I recently read an article about fair trade coffee. Paramount Coffee is working to buy coffee from Rwanda without cheating them just because they live in a 3rd world country. Besides triumphing building positive business relationship across the world, it drove home a more unfortunate point. The article stated how donor money was used, in part, to buy goats, noting goat milk as a perk to this plan. In a few places goat milk is embraced, however most Rwandans think of goat milk as disgusting and unnatural. What appears to be an excellent plan to us can be viewed entirely differently when you flop over an ocean and a culture.
The larger point I'm getting at is some advice about working with international aid organizations or businesses. I truly believe you can't fully understand how the operation works (effectively, ineffectively, misguided, wasteful) until you see it in the foreign country. The full picture is always bigger than what can be said through a website, a picture, a testimonial, a promotional video. I am not saying don't donate your money or your time to an aid organization. But be skeptical. Do research. Ask questions. No organization is perfect but far more aren't even attempting to achieve that goal.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Homeward Bound
Soundtrack of this post: Magic Trick by She & Him
Hello everyone,
I'm back home. Enjoying the plushness of a couch as a write my first blog post in a long while. I'm not sure how to honestly tell you about my new life since now the people involved in my stories will likely be reading this (hi Mom!).
I shall try to frame this is as a tale of one transition, a tale for other PCVS coming home.
My transition went very well. Never had a freak out moment. Never had a panic attack about the largeness or the whiteness or any difference really. Fit right back into life. Here are the things that helped me. I had a place to go. Thank goodness my parents accepted me back with open arms so alas, I am not homeless. I was able to return to a familiar place. I've been able to revert a bit (in a completely healthy way) and feel comfortable. My extended family gave me some space when I got back. Visits were spaced out, days apart and plenty of time was given for just me and my immediate family. This is a big deal since my extended family is quite large. I have an event coming up that warrants me not being able to get a job immediately. Three weeks (and one week from now) from arriving my sister's wedding is occurring. Wedding prep (or my version of lounging around waiting for the wedding) is a great excuse. My stomach took about 4 days to adjust but my sleep schedule only took a couple - flying eastward back home is good for jet lag.
Triumphs of the last three weeks -- I have not regretted my decision for even one second, so it must have been a good one. I have finally been able to stop taking malaria medication and my body is enjoying a detox. I still know how to drive a car - it really just comes back from muscle memory.
So here is a list of random things that struck me upon returning -
While in the Kenyan airport, in the public restroom, the inside of my nose was burning. At first I thought it was paint thinner. After a minute I realized it was just bathroom cleaner with bleach but my sense of smell wasn't used to it.
In the parking structure at the Detroit airport, the smell of diesel exhaust smelled lovely.
White people are strange looking and I'm not used to so many overweight people.
I don't understand why people here don't just run around getting a million things done quickly purely because completing something quickly is actually an option here.
Social étiquette is a puzzle to me, even in my own culture, which is disconcerting.
Hello everyone,
I'm back home. Enjoying the plushness of a couch as a write my first blog post in a long while. I'm not sure how to honestly tell you about my new life since now the people involved in my stories will likely be reading this (hi Mom!).
I shall try to frame this is as a tale of one transition, a tale for other PCVS coming home.
My transition went very well. Never had a freak out moment. Never had a panic attack about the largeness or the whiteness or any difference really. Fit right back into life. Here are the things that helped me. I had a place to go. Thank goodness my parents accepted me back with open arms so alas, I am not homeless. I was able to return to a familiar place. I've been able to revert a bit (in a completely healthy way) and feel comfortable. My extended family gave me some space when I got back. Visits were spaced out, days apart and plenty of time was given for just me and my immediate family. This is a big deal since my extended family is quite large. I have an event coming up that warrants me not being able to get a job immediately. Three weeks (and one week from now) from arriving my sister's wedding is occurring. Wedding prep (or my version of lounging around waiting for the wedding) is a great excuse. My stomach took about 4 days to adjust but my sleep schedule only took a couple - flying eastward back home is good for jet lag.
Triumphs of the last three weeks -- I have not regretted my decision for even one second, so it must have been a good one. I have finally been able to stop taking malaria medication and my body is enjoying a detox. I still know how to drive a car - it really just comes back from muscle memory.
So here is a list of random things that struck me upon returning -
While in the Kenyan airport, in the public restroom, the inside of my nose was burning. At first I thought it was paint thinner. After a minute I realized it was just bathroom cleaner with bleach but my sense of smell wasn't used to it.
In the parking structure at the Detroit airport, the smell of diesel exhaust smelled lovely.
White people are strange looking and I'm not used to so many overweight people.
I don't understand why people here don't just run around getting a million things done quickly purely because completing something quickly is actually an option here.
Social étiquette is a puzzle to me, even in my own culture, which is disconcerting.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
When Quitting Becomes the Bravest Move
I've been debating how much of my decision to come home for good is personal and how much is blog material. I do vaguely recall telling you all that I would be honest and forthright about this whole experience.
I felt that what was expected of me was unachievable, for me personally. My strengths didn't match the challenge. It may have been more than half laziness, but mixed into that was apathy. I stopped caring. I stopped trying. The last couple weeks I even stopped faking the trying. I was in a bad place and kept sinking into that bad place every couple months. I understand that my role was to build up the program for the next groups. Breaking a commitment doesn't build it up. But then again, neither does being an apathetic volunteer.
I've had the most exhilarating time of my life here, but also the most depressing moments. I have friends here, and those are the bittersweet moments. They have sustained me for this long. As many moments as I will miss in the next year of adventure as a PCV, I would have become more angry, negative and difficult to be around. I'd like to think I saved people from that.
I have nothing bad to say about Peace Corps. No organization is perfect and this Rwandan post is certainly aware of the bumps and constructively looking to fix them. I've been proud to say I served here. I wish I could have given more to the whole experience.
So I am blindly jumping into the abyss. I have no definite plans. That step after college of being unemployed and living with my parents has finally caught up with me. I suppose I will act the part of the cliche for awhile. But I know my time is precious. Life is short. Too short to not follow your gut. Failing gracefully is how I'd like to see it. As a wise cousin of mine once wrote - sometimes quitting is the bravest choice.
I'm sure my views on international development will shift, along with my thoughts on this entire experience, my role in all of it, Rwandan culture, the way I'm choosing to say goodbye, etc. But right now, I'm happy. I'm excited for the possibilities.
Because I'm addicted to blogging, this won't be my last post. I'll probably write up a little bit about adjusting back into American culture. I can't bear to sign off for good yet.
There will also, obviously, be a lapse in actual events and the posting of this news. Telling certain people before posting it to the internet world seemed considerate. Please don't feel snubbed if I didn't personally send the news to you. It was all part of my ploy to have a few days to lie low.
I felt that what was expected of me was unachievable, for me personally. My strengths didn't match the challenge. It may have been more than half laziness, but mixed into that was apathy. I stopped caring. I stopped trying. The last couple weeks I even stopped faking the trying. I was in a bad place and kept sinking into that bad place every couple months. I understand that my role was to build up the program for the next groups. Breaking a commitment doesn't build it up. But then again, neither does being an apathetic volunteer.
I've had the most exhilarating time of my life here, but also the most depressing moments. I have friends here, and those are the bittersweet moments. They have sustained me for this long. As many moments as I will miss in the next year of adventure as a PCV, I would have become more angry, negative and difficult to be around. I'd like to think I saved people from that.
I have nothing bad to say about Peace Corps. No organization is perfect and this Rwandan post is certainly aware of the bumps and constructively looking to fix them. I've been proud to say I served here. I wish I could have given more to the whole experience.
So I am blindly jumping into the abyss. I have no definite plans. That step after college of being unemployed and living with my parents has finally caught up with me. I suppose I will act the part of the cliche for awhile. But I know my time is precious. Life is short. Too short to not follow your gut. Failing gracefully is how I'd like to see it. As a wise cousin of mine once wrote - sometimes quitting is the bravest choice.
I'm sure my views on international development will shift, along with my thoughts on this entire experience, my role in all of it, Rwandan culture, the way I'm choosing to say goodbye, etc. But right now, I'm happy. I'm excited for the possibilities.
Because I'm addicted to blogging, this won't be my last post. I'll probably write up a little bit about adjusting back into American culture. I can't bear to sign off for good yet.
There will also, obviously, be a lapse in actual events and the posting of this news. Telling certain people before posting it to the internet world seemed considerate. Please don't feel snubbed if I didn't personally send the news to you. It was all part of my ploy to have a few days to lie low.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Quicksand Hallucinations
There are 35 days until I fly home and for the past two weeks I've felt like I was sinking in quicksand. Every day has been a mountain I wasn't sure I could climb. I've never felt further from vacation, even though it's staring me down. Sometimes I wish my mood wouldn't be so erratic. I feel like I'm in the bottom of a hole that someone dug as a trap and there is no way out. And then just as suddenly, that begins to seem like the dumbest exaggeration of my existence here. I honestly don't know what is real anymore. I'm hoping vacation gives me back that clarity.
I can't promise that I will write much while I'm home, being in the throes of rest and relaxation. However I will try to jot down all the things I find bizarre coming back, because I'm sure my panic of being reintroduced into society can be spun with humor.
I can't promise that I will write much while I'm home, being in the throes of rest and relaxation. However I will try to jot down all the things I find bizarre coming back, because I'm sure my panic of being reintroduced into society can be spun with humor.
Pineapple Perspective
So I was at the market today, facing a new challenge. Now that I have become buddy buddy with some of the sellers I feel like I HAVE to buy from them. Guilt takes over and the question of whether a single person can eat an entire pineapple is really besides the point.
Couple this with another new realization. I have quite a bit of money, meaning I live quite comfortably. Imagine that picture of Scrooge counting stacks of money and water it down and that's what happened when I finally cleaned my house a bit and found a bunch of money (I never change, says the twenty in my winter coat pocket that I inevitably find every year.) Yes, I get paid a living stipend but considering I live in a village with no chocolate or goodies besides hard candy, and I don't have utility bills (see there is a perk to no electricity or running water - I've been pondering if washing clothes by hand at home would save money - I'll go with a no, a dirty no.) I can accumulate a bit. Back to the point, I started thinking I should buy more stuff here. Old American theme - get out there and shop and stimulate the economy. Seems like the nice thing to do. The market ladies are just a bunch of my neighbors who farm their land and attempt to make a profit each week. So I was thinking of increasing my purchases of produce to help them out.
For the first time, possibly in my life, another thought came to mind. Sure I could buy a lot more produce but the fact is, there is a set amount of produce being grown in this village area. All the people need to be fed off this amount. If I start taking more than I actually need, that would be selfish. Sure, maybe the market lady wouldn't make as much money, but she could give the produce to people who really need it. I never remember being at the grocery store and thinking that the food would ever run out. Or realizing that taking more than my share was selfish. There's that sense of community again.
So, yes, I bought the pineapple that I didn't need. I gave it to Maryanne as a gift. It felt wonderful. I'm not very good at giving gifts. Imagine going to the grocery store every week and buying something you don't really want or need, and then giving it as a gift. Every single week, going out of your way to spread that kindness. A treat that someone would never buy for themselves.
I hope this is something I remember when I've been home for awhile. and I hope you remember this when I show up to your house with a pineapple :)
Couple this with another new realization. I have quite a bit of money, meaning I live quite comfortably. Imagine that picture of Scrooge counting stacks of money and water it down and that's what happened when I finally cleaned my house a bit and found a bunch of money (I never change, says the twenty in my winter coat pocket that I inevitably find every year.) Yes, I get paid a living stipend but considering I live in a village with no chocolate or goodies besides hard candy, and I don't have utility bills (see there is a perk to no electricity or running water - I've been pondering if washing clothes by hand at home would save money - I'll go with a no, a dirty no.) I can accumulate a bit. Back to the point, I started thinking I should buy more stuff here. Old American theme - get out there and shop and stimulate the economy. Seems like the nice thing to do. The market ladies are just a bunch of my neighbors who farm their land and attempt to make a profit each week. So I was thinking of increasing my purchases of produce to help them out.
For the first time, possibly in my life, another thought came to mind. Sure I could buy a lot more produce but the fact is, there is a set amount of produce being grown in this village area. All the people need to be fed off this amount. If I start taking more than I actually need, that would be selfish. Sure, maybe the market lady wouldn't make as much money, but she could give the produce to people who really need it. I never remember being at the grocery store and thinking that the food would ever run out. Or realizing that taking more than my share was selfish. There's that sense of community again.
So, yes, I bought the pineapple that I didn't need. I gave it to Maryanne as a gift. It felt wonderful. I'm not very good at giving gifts. Imagine going to the grocery store every week and buying something you don't really want or need, and then giving it as a gift. Every single week, going out of your way to spread that kindness. A treat that someone would never buy for themselves.
I hope this is something I remember when I've been home for awhile. and I hope you remember this when I show up to your house with a pineapple :)
Claudine's Visit
So I think I should rename this blog - cultural misconceptions. I've been having some great cultural exchanges lately - so yay 2nd and 3rd goals of Peace Corps.
I went to visit my buddy Claudine. She lives down the street from me but is usually at her boarding school an hour away. She happened to be home for a school holiday so we reconnected. Claudine's cousin was also there - Jean Damascene. Unfortunately, as I have witnessed many times, the males in this country seem to have a much better grasp of English than the females. Jean Damascene quickly took control of the conversation. I believe this was mainly because he doesn't often have the opportunity to talk to an native English speaker who lets him fire away endless questions. It was actually quite entertaining to sit back and give him some time, seeing the wheels in head spin, as he formulated his curiosity into English questions.
But first- it's always interesting to see where Rwandans get their knowledge of American culture. Since a lot is from horrendous news stories and rap videos, you can imagine the misconceptions of the everyday, Michigan life I used to lead. During this visit my phone started to vibrate in the pocket of my cargo pants. I reached down to see who was calling. Apparently this triggered something in Jean Damascene's mind about the US having a gun problem. He assumed that every American owns a gun and carries it around all the time. He was relieved to see me pull out a cell phone. I understand the fear he had but I couldn't help but laugh at him. Even if I carried a concealed weapon in the US, I doubt the Rwandan government would let me carry it around Rwanda as well. This conversation segwayed into a discussion of the hunting culture in the US, particularly Michigan since I know it well. All of a sudden Michigan was looking like the primitive culture as I explained that people go out and kill animals and the families eat the meat.
Then I had to adamantly defend proper English. Jean Damascene gets a lot of his English vocabulary from song lyrics. I also had to argue that the word boys isn't spelled boyz. Sometimes I'm seen as the biggest expert of the English language and other times they won't even believe that boys doesn't involve a z.
So a great Rwandan question that you would be hard pressed to find outside of a American geography class is - what do you cultivate there? I often have to scratch my head thinking of what we cultivate in Michigan. Once again I need to defend my answers to Rwandans who clearly think the US is all city and no farm.
I'll end this post with Jean Damascene's explanation of old Rwandan marriage customs. Now I was the one questioning. He says one set of parents go to the next village to another set of parents and arranged the marriage. Then one random night the eligible bachelor hears on the bedroom door. Parents say and that's the end of that. Jean Damascene must have seen the skeptical look on my face because he ended it with this gem - Love goes where it wants but parents often try to orient it.
I went to visit my buddy Claudine. She lives down the street from me but is usually at her boarding school an hour away. She happened to be home for a school holiday so we reconnected. Claudine's cousin was also there - Jean Damascene. Unfortunately, as I have witnessed many times, the males in this country seem to have a much better grasp of English than the females. Jean Damascene quickly took control of the conversation. I believe this was mainly because he doesn't often have the opportunity to talk to an native English speaker who lets him fire away endless questions. It was actually quite entertaining to sit back and give him some time, seeing the wheels in head spin, as he formulated his curiosity into English questions.
But first- it's always interesting to see where Rwandans get their knowledge of American culture. Since a lot is from horrendous news stories and rap videos, you can imagine the misconceptions of the everyday, Michigan life I used to lead. During this visit my phone started to vibrate in the pocket of my cargo pants. I reached down to see who was calling. Apparently this triggered something in Jean Damascene's mind about the US having a gun problem. He assumed that every American owns a gun and carries it around all the time. He was relieved to see me pull out a cell phone. I understand the fear he had but I couldn't help but laugh at him. Even if I carried a concealed weapon in the US, I doubt the Rwandan government would let me carry it around Rwanda as well. This conversation segwayed into a discussion of the hunting culture in the US, particularly Michigan since I know it well. All of a sudden Michigan was looking like the primitive culture as I explained that people go out and kill animals and the families eat the meat.
Then I had to adamantly defend proper English. Jean Damascene gets a lot of his English vocabulary from song lyrics. I also had to argue that the word boys isn't spelled boyz. Sometimes I'm seen as the biggest expert of the English language and other times they won't even believe that boys doesn't involve a z.
So a great Rwandan question that you would be hard pressed to find outside of a American geography class is - what do you cultivate there? I often have to scratch my head thinking of what we cultivate in Michigan. Once again I need to defend my answers to Rwandans who clearly think the US is all city and no farm.
I'll end this post with Jean Damascene's explanation of old Rwandan marriage customs. Now I was the one questioning. He says one set of parents go to the next village to another set of parents and arranged the marriage. Then one random night the eligible bachelor hears
Baby Naming
I'll break the bad news first - they didn't pick my name suggestion, so don't get excited that I named a Rwandan baby. But it's all for the best, really.
On Sunday I went to Christine's baby's naming ceremony. It is a tradition that after about a month, every Rwandan child is given a baby naming ceremony. Before this time - you guessed it- the baby doesn't have a name.
All the family and friends gather at the house. We were served Fanta and ate a meal. The baby made her grand entrance, and then was passed around so everyone could have a look. The children of the family came in and all offered a name, which was quite adorable. I think some of them just recommended their own name, which was a tactic I thought of too. Then one by one the adults each offered a name. At the end the parents proclaim the name to everyone. In this case, they had already decided beforehand. They get to pick a first name and a last name.
