I've been a fool. There comes a time when you are so angry or disappointed or sad that you can only see the ugly in life. You don't want to feel joy so you purposefully block it. It's a dangerous place to be. Perhaps the saving grace of Rwanda is that you can never fully isolate yourself. This country, as I'm imagining most African countries are, is incredibly hands on. Literally. Looking back, I believe there were whole days I went without coming in physical contact with another person in the US. We are incredibly isolated, both physically and emotionally. Rwanda is in your face! You shake hands with everyone, all day long. You give hugs. You get stuffed into buses. Your neighbors know all your business, because you are their soap opera. I've tried to lock myself up in my house but I can still HEAR them. There is no escape. And that's a relief.
I went to the market this morning. One of my very first market friends is a woman who sells passion fruit mainly, but also some of the saddest looking veggies there. She's earned my customer loyalty though. Today she was sad to show me that all the passion fruit was already sold, except one. She gave it to me free because I'm her friend, as she proudly proclaimed to her fellow sellers. After I told I wanted tomatoes too, she dragged me over to her friend who sells tomatoes and demanded that I receive only the best ones. In that moment I wanted to make her life easier, give her a gift, something. Friendship is priceless.
I'm hoping the tide is turning. I will certainly try to see the sweeter things in life here.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
The Sounds of Rainy Season
"There's a storm comin', Ma!" Statement often quoted on the cusp of a thunderstorm. By Americans, not Rwandans…just to clarify.
The rustle of the banana tree leaves. The gentlest of white noise that always makes you think it's sprinkling before it really is. It's like a soothing whisper.
Clanks of metal to metal. A door creaking or a piece of roof that is a tad bit loose. The wind plays with it as it picks up steam, creating the percussion section.
The persistent pounding on the tin roof. So loud you can't hear yourself think. It numbs the mind as it commands attention.
The clamp of thunder. Yes, that could have been directly above your house. The majesty and power reminds you just how minute you are in this world.
The flip flop thuds of Rwandan footsteps as they hustle out of the rain. I love how much Rwandans hate rain and getting wet. It rivals the Wicked Witch of the West.
The rustle of the banana tree leaves. The gentlest of white noise that always makes you think it's sprinkling before it really is. It's like a soothing whisper.
Clanks of metal to metal. A door creaking or a piece of roof that is a tad bit loose. The wind plays with it as it picks up steam, creating the percussion section.
The persistent pounding on the tin roof. So loud you can't hear yourself think. It numbs the mind as it commands attention.
The clamp of thunder. Yes, that could have been directly above your house. The majesty and power reminds you just how minute you are in this world.
The flip flop thuds of Rwandan footsteps as they hustle out of the rain. I love how much Rwandans hate rain and getting wet. It rivals the Wicked Witch of the West.
The Christmas That Never Was
My first Christmas away from home, family, winter…you can imagine the difficulty. Hence why this was the Christmas that never was.
Christmas is either about two things, or a combo of these two: Jesus being born aka some serious religious celebration and family. I was lacking on both accounts this year. On top of that I'm in some sort of tropical time freeze. Maybe people from warmer US states have an easier go at getting into the holiday spirit. I fruitlessly played my Christmas music to no avail. That magical feeling never came. There was no blinding white, deadly silent winter morning. No watching of 'White Christmas'. No family tension. I mean, throw me a bone here. I even ducked out of going to church this Christmas.
Since I'm on the verge of seeming like a scrooge, I will tell you some high points. I drank hot chocolate with marshmallows. I slept in. I spent time with some wonderful fellow volunteers. I talked to several family members and even got to see some of their smiling faces. I ruined a Christmas present surprise…oops, but it did make me feel like I was a part of the party. Went out to eat at a restaurant, and it wasn't even a Chinese restaurant.
So am I sad I missed Christmas? Again I reiterate, I didn't really miss Christmas because it's like I'm caught in eternal summer. Christmas wasn't supposed to happen, was it?
'Happy New Year!' everyone. Got your new year's resolution yet? Post them as a comment. I'm still trying to determine mine and I could use some inspiration.
Christmas is either about two things, or a combo of these two: Jesus being born aka some serious religious celebration and family. I was lacking on both accounts this year. On top of that I'm in some sort of tropical time freeze. Maybe people from warmer US states have an easier go at getting into the holiday spirit. I fruitlessly played my Christmas music to no avail. That magical feeling never came. There was no blinding white, deadly silent winter morning. No watching of 'White Christmas'. No family tension. I mean, throw me a bone here. I even ducked out of going to church this Christmas.
Since I'm on the verge of seeming like a scrooge, I will tell you some high points. I drank hot chocolate with marshmallows. I slept in. I spent time with some wonderful fellow volunteers. I talked to several family members and even got to see some of their smiling faces. I ruined a Christmas present surprise…oops, but it did make me feel like I was a part of the party. Went out to eat at a restaurant, and it wasn't even a Chinese restaurant.
So am I sad I missed Christmas? Again I reiterate, I didn't really miss Christmas because it's like I'm caught in eternal summer. Christmas wasn't supposed to happen, was it?
'Happy New Year!' everyone. Got your new year's resolution yet? Post them as a comment. I'm still trying to determine mine and I could use some inspiration.
Fashion Trends
When I think 'economically developing country', I don't automatically think fashion statements. So you can imagine my surprise when fashion trends start popping up around the village.
It all started right after I moved to site. It was like a massive crate of jellies had been air lifted into Rwanda. In case you missed out on jellies all your life and are thoroughly confused aka you are male - they are shoes, plastic-y and summer chic of the female variety. For a moment I thought I time traveled back to the 90s (and there was probably a resurgence in the US since then). Rwandans were scooping up jellies like they were the key to becoming cool. I practically got sucked in myself. I was on the way to the market to pick up a pair when I realized I didn't need to buy yet another pair of uncomfortable shoes in Rwanda.
Then came the knitting. Ever since school went on break for the holidays, all my teacher neighbors have been sitting out by the water pump knitting. They kept knitting and knitting and low and behold ponchos started coming out of nowhere. The first time I almost fell over on the ground laughing, looking at a Rwandan woman in a poncho, thinking of Ugly Betty. This very morning, I saw two tiny sisters wearing identical ponchos and I knew we've hit the height of this fashion trend.
So what will be next: snap bracelets, scrunchies, capris, baby doll dresses with cardigans, pencil skirts? If you have any premonitions, let me know. I'm still trying to achieve my Rwandan popularity.
It all started right after I moved to site. It was like a massive crate of jellies had been air lifted into Rwanda. In case you missed out on jellies all your life and are thoroughly confused aka you are male - they are shoes, plastic-y and summer chic of the female variety. For a moment I thought I time traveled back to the 90s (and there was probably a resurgence in the US since then). Rwandans were scooping up jellies like they were the key to becoming cool. I practically got sucked in myself. I was on the way to the market to pick up a pair when I realized I didn't need to buy yet another pair of uncomfortable shoes in Rwanda.
Then came the knitting. Ever since school went on break for the holidays, all my teacher neighbors have been sitting out by the water pump knitting. They kept knitting and knitting and low and behold ponchos started coming out of nowhere. The first time I almost fell over on the ground laughing, looking at a Rwandan woman in a poncho, thinking of Ugly Betty. This very morning, I saw two tiny sisters wearing identical ponchos and I knew we've hit the height of this fashion trend.
So what will be next: snap bracelets, scrunchies, capris, baby doll dresses with cardigans, pencil skirts? If you have any premonitions, let me know. I'm still trying to achieve my Rwandan popularity.
Daniel
Well Daniel got his cast off. He's been lurking around the hospital for about three or four weeks. We became friends right in the beginning. Daniel is usually roaming the hospital with his posse of three friends. The boys tried to make the hospital as entertaining as possible as they were trapped within its gates. Any form of Rwandan entertainment inevitably involves me, being the freak show.
Daniel was a natural ring leader, being the oldest, at the wise old age of 8 or 9. His favorite buddy, a recurring patient for malnutrition, was the hugger of the group. That's what broke the ice. Who doesn't want a hug in the morning?
When I was little, my friends and I would schedule out our day. Eating, video games, movie, bike ride. I was one of their common activities. Every day I was greeted by this little mob of testosterone about four times. I would get hugs, high fives, strange looks and giggles. They always wanted to look at my computer screen, gaze in wide wonder at my typing, try to steal a pen, listen to my other earphone. I amazed them with my tricks of spinning a coin and making faces out the window during important business meetings.
This troupe of boys were like my Prozac these last few weeks. One by one they have been discharged and disappeared back into the village. So when Daniel came in today to show me the X-ray of his arm and the fuzzy cast-less arm, it was a bittersweet moment. They taught me a few things during their time here. Hugs are essential to everyone's life. Kids in this hospital truly have nothing to do. It's not like a pediatric floor at home with birthday parties, balloon animals, colorful crafts thanks to child life specialists, social workers and nurses. These kids play on the pavement. They run around the feeble patients, circling the surgery ward. They find a plastic bottle to kick around. They make friends and they get set free.
Daniel was a natural ring leader, being the oldest, at the wise old age of 8 or 9. His favorite buddy, a recurring patient for malnutrition, was the hugger of the group. That's what broke the ice. Who doesn't want a hug in the morning?
When I was little, my friends and I would schedule out our day. Eating, video games, movie, bike ride. I was one of their common activities. Every day I was greeted by this little mob of testosterone about four times. I would get hugs, high fives, strange looks and giggles. They always wanted to look at my computer screen, gaze in wide wonder at my typing, try to steal a pen, listen to my other earphone. I amazed them with my tricks of spinning a coin and making faces out the window during important business meetings.
This troupe of boys were like my Prozac these last few weeks. One by one they have been discharged and disappeared back into the village. So when Daniel came in today to show me the X-ray of his arm and the fuzzy cast-less arm, it was a bittersweet moment. They taught me a few things during their time here. Hugs are essential to everyone's life. Kids in this hospital truly have nothing to do. It's not like a pediatric floor at home with birthday parties, balloon animals, colorful crafts thanks to child life specialists, social workers and nurses. These kids play on the pavement. They run around the feeble patients, circling the surgery ward. They find a plastic bottle to kick around. They make friends and they get set free.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Third Goal
So the 50th anniversary of the Peace Corps is quickly approaching. In celebration of cultural exchange and creativity a website was created for volunteers, past and present, to share their experiences. The website is - thirdgoal.org. Take a look around. I especially enjoy the song about 'Why am I here?'.
Spinals and Flow Charts
I don't get it. A colleague comes into the office this morning. He is the anesthesiologist for the hospital. He was up all night helping a C-section. His work schedule goes against every rule about what your body needs to function, especially when you are poking people with needles…around their spine! He works three full days, day and night and then gets three days off.
So back to the point, he comes into the Mental Health office this morning. He wants help recreating a simple flow chart to use for a presentation in just a few hours. When I say he was looking for help I should say he was commanding help. Even though I don't think they completely mean it, Rwandans have a way of phrasing favors - like they aren't actually favors. So the statement was more like - You will recreate this chart for me. They don't mean to be rude. I think it's part translation and part they have to say yes to helping each other, always (skip ahead to the end with me scratching my head). Also insert the lucky fact that I have no problem saying no to people. I am the rude one in this scenario.
He was looking for Christine, who wasn't in the office. Figuring I knew something about the whole text box/arrow technique, he then asked me. I emphasized how simple it was and gave him a two minute tutorial. Remember that whole sustainability thing? I figured, job completed. Then Christine walked in. Instead of using the skills I just taught him, he proceeded to tell Christine to do it for him.
Now I want you to picture something in your head. You show up to work at 7 am. You've got a staff meeting first thing and there is already a line forming of the patients you have to see for the day. The total will round out to about 10. It looks like a full day ahead. Up to your desk walks a coworker. They tell you to go ahead and complete their work. Instead of promptly telling them off, saying no with tact, or even take some time to consider whether you can accomplish all this today and then taking it on, you just do it, nike style. Without a second thought you take on their work - that they are capable of doing, and besides being tired, have enough time to accomplish.
This is one of those things that can not be stamped with a 'good' or a 'bad'. It's just different. But yes, this is the part where I'm scratching my head in disbelief.
So back to the point, he comes into the Mental Health office this morning. He wants help recreating a simple flow chart to use for a presentation in just a few hours. When I say he was looking for help I should say he was commanding help. Even though I don't think they completely mean it, Rwandans have a way of phrasing favors - like they aren't actually favors. So the statement was more like - You will recreate this chart for me. They don't mean to be rude. I think it's part translation and part they have to say yes to helping each other, always (skip ahead to the end with me scratching my head). Also insert the lucky fact that I have no problem saying no to people. I am the rude one in this scenario.
He was looking for Christine, who wasn't in the office. Figuring I knew something about the whole text box/arrow technique, he then asked me. I emphasized how simple it was and gave him a two minute tutorial. Remember that whole sustainability thing? I figured, job completed. Then Christine walked in. Instead of using the skills I just taught him, he proceeded to tell Christine to do it for him.
Now I want you to picture something in your head. You show up to work at 7 am. You've got a staff meeting first thing and there is already a line forming of the patients you have to see for the day. The total will round out to about 10. It looks like a full day ahead. Up to your desk walks a coworker. They tell you to go ahead and complete their work. Instead of promptly telling them off, saying no with tact, or even take some time to consider whether you can accomplish all this today and then taking it on, you just do it, nike style. Without a second thought you take on their work - that they are capable of doing, and besides being tired, have enough time to accomplish.
This is one of those things that can not be stamped with a 'good' or a 'bad'. It's just different. But yes, this is the part where I'm scratching my head in disbelief.
Consistency
This seems a bit sacrilegious to complain on Thanksgiving, but a perfect example happened today. So since we've arrived, everyone has discussed how developing a schedule is very important for your mental health. Essentially we have control over virtually nothing here, so little things like your morning routine or your bedtime routine become crucial. This sounds so silly like we are babies but scoff not. It is true. I love my schedules. Maybe a little too much.
So what are the schedules fighting against? Inconsistency. I walked to work this morning, unlocked my office door, and low and behold, the desktop computer was gone. All the cords removed. Just disappeared. Of course that was some communication that happened for this removal to take place but I certainly wasn't a part of it. I'm just glad I didn't have any documents on it.
Many of us Peace Corps volunteers have been displaced from our houses because of rising rent, short housing contracts, etc. I feel such sympathy for these volunteers. Your home is really all you've got. It is a private sanctuary, a zen moment to the day.
I think they should make a new slogan for Peace Corps. Something involving it being one long transition and period of readjustment for two years. Something like - the straight jacket is waiting…so how far can you make it?
So what are the schedules fighting against? Inconsistency. I walked to work this morning, unlocked my office door, and low and behold, the desktop computer was gone. All the cords removed. Just disappeared. Of course that was some communication that happened for this removal to take place but I certainly wasn't a part of it. I'm just glad I didn't have any documents on it.
Many of us Peace Corps volunteers have been displaced from our houses because of rising rent, short housing contracts, etc. I feel such sympathy for these volunteers. Your home is really all you've got. It is a private sanctuary, a zen moment to the day.
I think they should make a new slogan for Peace Corps. Something involving it being one long transition and period of readjustment for two years. Something like - the straight jacket is waiting…so how far can you make it?
Hiding
I sitting in my office on a Sunday. I've holed myself up, only seeing the outlines of people behind the purple and cream curtains. I just can't bear to be seen. Have you ever really just wanted to hide from the world…while simultaneously charging your computer?
Every offhand comment, look, tone, laugh feels like a jeer, an accusation, mocking, an assault. It's a minefield from the moment I take one step outside my front gate to the secure clink of the lock on my office door, the swoosh of the curtains as I close them and the heavy sigh of hermit solitude. It doesn't matter that none, or almost none, of my interactions are meant the way I take them. I can't rationalize behavior. I can't drudge up my patience. I can't logically attribute actions to cultural differences. I just want to hide. So hiding I am.
Every offhand comment, look, tone, laugh feels like a jeer, an accusation, mocking, an assault. It's a minefield from the moment I take one step outside my front gate to the secure clink of the lock on my office door, the swoosh of the curtains as I close them and the heavy sigh of hermit solitude. It doesn't matter that none, or almost none, of my interactions are meant the way I take them. I can't rationalize behavior. I can't drudge up my patience. I can't logically attribute actions to cultural differences. I just want to hide. So hiding I am.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
House
Sometimes being in Rwanda is like being in an episode of House. Wild exaggeration but bear with me.
Saturday I woke up very early in the morning. I wanted to bathe my leg in calamine lotion. I'm still unclear why Peace Corps wouldn't include that in our medical kits.
*Tangent alert: Peace Corps gives each volunteer a medical kit that includes first aid stuff, basic medicine and things we would need to take immediately before traveling into the office. Essential things to any Peace Corps med kit: anti-diarrhea pills, stool sample kit, malaria test kit. But there's lots of normal things too, like off brand of advil, tylenol, antacids, bandaids, benedryl. And a perk of visiting other volunteers - we all have the same kit so if something comes up we can use each others' kits.
So back to the point, woke up wanting to rip my leg off and then scratch it against the bark of a tree to make it happy. I was wide awake so I assumed it the standard 5am wake up call my body gives me. I got up and started doing things before realizing it was 3:30am! Oh boy. This was the wee morning hours of our Thanksgiving celebration so it was going to be a long day.
After my little volunteer posse woke up at a more reasonable hour (6am), I had them take a look. I had some suspect red blotches around my ankle area. Plus a bunch of regular mosquito bites. The suspect ones were determined to be poison ivy, something I've never experienced before. There was some question of the existence of poison ivy in Rwanda and our resident plant expert went out to the garden to search for the evil plant. But we found nothing. I continued wanting to rip my leg off and let 20 people scratch it at once. I settled for taking Benedryl and trying to distract myself with some fabulous food.
The next morning I woke up with the blotch becoming a massive blister. There was more medical questioning from the group. Thank goodness we had Google. The poison ivy diagnosis was stuck with.
Thinking the medical saga was almost over because the blister had drained. But it seems another one wants to start in the same place. So I emailed details to the PC doctor. We're going to keep an eye on it and maybe in a couple days make sure it wasn't a spider bite.
