A day in sounds

Before the sun crests the mountain tops, the birds have begun. Their twitters and chirping carry into my open window at an ungodly hour as they announce to the world that the day is here. Despite the time, the adjusting of a radio at full volume is the next to make sure that I am wide and fully awake now. As if suddenly realizing people might still be sleeping, the radio is hushed, only to be replaced with an engine roaring to life in my driveway for no other purpose it seems but to make sure it will start again today. The car sits in idle until the working order is established and is revved one more time before that too is silenced. Yes, yes I am up now. I will get ready for the day. The hour passes quietly until I step outside and am greeted with the dogs, grumbling that they are once again, hungry. Tin dog bowls clash together with their unnatural twang to dislodge the ants before breakfast is served. Finally to work we go. The lowing cows wish the mazungu a good morning as they munch on their grasses. At work I am overcome with sound. The musical interludes of phones ringing, doors crashing shut, Kinyarwanda spoken at speeds and volumes as if trying to outdo one another, each trying to hold 5 conversations with everyone else. A step outside when it becomes too overwhelming. The birds, mellow in their trees now are pleasant and peaceful while the wind shuffles the eucalyptus leaves. A breath of calm. Next door the whistles are blown for recess followed by hundreds of children's voices raising into the air, laughing and calling after friends. The repetitious thud of the make-shift soccer ball come from the boy's side while the girls are chanting and clapping, stomping their feet and jumping in time to the rhythm. I've made it to lunch. The lid of the amandazi bucket pops open while the ijanas jangle in my wallet. Two ijanas for two amandazi please. My feet crunch on the dry and dusty road home. It's the dry season now. No rains. I let myself in the gate with a scraping clank while the continuous indistinguishable conversation of passersby is left outside. Home sweet home, where I get to dictate the noises in my house. Ed Gerhard or Andy McKee inspire my yoga practices which in turn give way to something more upbeat as I move about daily chores. Outside again with a soft snap of the lettuce leaves for my dinner. A match lit, gas hissing, and then a flame roaring softly under my pot of water who will soon begin its rumbling boil so I have clean water to drink. My fork on the plate accompanies the sounds to a movie during dinnertime. Nearly time for bed. The cicadas have replaced the birds in the endless chirping drone of nature. A truck rumbles down the road, threatening to lose a spare part, or an essential one. A stick on the rusted tire rim signals that it is 9:30 and time for me to go to sleep.

Greetings from a long forgotten time

I know, I've seriously neglected my duties in keeping up with this blog. Habit I guess. I am great at starting things. I am enthusiastic and eager, and the routine settles in and it just isn't quite as much fun as it used to be, and yes, I am talking both about the blog as well as my time here.

Don't get me wrong. I would hate to give anyone a wrong impression of this experience. I wouldn't trade it for anything. It has been so eye-opening both in my own personal development, as well as a bigger world that I've only ever seen through rose-colored glasses. Life here has just become life, it just happens to be in Rwanda. Routine and habit have become day to day companions like anyone else's life. Therefore, it is sometimes difficult to weed out the 'experience' from the general living. People ask me if I like being here. After one year, yeah I still like being here. It is frustrating more often that I thought it would be and I still feel so unaccomplished, but that doesn't make this a bad experience. Just different. Any semblance to my previous life has dwindled down to where it only resides in my suitcase where I stash my American goodies to try and ration them, much to no avail. One year in Rwanda, and then later one year at site passed without too much celebration or grandeur. I for some reason thought I might have this great epiphany or a sudden uplifting of my daily life. But, like any other day, it is just any other day apart from the fact that it marked my half-way point in my service. Thankfully I was able to reward myself for that occasion with a trip to Dubai and the Balkans which one of the greatest, most appreciated vacations I've ever spent.

I'm sure some of you have grown bored of my constant refrains for how 'normal' my Rwandan life is. My new resolution is to dig further into some of what I see in Rwanda and how I am feeling in my life and service. Granted, it might not always be positive, and I will try to present all sides of my time here. This probably should've been my opening to my blog, but I might as well start sometime. Like I said, I am great at beginning things. And, this year is like a new beginning. A year of service down, and a year counting down to all the things I have been missing and dreaming about for the past 365 days. (Thank goodness for the Mac & Cheese in my care packages!) I wanted to remind everyone out there reading that this blog only reflect my own personal views and experiences and is not affiliated with Peace Corps on any official terms. I hope you all continue reading I promise I will try to be better about writing!

No one has written a great symphony or even a concerto about Africa. Why is that so?

The music of Africa is too wild, too free, too accustomed to death for romance. Africa is too crude a stage for the small scratching of the violin, too majestic for the piano. Africa is only right for drums. The drum carries its rhythm but does not steal its music. Timpani is the background, the music of Africa is in the voices of the people. They are its instruments, more subtle, more beautiful, infinitely more noble than the scratching, thumping, banging and blowing of brass and wind and vellum, strings and keyboard.

The Power Of One Bryce Courtenay

Happy Half Century

For most, March 1st passed fairly uneventfully marking one day to the next, though within this certain community, it represented a milestone. For 50 years, Peace Corps has been sending its willing volunteers to all parts of the world to help as best they can. To many on the outside, it means saving the world, one country and two years at a time. An all-out do gooder who is crazy enough to volunteer their own life in the service of others. In some ways, yeah, that is what I have been working at. The chance to make some smidgen of a difference. Looking at this from the inside however, it's more than just a good theoretical idea. Like any government bureaucracy, Peace Corps deals with its rules and regulations, sometimes sacrificing the appeasement of its volunteers to be able to function in a country completely unlike any other, even from its own neighbors. Personalities, discrepancies, necessities, and niceties must cooperate together to produce a working system of volunteers able to serve their villages. There will always be lapses in organization and maybe a slight oversight to the humanness of its volunteers but what other organization so large will give you this experience. We live as Rwandans in their towns, in their jobs. (Yes, I have checked and I actually do have the same monthly salary as my co-workers) We are given an opportunity to stretch our own boundaries and claim this service for ourselves. Though is it aggravating, Peace Corps somehow manages to be the laid-back hippie parent as well as the overbearing one, letting us decide where to focus but keeping us within their guidelines. We learn as we go, we grow, we serve others, but mainly we just live. Happy Birthday Peace Corps; though sometimes I hate you and sometimes I love you, I am glad to be a part of this.

