In many ways this is not the Peace Corps experience I originally envisioned. I must admit, part of me applied to Peace Corps with idealistic and grand visions of life in a rural African village, cut off from the world. There would be no electricity, I would wake with the sun, and write letters to my family by candlelight until I fell asleep, usually by 8pm. Running water would be non-existent, and every day I would find myself clustering around the village well with my neighbors, gathering water to drink, wash with and cook with. I would have a simple house (though I wasn’t naïve enough to picture a mud hut with a thatched roof) with a grass fence and no gate, welcoming neighbors, children and all sorts of animals to cross in and out freely. I would toil for hours over a wood fire, concocting spicy stews and carb-filled porridges. I would walk everywhere, to work, to the market, to visit friends, to do anything; or maybe if I was lucky I’d have a bike! My days would be filled with interacting in the community, dreaming up projects, attempting to get funding for them, attending weddings and baptisms and most likely even seeing babies delivered constantly. I would speak fluently with my neighbors and be basically adopted into the community, know everyone, know everything. But every day would still be a challenge as I dealt with language barriers and cultural barriers, adjusting to a solitary Peace Corps life.
So here I am, in Peace Corps, in Rwanda. I live in the 4th largest city in the country, where foreigners are rather abundant (everything from NGO workers to tourists off to visit the gorillas). I live in a rather beautiful four room house, with tall brick walls on all sides and an imposing brown and green metal gate. I have electricity (most days) and running water in my house (most days) with an indoor toilet and shower. I write blog posts, type emails to friends and family back home, listen to music, watch movies and do most of my work all on my laptop. There are more hotels in my town than I can count on one hand, offering yummy Western food, Fanta’s and beer, and fast wireless internet. I cook over a kerosene stove, concocting spicy stews just as much as grilled cheese sandwiches. I can buy wine, olive oil, peanut butter and jelly, Pringles, mustard and so many more “Muzungu” things at numerous stores in my town. I ride in a truck more often than I ever imagined, either for work or getting rides home from some American friends. I can easily go to a bar quite similar to one you would find in America, order a pizza and a glass of wine, and watch a soccer game on a flat screen television. I have an office in the district hospital and travel around to 17 health centers in two districts getting my bearings working for a large project founded and funded by Americans. I get outside and walk around every day, but considering the size of my town have an incredibly difficult time identifying even what my “community” is, let alone integrating into it. My Kinyarwanda is coming along, but conversation is limited when I can really only talk at the level of a five year old. I have yet to be invited to a wedding, though have attended a baptism; and despite seeing women about to give birth and several newborn babies, I haven’t witnessed one single baby being delivered so far. But every day is still a challenge, as I deal with language barriers and cultural barriers, adjusting to a solitary Posh Corps life.
So, there we go: Peace Corps vs. Posh Corps. Yes, it’s different, yes it’s not exactly what I expected, yes it presents its own unique set of challenges that I never even contemplated before coming here. But every day I’m still very much aware of who I am, where I find myself and what an amazing experience this will still be, hopefully even better than what I envisioned. Every day is new. Every day I learn a new word. Every day I explore a new part of town. Every day I talk to someone new. Every day I notice something new. Every day I hear a new animal sound. Every day I find a new solution to a problem.
And yet, I am constantly struggling with how to balance my desire to absorb and embrace Rwandan culture, integrate into my neighborhood and build relationships with Rwandans, with my need to remain sane as an American living in a foreign country. This manifests itself in a variety of ways. I spend the entire day in a room with two dozen Rwandans receiving Quickbooks training entirely in Kinyarwanda (two things still very foreign to me), and then retreat into my house in the evening to eat mac and cheese and M&Ms and watch The Hurt Locker. Or I spend a few hours gardening with my Rwandan neighbor and her three children, attempting to discuss everything from my job, to religion, to my family in America, and by the afternoon am at Americaland (or rather the home of my American friends) using their wireless internet, eating hotdogs and pickles, and watching a movie on their projector screen. But which of these is my life? Which one is “right”? When does support become a crutch? While attempting to be Rwandan, I often feel awkward and uncomfortable and long to be back in America. But while being “American”, I often feel guilty and awkward and long to be speaking kinyarwanda with my neighbors and colleagues. It’s the epitome of split personalities. My name is Amy and my name is Umugwaneza. I’m an expat working in Rwanda, but I’m also a Peace Corps Volunteer working and living amongst Rwandans. I like pizza and hamburgers, and I like cassava and dodo. But this contradiction is inevitable, right? And maybe it’s even necessary. Maybe it will be my ability to balance these two “personalities” that will allow me to not only survive, but thrive, here. Maybe by embracing these two sides I’ll be able to endure the successes and challenges of the next two years; learn, teach, give, take, adapt, grow.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
A day in the life...sorta.
I’ve gotten many requests from friends, family and blog readers, asking what a typical day is like here in Rwanda. And I’ve struggled to figure out how to even answer this question, let alone attempt to write a blog post about it. The problem is, no two days are the same. One day I’m insanely busy with work and health center visits, with little time to eat or relax; the following day I may have little actual work or housework and spend my day reading, writing, watching movies and perusing the internet. So…condensing this into a “day in the life” would be difficult to say the least. But as I’ve recently made a life decision to not only embrace challenges, but overcome them, I’ll do my best.
A somewhat ordinary, somewhat un-ordinary Friday:
5:36am – I’m awoken (as usual) by the sounds of my neighbors beginning their days: Babies crying; pots banging; bicycles, trucks and motos passing on the street outside my house; a ball bouncing against a wall. Rolling over, I do everything in my power to fall back to sleep.
6:22am- Awake again. I glance at my clock, instantly excited that I still have 40 minutes to doze and lay in bed. (insert more of “the world is awake and starting their day, you should too” sounds).
7:00am- My alarm goes off, I hit snooze.
7:04am- I remember that I keep meaning to change the snooze time on my alarm to something other than a ridiculous mere 4 minutes.
7:08am- I decide that snoozing for 4 minutes is really unnecessary, turn off my alarm and text my boss to see what time I should meet him at the office
7:10am- I attempt to quietly un-tuck my mosquito net and get out of bed, but she can’t be fooled.
7:10:30am- PiliPili cat begins her loud, obnoxious, “feed me or I’ll die, woman” cry/meow from the living room.
7:11am- I get an egg and a granola bar out of my storage closet and peel the egg while attempting to ignore Pili’s meowing and caressing of my ankles.
7:14am- Back in my room, I switch on music, eat my breakfast and get ready for my day (insert mundane activities such as getting dressed, brushing my hair and teeth, washing my face, taking my anti-malaria pill, putting on deodorant, sunscreen and makeup, etc)
7:40am- Almost ready to leave my house, I get a text from my boss saying he’s at the bank and won’t get to the office until 8:30. I settle into more music and playing with the cat, then get my bag ready for the day.
8:25am- I refill Pili’s water dish, open up a window (Pili’s version of a “cat-door”), lock my house, and emerge from my gate.
8:26am- “Amy, Amy, Amy! Bite? Tuzagusura ryari?!” I receive my usual morning greeting from the neighborhood children (Amy, Amy, Amy! What’s up? When will we visit you?) Three of my favorite girls, Sifa, Deniz and Marvee, run up to me for morning hugs and high fives. I tell them “ngiye ku kazi” (I’m going to work) and wave goodbye.
8:28am- I get to the end of my road, where the waiting moto drivers rush to me saying “Sister, twagiye?” (Sister, we go?) “Oya, murakoze” (No, thank you), I respond, (fighting the urge to say, “But if I am your sister, how is our mother?”) and begin my trek to work.
8:34am- I pass the oogling bicycle taxi boys and make my usual turn onto my shortcut to the hospital. A group of market ladies fall in step beside me, muttering something about the muzungu and if she knows Kinyarwanda. “Buhoro, buhoro” (slowly, slowly), I respond, only mildly hoping that they actually hear me. “AAAAHHH, azi Kinyarwanda!” (Ahhhh, she knows Kinyarwanda!), they exclaim. We exchange the normal greetings and questions (where are you going, where do you work, etc). As we near the hospital the one question I’m hoping they don’t ask is finally uttered: can you give me one hundred francs? Followed of course by my usual response:“Ndi umukorerabushake, simfite amafaranga, sorry” (I’m a volunteer, I don’t have money, sorry).
8:40am- I’m on the hospital grounds now, and pass my favorite cleaning lady, exchanging a smiley “Mwaramutse!” (Good morning)
8:42am- Bertin, my counterpart, is cheerily sitting at his desk when I enter our office. As we haven’t seen each other in a couple of weeks (Bertin’s been on vacation and then I was in Kigali for a couple of days) we exchange hugs and handshakes. I inquire about his wife and daughters (and cows of course), then we get down to business, planning our activities for the next few weeks, bearing in mind my training schedule and the arrival of the Books for Africa shipment.
10:19am- While I’m working on a memo to the Executive Secretary regarding further requirements for the library, Bertin suddenly tells me that he’s going to go see if the internet is working. Huh? Excuse me? Can you repeat that? I must not have heard you correctly. Apparently the hospital finally got wireless, but the signal doesn’t quite reach our office. I go back to my music and memo writing, anxiously awaiting his return.
10:56am- And Bertin’s back, with excellent news! The wireless does work; he was able to get a very fast signal while sitting in the hospital parking lot, under a grove of trees.
11:04am- Yep, he wasn’t lying about the grove of trees, the internet signal is quite impressive. I check my email, I check facebook, I check the news and download a few documents I need.
11:52am- Freezing from sitting in the shade with the cold Musanze wind whipping around me, I retreat back to our office to finish my memo and see what the plan is for the rest of the day.
12:10pm- Lunch time! I head home (fairly uneventfully actually) and get started on some lunch (totally gourmet pb&j) and chores (insert mundane activities such as bleaching water, washing dishes, sweeping, watering my plants and gathering my dirty clothes to wash)
1:51pm- Lunch is finished, chores are finished and I’m waiting for Jessica and her parents to finish their gorilla trek so that they can stop by and see the house, cat and babies; I switch on Harry Potter 4 and lie down for some relaxation time with the cat.
2:46pm- Bored with movie watching, I decide to rearrange my room, something I’ve been meaning to do ever since Mosquito Invasion 2k10. Of course, rearranging my room turns into sweeping and mopping the entire house, in anticipation of Jessica and her parent’s arrival.
3:35pm- Jessica calls, they’re on their way!! I return to my movie and start texting with Jenny, relishing in the fact that with Tigo each text is a fraction of the amount it used to be when I used MTN.