So welcome baby Nacia to the world. (Pronounced like Nadia but with a 'sea' in the middle.) Christine can now be called Mama Nacia, which nicely rolls off the tongue.
On Sunday I went to Christine's baby's naming ceremony. It is a tradition that after about a month, every Rwandan child is given a baby naming ceremony. Before this time - you guessed it- the baby doesn't have a name.
All the family and friends gather at the house. We were served Fanta and ate a meal. The baby made her grand entrance, and then was passed around so everyone could have a look. The children of the family came in and all offered a name, which was quite adorable. I think some of them just recommended their own name, which was a tactic I thought of too. Then one by one the adults each offered a name. At the end the parents proclaim the name to everyone. In this case, they had already decided beforehand. They get to pick a first name and a last name.
So welcome baby Nacia to the world. (Pronounced like Nadia but with a 'sea' in the middle.) Christine can now be called Mama Nacia, which nicely rolls off the tongue.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Honey, I'm Home
Blogging is a funny thing. Back in the day (when I was in high school and college) a bunch of people had LiveJournal accounts. They poured out their inner most thoughts and updates (before the CNN feed of Facebook status updates - and I'm not even going to get into Twitter because I don't understand it.) I used to mock it. If I wanted to tell someone about my life, why would I cut out the face-to-face bonding? Why wouldn't I force them to ask me and show interest? And yet, here I am, endlessly and quite compulsively blogging.
This came to the front of my mind yesterday, while writing an email to my aunt. I was saying how I don't have anyone to come home and talk about my day to. See, I come home and read and watch TV. I never rehash the specifics. This sounds pathetic, but it has its perks. Instead of rushing in the door, lamenting every detail and getting the socially appropriate sympathy - I let it ruminate in my brain, cut out the whining negativity, and then I eventually write a stream of consciousness blog post to all of you.
I have a whole new respect for silence. I remember many, many years ago a guy was on Oprah. He had decided, voluntarily, to not utter a word for a whole year. It's an interesting concept (however impractical) to see what you would learn. Observing things you would never had noticed with your mouth jabbering away.
This came to the front of my mind yesterday, while writing an email to my aunt. I was saying how I don't have anyone to come home and talk about my day to. See, I come home and read and watch TV. I never rehash the specifics. This sounds pathetic, but it has its perks. Instead of rushing in the door, lamenting every detail and getting the socially appropriate sympathy - I let it ruminate in my brain, cut out the whining negativity, and then I eventually write a stream of consciousness blog post to all of you.
I have a whole new respect for silence. I remember many, many years ago a guy was on Oprah. He had decided, voluntarily, to not utter a word for a whole year. It's an interesting concept (however impractical) to see what you would learn. Observing things you would never had noticed with your mouth jabbering away.
Jetsons
This post was prompted by a text from a fellow volunteer saying - Did you know cars have USB ports now? It's a crazy world.
This is just the tip of the iceberg of a conversation about how out-of-the-loop we are. We've tried to keep up with the price of a gallon of gas and a loaf of bread. Every once and a while a relative tells us about a strange new development at home - pajama pants that look like jeans? What's with that! or the newest humongous drink size at Starbucks. Yep, that was necessary. But let's face it - we are going to be slapped upside the head with about a billion little things that began and no one told us about. This stuff seems minute in the grand scheme of things, but when it all gets piled on at once, you feel like you are living in an episode of the Jetsons.
So I'm opening up a forum right now. Please, please tell me strange things that have developed in the last year. Do the automated checkouts at the grocery store now bag your groceries too? what businesses have closed their doors? does everyone agree that The Office should stop filming when Steve Carell leaves? Lay it on me.
This is just the tip of the iceberg of a conversation about how out-of-the-loop we are. We've tried to keep up with the price of a gallon of gas and a loaf of bread. Every once and a while a relative tells us about a strange new development at home - pajama pants that look like jeans? What's with that! or the newest humongous drink size at Starbucks. Yep, that was necessary. But let's face it - we are going to be slapped upside the head with about a billion little things that began and no one told us about. This stuff seems minute in the grand scheme of things, but when it all gets piled on at once, you feel like you are living in an episode of the Jetsons.
So I'm opening up a forum right now. Please, please tell me strange things that have developed in the last year. Do the automated checkouts at the grocery store now bag your groceries too? what businesses have closed their doors? does everyone agree that The Office should stop filming when Steve Carell leaves? Lay it on me.
New Normal
Soundtrack to this post: The Call, Regina Spektor
I am two short months away from visiting home. (For the sake of my mother, I am going to emphasize the word 'short' there.) I feel so strange. I've been looking forward to this for over a year. I can honestly say, I've never been more excited to see my family. For the first time in my life, flying to Michigan is considered a vacation. I've had a million daydreams of all the fun, relaxing, Hallmark moments that will happen while I am home.
A week ago, it hit me. My normal has altered. The village life is my normal. I'm comfortable in the village. It's like my cocoon. I know what is expected of me in Rwanda, replacing all the social cues of home. I may go home and completely lose my marbles. I've heard the tales - going into Costco and having a panic attack. I've already had some symptoms. When there a lot of English speakers in the background I get supremely distracted. I can understand every word! Drowning out that background noise is really hard. In fact people say that when you go home, all of this feels like a fantasy. That it doesn't really exist, that you weren't really gone for a year, that your mind has a hard time reconciling these two parallel realities. This may be setting me up for the ultimate vacation. Nothing screams escape quite like thinking where you live is not a real place.
Basically I'm just setting the stage for when I reflect on my time at home. And building the case for why Peace Corps should pay for an unlimited amount of therapy throughout my life. Anyone from DC out there reading this? Think about it. You know I've got a point!
I am two short months away from visiting home. (For the sake of my mother, I am going to emphasize the word 'short' there.) I feel so strange. I've been looking forward to this for over a year. I can honestly say, I've never been more excited to see my family. For the first time in my life, flying to Michigan is considered a vacation. I've had a million daydreams of all the fun, relaxing, Hallmark moments that will happen while I am home.
A week ago, it hit me. My normal has altered. The village life is my normal. I'm comfortable in the village. It's like my cocoon. I know what is expected of me in Rwanda, replacing all the social cues of home. I may go home and completely lose my marbles. I've heard the tales - going into Costco and having a panic attack. I've already had some symptoms. When there a lot of English speakers in the background I get supremely distracted. I can understand every word! Drowning out that background noise is really hard. In fact people say that when you go home, all of this feels like a fantasy. That it doesn't really exist, that you weren't really gone for a year, that your mind has a hard time reconciling these two parallel realities. This may be setting me up for the ultimate vacation. Nothing screams escape quite like thinking where you live is not a real place.
Basically I'm just setting the stage for when I reflect on my time at home. And building the case for why Peace Corps should pay for an unlimited amount of therapy throughout my life. Anyone from DC out there reading this? Think about it. You know I've got a point!
Friday, April 15, 2011
This little piggy went to the market
I just got a phone call from my coworker. She wanted to tell me that the market was happening this morning. This was her way to laugh at me. And then it made me realize I hadn't really explained the market to you all.
There are probably about 20 different little shops in my village. Most of them carry exactly the same thing, but very little food stuffs. If I went to a store on Sunday looking for avocados, I may have to stop in 10 of these stores asking for avocados before finally getting tired of this and going home. This is the frustration of shopping here. I like convenience and speed. Enter, the market.
The market equivalent is like if Meijer were only open every Wednesday morning (if you're not from Michigan, insert a grocery store equivalent). Sure you could run to the corner store to grab an apple every once in a while but they don't always have them and that unreliability is frustrating. So when Meijer opens it's doors every Wednesday morning, you are up and out of bed with a quickness. If you arrive at the optimal time between 7:45 and 8:15, you will get the good produce that comes early but not so early that some of the sellers haven't arrived yet.
I have my ritual, my optimal walk through the market. The market is held in an open field in town. As you descend the mini-hill, you'll see about fifty sellers with a tarp of vegetables laid out in front of them. Usually the vegetables are in neat little piles so you can easily decipher prices. Each little pile is 100 francs (ijana). There are also women selling salt, sugar, sardines, some spices, ground up peanut for peanut sauce, flours.
That brings up an important gender perspective. The women is about 97% women. The sellers are almost all women. The buyers are almost all women. The males you find there are from 8-16 years of age. They are looking for a job of carrying the heavy bags of women who are too old, too pregnant or too rich to do it themselves. One time I was having a conversation with my counterpart (a dude) about how I get my food. He was happy to hear that prices were cheaper in the village than in the city where he lived. I encouraged him to fill up on groceries while he was here and travel back with them. He promptly said - that sounds like a market for women. I can't be seen buying there. I thought he was silly but he's kind of right.
So let's get back to my optimal walk through the market. You have to bring your own reusable bag to put things in. I appropriately bring a Meijer reusable bag for all my groceries. After many weeks of squishing my tomatoes and bananas, I am still trying to perfect the order of buying my food and walking it home.
My favorite lady sells passion fruit, carrots and green peppers. I go to her first. Mainly because she always gets so excited to see me. It's a good way to not get too intimidated by the market - start with a friendly face. It also shows the other ladies that I have someone watching out for me. Sometimes she will rally a tomato lady to give me her best tomatoes since I'm her friend.
Lately I have found the perk and downfall of getting good prices at the market. As I said there is the standard pile for 100. But for customers they know, the piles quickly expand with a couple more handfuls. It's like the prices at garage sales. They are optimal but by no means portray the family and friends discount. Since I've lived here for about a year now, and try to put on my sweetest face for the market ladies, they have started giving me more and more food. It's great. They will always say - and more for my friend. It feels wonderful. The problem is I'm only one person! There is only so much food I can eat before it goes bad. At the same time I don't want to decrease the amount of money I spend at the market because I like supporting them. I need to start a food redistribution system…or just start eating A LOT.
So that's my market. There is rarely a week I miss the market, which is why my coworker is laughing at me. Going to the market is a 'villager' thing to do. Most people send their housegirl or houseboy. And none show the enthusiasm I have for the market.
There are probably about 20 different little shops in my village. Most of them carry exactly the same thing, but very little food stuffs. If I went to a store on Sunday looking for avocados, I may have to stop in 10 of these stores asking for avocados before finally getting tired of this and going home. This is the frustration of shopping here. I like convenience and speed. Enter, the market.
The market equivalent is like if Meijer were only open every Wednesday morning (if you're not from Michigan, insert a grocery store equivalent). Sure you could run to the corner store to grab an apple every once in a while but they don't always have them and that unreliability is frustrating. So when Meijer opens it's doors every Wednesday morning, you are up and out of bed with a quickness. If you arrive at the optimal time between 7:45 and 8:15, you will get the good produce that comes early but not so early that some of the sellers haven't arrived yet.
I have my ritual, my optimal walk through the market. The market is held in an open field in town. As you descend the mini-hill, you'll see about fifty sellers with a tarp of vegetables laid out in front of them. Usually the vegetables are in neat little piles so you can easily decipher prices. Each little pile is 100 francs (ijana). There are also women selling salt, sugar, sardines, some spices, ground up peanut for peanut sauce, flours.
That brings up an important gender perspective. The women is about 97% women. The sellers are almost all women. The buyers are almost all women. The males you find there are from 8-16 years of age. They are looking for a job of carrying the heavy bags of women who are too old, too pregnant or too rich to do it themselves. One time I was having a conversation with my counterpart (a dude) about how I get my food. He was happy to hear that prices were cheaper in the village than in the city where he lived. I encouraged him to fill up on groceries while he was here and travel back with them. He promptly said - that sounds like a market for women. I can't be seen buying there. I thought he was silly but he's kind of right.
So let's get back to my optimal walk through the market. You have to bring your own reusable bag to put things in. I appropriately bring a Meijer reusable bag for all my groceries. After many weeks of squishing my tomatoes and bananas, I am still trying to perfect the order of buying my food and walking it home.
My favorite lady sells passion fruit, carrots and green peppers. I go to her first. Mainly because she always gets so excited to see me. It's a good way to not get too intimidated by the market - start with a friendly face. It also shows the other ladies that I have someone watching out for me. Sometimes she will rally a tomato lady to give me her best tomatoes since I'm her friend.
Lately I have found the perk and downfall of getting good prices at the market. As I said there is the standard pile for 100. But for customers they know, the piles quickly expand with a couple more handfuls. It's like the prices at garage sales. They are optimal but by no means portray the family and friends discount. Since I've lived here for about a year now, and try to put on my sweetest face for the market ladies, they have started giving me more and more food. It's great. They will always say - and more for my friend. It feels wonderful. The problem is I'm only one person! There is only so much food I can eat before it goes bad. At the same time I don't want to decrease the amount of money I spend at the market because I like supporting them. I need to start a food redistribution system…or just start eating A LOT.
So that's my market. There is rarely a week I miss the market, which is why my coworker is laughing at me. Going to the market is a 'villager' thing to do. Most people send their housegirl or houseboy. And none show the enthusiasm I have for the market.
Exports
Have you ever had that moment when you went on your first trip without your family? your first plane ride alone? or your first night at college in the dorm? The door closes, the car pulls away and you are alone in a new world. Everything is exciting and different. You want to make new friends, eat new foods, see new things. It's an amazing moment of growth and taking a leap into the unexpected.
I've had a bunch of these moments in my own life - going to DC for a school trip on my first plane ride, moving to college, studying abroad in England, going on volunteer trips with a bunch of strangers, flying to California by myself, moving to Rwanda. It's been exhilarating and life defining. And now I've come to a country where everyone is aching for those experiences. Sure, a lot of Rwandans go to boarding school and get some freedom there but they want to really see the world, see other cultures, go outside of this tiny country - it just doesn't happen often.
My counterpart, Fidele, just got a great opportunity. Out of our whole organization he was chosen to travel to Germany for a conference. It will center around youth empowerment and leadership. People from all over the world will be there to discuss the problems in their specific countries and how to inspire young people to face them head on. Fidele will be in Germany for 2 weeks. It will be the first time he's been out of Rwanda, on a plane, and speaking English 24/7. He's giddy like a kid on Christmas. He wants to take pictures of everything and wanted to make sure they would even let him take pictures on the plane. I'm planning on giving him a plane tutorial before he goes. I don't want him thinking there's no bathroom on the plane! There's a million little things that I want to prep him for, but I know at some point he will have to be confused and look dumb. We've all been there!
It's really difficult for Rwandans/anyone to get visas to the US and Europe, etc. There is a flight risk. And I'm not making blind accusations, I'm speaking from real life. I had a coworker travel to Europe for work. We were all so excited to hear about his experiences and see pictures. And then poof! Gone. I endearingly call him the fugitive, but it's people like him that ruin it for everyone else. People who don't honor their visa's departure date and instead just disappear into the country. Now countries are afraid to let citizens of developing nations visit. Who says they won't run? (I've made some serious threats to Fidele about this, but I believe he'll come back. Being the fourth of eight kids, he gives part of his income back to the family to help support them. I can't see him walking away from that responsibility.)
What's really sad to witness is the expressions of nonchalance surrounding disappearances like this (whether they are just repressed emotion or not). It's like other Rwandans realize this is a rational choice in life. That being illegal will be worth it. There's this strange mixture of sadness, disappointment and hopefulness. I'm still marinating on this feeling because it's nothing I've ever had to encounter, being American. Writing it on paper is difficult but maybe I'll get a better grasp of it in the future.
So I'm basically going to pummel Fidele with questions when he gets back - what was the first thing to surprise him? What was his general impression of Germany? How did it feel to speak English all day long? Did he feel like an outsider? How did he deal with the stress? Does he like flying? I'm fascinated to get his thoughts. Unfortunately he will be flying back in the same day I am flying out. We may pass each other in the air - which I thought would never happen in a million years.
So more about all this later...
I've had a bunch of these moments in my own life - going to DC for a school trip on my first plane ride, moving to college, studying abroad in England, going on volunteer trips with a bunch of strangers, flying to California by myself, moving to Rwanda. It's been exhilarating and life defining. And now I've come to a country where everyone is aching for those experiences. Sure, a lot of Rwandans go to boarding school and get some freedom there but they want to really see the world, see other cultures, go outside of this tiny country - it just doesn't happen often.
My counterpart, Fidele, just got a great opportunity. Out of our whole organization he was chosen to travel to Germany for a conference. It will center around youth empowerment and leadership. People from all over the world will be there to discuss the problems in their specific countries and how to inspire young people to face them head on. Fidele will be in Germany for 2 weeks. It will be the first time he's been out of Rwanda, on a plane, and speaking English 24/7. He's giddy like a kid on Christmas. He wants to take pictures of everything and wanted to make sure they would even let him take pictures on the plane. I'm planning on giving him a plane tutorial before he goes. I don't want him thinking there's no bathroom on the plane! There's a million little things that I want to prep him for, but I know at some point he will have to be confused and look dumb. We've all been there!
It's really difficult for Rwandans/anyone to get visas to the US and Europe, etc. There is a flight risk. And I'm not making blind accusations, I'm speaking from real life. I had a coworker travel to Europe for work. We were all so excited to hear about his experiences and see pictures. And then poof! Gone. I endearingly call him the fugitive, but it's people like him that ruin it for everyone else. People who don't honor their visa's departure date and instead just disappear into the country. Now countries are afraid to let citizens of developing nations visit. Who says they won't run? (I've made some serious threats to Fidele about this, but I believe he'll come back. Being the fourth of eight kids, he gives part of his income back to the family to help support them. I can't see him walking away from that responsibility.)
What's really sad to witness is the expressions of nonchalance surrounding disappearances like this (whether they are just repressed emotion or not). It's like other Rwandans realize this is a rational choice in life. That being illegal will be worth it. There's this strange mixture of sadness, disappointment and hopefulness. I'm still marinating on this feeling because it's nothing I've ever had to encounter, being American. Writing it on paper is difficult but maybe I'll get a better grasp of it in the future.
