My goodness it's been cold in my village! For the first time in eight months I've felt like putting on a sweatshirt, my flannel pajama pants and my thick socks. And this from a girl who wears T-shirts in the winter. My blood has been thinning considerably. I was trying to guess the temperature on this frigid day and I estimated that it was, sadly, probably 60 degrees with a slight breeze and drizzling. What have I become?!
So last weekend was a bit unique. Edison's (sitemate) parents were visiting so we had planned a whole visiting weekend with our coworkers. I don't know why anyone plans since it never goes as imagined. But I guess that's half the fun.
Our first event was visiting Christine and her husband at their house in Kigali (capital). So I wake up, eat breakfast, do some laundry and get a phone call. Christine is actually in the hospital! Yes, again. This woman can't seem to keep herself unhospitalized (yep, made that one up). She had been in a bus accident while coming home from work the previous day. I was a bit confused on the particulars but I heard that two buses crashed and she was running from the accident when she feel down and twisted her ankle. She basically had a fractured ankle. The baby was absolutely fine, although that was all checked out at the hospital to make sure. Can never be to sure with a bun in the oven.
So plans changed from visiting Christine at her house to visiting at her hospital bed. She was being kept in the post partum section of the hospital. Her small compartment was sectioned off on three sides with curtains. I felt right back at home with my family, because of course we tried to cram about 10 people in a tiny hospital room. Naturally, you can't visit someone without bringing something. So what do you bring a woman in the hospital? A jug of apple juice concentrate, of course. Apple juice is a bit of a novelty here and an exciting arrival in my opinion. I love telling people that in Michigan we grow tons of apples, all different varieties. The apples here are imported from South Africa and I've only seen two varieties.
Next stop - a doctor's house who used to work at the hospital before I started there. We were met with brothers, sisters, grandparents, nieces, nephews, etc. Apparently it's a big event to have visitors from afar. Sadly, when I think of one of my exotic Rwandan friends visiting the US they would be seen far less as an interesting specimen and honored guest. I did learn a fun fact though. Apparently if you work in a US embassy for 15 years, you are automatically granted American citizenship, along with your immediate family. Not sure I completely believe this but it seems like a good gig. The man I was talking to was excited for the possibility of moving his children to America to provide them with a better education. His English was stellar and I would imagine he would do just fine in the US after the initial years worth of culture shock.
So really nothing is more intriguing than meeting someone's parents. It helps explain so much about that person. Not just where they came from but also to see them interact. Family can have such strange effects on a person. For the rest of the weekend I stayed at the parents' house of my coworker Jeanne.
In case you were at all concerned, I have solved the mystery of the 'fat phase'. Yes, it is true. It goes across cultures. Every kid in the world has the susceptibility of being pudgy during their adolescence. Rwandan photo albums have confirmed.
So yet again I have been had by the roving cops versus the street sellers. Jeanne and I were trying to buy some mandarins to bring back to the parents as a gift. Price had been negotiated, the fruit was bagged and ready to go. Jeanne was reaching in her purse for the money when…a tap on the woman's shoulder and oh my, can those woman run. They grabbed their wicker platters of fruit and were off in a flash. We stood there in a staring at the place where the fruit lady had been two seconds ago. Dang, we really wanted mandarins! But they were gone, around the corner and out of sight from the patrolling cops. Selling stuff on the street is illegal. But pretty soon she ran back to hand off the bag, grab the money and go. At least this time I didn't run with them!
This weekend afforded me some quality Rwandan TV watching time. Jeanne's family not only has electricity but also a TV. What actually makes the news is flabbergasting sometimes, and other times just plain comical. One of the top stories on Saturday was a drug bust. We are not talking a huge drug cartel, moving drugs across a border or supplying illegal drugs to thousands of people. Not even close. About five guys in Kigali were busted with pot. Not dealing, just possession. When asked about it they said it gave them a high that was indescribable. Well, I'm pretty sure a lot of people could describe the effects of marijuana quite well. Especially the ones trying to get its recreational use legalized in California. Imagine a small scale drug bust of your neighbor's pot supply making the national news.
So Sunday began with all Jeanne's family members going to church separately. You may realize at this point that Rwanda is an extremely religious country. EVERYONE goes to church, is obsessed with Church, loves talking about God, and doesn't hesitate to ask you to pray with them. The unique part is that many family members will attend different churches. Since the majority of churches are some form of Christianity I suppose the essence is the same and the logistics are a personality preference.
Then I had a lengthy conversation with Jeanne's dad, Deo. He was a bit like yoda, an evangelist on TV and the quintessential grandfather figure all mixed into one. He had so many great quotes that I committed three to memory so I could share.
People think it's about the money but it is really about peace - in reference to development.
Guns are not Gospel.
You are making a long term investment in heaven - in reference to my PC service.