4:37pm- I hear commotion outside my gate, and then a quiet knock. Upon opening it, I see Jessica and her parents, with at least 20 neighborhood children swarming around them talking and laughing. “Jessica ari hano!!!” (Jessica is here!) Yes, kids, I see that.
4:38-5:28pm- Pandemonium. Children in the avocado tree, children in the garden, children in the trash, children in the latrine, children talking to Jessica, children babbling to her parents, children asking for photos, children looking at photos, children dancing, children screaming, children singing, children piling avocadoes into two warring piles much like they would snowballs before a snowball fight, children reading magazines, children speaking incoherent Kinyarwanda to me about the pictures in the magazine.
5:29pm- Silence. The children have departed and Jessica, her parents and I settle into the living room to talk about their visit and allow Pili to come out of her usual hiding place to be fawned over and told that not only is she a teenager, but she’s also a princess. On cue, Pili jumps into “her chair” and assumes her “princess pose”.
6:03pm- Jessica and her parents depart, leaving me with a hungry cat and a strong desire to wash off the kid germs from my hands.
6:24pm- Princess Pili has an egg in her bowl and a new flea collar around her neck. I press play on Harry Potter 5 and receive a text from my next visitors of the night, Jessi and her friends, who will be arriving from Gisenyi a little after 7 for dinner and a (free) sleepover. I lose myself in the world of Hogwarts.
7:25pm- Jessi texts, they’re at the post office, a mere 4 minute walk to my house!
7:29pm- There’s a knock on my gate and I open it to three smiling Americans, backpacks on their back and hunger on their faces.
7:45pm- After a quick costume change we’re out the door, heading to Volcana for pizza (Yes, my town has a pizza place! For $8 I can get a personal pizza with salami that in no way reminds me of Red Rocks in DC, but still satisfies my occasional pizza craving)
8:09pm- Pizza’s ordered, fantas are on the table and conversation moves from my December vacation with my parents and brother, to my 2012 European adventure with my brother, to the differences between Uganda and Rwanda)
8:53pm- Pizza arrives, commence eating.
9:22pm- There isn’t a crumb left on our plates, as we pay the bill and head home, not before being stopped by a random Rwandan saying “Amy!” in the parking lot who I must have met at some point (not that knowing my name in my town automatically means that we’ve actually met). Yes, Kevin, I’ll be sure to return to Volcana to hear you spin music one day…maybe.
9:34pm- Back at my house, we all get ready for bed, tuck in our mosquito nets and turn off the lights
Sometime before 10pm- I am passssssssssed out, exhausted from another wonderful day in Rwanda.
A somewhat ordinary, somewhat un-ordinary Friday:
5:36am – I’m awoken (as usual) by the sounds of my neighbors beginning their days: Babies crying; pots banging; bicycles, trucks and motos passing on the street outside my house; a ball bouncing against a wall. Rolling over, I do everything in my power to fall back to sleep.
6:22am- Awake again. I glance at my clock, instantly excited that I still have 40 minutes to doze and lay in bed. (insert more of “the world is awake and starting their day, you should too” sounds).
7:00am- My alarm goes off, I hit snooze.
7:04am- I remember that I keep meaning to change the snooze time on my alarm to something other than a ridiculous mere 4 minutes.
7:08am- I decide that snoozing for 4 minutes is really unnecessary, turn off my alarm and text my boss to see what time I should meet him at the office
7:10am- I attempt to quietly un-tuck my mosquito net and get out of bed, but she can’t be fooled.
7:10:30am- PiliPili cat begins her loud, obnoxious, “feed me or I’ll die, woman” cry/meow from the living room.
7:11am- I get an egg and a granola bar out of my storage closet and peel the egg while attempting to ignore Pili’s meowing and caressing of my ankles.
7:14am- Back in my room, I switch on music, eat my breakfast and get ready for my day (insert mundane activities such as getting dressed, brushing my hair and teeth, washing my face, taking my anti-malaria pill, putting on deodorant, sunscreen and makeup, etc)
7:40am- Almost ready to leave my house, I get a text from my boss saying he’s at the bank and won’t get to the office until 8:30. I settle into more music and playing with the cat, then get my bag ready for the day.
8:25am- I refill Pili’s water dish, open up a window (Pili’s version of a “cat-door”), lock my house, and emerge from my gate.
8:26am- “Amy, Amy, Amy! Bite? Tuzagusura ryari?!” I receive my usual morning greeting from the neighborhood children (Amy, Amy, Amy! What’s up? When will we visit you?) Three of my favorite girls, Sifa, Deniz and Marvee, run up to me for morning hugs and high fives. I tell them “ngiye ku kazi” (I’m going to work) and wave goodbye.
8:28am- I get to the end of my road, where the waiting moto drivers rush to me saying “Sister, twagiye?” (Sister, we go?) “Oya, murakoze” (No, thank you), I respond, (fighting the urge to say, “But if I am your sister, how is our mother?”) and begin my trek to work.
8:34am- I pass the oogling bicycle taxi boys and make my usual turn onto my shortcut to the hospital. A group of market ladies fall in step beside me, muttering something about the muzungu and if she knows Kinyarwanda. “Buhoro, buhoro” (slowly, slowly), I respond, only mildly hoping that they actually hear me. “AAAAHHH, azi Kinyarwanda!” (Ahhhh, she knows Kinyarwanda!), they exclaim. We exchange the normal greetings and questions (where are you going, where do you work, etc). As we near the hospital the one question I’m hoping they don’t ask is finally uttered: can you give me one hundred francs? Followed of course by my usual response:“Ndi umukorerabushake, simfite amafaranga, sorry” (I’m a volunteer, I don’t have money, sorry).
8:40am- I’m on the hospital grounds now, and pass my favorite cleaning lady, exchanging a smiley “Mwaramutse!” (Good morning)
8:42am- Bertin, my counterpart, is cheerily sitting at his desk when I enter our office. As we haven’t seen each other in a couple of weeks (Bertin’s been on vacation and then I was in Kigali for a couple of days) we exchange hugs and handshakes. I inquire about his wife and daughters (and cows of course), then we get down to business, planning our activities for the next few weeks, bearing in mind my training schedule and the arrival of the Books for Africa shipment.
10:19am- While I’m working on a memo to the Executive Secretary regarding further requirements for the library, Bertin suddenly tells me that he’s going to go see if the internet is working. Huh? Excuse me? Can you repeat that? I must not have heard you correctly. Apparently the hospital finally got wireless, but the signal doesn’t quite reach our office. I go back to my music and memo writing, anxiously awaiting his return.
10:56am- And Bertin’s back, with excellent news! The wireless does work; he was able to get a very fast signal while sitting in the hospital parking lot, under a grove of trees.
11:04am- Yep, he wasn’t lying about the grove of trees, the internet signal is quite impressive. I check my email, I check facebook, I check the news and download a few documents I need.
11:52am- Freezing from sitting in the shade with the cold Musanze wind whipping around me, I retreat back to our office to finish my memo and see what the plan is for the rest of the day.
12:10pm- Lunch time! I head home (fairly uneventfully actually) and get started on some lunch (totally gourmet pb&j) and chores (insert mundane activities such as bleaching water, washing dishes, sweeping, watering my plants and gathering my dirty clothes to wash)
1:51pm- Lunch is finished, chores are finished and I’m waiting for Jessica and her parents to finish their gorilla trek so that they can stop by and see the house, cat and babies; I switch on Harry Potter 4 and lie down for some relaxation time with the cat.
2:46pm- Bored with movie watching, I decide to rearrange my room, something I’ve been meaning to do ever since Mosquito Invasion 2k10. Of course, rearranging my room turns into sweeping and mopping the entire house, in anticipation of Jessica and her parent’s arrival.
3:35pm- Jessica calls, they’re on their way!! I return to my movie and start texting with Jenny, relishing in the fact that with Tigo each text is a fraction of the amount it used to be when I used MTN.
4:37pm- I hear commotion outside my gate, and then a quiet knock. Upon opening it, I see Jessica and her parents, with at least 20 neighborhood children swarming around them talking and laughing. “Jessica ari hano!!!” (Jessica is here!) Yes, kids, I see that.
4:38-5:28pm- Pandemonium. Children in the avocado tree, children in the garden, children in the trash, children in the latrine, children talking to Jessica, children babbling to her parents, children asking for photos, children looking at photos, children dancing, children screaming, children singing, children piling avocadoes into two warring piles much like they would snowballs before a snowball fight, children reading magazines, children speaking incoherent Kinyarwanda to me about the pictures in the magazine.
5:29pm- Silence. The children have departed and Jessica, her parents and I settle into the living room to talk about their visit and allow Pili to come out of her usual hiding place to be fawned over and told that not only is she a teenager, but she’s also a princess. On cue, Pili jumps into “her chair” and assumes her “princess pose”.
6:03pm- Jessica and her parents depart, leaving me with a hungry cat and a strong desire to wash off the kid germs from my hands.
6:24pm- Princess Pili has an egg in her bowl and a new flea collar around her neck. I press play on Harry Potter 5 and receive a text from my next visitors of the night, Jessi and her friends, who will be arriving from Gisenyi a little after 7 for dinner and a (free) sleepover. I lose myself in the world of Hogwarts.
7:25pm- Jessi texts, they’re at the post office, a mere 4 minute walk to my house!
7:29pm- There’s a knock on my gate and I open it to three smiling Americans, backpacks on their back and hunger on their faces.
7:45pm- After a quick costume change we’re out the door, heading to Volcana for pizza (Yes, my town has a pizza place! For $8 I can get a personal pizza with salami that in no way reminds me of Red Rocks in DC, but still satisfies my occasional pizza craving)
8:09pm- Pizza’s ordered, fantas are on the table and conversation moves from my December vacation with my parents and brother, to my 2012 European adventure with my brother, to the differences between Uganda and Rwanda)
8:53pm- Pizza arrives, commence eating.
9:22pm- There isn’t a crumb left on our plates, as we pay the bill and head home, not before being stopped by a random Rwandan saying “Amy!” in the parking lot who I must have met at some point (not that knowing my name in my town automatically means that we’ve actually met). Yes, Kevin, I’ll be sure to return to Volcana to hear you spin music one day…maybe.
9:34pm- Back at my house, we all get ready for bed, tuck in our mosquito nets and turn off the lights
Sometime before 10pm- I am passssssssssed out, exhausted from another wonderful day in Rwanda.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Remember that time.
Remember that time you were thoroughly impressed that the restaurant staff were actually cleaning the tables, until you noticed that they were cleaning them with insecticide.
Remember that time you saw the moto driver chug a beer, place the bottle back on the bar, put his helmet on and go to work. (Eeek.)
