Due to my sister’s impending arrival, I will not be blogging for a while, possibly not for the whole month of July as is my habit over the holidays. So I thought it best to satisfy the international insatiable appetite for news of my sojourns with a day in the life of moi, because seriously what could be more interesting?
I wake up in the morning at six without fail because my bed is in the back of the house. Also in the back of the house are the neighbors who wake up at six to fill up their jerry cans with water from the spicket because that is usually the only time it is running. My water bill is now over two hundred dollars and hasn’t been paid in months so that’s the story behind the lack of water and electricity but we’ll get to that later.
I get up with trepidation, in anticipation of what bug/rodent will avenge me on this particular morning. More often then not it’s just a cockroach, which seem to have been taking immense comfort from the coolness of my concrete floors lately. Then I make my tea, on the stove now, since my house-friend broke my beloved kettle and apparently thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world as she listed off all the broken things in my house and laughed hysterically. “Radiyo! Toilette! Kettle! Hahahaahah!” Yes Alodie positively hilarious. She is my 3rd best friend in Nyanza though and she buys me bananas and passion fruit that I eat for breakfast so naturally I forgive her.
Between eight and nine I head for school. Hands down this is my favorite part of the day. The cute little nursery school children that used to cautiously approach me and offer their hand now see me in the distance and start sprinting toward me with their arms spread wide and give me a huge hug and say “Good Morning teacha!” It’s the greatest way to start off the day. And where there used to be about five who did it now, if I time it right, there are at least twenty. My boys have caught on to the hugging thing also and think it’s obligatory so now even the older ones give me especially awkward hugs when I see them.
If I get to school too early or too late I have to walk the gauntlet. I try to time it so I arrive after the students are in class but if I don’t I have 700 eyes on me as I walk through the middle of the courtyard. I literally have nightmares about tripping on the gravel, but so far so good. I can only recognize about 50% of my students outside of class so I say hi to everyone just to be safe. I teach English and Computers. English goes well mostly because we sing and watch movies and have debates so I think it’s generally regarded as free time but so long as they’re speaking English I don’t care. Computers is an absolute nightmare. 50 students 5 computers and all of a sudden I’m not a secondary school teacher but a primary one. Jean de Dieu isn’t supposed to be in our group, or Bertrand won’t let me have a turn, or Marcelline always gets to go first! Lately I’ve been going with, if they have a computer problem ask me, a social problem talk to the chief of the class.
After teaching I go visit with Agnes, the secretary/my best Rwandan girlfriend, and check my e-mail which lately has been underwhelming at best (ahem). Then I either eat rice and beans for lunch with Yves and co or I go home and cook some variety of pasta. Lately I’ve been a big fan of tuna pasta salad, which I consider one of my specialties, although anyone else who has ever tried is completely disgusted with it, I like to think it’s a cultural thing.
In the afternoon, my poubelle boys come and we play soccer or when they are feeling especially adorable they start chanting, “kwiga!” which means learn in Kinyarwanda and we do English lessons. I just love them. I usually go back to school to do I.C.T after school since it’s hard to accomplish anything with only two hours per week. I come back home to make dinner and usually have some type of visitor. Generally it’s Yves or Adrien but my neighbors have really seemed to take a liking to our awkward visits where they come in, sit for five minutes unable to communicate anything, and then leave. Alodie also comes at night to clean, or bring me food and I got her an English-Kinyarwanda book which we read together and drink tea. She’s really great minus the clumsiness.
So now I’m sitting here writing this and Alodie has just left, Yves isn’t in town and Adrien is busy taking pictures, of goodness knows what and like clockwork the electricity goes out. For the past two weeks every night at 7:30 my stupid power has been cut and apparently it’s because the same company controls the power and the water and since my school has not been paying the water bill the company has been cutting my power. Which is just plain mean to do at night considering I am terrified of the dark or more specifically the creepy crawlies that lurk within it. It’s almost eight and now instead of marking exams which is what I really should be doing I’m heading to bed, because in the pitch black the only thing that gives me comfort is my mosquito net which is like my magical cape of protection.
I like to think that my life is not so mundane as to limit it to this brief summary. But on the whole this is my reality, with subtle day to day variances that might make me seem a little more interesting at least I like to think so.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Chubs
You know when you wake up in the morning and you think, “Man I feel chubby” or “Wow these jeans are fitting pretty loosely!” but it’s such a minor loss or gain that you assume no one else will notice let alone care? Turns out they do notice and in Rwanda in particular they definitely care. Never has my weight been so closely monitored, and oddly enough it comes at a time in my life when I could care less how much I do or don’t weigh. Yesterday I got, “Your waist is small size, you are hungry!” Today it was “Claire! Your booty is very big, you have eaten!” Booty I’m assuming is a legacy of Beyonce’s popularity. Sometimes it’s as blatant as “ You are fat!” exclaimed with immense pleasure as being fat in a hungry nation carries an entirely different connotation than it would at home. Other times it’s, “Claire you will die.” And me saying, “What? Why?” “You must eat or you will die.” I honestly cannot have gained or lost more than five pounds since my initial weight loss in Kabarore but the entire female staff at my school is paying the utmost attention to how tightly or loosely my clothes fit on any given day. While the focus seems to be especially on weight, it’s as if I have five mother hens all commenting on some aspect of my appearance, especially now that I have become closer with all of them. Mama Cyizere (my Rwandan mom) in particular loves to comment on my hair (too short. “You are a mzungu! You must grow your hair!) my clothes (not stylish. “OOOO is this the mzungu style? It’s not Rwandan, Rwandans don’t like it.”) my food (not great. “It’s ok because you are not Rwandan and Rwandan women must know how to cook.”) or even my glasses ( snobby. “ O you are rich! Only rich people wear glasses, you want everyone to know you are rich.”) Finally after I’d had about enough I said, You and Mama Shema always make comments about me, why? Don’t worry!” I said it in my most joking happy tone but still she looked shocked, “because we love you!” she replied. So there you have it, she really does treat me like daughter and takes very good care of me so I love her too.
The female staff at my school are all in the administration with the exception of one female religion teacher (another mother hen) which I think really sends the wrong message at a science school but hey who am I to judge? Speaking of judging I had an awkward encounter with my favorite Senior 4’s today when I was attempting to define the word empowerment. I tried to explain the word through the context of female empowerment and cited the example of only girls cleaning the classroom every night while the boys play sports. It drives me crazy. So I said, “Girls empower yourselves tell the boys to clean, why should you have to?” To which every single student, male and female, responded in unison, “It is our culture!” Alrighty then, I guess we’ll leave that one alone. It’s a strange paradox though considering Rwanda has the highest proportion of women in government of any democratic country in the world.
I got a taste of that very government when I went to Kigali to attempt to file for NGO status in Rwanda. Holy bureaucracy! Once I finally found the office (underground one floor and down a very long hall in a huge soviet style ministry building) I was greeted by two people sitting at card tables and on plastic chairs but with really nice flat screen computers. This seems to be a theme in Rwanda as Kagame has decided to model Rwanda after Singapore and attempt to be the I.C.T hub of Africa. Never mind that Singapore is surrounded by water and Rwanda is landlocked or that I spend most computer classes trying to get the students to understand that to open something on the desktop you double click not simply highlight and then sit waiting for it to open. Another example, my school received a reward of 40 brand-new computers from the ministry (not really sure what for) which have been sitting in a room since April because they don’t have the money to build the desks to put them on. Meanwhile, I’m struggling through I.C.T class with fifty students and five computers! So anyway I found the office and the man was very nice if not slightly confused about the incentives for actually acquiring NGO status. I went with my Articles of Incorporation and IRS forms to which he smirked and handed me a list 13 items long that was required. The list included such necessities as a detailed list of ever donor who is or who might ever provide funding, a signed memorandum of understanding between the Minister of Education and the fund, a letter of support from the District Mayor of Nyanza as well as the Governor of the Province. I smirked right back and inquired, “So why do I really need to register? Theoretically I could just pay the fees without the government knowing right?” He looked schocked. “We will punish you if you don’t!” “With taxes? Or fines?” “ No no you don’t have to pay taxes! But we want to recognize you for all the good you do for our country!” So jump through hoops and we will thank you. I walked out of the office with the list slightly more confused then I was at the beginning, but then I went for an amazing pizza and the trip to Kigali wasn’t all for nothing in the end!