So I'm basically going to pummel Fidele with questions when he gets back - what was the first thing to surprise him? What was his general impression of Germany? How did it feel to speak English all day long? Did he feel like an outsider? How did he deal with the stress? Does he like flying? I'm fascinated to get his thoughts. Unfortunately he will be flying back in the same day I am flying out. We may pass each other in the air - which I thought would never happen in a million years.
So more about all this later...
What do you do again?
Let's talk about work. What exactly am I doing here? I'm at a good place to describe my work because my supervisor and I are at a sort of hopeful jumping off point.
Technically the Peace Corps describes me as a health and community development volunteer. With a bit of imagination that could encompass a wide range of activities. Community development is just about assessing an area and striving to make it a better place to live. Your goals can be very large or very small because often even the tiniest of actions can have a ripple effect. Health also has the advantage of meaning physical, mental or really anything relating to quality of life. Peace Corps gives me the freedom to be creative and come up with projects concerning these broad, broad themes.
I've been given some advantages as well. I was placed in a hospital setting which is also the hub for community health workers, who go into the community for sensitization, education and low skill medical care. I was also assigned to help a USAID program called Higa Ubeho. It is characterized as a health promotion program and goes about that goal by doing economic development.
Presently I am helping two cooperatives (read small businesses). The cooperatives are comprised of individuals who are HIV positive. By getting them training in a specific trade, helping them with management skills, accounting skills, marketing skills, etc, we accomplish many goals. The individuals themselves will have a better mental state, feel productive and have a reason to get out of bed in the morning. The work will be designed specifically for them - nothing too labor intensive and with a flexible schedule so that their health fluctuations can be accommodated. Once there is a steady income, these individuals can then afford health insurance and medications. Since many of these individuals are widows, they are the breadwinners for multiple children, their own and orphans they have adopted. With the income, they can also buy health insurance for their children and pay school fees. All of that, plus they form an excellent community and support system amongst themselves.
Technically the Peace Corps describes me as a health and community development volunteer. With a bit of imagination that could encompass a wide range of activities. Community development is just about assessing an area and striving to make it a better place to live. Your goals can be very large or very small because often even the tiniest of actions can have a ripple effect. Health also has the advantage of meaning physical, mental or really anything relating to quality of life. Peace Corps gives me the freedom to be creative and come up with projects concerning these broad, broad themes.
I've been given some advantages as well. I was placed in a hospital setting which is also the hub for community health workers, who go into the community for sensitization, education and low skill medical care. I was also assigned to help a USAID program called Higa Ubeho. It is characterized as a health promotion program and goes about that goal by doing economic development.
Presently I am helping two cooperatives (read small businesses). The cooperatives are comprised of individuals who are HIV positive. By getting them training in a specific trade, helping them with management skills, accounting skills, marketing skills, etc, we accomplish many goals. The individuals themselves will have a better mental state, feel productive and have a reason to get out of bed in the morning. The work will be designed specifically for them - nothing too labor intensive and with a flexible schedule so that their health fluctuations can be accommodated. Once there is a steady income, these individuals can then afford health insurance and medications. Since many of these individuals are widows, they are the breadwinners for multiple children, their own and orphans they have adopted. With the income, they can also buy health insurance for their children and pay school fees. All of that, plus they form an excellent community and support system amongst themselves.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Indoor Plumbing
It was the second time this happened, this recurring dream. I'm at my house in Rwanda, getting ready in the morning as if I'm truly awake. I step outside (remember that my 'bathroom' is outside) to get ready for work, and lo and behold, I find a door that didn't exist before. Inside is a full bathroom with excellent water pressure, hot water in abundance, all sparkling white tile. And I think aloud - why haven't I been using this all along. Then an answer comes to me - I didn't want to get it dirty because I didn't want to clean it. Right now it's literally sparkling, like walking into my mother's bathroom. Another perk is that I'm living with my sister, just like before I left home. I get to share the great news with someone. Come check out the bathroom! We're so excited we splash the water around fully clothed as if we're kids playing in a sprinkler.
I wonder how my dreams will change when I come home. I'll probably still be dreaming of clean bathrooms in the midst of my sloppiness. Maybe of vacations and winning the lottery.
I wonder how my dreams will change when I come home. I'll probably still be dreaming of clean bathrooms in the midst of my sloppiness. Maybe of vacations and winning the lottery.
Day of Miracles and Day of Jinxes
This is a story from a couple months ago but I've been hesitating. It seems like the story that you end with - well, ya had to be there. Nevertheless, since I've written a whole blog of - well, ya had to be there - I shall continue.
It was a day like no other. Quite possibly my favorite couple days in Rwanda.
The domino effect all started Thursday night. I was running around the house getting ready for bed. I had a premonition that I had just done something I would regret. It's like visualizing the car crash before it ever happens. But nevertheless, I was carrying my phone around in my shirt since I didn't have pockets in my pants. Plop…right into the bucket of water, a new danger from not having indoor plumbing. I grabbed it as quickly as possible and tried to dry out the battery and number pad. All my efforts were in vain, the phone refused to turn on. I was beyond irate at myself. Not only did I see this coming but now I couldn't receive my weekly phone call from my parents that night, use the only alarm clock I have (on my phone), or buy a new phone until I went into the city in a couple days. I calmed myself down, went to sleep and hoped for a miracle.
And thus, the day of miracles began. I woke up and felt confident as I reached for my phone. Sure enough it was done with its tantrum and worked perfectly. Hallelujah.
I was privileged enough to attend a ceremony for a cooperative of wonderful ladies. Edison had helped them get funding to learn a new skill and they were being awarded certificates for completing the training. What had started as a simple ceremony turned into an elaborate soiree. Rwanda has strict guidelines about etiquette. For example, we had to invite 8 speakers (pastor of the church, hospital administration, person at district level in charge of cooperatives, person at sector in charge of HIV, peace corps rep, etc. etc.) and they must speak in order of ascending power. I needed to serve the water and Fanta because it would have looked tacky to have another more important person play hostess.
I will tell you my two favorite parts of the day. It was my first time wearing an umushanana, which is traditional Rwandan dress for women. Fidele (supervisor) had mentioned to the women a week ago that they should all be dressed to the nines and if they could give me something too, that'd be great. I was so nervous about what I was going to be required to wear. You have to think about skirts and slips and all that. I came prepared. I had a nice Western dress on with the undergarments for whatever was thrown at me. They ushered me into their changing room. I stood there like a helpless child because I didn't know how to dress myself. Luckily Pauline quickly stepped in (a women from the cooperative). They had rented me a beautiful umushanana. I had a white tank top on then two pieces of fabric where tied on. The first was a wrap around skirt. The second gauzy-er piece of aqua fabric was tied over one of my shoulders (can't remember if it was left or right) to signify that I was unmarried. The skirt was a bit long and it was tied so tight I thought I was wearing a corset, but I had no fear that it was going to fall down! I'll have to get my hands on a picture of me so you can see me in my Rwandan finest. (If you happen to be Facebook friends with me, it's my profile picture at the moment…with my favorite mental health patient.) Since the ceremony was inside the hospital, all my coworkers got to see me dressed as a real Rwandan and complimented me on it. It was one of those special days of celebration where its a pure joy and everyone is dressed up and you can compliment them. Just a big upper of a day.
There was an exchange of gifts between Edison and the cooperative. He gave what is quite possibly the most prized gifts to Rwandans, photos. In return they gave him some wall decorations, fabric (the skill they learned) and a chicken. No joke there was a chicken inside of a box. It was so excited to see some daylight that it was crazily flapping around. I'll admit it scared the crap out of me. In the words of Fidele - you give what you have. This was a special gift from these poor women.
So there was dancing, Fanta and certificates - per the usual celebration. I went home feeling happy and proud.
I had to get up super early to catch the 6:40 am bus into the city. We had some visiting to do. Two months earlier a coworker had been married but a bunch of us missed the wedding for various reasons. I'd like to claim the best excuse of all - a last minute training taking place the same day as the wedding - and it was the truth. So I left my house at 6:15 to catch the 6:40. If it sounds brutal - it is! The only time I need to use an alarm clock here is trying to catch that first bus. In the darkness of my bedroom you will usually hear a screeching - WHHHHHHYY?!? Which is probably what a neighbors think after they hear it every time. So I'm speed walking to the bus and it's still sitting there, with barely anyone inside - score. Or so I think. It turns out one of the secondary school's sports teams bought out the whole bus, which left the rest of us wandering around confused and half asleep, since I usually spend the hour long bus ride waking up. As a group we demanded that another bus driver be called. Money could be made…and we had to get places quick. So soon we see a sleepy-eyed bus driver emerge from his house and we very quickly fill the whole bus. Everything was back on track - or so I thought. Next thing I know the bus stops half way to our destination telling us we all have to hop on another bus for the rest of the way. My first sign of this day being a bit off.
We met up for lunch with my African coworker being an hour late - even she admits that she's a true African, always late. We went to buy a last minute wedding gift on our way to the house. Nothing like quick shopping. We bought a wall decoration for the house. The dark clouds were rolling in but I didn't worry. In fact I was cocky about it. Well, if it rains, it'll last an hour at most! HA! I jinxed it.
I also happen to be blessed with the pride of America. When it began raining I insisted that I didn't need to huddle inside a store like the herd of Rwandans. I would stand outside under my umbrella so that I could more effectively catch the bus. And with vengeance did I stand, as people scoffed at me. My pants' legs became soiled with the bouncing dirt from the paver sidewalk. My umbrella couldn't stand the hurricane style winds so I was partially drenched by the end of it. (This may have been the moment when I finally gave into the rain and started acting Rwandan in every future event, by letting the rain sequester me and my plans of action. Refer to recent post of me succumbing to a rainy Monday morning.)
During a break in the precipitation, we took a bus to the other side of town. Often visiting people for the first time must include them coming to the main road on foot to get you and direct you the rest of the way. There aren't really street signs or addresses or easy ways to give directions. So Felix came down the mountain to get us. I'd like to put some emphasis on the term mountain because this will come up later. We followed him back to his house and it was beautiful. Nice decorations, comfy, new furniture. We got fed cheese and sausage until we couldn't swallow another mouthful. All the while watching their two-plus hour wedding video and looking at the photo albums.
I should back up a bit because the first five minutes of the visit were awesomely culturally awkward. We were introduced to Felix's wife. She was beautiful and kind and they made a great couple. Edison innocently asked - so how did you two meet? I nodded right along. Great American question but apparently not such a great Rwandan question. They were stunned and slightly offended. We had to back pedal and explain how this was a common query for couples at home. The next question, seeing that his wife was pregnant, was how many months pregnant are you? Considering she was six months pregnant and we had come on their second month wedding anniversary, an awkward silence commenced. This visit was off to a great start.
The rain just kept coming down, and coming, and coming. Hours had passed and I had plans! Plans to get out of this city. But rain often dictates life here, or I should say, dislike of rain dictates life here. It's difficult to get a Rwandan to elect to walk in the rain unless absolutely necessary. As the hours passed, we were stuffed with even more food, and then Rwandan hospitality took over. New sleeping arrangements were made. Edison was to spend the night here at Felix's house and I would sleep at Jeanne's house after Fidele walked us to the bus stop. It was still raining but darkness was coming so we had to make a move. I was so frustrated. I wanted to get to my friend's house, as planned. I wanted to be eating American food and watching trashy TV. I wanted my weekend. But I succumbed. Staying in the city would be the smart thing to do. Ugh.
So Jeanne, Fidele and I started our trek down the MOUNTAIN. This thing was steep, and I never seem to be wearing the proper footwear. Although I also haven't decided what is the perfect footwear for these situations. We had borrowed coats from Felix since it was freezing and sharing two umbrellas between the three of us. I was trying desperately to keep my laptop dry and attempting not to make this hike down turn out like my childhood Slip N Slide memories. We were descending a different path than we had gone up because Fidele swore he knew the way. I generally trust Fidele's sense of direction, but three dead ends later I was over that. Luckily Fidele doesn't have that male gene that stops him from asking for directions so we kept stopping at houses to pathetically ask for help. I could tell we were getting close to the main road below. Just one more jaunt down and we'd be golden. Fidele had been pointed to the right so to the right we went. All of a sudden I couldn't hear anything over the sound of a waterfall. I could see Fidele pointing down to the fast flowing river as if this was a proper path to walk down. This was our way down. You've GOT to be kidding me! Inch by inch I made it, only having to touch my hands into the mud a couple times to steady myself.
Once we were walking down the main paved road to the bus stop, we were all laughing hysterically. We had simply and utterly lost our marbles. We even took a couple photos in the rain to commemorate this misadventure (I'll try to get my hands on the photos.) To top it all off Jeanne and Fidele were laughing about how, unbenounced to me, we had been invited to stay at Felix's house for the night and descend in the pristine dryness of morning. Why oh why had they not accepted the offer!? I don't care how socially awkward it is to sleep on someone's couch.
So Fidele, not being the boy scout he could have aspired to become, did not come to rainy season prepared. He was quite umbrella-less. I sent him on his way with my beautiful hot pink umbrella until we met again. Jeanne and I huddled waiting for the bus. Of course, Rwanda and Kigali being like a small town, we ran into a couple people Jeanne knew. They had just come from a garden wedding. Horrid day for such a thing. I believe there was a 20 minute window of sunshine that day. We all crammed ourselves onto the bus, 5 across the seat instead of the allotted 4. To my delight a secondary student was moving home from boarding school and seemed to have all his earthly possessions on the crowded bus with us. His rolled up foam mattress was being balanced on his head, unsuccessfully. But, alas, the helpfulness of Rwandans. No one seemed to mind the 3.5 heads it took to balance the foam without using hands. At this point it seemed as if the delirium had afflicted the entire bus.
I went to sleep chuckling. I had been filled to the brim with tea and was able to watch the Rwandan nightly news. They had busted a group of men for marijuana possession. One man is quoted as saying it gave him a sensation that is indescribable. Then as a punishment, the police made this gaggle of men stand beside a pile of their stash as it was burned.
Two days to remind me of the humor and lack of predictability of Rwanda, and life.
It was a day like no other. Quite possibly my favorite couple days in Rwanda.
The domino effect all started Thursday night. I was running around the house getting ready for bed. I had a premonition that I had just done something I would regret. It's like visualizing the car crash before it ever happens. But nevertheless, I was carrying my phone around in my shirt since I didn't have pockets in my pants. Plop…right into the bucket of water, a new danger from not having indoor plumbing. I grabbed it as quickly as possible and tried to dry out the battery and number pad. All my efforts were in vain, the phone refused to turn on. I was beyond irate at myself. Not only did I see this coming but now I couldn't receive my weekly phone call from my parents that night, use the only alarm clock I have (on my phone), or buy a new phone until I went into the city in a couple days. I calmed myself down, went to sleep and hoped for a miracle.
And thus, the day of miracles began. I woke up and felt confident as I reached for my phone. Sure enough it was done with its tantrum and worked perfectly. Hallelujah.
I was privileged enough to attend a ceremony for a cooperative of wonderful ladies. Edison had helped them get funding to learn a new skill and they were being awarded certificates for completing the training. What had started as a simple ceremony turned into an elaborate soiree. Rwanda has strict guidelines about etiquette. For example, we had to invite 8 speakers (pastor of the church, hospital administration, person at district level in charge of cooperatives, person at sector in charge of HIV, peace corps rep, etc. etc.) and they must speak in order of ascending power. I needed to serve the water and Fanta because it would have looked tacky to have another more important person play hostess.
I will tell you my two favorite parts of the day. It was my first time wearing an umushanana, which is traditional Rwandan dress for women. Fidele (supervisor) had mentioned to the women a week ago that they should all be dressed to the nines and if they could give me something too, that'd be great. I was so nervous about what I was going to be required to wear. You have to think about skirts and slips and all that. I came prepared. I had a nice Western dress on with the undergarments for whatever was thrown at me. They ushered me into their changing room. I stood there like a helpless child because I didn't know how to dress myself. Luckily Pauline quickly stepped in (a women from the cooperative). They had rented me a beautiful umushanana. I had a white tank top on then two pieces of fabric where tied on. The first was a wrap around skirt. The second gauzy-er piece of aqua fabric was tied over one of my shoulders (can't remember if it was left or right) to signify that I was unmarried. The skirt was a bit long and it was tied so tight I thought I was wearing a corset, but I had no fear that it was going to fall down! I'll have to get my hands on a picture of me so you can see me in my Rwandan finest. (If you happen to be Facebook friends with me, it's my profile picture at the moment…with my favorite mental health patient.) Since the ceremony was inside the hospital, all my coworkers got to see me dressed as a real Rwandan and complimented me on it. It was one of those special days of celebration where its a pure joy and everyone is dressed up and you can compliment them. Just a big upper of a day.
There was an exchange of gifts between Edison and the cooperative. He gave what is quite possibly the most prized gifts to Rwandans, photos. In return they gave him some wall decorations, fabric (the skill they learned) and a chicken. No joke there was a chicken inside of a box. It was so excited to see some daylight that it was crazily flapping around. I'll admit it scared the crap out of me. In the words of Fidele - you give what you have. This was a special gift from these poor women.
So there was dancing, Fanta and certificates - per the usual celebration. I went home feeling happy and proud.