It goes without saying that in Rwanda you will probably be covered in bites that are questionable. For example, earlier in the Thanksgiving festivities we had a conversation about fleas, bed bugs, and ringworm. And all the afflictions were present with examples to be shown and horror/success stories to be shared. Tips: keep the animals out of your house, keep the children out of your house - both eliminate fleas. Bleach all the wood and mattresses in your house and set things out in the sun for bed begs. Plus the injustice that some things create horrid reactions in some people and latent reactions in others.
So what is my blister/itchy/blotch issue? Hard to say. Maybe my Dr. House can figure it out. Or it will just fade away and I'll stop thinking about it.
Saturday I woke up very early in the morning. I wanted to bathe my leg in calamine lotion. I'm still unclear why Peace Corps wouldn't include that in our medical kits.
*Tangent alert: Peace Corps gives each volunteer a medical kit that includes first aid stuff, basic medicine and things we would need to take immediately before traveling into the office. Essential things to any Peace Corps med kit: anti-diarrhea pills, stool sample kit, malaria test kit. But there's lots of normal things too, like off brand of advil, tylenol, antacids, bandaids, benedryl. And a perk of visiting other volunteers - we all have the same kit so if something comes up we can use each others' kits.
So back to the point, woke up wanting to rip my leg off and then scratch it against the bark of a tree to make it happy. I was wide awake so I assumed it the standard 5am wake up call my body gives me. I got up and started doing things before realizing it was 3:30am! Oh boy. This was the wee morning hours of our Thanksgiving celebration so it was going to be a long day.
After my little volunteer posse woke up at a more reasonable hour (6am), I had them take a look. I had some suspect red blotches around my ankle area. Plus a bunch of regular mosquito bites. The suspect ones were determined to be poison ivy, something I've never experienced before. There was some question of the existence of poison ivy in Rwanda and our resident plant expert went out to the garden to search for the evil plant. But we found nothing. I continued wanting to rip my leg off and let 20 people scratch it at once. I settled for taking Benedryl and trying to distract myself with some fabulous food.
The next morning I woke up with the blotch becoming a massive blister. There was more medical questioning from the group. Thank goodness we had Google. The poison ivy diagnosis was stuck with.
Thinking the medical saga was almost over because the blister had drained. But it seems another one wants to start in the same place. So I emailed details to the PC doctor. We're going to keep an eye on it and maybe in a couple days make sure it wasn't a spider bite.
It goes without saying that in Rwanda you will probably be covered in bites that are questionable. For example, earlier in the Thanksgiving festivities we had a conversation about fleas, bed bugs, and ringworm. And all the afflictions were present with examples to be shown and horror/success stories to be shared. Tips: keep the animals out of your house, keep the children out of your house - both eliminate fleas. Bleach all the wood and mattresses in your house and set things out in the sun for bed begs. Plus the injustice that some things create horrid reactions in some people and latent reactions in others.
So what is my blister/itchy/blotch issue? Hard to say. Maybe my Dr. House can figure it out. Or it will just fade away and I'll stop thinking about it.
Real Thanksgiving
I am writing this post with the threat of getting in very big trouble with my grandmothers and any other family members who have ever cooked me a Thanksgiving dinner. But literally this year was the best Thanksgiving meal I have ever had in my life. Because my grandma wrote to me with concern about how my meal would go, I will go into detail about what happened and the unique challenges of Thanksgiving in Rwanda.
First challenge: It's not a holiday in Rwanda so you don't get the day off. We ended up celebrating on the following Saturday.
Second challenge: It involves much more pre-planning than a Thanksgiving at home. Some ingredients we needed mailed to us, which for anyone who battled the mail system, can take around 3 weeks to 3 months.
Third challenge: Electricity is not a sure thing. The volunteer's house that we stayed at luckily had electricity in the first place and the stove was half gas burners and half electric. But the oven was electric, so the pie-making was a stop and go process throughout the day as the power came and went as it pleased.
The day started wonderfully with pumpkin pancakes, which I hope to make my new Thanksgiving tradition. It was born out of necessity. The can of pumpkin made two pies but we only wanted one and couldn't store the extra. No better way to start the day of gluttony than eating cake-like pancakes as soon as you get out of bed. Almost rivaled watching parades.
The fourth challenge was the fact that being the fourth Thursday of November, placing Rwandan celebrations on the last Saturday of November, being umuganda. Umuganda is the time for community work during Saturday morning. Everything shuts down. No buses. No grocery stores for last minute food errands. We all had to make sure we traveled in early and luckily had ALMOST everything we needed by Saturday morning.
Here's a list of our delicious dishes (really for me to drool over later):
Stuffing complete with apple
Garlic mashed potatoes
Honey rolls with apple butter
Salad with a sesame seed dressing
Cranberry sauce
Fancy mac n'cheese with oregano
Green beans
Carrot souffle which was practically a dessert, yum!
Pumpkin pie
Pecan pie
Cupcakes with adorable decorations spelling out Happy TDay
It was the first Thanksgiving where everyone gathered around the food table and snapped a thousand pictures before we ate.
Of course we had to lay around like slugs afterwards.
In a way the other volunteers around you become like family. First major holiday away from home has come and gone. This is just the start.
First challenge: It's not a holiday in Rwanda so you don't get the day off. We ended up celebrating on the following Saturday.
Second challenge: It involves much more pre-planning than a Thanksgiving at home. Some ingredients we needed mailed to us, which for anyone who battled the mail system, can take around 3 weeks to 3 months.
Third challenge: Electricity is not a sure thing. The volunteer's house that we stayed at luckily had electricity in the first place and the stove was half gas burners and half electric. But the oven was electric, so the pie-making was a stop and go process throughout the day as the power came and went as it pleased.
The day started wonderfully with pumpkin pancakes, which I hope to make my new Thanksgiving tradition. It was born out of necessity. The can of pumpkin made two pies but we only wanted one and couldn't store the extra. No better way to start the day of gluttony than eating cake-like pancakes as soon as you get out of bed. Almost rivaled watching parades.
The fourth challenge was the fact that being the fourth Thursday of November, placing Rwandan celebrations on the last Saturday of November, being umuganda. Umuganda is the time for community work during Saturday morning. Everything shuts down. No buses. No grocery stores for last minute food errands. We all had to make sure we traveled in early and luckily had ALMOST everything we needed by Saturday morning.
Here's a list of our delicious dishes (really for me to drool over later):
Stuffing complete with apple
Garlic mashed potatoes
Honey rolls with apple butter
Salad with a sesame seed dressing
Cranberry sauce
Fancy mac n'cheese with oregano
Green beans
Carrot souffle which was practically a dessert, yum!
Pumpkin pie
Pecan pie
Cupcakes with adorable decorations spelling out Happy TDay
It was the first Thanksgiving where everyone gathered around the food table and snapped a thousand pictures before we ate.
Of course we had to lay around like slugs afterwards.
In a way the other volunteers around you become like family. First major holiday away from home has come and gone. This is just the start.
Deja Vu
Bad news: I've been duped again.
Good news: the dance party trend in Rwanda continues.
In my community there is a small (and by small, I mean large) obsession with surprise birthday parties. Is it really a surprise anymore when every single person is given one? Get back to me on that one. On top of that most of the guests attending aren't even told. Hence, me being duped.
So let's fast forward to the point where I am pulled outside by a coworker, ushered into another coworker's house and shown the birthday cake we are going to surprise Edison with. Again, nothing tipped me off! Rwanda has made me gullible, to surprise parties that aren't even mine!
When I was invited the day before by Fidele (surgery nurse), I didn't think anything about it. He had promised to have us over sometime. Then when I showed up and saw a bunch of other coworkers, including my supervisor Fidele who doesn't really know all of these other people, again didn't think anything of it. Then when even more coworkers were outside cooking, not a second thought.
So I'm really glad this second surprise birthday party happened so I can tell you a few things I forgot on the first go around.
Cake: Cake does exist here. Most Rwandans don't make it at home because they don't have ovens…and don't know how. If you ask them for cake, most will give you a ball of fried dough. There's a love of the fried dough here. I can't completely complain but variety is nice. So this birthday cake was store bought. They even personalized the frosting to have Edison's name on it. We lit candles and did the dramatic walking into a dark room with a lit cake. There was an interesting rendition of Happy Birthday and then How Old Are You. I've had quite a few cakes in Rwanda and questioned their ingredients. There is just something missing. Sugar perhaps. I'm no baking expert but it doesn't taste the same.
Gifts: I've noticed a trend among gifts, especially smaller ones of the birthday variety, not so much wedding. It involves food. Edison was given so much nutritiously horrible food I'm afraid he might have a heart attack in the next couple days if he downs it all.
Dance party: Yes, a dance party happened. I have to say I have a group of the most awkward/funniest dancers as coworkers. It was a mix between bad seventh grade dance and a home for senior citizens let loose. It spiraled into goofiness pretty quickly and quite a few times I had to catch my breathe from giggling so much. They have some interesting moves here. The upside, anything I did instantly became cool and copied. So needless to say I'm reveling in my status as the 'cool kid' in Rwanda. I'm also thankful I'm not Facebook friends with my coworkers. In America I would be dreading the inevitable next day FB posting of embarrassing dance pictures. In Rwanda I believe it equates to these pictures being shown for years upon years to people thinking 'Who is that white girl?'. I'm not being self-involved. The busting out of a photo album is a common occurrence during visits.
Speech: You, as the guest of honor, are expected to give a small speech. In the case of my birthday I had to tell everyone what my future life plans were. It sort of felt like 'where do you see yourself in five years' interview question. Edison had more of a free forum and was able to thank everyone for coming and celebrating. I remember at the very end of my training, almost my whole house went out for drinks as a bittersweet celebration. One of our language teachers stood up and gave a speech. It was incredibly sweet and heartfelt, yet I didn't realize how common marking an occasion with a speech was. It's kind of nice, as long as I'm not the one being stared at by everyone and put on the spot :)
So the November-birthday-filled-month is over. We had five coworker birthdays in November. Our next one is on Christmas and we are all invited to her house. I think I'll be passing on that one. Who knows, we'll probably have a surprise party after vacation.
Good news: the dance party trend in Rwanda continues.
In my community there is a small (and by small, I mean large) obsession with surprise birthday parties. Is it really a surprise anymore when every single person is given one? Get back to me on that one. On top of that most of the guests attending aren't even told. Hence, me being duped.
So let's fast forward to the point where I am pulled outside by a coworker, ushered into another coworker's house and shown the birthday cake we are going to surprise Edison with. Again, nothing tipped me off! Rwanda has made me gullible, to surprise parties that aren't even mine!
When I was invited the day before by Fidele (surgery nurse), I didn't think anything about it. He had promised to have us over sometime. Then when I showed up and saw a bunch of other coworkers, including my supervisor Fidele who doesn't really know all of these other people, again didn't think anything of it. Then when even more coworkers were outside cooking, not a second thought.
So I'm really glad this second surprise birthday party happened so I can tell you a few things I forgot on the first go around.
Cake: Cake does exist here. Most Rwandans don't make it at home because they don't have ovens…and don't know how. If you ask them for cake, most will give you a ball of fried dough. There's a love of the fried dough here. I can't completely complain but variety is nice. So this birthday cake was store bought. They even personalized the frosting to have Edison's name on it. We lit candles and did the dramatic walking into a dark room with a lit cake. There was an interesting rendition of Happy Birthday and then How Old Are You. I've had quite a few cakes in Rwanda and questioned their ingredients. There is just something missing. Sugar perhaps. I'm no baking expert but it doesn't taste the same.
Gifts: I've noticed a trend among gifts, especially smaller ones of the birthday variety, not so much wedding. It involves food. Edison was given so much nutritiously horrible food I'm afraid he might have a heart attack in the next couple days if he downs it all.
Dance party: Yes, a dance party happened. I have to say I have a group of the most awkward/funniest dancers as coworkers. It was a mix between bad seventh grade dance and a home for senior citizens let loose. It spiraled into goofiness pretty quickly and quite a few times I had to catch my breathe from giggling so much. They have some interesting moves here. The upside, anything I did instantly became cool and copied. So needless to say I'm reveling in my status as the 'cool kid' in Rwanda. I'm also thankful I'm not Facebook friends with my coworkers. In America I would be dreading the inevitable next day FB posting of embarrassing dance pictures. In Rwanda I believe it equates to these pictures being shown for years upon years to people thinking 'Who is that white girl?'. I'm not being self-involved. The busting out of a photo album is a common occurrence during visits.
Speech: You, as the guest of honor, are expected to give a small speech. In the case of my birthday I had to tell everyone what my future life plans were. It sort of felt like 'where do you see yourself in five years' interview question. Edison had more of a free forum and was able to thank everyone for coming and celebrating. I remember at the very end of my training, almost my whole house went out for drinks as a bittersweet celebration. One of our language teachers stood up and gave a speech. It was incredibly sweet and heartfelt, yet I didn't realize how common marking an occasion with a speech was. It's kind of nice, as long as I'm not the one being stared at by everyone and put on the spot :)
So the November-birthday-filled-month is over. We had five coworker birthdays in November. Our next one is on Christmas and we are all invited to her house. I think I'll be passing on that one. Who knows, we'll probably have a surprise party after vacation.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Stuffing Your Face in Public
Is it like when you see your doctor smoking?
This is the only question comparison that makes sense to me at this point. I was talking to my coworker a few days ago. She was lamenting over witnessing a fellow nurse eating an amandozi (fried dough) in public, on the side of the main road. This hits the general rule or no eating or drinking in public. I have never fully understood this cultural rule so I thought I'd push the issue now since she brought it up.
All I got out of her was that people would no longer respect her as a nurse if they had seen her eating in public. Was it because she was eating unhealthy food? Unlikely, since it encompasses all food and drink. The only exceptions are when you on a long bus ride or at an outdoor cafe. Otherwise, it's a no-no.
The discussion moved onto how the person eating in public would probably litter afterward and that would look bad too. Even if litter was taken out of the equation, she just kept shaking her head in disgust over this woman's actions.
I tried to explain how everyone in the US eats in public, all the time, and we don't knock people's work credentials for doing it.
But come to think of it, think of how much less snacking you would do if you weren't allowed to eat out in the open. Rwandans may be on to something.
Still trying to get to the bottom of this one…another cultural mystery goes unsolved…until next time.
This is the only question comparison that makes sense to me at this point. I was talking to my coworker a few days ago. She was lamenting over witnessing a fellow nurse eating an amandozi (fried dough) in public, on the side of the main road. This hits the general rule or no eating or drinking in public. I have never fully understood this cultural rule so I thought I'd push the issue now since she brought it up.
All I got out of her was that people would no longer respect her as a nurse if they had seen her eating in public. Was it because she was eating unhealthy food? Unlikely, since it encompasses all food and drink. The only exceptions are when you on a long bus ride or at an outdoor cafe. Otherwise, it's a no-no.
The discussion moved onto how the person eating in public would probably litter afterward and that would look bad too. Even if litter was taken out of the equation, she just kept shaking her head in disgust over this woman's actions.
I tried to explain how everyone in the US eats in public, all the time, and we don't knock people's work credentials for doing it.
But come to think of it, think of how much less snacking you would do if you weren't allowed to eat out in the open. Rwandans may be on to something.
Still trying to get to the bottom of this one…another cultural mystery goes unsolved…until next time.
Countdown
Blog Soundtrack: Long Time Gone by Dixie Chicks
…but who's counting! I've now been in-country 9 months. That means 18 more months to go. and roughly 6 months until I visit home for my sister's wedding. Holy cow.
…but who's counting! I've now been in-country 9 months. That means 18 more months to go. and roughly 6 months until I visit home for my sister's wedding. Holy cow.
Thanksgiving in Rwanda
So, no, they don't have Thanksgiving in Rwanda. Although I've explained the concept of giving thanks for everything in your life and being surrounded by people that you love to a couple Rwandans and they thought it was an excellent idea. Although I don't think they could wrap their heads around traditional football games and family arguments that make every holiday special.
Although I won't be celebrating on the actual day, there will be a Thanksgiving celebration this weekend. We volunteers are trying our best to create some semblance of Thanksgiving. We have some food donations thanks to packages via family and friends. Nothing can compete with StoveTop (right Coley?) and I'm throwing in some WheatThins for cheese and cracker appetizers. There are turkeys in Rwanda and you can even pick one out and have them kill it, just like at home. I think that will be way too much work for us but then again I'm only a food prepper. The real cooking is left to the professionals (aka AJ).
So happy thanksgiving everyone. Enjoy your sweatpants, football, family tension and homemade gravy. and don't forget to count your blessings.
**Blog quiz: Have you been counting how many times I use the word 'although'? I think I hit an all time high.
Although I won't be celebrating on the actual day, there will be a Thanksgiving celebration this weekend. We volunteers are trying our best to create some semblance of Thanksgiving. We have some food donations thanks to packages via family and friends. Nothing can compete with StoveTop (right Coley?) and I'm throwing in some WheatThins for cheese and cracker appetizers. There are turkeys in Rwanda and you can even pick one out and have them kill it, just like at home. I think that will be way too much work for us but then again I'm only a food prepper. The real cooking is left to the professionals (aka AJ).
So happy thanksgiving everyone. Enjoy your sweatpants, football, family tension and homemade gravy. and don't forget to count your blessings.
**Blog quiz: Have you been counting how many times I use the word 'although'? I think I hit an all time high.
Food Update
I have experienced two new things to add to my food repertoire.
The first was sugar cane. Before coming here I had never even seen a sugar cane. It stalk sort of looks like bamboo. They just hack off a 3-4 foot stalk and sell them at the market. You have to use a knife to remove the green outer casing. The inside is a soggy white matter. You rip off a section with your teeth - easier said than done. Then you chomp on it with your teeth. You are not actually chewing it or intending to swallow it. You are simply excreting the liquid and then spitting out the small piece of white leftovers. The liquid is not the abrasive sugar flavor that we processed sugar eaters are used to. It is much more subtle, although sweet and refreshing all the same. After struggling with my sugar cane and then getting a slight stomach ache from eating it, I was told it is good for your teeth. I still get a puzzled look on my face when contemplating this nutritional fact. Another folklore of Rwandan nutrition?
