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.