I had to get up super early to catch the 6:40 am bus into the city. We had some visiting to do. Two months earlier a coworker had been married but a bunch of us missed the wedding for various reasons. I'd like to claim the best excuse of all - a last minute training taking place the same day as the wedding - and it was the truth. So I left my house at 6:15 to catch the 6:40. If it sounds brutal - it is! The only time I need to use an alarm clock here is trying to catch that first bus. In the darkness of my bedroom you will usually hear a screeching - WHHHHHHYY?!? Which is probably what a neighbors think after they hear it every time. So I'm speed walking to the bus and it's still sitting there, with barely anyone inside - score. Or so I think. It turns out one of the secondary school's sports teams bought out the whole bus, which left the rest of us wandering around confused and half asleep, since I usually spend the hour long bus ride waking up. As a group we demanded that another bus driver be called. Money could be made…and we had to get places quick. So soon we see a sleepy-eyed bus driver emerge from his house and we very quickly fill the whole bus. Everything was back on track - or so I thought. Next thing I know the bus stops half way to our destination telling us we all have to hop on another bus for the rest of the way. My first sign of this day being a bit off.
We met up for lunch with my African coworker being an hour late - even she admits that she's a true African, always late. We went to buy a last minute wedding gift on our way to the house. Nothing like quick shopping. We bought a wall decoration for the house. The dark clouds were rolling in but I didn't worry. In fact I was cocky about it. Well, if it rains, it'll last an hour at most! HA! I jinxed it.
I also happen to be blessed with the pride of America. When it began raining I insisted that I didn't need to huddle inside a store like the herd of Rwandans. I would stand outside under my umbrella so that I could more effectively catch the bus. And with vengeance did I stand, as people scoffed at me. My pants' legs became soiled with the bouncing dirt from the paver sidewalk. My umbrella couldn't stand the hurricane style winds so I was partially drenched by the end of it. (This may have been the moment when I finally gave into the rain and started acting Rwandan in every future event, by letting the rain sequester me and my plans of action. Refer to recent post of me succumbing to a rainy Monday morning.)
During a break in the precipitation, we took a bus to the other side of town. Often visiting people for the first time must include them coming to the main road on foot to get you and direct you the rest of the way. There aren't really street signs or addresses or easy ways to give directions. So Felix came down the mountain to get us. I'd like to put some emphasis on the term mountain because this will come up later. We followed him back to his house and it was beautiful. Nice decorations, comfy, new furniture. We got fed cheese and sausage until we couldn't swallow another mouthful. All the while watching their two-plus hour wedding video and looking at the photo albums.
I should back up a bit because the first five minutes of the visit were awesomely culturally awkward. We were introduced to Felix's wife. She was beautiful and kind and they made a great couple. Edison innocently asked - so how did you two meet? I nodded right along. Great American question but apparently not such a great Rwandan question. They were stunned and slightly offended. We had to back pedal and explain how this was a common query for couples at home. The next question, seeing that his wife was pregnant, was how many months pregnant are you? Considering she was six months pregnant and we had come on their second month wedding anniversary, an awkward silence commenced. This visit was off to a great start.
The rain just kept coming down, and coming, and coming. Hours had passed and I had plans! Plans to get out of this city. But rain often dictates life here, or I should say, dislike of rain dictates life here. It's difficult to get a Rwandan to elect to walk in the rain unless absolutely necessary. As the hours passed, we were stuffed with even more food, and then Rwandan hospitality took over. New sleeping arrangements were made. Edison was to spend the night here at Felix's house and I would sleep at Jeanne's house after Fidele walked us to the bus stop. It was still raining but darkness was coming so we had to make a move. I was so frustrated. I wanted to get to my friend's house, as planned. I wanted to be eating American food and watching trashy TV. I wanted my weekend. But I succumbed. Staying in the city would be the smart thing to do. Ugh.
So Jeanne, Fidele and I started our trek down the MOUNTAIN. This thing was steep, and I never seem to be wearing the proper footwear. Although I also haven't decided what is the perfect footwear for these situations. We had borrowed coats from Felix since it was freezing and sharing two umbrellas between the three of us. I was trying desperately to keep my laptop dry and attempting not to make this hike down turn out like my childhood Slip N Slide memories. We were descending a different path than we had gone up because Fidele swore he knew the way. I generally trust Fidele's sense of direction, but three dead ends later I was over that. Luckily Fidele doesn't have that male gene that stops him from asking for directions so we kept stopping at houses to pathetically ask for help. I could tell we were getting close to the main road below. Just one more jaunt down and we'd be golden. Fidele had been pointed to the right so to the right we went. All of a sudden I couldn't hear anything over the sound of a waterfall. I could see Fidele pointing down to the fast flowing river as if this was a proper path to walk down. This was our way down. You've GOT to be kidding me! Inch by inch I made it, only having to touch my hands into the mud a couple times to steady myself.
Once we were walking down the main paved road to the bus stop, we were all laughing hysterically. We had simply and utterly lost our marbles. We even took a couple photos in the rain to commemorate this misadventure (I'll try to get my hands on the photos.) To top it all off Jeanne and Fidele were laughing about how, unbenounced to me, we had been invited to stay at Felix's house for the night and descend in the pristine dryness of morning. Why oh why had they not accepted the offer!? I don't care how socially awkward it is to sleep on someone's couch.
So Fidele, not being the boy scout he could have aspired to become, did not come to rainy season prepared. He was quite umbrella-less. I sent him on his way with my beautiful hot pink umbrella until we met again. Jeanne and I huddled waiting for the bus. Of course, Rwanda and Kigali being like a small town, we ran into a couple people Jeanne knew. They had just come from a garden wedding. Horrid day for such a thing. I believe there was a 20 minute window of sunshine that day. We all crammed ourselves onto the bus, 5 across the seat instead of the allotted 4. To my delight a secondary student was moving home from boarding school and seemed to have all his earthly possessions on the crowded bus with us. His rolled up foam mattress was being balanced on his head, unsuccessfully. But, alas, the helpfulness of Rwandans. No one seemed to mind the 3.5 heads it took to balance the foam without using hands. At this point it seemed as if the delirium had afflicted the entire bus.
I went to sleep chuckling. I had been filled to the brim with tea and was able to watch the Rwandan nightly news. They had busted a group of men for marijuana possession. One man is quoted as saying it gave him a sensation that is indescribable. Then as a punishment, the police made this gaggle of men stand beside a pile of their stash as it was burned.
Two days to remind me of the humor and lack of predictability of Rwanda, and life.
So Those Yankees...
The benefits of entertainment are two-fold, possibly three-fold. First there is the escapism, pure relaxation perk. Secondly, the arts//intellectual side, if the particular piece of entertainment allows it. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, it allows you to become part of a conversation. Whether at your workplace, your book club, your dentist's office, the one sided conversation of radio. By watching, listening or reading certain things you are making yourself accessible for social interaction. You now have an avenue to connect to your coworkers, friends, classmates, strangers. Entertainment becomes like the weather.
So it's interesting to think of the cultural conversation in Rwanda. I'll use my block as an example because none of us have electricity. There is no TV show to talk about. We talk about the weather, the water station, sports that we listen to on the radio, and more often than not, the drama of our lives. The pieces of life shift a bit to fit different cultures, that's for sure. If you subtract the TV/movie piece, what do you put in it's place? If water is an inevitable resource in your life, what conversation fills its place? What's the common denominator in your culture?
So it's interesting to think of the cultural conversation in Rwanda. I'll use my block as an example because none of us have electricity. There is no TV show to talk about. We talk about the weather, the water station, sports that we listen to on the radio, and more often than not, the drama of our lives. The pieces of life shift a bit to fit different cultures, that's for sure. If you subtract the TV/movie piece, what do you put in it's place? If water is an inevitable resource in your life, what conversation fills its place? What's the common denominator in your culture?
The Chicken, The Egg & BBC
I was just watching the BBC Special - How Many People Can Live on Planet Earth. Which was made in 2009.
It talks about family planning and attempting to decrease birth rates for fear that we can't sustain the rate of population growth that is predicted. It's a doomsday tale of us not having enough food or enough water. It's terrifying.
But on a more constructive level it talks about the programs that are constantly talked about here in Rwanda - family planning. Giving people the choice to have a small family. Perhaps, more accurately, giving women the choice to have a small family. It has been proven that birth rates will naturally fall as quality of living improves. It seems a bit counterintuitive. After all, if you could guarantee your children a better life, wouldn't you want to have more children? Not so much. Most poor people are overcompensating. They are realistic about the fact that many of their children will die an early death. Therefore they have many children so they can remain with a couple.
So along with offering women birth control methods (birth control pills, implants in their arm that last five years and release hormones the same as the pill, etc), offering education has a great effect too. The more educated a woman is the longer she waits to get married, the longer she waits to have babies, and when she does, she will have less babies. Promoting female education is a great way to reduce population growth.
There are many efforts in Rwanda to decrease birth rates. Its estimated that the population is about 12 million at this moment. This country is overcrowded - there is no doubt about that. And the population is growing in leaps and bounds. The health services, schools and food production just can't keep up.
Like most things in Rwandan development, instead of choosing one way to get at the problem, they are doing twenty things at the same time. At times I see it as a spastic approach but other times I applaud them covering all the bases. So family planning is a big thing here. So is female education. So is raising the quality of life with electricity, hygiene, sanitation, water, food, etc. Instead of waiting for quality of life to increase and then birth rates to gradually decrease, they are attacking it from all angles. Are they trying to put the chicken before the egg? Will lower birth rates expedite raising the quality of living? are they trying to dupe logic? or will everything work out in simultaneous success?
It talks about family planning and attempting to decrease birth rates for fear that we can't sustain the rate of population growth that is predicted. It's a doomsday tale of us not having enough food or enough water. It's terrifying.
But on a more constructive level it talks about the programs that are constantly talked about here in Rwanda - family planning. Giving people the choice to have a small family. Perhaps, more accurately, giving women the choice to have a small family. It has been proven that birth rates will naturally fall as quality of living improves. It seems a bit counterintuitive. After all, if you could guarantee your children a better life, wouldn't you want to have more children? Not so much. Most poor people are overcompensating. They are realistic about the fact that many of their children will die an early death. Therefore they have many children so they can remain with a couple.
So along with offering women birth control methods (birth control pills, implants in their arm that last five years and release hormones the same as the pill, etc), offering education has a great effect too. The more educated a woman is the longer she waits to get married, the longer she waits to have babies, and when she does, she will have less babies. Promoting female education is a great way to reduce population growth.
There are many efforts in Rwanda to decrease birth rates. Its estimated that the population is about 12 million at this moment. This country is overcrowded - there is no doubt about that. And the population is growing in leaps and bounds. The health services, schools and food production just can't keep up.
Like most things in Rwandan development, instead of choosing one way to get at the problem, they are doing twenty things at the same time. At times I see it as a spastic approach but other times I applaud them covering all the bases. So family planning is a big thing here. So is female education. So is raising the quality of life with electricity, hygiene, sanitation, water, food, etc. Instead of waiting for quality of life to increase and then birth rates to gradually decrease, they are attacking it from all angles. Are they trying to put the chicken before the egg? Will lower birth rates expedite raising the quality of living? are they trying to dupe logic? or will everything work out in simultaneous success?
Monday Monday
Sometimes when Rwandans make a statement, it is so direct and clear and simple and informative. I'm not sure if it's a mixture of speaking English as a second/third/fourth language and their culture. Regardless, it stuns me and impresses me at times. I'll get back to this in a moment, but let me back up first.
It was one of those mornings that would have made my skin itch with impatience just a month ago. At some point I realized, I let go and my definition of time has become more African. I still love being early for events or meetings but if the universe doesn't let me be on time, I don't stress. So this morning I had the best of intentions to leave the capital and get back to work early. I'm talking, leave for the bus at 6:15 and be back at work around 8 am. Like clockwork, as soon as I put one foot out the door, the rain began. I succumbed to the allure of staying a dry, warm place with electricity.
Because of this I ended up waiting for my bus to fill (for an hour) with Jeanne's dad, Deo. I believe I introduced you all to him before. I probably described him as a yoda-like figure who loves God and loves to talk about God. It was time well spent.
We generally stuck to a geography theme. This season we are in right now is considered Rwandan winter. Even he found the humor in that. I'm still running around in cargo pants, T-shirt, and sandals. A better term for it is the long rainy season. The frequency of the rain is almost daily. You would love this season if:
1. You don't mind your toes being perpetually damp.
2. You enjoy the absence of water shortages and being able to wash your whole house, all your clothes and your long hair all in the same day.
3. You have a reliable umbrella permanently in your bag.
We then discussed the presence of mountains and lakes in the US. It is always so hard to describe the sheer size of the US and how many different climates/cultures there are. But Deo understands that Rwanda is tiny (not so much in relation to the US but in relation to the border countries). He gave me a history lesson about how Rwanda used to be a much larger land mass (he even quoted the current square feet stat of how big Rwanda is but I didn't sear it in my memory), encompassing parts of all the surrounding countries. I tried to put a happy spin on territory wars by mentioning how it is easier for Rwanda to develop now that it is so tiny. And that perhaps the DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo) is much too large. Deo agreed that the DRC has a retched administration, although a plethora of resources. And nodded along with my assessment that resources are usually married to conflict.
Then comes that Hemingway type quality of blunt candor. Deo stated: "If you are an African in politics you end up in one of three places: jail, exile or dead." I wish I could have softened the statement. But there it stood in all its divine truth.
Deo and I discussed my year left in this country. I tried to convey my confusion in ascertaining how to help the Rwandans surrounding me. He jumped right in, explaining that I have channels to get funding. Then he back pedaled a little bit. He himself have been trying to help his neighbors. He owns a bit of land, with a successful farm and a load of animals. He has been encouraging his neighbors to raise pigs, even giving them the pigs free. But they complain that pigs cost too much to feed. They are unwilling to acknowledge that pigs take less time to raise than say, goats, which is their preoccupation. Deo wound back around to discerning that behavior change is the struggle with a person's mind as the ultimate obstacle.
Deo places most of his hope for the future in education. The cultivating of one's mind as the ultimate goal. He loves to say how educational achievement is truly an individual accomplishment, that no one can earn it for you. His ultimate goal (after his last born gets through school) is to build a nursery school that will eventually grow into a full fledged school and perhaps a cultural center. A man with a big dream.
Then we spent the rest of the time in glorious silence, each reading our respective books. Great start to the day.
It was one of those mornings that would have made my skin itch with impatience just a month ago. At some point I realized, I let go and my definition of time has become more African. I still love being early for events or meetings but if the universe doesn't let me be on time, I don't stress. So this morning I had the best of intentions to leave the capital and get back to work early. I'm talking, leave for the bus at 6:15 and be back at work around 8 am. Like clockwork, as soon as I put one foot out the door, the rain began. I succumbed to the allure of staying a dry, warm place with electricity.
Because of this I ended up waiting for my bus to fill (for an hour) with Jeanne's dad, Deo. I believe I introduced you all to him before. I probably described him as a yoda-like figure who loves God and loves to talk about God. It was time well spent.
We generally stuck to a geography theme. This season we are in right now is considered Rwandan winter. Even he found the humor in that. I'm still running around in cargo pants, T-shirt, and sandals. A better term for it is the long rainy season. The frequency of the rain is almost daily. You would love this season if:
1. You don't mind your toes being perpetually damp.
2. You enjoy the absence of water shortages and being able to wash your whole house, all your clothes and your long hair all in the same day.
3. You have a reliable umbrella permanently in your bag.
We then discussed the presence of mountains and lakes in the US. It is always so hard to describe the sheer size of the US and how many different climates/cultures there are. But Deo understands that Rwanda is tiny (not so much in relation to the US but in relation to the border countries). He gave me a history lesson about how Rwanda used to be a much larger land mass (he even quoted the current square feet stat of how big Rwanda is but I didn't sear it in my memory), encompassing parts of all the surrounding countries. I tried to put a happy spin on territory wars by mentioning how it is easier for Rwanda to develop now that it is so tiny. And that perhaps the DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo) is much too large. Deo agreed that the DRC has a retched administration, although a plethora of resources. And nodded along with my assessment that resources are usually married to conflict.
Then comes that Hemingway type quality of blunt candor. Deo stated: "If you are an African in politics you end up in one of three places: jail, exile or dead." I wish I could have softened the statement. But there it stood in all its divine truth.
Deo and I discussed my year left in this country. I tried to convey my confusion in ascertaining how to help the Rwandans surrounding me. He jumped right in, explaining that I have channels to get funding. Then he back pedaled a little bit. He himself have been trying to help his neighbors. He owns a bit of land, with a successful farm and a load of animals. He has been encouraging his neighbors to raise pigs, even giving them the pigs free. But they complain that pigs cost too much to feed. They are unwilling to acknowledge that pigs take less time to raise than say, goats, which is their preoccupation. Deo wound back around to discerning that behavior change is the struggle with a person's mind as the ultimate obstacle.
Deo places most of his hope for the future in education. The cultivating of one's mind as the ultimate goal. He loves to say how educational achievement is truly an individual accomplishment, that no one can earn it for you. His ultimate goal (after his last born gets through school) is to build a nursery school that will eventually grow into a full fledged school and perhaps a cultural center. A man with a big dream.
Then we spent the rest of the time in glorious silence, each reading our respective books. Great start to the day.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Hello, Goodbye
I went into today with some trepidation. Goodbyes are never easy. And often times in the Peace Corps you put more emphasis and support on certain parts of your life and don't even realize it. It can fall like a house of cards with one small change. Edison's last day in the village. For the last month, every time he traveled somewhere I was barraged with questions about where he was. Everyone was worried they would miss their moment to say goodbye. The day has finally come. Just on my walk home I had to tell two more people that he was gone for good. They were shocked that two years had already come and go and then in the next breathe wanted to make sure I was still staying here. Oh faeew, we will be together for another year.
We had a lovely going away party at work - fanta and sambusa were present, of course. And ample time for picture taking. We had a few criers. I guess Rwandans really do cry. Once one person got going, most of the women were hiding their faces. My favorite part was Paster Jerome (who recently returned from China) saying that he just spent 15 days in China and was bored stiff. He has no idea how Edison lasted 2 years! Hilarious. I love Rwandans who have traveled. Makes them more sympathetic about leaving your entire family and every familiar thing in life.
