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.