I didn’t realize how truly busy I’ve been until I had my Rwandan friend, Janviere, and new friend, Betsy, visit my house today. And what made me realize it? The fact that Janviere took one look at the atrocious state of my yard and wide-eyed and open mouthed yelled “Amy!” at me. I looked around, and was immediately embarrassed by the large weeds and overgrown grass that have sprouted up everywhere. Hadn’t I just spent three straight mornings weeding the entire thing? Oh wait, that was a couple of weeks ago. And considering it rains for at least a couple of hours every day these days it’s no surprise that my backyard has turned into a jungle.
So where has the time gone? Mostly I’ve been sucked into the awesome black hole that is the district library. We’ve catalogued all of the books, have sorted almost all of the books and are currently planning our official opening ceremony! More and more people are glancing in the windows and wandering in to see what’s going on with all of these books. I showed up today to see a 12 year old with his nose buried in The Lion King, and by the end of the day two secondary school students had pulled out the Organic Chemistry textbook and asked if I could tutor them.
I’ve also been jumping back into my work with the Access Project. I spent Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of this week visiting 6 health centers to conduct pharmacy management activities with Zimy, the Access pharmacy specialist. Ever since working for SCMS back in the states I’ve been interested in pharmacies in the developing world, and this week was definitely an immense learning experience for me. We toured stock pharmacies, giving recommendations on their organization and ensuring they didn’t have any expired drugs present. We sat with the distribution pharmacists as they handed out drugs and checked their registers against what they were actually distributing. We retrained some of the pharmacy managers on the quantification formulas they should be using when they reorder drugs from the district pharmacy. And I guess it goes without saying how happy I was to stare at mathematical formulas once again. I’m even going to begin IT training next Monday with the pharmacy manager at the health center in my sector.
Oh, and how could I forget, my first water project was approved!! I should receive the money next week, so I can pass it on to the Director of Bisate Health Center and they can begin putting running water into their hospitalization and consultation rooms. The project has been fully pre-funded through Water Charities Appropriate Projects, but if you’d like to donate money to support it, have a look here!
http://appropriateprojects.com/node/397
On top of all this, tomorrow I’m going to Kigali to have the first planning meeting to bring more needed books into Rwanda. The Rwanda Books for Peace Project has already brought more than 20,000 books into schools, community centers and health clinics around Rwanda, and my group of health volunteers wants to continue this amazing project. I’ll have a lot more information about this in the future, particularly since we’ll be needing to raise a bit of money to cover the shipping costs for the books.
So I guess that explains the current state of my backyard, but considering how busy and happy I am right now I don’t mind too much. Though, that didn’t stop me from grinning from ear to ear and shouting “Yego!” (yes) when Janviere asked if I’d want her to come over on Saturday morning to help me weed.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Riding the waves of the Cycle of Adjustment
They warned us about it in training. The dreaded “Cycle of Adjustment”. It’s the emotional ups and downs that pretty much everyone goes through when they move to a culture much different than their own. Did I ever think that I could somehow avoid it? Hell no. But did I think my life would actually mirror the Cycle of Adjustment chart that they included in our health manual? Not particularly. And yet, here I am, 8 months into my 27 months in Rwanda, and like clockwork I can map my experiences and feelings to this tattered piece of paper in the back of a notebook.
The beginning is the honeymoon phase, the initial euphoria that accompanies arriving in a new country: meeting new people, having new experiences, learning a new language, a new culture and a new way of living. I lived it, I loved it. Everything about Rwanda was beautiful and intriguing; everyday brought a new adventure, a new story.
This “high” followed me from training in Nyanza to my site in Musanze. I setup my house, determined to make it a home. I explored my new town, wandering into store after store and greeting everyone I passed on the street. I made new friends, both Muzungu and Rwandan, and shared incredible experiences, from hiking up a mountain, to attending a baptism, to doing yard work together. I worked hard at my job, going to health center after health center, attempting to understand how they worked and where I would fit in. I experimented with cooking and patted myself on the back every time I successfully created another culinary masterpiece on my simple kerosene stove. I laughed my way through everything, including the communication and cultural barriers, and mistakes I made while completing such simple tasks as washing my clothes, cleaning my house and paying my electricity bill. I let my neighborhood kids visit often, even if it only resulted in them jabbering away to me in Kinyarwanda while they climbed my avocado tree and posed for photos. I was wide-eyed and overwhelmed, but busy and content.
Then it hit me. Right between months 5 and 6. Culture shock. And it hit me like a ton of bricks. Suddenly it felt as if my primary activities were eating, sleeping, movie watching and reading. I followed my boss around on health center visits like a sad puppy, unable to understand what was being said or what he was doing, let alone what I should be doing. I felt like I couldn’t speak a word of Kinyarwanda, and understood even less. I avoided the food market like the plague, and attempted to make my visits as short and embarrassment-free as possible, which meant greeting people but not lingering (since lingering meant actually having to fumble through a conversation in Kinyarwanda) and probably paying more for food than I ever should have. I told my neighborhood kids I was busy despite not having anything to do, and often hid in my house when I heard someone knock on my gate. This mood coincided with my largest intake of macaroni and cheese and chocolate to date. Vegetables? I’m not sure I knew what those were. I didn’t want to leave my house, but could barely stand the guilt I was feeling by staying in my house. Reading the symptoms of culture shock was like checking off a grocery list of my emotions: homesickness, boredom, withdrawal, oversleeping, overeating, irritability (did I mention I had the desire to hit a child? More than once.), loss of ability to work effectively. Check, check, check! Of course, all of this was compounded by the fact that I was taking the anti-malarial medication Mefloquine, which I’m fairly certain was slowly making me go insane (can you say hallucinations?!).
And then, almost overnight (or more like about two weeks after I switched malaria meds) things changed again. This time for the better. Much better. Work began to pick up, as I conducted data management activities and started writing grants to bring running water to health centers lacking it. The books arrived for the library and I spent days cataloguing, sorting and planning science experiments for the library’s future “Science Days”. I once again made a conscious effort to greet strangers and visit friends I’d been neglecting. I went to the market far more often, forcing myself to stop and talk to the vendors, to the point where people smile and wave when they see me, know my name, and give me extremely fair prices on their food (and even sometimes give me free things!). I let the kids enter my gate once again and we’ve spent numerous visits singing and dancing, drawing pictures and making Play-Doh animals, jumping rope and teaching each other games. I began cooking again, giving up mac&cheese out of a box for spicy curries and homemade chapatti. One of the biggest differences came when I realized I was beginning to really understand and speak Kinyarwanda. I was having conversations with my neighborhood kids and even asked a pharmacist to switch from speaking French to Kinyarwanda because I could understand more of it.
So yes, I guess I’m on the “upswing” as they say. I’m finally feeling at home here, finally beginning to feel accepted by my neighbors, colleagues and community. I’m positive, I’m healthy, I’m busy, and I’m motivated. I have so many things to look forward to, especially Thanksgiving with my Musanze family and a visit from my American family over the Christmas holiday. 8 months down, 19 to go. The cycle of adjustment says months 12-14 are the absolute worst, so stayed tuned. Until then, I’ll be here at the high point, enjoying life “mu Rwanda”.
The beginning is the honeymoon phase, the initial euphoria that accompanies arriving in a new country: meeting new people, having new experiences, learning a new language, a new culture and a new way of living. I lived it, I loved it. Everything about Rwanda was beautiful and intriguing; everyday brought a new adventure, a new story.
This “high” followed me from training in Nyanza to my site in Musanze. I setup my house, determined to make it a home. I explored my new town, wandering into store after store and greeting everyone I passed on the street. I made new friends, both Muzungu and Rwandan, and shared incredible experiences, from hiking up a mountain, to attending a baptism, to doing yard work together. I worked hard at my job, going to health center after health center, attempting to understand how they worked and where I would fit in. I experimented with cooking and patted myself on the back every time I successfully created another culinary masterpiece on my simple kerosene stove. I laughed my way through everything, including the communication and cultural barriers, and mistakes I made while completing such simple tasks as washing my clothes, cleaning my house and paying my electricity bill. I let my neighborhood kids visit often, even if it only resulted in them jabbering away to me in Kinyarwanda while they climbed my avocado tree and posed for photos. I was wide-eyed and overwhelmed, but busy and content.
