The gig is up. I tried to hide the fact that I have a computer, and a nice one at that. I’ve lied to several coworkers while concurrently using it in the guesthouse with other coworkers commenting on it. I just couldn’t help myself. Shot myself in the foot for sure.
I had agreed to help Jeanne type up her dissertation (1st draft). The ability to type is something of an anomaly here. There just isn’t a lot of access to computers. I remember first really learning to type because I was using AOL’s instant messenger in junior high. Obviously these kids aren’t getting home from school and logging in to chat with their friends online. In fact most workplaces don’t have computers either. I’d say a quarter of the offices at the hospital are blessed with a computer. Getting back to the point, typing is a big deal and they are mesmerized when you don’t even have to look down at the keys! I was sitting back and allowing Jeanne to call numerous people to try and get access to a computer at the hospital over the weekend because I had already lied and told her I didn’t have one. Through all the hunting we came across one of the regulars at the guesthouse. A conversation ensued in Kinyarwandan. I was praying that it wouldn’t come up that I indeed had a computer and had been using it just that day in the guesthouse and in fact it had it in my backpack at that very moment. Well it did. And then I felt like a total schmuck because Jeanne had bent over backwards helping me with the whole lock/door situation. She had let me sleep at her place, fed me multiple times, calmed me down, made all the phone calls to get people to fix the doors, acted as my translator…and then I had lied to her, blatantly. I’m hoping our friendship can still be intact. My penance is typing her dissertation and praying that Rwandan forgiveness comes easily.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Day Fourteen
Listening to Voice of America, hearing some new American music. Voice of America has been my favorite radio station lately – or should I say the only English station I can find. Find it amusing at times…
Right now I am sitting on my front porch, singing to Kelly Clarkson’s Because of You and washing my shoes. I love Sunday mornings. Washing shoes is essential in Rwanda. You are expected to be as clean as you can afford at all times. This includes shoes. There is really no excuse for your shoes to be muddy or dirty. I don’t care if it just rained this morning. You will get people looking and scoffing. I’ve never paid much mind to the cleanliness of my shoes. Turning over a new leaf in Rwanda…
I am uploading (attempting to upload) two audio pieces to go along with this. The first is about 12 minutes long, the second 30 minutes. If it works, there will be more audio posts to come.
Right now I am sitting on my front porch, singing to Kelly Clarkson’s Because of You and washing my shoes. I love Sunday mornings. Washing shoes is essential in Rwanda. You are expected to be as clean as you can afford at all times. This includes shoes. There is really no excuse for your shoes to be muddy or dirty. I don’t care if it just rained this morning. You will get people looking and scoffing. I’ve never paid much mind to the cleanliness of my shoes. Turning over a new leaf in Rwanda…
I am uploading (attempting to upload) two audio pieces to go along with this. The first is about 12 minutes long, the second 30 minutes. If it works, there will be more audio posts to come.
Day 12/Day 13 - Faulty Locks and Demons
The demons were chasing her. Her body was shaking and her voice yelled out. She refused to open her eyes and come back to the present. She was being tortured by a past reality. Jeanne was rubbing her face and urging her to open her eyes. She was a nurse and here to help. Open your eyes. Where are you? Open your eyes.
This was my first experience observing a PTSD patient. She was triggered at school and was reliving her brother’s death that she had witnessed. Although it was not genocide related it correlated to my town’s memorial services happening this weekend. It was a tense time that brought up everyone’s triggers.
I finally found the answer to my earlier question – those wailing Rwandans that get carted off and isolated from the crowd, where do they go? - the hospital in most cases. The day was busy for the mental health staff. Two more girls came in with PTSD symptoms although all very unique.
Nicole was verbalizing all her fears. The police were outside. Her Papa was in danger. Why don’t we understand what is happening and help? After much logical reasoning and family praying over her, she continued to exist in her delusion. She did not realize that she had been transported by ambulance and was in the hospital far from her home. She would later be injected in order to calm her. Jeanne hates doing this, but after the episode has persisted for a long amount of time it is the best solution that she can come up with.
The third girl is even more chilling. She cannot verbalize anything. Instead she whimpers a constant hum and is rocking ever so gently as she lies on the hospital bed.
It is just the beginning of the memorial services this weekend. An overnight commemoration will take place and then a service at the church that I will attend the following morning.
Or at least I thought I would attend. It has been a long 26 hours. My patience has been tested and I finally realized just how American I am. After checking up on Edison’s house with Jeanne, I was deposited back at my house just at dusk. I went about my getting ready for bed business and had just locked the front door, the first of many doors I lock. The handle wasn’t turning quite right. I’ve had trouble with it before. I pushed down hard and what do you know I broke it more than it already was. I was effectively locked inside my house. Because, that’s right, I hadn’t had my back door fixed yet. I had just trapped myself in my own home. This is probably a good time to remind you that my bathroom is not in my house and I don’t cook so I have a measly amount of food stashed. So the plan was – text Jeanne and ask her to bring a hospital technician at 7am tomorrow, ensuring that we all make it to the memorial service on time. Having only lived here for two weeks I don’t have many local people’s phone numbers. In fact I am very strict about who I give my number too because strange Rwandan phone calls are not desired. Just yesterday I had given my number to both mental health nurses after their adamant urging. On Monday I had been in Kigali for a meeting. I only found out about it on Saturday so I didn’t get a chance to tell any of my coworkers. Jeanne and Christine were besides themselves worrying that I was alone and sick at my house with no one to help me and no food to eat. The concern was so genuine that I couldn’t not give them my number. Thank God I did.
Hour one was spent laughing. Jeanne brought the dentist and another male hospital worker that I’ve met and can’t place. So many coworkers, so little time to remember! Plus my favorite hospital technician Pascal. They came over immediately since weekends were harder to catch people to help and it was Friday night. In America I would have just jumped out a window but in Rwanda almost every window has bars on it. So we were all joking that I was in jail, whether this prison time would go on my permanent record, taking cell phone pictures of me behind bars. I am so thankful they were all in town. They all usually leave on the weekends because as I’ve been told multiple times, there is nothing to do here on the weekends. Why not take the quick trip into Kigali and hang out with friends, at restaurants and clubs on the weekends?
Hour two was spent with four Rwandan men trying to kick my door in. They had realized that I really wasn’t an idiot who didn’t know how to unlock a door. The doorknob was completely jammed and not allowing the door to open. The whole neighborhood was coming to look. I’d like to think it was because they wanted to make sure someone wasn’t breaking into my house. I have a sneaking suspicion it was also to have one more thing to laugh at me about.
So who was this fourth man I speak of? None other than my banana brewing, entrepreneurial neighbor that I will from here on out refer to as Bubba. Bubba was drunk, per the usual. But he is always looking to lend a helping hand, with a price tag of course. He is cunning that’s for sure. After inserting himself into the situation and smelling up the place he then states how much his 30 minutes of labor will cost. Enough to buy drinks the whole night I’m sure. Oh Bubba, you sly man.
Well, there was no fixing the door tonight. I was able to exit the house but the lock was decimated. My front door could only be locked from the inside with a padlock and no door handle. I still felt secure, although I couldn’t leave my house because I couldn’t lock it from the outside. Then I glanced over at the concern on Jeanne’s face. There was no way she was going to allow me to sleep here tonight. I wanted to put up a good fight but I knew she’d lose sleep over it. It was decided. Her houseboy would bring over his mattress and sleep in my living room, which can be locked off from the rest of the house. In the morning I would come back and relieve him. As you can imagine, Bubba also volunteered for this job. We declined his generous offer. I was lucky enough to be surrounded by wonderful Rwandans even if I can’t remember all their names ☺
Hour three and four and part of five (way past my bed time at this point) were spent walking from house to house to show Francois, the houseboy, where I live, without leaving the house deserted. Then Jeanne wanted us all to drink tea at her house, which magically turned into tea and dinner – she’s a Polish grandma in the making! Then of course she had to change the sheets of the bed I was going to sleep on and offer me pajamas. Southern hospitality could definitely be rivaled by Rwandan hospitality.
Frustration ensued. By the next day I was beyond cranky. First problem: I wasn’t on my regular eating schedule. Miss a meal and WATCH OUT. I hadn’t sleep well for some reason or another. I had lost all control of the situation. Things were happening the Rwandan way and I couldn’t even communicate directly with anyone. Plus I was constantly depending on someone or needed someone present. I hadn’t realized how much I treasure, or should I say NEED, my alone time. For hours every night I get to decompress and disappear into my own little American reality. I had just hit Rwandan reality 24/7. Overload!
Let’s fast forward to hour 24 and 25. Yes, we are again working in the dark because no one can show up in a timely manner. Bubba is once again present. No one is listening to what I believe is the real problem and are instead redoing all my handy work of installing the new doorknob. Well, this is when my American, feminist attitude surged. Arms crossed, eyeballs rolling I was doing my parents proud having no idea why men would think that I couldn’t do the same job as them, in less time and more effectively. I’ve got a Swiss army knife and know how to use it! Thanks Dad – that Phillips really came in handy! I’m pretty sure my body language was transcending our language barrier and I was trying hard not to be the snotty, rich American who is looking down her nose at the handymen…or should I say handyman and randomly inserted Bubba. I had lost all faith. They weren’t even fixing the part I knew was the main culprit. This was taking forever. I’d never get to bed. I’d never be able to leave my house unattended again.
…and then just like that, it was over. Fixed. I’ve got my house back, all to my lonesome. I’ve finally been able to calm down enough to write this blog post. The first 6 hours were spent thinking this would be a really funny story…the rest were spent wishing it was a much, much shorter story.
Lessons learned: never underestimate a trustworthy houseboy and the cleansing power of washing your hair.
This post is dedicated to all of you who have been the victim of faulty, Rwandan locks. Although being locked in a bathroom is much more common among us PCVs, I’d like to think being locked inside a house resonates as a story of shared desperation.
This was my first experience observing a PTSD patient. She was triggered at school and was reliving her brother’s death that she had witnessed. Although it was not genocide related it correlated to my town’s memorial services happening this weekend. It was a tense time that brought up everyone’s triggers.
I finally found the answer to my earlier question – those wailing Rwandans that get carted off and isolated from the crowd, where do they go? - the hospital in most cases. The day was busy for the mental health staff. Two more girls came in with PTSD symptoms although all very unique.
Nicole was verbalizing all her fears. The police were outside. Her Papa was in danger. Why don’t we understand what is happening and help? After much logical reasoning and family praying over her, she continued to exist in her delusion. She did not realize that she had been transported by ambulance and was in the hospital far from her home. She would later be injected in order to calm her. Jeanne hates doing this, but after the episode has persisted for a long amount of time it is the best solution that she can come up with.
The third girl is even more chilling. She cannot verbalize anything. Instead she whimpers a constant hum and is rocking ever so gently as she lies on the hospital bed.
It is just the beginning of the memorial services this weekend. An overnight commemoration will take place and then a service at the church that I will attend the following morning.
Or at least I thought I would attend. It has been a long 26 hours. My patience has been tested and I finally realized just how American I am. After checking up on Edison’s house with Jeanne, I was deposited back at my house just at dusk. I went about my getting ready for bed business and had just locked the front door, the first of many doors I lock. The handle wasn’t turning quite right. I’ve had trouble with it before. I pushed down hard and what do you know I broke it more than it already was. I was effectively locked inside my house. Because, that’s right, I hadn’t had my back door fixed yet. I had just trapped myself in my own home. This is probably a good time to remind you that my bathroom is not in my house and I don’t cook so I have a measly amount of food stashed. So the plan was – text Jeanne and ask her to bring a hospital technician at 7am tomorrow, ensuring that we all make it to the memorial service on time. Having only lived here for two weeks I don’t have many local people’s phone numbers. In fact I am very strict about who I give my number too because strange Rwandan phone calls are not desired. Just yesterday I had given my number to both mental health nurses after their adamant urging. On Monday I had been in Kigali for a meeting. I only found out about it on Saturday so I didn’t get a chance to tell any of my coworkers. Jeanne and Christine were besides themselves worrying that I was alone and sick at my house with no one to help me and no food to eat. The concern was so genuine that I couldn’t not give them my number. Thank God I did.
Hour one was spent laughing. Jeanne brought the dentist and another male hospital worker that I’ve met and can’t place. So many coworkers, so little time to remember! Plus my favorite hospital technician Pascal. They came over immediately since weekends were harder to catch people to help and it was Friday night. In America I would have just jumped out a window but in Rwanda almost every window has bars on it. So we were all joking that I was in jail, whether this prison time would go on my permanent record, taking cell phone pictures of me behind bars. I am so thankful they were all in town. They all usually leave on the weekends because as I’ve been told multiple times, there is nothing to do here on the weekends. Why not take the quick trip into Kigali and hang out with friends, at restaurants and clubs on the weekends?
