either.
Dear Biashara Street: Your fabric offerings were amazing. Overwhelming, yet amazing. Thanks for letting us buy out that store on the corner. My colorless room thanks you.
Dear crazy lady who felt the need to goose me on the street in Mombasa: WTF?! But then again, the shopkeepers told me that the day before you had a bit a girl, so I guess it could have been worse.
Dear Tarboush: One word…YUMMY!!! So yummy we might have had dinner at you two nights in a row. What can I say, we’re creatures of habit.
Dear Liv and Lexi: It was an absolutely wonderful trip, so glad I could share it with you ladies!!!!
Dear Rwanda: I’m baaaaaack. Let’s get back down to business, shall we?
December 18th – My family arrived in Rwanda where I whisked them up to Musanze for unfortunately one of the worst dinners of the entire trip.
December 19th – Finally saw the mountain gorillas!! (with my brother, Jessi and Sonya). And then introduced my family to the neighborhood kids. Chaos ensued.
December 20th – Showed my family around Musanze – highlights included the library, a health center and the market.
December 21st – Drove down to Nyanza to show my family the Peace Corps training center and spend time with my host family. My mom cried when she met my host mom (of course), my host sister cried when she couldn’t have more than one lollipop (of course) and my brother entertained my host brother, Clement, with the art of the Hacky Sack.
December 22nd – A fairly relaxing day in Kigali, visiting the genocide memorial, Peace Corps office, and Nakumatt before eating dinner at Heaven (which happened to include a spontaneous Intore dance performance – couldn’t have planned it better myself).
December 23rd-24th – We moved onto Tanzania where we toured Serengeti National Park and saw our first wild animals far away and up close.
December 25th-26th- Lake Ndutu, just outside of Serengeti National Park. This was by far my favorite part of the safari, as were able to get closer to animals than ever before and spend Christmas at a wonderful lodge. Oh and can’t forget breakfast with cheetahs and almost getting charged by an elephant.
December 27th – Ngorongoro Crater – Striking scenery, but a little bit of a disappointment after Serengeti and Ndutu…until a rhino walked across the road in front of us.
December 28th – Lake Manyara – Don’t think we ever saw the lake, but we did see hippos out of their hippo pool.
December 29th-January 2nd – ZANZIBAR! We spent two days at the southern end of the island at Fumba Beach, sunning, swimming, drinking, eating and reading; then to Stone Town to ring in the New Year, get lost in the labyrinth of alleys and shops and buy up all the souvenirs they offered. Unfortunately it was here where I had to part with my family – they returned to the states and I joined Jessi and Sonya to head to…
January 3rd-6th- Dar Es Salaam. Sadly, I was stricken with a terrible ear infection and spent the majority of the trip lying around watching movies. Luckily, my friends Wendy and Peter generously welcomed us into their home and pampered us with air conditioning, hot showers, a huge tv, and our first taste of real sushi since leaving America. (Thank you, thank you, again!!)
January 7th-10th – We spent our last days of vacation in Mombasa, Kenya, wandering the streets, eating tasty food, and pretty much buying out a fabric store. Oh, and I was violated by a crazy lady on the street, and people actually cared. Thanks, Kenya, you rock.
And now…Dear…
Dear Tanzania and Kenya: You sure do have a little thing like “hospitality” down. I felt like a princess from the moment I arrived until the moment I left. Keep up the good work, and maybe send some people over to share your talents with Rwanda?
Dear elephants: I never knew how you ate, sweeping your feet across the ground to break the grass. It’s fascinating, purely fascinating. And I’ve got video to prove it.
Dear Rwanda: So you know what I found out on vacation? Other countries use this thing called “spice” when they cook. It miraculously gives the food this thing they call “flavor”. Maybe we should give it a try, huh?
Dear Lake Ndutu: You call that a lake? Large puddle seems like a more appropriate term. But the flamingoes around your edge made up for it. As did the ability to go off-roading with our guide, watch a female cheetah ward off the advances of two males, witness sibling rivalry within a pride of lions, and of course, get nearly charged by a mama elephant.
