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?

A dog day afternoon

What could possibly be more amusing than watching a puppy chase his own leash around the yard, alternately fiercely attacking the inanimate string and distractedly watching the passersby. Just the thing to keep you occupied on a sick day. Karindy is the newest member of the loosely named Kibuye crowd; looking like a cross between a german shepherd puppy and a mangy mutt, she hardly tops 7 or so kilograms but has all the fight of a rabid wolverine. I have been set with the task of puppy sitting the wild child as her owners are off on their COS conference. It's amazing how rapidly this dog's energy rises and falls. She is raring to go at 5 AM when she not-so-subtly starts nibbling on your ear, and yes she sleeps in the bed. After a vicious bout of attack the ankles or growl menacingly, she is ready for an hour nap before breakfast. Still, she is pretty darn cute, even if she doesn't answer to her name, eats duck poop, and still has her razor sharp puppy teeth. She has maybe even inspired me to look for a puppy of my own. Now if only we could decide what to actually call her, apart from Karindy, Rosesharn, Fat Fat, frog belly, and dog.

It's like Christmas, wrapped in package paper, covered with stamps:

It starts with a promise. A hint or a subtle word that something special is 'on it's way." No, I am not talking about a baby or even large sums of cash, although the cash wouldn't be unwelcome I'm sure. The slight jump in your heart when you hear that word. The anticipation that starts building the moment you hear it. The wonder at what the surprise will bring. A package. As soon as someone lets on that there is a box with your name on it crossing oceans, you begin counting the days until the ETA. This in itself is a dangerous game as we are dealing with the highly organized and efficient Rwandan post office here. Nevertheless, the days are numbered. You being imagining and pondering, not wanting to directly ask what was sent so as not to ruin the wonder. Hopes are built up but it is manageable because it helps you realize what sorts of things to ask for in your next package if they don't happen to be in this one. It's amazing how much you can cram into your imaginary care packages too. It's almost magical how much those standard-flat rate boxes hold. So the days pass and you try to push from your mind the goodies on their way, even though it is always there in the back of your mind. And then, the day arrives. With any hope you are within the vicinity of your post box and have enough money to pay to moto to get you there. With even more absolute luck, the package will actually be there, on the day is was 'supposed' to arrive. So, the stars align and you have the means, the money, and the confirmation that there is indeed mail in your box, and there it is. Battered, bruised, looking about as good as you do stepping off a plane after 24 hour of travel, but still glorious to behold. You pay and clutch the box tightly, refusing even to let the moto driver keep it secure as you struggle onto the bike. It is a happy day now, no matter what. You get back home, and the good thing about packages, no one is jealous about someone else's package. They will actually get mad if you try to be considerate and open your box at some later time. Living vicariously through others when they get pieces of America is the next best thing. So, with everyone there watching and waiting, you slowly pick the weakest point, and attack, and you get to be home if only for a few seconds.

The road to kickball is long and cramped

How do you entertain 40 stressed, slightly crazy, energetic Peace Corps Rwanda volunteers? You hold a kickball tournament of course. July 23-25 saw the first of hopefully many more annual kickball tournaments in the awesome town of Nyamasheke. The Kibuye crowd, 15 in total, set off from Karongi district, with no clear idea of where we are going or how long it would take to get there, but naively thankful to be in our own mutato, unaware that the road we were to travel on negated the advantage of our afforded personal space. We stumbled, stiff and a new shade of dusty brown, out of the mutato in Nyamasheke ready and raring to go. Slowly, the other eager participants arrived, settled in, and generally caused mayhem on the town by being American. Great food, which accompanies all American gatherings was accompanied with a bonfire, obnoxious over-exuberant singing, and dance parties (Thanks Wheez!)

The next morning dawned cool and clear, the gods' welcoming sign that we were right in our plans for bouncing rubber ball madness. The bases (or empty sack bags) were set, teams decided, Karindy and Kivu doing their best to chase off the gathering Rwandan crowds, and all was ready. From the get-go, it was clear to see that Flying Monkeys really couldn't hold their own, as Undetermined dominated easily. It was then the Mad Mazungus turn to challenge Undetermined, much to the same effect and the previous game. The atmosphere was deadly serious as we were all fighting for the calabash "Kickball Cup." The Mad Mazungus and Flying Monkeys took their turn on the pitch together but were unfortunately thwarted when the local football team decided they needed to practice on our 1/4 of the pitch. The players retired to a slightly disappointing foreshortened tournament but rebounded quickly with the appearance of mafae and dip dips. Another night of merriment, peace corps style ensued and everyone was guaranteed an entertaining time.

The next morning, after a typical breakfast of bread and imineke and much confusion over our mode of transportation, we managed to Rwandan style 20 people into a mutato that barely comfortably fits 12. Rwanda roads, aka blasted rock beds covered with a powder fine layer of camel brown dust, combined with the limited supply of blood moving to legs, and the surprisingly unfulfilling snacks of Family biscuits, peanuts, and iminekes, made for a typically and perfectly African bus rid