A year in review

Trials and triumphs... It is impossible to describe this past year without both of these. Granted, they might've been small, sometimes insignificant, but it is the addition of all these that have created this past year. February 2010 saw me leaving a cold, bleary, and wholly American land, to touch down in the heat and humidity of East Africa, completely unaware as to what Peace Corps service actually meant. Despite all the agonizing frustrations and looming uncertainties, I began my this new life as a volunteer in Rubengera, due west of Kigali and just 15 glorious minutes from Lake Kivu, which has turned out to be one of my greatest saving graces. Even through these past 365 days, at times I still feel just as lost as to what it means to be a Peace Corps volunteer. It often comes as a shock to remember I am serving here instead of just living. Day to day life carries you so effortlessly through the months that sometimes you forget you are moving; it's only when you decide to look and see where you are going that you remember. The good days are marked with people calling you by your real name instead of 'mazungu,' children stopping on their way to school to sing to you, watching the sun blaze into the mountain's vivid colors, swimming in Lake Kivu, and realizing you are living in Africa (how cool is that!!!). The bad moments, though not as often still mar those days with shouts and taunts of 'mazungu', an intense craving for some comforting American thing, a blank look when you cannot express yourself in Kinyarwanda. And, though I haven't accomplished the projects I have set out to quite yet, I am still working; Rwanda is being patient with me. It seems, like most experiences in life, as soon as you conquer one battle, another is just over the next hill waiting to take you on; and since Rwanda is the land of 10,000 hills, there are a heck to a lot of battles to deal with. Thinking through it though, it doesn't feel like I have fought a year's worth of battles yet. I guess that would be the most prominent thought and emotion that comes to mind when I think about my one year mark. One year didn't feel quite as long as I was expecting, and since there were no parades or parties to mark the occasion, it passed quietly. Just another day when I pass cows on my way to work, listen to Kinyarwana all day and try to speak lousy French, bathe from a bucket, then fall asleep beneath my mosquito net until I do it all over again.

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A walking contradiction

**This does not reflect the views of Peace Corps, or even my overall impression of Rwandans, it is simply observations about everyday behavior that seems to be contradictory. Please don't look at this as being cynical or angry, just a commentary on my life here...

People speak barely above a whisper talking face to face but on the phone they shout and will listen to the radio at full volume

They will clean their shoes obsessively and their dress is impeccable but sometimes lack olfactory hygiene

Women won't show above the knee but have no qualms about breast feeding anywhere

Use hands to blow their nose, cough into, sneeze into, and .... but they always hold bread or muffins with a napkin (even if the muffin already has a wrapper). Straws are not touched with the hand, rather pulled out and placed in the bottle with the teeth.

They get water from a pump and have to hoard it (not washing hands, etc.) but if there is a car, it will be washed almost every day

During dry season when temperatures are in the 90's, mothers use at least 3 layers to wrap their children on their backs. Also, if there is a newborn, they will be in long sleeves, a blanket, a entire zip-up fake blend blanket, with another blanket on top. During the wet season where day temperatures in the 60's, mothers let their children walk around in shorts and tank tops.

People always talk about having to portray yourself as 'serious' in order to be respected in the work-place. Yet, after an hour impromptu staff meeting in the morning, the nurses then proceed to gather and gossip and chat for another 45 minutes before doing anything productive with patients

The children on the bus go...

Rwanda children have me confused. More often than not, children are quite content to walk beside you or just stop and stare, yelling 'mazungu' in your direction, yet you take a step towards them and they scatter like spooked antelope. A mother, trying to be friendly will try to deposit her small kid into your lap where they promptly take one look at you, seize with terror, and let out ear splitting shrieks until the mother removes them again. It's great to look at the novelty white person, but don't let it get too close. But somehow, on the bus these rules cancel out. Now, in America people sitting on a bus have their nice personal space and can conveniently ignore everyone else around them. You could probably do that on Rwandan buses though it gets a little more difficult when there are 4 adults and 3 children trying to sit on 4 seats. Riding back to Kigali after my New Year's holiday, I was crammed in the back between two mothers, one with one child, the other trying to juggle two on her lap. Like most Rwandans, as soon as the vehicle started moving, the mother began to nod off leaving her older son standing squashed in the corner looking out the window. I felt awkward and sorry for both mother and the boy who had barely enough room to move. Pretty soon, the bus began lulling the boy as well and he tried in vain to keep himself upright while napping against the window. After several unsuccessful attempts I figured, why not. I motioned for him to sit on my lap to which he promptly scrambled over his mother. No fear or anxiety, just thankful to sit down. Granted, I was still a mazungu to stare at with the strange skin, but somehow the bus equalized us and he wasn't nervous about sitting with me. The novelty of the mazungu lap wore off quickly and he snuggled up to nap. Honestly, where else would you pick up a strange child and have them curl up to sleep against you. Where else would a child be allowed to sit with a stranger. The pure innocence of that simple act is such a powerful reminder that despite the name calling and frustrations with kids here, they have such a huge capacity to love and trust without questions asked.

Be strong and patient

I am starting to lose track of what I have written about now, though I am pretty sure I have mentioned this in previous entries. I was just struck by the concept again today at work and wanted to share. Komera and Ihangane; probably the two most commonly used phrases in Rawndan culture. Be strong and be patient. If someone next to you stumbles while walking you tell them to be strong. A neighbor is describing a difficult money or health problem, you tell them to be patient. Even laboring women are told to be patient, though I doubt that's what they want to hear at that moment. Be strong and be patient. It fits this culture so well. Such a simple sentiment but one that can have so much meaning. Ihangane, be patient. It's said time and time again in so many different ways. Anything worthwhile is worth waiting for. Often we get weighed down by the trivialities and we forget to look at the bigger picture. We get caught scrutinizing and stressing about things we can't control. Be patient. Things take time. Especially in Rwanda where Africa time seems to be at its best. It will get done, eventually. Life doesn't revolve on the extra minute or two you would save rushing through your days. Be patient.

Komera. It is such an inclusive word. A common greeting around my area is "Ukomeye" meaning are you strong? Not just a simple 'hello' or 'good morning' but a question about you and how you are doing in all possible senses. Are you strong? This also fits with their version of good morning or afternoon which translates more to 'you have survived the morning or afternoon?' Life is tough. More often than not it kicks the crap out of you for no apparent reason, so how encouraging is it to have someone make sure you are strong enough to handle it. Be strong. I like to think that this goes further then a quick response to someone tripping or a passing greeting. Be strong, not just in your body but in every facet of life. Be strong in love, be strong in beliefs, be strong in joy. How much more simply can you put it. Even in hard times, there is someone who will be there to look at you, smile, and tell you "Komera."