Hour two was spent with four Rwandan men trying to kick my door in. They had realized that I really wasn’t an idiot who didn’t know how to unlock a door. The doorknob was completely jammed and not allowing the door to open. The whole neighborhood was coming to look. I’d like to think it was because they wanted to make sure someone wasn’t breaking into my house. I have a sneaking suspicion it was also to have one more thing to laugh at me about.
So who was this fourth man I speak of? None other than my banana brewing, entrepreneurial neighbor that I will from here on out refer to as Bubba. Bubba was drunk, per the usual. But he is always looking to lend a helping hand, with a price tag of course. He is cunning that’s for sure. After inserting himself into the situation and smelling up the place he then states how much his 30 minutes of labor will cost. Enough to buy drinks the whole night I’m sure. Oh Bubba, you sly man.
Well, there was no fixing the door tonight. I was able to exit the house but the lock was decimated. My front door could only be locked from the inside with a padlock and no door handle. I still felt secure, although I couldn’t leave my house because I couldn’t lock it from the outside. Then I glanced over at the concern on Jeanne’s face. There was no way she was going to allow me to sleep here tonight. I wanted to put up a good fight but I knew she’d lose sleep over it. It was decided. Her houseboy would bring over his mattress and sleep in my living room, which can be locked off from the rest of the house. In the morning I would come back and relieve him. As you can imagine, Bubba also volunteered for this job. We declined his generous offer. I was lucky enough to be surrounded by wonderful Rwandans even if I can’t remember all their names ☺
Hour three and four and part of five (way past my bed time at this point) were spent walking from house to house to show Francois, the houseboy, where I live, without leaving the house deserted. Then Jeanne wanted us all to drink tea at her house, which magically turned into tea and dinner – she’s a Polish grandma in the making! Then of course she had to change the sheets of the bed I was going to sleep on and offer me pajamas. Southern hospitality could definitely be rivaled by Rwandan hospitality.
Frustration ensued. By the next day I was beyond cranky. First problem: I wasn’t on my regular eating schedule. Miss a meal and WATCH OUT. I hadn’t sleep well for some reason or another. I had lost all control of the situation. Things were happening the Rwandan way and I couldn’t even communicate directly with anyone. Plus I was constantly depending on someone or needed someone present. I hadn’t realized how much I treasure, or should I say NEED, my alone time. For hours every night I get to decompress and disappear into my own little American reality. I had just hit Rwandan reality 24/7. Overload!
Let’s fast forward to hour 24 and 25. Yes, we are again working in the dark because no one can show up in a timely manner. Bubba is once again present. No one is listening to what I believe is the real problem and are instead redoing all my handy work of installing the new doorknob. Well, this is when my American, feminist attitude surged. Arms crossed, eyeballs rolling I was doing my parents proud having no idea why men would think that I couldn’t do the same job as them, in less time and more effectively. I’ve got a Swiss army knife and know how to use it! Thanks Dad – that Phillips really came in handy! I’m pretty sure my body language was transcending our language barrier and I was trying hard not to be the snotty, rich American who is looking down her nose at the handymen…or should I say handyman and randomly inserted Bubba. I had lost all faith. They weren’t even fixing the part I knew was the main culprit. This was taking forever. I’d never get to bed. I’d never be able to leave my house unattended again.
…and then just like that, it was over. Fixed. I’ve got my house back, all to my lonesome. I’ve finally been able to calm down enough to write this blog post. The first 6 hours were spent thinking this would be a really funny story…the rest were spent wishing it was a much, much shorter story.
Lessons learned: never underestimate a trustworthy houseboy and the cleansing power of washing your hair.
This post is dedicated to all of you who have been the victim of faulty, Rwandan locks. Although being locked in a bathroom is much more common among us PCVs, I’d like to think being locked inside a house resonates as a story of shared desperation.
Day Eleven
I am once again combating the Thursday slump. I don’t know what it is about Thursdays but they have replaced the Wednesday of olden days. I didn’t get much sleep last night because I still need to best the loudest buzzing bug in the world and my body hated me. I really thought of babying myself and lying in bed all day with movies but I’m really glad I didn’t. I have encountered the eternal wait of the patients the last couple days. Mainly because I too am waiting for certain nurses so I sit with them and feel their pain. It’s always good to get a patient perspective I guess. Geez, it’s frustrating. I haven’t quite figured out how the business hours system works here. For the most part people work from 9am-5pm. But lunch break is another story and whether they are actually doing their job is another. I’m trying not to judge because I hate assuming people don’t do their jobs. I’m still giving them the benefit of the doubt. Different culture, right? So needless to say I feel like I’ve wasted some time lately.
Today I went to the secondary school to meet with the English club for the first time. Of course I had the wrong time. A teacher pulled one of the members out of class just so he could tell me when they are going to meet. I’m going back at the end of their school day. I got to meet some teachers and a couple student athletes. These two girls sauntered over shouting at me. They had all the attitude of adolescent athletes. I loved it. There’s just something about that arrogant invincibility that is so hopeful, although still a lot of attitude. So in the end I met Jobst who is from Burundi. She plays football aka soccer for the school. I’m going to go to her game on Sunday at the local stadium. A reason to look forward to Sunday. I’m glad I get to promote female sports in Rwanda.
I’ve decided this town is perfect except for the fact that they don’t sell chocolate here!
I visited mental health this afternoon and got to show off the beautiful Snapfish book of family pictures that my sister made me. It was wonderful to show off my family to my coworkers. Great bonding time. They were especially impressed by how old my grandparents are.
I’ve even had other departments asking why I’m not visiting them. It’s great to feel that I’m not imposing since they are the ones asking.
I’m listening to Sad Brad Smith’s Help Yourself and pondering the gravity of this experience. Deciding to go into the Peace Corps was not just a personal decision. Sure, I made the plunge to transport myself to a foreign location and hammer this learning experience out for two years. But more than that, I dragged a lot of loving people into this adventure as well. I am fully aware that when I signed up, I was committing more than myself. Family and friends are coming along for the ride through their support, worry, anxiety, tears and pride. I consider my family to be the rock stars of this decision because (number one) they didn’t make the decision in the first place and (number two) they aren’t necessarily cut out for this. I happen to be born with some need to place myself in locations far from home, surrounded by strangers. To all my family who do not share this urge, it is hard to resonate the logic of leaving Michigan. I hope you are all coming around in your own time. Thanks for your support. I know this is bigger than me.
Today I went to the secondary school to meet with the English club for the first time. Of course I had the wrong time. A teacher pulled one of the members out of class just so he could tell me when they are going to meet. I’m going back at the end of their school day. I got to meet some teachers and a couple student athletes. These two girls sauntered over shouting at me. They had all the attitude of adolescent athletes. I loved it. There’s just something about that arrogant invincibility that is so hopeful, although still a lot of attitude. So in the end I met Jobst who is from Burundi. She plays football aka soccer for the school. I’m going to go to her game on Sunday at the local stadium. A reason to look forward to Sunday. I’m glad I get to promote female sports in Rwanda.
I’ve decided this town is perfect except for the fact that they don’t sell chocolate here!
I visited mental health this afternoon and got to show off the beautiful Snapfish book of family pictures that my sister made me. It was wonderful to show off my family to my coworkers. Great bonding time. They were especially impressed by how old my grandparents are.
I’ve even had other departments asking why I’m not visiting them. It’s great to feel that I’m not imposing since they are the ones asking.
I’m listening to Sad Brad Smith’s Help Yourself and pondering the gravity of this experience. Deciding to go into the Peace Corps was not just a personal decision. Sure, I made the plunge to transport myself to a foreign location and hammer this learning experience out for two years. But more than that, I dragged a lot of loving people into this adventure as well. I am fully aware that when I signed up, I was committing more than myself. Family and friends are coming along for the ride through their support, worry, anxiety, tears and pride. I consider my family to be the rock stars of this decision because (number one) they didn’t make the decision in the first place and (number two) they aren’t necessarily cut out for this. I happen to be born with some need to place myself in locations far from home, surrounded by strangers. To all my family who do not share this urge, it is hard to resonate the logic of leaving Michigan. I hope you are all coming around in your own time. Thanks for your support. I know this is bigger than me.
Day Nine
Meandered my way back to work after enjoying some internet and electricity. It was nice to see friends but I missed my own bed and my own house. Site has already become a comforting place. Compared to Kigali it really is a country retreat.
Showed up at the guesthouse and found myself a spectator of the meeting of the minds – all the bigwigs of EPR. Trying to blend into the wall since it’s now even like I can effectively eavesdrop since they are speaking French.
I am exhausted again. Part too much sun, too little water, sharing a twin mattress with Kerry last night since we both crashed at Anna’s, going to bed later than usual and having my body still wake me up at 5am hour. I also feel like I must be “on” all the time. I can’t be sleepy and rude to people because you never know who you are meeting or riding the bus with and you are always being scrutinized.
I’ve been pondering so many things as I spend day after day in Rwanda. I wish I could read so much more about the social, economic and political factors in Rwanda and Africa as a whole. But what I do have above the scholars and theorizers is the fact that I’m here. Everyone looks to the US as the goal destination, the golden land. It is a prize to be had, a life to emulate. I wish more Rwandans wanted to be Rwandan. I wish the youth would see their future here and the change they could create here. I don’t want them to put a drain on Rwanda’s talent by leaving. Beyond talent, there is the topic of culture. I remember in college having the debate that Americans did not have a distinct culture like the unique heritages we originated from. We had a lack of rich, prideful tradition and yet the world is somehow emulating our style. Is this tainting them? Should we be able to keep everyone in their own microcosm of behavior? Globalization makes that impossible, yet it is not appropriate to put American behavior on a pedestal. At some point wealth and power made us the cool kids in school that everyone copies like mindless clones. Success is not reached through one single, narrow path. As business practices and the bureaucracy of politics seeps into the mindset of people, the behavior modification begins. Of course all tradition should not be idealized and unchanged. But to lose one’s character is to lose oneself. I am not a cheerleader for the American way of life and I cringe at it spreading. Now I will step off my own pedestal and let you all comment if you’d like.
Looks like I will be traveling to the north for a four day training next week. So much for staying at site a solid 30 days. Our program is just launching so meetings and trainings are numerous.
Oh quickly a day turns. Every day is completely flexible and you should never have expectations. I left lunch feeling slightly morose. I went to the AIDS treatment office to observe. I sat for awhile waiting and then found out they would not be coming until the next morning. Nothing is ever a waste of time. You just have to flow with the day. I ended up meeting a lab tech who spoke English. I asked if I could hang out with him for the afternoon because my supervisor was ill and what do you know I got to observe the lab for hours. It was the 1st time I truly relaxed with Rwandans. The lab techs could speak English well enough to joke around – humor is always the truest test of fluency. We joked about me being single and wanting to be independent, Arnold Schwarzenegger and the strange turn of events that lead him into politics, and bonded about being Catholic. But they were also very serious and knowledgeable about their jobs. I got to slide important questions in as if I were a scheming journalist looking for juice. I drank in every detail and observation because I could help them change and become even better. It’s a question of trust, priorities and tiny behavior modifications that reap the largest benefit. I know I sound like I’m masterminding…because I am. But it’s part of assessing. If I find people who are open to change and then figure out how I can get them to influence the hospital as a whole to change, then I just created sustainable growth. Which brings up a major goal of the Peace Corps – sustainability. Who cares if you run a great training session for health practices or have a life skills conference for children? Doesn’t it make more sense to have Rwandans own that training session and conference so that it will be perpetuated when you’re gone? I thought so. It’s always faster and usually less frustrating to take the reins and do it yourself. Transferring skills or planting seeds of ideas that they then own as their own is the challenge.
Showed up at the guesthouse and found myself a spectator of the meeting of the minds – all the bigwigs of EPR. Trying to blend into the wall since it’s now even like I can effectively eavesdrop since they are speaking French.
I am exhausted again. Part too much sun, too little water, sharing a twin mattress with Kerry last night since we both crashed at Anna’s, going to bed later than usual and having my body still wake me up at 5am hour. I also feel like I must be “on” all the time. I can’t be sleepy and rude to people because you never know who you are meeting or riding the bus with and you are always being scrutinized.