He started his career as a political figure and diplomat in Rwanda but he had to flee to Uganda as a refugee while Rwanda was trying to get liberated. That's where my coworker was born. Imagine being that mother. She was just a nurse. Her family was quite wealthy. She had found a loving, passionate man. So passionate that his aspirations forced them to flee to safety amidst their growing family. Small children in tow they ran for the hills. They came back to their homeland just in time for a genocide. He went back to politics. Her mom took a job in what used to be a hotel, but was being used as an orphanage for all the kids who couldn't find their parents or were suddenly orphaned. Now he has retired from politics. Instead he just wants to spread the news of Jesus. He was the most joyous Christian I have ever met.
They own the whole compound they live in - traditionally about three or four houses that share bathrooms and outdoor kitchens. They live in the smaller house and rent the big house out for a supplemental income. Although apparently renting to other Rwandans while demoting yourself is taboo so they rent to a couple Kenyan brothers. They also have two young girls who live with them during the school year. They are extended family members who stay with them in order to get a better education at a school within the capital.
I also met Jeanne's older brother Paul. It is customary to give visitors gifts. In fact everyone is exchanging gifts with everyone. Paul was a bit caught off guard by our visit but he seemed to gather his wits quickly and offered Edison and I a gift. The first was a baby-sized African drum…and on top was a rock. Well, I'm quite positive the look on my face rivaled every Christmas and birthday gift that I've ever stared at quizzically and had to conceal quickly with a 'Thank you'. Edison did a quiet save, stating how he remembered that Paul like to collect volcanic rock. Indeed, this was remnant of a volcanic explosion. Still strange but if I compare it to some people's love of driftwood - it almost makes sense. My collection of doorstops has increased to a total of one.
So we all grabbed a bus back to the village at the end of the day. Coworker, sitemate, sitemate's parents and heavy luggage in tow. So I don't think I've touched nearly enough on Rwandans' love of debate and roleplaying. This is the perfect story to display all that love. The bus worker wanted to charge Edison more money because of the large bag on his lap. Jeanne instantly spoke up from a couple rows back and argued that that was ludicrous and not going to happen. Mind you that the buses are like extended minivans so we can all hear everyone else's conversations. Pretty soon the whole bus is rallying behind Edison's cause and the bus man's injustice. There is talk of the entire bus boycotting and exiting the vehicle. The slightly intoxicated man in front of me even offered to beat the guy up. Edison quickly told them that he just wanted peace. Pretty soon the whole bus was laughing together and having a good ole time. Because me village is like a small town you always end up on the bus with someone you know. This time it was multiple coworkers, a teacher from the local school, and family members. Like a loud family reunion crammed into a bus ready to get back to real life after a nice weekend. Indeed.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
What's In a Name
Weekly, if not daily, I get to have a cultural exchange comparing the US and Rwandan customs. Even the simplest things that seem so natural to us that we don't question them, can be quite different as soon as you cross a border.
My last name gets a bit of attention here. Skorupski doesn't roll off the tongue in any country, except I would hope Poland. As soon as someone asks my surname and I give it they automatically asks what it means. I try my best to explain that it means absolutely nothing except the fact that I'm Polish. Rwandans scratch their heads. How can your name be Polish when you are American? The whole immigrant thing is a constant confusion. Even more shocking is when I explain my family tree and reveal that my father and mother have the same last name as me.
Here in Rwanda every person has a distinct name picked specifically for them. I shouldn't really use the term distinct since I'm convinced there are about 20 names in Rwanda that are spread amongst 12 million people. So there is no family name. Nothing that gets passed on. When a woman marries, she doesn't change her name. When a baby is born there is not the classic 9 month brainstorming session of picking the perfect name. If you have enough money to throw a party - there is a naming ceremony shortly after the baby is born. Everyone in attendance submits a name on a piece of paper. A small group of important people then pick the name. While the first name is usually French, the last name is just a normal Kinyarwandan word. Because one word can actually be a complete sentence with noun, verb and direct object, and almost all Rwandans are devout Christians, a common last name is I love God. There is also gift from God, praise God, I love Rwanda. Or the exceedingly obvious I'm a boy. So again, imagine their surprise when they hear Skorupski means nothing.
So how would you feel if the family name was stripped away? If, when listed on a piece of paper, no one could tell you were related? Would having a unique name make you feel more special? What if you heard that the whole community came together to celebrate your birth and decide what to call you? What if you didn't have to decide between tradition and some form of feminism when you got hitched (assuming you're a woman)? In a country that is, by nature, community based it is intriguing to consider such an individualistic custom. And if your name could mean something, what would you want it to say? Just some food for thought today...
