So I'm stealing a blog post idea from one of the secondary student essays I referenced earlier. When asked the benefits of attending the camp, the student spoke about the importance of sports and games. In his opinion, sports help promote peace. If you play sports, firstly, you are improving your body and releasing some wonderful endorphins. But secondly, and more importantly, you are improving the relationship between you and the person you are playing with. Whether on the same team or on the opposing team, playing sports with someone eliminates differences and gives you an opportunity to come together, learn from each other and respect each other.
This magical power has most easily been seen during the Olympics. There is something beautiful and awe inspiring about all the different countries coming together to share something as peaceful as sports.
This leads me to a question asked to me many, many days ago. (I had at one point made a video answering people's questions but the video would never load and not wanting to transcribe myself, I deleted it.) Similar to the Olympics, the World Cup is amazing for its ability to connect and break barriers as well. World Cup fever is bigger than anything I've ever seen. Such lighthearted joy. Yes, of course the World Cup is very serious when your favorite team is playing but overall I'd call it an innocent, well-meaning happiness. Every night I would fall asleep to my neighbors gathering around a radio to listen to the games. I would eat breakfast while watching replays of the most important moments in the previous days' games. The best small talk topic of the day was about the World Cup. Since Rwanda didn't participate in the World Cup, everyone had picked their loyalty to another country…and not all to South Africa as you would assume. Watching people watch the World Cup was like a mix of small children on Christmas morning and chasing after the ice cream truck because you might miss out on a treat.
The student was right. There is something unifying and wonderful about sports.
I'd also argue that there are many racial and economic divisions among sports in the United States -sports that are predominantly played by one ethnicity or another, sports that are so expensive to play that it leaves many out. But when you boil the essence of sports down to its most fundamental, it still holds the power to change the world.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Saturday Morning Cartoons
Yesterday I enjoyed a typical Saturday. What is a typical Saturday you ask? Well I'm glad you asked…
I woke up after a splendid 11 hours of sleep. I will admit I went to bed at 8:30 pm because I couldn't think of anything better to do.
I then changed into my usual Saturday housework outfit- worn-out, saggy jeans, my hot pink Michigan State t-shirt and my navy blue crocs. I took my radio outside with me and proceeded to weed and sweep my yard. A typical, responsible Rwandan woman does this each and every morning before she gets into the real work of feeding her family, bathing, sweeping out her whole house, farming and/or teaching or whatever other profession she is. I am not a typical, responsible Rwandan woman. I have been neglecting my yard for about three months. THREE MONTHS! I know… In my defense, during the dry season the weeds have a tendency to not want to grow. So on this particular morning I was punishing myself by not cooking breakfast until after I had finished my yard work. Little did I know it would take two hours! But I was rewarded with a thumbs up from Tabita and advice to pull the whole weed, including the root. She's full of these great pieces of advice. Maryanne wanted to help but I'm always afraid she wants to get paid so I declined. After the hunger started to take over, I quit. I swear I'll get to the rest of it later… maybe in a few weeks.
Then I cooked myself a lovely meal of eggs over easy and toast. Delicious.
I washed a few pieces of clothes and some towels. I would have done more but I have a tendency to stop after a layer of skin is torn off my middle and ring fingers and the water stings.
On this particular Saturday I had a special mission. Edison and I were conducting an essay contest for the secondary students to have an opportunity to attend a camp in Kigali. The camp is similar to a holiday camp…well, it is a holiday camp. It is called Camp GLOW, standing for girls leading our world. It was created for female empowerment. This year they are extending the camp to boys. Each camp will be one week long and the genders will be separated or segregated as they like to lament. The camp is being facilitated by Peace Corps volunteers and Rwandans…sustainability is our middle name, remember. The camp is being held in English so the essay is helping weed out the kids who aren't at a high enough level to participate.
Then I went back home. Avoided cleaning my house by reading and listening to Voice of America. Which only led to a gangling of children coming through my fence and barraging me with questions. After my patience ran out I sent them away. They wouldn't leave but after ignoring their calls for a while they got bored and went off to play what I assumed was a version of hide and go seek tag. Either that or one of the boys was avoiding the group by hiding behind the kitchen for reasons of bullying and wanted isolation. I may never know.
Made some oatmeal for dinner and watched some West Wing and fell asleep. Yep, that's the life right there.
I woke up after a splendid 11 hours of sleep. I will admit I went to bed at 8:30 pm because I couldn't think of anything better to do.
I then changed into my usual Saturday housework outfit- worn-out, saggy jeans, my hot pink Michigan State t-shirt and my navy blue crocs. I took my radio outside with me and proceeded to weed and sweep my yard. A typical, responsible Rwandan woman does this each and every morning before she gets into the real work of feeding her family, bathing, sweeping out her whole house, farming and/or teaching or whatever other profession she is. I am not a typical, responsible Rwandan woman. I have been neglecting my yard for about three months. THREE MONTHS! I know… In my defense, during the dry season the weeds have a tendency to not want to grow. So on this particular morning I was punishing myself by not cooking breakfast until after I had finished my yard work. Little did I know it would take two hours! But I was rewarded with a thumbs up from Tabita and advice to pull the whole weed, including the root. She's full of these great pieces of advice. Maryanne wanted to help but I'm always afraid she wants to get paid so I declined. After the hunger started to take over, I quit. I swear I'll get to the rest of it later… maybe in a few weeks.
Then I cooked myself a lovely meal of eggs over easy and toast. Delicious.
I washed a few pieces of clothes and some towels. I would have done more but I have a tendency to stop after a layer of skin is torn off my middle and ring fingers and the water stings.
On this particular Saturday I had a special mission. Edison and I were conducting an essay contest for the secondary students to have an opportunity to attend a camp in Kigali. The camp is similar to a holiday camp…well, it is a holiday camp. It is called Camp GLOW, standing for girls leading our world. It was created for female empowerment. This year they are extending the camp to boys. Each camp will be one week long and the genders will be separated or segregated as they like to lament. The camp is being facilitated by Peace Corps volunteers and Rwandans…sustainability is our middle name, remember. The camp is being held in English so the essay is helping weed out the kids who aren't at a high enough level to participate.
Then I went back home. Avoided cleaning my house by reading and listening to Voice of America. Which only led to a gangling of children coming through my fence and barraging me with questions. After my patience ran out I sent them away. They wouldn't leave but after ignoring their calls for a while they got bored and went off to play what I assumed was a version of hide and go seek tag. Either that or one of the boys was avoiding the group by hiding behind the kitchen for reasons of bullying and wanted isolation. I may never know.
Made some oatmeal for dinner and watched some West Wing and fell asleep. Yep, that's the life right there.
Obsession with Certificates
It is something I am still wrapping my head around. Rwandans are obsessed with certificates. If they complete a training, even just a one day training, they would like a certificate stating that. Also from my limited exposure to refugees at the Lansing Refugee Development Center, I have seen this preoccupation with certificates there as well. After finishing a semester of English classes, the participants were overjoyed to receive a silly certificate made with ClipArt.