Then it hit me. Right between months 5 and 6. Culture shock. And it hit me like a ton of bricks. Suddenly it felt as if my primary activities were eating, sleeping, movie watching and reading. I followed my boss around on health center visits like a sad puppy, unable to understand what was being said or what he was doing, let alone what I should be doing. I felt like I couldn’t speak a word of Kinyarwanda, and understood even less. I avoided the food market like the plague, and attempted to make my visits as short and embarrassment-free as possible, which meant greeting people but not lingering (since lingering meant actually having to fumble through a conversation in Kinyarwanda) and probably paying more for food than I ever should have. I told my neighborhood kids I was busy despite not having anything to do, and often hid in my house when I heard someone knock on my gate. This mood coincided with my largest intake of macaroni and cheese and chocolate to date. Vegetables? I’m not sure I knew what those were. I didn’t want to leave my house, but could barely stand the guilt I was feeling by staying in my house. Reading the symptoms of culture shock was like checking off a grocery list of my emotions: homesickness, boredom, withdrawal, oversleeping, overeating, irritability (did I mention I had the desire to hit a child? More than once.), loss of ability to work effectively. Check, check, check! Of course, all of this was compounded by the fact that I was taking the anti-malarial medication Mefloquine, which I’m fairly certain was slowly making me go insane (can you say hallucinations?!).
And then, almost overnight (or more like about two weeks after I switched malaria meds) things changed again. This time for the better. Much better. Work began to pick up, as I conducted data management activities and started writing grants to bring running water to health centers lacking it. The books arrived for the library and I spent days cataloguing, sorting and planning science experiments for the library’s future “Science Days”. I once again made a conscious effort to greet strangers and visit friends I’d been neglecting. I went to the market far more often, forcing myself to stop and talk to the vendors, to the point where people smile and wave when they see me, know my name, and give me extremely fair prices on their food (and even sometimes give me free things!). I let the kids enter my gate once again and we’ve spent numerous visits singing and dancing, drawing pictures and making Play-Doh animals, jumping rope and teaching each other games. I began cooking again, giving up mac&cheese out of a box for spicy curries and homemade chapatti. One of the biggest differences came when I realized I was beginning to really understand and speak Kinyarwanda. I was having conversations with my neighborhood kids and even asked a pharmacist to switch from speaking French to Kinyarwanda because I could understand more of it.
So yes, I guess I’m on the “upswing” as they say. I’m finally feeling at home here, finally beginning to feel accepted by my neighbors, colleagues and community. I’m positive, I’m healthy, I’m busy, and I’m motivated. I have so many things to look forward to, especially Thanksgiving with my Musanze family and a visit from my American family over the Christmas holiday. 8 months down, 19 to go. The cycle of adjustment says months 12-14 are the absolute worst, so stayed tuned. Until then, I’ll be here at the high point, enjoying life “mu Rwanda”.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Ibyishimo (happiness) – Not to be confused with ibishyimbo (beans)
So I must tell you all that I currently find myself in an amazing mood. Actually, I’m probably at one of my highest and happiest points since arriving in Rwanda. I’m extremely busy, I’m healthy, I have professional and personal future prospects, many things to look forward to, am learning so much every moment of every day and am just very happy. And yet, it has been ages since I told you what is making me happy. So without further ado:
Things that make me happy these days:
- The day my tomato lady gave me two extra tomatoes. Free.
- Realizing I’m finally starting to understand the jibberish that comes out of my neighborhood kiddos mouths.
- When we finally reached the exciting conclusion of “Last Photo Standing” on my bedroom wall. It (ironically) came down to a photo of me and Carol taken at the National Geographic Museum with a tiger in the background, and a photo of Lucy, wearing a gorilla mask, Bud Light in one hand and a thumbs up with the other. And the winner is…Jigga the Gorilla. Obviously. (Don’t worry, Miss Chow, keep reading below…)
- Spending hours alphabetizing books at the library and squealing with delight as I discovered such childhood gems as “When You Give a Mouse a Cookie”, “The Hot and Cold Summer”, “Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel” and all things Beverly Cleary and R.L. Stine. And simultaneously pondering how books such as “Big Dummies of the Bible and How You Can Avoid Being a Dummy Too”, “Hillbilly Cookin: Mountaineer Style” and “Men Who Hate Women &The Women Who Love Them” ever got published.
- Playing ridiculous junior high party games that I was terrible at back in junior high. And am still apparently terrible at now.
- Having a schedule that allows me to sleep for over 12 hours a night.
- Salsa dancing in Kigali with actual salsa dancers.
- Cat food arriving from America so that I don’t have to bother Hamimu, my egg guy, twice a week, and spend just as much on my cat’s food as I do on my own.
- Mutzig Fest. Beer, food, music, friends, dancing, insanity.
- Rain. Torrential, never ending, glorious rain.
- The fact that the rain is slowly scaring away all the haze so I can once again see the unfathomably beautiful volcanoes as soon as I step foot outside my front gate.
- The way a certain Rwandan says “I’m just calling to greet you” when they ring me on their way home from work.
- Reading the word “phlegm” in a New Yorker article and giggling to myself as I think back to that bet I won senior year of high school. (Muah, C.J.!)
- Brainstorming project ideas, writing proposals, feeling like the ball is definitely beginning to roll around here.
- Making and devouring SUSHI from scratch. In Rwanda. Cucumber/avocado rolls. Heaven. (Thanks again, Genna!!) Oh and ice cream sundae birthday parties.
- Every word that Stieg Larsson wrote in “The Girl Who Played with Fire”. Genius. Pure genius.
- Getting a super special secret package delivery of Jeremiah Weed Sweet Tea vodka. (Oh Concubine, you know me too well!)
- Having my iPod freeze, sending me into a panic attack thinking about life without music, only to wake up to a working iPod and realizing all is well in the world.
- Doing P90x exercises with my 3 best friends; especially halfway through, when, as Jenny would say “Amy just starts doing ballet, I start doing yoga, Sonya starts acting like a fool and Jessi’s still actually doing P90x”.
- Chilean miners rescue! VIVA CHILE!
- Realizing my parents and Big Bro are visiting Rwanda (and Tanzania...and Zanzibar!) in only two months. TWO MONTHS! AAHH!
Things that make me happy these days:
- The day my tomato lady gave me two extra tomatoes. Free.
- Realizing I’m finally starting to understand the jibberish that comes out of my neighborhood kiddos mouths.
- When we finally reached the exciting conclusion of “Last Photo Standing” on my bedroom wall. It (ironically) came down to a photo of me and Carol taken at the National Geographic Museum with a tiger in the background, and a photo of Lucy, wearing a gorilla mask, Bud Light in one hand and a thumbs up with the other. And the winner is…Jigga the Gorilla. Obviously. (Don’t worry, Miss Chow, keep reading below…)
- Spending hours alphabetizing books at the library and squealing with delight as I discovered such childhood gems as “When You Give a Mouse a Cookie”, “The Hot and Cold Summer”, “Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel” and all things Beverly Cleary and R.L. Stine. And simultaneously pondering how books such as “Big Dummies of the Bible and How You Can Avoid Being a Dummy Too”, “Hillbilly Cookin: Mountaineer Style” and “Men Who Hate Women &The Women Who Love Them” ever got published.
- Playing ridiculous junior high party games that I was terrible at back in junior high. And am still apparently terrible at now.
- Having a schedule that allows me to sleep for over 12 hours a night.
- Salsa dancing in Kigali with actual salsa dancers.
- Cat food arriving from America so that I don’t have to bother Hamimu, my egg guy, twice a week, and spend just as much on my cat’s food as I do on my own.
- Mutzig Fest. Beer, food, music, friends, dancing, insanity.
- Rain. Torrential, never ending, glorious rain.