I hear it blowing

No matter how many times I come back to it, it's always the rain. The rain that comes, stealthily, abruptly, quickly, eventually. When all else fails and I feel like I can't breathe in this place, this new life, I find the rain. From the first few drops, barely enough to penetrate the soil, to an out-right downpour which washes clean all the dirt and grime. People sometimes get shortsighted by the stresses in life, they forget to see the simple, the nature made. It's a complete orchestra. There are the slow steady pings of the drops on the tin roof turning into a steady hum as the pour increases, and then again the louder splat as they roll their way towards the ground. The wavering rush of the wind through the trees, taking the droplets off their course for a moment. A bright burst of bird-song exclaiming into the storm. The accumulated thrum of rain falling through the air. A distant growling of thunder rolling through the steel gray clouds. If you don't listen it's easy to miss. To stare blankly into the wall of water, thinking only of plans ruined and hinderances caused. But step outside, if only for a moment. Not only do you sense with your ears and eyes, but you can smell the sharp clean scent of wetness and greenery, mud, and cloudy days. You can feel the chilling breeze brought with the water and the faint mist as the drops break apart on the ground at your feet. Above you is a blank sky, uniform in it's dull grayscale but full of life and change. Such a quick, blazing moment of sheer joy. Of unconfined wild abandon when anything changes, if only for a moment. There is nothing about this to do and that to worry about, there is only sensing and emotion. Pure clean, uncomplicated emotion. No conditions or ultimatums, only happiness in it's most simple form. A natural gift. The rain that will make plants grow, turn skies to shimmering blue, tamp down the dust and let voices carry further on the clearer air. A living force that creates, destroys, helps, hinders. And, then too soon it has moved on, continuously rolling onward. It leaves it's renewal behind along with its shaded skies and although there is that slow creeping back to reality and awareness that regular life hasn't actually changed, it still pulls at my heart. That faint tempting song reminding me that it was here, if only for a few moments. Then, it's a return to everyday chores and tasks, waiting patiently until the rain makes its next appearance to set me free once again.

Kids imitate the darndest things

It has been well known for generations that one of the most prominent ways children learn is through imitation. A child will imitate their mother or father to learn basic skills such as language, social functioning, and behavioral norms. It seems pretty intuitive that a kid will pick up on what is around them in their environment. I do find it strange then, that children seem to exhibit so many of the same habits despite the culture they grow up in. After having been around American children, there are a number of behaviors that seem common. Playing 'guns' is a very common game among young boys. In the states this is attributed to watching too much violent T.V. How then do you explain Rwandan children playing the same game when they have no exposure to television? And in a country that probably has no knowledge of Superman or other caped crusaders, capes are both known and a great use for one of Mom's extra blankets. Even though it is probably not so much a cultural phenomenon but more a musical one, banging on pots crosses the seas and entertains the smaller ones in Rwanda as well. Walking in adult's shoes and trying on their hats will always provide entertainment regardless of their origins. Working in my garden I have realized two things; first that American kids would most likely not race to join you in pulling weeds, but secondly, kids will always be thrilled with the small jobs as long as they are included. Picking out rocks and throwing them off to the side kept one little one busy while we were digging my garden. Granted many of the rocks never hit their mark and ended up back in the upturned soil, but she persisted, following us around the entire plot. And finally, mainly because I would love to know what they are thinking, the way children are fascinated with any baby smaller than themselves, be it a month or more. Both in America and Rwanda, and I'm sure most other places, children love other babies. Maybe they don't perceive themselves to be that small and therefore don't know how something that tiny can be alive, but kids are forever trying to reach out and grab other babies. So, be in across states or across continents, kids tend to pick up much more than we give them credit for and somehow end up with surprisingly similar mannerisms.

I'm day-dreaming of a life back home

Through all my years I have known about homesickness. It came on when I would sleep over at a friend's house, when I made a major life change like moving to college, and when I left one of couple of places I see as 'home' for a long period of time. Being homesick and heartsick for Idaho or Dubai is understandable to me and I often wish I could go back and visit more frequently than I do. Being homesick for another life is something fairly new to me which I've discovered here in Rwanda. People always ask if I miss America or have pangs of homesickness. Of course, but what is difficult to explain is that this homesickness is a much most pervasive form than most see. It tends to linger under the surface and comes to light at random and unexpected times. It's always there and I am always aware of it, but more often than not it isn't a primary thought. I think of home every day, of friends and family, of things I miss, and also of things I could've had; a different life. In some ways, you are homesick for what could've been. I know that if I had stayed, I would've had certain things, a different lifestyle, different memories. It's almost like second guessing yourself. You see all the good things in your other decision. And so it is in Rwanda. I not only imagine the things I have left behind, but I see this other life that I feel like I am missing. Sometimes that is the harder thing to deal with. Friends, family, and things will always be there for when you get back, but the other 'life' feels like a missed opportunity. Everyone makes decisions that change the way their life is, but often times the other choice, the one left untaken isn't quite as clear simply because you didn't take it. I think that's why I feel it more poignantly in Rwanda. I know the exact life I left in America. I don't regret taking this course, I just didn't know this homesickness was a part of it. I expected it to be like college; you are bummed for a while thinking about what you left but then each day is lessens and your new life takes over. Maybe it is the same, just happening on a slower scale. You would think after almost 10 months living here, thoughts of America and Dubai would not be a daily constant, but they are. It's more that it is just there. They aren't intrusive thoughts, more observations or comparisons. There is always part of my mind that is stuck in America. So, for now I guess I just have to be content with living my life with my mind stuck in two places.

A little breathing room please

"Don't crush me." This is literally one of the lines we learned during IST. It might sound like a silly little joke someone might utter if their big brother happened to be sitting on them or you try to get a taxi to hold 4 in the back. It's hard to realize how relevant it is in daily Rwandan life. In America there is the idea of a personal bubble. Some are larger than others as people's comfort levels differ, but there is always that minimal level that most everyone knows not to cross. There is just an unspoken rule that people want a little distance between each other. Even the most friendly person knows where to stop. This is definitely not a universal human quality. Rwandans have perfected the art of making an American feel incredibly uncomfortable by invading their personal space. In fact I believe there is no description of this idea in kinyarwanda. Standing in a line, it wouldn't be unusual to feel whatever the person behind you was holding directly in your back. Having someone tell you something when there is other noise involves a level of intimacy I feel would awkward with my own parents. It is understandable when personal space disappears on a mutatu since there is no feasible way to have a personal bubble there. Just imagine a mini-van holding 21 people and you get the general picture as to what a mutatu is. So, it makes sense people get close in that situation but that closeness is not limited to the bus. It's like there is no recognition of available space. During our morning meeting we sit on benches, and there will be an entire open bench but someone will insist on scooting others over on an already crowded bench. Or if they decide to sit on the partly empty bench, they will take up the seat squished up against the one other person sitting there. I am trying to get over my discomfort at being squashed next to others but Rwandans seem to take it to such an extreme that it's difficult to just embrace it. Oh well, I guess we are becoming one big happy family!