This brings up two issues. First of all, clearly it is not silly and I should get over my abhorrence of ClipArt. Value is all in the eyes of the beholder. These people hold that flimsy piece of paper in very high esteem… Oh there I go again. I was meant to write editorials and not non-biased news I suppose… But this brings me to the second point, what the certificate really means to them. The knowledge and the trainings are nothing if you don't have something to prove it happened. The power is in the paper, otherwise the experience is not solidified, not materialized, not brought into the light of reality. Having theoretical knowledge proves nothing.
I, on the other hand, represent a portion of the Western population who couldn't give two hoots about certificates (yes, Lauren that one was for you.) Sure, I have a diploma saying I graduated from college. Where is it? Well, I'm sure my mother thanklessly framed it and then I promptly stuck it in a box in the back of my closet. Certificates go on the same level as the ceremonies celebrating achievements. I hate 'em but they exist and it sure makes the family and friends smile. So maybe it's not about being presented with that certificate after a training. Maybe it's about the moment you pull it out of your bag and show it to your family. The moment your mom pulls you in for a hug and a tear slides down her cheek. Who cares if it has a little ClipArt on it.
This brings up two issues. First of all, clearly it is not silly and I should get over my abhorrence of ClipArt. Value is all in the eyes of the beholder. These people hold that flimsy piece of paper in very high esteem… Oh there I go again. I was meant to write editorials and not non-biased news I suppose… But this brings me to the second point, what the certificate really means to them. The knowledge and the trainings are nothing if you don't have something to prove it happened. The power is in the paper, otherwise the experience is not solidified, not materialized, not brought into the light of reality. Having theoretical knowledge proves nothing.
I, on the other hand, represent a portion of the Western population who couldn't give two hoots about certificates (yes, Lauren that one was for you.) Sure, I have a diploma saying I graduated from college. Where is it? Well, I'm sure my mother thanklessly framed it and then I promptly stuck it in a box in the back of my closet. Certificates go on the same level as the ceremonies celebrating achievements. I hate 'em but they exist and it sure makes the family and friends smile. So maybe it's not about being presented with that certificate after a training. Maybe it's about the moment you pull it out of your bag and show it to your family. The moment your mom pulls you in for a hug and a tear slides down her cheek. Who cares if it has a little ClipArt on it.
Gender Relations
I had an interesting work day today. A woman arrived from Washington DC to have a focus group about gender relations and the best way for the program to address the challenges. I got to see some of the men and women we serve in a whole new light. It's amazing the deep conversations that can be had with a translator.
The first group was our best cooperative, as I like to call it Rose's group because Rose is the president. This is the group I sat and learned basket weaving from my first week at site. The group is made up almost entirely of HIV positive females. From what I learned today the majority are widows. They generally take care of their own two to three kids and then have one or two orphans that they also care for - even though some of them don't even have their own shelter.
As I watched these women name securing their children's' health insurance, food and land in the future, especially once they meet their early deaths, as their biggest priorities, I was so proud of their determination. They haven't surrendered yet. They talked about the challenges of being targeted by thieves since the community knows they don't have a man in the house to protect them. Some of them get badgered by men with gifts in exchange for sex. They have to do the work of two people and have the patience and compassion to raise children.
These women have gone through the hair splitting anxiety of being tested for their HIV status. Once they found out they were positive, they didn't dig a hole and crawl in. They banded together and are trying to make a living, even through all their health battles. They can be directly compared to the majority of men in this society who refuse to be tested. Even once they are tested, most men are ashamed of their results and hide it for the rest of their lives.
*time has passed and it is now the end of the next day*
I was boosting yesterday of being a witness to such wonderful female resilience. Today I was hanging out with the same group of women. They are being trained to dye fabric and make soap in order to generate more revenue. They had a lesson today. The amount of laughter and playfulness made me think I was watching a gaggle of girls. These women are mainly 40 years old and up. They are proving that you can never lose the thirst to learn and the desire to make a positive change in your life. I'm privileged to be able to know these women.
The first group was our best cooperative, as I like to call it Rose's group because Rose is the president. This is the group I sat and learned basket weaving from my first week at site. The group is made up almost entirely of HIV positive females. From what I learned today the majority are widows. They generally take care of their own two to three kids and then have one or two orphans that they also care for - even though some of them don't even have their own shelter.
As I watched these women name securing their children's' health insurance, food and land in the future, especially once they meet their early deaths, as their biggest priorities, I was so proud of their determination. They haven't surrendered yet. They talked about the challenges of being targeted by thieves since the community knows they don't have a man in the house to protect them. Some of them get badgered by men with gifts in exchange for sex. They have to do the work of two people and have the patience and compassion to raise children.
These women have gone through the hair splitting anxiety of being tested for their HIV status. Once they found out they were positive, they didn't dig a hole and crawl in. They banded together and are trying to make a living, even through all their health battles. They can be directly compared to the majority of men in this society who refuse to be tested. Even once they are tested, most men are ashamed of their results and hide it for the rest of their lives.
*time has passed and it is now the end of the next day*
I was boosting yesterday of being a witness to such wonderful female resilience. Today I was hanging out with the same group of women. They are being trained to dye fabric and make soap in order to generate more revenue. They had a lesson today. The amount of laughter and playfulness made me think I was watching a gaggle of girls. These women are mainly 40 years old and up. They are proving that you can never lose the thirst to learn and the desire to make a positive change in your life. I'm privileged to be able to know these women.
What a Bad Day Looks Like
I can talk about all the lovely moments here but there are certainly bad days. I am having one such day today. I woke up not wanting to be in Rwanda. For once can't I just eat cereal and drink cold milk, go to the bathroom in my house, not have to deal with a language barrier and just be left alone. Can't everyone just act like I look just like them. Can't I just fit in and more importantly can't I just have a lazy Sunday with my family. Working here is all fine and good but when I have to day to relax I'd like to drive over to my sister's house and escape. I'd like to be able to use my free time for me, surrounded by the familiar.
I spent half my morning being absorbed in the West Wing (season 2 is really dynamite) ignoring where I am and eating junk food. Junk food is such a luxury. To mindlessly eat is a luxury. The other half of the morning was spent pouting, reading notes of encouragement from my best friend and in general sobbing like a baby. Those are the low points. The points with no motivation. Digging my heels in and not wanting to make a fool of myself - which is what is necessary every single day here. Facing your worst character flaws. and having such an inflated sense of self that you think you are capable of just about anything. Some days you just lose your way. Or you get down on yourself for not doing enough.
I considered not going to church today for fear of crying in public. We all know what a faux pas that is from previous experience. But often the worst idea is staying couped up in the house.
And then in usual Rwandan fashion, my neighbors sensed something is wrong and are just pouring on the wonderfulness. I'm wearing a scarf in my hair because I absolutely refused wash my hair today even though it is achieving a funky flip up which I didn't even think possible. The scarf makes me look more Rwandan so of course I've already gotten five compliments on it. Then Tabita called me over as soon as I walked out of my gate. Apparently 10 am on a Sunday is not too early to be drinking. I greeted Bubba and friends. Tabita asked me to pray for her, which I certainly will. I was walked to the hospital by a secondary school student and we had a lovely conversation. In the meantime I was flanked on both sides by children holding my hands. They were adorable, well behaved and liked to grip my hand like I was their salvation.