Dear lioness at Ngorongoro Crater: You totally stalked that herd of zebras and wildebeest for hours…and yet sadly you didn’t kill a single one. I’ll admit, I took great photos, but not only did we become slightly bored, but you must have been super, super hungry.
Dear Crater Forest Tented Camp: You were by far the coolest place I’ve ever stayed in my entire life. A permanent tent, with a balcony and rocking chairs overlooking an expansive valley. Wonderful food. Beyond friendly and helpful staff. Pre-dinner drinks around a crackling fire. BUT…maybe you should have thought about the location a little bit more, because the road to get to you is literally the worst road I’ve driven on in my entire life. 45 minutes of hell might not be worth it, especially that day we forgot our lunches and had to drive…all the way back.
Dear Toto: So on one of our drives through the Serengeti it began to rain. Andy and I couldn’t resist the urge to turn on “Africa” and giggle as we heard “Sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti” and sing along with “I bless the rains down in Africa!” Cliché, I know. But also one of the most hilarious moments of the trip.
Dear giraffes: Watching you run is by far one of the coolest things I’ve ever witnessed. So graceful, it’s almost as if it’s in slow motion. I thought it would be awkward, but it was just…beautiful.
Dear dung beetles: When I saw you in the hallway outside our hotel room I thought you were ugly and partially terrifying. Then I saw you on the side of the road, rolling around a ball of dung, and you were instantly adorable and comical. Who knew, all it took was a little poo?
Dear baboons: The way you carry your babies on your back or under your stomach as you walk is awesome and endearing. But, you smell. Really bad. And your constant screaming is really annoying. Maybe you should work on more cute baby carrying and more bathing and less fighting, mk?
Dear Mama Lion with her two cubs: You and your babies were SO CUTE! And the way they just kept following after you, trying desperately to keep up with you on their short stubby legs, constantly falling in the tall grass. I couldn’t help clutching my heart and exclaiming “awwww, I want one”. But then you scared the crap out of me by looking back and (in my mind) giving me the “if you touch my babies I’ll tear you apart, woman” stare. They’re all yours, trust me.
Dear red bananas found in a village outside of Arusha: The whole safari, David kept trying to convince me that “red bananas” existed, and that they were the best bananas I would ever eat. I didn’t believe him, and promised him that they were not better than the bananas I eat in Rwanda. And then he materialized you. I must admit, you were darn good. Not as good as imineke, but a valiant effort on your end.
Dear Zanzibar: You are one of the most gloriously beautiful places I’ve been to in my entire life. Thank you for existing.
Dear pool at Fumba Beach Lodge: You were splendid, especially at sundown when the Zanzibarian air cooled down, but you were still warm from being baked by the sun all day. However, I can’t help but believe you’re partially to blame for my dreadful ear infection. I’ll expect an apology if you ever want me to return.
Dear Baobab Spa: The massage was good. But I’m pretty sure it would have been better if I had not been in excruciating pain because of my ear. Regardless, you were still totally worth the $50.
Dear Beyt-al-Chai in Stone Town: You win the best hotel award thanks to your great location, brilliant charm, arctic air conditioning, impeccably helpful staff, free internet, and the best meal I had on my entire trip: red snapper with mango and caramelized onion, with breadfruit gnocchi in a coconut curry sauce and vegetables.
Dear Forodhani Gardens: Gotta love outdoor food markets, especially one with the freshest fish I’ve ever tasted. Barracuda was especially tasty, and the shrimp, and the fresh sugarcane juice. The guys who work there are pretty insane though (especially OBAMA man), as was your so-called “pizza”.
Dear New Years Eve: You could have proved to be super lame considering we almost spent it outside walking to a bar in Stone Town. But luckily we made it in time to clink a Tusker at midnight, take some ridiculous photos and then find the epic dance party at Mercury’s (named after none other than Freddy Mercury) where we danced the night away and met…
Dear 12 year old dancing machine MJ wanna-be: You have skill. Talent and skill. Why are you wasting it at a local bar on Zanzibar? And actually, what were you doing at a bar until 2 in the morning anyways? Isn’t that past your bedtime? Then again, if you hadn’t been there, my brother wouldn’t have had the opportunity to challenge you to a dance-off...and lose miserably. But goodness, it sure was entertaining. (Heart you, Big Bro!)