So a new chapter begins in my Peace Corps experience. The chapter with no sitemate. In happier news, the school break has begun. My old friend Claudine is back from her boarding school and I get to fill my days with great African tea and visits with karaoke. Good distractions as I step into yet another beginning.
p.s. Contemplating making a video to show everyone when I get back. Is there anything I need to make sure I include? If you have suggestions, let me know.
We had a lovely going away party at work - fanta and sambusa were present, of course. And ample time for picture taking. We had a few criers. I guess Rwandans really do cry. Once one person got going, most of the women were hiding their faces. My favorite part was Paster Jerome (who recently returned from China) saying that he just spent 15 days in China and was bored stiff. He has no idea how Edison lasted 2 years! Hilarious. I love Rwandans who have traveled. Makes them more sympathetic about leaving your entire family and every familiar thing in life.
So a new chapter begins in my Peace Corps experience. The chapter with no sitemate. In happier news, the school break has begun. My old friend Claudine is back from her boarding school and I get to fill my days with great African tea and visits with karaoke. Good distractions as I step into yet another beginning.
p.s. Contemplating making a video to show everyone when I get back. Is there anything I need to make sure I include? If you have suggestions, let me know.
Dance Dance Revolution
The one thing I can honestly say I did not expect to find in Rwanda is dance parties. Sure, maybe I'd learn some traditional dancing - but I'm talking DANCE PARTY. And we have them in abundance. I dare say I've never had this many dance parties in a one year span, and that's counting me jumping around in my pjs in the privacy of my own home.
I just came from one great dance party- to mark the departure of my sitemate. It's quite surreal. Every few months is like a different phase of life here. Changes are so sudden and constant. I'm sure it will truly hit me after a couple weeks of Edison being gone. Right now, I'm just happy we could celebrate his service in such a great way.
I just came from one great dance party- to mark the departure of my sitemate. It's quite surreal. Every few months is like a different phase of life here. Changes are so sudden and constant. I'm sure it will truly hit me after a couple weeks of Edison being gone. Right now, I'm just happy we could celebrate his service in such a great way.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Relay Team
I was just reading the newest edition (almost just wrote that as addition - I've got the phonetics of English down but the spelling is slipping as more time passes) of SOMA. The volunteers have a chance to creatively express themselves through stories, poems, new recipes, funny cartoons, and share it with the rest of us in a show of camaraderie. These readings have sparked a few things in my mind, things I need to revisit from previous blog posts.
Awhile ago I wrote about routine. After moving to site my routine was the only thing I could conceivably control. I held onto it with an iron fist until water shortages and coworker visits crippled it, and my sanity at moments. As important as creating some normalcy was at that point in time, the true pinnacle is knowing when to let that go. As service continues, you don't have to rely on that so direly. In fact if you don't let it go and let it flow, then the routine becomes the downfall.
Also, quite a few months ago, I was lamenting that Peace Corps' weakness is expecting one individual to embody so many personality and professional traits. I saw the ultimate success of the program happening with small teams of volunteers, working together geographically and complementing each other. But I had not equated for a huge facet of Peace Corps, which I reminded of at my mid-service conference - the elusive replacement. Peace Corps is a team sport. You just never get to meet your team. The relationships, the reputation, the foundation I build in my community should not be expected to bear immediate fruit. And Peace Corps is very realistically aware of that. I am the second person in a large relay team. The baton I pass is all of that good will I built up and trust I sowed in my community. Maybe a project the next person starts will be followed up in a different capacity by the next one after that. After a group learns a trade, they need management skills, book keeping skills, marketing skills, a way to expand the business. More than that, they need time, fresh blood and new energy. They need the relay team.
Not every site will be replaced and that is the dirty work of the first few groups to return to Rwanda - to find those optimal sites and to nurture them. There will be a lot of wasted effort, a lot of hair pulling out moments aka frustration. But those are the real projects of the first few groups - to build for the future. We are like the first child with the amateur parents. It's time to suck it up and help out the "younger" siblings. Our value is in how great we can make their experience. So good luck next health group. I'm rooting for ya!
Awhile ago I wrote about routine. After moving to site my routine was the only thing I could conceivably control. I held onto it with an iron fist until water shortages and coworker visits crippled it, and my sanity at moments. As important as creating some normalcy was at that point in time, the true pinnacle is knowing when to let that go. As service continues, you don't have to rely on that so direly. In fact if you don't let it go and let it flow, then the routine becomes the downfall.
Also, quite a few months ago, I was lamenting that Peace Corps' weakness is expecting one individual to embody so many personality and professional traits. I saw the ultimate success of the program happening with small teams of volunteers, working together geographically and complementing each other. But I had not equated for a huge facet of Peace Corps, which I reminded of at my mid-service conference - the elusive replacement. Peace Corps is a team sport. You just never get to meet your team. The relationships, the reputation, the foundation I build in my community should not be expected to bear immediate fruit. And Peace Corps is very realistically aware of that. I am the second person in a large relay team. The baton I pass is all of that good will I built up and trust I sowed in my community. Maybe a project the next person starts will be followed up in a different capacity by the next one after that. After a group learns a trade, they need management skills, book keeping skills, marketing skills, a way to expand the business. More than that, they need time, fresh blood and new energy. They need the relay team.
Not every site will be replaced and that is the dirty work of the first few groups to return to Rwanda - to find those optimal sites and to nurture them. There will be a lot of wasted effort, a lot of hair pulling out moments aka frustration. But those are the real projects of the first few groups - to build for the future. We are like the first child with the amateur parents. It's time to suck it up and help out the "younger" siblings. Our value is in how great we can make their experience. So good luck next health group. I'm rooting for ya!
Back to our normal programming
I'd say 90% of my days here are filled with asinine conversation. Let's remember I talk like a toddler in Kinyarwanda. Even though many people surrounding me speak English, our conversations usually revolve around silly jokes, food in front of us, weather and my inability to talk, cook or clean in this culture. It makes for some dry days. And then, just like that, the clouds clear and a rainstorm falls.
Sometimes I get in such a conversation rut that I forget I'm even in one. Then the wheels start turning and they HURT. If I'm remembering correctly there are many a day like this back at home too. It's amazing how many days we can waste talking about absolutely nothing. Well this one day in particular was NOT one of those days. So I'll tell you about it.
First of all, as soon as this invigorating conversation with two coworkers ended, I immediately wanted to phone a friend and spread the joy of enlightening debate. That tells you how dire the situation is sometimes. When was the last time you called someone to tell them about a great conversation you had with another person, not the subject matter, just the simple fact that this conversation occurred?
It all started with a discussion about the genocide memorials coming up. Yes, we have circled a complete year and are back to memorial time. I'm still conflicted about whether this is keeping people too focused on the past or is an excellent reminder to not repeat the past. I'm sure my opinion will always be in flux about this. I was discussing it with a new intern we have for the hospital. Noel is spending part of his time in the mental health office. He informed me that he would be traveling around the countryside to sensitize people. This is favorite term of health professionals here. He is trying to reduce the stigma towards mental illness (I didn't have very encouraging news for him on that front in America, sadly!), support real deal therapy (not just medication!) and educate about post traumatic stress disorder.
Noel seemed open enough, so even though it was my first time speaking with him, I asked his opinion on the memorial ceremonies. He believes it is an important tool for educating the future generations, to not repeat the mistakes of the past and to take time to recognize the trauma and tragedy of Rwandan history. However he also sees the peril of it. He's been very happy to see the changes that the Rwandan government have imposed, wary of secondary trauma. Let me back up a moment. Secondary trauma is when young Rwandans, who weren't alive during the genocide, are experiencing PTSD because of reliving the memories of relatives and community members. I've seen a lot of this. During the last memorial period we had many secondary students in crisis, having flashbacks, but they weren't experiencing their own flashbacks.
Usually during memorial ceremonies there are movies shown, testimonies given, songs performed, bonfires through the night with more stories shared, marches to memorial graveyards and sites. The government of Rwanda has banned some of the more violent movies and stressed that people should give testimonies, leaving out more grisly details. The message lives on but hopefully without making it so lifelike that young Rwandans carry the trauma with them. Noel seemed hopeful that this was a great improvement that had already been enacted. Policies always sound wonderful. That's not usually the problem with the Rwandan government.
From this topic we moved on to the changes in government scholarships. Turns out there has been a sudden shift, forcing many students to quit school. The government has stopped giving so many scholarships and loans. This wasn't a graduated change that would grandfather older students out of the old system. From their perspective, this change was cut and dry, black and white, the dropout rate soared. Banks here don't give out student loans. So we discussed the system and options in the US - the less glamourous view of loans, debt, unemployment and health insurance. They could make some sense of it if Rwanda wanted a smaller governmental role, if they are modeling other countries' systems. However the timeline would not be supported. How could you plan for that as a student? The stress on families to pick up the bill or the individual student with no alternative and payment plan is unrealistic.
Then, marathon style, we switched over to language - a favorite topic for any Rwandan it seems. They acknowledged that Rwanda is having a hard time fully embracing English. Unlike other African countries who have many regional languages, English isn't needed to unite them under one nationality. Rwanda has always had Kinyarwanda that the entire population spoke. The only argument for unification is helping it fall in line with the East African Community. My two coworkers both talked about getting mocked, and worse, for using english outside of the classroom. Peers accusing them of being uppity and not patriotic. It's a difficult path to follow. I threw in a point about American families who have a second language spoken only in their home.
We spoke a little bit about the fast changes being made in Rwanda. There is such a pride here, as there should be. This country is one of the very few bright spots of hope on this continent (in my opinion). It was my second time in a one month span of having a Rwanda tell me that if I come back to visit after my two year stint, I won't even recognize the village, or the capital. I wholeheartedly agree. Even just the year I've been here, there has been huge changes. I can't wait until my Dad comes to visit and I can point out all the progress from when I first arrived.
Then the conversation turned to health insurance and health facilities. Even thought the enrollment fee for health insurance here is very cheap, the patients still have to pay 10% of EVERYTHING. I'm talking down to how many pairs of gloves the nurses use while treating them. We lamented about people who want to risk it by thinking they won't need health insurance - that's a cross border issue. Somehow cancer came up. They didn't know stats but imagined that most people don't get diagnosed because they are too poor and have other health problems first. If a Rwandan is diagnosed with cancer, they are shipped to Kampala for treatment. Other treatments just beginning - transplants. Only kidney transplants are being done in Rwanda currently. The rest would need to be outside the country.
Two more twists before this marathon was over - profit v. nonprofit services and then churches…get excited.
It was once again a lazy afternoon in the hospital. Absolutely no patients for mental health. Only a couple waiting in general consolation and one for the dentist. Noel was loving it. However, medical imaging guy (don't remember his name. My name skills aren't getting any better. but yes, he does x-rays and operates our new ultrasound machine) wanted to play devil's advocate. Isn't having no patients bad for business, he queried. What if the Ministry of Health saw a lack of need for this hospital and closed it? or what if it realized that it wasn't properly serving this community since surely there are people out there in need of health services? We discussed the concept of hospitals as a business. Then got into a conversation about American nursing homes and the dangers of having for-profit health services. The concept of nursing homes is so very foreign here where family or community or sheer independence of the elderly don't jive with our system. I tried to emphasize how alone some people can be, with no one to help them or no one WILLING to help them. I'm not sure it's an easy notion to get across in this culture. It's like an overcrowded city but with the small town 'up in everyone's business' mentality.
And last but not least was religion. Turned out all three of us were Catholic (even if I'm more than half poser). There's always a pride that comes out when fellow Catholics realize you are Catholic - like I know how to do the secret handshake. Medical Imaging Guy (MIG) started making fun of all the new churches popping up. They are in the business of making money, sadly, similar to many churches around the world. He laughed about how you will hear loud Gospel music blasting from buildings with a new church sign. You will think it is packed with people fervently worshipping God. Instead you find the pastor, his wife and child as the only people inside. They are trying so desperately to put yet another church in this country. It's not that MIG and Noel didn't appreciate religion. They understood that faith and religion were the precious stepping stones that helped Rwandans drudge themselves away from a genocide. They weren't going to negate Christian principles. But it got back to for-profit v. non-profit outfits. Since when did church plausibly get categorized as for-profit? (Tangent involving a reference to Canterbury Tales and the greedy nature of certain religious leaders from the beginning of time that I won't bother you with.) But then a legitimate debate began over whether Catholicism should modernize. Con - isn't the whole point tradition, ceremony, consistency? Pro - attracting the next generation of Catholics with more modern instruments and music. I held center with one foot planted on each side. I explained about the church I went to at University. That Catholic churches can slowly and tentatively change to suit their constituents (isn't the church truly made out of people anyhow?). Out with the kneeling, out with the choir tucked into a balcony, out with the altar being distant from the people, too elevated for them to reach. In with new musical arrangements, free spaghetti dinners for hungry students, more volunteer trips, religious debates with the priest held at a pub. Young Catholics can still embrace tradition but that doesn't mean their lives inside and outside of church have to be alien to each other. Just because tradition is honored doesn't mean the tough faith questions should be glossed over because the details are harshly modern problems. I waffled quite well (any Madison readers out there?).
By this time, five o'clock had rolled around. No afternoon wasted this time.
Sometimes I get in such a conversation rut that I forget I'm even in one. Then the wheels start turning and they HURT. If I'm remembering correctly there are many a day like this back at home too. It's amazing how many days we can waste talking about absolutely nothing. Well this one day in particular was NOT one of those days. So I'll tell you about it.
First of all, as soon as this invigorating conversation with two coworkers ended, I immediately wanted to phone a friend and spread the joy of enlightening debate. That tells you how dire the situation is sometimes. When was the last time you called someone to tell them about a great conversation you had with another person, not the subject matter, just the simple fact that this conversation occurred?
It all started with a discussion about the genocide memorials coming up. Yes, we have circled a complete year and are back to memorial time. I'm still conflicted about whether this is keeping people too focused on the past or is an excellent reminder to not repeat the past. I'm sure my opinion will always be in flux about this. I was discussing it with a new intern we have for the hospital. Noel is spending part of his time in the mental health office. He informed me that he would be traveling around the countryside to sensitize people. This is favorite term of health professionals here. He is trying to reduce the stigma towards mental illness (I didn't have very encouraging news for him on that front in America, sadly!), support real deal therapy (not just medication!) and educate about post traumatic stress disorder.
Noel seemed open enough, so even though it was my first time speaking with him, I asked his opinion on the memorial ceremonies. He believes it is an important tool for educating the future generations, to not repeat the mistakes of the past and to take time to recognize the trauma and tragedy of Rwandan history. However he also sees the peril of it. He's been very happy to see the changes that the Rwandan government have imposed, wary of secondary trauma. Let me back up a moment. Secondary trauma is when young Rwandans, who weren't alive during the genocide, are experiencing PTSD because of reliving the memories of relatives and community members. I've seen a lot of this. During the last memorial period we had many secondary students in crisis, having flashbacks, but they weren't experiencing their own flashbacks.
Usually during memorial ceremonies there are movies shown, testimonies given, songs performed, bonfires through the night with more stories shared, marches to memorial graveyards and sites. The government of Rwanda has banned some of the more violent movies and stressed that people should give testimonies, leaving out more grisly details. The message lives on but hopefully without making it so lifelike that young Rwandans carry the trauma with them. Noel seemed hopeful that this was a great improvement that had already been enacted. Policies always sound wonderful. That's not usually the problem with the Rwandan government.
From this topic we moved on to the changes in government scholarships. Turns out there has been a sudden shift, forcing many students to quit school. The government has stopped giving so many scholarships and loans. This wasn't a graduated change that would grandfather older students out of the old system. From their perspective, this change was cut and dry, black and white, the dropout rate soared. Banks here don't give out student loans. So we discussed the system and options in the US - the less glamourous view of loans, debt, unemployment and health insurance. They could make some sense of it if Rwanda wanted a smaller governmental role, if they are modeling other countries' systems. However the timeline would not be supported. How could you plan for that as a student? The stress on families to pick up the bill or the individual student with no alternative and payment plan is unrealistic.
Then, marathon style, we switched over to language - a favorite topic for any Rwandan it seems. They acknowledged that Rwanda is having a hard time fully embracing English. Unlike other African countries who have many regional languages, English isn't needed to unite them under one nationality. Rwanda has always had Kinyarwanda that the entire population spoke. The only argument for unification is helping it fall in line with the East African Community. My two coworkers both talked about getting mocked, and worse, for using english outside of the classroom. Peers accusing them of being uppity and not patriotic. It's a difficult path to follow. I threw in a point about American families who have a second language spoken only in their home.
We spoke a little bit about the fast changes being made in Rwanda. There is such a pride here, as there should be. This country is one of the very few bright spots of hope on this continent (in my opinion). It was my second time in a one month span of having a Rwanda tell me that if I come back to visit after my two year stint, I won't even recognize the village, or the capital. I wholeheartedly agree. Even just the year I've been here, there has been huge changes. I can't wait until my Dad comes to visit and I can point out all the progress from when I first arrived.
Then the conversation turned to health insurance and health facilities. Even thought the enrollment fee for health insurance here is very cheap, the patients still have to pay 10% of EVERYTHING. I'm talking down to how many pairs of gloves the nurses use while treating them. We lamented about people who want to risk it by thinking they won't need health insurance - that's a cross border issue. Somehow cancer came up. They didn't know stats but imagined that most people don't get diagnosed because they are too poor and have other health problems first. If a Rwandan is diagnosed with cancer, they are shipped to Kampala for treatment. Other treatments just beginning - transplants. Only kidney transplants are being done in Rwanda currently. The rest would need to be outside the country.
Two more twists before this marathon was over - profit v. nonprofit services and then churches…get excited.
