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!!
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!
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