I’ve been pondering so many things as I spend day after day in Rwanda. I wish I could read so much more about the social, economic and political factors in Rwanda and Africa as a whole. But what I do have above the scholars and theorizers is the fact that I’m here. Everyone looks to the US as the goal destination, the golden land. It is a prize to be had, a life to emulate. I wish more Rwandans wanted to be Rwandan. I wish the youth would see their future here and the change they could create here. I don’t want them to put a drain on Rwanda’s talent by leaving. Beyond talent, there is the topic of culture. I remember in college having the debate that Americans did not have a distinct culture like the unique heritages we originated from. We had a lack of rich, prideful tradition and yet the world is somehow emulating our style. Is this tainting them? Should we be able to keep everyone in their own microcosm of behavior? Globalization makes that impossible, yet it is not appropriate to put American behavior on a pedestal. At some point wealth and power made us the cool kids in school that everyone copies like mindless clones. Success is not reached through one single, narrow path. As business practices and the bureaucracy of politics seeps into the mindset of people, the behavior modification begins. Of course all tradition should not be idealized and unchanged. But to lose one’s character is to lose oneself. I am not a cheerleader for the American way of life and I cringe at it spreading. Now I will step off my own pedestal and let you all comment if you’d like.
Looks like I will be traveling to the north for a four day training next week. So much for staying at site a solid 30 days. Our program is just launching so meetings and trainings are numerous.
Oh quickly a day turns. Every day is completely flexible and you should never have expectations. I left lunch feeling slightly morose. I went to the AIDS treatment office to observe. I sat for awhile waiting and then found out they would not be coming until the next morning. Nothing is ever a waste of time. You just have to flow with the day. I ended up meeting a lab tech who spoke English. I asked if I could hang out with him for the afternoon because my supervisor was ill and what do you know I got to observe the lab for hours. It was the 1st time I truly relaxed with Rwandans. The lab techs could speak English well enough to joke around – humor is always the truest test of fluency. We joked about me being single and wanting to be independent, Arnold Schwarzenegger and the strange turn of events that lead him into politics, and bonded about being Catholic. But they were also very serious and knowledgeable about their jobs. I got to slide important questions in as if I were a scheming journalist looking for juice. I drank in every detail and observation because I could help them change and become even better. It’s a question of trust, priorities and tiny behavior modifications that reap the largest benefit. I know I sound like I’m masterminding…because I am. But it’s part of assessing. If I find people who are open to change and then figure out how I can get them to influence the hospital as a whole to change, then I just created sustainable growth. Which brings up a major goal of the Peace Corps – sustainability. Who cares if you run a great training session for health practices or have a life skills conference for children? Doesn’t it make more sense to have Rwandans own that training session and conference so that it will be perpetuated when you’re gone? I thought so. It’s always faster and usually less frustrating to take the reins and do it yourself. Transferring skills or planting seeds of ideas that they then own as their own is the challenge.
Day Eight
Successfully made it into Kigali for morning meeting. Of course it started a couple hours late. Have a feeling I’ll be spending the night here. Good thing I have conveniently located friends.
My schedule is getting messed up. Funny how quickly something becomes habit – like not eating dinner and going to bed at 8pm. I’ve come back to civilization with electricity and feel like the ‘grandma’ that earned me that nickname long ago with my sleeping habits.
My schedule is getting messed up. Funny how quickly something becomes habit – like not eating dinner and going to bed at 8pm. I’ve come back to civilization with electricity and feel like the ‘grandma’ that earned me that nickname long ago with my sleeping habits.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Day Seven
I am at the guesthouse again. Unfortunately I’ve been using it as a sort of scapegoat to get out of my house. I don’t want my neighbors visiting me or pondering what I’m doing in my house alone. In fact I hate being in that big house alone during daylight. It makes me feel lonely. I returned the Thermos to Jeanne’s house and then tried to fight the urge to show up here. But I could hear the hum of the generator and I’ve been itching to charge my laptop. This is the first time my laptop has seen daylight here. I feel like I have to hide it – for good reason too. I don’t want people to know I have it so there will be less chance of it getting stolen and I’ve lied to quite a few people and told them I don’t have one. I just know they would ask me favors that I don’t want to do. Lies just slip off my tongue like that. A lot of people have been asking for my email address – I tell them I don’t have Internet, which isn’t a complete lie. And then there’s the ones who ask for my cell phone number. I tell them it’s only for work. Once you budge on one thing, you’ll be getting phone calls in the middle of the night for no good reason. So I’m taking the advice of current PCVs and just lying for as long as possible.
So I pampered myself today and had a really great day so far. I came to the guesthouse for breakfast with the scheme of taking advantage of its amenities. I took a bucket bath in a tub. And boy did it feel good. I could finally effectively wash my hair. I even brought fruit to breakfast, which seemed a little rude but they are definitely missing part of the food pyramid here.
Then I went to church. Everyone here believes in God, without question. It just depends what religion they fall under. As a visitor they really want to know that you believe too. A lot of fellow volunteers have been having a hard time with this because they aren’t churchgoers. Do they lie and earn easy community integration points? Do they say their religion isn’t in Rwanda and they pray in the privacy of their own home? Do they tell the truth and risk the blow to their reputation? These are all real examples that I’ve been told about from current volunteers – okay I really need to stop calling them current volunteers like I am still a trainee, but it’s hard to remember I’m a current volunteer too! Back to the point, I feel blessed in a way to have been raised Catholic. Going to the Catholic masses here have some real advantages: they are much shorter than other church services. This may seem crass to say but some services here are five hours or more! Catholic masses are much more calm and mundane – us Catholics don’t get too crazy in church. It is exactly the same as home, therefore a good place to go when you need something familiar. Although lately I have been questioning my Catholicism and was even thinking of getting away from organized religion for a while – it is still familiar, a great community structure and something I can easily fall into here. (Plug for my eclectic reading interests: If you know any interesting spiritual articles or book titles, send them along. I’m always intrigued to learn more about everything.)
The Presbyterians are the only ones who have a church structure in this town. The Protestants and Catholics have an agreement with the secondary school to hold services. The Catholics have to wait until the Protestants are done (because they run the school) and until the priest can come from the first mass he says that day. So it began at 11am. Although I couldn’t understand what they were saying, so much was exactly the same. It felt very comforting.
The student choir was wonderful. I especially loved that they busted out their keyboard and set it to the organ setting. They were also playing an African drum.
It was wonderful to just sit and not have to speak yet feel like I’m part of the community. Unfortunately every good experience is tainted by someone asking me for money. Turns out the Catholics really want to build their own chapel here. You can’t blame them for asking. I do look like I have a big money sign on my forehead.
Another adorable moment was the four year old sitting in front of me poking her older sister, telling her to sit up straight and look at the priest. Some things you can bet on in any country. There will always be cute, distracting children in church. There will always something more interesting that people want to watch outside church, in this case, volleyball and basketball games. And Catholic masses are exactly the same. Sure it’s methodic and a bit robotic but comforting nonetheless.
Then after Mass there was a basketball game outside. Again, exactly the same as home. The refs made the same hand gestures for calls. Both schools had coordinated uniforms, which seemed too put together for the economic status of these students. My school’s team liked to try for insane three pointers…and made them most of the time. There was a spectator with a loud horn. It was equivalent to a cowbell at home – just as loud and obnoxious. So I found another excuse to sit around silently while in a crowd- sporting events. It seems like Sunday is a popular day for games, giving me one more thing to add to my social calendar. It was a great chance for students to come and approach me if they wanted to and I said hi to a BUNCH of people. It was wonderful to be surrounded by adolescents, although it made me miss my Ele’s Place kids. I really do this love this age group.
Yay! I just found out they are making me a copy of the guesthouse key. Now I can have a place to escape to whenever I want. Dangerous. Now I can spoil myself whenever I want.
I’m playing Baby Girl by Sugarland and thinking of you Dad. Happy birthday tomorrow!
Finally heading home. Forgot home might call tonight and I need to pack for traveling tomorrow. I’ve just written a slew of emails because I’m feeling homesick. Hope you all enjoy them and write back when you can.
Love you all. Hugs and kisses from Rwanda.
*So a p.s. to this blog post: I’m a little shaken up. I was just emotionally accosted by street children. They figured out where I lived – never good. This might sound completely heartless but it’s true. They gave me hugs and held my hands down the street – totally acceptable and what I’m used to. But then I went into my gate and locked it behind me and told them bye. My fence is actually just plants with sticks for a wooden fence to form a structure for the plants to grow around. So the kids ran through my neighbors’ yard and snuck into mine. They were trying to tell me something – I think asking to live with me and asking me for bananas because I’ve been eating a lot of them lately. My Kin went out the window because I was so fluttered. I tried to turn off my heart and get them out of my yard, sternly, so they wouldn’t try it again. Their ringleader was a little girl around 6 years old, being the oldest of the pack. They were dirty as can be and clearly hungry. I can’t just give them money because number one: I don’t have a whole lot in Rwandan currency and number two: that’s not going to help every other starving, homeless street child. A better solution is figuring out what social services are provided for them (I’m guessing none) and how that can be changed (if it’s even possible). This realization is beginning to hit me – being the bleeding heart liberal that I am- right now almost everyone gets a huge smile on their face when I say hi to them in Kin and get all excited that I am here and speaking their language. Pretty soon that won’t be enough. They will actually expect me to DO something. Fear of failure is setting in. I was no means one of those people who show up in the Peace Corps and think I can change the world. I was fully aware of the limitations of my service. In fact the one Peace Corps goal that I can really wrap my head around is showing Rwandan culture to people back at home (hence the blog). But even my small expectations of myself are being questioned. The children were smart. Clearly I have money. It never hurts to ask right? Or put the suggestion in my head – this sure is a huge house that I’m living in by myself. The guilt is setting in as I type on my ridiculously expensive Mac. Then again some of us were given great opportunities in life and I choose to come here to give back some degree of the privilege I was born with. Trying to get their little faces out of my head…and their pleas…what will desperate children do who are starving and have no adult influence?
So I pampered myself today and had a really great day so far. I came to the guesthouse for breakfast with the scheme of taking advantage of its amenities. I took a bucket bath in a tub. And boy did it feel good. I could finally effectively wash my hair. I even brought fruit to breakfast, which seemed a little rude but they are definitely missing part of the food pyramid here.
Then I went to church. Everyone here believes in God, without question. It just depends what religion they fall under. As a visitor they really want to know that you believe too. A lot of fellow volunteers have been having a hard time with this because they aren’t churchgoers. Do they lie and earn easy community integration points? Do they say their religion isn’t in Rwanda and they pray in the privacy of their own home? Do they tell the truth and risk the blow to their reputation? These are all real examples that I’ve been told about from current volunteers – okay I really need to stop calling them current volunteers like I am still a trainee, but it’s hard to remember I’m a current volunteer too! Back to the point, I feel blessed in a way to have been raised Catholic. Going to the Catholic masses here have some real advantages: they are much shorter than other church services. This may seem crass to say but some services here are five hours or more! Catholic masses are much more calm and mundane – us Catholics don’t get too crazy in church. It is exactly the same as home, therefore a good place to go when you need something familiar. Although lately I have been questioning my Catholicism and was even thinking of getting away from organized religion for a while – it is still familiar, a great community structure and something I can easily fall into here. (Plug for my eclectic reading interests: If you know any interesting spiritual articles or book titles, send them along. I’m always intrigued to learn more about everything.)
The Presbyterians are the only ones who have a church structure in this town. The Protestants and Catholics have an agreement with the secondary school to hold services. The Catholics have to wait until the Protestants are done (because they run the school) and until the priest can come from the first mass he says that day. So it began at 11am. Although I couldn’t understand what they were saying, so much was exactly the same. It felt very comforting.
The student choir was wonderful. I especially loved that they busted out their keyboard and set it to the organ setting. They were also playing an African drum.
It was wonderful to just sit and not have to speak yet feel like I’m part of the community. Unfortunately every good experience is tainted by someone asking me for money. Turns out the Catholics really want to build their own chapel here. You can’t blame them for asking. I do look like I have a big money sign on my forehead.
Another adorable moment was the four year old sitting in front of me poking her older sister, telling her to sit up straight and look at the priest. Some things you can bet on in any country. There will always be cute, distracting children in church. There will always something more interesting that people want to watch outside church, in this case, volleyball and basketball games. And Catholic masses are exactly the same. Sure it’s methodic and a bit robotic but comforting nonetheless.
Then after Mass there was a basketball game outside. Again, exactly the same as home. The refs made the same hand gestures for calls. Both schools had coordinated uniforms, which seemed too put together for the economic status of these students. My school’s team liked to try for insane three pointers…and made them most of the time. There was a spectator with a loud horn. It was equivalent to a cowbell at home – just as loud and obnoxious. So I found another excuse to sit around silently while in a crowd- sporting events. It seems like Sunday is a popular day for games, giving me one more thing to add to my social calendar. It was a great chance for students to come and approach me if they wanted to and I said hi to a BUNCH of people. It was wonderful to be surrounded by adolescents, although it made me miss my Ele’s Place kids. I really do this love this age group.