Remember that time Zackhshowed what his director’s cut of Troy would look like on the projector screen, cutting down almost 3 hours into a 25 minute highlight reel.
Remember that time you came home late from watching a World Cup game and your cat was nowhere to be seen, but after searching your entire property you finally found her high up on a branch of your avocado tree crying and meowing, unable to get down; and it only took 45 minutes, a lot of coaxing with cat food and you finally scurrying up the tree branch at midnight to get her safely back on the ground.
Remember that time you came home again to a missing cat and found her either fighting or frolicking with a stray cat amongst your vegetable garden; and that you woke up at 3am to find the stray cat meowing outside your window, hoping Pili could come out to play again.
Remember that time you bucket bathed and washed your hair on the same day (and for the first time in too many days to even mention here) and you jumped into the CCHIPs car and Lauren exclaimed “oh my goodness, you smell like marzipan”. Maybe you should bathe more often?
Remember that time you wished you hadn’t walked into town and weighed yourself down with three bags of food for the long trek home, but then suddenly looked up and saw Mbonesa, your driver, who stopped, pointed to the front seat, and gave you and all of your bags a much needed ride home.
Remember that time you caught your 4 year old neighbor wearing a plastic bag on her head like a chef’s hat and using sugarcane to “conduct” the cornstalks in front of her.
Remember that time you went to Gorillas hotel on a very cold day for internet and mentioned to your waitress how cold you were, and within 10 minutes had yummy hot chocolate, mini waffles to snack on and a blanket over your lap, all courtesy of your lovely hotel friends.
Remember that time you discovered that your garden was in fact producing yummy but mutant carrots the size of your forearm.
Remember that time your favorite bank teller was wearing a pin stripe suit with matching bright pink shirt and tie, and you got to use your favorite Kinyarwanda compliment: Wambaye neza! (which means, “you put on clothes well!”)
Remember that time you realized you live just off of Umuhanda w’Amahoro, which means Street of Peace.
Remember that time you were putting on the lotion that your grandma sent, once again saying “geez, this lotion is the weirdest lotion ever” and then looked at the bottle and realized that it was in fact body wash, not lotion at all.
Remember that time you went into the bathroom at the bar and realized there was (as usual) no toilet paper, but then remembered that you actually had two rolls of toilet paper in your bag that you’d just bought at the store. Good timing!
Remember that time Mama Providence brought you an entire bag of ibigori (corn) so the next day you decided to return the favor by giving her a bunch of ibitoki (plantains), and what started as Providence and three children in your yard turned into every child from your neighborhood invading your compound talking, laughing and singing. If only you’d been able to capture on video the hilarity of Providence whacking at a tree with a machete while two dozen children hung from the branches of your avocado tree.
Remember that time you were walking to work and noticed that all the corn had been cut down and maybe you needed to think of a new name for the Children of the Corn.
Remember that time you were about to tell the middle-aged man in the full suit, tie and shiny shoes that he looked smart, but then he turned around and you noticed his messenger bag was plastered with pictures from High School Musical.
Remember that time the sewing kit your mom sent you actually came in handy, as you and three of your friends went to work putting new wicks into your kerosene stove and your foyer began to resemble something more like an operating room with people calling out “thread, scissors, pliers!” much like they would “suture, scalpel, forceps!”. That grilled cheese sure was worth it though!
Remember that time your shoes, hairbrush, stove and bed all broke in the same week. Yeah, that sucked.
Remember that time you had some friends in town for a training and they were staying at a super nice hotel, so you borrowed one of their keys and had what was probably the best hot shower of your entire life. And don’t forget later that night when you ended up actually sleeping at the hotel in her king size bed and watching CNN on the television.
Remember that time you woke up from a nap curled up with the cat and realized you may not be only a dog person after all.
Remember that time you walked out of your gate and three separate groups of children yelled “Amy” while grinning and waving like crazy, and you fell in love with your life just a little bit more.
Remember that time you reached the final page of your journal and decided to re-read what you had written from cover to cover, once again experiencing the ups and the downs, the good times and bad, from the mundane to the extreme, and everything in between. And remember when you got to one of the most difficult entries and a butterfly fluttered through your window into your room. Remember, you’re never alone.
Remember that time you saw the moto driver chug a beer, place the bottle back on the bar, put his helmet on and go to work. (Eeek.)
Remember that time Zackhshowed what his director’s cut of Troy would look like on the projector screen, cutting down almost 3 hours into a 25 minute highlight reel.
Remember that time you came home late from watching a World Cup game and your cat was nowhere to be seen, but after searching your entire property you finally found her high up on a branch of your avocado tree crying and meowing, unable to get down; and it only took 45 minutes, a lot of coaxing with cat food and you finally scurrying up the tree branch at midnight to get her safely back on the ground.
Remember that time you came home again to a missing cat and found her either fighting or frolicking with a stray cat amongst your vegetable garden; and that you woke up at 3am to find the stray cat meowing outside your window, hoping Pili could come out to play again.
Remember that time you bucket bathed and washed your hair on the same day (and for the first time in too many days to even mention here) and you jumped into the CCHIPs car and Lauren exclaimed “oh my goodness, you smell like marzipan”. Maybe you should bathe more often?
Remember that time you wished you hadn’t walked into town and weighed yourself down with three bags of food for the long trek home, but then suddenly looked up and saw Mbonesa, your driver, who stopped, pointed to the front seat, and gave you and all of your bags a much needed ride home.
Remember that time you caught your 4 year old neighbor wearing a plastic bag on her head like a chef’s hat and using sugarcane to “conduct” the cornstalks in front of her.
Remember that time you went to Gorillas hotel on a very cold day for internet and mentioned to your waitress how cold you were, and within 10 minutes had yummy hot chocolate, mini waffles to snack on and a blanket over your lap, all courtesy of your lovely hotel friends.
Remember that time you discovered that your garden was in fact producing yummy but mutant carrots the size of your forearm.
Remember that time your favorite bank teller was wearing a pin stripe suit with matching bright pink shirt and tie, and you got to use your favorite Kinyarwanda compliment: Wambaye neza! (which means, “you put on clothes well!”)
Remember that time you realized you live just off of Umuhanda w’Amahoro, which means Street of Peace.
Remember that time you were putting on the lotion that your grandma sent, once again saying “geez, this lotion is the weirdest lotion ever” and then looked at the bottle and realized that it was in fact body wash, not lotion at all.
Remember that time you went into the bathroom at the bar and realized there was (as usual) no toilet paper, but then remembered that you actually had two rolls of toilet paper in your bag that you’d just bought at the store. Good timing!
Remember that time Mama Providence brought you an entire bag of ibigori (corn) so the next day you decided to return the favor by giving her a bunch of ibitoki (plantains), and what started as Providence and three children in your yard turned into every child from your neighborhood invading your compound talking, laughing and singing. If only you’d been able to capture on video the hilarity of Providence whacking at a tree with a machete while two dozen children hung from the branches of your avocado tree.
Remember that time you were walking to work and noticed that all the corn had been cut down and maybe you needed to think of a new name for the Children of the Corn.
Remember that time you were about to tell the middle-aged man in the full suit, tie and shiny shoes that he looked smart, but then he turned around and you noticed his messenger bag was plastered with pictures from High School Musical.
Remember that time the sewing kit your mom sent you actually came in handy, as you and three of your friends went to work putting new wicks into your kerosene stove and your foyer began to resemble something more like an operating room with people calling out “thread, scissors, pliers!” much like they would “suture, scalpel, forceps!”. That grilled cheese sure was worth it though!
Remember that time your shoes, hairbrush, stove and bed all broke in the same week. Yeah, that sucked.
Remember that time you had some friends in town for a training and they were staying at a super nice hotel, so you borrowed one of their keys and had what was probably the best hot shower of your entire life. And don’t forget later that night when you ended up actually sleeping at the hotel in her king size bed and watching CNN on the television.
Remember that time you woke up from a nap curled up with the cat and realized you may not be only a dog person after all.
Remember that time you walked out of your gate and three separate groups of children yelled “Amy” while grinning and waving like crazy, and you fell in love with your life just a little bit more.
Remember that time you reached the final page of your journal and decided to re-read what you had written from cover to cover, once again experiencing the ups and the downs, the good times and bad, from the mundane to the extreme, and everything in between. And remember when you got to one of the most difficult entries and a butterfly fluttered through your window into your room. Remember, you’re never alone.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Returning to my roots
As I pass the five month mark in Rwanda and two month mark at site, I thought it time to return to where it all began: The Southern Province. It was perfect timing too, as one of my friends in Musanze, Kelly, was hoping to see a bit more of the country before she goes back to America next month. With our other friend, Lauren, we planned an epic weekend touring Nyanza and Butare; there would be ice cream, there would be pork, there would be host family visits, there would be French baguette and there would be market exploration.
After spending Friday evening with Peace Corps friends bidding goodbye to one of our own, I met up with Lauren and Kelly in Kigali and boarded the always adventure-filled Volcano bus to Butare. As we drove out of Kigali, I was comforted by the familiar ride: familiar sights, familiar twists and turns in the road. And yet, as I gazed out the window, I couldn’t help but notice how brown everything was. To the non-Rwandan eye (or eye of someone who hasn’t lived in Rwanda for 5 months) it would still seem to be beautiful, green Rwanda. But for me, I saw the toll that dry season had taken; the effects were much harsher than they are even in Musanze, which still sees rain every couple of weeks. The bus continued hurtling down the road, carrying us on our way South. I settled into my iPod and staring out the window; Lauren settled in for a nap; and Kelly settled into a conversation with the Rwandan next to her. After an hour and a half, we passed the turnoff to Nyanza, so I knew we had anywhere from 30 to 45 minutes left on our journey (depending on how suicidal the driver was) and started to get excited. Two rows in front of us, a little boy was excited too. So excited he kept looking back at us, waving, smiling and giggling. We looked back, we waved back, we smiled back, we giggled back. Then all of a sudden, the boy was being passed back. To us. As he sat on Lauren’s lap, we started asking the usual questions. Witwa nde? (What is your name?) Ugiye he? (Where are you going?) Utuye I Kigali? (Do you live in Kigali?) Ufite imyaka n’angahe? (How old are you?) And wouldn’t you know, he started answering back to us in English. This little man, with the beautifully large brown eyes, answering in perfect English. His name was Gardise and he was five years old, though looked the size of maybe a 3 or 4 year old. He was a perfect angel and spent the rest of the trip flipping through a magazine, listening to music with the headphones of the Rwandan next to Kelly, and sleeping on Lauren’s lap. And then suddenly we were climbing the familiar hill and entering the town center of Butare.