- The fact that the rain is slowly scaring away all the haze so I can once again see the unfathomably beautiful volcanoes as soon as I step foot outside my front gate.
- The way a certain Rwandan says “I’m just calling to greet you” when they ring me on their way home from work.
- Reading the word “phlegm” in a New Yorker article and giggling to myself as I think back to that bet I won senior year of high school. (Muah, C.J.!)
- Brainstorming project ideas, writing proposals, feeling like the ball is definitely beginning to roll around here.
- Making and devouring SUSHI from scratch. In Rwanda. Cucumber/avocado rolls. Heaven. (Thanks again, Genna!!) Oh and ice cream sundae birthday parties.
- Every word that Stieg Larsson wrote in “The Girl Who Played with Fire”. Genius. Pure genius.
- Getting a super special secret package delivery of Jeremiah Weed Sweet Tea vodka. (Oh Concubine, you know me too well!)
- Having my iPod freeze, sending me into a panic attack thinking about life without music, only to wake up to a working iPod and realizing all is well in the world.
- Doing P90x exercises with my 3 best friends; especially halfway through, when, as Jenny would say “Amy just starts doing ballet, I start doing yoga, Sonya starts acting like a fool and Jessi’s still actually doing P90x”.
- Chilean miners rescue! VIVA CHILE!
- Realizing my parents and Big Bro are visiting Rwanda (and Tanzania...and Zanzibar!) in only two months. TWO MONTHS! AAHH!
Monday, October 4, 2010
Village life, Hallelujah! and The Waiting Game
Ah, IST. Peace Corps In-Service Training. A week in Kibuye on Lake Kivu, at a gorgeous hotel-ish oasis, with yummy food, breathtaking views, wireless internet, swimming and oh yeah, those important trainings and meetings too. But first, I had to get there…
A little background: Kibuye is in the Western Province, in the middle of Lake Kivu, which creates the western boundary between Rwanda and Congo. For me in Musanze, there are two ways to get to Kibuye. 1) Take a two hour bus ride to Kigali and then another 3 and a half hour bus ride to Kibuye. Or 2) take a one hour bus ride to Gisenyi, then a 5 hour bus ride on a dirt road that lines the lake. Of course, me being the travel princess that I am, I had already decided to take the express Kigali route. That is, until my friend Tiffany suggested I stop at her site on the way down to Kibuye. Tiffany lives halfway between Gisenyi and Kibuye on that infamous dirt road, in Rutsiro district, in the sector of Kayove. Our other friend Portia, who lives in Gisenyi, agreed to meet up with me so we could make the trek to Tiffany’s together, and so begins our saga.
Bright and early on a Saturday morning, I hopped on a 7:45am express Virunga bus to Gisenyi (I got the front seat, so I was already feeling the good travel karma). By 9am I was in Gisenyi, where I attempted (yet again) to get my favorite samboussa’s from Habib’s. But (yet again) they had none and I settled on mango juice and biscuits. Portia arrived and we wandered over to the bus park to see when the next bus to Kayove might leave. When we asked, the man said saa yine (10am), but then scratched on his arm 11am and nodded when Portia asked “onze heure” in French. Fairly certain that the bus would leave around 11 we stopped at the bank and then hunted around town for ijana icyayi (100 franc tea). Failing miserably we settled for 200 franc black tea, a little bitter over having to spend extra money for a subpar product, and then returned to the bus stop at 10:45. We were quickly ushered to a waiting matatu (small “18 passenger” vans that I’ve seen cram in at least 22 passengers plus all of their bags, food, mattresses, small animals and babies) where the driver exclaimed “we are leaving”! Portia and I jumped in to the front seat, and quickly noticed that there were only two other people on the bus. The number one rule about buses in Rwanda: unless they are express buses, they don’t leave until they are full. So we sat, optimistic that maybe we would still leave at 11, and simply pick up additional passengers along the way.
We didn’t. At 11 we asked if we were leaving. The driver responded “at 11, yes!”. “But it is 11” we pointed out. “In 20 minutes, we leave. We leave at 11:30” the driver said, smiling. Portia and I exchanged knowing glances; we weren’t going to be leaving anytime soon. Then at 11:30, the driver miraculously started the car (despite only having 5 people on the bus)! Suddenly, slight chaos broke out, as what looked to be the head driver at the bus park came running over screaming at our driver in Kinyarwanda. While I’m not exactly sure what was said, I’m pretty sure the conversation went something like this:
“I’m leaving”
“You can’t leave, you have to have at least 10 passengers, and you only have five”
“But look, I have muzungus, I need to leave”
“You’re not leaving”
Of course, the fight took more than 10 minutes back and forth; but regardless the end result was our driver getting kicked off the bus and walking off in a huff, us getting kicked off the bus too, another driver jumping into the bus, and the bus driving off, empty. So, now it was noon, and Portia and I found ourselves sitting on a curb as the rains started, wondering what the heck to do next.
Soon, another option presented itself in the form of an Onotracom bus, leaving at 2pm. Onotracom’s are huge green buses that basically go where no other bus will go: the crazy dirt roads, the tiny villages high in the mountains and low in the valleys. Technically, they seat 50ish people, but they are one of the only forms of transportation here that you can actually stand up in. Because of this, they pack the people in like sardines; they get friendly in the aisles, they sit on each other’s laps, they lie on top of things in the luggage area, they cram into the stairwell. I have no way of knowing how many people were actually packed into our bus (I’m going to estimate close to 100), but all I know is we sat (yes, luckily we had actual seats) on that bus until close to 2:45 before finally leaving (oh, and I can’t forget the ticket taker who got on at 2pm and sat herself down in the front of the bus, forcing every passenger to push their way forward to pay; though she and the other passengers sure got a kick out of me busting out my Kinyarwanda). So, we bumped and jolted our way down the dirt road and around 5 finally found ourselves in Kayove. Or rather, the “bus stop” at Kayove, which included one shop with snacks and tea, a barber shop, and an abandoned gas station. We were met by a smiling Tiffany who welcomed us to the bush, and then pointed up the mountain, which we now had to climb to get to Tiffany’s house.
On the way we stopped to see the “village sights”. Tiffany’s “bar” where she drinks tea, her umudozi (seamstress), her snack shop, her “market” (aka a few ladies sitting on the side of the road selling cassava and potatoes, and if she’s lucky avocadoes and bananas). I suddenly realized I should never ever again take for granted 1) how easy it is to get to and away from my site, and 2) how wonderful my market and other store offerings are. We got to Tiffany’s house, which was cozy and adorable, with a shockingly gorgeous view into a misty valley, and spent the night drinking tea, eating a yummy rice concoction and watching episodes of Gossip Girl. We turned in early, as the next morning was going to be quite eventful: church.
I’ve attempted to go to church numerous times here, but always end up being out of town, or not feeling well, or actually succeeding at sleeping in. I’ve been warned that church is long here. The Catholic’s are actually the shortest, coming in at around 2 hours, but the Protestants are known to go on for at least 3 hours. Tiffany’s church is Protestant, and she’s a member of the choir. Service started at 9, so after a fantastic breakfast of sweet banana fritters, Portia and I were ushered to seats right beside Tiffany’s choir, and what happened next can only be described as…well, I can’t really think of the words to describe it actually. Let’s just say:
1) We were seated at a prime angle to be the recipients of the largest version of the “Abazungu Stare” I’ve experienced in awhile.
2) There were actually seven choirs, and I had every intention of remembering what all of them were, but the details escape me currently. But I know for a fact that they came in every age, gender and shape, and the people who were not in one of the choirs were definitely in the minority. Each choir was different but the music was joyous and always accompanied by lots and lots of dancing.
3) At one point there were introductions and as special guests we had to be properly introduced to the church. Tiffany did the introducing in Kinyarwanda and afterwards we were expected to pump our first in the air yelling “Hallelujah!” Needless to say our lack of volume and enthusiasm was borderline embarrassing, but we were still greeted by the usual response of a long Kinyarwanda phrase that in essence means “We bless you in the name of Jesus Christ” while the parishioners held their hands up to bless us (mixed in of course with giggles of laughter from the masses).