It was once again a lazy afternoon in the hospital. Absolutely no patients for mental health. Only a couple waiting in general consolation and one for the dentist. Noel was loving it. However, medical imaging guy (don't remember his name. My name skills aren't getting any better. but yes, he does x-rays and operates our new ultrasound machine) wanted to play devil's advocate. Isn't having no patients bad for business, he queried. What if the Ministry of Health saw a lack of need for this hospital and closed it? or what if it realized that it wasn't properly serving this community since surely there are people out there in need of health services? We discussed the concept of hospitals as a business. Then got into a conversation about American nursing homes and the dangers of having for-profit health services. The concept of nursing homes is so very foreign here where family or community or sheer independence of the elderly don't jive with our system. I tried to emphasize how alone some people can be, with no one to help them or no one WILLING to help them. I'm not sure it's an easy notion to get across in this culture. It's like an overcrowded city but with the small town 'up in everyone's business' mentality.
And last but not least was religion. Turned out all three of us were Catholic (even if I'm more than half poser). There's always a pride that comes out when fellow Catholics realize you are Catholic - like I know how to do the secret handshake. Medical Imaging Guy (MIG) started making fun of all the new churches popping up. They are in the business of making money, sadly, similar to many churches around the world. He laughed about how you will hear loud Gospel music blasting from buildings with a new church sign. You will think it is packed with people fervently worshipping God. Instead you find the pastor, his wife and child as the only people inside. They are trying so desperately to put yet another church in this country. It's not that MIG and Noel didn't appreciate religion. They understood that faith and religion were the precious stepping stones that helped Rwandans drudge themselves away from a genocide. They weren't going to negate Christian principles. But it got back to for-profit v. non-profit outfits. Since when did church plausibly get categorized as for-profit? (Tangent involving a reference to Canterbury Tales and the greedy nature of certain religious leaders from the beginning of time that I won't bother you with.) But then a legitimate debate began over whether Catholicism should modernize. Con - isn't the whole point tradition, ceremony, consistency? Pro - attracting the next generation of Catholics with more modern instruments and music. I held center with one foot planted on each side. I explained about the church I went to at University. That Catholic churches can slowly and tentatively change to suit their constituents (isn't the church truly made out of people anyhow?). Out with the kneeling, out with the choir tucked into a balcony, out with the altar being distant from the people, too elevated for them to reach. In with new musical arrangements, free spaghetti dinners for hungry students, more volunteer trips, religious debates with the priest held at a pub. Young Catholics can still embrace tradition but that doesn't mean their lives inside and outside of church have to be alien to each other. Just because tradition is honored doesn't mean the tough faith questions should be glossed over because the details are harshly modern problems. I waffled quite well (any Madison readers out there?).
By this time, five o'clock had rolled around. No afternoon wasted this time.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Blog Blog Blog
Seeing the shrunken arms or the bloated stomaches, the bruises from abuse or the scars from the past…that's not where the real pain is. The eyes…the eyes are haunting. There is so much hurt and pleading there. There is an instant link, human-to-human.
The other day one volunteer was talking about another one who has been in Rwanda for quite some time and still consistently writes on their blog. Volunteer #1 quipped, what is left to say? How sad. Shouldn't our commentary get better with time, instead of just being about first impressions, misconceptions and physical surroundings.
Every day is full of grappling to make sense of things. And when you think you figured out one puzzle piece there is another one rearing its head. Every set of eyes are slightly different, with their own unique story, their own clue into how this world spins round.
The more people I meet, the more stories I will have to tell. The more trusting people become and the more curious I become with my questions, the better I can give you all a glimpse into life here. I hope I'm still going strong a year from now. In the meantime, if you're wondering about something, it never hurts to ask and I'll try and get some answers from the Rwandans surrounding me.
PS. Happy St. Patty's Day.
The other day one volunteer was talking about another one who has been in Rwanda for quite some time and still consistently writes on their blog. Volunteer #1 quipped, what is left to say? How sad. Shouldn't our commentary get better with time, instead of just being about first impressions, misconceptions and physical surroundings.
Every day is full of grappling to make sense of things. And when you think you figured out one puzzle piece there is another one rearing its head. Every set of eyes are slightly different, with their own unique story, their own clue into how this world spins round.
The more people I meet, the more stories I will have to tell. The more trusting people become and the more curious I become with my questions, the better I can give you all a glimpse into life here. I hope I'm still going strong a year from now. In the meantime, if you're wondering about something, it never hurts to ask and I'll try and get some answers from the Rwandans surrounding me.
PS. Happy St. Patty's Day.
Adages
I've recently come across a few Rwandan adages that I thought particularly interesting coming from their history and culture.
~Pain pains but never pays.
~Sorry doesn't repair.
~Too much of everything is always bad.
They love their sayings here. They also recited a few I'd heard before - No man is an island type of stuff. Just one more thing to ponder when looking at a culture from the outside.
~Pain pains but never pays.
~Sorry doesn't repair.
~Too much of everything is always bad.
They love their sayings here. They also recited a few I'd heard before - No man is an island type of stuff. Just one more thing to ponder when looking at a culture from the outside.
Entitlement
One thing I've been realizing is how entitled I feel as an American. It's all about I deserve this for doing nothing, or I can't believe you are treating me like that.
The simplest, most non-controversial example I can come up with is snail mail. For the past three months, at least, mail from Rwanda to the US has been halted. Some rumors about terrorists and Yemen…not sure how all that goes together but that's what rumors are all about I suppose. Just in the last week they have started to allow mail again. Which is a relief to all those letter writing PCVs, and gift-shipping ones too. Snail mail is something we just take for granted. Imagine Georgia saying to Maine - I don't trust you so I'm not going to allow any mail to go from me to you. That sounds ludicrous, doesn't it?
The messier parts of entitlement include respect, having someone acknowledge your level of education or the fact that age doesn't reflect your maturity and experience. and yet what did I ever do to earn those things? It's almost as if patriotism has become a badge of self-righteousness and high maintenance living. Somehow the history of the US has given me permission to demand a pedestal.
After reflecting on what I just wrote, I realized it sounds like I don't believe in basic human rights or that everyone should respect everyone else. I do believe these things but I also think we should be cognizant of our behavior. We can't just demand these things without also giving them to others. We can't assume we earned something because of a birthright.
In a completely unrelated note: I am a full fledged addict to West Wing now and I was pondering the other day how interesting it would be if a political show like that were made in Rwanda…or India…or China…or Mexico. How different would it look? Would anyone in those countries want to watch it? Would it turn from a drama to a tragic comedy? How many women in powerful positions would be acceptable?
The simplest, most non-controversial example I can come up with is snail mail. For the past three months, at least, mail from Rwanda to the US has been halted. Some rumors about terrorists and Yemen…not sure how all that goes together but that's what rumors are all about I suppose. Just in the last week they have started to allow mail again. Which is a relief to all those letter writing PCVs, and gift-shipping ones too. Snail mail is something we just take for granted. Imagine Georgia saying to Maine - I don't trust you so I'm not going to allow any mail to go from me to you. That sounds ludicrous, doesn't it?
The messier parts of entitlement include respect, having someone acknowledge your level of education or the fact that age doesn't reflect your maturity and experience. and yet what did I ever do to earn those things? It's almost as if patriotism has become a badge of self-righteousness and high maintenance living. Somehow the history of the US has given me permission to demand a pedestal.
After reflecting on what I just wrote, I realized it sounds like I don't believe in basic human rights or that everyone should respect everyone else. I do believe these things but I also think we should be cognizant of our behavior. We can't just demand these things without also giving them to others. We can't assume we earned something because of a birthright.
In a completely unrelated note: I am a full fledged addict to West Wing now and I was pondering the other day how interesting it would be if a political show like that were made in Rwanda…or India…or China…or Mexico. How different would it look? Would anyone in those countries want to watch it? Would it turn from a drama to a tragic comedy? How many women in powerful positions would be acceptable?
Pretty Paper
Some fights are easy. There isn't a law, there needs to be a law. There needs to be recognition of a problem. There needs to be protection under some sort of authority. Some fights are more convoluted than that.
We had a great discussion during the HIV conference around gender based violence but like many things in Rwanda it left us with no clear solution. A lot of things on paper here look amazing. There are already laws in place to criminalize gender based violence. There are laws that give women (and men) the right to divorce an abusive spouse. The problem is implementation.
For example, it's awesome to have a law requiring all children to attend school until they reach a certain age. The problem comes in when you travel to the tiny, isolated village that does whatever it wants. The villagers decide to keep their daughters at home to do chores because they see educating girls as a waste of time.
A second example, a woman keeps getting beat by her husband. After talking to authorities many times, she is stuck. She technically has the right under the law to divorce her husband but the local authorities (many, many layers of bureaucracy) refuse to allow it. She eventually gets her leg cut off with a machete by her husband. Now even if she was granted a divorce, she would have no way to support her and her children.
The follow up is the real fight. The sticky business of changing behavior and perceptions. We got into an especially riveting debate about whether empowering women wouldn't just immediately make society biased against men. If only they saw the decades of slow progress that needs to happen before we can even entertain that idea. (You can start debating affirmative action at this point but I don't have it in me.)
We had a great discussion during the HIV conference around gender based violence but like many things in Rwanda it left us with no clear solution. A lot of things on paper here look amazing. There are already laws in place to criminalize gender based violence. There are laws that give women (and men) the right to divorce an abusive spouse. The problem is implementation.
For example, it's awesome to have a law requiring all children to attend school until they reach a certain age. The problem comes in when you travel to the tiny, isolated village that does whatever it wants. The villagers decide to keep their daughters at home to do chores because they see educating girls as a waste of time.
A second example, a woman keeps getting beat by her husband. After talking to authorities many times, she is stuck. She technically has the right under the law to divorce her husband but the local authorities (many, many layers of bureaucracy) refuse to allow it. She eventually gets her leg cut off with a machete by her husband. Now even if she was granted a divorce, she would have no way to support her and her children.
The follow up is the real fight. The sticky business of changing behavior and perceptions. We got into an especially riveting debate about whether empowering women wouldn't just immediately make society biased against men. If only they saw the decades of slow progress that needs to happen before we can even entertain that idea. (You can start debating affirmative action at this point but I don't have it in me.)
Pretty Paper
Some fights are easy. There isn't a law, there needs to be a law. There needs to be recognition of a problem. There needs to be protection under some sort of authority. Some fights are more convoluted than that.
We had a great discussion during the HIV conference around gender based violence but like many things in Rwanda it left us with no clear solution. A lot of things on paper here look amazing. There are already laws in place to criminalize gender based violence. There are laws that give women (and men) the right to divorce an abusive spouse. The problem is implementation.
For example, it's awesome to have a law requiring all children to attend school until they reach a certain age. The problem comes in when you travel to the tiny, isolated village that does whatever it wants. The villagers decide to keep their daughters at home to do chores because they see educating girls as a waste of time.
A second example, a woman keeps getting beat by her husband. After talking to authorities many times, she is stuck. She technically has the right under the law to divorce her husband but the local authorities (many, many layers of bureaucracy) refuse to allow it. She eventually gets her leg cut off with a machete by her husband. Now even if she was granted a divorce, she would have no way to support her and her children.
The follow up is the real fight. The sticky business of changing behavior and perceptions. We got into an especially riveting debate about whether empowering women wouldn't just immediately make society biased against men. If only they saw the decades of slow progress that needs to happen before we can even entertain that idea. (You can start debating affirmative action at this point but I don't have it in me.)
We had a great discussion during the HIV conference around gender based violence but like many things in Rwanda it left us with no clear solution. A lot of things on paper here look amazing. There are already laws in place to criminalize gender based violence. There are laws that give women (and men) the right to divorce an abusive spouse. The problem is implementation.
For example, it's awesome to have a law requiring all children to attend school until they reach a certain age. The problem comes in when you travel to the tiny, isolated village that does whatever it wants. The villagers decide to keep their daughters at home to do chores because they see educating girls as a waste of time.
A second example, a woman keeps getting beat by her husband. After talking to authorities many times, she is stuck. She technically has the right under the law to divorce her husband but the local authorities (many, many layers of bureaucracy) refuse to allow it. She eventually gets her leg cut off with a machete by her husband. Now even if she was granted a divorce, she would have no way to support her and her children.
The follow up is the real fight. The sticky business of changing behavior and perceptions. We got into an especially riveting debate about whether empowering women wouldn't just immediately make society biased against men. If only they saw the decades of slow progress that needs to happen before we can even entertain that idea. (You can start debating affirmative action at this point but I don't have it in me.)
Midway
Hello again.
I just returned from my mid-service conference coupled with an HIV conference compliments of PEPFAR. It was a great time to see old faces, catch up, vent, refocus, enjoy each other's company, and then brainstorm HIV prevention, gender based violence, and incoming generating projects. As you may have assumed, mid-service is meant to be a year into service (really a year from swear in - which for me was the beginning of May, but we're a little early). It's a celebration of sorts. We even started talking about the close of service conference. It's like when you're a freshman in high school and they start talking about graduation. The ever elusive light at the end of the tunnel.
As at any great conference, at least one good prank needs to be pulled. These aren't elaborate due to our lack of prep time and supplies available. Previous pranks have ranged from trying to tie someone into their room using bed sheets(unsuccessful) to piling outdoor furniture in a mountain so they couldn't enter their room (we helped them get in but enjoyed a good laugh first). Of course I have a co-conspirator role in some of these. But this conference we had mellowed out, so there was nothing elaborate or taking too much time away from hanging out, playing games. In an act of ultimate vengeance, a plank was played on Kelly, the ringleader of all things sneaky. Kelly had accidentally left her key unprotected during a game of Mafia. A fake phone called created an escape from the crowd and then her room was tp-ed. We all scampered over to hear her reaction at the end of the night. Like any great warrior in the art of pranking she was impressed and awed instead of mad. We also all decided that tp-ing things in Rwanda is waste of a precious resource and that she should try to roll it all back up for proper use. Only in Rwanda.
I have also just suffered through an incredibly harrowing bus ride. You see, the conference was being held out west, forcing the majority of us to ride through the forest to arrive. (The forest is Nyungwe Forest, beautiful and home to gorillas, baboons, etc.) The ride back was miserable. The motion sickness pills had no effect so use your imagination, times it by three and you'll come to the correct conclusion.
I am sitting here with Jessica (another volunteer), decompressing after a long week. In classic Rwandan style, we are distracted by the most disturbing animal noises. Ever since coming here it has been a battle to realize which sounds were made by small children and which were goats. This particular noise was more like a goat giving birth or a human in some serious distress. After allowing it to use up about 5 minutes of our attention, we went on with life.
I have come out of this conference with some semblance of rejuvenation. While its difficult to be in such a large group at times after being alone for so long and being required to sit and listen for so many hours in one day, I remembered once again how to be one of many and be a student.
I hope this feelings survives my reemergence in the village.
I just returned from my mid-service conference coupled with an HIV conference compliments of PEPFAR. It was a great time to see old faces, catch up, vent, refocus, enjoy each other's company, and then brainstorm HIV prevention, gender based violence, and incoming generating projects. As you may have assumed, mid-service is meant to be a year into service (really a year from swear in - which for me was the beginning of May, but we're a little early). It's a celebration of sorts. We even started talking about the close of service conference. It's like when you're a freshman in high school and they start talking about graduation. The ever elusive light at the end of the tunnel.
As at any great conference, at least one good prank needs to be pulled. These aren't elaborate due to our lack of prep time and supplies available. Previous pranks have ranged from trying to tie someone into their room using bed sheets(unsuccessful) to piling outdoor furniture in a mountain so they couldn't enter their room (we helped them get in but enjoyed a good laugh first). Of course I have a co-conspirator role in some of these. But this conference we had mellowed out, so there was nothing elaborate or taking too much time away from hanging out, playing games. In an act of ultimate vengeance, a plank was played on Kelly, the ringleader of all things sneaky. Kelly had accidentally left her key unprotected during a game of Mafia. A fake phone called created an escape from the crowd and then her room was tp-ed. We all scampered over to hear her reaction at the end of the night. Like any great warrior in the art of pranking she was impressed and awed instead of mad. We also all decided that tp-ing things in Rwanda is waste of a precious resource and that she should try to roll it all back up for proper use. Only in Rwanda.
I have also just suffered through an incredibly harrowing bus ride. You see, the conference was being held out west, forcing the majority of us to ride through the forest to arrive. (The forest is Nyungwe Forest, beautiful and home to gorillas, baboons, etc.) The ride back was miserable. The motion sickness pills had no effect so use your imagination, times it by three and you'll come to the correct conclusion.
I am sitting here with Jessica (another volunteer), decompressing after a long week. In classic Rwandan style, we are distracted by the most disturbing animal noises. Ever since coming here it has been a battle to realize which sounds were made by small children and which were goats. This particular noise was more like a goat giving birth or a human in some serious distress. After allowing it to use up about 5 minutes of our attention, we went on with life.
I have come out of this conference with some semblance of rejuvenation. While its difficult to be in such a large group at times after being alone for so long and being required to sit and listen for so many hours in one day, I remembered once again how to be one of many and be a student.
I hope this feelings survives my reemergence in the village.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Reconciliation
It's kind of funny who you choose to go to while making a decision.
I've been thinking of asking people who are out of my immediate universe. The ones who can offer an outside perspective, and perhaps knew me way back when. I pondered how I would phrase the question. Basically I'm looking for reassurance that I'm a great person, this is not contributing to a series of failures or quitting experience that will dictate the rest of my life. I want proof that this is out of character and therefore, a one time incident that will not predict future behavior.
But aren't I really just wanting to hear that from myself. I'm the one that's been here the whole time. I'm the one that is eternally linked to my decisions. Can't I reassure myself that it's okay, no matter what I decide. That I'll still be me. That the people who matter will support me.
Just another day of self doubt in the Peace Corps.
I've been thinking of asking people who are out of my immediate universe. The ones who can offer an outside perspective, and perhaps knew me way back when. I pondered how I would phrase the question. Basically I'm looking for reassurance that I'm a great person, this is not contributing to a series of failures or quitting experience that will dictate the rest of my life. I want proof that this is out of character and therefore, a one time incident that will not predict future behavior.