The first people we saw were Jessica and Aime, who we’d been hoping to have lunch with, but instead had to settle for a quick five minute chat in the gas station parking lot before they boarded their bus to Kigali. After they left, we ventured across the street to Matar Supermarket and sat down for lunch at Cheers with Madison and Jacelyn, two PCV friends. Madison recommended the burrito, which wasn’t even on the menu, and although it was nothing like Chipotle (oh, Chipotle, how I miss thee!) it still did not disappoint. After lunch Madison showed us to the Africana hotel, where for $6 a person we got a room with a huge bed, private bathroom and even a small sitting room. Then we got to wandering. Our first stop: ice cream. Many of you probably know about the ice cream shop ( http://bluemarbledreams.wordpress.com/our-projects/inzozi-nziza-rwanda/ ) that opened in Butare, since it was opened by American’s who own a Brooklyn ice cream shop. It’s called Inzozi Nziza (which basically translates Sweet Dreams) uses local products and hired an all Rwandan women staff. Well we made it to the ice cream shop, but due to a city wide power outage, there was no ice cream to be had, although the carrot cake was delish! Afterwards, Jacelyn pointed us in the direction of the National University of Rwanda (NUR), nonchalantly mentioning that just past the campus there’s an arboretum, with monkeys. Huh? Monkeys you say? We were sold, and quickly walked down the road towards the university, in search of monkeys. NUR’s campus turned out to be beautiful; simple brick buildings tucked into grounds covered with towering trees, and a labyrinth of walking paths carving their way through green grass. As we were attempting to find the alleged “arboretum” Kelly turned to her right and exclaimed “monkey!!”. Sure enough, there were the monkeys, and not just a couple, but dozens of them! They were in the trees, they were in the grass, they were in the road, they were frolicking with the goats. There was a man and a small child there too, feeding them. We greeted them and I asked what he was feeding them. Ibumbati, he said; cassava. The little kid was playing with the monkeys, walking up to them and making growling noises at them, only to run away quickly giggling. The moment was perfect and soon we were surrounded by monkeys in every direction; I think I took enough pictures to cover an entire wall of my house with them.
After the monkey show, we returned to our hotel in town, to relax before finding dinner. That’s when I looked down and saw how ridiculously dirty my feet were. Thank you, dry season. I remarked that if you looked at just my feet I looked like a different ethnicity. Lauren and Kelly did not disagree. Needless to say, it was time to see if the shower worked.
Following our relaxation time, we met up with Lindsay, a current education PCV, at Igichumbas for beer and akabenzi! Akabenzi is pork; more like amazingly delicious pork, onions and spices that you order by the kilo and devour in less than five minutes. Wash it down with a room temperature Primus over some delightful conversation, and you have yourself a wonderful evening in Butare.
The next morning we caught an early bus to Nyanza, my old home. As we drove into town I was struck by a flurry of emotions; happy with how familiar it all looked, excited to show my friends around my old stomping grounds, nervous to see my host family again after a couple of months away. Our first stop was the French bakery in town, to buy a crunchy on the outside/soft on the inside three foot long baguette, for the grand total of about 60 cents. Baguette in hand, we wandered to Blue Bar, my old hangout bar from training, which was luckily open despite it being 9am on a Sunday. We ordered fantas, and began munching on our yummy breakfast, ignoring the stares of the two men drinking beer in the cabana next to us. After we ate I gave Lauren and Kelly a quick tour of town, showing them where our training center was, the road to my old house, the market, and the stores we frequented for Rwandan fabric, yogurt and Snickers. And then we were off to my host family’s house, after a quick stop for lollipops for the kiddies. Unfortunately, our timing wasn’t the best, as most of my family was at church, but I was still able to catch up with my mom, Jeanne, and two of my host brothers. It was nice to see them, to chat with them, and to realize I haven’t lost as much Kinyarwanda as I thought I had. The visit, while lovely, was too short, and after a quick photo op we boarded another Volcano bus bound for Kigali.
The final highlights of the trip included scrumptious coffee at Bourbon, buying out all of the earrings at the Kimironko market and making an unscheduled stop on the ride back to Musanze so that two passengers could scurry into the woods for a potty break. At home later that night, all I wanted was a hot bucket bath and a long night’s sleep, but I couldn’t help but reflect on the hilarious adventures from the weekend. It’s great to remember where I’ve been, all the things I’ve already done these past five months, and look ahead to the future. Future weekend trips, future new experiences, future work endeavors, future successes, future challenges. So, stay tuned to see what the future truly holds.
After spending Friday evening with Peace Corps friends bidding goodbye to one of our own, I met up with Lauren and Kelly in Kigali and boarded the always adventure-filled Volcano bus to Butare. As we drove out of Kigali, I was comforted by the familiar ride: familiar sights, familiar twists and turns in the road. And yet, as I gazed out the window, I couldn’t help but notice how brown everything was. To the non-Rwandan eye (or eye of someone who hasn’t lived in Rwanda for 5 months) it would still seem to be beautiful, green Rwanda. But for me, I saw the toll that dry season had taken; the effects were much harsher than they are even in Musanze, which still sees rain every couple of weeks. The bus continued hurtling down the road, carrying us on our way South. I settled into my iPod and staring out the window; Lauren settled in for a nap; and Kelly settled into a conversation with the Rwandan next to her. After an hour and a half, we passed the turnoff to Nyanza, so I knew we had anywhere from 30 to 45 minutes left on our journey (depending on how suicidal the driver was) and started to get excited. Two rows in front of us, a little boy was excited too. So excited he kept looking back at us, waving, smiling and giggling. We looked back, we waved back, we smiled back, we giggled back. Then all of a sudden, the boy was being passed back. To us. As he sat on Lauren’s lap, we started asking the usual questions. Witwa nde? (What is your name?) Ugiye he? (Where are you going?) Utuye I Kigali? (Do you live in Kigali?) Ufite imyaka n’angahe? (How old are you?) And wouldn’t you know, he started answering back to us in English. This little man, with the beautifully large brown eyes, answering in perfect English. His name was Gardise and he was five years old, though looked the size of maybe a 3 or 4 year old. He was a perfect angel and spent the rest of the trip flipping through a magazine, listening to music with the headphones of the Rwandan next to Kelly, and sleeping on Lauren’s lap. And then suddenly we were climbing the familiar hill and entering the town center of Butare.
The first people we saw were Jessica and Aime, who we’d been hoping to have lunch with, but instead had to settle for a quick five minute chat in the gas station parking lot before they boarded their bus to Kigali. After they left, we ventured across the street to Matar Supermarket and sat down for lunch at Cheers with Madison and Jacelyn, two PCV friends. Madison recommended the burrito, which wasn’t even on the menu, and although it was nothing like Chipotle (oh, Chipotle, how I miss thee!) it still did not disappoint. After lunch Madison showed us to the Africana hotel, where for $6 a person we got a room with a huge bed, private bathroom and even a small sitting room. Then we got to wandering. Our first stop: ice cream. Many of you probably know about the ice cream shop ( http://bluemarbledreams.wordpress.com/our-projects/inzozi-nziza-rwanda/ ) that opened in Butare, since it was opened by American’s who own a Brooklyn ice cream shop. It’s called Inzozi Nziza (which basically translates Sweet Dreams) uses local products and hired an all Rwandan women staff. Well we made it to the ice cream shop, but due to a city wide power outage, there was no ice cream to be had, although the carrot cake was delish! Afterwards, Jacelyn pointed us in the direction of the National University of Rwanda (NUR), nonchalantly mentioning that just past the campus there’s an arboretum, with monkeys. Huh? Monkeys you say? We were sold, and quickly walked down the road towards the university, in search of monkeys. NUR’s campus turned out to be beautiful; simple brick buildings tucked into grounds covered with towering trees, and a labyrinth of walking paths carving their way through green grass. As we were attempting to find the alleged “arboretum” Kelly turned to her right and exclaimed “monkey!!”. Sure enough, there were the monkeys, and not just a couple, but dozens of them! They were in the trees, they were in the grass, they were in the road, they were frolicking with the goats. There was a man and a small child there too, feeding them. We greeted them and I asked what he was feeding them. Ibumbati, he said; cassava. The little kid was playing with the monkeys, walking up to them and making growling noises at them, only to run away quickly giggling. The moment was perfect and soon we were surrounded by monkeys in every direction; I think I took enough pictures to cover an entire wall of my house with them.
After the monkey show, we returned to our hotel in town, to relax before finding dinner. That’s when I looked down and saw how ridiculously dirty my feet were. Thank you, dry season. I remarked that if you looked at just my feet I looked like a different ethnicity. Lauren and Kelly did not disagree. Needless to say, it was time to see if the shower worked.
Following our relaxation time, we met up with Lindsay, a current education PCV, at Igichumbas for beer and akabenzi! Akabenzi is pork; more like amazingly delicious pork, onions and spices that you order by the kilo and devour in less than five minutes. Wash it down with a room temperature Primus over some delightful conversation, and you have yourself a wonderful evening in Butare.
The next morning we caught an early bus to Nyanza, my old home. As we drove into town I was struck by a flurry of emotions; happy with how familiar it all looked, excited to show my friends around my old stomping grounds, nervous to see my host family again after a couple of months away. Our first stop was the French bakery in town, to buy a crunchy on the outside/soft on the inside three foot long baguette, for the grand total of about 60 cents. Baguette in hand, we wandered to Blue Bar, my old hangout bar from training, which was luckily open despite it being 9am on a Sunday. We ordered fantas, and began munching on our yummy breakfast, ignoring the stares of the two men drinking beer in the cabana next to us. After we ate I gave Lauren and Kelly a quick tour of town, showing them where our training center was, the road to my old house, the market, and the stores we frequented for Rwandan fabric, yogurt and Snickers. And then we were off to my host family’s house, after a quick stop for lollipops for the kiddies. Unfortunately, our timing wasn’t the best, as most of my family was at church, but I was still able to catch up with my mom, Jeanne, and two of my host brothers. It was nice to see them, to chat with them, and to realize I haven’t lost as much Kinyarwanda as I thought I had. The visit, while lovely, was too short, and after a quick photo op we boarded another Volcano bus bound for Kigali.