My second new experience was lemongrass tea. I don't think I can fully convey to you how much I LOVED this. You would probably have to see my face and utter childlike joy. Lemongrass is a kind of grass. You just pull off a piece and put it in your boiling water to make tea. When you add milk and sugar I swear to God and all things holy that it tastes like the milk after you've eaten a bowl of Fruit Loops (I can't take the credit for this comparison, but it's spot on so I'm stealing it). If possible, start growing some lemongrass and try it for yourself. I doubt you will be disappointed if you are a tea drinker to begin with. I would also like to give a shout out to AJ's nuns who introduced me to lemongrass tea and possibly grinned and snickered at me when I clapped my hands together in glee whenever they would offer me some. They have solidified my love for nuns for all time.
The first was sugar cane. Before coming here I had never even seen a sugar cane. It stalk sort of looks like bamboo. They just hack off a 3-4 foot stalk and sell them at the market. You have to use a knife to remove the green outer casing. The inside is a soggy white matter. You rip off a section with your teeth - easier said than done. Then you chomp on it with your teeth. You are not actually chewing it or intending to swallow it. You are simply excreting the liquid and then spitting out the small piece of white leftovers. The liquid is not the abrasive sugar flavor that we processed sugar eaters are used to. It is much more subtle, although sweet and refreshing all the same. After struggling with my sugar cane and then getting a slight stomach ache from eating it, I was told it is good for your teeth. I still get a puzzled look on my face when contemplating this nutritional fact. Another folklore of Rwandan nutrition?
My second new experience was lemongrass tea. I don't think I can fully convey to you how much I LOVED this. You would probably have to see my face and utter childlike joy. Lemongrass is a kind of grass. You just pull off a piece and put it in your boiling water to make tea. When you add milk and sugar I swear to God and all things holy that it tastes like the milk after you've eaten a bowl of Fruit Loops (I can't take the credit for this comparison, but it's spot on so I'm stealing it). If possible, start growing some lemongrass and try it for yourself. I doubt you will be disappointed if you are a tea drinker to begin with. I would also like to give a shout out to AJ's nuns who introduced me to lemongrass tea and possibly grinned and snickered at me when I clapped my hands together in glee whenever they would offer me some. They have solidified my love for nuns for all time.
Finding the End of the Rope
Life here gets exacerbated by mountains of tiny moments and stressors. I often feel like I'm going crazy. Meeting with other volunteers, we joke that Peace Corps makes you unstable. We commiserate and are only half joking. Some days I don't understand why my emotions are a roller coaster. Here are the factors I've come up with:
1. Weight gain/your body is changing and usually not in a good way.
Sure I've gained my freshmen 15 in college, and then my own unique version of the sophomore 10, but other than that I haven't had much problem with weight during my life. You can stop throwing tomatoes at your computer screen. I know, I know, I'm lucky. I've been blessed with good metabolism which makes weight gain even more of a disturbing revelation when it springs itself on me. Most people assume you lose weight when you come to a developing country. Makes sense on most logical fronts but you have to think of what the staples of their diet are. People here want to fill themselves up, even if its empty calories. So bring on the carbs. I eat more white bread in one day here than I would eat within a year at home. Wow, that's a disgusting fact when I write it down, but it's true. Add in some white rice, fried bread, everything cooked in oil and you've got a bad equation for weight gain. (It is common for PC females to gain weight and PC males to lose weight.) So there's a kicker to the ole self esteem.
2. Language skills.
This is a big one for me. I speak like I'm two years old. I've lost sight of improving. There's a balance of being ashamed and yet too embarrassed and prideful to struggle to improve. It's an ugly catch-22 that I believe will plague my whole service. Language is the key to getting in with the community, gaining respect and trust. I'm hoping to compensate in another area. Then again I'm really sick of thinking people are saying rude things about me right in front of my face.
3. Meds
This factor should not be discredited. For most of us it is the first time we have been this medicated. I am currently on two medications, which is two medications more than I'd like to take/would take at home. Somedays I cry for no reason or feel incredibly anxious for no reason. I can't seem to relax. My sleep is disturbed. I escape into any mind numbing activity that I can. I avoid people sometimes. I hide and isolate and feel miserable. Is it the meds? Good question. One will never know. I certainly never had anxiety issues at home. But would I rather get malaria? Hell no. and it is always balanced out by great days/great moments/completely sane moods.
1. Weight gain/your body is changing and usually not in a good way.
Sure I've gained my freshmen 15 in college, and then my own unique version of the sophomore 10, but other than that I haven't had much problem with weight during my life. You can stop throwing tomatoes at your computer screen. I know, I know, I'm lucky. I've been blessed with good metabolism which makes weight gain even more of a disturbing revelation when it springs itself on me. Most people assume you lose weight when you come to a developing country. Makes sense on most logical fronts but you have to think of what the staples of their diet are. People here want to fill themselves up, even if its empty calories. So bring on the carbs. I eat more white bread in one day here than I would eat within a year at home. Wow, that's a disgusting fact when I write it down, but it's true. Add in some white rice, fried bread, everything cooked in oil and you've got a bad equation for weight gain. (It is common for PC females to gain weight and PC males to lose weight.) So there's a kicker to the ole self esteem.
2. Language skills.
This is a big one for me. I speak like I'm two years old. I've lost sight of improving. There's a balance of being ashamed and yet too embarrassed and prideful to struggle to improve. It's an ugly catch-22 that I believe will plague my whole service. Language is the key to getting in with the community, gaining respect and trust. I'm hoping to compensate in another area. Then again I'm really sick of thinking people are saying rude things about me right in front of my face.
3. Meds
This factor should not be discredited. For most of us it is the first time we have been this medicated. I am currently on two medications, which is two medications more than I'd like to take/would take at home. Somedays I cry for no reason or feel incredibly anxious for no reason. I can't seem to relax. My sleep is disturbed. I escape into any mind numbing activity that I can. I avoid people sometimes. I hide and isolate and feel miserable. Is it the meds? Good question. One will never know. I certainly never had anxiety issues at home. But would I rather get malaria? Hell no. and it is always balanced out by great days/great moments/completely sane moods.
Kids are kids are kids are kids
I've been compiling the funny things I see kids do here as proof of the above.
Playing house - my neighbors play make believe with tea cups and laundry on the line.
Treating your younger sibling like a dog (this one was inspired by my Uncle Rick. Having all older, female siblings comes with certain dangers.) I've seen a girl playing fetch with her younger sister. Literally throwing a stick for her to bring back, as amusement.
Hopscotch and jump rope are just as popular here. When desperate I've seen a girl use a banana tree leaf as the jump rope.
Kids cry. They hate getting bathed. They are shy. They are loud.
Tabitha's little girl went from not speaking a word to having a huge vocabulary in the six months I've known her. I swear she said a full sentence to me the other day. Impressive for somebody pushing two.
It's been lovely to see kids being just what you would expect them to be, regardless of culture.
Playing house - my neighbors play make believe with tea cups and laundry on the line.
Treating your younger sibling like a dog (this one was inspired by my Uncle Rick. Having all older, female siblings comes with certain dangers.) I've seen a girl playing fetch with her younger sister. Literally throwing a stick for her to bring back, as amusement.
Hopscotch and jump rope are just as popular here. When desperate I've seen a girl use a banana tree leaf as the jump rope.
Kids cry. They hate getting bathed. They are shy. They are loud.
Tabitha's little girl went from not speaking a word to having a huge vocabulary in the six months I've known her. I swear she said a full sentence to me the other day. Impressive for somebody pushing two.
It's been lovely to see kids being just what you would expect them to be, regardless of culture.
Looking for a Band-aid
It hit me yesterday. This poverty is insurmountable. I was recently talking aka emailing my best friend, asking about her time in Teach for America. Did she really think it was worthwhile? Of course, because she is a compassionate, optimistic sort of person she saw the contribution she had made in a select few lives of her students and believes that that small number actually adds up to big change. I've always heard that line - well if I change the life of just one person than I will feel like it was worthwhile. It sounds like a beautiful thing. And some statements that are said so simply are actually incredibly difficult to achieve to that level of certainty and feeling of purpose.
I should add that I've been mulling over a new metaphor for Rwandan mentality, which can be relatable to many African countries and their state of aid in development. Disclaimer: I am no history buff nor cultural expert, but here goes. First slavery battered their souls and bodies. It took away their work force and their security and stability. Then you've got colonization. Stripping a place of natural resources while placing the people below second class citizen status is something our Native Americans can understand (Happy Thanksgiving everybody). Civil wars and battles for power have been hampering their progress ever since. You've got drug lords here, terrorist cells there, hatred amongst ethnicities and tribes all over. Faulty politicians and corruption all over.
All the while the rest of the world sees pictures of starving Ethiopian children with flies all over their faces. We can't believe the level of existence these people live. We have guilt/compassion. So we give money, in bulk. We live so far away and can't think of any other way to help. So over comes the money and food and books and the toys and the candy. Like a child whose parents got divorced, we feel that action should be taken so we pile on the material goods. We think this will help. We set up whole institutions to help and help and help. And then some projects stop and some begin. The people begin asking, where is my money, where is my gift? Is it their fault we have made them dependent? and not even on regional or local goods, but on products brought in from far away so its not even helping regional economies. We wonder why they don't feel confident to come up with their own ideas when we've been dictating what we thought best.
So am I saying money donations and clothing donations and food donations and medical donations should stop? No. But where is the balance? Where is the long term plan of building up regional economies? Where is the trust that helping small businesses will do more good than controlling things ourselves? Where's the sustainability?
There are so many factions of development. I'm so glad people follow their passion and do what they believe will help. With a combined effort life truly is improving. Plus kudos to the Rwandan government. Say what you want about the level of freedom or democracy, this country is on the move. Kagame has big plans. But it still doesn't help the little girl that keeps getting admitted to the hospital for malnourishment. And forcing her family to take food donations doesn't solve the problem either. Her parents need help or her whole family or her whole village. Which gets me back to insurmountable. One day at a time, one foot in front of the other. and hopefully I can get myself to that place where I'm glad I helped one person or five people. But right now I'm feeling worthless and more desensitized by the day.
I should add that I've been mulling over a new metaphor for Rwandan mentality, which can be relatable to many African countries and their state of aid in development. Disclaimer: I am no history buff nor cultural expert, but here goes. First slavery battered their souls and bodies. It took away their work force and their security and stability. Then you've got colonization. Stripping a place of natural resources while placing the people below second class citizen status is something our Native Americans can understand (Happy Thanksgiving everybody). Civil wars and battles for power have been hampering their progress ever since. You've got drug lords here, terrorist cells there, hatred amongst ethnicities and tribes all over. Faulty politicians and corruption all over.
All the while the rest of the world sees pictures of starving Ethiopian children with flies all over their faces. We can't believe the level of existence these people live. We have guilt/compassion. So we give money, in bulk. We live so far away and can't think of any other way to help. So over comes the money and food and books and the toys and the candy. Like a child whose parents got divorced, we feel that action should be taken so we pile on the material goods. We think this will help. We set up whole institutions to help and help and help. And then some projects stop and some begin. The people begin asking, where is my money, where is my gift? Is it their fault we have made them dependent? and not even on regional or local goods, but on products brought in from far away so its not even helping regional economies. We wonder why they don't feel confident to come up with their own ideas when we've been dictating what we thought best.
So am I saying money donations and clothing donations and food donations and medical donations should stop? No. But where is the balance? Where is the long term plan of building up regional economies? Where is the trust that helping small businesses will do more good than controlling things ourselves? Where's the sustainability?
There are so many factions of development. I'm so glad people follow their passion and do what they believe will help. With a combined effort life truly is improving. Plus kudos to the Rwandan government. Say what you want about the level of freedom or democracy, this country is on the move. Kagame has big plans. But it still doesn't help the little girl that keeps getting admitted to the hospital for malnourishment. And forcing her family to take food donations doesn't solve the problem either. Her parents need help or her whole family or her whole village. Which gets me back to insurmountable. One day at a time, one foot in front of the other. and hopefully I can get myself to that place where I'm glad I helped one person or five people. But right now I'm feeling worthless and more desensitized by the day.
SURPRISE
I've experienced my first birthday in Rwanda. I like to avoid my birthday so it really wasn't that different from birthdays at home. I just realized how funny that statement was… of course it was ridiculously different.
So my birthday began like any other. I got up at and went to work. I had breakfast served to me at the guest house and watched a Korean soap opera (I've never watched so many soap operas in my life, Korean so far is my favorite).
The strangeness began around lunch time. I received about 5 calls in a row. One from one of my Rwandan language teachers who sang happy birthday to me in Kinyarwandan. Then all the guys I was having lunch with proceeded to sing to me in English once they realized it was my birthday.
Probably the most amusing part was watching people guess my age. I pass as 'youthful' in Rwanda.
Then the next day my coworker Jeanne told me she was having a special guest over for dinner, and that I should attend. After some questionable turn of events, which I gullibly went along with, it was revealed that the special guest was actually ME! It was an impromptu birthday party, with Doritos and everything.
Everyone signed two cards, in front of me. Literally they signed two different cards, the same group of people. Strange but whatever. I received gifts - a box of biscuits. and had a little dance party with music. All in all, a lot of well wishes and fun.
So my birthday began like any other. I got up at and went to work. I had breakfast served to me at the guest house and watched a Korean soap opera (I've never watched so many soap operas in my life, Korean so far is my favorite).
The strangeness began around lunch time. I received about 5 calls in a row. One from one of my Rwandan language teachers who sang happy birthday to me in Kinyarwandan. Then all the guys I was having lunch with proceeded to sing to me in English once they realized it was my birthday.
Probably the most amusing part was watching people guess my age. I pass as 'youthful' in Rwanda.
Then the next day my coworker Jeanne told me she was having a special guest over for dinner, and that I should attend. After some questionable turn of events, which I gullibly went along with, it was revealed that the special guest was actually ME! It was an impromptu birthday party, with Doritos and everything.
Everyone signed two cards, in front of me. Literally they signed two different cards, the same group of people. Strange but whatever. I received gifts - a box of biscuits. and had a little dance party with music. All in all, a lot of well wishes and fun.
Death
A procession of family and friends walks past my office. They are accompanying the dead body of their deceased loved one. A young girl who had AIDS. I instantly snap out of it. You see, in my previous life I used to get a weekly wake up call. I would volunteer at Ele's Place where kids would go to support groups to grieve over people who have died. (Great nonprofit! Check it out in the Lansing and Ann Arbor areas!) It was my time to refocus, to realize all the small things that we make into big things. Life and death is a big thing. Losing a daughter, a sister, a friend is a big thing. Losing your patience over people staring is a small thing.
I have always been sad about how Americans are conditioned to think about death. While we can't get enough of crime and murder shows on TV and hearing all the gory details on the news every day, we are scared of the real thing. Hollywood version versus life that includes you and me and your circle of existence. I realize I'm generalizing but I feel as a culture we are taught to view death a certain way. We are frightened. We run. We try to cheat death and are frustrated when aging happens. When people reach a certain age they get shoved to the side by mainstream. Lock em up in a nursing home and no one goes to visit. We find the tubes and the memory loss disgusting. All of a sudden seeing a generation as valueless is truly disgusting.
I can't call Rwandans' relationship with death good or bad, just very different. Living through a genocide will obviously do quite a toll on your perspective of life and death. I have seen people react as if death is something completely out of their control, in a sort of stressless way. There is no blame, no crying out. Just this quiet procession I witness. Walking slowly in a loose herd. My sight clings to the mother who is grasping her husband's arm as if it's her life raft. One more life to be grieved over. Death could not be cheated this time.
I have always been sad about how Americans are conditioned to think about death. While we can't get enough of crime and murder shows on TV and hearing all the gory details on the news every day, we are scared of the real thing. Hollywood version versus life that includes you and me and your circle of existence. I realize I'm generalizing but I feel as a culture we are taught to view death a certain way. We are frightened. We run. We try to cheat death and are frustrated when aging happens. When people reach a certain age they get shoved to the side by mainstream. Lock em up in a nursing home and no one goes to visit. We find the tubes and the memory loss disgusting. All of a sudden seeing a generation as valueless is truly disgusting.
I can't call Rwandans' relationship with death good or bad, just very different. Living through a genocide will obviously do quite a toll on your perspective of life and death. I have seen people react as if death is something completely out of their control, in a sort of stressless way. There is no blame, no crying out. Just this quiet procession I witness. Walking slowly in a loose herd. My sight clings to the mother who is grasping her husband's arm as if it's her life raft. One more life to be grieved over. Death could not be cheated this time.
Positive Top Ten
After posting my new "ten things I miss about America" list, I realized that I had become a bit of a Debbie Downer. So I've decided to make a list called,
Ten Things I Will Miss About Rwanda When I Leave (but luckily get to enjoy for another year and a half):
1. Avocados cost so little it is ridiculous hence I eat guacamole an unhealthy amount.
2. People want to meet me and greet me because they think I am important and special. and I usually get special treatment in 99% of situations as if I'm a celebrity. This really helps you get a seat on a bus in front of the 50 other people waiting. Sorry Rwandans.
3. I am instantly an expert English teacher given my mad skills. No one speaks English as well as I do in a 10 mile radius.
4. I can go without make up and almost get away with it. Rwandans still want to know what acne is and why I don't put something on my face. But I have gotten many an offer for free mosquito nets because they think zits are mosquito bites. I guess that public service announcement about the importance of mosquito nets has made it all the way through the community.
5. Having conservations in English, being opinionated about people right in front of them, swearing and all, and not having them understand a word…dangerous. I must stop this immediately or I might get slapped in America.
6. Not having to tip at restaurants.
7. Beautiful, beautiful scenery.
8. (Almost) not being expected to check my gmail every second of every day.
9. Getting more mail than I probably ever received in my whole life. Who doesn't love a letter? Ok for fun, send a letter to someone actually in your country. I guarantee they will love you for it.