But aren't I really just wanting to hear that from myself. I'm the one that's been here the whole time. I'm the one that is eternally linked to my decisions. Can't I reassure myself that it's okay, no matter what I decide. That I'll still be me. That the people who matter will support me.
Just another day of self doubt in the Peace Corps.
Low Lows
I've been hiding from writing. The truth is I don't want to acknowledge my emotions because that would mean I'd shed light on them and maybe I'd even have to do something about it. I also don't want to worry anyone.
Before coming here I was in a tense place with my parents. We were constantly debating this decision I had made. I remember saying that if I stayed at home, safe and sound, and stationary, then I would lose a part of myself. That the choice was really between staying home and becoming a shell of myself or coming here. A year in, I'm faced with another fork in the road. Some days I feel that if I stay here much longer that I will irreversibly damage myself. That I will become too jaded or lethargic or just plain sad.
Sometimes I have thoughts like this and then I bounce back. I'm happy again. I smile and I laugh and I'm motivated and ideas are pulsing through my head. and then it hits me again. and I'm crying again.
Is this that year mark of dismal depression they talk about? I don't know if I'm willing to find out.
I do know one thing. I will never regret coming here. I will never regret the friendships I made and the adventures I had. I may end up regretting deciding to stay or to leave.
Before coming here I was in a tense place with my parents. We were constantly debating this decision I had made. I remember saying that if I stayed at home, safe and sound, and stationary, then I would lose a part of myself. That the choice was really between staying home and becoming a shell of myself or coming here. A year in, I'm faced with another fork in the road. Some days I feel that if I stay here much longer that I will irreversibly damage myself. That I will become too jaded or lethargic or just plain sad.
Sometimes I have thoughts like this and then I bounce back. I'm happy again. I smile and I laugh and I'm motivated and ideas are pulsing through my head. and then it hits me again. and I'm crying again.
Is this that year mark of dismal depression they talk about? I don't know if I'm willing to find out.
I do know one thing. I will never regret coming here. I will never regret the friendships I made and the adventures I had. I may end up regretting deciding to stay or to leave.
365
I have officially been in Rwanda for 365 days. One place for one year. I have come to learn a little something about commitment since coming here. See I made a commitment to serve…for two years. There have been days, heck even weeks, when I've considered coming home.
But
something brought me here so I'm going to wait it out. As long as I can handle it. It was like a double dog dare. Bet you can't live in Africa for two years. Well I've always been a bit stubborn.
I'm declaring a bit of a veterans day for Peace Corps volunteers today. If you know someone who served in the past or are serving right now - send your love to them, hug 'em, tell them you appreciate them. They probably went through a bit of hell. and who couldn't appreciate a hug?
I know a lot of people don't understand why we do this. I'm going to explain one tiny part of it. You know when you turn on the news and hear about a natural disaster? Let's pick an earthquake. Let's put the earthquake in California. If you live over in Michigan and don't know a single person in California your response will be of this variety- wow that really sucks. Imagine all those people and all that destruction. Now let's imagine that you know one family who lives in California. Your next level of response is calling them to make sure they are alright or checking Facebook to make sure they are okay. Now let's go up one more level - you used to live in California. You know a million people there. You have favorite restaurants and know beautiful places. You keep seeing flashbacks of all these places and trying to imagine them as the middle of all that destruction. You spend days trying to get ahold of all your loved ones.
Now we are going to span out. You hear that a population is trying to overthrow its government and get some rights (Egypt), you hear that your country is using military force halfway around the world (Afghanistan), you hear about a crazy flood that is devastating a ridiculous amount of land (Australia). All of a sudden the world gets a little smaller. You know those places. You know people there. You love people there. You are concerned. You want to do something. You want other people to care.
Now for all those people who think I'm unsafe here for the reason of anti-American sentiment - how would that get better if I wasn't here? I'd like to picture my Rwandan neighbors ten years from now. They are standing around the proverbial water cooler and maybe one of them is throwing around some hateful comments about the US. and then one of them says, hey, remember Kim. She was pretty cool. and she wasn't everything you are calling Americans now. And that, my friends, is what we call soft political power. It's not military tanks. It's not weapons of mass destruction. It's globalization at its best. It is making people realize that citizens of a country are not the same as the government of that country. and its the reason I might just spend another 365 days here.
**This was written a couple weeks ago, which explains the emotional disconnect from the next two posts.
But
something brought me here so I'm going to wait it out. As long as I can handle it. It was like a double dog dare. Bet you can't live in Africa for two years. Well I've always been a bit stubborn.
I'm declaring a bit of a veterans day for Peace Corps volunteers today. If you know someone who served in the past or are serving right now - send your love to them, hug 'em, tell them you appreciate them. They probably went through a bit of hell. and who couldn't appreciate a hug?
I know a lot of people don't understand why we do this. I'm going to explain one tiny part of it. You know when you turn on the news and hear about a natural disaster? Let's pick an earthquake. Let's put the earthquake in California. If you live over in Michigan and don't know a single person in California your response will be of this variety- wow that really sucks. Imagine all those people and all that destruction. Now let's imagine that you know one family who lives in California. Your next level of response is calling them to make sure they are alright or checking Facebook to make sure they are okay. Now let's go up one more level - you used to live in California. You know a million people there. You have favorite restaurants and know beautiful places. You keep seeing flashbacks of all these places and trying to imagine them as the middle of all that destruction. You spend days trying to get ahold of all your loved ones.
Now we are going to span out. You hear that a population is trying to overthrow its government and get some rights (Egypt), you hear that your country is using military force halfway around the world (Afghanistan), you hear about a crazy flood that is devastating a ridiculous amount of land (Australia). All of a sudden the world gets a little smaller. You know those places. You know people there. You love people there. You are concerned. You want to do something. You want other people to care.
Now for all those people who think I'm unsafe here for the reason of anti-American sentiment - how would that get better if I wasn't here? I'd like to picture my Rwandan neighbors ten years from now. They are standing around the proverbial water cooler and maybe one of them is throwing around some hateful comments about the US. and then one of them says, hey, remember Kim. She was pretty cool. and she wasn't everything you are calling Americans now. And that, my friends, is what we call soft political power. It's not military tanks. It's not weapons of mass destruction. It's globalization at its best. It is making people realize that citizens of a country are not the same as the government of that country. and its the reason I might just spend another 365 days here.
**This was written a couple weeks ago, which explains the emotional disconnect from the next two posts.
Age in the Peace Corps
I've been thinking about the age in which one enters the Peace Corps. I entered as a 25 year old and will exit as a 27 year old. It was the right time for me. I had finished undergrad and felt lost, to put it bluntly. I needed a couple years to scratch my head and be confused. So by the time I applied and was shipped off, I was 25.
Questions:
Is there a right or wrong age to serve in the Peace Corps?
Does an older age signify that stronger relationships have been formed, leading to stronger commitments, leading to a stronger chance of wanting to go 'home'?
Is there such a thing as being too qualified for the Peace Corps? Does have a graduate degree make you more likely to get less out of the experience?
Can you grow too old to make a fool of yourself? Can you be too young to truly let go and let flow?
I have no answers to these questions and rightly so, because I don't think there are black and white answers. It just falls into the category of pondering about ages for other life events: marriage, college, kids, buying a house, moving to a new place alone, changing careers…is there a right or wrong time in your life for these events? How much bigger will the learning curve be at different points? What would have been the perfect preparation?
There's your food for thought today.
Questions:
Is there a right or wrong age to serve in the Peace Corps?
Does an older age signify that stronger relationships have been formed, leading to stronger commitments, leading to a stronger chance of wanting to go 'home'?
Is there such a thing as being too qualified for the Peace Corps? Does have a graduate degree make you more likely to get less out of the experience?
Can you grow too old to make a fool of yourself? Can you be too young to truly let go and let flow?
I have no answers to these questions and rightly so, because I don't think there are black and white answers. It just falls into the category of pondering about ages for other life events: marriage, college, kids, buying a house, moving to a new place alone, changing careers…is there a right or wrong time in your life for these events? How much bigger will the learning curve be at different points? What would have been the perfect preparation?
There's your food for thought today.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Exit Signs
Where is the exit sign?
Have you ever been sitting on an indoor roller coaster, and you hear the chug chug chug of the gears as you are being lifted up at an alarming angle? Maybe the fall of the roller coaster will end you up outside and so you see the daylight streaming through a small hole at the very top. All I could keep thinking was - what goes up must come down. Where the heck are those exit signs? Well maybe my 11 year old brain wasn't thinking that…but I remember looking at the black stairs accompanying the track skyward and the discreet doors leading to safe freedom. Sweet escape. Not always worth missing what's ahead, but it's nice to have the option.
This unfortunately has been a topic on my mind lately as I near the year mark of my Peace Corps service. This blog/my personality was made for full disclosure. I promised not to hide my fear or my disappointment or my depression while I was here so I have to say that last Sunday was my worst day yet. One of those awful days where you wake up 'in a mood'. I hadn't slept well. I didn't even feel like eating. In fact getting out of bed at all seemed pretty ridiculous. There were tears, anger and plenty of self pity. I've never wanted to go home more.
And there was a certain beauty to it. I am able to exit the Peace Corps whenever I'd like. I make the call. They book the ticket. Hasta luego. Game over.
After a couple days passed and 'the mood' passed as well, three things came to mind: refugees, old age and marriage, in that order. There are certain things in life where there is no easy way out. Commitments that take more than one phone call to get the heck out of. Things that are out of your control.
So let's play a game I've been really into lately with you the reader. It's called using your imagination. Close your eyes (figuratively blog reader, figuratively!) and imagine you were born and had a family and things were going swell. Not hard to imagine. Let's make you a teenager. You suffer through school. You've got a crush, of course. You love playing (insert favorite sport here). But amidst all of this, you are actually living in a pretty horrendous country. No, it's not the US. I don't care how much you don't appreciate politics and decisions being made. I'm talking really horrendous. People are being targeted, killed. Freedom is squashed. Your life is at risk. You've had a few family members and acquaintances killed or jailed. Your future is looking grim. But then with a stroke of luck you are allowed to flee, as a refugee. Sure you have to start all over in another country and your entire family may not be able to go with you, but you get to be safe from the terror happening in your birthplace. So you get thrown into the United States. You need to learn the language, the customs, the taboos, how to get food, how to get around, how to still go to church, how to make an income especially if your education means nothing here. So time lapse - two years have gone by. You are surviving. You can handle yourself. Life is pretty great compared to where you came from, but some days are rough. You don't want to speak English, you don't want to get out of bed, or prepare food in the bizarre way you have to here. You just want the familiar. The stuff that matches your childhood memories. Your safe place. Well guess what? There's no special phone call you can make to go home. There is no exit. There is just establishing a new normal. Refugees didn't chose to be persecuted. And most are trying their darndest to make this second chance a real new beginning. If not for themselves, then for their children or children's children.
I was just reading a Time magazine article where a futurist was talking about people being a little squeamish about extending life expectancies, saying they don't want to live past 100. It's pretty difficult to sell the allure of aging. Besides the whole physical degradation, I was reminded of a conversation I had with a great uncle of mine. I was wishing him a happy birthday of a particularly high variety. He became uncharacteristically serious and said - you know, it isn't what you think it's gonna be. It's not some marathon race that you are proud to win by being the last one left. All your friends die, the love of your life dies, and it just becomes a big cesspool of suffering. Alright, I added that last part myself. But I bet at some point in aging everyone utters the statement - this isn't what I signed up for.
and if that wasn't a perfect segway into the topic of marriage, I don't know what is. I'm not going to pull the concept of marriage through the mud but I'm imaging that any lifelong commitment leaves you with at least a handful of days where you say - this isn't what I signed up for.
I'm not even going to attempt to wrap this post up after I've gone on my 'flow of consciousness' tangents. I just wanted to rant and make your brain move in the same convoluted way mine does. Wasn't that fun?
As a sign off I will tell you a completely unrelated story of today. After work I ended up carrying my screaming two year old neighbor down the street after she rolled down a couple concrete steps in my front yard. It gave all the people at the water pump something to stare at for awhile. She was fine after I calmed her down and then my three year old neighbor offered her some sugar cane in the best distraction move I've seen yet. My newest plan if I lose my sanity here - just hanging out with the toddlers and eating sugar cane.
Have you ever been sitting on an indoor roller coaster, and you hear the chug chug chug of the gears as you are being lifted up at an alarming angle? Maybe the fall of the roller coaster will end you up outside and so you see the daylight streaming through a small hole at the very top. All I could keep thinking was - what goes up must come down. Where the heck are those exit signs? Well maybe my 11 year old brain wasn't thinking that…but I remember looking at the black stairs accompanying the track skyward and the discreet doors leading to safe freedom. Sweet escape. Not always worth missing what's ahead, but it's nice to have the option.
This unfortunately has been a topic on my mind lately as I near the year mark of my Peace Corps service. This blog/my personality was made for full disclosure. I promised not to hide my fear or my disappointment or my depression while I was here so I have to say that last Sunday was my worst day yet. One of those awful days where you wake up 'in a mood'. I hadn't slept well. I didn't even feel like eating. In fact getting out of bed at all seemed pretty ridiculous. There were tears, anger and plenty of self pity. I've never wanted to go home more.
And there was a certain beauty to it. I am able to exit the Peace Corps whenever I'd like. I make the call. They book the ticket. Hasta luego. Game over.
After a couple days passed and 'the mood' passed as well, three things came to mind: refugees, old age and marriage, in that order. There are certain things in life where there is no easy way out. Commitments that take more than one phone call to get the heck out of. Things that are out of your control.
So let's play a game I've been really into lately with you the reader. It's called using your imagination. Close your eyes (figuratively blog reader, figuratively!) and imagine you were born and had a family and things were going swell. Not hard to imagine. Let's make you a teenager. You suffer through school. You've got a crush, of course. You love playing (insert favorite sport here). But amidst all of this, you are actually living in a pretty horrendous country. No, it's not the US. I don't care how much you don't appreciate politics and decisions being made. I'm talking really horrendous. People are being targeted, killed. Freedom is squashed. Your life is at risk. You've had a few family members and acquaintances killed or jailed. Your future is looking grim. But then with a stroke of luck you are allowed to flee, as a refugee. Sure you have to start all over in another country and your entire family may not be able to go with you, but you get to be safe from the terror happening in your birthplace. So you get thrown into the United States. You need to learn the language, the customs, the taboos, how to get food, how to get around, how to still go to church, how to make an income especially if your education means nothing here. So time lapse - two years have gone by. You are surviving. You can handle yourself. Life is pretty great compared to where you came from, but some days are rough. You don't want to speak English, you don't want to get out of bed, or prepare food in the bizarre way you have to here. You just want the familiar. The stuff that matches your childhood memories. Your safe place. Well guess what? There's no special phone call you can make to go home. There is no exit. There is just establishing a new normal. Refugees didn't chose to be persecuted. And most are trying their darndest to make this second chance a real new beginning. If not for themselves, then for their children or children's children.
I was just reading a Time magazine article where a futurist was talking about people being a little squeamish about extending life expectancies, saying they don't want to live past 100. It's pretty difficult to sell the allure of aging. Besides the whole physical degradation, I was reminded of a conversation I had with a great uncle of mine. I was wishing him a happy birthday of a particularly high variety. He became uncharacteristically serious and said - you know, it isn't what you think it's gonna be. It's not some marathon race that you are proud to win by being the last one left. All your friends die, the love of your life dies, and it just becomes a big cesspool of suffering. Alright, I added that last part myself. But I bet at some point in aging everyone utters the statement - this isn't what I signed up for.
and if that wasn't a perfect segway into the topic of marriage, I don't know what is. I'm not going to pull the concept of marriage through the mud but I'm imaging that any lifelong commitment leaves you with at least a handful of days where you say - this isn't what I signed up for.
I'm not even going to attempt to wrap this post up after I've gone on my 'flow of consciousness' tangents. I just wanted to rant and make your brain move in the same convoluted way mine does. Wasn't that fun?
As a sign off I will tell you a completely unrelated story of today. After work I ended up carrying my screaming two year old neighbor down the street after she rolled down a couple concrete steps in my front yard. It gave all the people at the water pump something to stare at for awhile. She was fine after I calmed her down and then my three year old neighbor offered her some sugar cane in the best distraction move I've seen yet. My newest plan if I lose my sanity here - just hanging out with the toddlers and eating sugar cane.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Commence Mail
So I'm almost positive this will work. But it will take about 3 months to test...
My new address is:
BP 4657
Everything else, the same. It may take me awhile to figure out how to change that little address part of the sidebar.
My new address is:
BP 4657
Everything else, the same. It may take me awhile to figure out how to change that little address part of the sidebar.
Community
Where is my community?
When you move to site it's all about integration, integration, integration. You are supposed to absorb yourself into your community. Know your neighbors, know your local leaders, know your coworkers, know the customs, the way of life, the water sources, the priorities, the taboos.
This will help your safety, will help you feel comfortable, help you get work done, work that is valued and advantageous.
But there's a problem in all of this. I think, personally, as a Peace Corps volunteer I am a bit like a little duckling. I opened up my little baby eyes and saw my community. But it wasn't at my site. It was way before that. See I was trained using a method that is not the community-based training. I didn't live with a host family. I didn't learn the customs or the food or the language that way. I was set in a classroom (which is pretty much my default setting), and put in a house with many, many other volunteers. Hence, community found. I bonded.
Then I moved to site. Sure I love my village. I love the quirks and the coziness. But my number one priority is my original duckling community. I worry about who is taking an emotional hit. I want their work to, frankly, work. I want us to pull through as a group, to lean on each other, to suffer side by side, to celebrate together.
My duckling community has taken a bit of a hit lately. My logical brain knows that everyone chooses what is best for them. They evaluate what they need to evaluate and ultimately are the only ones who knows best. So they make those hard decisions. and some go home. But my emotional brain feels betrayed. I want us to make it together. To link arms and not give up. To be able to fix each other's problems that are beyond out of anyone's control.