4) During the sermon, the choir member next to me decided it would be helpful to attempt to translate the pastor’s words to me. (As much as I enjoyed and appreciated his attempt, it wasn’t.)
5) Halfway through church the skies opened up, and the rain continued to pound on the roof for the duration of the service, so as service winded down, the dancing escalated to sheer “dance party” proportions, and the dust on the floor (accumulated during the long months of dry season) soon swirled into the air, clouding the entire room, as the number of dancers increased. We soon joined the fun, and it was quite surreal dancing in a sea of Rwandans, young and old, mimicking their steps to the music. I’ll never forget the smiles on all of those faces.
6) They lied about the three hours. More like almost four and a half hours. I’m impressed with my stamina and ability to pay attention. Thoroughly impressed.
When the rain let up, we said our farewells, scurried home, grabbed our bags and trekked down the mountain to wait for the bus to Kibuye. Thus begins the Waiting Game. We arrived at the bus stop a little before 2, drenched, cold and starving from our walk. We quickly bought samboussas and then stood. And waited. And waited. Finally at four, a bus arrived! However, the ticket taker yelled out he was not going to Kibuye, only to Congonile, the next big town on the dirt road, only halfway to Kibuye. But, he said, another a bus is coming going to Kibuye. When we asked him what time it would get there, he quickly said four, and the bus began to pull away. “But it is four” we yelled after him, but were greeted only by exhaust fumes.
The waiting continued. The samboussa eating continued. The rain continued.
Finally at 6pm, we decided it was best to call Peace Corps to let them know we would either be very late, or not arrive that night at all. We were promptly told that we should not come that evening, but wait until the morning. So, we trekked back up the mountain, attempted to warm up and had one of the most delicious but disastrous dinners ever. (Aka we realized that Tiffany didn’t really have any food since she was planning to be away a week, decided to make chapatti since that only took flour and water, went to turn on the kerosene stove and realized that Tiffany’s lighter wasn’t working and she didn’t have matches, climbed the hill to “town” to buy matches, and then devoured chapatti and tea until we passed out.)
By 7am the next morning we were out the door to begin the Waiting Game: Take Two. At 7:45 a matatu passed…no room. At 8:30 a second matatu arrived and we quickly elbowed our way onto it, I even resorted to elbowing a man into a pile of mud in order to make my way on (don’t feel bad; we were there first and I’m fairly positive he would have done it himself if given the opportunity). Shoved into a jump seat, I quickly noticed that the mechanical condition of the matatu could only be characterized as “questionable”. For the first half of the ride I attempted to thwart the man seated in front of me’s attempt to lean back and insert my backpack into my lung cavity, all while praying that the matatu wouldn’t break down. And then I spent the second half of the ride staring at the man who replaced Leaner Backer, who had decided to wear the shiniest, purpliest shirt ever created; and of course, I continued my prayers.
Three hours of horror later, we arrived in Rubengera, where we had to switch buses. After a large squabble over the fare (go figure), we boarded another matatu for the quick, 20 minute journey to Kibuye. We stumbled off the bus in Kibuye, hugging each other that we had finally arrived. All that was left was a 20 minute walk, uphill, in the noon heat, to our destination: Centre Bethanie. When we walked into the conference room, applause rang out from our fellow volunteers. We smiled, accepted the homemade cookies another PCV, Emily, had made, and were extremely happy to realize that not only had we finally arrived, but it was just in time for lunch break.
So there ends our saga, an ode to how hilarious yet frustrating the simple act of travel is in this country. At the end of the day we had fun, and we made it. But I’m extremely thankful that my best friends, free food, free wireless, and many days staring at the beauty that is Lake Kivu awaited us at the end.
A little background: Kibuye is in the Western Province, in the middle of Lake Kivu, which creates the western boundary between Rwanda and Congo. For me in Musanze, there are two ways to get to Kibuye. 1) Take a two hour bus ride to Kigali and then another 3 and a half hour bus ride to Kibuye. Or 2) take a one hour bus ride to Gisenyi, then a 5 hour bus ride on a dirt road that lines the lake. Of course, me being the travel princess that I am, I had already decided to take the express Kigali route. That is, until my friend Tiffany suggested I stop at her site on the way down to Kibuye. Tiffany lives halfway between Gisenyi and Kibuye on that infamous dirt road, in Rutsiro district, in the sector of Kayove. Our other friend Portia, who lives in Gisenyi, agreed to meet up with me so we could make the trek to Tiffany’s together, and so begins our saga.
Bright and early on a Saturday morning, I hopped on a 7:45am express Virunga bus to Gisenyi (I got the front seat, so I was already feeling the good travel karma). By 9am I was in Gisenyi, where I attempted (yet again) to get my favorite samboussa’s from Habib’s. But (yet again) they had none and I settled on mango juice and biscuits. Portia arrived and we wandered over to the bus park to see when the next bus to Kayove might leave. When we asked, the man said saa yine (10am), but then scratched on his arm 11am and nodded when Portia asked “onze heure” in French. Fairly certain that the bus would leave around 11 we stopped at the bank and then hunted around town for ijana icyayi (100 franc tea). Failing miserably we settled for 200 franc black tea, a little bitter over having to spend extra money for a subpar product, and then returned to the bus stop at 10:45. We were quickly ushered to a waiting matatu (small “18 passenger” vans that I’ve seen cram in at least 22 passengers plus all of their bags, food, mattresses, small animals and babies) where the driver exclaimed “we are leaving”! Portia and I jumped in to the front seat, and quickly noticed that there were only two other people on the bus. The number one rule about buses in Rwanda: unless they are express buses, they don’t leave until they are full. So we sat, optimistic that maybe we would still leave at 11, and simply pick up additional passengers along the way.
We didn’t. At 11 we asked if we were leaving. The driver responded “at 11, yes!”. “But it is 11” we pointed out. “In 20 minutes, we leave. We leave at 11:30” the driver said, smiling. Portia and I exchanged knowing glances; we weren’t going to be leaving anytime soon. Then at 11:30, the driver miraculously started the car (despite only having 5 people on the bus)! Suddenly, slight chaos broke out, as what looked to be the head driver at the bus park came running over screaming at our driver in Kinyarwanda. While I’m not exactly sure what was said, I’m pretty sure the conversation went something like this:
“I’m leaving”
“You can’t leave, you have to have at least 10 passengers, and you only have five”
“But look, I have muzungus, I need to leave”
“You’re not leaving”
Of course, the fight took more than 10 minutes back and forth; but regardless the end result was our driver getting kicked off the bus and walking off in a huff, us getting kicked off the bus too, another driver jumping into the bus, and the bus driving off, empty. So, now it was noon, and Portia and I found ourselves sitting on a curb as the rains started, wondering what the heck to do next.
Soon, another option presented itself in the form of an Onotracom bus, leaving at 2pm. Onotracom’s are huge green buses that basically go where no other bus will go: the crazy dirt roads, the tiny villages high in the mountains and low in the valleys. Technically, they seat 50ish people, but they are one of the only forms of transportation here that you can actually stand up in. Because of this, they pack the people in like sardines; they get friendly in the aisles, they sit on each other’s laps, they lie on top of things in the luggage area, they cram into the stairwell. I have no way of knowing how many people were actually packed into our bus (I’m going to estimate close to 100), but all I know is we sat (yes, luckily we had actual seats) on that bus until close to 2:45 before finally leaving (oh, and I can’t forget the ticket taker who got on at 2pm and sat herself down in the front of the bus, forcing every passenger to push their way forward to pay; though she and the other passengers sure got a kick out of me busting out my Kinyarwanda). So, we bumped and jolted our way down the dirt road and around 5 finally found ourselves in Kayove. Or rather, the “bus stop” at Kayove, which included one shop with snacks and tea, a barber shop, and an abandoned gas station. We were met by a smiling Tiffany who welcomed us to the bush, and then pointed up the mountain, which we now had to climb to get to Tiffany’s house.