Dear taxi driver in Dar: You are inept, incompetent, useless, mean, impatient and borderline insane. Lying to us about knowing where you were going, fighting with us over a price we had already agreed to, never actually taking us to our destination, and then threatening us when we wouldn’t pay you. Holy crap, I have nothing more to say to you. UGH.
Dear sushi: You were just as good as I remembered you, and then some. Can’t wait till my next fix! Love you! *Muah*
Dear ear: You suck. You caused me to lose out on valuable vacation time exploring Stone Town and Dar Es Salaam. You kept me from sleeping and caused me more pain than I thought I could feel from something as dumb as an ear infection. You’re better now, and for that I thank you, but please never do that to me again, ok?
Dear cilantro: I still hate you. And for some reason Tanzania thought that it should put you in many, many things. Salads, soups, side dishes. WHY?!
Dear Jolly Juice: I’d never heard of you before, but after our 15 hour bus ride with you everywhere, in the cargo area, in the luggage racks and blocking the entire aisle, I kind of hate you, but also kind of want to taste your orangey goodness.
Dear Lotus Hotel in Mombasa: You will totally always have a special place in my heart. You took care of us in so many ways, especially by giving us a free nights stay when we didn’t show up until 5 in the morning our first night. Asante sana!!
Dear Chunkky Chicken: You were at a food court! In Mombasa! This in itself is amazing, but then we saw you. Truthfully, though, the only reason we chose your food was because of the extra “K” in your name. But you didn’t disappoint, that was a darn good chicken sandwich. Or maybe anything would have tasted good considering we hadn’t really eaten in close to 24 hours…
Dear Dormans Coffee Shop: We knew we’d reached civilization when we walked past you and exclaimed “Look, a coffee shop…with white people!” Then within minutes we noticed the girls at the table behind us were using distinctive “Peace Corps lingo”. I mean seriously, COS, VAC, site, village. So of course we had to be creepers and interrupt and quickly had our entire time in Mombasa planned out. We have you to thank for this. Oh, and your coffee wasn’t too bad either.
Dear almost every merchant in Mombasa: CHILL OUT. Us saying “no thanks” was usually actually a polite way of saying “your shirt is ugly”. But it should have ended there. So, there was no need to chase us down the street, grabbing our arms and still screaming “best price, best price, BEST PRICE!” because seriously, the shirt was ugly. Oh, and we really didn’t want the scarf either.
Dear Biashara Street: Your fabric offerings were amazing. Overwhelming, yet amazing. Thanks for letting us buy out that store on the corner. My colorless room thanks you.
Dear crazy lady who felt the need to goose me on the street in Mombasa: WTF?! But then again, the shopkeepers told me that the day before you had a bit a girl, so I guess it could have been worse.
Dear Tarboush: One word…YUMMY!!! So yummy we might have had dinner at you two nights in a row. What can I say, we’re creatures of habit.
Dear Liv and Lexi: It was an absolutely wonderful trip, so glad I could share it with you ladies!!!!
Dear Rwanda: I’m baaaaaack. Let’s get back down to business, shall we?
Monday, January 17, 2011
Sending love...
Hello all!! I promise that an actual blog post about my holiday adventures is on the way! But until then I wanted to let you know that 1) I'm alive and safe and back at site, attempting to get back into work mode, but also preparing for my upcoming birthday and 2) I was finally able to get a PO Box in my town, which means I won't have to lug your enormous and yet, extremely generous packages all the way from Kigali anymore :)
So from now on send any letters, packages and other love to:
Amy Studenic
BP 209
Musanze, Rwanda
East Africa
The East Africa isn't necessary, but I've heard that some confused postal workers around the world aren't exactly sure where Rwanda is. Go figure. Haha.
So from now on send any letters, packages and other love to:
Amy Studenic
BP 209
Musanze, Rwanda
East Africa
The East Africa isn't necessary, but I've heard that some confused postal workers around the world aren't exactly sure where Rwanda is. Go figure. Haha.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Dear…
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!!
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!!
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