The final highlights of the trip included scrumptious coffee at Bourbon, buying out all of the earrings at the Kimironko market and making an unscheduled stop on the ride back to Musanze so that two passengers could scurry into the woods for a potty break. At home later that night, all I wanted was a hot bucket bath and a long night’s sleep, but I couldn’t help but reflect on the hilarious adventures from the weekend. It’s great to remember where I’ve been, all the things I’ve already done these past five months, and look ahead to the future. Future weekend trips, future new experiences, future work endeavors, future successes, future challenges. So, stay tuned to see what the future truly holds.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Tales from Rwanda (and a vocabulary lesson)
Guhinga: To farm; to cultivate (or in this case: to weed)
I’m apparently incapable of taking care of my property. I’m going to blame the fact that 1) I’ve never really had a green thumb, 2) my backyard is twice the size of my house, and 3) I’m not home too often during daylight hours for long stretches of time that I can commit to weeding and gardening. That being said, I wasn’t surprised when Mama Providence (my favorite neighbor who lives across the street) came over one night to take some of my plantains and exclaimed how unkempt my yard and driveway were. Or at least I can assume she was scolding me for my lack of property maintenance, since I only understood every 3rd word she said as well as her animated hand gestures. She said her and her children would be back on Saturday to help me, took her plantains and bid me good-night.
Fast forward to Saturday morning when I was attempting to sleep in (of course I call it sleeping in when it was 8:30am) and there was a knock on my gate. I opened it to a smiling Providence and three of her children, Jono, Grace and Sifa, who have all become three of my favorite neighborhood children. We quickly got to work pulling weeds and sweeping my driveway, while I settled Jono down on my porch with some coloring books and a yo-yo. We chatted while we worked (in a wonderful mix of Kinyarwanda, French and English), discussing where I was from, where I work, church and how I’d like to attend (and how ecstatic my parents would be if I went as well), the children’s school schedule, and my family’s visit in December. As the morning went on I stole glances at Mama Providence, observing her weeding technique in the hopes of perfecting my own. It was a slow process (considering in what disarray the driveway was…cue blushing from guilt) but within a couple of hours we had the driveway and the side of my house completed. Mama Providence said they would return the next weekend to help with the backyard, and I thanked them profusely, shared lollipops with the kids, and bid them good-day. When I looked down at my hands, I realized how dirty and cut-up they were, but I didn’t care a bit. Not only did I have a pristine driveway to admire, but I was breaking out of my comfort-zone, embracing moments where I was forced to converse in Kinyarwanda, and attempting this crazy thing called integration.
Batisimu: Baptism
I woke up one morning to a text message from my Rwandan friend, Janviere. The text was written all in English, which Janviere is only beginning to learn, and yet it was sincere and elegant. It read: “Dearest! With great pleasure we are happy to invite you in baptism ceremony of our adoptive orphan child which will take place on 10th July at 2pm. It will be greatest of your presence with all of your friends at our home. You are welcome!!” I couldn’t help but smile, knowing how much effort she must have put in to construct this text in English. Then I remembered the day Janviere had told us about the girl she adopted, a genocide orphan, now 19 years old, who she had met one day on the street. Janviere became my first Rwandan friend in Musanze, after we were introduced to each other by my old sitemate, Jessica. Janviere works at the house of some NGO workers in town, and her husband, Damien, is a chef at a restaurant in town. They are young, lively and two of the kindest and most welcoming people I have met here. Janviere taught me how to cook plantains, and we’ve spent time sitting in my living room reading American magazines, smelling the perfume ads and disapproving of all the ridiculous American fashion trends. Whenever I visit their home I eat like a queen: brochettes, fries, beans, cassava, fruit, tea, fanta. We giggle as I attempt to speak Kinyarwanda and they attempt to speak English, all while enjoying the latest Rwandan music videos on their television. I was incredibly touched to be invited to join them for such a special occasion as the baptismal party of the newest member of their family, and looked forward to it all week.
We were already going to be arriving fashionably late, as Jessica, Aime, Emma and I were coming straight from a librarian training in Kigali. I ran home to change and then meet the others at Janviere’s house. I decided to wear the same dress I’d worn for swear-in, so it goes without saying I got many a glance, double-take, stare, and comment as I walked in my bright, flowy dress on a busy road that goes all the way to Uganda. As I turned to walk down the hill to Janviere’s house, the first thing I saw was the large canopy they had constructed in their compound, and the second thing was the dozen of Rwandan faces that turned to look at me as I approached. I entered the tent, searching frantically for a recognizable face; luckily it was Damien’s, followed by Jessica, Emma and Aime. But before I knew it I was being paraded around to meet all of Janviere’s family and friends, including their new baptized daughter, dressed beautifully in a crisp white skirt suit with matching hat (absolutely adorable). Finally, I was given a towering plate of food to eat while sitting in front of all of the other guests. I quickly asked Jessica and Emma if this had happened to them as well and they gave me a knowing glance with a hushed “Yes, of course”. So I settled into my feast, with 100 eyes watching my every move. The food was great, but all I could think was “Please, let me not accidentally miss my mouth and drop food all over my dress and the floor with all of these people staring at me.” Then the dancing began, which I was more than happy to simply sit and observe, as per usual it did not disappoint. At one point a huge horde of children came running in, creating a huge dust-storm that they then danced around in before giggling and retreating back outside. Then suddenly it began to rain, a much needed downpour in the middle of the dry season, and it was as we were being ushered inside to wait out the storm that I reflected on how equal parts awkward, hilarious and lovely my first Rwandan social event was, despite not even seeing the actual baptism.
Ibitabo: Books; Amahugurwa: Training
One of Jessica’s biggest projects since arriving in Rwanda has been the Rwanda Books for Peace Project; 8,000 donated books from America are currently being shipped to Rwanda, where they will be distributed to districts around Rwanda to start libraries at schools, health clinics and district offices. Musanze is one of those lucky districts, and next month (thanks to Jessica’s blood, sweat and tears) I’ll help to open Musanze’s district public library. The district has already set aside rooms for the library, desks and bookshelves and has hired a librarian, Gilbertine. In early August, 1,000 books and four computers will arrive and Gilbertine and I will begin the long process of starting and maintaining a public library.
Last week Gilbertine and I attended a two day librarian training in Kigali, covering such topics as library organization, cataloging, creative library usage, and fostering a culture of literacy in our communities. I must admit, memories from my years of working at the university library at GW came flowing back to me; all those years behind the periodicals desk and pushing my cart around the third floor while I restocked the newspapers, magazines and literary journals (yes, it was as fascinating as it sounds, it’s ok to be jealous of the thrilling life that I led). I’m not embarrassed to say that I’m extremely excited for every aspect of starting up the library, despite the inevitable challenges that we’ll encounter along the way. The library will be an ongoing secondary project for me, somewhere I can spend a couple of days a week, encouraging reading and research skills among the community; and hopefully soon I can even begin English and IT classes there. It’s a perfect way to promote the 2nd and 3rd goals of Peace Corps: “Helping promote better understanding of Americans on the part of peoples served” and “Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans”. And as such, don’t be surprised if you not only hear a lot about this over the next two years, but are even asked to contribute in some way. Until then, though, you can find me cataloging and organizing 1,000 books and designing library membership cards.
Gusura: To visit
After the baptism on Saturday, Jessica stayed in Musanze so that she could get a rejuvenating dose of her old home town. She came over Sunday morning, bearing fresh, greasy, delicious chapatti. We had some breakfast and looked through American gossip magazines, judging the fashion, the people, the stories, per usual. Then there was a knock at the gate, and we immediately knew who it was. And so began Kid Invasion 2k10. Soon my backyard was overrun with neighborhood children: climbing the avocado tree; lining up on one of my fallen plantain tree like a log laying across the banks of a river; sneaking into my trash pit to see what articles they could steal to make toys out of (Jessica told me that she once saw children wearing jewelry they had made out of her bank statement papers); reading magazines; dancing and singing Rwandan songs before breaking into a fantastic rendition of Shakira’s Waka Waka - This Time for Africa, dance moves included. (Yes I got video, so one day you shall see it too!). After the kiddies had amassed a towering pile of avocadoes we helped take them across the street to their respective homes, and visit Mama Providence. As we sat in Providence’s living room with her brother we discussed (and by “we” I mean Jessica, Providence and her brother, with me simply trying to follow the conversation and usually only responding in one word answers to any question that Providence or her brother asked) why Jessica moved to Kigali, our jobs, church and Jessica’s parents upcoming visit. It was a lovely time, over too quickly, and soon we were on our way back to my house, Providence following behind asking if we wanted any corn to take with us. We retreated back into my now quiet and peaceful house and relaxed for a bit, laughing about all the events of the past few hours. Then we were off to town for a yummy Rwandan buffet lunch at Vision 2020, where we made fun of the ridiculous 90’s American music videos they were playing on the tv and agreed what a wonderful visit it truly had been.
I’m apparently incapable of taking care of my property. I’m going to blame the fact that 1) I’ve never really had a green thumb, 2) my backyard is twice the size of my house, and 3) I’m not home too often during daylight hours for long stretches of time that I can commit to weeding and gardening. That being said, I wasn’t surprised when Mama Providence (my favorite neighbor who lives across the street) came over one night to take some of my plantains and exclaimed how unkempt my yard and driveway were. Or at least I can assume she was scolding me for my lack of property maintenance, since I only understood every 3rd word she said as well as her animated hand gestures. She said her and her children would be back on Saturday to help me, took her plantains and bid me good-night.
Fast forward to Saturday morning when I was attempting to sleep in (of course I call it sleeping in when it was 8:30am) and there was a knock on my gate. I opened it to a smiling Providence and three of her children, Jono, Grace and Sifa, who have all become three of my favorite neighborhood children. We quickly got to work pulling weeds and sweeping my driveway, while I settled Jono down on my porch with some coloring books and a yo-yo. We chatted while we worked (in a wonderful mix of Kinyarwanda, French and English), discussing where I was from, where I work, church and how I’d like to attend (and how ecstatic my parents would be if I went as well), the children’s school schedule, and my family’s visit in December. As the morning went on I stole glances at Mama Providence, observing her weeding technique in the hopes of perfecting my own. It was a slow process (considering in what disarray the driveway was…cue blushing from guilt) but within a couple of hours we had the driveway and the side of my house completed. Mama Providence said they would return the next weekend to help with the backyard, and I thanked them profusely, shared lollipops with the kids, and bid them good-day. When I looked down at my hands, I realized how dirty and cut-up they were, but I didn’t care a bit. Not only did I have a pristine driveway to admire, but I was breaking out of my comfort-zone, embracing moments where I was forced to converse in Kinyarwanda, and attempting this crazy thing called integration.