It’s exam time again. I hate exams. There’s no bigger blow to the ego then when a student fails an exam. It really upsets me. I’ve been educated in a system that requires you to apply theories and concepts on exams not simply regurgitate them and I can’t seem to get that form of test-taking to translate. This term we’ve been discussing formatting in Word, which is mostly me teaching how to change a font and go from single to double-spaced. Instead of asking them to recount the steps necessary to make a word bold and italicized on the exam, I wrote a word out different ways and asked them to identify the word that actually was both. I seriously almost had a mutiny on my hands. They were beside themselves! I still can’t understand the difficulty but it culminated in me promising to only have that question count for half a point to get them to be quiet as I wasn’t sure if their griping in Kinyarwanda was just that or also them exchanging answers! As much as it sucks when a student fails the students who really apply themselves and want to do well make it all worth it. It’s so cute when they all run up to me afterwards asking for the answers and whoop if they got a particularly difficult question correct.
I feel a little condescending calling my students cute since I would estimate that about 30% of them are older than me. I’ve become a bit more of a disciplinarian this term. I get that some students are going to talk but the acoustics in the classroom are so bad that if a student is whispering in the back they may as well be chatting right next to me. I also invariably look at the wrong side of the room when a student asks me a question, which is apparently hilarious to the students. Also hilarious, my duck and cover position anytime one of the huge, (apparently harmless) wasps comes flying in but hey, that’s just self-preservation. The other day the computer lab was locked and my key wouldn’t work because another key was in the other side of the door so I started banging. All the students outside started tapping on the window saying, “Prof!” or “mzungu!” Which I think did more harm than good because the students inside were obviously doing something they were not supposed to be doing such as watching “Kobe’s 10 greatest plays” on YouTube which seems to be a favorite, but the computers are so miserably slow that it takes about 2 minutes to get any window that is open off the screen. So as predicted, about 2 minutes later, they finally opened the door. I was livid. It was a bunch of Senior 6’s (the oldest kids) and I started yelling at them. Two of them were Kurera so they booked it out of there hoping I wouldn’t recognize them but then the rest just stared at me as if my tirade was incredibly boring. So I was like alright you wanna do this? We can do this. Only actually saying that would have been completely lost on them. I said, “Get out your discipline cards!” An initial look of shock came over all of their faces followed by the most wounded puppy dog look I’ve ever seen. It was as if I had completely broken their hearts, so I started laughing, somewhat hysterically, because sometimes the relative absurdity of my life gets me in stitches and lapsed right back in to easy-going young teacher Claire and asked, “So what’s so exciting anyway?” To which a collective sigh of relief was breathed.
The female staff at my school are all in the administration with the exception of one female religion teacher (another mother hen) which I think really sends the wrong message at a science school but hey who am I to judge? Speaking of judging I had an awkward encounter with my favorite Senior 4’s today when I was attempting to define the word empowerment. I tried to explain the word through the context of female empowerment and cited the example of only girls cleaning the classroom every night while the boys play sports. It drives me crazy. So I said, “Girls empower yourselves tell the boys to clean, why should you have to?” To which every single student, male and female, responded in unison, “It is our culture!” Alrighty then, I guess we’ll leave that one alone. It’s a strange paradox though considering Rwanda has the highest proportion of women in government of any democratic country in the world.
I got a taste of that very government when I went to Kigali to attempt to file for NGO status in Rwanda. Holy bureaucracy! Once I finally found the office (underground one floor and down a very long hall in a huge soviet style ministry building) I was greeted by two people sitting at card tables and on plastic chairs but with really nice flat screen computers. This seems to be a theme in Rwanda as Kagame has decided to model Rwanda after Singapore and attempt to be the I.C.T hub of Africa. Never mind that Singapore is surrounded by water and Rwanda is landlocked or that I spend most computer classes trying to get the students to understand that to open something on the desktop you double click not simply highlight and then sit waiting for it to open. Another example, my school received a reward of 40 brand-new computers from the ministry (not really sure what for) which have been sitting in a room since April because they don’t have the money to build the desks to put them on. Meanwhile, I’m struggling through I.C.T class with fifty students and five computers! So anyway I found the office and the man was very nice if not slightly confused about the incentives for actually acquiring NGO status. I went with my Articles of Incorporation and IRS forms to which he smirked and handed me a list 13 items long that was required. The list included such necessities as a detailed list of ever donor who is or who might ever provide funding, a signed memorandum of understanding between the Minister of Education and the fund, a letter of support from the District Mayor of Nyanza as well as the Governor of the Province. I smirked right back and inquired, “So why do I really need to register? Theoretically I could just pay the fees without the government knowing right?” He looked schocked. “We will punish you if you don’t!” “With taxes? Or fines?” “ No no you don’t have to pay taxes! But we want to recognize you for all the good you do for our country!” So jump through hoops and we will thank you. I walked out of the office with the list slightly more confused then I was at the beginning, but then I went for an amazing pizza and the trip to Kigali wasn’t all for nothing in the end!
It’s exam time again. I hate exams. There’s no bigger blow to the ego then when a student fails an exam. It really upsets me. I’ve been educated in a system that requires you to apply theories and concepts on exams not simply regurgitate them and I can’t seem to get that form of test-taking to translate. This term we’ve been discussing formatting in Word, which is mostly me teaching how to change a font and go from single to double-spaced. Instead of asking them to recount the steps necessary to make a word bold and italicized on the exam, I wrote a word out different ways and asked them to identify the word that actually was both. I seriously almost had a mutiny on my hands. They were beside themselves! I still can’t understand the difficulty but it culminated in me promising to only have that question count for half a point to get them to be quiet as I wasn’t sure if their griping in Kinyarwanda was just that or also them exchanging answers! As much as it sucks when a student fails the students who really apply themselves and want to do well make it all worth it. It’s so cute when they all run up to me afterwards asking for the answers and whoop if they got a particularly difficult question correct.