Yay! I just found out they are making me a copy of the guesthouse key. Now I can have a place to escape to whenever I want. Dangerous. Now I can spoil myself whenever I want.
I’m playing Baby Girl by Sugarland and thinking of you Dad. Happy birthday tomorrow!
Finally heading home. Forgot home might call tonight and I need to pack for traveling tomorrow. I’ve just written a slew of emails because I’m feeling homesick. Hope you all enjoy them and write back when you can.
Love you all. Hugs and kisses from Rwanda.
*So a p.s. to this blog post: I’m a little shaken up. I was just emotionally accosted by street children. They figured out where I lived – never good. This might sound completely heartless but it’s true. They gave me hugs and held my hands down the street – totally acceptable and what I’m used to. But then I went into my gate and locked it behind me and told them bye. My fence is actually just plants with sticks for a wooden fence to form a structure for the plants to grow around. So the kids ran through my neighbors’ yard and snuck into mine. They were trying to tell me something – I think asking to live with me and asking me for bananas because I’ve been eating a lot of them lately. My Kin went out the window because I was so fluttered. I tried to turn off my heart and get them out of my yard, sternly, so they wouldn’t try it again. Their ringleader was a little girl around 6 years old, being the oldest of the pack. They were dirty as can be and clearly hungry. I can’t just give them money because number one: I don’t have a whole lot in Rwandan currency and number two: that’s not going to help every other starving, homeless street child. A better solution is figuring out what social services are provided for them (I’m guessing none) and how that can be changed (if it’s even possible). This realization is beginning to hit me – being the bleeding heart liberal that I am- right now almost everyone gets a huge smile on their face when I say hi to them in Kin and get all excited that I am here and speaking their language. Pretty soon that won’t be enough. They will actually expect me to DO something. Fear of failure is setting in. I was no means one of those people who show up in the Peace Corps and think I can change the world. I was fully aware of the limitations of my service. In fact the one Peace Corps goal that I can really wrap my head around is showing Rwandan culture to people back at home (hence the blog). But even my small expectations of myself are being questioned. The children were smart. Clearly I have money. It never hurts to ask right? Or put the suggestion in my head – this sure is a huge house that I’m living in by myself. The guilt is setting in as I type on my ridiculously expensive Mac. Then again some of us were given great opportunities in life and I choose to come here to give back some degree of the privilege I was born with. Trying to get their little faces out of my head…and their pleas…what will desperate children do who are starving and have no adult influence?
Day Six
No food, no entry to guesthouse, no electricity. The real test is coming. Teaching English to my neighbors today. Too bad I’m not a teacher. Found a European news radio program. Nice to hear English. My phone thinks it’s charging even though it’s not. I’m wrapped up in a trashy, romance novel about psychics. Yes, Amy – my standards have finally sunken to your level, after all the badgering I’ve given you throughout our lives. The simplest stories get my mind off stressful things, like feeding myself.
I had my first cry since getting to site. Six days in isn’t bad. And it wasn’t even a meltdown. Just needed some peace and quiet without everyone watching me. The guesthouse (when I can actually get in it) is just that place. It reminds me of my cottage in northern Michigan (yay, Houghton Lake). I am very far from home.
Had a decent afternoon. Was going over English/Kin words with my neighbors. She had the lyrics to No Air by Jordin Sparks and a Marc Anthony song that she wanted explained to her. I love the randomness. They are very sweet people. I still can’t figure out exactly who lives in which house. Everyone just floats around. But they have a cow so they are definitely my richest neighbors.
Hung my clothesline today. It was a big deal. Might even do some laundry later. Hold me back!
Got a phone call from my EPR boss telling me there is meeting I have to attend on Monday morning in Kigali. Biggest obstacle is figuring out where the office is. At least I can get myself into the city easily. And to the best breakfast place, although I probably won’t have time. Priorities, right. Just when I was complaining about wanting to see Americans and get to the big city, now I’m feeling sad and guilty about leaving my community. That’s a really good sign. I do love my little village.
Part of the stress of the day was pondering if my cell phone would die with all the texts and future phone calls to come from home. Plus whether the hospital generators (only source of power in town) run on the weekends. Turns out they do! Now I don’t have to worry about my phone hanging up on people!
Visited quite a few stores today. Bought carrots, some sad looking bananas, tree tomatoes, passion fruit, sugar and rolls. Four meals of break and peanut butter, jelly and fruit! Stopped by Jeanne’s for tea. Even though she and her roommate are away, she insisted that her houseboy make me tea in a thermos to take home and drink with my measly bread. She at first said he would make me a meal but that seemed ludicrous. I feel bad enough with all the free stuff people give me.
Went on a mission to figure out what time the Catholic priest says mass at the school, what the strange Sunday bus schedule is into Kigali in case I decide to go in a night early, if the generators are on and a visit to Pastor Jerome who I have yet to see since site visit but he is one of my guardians and speaks decent English.
I found out mass is at ten, and now I’m pretty sure the whole community knows I’m Catholic from asking three secondary students. The bus schedule is a mystery although I did learn that the shopkeeper next to the bus place is rude. I guess I’ll just wait until Monday morning to head in at 6:30. What’s the difference I wake with the sun anyway. And while trying to visit Pastor Jerome I met the student choir – very nice kids. Then I got brought in to introduce myself to a training session Pastor Jerome was holding on promoting peace. I guess that’s 50 less people I need to introduce myself to individually since I accidentally inserted myself into their training. Oh to be an honored guest. If only I could blend in and not be treated that way sometimes.
Oh yea, and the guesthouse has a TV! Turned it on to see what was broadcasting from the one channel – Rwandan TV. It was some creepy French movie that looked like Mission Impossible meets Lost. I’m back to the romance novel.
I just had a five minute conversation with the caretaker of the guesthouse (I really need to remember his name) to explain that he’s leaving. But he’ll be back in an hour. And it’s not a problem that I stay here for another hour. But then he needs to lock it up and go home so I have to leave. So simple yet so complicated. He’s so patient with my ineptness.
I had a marvelous walk home in the rain. First I met a secondary student in the English club. Edison has already been helping them learn and I was planning to too. They are going to find me again later to get me the dates and times that they meet. I’m easily tracked down believe it or not. I also met Pastor Jerome’s son, Samuel, who goes to the secondary school as well. The great thing about their names here is they are almost all from the Bible or French or a combination of the two. If you can just decipher the accent, you probably already know the name. Even with that help, I’m having a horrible time remembering. Although after I mocking yelled at my neighbors yesterday for calling me muzungo instead of my name, I’ve been hearing Kim all the time now. Some people call me Kimber and some Kimmy because they like to add a y on the end of things. That was a long tangent, back to the point.
I got caught in the rain and went to wait it out under the alcove of the church. A few descriptive details that will help this story out – The church has a beautiful view. It’s set at a perfect height and angle to see the valley below. The choir was practicing beautifully inside which gave a nice soundtrack to the rain clouds moving onto another hill. Of course I wasn’t the only one getting shelter from the rain, and the brave secondary students always want to practice their English. I had a wonderful conversation with two boys. We discussed the disparity of wealth in both our respective countries. I am really trying to dispel the myth that number one: all Americans are intelligent and want to learn and number two: are rich. The wealth myth always getting heads shaking. And he had a good point today. Sure people may be starving and homeless in both places but here many people are orphans or single parents or completely alone because of the genocide. He won the debate hands down. Plus as he said – life is different here. Wealth is defined differently. If a man has a job and can feed his children, maybe even own a shop- that is the ultimate wealth. Life is simpler here (his words, not mine). I love that being caught in the rain becomes just another opportunity to have a great conversation, to meet more of my neighbors, to get the word out that I am here. This integration process is all about putting yourself out there, being open to the conversations. Some talk about needing to be extroverted here to really help. I don’t feel like I’m changing who I am and becoming an extrovert. I’m simply walking around town, at a very slow pace, and allowing myself to be caught in the rain.
Although that is wonderful ending to the blog post…I’m not done.
I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize for two things. Firstly, only after retyping what I’ve been journaling these few days have I realized how atrocious my writing has become. I can hardly stand to read it myself. Sorry that the sentence structure and vocabulary usage. It makes me cringe.
Secondly, I’m apologizing to all my fellow PCVs whose parents compare our blogs. I’ve been writing…a lot. Although I’m sure it will die down eventually I’m sorry for the grief you’ve been getting from cross checking parents and relatives. There are some obstacles to writing here. The excitement of everything that is happening stops some from sitting down and putting it in words. And just the putting it in words can be insurmountable. Just the fact that people at home can read what almost every single one of us is doing and our unique perspective is astounding, kind of creepy, and getting creepier the more I think about it. This blog was really set up for my family and friends at home so I wouldn’t have to send mass, mass emails. But it has turned into a great outlet for my thoughts, something for future PCVs to read and if more of you are getting something out of it…I’m glad.
I had my first cry since getting to site. Six days in isn’t bad. And it wasn’t even a meltdown. Just needed some peace and quiet without everyone watching me. The guesthouse (when I can actually get in it) is just that place. It reminds me of my cottage in northern Michigan (yay, Houghton Lake). I am very far from home.
Had a decent afternoon. Was going over English/Kin words with my neighbors. She had the lyrics to No Air by Jordin Sparks and a Marc Anthony song that she wanted explained to her. I love the randomness. They are very sweet people. I still can’t figure out exactly who lives in which house. Everyone just floats around. But they have a cow so they are definitely my richest neighbors.
Hung my clothesline today. It was a big deal. Might even do some laundry later. Hold me back!
Got a phone call from my EPR boss telling me there is meeting I have to attend on Monday morning in Kigali. Biggest obstacle is figuring out where the office is. At least I can get myself into the city easily. And to the best breakfast place, although I probably won’t have time. Priorities, right. Just when I was complaining about wanting to see Americans and get to the big city, now I’m feeling sad and guilty about leaving my community. That’s a really good sign. I do love my little village.
Part of the stress of the day was pondering if my cell phone would die with all the texts and future phone calls to come from home. Plus whether the hospital generators (only source of power in town) run on the weekends. Turns out they do! Now I don’t have to worry about my phone hanging up on people!
Visited quite a few stores today. Bought carrots, some sad looking bananas, tree tomatoes, passion fruit, sugar and rolls. Four meals of break and peanut butter, jelly and fruit! Stopped by Jeanne’s for tea. Even though she and her roommate are away, she insisted that her houseboy make me tea in a thermos to take home and drink with my measly bread. She at first said he would make me a meal but that seemed ludicrous. I feel bad enough with all the free stuff people give me.
Went on a mission to figure out what time the Catholic priest says mass at the school, what the strange Sunday bus schedule is into Kigali in case I decide to go in a night early, if the generators are on and a visit to Pastor Jerome who I have yet to see since site visit but he is one of my guardians and speaks decent English.
I found out mass is at ten, and now I’m pretty sure the whole community knows I’m Catholic from asking three secondary students. The bus schedule is a mystery although I did learn that the shopkeeper next to the bus place is rude. I guess I’ll just wait until Monday morning to head in at 6:30. What’s the difference I wake with the sun anyway. And while trying to visit Pastor Jerome I met the student choir – very nice kids. Then I got brought in to introduce myself to a training session Pastor Jerome was holding on promoting peace. I guess that’s 50 less people I need to introduce myself to individually since I accidentally inserted myself into their training. Oh to be an honored guest. If only I could blend in and not be treated that way sometimes.
Oh yea, and the guesthouse has a TV! Turned it on to see what was broadcasting from the one channel – Rwandan TV. It was some creepy French movie that looked like Mission Impossible meets Lost. I’m back to the romance novel.
I just had a five minute conversation with the caretaker of the guesthouse (I really need to remember his name) to explain that he’s leaving. But he’ll be back in an hour. And it’s not a problem that I stay here for another hour. But then he needs to lock it up and go home so I have to leave. So simple yet so complicated. He’s so patient with my ineptness.
I had a marvelous walk home in the rain. First I met a secondary student in the English club. Edison has already been helping them learn and I was planning to too. They are going to find me again later to get me the dates and times that they meet. I’m easily tracked down believe it or not. I also met Pastor Jerome’s son, Samuel, who goes to the secondary school as well. The great thing about their names here is they are almost all from the Bible or French or a combination of the two. If you can just decipher the accent, you probably already know the name. Even with that help, I’m having a horrible time remembering. Although after I mocking yelled at my neighbors yesterday for calling me muzungo instead of my name, I’ve been hearing Kim all the time now. Some people call me Kimber and some Kimmy because they like to add a y on the end of things. That was a long tangent, back to the point.