Batisimu: Baptism
I woke up one morning to a text message from my Rwandan friend, Janviere. The text was written all in English, which Janviere is only beginning to learn, and yet it was sincere and elegant. It read: “Dearest! With great pleasure we are happy to invite you in baptism ceremony of our adoptive orphan child which will take place on 10th July at 2pm. It will be greatest of your presence with all of your friends at our home. You are welcome!!” I couldn’t help but smile, knowing how much effort she must have put in to construct this text in English. Then I remembered the day Janviere had told us about the girl she adopted, a genocide orphan, now 19 years old, who she had met one day on the street. Janviere became my first Rwandan friend in Musanze, after we were introduced to each other by my old sitemate, Jessica. Janviere works at the house of some NGO workers in town, and her husband, Damien, is a chef at a restaurant in town. They are young, lively and two of the kindest and most welcoming people I have met here. Janviere taught me how to cook plantains, and we’ve spent time sitting in my living room reading American magazines, smelling the perfume ads and disapproving of all the ridiculous American fashion trends. Whenever I visit their home I eat like a queen: brochettes, fries, beans, cassava, fruit, tea, fanta. We giggle as I attempt to speak Kinyarwanda and they attempt to speak English, all while enjoying the latest Rwandan music videos on their television. I was incredibly touched to be invited to join them for such a special occasion as the baptismal party of the newest member of their family, and looked forward to it all week.
We were already going to be arriving fashionably late, as Jessica, Aime, Emma and I were coming straight from a librarian training in Kigali. I ran home to change and then meet the others at Janviere’s house. I decided to wear the same dress I’d worn for swear-in, so it goes without saying I got many a glance, double-take, stare, and comment as I walked in my bright, flowy dress on a busy road that goes all the way to Uganda. As I turned to walk down the hill to Janviere’s house, the first thing I saw was the large canopy they had constructed in their compound, and the second thing was the dozen of Rwandan faces that turned to look at me as I approached. I entered the tent, searching frantically for a recognizable face; luckily it was Damien’s, followed by Jessica, Emma and Aime. But before I knew it I was being paraded around to meet all of Janviere’s family and friends, including their new baptized daughter, dressed beautifully in a crisp white skirt suit with matching hat (absolutely adorable). Finally, I was given a towering plate of food to eat while sitting in front of all of the other guests. I quickly asked Jessica and Emma if this had happened to them as well and they gave me a knowing glance with a hushed “Yes, of course”. So I settled into my feast, with 100 eyes watching my every move. The food was great, but all I could think was “Please, let me not accidentally miss my mouth and drop food all over my dress and the floor with all of these people staring at me.” Then the dancing began, which I was more than happy to simply sit and observe, as per usual it did not disappoint. At one point a huge horde of children came running in, creating a huge dust-storm that they then danced around in before giggling and retreating back outside. Then suddenly it began to rain, a much needed downpour in the middle of the dry season, and it was as we were being ushered inside to wait out the storm that I reflected on how equal parts awkward, hilarious and lovely my first Rwandan social event was, despite not even seeing the actual baptism.
Ibitabo: Books; Amahugurwa: Training
One of Jessica’s biggest projects since arriving in Rwanda has been the Rwanda Books for Peace Project; 8,000 donated books from America are currently being shipped to Rwanda, where they will be distributed to districts around Rwanda to start libraries at schools, health clinics and district offices. Musanze is one of those lucky districts, and next month (thanks to Jessica’s blood, sweat and tears) I’ll help to open Musanze’s district public library. The district has already set aside rooms for the library, desks and bookshelves and has hired a librarian, Gilbertine. In early August, 1,000 books and four computers will arrive and Gilbertine and I will begin the long process of starting and maintaining a public library.
Last week Gilbertine and I attended a two day librarian training in Kigali, covering such topics as library organization, cataloging, creative library usage, and fostering a culture of literacy in our communities. I must admit, memories from my years of working at the university library at GW came flowing back to me; all those years behind the periodicals desk and pushing my cart around the third floor while I restocked the newspapers, magazines and literary journals (yes, it was as fascinating as it sounds, it’s ok to be jealous of the thrilling life that I led). I’m not embarrassed to say that I’m extremely excited for every aspect of starting up the library, despite the inevitable challenges that we’ll encounter along the way. The library will be an ongoing secondary project for me, somewhere I can spend a couple of days a week, encouraging reading and research skills among the community; and hopefully soon I can even begin English and IT classes there. It’s a perfect way to promote the 2nd and 3rd goals of Peace Corps: “Helping promote better understanding of Americans on the part of peoples served” and “Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans”. And as such, don’t be surprised if you not only hear a lot about this over the next two years, but are even asked to contribute in some way. Until then, though, you can find me cataloging and organizing 1,000 books and designing library membership cards.
Gusura: To visit
After the baptism on Saturday, Jessica stayed in Musanze so that she could get a rejuvenating dose of her old home town. She came over Sunday morning, bearing fresh, greasy, delicious chapatti. We had some breakfast and looked through American gossip magazines, judging the fashion, the people, the stories, per usual. Then there was a knock at the gate, and we immediately knew who it was. And so began Kid Invasion 2k10. Soon my backyard was overrun with neighborhood children: climbing the avocado tree; lining up on one of my fallen plantain tree like a log laying across the banks of a river; sneaking into my trash pit to see what articles they could steal to make toys out of (Jessica told me that she once saw children wearing jewelry they had made out of her bank statement papers); reading magazines; dancing and singing Rwandan songs before breaking into a fantastic rendition of Shakira’s Waka Waka - This Time for Africa, dance moves included. (Yes I got video, so one day you shall see it too!). After the kiddies had amassed a towering pile of avocadoes we helped take them across the street to their respective homes, and visit Mama Providence. As we sat in Providence’s living room with her brother we discussed (and by “we” I mean Jessica, Providence and her brother, with me simply trying to follow the conversation and usually only responding in one word answers to any question that Providence or her brother asked) why Jessica moved to Kigali, our jobs, church and Jessica’s parents upcoming visit. It was a lovely time, over too quickly, and soon we were on our way back to my house, Providence following behind asking if we wanted any corn to take with us. We retreated back into my now quiet and peaceful house and relaxed for a bit, laughing about all the events of the past few hours. Then we were off to town for a yummy Rwandan buffet lunch at Vision 2020, where we made fun of the ridiculous 90’s American music videos they were playing on the tv and agreed what a wonderful visit it truly had been.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Dear...
Dear three women carrying tree trunks on your heads on my way to work: There’s no need to stop, turn around, stare at me for 20 seconds and discuss my skirt. Not only do I understand most of what you’re saying, but I don’t know if you noticed, you’re balancing a tree on your head, which seems far more important than my outfit decision.
Dear Mother Nature: I explicitly asked my friend in Kigali if I needed my raincoat and left it at home after she told me it hadn’t rained in days. You cooperated the entire weekend (thanks!), but why did you decide to pour rain on me as soon as I stepped off the bus in Musanze and force me to trek 20 minutes to my house in a downpour? I might forgive you, but can’t speak for my now water-logged copy of Eat, Pray, Love.
Dear woman I pass at least once a week wearing the “I’m a Keeper” t-shirt: I wonder if you have any idea what that actually means. I’ll attempt to figure out the Kinyarwanda translation and then maybe we can discuss.
Dear hole I constantly trip into at the end of my road: Yes, you’re winning the battles, but I shall win the war. Oh, and stop it, because I hate looking like the clumsy white girl in front of all the staring moto drivers.
Dear carrot lady: I’ll never forget the day you showed me that you also sell amazing onions. You were always my favorite, and now you always will be. But maybe you could start selling tomatoes and big green peppers and bananas, and then I’d never have to wander anywhere else.
Dear plantain tree that decided to suddenly crash to the ground in my backyard while I was cooking lunch the other day: Oh.My.God. You seriously scared the crap out of me, I thought the world was ending. And yes, second tree that followed the first, you also scared the crap out of me, just as much as the first one. At least I got a lot of yummy plantain-filled meals from the frightful experience.
Dear Kigali: I love you. You are beautiful and lively and feed me very well and I’ve greatly enjoyed our time together. But considering how little money I have every time I leave you, I think it’s time we take a little break. It’s not you, it’s me. Well, me, and my tiny Peace Corps bank account.
Dear cute, adorable, loving, neighborhood children: You make me happy every day when you greet me, help me carry my groceries and beg to visit me. You make me smile when you pick avocadoes from my tree or come in and read or color. However, you will stop making me happy and I will stop smiling if you continue to leave trash outside my door and using my gate as your classroom chalkboard. Where did you even get chalk? And FYI, 5x6 does not equal 24. We’ll work on multiplication tables next time you visit.
Dear volcanoes: I haven’t seen you in at least a week. Where are you? Stop hiding, I miss you.
Dear kerosene stove: Bet you thought you could just keep exploding in my face, huh? Well, let this be a lesson that you can’t mess with a resourceful Peace Corps volunteer wielding dental floss and pliers. I’m like the Rwandan MacGyver. Let’s never fight again, ok? My eyebrows will be forever grateful.
Dear Nokia phone: I know I only paid 16 dollars for you. I know we both know you are crappy and cheap. But I thought we had a good thing going. Then why have you suddenly decided to turn off and reset yourself every time I press the Clear button? I’m a terrible texter, that button is really important. Shape up, or you’re going to force me into buying the 20 dollar model.
Dear feet: No, you’re not tan; you’re just really, really dirty.
Dear truck that is currently stuck in the mud outside of my house: Sorry, that totally sucks. But I’m kind of trying to enjoy my Joshua Redman, almonds, tea and blog writing right now. Think we could be a little quieter, maybe?
Dear PiliPili cat: I love our new game, and I know you do too. However, my scratched-up hands and arms do not. Let’s play nicer, shall we?
Dear random moth that was clinging to the window of my bus: Kudos, you clung to that window in the roaring wind for a solid 42 seconds before being blown away. Impressive.
Dear Joshua Radin: Ok, ok, I guess one day I can have your babies too. Just don’t tell Mat Kearney, alright? It’ll be our little secret.
Dear lighter that either refuses to light or ignites fire more similar to a blow torch: You’ve been replaced. And your replacement even has a flashlight attached.
Dear USA soccer team: I rooted for you until the end, promise. But considering I live on the African continent, would you be terribly upset if I switched my support over to Ghana?
Dear person who now owns my wonderful, black cardigan sweater from America: You’re right, I forgot it in that room at the district office, so it’s not technically “stealing”. But I’m still very sad, since that was probably my favorite article of clothing that I owned. And honestly, I’ll notice when you wear it around town and most likely will try to ask you where acquired such a nice h&m sweater here in Rwanda. Consider this your warning.
Dear person who sent Sally that brownie mix and whoever decided to put an oven into the EDC office in Kigali: thank you times a million. My taste buds and tummy also say Murakoze!