I feel a little condescending calling my students cute since I would estimate that about 30% of them are older than me. I’ve become a bit more of a disciplinarian this term. I get that some students are going to talk but the acoustics in the classroom are so bad that if a student is whispering in the back they may as well be chatting right next to me. I also invariably look at the wrong side of the room when a student asks me a question, which is apparently hilarious to the students. Also hilarious, my duck and cover position anytime one of the huge, (apparently harmless) wasps comes flying in but hey, that’s just self-preservation. The other day the computer lab was locked and my key wouldn’t work because another key was in the other side of the door so I started banging. All the students outside started tapping on the window saying, “Prof!” or “mzungu!” Which I think did more harm than good because the students inside were obviously doing something they were not supposed to be doing such as watching “Kobe’s 10 greatest plays” on YouTube which seems to be a favorite, but the computers are so miserably slow that it takes about 2 minutes to get any window that is open off the screen. So as predicted, about 2 minutes later, they finally opened the door. I was livid. It was a bunch of Senior 6’s (the oldest kids) and I started yelling at them. Two of them were Kurera so they booked it out of there hoping I wouldn’t recognize them but then the rest just stared at me as if my tirade was incredibly boring. So I was like alright you wanna do this? We can do this. Only actually saying that would have been completely lost on them. I said, “Get out your discipline cards!” An initial look of shock came over all of their faces followed by the most wounded puppy dog look I’ve ever seen. It was as if I had completely broken their hearts, so I started laughing, somewhat hysterically, because sometimes the relative absurdity of my life gets me in stitches and lapsed right back in to easy-going young teacher Claire and asked, “So what’s so exciting anyway?” To which a collective sigh of relief was breathed.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Mugged: Revisited
Today I partook in what can only be described as the most pathetic encounter between man and the wild. The space between my bedroom window and the thick concrete wall that surrounds my house is about five feet. While the view of a laundry line, water spicket, and rock pile are simply breathtaking I rarely open the bedroom curtain to take it all in. Today though, I heard a ruckus and I opened my curtain. Seeing nothing I sort of spaced out (I know, so uncharacteristic of me) and sipped my cup of tea. All of a sudden at the bottom of my vision I saw a rat bounce across the concrete and before I could let out a yelp a much more terrifying creature entered the picture. In the little alley between my window and wall an absolutely humungous hawk swept down to grab the rat. Only, just my luck, it didn’t. My initial surprise was evident by the spilled tea down my clean white shirt but then I had the added bonus of witnessing the slightly pathetic scene in front of me. The hawk had gotten its wing caught in the laundry line and was now causing quite a stir, desperately trying to break free. It was like being at the nature museum in 5th grade only it was literally happening in my backyard. Once the hawk caught sight of me gawking in the window, the desperation turned to a sort of angry cry of deep despair. In height, the bird came to at least my waist so there was no way I was getting tangled up trying to help it break free, also there was a rat out there! The house boy who works at the house behind mine heard the commotion and I think thought I was on the verge of death because the cry was so humanlike. So in he burst through the small gate in the wall, literally right in to the hawk. I think the surprise shocked them both so much that the boy ducked and disappeared almost as quickly as the hawk broke free and flapped away. It was the strangest thing. It was over almost as suddenly as it started and all in the space of about a minute.
Thank god he broke free, because turns out Rwanda doesn’t have an animal control and I’m not really in the market for a pet hawk, although they, as well as the crows, commonly land on my tin roof and seem to have athletics competitions with one another which sound like the end of the world on my tin roof. Last night, there was an extreme thunderstorm and the combination of clapping thunder and the deluge of water falling from the sky rocked me awake at two in the morning and kept me up until four. Talk about the end of the world, those storms are by far the most intense I have ever experienced.
My main motivation for blogging today is to address my earlier blog post about being mugged. As Kurera is just starting up, my Mom thought that a blog about muggings in Rwanda probably wasn’t the best publicity. I argue the contrary. I think I have written before that I feel safer in Rwanda than I have ever felt alone in America. I think my shock at the situation should only exemplify the relative security I enjoy on a daily basis. Furthermore, what is a better advertisement for providing an education than experiencing the blatant repercussions of an uneducated youth? By providing fees for students who cannot afford secondary school you are providing a future, a realistic hope for financial and physical security that in a country so often associated with the terrible genocide that occurred only fifteen years ago, is a new and novel idea. That’s enough preaching for me, but please prove me right and don’t let my unfortunate experience deter you from investing in the future of a country with so much development potential. On that note I’ll have a new blog for Kurera up in the next couple of days so make sure you follow that one as well! I won’t be the only author so hopefully it will be updated more regularly than this one!
Thank god he broke free, because turns out Rwanda doesn’t have an animal control and I’m not really in the market for a pet hawk, although they, as well as the crows, commonly land on my tin roof and seem to have athletics competitions with one another which sound like the end of the world on my tin roof. Last night, there was an extreme thunderstorm and the combination of clapping thunder and the deluge of water falling from the sky rocked me awake at two in the morning and kept me up until four. Talk about the end of the world, those storms are by far the most intense I have ever experienced.
My main motivation for blogging today is to address my earlier blog post about being mugged. As Kurera is just starting up, my Mom thought that a blog about muggings in Rwanda probably wasn’t the best publicity. I argue the contrary. I think I have written before that I feel safer in Rwanda than I have ever felt alone in America. I think my shock at the situation should only exemplify the relative security I enjoy on a daily basis. Furthermore, what is a better advertisement for providing an education than experiencing the blatant repercussions of an uneducated youth? By providing fees for students who cannot afford secondary school you are providing a future, a realistic hope for financial and physical security that in a country so often associated with the terrible genocide that occurred only fifteen years ago, is a new and novel idea. That’s enough preaching for me, but please prove me right and don’t let my unfortunate experience deter you from investing in the future of a country with so much development potential. On that note I’ll have a new blog for Kurera up in the next couple of days so make sure you follow that one as well! I won’t be the only author so hopefully it will be updated more regularly than this one!
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Mugged.
I’m totally freaked out. I’m hoping blogging and telling the somewhat surreal story of tonight will calm my nerves and help me go to sleep. It had to happen sometime and tonight my utopian view of Rwanda came crashing down around me and has left me shaken not only with insecurity but the feeling of loss concerning my enchantment with everything Rwanda.
I’m staying in Kigali to meet with some people about Kurera to ask for some advice concerning accounting, taxes, and grant-writing. My field director and I decided we would meet for a curry at an Indian restaurant she had told me about to go over a grant I had been working on. After a good meal, we were walking back towards St. Paul’s, the hostel where I am staying, on an uncharacteristically desolate street. For anyone who knows Kigali I was right in front of Ice and Spice.
Jessi had a small purse she was holding in her left hand and I was holding my computer, which I had brought to show her the new temporary website as well as swap pictures with her. We were walking towards a group of guys about my age and I didn’t think anything of it until all of a sudden one of them sprinted towards us and grabbed Jessi’s wallet. Before I even knew what was happening she was off, chasing after him screaming and trying to get help. I was paralyzed. I’ve never felt so helpless/stupid/insecure/foreign in my entire life. I mean honestly, there I am standing on a dark street, alone, holding a laptop, right next to a group of men who presumably knew the man who Jessi was chasing, without the slightest clue what to do with myself. So naturally I started to laugh because it seems to be the only reaction I am capable of in stressful situations.
As my laughing began to border on hysteria a crowd formed around me looking very inquisitive at this strange mzungu standing in the middle of the street (I guess I subconsciously thought that was safer) holding a laptop and seemingly having a nervous breakdown. Jessi was out of sight, so then I began to panic about what would happen if she actually did catch the guy, I also didn’t know if she had turned or run straight because it all happened so fast and on dark streets. After a couple minutes I hailed a moto and asked him to wait with me because a friend of the group of people who were standing staring at me had stolen my friends wallet and I didn’t know what to do. He understood about a third of what I said but it was enough to get him to wait with me.
All of a sudden I got really angry. I love Rwanda. I love that I feel so safe in Rwanda and I really hated how unsafe I felt in that moment. I hated that one person or group of people could instantly make me feel so insecure. So I turned to them and I said, quite crossly, “You are bad for Rwanda! I feel safe here and now I’m not safe and that’s bad! You’re bad.” The moto driver kind of chuckled at me and I guess thought I could handle myself (don’t know what gave him that idea) and told me he was going to look for my friend. I stared after him quite dumbfounded and then rather sheepishly turned around to the group of people I had just told off (not that they understood) and smiled. I never saw the moto driver again but Jessi pulled up a minute or so later on a white horse of sorts. A very nice man named Jean-Baptiste had come to her rescue.