My last name gets a bit of attention here. Skorupski doesn't roll off the tongue in any country, except I would hope Poland. As soon as someone asks my surname and I give it they automatically asks what it means. I try my best to explain that it means absolutely nothing except the fact that I'm Polish. Rwandans scratch their heads. How can your name be Polish when you are American? The whole immigrant thing is a constant confusion. Even more shocking is when I explain my family tree and reveal that my father and mother have the same last name as me.
Here in Rwanda every person has a distinct name picked specifically for them. I shouldn't really use the term distinct since I'm convinced there are about 20 names in Rwanda that are spread amongst 12 million people. So there is no family name. Nothing that gets passed on. When a woman marries, she doesn't change her name. When a baby is born there is not the classic 9 month brainstorming session of picking the perfect name. If you have enough money to throw a party - there is a naming ceremony shortly after the baby is born. Everyone in attendance submits a name on a piece of paper. A small group of important people then pick the name. While the first name is usually French, the last name is just a normal Kinyarwandan word. Because one word can actually be a complete sentence with noun, verb and direct object, and almost all Rwandans are devout Christians, a common last name is I love God. There is also gift from God, praise God, I love Rwanda. Or the exceedingly obvious I'm a boy. So again, imagine their surprise when they hear Skorupski means nothing.
So how would you feel if the family name was stripped away? If, when listed on a piece of paper, no one could tell you were related? Would having a unique name make you feel more special? What if you heard that the whole community came together to celebrate your birth and decide what to call you? What if you didn't have to decide between tradition and some form of feminism when you got hitched (assuming you're a woman)? In a country that is, by nature, community based it is intriguing to consider such an individualistic custom. And if your name could mean something, what would you want it to say? Just some food for thought today...
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Power is in the Placement or Gus Gus Returns
I have spent the past week traveling to other volunteers' sites which just emphasized even more how different everyone's placement is. Some are perfect fits, others require more adjustment.
This is the story of an adventure, mainly because it involved AJ, a PCV I consider a good friend. Although we always seem to get into adventures together and have too much fun.
So it all began when I arrived from my 6 hour bus ride. How's does one find a restroom during a 6 hour Rwandan bus trip? you ask. You don't. You slightly dehydrate yourself (much to the chagrin of my Peace Corps doctor) and you simply don't need to go to the bathroom. Problem solved. Back to the real story though.
AJ had told me to get off the bus at the very last stop, which to her knowledge was town. I however found myself in a very different town. In front of me was a small wooden bridge leading to the other side of the lake. I had heard of these fabled bridges. They tend to lead to other countries, countries I am not allowed to step foot in. So at least I had that part right. The only thing that separated me from the DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo) was a toll-booth style bar and the smarts to know bridges are bad things to cross. I was wandering around the tiny town of Rusizi, trying to find the take a right, take a left directions that would lead me to the restaurant with AJ meeting me. But, reminding me of my Aunt Kath's directional abilities, AJ quickly changed that to turn left and then turn left again and circle the market until you see sculptured elephant tusks marking the restaurant's entrance. I stared at the dinky village market and knew I could circle it a million times and all I would find was some trees and a bunch of staring locals. It all worked out for the best though. AJ met me there and we visited Francois. So AJ lives with Catholic nuns in her community and helps at their health center. About a year ago they took in a baby named Francois. He was either abandoned by his family or had no family. He is HIV positive. So now Francois lives with the nuns and gets amazing care. He wasn't progressing on his walking abilities so they sent him to another Catholic health center to get some physical therapy. He was able to take a few steps when we visited and was so adorable it broke my heart.
The next day at the market we are busy bargaining for ingredients when I look down to find a Rwandan woman crouching down and touching my leg. It is not uncommon for people to be curious and want to touch your skin or hair since they've generally never been in range of a white person. So I started talking to this woman who was laughing at her folly and being caught. I jokingly gave her a hard time through our language barrier. But she wasn't done. About five minutes later she has her friend bring over a bottle of lotion, trying to sell it to me. Apparently I have dry skin. Leave it to a morning in the market for me to get criticized for dry skin.
The next couple days were spent going to two birthday parties with two amazing birthday cakes!! It is indeed possible to cook a delicious birthday cake from American cake mix in Rwanda. I've heard the brownies aren't half bad either. So I'll skip over the particulars and get to the part where we are hiking out of Nyengwe forest.
We came to fork in the road and pondered our choice, left or right. We asked the elderly man descending the mountain and his response was neither. Instead he told us to go straight. Straight was a footpath created by the villagers as a shortcut. It was literally 'up' the mountain. We stopped to rest about every five minutes because of the harsh ascent. I kept picturing the old man laughing at the thought of two white girls trekking up a mountain. Although in all reality he probably didn't give it a second thought because he had conditioned himself his whole life to be able to climb this mountain. Walking sticks are not overrated in these situations, mainly because I did not possess one.