10. Want to wear that same outfit two days in a row? Go for it and don't give it another thought.
and 11. I swear reading a book by flashlight makes it feel even more special and covert…plus I feel like I'm 10 years old, scandalously reading past my bedtime.
oh thought of one more 12. I sort of love the schedule of going to bed when my body is tired aka 8pm :) and then waking up at the crack of dawn aka 5am. Plus it is not rude or unheard of to text other people at 7 am. We're all up anyway!
So here's to looking on the positive side of things.
Ten Things I Will Miss About Rwanda When I Leave (but luckily get to enjoy for another year and a half):
1. Avocados cost so little it is ridiculous hence I eat guacamole an unhealthy amount.
2. People want to meet me and greet me because they think I am important and special. and I usually get special treatment in 99% of situations as if I'm a celebrity. This really helps you get a seat on a bus in front of the 50 other people waiting. Sorry Rwandans.
3. I am instantly an expert English teacher given my mad skills. No one speaks English as well as I do in a 10 mile radius.
4. I can go without make up and almost get away with it. Rwandans still want to know what acne is and why I don't put something on my face. But I have gotten many an offer for free mosquito nets because they think zits are mosquito bites. I guess that public service announcement about the importance of mosquito nets has made it all the way through the community.
5. Having conservations in English, being opinionated about people right in front of them, swearing and all, and not having them understand a word…dangerous. I must stop this immediately or I might get slapped in America.
6. Not having to tip at restaurants.
7. Beautiful, beautiful scenery.
8. (Almost) not being expected to check my gmail every second of every day.
9. Getting more mail than I probably ever received in my whole life. Who doesn't love a letter? Ok for fun, send a letter to someone actually in your country. I guarantee they will love you for it.
10. Want to wear that same outfit two days in a row? Go for it and don't give it another thought.
and 11. I swear reading a book by flashlight makes it feel even more special and covert…plus I feel like I'm 10 years old, scandalously reading past my bedtime.
oh thought of one more 12. I sort of love the schedule of going to bed when my body is tired aka 8pm :) and then waking up at the crack of dawn aka 5am. Plus it is not rude or unheard of to text other people at 7 am. We're all up anyway!
So here's to looking on the positive side of things.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
In Response
I recently received a comment on my blog providing additional information about Rwandan weddings and warning me to be careful of generalizing. I do agree. Generalizing can be harmful and hurtful. I try to be vigilant about how I phrase things or portray events to make sure everyone understands that I am just one person, having one specific experience in Rwanda. I do not claim to be an expert. Heck, I'm not even an expert on American culture and that's where I come from.
On the other hand, I don't want to discount my own experience. What I am living in is not some fake reality. I have a right to my own stories and the emotions that they provoked. I try not to make assumptions of the reasons behind certain behaviors so I ask questions. I believe those answers to be true although I'm sure a sampling of a 100 Rwandans would give a spectrum of responses.
Taking the high road. I am left here trying to decipher life and figuring out how to work effectively and productively. This morning I found my gate locked from the outside so I couldn't get out. Luckily I asked my neighbor's 7 year old to run over and unbolt it. By 8 in the morning I have been laughed at multiple times, mocked for my Kinyarwandan skills by coworkers, scoffed for not taking a chair offered to me because only crazy people stand like me and had my outfit readjusted and my top buttoned because apparently I can't dress myself properly. Yet I set that all aside to give the day a fresh look. I drudge up some patience and instead of sinking to their level of mocking and laughter I try to be mature and use every moment as a teaching/learning moment.
When I take the time to blog, I do it as a means of cultural exchange but I also do it as a kind of journal and release for myself. I may lose sight of Rwanda as a whole and only represent my village or my sub sect of coworkers as I tell about my life in Rwanda. Because I am using it to process and rationalize my own behavior I may take a few liberties with it. I can not apologize for this. Most of the posts are written for my family, pertaining to the things that I think my grandma will relate to and be curious about. So when I say that Rwandan weddings are similar to Americans' and boring that is because that is purely my opinion. I found them incredibly similar, considering I traveled half way around the world and weddings reminded me of home. I found them boring because if you know me in real life, you know this is an affliction that I have. I find most weddings appalling/boring wastes of money and time. This is not a judgment against Rwanda; I suppose it is a judgment against the elaborate and hectic events that we call a celebration of love and commitment.
I will try to consistently keep the harm of generalizing in my mind. As always, your comments are welcome.
On the other hand, I don't want to discount my own experience. What I am living in is not some fake reality. I have a right to my own stories and the emotions that they provoked. I try not to make assumptions of the reasons behind certain behaviors so I ask questions. I believe those answers to be true although I'm sure a sampling of a 100 Rwandans would give a spectrum of responses.
Taking the high road. I am left here trying to decipher life and figuring out how to work effectively and productively. This morning I found my gate locked from the outside so I couldn't get out. Luckily I asked my neighbor's 7 year old to run over and unbolt it. By 8 in the morning I have been laughed at multiple times, mocked for my Kinyarwandan skills by coworkers, scoffed for not taking a chair offered to me because only crazy people stand like me and had my outfit readjusted and my top buttoned because apparently I can't dress myself properly. Yet I set that all aside to give the day a fresh look. I drudge up some patience and instead of sinking to their level of mocking and laughter I try to be mature and use every moment as a teaching/learning moment.
When I take the time to blog, I do it as a means of cultural exchange but I also do it as a kind of journal and release for myself. I may lose sight of Rwanda as a whole and only represent my village or my sub sect of coworkers as I tell about my life in Rwanda. Because I am using it to process and rationalize my own behavior I may take a few liberties with it. I can not apologize for this. Most of the posts are written for my family, pertaining to the things that I think my grandma will relate to and be curious about. So when I say that Rwandan weddings are similar to Americans' and boring that is because that is purely my opinion. I found them incredibly similar, considering I traveled half way around the world and weddings reminded me of home. I found them boring because if you know me in real life, you know this is an affliction that I have. I find most weddings appalling/boring wastes of money and time. This is not a judgment against Rwanda; I suppose it is a judgment against the elaborate and hectic events that we call a celebration of love and commitment.
I will try to consistently keep the harm of generalizing in my mind. As always, your comments are welcome.
Queries
Top ten favorite questions of Rwandans
-be prepared to answer these if you ever visit-
Please note: these will be written in Rwandan English. I didn't just start phrasing things awkwardly.
1. How do you find our climate?
2. How do you find our country?
3. How do you find the people?
4. Do you speak French? followed by Why don't you speak French?
5. Do they have _______ (insert produce item) in America? No matter how many times I tell them, they don't seem to believe me that we have every and any food imaginable in the US.
6. Are you married?
7. How old are you?
8. How many children do you have? Please note this is not Do you have children? because it is assumed you do have children if you look over the age of 20.
9. Are you a Christian/Have you been saved/Do you believe in Jesus?
10. What country are you from?
I have to mention here that for every moment a child does something adorable or someone is beyond kind to you or you are awed by this beautiful landscape, there are 5 moments of agony. You get stared at. You get yelled at. Someone demands money from you. Someone doesn't want to learn your name because you are just another white person. You are completely confused because you don't understand the language/cultural norms/history of things. You find yourself being the worst version of yourself because you have reached the end of your rope.
…and then someone asks for your umbrella and without a thought you hand it over. Because they sounded kind and trustworthy, or they just sounded like another human being, who needed something that you had. And once your beautifully functional, American umbrella (so many things here are made the cheapest way possible and break instantly, think dollar store) is gone, you start to wonder if it will actually return. And then you realize you did something selfless. Not because you were consciously trying to be a better person, but because you have been taught it. You have been absorbed into this culture for 8 months, where you give what you can. So all of a sudden, your brain didn't have to rationalize being kind, you simply were kind.
I think it will take my whole lifetime to realize all the lessons I was supposed to learn while living here. In the meantime, I am prepared to be surprised by these little moments that I see myself changing.
Instead of ending in that truly Hallmark fashion, I have to add what happened immediately afterward. I was feeling all warm and gooey inside when I man walks into my office. He tells me a story of a young patient who is an orphan girl. She is been in the hospital many days and her home is far from the hospital. She has no health insurance and no way to go home. He was a relative of another patient but was acting as this young girl's advocate. He was looking to me for money. As I sat with my expensive laptop and my cell phone, I lied through the teeth about being a volunteer and not having any money. I proceeded to direct him to the pastor of the village who might have some charity money available to the girl. I broke my heart as I wished that I had somehow avoided the whole situation. I can't be seen as a piggy bank for anyone who needs it (which is practically everyone) and even if I did give money I would need to be directed through someone else so I'm not giving handouts. I went home, once again questioning everything from the universe to myself. One day I'll learn something, right?
-be prepared to answer these if you ever visit-
Please note: these will be written in Rwandan English. I didn't just start phrasing things awkwardly.
1. How do you find our climate?
2. How do you find our country?
3. How do you find the people?
4. Do you speak French? followed by Why don't you speak French?
5. Do they have _______ (insert produce item) in America? No matter how many times I tell them, they don't seem to believe me that we have every and any food imaginable in the US.
6. Are you married?
7. How old are you?
8. How many children do you have? Please note this is not Do you have children? because it is assumed you do have children if you look over the age of 20.
9. Are you a Christian/Have you been saved/Do you believe in Jesus?
10. What country are you from?
I have to mention here that for every moment a child does something adorable or someone is beyond kind to you or you are awed by this beautiful landscape, there are 5 moments of agony. You get stared at. You get yelled at. Someone demands money from you. Someone doesn't want to learn your name because you are just another white person. You are completely confused because you don't understand the language/cultural norms/history of things. You find yourself being the worst version of yourself because you have reached the end of your rope.
…and then someone asks for your umbrella and without a thought you hand it over. Because they sounded kind and trustworthy, or they just sounded like another human being, who needed something that you had. And once your beautifully functional, American umbrella (so many things here are made the cheapest way possible and break instantly, think dollar store) is gone, you start to wonder if it will actually return. And then you realize you did something selfless. Not because you were consciously trying to be a better person, but because you have been taught it. You have been absorbed into this culture for 8 months, where you give what you can. So all of a sudden, your brain didn't have to rationalize being kind, you simply were kind.
I think it will take my whole lifetime to realize all the lessons I was supposed to learn while living here. In the meantime, I am prepared to be surprised by these little moments that I see myself changing.
Instead of ending in that truly Hallmark fashion, I have to add what happened immediately afterward. I was feeling all warm and gooey inside when I man walks into my office. He tells me a story of a young patient who is an orphan girl. She is been in the hospital many days and her home is far from the hospital. She has no health insurance and no way to go home. He was a relative of another patient but was acting as this young girl's advocate. He was looking to me for money. As I sat with my expensive laptop and my cell phone, I lied through the teeth about being a volunteer and not having any money. I proceeded to direct him to the pastor of the village who might have some charity money available to the girl. I broke my heart as I wished that I had somehow avoided the whole situation. I can't be seen as a piggy bank for anyone who needs it (which is practically everyone) and even if I did give money I would need to be directed through someone else so I'm not giving handouts. I went home, once again questioning everything from the universe to myself. One day I'll learn something, right?
New Top 10
Top ten things I miss:
1. Driving a car
2. The ability to Google things
3. Being able to blend in
4. Having a bathroom inside my house
5. Libraries aka getting my hands on any book I want
6. Seasons
7. Not being out of my comfort zone every day
8. Food delivery
9. American work norms
10. People thinking talking about religion is a taboo
1. Driving a car
2. The ability to Google things
3. Being able to blend in
4. Having a bathroom inside my house
5. Libraries aka getting my hands on any book I want
6. Seasons
7. Not being out of my comfort zone every day
8. Food delivery
9. American work norms
10. People thinking talking about religion is a taboo
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Hallmark
This is inspiration Hallmark would make a commercial about, or even a movie. Young, unwed mother trying to get her life back on track. I'm so proud I could jump up and down. In fact I really I had to suppress that urge, rather than become the even more bizarre American girl. My next door neighbor, Claudette, invited me over for a visit. As usual she wanted me to write a letter in English for her. It is always easier for me just to do the work quickly but less educational, for sure. I encouraged (aka forced against her pouting) her to write her own version and then I would correct her English.
She wanted to write a letter to the headmaster of her old secondary school. She had finished senior level five, specializing in accounting. But in 2008 she had to drop out for 'problems in life'. A year later she was pregnant. A year later she gives birth to a beautiful baby girl.
She's living with her younger sister, her grandmother and her little girl. Her baby is perhaps the cutest baby ever (no offense to my nephew). She literally smiles at anything and everything.
So Claudette is refocusing her life. Life without education isn't much of a life. She is already working on her English which is the not so secret secret to success in this country. It takes some kind of guts to go back to school.
I'm so happy I want to tutor her in every invigorating accounting class she has to take. In case you didn't notice the sarcasm on the word invigorating right next to the word accounting, I'm emphasize it here.
So here's to second chances.
She wanted to write a letter to the headmaster of her old secondary school. She had finished senior level five, specializing in accounting. But in 2008 she had to drop out for 'problems in life'. A year later she was pregnant. A year later she gives birth to a beautiful baby girl.
She's living with her younger sister, her grandmother and her little girl. Her baby is perhaps the cutest baby ever (no offense to my nephew). She literally smiles at anything and everything.
So Claudette is refocusing her life. Life without education isn't much of a life. She is already working on her English which is the not so secret secret to success in this country. It takes some kind of guts to go back to school.
I'm so happy I want to tutor her in every invigorating accounting class she has to take. In case you didn't notice the sarcasm on the word invigorating right next to the word accounting, I'm emphasize it here.
So here's to second chances.
What 26 is like
I am quickly approaching my 26th birthday. As always it's a good time to reflect on life. Especially since a quarter of my life is coming to a close. I've spent a lot of time recently, between the NYTimes article and the 20-nothings blog response, reflecting on what it means to be in my twenties. My mother at this age was almost done having her three children. She was a stay at home mom warrior. My grandmother was running a household with four children. Comparing my life to my grandmother's or my mother's is usually where the shock value comes in. Although I'm sure they would love if I did, my family is not abhorred that I haven't found a spouse and popped out a couple babies by now. Each generation means a different level of expectations and a reorganization of priorities.
Modernity has given me the option of focusing on myself. It is true that some of my fellow twenty somethings are languishing because the concept and stability of 'growing up' hasn't happened yet. Whatever assumptions we had about mid-twenties (of course) didn't happen exactly as planned. Wisdom may still be alluding us. We may be accused of immaturity, being irresponsible and self centered. Well the heck with those assumptions. I have been lucky enough to surround myself with compassionate, driven, thoughtful twenty somethings.
So to me twenty six means feeling more sure of myself…solidifying my next step when I return to the great US of A…pushing myself further than I ever have…and believing that the house with the garden and golden retriever will find me when I'm ready.
Modernity has given me the option of focusing on myself. It is true that some of my fellow twenty somethings are languishing because the concept and stability of 'growing up' hasn't happened yet. Whatever assumptions we had about mid-twenties (of course) didn't happen exactly as planned. Wisdom may still be alluding us. We may be accused of immaturity, being irresponsible and self centered. Well the heck with those assumptions. I have been lucky enough to surround myself with compassionate, driven, thoughtful twenty somethings.
So to me twenty six means feeling more sure of myself…solidifying my next step when I return to the great US of A…pushing myself further than I ever have…and believing that the house with the garden and golden retriever will find me when I'm ready.
Something to be Proud of
Pride is a funny thing. Not only the quantity we exhibit on a regular basis but also what is giving us this pride. Back home it may have been an excellent performance on a work project, a stellar grade in school, excelling at a hobby. In Africa, things have changed ever so slightly. I'll outline two examples to prove my point.
I have now successfully navigated my way onto a bus at rush hour. This may seem rudimentary. I am an adult after all. Anyone can put one foot in front of the other and be able to discern that they are getting onto the correct bus. But I want you to imagine public transportation at 5pm. Everyone wants to rush home after work. Kigali is overpopulated, as is all of Rwanda, with not enough buses to keep up with demand. As you may have heard me reference before, forming lines is really not a Rwandan strong suit. At times lines to enter the bus are enforced but most of the time the crowd of people look like a mosh pit. As soon as the desired bus pulls up, the tight cluster of people sway and claw at each other to get a precious seat. This usually means crowding the door of the bus and barely letting passengers exit. All respect goes out the window. I almost clobbered an old man with a walking stick. Luckily my manners didn't completely vanish, and I did allow him to get in front of me. Although if I hadn't I think "sweet old man with a walking stick" would have become "weapon wielding old man". And I'm thankful that "extremely pregnant lady" didn't even attempt to battle the crowd. I stuck it out this time. Became one with the crowd. I stood my ground, and once I entered the bus I got congratulated by fellow passengers for being strong. But a note for the next time I push my way onto a bus - don't bring squish-able avocados…or bananas…or tomatoes. Even after sacrificing my produce, I'm still proud of my victory.
The second story of pride involves a fellow PCV with a love for chickens. I'm not taking chicken salad sandwich, or barbecued white meat. I mean the real, live clucking chickens. She acquired three of them as pets, who also have the added benefit of laying scrumptious eggs every day. Except, who knew!, that chickens have to reach a certain age before laying eggs. These chickens are just barely six months old. Well, on this particular day, one of the chickens kept trying to fly into the open window that has bars on it. Besides reaffirming her position as 'the dumb one', we didn't really understand what she was doing. She was passed through the bars and attempted to get comfortable on the window ledge. Being the well fed chicken that she is, that was difficult without her butt sticking up into the air. We stared in confusion because this chicken was just being silly. Then we realized, she might be freaking out. Her body was trying to produce its first egg. She required a ledge to lay it on but there was no other ledge available to her except for the window ledge. After a few minutes of concentrated effort, she laid her very first egg. Jen, her human mama, squealed with delight and gave her reassuring words about her accomplishment. To us it wasn't just another day in Africa, it was a day of celebration.