Jean-Baptiste took us to the police station where the police officer didn’t bother with a report and instead we all just stood listening to different men in uniform exclaim, ‘O Sorry!’ after the story was told to them. Afterwards he dropped me off here at St. Paul’s and I think in my panic I might have just offended a nun who was trying to give me my change from when I paid earlier but I gave her the third degree in my terrible French before I opened the door even a crack.
Update: This whole episode happened last Sunday night but I’ve been sick so I haven’t been to school/internet to post. My trip to Kigali only got more dramatic on Monday. I went to the Ministry of Education to meet with Jessi again an then was off to meet with the accountant. I stepped on to the moto a little off balance and at the same time the moto driver leaned to the right, which was the side I was getting on from. Of course it’s highly possible that my losing my balance led to me leaning heavily on his shoulder and thus causing the lean but I like the version where we share responsibility. Either way, my leg and his exhaust pipe met and I have the gaping wound to show for it. So that’s it, by my next blog I’ll be back to my positive I love Rwanda self.
I’m staying in Kigali to meet with some people about Kurera to ask for some advice concerning accounting, taxes, and grant-writing. My field director and I decided we would meet for a curry at an Indian restaurant she had told me about to go over a grant I had been working on. After a good meal, we were walking back towards St. Paul’s, the hostel where I am staying, on an uncharacteristically desolate street. For anyone who knows Kigali I was right in front of Ice and Spice.
Jessi had a small purse she was holding in her left hand and I was holding my computer, which I had brought to show her the new temporary website as well as swap pictures with her. We were walking towards a group of guys about my age and I didn’t think anything of it until all of a sudden one of them sprinted towards us and grabbed Jessi’s wallet. Before I even knew what was happening she was off, chasing after him screaming and trying to get help. I was paralyzed. I’ve never felt so helpless/stupid/insecure/foreign in my entire life. I mean honestly, there I am standing on a dark street, alone, holding a laptop, right next to a group of men who presumably knew the man who Jessi was chasing, without the slightest clue what to do with myself. So naturally I started to laugh because it seems to be the only reaction I am capable of in stressful situations.
As my laughing began to border on hysteria a crowd formed around me looking very inquisitive at this strange mzungu standing in the middle of the street (I guess I subconsciously thought that was safer) holding a laptop and seemingly having a nervous breakdown. Jessi was out of sight, so then I began to panic about what would happen if she actually did catch the guy, I also didn’t know if she had turned or run straight because it all happened so fast and on dark streets. After a couple minutes I hailed a moto and asked him to wait with me because a friend of the group of people who were standing staring at me had stolen my friends wallet and I didn’t know what to do. He understood about a third of what I said but it was enough to get him to wait with me.
All of a sudden I got really angry. I love Rwanda. I love that I feel so safe in Rwanda and I really hated how unsafe I felt in that moment. I hated that one person or group of people could instantly make me feel so insecure. So I turned to them and I said, quite crossly, “You are bad for Rwanda! I feel safe here and now I’m not safe and that’s bad! You’re bad.” The moto driver kind of chuckled at me and I guess thought I could handle myself (don’t know what gave him that idea) and told me he was going to look for my friend. I stared after him quite dumbfounded and then rather sheepishly turned around to the group of people I had just told off (not that they understood) and smiled. I never saw the moto driver again but Jessi pulled up a minute or so later on a white horse of sorts. A very nice man named Jean-Baptiste had come to her rescue.
Jean-Baptiste took us to the police station where the police officer didn’t bother with a report and instead we all just stood listening to different men in uniform exclaim, ‘O Sorry!’ after the story was told to them. Afterwards he dropped me off here at St. Paul’s and I think in my panic I might have just offended a nun who was trying to give me my change from when I paid earlier but I gave her the third degree in my terrible French before I opened the door even a crack.
Update: This whole episode happened last Sunday night but I’ve been sick so I haven’t been to school/internet to post. My trip to Kigali only got more dramatic on Monday. I went to the Ministry of Education to meet with Jessi again an then was off to meet with the accountant. I stepped on to the moto a little off balance and at the same time the moto driver leaned to the right, which was the side I was getting on from. Of course it’s highly possible that my losing my balance led to me leaning heavily on his shoulder and thus causing the lean but I like the version where we share responsibility. Either way, my leg and his exhaust pipe met and I have the gaping wound to show for it. So that’s it, by my next blog I’ll be back to my positive I love Rwanda self.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Don't Lose Your Keys in Africa
WOW! If I can offer one piece of advice for anyone traveling or living in Africa it would have to be DO NOT LOSE YOUR KEYS! I left my house 24 hours ago to post my last blog and have just now returned after the longest and most ridiculous process ever! It all started so innocently on what was turning out ot be a really great day. I was sitting at my school using the internet when Yves came home from teaching and invited me to a baby naming ceremony for one of his friends, who I knew, who had just become a father. Always up for an adventure I decided to join. First though, he, his two friends from university, and I all sat in his living room visiting. I remember looking down seeing my keys sitting right next to me and thinking to myself don’t forget those. Ah the voice of doom. Yves’ very nice friend, Claudine, had brought me sambusas and drinking yogurt from my favorite place so I sat happily munching while they chatted in Kinyarwanda. When it was time to leave I picked up my phone and laptop and we headed out the door. Not even two minutes walk from the house I realized I had left my keys but, not wanting to inconvenience anyone, I decided to just get them on my way back home.
The party turned out to be a pretty awkward mix of people staring at each other but most of all me, and discussing me in Kinyarwanda. Sometimes I want to scream, “Hello! I’ve been here four months I know how to say, “That white person speaks English and doesn’t know Kinyarwanda.” Anyway, frustrations aside, I did have to leave because I had also been invited to visit the school secretary with Mama and Papa Cyizere. They told me to be at their house at 4 and even though I do feel thoroughly at peace with African time they insisted that they were on a ‘mzungu program’ and I had to be on time. SO naturally they were not there at 4 so I decided to go back to the school to get my keys. My heart sank when I walked in the room and they were nowhere to be found. The housegirl claimed ignorance and Mama Cyizere came and said not to worry we would find them when we returned. So we went to the secretary, Agnes’, house who is married to the history teacher at my school. She’s one of my only Rwandan girlfriends and I love her. She’s not quiet and subdued like most Rwandan women I meet, she’s always giggling and joking with me. We drank a couple fantas and then it was time to return. Agnes held my hand the whole dark walk home because she was concerned I had mzungu eyes and would fall and hurt myself. Bless her.
We got back to the school/Yves’ house and of course the keys hadn’t magically appeared while we were gone. Mama and Papa started insisting I stay at their house but I hate not being in my own bed so I fought for a locksmith to come before I admitted defeat. I think they both wanted to kill me but being the wonderful people they are they called the “locksmith”. Imagine my surprise when my favorite alcoholic, octogenarian toilet repair man came stumbling down the path and then stood at attention to salute me before he lost his balance and crashed in to Papa Cyizere. He stank of Waragi(Ugandan Gin) but for some reason no one seemed to mind and thought he should change my lock in the dark regardless. He went to get his “tools” while we walked to my house. He showed up with two screwdrivers and a hammer and I knew we were really in for it. He proceeded to take off the door handle thaen bang on the lock like a crazy person with his hammer until it fell off. This was at 8, after his initial surprise that the door didn’t magically open after his bashing he fiddled around with a screwdriver doing the same thing again and again to the lock over the course of two hours! By the end of the ordeal we had an audience of over fifteen people. And by end, I mean by the time I conceded defeat, I never made it in the house. So a guard from my school had to come guard the house since the crashing had obviously alerted everyone in a five mile radius that I had lost my keys and security was compromised to say the least. I went back to Mama Cyziere’s thoroughly depressed by the whole situation. She seemed mildly offended that I didn’t want to take a bucket shower at her house at 11 pm but I was too exhausted and frustrated to explain. I crawled into bed fully clothed and of course I had to have been wearing my tight jeans that I NEVER wear on this particular day.