I spent the rest of the weeks at the convent and the health center, counting and handing out pills to Rwandans. It is one of my activities I am adding to a list called "If I did this in America I would get sued/fired/arrested, etc." One of my favorite joys of staying with the nuns was their preoccupation for Mari Mar. Mari Mar is a wonderful tela novela in case you frequent Mexican soap operas. Luckily for me the nuns had a copy they had obtained from other nuns of Mari Mar DVDs dubbed over in French. Actually understanding the words is not important. I mean, really, mute an American soap opera and see if it is any less entertaining. They would often stay awake until the wee hours of the morning just to find out what happens next.
Electricity…….2000 Rfw/month
DVD player……some made up number
Cost of DVDs to illegally copy a Mexican tela novela…500 Rfw
Nuns singing the Mari Mar theme song and shaking their butts…Priceless
There is a cat called Gus Gus…okay that's not his real name. I had renamed him after the fat mouse in Cinderella. His given name was Olaf…so I have to add something completely inappropriate. Rwandan people call a cat - pussy. So this cat was often called Pus. I can't believe I just wrote that in my blog, but in the name of cultural exchange… Add that little tidbit to the rest of this story and you can't help but laugh. When we crossed the field to dinner with the priests one night, Gus Gus followed. The nuns were worried, constantly calling after him to stay within range. But sure enough, we left and Gus Gus did not. The nuns pestered us the whole night and next day about going back to retrieve Gus Gus. So therefore I pestered AJ until we made the trek back. But to no avail. Gus Gus was no where to be found. The head priest suggested that he was eaten during the night or joined a large pack of cats roaming the countryside. He promised to call if he saw anything. Sure enough, a half hour later the call came. 'I have spotted him! Come quick.' Thank goodness. Order is restored in the universe.
…and then the thing we never thought we'd see in Rwanda HAPPENED. A patient's cell phone rang while we were giving her the prescription drugs for her sick child. She turned towards us and said - Excuse me while I take this. Oh my. The world stopped spinning for a moment.
There are many more funny stories from this week - getting scolded by nuns because of an impromptu dance party, AJ getting her feet scrubbed by a houselady who was siiiiiick of seeing her poor hygiene, one surprising 'that's what she said' from AJ, sharing a twin mattress with someone always brings out a few giggles, the return bus ride with a dozen outspoken, overbearing, voracious Guinean woman coming from the March of Women in the DRC, watching AJ get her hair braided as if she was Rwandan, farming a plot of land with the Rwandan mothers of malnourished babies from the health center, posing for fake pictures of farming with the nun and yours truly, singing in the rain in the lovely village of Bande after getting drenched - but maybe for another time.
…and later I will also talk about how important good mental health is when serving in the Peace Corps!
This is the story of an adventure, mainly because it involved AJ, a PCV I consider a good friend. Although we always seem to get into adventures together and have too much fun.
So it all began when I arrived from my 6 hour bus ride. How's does one find a restroom during a 6 hour Rwandan bus trip? you ask. You don't. You slightly dehydrate yourself (much to the chagrin of my Peace Corps doctor) and you simply don't need to go to the bathroom. Problem solved. Back to the real story though.
AJ had told me to get off the bus at the very last stop, which to her knowledge was town. I however found myself in a very different town. In front of me was a small wooden bridge leading to the other side of the lake. I had heard of these fabled bridges. They tend to lead to other countries, countries I am not allowed to step foot in. So at least I had that part right. The only thing that separated me from the DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo) was a toll-booth style bar and the smarts to know bridges are bad things to cross. I was wandering around the tiny town of Rusizi, trying to find the take a right, take a left directions that would lead me to the restaurant with AJ meeting me. But, reminding me of my Aunt Kath's directional abilities, AJ quickly changed that to turn left and then turn left again and circle the market until you see sculptured elephant tusks marking the restaurant's entrance. I stared at the dinky village market and knew I could circle it a million times and all I would find was some trees and a bunch of staring locals. It all worked out for the best though. AJ met me there and we visited Francois. So AJ lives with Catholic nuns in her community and helps at their health center. About a year ago they took in a baby named Francois. He was either abandoned by his family or had no family. He is HIV positive. So now Francois lives with the nuns and gets amazing care. He wasn't progressing on his walking abilities so they sent him to another Catholic health center to get some physical therapy. He was able to take a few steps when we visited and was so adorable it broke my heart.
The next day at the market we are busy bargaining for ingredients when I look down to find a Rwandan woman crouching down and touching my leg. It is not uncommon for people to be curious and want to touch your skin or hair since they've generally never been in range of a white person. So I started talking to this woman who was laughing at her folly and being caught. I jokingly gave her a hard time through our language barrier. But she wasn't done. About five minutes later she has her friend bring over a bottle of lotion, trying to sell it to me. Apparently I have dry skin. Leave it to a morning in the market for me to get criticized for dry skin.