I got caught in the rain and went to wait it out under the alcove of the church. A few descriptive details that will help this story out – The church has a beautiful view. It’s set at a perfect height and angle to see the valley below. The choir was practicing beautifully inside which gave a nice soundtrack to the rain clouds moving onto another hill. Of course I wasn’t the only one getting shelter from the rain, and the brave secondary students always want to practice their English. I had a wonderful conversation with two boys. We discussed the disparity of wealth in both our respective countries. I am really trying to dispel the myth that number one: all Americans are intelligent and want to learn and number two: are rich. The wealth myth always getting heads shaking. And he had a good point today. Sure people may be starving and homeless in both places but here many people are orphans or single parents or completely alone because of the genocide. He won the debate hands down. Plus as he said – life is different here. Wealth is defined differently. If a man has a job and can feed his children, maybe even own a shop- that is the ultimate wealth. Life is simpler here (his words, not mine). I love that being caught in the rain becomes just another opportunity to have a great conversation, to meet more of my neighbors, to get the word out that I am here. This integration process is all about putting yourself out there, being open to the conversations. Some talk about needing to be extroverted here to really help. I don’t feel like I’m changing who I am and becoming an extrovert. I’m simply walking around town, at a very slow pace, and allowing myself to be caught in the rain.
Although that is wonderful ending to the blog post…I’m not done.
I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize for two things. Firstly, only after retyping what I’ve been journaling these few days have I realized how atrocious my writing has become. I can hardly stand to read it myself. Sorry that the sentence structure and vocabulary usage. It makes me cringe.
Secondly, I’m apologizing to all my fellow PCVs whose parents compare our blogs. I’ve been writing…a lot. Although I’m sure it will die down eventually I’m sorry for the grief you’ve been getting from cross checking parents and relatives. There are some obstacles to writing here. The excitement of everything that is happening stops some from sitting down and putting it in words. And just the putting it in words can be insurmountable. Just the fact that people at home can read what almost every single one of us is doing and our unique perspective is astounding, kind of creepy, and getting creepier the more I think about it. This blog was really set up for my family and friends at home so I wouldn’t have to send mass, mass emails. But it has turned into a great outlet for my thoughts, something for future PCVs to read and if more of you are getting something out of it…I’m glad.
Day Five
Back door really won’t open now. Going to try and get Claudia and a hospital technician to help. Goals for the day: that one and buy bananas, minutes for phone, figure out curtain situation. That should be enough for today. Still need to figure out church time on Sunday and clothesline so I can do laundry tomorrow.
Rainy morning. Had a great, mood lifting dream, just can’t remember what it was about. Met a secondary school student on my walk to work who speaks English. He told me about another American in town staying at the guesthouse. Of course he assumed we knew each other. Don’t all Americans know each other? I think he was referring to Edison, when lived in the guesthouse. He’s a little behind the times.
Sweet success! Bonding with the caretaker of the guesthouse. I think I can win him over. He teaches me French and Kin words for silverware, window, door. I don’t think he resents me anymore. I just think we couldn’t communicate. Then I went and bought a bunch of bananas for super cheap. Even a cheap price for a Rwandan. I think the shopkeeper was so shocked I spoke Kin. He kept trying to speak French but I’d switch back. And I had to buy more airtime. I don’t think I’ve ever explained the phone system here – pay as you go with MTN. Some people have monthly phone plans but it’s rare. A ton of people sell minutes – little scratch off forms with a code on it – or they transfer the minutes from their phone to yours. I was talking to my buddy, Anna, last night and we amazingly both ran out of minutes. That’s the trouble with this system. I guess the phone call was over. The call charges the person who called or the person sending the text. First my phone hung up on her and then vice versa. Ranting session over. Plus I’ve been texting way more than ever before in America. It’s so much cheaper. Although without T-9 it takes forever! And I remembered to take my malaria meds on my Friday schedule.
Spent the morning with the cooperative and had a crash course in basket weaving. They also make drums (Ginny we’re gonna need to talk because there may be an African drum in your future). Was also shown their net book and a ton of pictures of their work.
Visited Jeanne’s house and met her roommate. They gave me oranges and were worried about my eating. Aren’t we all.
Rainy morning. Had a great, mood lifting dream, just can’t remember what it was about. Met a secondary school student on my walk to work who speaks English. He told me about another American in town staying at the guesthouse. Of course he assumed we knew each other. Don’t all Americans know each other? I think he was referring to Edison, when lived in the guesthouse. He’s a little behind the times.
Sweet success! Bonding with the caretaker of the guesthouse. I think I can win him over. He teaches me French and Kin words for silverware, window, door. I don’t think he resents me anymore. I just think we couldn’t communicate. Then I went and bought a bunch of bananas for super cheap. Even a cheap price for a Rwandan. I think the shopkeeper was so shocked I spoke Kin. He kept trying to speak French but I’d switch back. And I had to buy more airtime. I don’t think I’ve ever explained the phone system here – pay as you go with MTN. Some people have monthly phone plans but it’s rare. A ton of people sell minutes – little scratch off forms with a code on it – or they transfer the minutes from their phone to yours. I was talking to my buddy, Anna, last night and we amazingly both ran out of minutes. That’s the trouble with this system. I guess the phone call was over. The call charges the person who called or the person sending the text. First my phone hung up on her and then vice versa. Ranting session over. Plus I’ve been texting way more than ever before in America. It’s so much cheaper. Although without T-9 it takes forever! And I remembered to take my malaria meds on my Friday schedule.
Spent the morning with the cooperative and had a crash course in basket weaving. They also make drums (Ginny we’re gonna need to talk because there may be an African drum in your future). Was also shown their net book and a ton of pictures of their work.
Visited Jeanne’s house and met her roommate. They gave me oranges and were worried about my eating. Aren’t we all.
Day Four
I dream of oatmeal.
It is brisk here in the mornings. Like mornings in Florida in February. Not enough to wear a coat but enough to feel refreshed. Need to solve my back door problem. I am continuously locked out because the lock won’t fully turn. This could turn ugly. And need to find my rope for a clothesline.
Proud that I have yet to bust out my computer. I wake up around 5:30am. Try to get clean. Bathroom. Brush teeth. Head to guesthouse for breakfast. Show up at the hospital around 8/9. Work/get oriented/sit and observe until 5pm. Head home. Shoot the shit with my neighbors for an hour (Sorry there’s no better way to say it). Go home. Brush teeth. Bathroom. Go to sleep around 8/9pm if I choose to read by flashlight.
It rains here often. Once a day or at least it looks like it’s going to rain.
Jeanne, the mental health nurse, told me she could take me to the carpenter because she took Edison. You have to get on his waiting list and he’ll tell you when he’ll start your project. Jeanne’s got something starting on the 20th. I kind of like sleeping without a bed frame but a kitchen table would sure come in handy.
A favorite conversation of mine to initiate is when people think the electricity will come to our town. Some are adamant that it will come by August at the latest. Others shake their heads as if it will never come. As soon as it comes, I’m getting a double hot plate to cook on and kettle to boil water in. Oatmeal and spaghetti here I come! I am one of the very few PCVs in Rwanda that have neither water nor electricity. It’s not bad until you compare yourself to others. I successfully secured my meals at the guesthouse for 2 months! Hooray!
I hit a wall. Two years, really! A full 30 days of loneliness. I think I understand stay at home mothers or fathers who complain about their lack of adult conversation. I’ve been speaking like an imbecile in Kinyarwanda and English and had stupid text messages as my only communication with Americans – which we all know isn’t real English. I swear even the conversations in my head to myself are in stunted English.
Didn’t visit my neighbors and couldn’t buy bananas because the store wasn’t open. I think the laptop is coming out tonight.
I’m waiting for a phone call to brighten my day. I don’t think it’s coming tonight. I’m in a complaining mood so I guess I’ll write it out. I think I finally found my first low to my emotional readjustment. Took long enough. I’m definitely on a different track than others. But at this point I’m annoyed with everything. My back door will not open because the lock is defunct. I have to walk all the way around my house to go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. There is a mosquito in my bedroom that is the loudest bug I’ve ever heard. Reading by flashlight has lost its allure. Not eating dinner is also stupid. I can’t tell if I’m in a legitimate bad mood or I’m just hungry and therefore cranky. I vote for a combination of the two. Now I feel a bit like Tom Hanks in Survivor talking to his volleyball so I’m going to stop this rant towards my laptop. The real Peace Corps experience has begun.
It is brisk here in the mornings. Like mornings in Florida in February. Not enough to wear a coat but enough to feel refreshed. Need to solve my back door problem. I am continuously locked out because the lock won’t fully turn. This could turn ugly. And need to find my rope for a clothesline.
Proud that I have yet to bust out my computer. I wake up around 5:30am. Try to get clean. Bathroom. Brush teeth. Head to guesthouse for breakfast. Show up at the hospital around 8/9. Work/get oriented/sit and observe until 5pm. Head home. Shoot the shit with my neighbors for an hour (Sorry there’s no better way to say it). Go home. Brush teeth. Bathroom. Go to sleep around 8/9pm if I choose to read by flashlight.
It rains here often. Once a day or at least it looks like it’s going to rain.
Jeanne, the mental health nurse, told me she could take me to the carpenter because she took Edison. You have to get on his waiting list and he’ll tell you when he’ll start your project. Jeanne’s got something starting on the 20th. I kind of like sleeping without a bed frame but a kitchen table would sure come in handy.
A favorite conversation of mine to initiate is when people think the electricity will come to our town. Some are adamant that it will come by August at the latest. Others shake their heads as if it will never come. As soon as it comes, I’m getting a double hot plate to cook on and kettle to boil water in. Oatmeal and spaghetti here I come! I am one of the very few PCVs in Rwanda that have neither water nor electricity. It’s not bad until you compare yourself to others. I successfully secured my meals at the guesthouse for 2 months! Hooray!
I hit a wall. Two years, really! A full 30 days of loneliness. I think I understand stay at home mothers or fathers who complain about their lack of adult conversation. I’ve been speaking like an imbecile in Kinyarwanda and English and had stupid text messages as my only communication with Americans – which we all know isn’t real English. I swear even the conversations in my head to myself are in stunted English.
Didn’t visit my neighbors and couldn’t buy bananas because the store wasn’t open. I think the laptop is coming out tonight.
I’m waiting for a phone call to brighten my day. I don’t think it’s coming tonight. I’m in a complaining mood so I guess I’ll write it out. I think I finally found my first low to my emotional readjustment. Took long enough. I’m definitely on a different track than others. But at this point I’m annoyed with everything. My back door will not open because the lock is defunct. I have to walk all the way around my house to go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. There is a mosquito in my bedroom that is the loudest bug I’ve ever heard. Reading by flashlight has lost its allure. Not eating dinner is also stupid. I can’t tell if I’m in a legitimate bad mood or I’m just hungry and therefore cranky. I vote for a combination of the two. Now I feel a bit like Tom Hanks in Survivor talking to his volleyball so I’m going to stop this rant towards my laptop. The real Peace Corps experience has begun.
Day Three
Greeting quota for the day: 1 million, no exaggeration. The problem with being the only white, American girl in town – you never know if you have something on your face because people stare regardless. I was convinced I had a toothpaste smear all around my mouth this morning. I am functioning with only the mirror from my bronzer. It’s so liberating not having mirrors around.
Goals for the day: already sent my three happy texts this morning to fellow PCVs to brighten their day. Attempt the market. Get Edison’s keys from Jeanne. Find the water. Curtain inquest.
Two awesome musical moments:
Caretaker of guesthouses’s ring tone is Jingle Bells. And on the ride to be moved in (or installed as Peace Corps likes to call it), a fantastic, orchestra version of Michael Jackson’s Man in the Mirror came on the radio. How perfect! It brought a smile to my face.
I just received the ultimate Rwandan gift – a radio. Boy do Rwandans love their radios, at high volumes, and if possible with the noise competing with an equally high TV volume (okay I’ll stop generalizing now). Claudia is in the giving mood today – petroleum jelly, a radio, bottled water, nails, a free tutoring session. I really lucked out with her as my counterpart. She’s part mom, part great coworker. She told a joke today about how the caretaker at the guesthouse cooks the same thing every day - and we laughed together. It was wonderful. She told me all the prices of the food I may being buying so people don’t try to take advantage of me being a foreigner and charge me extra. Plus I can tell she really likes her job and wants to help people. She explained a bunch of stuff to me this morning, getting so excited that I wanted to learn.