I woke up this morning to knocking on the bedroom door that Mama insisted I lock. She told me that the drunk repair man had sobered up and fixed my door in less than an hour and to go meet the guard at my house to get the key. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved, I couldn’t wait to get home. I put on my shoes and was out the door after thanking Mama and Papa profusely but quickly. I looked ROUGH! My hair was a mess, my eyes were all puffy and red and I was just generally discombobulated. Of course the first person I see is a student looking very suspiciously at me. I started laughing hysterically as I usually do in uncomfortable situations and I think he now thinks I am certifiably insane or a total party animal. Either one is slightly mortifying considering he is one my best and favorite students. I didn’t care though, the saga was about to be over! But no. I got to my house and there was no guard, just a locked door and of course at this point my phone was dead. After knocking on every window with the help of my poubelle boys I realized I would have to go back to school. I first attempted to knock on neighbors doors to ask for a charger but this turned out to be humiliating since I have the cheapest possible phone(my third since I’ve been here) because I have a habit of losing those as well and apparently no one else would be caught dead carrying one. So allll the way back to school I went.
I got to school on the verge of tears and Jean called the guard who told him he had brought the keys back to Mama Cyizere’s house. There is one road between my house and Mama Cyizere’s so he had to have passed me. I just about lost it. Happy Claire was gone, I said to Jean, “Are you kidding me? Did he get me confused with the other white girl in Nyanza? O wait! There isn’t one! What an idiot. And why was he in my house! My light was left on what was he doing in there! This is ridiculous.” Jean looked terrified. Mama Shema (Jean’s wife) came and calmed me down and then Tunda(Mama Cyizere’s brother) brought the keys. I couldn’t have been happier if someone handed me a million dollars. Finally! So off I went BACK to my house only this time I knew I would be able to get in. Of course just to add to the excitement a storm was looming. The kind of Rwandan storm that hangs in the air, threatening to unleash a serious deluge of water. Everyone around me started sprinting. This is a bad sign, if Rwandans are running you run, especially if you are being passed up by a man with no foot running on his crutch. I was still carrying my laptop from yesterday’s ill-fated blog post and I didn’t want my laptop to get wet. I thought I was running fast but I kept being passed by Rwandans looking at me as they sprinted past, smiling, and saying, “Mwaramutse!” or “Good Morning!” I have never laughed so hard, no matter how frustrating or difficult things seem to be here, something invariably happens to make me smile. There’s nothing like mass hysteria before a downpour to put a smile of your face. Now I’m back, 24 hours later, listening to the rain, with a warm cup of tea, thinking how happy my mom is going to be that I did three blogposts in two days.
The party turned out to be a pretty awkward mix of people staring at each other but most of all me, and discussing me in Kinyarwanda. Sometimes I want to scream, “Hello! I’ve been here four months I know how to say, “That white person speaks English and doesn’t know Kinyarwanda.” Anyway, frustrations aside, I did have to leave because I had also been invited to visit the school secretary with Mama and Papa Cyizere. They told me to be at their house at 4 and even though I do feel thoroughly at peace with African time they insisted that they were on a ‘mzungu program’ and I had to be on time. SO naturally they were not there at 4 so I decided to go back to the school to get my keys. My heart sank when I walked in the room and they were nowhere to be found. The housegirl claimed ignorance and Mama Cyizere came and said not to worry we would find them when we returned. So we went to the secretary, Agnes’, house who is married to the history teacher at my school. She’s one of my only Rwandan girlfriends and I love her. She’s not quiet and subdued like most Rwandan women I meet, she’s always giggling and joking with me. We drank a couple fantas and then it was time to return. Agnes held my hand the whole dark walk home because she was concerned I had mzungu eyes and would fall and hurt myself. Bless her.
We got back to the school/Yves’ house and of course the keys hadn’t magically appeared while we were gone. Mama and Papa started insisting I stay at their house but I hate not being in my own bed so I fought for a locksmith to come before I admitted defeat. I think they both wanted to kill me but being the wonderful people they are they called the “locksmith”. Imagine my surprise when my favorite alcoholic, octogenarian toilet repair man came stumbling down the path and then stood at attention to salute me before he lost his balance and crashed in to Papa Cyizere. He stank of Waragi(Ugandan Gin) but for some reason no one seemed to mind and thought he should change my lock in the dark regardless. He went to get his “tools” while we walked to my house. He showed up with two screwdrivers and a hammer and I knew we were really in for it. He proceeded to take off the door handle thaen bang on the lock like a crazy person with his hammer until it fell off. This was at 8, after his initial surprise that the door didn’t magically open after his bashing he fiddled around with a screwdriver doing the same thing again and again to the lock over the course of two hours! By the end of the ordeal we had an audience of over fifteen people. And by end, I mean by the time I conceded defeat, I never made it in the house. So a guard from my school had to come guard the house since the crashing had obviously alerted everyone in a five mile radius that I had lost my keys and security was compromised to say the least. I went back to Mama Cyziere’s thoroughly depressed by the whole situation. She seemed mildly offended that I didn’t want to take a bucket shower at her house at 11 pm but I was too exhausted and frustrated to explain. I crawled into bed fully clothed and of course I had to have been wearing my tight jeans that I NEVER wear on this particular day.
I woke up this morning to knocking on the bedroom door that Mama insisted I lock. She told me that the drunk repair man had sobered up and fixed my door in less than an hour and to go meet the guard at my house to get the key. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved, I couldn’t wait to get home. I put on my shoes and was out the door after thanking Mama and Papa profusely but quickly. I looked ROUGH! My hair was a mess, my eyes were all puffy and red and I was just generally discombobulated. Of course the first person I see is a student looking very suspiciously at me. I started laughing hysterically as I usually do in uncomfortable situations and I think he now thinks I am certifiably insane or a total party animal. Either one is slightly mortifying considering he is one my best and favorite students. I didn’t care though, the saga was about to be over! But no. I got to my house and there was no guard, just a locked door and of course at this point my phone was dead. After knocking on every window with the help of my poubelle boys I realized I would have to go back to school. I first attempted to knock on neighbors doors to ask for a charger but this turned out to be humiliating since I have the cheapest possible phone(my third since I’ve been here) because I have a habit of losing those as well and apparently no one else would be caught dead carrying one. So allll the way back to school I went.