On the way we stopped to see the “village sights”. Tiffany’s “bar” where she drinks tea, her umudozi (seamstress), her snack shop, her “market” (aka a few ladies sitting on the side of the road selling cassava and potatoes, and if she’s lucky avocadoes and bananas). I suddenly realized I should never ever again take for granted 1) how easy it is to get to and away from my site, and 2) how wonderful my market and other store offerings are. We got to Tiffany’s house, which was cozy and adorable, with a shockingly gorgeous view into a misty valley, and spent the night drinking tea, eating a yummy rice concoction and watching episodes of Gossip Girl. We turned in early, as the next morning was going to be quite eventful: church.
I’ve attempted to go to church numerous times here, but always end up being out of town, or not feeling well, or actually succeeding at sleeping in. I’ve been warned that church is long here. The Catholic’s are actually the shortest, coming in at around 2 hours, but the Protestants are known to go on for at least 3 hours. Tiffany’s church is Protestant, and she’s a member of the choir. Service started at 9, so after a fantastic breakfast of sweet banana fritters, Portia and I were ushered to seats right beside Tiffany’s choir, and what happened next can only be described as…well, I can’t really think of the words to describe it actually. Let’s just say:
1) We were seated at a prime angle to be the recipients of the largest version of the “Abazungu Stare” I’ve experienced in awhile.
2) There were actually seven choirs, and I had every intention of remembering what all of them were, but the details escape me currently. But I know for a fact that they came in every age, gender and shape, and the people who were not in one of the choirs were definitely in the minority. Each choir was different but the music was joyous and always accompanied by lots and lots of dancing.
3) At one point there were introductions and as special guests we had to be properly introduced to the church. Tiffany did the introducing in Kinyarwanda and afterwards we were expected to pump our first in the air yelling “Hallelujah!” Needless to say our lack of volume and enthusiasm was borderline embarrassing, but we were still greeted by the usual response of a long Kinyarwanda phrase that in essence means “We bless you in the name of Jesus Christ” while the parishioners held their hands up to bless us (mixed in of course with giggles of laughter from the masses).
4) During the sermon, the choir member next to me decided it would be helpful to attempt to translate the pastor’s words to me. (As much as I enjoyed and appreciated his attempt, it wasn’t.)
5) Halfway through church the skies opened up, and the rain continued to pound on the roof for the duration of the service, so as service winded down, the dancing escalated to sheer “dance party” proportions, and the dust on the floor (accumulated during the long months of dry season) soon swirled into the air, clouding the entire room, as the number of dancers increased. We soon joined the fun, and it was quite surreal dancing in a sea of Rwandans, young and old, mimicking their steps to the music. I’ll never forget the smiles on all of those faces.
6) They lied about the three hours. More like almost four and a half hours. I’m impressed with my stamina and ability to pay attention. Thoroughly impressed.
When the rain let up, we said our farewells, scurried home, grabbed our bags and trekked down the mountain to wait for the bus to Kibuye. Thus begins the Waiting Game. We arrived at the bus stop a little before 2, drenched, cold and starving from our walk. We quickly bought samboussas and then stood. And waited. And waited. Finally at four, a bus arrived! However, the ticket taker yelled out he was not going to Kibuye, only to Congonile, the next big town on the dirt road, only halfway to Kibuye. But, he said, another a bus is coming going to Kibuye. When we asked him what time it would get there, he quickly said four, and the bus began to pull away. “But it is four” we yelled after him, but were greeted only by exhaust fumes.
The waiting continued. The samboussa eating continued. The rain continued.
Finally at 6pm, we decided it was best to call Peace Corps to let them know we would either be very late, or not arrive that night at all. We were promptly told that we should not come that evening, but wait until the morning. So, we trekked back up the mountain, attempted to warm up and had one of the most delicious but disastrous dinners ever. (Aka we realized that Tiffany didn’t really have any food since she was planning to be away a week, decided to make chapatti since that only took flour and water, went to turn on the kerosene stove and realized that Tiffany’s lighter wasn’t working and she didn’t have matches, climbed the hill to “town” to buy matches, and then devoured chapatti and tea until we passed out.)
By 7am the next morning we were out the door to begin the Waiting Game: Take Two. At 7:45 a matatu passed…no room. At 8:30 a second matatu arrived and we quickly elbowed our way onto it, I even resorted to elbowing a man into a pile of mud in order to make my way on (don’t feel bad; we were there first and I’m fairly positive he would have done it himself if given the opportunity). Shoved into a jump seat, I quickly noticed that the mechanical condition of the matatu could only be characterized as “questionable”. For the first half of the ride I attempted to thwart the man seated in front of me’s attempt to lean back and insert my backpack into my lung cavity, all while praying that the matatu wouldn’t break down. And then I spent the second half of the ride staring at the man who replaced Leaner Backer, who had decided to wear the shiniest, purpliest shirt ever created; and of course, I continued my prayers.
Three hours of horror later, we arrived in Rubengera, where we had to switch buses. After a large squabble over the fare (go figure), we boarded another matatu for the quick, 20 minute journey to Kibuye. We stumbled off the bus in Kibuye, hugging each other that we had finally arrived. All that was left was a 20 minute walk, uphill, in the noon heat, to our destination: Centre Bethanie. When we walked into the conference room, applause rang out from our fellow volunteers. We smiled, accepted the homemade cookies another PCV, Emily, had made, and were extremely happy to realize that not only had we finally arrived, but it was just in time for lunch break.
So there ends our saga, an ode to how hilarious yet frustrating the simple act of travel is in this country. At the end of the day we had fun, and we made it. But I’m extremely thankful that my best friends, free food, free wireless, and many days staring at the beauty that is Lake Kivu awaited us at the end.
Ibitabo benshi cyane (very many books)
I fully anticipated the emails from my friends and family asking where I was and why I haven’t posted on my blog in awhile. But when complete strangers who happen to read my blog begin to comment on if I’m ok because it’s been a month since my last post, I believe it’s time to update you all!
So where have I been hiding? Well I’ve been traveling a fair amount, got sick (luckily it wasn’t malaria), experimented with cooking (can you say SUSHI?!), made new friends and said goodbye to one of my best, celebrated birthdays, succeeded in finding a banana market mama, trained my cat to leave the room when I say “out”, and finally got to watch Eclipse.
But mostly I’ve been living at the library. Did you know that I’m helping open a public library in my district? It’s true. The books are being supplied by the Rwanda Books for Peace Project (started by the first group of PCVs to return to Rwanda last year, in partnership with Books for Africa) and they arrived in Rwanda about a month ago. Since then, the librarian, Gilbertine, and I have been incredibly busy cataloguing and sorting close to 2,000 books of every size, genre and reading level, playing in Excel and alphabetizing up a storm. The isomero (the Kinyarwanda lessons continue! isomero = library) will be housed in two rooms at the Musanze District office, and will also have three computers for public use. We’re currently wrapping our confused minds around how to arrange the books (considering the Dewey decimal system is kind of out of our league here), but hopefully the front room will have Gilbertine’s desk as well as reference books (we have a complete set of Britannica encyclopedias!) and professional level texts; then the second room will be broken up by genre (science, math, english/reading, art/music, geography/travel, religion/spirituality, and novels for adults and children). As Rwanda’s National Police Academy and INES (a very well respected university) are located in Musanze, I’m hoping to eventually increase our collection of books on criminology, health, economics and science during my time here, since I’d really like the book offerings to cater to the needs of my community. I’m also applying for grants that will help fund decorations (can you say huge world map mural?) and other special educational events. I have grand plans for the library: English and IT classes, monthly “Health Day” and “Science Day”, reading groups, a bulletin board to connect kids in America to kids in Rwanda, and so much more.