Whenever I try to write off Rwanda and wallow in self pity, they punch me in the stomach with compassion and thankfulness. Darn. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow.
I spent half my morning being absorbed in the West Wing (season 2 is really dynamite) ignoring where I am and eating junk food. Junk food is such a luxury. To mindlessly eat is a luxury. The other half of the morning was spent pouting, reading notes of encouragement from my best friend and in general sobbing like a baby. Those are the low points. The points with no motivation. Digging my heels in and not wanting to make a fool of myself - which is what is necessary every single day here. Facing your worst character flaws. and having such an inflated sense of self that you think you are capable of just about anything. Some days you just lose your way. Or you get down on yourself for not doing enough.
I considered not going to church today for fear of crying in public. We all know what a faux pas that is from previous experience. But often the worst idea is staying couped up in the house.
And then in usual Rwandan fashion, my neighbors sensed something is wrong and are just pouring on the wonderfulness. I'm wearing a scarf in my hair because I absolutely refused wash my hair today even though it is achieving a funky flip up which I didn't even think possible. The scarf makes me look more Rwandan so of course I've already gotten five compliments on it. Then Tabita called me over as soon as I walked out of my gate. Apparently 10 am on a Sunday is not too early to be drinking. I greeted Bubba and friends. Tabita asked me to pray for her, which I certainly will. I was walked to the hospital by a secondary school student and we had a lovely conversation. In the meantime I was flanked on both sides by children holding my hands. They were adorable, well behaved and liked to grip my hand like I was their salvation.
Whenever I try to write off Rwanda and wallow in self pity, they punch me in the stomach with compassion and thankfulness. Darn. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow.
Gender Relations
I had an interesting work day today. A woman arrived from Washington DC to have a focus group about gender relations and the best way for the program to address the challenges. I got to see some of the men and women we serve in a whole new light. It's amazing the deep conversations that can be had with a translator.
The first group was our best cooperative, as I like to call it Rose's group because Rose is the president. This is the group I sat and learned basket weaving from my first week at site. The group is made up almost entirely of HIV positive females. From what I learned today the majority are widows. They generally take care of their own two to three kids and then have one or two orphans that they also care for - even though some of them don't even have their own shelter.
As I watched these women name securing their children's' health insurance, food and land in the future, especially once they meet their early deaths, as their biggest priorities, I was so proud of their determination. They haven't surrendered yet. They talked about the challenges of being targeted by thieves since the community knows they don't have a man in the house to protect them. Some of them get badgered by men with gifts in exchange for sex. They have to do the work of two people and have the patience and compassion to raise children.
These women have gone through the hair splitting anxiety of being tested for their HIV status. Once they found out they were positive, they didn't dig a hole and crawl in. They banded together and are trying to make a living, even through all their health battles. They can be directly compared to the majority of men in this society who refuse to be tested. Even once they are tested, most men are ashamed of their results and hide it for the rest of their lives.
*time has passed and it is now the end of the next day*
I was boosting yesterday of being a witness to such wonderful female resilience. Today I was hanging out with the same group of women. They are being trained to dye fabric and make soap in order to generate more revenue. They had a lesson today. The amount of laughter and playfulness made me think I was watching a gaggle of girls. These women are mainly 40 years old and up. They are proving that you can never lose the thirst to learn and the desire to make a positive change in your life. I'm privileged to be able to know these women.
The first group was our best cooperative, as I like to call it Rose's group because Rose is the president. This is the group I sat and learned basket weaving from my first week at site. The group is made up almost entirely of HIV positive females. From what I learned today the majority are widows. They generally take care of their own two to three kids and then have one or two orphans that they also care for - even though some of them don't even have their own shelter.
As I watched these women name securing their children's' health insurance, food and land in the future, especially once they meet their early deaths, as their biggest priorities, I was so proud of their determination. They haven't surrendered yet. They talked about the challenges of being targeted by thieves since the community knows they don't have a man in the house to protect them. Some of them get badgered by men with gifts in exchange for sex. They have to do the work of two people and have the patience and compassion to raise children.
These women have gone through the hair splitting anxiety of being tested for their HIV status. Once they found out they were positive, they didn't dig a hole and crawl in. They banded together and are trying to make a living, even through all their health battles. They can be directly compared to the majority of men in this society who refuse to be tested. Even once they are tested, most men are ashamed of their results and hide it for the rest of their lives.
*time has passed and it is now the end of the next day*
I was boosting yesterday of being a witness to such wonderful female resilience. Today I was hanging out with the same group of women. They are being trained to dye fabric and make soap in order to generate more revenue. They had a lesson today. The amount of laughter and playfulness made me think I was watching a gaggle of girls. These women are mainly 40 years old and up. They are proving that you can never lose the thirst to learn and the desire to make a positive change in your life. I'm privileged to be able to know these women.
Different Yet the Same
I work in a hospital. It is like an American hospital yet it is so very different. Let me explain. I'm going to use my Papa as an example. (So glad you are out of the hospital and doing fine, Papa!)
When you walk into an American hospital you are actually inside a building. It has wards and elevators and many levels. There is a reception desk and nurses stations.
When you walk into my hospital, you are still outside. It is set up like an outdoor school. Everything is one floor. There are wards, labeled on the outside of the buildings. You've got the pharmacy, maternity, internal medicine, surgery, etc. There is no reception - still making me question how people coming here for the first time know where to begin. There are no nurses' stations but they do have offices that they operate out of.
So when my Papa went into the hospital he would be placed in a hospital room, at the very most placed with one other person with a curtain separating them. In Rwanda you only get a private room if you can afford it. The rest of the people are split into two large rooms - one for men, one for women - with about 40 beds in each.
Each meal time my Papa would be brought food, or in the case of some hospitals that are changing over - he would order over the phone and food would be delivered to his hospital room at any hour of the day. In Rwanda, well first you don't have telephones in the room. Second, there is no food service offered to the patients unless you are in the national hospital in Kigali. (I've seen pictures of it on TV and it looks like America.) Family members or friends arrive multiple times a day with food and tea or other drinks. I still haven't figured out what families do if they live very far from the hospital. This is the only hospital in the district and people could be traveling over an hour (by car) to get here.
If Papa needed to go to the bathroom, he would just cross his room to the private bathroom. In Rwanda there are no private bathrooms. The hospital has community bathrooms that patients have to trek to. Papa would wash his hands in the bathroom. In Rwanda, there are sinks in the rooms but the running water doesn't work 90% of the time.
Papa was probably forced to wear a hospital gown. No such thing here. Everyone just wear whatever they arrived in.
If Papa didn't have health insurance he would still be treated but would have to some serious hospital bills to deal with later. In Rwanda, they also have health insurance, a couple different varieties. I'm not sure whether they can refuse care if you don't have insurance but I do know that in terms of the mental health office they can turn patients away from a consultation if the patient doesn't have insurance.
The longer I am here, the more normal everything here seems. That being said, there are a million other differences that I can't even think to point out at the moment.
When you walk into an American hospital you are actually inside a building. It has wards and elevators and many levels. There is a reception desk and nurses stations.