I have now successfully navigated my way onto a bus at rush hour. This may seem rudimentary. I am an adult after all. Anyone can put one foot in front of the other and be able to discern that they are getting onto the correct bus. But I want you to imagine public transportation at 5pm. Everyone wants to rush home after work. Kigali is overpopulated, as is all of Rwanda, with not enough buses to keep up with demand. As you may have heard me reference before, forming lines is really not a Rwandan strong suit. At times lines to enter the bus are enforced but most of the time the crowd of people look like a mosh pit. As soon as the desired bus pulls up, the tight cluster of people sway and claw at each other to get a precious seat. This usually means crowding the door of the bus and barely letting passengers exit. All respect goes out the window. I almost clobbered an old man with a walking stick. Luckily my manners didn't completely vanish, and I did allow him to get in front of me. Although if I hadn't I think "sweet old man with a walking stick" would have become "weapon wielding old man". And I'm thankful that "extremely pregnant lady" didn't even attempt to battle the crowd. I stuck it out this time. Became one with the crowd. I stood my ground, and once I entered the bus I got congratulated by fellow passengers for being strong. But a note for the next time I push my way onto a bus - don't bring squish-able avocados…or bananas…or tomatoes. Even after sacrificing my produce, I'm still proud of my victory.
The second story of pride involves a fellow PCV with a love for chickens. I'm not taking chicken salad sandwich, or barbecued white meat. I mean the real, live clucking chickens. She acquired three of them as pets, who also have the added benefit of laying scrumptious eggs every day. Except, who knew!, that chickens have to reach a certain age before laying eggs. These chickens are just barely six months old. Well, on this particular day, one of the chickens kept trying to fly into the open window that has bars on it. Besides reaffirming her position as 'the dumb one', we didn't really understand what she was doing. She was passed through the bars and attempted to get comfortable on the window ledge. Being the well fed chicken that she is, that was difficult without her butt sticking up into the air. We stared in confusion because this chicken was just being silly. Then we realized, she might be freaking out. Her body was trying to produce its first egg. She required a ledge to lay it on but there was no other ledge available to her except for the window ledge. After a few minutes of concentrated effort, she laid her very first egg. Jen, her human mama, squealed with delight and gave her reassuring words about her accomplishment. To us it wasn't just another day in Africa, it was a day of celebration.
Schooled
Well, I've been schooled. In the best way possible. Even back at home I had a hard time sharing food, but here it is so much worse. Everyone is constantly asking for things, so 'no' rolls off my tongue very easily.
It all started when a neighbor of Edison's became a patient at the hospital. Her name is Mama Kagabo, since her son's name is Kagabo. She is a single mother who never married Kagabo's father. She would greet me every day and would tell me about how she has a sickness in her head. She always remembered my name and was happy to see me. One day she came in and asked for some of the apple juice I was drinking. I didn't even feel bad as I put her in her place and denied her request quickly.
The next day I was sitting outside my office. She came by, greeting me as usual. I asked how she was and once again she told me about her head being bad. She told me she was going to buy tea. Most local stories will serve tea by the cupful that you can buy. She went to drink her tea and came back with a sucker for me. I didn't want to accept it because I had nothing to give her in return, but she insisted that she had bought the candy for me. She just looked me in the eye and said - don't worry if you don't have anything today. One day you will and you can repay me then.
The next day I left my village for a work meeting. I returned two days later to find out the Mama Kagabo had taken a turn for the worst. She was extremely aggressive the next day, fighting nurses, patients, visitors. She tried to escape the hospital, proceeded to pick up a rock and tried to beat people with it. Since I have never seen her with an ounce of violence in her behavior it was very hard for me to imagine. They were forced to give her a sedative and transport her to the national mental hospital in Kigali. It's where the worst cases get sent.
I have not seen Mama Kagabo since, although I visited a neighbor and saw her little boy. Apparently he is being cared for by neighbors.
The only explanation I have heard is that being an unwed mother causes mental problems. Some of the perceptions here…ugh.
It all started when a neighbor of Edison's became a patient at the hospital. Her name is Mama Kagabo, since her son's name is Kagabo. She is a single mother who never married Kagabo's father. She would greet me every day and would tell me about how she has a sickness in her head. She always remembered my name and was happy to see me. One day she came in and asked for some of the apple juice I was drinking. I didn't even feel bad as I put her in her place and denied her request quickly.
The next day I was sitting outside my office. She came by, greeting me as usual. I asked how she was and once again she told me about her head being bad. She told me she was going to buy tea. Most local stories will serve tea by the cupful that you can buy. She went to drink her tea and came back with a sucker for me. I didn't want to accept it because I had nothing to give her in return, but she insisted that she had bought the candy for me. She just looked me in the eye and said - don't worry if you don't have anything today. One day you will and you can repay me then.
The next day I left my village for a work meeting. I returned two days later to find out the Mama Kagabo had taken a turn for the worst. She was extremely aggressive the next day, fighting nurses, patients, visitors. She tried to escape the hospital, proceeded to pick up a rock and tried to beat people with it. Since I have never seen her with an ounce of violence in her behavior it was very hard for me to imagine. They were forced to give her a sedative and transport her to the national mental hospital in Kigali. It's where the worst cases get sent.
I have not seen Mama Kagabo since, although I visited a neighbor and saw her little boy. Apparently he is being cared for by neighbors.
The only explanation I have heard is that being an unwed mother causes mental problems. Some of the perceptions here…ugh.
Racist much?
It is a difficult thing to talk about. No one wants to think of themselves as racist. Or of the possible side effect that Peace Corps is making us more racist. We show up as fresh-faced, openminded Americans. Even if we believe that the US is superior to the developing country we are serving, we still have a respect for the people, and a desire to learn from their culture. It is what has been drilled into our heads from kindergarten on. Don't judge a book by its cover. Don't see color. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
We know what is right and what is wrong. The situation seems very black and white, theoretically. And then you arrive and you get frustrated.
I was having a conversation with a fellow volunteer this weekend and it dawned on us that we were teetering on verge of racism. We have been observing the behaviors of Rwandans for eight months now. We've seen the paranoia amongst them. Every door is locked behind them. Houseboys and girls are not trusted, even when they are family. Close colleagues and friends are not trusted. Every belonging must be behind lock and key, and perhaps even a brick wall surrounding your property with broken glass along the edge. Are they untrusting because they understand that at this level of poverty, people are apt to do what they have to for survival and that may include stealing from a close friend or relative? Is this an after effect from the genocide or does it predate 1994? What allows a people at withhold trust in the majority of their relationships and therefore exist in a shallow reality? Are we also learning to withhold trust from being exposed to this culture? and more importantly, are we now assuming that every Rwandan thinks and acts this way?
What a racist! and yet, there it is. Observation of a culture, assuming you know all the reasons and rationalizations for their collective actions and you are on the yellow brick road to racism. I wish I wouldn't always take the quickest road to an explanation. And yet I may live in this country for two years and still not 'get it'. Will anyone trust me enough to explain why?
We know what is right and what is wrong. The situation seems very black and white, theoretically. And then you arrive and you get frustrated.
I was having a conversation with a fellow volunteer this weekend and it dawned on us that we were teetering on verge of racism. We have been observing the behaviors of Rwandans for eight months now. We've seen the paranoia amongst them. Every door is locked behind them. Houseboys and girls are not trusted, even when they are family. Close colleagues and friends are not trusted. Every belonging must be behind lock and key, and perhaps even a brick wall surrounding your property with broken glass along the edge. Are they untrusting because they understand that at this level of poverty, people are apt to do what they have to for survival and that may include stealing from a close friend or relative? Is this an after effect from the genocide or does it predate 1994? What allows a people at withhold trust in the majority of their relationships and therefore exist in a shallow reality? Are we also learning to withhold trust from being exposed to this culture? and more importantly, are we now assuming that every Rwandan thinks and acts this way?
What a racist! and yet, there it is. Observation of a culture, assuming you know all the reasons and rationalizations for their collective actions and you are on the yellow brick road to racism. I wish I wouldn't always take the quickest road to an explanation. And yet I may live in this country for two years and still not 'get it'. Will anyone trust me enough to explain why?
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Storytime
My goodness it's been cold in my village! For the first time in eight months I've felt like putting on a sweatshirt, my flannel pajama pants and my thick socks. And this from a girl who wears T-shirts in the winter. My blood has been thinning considerably. I was trying to guess the temperature on this frigid day and I estimated that it was, sadly, probably 60 degrees with a slight breeze and drizzling. What have I become?!
So last weekend was a bit unique. Edison's (sitemate) parents were visiting so we had planned a whole visiting weekend with our coworkers. I don't know why anyone plans since it never goes as imagined. But I guess that's half the fun.
Our first event was visiting Christine and her husband at their house in Kigali (capital). So I wake up, eat breakfast, do some laundry and get a phone call. Christine is actually in the hospital! Yes, again. This woman can't seem to keep herself unhospitalized (yep, made that one up). She had been in a bus accident while coming home from work the previous day. I was a bit confused on the particulars but I heard that two buses crashed and she was running from the accident when she feel down and twisted her ankle. She basically had a fractured ankle. The baby was absolutely fine, although that was all checked out at the hospital to make sure. Can never be to sure with a bun in the oven.
So plans changed from visiting Christine at her house to visiting at her hospital bed. She was being kept in the post partum section of the hospital. Her small compartment was sectioned off on three sides with curtains. I felt right back at home with my family, because of course we tried to cram about 10 people in a tiny hospital room. Naturally, you can't visit someone without bringing something. So what do you bring a woman in the hospital? A jug of apple juice concentrate, of course. Apple juice is a bit of a novelty here and an exciting arrival in my opinion. I love telling people that in Michigan we grow tons of apples, all different varieties. The apples here are imported from South Africa and I've only seen two varieties.
Next stop - a doctor's house who used to work at the hospital before I started there. We were met with brothers, sisters, grandparents, nieces, nephews, etc. Apparently it's a big event to have visitors from afar. Sadly, when I think of one of my exotic Rwandan friends visiting the US they would be seen far less as an interesting specimen and honored guest. I did learn a fun fact though. Apparently if you work in a US embassy for 15 years, you are automatically granted American citizenship, along with your immediate family. Not sure I completely believe this but it seems like a good gig. The man I was talking to was excited for the possibility of moving his children to America to provide them with a better education. His English was stellar and I would imagine he would do just fine in the US after the initial years worth of culture shock.
So really nothing is more intriguing than meeting someone's parents. It helps explain so much about that person. Not just where they came from but also to see them interact. Family can have such strange effects on a person. For the rest of the weekend I stayed at the parents' house of my coworker Jeanne.
In case you were at all concerned, I have solved the mystery of the 'fat phase'. Yes, it is true. It goes across cultures. Every kid in the world has the susceptibility of being pudgy during their adolescence. Rwandan photo albums have confirmed.
So yet again I have been had by the roving cops versus the street sellers. Jeanne and I were trying to buy some mandarins to bring back to the parents as a gift. Price had been negotiated, the fruit was bagged and ready to go. Jeanne was reaching in her purse for the money when…a tap on the woman's shoulder and oh my, can those woman run. They grabbed their wicker platters of fruit and were off in a flash. We stood there in a staring at the place where the fruit lady had been two seconds ago. Dang, we really wanted mandarins! But they were gone, around the corner and out of sight from the patrolling cops. Selling stuff on the street is illegal. But pretty soon she ran back to hand off the bag, grab the money and go. At least this time I didn't run with them!
This weekend afforded me some quality Rwandan TV watching time. Jeanne's family not only has electricity but also a TV. What actually makes the news is flabbergasting sometimes, and other times just plain comical. One of the top stories on Saturday was a drug bust. We are not talking a huge drug cartel, moving drugs across a border or supplying illegal drugs to thousands of people. Not even close. About five guys in Kigali were busted with pot. Not dealing, just possession. When asked about it they said it gave them a high that was indescribable. Well, I'm pretty sure a lot of people could describe the effects of marijuana quite well. Especially the ones trying to get its recreational use legalized in California. Imagine a small scale drug bust of your neighbor's pot supply making the national news.
So Sunday began with all Jeanne's family members going to church separately. You may realize at this point that Rwanda is an extremely religious country. EVERYONE goes to church, is obsessed with Church, loves talking about God, and doesn't hesitate to ask you to pray with them. The unique part is that many family members will attend different churches. Since the majority of churches are some form of Christianity I suppose the essence is the same and the logistics are a personality preference.
Then I had a lengthy conversation with Jeanne's dad, Deo. He was a bit like yoda, an evangelist on TV and the quintessential grandfather figure all mixed into one. He had so many great quotes that I committed three to memory so I could share.
People think it's about the money but it is really about peace - in reference to development.
Guns are not Gospel.
You are making a long term investment in heaven - in reference to my PC service.
He started his career as a political figure and diplomat in Rwanda but he had to flee to Uganda as a refugee while Rwanda was trying to get liberated. That's where my coworker was born. Imagine being that mother. She was just a nurse. Her family was quite wealthy. She had found a loving, passionate man. So passionate that his aspirations forced them to flee to safety amidst their growing family. Small children in tow they ran for the hills. They came back to their homeland just in time for a genocide. He went back to politics. Her mom took a job in what used to be a hotel, but was being used as an orphanage for all the kids who couldn't find their parents or were suddenly orphaned. Now he has retired from politics. Instead he just wants to spread the news of Jesus. He was the most joyous Christian I have ever met.
They own the whole compound they live in - traditionally about three or four houses that share bathrooms and outdoor kitchens. They live in the smaller house and rent the big house out for a supplemental income. Although apparently renting to other Rwandans while demoting yourself is taboo so they rent to a couple Kenyan brothers. They also have two young girls who live with them during the school year. They are extended family members who stay with them in order to get a better education at a school within the capital.
I also met Jeanne's older brother Paul. It is customary to give visitors gifts. In fact everyone is exchanging gifts with everyone. Paul was a bit caught off guard by our visit but he seemed to gather his wits quickly and offered Edison and I a gift. The first was a baby-sized African drum…and on top was a rock. Well, I'm quite positive the look on my face rivaled every Christmas and birthday gift that I've ever stared at quizzically and had to conceal quickly with a 'Thank you'. Edison did a quiet save, stating how he remembered that Paul like to collect volcanic rock. Indeed, this was remnant of a volcanic explosion. Still strange but if I compare it to some people's love of driftwood - it almost makes sense. My collection of doorstops has increased to a total of one.
So we all grabbed a bus back to the village at the end of the day. Coworker, sitemate, sitemate's parents and heavy luggage in tow. So I don't think I've touched nearly enough on Rwandans' love of debate and roleplaying. This is the perfect story to display all that love. The bus worker wanted to charge Edison more money because of the large bag on his lap. Jeanne instantly spoke up from a couple rows back and argued that that was ludicrous and not going to happen. Mind you that the buses are like extended minivans so we can all hear everyone else's conversations. Pretty soon the whole bus is rallying behind Edison's cause and the bus man's injustice. There is talk of the entire bus boycotting and exiting the vehicle. The slightly intoxicated man in front of me even offered to beat the guy up. Edison quickly told them that he just wanted peace. Pretty soon the whole bus was laughing together and having a good ole time. Because me village is like a small town you always end up on the bus with someone you know. This time it was multiple coworkers, a teacher from the local school, and family members. Like a loud family reunion crammed into a bus ready to get back to real life after a nice weekend. Indeed.
So last weekend was a bit unique. Edison's (sitemate) parents were visiting so we had planned a whole visiting weekend with our coworkers. I don't know why anyone plans since it never goes as imagined. But I guess that's half the fun.
Our first event was visiting Christine and her husband at their house in Kigali (capital). So I wake up, eat breakfast, do some laundry and get a phone call. Christine is actually in the hospital! Yes, again. This woman can't seem to keep herself unhospitalized (yep, made that one up). She had been in a bus accident while coming home from work the previous day. I was a bit confused on the particulars but I heard that two buses crashed and she was running from the accident when she feel down and twisted her ankle. She basically had a fractured ankle. The baby was absolutely fine, although that was all checked out at the hospital to make sure. Can never be to sure with a bun in the oven.
So plans changed from visiting Christine at her house to visiting at her hospital bed. She was being kept in the post partum section of the hospital. Her small compartment was sectioned off on three sides with curtains. I felt right back at home with my family, because of course we tried to cram about 10 people in a tiny hospital room. Naturally, you can't visit someone without bringing something. So what do you bring a woman in the hospital? A jug of apple juice concentrate, of course. Apple juice is a bit of a novelty here and an exciting arrival in my opinion. I love telling people that in Michigan we grow tons of apples, all different varieties. The apples here are imported from South Africa and I've only seen two varieties.
Next stop - a doctor's house who used to work at the hospital before I started there. We were met with brothers, sisters, grandparents, nieces, nephews, etc. Apparently it's a big event to have visitors from afar. Sadly, when I think of one of my exotic Rwandan friends visiting the US they would be seen far less as an interesting specimen and honored guest. I did learn a fun fact though. Apparently if you work in a US embassy for 15 years, you are automatically granted American citizenship, along with your immediate family. Not sure I completely believe this but it seems like a good gig. The man I was talking to was excited for the possibility of moving his children to America to provide them with a better education. His English was stellar and I would imagine he would do just fine in the US after the initial years worth of culture shock.
So really nothing is more intriguing than meeting someone's parents. It helps explain so much about that person. Not just where they came from but also to see them interact. Family can have such strange effects on a person. For the rest of the weekend I stayed at the parents' house of my coworker Jeanne.
In case you were at all concerned, I have solved the mystery of the 'fat phase'. Yes, it is true. It goes across cultures. Every kid in the world has the susceptibility of being pudgy during their adolescence. Rwandan photo albums have confirmed.
So yet again I have been had by the roving cops versus the street sellers. Jeanne and I were trying to buy some mandarins to bring back to the parents as a gift. Price had been negotiated, the fruit was bagged and ready to go. Jeanne was reaching in her purse for the money when…a tap on the woman's shoulder and oh my, can those woman run. They grabbed their wicker platters of fruit and were off in a flash. We stood there in a staring at the place where the fruit lady had been two seconds ago. Dang, we really wanted mandarins! But they were gone, around the corner and out of sight from the patrolling cops. Selling stuff on the street is illegal. But pretty soon she ran back to hand off the bag, grab the money and go. At least this time I didn't run with them!