So that’s where I’ve been and where I’ll continue to be for the foreseeable future! My work with the Access Project is continuing to plug away, I’m writing newsletters and grants to bring running water to health centers in need, and hope to get orientations on IT and pharmacy management sometime this month. So never fear, I’m alive and well and very happy and super busy. And with all this I’m still trying to find time to study Kinyarwanda, play with my kiddies and talk with my neighbors. More vendors than just carrot lady remember my face and name at the market now and I finally got the cucumber lady to stop ripping me off. I’m exploring new parts of the country and new areas of my neighborhood, and we’re all anxiously awaiting the next group of education volunteers who will arrive in Rwanda later this month! I hope you are all well and enjoying life wherever you are. Keep the updates coming, and I’ll try to do the same!
So where have I been hiding? Well I’ve been traveling a fair amount, got sick (luckily it wasn’t malaria), experimented with cooking (can you say SUSHI?!), made new friends and said goodbye to one of my best, celebrated birthdays, succeeded in finding a banana market mama, trained my cat to leave the room when I say “out”, and finally got to watch Eclipse.
But mostly I’ve been living at the library. Did you know that I’m helping open a public library in my district? It’s true. The books are being supplied by the Rwanda Books for Peace Project (started by the first group of PCVs to return to Rwanda last year, in partnership with Books for Africa) and they arrived in Rwanda about a month ago. Since then, the librarian, Gilbertine, and I have been incredibly busy cataloguing and sorting close to 2,000 books of every size, genre and reading level, playing in Excel and alphabetizing up a storm. The isomero (the Kinyarwanda lessons continue! isomero = library) will be housed in two rooms at the Musanze District office, and will also have three computers for public use. We’re currently wrapping our confused minds around how to arrange the books (considering the Dewey decimal system is kind of out of our league here), but hopefully the front room will have Gilbertine’s desk as well as reference books (we have a complete set of Britannica encyclopedias!) and professional level texts; then the second room will be broken up by genre (science, math, english/reading, art/music, geography/travel, religion/spirituality, and novels for adults and children). As Rwanda’s National Police Academy and INES (a very well respected university) are located in Musanze, I’m hoping to eventually increase our collection of books on criminology, health, economics and science during my time here, since I’d really like the book offerings to cater to the needs of my community. I’m also applying for grants that will help fund decorations (can you say huge world map mural?) and other special educational events. I have grand plans for the library: English and IT classes, monthly “Health Day” and “Science Day”, reading groups, a bulletin board to connect kids in America to kids in Rwanda, and so much more.
So that’s where I’ve been and where I’ll continue to be for the foreseeable future! My work with the Access Project is continuing to plug away, I’m writing newsletters and grants to bring running water to health centers in need, and hope to get orientations on IT and pharmacy management sometime this month. So never fear, I’m alive and well and very happy and super busy. And with all this I’m still trying to find time to study Kinyarwanda, play with my kiddies and talk with my neighbors. More vendors than just carrot lady remember my face and name at the market now and I finally got the cucumber lady to stop ripping me off. I’m exploring new parts of the country and new areas of my neighborhood, and we’re all anxiously awaiting the next group of education volunteers who will arrive in Rwanda later this month! I hope you are all well and enjoying life wherever you are. Keep the updates coming, and I’ll try to do the same!
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Dear...
Dear snack crackers in the yellow package: You taste like ritz crackers. (Yum.) You came all the way to Rwanda from Saudi Arabia. (Huh?) You only cost 60 cents. (My measly Peace Corps bank account thanks you.) You are amazing in every way. (Seriously.)
Dear driver: You continue to provide me with a constant source of entertainment, especially when you stop the car on random dirt roads to inquire about the prices of everything from fruit to shoes to goats. Then you got a portable dvd player, to pass the time while we’re on health center visits. Totally understandable, but I’ll never forget the time I came back to the car to find you watching an “artsy” film. And yes, you know exactly what I mean by “artsy”.
Dear Lake Kivu: Swimming in you was totally worth the shistosomiasis I may or may not get from swimming in you. And your beach wasn’t half bad either.
Dear PiliPili cat: I love you. But I love you most when you’re asleep on my lap. It’s the only time these days that you’re not crying/meowing at me.
Dear stupid bug: First, you scared the crap out of me by repeatedly launching yourself at my windows. Then you miraculously found your way under my door, only to fly around my living room randomly dive bombing my face while I was trying to enjoy Across the Universe. But I sincerely appreciate you allowing my cat to chase you around, providing her with amusement for a solid 20 minutes. Oh, and sorry again about Pili eating you.
Dear Shantaram: You are a fascinating, intriguing, thought provoking book. I am so sorry for ever putting you down and cheating on you with Eat, Pray, Love. It’s a mistake I shall never make again. Except for the fact that I just got The Girl Who Played with Fire. So…no hard feelings, k?
Dear Justin Bieber: I heard one of your songs finally. It was called Baby. Rwandans may love it, but I’m still not sure if I do. But I’m keeping an open mind, and I’ll continue to let Lucy put lyrics from your songs at the beginning of every email she sends me.
Dear various friends who have sneakily sent me alcohol from America: You all are geniuses. Inside a crayon box, pill bottle, Bank of America checkbox and toothpaste carton. What will you think of next? Regardless, just keep ‘em coming!
Dear Tigo: 3 francs per text, 10 francs a minute for calls, and 30 francs a minute to call America. Will you marry me?! (What, you heard that I’m still seeing MTN? Well, I have a dual sim phone, yes, but I put you in slot 1 and MTN in slot 2. Does that adequately demonstrate my allegiance?)
Dear dry season: I’m over you. I’m sick of not having water. I’m sick of being dirty. Go away please.
Dear rainy season: I know, I know, you’re scared that if you come I’ll be as mean to you as I was to dry season. But I promise that won’t happen. Well, as long as you don’t ruin my garden.
Dear neighborhood boy: Maybe I shouldn’t have commented about how “thug” you’ve become lately. I honestly didn’t think you even understood what the word “thug” meant. But you definitely proved me wrong when a few days later you greeted me at my front gate…wearing a dress.
Dear mefloquine: You’ve been replaced. I don’t even feel bad about it. And I’m looking forward to many nights without crazy dreams, hallucinations and anxiety attacks.
Dear Nyanza: So, after 3 months away, it turns out I actually had been missing you. I missed your market (with piles and piles of amazing clothing), cheap food and drink (I still haven’t seen a red cabbage elsewhere in Rwanda), bunk beds (ok, not really) and communal eating at the training center (the communal aspect, not the actual food). I’ll be back soon.
Dear electrical outlet in our office at the hospital: Holy crap. You were working perfectly and then suddenly started crackling and smoking right behind me. At least you didn’t catch on fire, but still, not cool. Oh, and I wonder if the smell of melting plastic will ever go away.
Dear garden: Jessica took such amazing care of you, I’m embarrassed beyond words that I ruined you. I promise I’ve tried to grow a green thumb and will attempt to rebuild you. Besides, I really really want sweet corn.
Dear Ruhengeri district hospital: Investing in a wireless router was one of the best decisions you’ve made. But could we work something out so that I don’t have to sit under a group of trees in order to get any signal whatsoever.
Dear random man who knocked on my gate that one day: I’m not a doctor. I don’t live with a doctor. I don’t’ want to be a doctor. Ok, I actually have no idea what you were saying to me because the only word I could distinguish was “umuganga” which means doctor. Ok, two words; I also know you said “ntakibazo” (it’s no problem) right before you turned and walked away. Hope you got that all figured out though!
Dear LCFs (Language and Cultural Facilitators): It was glorious to see some of you again at in-service training. I had so much fun studying, eating, laughing and sharing gossip magazines. And I once again became confident that I can actually speak Kinyarwanda. But could you explain to me why when I say something to the average Rwandan they look at me like I have 7 heads?
Dear carrot lady: I know you had a baby, but please come back! I miss you. Your food is there, but you are not, and the lady watching your stand totally overcharged me by 300 francs! Besides, I’m anxiously waiting to say to you “Ni uko, ni uko, and niyonkwe” (Congratulations and happy breastfeeding!)
Dear mouse that found its way into my house: Ok, I’ll admit it you were cute. But first you were in my bedroom and then you were in my bathroom. You really gave me no choice but to let Pili create a new game with you called Catch the Rodent. You won the battle, but I know she’ll win the war. Besides, escaping outside is kind of like cheating.