When you walk into my hospital, you are still outside. It is set up like an outdoor school. Everything is one floor. There are wards, labeled on the outside of the buildings. You've got the pharmacy, maternity, internal medicine, surgery, etc. There is no reception - still making me question how people coming here for the first time know where to begin. There are no nurses' stations but they do have offices that they operate out of.
So when my Papa went into the hospital he would be placed in a hospital room, at the very most placed with one other person with a curtain separating them. In Rwanda you only get a private room if you can afford it. The rest of the people are split into two large rooms - one for men, one for women - with about 40 beds in each.
Each meal time my Papa would be brought food, or in the case of some hospitals that are changing over - he would order over the phone and food would be delivered to his hospital room at any hour of the day. In Rwanda, well first you don't have telephones in the room. Second, there is no food service offered to the patients unless you are in the national hospital in Kigali. (I've seen pictures of it on TV and it looks like America.) Family members or friends arrive multiple times a day with food and tea or other drinks. I still haven't figured out what families do if they live very far from the hospital. This is the only hospital in the district and people could be traveling over an hour (by car) to get here.
If Papa needed to go to the bathroom, he would just cross his room to the private bathroom. In Rwanda there are no private bathrooms. The hospital has community bathrooms that patients have to trek to. Papa would wash his hands in the bathroom. In Rwanda, there are sinks in the rooms but the running water doesn't work 90% of the time.
Papa was probably forced to wear a hospital gown. No such thing here. Everyone just wear whatever they arrived in.
If Papa didn't have health insurance he would still be treated but would have to some serious hospital bills to deal with later. In Rwanda, they also have health insurance, a couple different varieties. I'm not sure whether they can refuse care if you don't have insurance but I do know that in terms of the mental health office they can turn patients away from a consultation if the patient doesn't have insurance.
The longer I am here, the more normal everything here seems. That being said, there are a million other differences that I can't even think to point out at the moment.
Guttural Guilt
Maybe it just comes with the territory of being raised Catholic, either way I have a great ability to feel guilty for events that transpire, whether in or out of my control. I'd like to take this moment to commiserate with all the people who have ever left home without looking back, until a few months time passes, and a grey haze settles over you. It stinks entirely like Guilt. For a couple months now I have had this lingering guttural feeling of guilt. I have left my family and friends at home. I have traveled half way around the globe. I have set up shop assuming something positive and constructive will come out of this. I'll admit, more than half of my reasons for coming here have been selfish.
In the meantime I have resigned my designated role at home. I have stopped serving whatever purpose I did in the family dynamic. I have to sit on the sidelines as heart-wrenching events take place. I have to offer kind words of sympathy or encouragement from a distance.
and what do I feel most as I greet my adorable little neighbors, as I teach my coworker a new word, as I look out over the breathtaking Rwandan landscape - Guilt. It settles over me like a wet blanket.
Is it fair to leave all the people I know and love to serve strangers? Can my love and dedication for what I'm doing here ever outweigh the guilt?
These are the things that you will never fully understand until you are the midst of it yourself. You can see it coming from a mile or months away yet it still punches you in the stomach with the force of surprise.
I can look back at me six months ago at the airport and try to warn and prepare myself… but I will still want to cuddle my nephew when he gets pneumonia or visit my grandpa when he goes into the hospital. I will still feel disappointed that no one's figured out that time/space continuum thingy allowing me to be in two places at once. I will still wish for the end of my service while simultaneously loving life here and now. I will still be a messy blob of contradictions coated with the slime of guilt.
In the meantime I have resigned my designated role at home. I have stopped serving whatever purpose I did in the family dynamic. I have to sit on the sidelines as heart-wrenching events take place. I have to offer kind words of sympathy or encouragement from a distance.
and what do I feel most as I greet my adorable little neighbors, as I teach my coworker a new word, as I look out over the breathtaking Rwandan landscape - Guilt. It settles over me like a wet blanket.
Is it fair to leave all the people I know and love to serve strangers? Can my love and dedication for what I'm doing here ever outweigh the guilt?
These are the things that you will never fully understand until you are the midst of it yourself. You can see it coming from a mile or months away yet it still punches you in the stomach with the force of surprise.
I can look back at me six months ago at the airport and try to warn and prepare myself… but I will still want to cuddle my nephew when he gets pneumonia or visit my grandpa when he goes into the hospital. I will still feel disappointed that no one's figured out that time/space continuum thingy allowing me to be in two places at once. I will still wish for the end of my service while simultaneously loving life here and now. I will still be a messy blob of contradictions coated with the slime of guilt.
Lakeside Fantasies
Just go to your happy place. That one place you can escape to and find pure joy. That's what my mom used to tell me before the doctors would stick me with a needle for one reason or another as a child. I would always dream of Disney World. It seemed the most clique childhood fantasy although not my own personal paradise.
Nowadays I find myself daydreaming about one particular place and everything to do with it. The long car rides there and back, with the wind in my hair even on the days when my air conditioning functioned properly. I would sing at the top of my lungs as I inevitably drove faster than the posted speed limits. I would arrive simultaneously with my other family members coming from different directions. There would be midnight walks down to the lake to stare at the galaxies, camp fires with goodies to eat, long quiet afternoons with a book to read, peaceful walks and bike rides, waking up to chocolate doughnuts and hilarious small town radio programs . At this rate I could write tourist advertisements for the state of Michigan. I'm guessing everyone has that one special place. That place that lets you clear your head, refocus your heart and keep on trucking. Lucky for me I have an active imagination so I can go to that special place right before I feel the sting.
One day I will get back to that place and will appreciate it even more.
Nowadays I find myself daydreaming about one particular place and everything to do with it. The long car rides there and back, with the wind in my hair even on the days when my air conditioning functioned properly. I would sing at the top of my lungs as I inevitably drove faster than the posted speed limits. I would arrive simultaneously with my other family members coming from different directions. There would be midnight walks down to the lake to stare at the galaxies, camp fires with goodies to eat, long quiet afternoons with a book to read, peaceful walks and bike rides, waking up to chocolate doughnuts and hilarious small town radio programs . At this rate I could write tourist advertisements for the state of Michigan. I'm guessing everyone has that one special place. That place that lets you clear your head, refocus your heart and keep on trucking. Lucky for me I have an active imagination so I can go to that special place right before I feel the sting.
One day I will get back to that place and will appreciate it even more.
Tears in Public
They kept stealing glances in my directions. Some don't even try to hide their full blown stares. They were creeping closer as if to take action after careful observation. Heaven forbid I was crying in public in Rwanda! Memories of the genocide memorial ceremonies came back into my mind. The wild wails, the forceful carrying of flailing bodies. I pieced it together with the later images of PTSD patients in crisis at the hospital I work at.
They kept staring at me like they wanted to cage me. To tell me to shut up, keep it inside, not excite the others. I wasn't even sobbing, just gentle, silent tears running down my face with the occasional blowing of the nose.
Everything in Rwanda is just fine and normal when you play by the rules. Any other day it is plausible for me to hide all extreme emotion, keep myself on a flat playing field. I can greet, joke, politely inquire. I can even wait for hours, handle breaking buses, rude shouts, demands for money. But everything stops short of acceptable when you just can't hold it in anymore. That one piece of bad news from home that forces you to release emotion. All of a sudden you aren't fit for Rwandan society. You catch their pointed looks over the shoulder of an American friend trying her best to shield you from their view. Some days you just have to act like an American no matter where you are, because that's how I was raised, damnnit.