A day of thanks

This past Thursday Americans celebrated the slightly arbitrary but altogether wonderful holiday, Thanksgiving. Being in Rwanda I was assuming we would put together some small celebration to mark the occasion, enjoy the company of good friends, and then move on. Little did I know that Thanksgiving is just as mobile as I am. The good times began Wed or so when I began telling coworkers I would be gone that weekend for an American holiday. In the process of explaining the origins of the day in my mediocre french, I realized just how strange it sounded that we celebrated some random day because the Pilgrims didn't stave, and despite the fact that the real history is a bit muddled. From there, we moved to Thursday, the actual turkey day and I sat wishing away for some stuffing and green bean casserole that I knew was being consumed without me. Friday I finally made it to Kigali for a day of errands and preparations. I had been invited to a friend's house for what I had assumed to be a small dinner with a few friends, which turned out to be a full spread including very garlic potatoes, two turkeys, a chicken, and pumpkin pie. Needless to say I was thrilled at the idea of getting a small taste of what I had missed in America.

Saturday rolled around, the day I was spending cooking and preparing a meal with good friends. I got to Emily's and discovered, not only that there were more great people than I had expected, but most of them were planning some contribution. The biggest thrill however was finding out there were American goodies brought over for this occasion. You don't realize how precious canned pumpkin filling and pecans until you are faced with a Thanksgiving thinking you won't have them. It's a terrible thought let me tell you. Preparations were in full swing as we began our preliminary steps to our feast, however we go to put something on the stove and realize the electricity is deciding to play peek-a-boo today, randomly switching on and off. Luckily two of the burners are gas so we end up making do and cooking with the burners whenever possible. It was an incredible maneuvering and strategic planning event. Finally, I'm up with my planned dishes; carrot souffle, ramen and cabbage salad, and stuffing. Unfortunately umuganda limited the available stores open in our time of need so some items were altered slightly, such as the ramen and cabbage salad having no ramen. Eventually, we get to the point when the last things are taking their place; baking the stuffing, baking sweet rolls, and cooking the green beans. We begin to crowd the table, mouths drooling, counting the seconds until we declare the holiday open. The loaded table is then subjected to our paparazzi efforts as we thoroughly document the unfolding feast. Stuffing comes out and we can no longer hold back, the rolls and green beans will just have to wait for now.

Our array includes: stuffing, salad, spiced and cooked cabbage, deviled eggs, carrot souffle, baked macaroni and cheese, cranberry jelly, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, cupcakes, and then rolls. The eating is amazing, tasting the same if not better than home thanksgiving dishes. One plate goes down taking with it three of our guests, the seconds start. Unfortunately this is the time the green beans make their appearance, meaning no one has any room left. The jokes and comments get crazier and more ridiculous as our bellies grow. The love and friendship in the room makes everything glow just a little brighter. Pie is eaten, sofas fill up and we realize how this simple day of food and friends turned into a truly remarkable holiday, made that much better because of the trials and frustrations we have faced.

The simplicity of living

Gandhi said, "Live simply so that others may simply live." It''s a powerful quote that many choose to live their life by. A humble and quiet existence. Though there are many ways to accomplish this peaceful experience, I've found it to ring especially true of my time in Rwanda so far. There is the main focus of the quote, to provide others with a living adequate to meet their needs, but there is also at the core, the request to live simply. I've come to find that simple living is so much more than depriving yourself of all consumer or worldly conveniences. There is an innate contentedness and fulfillment from going back to basics. Washing clothes by hand, the monotonous repetition of scrubbing cloth against itself has such a calming effect and provides such a a sense of pride that this can be accomplished wholly by you. The same goes with getting a bucket of water, bringing it to the house, heating it up over a stove, and using it for a bath. Knowing that everyone of those actions was accomplished by you. Simple living is not a life of restriction and deprivation, but of small appreciations. I typically get 4 types of vegetables in my market. My town does not have the superfluous items such as peanut butter, frozen packaged meat, spices, and only sometimes has bread and eggs, yet cooking is a joy. Every night, deciding on the options available to me, using all my creativity, and being able to produce something delicious out of those 4 vegetables. If it is a meal I enjoyed, it might be tomorrow's dinner, and possibly the night after that as well. It isn't that I feel gypped out of choices or even that I regret that sometimes I eat the same things for 3 meals, I am satisfied that I can fulfill my basic need of food in a way that makes me happy. When friends come to visit, you actually talk to them. When you drive through the mountains, you actually see the way the sun glints off the lake while the clouds hang low over the peaks. When you walk with children, you actually feel their small cold hand sneaking into yours. When the extra stuff is stripped away, you are left with yourself. Sometimes who you see isn't as confident or as organized as you would want them to be, but you might be surprised at how content or at peace they are. You have to face your flaws and your strong points, without anyone or anything there to challenge that fact. You are able to look outside yourself as well and see the little things that make up day to day. Yes, it might mean that in one moment your anger flares up so quickly at being called mazungu again you can't imagine it being a good day, but then you stop by for tea at your friend's shop and she pours you a cup and adds the right amount of sugar because she already knows you, and that previous emotion is so quickly and completely eclipsed. I understand that clarity is fleeting and the contentment of just being here fades in and out, but I have come to realize that I have a new appreciation for Gandhi's idea of living simply.

Tea Time

10:00 AM and I am starting to dream of lunch. Two more hours and I will be free to indulge, not to mention lay around for two and a half hours before I am required to trudge back up the hill to work again. What do I have at home? Bread, some veggies, water. I'm out of peanut butter, only a scraping of butter in the tub and I am trying to wean myself off condiment sandwiches. Options seem limited. And then it comes to me, tea! The perfect lunch. Mama Sharon always has that amazingly full thermos, always burning hot and sweet. It a moment it's settled, tea and bread it is. My stomach gives a little rumble at the thought of it. The minutes tick slowly by as there is nothing to after this late in the morning, the PMTCT patients already taken care of. 11:00, one more hour! Half an hour. Fifteen minutes the checking of the phone gets more frequent until I'm almost checking every minute. Finally it hits that magic number, 12 and the itaboria is off and so am I. I pass my house, and throw a thought to my puppies waiting. They will have to wait just a little longer to play. Mama Sharon's door is open, like always, the light curtain fluttering in the breeze. I step into the dark little shop, say hello to Mama Sharon and the other patrons and then make my way to the chair. "Icyayi n'imigati." Mama retreat into the back to retrieve the giant thermos. She pulls out my mug, spoons one and a half sugars in because she already knows, pours in the tea, and sets down on the slightly lopsided table. She puts a bread in a tin plate and sets that down as well. Let lunch begin. I've never been a dipper before but with bread and tea, there isn't another way. Bite after soggy bite the tea soaked bread becomes lunch, and it is amazing. For a few minutes, I just get to enjoy the milky, sugary tea and feel like I belong here. There is no special ingredient, no amazing revelation of how tea is supposed to taste, only a warm, comfortable satisfaction. Finally, I swig the last of it and sit for one more moment, enjoying my wonderful lunch. I hand Mama Sharon a couple of ijana, ask hopefully if she has any eggs and then set off back home to get on with the rest of the day.