Dear Gossip Girl: Thank you for existing. Especially you, season 3. Xoxo.
Dear spiders that like to crawl under my door every night: Ew, I hate you. You’re not wanted. Go away or I shall be forced to let Pili use you as her new playtoys.
Dear people who might be willing to send me a CD with music on it: I’m desperately in need of more blues, jazz. folk, hip-hop, reggae, classical, r&b, international, pop, rock…ok, make that just ANY type of music.
Dear Rwandan man at Cadillac: You are by far the best dancer I’ve encountered yet in this country. Thanks for picking me as your partner for the evening.
Dear Jigga: I can’t believe you’ve turned emails to me into a drinking game now. I’m still determining if this is a low point or high point, but regardless I discovered how truly embarrassing my current alcohol tolerance level is. *GOLD star*
Dear Andrew the psychologist and the cleaning lady whose name I haven’t asked yet: You are my only two friends at the hospital and I’m perfectly ok with this. But I think we should take our friendships to the next level and speak more than just greetings to each other in passing. Agreed? Ni byiza.
Dear citizens of Musanze: I need a Kinyarwanda tutor. The sooner the better. Any takers?
Dear America: Happy almost birthday!! I’ll celebrate from afar, but can’t promise fireworks. Though, rumor is I might actually get to have a hot dog. *fingers crossed*
Dear every Rwandan on that bus back from dinner on Friday: Thanks for being awesome and talking to us crazy, giggling Americans. And you pretty much made our evenings when you all turned and waved to us as the bus pulled away from our stop.
Dear first shower stall at St. Pauls: Oh how I already miss you and your hot water and your amazing water pressure once again. Until next time.
Dear boy who sells the tiny Rwandan flag pins near the bus station: You should just give up, I’m probably never going to buy one of your pins. Oh, and just so you know, it’s pronounced FLAG, not FRAK.
Dear woman walking past my gate the other day: I only realized halfway through my “Amakuru yawe?” that you were walking down the street with one hand holding your son while he nursed on your fully exposed boob and the other holding a bucket of green beans on your head. I was pretty impressed that I was able to still choke out a perfect Kinyarwanda greeting despite my shock, but you win with that impressive multitasking-balancing act.
Dear every Titulaire in the district of Musanze that I had to stand up in front of last week: I promise I know more Kinyarwanda than “Nitwa Amy. Muraho! Murakoze.” But I still appreciated your grinning and round of applause nonetheless.
Dear creature that lives in my avocado tree: I have yet to see you, let alone decipher what you are. But you sound like a horrid mix between an injured cat and a crying child. Please find a new home, I’d like my peace and quiet back.
Dear mashed potatoes I just made for lunch: You would have tasted better with real butter and real milk as opposed to blue band, nido and water, but you were still bomb.
Dear Mother Nature: I explicitly asked my friend in Kigali if I needed my raincoat and left it at home after she told me it hadn’t rained in days. You cooperated the entire weekend (thanks!), but why did you decide to pour rain on me as soon as I stepped off the bus in Musanze and force me to trek 20 minutes to my house in a downpour? I might forgive you, but can’t speak for my now water-logged copy of Eat, Pray, Love.
Dear woman I pass at least once a week wearing the “I’m a Keeper” t-shirt: I wonder if you have any idea what that actually means. I’ll attempt to figure out the Kinyarwanda translation and then maybe we can discuss.
Dear hole I constantly trip into at the end of my road: Yes, you’re winning the battles, but I shall win the war. Oh, and stop it, because I hate looking like the clumsy white girl in front of all the staring moto drivers.
Dear carrot lady: I’ll never forget the day you showed me that you also sell amazing onions. You were always my favorite, and now you always will be. But maybe you could start selling tomatoes and big green peppers and bananas, and then I’d never have to wander anywhere else.
Dear plantain tree that decided to suddenly crash to the ground in my backyard while I was cooking lunch the other day: Oh.My.God. You seriously scared the crap out of me, I thought the world was ending. And yes, second tree that followed the first, you also scared the crap out of me, just as much as the first one. At least I got a lot of yummy plantain-filled meals from the frightful experience.
Dear Kigali: I love you. You are beautiful and lively and feed me very well and I’ve greatly enjoyed our time together. But considering how little money I have every time I leave you, I think it’s time we take a little break. It’s not you, it’s me. Well, me, and my tiny Peace Corps bank account.
Dear cute, adorable, loving, neighborhood children: You make me happy every day when you greet me, help me carry my groceries and beg to visit me. You make me smile when you pick avocadoes from my tree or come in and read or color. However, you will stop making me happy and I will stop smiling if you continue to leave trash outside my door and using my gate as your classroom chalkboard. Where did you even get chalk? And FYI, 5x6 does not equal 24. We’ll work on multiplication tables next time you visit.
Dear volcanoes: I haven’t seen you in at least a week. Where are you? Stop hiding, I miss you.
Dear kerosene stove: Bet you thought you could just keep exploding in my face, huh? Well, let this be a lesson that you can’t mess with a resourceful Peace Corps volunteer wielding dental floss and pliers. I’m like the Rwandan MacGyver. Let’s never fight again, ok? My eyebrows will be forever grateful.
Dear Nokia phone: I know I only paid 16 dollars for you. I know we both know you are crappy and cheap. But I thought we had a good thing going. Then why have you suddenly decided to turn off and reset yourself every time I press the Clear button? I’m a terrible texter, that button is really important. Shape up, or you’re going to force me into buying the 20 dollar model.
Dear feet: No, you’re not tan; you’re just really, really dirty.
Dear truck that is currently stuck in the mud outside of my house: Sorry, that totally sucks. But I’m kind of trying to enjoy my Joshua Redman, almonds, tea and blog writing right now. Think we could be a little quieter, maybe?
Dear PiliPili cat: I love our new game, and I know you do too. However, my scratched-up hands and arms do not. Let’s play nicer, shall we?
Dear random moth that was clinging to the window of my bus: Kudos, you clung to that window in the roaring wind for a solid 42 seconds before being blown away. Impressive.
Dear Joshua Radin: Ok, ok, I guess one day I can have your babies too. Just don’t tell Mat Kearney, alright? It’ll be our little secret.
Dear lighter that either refuses to light or ignites fire more similar to a blow torch: You’ve been replaced. And your replacement even has a flashlight attached.
Dear USA soccer team: I rooted for you until the end, promise. But considering I live on the African continent, would you be terribly upset if I switched my support over to Ghana?
Dear person who now owns my wonderful, black cardigan sweater from America: You’re right, I forgot it in that room at the district office, so it’s not technically “stealing”. But I’m still very sad, since that was probably my favorite article of clothing that I owned. And honestly, I’ll notice when you wear it around town and most likely will try to ask you where acquired such a nice h&m sweater here in Rwanda. Consider this your warning.
Dear person who sent Sally that brownie mix and whoever decided to put an oven into the EDC office in Kigali: thank you times a million. My taste buds and tummy also say Murakoze!
Dear Gossip Girl: Thank you for existing. Especially you, season 3. Xoxo.
Dear spiders that like to crawl under my door every night: Ew, I hate you. You’re not wanted. Go away or I shall be forced to let Pili use you as her new playtoys.
Dear people who might be willing to send me a CD with music on it: I’m desperately in need of more blues, jazz. folk, hip-hop, reggae, classical, r&b, international, pop, rock…ok, make that just ANY type of music.
Dear Rwandan man at Cadillac: You are by far the best dancer I’ve encountered yet in this country. Thanks for picking me as your partner for the evening.
Dear Jigga: I can’t believe you’ve turned emails to me into a drinking game now. I’m still determining if this is a low point or high point, but regardless I discovered how truly embarrassing my current alcohol tolerance level is. *GOLD star*
Dear Andrew the psychologist and the cleaning lady whose name I haven’t asked yet: You are my only two friends at the hospital and I’m perfectly ok with this. But I think we should take our friendships to the next level and speak more than just greetings to each other in passing. Agreed? Ni byiza.
Dear citizens of Musanze: I need a Kinyarwanda tutor. The sooner the better. Any takers?
Dear America: Happy almost birthday!! I’ll celebrate from afar, but can’t promise fireworks. Though, rumor is I might actually get to have a hot dog. *fingers crossed*
Dear every Rwandan on that bus back from dinner on Friday: Thanks for being awesome and talking to us crazy, giggling Americans. And you pretty much made our evenings when you all turned and waved to us as the bus pulled away from our stop.
Dear first shower stall at St. Pauls: Oh how I already miss you and your hot water and your amazing water pressure once again. Until next time.
Dear boy who sells the tiny Rwandan flag pins near the bus station: You should just give up, I’m probably never going to buy one of your pins. Oh, and just so you know, it’s pronounced FLAG, not FRAK.
Dear woman walking past my gate the other day: I only realized halfway through my “Amakuru yawe?” that you were walking down the street with one hand holding your son while he nursed on your fully exposed boob and the other holding a bucket of green beans on your head. I was pretty impressed that I was able to still choke out a perfect Kinyarwanda greeting despite my shock, but you win with that impressive multitasking-balancing act.
Dear every Titulaire in the district of Musanze that I had to stand up in front of last week: I promise I know more Kinyarwanda than “Nitwa Amy. Muraho! Murakoze.” But I still appreciated your grinning and round of applause nonetheless.
Dear creature that lives in my avocado tree: I have yet to see you, let alone decipher what you are. But you sound like a horrid mix between an injured cat and a crying child. Please find a new home, I’d like my peace and quiet back.
Dear mashed potatoes I just made for lunch: You would have tasted better with real butter and real milk as opposed to blue band, nido and water, but you were still bomb.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Ubuzima bwiza (good health)
As I began writing this blog, several people (and by several, I mean at least six of you…thanks!) forwarded me a link to a New York Times article about the health care system in Rwanda. If you would like to read it (and you should, trust me) here’s the link: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/15/health/policy/15rwanda.html (Sorry blogspot is acting up and not letting me put it as an actual link, blah) But, imagine my surprise, considering the blog I was beginning to draft was about…the health care system in Rwanda. Coincidence? I think not.
So, I’ve been in Rwanda for almost four months and there has been what I can only describe as an excruciatingly steep learning curve; I am still, in fact, learning. Every day, every hour, every minute. Constant learning. Learning the language, learning the culture, learning how to survive and take care of myself without all of the creature comforts of American life. But most recently my learning has consisted entirely of wrapping my head around the health care system that exists in Rwanda, how the health centers are structured, how they function and how they continue day in and day out to provide medical care to the millions of Rwandan citizens in need.