They kept staring at me like they wanted to cage me. To tell me to shut up, keep it inside, not excite the others. I wasn't even sobbing, just gentle, silent tears running down my face with the occasional blowing of the nose.
Everything in Rwanda is just fine and normal when you play by the rules. Any other day it is plausible for me to hide all extreme emotion, keep myself on a flat playing field. I can greet, joke, politely inquire. I can even wait for hours, handle breaking buses, rude shouts, demands for money. But everything stops short of acceptable when you just can't hold it in anymore. That one piece of bad news from home that forces you to release emotion. All of a sudden you aren't fit for Rwandan society. You catch their pointed looks over the shoulder of an American friend trying her best to shield you from their view. Some days you just have to act like an American no matter where you are, because that's how I was raised, damnnit.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Trailblazers
I just returned from my IST (in-service training). It generally takes place anywhere from three months to six months after moving to site for all Peace Corps volunteers. It is a great time to get together with everyone from your group, talk about challenges and strategies for success, and receive additional technical training.
It was also an opportunity to meet our new country director and training manager. In the midst of introductory speeches the idea of trailblazers arose. Although we are the third group in Rwanda we were urged to still view ourselves as trailblazers. The Peace Corps program in many countries has been going on for decades. When a Peace Corps volunteer is placed they are often replacing a departing volunteer. The community is aware of the organization and its aims.
Not only are we one of the very few working in a post-conflict country, we are also returning after many years away. No one here understands where we come from or what we are trying to achieve. Most people haven't been able to have a relationship with a Westerner before so it is both startling and challenging. We are making a name for Peace Corps in Rwanda and hopefully starting it out on the right foot. There is so much work to be done both within the Peace Corps Rwanda program and outside it, in the communities.
Fortunately, I am blessed to be placed as the second Peace Corps volunteer in my community. Edison has built relationships and worked in the hospital long before I came. I can now increase the efforts and eventually prepare the village for my replacement. Hopefully this is just the beginning of a long relationship it has with the Peace Corps.
It was also an opportunity to meet our new country director and training manager. In the midst of introductory speeches the idea of trailblazers arose. Although we are the third group in Rwanda we were urged to still view ourselves as trailblazers. The Peace Corps program in many countries has been going on for decades. When a Peace Corps volunteer is placed they are often replacing a departing volunteer. The community is aware of the organization and its aims.
Not only are we one of the very few working in a post-conflict country, we are also returning after many years away. No one here understands where we come from or what we are trying to achieve. Most people haven't been able to have a relationship with a Westerner before so it is both startling and challenging. We are making a name for Peace Corps in Rwanda and hopefully starting it out on the right foot. There is so much work to be done both within the Peace Corps Rwanda program and outside it, in the communities.
Fortunately, I am blessed to be placed as the second Peace Corps volunteer in my community. Edison has built relationships and worked in the hospital long before I came. I can now increase the efforts and eventually prepare the village for my replacement. Hopefully this is just the beginning of a long relationship it has with the Peace Corps.
On My Own
Not only am I questioned by my own culture, I am also given strange looks by Rwandans. Yes, I am a single female who lives by herself in a foreign country. I have been praised for my bravery, challenged for my stupidity and just plain stared at with a dumbfounded look on their face. It is incredibly uncommon for a person to live alone in Rwanda. Rwandans can't stand to be alone. Even when they have roommates, they sometimes sleep in the same room so as not to be alone. Even in America, where it is common for people to live alone, it is not always accepted for a person to move to a foreign place, surrounded by strangers and go it alone.
That being said, my security has always been my top priority. I happen to have a bit of phobia against burglars, especially ones seeking physical harm. To put it lightly, it has caused me nightmares and paranoia for as long as I could remember. So when people applaud my actions as a young, single female moving to Rwanda, I can only say I didn't do it lightly. I've been very pleased so far. Life here hasn't been nearly as petrifying as I imagined. I have so many locks on my doors the scariest experience has been my being locked inside my house. There are bars on all my windows. Everyone respects the boundaries of my yard. I don't go out in the dark unless accompanied. All in all, life has been more secure than in America. It is also reassuring to think that no Rwandans, outside the military, have guns. And people carrying machetes has stopped frightening me, all history acknowledged.
So this particular night caught me off guard. I was lying in bed watching the French version of the third installment of Center Stage -understanding the dialogue of that movie isn't really necessary. I heard strange noises. I swear it was squeaking that only a human could make and footsteps. I noted the time and tried to be rational. The noises continued for over a half hour, sounding like it was right outside my bedroom window and back door. At this point I couldn't calm myself down. I didn't want to look out the window for fear of one thing or another. Most of my coworkers were out of town because it was a holiday weekend. I did the only thing I could think to do - called the pastor. If anyone is going to feel a moral obligation to help me it would be him. Pastor Jerome, being a kind soul, immediately sent someone over to check on my house. Thankfully nothing/no one was found. However I was all wound up and it took some time to calm myself down. The noises continued into the wee hours of morning but now I could recognize them for what they really were - some sort of nocturnal animal in my attic, hopped up on Red Bull, playing a game of dodgeball with his friends, with the aim of making as much noise as possible and letting me get the least amount of sleep possible. I could also recognize that I should have eaten more because low blood sugar directly correlates to my mind fostering elaborate stories that are completely unfounded. The next day I woke up extremely drowsy and feeling foolish.
This story is not meant to increase concern for my safety. I only want to give a realistic view of my life here. Life as a single female is not always glamourous and glass-ceiling-breaking. Sometimes there is fear. Sometimes there is concern. And sometimes there are wonderful neighbors who have sympathy for scared Americans living in their midst. I'd like to focus on the fact that I have reliable, compassionate neighbors and was in no real danger beyond sleep deprivation. Thank goodness.
That being said, my security has always been my top priority. I happen to have a bit of phobia against burglars, especially ones seeking physical harm. To put it lightly, it has caused me nightmares and paranoia for as long as I could remember. So when people applaud my actions as a young, single female moving to Rwanda, I can only say I didn't do it lightly. I've been very pleased so far. Life here hasn't been nearly as petrifying as I imagined. I have so many locks on my doors the scariest experience has been my being locked inside my house. There are bars on all my windows. Everyone respects the boundaries of my yard. I don't go out in the dark unless accompanied. All in all, life has been more secure than in America. It is also reassuring to think that no Rwandans, outside the military, have guns. And people carrying machetes has stopped frightening me, all history acknowledged.