Oh what a day

November 3, 2010 marked the day I turned a quarter of a century, a milestone made that much more poignant by the fact that I celebrated in Rwanda. Granted, the majority of birthdays have been spent in another country but this seemed acutely unique. As with any irony of fate, the day managed to run the entire spectrum of emotions. It started out well enough, no frustrating or unruly scenes made by my dogs and I ended up at work with a smile. I opted to work in the maternity center, since I had a slight connection with the babies that would be born that day. Unfortunately, of the three women that were in the maternity center, all three ended up being transfered to Kibuye. Slightly disgruntled, I saw fit to mope a little in the office with no work to do, until a coworker and friend of mine stopped in and presented me with an awesome necklace for the occasion. Noon came around and I was all set to head home with the thought that I had to go to Kibuye that day to buy more kerosene for my stove. I mentioned this to my tutilere who, after a bout of laughter, informed me I could get kerosene at the health center, and then proceeded to gift me 2 litres. With kerosene in tow I headed home. My phone rings and it is my brother, Jeremy with a birthday wish, along with his entire class who he was in the middle of teaching. My spirits greatly lifted, I head to lunch. Of course as it always happens, the moment I think I am finally recognized in the community, every person decides they need to remind me I am a mazungu. Already frustrated by the name-calling, I head back to work after lunch only to be stopped on three separate occasions by children asking for money. Mind you this a total of a 10 minute walk and I haven't had anyone ask for money for months. By the third group of kids I am close to tears in frustration and end up talking back to them; in English. Back at work, I am bored again in the maternity center when a women comes in with intense pain. She was only 7 months so we are already on alert. The nurses go to check the fetal heartbeat. They call the tutilere in who does the same. Nothing. The baby had died in utero. The mother gave birth to a 500 gram stillborn child and then the work day was done. I walked back with coworkers composing myself and since it was my birthday, the day had to turn up in the end. I was serenaded by my parents and enjoyed a great birthday dinner. For being one of the better and also one of the hardest birthdays I've ever had, it certainly was memorable.

A time for celebration

This weekend, I was invited to a friend's town to spend some time before she leaves to go back to America. She is a teacher and the supervisor of an English club so in order to thank her for all her time, a party was thrown. Rwandan parties are not what expect with food and drinks available, milling guests, and maybe a couple of toasts. Everything is planned, everything is run by the schedule. For such an informal event, there was a great deal of formality. The party started innocently enough with a few speeches, a song, poems, and such. The DJ was getting a little excited and decided there was to be no silent moments, so whenever a speaker had finished, or even at a long pause, there would be a burst of "Shorty is a melody in my head" or something similar. Then comes a performance by a young man performing a song. The rain is starting to sprinkle on the tin roof as he starts singing. Unfortunately the mike gives out so he just starts belting without it. Nature must have a wicked sense of humor because at that moment, the sky opens up and it starts pounding on the metal above us. The louder he sings, the louder the rain gets until he is no longer audible. It is only the deafening roar, like standing next to a jet engine. He is still singing his heart out, kids are covering their ears in pain from the noise of the rain. Needless to say, the song was not heard. Next up was the food. Instead of having a table with the spread or even having people carrying trays, individual bowls were passed out with a samosa and an amandazi each. Everyone needed their own. While the refreshments were being served Megan, Ellie, and I decided to set up Megan's great surprise. Imagine for a moment what your initial thought would be if you saw a small panda hanging from a rope from the rafters, and then were asked to circle around it because we were going to play a game. For someone that has never seen a pinata, I can't even imagine their thoughts when we asked what was inside and then indicated that we are going to hit it to find out. So, we start with the pinata festivities, which everyone is getting a kick out of. It's a bunch of Rwandan 15-25 year olds, blindfolded, swinging at a solid looking panda. One defiant swing sends a shattered piece of the stick into the crowd (luckily no one is hurt), as the head of the panda pops off. Apparently not as sturdy as we thought. We encourage them to continue and finally, the finally blow cracks the panda's glossy shell. There is a split second when the candy hits the ground before it registers and the kids are moving faster than anything I have ever seen. In less than 5 seconds, every scrap is picked clean off the floor. They know not to let a good thing get away. On to the rest of the ceremony. The dishes have been cleared and the kids are seated again, listening intently. During the next speech I look up only to see helpers coming in, carrying around trays of toothbrushes, one for each child. Megan did have a lot she was planning to distribute, though I'm not sure quite as formally. With oral hygiene taken care of, the celebration eventually finishes up and disintegrates into a dance party. Why not, it's a Rwandan party after all.

The 5 Senses of Rwanda

Smell:

Rain, before the storm comes and after it washes through and leaves everything with the perfumed scent of being washed clean

Charcoal from cooking fires being lit when the day ends and the family begins preparing for their dinner

Taste:

Beer and brochettes at a local bar, a typical fast food meal

Slightly earthy, metallic, and plastic taste of water that comes from the outside tap

Touch:

Fine layer of dust that covers everything during the dry season

Hands that are shaken every time you greet a friend or neighbor

Hearing:

Onatracom buses rumbling down the rocky dirt road beside my house

Birds that wake you at the crack of dawn every morning with their chirruping

Sight:

The expanse of green topped red mountains that define the landscape of Rwanda

Igitenge in wildly colorful designs worn by every woman in the village

Off to Uganda we go!!!

I apologize for the length of this entry but I wanted to share my whole experience in Uganda!