Dear Amber: I’m so glad you’re back. Rwanda’s not the same without you to stumble through it with me.
Dear Vision 2020: Yes, you win the award for “Best All-You-Can-Eat Rwandan Buffet”. Pasta, rice, fries, plantains, beans, cassava, vegetables, unidentifiable meat, sauce, and fruit. And all for less than $3. The Abba videos you constantly play are just an added bonus.
Dear Raychel: I cannot say thank you enough for all of the pedicure supplies you sent me. I used hot water, I used the nail brush, I used the pumice stone. My feet never looked so fresh and so clean! Until I walked outside…sigh.
Dear water spigot: You knew I had no clean clothes. You knew I had to do laundry. You knew I had just filled up a bucket with water and soap. So why when I had adequately soaked and washed my clothes did you feel the need to shut off and not work for days? My soapy clothes and I did not appreciate your attempt at a joke. PS. I’m thirsty too.
Dear photos I slaved over to tape to my wall: Why do you keep falling down? You know tape is an expensive commodity around here. So, I’ve decided to just not put you back up and create a little game called “Last Photo Standing”. So far it is a 5 way tie for first, who shall be the victor?
Dear magpies/crows/ugly black mongrel birds that have invaded my property: I seriously detest you. I hate when you “hunt” my cat. I hate when you attack my garden. I hate when you knock off branches of my avocado tree. But I hate you most when you frolic, fight and tap dance your way across my tin roof, repeatedly making me think that the world is ending…or at the least that my roof might be falling down.
Dear feet: Nope, still not tan. Still just really dirty. But I hear that rainy season is almost here, just imagine how wonderful you’ll look muddy!
Dear two neighborhood children: You’re a delight to have in my house when there are only two of you. Particularly when I introduce you to Play-Doh and we can sit and teach other Kinyarwanda and English by building animals and other random objects. Oh, and I’m REALLY glad that you finally declared that the odd shaped mold was a boat, and not something else…
Dear Steven Colbert: You and your Report are just as funny in Rwanda as you were in America. Keep it up. P.S. However, car commercials, you are still just as annoying.
Dear Rwandans: Living in a city as large as Musanze has forced me to make a decision to only greet people I make eye contact with, so that I’m not greeting every single person I pass on the street. Unfortunately, every single one of you stares at me as I pass, which means I’m pretty much still greeting every person I pass on the street. Let’s work on this, shall we?
Dear bra industry: I’m not sure if you either just don’t supply to Rwanda yet, or if your marketing campaign here just sucks. But either way, I see a demand in this country. Big demand. And I fully expect to get a share of the profits for pointing out this incredible business opportunity to you. Right?
Dear driver: You continue to provide me with a constant source of entertainment, especially when you stop the car on random dirt roads to inquire about the prices of everything from fruit to shoes to goats. Then you got a portable dvd player, to pass the time while we’re on health center visits. Totally understandable, but I’ll never forget the time I came back to the car to find you watching an “artsy” film. And yes, you know exactly what I mean by “artsy”.
Dear Lake Kivu: Swimming in you was totally worth the shistosomiasis I may or may not get from swimming in you. And your beach wasn’t half bad either.
Dear PiliPili cat: I love you. But I love you most when you’re asleep on my lap. It’s the only time these days that you’re not crying/meowing at me.
Dear stupid bug: First, you scared the crap out of me by repeatedly launching yourself at my windows. Then you miraculously found your way under my door, only to fly around my living room randomly dive bombing my face while I was trying to enjoy Across the Universe. But I sincerely appreciate you allowing my cat to chase you around, providing her with amusement for a solid 20 minutes. Oh, and sorry again about Pili eating you.
Dear Shantaram: You are a fascinating, intriguing, thought provoking book. I am so sorry for ever putting you down and cheating on you with Eat, Pray, Love. It’s a mistake I shall never make again. Except for the fact that I just got The Girl Who Played with Fire. So…no hard feelings, k?
Dear Justin Bieber: I heard one of your songs finally. It was called Baby. Rwandans may love it, but I’m still not sure if I do. But I’m keeping an open mind, and I’ll continue to let Lucy put lyrics from your songs at the beginning of every email she sends me.
Dear various friends who have sneakily sent me alcohol from America: You all are geniuses. Inside a crayon box, pill bottle, Bank of America checkbox and toothpaste carton. What will you think of next? Regardless, just keep ‘em coming!
Dear Tigo: 3 francs per text, 10 francs a minute for calls, and 30 francs a minute to call America. Will you marry me?! (What, you heard that I’m still seeing MTN? Well, I have a dual sim phone, yes, but I put you in slot 1 and MTN in slot 2. Does that adequately demonstrate my allegiance?)
Dear dry season: I’m over you. I’m sick of not having water. I’m sick of being dirty. Go away please.
Dear rainy season: I know, I know, you’re scared that if you come I’ll be as mean to you as I was to dry season. But I promise that won’t happen. Well, as long as you don’t ruin my garden.
Dear neighborhood boy: Maybe I shouldn’t have commented about how “thug” you’ve become lately. I honestly didn’t think you even understood what the word “thug” meant. But you definitely proved me wrong when a few days later you greeted me at my front gate…wearing a dress.
Dear mefloquine: You’ve been replaced. I don’t even feel bad about it. And I’m looking forward to many nights without crazy dreams, hallucinations and anxiety attacks.
Dear Nyanza: So, after 3 months away, it turns out I actually had been missing you. I missed your market (with piles and piles of amazing clothing), cheap food and drink (I still haven’t seen a red cabbage elsewhere in Rwanda), bunk beds (ok, not really) and communal eating at the training center (the communal aspect, not the actual food). I’ll be back soon.
Dear electrical outlet in our office at the hospital: Holy crap. You were working perfectly and then suddenly started crackling and smoking right behind me. At least you didn’t catch on fire, but still, not cool. Oh, and I wonder if the smell of melting plastic will ever go away.
Dear garden: Jessica took such amazing care of you, I’m embarrassed beyond words that I ruined you. I promise I’ve tried to grow a green thumb and will attempt to rebuild you. Besides, I really really want sweet corn.
Dear Ruhengeri district hospital: Investing in a wireless router was one of the best decisions you’ve made. But could we work something out so that I don’t have to sit under a group of trees in order to get any signal whatsoever.
Dear random man who knocked on my gate that one day: I’m not a doctor. I don’t live with a doctor. I don’t’ want to be a doctor. Ok, I actually have no idea what you were saying to me because the only word I could distinguish was “umuganga” which means doctor. Ok, two words; I also know you said “ntakibazo” (it’s no problem) right before you turned and walked away. Hope you got that all figured out though!
Dear LCFs (Language and Cultural Facilitators): It was glorious to see some of you again at in-service training. I had so much fun studying, eating, laughing and sharing gossip magazines. And I once again became confident that I can actually speak Kinyarwanda. But could you explain to me why when I say something to the average Rwandan they look at me like I have 7 heads?
Dear carrot lady: I know you had a baby, but please come back! I miss you. Your food is there, but you are not, and the lady watching your stand totally overcharged me by 300 francs! Besides, I’m anxiously waiting to say to you “Ni uko, ni uko, and niyonkwe” (Congratulations and happy breastfeeding!)
Dear mouse that found its way into my house: Ok, I’ll admit it you were cute. But first you were in my bedroom and then you were in my bathroom. You really gave me no choice but to let Pili create a new game with you called Catch the Rodent. You won the battle, but I know she’ll win the war. Besides, escaping outside is kind of like cheating.
Dear Amber: I’m so glad you’re back. Rwanda’s not the same without you to stumble through it with me.
Dear Vision 2020: Yes, you win the award for “Best All-You-Can-Eat Rwandan Buffet”. Pasta, rice, fries, plantains, beans, cassava, vegetables, unidentifiable meat, sauce, and fruit. And all for less than $3. The Abba videos you constantly play are just an added bonus.