This weekend afforded me some quality Rwandan TV watching time. Jeanne's family not only has electricity but also a TV. What actually makes the news is flabbergasting sometimes, and other times just plain comical. One of the top stories on Saturday was a drug bust. We are not talking a huge drug cartel, moving drugs across a border or supplying illegal drugs to thousands of people. Not even close. About five guys in Kigali were busted with pot. Not dealing, just possession. When asked about it they said it gave them a high that was indescribable. Well, I'm pretty sure a lot of people could describe the effects of marijuana quite well. Especially the ones trying to get its recreational use legalized in California. Imagine a small scale drug bust of your neighbor's pot supply making the national news.
So Sunday began with all Jeanne's family members going to church separately. You may realize at this point that Rwanda is an extremely religious country. EVERYONE goes to church, is obsessed with Church, loves talking about God, and doesn't hesitate to ask you to pray with them. The unique part is that many family members will attend different churches. Since the majority of churches are some form of Christianity I suppose the essence is the same and the logistics are a personality preference.
Then I had a lengthy conversation with Jeanne's dad, Deo. He was a bit like yoda, an evangelist on TV and the quintessential grandfather figure all mixed into one. He had so many great quotes that I committed three to memory so I could share.
People think it's about the money but it is really about peace - in reference to development.
Guns are not Gospel.
You are making a long term investment in heaven - in reference to my PC service.
He started his career as a political figure and diplomat in Rwanda but he had to flee to Uganda as a refugee while Rwanda was trying to get liberated. That's where my coworker was born. Imagine being that mother. She was just a nurse. Her family was quite wealthy. She had found a loving, passionate man. So passionate that his aspirations forced them to flee to safety amidst their growing family. Small children in tow they ran for the hills. They came back to their homeland just in time for a genocide. He went back to politics. Her mom took a job in what used to be a hotel, but was being used as an orphanage for all the kids who couldn't find their parents or were suddenly orphaned. Now he has retired from politics. Instead he just wants to spread the news of Jesus. He was the most joyous Christian I have ever met.
They own the whole compound they live in - traditionally about three or four houses that share bathrooms and outdoor kitchens. They live in the smaller house and rent the big house out for a supplemental income. Although apparently renting to other Rwandans while demoting yourself is taboo so they rent to a couple Kenyan brothers. They also have two young girls who live with them during the school year. They are extended family members who stay with them in order to get a better education at a school within the capital.
I also met Jeanne's older brother Paul. It is customary to give visitors gifts. In fact everyone is exchanging gifts with everyone. Paul was a bit caught off guard by our visit but he seemed to gather his wits quickly and offered Edison and I a gift. The first was a baby-sized African drum…and on top was a rock. Well, I'm quite positive the look on my face rivaled every Christmas and birthday gift that I've ever stared at quizzically and had to conceal quickly with a 'Thank you'. Edison did a quiet save, stating how he remembered that Paul like to collect volcanic rock. Indeed, this was remnant of a volcanic explosion. Still strange but if I compare it to some people's love of driftwood - it almost makes sense. My collection of doorstops has increased to a total of one.
So we all grabbed a bus back to the village at the end of the day. Coworker, sitemate, sitemate's parents and heavy luggage in tow. So I don't think I've touched nearly enough on Rwandans' love of debate and roleplaying. This is the perfect story to display all that love. The bus worker wanted to charge Edison more money because of the large bag on his lap. Jeanne instantly spoke up from a couple rows back and argued that that was ludicrous and not going to happen. Mind you that the buses are like extended minivans so we can all hear everyone else's conversations. Pretty soon the whole bus is rallying behind Edison's cause and the bus man's injustice. There is talk of the entire bus boycotting and exiting the vehicle. The slightly intoxicated man in front of me even offered to beat the guy up. Edison quickly told them that he just wanted peace. Pretty soon the whole bus was laughing together and having a good ole time. Because me village is like a small town you always end up on the bus with someone you know. This time it was multiple coworkers, a teacher from the local school, and family members. Like a loud family reunion crammed into a bus ready to get back to real life after a nice weekend. Indeed.
What's In a Name
Weekly, if not daily, I get to have a cultural exchange comparing the US and Rwandan customs. Even the simplest things that seem so natural to us that we don't question them, can be quite different as soon as you cross a border.
My last name gets a bit of attention here. Skorupski doesn't roll off the tongue in any country, except I would hope Poland. As soon as someone asks my surname and I give it they automatically asks what it means. I try my best to explain that it means absolutely nothing except the fact that I'm Polish. Rwandans scratch their heads. How can your name be Polish when you are American? The whole immigrant thing is a constant confusion. Even more shocking is when I explain my family tree and reveal that my father and mother have the same last name as me.
Here in Rwanda every person has a distinct name picked specifically for them. I shouldn't really use the term distinct since I'm convinced there are about 20 names in Rwanda that are spread amongst 12 million people. So there is no family name. Nothing that gets passed on. When a woman marries, she doesn't change her name. When a baby is born there is not the classic 9 month brainstorming session of picking the perfect name. If you have enough money to throw a party - there is a naming ceremony shortly after the baby is born. Everyone in attendance submits a name on a piece of paper. A small group of important people then pick the name. While the first name is usually French, the last name is just a normal Kinyarwandan word. Because one word can actually be a complete sentence with noun, verb and direct object, and almost all Rwandans are devout Christians, a common last name is I love God. There is also gift from God, praise God, I love Rwanda. Or the exceedingly obvious I'm a boy. So again, imagine their surprise when they hear Skorupski means nothing.
So how would you feel if the family name was stripped away? If, when listed on a piece of paper, no one could tell you were related? Would having a unique name make you feel more special? What if you heard that the whole community came together to celebrate your birth and decide what to call you? What if you didn't have to decide between tradition and some form of feminism when you got hitched (assuming you're a woman)? In a country that is, by nature, community based it is intriguing to consider such an individualistic custom. And if your name could mean something, what would you want it to say? Just some food for thought today...
My last name gets a bit of attention here. Skorupski doesn't roll off the tongue in any country, except I would hope Poland. As soon as someone asks my surname and I give it they automatically asks what it means. I try my best to explain that it means absolutely nothing except the fact that I'm Polish. Rwandans scratch their heads. How can your name be Polish when you are American? The whole immigrant thing is a constant confusion. Even more shocking is when I explain my family tree and reveal that my father and mother have the same last name as me.
Here in Rwanda every person has a distinct name picked specifically for them. I shouldn't really use the term distinct since I'm convinced there are about 20 names in Rwanda that are spread amongst 12 million people. So there is no family name. Nothing that gets passed on. When a woman marries, she doesn't change her name. When a baby is born there is not the classic 9 month brainstorming session of picking the perfect name. If you have enough money to throw a party - there is a naming ceremony shortly after the baby is born. Everyone in attendance submits a name on a piece of paper. A small group of important people then pick the name. While the first name is usually French, the last name is just a normal Kinyarwandan word. Because one word can actually be a complete sentence with noun, verb and direct object, and almost all Rwandans are devout Christians, a common last name is I love God. There is also gift from God, praise God, I love Rwanda. Or the exceedingly obvious I'm a boy. So again, imagine their surprise when they hear Skorupski means nothing.
So how would you feel if the family name was stripped away? If, when listed on a piece of paper, no one could tell you were related? Would having a unique name make you feel more special? What if you heard that the whole community came together to celebrate your birth and decide what to call you? What if you didn't have to decide between tradition and some form of feminism when you got hitched (assuming you're a woman)? In a country that is, by nature, community based it is intriguing to consider such an individualistic custom. And if your name could mean something, what would you want it to say? Just some food for thought today...
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Power is in the Placement or Gus Gus Returns
I have spent the past week traveling to other volunteers' sites which just emphasized even more how different everyone's placement is. Some are perfect fits, others require more adjustment.
This is the story of an adventure, mainly because it involved AJ, a PCV I consider a good friend. Although we always seem to get into adventures together and have too much fun.
So it all began when I arrived from my 6 hour bus ride. How's does one find a restroom during a 6 hour Rwandan bus trip? you ask. You don't. You slightly dehydrate yourself (much to the chagrin of my Peace Corps doctor) and you simply don't need to go to the bathroom. Problem solved. Back to the real story though.
AJ had told me to get off the bus at the very last stop, which to her knowledge was town. I however found myself in a very different town. In front of me was a small wooden bridge leading to the other side of the lake. I had heard of these fabled bridges. They tend to lead to other countries, countries I am not allowed to step foot in. So at least I had that part right. The only thing that separated me from the DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo) was a toll-booth style bar and the smarts to know bridges are bad things to cross. I was wandering around the tiny town of Rusizi, trying to find the take a right, take a left directions that would lead me to the restaurant with AJ meeting me. But, reminding me of my Aunt Kath's directional abilities, AJ quickly changed that to turn left and then turn left again and circle the market until you see sculptured elephant tusks marking the restaurant's entrance. I stared at the dinky village market and knew I could circle it a million times and all I would find was some trees and a bunch of staring locals. It all worked out for the best though. AJ met me there and we visited Francois. So AJ lives with Catholic nuns in her community and helps at their health center. About a year ago they took in a baby named Francois. He was either abandoned by his family or had no family. He is HIV positive. So now Francois lives with the nuns and gets amazing care. He wasn't progressing on his walking abilities so they sent him to another Catholic health center to get some physical therapy. He was able to take a few steps when we visited and was so adorable it broke my heart.
The next day at the market we are busy bargaining for ingredients when I look down to find a Rwandan woman crouching down and touching my leg. It is not uncommon for people to be curious and want to touch your skin or hair since they've generally never been in range of a white person. So I started talking to this woman who was laughing at her folly and being caught. I jokingly gave her a hard time through our language barrier. But she wasn't done. About five minutes later she has her friend bring over a bottle of lotion, trying to sell it to me. Apparently I have dry skin. Leave it to a morning in the market for me to get criticized for dry skin.
The next couple days were spent going to two birthday parties with two amazing birthday cakes!! It is indeed possible to cook a delicious birthday cake from American cake mix in Rwanda. I've heard the brownies aren't half bad either. So I'll skip over the particulars and get to the part where we are hiking out of Nyengwe forest.
We came to fork in the road and pondered our choice, left or right. We asked the elderly man descending the mountain and his response was neither. Instead he told us to go straight. Straight was a footpath created by the villagers as a shortcut. It was literally 'up' the mountain. We stopped to rest about every five minutes because of the harsh ascent. I kept picturing the old man laughing at the thought of two white girls trekking up a mountain. Although in all reality he probably didn't give it a second thought because he had conditioned himself his whole life to be able to climb this mountain. Walking sticks are not overrated in these situations, mainly because I did not possess one.
I spent the rest of the weeks at the convent and the health center, counting and handing out pills to Rwandans. It is one of my activities I am adding to a list called "If I did this in America I would get sued/fired/arrested, etc." One of my favorite joys of staying with the nuns was their preoccupation for Mari Mar. Mari Mar is a wonderful tela novela in case you frequent Mexican soap operas. Luckily for me the nuns had a copy they had obtained from other nuns of Mari Mar DVDs dubbed over in French. Actually understanding the words is not important. I mean, really, mute an American soap opera and see if it is any less entertaining. They would often stay awake until the wee hours of the morning just to find out what happens next.
Electricity…….2000 Rfw/month
DVD player……some made up number
Cost of DVDs to illegally copy a Mexican tela novela…500 Rfw
Nuns singing the Mari Mar theme song and shaking their butts…Priceless
There is a cat called Gus Gus…okay that's not his real name. I had renamed him after the fat mouse in Cinderella. His given name was Olaf…so I have to add something completely inappropriate. Rwandan people call a cat - pussy. So this cat was often called Pus. I can't believe I just wrote that in my blog, but in the name of cultural exchange… Add that little tidbit to the rest of this story and you can't help but laugh. When we crossed the field to dinner with the priests one night, Gus Gus followed. The nuns were worried, constantly calling after him to stay within range. But sure enough, we left and Gus Gus did not. The nuns pestered us the whole night and next day about going back to retrieve Gus Gus. So therefore I pestered AJ until we made the trek back. But to no avail. Gus Gus was no where to be found. The head priest suggested that he was eaten during the night or joined a large pack of cats roaming the countryside. He promised to call if he saw anything. Sure enough, a half hour later the call came. 'I have spotted him! Come quick.' Thank goodness. Order is restored in the universe.
…and then the thing we never thought we'd see in Rwanda HAPPENED. A patient's cell phone rang while we were giving her the prescription drugs for her sick child. She turned towards us and said - Excuse me while I take this. Oh my. The world stopped spinning for a moment.
There are many more funny stories from this week - getting scolded by nuns because of an impromptu dance party, AJ getting her feet scrubbed by a houselady who was siiiiiick of seeing her poor hygiene, one surprising 'that's what she said' from AJ, sharing a twin mattress with someone always brings out a few giggles, the return bus ride with a dozen outspoken, overbearing, voracious Guinean woman coming from the March of Women in the DRC, watching AJ get her hair braided as if she was Rwandan, farming a plot of land with the Rwandan mothers of malnourished babies from the health center, posing for fake pictures of farming with the nun and yours truly, singing in the rain in the lovely village of Bande after getting drenched - but maybe for another time.
…and later I will also talk about how important good mental health is when serving in the Peace Corps!
This is the story of an adventure, mainly because it involved AJ, a PCV I consider a good friend. Although we always seem to get into adventures together and have too much fun.
So it all began when I arrived from my 6 hour bus ride. How's does one find a restroom during a 6 hour Rwandan bus trip? you ask. You don't. You slightly dehydrate yourself (much to the chagrin of my Peace Corps doctor) and you simply don't need to go to the bathroom. Problem solved. Back to the real story though.
AJ had told me to get off the bus at the very last stop, which to her knowledge was town. I however found myself in a very different town. In front of me was a small wooden bridge leading to the other side of the lake. I had heard of these fabled bridges. They tend to lead to other countries, countries I am not allowed to step foot in. So at least I had that part right. The only thing that separated me from the DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo) was a toll-booth style bar and the smarts to know bridges are bad things to cross. I was wandering around the tiny town of Rusizi, trying to find the take a right, take a left directions that would lead me to the restaurant with AJ meeting me. But, reminding me of my Aunt Kath's directional abilities, AJ quickly changed that to turn left and then turn left again and circle the market until you see sculptured elephant tusks marking the restaurant's entrance. I stared at the dinky village market and knew I could circle it a million times and all I would find was some trees and a bunch of staring locals. It all worked out for the best though. AJ met me there and we visited Francois. So AJ lives with Catholic nuns in her community and helps at their health center. About a year ago they took in a baby named Francois. He was either abandoned by his family or had no family. He is HIV positive. So now Francois lives with the nuns and gets amazing care. He wasn't progressing on his walking abilities so they sent him to another Catholic health center to get some physical therapy. He was able to take a few steps when we visited and was so adorable it broke my heart.
The next day at the market we are busy bargaining for ingredients when I look down to find a Rwandan woman crouching down and touching my leg. It is not uncommon for people to be curious and want to touch your skin or hair since they've generally never been in range of a white person. So I started talking to this woman who was laughing at her folly and being caught. I jokingly gave her a hard time through our language barrier. But she wasn't done. About five minutes later she has her friend bring over a bottle of lotion, trying to sell it to me. Apparently I have dry skin. Leave it to a morning in the market for me to get criticized for dry skin.
The next couple days were spent going to two birthday parties with two amazing birthday cakes!! It is indeed possible to cook a delicious birthday cake from American cake mix in Rwanda. I've heard the brownies aren't half bad either. So I'll skip over the particulars and get to the part where we are hiking out of Nyengwe forest.
We came to fork in the road and pondered our choice, left or right. We asked the elderly man descending the mountain and his response was neither. Instead he told us to go straight. Straight was a footpath created by the villagers as a shortcut. It was literally 'up' the mountain. We stopped to rest about every five minutes because of the harsh ascent. I kept picturing the old man laughing at the thought of two white girls trekking up a mountain. Although in all reality he probably didn't give it a second thought because he had conditioned himself his whole life to be able to climb this mountain. Walking sticks are not overrated in these situations, mainly because I did not possess one.
I spent the rest of the weeks at the convent and the health center, counting and handing out pills to Rwandans. It is one of my activities I am adding to a list called "If I did this in America I would get sued/fired/arrested, etc." One of my favorite joys of staying with the nuns was their preoccupation for Mari Mar. Mari Mar is a wonderful tela novela in case you frequent Mexican soap operas. Luckily for me the nuns had a copy they had obtained from other nuns of Mari Mar DVDs dubbed over in French. Actually understanding the words is not important. I mean, really, mute an American soap opera and see if it is any less entertaining. They would often stay awake until the wee hours of the morning just to find out what happens next.
Electricity…….2000 Rfw/month
DVD player……some made up number
Cost of DVDs to illegally copy a Mexican tela novela…500 Rfw
Nuns singing the Mari Mar theme song and shaking their butts…Priceless
There is a cat called Gus Gus…okay that's not his real name. I had renamed him after the fat mouse in Cinderella. His given name was Olaf…so I have to add something completely inappropriate. Rwandan people call a cat - pussy. So this cat was often called Pus. I can't believe I just wrote that in my blog, but in the name of cultural exchange… Add that little tidbit to the rest of this story and you can't help but laugh. When we crossed the field to dinner with the priests one night, Gus Gus followed. The nuns were worried, constantly calling after him to stay within range. But sure enough, we left and Gus Gus did not. The nuns pestered us the whole night and next day about going back to retrieve Gus Gus. So therefore I pestered AJ until we made the trek back. But to no avail. Gus Gus was no where to be found. The head priest suggested that he was eaten during the night or joined a large pack of cats roaming the countryside. He promised to call if he saw anything. Sure enough, a half hour later the call came. 'I have spotted him! Come quick.' Thank goodness. Order is restored in the universe.