We started out at the crack of dawn Sat, Oct 3 from Kigali on the cramped and none-too comfortable Jaguar coach. Passing 10 hours or so in a cramped space could only be worth the glorious vacation that awaited us. The four of us got into Kampala after our long journey late-afternoon. We decided to go straight to the Red Chili, the back-packer's hole where we would stay two night. Unfortunately, our first casualty came not 10 minutes after leaving the bus when I wasn't watching where I was going and ended up spraining my ankle. Great start, I know. We made to the Red Chili which is an awesome hole in the wall spot with all sorts of travelers. The next morning we leisurely set about exploring Kampala. which turns out is a lot different than Kigali. It's much dirtier, both with trash and dust, with a lot more people, cars, and buildings. It was still a cool city with a lot of metropolitan touches, such as high-tech electronics stores, food courts with shwarmas and hummus, and known chain stores. We had heard rumor of a wonderful street food called a "rolex," not the watch but a chapatti with an omelette of sort rolled in it. We kept asking around since we couldn't see any vendors and were finally ushered upstairs to a rooftop bar overlooking the most insane taxi park you could ever think of. Imagine what we would look like as ants, and that would be close. So we order the famed rolex, which the waitress called an egg roll which seemed to make sense. After a bit she sets plates down in front of us and we quickly realize this is not the real rolex. Instead, we had been served a hard-boiled egg encased in a fried ball of mashed potatoes. Close but no cigar.

The next morning, Adrift picks us up to transport us to Jinja where the adventure was to begin. We arrive at the lodge expecting to be ushered to bungee jumping only to find out we are set and ready to head down the Nile. The white-water rafting route set up by the company consisted of about 7 or 8 rapids ranging from class 2 to class 5 with at least 4 of them being class 5. Turns out I am a terrible rafter as I end up out of the boat on the very first rapid. The other rapids turn out to be more exciting as we battle to stay right side up, losing only twice. A few of the rapids we went down sideways and after hitting a huge swill, got completely upturned. Luckily we had practiced flipping and then getting back in and no-one suffered any great damages with the mishaps. At one point we ended up going down a 15 foot waterfall. It was like a cartoon where the boat squished together at the bottom of the fall and then magically sprung back to its normal shape without flipping. Rafting for around 6 hours was beginning to take its toll when we finally reached the last rapid, appropriately named 50 - 50. We were determined to stay upright and be the 50% that came out unscathed. We paddled, prayed, and got down ... and we made it! We quickly paddled off to the side to prepare for the 2nd half of the rapid which required maneuvering into the middle of the waves. Our guide told us we had to paddle as hard as possible to make it to where we needed to go so we set off paddling for the middle of the water. No go. We pulled back to the starting point to attempt it again. This time we were all psyched to paddle as hard as we possibly could. We started out and had just reached the edge of the rapid when I dug down a little too hard, lost my balance, and slipped off the boat. No dramatic bouncing or flipping me off my seat in a class 5, I just fell off. A failed attempt to catch me led to me swirling around the underside of the raft, terror-stricken that I wouldn't have enough air to last. Eventually, when I thought I was just about out of it, I surfaced half way down the rapid, waiting helplessly for the safety rescue kayaks to come pick me up. I then got the pleasure of watching my raft enjoy their last successful rapid of the day snug in the boat. A sorry way to end the trip but pretty hilarious nevertheless. Sore and weary but with free BBQ snacks and beer to cheer us up, we headed back to camp to enjoy a relaxing chill night.

The day of our jump arrived and got ourselves prepared to leave all sanity behind and put our daring to the test. We climbed to the platform, growing a little more nervous with each step. One can only psych themselves up so much. Three of us stood on the catwalk while Avery went out to the jump platform and got tied up. Typically jumpers are tied by their ankles, like Avery was. They then hop their way to the edge, get counted down and jump straight out, like they were doing a belly flop in the air. Avery went down screaming wait deep into the Nile, then bounced right back up, completely unharmed save for the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Next up was me. Due to my bum ankle they decided it was better if I was in a harness to save me pain of being suspended from a sprained appendage. I was terrified, thrilled, excited, nervous, and hyperventilating all at the same time but felt better knowing I knew what to do after listening to what they told Avery. Too bad a harness is different than ankles. I got the pleasure of running out instead of flat jumping. Also, I was charged with holding onto a blue strap that was attached to the bungee. I was supposed to keep it outstretched so it didn't come back to hit me in the face when I jumped. Yeah, like anyone is going to be paying attention to holding a strap when they are hurtling towards the earth. Jack counted down, 3 ... 2 ... 1... BUNGEE! There was a split second where your heart stops and you don't think you can do it, but then your body over rules your mind and you are running and diving off the ledge. Of course the strap was the first to go and I am sure there was a fair amount of flailing. It was one of the most bizarre feelings. For half the time down I couldn't even scream. You are falling head first, your stomach has locked down, and all you can see is water rushing up to meet you at an incredible speed. Your mind focuses in on this singular aspect. You can tell your body is moving through space, but time is still. And then, all of a sudden you are bouncing back. With the harness you can't touch the water and you bounce back upright so you are sitting there in the harness bouncing up and down. Stars were flashing in front of my eyes from the sudden change in direction and I enjoyed my bouncing, being reminded of parachuting down while skydiving. I was lowered into the boat and went off to the side to watch Arielle and Devin scream their way down. No casualties or unpleasant experiences, but a whole lot of smiles, shaky hands, and wishing we could do it again.

Feeling on top of the world we enjoyed another relaxing night at the adrift camp. There happened to be a group called African Trails staying over at the same time so we made friends and had a good night. It turns out they travel around all of Africa, from Marakesh to Cape Town, back up to Istanbul in a revamped truck, spending a few days to a week in a place before moving on. Between a South African, a couple of Australians, some Brits, and an American, we enjoyed a bringing in a birthday. We also all successfully completely the challenge of getting into an upside down kayak which was suspended from the rafters. (Much easier than is sounds or appears). The next day and night passed without much event besides a few naps, some book reading, general laying around.

From Adrift we headed about half an hour north west of Jinja, making our way to the Hairy Lemon. With a quick stop to grab some real rolexes, a heart-stopping bodda bodda ride with a 40 lb backpack on, and a pleasant canoe trip to the island, we made it. Basically it's an island owned by the Hairy Lemon with beaches, a bunch of cabanas, hammocks, and just an awesome atmosphere. As you can tell from the sounds of it, nothing productive happened there. We met the other people staying, basically all of which happened to be American (strange actually), and enjoyed hammock time. The second day I was able to learn how to roll a river kayak from one of the other guests. I must admit I was pretty proud of myself, especially when I got out of the kayak and discovered I had about 10 gallons of water sitting in the bottom, which might have been a reason I was having some trouble. I felt justified. Eventually it was time to head home so we bid farewell to that beautiful place and hopped a ride with two of the other guests who lived in Jinja, and so began our adventure home.