We are funded by USAID and PEPFAR. There are three large umbrella organizations – CARE International, CHF International and Catholic Relief Services. (Gotta love all the acronyms). We work under CHF. They then pick the Rwandan organizations that they want to work through – most of which PCVs are assigned to. Mine is EPR or Presbyterian Church of Rwanda. Another one is Caritas. For awhile, Caritas and EPR were both overseeing the OVCs or orphans/vulnerable children, in my district (similar to a county) along with 2 other Rwandan organizations. The program used to be called CHAMP. Now a new program is launching called HIGA UBEHO meaning Be Determined and Live – trying to get away from a vision of handouts and free money. This year my district’s OVCs are handled by only Caritas and EPR – making more work for my counterpart and fellow PCV Jessica’s counterpart.
Top reasons I love this country at this very moment : its acceptable to pick your nose in public (aside from being gross, it’s just funny). Even after not washing my hair for 3 days, people still call me beautiful.
Met with the mental health staff today. Two minutes later I got to sit through an appointment. Confidentiality doesn’t really exist here. The mental health nurses mostly all went to a special school in Kigali. It takes 3 years to complete training. They see roughly 10 patients a day. Epilepsy is grouped with mental illness. Otherwise the most common diagnoses are PTSD, depression, schizophrenia. Same stigma as the US surrounds mental illness.
Met up with Jeanne today. She’s been really worried about me because she has keys to hand off to me and she thought I had no where to sleep in the meantime. She was quite shocked to hear I was already living in my house. Apparently the Director and herself were under the impression that I would live in the guesthouse for a month while I get my house set up. I guess it’s not such a big deal that I eat there all the time then. Since I never heard that housing plan before it didn’t play out like that. I’m actually glad I didn’t follow that plan. Living in my neighborhood and getting to know people has helped me feel more connected, secure and helped me practice my language skills. Just one more miscommunication to add to the pile. Oh well.
Making better friends with my female next-door neighbors. They are so sweet. Asked me what the problem was after my back door wasn’t working and I was trying to unlock it for five minutes. Loving them more and more. Before I can even get into my house after work they are calling to me saying I should visit them. They definitely watch out for me and are concerned about me feeding myself and getting water. Sweet and legitimate concerns but I’ll figure it out. First jerry can returned today looking brand new and filled with free water. The guy wouldn’t accept money. I feel bad since he is definitely in more dire straits than I am.
Which brings up the whole houseboy/house girl thing…
It is very common here to have a school age boy or girl to help you around the house. These children usually can’t afford to go to school so they work instead or if they are only working part time, they are earning their school fees. Some live in people’s homes with them if the job is more intensive. Others just stop by during the day to finish their tasks. We’ve had a few discussions amongst ourselves as volunteers as to whether it’s acceptable to have a houseboy or house girl. Some view what we do as taking a vow of poverty (those are my words, not theirs) so having house help like this places us above the population we are serving and trying to integrate into. Some other people see it is as giving someone in the community a job. Perhaps making them able to afford school or feed their family. On top of that many, many people in Rwanda have help. Of course the poorest of the poor do not but even some that you would assume cannot afford to pay someone, actually do. These people, usually adolescents, are paid very little but maybe it is a lot in this society’s range. A third good reason to have help is time and effort. Sure some Peace Corps volunteers talk about staring at walls out of boredom and starting strange hobbies (please note my tendency to daydream excessively already and my goals of starting a novel, possibly learning a musical instrument, voice lessons, a few million dollar ideas – keeping the dream alive, Stratton!) but these household tasks take a lot of time. And survival skills that we don’t all possess at a high caliber. Starting a charcoal stove is not easy! And washing all your clothes by hand takes a long time and a few layers if skin less later… As you can tell I fall into the second group of opinions. I will probably have someone do my laundry once a week and fetch my water – it’s not as close to my house as I once thought. I’m hoping electricity comes soon but if not I must figure out that kerosene stove.
I would also like to take this opportunity to plug Goodreads.com If you read a lot and are not a member – JOIN. It’s free. It helps you learn about new books to read or read your friends’ reviews of books. You can even win free books through their giveaways – I have. And you can do the book swap thing they started. For my own purposes I am using the To Be Read category as a way for people to know what books I’d like to be sent – if you are so inclined to mail me one. I am definitely missing public libraries the most – of course second to my family. Also, if anyone from Goodreads would like to hire me as a spokesperson I would gladly accept. So find me on Goodreads and friend me: my user name is my actual name.
Goals for the day: already sent my three happy texts this morning to fellow PCVs to brighten their day. Attempt the market. Get Edison’s keys from Jeanne. Find the water. Curtain inquest.
Two awesome musical moments:
Caretaker of guesthouses’s ring tone is Jingle Bells. And on the ride to be moved in (or installed as Peace Corps likes to call it), a fantastic, orchestra version of Michael Jackson’s Man in the Mirror came on the radio. How perfect! It brought a smile to my face.
I just received the ultimate Rwandan gift – a radio. Boy do Rwandans love their radios, at high volumes, and if possible with the noise competing with an equally high TV volume (okay I’ll stop generalizing now). Claudia is in the giving mood today – petroleum jelly, a radio, bottled water, nails, a free tutoring session. I really lucked out with her as my counterpart. She’s part mom, part great coworker. She told a joke today about how the caretaker at the guesthouse cooks the same thing every day - and we laughed together. It was wonderful. She told me all the prices of the food I may being buying so people don’t try to take advantage of me being a foreigner and charge me extra. Plus I can tell she really likes her job and wants to help people. She explained a bunch of stuff to me this morning, getting so excited that I wanted to learn.
We are funded by USAID and PEPFAR. There are three large umbrella organizations – CARE International, CHF International and Catholic Relief Services. (Gotta love all the acronyms). We work under CHF. They then pick the Rwandan organizations that they want to work through – most of which PCVs are assigned to. Mine is EPR or Presbyterian Church of Rwanda. Another one is Caritas. For awhile, Caritas and EPR were both overseeing the OVCs or orphans/vulnerable children, in my district (similar to a county) along with 2 other Rwandan organizations. The program used to be called CHAMP. Now a new program is launching called HIGA UBEHO meaning Be Determined and Live – trying to get away from a vision of handouts and free money. This year my district’s OVCs are handled by only Caritas and EPR – making more work for my counterpart and fellow PCV Jessica’s counterpart.
Top reasons I love this country at this very moment : its acceptable to pick your nose in public (aside from being gross, it’s just funny). Even after not washing my hair for 3 days, people still call me beautiful.
Met with the mental health staff today. Two minutes later I got to sit through an appointment. Confidentiality doesn’t really exist here. The mental health nurses mostly all went to a special school in Kigali. It takes 3 years to complete training. They see roughly 10 patients a day. Epilepsy is grouped with mental illness. Otherwise the most common diagnoses are PTSD, depression, schizophrenia. Same stigma as the US surrounds mental illness.
Met up with Jeanne today. She’s been really worried about me because she has keys to hand off to me and she thought I had no where to sleep in the meantime. She was quite shocked to hear I was already living in my house. Apparently the Director and herself were under the impression that I would live in the guesthouse for a month while I get my house set up. I guess it’s not such a big deal that I eat there all the time then. Since I never heard that housing plan before it didn’t play out like that. I’m actually glad I didn’t follow that plan. Living in my neighborhood and getting to know people has helped me feel more connected, secure and helped me practice my language skills. Just one more miscommunication to add to the pile. Oh well.
Making better friends with my female next-door neighbors. They are so sweet. Asked me what the problem was after my back door wasn’t working and I was trying to unlock it for five minutes. Loving them more and more. Before I can even get into my house after work they are calling to me saying I should visit them. They definitely watch out for me and are concerned about me feeding myself and getting water. Sweet and legitimate concerns but I’ll figure it out. First jerry can returned today looking brand new and filled with free water. The guy wouldn’t accept money. I feel bad since he is definitely in more dire straits than I am.
Which brings up the whole houseboy/house girl thing…
It is very common here to have a school age boy or girl to help you around the house. These children usually can’t afford to go to school so they work instead or if they are only working part time, they are earning their school fees. Some live in people’s homes with them if the job is more intensive. Others just stop by during the day to finish their tasks. We’ve had a few discussions amongst ourselves as volunteers as to whether it’s acceptable to have a houseboy or house girl. Some view what we do as taking a vow of poverty (those are my words, not theirs) so having house help like this places us above the population we are serving and trying to integrate into. Some other people see it is as giving someone in the community a job. Perhaps making them able to afford school or feed their family. On top of that many, many people in Rwanda have help. Of course the poorest of the poor do not but even some that you would assume cannot afford to pay someone, actually do. These people, usually adolescents, are paid very little but maybe it is a lot in this society’s range. A third good reason to have help is time and effort. Sure some Peace Corps volunteers talk about staring at walls out of boredom and starting strange hobbies (please note my tendency to daydream excessively already and my goals of starting a novel, possibly learning a musical instrument, voice lessons, a few million dollar ideas – keeping the dream alive, Stratton!) but these household tasks take a lot of time. And survival skills that we don’t all possess at a high caliber. Starting a charcoal stove is not easy! And washing all your clothes by hand takes a long time and a few layers if skin less later… As you can tell I fall into the second group of opinions. I will probably have someone do my laundry once a week and fetch my water – it’s not as close to my house as I once thought. I’m hoping electricity comes soon but if not I must figure out that kerosene stove.
I would also like to take this opportunity to plug Goodreads.com If you read a lot and are not a member – JOIN. It’s free. It helps you learn about new books to read or read your friends’ reviews of books. You can even win free books through their giveaways – I have. And you can do the book swap thing they started. For my own purposes I am using the To Be Read category as a way for people to know what books I’d like to be sent – if you are so inclined to mail me one. I am definitely missing public libraries the most – of course second to my family. Also, if anyone from Goodreads would like to hire me as a spokesperson I would gladly accept. So find me on Goodreads and friend me: my user name is my actual name.
Day Two
It’s 9 am and I’m exhausted. The days here are tiring and I haven’t been sleeping well for the last 2 weeks. If only stress had different effects! I met the staff and attended a morning meeting at my hospital. They discussed the conditions of the patients in French, since many of the doctors are Congolese, the common language. Saw the Director again. I always feel like he is mocking me or talking down to me. He speaks French. Met Felix again this morning: accountant for the hospital, 30 years old, unmarried. Rwandan small talk gets right down to it. Claudia showed me pictures of where she was born, the border of Tanzania and Rwandan and her trip there with her niece. I will have to show her my family pictures to bond. Charging my phone at the hospital – as do most other community members. I must have woken up multiple times last night but still slept well – I wasn’t afraid…too much. It was extremely quiet and dark. The stars here are amazing, but I have a new dirt road to get used to in the dark (being escorted, of courses). LL Bean wind up flashlight is a godsend.
Still working on the new lock situation. Claudia is asking around. A guy stopped by this morning to give me all my keys – although I’m there there’s more in this town to my house. I now own about 20 keys – I’m not exaggerating. I look like a janitor. If I don’t lock myself out of everything soon I will be so proud of myself. I had assumed I could use the guesthouse at my leisure but it turns out Felix took over Edison’s old room – the one I had stayed in during my site visit, and they like to know who is coming to eat there. Claudia said I need to pay, but later. I have a feeling that bill is going to disappear. I’d also like to use the electricity there to charge my laptop in private. I secured meals for a week but I’ll need a new strategy once that time is up. I’m still attempting to milk it for all it’s worth. At this point my focus is basic survival. Am I eating well? Drinking enough water? Is there a bathroom accessible? Am I safe in my house?
The invention of cell phones revolutionizes the emotional support of the Peace Corps. Within my first 24 hours at site, I got 4 happy texts and a lovely phone call from fellow volunteers. My support network is so huge and loving. I hope it doesn’t stop. The other nice perk of Rwanda is the proximity to each other. A day visit is completely feasible and I’m guessing as stress levels increase, completely necessary. Building relationships, American and Rwandan, is what this experience is all about.
A body on a stretcher just arrived. Everyone’s gawking, including me. There is a mix of very traditional things, like a stretcher made of reeds, but then very modern wheelchairs and walkers. Then a coffin passes by. Gupfa: to die.
I’m attempting to chronicle my first 30 days at site. This will round out the amount of time I am alone before Edison comes back from visiting family. It should be quite the adventure. I don’t think I’ll ever get a rush like this for quite some time. Unfortunately this means a lot of stream of consciousness writing.
On that note, I will segway to secondhand clothing. Almost everything people wear here is familiar clothing, similar to what Americans wear if not exactly what we wear. Most market clothing is like shopping at Salvation Army. You find Target shoes, an H&M top, random college T-shirts, etc.
Everything is a luxury here. Drinking water or having anything to drink for that matter. Clean drinking water would be a huge leap forward. Of course electricity will make it easier to boil and safer to consume, so that’s a step in the right direction. I’m trying not to dream of electricity. This is Africa, of course, and time and deadlines are a league of their own here.