I got to school on the verge of tears and Jean called the guard who told him he had brought the keys back to Mama Cyizere’s house. There is one road between my house and Mama Cyizere’s so he had to have passed me. I just about lost it. Happy Claire was gone, I said to Jean, “Are you kidding me? Did he get me confused with the other white girl in Nyanza? O wait! There isn’t one! What an idiot. And why was he in my house! My light was left on what was he doing in there! This is ridiculous.” Jean looked terrified. Mama Shema (Jean’s wife) came and calmed me down and then Tunda(Mama Cyizere’s brother) brought the keys. I couldn’t have been happier if someone handed me a million dollars. Finally! So off I went BACK to my house only this time I knew I would be able to get in. Of course just to add to the excitement a storm was looming. The kind of Rwandan storm that hangs in the air, threatening to unleash a serious deluge of water. Everyone around me started sprinting. This is a bad sign, if Rwandans are running you run, especially if you are being passed up by a man with no foot running on his crutch. I was still carrying my laptop from yesterday’s ill-fated blog post and I didn’t want my laptop to get wet. I thought I was running fast but I kept being passed by Rwandans looking at me as they sprinted past, smiling, and saying, “Mwaramutse!” or “Good Morning!” I have never laughed so hard, no matter how frustrating or difficult things seem to be here, something invariably happens to make me smile. There’s nothing like mass hysteria before a downpour to put a smile of your face. Now I’m back, 24 hours later, listening to the rain, with a warm cup of tea, thinking how happy my mom is going to be that I did three blogposts in two days.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Kurera (2 of 2)
I came to school after a long weekend of guacamole, quesadilla and general Cinco de Mayo merry-making to find about thirty percent of my students walking aimlessly around campus. Come to find out, they had not paid their school fees and as punishment they were not allowed in class. The cost of school grades 7-9 is $66 a term and for grades 10-12 is $80. I was outraged. Imagine being denied lessons because you are tardy with a payment. I really believe in education, and getting to secondary school in Rwanda is no easy feat. While elementary education in Rwanda is universal the students must pass difficult National exams in 6th, 9th, and 12th grade to move on to the next level of education with the competition getting fiercer at each level. I decided I could do something about the fees.
I called my mom and told her about the situation. I envisioned donations from a few friends to help the neediest of students. Apparently the response from her friends was overwhelmingly positive and we decided to start a non-profit. Actually she decided and I was over the moon! I was in the computer lab checking my e-mail the next day on the slow internet when a student, one of the ones walking around, came in and plead his case. He told me his father was killed in the genocide and his mother was very poor and he wanted to go to school so he could help her. Then his eyes welled up and he said he was going to be sent home if he did not pay his school fees is there any way I could help? He then went on to say that if I could not help him financially could I prepare lessons for him since he was not allowed to go to school that week. I was struck by the innocence of his proposition. Just then, and I’m not even saying this for dramatic emphasis, my e-mail popped up and there was a message in my inbox titled non-profit from my mom proposing the non-profit idea. Thus, Kurera fund was born. Kurera means to educate in Kinyarwanda and I thought it was a fitting name for what I want to accomplish. I hope to ensure the education of Rwandans by simply providing school fees. Hopefully, the idea will blossom and with grants I can stay here in Rwanda to see it grow nationwide. For now though I’m starting small. I’ll be setting up a website to connect sponsors with children who need sponsoring at my school in Nyanza.
I’m extremely excited about this new venture but I know I have a ton to learn and seeing as how everything is happening so fast it seems all my training will have to come on the job. Any knowledge or experience with non-profits is welcome and of course financial support once I get the site up and running would be the biggest vote of confidence anyone could give!
I called my mom and told her about the situation. I envisioned donations from a few friends to help the neediest of students. Apparently the response from her friends was overwhelmingly positive and we decided to start a non-profit. Actually she decided and I was over the moon! I was in the computer lab checking my e-mail the next day on the slow internet when a student, one of the ones walking around, came in and plead his case. He told me his father was killed in the genocide and his mother was very poor and he wanted to go to school so he could help her. Then his eyes welled up and he said he was going to be sent home if he did not pay his school fees is there any way I could help? He then went on to say that if I could not help him financially could I prepare lessons for him since he was not allowed to go to school that week. I was struck by the innocence of his proposition. Just then, and I’m not even saying this for dramatic emphasis, my e-mail popped up and there was a message in my inbox titled non-profit from my mom proposing the non-profit idea. Thus, Kurera fund was born. Kurera means to educate in Kinyarwanda and I thought it was a fitting name for what I want to accomplish. I hope to ensure the education of Rwandans by simply providing school fees. Hopefully, the idea will blossom and with grants I can stay here in Rwanda to see it grow nationwide. For now though I’m starting small. I’ll be setting up a website to connect sponsors with children who need sponsoring at my school in Nyanza.
I’m extremely excited about this new venture but I know I have a ton to learn and seeing as how everything is happening so fast it seems all my training will have to come on the job. Any knowledge or experience with non-profits is welcome and of course financial support once I get the site up and running would be the biggest vote of confidence anyone could give!
African time (1 of 2)
So much for keeping up to date! I’ve been a terrible blogger of late, mostly due to having too much going on, but also, and in some ways as an extension of, the daunting thought of getting my blog back up to speed. How do I even begin to summarize the month of April? The highlight was my mother’s arrival on the 1st. Together we traveled back to Nyanza where she got to meet many of my favorite students and teachers, then on to Kigali where we visited the always depressing but very informative Genocide Memorial Museum, and finally on to Musanze to see the gorillas.
We woke up very early to get to the meeting point for the gorillas by 6 am. I was both apprehensive and excited but most of all nervous that I would be the most out of shape in the group. Elizabeth’s family joined us and she and I had been joking for weeks that we would be gasping for air bringing up the rear. Turns out I’m not in as bad of shape as I thought. The hike was awesome, I felt so authentic literally bushwhacking through the jungle then again there were the random freak-outs after the guide yelled, “ANTS!” and we all started sprinting and at first not really understanding why. Turns out ants in the jungle are nasty little buggers and most of us had actual ants in our pants after the commotion. After about an hour and a half of trekking uphill we finally reached the gorillas. We went to see the Kwitonda family and it…was…AWESOME. Normally you are supposed to stay seven meters back from the gorillas but our family was in a grove of bamboo so the guides were cutting back branches and beckoning us closer and closer until all of a sudden we were just a few meters away from a huge silverback. They tell you before you get there not to point but of course I was beside myself with excitement and was totally that tourist pointing at him and then the rest of the family as we came across them. Elizabeth has a video of me whispering as we approached the gorillas, “this is the coolest thing I’ve ever done” which is absolutely hilarious. It was amazing though, and I didn’t expect to react so strongly since I’m not really an outdoorsy hiker type but it was the experience of a lifetime and I strongly recommend it to anyone who has the opportunity.
We left Musanze the next day back to Kigali. Our trip back was complicated due to the fact that we were traveling on the Genocide Memorial day. One thing that jumps out the most about Rwanda is the constant stream of people walking along the road. No matter how desolate a stretch of road may seem you cannot go more than a kilometer without seeing someone walking along. Not this day though. The town was deserted. We knew the busses were not going to run until the afternoon and so we went to an empty but open hotel to have a coffee. The radio broadcast of the ceremony at the stadium in Kigali was playing and we could hear the emotion in the speeches although we obviously could not understand them. All of a sudden we were struck by an American voice thick with emotion speaking to the stadium full of people. The man was a pastor who had been living in Kigali at the time of the genocide and he spoke of the men and women who stood at his gates protecting his family telling the killers of how their children played together. My mom and I, both being pretty emotional, were all welled up his speech was so heartfelt and full of a gratitude. After composing ourselves, we went to the bus station at the time we were told the busses would start running but of course the town was still completely dead. Definitely a case of Africa time but can you really berate tardiness on a day like that? My mom and I settled on a cab and paid the extra money quite happily, well she did anyway, it was a good situation to be in with my mom/money!