After a couple hours of wandering around Jinja and learning that everyone who said Uganda was cheaper was lying, we got on our bus headed for Kampala. Unfortunately, buses typically don't take off until they completely fill it, which means sitting in a hot, crowed, sweaty bus for half an hour or more is commonplace. You can tell how our trip started off. Finally, we got going. About an hour into our two hour journey we are startled by a loud bang and realize we have blown a tire. Instead of stopping to change or repair like normal people, we decide to drive on it until the next town where we fill the tire with air, and continue to drive on it until we reach a line of buses. Our bus stops on the side of the road and everyone starts getting off. No idea what's going on! Comprehension finally dawns when we are ushered onto another bus and start going again. Ok, so disaster averted. We are off again, about 20 minutes from Kampala when, once again, the bus stops and people start getting off. Huh?!?! Asking a few people we get the answer, "This bus is out of gas, we must take another bus." Seriously? So, we hop on our third bus to finally take us into Kampala. We make our way to the Kampala Coach station in the hopes of getting a 10 PM ticket. No such luck. Not only is 10 filled by so it the midnight, our back-up. Now we are contemplating having to stay another night. We call Jaguar and they say they have space on their 3 AM bus. So hurry ourselves over to the bus stop to buy the tickets and then set about wasting 6 hours; which involved walking the Kampala streets, attempting to watch a movie in the back staff room that smells like fish, curling up on a random mat in the luggage check room, and huddling on the stairs outside the ticket window. Finally, it's 2 and we are allowed on the bus and we are off, back home to Rwanda. Thankfully most of the morning was passed behind closed eyes until we had to disembark and spend an hour and a half twiddling around at the border for no apparent reason. Too bad, once we crossed the border, the bus stopped every 20-30 minutes to let people off. At one point we had a flashback when the bus stopped and everyone got off. We couldn't get an answer from anyone but saw once we got out that they were taking down a tree. So, instead of driving under it, we got out, walked under, the bus followed, and we got back on. Needless to say we were getting annoyed and tired at this point. Eventually we made it back to Kigali and spent a few hours with internet before I boarded a bus to come back to site, to which I arrived in the dark, raining, sprained ankle, and no available light, a computer in my bag, and my 40 lb pack. I stumbled back to my house somehow, dropped my bags, crawled into bed and spent the next 14 hours dreaming of the amazing vacation I had just had.

Happiness comes in many forms...

Watching a storm come in

Seeing cows walking down the road

The smell on the way to work that reminds me of Idaho

Hearing the mosque call

Swimming in lake Kivu

Seeing the mountains get the intense colors when the sun is setting

Taking a bus back to my site after a long weekend / week away

Cheap Indian food

Getting a package

Knowing I have chocolate in the house

Watching me garden growing (before the goats ate it)

Hearing my name (Kerry or Mbabazi, not mazungu)

Taking tea and bread at a local Mama's shop

Hot showers at St. Pauls or some nice hotel

Talking / skyping with friends and family

Holding one of my favorite green uniform kid's hands to or from school

Store Mama calling me 'friend'

Grilled cheese sandwiches

Cell Phone Country

I'm sitting in a staff meeting or a cooperative training when I hear the not so subtle tones of a phone beginning to ring. Immediately, I try to identify to the ring and the source to make sure I am not the culprit. After making sure my phone is on vibrate only, like I have been trained to after years of sitting in classrooms, I look up to see the embarrassed and guilty party whose phone is continuing to ring. My eyes shift around the room and I notice the tutilere or training leader reaching into their pocket non-chanlantly and pulling out a buzzing phone. The finish their sentence, look down at the phone again, and answer it turning their back on their meeting.

When you think of Africa, cell phones are not typically the first thing that comes to mind yet in Rwanda, cell phones rule. There are only 3 network carriers, MTN, Tigo, and Rwandtel all fighting for top rights. What they don't seem to understand is they don't even have to compete; most Rwandans not only have a cell phone, they typically have at least two with two different networks. For some of the wealthier, there are phones that hold two SIM cards to eliminate the hassle of carrying two phones.

During the half and hour morning prayer and song time, there will be at least 7 or 8 phone calls. I have yet to figure out if phones are just that much of a status symbol or people just don't care about interrupting or distracting others, but if the phone rings, you get it, no matter where and when.

Puppy Love

"Africa time" is a common phrase when describing how long things take to happen. Somehow this philosophy was recently suspended when, within roughly a week long period, I managed to inherit two dogs. My first puppy, Krindy, was the one I had puppy-sat for friends for a week, though she had been spending the last month with another volunteer where she was supposed to stay. Unfortunately, the volunteer's community became aggressive to Krindy and she was unable to stay there. I volunteered to keep her until another home was found. If anyone has tried this tactic, it doesn't work well. The 8 month or so energetic puppy fit so well I decided she could stay. About a week after that, I got a call from a friend of mine who had decided she was going to go back home; unfortunately, she had a puppy as well, Charlie. As Charlie had recently spent the week at my house during our IST training, I figured I would be a good friend and offer to keep her until another home was found. So, Charlie came to play and stay with Krindy and my small, 4 room house. Though Charlie's permanent home is still unknown, I will keep her until it is found. An additional note that makes this even better. I might have mentioned before that there is an old, grouchy dog that tends to hang out in my backyard. I have no idea whose it is or where he is from, but he just chills here. There is also a younger adult dog that makes an appearance every once in a while. So now we have old grouch, younger adult, Krindy, and Charlie. I went out to get water two days ago and was looking through the fence to Evariste's yard and happened to see a small ball of fluff waddling away. I went to investigate and apparently, Senga and Evariste have just adopted a new puppy, a couple weeks old. Welcome to the crazy dog party, King.

I apologize for the lack of pictures on the blog. Even 'good' Rwandan internet is achingly slow to load pictures here. I have just uploaded some recent photos onto my facebook page if you want to see what things look like.

The Name Game

A sigh of relief as lunch break finally arrives and I get a chance to head home for a couple hours of doing nothing before heading back to work. I begin down the dirt road that leads to the health center, passing schools on my left and right. I hear mingled shouts of, "mazungu," "good morning," and random other kinyarwanda phrases that were aimed at me without falling on comprehending ears. I am contemplating what I have waiting for me a home to munch on when all of a sudden there are two small hands in my own. I look around and notice a group of 5 or 6 kids, with the green uniforms, now forming a line linking themselves to the two holding my hands. Somehow there is an energy that gets passed through the held hands because it seems like a privilege to be in the line. I smile since the green uniforms are always the cutest and are typically the only ones I allow to hold my hand as we walk home, since the massive advancing line tends to get noticed.