The next couple days were spent going to two birthday parties with two amazing birthday cakes!! It is indeed possible to cook a delicious birthday cake from American cake mix in Rwanda. I've heard the brownies aren't half bad either. So I'll skip over the particulars and get to the part where we are hiking out of Nyengwe forest.
We came to fork in the road and pondered our choice, left or right. We asked the elderly man descending the mountain and his response was neither. Instead he told us to go straight. Straight was a footpath created by the villagers as a shortcut. It was literally 'up' the mountain. We stopped to rest about every five minutes because of the harsh ascent. I kept picturing the old man laughing at the thought of two white girls trekking up a mountain. Although in all reality he probably didn't give it a second thought because he had conditioned himself his whole life to be able to climb this mountain. Walking sticks are not overrated in these situations, mainly because I did not possess one.
I spent the rest of the weeks at the convent and the health center, counting and handing out pills to Rwandans. It is one of my activities I am adding to a list called "If I did this in America I would get sued/fired/arrested, etc." One of my favorite joys of staying with the nuns was their preoccupation for Mari Mar. Mari Mar is a wonderful tela novela in case you frequent Mexican soap operas. Luckily for me the nuns had a copy they had obtained from other nuns of Mari Mar DVDs dubbed over in French. Actually understanding the words is not important. I mean, really, mute an American soap opera and see if it is any less entertaining. They would often stay awake until the wee hours of the morning just to find out what happens next.
Electricity…….2000 Rfw/month
DVD player……some made up number
Cost of DVDs to illegally copy a Mexican tela novela…500 Rfw
Nuns singing the Mari Mar theme song and shaking their butts…Priceless
There is a cat called Gus Gus…okay that's not his real name. I had renamed him after the fat mouse in Cinderella. His given name was Olaf…so I have to add something completely inappropriate. Rwandan people call a cat - pussy. So this cat was often called Pus. I can't believe I just wrote that in my blog, but in the name of cultural exchange… Add that little tidbit to the rest of this story and you can't help but laugh. When we crossed the field to dinner with the priests one night, Gus Gus followed. The nuns were worried, constantly calling after him to stay within range. But sure enough, we left and Gus Gus did not. The nuns pestered us the whole night and next day about going back to retrieve Gus Gus. So therefore I pestered AJ until we made the trek back. But to no avail. Gus Gus was no where to be found. The head priest suggested that he was eaten during the night or joined a large pack of cats roaming the countryside. He promised to call if he saw anything. Sure enough, a half hour later the call came. 'I have spotted him! Come quick.' Thank goodness. Order is restored in the universe.
…and then the thing we never thought we'd see in Rwanda HAPPENED. A patient's cell phone rang while we were giving her the prescription drugs for her sick child. She turned towards us and said - Excuse me while I take this. Oh my. The world stopped spinning for a moment.
There are many more funny stories from this week - getting scolded by nuns because of an impromptu dance party, AJ getting her feet scrubbed by a houselady who was siiiiiick of seeing her poor hygiene, one surprising 'that's what she said' from AJ, sharing a twin mattress with someone always brings out a few giggles, the return bus ride with a dozen outspoken, overbearing, voracious Guinean woman coming from the March of Women in the DRC, watching AJ get her hair braided as if she was Rwandan, farming a plot of land with the Rwandan mothers of malnourished babies from the health center, posing for fake pictures of farming with the nun and yours truly, singing in the rain in the lovely village of Bande after getting drenched - but maybe for another time.
…and later I will also talk about how important good mental health is when serving in the Peace Corps!
Updates
I suppose since I introduce you to my neighbors and coworkers that I should update you as life changes here.
So Tabita 'the bigmouth' has made some positive changes in her life. She has traded in her bottle of booze for a steady job. She now mans the water station across the street from me. It is great news for me because there is now a constant source of water right there, plus she let's me cut in line. It gets her out of bed early. She is always dressed smartly now. And she is hard worker - work isn't done until the sun sets. I couldn't be prouder. I hope the water is steady so that she doesn't relapse.
My coworker Christine is indeed preggers with her first child. She has been having some horrible nausea which keeps her away from work some days. In fact there were a couple of weeks that she was hospitalized. She seems to be doing better now that she is out of the first trimester. I can't wait to see her baby. I just hope she doesn't quit work. It is especially fun reading 'What to Expect When You are Expecting' with a Rwandan woman.
I have successfully avoided Bubba for months now. Although he does seem to have a job of fetching water. He even changes his clothes now. Plus I've met most of his children (I hope there's not too many more!) and they are generally good kids.
So Tabita 'the bigmouth' has made some positive changes in her life. She has traded in her bottle of booze for a steady job. She now mans the water station across the street from me. It is great news for me because there is now a constant source of water right there, plus she let's me cut in line. It gets her out of bed early. She is always dressed smartly now. And she is hard worker - work isn't done until the sun sets. I couldn't be prouder. I hope the water is steady so that she doesn't relapse.