Considering I will be here for two years, I’m sure this will be one of countless posts on the topic, so I’ll attempt to keep it to an introductory level. And again, as I am still learning, apologies in advance if any of my information is 1) accidentally wrong or 2) seems biased in anyway; I’ve really only observed the health system in three districts (out of 30ish) so what I’ve seen in all honesty might not be representative of the entire Rwandan system.
Health care here is provided at three levels, and is a mixture of public, private, and government/church/NGO funded. Wait, I’ll take that back, it’s more like four levels (and in all honesty I’m still quite confused by the funding structure that exists, but I’ll learn, buhoro buhoro).
1) At the umudugudu (or village, for you non-Kinyarwanda speakers) level, there are community health workers (CHWs). These are community members, who volunteer their time as CHWs, and there are at least three in each umudugudu (one for men, one for women, and one who specializes in maternal and child health). They make home visits or hold community meetings, informing, sensitizing and educating the community about different health issues (particularly nutrition, malaria, HIV/AIDS and other infectious diseases that are present in the community or region). They also refer people to the next level of health care: health centers.
2) At the sector level (much like a county back in America) there are health centers. They are headed by a Titulaire, who is usually a nurse (you rarely see doctors at health centers, they work mostly at district or national hospitals) and usually see at least 100-200 patients a day. The services that a health center provides depends a lot on what their main funding source is (be it the government, an NGO, or a church), but I’ll come back to this. All health centers have consultation rooms, where cases are reviewed and the appropriate tests and treatments are discussed. They have a laboratory which usually has at least one microscope, and other lab equipment if they are lucky. There are hospitalization rooms, with separate rooms for women, men and children. There is a maternity ward (which continues to be the most difficult place for me to walk into, though I did see an incredibly adorable set of newborn twins the other day) and a room for vaccinations. Each health center has a pharmacy (both a stock pharmacy as well as a distribution pharmacy) and then administrative offices for the data managers, Mutuelle managers (the community health insurance that the NYT article was about) and other staff. Most health centers have family planning services, though some health centers that are funded by churches do not provide such services (if this is the case the sector is required to also have a health post, where contraception methods can be provided). Also, most health centers have HIV/AIDS services, including Voluntary Counseling and Testing (VCT) and Prevention of Mother to Child Transmission (PMTCT) as well as ARV distribution, usually housed in a separate building funded and beautifully constructed by the Global Fund. Some health centers have nutrition programs, which include educational talks and sometimes a garden and demonstration kitchen, as well as food distribution programs for severely malnourished children.
3) Often, people are referred to the district level, where there is a District Hospital. While my “office” is at the district hospital, I haven’t been able to spend enough time there to walk around, ask questions and get an overall sense of exactly what goes on there. But from what I can see, it’s much bigger, the equipment is often more sophisticated, they have greater diagnosing and treatment capabilities, and can even perform some basic surgeries. I promise I’ll come back to this in a future post, as I know I’m not doing it justice whatsoever.
4) Then there are a couple of national referral hospitals, where I was lucky enough to be a patient once, but you already know that story. More on this level in a future post too.
So that’s your basic roadmap to the physical health system structure in Rwanda (sorry for not being more informative, but I’m going to go back to my defense that I’ve only been here four months and I still have A LOT to learn). I’ll try and put some photos up soon of the health centers and hospitals that I’ve visited, to give you a better visual. But until then, let’s just consider this one to be continued.
But of course I had a happy week...so...
Things that made me happy this week:
- Relaxing with Kitty, including dragging my heavy living room furniture into my driveway so we could watch a movie while attempting to simultaneously get a tan. We succeeded in getting sunburned while only being able to listen to Notting Hill on my tiny glare-filled laptop screen. But I still loved every minute of it.
- The woman who came to a training wearing a dress so fancy and beautiful that most Americans would have reserved it only for prom or an outing to the opera. There were ruffles, there were rhinestones; now that is “serious” and “smart” dressing.
- After 13 painful hours (spaced out over two weeks of internet visits) I successfully downloaded and am finally the proud owner of Microsoft Office. I’m beyond excited to once again spend hours playing with Excel and Powerpoint, and as always fully embrace my inner-nerd.
- When my water came back on after countless days without it. I (and my dishes, clothes and house were getting extremely dirty). Unfortunately, this sudden blessing of water was balanced by my electricity going out, once again supporting my hypothesis that I cannot have both at the same time.
- Epicly long, rambly, random, hilarious, shocking, gut-wrenching, wonderful emails from Jigga. Drinking games included.
- My easiest (and may I say, most successful) market experience to date
- Spending about 30 minutes attempting to pull down plantains from the tree in my backyard, using a 10 foot long stick that I’m assuming was only in my yard for that exact task. (They were delicious, by the way)
- Sleeping from 11pm to 9am. Amazing.
- The night my kerosene stove blew up in my face (don't worry, I'm fine, and no, that's not what made me happy) and I was still able to cook a fantastically tasty stir-fry dinner.
- Completing my first District Health Newsletter for work!! It’s mostly just photos, but hey, it’s somethin.
- Looking forward to an amazing weekend in Kigali with amazing friends.
So, I’ve been in Rwanda for almost four months and there has been what I can only describe as an excruciatingly steep learning curve; I am still, in fact, learning. Every day, every hour, every minute. Constant learning. Learning the language, learning the culture, learning how to survive and take care of myself without all of the creature comforts of American life. But most recently my learning has consisted entirely of wrapping my head around the health care system that exists in Rwanda, how the health centers are structured, how they function and how they continue day in and day out to provide medical care to the millions of Rwandan citizens in need.
Considering I will be here for two years, I’m sure this will be one of countless posts on the topic, so I’ll attempt to keep it to an introductory level. And again, as I am still learning, apologies in advance if any of my information is 1) accidentally wrong or 2) seems biased in anyway; I’ve really only observed the health system in three districts (out of 30ish) so what I’ve seen in all honesty might not be representative of the entire Rwandan system.
Health care here is provided at three levels, and is a mixture of public, private, and government/church/NGO funded. Wait, I’ll take that back, it’s more like four levels (and in all honesty I’m still quite confused by the funding structure that exists, but I’ll learn, buhoro buhoro).
1) At the umudugudu (or village, for you non-Kinyarwanda speakers) level, there are community health workers (CHWs). These are community members, who volunteer their time as CHWs, and there are at least three in each umudugudu (one for men, one for women, and one who specializes in maternal and child health). They make home visits or hold community meetings, informing, sensitizing and educating the community about different health issues (particularly nutrition, malaria, HIV/AIDS and other infectious diseases that are present in the community or region). They also refer people to the next level of health care: health centers.
2) At the sector level (much like a county back in America) there are health centers. They are headed by a Titulaire, who is usually a nurse (you rarely see doctors at health centers, they work mostly at district or national hospitals) and usually see at least 100-200 patients a day. The services that a health center provides depends a lot on what their main funding source is (be it the government, an NGO, or a church), but I’ll come back to this. All health centers have consultation rooms, where cases are reviewed and the appropriate tests and treatments are discussed. They have a laboratory which usually has at least one microscope, and other lab equipment if they are lucky. There are hospitalization rooms, with separate rooms for women, men and children. There is a maternity ward (which continues to be the most difficult place for me to walk into, though I did see an incredibly adorable set of newborn twins the other day) and a room for vaccinations. Each health center has a pharmacy (both a stock pharmacy as well as a distribution pharmacy) and then administrative offices for the data managers, Mutuelle managers (the community health insurance that the NYT article was about) and other staff. Most health centers have family planning services, though some health centers that are funded by churches do not provide such services (if this is the case the sector is required to also have a health post, where contraception methods can be provided). Also, most health centers have HIV/AIDS services, including Voluntary Counseling and Testing (VCT) and Prevention of Mother to Child Transmission (PMTCT) as well as ARV distribution, usually housed in a separate building funded and beautifully constructed by the Global Fund. Some health centers have nutrition programs, which include educational talks and sometimes a garden and demonstration kitchen, as well as food distribution programs for severely malnourished children.
3) Often, people are referred to the district level, where there is a District Hospital. While my “office” is at the district hospital, I haven’t been able to spend enough time there to walk around, ask questions and get an overall sense of exactly what goes on there. But from what I can see, it’s much bigger, the equipment is often more sophisticated, they have greater diagnosing and treatment capabilities, and can even perform some basic surgeries. I promise I’ll come back to this in a future post, as I know I’m not doing it justice whatsoever.
4) Then there are a couple of national referral hospitals, where I was lucky enough to be a patient once, but you already know that story. More on this level in a future post too.
So that’s your basic roadmap to the physical health system structure in Rwanda (sorry for not being more informative, but I’m going to go back to my defense that I’ve only been here four months and I still have A LOT to learn). I’ll try and put some photos up soon of the health centers and hospitals that I’ve visited, to give you a better visual. But until then, let’s just consider this one to be continued.
But of course I had a happy week...so...
Things that made me happy this week:
- Relaxing with Kitty, including dragging my heavy living room furniture into my driveway so we could watch a movie while attempting to simultaneously get a tan. We succeeded in getting sunburned while only being able to listen to Notting Hill on my tiny glare-filled laptop screen. But I still loved every minute of it.
- The woman who came to a training wearing a dress so fancy and beautiful that most Americans would have reserved it only for prom or an outing to the opera. There were ruffles, there were rhinestones; now that is “serious” and “smart” dressing.
- After 13 painful hours (spaced out over two weeks of internet visits) I successfully downloaded and am finally the proud owner of Microsoft Office. I’m beyond excited to once again spend hours playing with Excel and Powerpoint, and as always fully embrace my inner-nerd.
- When my water came back on after countless days without it. I (and my dishes, clothes and house were getting extremely dirty). Unfortunately, this sudden blessing of water was balanced by my electricity going out, once again supporting my hypothesis that I cannot have both at the same time.
- Epicly long, rambly, random, hilarious, shocking, gut-wrenching, wonderful emails from Jigga. Drinking games included.
- My easiest (and may I say, most successful) market experience to date
- Spending about 30 minutes attempting to pull down plantains from the tree in my backyard, using a 10 foot long stick that I’m assuming was only in my yard for that exact task. (They were delicious, by the way)
- Sleeping from 11pm to 9am. Amazing.
- The night my kerosene stove blew up in my face (don't worry, I'm fine, and no, that's not what made me happy) and I was still able to cook a fantastically tasty stir-fry dinner.
- Completing my first District Health Newsletter for work!! It’s mostly just photos, but hey, it’s somethin.
- Looking forward to an amazing weekend in Kigali with amazing friends.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