Where do they throw their garbage? These are the basic questions that make me an imbecile here.
I’ve been having most zoning out moments of my life here. If no one is speaking to me, my mind wanders, so far away. When I snap back I have to remember where I am and how I’m supposed to be acting. I can’t figure out if they are wonderful mental vacations that are helping my sanity or a deterioration of my ability to be present in the moment and attentive.
My neighbors just like to bullshit all day, probably because most of them are unemployed. I met more of them and visited after work. One almost gave me a heartache by joking that a thief had come to my house. Very funny! He also offered to clean my jerry cans and put water in them. Hopefully I get them back. He is the neighborhood brewer of banana beer. Lovely. Day two and they already asked for English lessons.
Bathed (1/2) inside for the 1st time. Success.
Claudia is a rockstar. She helped me install my new locks. Goal one is done. If only they would function properly. At least they are staying locked instead of unlocked.
Can’t find my sunscreen.
My neighbor told me not to go to the market alone. Need to find a babysitter because Claudia is leaving town.
Still working on the new lock situation. Claudia is asking around. A guy stopped by this morning to give me all my keys – although I’m there there’s more in this town to my house. I now own about 20 keys – I’m not exaggerating. I look like a janitor. If I don’t lock myself out of everything soon I will be so proud of myself. I had assumed I could use the guesthouse at my leisure but it turns out Felix took over Edison’s old room – the one I had stayed in during my site visit, and they like to know who is coming to eat there. Claudia said I need to pay, but later. I have a feeling that bill is going to disappear. I’d also like to use the electricity there to charge my laptop in private. I secured meals for a week but I’ll need a new strategy once that time is up. I’m still attempting to milk it for all it’s worth. At this point my focus is basic survival. Am I eating well? Drinking enough water? Is there a bathroom accessible? Am I safe in my house?
The invention of cell phones revolutionizes the emotional support of the Peace Corps. Within my first 24 hours at site, I got 4 happy texts and a lovely phone call from fellow volunteers. My support network is so huge and loving. I hope it doesn’t stop. The other nice perk of Rwanda is the proximity to each other. A day visit is completely feasible and I’m guessing as stress levels increase, completely necessary. Building relationships, American and Rwandan, is what this experience is all about.
A body on a stretcher just arrived. Everyone’s gawking, including me. There is a mix of very traditional things, like a stretcher made of reeds, but then very modern wheelchairs and walkers. Then a coffin passes by. Gupfa: to die.
I’m attempting to chronicle my first 30 days at site. This will round out the amount of time I am alone before Edison comes back from visiting family. It should be quite the adventure. I don’t think I’ll ever get a rush like this for quite some time. Unfortunately this means a lot of stream of consciousness writing.
On that note, I will segway to secondhand clothing. Almost everything people wear here is familiar clothing, similar to what Americans wear if not exactly what we wear. Most market clothing is like shopping at Salvation Army. You find Target shoes, an H&M top, random college T-shirts, etc.
Everything is a luxury here. Drinking water or having anything to drink for that matter. Clean drinking water would be a huge leap forward. Of course electricity will make it easier to boil and safer to consume, so that’s a step in the right direction. I’m trying not to dream of electricity. This is Africa, of course, and time and deadlines are a league of their own here.
Where do they throw their garbage? These are the basic questions that make me an imbecile here.
I’ve been having most zoning out moments of my life here. If no one is speaking to me, my mind wanders, so far away. When I snap back I have to remember where I am and how I’m supposed to be acting. I can’t figure out if they are wonderful mental vacations that are helping my sanity or a deterioration of my ability to be present in the moment and attentive.
My neighbors just like to bullshit all day, probably because most of them are unemployed. I met more of them and visited after work. One almost gave me a heartache by joking that a thief had come to my house. Very funny! He also offered to clean my jerry cans and put water in them. Hopefully I get them back. He is the neighborhood brewer of banana beer. Lovely. Day two and they already asked for English lessons.
Bathed (1/2) inside for the 1st time. Success.
Claudia is a rockstar. She helped me install my new locks. Goal one is done. If only they would function properly. At least they are staying locked instead of unlocked.
Can’t find my sunscreen.
My neighbor told me not to go to the market alone. Need to find a babysitter because Claudia is leaving town.
Day One: Move In
In house, all possessions assessed.
Need gate fixed.
7 new doorknobs, or 3.
More permanent fix to latrine door.
Kerosene.
Talk to carpenter: bed frame, square kitchen table, 4 chairs, stools for visitors.
Find Jeanne, mental health nurse.
Find spare keys to trunk
My neighborhood is bustling. I met all my immediate neighbors- they don’t seem to work. Should I have my dance party I promised myself after move-in? It seems like my neighbors are. Confusing to speak to Claudia (my counterpart and supervisor). She and I misinterpret everything between our two languages.
Priority number one: water, kerosene, matches.
Lessons from day one: if you barricade yourself in, it takes 5 minutes to answer the gate. As a woman, it’s easy to make girlfriends. By August at the latest, electricity. I dreamt in Kinyarwanda. That last one’s not really a lesson just a random milestone I was waiting for.
So darkness hit and I was attempting to fall asleep. Loud banging came at my gate. I saw a flashlight roaming around and a woman calling my name. Poor security is a bit of a phobia for me so I had effectively barricaded myself into a shoebox of a room with all my possessions. My counterpart, Claudia, was now calling my cell phone so I knew it was her. It took me 5 minutes to moved the trunk away from the door (I said phobia, didn’t I?), unlock the bedroom door, the door to the hallway, the padlock on the front door, the lock on the front door and move the rock I had placed at the gate. My Dad would be so proud ☺ Claudia and her friend Mary wanted to invite me to dine with them and then escort me back. I accepted. I was taken to more hospital guesthouses where 5 of them live during the weeknights. They live with their families during the weekends. First, we watched Rwandan TV, the monetary policy talk from the financial advisor. Although I have to admit that Rwandan news is higher quality than northern Michigan newscasts, my mind wandered. I was elated to be invited into this inner circle. The food was delicious and then they safely deposited me back at my house, after checking to see if I had water.
Some hate being babied, but I couldn’t be more appreciative. My neighbors asked me how I would cook. I wish I knew the Kinyarwanda phrase of – You tell me. But I think my facial expression conveyed that well. Anyone’s guess is welcome at this point. I’m trying to be overwhelmed with my household tasks. New locks and water are number one priority. Food (after my week of eating at the guesthouse is over) will be next. After day 5 I will need to conquer bathing. I’m sure my neighbors will appreciate that. Just kidding.
Thankfully everything is going really well. I met all my immediate neighbors and shared a Fanta. I was asked multiple times if I had children.
I think the honeymoon of the guesthouse is over. They didn’t seem to expect me to eat there all the time and it has a different feeling.
I christened my latrine. And the bathing room isn’t as bad as it looks.
Funniest moment so far: Claudia, aka counterpart, asking if I like soft tissue and handing me toilet paper through my open stall door where I’ve got a tiny flashlight glowing as I’m sitting on the toilet. As they say here: You are welcome, to mean, Nice to have you here, Welcome.
Need gate fixed.
7 new doorknobs, or 3.
More permanent fix to latrine door.
Kerosene.
Talk to carpenter: bed frame, square kitchen table, 4 chairs, stools for visitors.
Find Jeanne, mental health nurse.
Find spare keys to trunk
My neighborhood is bustling. I met all my immediate neighbors- they don’t seem to work. Should I have my dance party I promised myself after move-in? It seems like my neighbors are. Confusing to speak to Claudia (my counterpart and supervisor). She and I misinterpret everything between our two languages.
Priority number one: water, kerosene, matches.
Lessons from day one: if you barricade yourself in, it takes 5 minutes to answer the gate. As a woman, it’s easy to make girlfriends. By August at the latest, electricity. I dreamt in Kinyarwanda. That last one’s not really a lesson just a random milestone I was waiting for.
So darkness hit and I was attempting to fall asleep. Loud banging came at my gate. I saw a flashlight roaming around and a woman calling my name. Poor security is a bit of a phobia for me so I had effectively barricaded myself into a shoebox of a room with all my possessions. My counterpart, Claudia, was now calling my cell phone so I knew it was her. It took me 5 minutes to moved the trunk away from the door (I said phobia, didn’t I?), unlock the bedroom door, the door to the hallway, the padlock on the front door, the lock on the front door and move the rock I had placed at the gate. My Dad would be so proud ☺ Claudia and her friend Mary wanted to invite me to dine with them and then escort me back. I accepted. I was taken to more hospital guesthouses where 5 of them live during the weeknights. They live with their families during the weekends. First, we watched Rwandan TV, the monetary policy talk from the financial advisor. Although I have to admit that Rwandan news is higher quality than northern Michigan newscasts, my mind wandered. I was elated to be invited into this inner circle. The food was delicious and then they safely deposited me back at my house, after checking to see if I had water.
Some hate being babied, but I couldn’t be more appreciative. My neighbors asked me how I would cook. I wish I knew the Kinyarwanda phrase of – You tell me. But I think my facial expression conveyed that well. Anyone’s guess is welcome at this point. I’m trying to be overwhelmed with my household tasks. New locks and water are number one priority. Food (after my week of eating at the guesthouse is over) will be next. After day 5 I will need to conquer bathing. I’m sure my neighbors will appreciate that. Just kidding.
Thankfully everything is going really well. I met all my immediate neighbors and shared a Fanta. I was asked multiple times if I had children.
I think the honeymoon of the guesthouse is over. They didn’t seem to expect me to eat there all the time and it has a different feeling.
I christened my latrine. And the bathing room isn’t as bad as it looks.
Funniest moment so far: Claudia, aka counterpart, asking if I like soft tissue and handing me toilet paper through my open stall door where I’ve got a tiny flashlight glowing as I’m sitting on the toilet. As they say here: You are welcome, to mean, Nice to have you here, Welcome.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Meet Francis
This is an old post that I’m finally done writing. So let’s go back in time a bit…
I attended my second umuganda this Saturday. We went to the same site as last month, the future site of a kasava field. I met a very interesting young man there named Francis. He was probably in his mid 20s. He could speak English very well so we talked for quite some time. It ranged from agriculture to politics to education. I learned so much from him and attempted to convey something about America to him. Francis had finished secondary school and was waiting to attend University. He was going to a University in the north to specialize in agriculture. There has been a big push to professionalize agriculture. In Francis’ words, the Rwandan people use very traditional methods. As I gazed around at the hoes and picks tilling the field, I couldn’t agree more. By having Rwandans study agriculture, they would like the people trained in better methods, such as the spacing of seeds, the rotation of crops, etc.
Francis also explained how education is being stressed by the President here. There is a shortage of available spaces for higher education. Thousands of students take the exam to enter University but only a small percentage are accepted. You have a better chance of getting in if you are a student in the hard sciences or math. There just isn’t enough places for people to learn.
Francis was under the impression that all Americans have education as a high priority. It could possibly be because the Americans that appear in Rwanda are highly educated and mainly wealthy. I tried to let him down gently that not all Americans value education. That even though K-12 is free, some refuse to attend or even if they do – they don’t put in effort. I don’t think he believed me.
Even though speaking with Francis was sort of like hearing an elongated political commercial with some hard facts and statistics, it was wonderful to hear the viewpoint of a twenty something. Hopefully the first of many stimulating conversations to come.
I attended my second umuganda this Saturday. We went to the same site as last month, the future site of a kasava field. I met a very interesting young man there named Francis. He was probably in his mid 20s. He could speak English very well so we talked for quite some time. It ranged from agriculture to politics to education. I learned so much from him and attempted to convey something about America to him. Francis had finished secondary school and was waiting to attend University. He was going to a University in the north to specialize in agriculture. There has been a big push to professionalize agriculture. In Francis’ words, the Rwandan people use very traditional methods. As I gazed around at the hoes and picks tilling the field, I couldn’t agree more. By having Rwandans study agriculture, they would like the people trained in better methods, such as the spacing of seeds, the rotation of crops, etc.
Francis also explained how education is being stressed by the President here. There is a shortage of available spaces for higher education. Thousands of students take the exam to enter University but only a small percentage are accepted. You have a better chance of getting in if you are a student in the hard sciences or math. There just isn’t enough places for people to learn.
Francis was under the impression that all Americans have education as a high priority. It could possibly be because the Americans that appear in Rwanda are highly educated and mainly wealthy. I tried to let him down gently that not all Americans value education. That even though K-12 is free, some refuse to attend or even if they do – they don’t put in effort. I don’t think he believed me.
Even though speaking with Francis was sort of like hearing an elongated political commercial with some hard facts and statistics, it was wonderful to hear the viewpoint of a twenty something. Hopefully the first of many stimulating conversations to come.