So this particular night caught me off guard. I was lying in bed watching the French version of the third installment of Center Stage -understanding the dialogue of that movie isn't really necessary. I heard strange noises. I swear it was squeaking that only a human could make and footsteps. I noted the time and tried to be rational. The noises continued for over a half hour, sounding like it was right outside my bedroom window and back door. At this point I couldn't calm myself down. I didn't want to look out the window for fear of one thing or another. Most of my coworkers were out of town because it was a holiday weekend. I did the only thing I could think to do - called the pastor. If anyone is going to feel a moral obligation to help me it would be him. Pastor Jerome, being a kind soul, immediately sent someone over to check on my house. Thankfully nothing/no one was found. However I was all wound up and it took some time to calm myself down. The noises continued into the wee hours of morning but now I could recognize them for what they really were - some sort of nocturnal animal in my attic, hopped up on Red Bull, playing a game of dodgeball with his friends, with the aim of making as much noise as possible and letting me get the least amount of sleep possible. I could also recognize that I should have eaten more because low blood sugar directly correlates to my mind fostering elaborate stories that are completely unfounded. The next day I woke up extremely drowsy and feeling foolish.
This story is not meant to increase concern for my safety. I only want to give a realistic view of my life here. Life as a single female is not always glamourous and glass-ceiling-breaking. Sometimes there is fear. Sometimes there is concern. And sometimes there are wonderful neighbors who have sympathy for scared Americans living in their midst. I'd like to focus on the fact that I have reliable, compassionate neighbors and was in no real danger beyond sleep deprivation. Thank goodness.
In Heels
There is a quote about Ginger Rogers being more talented than Fred Astaire because she danced just as well as he did, only she did it in heels. I was reminded of this recently while riding Rwandan transportation.
Rwanda's public transportation system is built on mini buses. They are generally operated by a two man team. One person is the driver. The other sits in the back with the passengers, is responsible for gathering the bus fares, opening and closing the door and maintaining the conduct of the passengers in general. When it is a good team, both men work simultaneously as if on the same brain wave. The second man will hop in and out of the bus, while the driver slows and takes off. They never seem to miss a beat. Sometimes you think the second man will surely get left behind/get dragged along by the bus but at the last second he makes the leap onto the bus and closes the sliding door while taking his seat. I would compare it to the two man team that usually takes care of a garbage truck. This doesn't convey the prettiest picture but I swear sometimes it's a synchronized dance that could easily end in disaster so you can't take your eyes off it.
Then a funny thing happened while I was riding in Kigali. I saw a woman, and she wasn't just a passenger. She was actually the second man of the two man team. This was the first time in six months I had seen a woman break into this male dominated field. She had nice clothes, beautiful hair and walked up and down the aisle of the bus in heels. Her feet must have been killing her by the end of the day but I was glad she was breaking a gender stereotype while maintaining the code of female attire in Rwanda. Since that day I have seen one more female bus worker. I have been refreshed by their professionalism. Yes, they did a better job than any male bus worker, plus they were doing it in heels.
Rwanda's public transportation system is built on mini buses. They are generally operated by a two man team. One person is the driver. The other sits in the back with the passengers, is responsible for gathering the bus fares, opening and closing the door and maintaining the conduct of the passengers in general. When it is a good team, both men work simultaneously as if on the same brain wave. The second man will hop in and out of the bus, while the driver slows and takes off. They never seem to miss a beat. Sometimes you think the second man will surely get left behind/get dragged along by the bus but at the last second he makes the leap onto the bus and closes the sliding door while taking his seat. I would compare it to the two man team that usually takes care of a garbage truck. This doesn't convey the prettiest picture but I swear sometimes it's a synchronized dance that could easily end in disaster so you can't take your eyes off it.
Then a funny thing happened while I was riding in Kigali. I saw a woman, and she wasn't just a passenger. She was actually the second man of the two man team. This was the first time in six months I had seen a woman break into this male dominated field. She had nice clothes, beautiful hair and walked up and down the aisle of the bus in heels. Her feet must have been killing her by the end of the day but I was glad she was breaking a gender stereotype while maintaining the code of female attire in Rwanda. Since that day I have seen one more female bus worker. I have been refreshed by their professionalism. Yes, they did a better job than any male bus worker, plus they were doing it in heels.
Revelations
Consistency is one thing I struggle with here. Life seems to change suddenly. I never know what to expect. I can show up to work any given day and be given a brand new task, visit a brand new place, meet new people and have to deal with new challenges. No two days are the same. I have been dealing with many changes lately.
First my favorite houseboy skipped town. You may remember Francois from the story of me being trapped in my house. He is the houseboy of my coworker, Jane, who stayed in my house overnight to make sure nothing happened while I slept elsewhere. He was a sweet boy and always very dependable. That is until he left town without telling anyone. He had become the boy who fetched my water. Everything was working out perfectly, minus the struggle of communication. Then one day, he left Jane's keys in her living room and was gone. She came home from work to discover his absence. He wrote a note with an excuse of his father being ill but Jane didn't believe him. He had mentioned a job in Kigali a month or so ago and told her how much they would pay him. Jane talked it over with him, explaining what a great situation he had, money-wise, personal relationship-wise, and said 'you would never just leave in the middle of the day while I'm at work and not tell me, right?' Of course not, he claimed. Then adios Francois. I've heard it's common for houseboys and housegirls to just up and leave like that.
So I worked it out a new water system with my neighbor Julianna. Julianna is my neighbor who speaks English the best. She is the mother of Kevina (at least that's what I the spelling sounds like). Kevina is best known for her screaming escapades while being bathed in the front yard. She's only three and quite the whiner. Then again if I was forced to bathe in the cold of morning in my front yard I might scream too. Then one day I came home from work and walked past the duplex that Julianna and Tabitha share. Tabitha called me over and said she was very sad because Julianna was moving to a new house the next day. Julianna would still live in our town but would be in a different neighborhood.
The possibility of new neighbors can be exciting but also scary. Julianna had been a great neighbor. I really liked her. My new neighbors could be horrible and scary. Then today I walked home from work and stopped at Maryanne's store for some bananas. I had seen some movement at Julianna's house this morning so I assumed someone had moved in. I got the scoop from Maryanne. A new family had moved in. A husband, wife and four children - three boys and one girl. As I walked to my gate and saw them outside. I figured I should introduce myself so I went over. Once I got closer I realized the wife was my coworker at the hospital. Thankfully she speaks English well so I can communicate with her. Maryanne was right, she has four children. The oldest, Odette, is a self possessed girl of seven. Three boys follow ranging from five to two to about six months. In common Rwandan fashion, I know the parents as Mama Odette and Papa Odette. The father is unemployed at the moment so he has become a temporary stay at home dad. He takes care of the kids during the day, does the cooking and cleans the house. They don't have a houseboy or girl so he has to do all the errands and washing. He used to work for the military. His wife explained that somewhere along the line he suffered a closed head injury, which you can still see the scar from. He has had repercussions from the injury making it hard for him to keep a job. She was also telling me how they had to move into this house even though it is very small. I believe it only has two rooms inside. Four children in a two room house! I instantly started feeling guilty about having such a massive house all to myself right next door. Yes, I live in a four bedroom house with a dining room and living room. Semi-ridiculous.