Naturally, I was very sad to see my mom go. Thank you to everyone who sent things, all the goodies and supplies are greatly appreciated although I’m not sure my mom appreciated transporting them since I heard about how heavy the bag was every single time we talked leading up to her arrival. I was so happy she got to see my life here. It’s simple and I love it that way. I’m writing this at my house alone on a Friday night and I can honestly say there is nowhere else I would rather be, which will come as a huge surprise to anyone who knew me when I lived in San Diego! Anyway, I had a little taste of the not so simple Kigali ex-pat life the night my mom left when I went with Elizabeth’s family to Heaven restaurant. Yves was visiting me in Kigali so he came along which had me viewing the whole ex-pat experience through a local’s eyes. None of the entrées were less than fifteen dollars and we each ordered an appetizer, main, dessert, and a couple cocktails. Yves looked beside himself when he saw the menu and apart from the waiters he was the only Rwandan in the place. The meal must have cost at least $250 which is equivalent to the GDP per capita in Rwanda so to say the least I felt pretty guilty about our indulgence and Yves’ perma-deer in the headlights expression didn’t help matters!
Our holiday over-indulgence didn’t stop there though. Elizabeth’s mother and brother left and then she, her father and I were off to Gisenyi on Lake Kivu. The guidebook describes Gisenyi as Costa del Kivu but we were there during rainy season and genocide memorial week so mostly we just thought Costa del depressing. The town was deserted and somewhat run-down but the lake is undeniably gorgeous and the hotel we stayed at had hot showers so I can’t complain too much.
We then went on a very eventful trip through the Nyungwe national forest. Which was more about our endless hunt for gas then the actual forest thus including somewhat humiliating forays into tea plantation worker housing and amusing enactments of the act of putting gas in to a car trying to get our point across. We ended up going village-to-village getting liters of gas at a time until we reached Cyangugu at the southern tip of Lake Kivu. Also our car finally succumbed to the endless potholes on the Nyungwe road so we had string holding up the running boards of the car, which was cause for endless amusement as well as work for enterprising villagers at every place we stopped. We had not planned on going all the way to Cyangugu but the quest for gas proved it necessary. Why we left Butare with an empty tank I will never understand but the eleven tedious hours in the car I will never forget.
My two-week holiday came to an end with a mid-service in Kibuye for the program I am here with. Kibuye, in the center of the lake, is beautiful and was by far my favorite of all the lake side towns I visited in my Tour du Rwanda. Seeing all the other volunteers made me realize how happy I really am here. Everyone had so many complaints about their schools and living situations which is really just so boring to listen to especially when surrounded by gorgeous scenery in perfect weather. I imagine most of my contentment comes from having previously been in such a bad situation. I know how bad it can be so the lack of communication and disorganization is relatively inconsequential. Although, I did just find out that my English classes are not counted on the student’s report card. Which wouldn’t bother me had I not spent HOURS marking 300 exams and then painstakingly recording all their grades in a timely manner for the reporting period. I think the entire exam experience has proven that exams and I are just not meant to be. I will not be partaking in the exam hullabaloo this term and my sister’s arrival right in the middle of them will make the perfect excuse.
So now I’m back. When my mother was here she opened the door to three little boys while I was out running an errand. Those three little boys (the poubelle boys) have now turned into twenty and seeing as how my porch is a flat surface (that whole land of a thousand hills thing is true) they play very lively games of soccer on it almost every day. Little Emmanuel is by far my favorite and I just found out that he and his two brothers and mother are homeless. They sleep on a mattress behind my house. All the boys dress in rags and their ball is a scraps of plastic wrapped in string. They are so much fun and I love playing with them and teaching them English which has actually proved very helpful in improving my Kinyarwanda. Anyway, if anyone has old clothes for boys aged about 4-12 and want to send them my sister is coming in July and they would be greatly appreciated.
I was greeted by my Rwandan mother Mama Cyizere (chizAray) and father Papa Cyizere when I returned to school. She is the school accountant and he is a scientist at the instititute of agriculture in the north but he returns home every weekend. They invited me to come eat with them and asked me what day I would like to come for dinner. We settled on that Saturday which I had no idea was the Genocide Memorial Day for Nyanza. I arrived to their house on time, of course, and they arrived thirty minutes later in purple bandanas. Yves had told them I like Amstel, based purely on the fact that I had one on my birthday two months before but nevertheless the rumor around town is that I can’t get enough of the beer. So of course they had bought me FIVE! I have had about five drinks in total since I arrived in Rwanda four months ago so the task of drinking them was extremely daunting. I think I was on my second by the time the issue of the nature of the day came up and my alarming cultural faux pas was almost too much to bear. So THAT’S why everything was closed today I thought. Then I remembered when Mama Cyizere told me she had lost her entire family in the genocide in Nyanza fifteen years earlier and I just wanted to curl up in to a ball at the awkwardness of it all. It was 7:30, I still hadn’t eaten and there were still three beers lined up waiting to be drunk. I began to panic about whether or not I should stay for dinner. My cultural alarm bells were ringing but I couldn’t decide if it was just the alcohol talking. I decided to open another beer and grin and bear the rest of the evening, which after confirmation with Yves turned out to be what was expected of me. Needless to say, the walk home is a pretty fuzzy memory!
Papa Cyizere was very angry with Mama Cyizere for not having told me about the genocide memorial day so she is now my official informant at the school. Last Friday was Rwandan Labor Day, which is taken very seriously here. Not really having any idea what to expect, I was told to arrive at the school at 8am. Not wanting to be left behind I arrived at 7:50 and I think I have finally learned the African time lesson. No one else arrived until 9:30. The headmaster wasn’t even awake when I got here! (He lives at the school) When we finally got to the stadium it was 10:30 and the parade, which was supposed to begin at 10, wasn’t even close to beginning. At 11:30 we finally started marching. And by marching I mean marching army style. So embarrassing. I guess when everyone is doing it, it’s not so bad but I did have the added bonus of being the only white person there. As usual I was quite the spectacle but it was a great experience if only for the blog-worthiness of it all! The entire town was there and after the march around the stadium the organizer grabbed my arm and brought me straight to the governor’s tent to sit on the chairs. I’m not one to pass up a seat especially with the prospect of listening to three hours of Kinyarwanda speeches looming!
I’m finally back to my routine and the students seem to have readjusted to my accent so we are all getting along swimmingly. I have begun a new project that I think is worthy of its own blog post but I am beginning this term with a newly defined sense of purpose which leaves me very excited!
We woke up very early to get to the meeting point for the gorillas by 6 am. I was both apprehensive and excited but most of all nervous that I would be the most out of shape in the group. Elizabeth’s family joined us and she and I had been joking for weeks that we would be gasping for air bringing up the rear. Turns out I’m not in as bad of shape as I thought. The hike was awesome, I felt so authentic literally bushwhacking through the jungle then again there were the random freak-outs after the guide yelled, “ANTS!” and we all started sprinting and at first not really understanding why. Turns out ants in the jungle are nasty little buggers and most of us had actual ants in our pants after the commotion. After about an hour and a half of trekking uphill we finally reached the gorillas. We went to see the Kwitonda family and it…was…AWESOME. Normally you are supposed to stay seven meters back from the gorillas but our family was in a grove of bamboo so the guides were cutting back branches and beckoning us closer and closer until all of a sudden we were just a few meters away from a huge silverback. They tell you before you get there not to point but of course I was beside myself with excitement and was totally that tourist pointing at him and then the rest of the family as we came across them. Elizabeth has a video of me whispering as we approached the gorillas, “this is the coolest thing I’ve ever done” which is absolutely hilarious. It was amazing though, and I didn’t expect to react so strongly since I’m not really an outdoorsy hiker type but it was the experience of a lifetime and I strongly recommend it to anyone who has the opportunity.