How the Other Half Lives
We make $3000 a year, $250 a month, $62.5 a week as Peace Corps volunteers in Rwanda. By entering the Peace Corps we are essentially taking a vow of poverty. We will live comfortably, never starving or dirty or homeless. We will be able to afford three meals a day, round the clock tea, travel, etc. This is not difficult when you see the absolute poverty around you and you think that everyone is living this way.
…Then I went to Nakumatt supermarket today. I walked down aisle after aisle. I perused the book section, the Tupperware section, the CDs. Then I entered a whole new world: Lazy Boy recliners, a racecar kiddie bed frame, ski gloves, yoga mats, iPods, a desk that was almost identical to the one I have at home, kitchen tables that I swear I’ve seen in various American homes. Something snapped. How could I be in Rwanda when I see all these material things that remind me of America? How can anyone in this country set up an American home in the middle of Rwanda? Why should this exist here? This is the danger of Kigali. The cosmopolitan, materialistic allure that makes you believe you are home, whether you want to feel that way or not. It may seem strange that I am so disturbed by an American experience since I only left three months ago. All I know is that it created delirious laughter from my friend Anna and I. It was overwhelming, frustrating, and silly.
I had a similar experience a few days ago. I arrived in Kigali and went to Bourbon Café for the first time. Bourbon is the Starbucks of Rwanda. In fact if you were blindfolded and placed inside the restaurant you may believe you are in America. The coffee drinks are DELICIOUS. The food is stellar. It is clean and quick and the waiters speak English. (It should be noted here that it is very common to order food and wait at least two hours until it arrives.) I ordered a Cajun chicken sandwich with fries. By the time it arrived to the table, I was drooling. I had already read over the appetizing menu five times, walked slowly past the ice cream counter and stroked the glass where the chocolate croissants lived. I was elated. I cut it in half, heavily salted my fries (I’ve become much too addicted to salt here), and created a lake of Heinz on my plate. The first bite was ridiculously good. The waitress rushed over with a new plate. Apparently I was eating a veggie burger. The plate was replaced by a new one with my sandwich on it. Instead of returning to the kitchen to trash the food I touched, the waitress turned around and handed the plate to Avery, its rightful owner. Then I snapped back to reality. I was in Rwanda. Standards are different. Enough said.
…Then I went to Nakumatt supermarket today. I walked down aisle after aisle. I perused the book section, the Tupperware section, the CDs. Then I entered a whole new world: Lazy Boy recliners, a racecar kiddie bed frame, ski gloves, yoga mats, iPods, a desk that was almost identical to the one I have at home, kitchen tables that I swear I’ve seen in various American homes. Something snapped. How could I be in Rwanda when I see all these material things that remind me of America? How can anyone in this country set up an American home in the middle of Rwanda? Why should this exist here? This is the danger of Kigali. The cosmopolitan, materialistic allure that makes you believe you are home, whether you want to feel that way or not. It may seem strange that I am so disturbed by an American experience since I only left three months ago. All I know is that it created delirious laughter from my friend Anna and I. It was overwhelming, frustrating, and silly.
I had a similar experience a few days ago. I arrived in Kigali and went to Bourbon Café for the first time. Bourbon is the Starbucks of Rwanda. In fact if you were blindfolded and placed inside the restaurant you may believe you are in America. The coffee drinks are DELICIOUS. The food is stellar. It is clean and quick and the waiters speak English. (It should be noted here that it is very common to order food and wait at least two hours until it arrives.) I ordered a Cajun chicken sandwich with fries. By the time it arrived to the table, I was drooling. I had already read over the appetizing menu five times, walked slowly past the ice cream counter and stroked the glass where the chocolate croissants lived. I was elated. I cut it in half, heavily salted my fries (I’ve become much too addicted to salt here), and created a lake of Heinz on my plate. The first bite was ridiculously good. The waitress rushed over with a new plate. Apparently I was eating a veggie burger. The plate was replaced by a new one with my sandwich on it. Instead of returning to the kitchen to trash the food I touched, the waitress turned around and handed the plate to Avery, its rightful owner. Then I snapped back to reality. I was in Rwanda. Standards are different. Enough said.
Moving to Site
The first three months are all about integration. I’m supposed to shut my mouth and observe. Of course the shutting of my mouth does not include the time I should be absorbing and regurgitating the language. I didn’t test at as high of a level as I should have after training so I’ve got a lot of work to do. Ultimately it’s not about a test score – it’s about being able to communicate and work effectively here.
So back to my first three months – I will be “assessing my communities needs”. Which is actually a continuous 2-year process.
I will also be setting up my house and getting adjusted to life Rwandan style -my first time without electricity or water. Start sending books now! I expect long periods of boredom. I’m going from living with 10 other volunteers and having constant, round the clock social interaction to living by myself in a village where very few people will be able to communicate with me above a 2 year old speaking level. Don’t get me wrong, the idea is thrilling but I anticipate a lot of down time.
Now is probably a good time to talk about how I am working for the US government yet also working for a faith based organization. It was a difficult realization for many of my fellow trainees. Our brains are programmed to twitch when religion and state are brought together. In Rwanda (and I’m guessing in many other economically developing countries) the church and state work together. In fact churches are given a lot of power and money here. They are the ones in the best position to affect the people. In terms of grassroots action, they are the most in touch with the community. In some ways it’s actually a blessing to work with a church because your organization will have a quality relationship built with the community already. Think of all the counseling that people go to their pastor for.
The Presbyterian Church essentially owns my village. After getting over the creepiness of that (think Potter-ville in It’s a Wonderful Life) I think it’s great. They work with/own schools, the hospital, the health center, and the only church in town. The potential for projects and access to people is astounding.
So back to my first three months – I will be “assessing my communities needs”. Which is actually a continuous 2-year process.
I will also be setting up my house and getting adjusted to life Rwandan style -my first time without electricity or water. Start sending books now! I expect long periods of boredom. I’m going from living with 10 other volunteers and having constant, round the clock social interaction to living by myself in a village where very few people will be able to communicate with me above a 2 year old speaking level. Don’t get me wrong, the idea is thrilling but I anticipate a lot of down time.
Now is probably a good time to talk about how I am working for the US government yet also working for a faith based organization. It was a difficult realization for many of my fellow trainees. Our brains are programmed to twitch when religion and state are brought together. In Rwanda (and I’m guessing in many other economically developing countries) the church and state work together. In fact churches are given a lot of power and money here. They are the ones in the best position to affect the people. In terms of grassroots action, they are the most in touch with the community. In some ways it’s actually a blessing to work with a church because your organization will have a quality relationship built with the community already. Think of all the counseling that people go to their pastor for.
The Presbyterian Church essentially owns my village. After getting over the creepiness of that (think Potter-ville in It’s a Wonderful Life) I think it’s great. They work with/own schools, the hospital, the health center, and the only church in town. The potential for projects and access to people is astounding.
Ceremonies
I generally hate ceremonies, but today is our swearing in ceremony and I am very excited. It’s a big deal and we get to take an oath and become official Peace Corps Volunteers. I will get to meet the US Ambassador to Rwanda and feel important.
Time lapse: The ceremony is over. After much primping, photo ops, and fabulous food we are officially Peace Corps Volunteers. We are pretty much a big deal. Clips of the ceremony were replayed on Rwandan TV multiple times. Our picture and a story made the front page of the New Times – a Rwandan newspaper. It is a funny fifteen minutes of Rwandan fame.
Now the real work begins.
Time lapse: The ceremony is over. After much primping, photo ops, and fabulous food we are officially Peace Corps Volunteers. We are pretty much a big deal. Clips of the ceremony were replayed on Rwandan TV multiple times. Our picture and a story made the front page of the New Times – a Rwandan newspaper. It is a funny fifteen minutes of Rwandan fame.
Now the real work begins.
The Gay Community
Being gay in Rwanda is illegal. If you ask a Rwandan if there is a gay community or people who are gay here they will deny it. At one point I heard someone say that homosexuality was something that foreigners brought into Rwanda – not something that biologically appeared on its own. Of course there are gay people here, as in any country in the world. The expression of that identity is a whole ‘nother story.
Even though the admittance that one is gay is discouraged, expression of same sex love and physical contact is very accepted. It is commonplace to see two men or two women holding hands or arms around waist or hugging or simply standing very close. It is something that the American males in our group have had to get used to. Yes, as a male, a male language teacher may come up to you and hug or hold hands as you walk together to class. There is no sexual attachment to this physical contact, it simply is and is not questioned. Females do this as well. The first time I went to my resource mother’s house, she held my sweaty hand the entire 20 minute walk. It reminds me of high school a bit -girls walking arm and arm. Opposite sex physical touch does not happen so much in public. There is the usual hand shaking or hug but never holding hands in public.
It is horrifying to imagine how existence would be as a gay, Rwandan individual. If it was not accepted in your community, the prospect of that existence may not even come to mind when figuring out your identity. Added to the fact that having children is the most important goal in this society, being gay in Rwanda would be the most extreme form of ostracizing. I also cringe to think of living in Rwanda as a gay American. My heart goes out to all those fellow volunteers who have to hide part of themselves for two years.
Even though the admittance that one is gay is discouraged, expression of same sex love and physical contact is very accepted. It is commonplace to see two men or two women holding hands or arms around waist or hugging or simply standing very close. It is something that the American males in our group have had to get used to. Yes, as a male, a male language teacher may come up to you and hug or hold hands as you walk together to class. There is no sexual attachment to this physical contact, it simply is and is not questioned. Females do this as well. The first time I went to my resource mother’s house, she held my sweaty hand the entire 20 minute walk. It reminds me of high school a bit -girls walking arm and arm. Opposite sex physical touch does not happen so much in public. There is the usual hand shaking or hug but never holding hands in public.
It is horrifying to imagine how existence would be as a gay, Rwandan individual. If it was not accepted in your community, the prospect of that existence may not even come to mind when figuring out your identity. Added to the fact that having children is the most important goal in this society, being gay in Rwanda would be the most extreme form of ostracizing. I also cringe to think of living in Rwanda as a gay American. My heart goes out to all those fellow volunteers who have to hide part of themselves for two years.
Wooing
To woo a partner can be so very different depending on culture. This is one the hilarious conversations that happen between our language instructors and trainees. The past few days we have had installments of the “How to Woo an American Woman” workshop. Tip #1: Cook her a meal. A definite challenge for a Rwandan man considering they usually leave all the cooking to the women. It is much more extreme gender divisions than in America. The men aren’t expected to go anywhere near the kitchen and they certainly never learn how to cook from anyone. There are exceptions but this defines the majority of men.
In Rwanda, “dating” doesn’t actually happen. When you ask if they are dating or have a girlfriend/boyfriend they always deny it. They don’t call it dating. They say they have a friend. But if a girl says she has a friend people automatically assume it’s her boyfriend. They are basically not allowed to date. It’s more about asking friends and assessing their family. Reputation and family approval is extremely important here. If the family doesn’t approve, it’s a deal breaker.
Perceptions of beauty are also different here. If someone calls you fat it’s a huge compliment. They will often comment on how you are gaining weight. Also saying someone dresses like a mom is a compliment -which does make sense when you consider that getting married and having children are the ultimate goals in life here.
It is difficult to represent the entire female, American population with my opinions. I am certainly not mainstream, as I believe most Peace Corps volunteers could say about themselves.
In Rwanda, “dating” doesn’t actually happen. When you ask if they are dating or have a girlfriend/boyfriend they always deny it. They don’t call it dating. They say they have a friend. But if a girl says she has a friend people automatically assume it’s her boyfriend. They are basically not allowed to date. It’s more about asking friends and assessing their family. Reputation and family approval is extremely important here. If the family doesn’t approve, it’s a deal breaker.
Perceptions of beauty are also different here. If someone calls you fat it’s a huge compliment. They will often comment on how you are gaining weight. Also saying someone dresses like a mom is a compliment -which does make sense when you consider that getting married and having children are the ultimate goals in life here.
It is difficult to represent the entire female, American population with my opinions. I am certainly not mainstream, as I believe most Peace Corps volunteers could say about themselves.
Munezero
I received my Rwandan name! Everyone is given a name in Kinyarwanda. Our language teachers get together and collaborate on what each trainees name should be. They come out at random times depending on when they decide your name and then when they remember to actually tell you. I was sitting around just hanging out about a week ago and Jerome looked over and said: Did anyone tell you your name yet? NO! Munezero. I was so excited to hear that I had one, then I calmed down and realized all the horrible meanings it could have. Smartass, annoying, and rude all came to mind. Thank goodness my teachers think more of me than that. Munezero means joyous or one who is always happy. I guess that’s the best indication that I really feel amazing here. It’s apparent.
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