I have been away at trainings for the last two weeks. Shortly before I left town the feeding policy changed at the guest house. At first it was a funny joke at the hospital. Entienne had had a freakout - similar to the episodes of the past. He had a tantrum because so many nurses and doctors were eating at the guesthouse and he never knew how much food to make. Then when the head honchos came for food there would be none left. He was frustrated and had hit the end of his rope. He spoke with the hospital director and it was decided that only certain people could continue to eat at the guesthouse. That short list includes five administrators and Edison and I. So I went to lunch that first day. I sat and ate with all the administrators and listened to them talk shop. I felt very much like a scab crossing the picket line. All my friends were hungry and had no alternative but to skip lunch since this sudden change had caught them off guard. I on the other hand was getting lunch, plus quite possibly listening to the bosses talking smack. Now that I have returned after a two week hiatus, I have discovered that nothing has changed with the guesthouse policy. If anything, it has become more adamant about the list of select guests. I again ate lunch with five male administrators and Edison. I have been included in the boys' club without meaning to. I wish there were more powerful females at the hospital. I also wish my boss hadn't placed goat intestines on my plate to eat, which I couldn't refuse. The texture was like seafood of some kind. The taste was minimal. And I tried to swallow large chunks without choking.
First my favorite houseboy skipped town. You may remember Francois from the story of me being trapped in my house. He is the houseboy of my coworker, Jane, who stayed in my house overnight to make sure nothing happened while I slept elsewhere. He was a sweet boy and always very dependable. That is until he left town without telling anyone. He had become the boy who fetched my water. Everything was working out perfectly, minus the struggle of communication. Then one day, he left Jane's keys in her living room and was gone. She came home from work to discover his absence. He wrote a note with an excuse of his father being ill but Jane didn't believe him. He had mentioned a job in Kigali a month or so ago and told her how much they would pay him. Jane talked it over with him, explaining what a great situation he had, money-wise, personal relationship-wise, and said 'you would never just leave in the middle of the day while I'm at work and not tell me, right?' Of course not, he claimed. Then adios Francois. I've heard it's common for houseboys and housegirls to just up and leave like that.
So I worked it out a new water system with my neighbor Julianna. Julianna is my neighbor who speaks English the best. She is the mother of Kevina (at least that's what I the spelling sounds like). Kevina is best known for her screaming escapades while being bathed in the front yard. She's only three and quite the whiner. Then again if I was forced to bathe in the cold of morning in my front yard I might scream too. Then one day I came home from work and walked past the duplex that Julianna and Tabitha share. Tabitha called me over and said she was very sad because Julianna was moving to a new house the next day. Julianna would still live in our town but would be in a different neighborhood.
The possibility of new neighbors can be exciting but also scary. Julianna had been a great neighbor. I really liked her. My new neighbors could be horrible and scary. Then today I walked home from work and stopped at Maryanne's store for some bananas. I had seen some movement at Julianna's house this morning so I assumed someone had moved in. I got the scoop from Maryanne. A new family had moved in. A husband, wife and four children - three boys and one girl. As I walked to my gate and saw them outside. I figured I should introduce myself so I went over. Once I got closer I realized the wife was my coworker at the hospital. Thankfully she speaks English well so I can communicate with her. Maryanne was right, she has four children. The oldest, Odette, is a self possessed girl of seven. Three boys follow ranging from five to two to about six months. In common Rwandan fashion, I know the parents as Mama Odette and Papa Odette. The father is unemployed at the moment so he has become a temporary stay at home dad. He takes care of the kids during the day, does the cooking and cleans the house. They don't have a houseboy or girl so he has to do all the errands and washing. He used to work for the military. His wife explained that somewhere along the line he suffered a closed head injury, which you can still see the scar from. He has had repercussions from the injury making it hard for him to keep a job. She was also telling me how they had to move into this house even though it is very small. I believe it only has two rooms inside. Four children in a two room house! I instantly started feeling guilty about having such a massive house all to myself right next door. Yes, I live in a four bedroom house with a dining room and living room. Semi-ridiculous.
I have been away at trainings for the last two weeks. Shortly before I left town the feeding policy changed at the guest house. At first it was a funny joke at the hospital. Entienne had had a freakout - similar to the episodes of the past. He had a tantrum because so many nurses and doctors were eating at the guesthouse and he never knew how much food to make. Then when the head honchos came for food there would be none left. He was frustrated and had hit the end of his rope. He spoke with the hospital director and it was decided that only certain people could continue to eat at the guesthouse. That short list includes five administrators and Edison and I. So I went to lunch that first day. I sat and ate with all the administrators and listened to them talk shop. I felt very much like a scab crossing the picket line. All my friends were hungry and had no alternative but to skip lunch since this sudden change had caught them off guard. I on the other hand was getting lunch, plus quite possibly listening to the bosses talking smack. Now that I have returned after a two week hiatus, I have discovered that nothing has changed with the guesthouse policy. If anything, it has become more adamant about the list of select guests. I again ate lunch with five male administrators and Edison. I have been included in the boys' club without meaning to. I wish there were more powerful females at the hospital. I also wish my boss hadn't placed goat intestines on my plate to eat, which I couldn't refuse. The texture was like seafood of some kind. The taste was minimal. And I tried to swallow large chunks without choking.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Deafening
I have always had an affinity for the rain. As a child, I fondly remember lying on my camping bunk bed, listening to the roar of the rain inches above my tight quarters. It would lull me to sleep as it voraciously pounded on the roof of the camper. I could stare out my miniscule crank window but nothing would be visible; allowing my universe to shrink to this tiny cocoon. A safe, warm place.
I think my love of rain goes hand in hand with my affection for reading. I am convinced that reading during a thunderstorm makes the book exponentially better.
My love affair with the rain has entered a new arena. Consider the tin roof. It creates a wonderful melodic surface for the rain during any downpour. Within a few short seconds, it can easily becomes a deafening roar if the rain is picking up speed.
Even for the deepest of sleepers, it makes a person stir awake at 3 in the morning, as I am now. Eagerly awaiting my wonderful Sunday planned with a brunch of carrot cake pancakes and Kigali shopping to restock my grocery supply. I was already going to wake up at the unGodly hour of 5:30 am, but now here I am, typing away the rainstorm.
So if you haven't picked up on it already…DUST BE GONE. The dry season has officially seen its own demise. Last Sunday I went to church, and a miracle happened! It sprinkled water drops from the sky! It could barely be considered rain but after a three month drought, it was cause for celebration. A couple happy texts messages circulated amongst Peace Corps Volunteers, because, let's face it, what else do we have to talk about.
Yesterday evening, a mere 10 hours ago, the dark clouds were looming. I knew what they had in mind so I decided to not cook on my little kerosene stove out of doors…smart night for guacamole. It was a down pour. And I may or may not have been outside doing a happy rain dance to welcome it. The rain was intensely coming down. I welcomed the first thunderstorm of the season by having a jam session in my house. I usually try to keep my volume at a level that the East Lansing noise violation police would be proud of, since my walls are thin. But when the rain is roaring, I do too.
I am trying not to curse my tin roof at a time like this, love of the rain and all. But I am certainly grinding my jaw at it and trying to simmer down with some She & Him. I'm going to give sleep another go tonight. Sweet dreams everyone.
I think my love of rain goes hand in hand with my affection for reading. I am convinced that reading during a thunderstorm makes the book exponentially better.
My love affair with the rain has entered a new arena. Consider the tin roof. It creates a wonderful melodic surface for the rain during any downpour. Within a few short seconds, it can easily becomes a deafening roar if the rain is picking up speed.