We left Musanze the next day back to Kigali. Our trip back was complicated due to the fact that we were traveling on the Genocide Memorial day. One thing that jumps out the most about Rwanda is the constant stream of people walking along the road. No matter how desolate a stretch of road may seem you cannot go more than a kilometer without seeing someone walking along. Not this day though. The town was deserted. We knew the busses were not going to run until the afternoon and so we went to an empty but open hotel to have a coffee. The radio broadcast of the ceremony at the stadium in Kigali was playing and we could hear the emotion in the speeches although we obviously could not understand them. All of a sudden we were struck by an American voice thick with emotion speaking to the stadium full of people. The man was a pastor who had been living in Kigali at the time of the genocide and he spoke of the men and women who stood at his gates protecting his family telling the killers of how their children played together. My mom and I, both being pretty emotional, were all welled up his speech was so heartfelt and full of a gratitude. After composing ourselves, we went to the bus station at the time we were told the busses would start running but of course the town was still completely dead. Definitely a case of Africa time but can you really berate tardiness on a day like that? My mom and I settled on a cab and paid the extra money quite happily, well she did anyway, it was a good situation to be in with my mom/money!
Naturally, I was very sad to see my mom go. Thank you to everyone who sent things, all the goodies and supplies are greatly appreciated although I’m not sure my mom appreciated transporting them since I heard about how heavy the bag was every single time we talked leading up to her arrival. I was so happy she got to see my life here. It’s simple and I love it that way. I’m writing this at my house alone on a Friday night and I can honestly say there is nowhere else I would rather be, which will come as a huge surprise to anyone who knew me when I lived in San Diego! Anyway, I had a little taste of the not so simple Kigali ex-pat life the night my mom left when I went with Elizabeth’s family to Heaven restaurant. Yves was visiting me in Kigali so he came along which had me viewing the whole ex-pat experience through a local’s eyes. None of the entrées were less than fifteen dollars and we each ordered an appetizer, main, dessert, and a couple cocktails. Yves looked beside himself when he saw the menu and apart from the waiters he was the only Rwandan in the place. The meal must have cost at least $250 which is equivalent to the GDP per capita in Rwanda so to say the least I felt pretty guilty about our indulgence and Yves’ perma-deer in the headlights expression didn’t help matters!
Our holiday over-indulgence didn’t stop there though. Elizabeth’s mother and brother left and then she, her father and I were off to Gisenyi on Lake Kivu. The guidebook describes Gisenyi as Costa del Kivu but we were there during rainy season and genocide memorial week so mostly we just thought Costa del depressing. The town was deserted and somewhat run-down but the lake is undeniably gorgeous and the hotel we stayed at had hot showers so I can’t complain too much.
We then went on a very eventful trip through the Nyungwe national forest. Which was more about our endless hunt for gas then the actual forest thus including somewhat humiliating forays into tea plantation worker housing and amusing enactments of the act of putting gas in to a car trying to get our point across. We ended up going village-to-village getting liters of gas at a time until we reached Cyangugu at the southern tip of Lake Kivu. Also our car finally succumbed to the endless potholes on the Nyungwe road so we had string holding up the running boards of the car, which was cause for endless amusement as well as work for enterprising villagers at every place we stopped. We had not planned on going all the way to Cyangugu but the quest for gas proved it necessary. Why we left Butare with an empty tank I will never understand but the eleven tedious hours in the car I will never forget.
My two-week holiday came to an end with a mid-service in Kibuye for the program I am here with. Kibuye, in the center of the lake, is beautiful and was by far my favorite of all the lake side towns I visited in my Tour du Rwanda. Seeing all the other volunteers made me realize how happy I really am here. Everyone had so many complaints about their schools and living situations which is really just so boring to listen to especially when surrounded by gorgeous scenery in perfect weather. I imagine most of my contentment comes from having previously been in such a bad situation. I know how bad it can be so the lack of communication and disorganization is relatively inconsequential. Although, I did just find out that my English classes are not counted on the student’s report card. Which wouldn’t bother me had I not spent HOURS marking 300 exams and then painstakingly recording all their grades in a timely manner for the reporting period. I think the entire exam experience has proven that exams and I are just not meant to be. I will not be partaking in the exam hullabaloo this term and my sister’s arrival right in the middle of them will make the perfect excuse.
So now I’m back. When my mother was here she opened the door to three little boys while I was out running an errand. Those three little boys (the poubelle boys) have now turned into twenty and seeing as how my porch is a flat surface (that whole land of a thousand hills thing is true) they play very lively games of soccer on it almost every day. Little Emmanuel is by far my favorite and I just found out that he and his two brothers and mother are homeless. They sleep on a mattress behind my house. All the boys dress in rags and their ball is a scraps of plastic wrapped in string. They are so much fun and I love playing with them and teaching them English which has actually proved very helpful in improving my Kinyarwanda. Anyway, if anyone has old clothes for boys aged about 4-12 and want to send them my sister is coming in July and they would be greatly appreciated.
I was greeted by my Rwandan mother Mama Cyizere (chizAray) and father Papa Cyizere when I returned to school. She is the school accountant and he is a scientist at the instititute of agriculture in the north but he returns home every weekend. They invited me to come eat with them and asked me what day I would like to come for dinner. We settled on that Saturday which I had no idea was the Genocide Memorial Day for Nyanza. I arrived to their house on time, of course, and they arrived thirty minutes later in purple bandanas. Yves had told them I like Amstel, based purely on the fact that I had one on my birthday two months before but nevertheless the rumor around town is that I can’t get enough of the beer. So of course they had bought me FIVE! I have had about five drinks in total since I arrived in Rwanda four months ago so the task of drinking them was extremely daunting. I think I was on my second by the time the issue of the nature of the day came up and my alarming cultural faux pas was almost too much to bear. So THAT’S why everything was closed today I thought. Then I remembered when Mama Cyizere told me she had lost her entire family in the genocide in Nyanza fifteen years earlier and I just wanted to curl up in to a ball at the awkwardness of it all. It was 7:30, I still hadn’t eaten and there were still three beers lined up waiting to be drunk. I began to panic about whether or not I should stay for dinner. My cultural alarm bells were ringing but I couldn’t decide if it was just the alcohol talking. I decided to open another beer and grin and bear the rest of the evening, which after confirmation with Yves turned out to be what was expected of me. Needless to say, the walk home is a pretty fuzzy memory!
Papa Cyizere was very angry with Mama Cyizere for not having told me about the genocide memorial day so she is now my official informant at the school. Last Friday was Rwandan Labor Day, which is taken very seriously here. Not really having any idea what to expect, I was told to arrive at the school at 8am. Not wanting to be left behind I arrived at 7:50 and I think I have finally learned the African time lesson. No one else arrived until 9:30. The headmaster wasn’t even awake when I got here! (He lives at the school) When we finally got to the stadium it was 10:30 and the parade, which was supposed to begin at 10, wasn’t even close to beginning. At 11:30 we finally started marching. And by marching I mean marching army style. So embarrassing. I guess when everyone is doing it, it’s not so bad but I did have the added bonus of being the only white person there. As usual I was quite the spectacle but it was a great experience if only for the blog-worthiness of it all! The entire town was there and after the march around the stadium the organizer grabbed my arm and brought me straight to the governor’s tent to sit on the chairs. I’m not one to pass up a seat especially with the prospect of listening to three hours of Kinyarwanda speeches looming!
I’m finally back to my routine and the students seem to have readjusted to my accent so we are all getting along swimmingly. I have begun a new project that I think is worthy of its own blog post but I am beginning this term with a newly defined sense of purpose which leaves me very excited!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