They are all jabbering away in Kinyarwanda and I am giving indiscernible mumbles that neither affirm nor deny my knowing what they are saying. Then, one plucks up the courage and makes to impress by testing out some of the english words he knows. None of my line can be more than 7 so I decide to see what else they know and start spouting the random words I know in their language. "Inkoko?" "Chicken" they reply without missing a beat. "Igiti," "tree!" "Inka," "Cow!" Needless to say I am impressed since I am struggling to remember simple vocab to keep the game going. "Ihene." A momentary pause and then a tentative, "hen." For an odd reason I feel the absurd thrill of outsmarting them. Yes, I admit that I was glad I knew something the 7 year old didn't, so sue me. Unfortunately even that was short lived as one of the brighter kids corrected himself saying that no, inkoko was hen. "Goat" I declared triumphantly and they all ponder this new word. They are just too darn cute really.

Now I just need to find someone I can clutch hands with on my walk home and play the Kinyarwanda name game with.

And the weather was fair for a boat trip:

Somehow I have managed to luck out in my site placement and live in a wonderful town called Rubengera. What makes this town so much more ideal is it's proximity to Kibuye and Lake Kivu, a mere 20 minutes crammed into a mutatu. Kibuye is easily called a resort/tourist town, boasting some of the nicer hotels, a post office, chocolate, and boats for hire. It just so happened that this past weekend was another perfect one in Rwanda, so a few friends and I decided to take up on the tempting offer of a relaxing afternoon and head for Napoleon Island. As my friends had already rented a boat, they were familiar with one of the drivers and as we approached the dock, we were greeted by a group that seemed eager to take us. We climbed in exaggerated canoe style boat and set off. After a minute, we happen to turn back to shore, only to see Evariste, the driver we were meant to go with standing, waving his arms. Wrong boat, ooops. We rectified the mistake and headed out again with only a minor hiccup when we stopped to give another boat gas and had a little trouble starting our own back up again.

The island proved to be that, a large land mass in the middle of the lake, inhabited by bats, cows, and lots of prickly bushes. Unfortunately, we had an up close and personal encounter with said prickly bushes when we attempted to dock at a rocky outcropping by cutting the engine and being unable to get it running again when we drifted further than planned. Nta kibazo. After an hour or so of glorious swimming we were ready to leave. We piled back in the boat, valiantly pushed away from our anchoring tree, and attempted to start the motor. No go. Several attempts and a sweaty driver later we found ourselves back among the prickly bushes. Thankfully another boat was touring the area so they gave us a tow out of the brush. We had a quick game of switch drivers and vigorously attempt to start the motor while knocking against the other boat for half an hour before our motor finally caught.

Somehow during this time, the usually calm lake had decided it wanted to imitate the ocean, and the 4 foot waves had a grand ole time with our 4 foot high boat. Multiple near capsizings encouraged many of us to gather our life jackets, current possessions, and sanity in our arms and hold on tight. With only a stall in the middle of our trek back, a rapidly leaking boat, and numerous wild rockings, we made it safely back and I finally stopped laughing.

Evariste, mfite ikibazo

Often I forget that I am living in the middle of a tiny African country, alone in my town. My house, with reliable and daily electricity, running water, indoor plumbing, a Queen size bed, and Evariste to be both neighbor and guard, is whole-heartedly 'Mazungu.' I am pretty much living in the lap of Peace Corps Rwanda luxury. I get so comfortable in my surroundings, many times I don't remember where I am, at least until I hear the scritch scratch in the corner of my bedroom. I have duct taped the bottoms of most of my doors in the hopes of dispelling the worst of the dust and some critters but somehow, this one guy has found a way in. I had yet to determine if it is a rat, mouse, shrew, or some hybrid of all the above. Small and black with a long tail and snout, this guy runs from corner to corner and gives me a heart attack whenever I catch site of him scurrying. I never considered myself the 'jump on the chair and scream' type of girl but this guy has made me do just that. I happened to be enjoying some relaxing before getting ready for bed when I heard him. A metallic scratching was coming from my sitting room, and from my bed I could just barely make out a moving shape in my frying pan sitting under my chair (I put it there when I'm done cooking to let it cool). Heart beating I stalk him slowly, trying to get the courage to shoo him out my front door. Thankfully I hear Evariste walking by so I call out and say that I have a problem. I run back to my bedroom, grab my Kinyarwanda dictionary, thumb through it quickly, and then announce, "imbeba!" He understands, probably laughing to himself at my inability to handle this myself, and comes to help. His solution is to corner the rat where he can grab him with his bare hands, though in the end he herded him towards the open door where the beast disappeared into the night. Blech. It's times like this that 1) I am extremely thankful Evariste lives next door and 2) I remember where I am.

Poetry from the land of 10,000 hills

Waves, peaceful floating

Forget kinyarwanda

Oh big blue Kivu

Kibuye holiday

pizza and dip dips for all

oh man, back to work

The Doorknob

The Doorknob

A good look at Peace Corps and different perspectives on what PC does

Camp: Rwandan style

This past week I had the opportunity to be a part of one of CHFs initiatives for orphans and vulnerable children, vacation camps. These camps are set up all over Rwanda in order to bring together secondary students who are supported through the Higa Ubeho program.

The week started off like any other program in Africa, late and slightly unorganized, though all the students eventually arrived and the camp officially began, with the loads of forms, paperwork, and checklists. Each 'counselor' was assigned around 30 students for their group with 14 groups in total, around 500 kids ranging in age from 13-20. The mornings were spent in a large assembly where groups were encouraged to show what they had done the previous day, which involved a lot of singing and dancing as well as some skits. From there the kids went off to their own groups where they worked their way through the camp workbook, focused on determining goals, personal strengths, and hopes for the future. I felt like I had been transported back 5 years ago to Camp Wapo. The students also managed to inject some of their personality with impromptu song and dance sessions. The theme of the camp was to help the children realize the philosophy of the Higa Ubeho project, "Be determined and live" which on paper is an admirable goal.

I was confronted with one of the biggest truths these kids face. Though they have these hopes and dreams, such as to become a journalist, the reality is that the majority of them will never see these dreams fulfilled. The heart-wrenching thing about it however, is that it won't be from lack of trying. Talking to one young man, he confided that his goal was to continue his studies. He wanted to finish secondary school and go to university because he explained, those who finished university made more money and were able to find good jobs. Then he turned to me and asked me how he could do that. When, in the entire country, only 18% of students with top marks are admitted to further education, how was it possible for this boy to fulfill his dream of learning? Needless to say I was stumped. In all honesty, what options are there for a boy who doesn't get top marks, doesn't have money or ability to leave his home, and doesn't have any opportunities to train in any other profession other than shop keeper or farmer. When the educational opportunities in Rwanda as well as surrounding countries are so limited, what do you tell an eager face looking for answers?