…and then the thing we never thought we'd see in Rwanda HAPPENED. A patient's cell phone rang while we were giving her the prescription drugs for her sick child. She turned towards us and said - Excuse me while I take this. Oh my. The world stopped spinning for a moment.
There are many more funny stories from this week - getting scolded by nuns because of an impromptu dance party, AJ getting her feet scrubbed by a houselady who was siiiiiick of seeing her poor hygiene, one surprising 'that's what she said' from AJ, sharing a twin mattress with someone always brings out a few giggles, the return bus ride with a dozen outspoken, overbearing, voracious Guinean woman coming from the March of Women in the DRC, watching AJ get her hair braided as if she was Rwandan, farming a plot of land with the Rwandan mothers of malnourished babies from the health center, posing for fake pictures of farming with the nun and yours truly, singing in the rain in the lovely village of Bande after getting drenched - but maybe for another time.
…and later I will also talk about how important good mental health is when serving in the Peace Corps!
Updates
I suppose since I introduce you to my neighbors and coworkers that I should update you as life changes here.
So Tabita 'the bigmouth' has made some positive changes in her life. She has traded in her bottle of booze for a steady job. She now mans the water station across the street from me. It is great news for me because there is now a constant source of water right there, plus she let's me cut in line. It gets her out of bed early. She is always dressed smartly now. And she is hard worker - work isn't done until the sun sets. I couldn't be prouder. I hope the water is steady so that she doesn't relapse.
My coworker Christine is indeed preggers with her first child. She has been having some horrible nausea which keeps her away from work some days. In fact there were a couple of weeks that she was hospitalized. She seems to be doing better now that she is out of the first trimester. I can't wait to see her baby. I just hope she doesn't quit work. It is especially fun reading 'What to Expect When You are Expecting' with a Rwandan woman.
I have successfully avoided Bubba for months now. Although he does seem to have a job of fetching water. He even changes his clothes now. Plus I've met most of his children (I hope there's not too many more!) and they are generally good kids.
So Tabita 'the bigmouth' has made some positive changes in her life. She has traded in her bottle of booze for a steady job. She now mans the water station across the street from me. It is great news for me because there is now a constant source of water right there, plus she let's me cut in line. It gets her out of bed early. She is always dressed smartly now. And she is hard worker - work isn't done until the sun sets. I couldn't be prouder. I hope the water is steady so that she doesn't relapse.
My coworker Christine is indeed preggers with her first child. She has been having some horrible nausea which keeps her away from work some days. In fact there were a couple of weeks that she was hospitalized. She seems to be doing better now that she is out of the first trimester. I can't wait to see her baby. I just hope she doesn't quit work. It is especially fun reading 'What to Expect When You are Expecting' with a Rwandan woman.
I have successfully avoided Bubba for months now. Although he does seem to have a job of fetching water. He even changes his clothes now. Plus I've met most of his children (I hope there's not too many more!) and they are generally good kids.
Sweet Sunday
Soundtrack for this post: Jason Derulo's Whatcha Say
I am coming off the high of a great day, which was preceded by a great week (but I'll get to that in another post).
This is the second Sunday that I've gotten a free lunch at a coworker's house. I guess there's something to be said for showing up to the office on a Sunday that makes people want to give you free food. I'll take it!
I spend the rest of the day (minus church of course) at my next door neighbor's house. To preface, I've gotten this idea to start a girls' group in my community. It was partially because I read some English essays by the girls at the secondary school nearby and was appalled at how subpar they were compared to their male counterparts. There is an English club but only about 2 of the 50 members are girls. Girls claim they 'have too much fear' to speak English openly like that, and therefore don't advance. I also am an advocate of education being single sex at that age, mainly because I went to an all girl high school. It works better for some people. And these girls are clearly shirking in their male peers' shadows. Add that to the health lessons that girls need to learn QUICKLY and it seems that a girls' club is the best option to have some open, frank discussions.
So back to my life working out perfectly and everything falling into my lap…I am invited to visit my neighbors. I instantly have a crowd of four adolescent girls (and one baby thanks to teenage pregnancy) to bounce my idea off of and to give some impromptu English lessons. One of the girls, Mediya, is on the football team of school, which consequently is just the group of girls I wanted to tap into. I have made a few friends on the football team and these girls have too much confidence for their own good. They are just the girls that will stand up, be heard and allow other girls to not feel so awkward. Let's just say the visit ended with all of us singing Jason Derulo's Whatcha Say…mumbling most of the words since none of us know them, and dancing. Now that's how I like to spend my Sunday. We planned a future visit for tomorrow when I get off work. Coming off this slump of feeling uninspired, powerless, out of my league, and just generally in a bad mood, I'm glad my community once again gave me a boost.
I can piggyback this story by talking about integration for a second. It is perhaps our biggest assignment as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Sure, you want to produce sustainable change and a cultural exchange, but none of that can be possible if you aren't integrated, trusted and welcomed into your surroundings. Imagine someone moving in next door and telling you how to live your life before learning your mom's name. Many of the volunteers have been having trouble - whether it be because of the culture of their site (some people are more open than others), the size of the community (sometimes bigger is NOT better), having their lodging segregated from their community, working very long hours, etc. And I would like to count my blessings about my placement. I dare someone to move into my village and not integrate. I swear my neighbors would force me. They understand that I am a horrible student at learning Kinyarwanda. I clearly oppose some of their cultural norms. And yet, there they are with their open arms. They know that if they help me pull my weeds (as they did yesterday), I won't seek their help, and I won't pay them. I think they do it because my yard is an eyesore. Nonetheless, integration.
I am coming off the high of a great day, which was preceded by a great week (but I'll get to that in another post).
This is the second Sunday that I've gotten a free lunch at a coworker's house. I guess there's something to be said for showing up to the office on a Sunday that makes people want to give you free food. I'll take it!
I spend the rest of the day (minus church of course) at my next door neighbor's house. To preface, I've gotten this idea to start a girls' group in my community. It was partially because I read some English essays by the girls at the secondary school nearby and was appalled at how subpar they were compared to their male counterparts. There is an English club but only about 2 of the 50 members are girls. Girls claim they 'have too much fear' to speak English openly like that, and therefore don't advance. I also am an advocate of education being single sex at that age, mainly because I went to an all girl high school. It works better for some people. And these girls are clearly shirking in their male peers' shadows. Add that to the health lessons that girls need to learn QUICKLY and it seems that a girls' club is the best option to have some open, frank discussions.
So back to my life working out perfectly and everything falling into my lap…I am invited to visit my neighbors. I instantly have a crowd of four adolescent girls (and one baby thanks to teenage pregnancy) to bounce my idea off of and to give some impromptu English lessons. One of the girls, Mediya, is on the football team of school, which consequently is just the group of girls I wanted to tap into. I have made a few friends on the football team and these girls have too much confidence for their own good. They are just the girls that will stand up, be heard and allow other girls to not feel so awkward. Let's just say the visit ended with all of us singing Jason Derulo's Whatcha Say…mumbling most of the words since none of us know them, and dancing. Now that's how I like to spend my Sunday. We planned a future visit for tomorrow when I get off work. Coming off this slump of feeling uninspired, powerless, out of my league, and just generally in a bad mood, I'm glad my community once again gave me a boost.
I can piggyback this story by talking about integration for a second. It is perhaps our biggest assignment as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Sure, you want to produce sustainable change and a cultural exchange, but none of that can be possible if you aren't integrated, trusted and welcomed into your surroundings. Imagine someone moving in next door and telling you how to live your life before learning your mom's name. Many of the volunteers have been having trouble - whether it be because of the culture of their site (some people are more open than others), the size of the community (sometimes bigger is NOT better), having their lodging segregated from their community, working very long hours, etc. And I would like to count my blessings about my placement. I dare someone to move into my village and not integrate. I swear my neighbors would force me. They understand that I am a horrible student at learning Kinyarwanda. I clearly oppose some of their cultural norms. And yet, there they are with their open arms. They know that if they help me pull my weeds (as they did yesterday), I won't seek their help, and I won't pay them. I think they do it because my yard is an eyesore. Nonetheless, integration.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
My Eulogy to Banter
Banter was my oldest friend. Day after day, banter was there for me. Like the glue that held my work day together, banter was the centerpiece of workplace lunches. Banter sat behind me as a greeted my fellow colleagues each morning. Banter appeared in my inbox.
But banter has left my life, for better or worse. Banter could not travel to this fine country of Rwanda with me. I'd hate to point fingers *cough* language barrier *cough* but I can no longer bond with my colleagues. I can no longer arrive at work and pepper the day with inside jokes. I can no longer see banter bouncing between people like a ping pong ball of joy. We are all suffering as a result.
We must mourn banter today. A long lost friend. A sacrifice to culture shock. A relic of a golden age.
But banter has left my life, for better or worse. Banter could not travel to this fine country of Rwanda with me. I'd hate to point fingers *cough* language barrier *cough* but I can no longer bond with my colleagues. I can no longer arrive at work and pepper the day with inside jokes. I can no longer see banter bouncing between people like a ping pong ball of joy. We are all suffering as a result.
We must mourn banter today. A long lost friend. A sacrifice to culture shock. A relic of a golden age.
I Lied
I lied.
I hadn't even had my worst day ever yet. It came the very next day. It plowed me down like a bulldozer. I woke up that morning angry. I wanted to be home. I wanted a break, to refocus. I was so mad, at everything Rwandan, at myself. The only plausible solution seemed to be to pack up and go home. It wasn't even on a long list of other solutions. It was the only solution.
I was in such a mood. I couldn't see my way out. My anger and sadness was so powerful and illogical. I couldn't reason with myself. I was fighting a losing battle with my greatest nemesis, myself.
I've been ashamed of myself for many things. Not putting effort into learning the language. Not putting effort into my job. I have become some form of lethargic person that wouldn't even be allowed to stand next to former workaholic me. I used to look like the Energizer bunny on Red Bull compared to how I'm acting now.
So I went along with the mood. Fine, I'm leaving. What would I have to do? and the first thing that popped in my head was clean my house. I'd be mortified if anyone saw it in its present condition. It's like when your mom would tell you to put on clean underwear in case you get in a car accident. Oh, that was just my mom…figures :) and I thought of all the people I would owe a face to face conversation with before I left. and realistically it would take days or weeks to accomplish all this. But I was "reverse psychology"ing myself. So I made the list in my head and I calmed down a little bit.
But the next day wasn't any better. I was still more depressed than I've ever been here. It was so sudden and inexplicable that I couldn't help myself. and then the bigger complication reared its head. Shame. I would be so ashamed of my life. I spent two years working a regular adult job after college, having nothing to do with my field. I was still sitting in my college town while most of my friends had moved on. I was off the conveyor belt and I loathed myself. I didn't want to keep up with friends because I didn't want to talk about myself. It would force me to hold up a mirror and actually look at what I had become. I couldn't go back to that depth of shame. Everyone would welcome me back but I wouldn't welcome myself back. As much as I didn't want to be here, I didn't want to be sitting in my parent's hypothetical basement more. But this was day two of feeling miserable. It came on suddenly so I was hoping it went away just as suddenly.
Then in the middle of day two, I was sitting in a district meeting with Fidele and he was explaining how some kids need to be taught to use toilet paper after going number two (actually applicable to the hygiene campaign we were discussing) and I just started cracking up. It was like in the Sex and the City movie when Charlotte poops her pants and the laughter floodgates open up. I just couldn't stop laughing. Fidele tried to chastise me but to no avail. I'd gone off the deep end of the giggles. Then just like that Rwandans stopped being obnoxious and started being hilarious. The way they cover their mouths when they take a phone call in the middle of a meeting instead of getting up. The way we get served Fanta at a government meeting. The way they clean their shoes if they are dusty. Hilarious and silly. and the black cloud lifted. Just as suddenly as it came, it went.
I know this won't be the last bad spell. The year mark is supposed to be the worst from what I've heard. and I can just hear the words I said during my interview - I'm not a quitter.
I'm going to quote a story another Peace Corps volunteer told me just in case it resonates with more people than just me. She was seriously considering leaving. So on her list of things to prep before departing was her resume. She fixed it up with things she had been doing here and then she just started adding and adding…all the things she had hoped to accomplish during the Peace Corps. She realized she could go home right now and delete all those hypothetical resume bullet points or she could stay here and actually do that stuff. So she stayed.
**I'm not trying to point fingers and say that anyone who goes home early is weak and should have been stronger. Not at all. We all have our own personal reasons for doing what we do.
This latest episode really scared me. When you can't rationalize and normalize your own emotions, it becomes frightening and overwhelming. So here's to another 19 months. and when it's all over I'll come home and say - see I told you two years would pass in a blink.
I hadn't even had my worst day ever yet. It came the very next day. It plowed me down like a bulldozer. I woke up that morning angry. I wanted to be home. I wanted a break, to refocus. I was so mad, at everything Rwandan, at myself. The only plausible solution seemed to be to pack up and go home. It wasn't even on a long list of other solutions. It was the only solution.
I was in such a mood. I couldn't see my way out. My anger and sadness was so powerful and illogical. I couldn't reason with myself. I was fighting a losing battle with my greatest nemesis, myself.
I've been ashamed of myself for many things. Not putting effort into learning the language. Not putting effort into my job. I have become some form of lethargic person that wouldn't even be allowed to stand next to former workaholic me. I used to look like the Energizer bunny on Red Bull compared to how I'm acting now.
So I went along with the mood. Fine, I'm leaving. What would I have to do? and the first thing that popped in my head was clean my house. I'd be mortified if anyone saw it in its present condition. It's like when your mom would tell you to put on clean underwear in case you get in a car accident. Oh, that was just my mom…figures :) and I thought of all the people I would owe a face to face conversation with before I left. and realistically it would take days or weeks to accomplish all this. But I was "reverse psychology"ing myself. So I made the list in my head and I calmed down a little bit.
But the next day wasn't any better. I was still more depressed than I've ever been here. It was so sudden and inexplicable that I couldn't help myself. and then the bigger complication reared its head. Shame. I would be so ashamed of my life. I spent two years working a regular adult job after college, having nothing to do with my field. I was still sitting in my college town while most of my friends had moved on. I was off the conveyor belt and I loathed myself. I didn't want to keep up with friends because I didn't want to talk about myself. It would force me to hold up a mirror and actually look at what I had become. I couldn't go back to that depth of shame. Everyone would welcome me back but I wouldn't welcome myself back. As much as I didn't want to be here, I didn't want to be sitting in my parent's hypothetical basement more. But this was day two of feeling miserable. It came on suddenly so I was hoping it went away just as suddenly.
Then in the middle of day two, I was sitting in a district meeting with Fidele and he was explaining how some kids need to be taught to use toilet paper after going number two (actually applicable to the hygiene campaign we were discussing) and I just started cracking up. It was like in the Sex and the City movie when Charlotte poops her pants and the laughter floodgates open up. I just couldn't stop laughing. Fidele tried to chastise me but to no avail. I'd gone off the deep end of the giggles. Then just like that Rwandans stopped being obnoxious and started being hilarious. The way they cover their mouths when they take a phone call in the middle of a meeting instead of getting up. The way we get served Fanta at a government meeting. The way they clean their shoes if they are dusty. Hilarious and silly. and the black cloud lifted. Just as suddenly as it came, it went.
I know this won't be the last bad spell. The year mark is supposed to be the worst from what I've heard. and I can just hear the words I said during my interview - I'm not a quitter.
I'm going to quote a story another Peace Corps volunteer told me just in case it resonates with more people than just me. She was seriously considering leaving. So on her list of things to prep before departing was her resume. She fixed it up with things she had been doing here and then she just started adding and adding…all the things she had hoped to accomplish during the Peace Corps. She realized she could go home right now and delete all those hypothetical resume bullet points or she could stay here and actually do that stuff. So she stayed.
**I'm not trying to point fingers and say that anyone who goes home early is weak and should have been stronger. Not at all. We all have our own personal reasons for doing what we do.
This latest episode really scared me. When you can't rationalize and normalize your own emotions, it becomes frightening and overwhelming. So here's to another 19 months. and when it's all over I'll come home and say - see I told you two years would pass in a blink.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Sports Center
So I'm stealing a blog post idea from one of the secondary student essays I referenced earlier. When asked the benefits of attending the camp, the student spoke about the importance of sports and games. In his opinion, sports help promote peace. If you play sports, firstly, you are improving your body and releasing some wonderful endorphins. But secondly, and more importantly, you are improving the relationship between you and the person you are playing with. Whether on the same team or on the opposing team, playing sports with someone eliminates differences and gives you an opportunity to come together, learn from each other and respect each other.
This magical power has most easily been seen during the Olympics. There is something beautiful and awe inspiring about all the different countries coming together to share something as peaceful as sports.
This leads me to a question asked to me many, many days ago. (I had at one point made a video answering people's questions but the video would never load and not wanting to transcribe myself, I deleted it.) Similar to the Olympics, the World Cup is amazing for its ability to connect and break barriers as well. World Cup fever is bigger than anything I've ever seen. Such lighthearted joy. Yes, of course the World Cup is very serious when your favorite team is playing but overall I'd call it an innocent, well-meaning happiness. Every night I would fall asleep to my neighbors gathering around a radio to listen to the games. I would eat breakfast while watching replays of the most important moments in the previous days' games. The best small talk topic of the day was about the World Cup. Since Rwanda didn't participate in the World Cup, everyone had picked their loyalty to another country…and not all to South Africa as you would assume. Watching people watch the World Cup was like a mix of small children on Christmas morning and chasing after the ice cream truck because you might miss out on a treat.
The student was right. There is something unifying and wonderful about sports.
I'd also argue that there are many racial and economic divisions among sports in the United States -sports that are predominantly played by one ethnicity or another, sports that are so expensive to play that it leaves many out. But when you boil the essence of sports down to its most fundamental, it still holds the power to change the world.
This magical power has most easily been seen during the Olympics. There is something beautiful and awe inspiring about all the different countries coming together to share something as peaceful as sports.