Some days I feel like the Titanic captain saying - come on guys. It's worth going down with the ship if we are together. and other times I want us all to buy a group plane ticket out of here.
I don't know how to end this post beyond saying, at this point, I can't tell who is the weak and who is the strong anymore. Nothing is ever that black and white. and everyday I am thankful for the volunteers that I've been able to share this crazy time with. I'll see you at the therapist's office. Maybe we can get a group rate :)
When you move to site it's all about integration, integration, integration. You are supposed to absorb yourself into your community. Know your neighbors, know your local leaders, know your coworkers, know the customs, the way of life, the water sources, the priorities, the taboos.
This will help your safety, will help you feel comfortable, help you get work done, work that is valued and advantageous.
But there's a problem in all of this. I think, personally, as a Peace Corps volunteer I am a bit like a little duckling. I opened up my little baby eyes and saw my community. But it wasn't at my site. It was way before that. See I was trained using a method that is not the community-based training. I didn't live with a host family. I didn't learn the customs or the food or the language that way. I was set in a classroom (which is pretty much my default setting), and put in a house with many, many other volunteers. Hence, community found. I bonded.
Then I moved to site. Sure I love my village. I love the quirks and the coziness. But my number one priority is my original duckling community. I worry about who is taking an emotional hit. I want their work to, frankly, work. I want us to pull through as a group, to lean on each other, to suffer side by side, to celebrate together.
My duckling community has taken a bit of a hit lately. My logical brain knows that everyone chooses what is best for them. They evaluate what they need to evaluate and ultimately are the only ones who knows best. So they make those hard decisions. and some go home. But my emotional brain feels betrayed. I want us to make it together. To link arms and not give up. To be able to fix each other's problems that are beyond out of anyone's control.
Some days I feel like the Titanic captain saying - come on guys. It's worth going down with the ship if we are together. and other times I want us all to buy a group plane ticket out of here.
I don't know how to end this post beyond saying, at this point, I can't tell who is the weak and who is the strong anymore. Nothing is ever that black and white. and everyday I am thankful for the volunteers that I've been able to share this crazy time with. I'll see you at the therapist's office. Maybe we can get a group rate :)
Zuckerberg
I was recently thinking about a story that was played on Voice of America. It was about Peace Corps and how different the experience has been across the 50 years of people serving. They highlighted the program in Rwanda and interviewed our Country Director at the time and a current volunteer. From what I remember the volunteer was happy that she could maintain close contact with her parents. On the other hand, administration were not thrilled that we could complain/panic to our parents and the DC office would quickly receive a phone call. (Sidenote to people who have worked at a university recently: this story could have substituted the words Peace Corps with 'Going to University as an Undergrad').
There's this draw towards being 'authentic' and getting the 'real Peace Corps experience'. These ideas always involve being isolated from anyone who speaks your language, not having access to postal services, internet, telephones. These ideas are about being enveloped into a new society, one that is difficult to reach beyond. Its a romantic vision of touching a society that is incredibly untouched. Back in the day that was natural. Volunteers weren't asking for the unrealistic. Letters were the order of the day.
When we first arrived, many volunteers were disappointed because we are incredibly connected here. They thought that being this accessible would debase our Peace Corps experience. No one was dropped by parachute to their site and left alone for two years. No one anxiously awaits the letter telling of a new birth or a critical illness. We come from a different generation. The concept of not having a computer or even internet is foreign.
My response to this - take a look around. The world is changing. In one ear people are triumphing globalization, how we can build relationships with people around the world, how fast we can travel, how easily we can communicate, the multitude of forums we can interact on. In the other ear they are bemoaning the fact that a government agency experience has changed over the course of 50 years. Look at the military or the CIA. I would be frightened and disappointed if they operated as if they were living in 1961.
The world is a different place, allowing for easier communication. It doesn't mean you have to ram your head against a wall trying to fight progress. It also doesn't mean you have to become the epitome of this age- checking your email on your blackberry, tweeting about everything you do and making sure you always catch a phone call. There is still a thing called relaxation/vacation/taking a break from life. That hasn't become outdated, thank goodness.
There's this draw towards being 'authentic' and getting the 'real Peace Corps experience'. These ideas always involve being isolated from anyone who speaks your language, not having access to postal services, internet, telephones. These ideas are about being enveloped into a new society, one that is difficult to reach beyond. Its a romantic vision of touching a society that is incredibly untouched. Back in the day that was natural. Volunteers weren't asking for the unrealistic. Letters were the order of the day.
When we first arrived, many volunteers were disappointed because we are incredibly connected here. They thought that being this accessible would debase our Peace Corps experience. No one was dropped by parachute to their site and left alone for two years. No one anxiously awaits the letter telling of a new birth or a critical illness. We come from a different generation. The concept of not having a computer or even internet is foreign.
My response to this - take a look around. The world is changing. In one ear people are triumphing globalization, how we can build relationships with people around the world, how fast we can travel, how easily we can communicate, the multitude of forums we can interact on. In the other ear they are bemoaning the fact that a government agency experience has changed over the course of 50 years. Look at the military or the CIA. I would be frightened and disappointed if they operated as if they were living in 1961.
The world is a different place, allowing for easier communication. It doesn't mean you have to ram your head against a wall trying to fight progress. It also doesn't mean you have to become the epitome of this age- checking your email on your blackberry, tweeting about everything you do and making sure you always catch a phone call. There is still a thing called relaxation/vacation/taking a break from life. That hasn't become outdated, thank goodness.
Defining American
I know what an American is.
They are not materialistic. They come here with a single bag. They wear their cargo pants and bandanas. They don't need to shower often to be happy and don't place value on possessions.
They dance provocatively and dress scantily. I've seen all the latest music videos. They must all own big yachts and expensive jewelry.
They all value education because they come over here to teach us and I've never met one without a college degree.
They are all well fed. Never seen a starving one among them.
They must all be rich. They come to my country and throw huge sums of money at us that they call aid. I call it, the way my family eats and gets vaccinated. Also, thanks for the bed net.
They are a little egotistical with never wanting to learn another language other than English. What's with that?
They don't listen to the world news or know anything beyond what happens to them? and why should they? They live at the center of the universe.
White means rich. Wait, there are others besides white people in America? They aren't true Americans though, right?
Ever think about the image we give off? These are all real examples I've heard Rwandans say about Americans. They are given a snapshot of American society and then fill in the blanks as best they can. So are you fighting the image or supporting it?
They are not materialistic. They come here with a single bag. They wear their cargo pants and bandanas. They don't need to shower often to be happy and don't place value on possessions.
They dance provocatively and dress scantily. I've seen all the latest music videos. They must all own big yachts and expensive jewelry.
They all value education because they come over here to teach us and I've never met one without a college degree.
They are all well fed. Never seen a starving one among them.
They must all be rich. They come to my country and throw huge sums of money at us that they call aid. I call it, the way my family eats and gets vaccinated. Also, thanks for the bed net.
They are a little egotistical with never wanting to learn another language other than English. What's with that?
They don't listen to the world news or know anything beyond what happens to them? and why should they? They live at the center of the universe.
White means rich. Wait, there are others besides white people in America? They aren't true Americans though, right?
Ever think about the image we give off? These are all real examples I've heard Rwandans say about Americans. They are given a snapshot of American society and then fill in the blanks as best they can. So are you fighting the image or supporting it?
Chores
So how exactly does one live in Rwanda?
Here are a couple of household chores that have become commonplace for me.
Most importantly, laundry. Since I don't have electricity or a washing machine, it is nothing like the quarter machines I used to use. You can reenact my process very easily. Take a bar of soap. Fill up two to three buckets of water. Get a piece of clothing wet. Rub some soap on the clothing then rub the fabric together with your two hands. Now rinse and repeat. Eventually your clothes will resemble something that is clean. Some Rwandans have an amazing ability to get whites beyond white. I have not come close to this level of expertise. It is time consuming but also a great stress reliever. That is when you have enough water to do laundry.
A lot of people in Rwanda iron their clothes, even if it means putting hot coals in the iron to heat it. Looking impeccable is part of Rwandan culture. I don't abide by those rules. Go figure.
Sweeping and mopping are huge here. You are supposed to mop your floor every day. It is actually really fun, if you're into that sort of thing. They sell squeegees here. Most floors are flat concrete so you just throw soapy water all over the place, move it around and push it out the door. Sweeping is an outdoor chore. You are supposed to sweep dirt. Your yard should be weedless and swept. I'm still buying into this concept.
I do yearn for the days of vacuums and dishwashers but doing chores in any country offers a sort of mental relaxation. and I'm still a slob. Apparently changing continents doesn't change personality traits!
Here are a couple of household chores that have become commonplace for me.
Most importantly, laundry. Since I don't have electricity or a washing machine, it is nothing like the quarter machines I used to use. You can reenact my process very easily. Take a bar of soap. Fill up two to three buckets of water. Get a piece of clothing wet. Rub some soap on the clothing then rub the fabric together with your two hands. Now rinse and repeat. Eventually your clothes will resemble something that is clean. Some Rwandans have an amazing ability to get whites beyond white. I have not come close to this level of expertise. It is time consuming but also a great stress reliever. That is when you have enough water to do laundry.
A lot of people in Rwanda iron their clothes, even if it means putting hot coals in the iron to heat it. Looking impeccable is part of Rwandan culture. I don't abide by those rules. Go figure.
Sweeping and mopping are huge here. You are supposed to mop your floor every day. It is actually really fun, if you're into that sort of thing. They sell squeegees here. Most floors are flat concrete so you just throw soapy water all over the place, move it around and push it out the door. Sweeping is an outdoor chore. You are supposed to sweep dirt. Your yard should be weedless and swept. I'm still buying into this concept.
I do yearn for the days of vacuums and dishwashers but doing chores in any country offers a sort of mental relaxation. and I'm still a slob. Apparently changing continents doesn't change personality traits!
International Community Health Conference
I just returned to my village after attending the first International Community Health Conference. It was exciting to learn again and be surrounded by motivated, diverse, and at the risk of sounding snobbish, educated people. I tried to absorb as much as I possibly could. I will post the link of the conference's information in case anyone is interested. I hope to write several posts about different aspects that stuck out to me. Most will just be small moments that clicked in my head or question marks that may take me very long to ponder, so I thought we'd ponder together.
During the last day of the conference, I had this feeling that just resonated with me. This sense that I was finally beginning to see things more clearly. Thank goodness it only took 26 years and a four day conference to get to that point. But before I really dig in and try to convey this abstract thought process, answer these questions:
1. The age old, what is a 'good death'?
2. What do you see as one thing that society absolutely insists that you achieve in life? What if that one thing almost surely meant death for you?
Do you have your answers? …I'll go on. Amidst the lectures with grisly statistics and a keynote by Paul Farmer about communicable diseases, there was a sense of justice being achieved. Medicine could bring justice. Life can be unfair, just ask anyone, but death can go so much more beyond that. It can strip a person of their dignity, it can turn the finger around and blame the victim, it can make family and friends lose all pride. Even if a person is alive for decades, they can be defined for their act of dying.
She was a fighter.
He always smiled through it, even when all the hair fell out.
She was brave and stared death in the face.
He went for every experimental treatment.
The doctors fought and fought but science just wasn't fast enough with a cure.
She never lost her faith.
There was nothing they could do…
There's the good death. The death where you can be a warrior. You are fiercely fighting and there's an army of medical professionals behind you. But what if your death was nothing like that. What if there's been a cure or a successful treatment for your illness for decades or even centuries? What if you were set up to fail? What if your baby dies because there wasn't a vaccine campaign close enough to your village? Or your husband dies because the health center couldn't transport fast enough? What if you die from a disease because of sheer ignorance or just plain old poverty? Where's the pride in that? How can you ever tell people the story of your mother, who was so strong and fearless, and yet succumbed to a disease that even infants can fight off in other parts of the world? How can you not be angry at someone or something for failing you?
I ask these questions because I only have half answers. I know I'd be out of my mind angry at the circumstances of life, and yet that's just too much to hold on to. There are people who die like this every day. Heck, there's even people in the US dying because they don't have health insurance. One version of poverty looks a lot like the next. One person is deemed more worthy of modern medicine because their pockets are deeper. What if we let everyone be warriors? What if we gave everyone a fighting chance? I think I got a glimpse of what those efforts would look like this week.
The second question struck me more as a woman than anything else. I'm going to try and make it applicable to everyone. Coming up with something off the top of my head, I'm going to say that society expects us all to … learn how to walk in on our two feet at some point in our lives (actually more true than I wanted to make it but let's go with it). Some people will be overachievers and end up running marathons. Some of us will only get to the kneeling position or maybe just crawling. Some will try and try excessively but fail every time and not know why. Then there will be some people who will walk, they really will! and then they will cross the street and get hit by a bus. Society kind of saw this one coming when it dared us to walk but that doesn't make society evil. It knew what would make you more productive and more fulfilled. It didn't mean any harm. Did I mention that not trying is not an option?
Now imagine that you are a woman, especially one in the developing world. Society has told you that you must produce children. Not just one either, we're talking marathon style here. Pick one of these following reasons why multiple pregnancies are in your future: a) you are very poor and you know that a percentage of your children will die so several is better than one. b) any form of birth control is just not an option. c) society puts so much pressure on you that you believe only true happiness comes from having children. Now look around at your village. There isn't a health center within a day's walk for you. You are afraid of the delivery but you have to stay near your fields for as long as possible because your husband likes his beer more than he likes farming (sorry for the jab, men). You can get a midwife to help but everyone knows the chances of hemorrhaging. There is a good chance that just having one baby could be your death sentence. But society isn't just whispering in your ear, it's screaming at you. Babies must be had, and death must be stared in the face.
Pregnancies aren't the same on every continent. For the poorest of the poor, women are literally expected to die in troves just for doing what they were told or rather doing what they couldn't stop in the first place. I think we all need to spend a little more time thinking about maternal morbidity rates. As one lecturer stated, mothers are the greatest indicator of development. They are the greatest stepping stone to progress.
During the last day of the conference, I had this feeling that just resonated with me. This sense that I was finally beginning to see things more clearly. Thank goodness it only took 26 years and a four day conference to get to that point. But before I really dig in and try to convey this abstract thought process, answer these questions:
1. The age old, what is a 'good death'?
2. What do you see as one thing that society absolutely insists that you achieve in life? What if that one thing almost surely meant death for you?
Do you have your answers? …I'll go on. Amidst the lectures with grisly statistics and a keynote by Paul Farmer about communicable diseases, there was a sense of justice being achieved. Medicine could bring justice. Life can be unfair, just ask anyone, but death can go so much more beyond that. It can strip a person of their dignity, it can turn the finger around and blame the victim, it can make family and friends lose all pride. Even if a person is alive for decades, they can be defined for their act of dying.
She was a fighter.
He always smiled through it, even when all the hair fell out.
She was brave and stared death in the face.
He went for every experimental treatment.
The doctors fought and fought but science just wasn't fast enough with a cure.
She never lost her faith.
There was nothing they could do…
There's the good death. The death where you can be a warrior. You are fiercely fighting and there's an army of medical professionals behind you. But what if your death was nothing like that. What if there's been a cure or a successful treatment for your illness for decades or even centuries? What if you were set up to fail? What if your baby dies because there wasn't a vaccine campaign close enough to your village? Or your husband dies because the health center couldn't transport fast enough? What if you die from a disease because of sheer ignorance or just plain old poverty? Where's the pride in that? How can you ever tell people the story of your mother, who was so strong and fearless, and yet succumbed to a disease that even infants can fight off in other parts of the world? How can you not be angry at someone or something for failing you?
I ask these questions because I only have half answers. I know I'd be out of my mind angry at the circumstances of life, and yet that's just too much to hold on to. There are people who die like this every day. Heck, there's even people in the US dying because they don't have health insurance. One version of poverty looks a lot like the next. One person is deemed more worthy of modern medicine because their pockets are deeper. What if we let everyone be warriors? What if we gave everyone a fighting chance? I think I got a glimpse of what those efforts would look like this week.
The second question struck me more as a woman than anything else. I'm going to try and make it applicable to everyone. Coming up with something off the top of my head, I'm going to say that society expects us all to … learn how to walk in on our two feet at some point in our lives (actually more true than I wanted to make it but let's go with it). Some people will be overachievers and end up running marathons. Some of us will only get to the kneeling position or maybe just crawling. Some will try and try excessively but fail every time and not know why. Then there will be some people who will walk, they really will! and then they will cross the street and get hit by a bus. Society kind of saw this one coming when it dared us to walk but that doesn't make society evil. It knew what would make you more productive and more fulfilled. It didn't mean any harm. Did I mention that not trying is not an option?
Now imagine that you are a woman, especially one in the developing world. Society has told you that you must produce children. Not just one either, we're talking marathon style here. Pick one of these following reasons why multiple pregnancies are in your future: a) you are very poor and you know that a percentage of your children will die so several is better than one. b) any form of birth control is just not an option. c) society puts so much pressure on you that you believe only true happiness comes from having children. Now look around at your village. There isn't a health center within a day's walk for you. You are afraid of the delivery but you have to stay near your fields for as long as possible because your husband likes his beer more than he likes farming (sorry for the jab, men). You can get a midwife to help but everyone knows the chances of hemorrhaging. There is a good chance that just having one baby could be your death sentence. But society isn't just whispering in your ear, it's screaming at you. Babies must be had, and death must be stared in the face.
Pregnancies aren't the same on every continent. For the poorest of the poor, women are literally expected to die in troves just for doing what they were told or rather doing what they couldn't stop in the first place. I think we all need to spend a little more time thinking about maternal morbidity rates. As one lecturer stated, mothers are the greatest indicator of development. They are the greatest stepping stone to progress.
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