My coworker Christine is indeed preggers with her first child. She has been having some horrible nausea which keeps her away from work some days. In fact there were a couple of weeks that she was hospitalized. She seems to be doing better now that she is out of the first trimester. I can't wait to see her baby. I just hope she doesn't quit work. It is especially fun reading 'What to Expect When You are Expecting' with a Rwandan woman.
I have successfully avoided Bubba for months now. Although he does seem to have a job of fetching water. He even changes his clothes now. Plus I've met most of his children (I hope there's not too many more!) and they are generally good kids.
Sweet Sunday
Soundtrack for this post: Jason Derulo's Whatcha Say
I am coming off the high of a great day, which was preceded by a great week (but I'll get to that in another post).
This is the second Sunday that I've gotten a free lunch at a coworker's house. I guess there's something to be said for showing up to the office on a Sunday that makes people want to give you free food. I'll take it!
I spend the rest of the day (minus church of course) at my next door neighbor's house. To preface, I've gotten this idea to start a girls' group in my community. It was partially because I read some English essays by the girls at the secondary school nearby and was appalled at how subpar they were compared to their male counterparts. There is an English club but only about 2 of the 50 members are girls. Girls claim they 'have too much fear' to speak English openly like that, and therefore don't advance. I also am an advocate of education being single sex at that age, mainly because I went to an all girl high school. It works better for some people. And these girls are clearly shirking in their male peers' shadows. Add that to the health lessons that girls need to learn QUICKLY and it seems that a girls' club is the best option to have some open, frank discussions.
So back to my life working out perfectly and everything falling into my lap…I am invited to visit my neighbors. I instantly have a crowd of four adolescent girls (and one baby thanks to teenage pregnancy) to bounce my idea off of and to give some impromptu English lessons. One of the girls, Mediya, is on the football team of school, which consequently is just the group of girls I wanted to tap into. I have made a few friends on the football team and these girls have too much confidence for their own good. They are just the girls that will stand up, be heard and allow other girls to not feel so awkward. Let's just say the visit ended with all of us singing Jason Derulo's Whatcha Say…mumbling most of the words since none of us know them, and dancing. Now that's how I like to spend my Sunday. We planned a future visit for tomorrow when I get off work. Coming off this slump of feeling uninspired, powerless, out of my league, and just generally in a bad mood, I'm glad my community once again gave me a boost.
I can piggyback this story by talking about integration for a second. It is perhaps our biggest assignment as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Sure, you want to produce sustainable change and a cultural exchange, but none of that can be possible if you aren't integrated, trusted and welcomed into your surroundings. Imagine someone moving in next door and telling you how to live your life before learning your mom's name. Many of the volunteers have been having trouble - whether it be because of the culture of their site (some people are more open than others), the size of the community (sometimes bigger is NOT better), having their lodging segregated from their community, working very long hours, etc. And I would like to count my blessings about my placement. I dare someone to move into my village and not integrate. I swear my neighbors would force me. They understand that I am a horrible student at learning Kinyarwanda. I clearly oppose some of their cultural norms. And yet, there they are with their open arms. They know that if they help me pull my weeds (as they did yesterday), I won't seek their help, and I won't pay them. I think they do it because my yard is an eyesore. Nonetheless, integration.
I am coming off the high of a great day, which was preceded by a great week (but I'll get to that in another post).
This is the second Sunday that I've gotten a free lunch at a coworker's house. I guess there's something to be said for showing up to the office on a Sunday that makes people want to give you free food. I'll take it!
I spend the rest of the day (minus church of course) at my next door neighbor's house. To preface, I've gotten this idea to start a girls' group in my community. It was partially because I read some English essays by the girls at the secondary school nearby and was appalled at how subpar they were compared to their male counterparts. There is an English club but only about 2 of the 50 members are girls. Girls claim they 'have too much fear' to speak English openly like that, and therefore don't advance. I also am an advocate of education being single sex at that age, mainly because I went to an all girl high school. It works better for some people. And these girls are clearly shirking in their male peers' shadows. Add that to the health lessons that girls need to learn QUICKLY and it seems that a girls' club is the best option to have some open, frank discussions.
So back to my life working out perfectly and everything falling into my lap…I am invited to visit my neighbors. I instantly have a crowd of four adolescent girls (and one baby thanks to teenage pregnancy) to bounce my idea off of and to give some impromptu English lessons. One of the girls, Mediya, is on the football team of school, which consequently is just the group of girls I wanted to tap into. I have made a few friends on the football team and these girls have too much confidence for their own good. They are just the girls that will stand up, be heard and allow other girls to not feel so awkward. Let's just say the visit ended with all of us singing Jason Derulo's Whatcha Say…mumbling most of the words since none of us know them, and dancing. Now that's how I like to spend my Sunday. We planned a future visit for tomorrow when I get off work. Coming off this slump of feeling uninspired, powerless, out of my league, and just generally in a bad mood, I'm glad my community once again gave me a boost.