This leads me to a question asked to me many, many days ago. (I had at one point made a video answering people's questions but the video would never load and not wanting to transcribe myself, I deleted it.) Similar to the Olympics, the World Cup is amazing for its ability to connect and break barriers as well. World Cup fever is bigger than anything I've ever seen. Such lighthearted joy. Yes, of course the World Cup is very serious when your favorite team is playing but overall I'd call it an innocent, well-meaning happiness. Every night I would fall asleep to my neighbors gathering around a radio to listen to the games. I would eat breakfast while watching replays of the most important moments in the previous days' games. The best small talk topic of the day was about the World Cup. Since Rwanda didn't participate in the World Cup, everyone had picked their loyalty to another country…and not all to South Africa as you would assume. Watching people watch the World Cup was like a mix of small children on Christmas morning and chasing after the ice cream truck because you might miss out on a treat.
The student was right. There is something unifying and wonderful about sports.
I'd also argue that there are many racial and economic divisions among sports in the United States -sports that are predominantly played by one ethnicity or another, sports that are so expensive to play that it leaves many out. But when you boil the essence of sports down to its most fundamental, it still holds the power to change the world.
Saturday Morning Cartoons
Yesterday I enjoyed a typical Saturday. What is a typical Saturday you ask? Well I'm glad you asked…
I woke up after a splendid 11 hours of sleep. I will admit I went to bed at 8:30 pm because I couldn't think of anything better to do.
I then changed into my usual Saturday housework outfit- worn-out, saggy jeans, my hot pink Michigan State t-shirt and my navy blue crocs. I took my radio outside with me and proceeded to weed and sweep my yard. A typical, responsible Rwandan woman does this each and every morning before she gets into the real work of feeding her family, bathing, sweeping out her whole house, farming and/or teaching or whatever other profession she is. I am not a typical, responsible Rwandan woman. I have been neglecting my yard for about three months. THREE MONTHS! I know… In my defense, during the dry season the weeds have a tendency to not want to grow. So on this particular morning I was punishing myself by not cooking breakfast until after I had finished my yard work. Little did I know it would take two hours! But I was rewarded with a thumbs up from Tabita and advice to pull the whole weed, including the root. She's full of these great pieces of advice. Maryanne wanted to help but I'm always afraid she wants to get paid so I declined. After the hunger started to take over, I quit. I swear I'll get to the rest of it later… maybe in a few weeks.
Then I cooked myself a lovely meal of eggs over easy and toast. Delicious.
I washed a few pieces of clothes and some towels. I would have done more but I have a tendency to stop after a layer of skin is torn off my middle and ring fingers and the water stings.
On this particular Saturday I had a special mission. Edison and I were conducting an essay contest for the secondary students to have an opportunity to attend a camp in Kigali. The camp is similar to a holiday camp…well, it is a holiday camp. It is called Camp GLOW, standing for girls leading our world. It was created for female empowerment. This year they are extending the camp to boys. Each camp will be one week long and the genders will be separated or segregated as they like to lament. The camp is being facilitated by Peace Corps volunteers and Rwandans…sustainability is our middle name, remember. The camp is being held in English so the essay is helping weed out the kids who aren't at a high enough level to participate.
Then I went back home. Avoided cleaning my house by reading and listening to Voice of America. Which only led to a gangling of children coming through my fence and barraging me with questions. After my patience ran out I sent them away. They wouldn't leave but after ignoring their calls for a while they got bored and went off to play what I assumed was a version of hide and go seek tag. Either that or one of the boys was avoiding the group by hiding behind the kitchen for reasons of bullying and wanted isolation. I may never know.
Made some oatmeal for dinner and watched some West Wing and fell asleep. Yep, that's the life right there.
I woke up after a splendid 11 hours of sleep. I will admit I went to bed at 8:30 pm because I couldn't think of anything better to do.
I then changed into my usual Saturday housework outfit- worn-out, saggy jeans, my hot pink Michigan State t-shirt and my navy blue crocs. I took my radio outside with me and proceeded to weed and sweep my yard. A typical, responsible Rwandan woman does this each and every morning before she gets into the real work of feeding her family, bathing, sweeping out her whole house, farming and/or teaching or whatever other profession she is. I am not a typical, responsible Rwandan woman. I have been neglecting my yard for about three months. THREE MONTHS! I know… In my defense, during the dry season the weeds have a tendency to not want to grow. So on this particular morning I was punishing myself by not cooking breakfast until after I had finished my yard work. Little did I know it would take two hours! But I was rewarded with a thumbs up from Tabita and advice to pull the whole weed, including the root. She's full of these great pieces of advice. Maryanne wanted to help but I'm always afraid she wants to get paid so I declined. After the hunger started to take over, I quit. I swear I'll get to the rest of it later… maybe in a few weeks.
Then I cooked myself a lovely meal of eggs over easy and toast. Delicious.
I washed a few pieces of clothes and some towels. I would have done more but I have a tendency to stop after a layer of skin is torn off my middle and ring fingers and the water stings.
On this particular Saturday I had a special mission. Edison and I were conducting an essay contest for the secondary students to have an opportunity to attend a camp in Kigali. The camp is similar to a holiday camp…well, it is a holiday camp. It is called Camp GLOW, standing for girls leading our world. It was created for female empowerment. This year they are extending the camp to boys. Each camp will be one week long and the genders will be separated or segregated as they like to lament. The camp is being facilitated by Peace Corps volunteers and Rwandans…sustainability is our middle name, remember. The camp is being held in English so the essay is helping weed out the kids who aren't at a high enough level to participate.
Then I went back home. Avoided cleaning my house by reading and listening to Voice of America. Which only led to a gangling of children coming through my fence and barraging me with questions. After my patience ran out I sent them away. They wouldn't leave but after ignoring their calls for a while they got bored and went off to play what I assumed was a version of hide and go seek tag. Either that or one of the boys was avoiding the group by hiding behind the kitchen for reasons of bullying and wanted isolation. I may never know.
Made some oatmeal for dinner and watched some West Wing and fell asleep. Yep, that's the life right there.
Obsession with Certificates
It is something I am still wrapping my head around. Rwandans are obsessed with certificates. If they complete a training, even just a one day training, they would like a certificate stating that. Also from my limited exposure to refugees at the Lansing Refugee Development Center, I have seen this preoccupation with certificates there as well. After finishing a semester of English classes, the participants were overjoyed to receive a silly certificate made with ClipArt.
This brings up two issues. First of all, clearly it is not silly and I should get over my abhorrence of ClipArt. Value is all in the eyes of the beholder. These people hold that flimsy piece of paper in very high esteem… Oh there I go again. I was meant to write editorials and not non-biased news I suppose… But this brings me to the second point, what the certificate really means to them. The knowledge and the trainings are nothing if you don't have something to prove it happened. The power is in the paper, otherwise the experience is not solidified, not materialized, not brought into the light of reality. Having theoretical knowledge proves nothing.
I, on the other hand, represent a portion of the Western population who couldn't give two hoots about certificates (yes, Lauren that one was for you.) Sure, I have a diploma saying I graduated from college. Where is it? Well, I'm sure my mother thanklessly framed it and then I promptly stuck it in a box in the back of my closet. Certificates go on the same level as the ceremonies celebrating achievements. I hate 'em but they exist and it sure makes the family and friends smile. So maybe it's not about being presented with that certificate after a training. Maybe it's about the moment you pull it out of your bag and show it to your family. The moment your mom pulls you in for a hug and a tear slides down her cheek. Who cares if it has a little ClipArt on it.
This brings up two issues. First of all, clearly it is not silly and I should get over my abhorrence of ClipArt. Value is all in the eyes of the beholder. These people hold that flimsy piece of paper in very high esteem… Oh there I go again. I was meant to write editorials and not non-biased news I suppose… But this brings me to the second point, what the certificate really means to them. The knowledge and the trainings are nothing if you don't have something to prove it happened. The power is in the paper, otherwise the experience is not solidified, not materialized, not brought into the light of reality. Having theoretical knowledge proves nothing.
I, on the other hand, represent a portion of the Western population who couldn't give two hoots about certificates (yes, Lauren that one was for you.) Sure, I have a diploma saying I graduated from college. Where is it? Well, I'm sure my mother thanklessly framed it and then I promptly stuck it in a box in the back of my closet. Certificates go on the same level as the ceremonies celebrating achievements. I hate 'em but they exist and it sure makes the family and friends smile. So maybe it's not about being presented with that certificate after a training. Maybe it's about the moment you pull it out of your bag and show it to your family. The moment your mom pulls you in for a hug and a tear slides down her cheek. Who cares if it has a little ClipArt on it.
Gender Relations
I had an interesting work day today. A woman arrived from Washington DC to have a focus group about gender relations and the best way for the program to address the challenges. I got to see some of the men and women we serve in a whole new light. It's amazing the deep conversations that can be had with a translator.
The first group was our best cooperative, as I like to call it Rose's group because Rose is the president. This is the group I sat and learned basket weaving from my first week at site. The group is made up almost entirely of HIV positive females. From what I learned today the majority are widows. They generally take care of their own two to three kids and then have one or two orphans that they also care for - even though some of them don't even have their own shelter.
As I watched these women name securing their children's' health insurance, food and land in the future, especially once they meet their early deaths, as their biggest priorities, I was so proud of their determination. They haven't surrendered yet. They talked about the challenges of being targeted by thieves since the community knows they don't have a man in the house to protect them. Some of them get badgered by men with gifts in exchange for sex. They have to do the work of two people and have the patience and compassion to raise children.
These women have gone through the hair splitting anxiety of being tested for their HIV status. Once they found out they were positive, they didn't dig a hole and crawl in. They banded together and are trying to make a living, even through all their health battles. They can be directly compared to the majority of men in this society who refuse to be tested. Even once they are tested, most men are ashamed of their results and hide it for the rest of their lives.
*time has passed and it is now the end of the next day*
I was boosting yesterday of being a witness to such wonderful female resilience. Today I was hanging out with the same group of women. They are being trained to dye fabric and make soap in order to generate more revenue. They had a lesson today. The amount of laughter and playfulness made me think I was watching a gaggle of girls. These women are mainly 40 years old and up. They are proving that you can never lose the thirst to learn and the desire to make a positive change in your life. I'm privileged to be able to know these women.
The first group was our best cooperative, as I like to call it Rose's group because Rose is the president. This is the group I sat and learned basket weaving from my first week at site. The group is made up almost entirely of HIV positive females. From what I learned today the majority are widows. They generally take care of their own two to three kids and then have one or two orphans that they also care for - even though some of them don't even have their own shelter.
As I watched these women name securing their children's' health insurance, food and land in the future, especially once they meet their early deaths, as their biggest priorities, I was so proud of their determination. They haven't surrendered yet. They talked about the challenges of being targeted by thieves since the community knows they don't have a man in the house to protect them. Some of them get badgered by men with gifts in exchange for sex. They have to do the work of two people and have the patience and compassion to raise children.
These women have gone through the hair splitting anxiety of being tested for their HIV status. Once they found out they were positive, they didn't dig a hole and crawl in. They banded together and are trying to make a living, even through all their health battles. They can be directly compared to the majority of men in this society who refuse to be tested. Even once they are tested, most men are ashamed of their results and hide it for the rest of their lives.
*time has passed and it is now the end of the next day*
I was boosting yesterday of being a witness to such wonderful female resilience. Today I was hanging out with the same group of women. They are being trained to dye fabric and make soap in order to generate more revenue. They had a lesson today. The amount of laughter and playfulness made me think I was watching a gaggle of girls. These women are mainly 40 years old and up. They are proving that you can never lose the thirst to learn and the desire to make a positive change in your life. I'm privileged to be able to know these women.
What a Bad Day Looks Like
I can talk about all the lovely moments here but there are certainly bad days. I am having one such day today. I woke up not wanting to be in Rwanda. For once can't I just eat cereal and drink cold milk, go to the bathroom in my house, not have to deal with a language barrier and just be left alone. Can't everyone just act like I look just like them. Can't I just fit in and more importantly can't I just have a lazy Sunday with my family. Working here is all fine and good but when I have to day to relax I'd like to drive over to my sister's house and escape. I'd like to be able to use my free time for me, surrounded by the familiar.
I spent half my morning being absorbed in the West Wing (season 2 is really dynamite) ignoring where I am and eating junk food. Junk food is such a luxury. To mindlessly eat is a luxury. The other half of the morning was spent pouting, reading notes of encouragement from my best friend and in general sobbing like a baby. Those are the low points. The points with no motivation. Digging my heels in and not wanting to make a fool of myself - which is what is necessary every single day here. Facing your worst character flaws. and having such an inflated sense of self that you think you are capable of just about anything. Some days you just lose your way. Or you get down on yourself for not doing enough.
I considered not going to church today for fear of crying in public. We all know what a faux pas that is from previous experience. But often the worst idea is staying couped up in the house.
And then in usual Rwandan fashion, my neighbors sensed something is wrong and are just pouring on the wonderfulness. I'm wearing a scarf in my hair because I absolutely refused wash my hair today even though it is achieving a funky flip up which I didn't even think possible. The scarf makes me look more Rwandan so of course I've already gotten five compliments on it. Then Tabita called me over as soon as I walked out of my gate. Apparently 10 am on a Sunday is not too early to be drinking. I greeted Bubba and friends. Tabita asked me to pray for her, which I certainly will. I was walked to the hospital by a secondary school student and we had a lovely conversation. In the meantime I was flanked on both sides by children holding my hands. They were adorable, well behaved and liked to grip my hand like I was their salvation.
Whenever I try to write off Rwanda and wallow in self pity, they punch me in the stomach with compassion and thankfulness. Darn. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow.
I spent half my morning being absorbed in the West Wing (season 2 is really dynamite) ignoring where I am and eating junk food. Junk food is such a luxury. To mindlessly eat is a luxury. The other half of the morning was spent pouting, reading notes of encouragement from my best friend and in general sobbing like a baby. Those are the low points. The points with no motivation. Digging my heels in and not wanting to make a fool of myself - which is what is necessary every single day here. Facing your worst character flaws. and having such an inflated sense of self that you think you are capable of just about anything. Some days you just lose your way. Or you get down on yourself for not doing enough.
I considered not going to church today for fear of crying in public. We all know what a faux pas that is from previous experience. But often the worst idea is staying couped up in the house.
And then in usual Rwandan fashion, my neighbors sensed something is wrong and are just pouring on the wonderfulness. I'm wearing a scarf in my hair because I absolutely refused wash my hair today even though it is achieving a funky flip up which I didn't even think possible. The scarf makes me look more Rwandan so of course I've already gotten five compliments on it. Then Tabita called me over as soon as I walked out of my gate. Apparently 10 am on a Sunday is not too early to be drinking. I greeted Bubba and friends. Tabita asked me to pray for her, which I certainly will. I was walked to the hospital by a secondary school student and we had a lovely conversation. In the meantime I was flanked on both sides by children holding my hands. They were adorable, well behaved and liked to grip my hand like I was their salvation.
Whenever I try to write off Rwanda and wallow in self pity, they punch me in the stomach with compassion and thankfulness. Darn. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow.
Gender Relations
I had an interesting work day today. A woman arrived from Washington DC to have a focus group about gender relations and the best way for the program to address the challenges. I got to see some of the men and women we serve in a whole new light. It's amazing the deep conversations that can be had with a translator.
The first group was our best cooperative, as I like to call it Rose's group because Rose is the president. This is the group I sat and learned basket weaving from my first week at site. The group is made up almost entirely of HIV positive females. From what I learned today the majority are widows. They generally take care of their own two to three kids and then have one or two orphans that they also care for - even though some of them don't even have their own shelter.
As I watched these women name securing their children's' health insurance, food and land in the future, especially once they meet their early deaths, as their biggest priorities, I was so proud of their determination. They haven't surrendered yet. They talked about the challenges of being targeted by thieves since the community knows they don't have a man in the house to protect them. Some of them get badgered by men with gifts in exchange for sex. They have to do the work of two people and have the patience and compassion to raise children.
These women have gone through the hair splitting anxiety of being tested for their HIV status. Once they found out they were positive, they didn't dig a hole and crawl in. They banded together and are trying to make a living, even through all their health battles. They can be directly compared to the majority of men in this society who refuse to be tested. Even once they are tested, most men are ashamed of their results and hide it for the rest of their lives.
*time has passed and it is now the end of the next day*
I was boosting yesterday of being a witness to such wonderful female resilience. Today I was hanging out with the same group of women. They are being trained to dye fabric and make soap in order to generate more revenue. They had a lesson today. The amount of laughter and playfulness made me think I was watching a gaggle of girls. These women are mainly 40 years old and up. They are proving that you can never lose the thirst to learn and the desire to make a positive change in your life. I'm privileged to be able to know these women.
The first group was our best cooperative, as I like to call it Rose's group because Rose is the president. This is the group I sat and learned basket weaving from my first week at site. The group is made up almost entirely of HIV positive females. From what I learned today the majority are widows. They generally take care of their own two to three kids and then have one or two orphans that they also care for - even though some of them don't even have their own shelter.
As I watched these women name securing their children's' health insurance, food and land in the future, especially once they meet their early deaths, as their biggest priorities, I was so proud of their determination. They haven't surrendered yet. They talked about the challenges of being targeted by thieves since the community knows they don't have a man in the house to protect them. Some of them get badgered by men with gifts in exchange for sex. They have to do the work of two people and have the patience and compassion to raise children.
These women have gone through the hair splitting anxiety of being tested for their HIV status. Once they found out they were positive, they didn't dig a hole and crawl in. They banded together and are trying to make a living, even through all their health battles. They can be directly compared to the majority of men in this society who refuse to be tested. Even once they are tested, most men are ashamed of their results and hide it for the rest of their lives.
*time has passed and it is now the end of the next day*
I was boosting yesterday of being a witness to such wonderful female resilience. Today I was hanging out with the same group of women. They are being trained to dye fabric and make soap in order to generate more revenue. They had a lesson today. The amount of laughter and playfulness made me think I was watching a gaggle of girls. These women are mainly 40 years old and up. They are proving that you can never lose the thirst to learn and the desire to make a positive change in your life. I'm privileged to be able to know these women.
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