Even for the deepest of sleepers, it makes a person stir awake at 3 in the morning, as I am now. Eagerly awaiting my wonderful Sunday planned with a brunch of carrot cake pancakes and Kigali shopping to restock my grocery supply. I was already going to wake up at the unGodly hour of 5:30 am, but now here I am, typing away the rainstorm.
So if you haven't picked up on it already…DUST BE GONE. The dry season has officially seen its own demise. Last Sunday I went to church, and a miracle happened! It sprinkled water drops from the sky! It could barely be considered rain but after a three month drought, it was cause for celebration. A couple happy texts messages circulated amongst Peace Corps Volunteers, because, let's face it, what else do we have to talk about.
Yesterday evening, a mere 10 hours ago, the dark clouds were looming. I knew what they had in mind so I decided to not cook on my little kerosene stove out of doors…smart night for guacamole. It was a down pour. And I may or may not have been outside doing a happy rain dance to welcome it. The rain was intensely coming down. I welcomed the first thunderstorm of the season by having a jam session in my house. I usually try to keep my volume at a level that the East Lansing noise violation police would be proud of, since my walls are thin. But when the rain is roaring, I do too.
I am trying not to curse my tin roof at a time like this, love of the rain and all. But I am certainly grinding my jaw at it and trying to simmer down with some She & Him. I'm going to give sleep another go tonight. Sweet dreams everyone.
By Definition
There are some things I am still wrapping my head around in this country. Let me give you two examples of my favorite Rwandan oxymorons.
Exhibit A: Volunteers who get paid. Some organizations are better than others at making an indirect path of money from their pockets to their 'volunteers' hands. Some are just blatant about it. It is culturally assumed that if you are asking someone to take a few hours out of their afternoon, that you will reward them with Fanta and sambusa. In a country where Fanta is for special occasions and meat is sometimes only eaten on Christmas, this is a special treat. Sometimes after weeks or months of lending a helping hand, people are given an amount of money in an envelope that they then have to sign for. Don't you just love volunteering? Sometimes around the office if a community member helps you find a person or track down a solution, you get elbowed in the ribs with the hint that compensation would be nice. Maybe if I was nutritionally deficient, unable to feed my family, unemployed and dying of AIDS, I'd want money for my volunteering too.
Exhibit B: Orphans often have one living parent. Haven't you ever heard this definition of an orphan? Yes, in Rwanda orphan means a child who has had one of their two parents die. One day I was perusing the database at work of the orphans or vulnerable children that we pay school fees for. I came across one child marked 'orphan', then scanned over to the column for residence. Well low and behold they lived with their mother. Hmm, apparently not a clerical error in this country. I've discussed my discovery with other Peace Corps volunteers. Apparently we all made our own personal discoveries about orphans but just failed to communicate to each other.
Exhibit A: Volunteers who get paid. Some organizations are better than others at making an indirect path of money from their pockets to their 'volunteers' hands. Some are just blatant about it. It is culturally assumed that if you are asking someone to take a few hours out of their afternoon, that you will reward them with Fanta and sambusa. In a country where Fanta is for special occasions and meat is sometimes only eaten on Christmas, this is a special treat. Sometimes after weeks or months of lending a helping hand, people are given an amount of money in an envelope that they then have to sign for. Don't you just love volunteering? Sometimes around the office if a community member helps you find a person or track down a solution, you get elbowed in the ribs with the hint that compensation would be nice. Maybe if I was nutritionally deficient, unable to feed my family, unemployed and dying of AIDS, I'd want money for my volunteering too.
Exhibit B: Orphans often have one living parent. Haven't you ever heard this definition of an orphan? Yes, in Rwanda orphan means a child who has had one of their two parents die. One day I was perusing the database at work of the orphans or vulnerable children that we pay school fees for. I came across one child marked 'orphan', then scanned over to the column for residence. Well low and behold they lived with their mother. Hmm, apparently not a clerical error in this country. I've discussed my discovery with other Peace Corps volunteers. Apparently we all made our own personal discoveries about orphans but just failed to communicate to each other.
Dennis the Menace
If I had written this two weeks ago, I would have given a charming caricature of a little boy named Jean Batiste. Jean Batiste won a place in my heart the first day he shouted at me, looking like the dirty little Rwandan child he is. He looks a lot like all of the little children that shout at me, with a goofy grin added in. It was the words coming out of his mouth that caught my attention. Unlike the grating English phrases most Rwandan children deploy when begging, Give me your money, I'm hungry, or just plain Money, Jean Batiste likes to shout I have much money. It makes me laugh every time. He thinks he's begging but really he's saying I have much money. Maybe you have to have people asking you for money every single day, day in and day out to find this humorous, but come on - I have much money. I always give a smile and say - Indeed Jean Batiste you do have much money. You are very rich.
We developed a little repoire. I would ask if he had family or how his day was, what he was doing, which was always nothing. At least he owns it. And then, as he was standing at my back fence, I would tell him to leave and he would. Then he started bringing his friend Patrick along. All was fine and dandy. Turned out Patrick also had much money.
Then yesterday as I was getting ready for bed and washing some clothes out back, here they came - the devilish duo. They were begging again. This time I was armed - I had finally memorized the phrase - It is bad to beg. But this defense didn't work because Jean Batiste countered with No, it's good. After a frustrating ten minute conversation saying the same two lines over and over, and me trying to appear stern and threatening, I had reached the end of my patience. I wanted these pestering children to leave me alone! I had a long day at work. I had a few dozen precious moments of daylight and I had a ton of housework to do. No I will not give you money, food, my radio, ANYTHING, because it all belongs to me and I like my measly lump of money, thank you very much. Physical aggression was starting to pop in my head. I was too hungry to deal with two conniving, soon-to-be conmen. So I did the only thing I could think to do, call in the big dogs. I walked up to my side fence and yelled Tabita's name. She's always looking for a reason to yell. Jean Batiste and Patrick took off like two whitetails during hunting season. I won the first battle, but I have a feeling I haven't seen the last of those two.
We developed a little repoire. I would ask if he had family or how his day was, what he was doing, which was always nothing. At least he owns it. And then, as he was standing at my back fence, I would tell him to leave and he would. Then he started bringing his friend Patrick along. All was fine and dandy. Turned out Patrick also had much money.
Then yesterday as I was getting ready for bed and washing some clothes out back, here they came - the devilish duo. They were begging again. This time I was armed - I had finally memorized the phrase - It is bad to beg. But this defense didn't work because Jean Batiste countered with No, it's good. After a frustrating ten minute conversation saying the same two lines over and over, and me trying to appear stern and threatening, I had reached the end of my patience. I wanted these pestering children to leave me alone! I had a long day at work. I had a few dozen precious moments of daylight and I had a ton of housework to do. No I will not give you money, food, my radio, ANYTHING, because it all belongs to me and I like my measly lump of money, thank you very much. Physical aggression was starting to pop in my head. I was too hungry to deal with two conniving, soon-to-be conmen. So I did the only thing I could think to do, call in the big dogs. I walked up to my side fence and yelled Tabita's name. She's always looking for a reason to yell. Jean Batiste and Patrick took off like two whitetails during hunting season. I won the first battle, but I have a feeling I haven't seen the last of those two.
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