I can piggyback this story by talking about integration for a second. It is perhaps our biggest assignment as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Sure, you want to produce sustainable change and a cultural exchange, but none of that can be possible if you aren't integrated, trusted and welcomed into your surroundings. Imagine someone moving in next door and telling you how to live your life before learning your mom's name. Many of the volunteers have been having trouble - whether it be because of the culture of their site (some people are more open than others), the size of the community (sometimes bigger is NOT better), having their lodging segregated from their community, working very long hours, etc. And I would like to count my blessings about my placement. I dare someone to move into my village and not integrate. I swear my neighbors would force me. They understand that I am a horrible student at learning Kinyarwanda. I clearly oppose some of their cultural norms. And yet, there they are with their open arms. They know that if they help me pull my weeds (as they did yesterday), I won't seek their help, and I won't pay them. I think they do it because my yard is an eyesore. Nonetheless, integration.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
My Eulogy to Banter
Banter was my oldest friend. Day after day, banter was there for me. Like the glue that held my work day together, banter was the centerpiece of workplace lunches. Banter sat behind me as a greeted my fellow colleagues each morning. Banter appeared in my inbox.
But banter has left my life, for better or worse. Banter could not travel to this fine country of Rwanda with me. I'd hate to point fingers *cough* language barrier *cough* but I can no longer bond with my colleagues. I can no longer arrive at work and pepper the day with inside jokes. I can no longer see banter bouncing between people like a ping pong ball of joy. We are all suffering as a result.
We must mourn banter today. A long lost friend. A sacrifice to culture shock. A relic of a golden age.
But banter has left my life, for better or worse. Banter could not travel to this fine country of Rwanda with me. I'd hate to point fingers *cough* language barrier *cough* but I can no longer bond with my colleagues. I can no longer arrive at work and pepper the day with inside jokes. I can no longer see banter bouncing between people like a ping pong ball of joy. We are all suffering as a result.
We must mourn banter today. A long lost friend. A sacrifice to culture shock. A relic of a golden age.
I Lied
I lied.
I hadn't even had my worst day ever yet. It came the very next day. It plowed me down like a bulldozer. I woke up that morning angry. I wanted to be home. I wanted a break, to refocus. I was so mad, at everything Rwandan, at myself. The only plausible solution seemed to be to pack up and go home. It wasn't even on a long list of other solutions. It was the only solution.
I was in such a mood. I couldn't see my way out. My anger and sadness was so powerful and illogical. I couldn't reason with myself. I was fighting a losing battle with my greatest nemesis, myself.
I've been ashamed of myself for many things. Not putting effort into learning the language. Not putting effort into my job. I have become some form of lethargic person that wouldn't even be allowed to stand next to former workaholic me. I used to look like the Energizer bunny on Red Bull compared to how I'm acting now.
So I went along with the mood. Fine, I'm leaving. What would I have to do? and the first thing that popped in my head was clean my house. I'd be mortified if anyone saw it in its present condition. It's like when your mom would tell you to put on clean underwear in case you get in a car accident. Oh, that was just my mom…figures :) and I thought of all the people I would owe a face to face conversation with before I left. and realistically it would take days or weeks to accomplish all this. But I was "reverse psychology"ing myself. So I made the list in my head and I calmed down a little bit.
But the next day wasn't any better. I was still more depressed than I've ever been here. It was so sudden and inexplicable that I couldn't help myself. and then the bigger complication reared its head. Shame. I would be so ashamed of my life. I spent two years working a regular adult job after college, having nothing to do with my field. I was still sitting in my college town while most of my friends had moved on. I was off the conveyor belt and I loathed myself. I didn't want to keep up with friends because I didn't want to talk about myself. It would force me to hold up a mirror and actually look at what I had become. I couldn't go back to that depth of shame. Everyone would welcome me back but I wouldn't welcome myself back. As much as I didn't want to be here, I didn't want to be sitting in my parent's hypothetical basement more. But this was day two of feeling miserable. It came on suddenly so I was hoping it went away just as suddenly.
Then in the middle of day two, I was sitting in a district meeting with Fidele and he was explaining how some kids need to be taught to use toilet paper after going number two (actually applicable to the hygiene campaign we were discussing) and I just started cracking up. It was like in the Sex and the City movie when Charlotte poops her pants and the laughter floodgates open up. I just couldn't stop laughing. Fidele tried to chastise me but to no avail. I'd gone off the deep end of the giggles. Then just like that Rwandans stopped being obnoxious and started being hilarious. The way they cover their mouths when they take a phone call in the middle of a meeting instead of getting up. The way we get served Fanta at a government meeting. The way they clean their shoes if they are dusty. Hilarious and silly. and the black cloud lifted. Just as suddenly as it came, it went.