Dear Raychel: I cannot say thank you enough for all of the pedicure supplies you sent me. I used hot water, I used the nail brush, I used the pumice stone. My feet never looked so fresh and so clean! Until I walked outside…sigh.
Dear water spigot: You knew I had no clean clothes. You knew I had to do laundry. You knew I had just filled up a bucket with water and soap. So why when I had adequately soaked and washed my clothes did you feel the need to shut off and not work for days? My soapy clothes and I did not appreciate your attempt at a joke. PS. I’m thirsty too.
Dear photos I slaved over to tape to my wall: Why do you keep falling down? You know tape is an expensive commodity around here. So, I’ve decided to just not put you back up and create a little game called “Last Photo Standing”. So far it is a 5 way tie for first, who shall be the victor?
Dear magpies/crows/ugly black mongrel birds that have invaded my property: I seriously detest you. I hate when you “hunt” my cat. I hate when you attack my garden. I hate when you knock off branches of my avocado tree. But I hate you most when you frolic, fight and tap dance your way across my tin roof, repeatedly making me think that the world is ending…or at the least that my roof might be falling down.
Dear feet: Nope, still not tan. Still just really dirty. But I hear that rainy season is almost here, just imagine how wonderful you’ll look muddy!
Dear two neighborhood children: You’re a delight to have in my house when there are only two of you. Particularly when I introduce you to Play-Doh and we can sit and teach other Kinyarwanda and English by building animals and other random objects. Oh, and I’m REALLY glad that you finally declared that the odd shaped mold was a boat, and not something else…
Dear Steven Colbert: You and your Report are just as funny in Rwanda as you were in America. Keep it up. P.S. However, car commercials, you are still just as annoying.
Dear Rwandans: Living in a city as large as Musanze has forced me to make a decision to only greet people I make eye contact with, so that I’m not greeting every single person I pass on the street. Unfortunately, every single one of you stares at me as I pass, which means I’m pretty much still greeting every person I pass on the street. Let’s work on this, shall we?
Dear bra industry: I’m not sure if you either just don’t supply to Rwanda yet, or if your marketing campaign here just sucks. But either way, I see a demand in this country. Big demand. And I fully expect to get a share of the profits for pointing out this incredible business opportunity to you. Right?
Monday, September 6, 2010
Meeting Rwanda(ns), one greeting at a time
Greeting people in Rwanda is extremely important. It seems as though no conversation can continue without an adequate and complete greeting. First, there is an elaborate physical greeting, composed of a hug, with three cheek-to-cheek touches, followed by a handshake. The verbal greetings are just as elaborate. There is of course the usual “Mwaramutse” or “Mwiriwe” (Good morning, good afternoon/evening). This is usually followed by “Amakuru?” (What’s the news?) or “Bite?” (What’s up?) – Standard responses are “Ni meza” (It’s well) and “Ni byiza” (It’s good). Then comes “Umeza ute?” (How do you feel?), to which most people respond “Meza neza” (I’m feeling well). Often the next questions inquire about if you’ve been strong (Warakomeye?), how your family is doing, how work is going, where you are coming from, where you are going, etc. Yes, as you’re undoubtedly realizing, it can take several minutes to even begin an actual conversation.
At this point, I’ve got the greetings down. I am a greetings master. I greet my neighborhood children, my neighbors, the shop-owners I pass on my way to work, the staff at the hospital, all the market mamas, etc. But more importantly, I greet random strangers I pass as I walk anywhere. Now, I don’t greet everyone (if I did that I’d be saying good morning about every 1.8 seconds), but I’ll tell you who I do greet:
1) Those people who greet me first. Sometimes they greet me in English, sometimes in French, sometimes in Kinyarwanda; but no matter which they language they greet me in I always greet them back in Kinyarwanda. I figure if they’re going out of their way to speak my language, I can afford them the same courtesy.
2) Those people who make eye contact with me and smile. I can only imagine that they are wondering if they should greet me, and if so in what language they should do so in (or maybe they’re just inwardly laughing at how sunburned and dirty I am). But, it makes my day when I see the shock and excitement on their faces when I greet them in their own language.
3) Those people who are openly talking about me. It’s not difficult to hear the word “Muzungu”; I can hear it from miles away at this point. My Kinyarwanda is also progressing enough now that I can start to figure out what they’re saying about me (usually such mundane things as what I’m wearing, my hair, wondering where I’m going or if I speak Kinyarwanda). These are my favorite people to greet, as it downright floors them usually when I can speak even a little of their language. They exclaim “Ahhhh, she knows Kinyarwanda!!” and giggle up a fit. Then usually blabber away to me in Kinyarwanda that is too fast for me to ever decipher. So I usually throw around an “Ehhh” with an eyebrow raise (I’ll save “Rwandan communication strategies” for another blog post) or a Yego (yes) and attempt to walk faster.
Luckily, this greeting strategy has afforded me the opportunity to meet so many interesting people as I wander this country: people transporting every type of food or object on their head (imagine everything from baskets of tomatoes or corn, to bunches of plantains, to rice bags of potatoes, to tree limbs and eucalyptus tree branches, to bed frames, to their purse), numerous school girls and boys, a priest, a woman who runs an orphanage near my house, nurses, doctors, shopekeepers, a school headmaster, and so many others. Overall, though, it’s taught me the power of greetings, how they immediately brighten someone’s day and instantly begin to build relationships. So, if you need me, I’ll be here, greeting Rwanda, one Mwaramutse at a time.
OH, but I must add one final thing. With ALL of these elaborate greetings, do you know how people end their phone calls? With nothing. No “see you later” or “goodbye”. They just hang up. Usually with me still babbling to them to have a good day. Interesting, huh?
At this point, I’ve got the greetings down. I am a greetings master. I greet my neighborhood children, my neighbors, the shop-owners I pass on my way to work, the staff at the hospital, all the market mamas, etc. But more importantly, I greet random strangers I pass as I walk anywhere. Now, I don’t greet everyone (if I did that I’d be saying good morning about every 1.8 seconds), but I’ll tell you who I do greet:
1) Those people who greet me first. Sometimes they greet me in English, sometimes in French, sometimes in Kinyarwanda; but no matter which they language they greet me in I always greet them back in Kinyarwanda. I figure if they’re going out of their way to speak my language, I can afford them the same courtesy.
2) Those people who make eye contact with me and smile. I can only imagine that they are wondering if they should greet me, and if so in what language they should do so in (or maybe they’re just inwardly laughing at how sunburned and dirty I am). But, it makes my day when I see the shock and excitement on their faces when I greet them in their own language.
3) Those people who are openly talking about me. It’s not difficult to hear the word “Muzungu”; I can hear it from miles away at this point. My Kinyarwanda is also progressing enough now that I can start to figure out what they’re saying about me (usually such mundane things as what I’m wearing, my hair, wondering where I’m going or if I speak Kinyarwanda). These are my favorite people to greet, as it downright floors them usually when I can speak even a little of their language. They exclaim “Ahhhh, she knows Kinyarwanda!!” and giggle up a fit. Then usually blabber away to me in Kinyarwanda that is too fast for me to ever decipher. So I usually throw around an “Ehhh” with an eyebrow raise (I’ll save “Rwandan communication strategies” for another blog post) or a Yego (yes) and attempt to walk faster.
Luckily, this greeting strategy has afforded me the opportunity to meet so many interesting people as I wander this country: people transporting every type of food or object on their head (imagine everything from baskets of tomatoes or corn, to bunches of plantains, to rice bags of potatoes, to tree limbs and eucalyptus tree branches, to bed frames, to their purse), numerous school girls and boys, a priest, a woman who runs an orphanage near my house, nurses, doctors, shopekeepers, a school headmaster, and so many others. Overall, though, it’s taught me the power of greetings, how they immediately brighten someone’s day and instantly begin to build relationships. So, if you need me, I’ll be here, greeting Rwanda, one Mwaramutse at a time.
OH, but I must add one final thing. With ALL of these elaborate greetings, do you know how people end their phone calls? With nothing. No “see you later” or “goodbye”. They just hang up. Usually with me still babbling to them to have a good day. Interesting, huh?
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