I know this won't be the last bad spell. The year mark is supposed to be the worst from what I've heard. and I can just hear the words I said during my interview - I'm not a quitter.
I'm going to quote a story another Peace Corps volunteer told me just in case it resonates with more people than just me. She was seriously considering leaving. So on her list of things to prep before departing was her resume. She fixed it up with things she had been doing here and then she just started adding and adding…all the things she had hoped to accomplish during the Peace Corps. She realized she could go home right now and delete all those hypothetical resume bullet points or she could stay here and actually do that stuff. So she stayed.
**I'm not trying to point fingers and say that anyone who goes home early is weak and should have been stronger. Not at all. We all have our own personal reasons for doing what we do.
This latest episode really scared me. When you can't rationalize and normalize your own emotions, it becomes frightening and overwhelming. So here's to another 19 months. and when it's all over I'll come home and say - see I told you two years would pass in a blink.
I hadn't even had my worst day ever yet. It came the very next day. It plowed me down like a bulldozer. I woke up that morning angry. I wanted to be home. I wanted a break, to refocus. I was so mad, at everything Rwandan, at myself. The only plausible solution seemed to be to pack up and go home. It wasn't even on a long list of other solutions. It was the only solution.
I was in such a mood. I couldn't see my way out. My anger and sadness was so powerful and illogical. I couldn't reason with myself. I was fighting a losing battle with my greatest nemesis, myself.
I've been ashamed of myself for many things. Not putting effort into learning the language. Not putting effort into my job. I have become some form of lethargic person that wouldn't even be allowed to stand next to former workaholic me. I used to look like the Energizer bunny on Red Bull compared to how I'm acting now.
So I went along with the mood. Fine, I'm leaving. What would I have to do? and the first thing that popped in my head was clean my house. I'd be mortified if anyone saw it in its present condition. It's like when your mom would tell you to put on clean underwear in case you get in a car accident. Oh, that was just my mom…figures :) and I thought of all the people I would owe a face to face conversation with before I left. and realistically it would take days or weeks to accomplish all this. But I was "reverse psychology"ing myself. So I made the list in my head and I calmed down a little bit.
But the next day wasn't any better. I was still more depressed than I've ever been here. It was so sudden and inexplicable that I couldn't help myself. and then the bigger complication reared its head. Shame. I would be so ashamed of my life. I spent two years working a regular adult job after college, having nothing to do with my field. I was still sitting in my college town while most of my friends had moved on. I was off the conveyor belt and I loathed myself. I didn't want to keep up with friends because I didn't want to talk about myself. It would force me to hold up a mirror and actually look at what I had become. I couldn't go back to that depth of shame. Everyone would welcome me back but I wouldn't welcome myself back. As much as I didn't want to be here, I didn't want to be sitting in my parent's hypothetical basement more. But this was day two of feeling miserable. It came on suddenly so I was hoping it went away just as suddenly.
Then in the middle of day two, I was sitting in a district meeting with Fidele and he was explaining how some kids need to be taught to use toilet paper after going number two (actually applicable to the hygiene campaign we were discussing) and I just started cracking up. It was like in the Sex and the City movie when Charlotte poops her pants and the laughter floodgates open up. I just couldn't stop laughing. Fidele tried to chastise me but to no avail. I'd gone off the deep end of the giggles. Then just like that Rwandans stopped being obnoxious and started being hilarious. The way they cover their mouths when they take a phone call in the middle of a meeting instead of getting up. The way we get served Fanta at a government meeting. The way they clean their shoes if they are dusty. Hilarious and silly. and the black cloud lifted. Just as suddenly as it came, it went.
I know this won't be the last bad spell. The year mark is supposed to be the worst from what I've heard. and I can just hear the words I said during my interview - I'm not a quitter.
I'm going to quote a story another Peace Corps volunteer told me just in case it resonates with more people than just me. She was seriously considering leaving. So on her list of things to prep before departing was her resume. She fixed it up with things she had been doing here and then she just started adding and adding…all the things she had hoped to accomplish during the Peace Corps. She realized she could go home right now and delete all those hypothetical resume bullet points or she could stay here and actually do that stuff. So she stayed.
**I'm not trying to point fingers and say that anyone who goes home early is weak and should have been stronger. Not at all. We all have our own personal reasons for doing what we do.
This latest episode really scared me. When you can't rationalize and normalize your own emotions, it becomes frightening and overwhelming. So here's to another 19 months. and when it's all over I'll come home and say - see I told you two years would pass in a blink.
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