*Are you a seller or a beggar?
Begging is a difficult subject. In phone calls and emails people have asked me a little bit about beggars and begging here but I haven’t done a blog post on it because I’m not qualified to speak to its causes. My undergraduate degree in international/development studies provided me with a rough outline of the systemic causes of macro-level poverty but for all the Sachs and Easterly I read in college I cannot explain why every small child here knows how to say “give me money” in English. That said, I deal with begging on a daily basis so I can at least talk about my experiences, eschewing my speculations as to the “why” and “how.”
First of all, there are two types of beggars. The first type of beggar is genuinely a beggar - that is, someone who subsists on money given to them by others. These are the people who, like in the United States, appear to have fallen through the cracks in the system. They are the crippled and the deranged** and others who for whatever reason cannot work and have no one to care for them. The second kind of beggar is not really a beggar and in fact would not ask anyone for money under normal circumstances except maybe as a loan. This kind of beggar presents a real challenge because she is one hundred percent convinced that I, as a white foreigner, have wealth beyond her wildest imaginings and that I’d be incredibly selfish not to share just a little of it. As far as she’s concerned, her persistence and aggression are more than justified and my refusal to give is not.
I encounter this kind of beggar everywhere. At the market, people ask me to buy vegetables for them. In town people ask me for money for a cup of tea. One time I was walking into town with a few coins in my pocket to buy bread and a woman asked me for money for a Fanta and when I said I didn’t have money to give her she pointed to my pocket and said, “So what’s that there?”
I rarely encounter this kind of thing when I’m at my house because my immediate neighbors understand my situation. They know that as a Peace Corps volunteer I have less money than some of my colleagues at school and that beyond the netbook and camera I brought from home there are no untold riches to be found in my house. However, there have been times when people have actually come to my doorstep looking for money. One time I was sweeping my porch and a woman with a small child came right up to me, greeted me and asked for 500 francs. I told her in Kinyarwanda that I was not in a position to give 500 francs. She said (in Kinyarwanda), “You want me to believe you have nothing?” I said, “I have enough so that I can eat but not enough to give everyone.” I thought that was a fair enough explanation, but it didn’t deter her. She indicated the child and said, “Look at him. Can’t you give something for him?”
He was an adorable baby, maybe a little underfed but healthy. I told the woman, “You have a beautiful child. But do you see the field by the church there?”
“Yes, I see it.”
“Do you know the children who play there?”
“I know them.”
“I also know them and I love them very much, but many of them are sick and some do not have shoes and some do not eat because their families are poor. I do not have enough to give to all of them. How can I give money for your child and not to the children there who I love so much?”
The woman paused, thought about it and said, “I only want a little.”
This is probably the only thing I encounter at site that consistently frustrates me, the assumption that because I am a foreigner I have money to give. I probably wouldn’t be bothered by it if there weren’t some truth to it in a roundabout way. My Peace Corps “salary” might equal that of an average Rwandan teacher but when my service is over I will have the resources to return to the United States where I will have opportunities that people here do not have. But if I give money to a woman so that she can buy milk for her child one day, what am I doing other than creating a sense of dependency and/or strengthening the notion that foreigners have money, making life that much more difficult for Gihara’s next Peace Corps volunteer?
I have so many unanswered questions about this kind of thing, though. How is it that even small children in remote places know to equate foreigners with money? Is it because the foreigners they encounter are all aid workers and missionaries and tourists? What about those who have never seen an American before? Thanks to Sachs and Easterly, Jared Diamond and Paul Farmer, I know that the United States is a “wealthy” and “developed” country and that Rwanda is relatively “poor” and “developing,” but my neighbors haven’t read these books. Where did they learn this rhetoric of rich and poor, developed and developing?
These are not rhetorical questions. If anyone has any thoughts to offer or if you know of a book or two that might help, please share. Thank you all!
**I apologize if my use of terms like “crippled” and “deranged” is politically incorrect, but for me these terms best capture the condition of the beggars I’ve encountered in Kigali and Gitarama. If I’ve offended anyone, please feel free to comment or email me and I’ll make edits where necessary.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Turi Kumwe, We Are The Same
Yesterday I bought a pineapple.
In another context this would not be worthy of a blog post but here the simplest interactions hold equal potential for incredible successes and terrible calamities and more often than not both occur in equal measure. Also, buying a pineapple in Gihara is not a simple transaction for the following reasons:
First, market day is Saturday in Gihara. That is, every Saturday people come from all over to sell fruits and vegetables on blankets and rice sacks laid out in the town square. Yesterday was not Saturday. Yesterday was a Wednesday, and during the week fresh fruits and vegetables are difficult to come by.
Second, whether on market day or not, produce must be purchased directly from the farmers. This means prices are not set, so everything must be bargained for.
Third, muzungus (white people and other obvious foreigners) are often given prices that are two or three times what is standard because it is assumed that foreigners are tourists and tourists have money. That and we’re easy to cheat because we don’t speak the language very well or at all.
Lastly, I really, really, really hate bargaining.
In this context, I went into town on a Wednesday evening to try and find a pineapple. I knew I might not succeed, but I was hopeful. Fortuitously I found a vendor selling an assortment of fresh fruit on a table outside her shop. She only had one pineapple. It was small and oddly shaped but it looked edible so I asked her how much she wanted for it. She said 200 francs. This is the standard price for a really good pineapple. The one she had wasn’t worth more than 100 francs and I knew it but I really, really, really hate bargaining and I was in a hurry to get home before dark so I accepted her price.
While I was fishing around in my bag for the money a woman came over and asked me how much I was paying for the pineapple. I said 200 francs. She looked affronted. She asked why I would pay 200 francs for such a small pineapple. I don’t know how to say “I’m in a hurry” in Kinyarwanda so I just shrugged and gave the vendor the money. The woman told the vendor to give me back half. The vendor started shouting something about amafaranga (money) and umuzungu (foreigner) and the woman started shouting back and I started yelling “It’s no problem, it’s no problem” over the din as loud as I could and pretty soon there was a huge crowd of people standing around us staring. At some point I ducked out of the crowd and ran home, vowing silently never to buy a pineapple in Gihara ever again.
This evening I was out for a walk and I saw that same woman sweeping in front of her house. When she saw me she waved me over. She said in Kinyarwanda, “Do you remember me? The market? The pineapple?” I said I cannot forget a friend. I thanked her for helping me and explained that it’s difficult for me to bargain because I don’t speak much Kinyarwanda and she nodded gravely. She said she hates it when people try to cheat muzungus. I said, “Well, I understand, it’s because they think I have money.” She said yes, but it should not matter - your skin might be one color and mine might be another color but we are the same. For most Americans this kind of rhetoric of racial equality is familiar to the point of being cliché and disingenuous. But when I heard this woman in rural Rwanda say that she and I are the same I knew that she meant it with all her heart, at that moment at least, and I was almost moved to tears.
The woman’s name is Goreti. I think next week I will visit her. Maybe I will bring her a pineapple.
In another context this would not be worthy of a blog post but here the simplest interactions hold equal potential for incredible successes and terrible calamities and more often than not both occur in equal measure. Also, buying a pineapple in Gihara is not a simple transaction for the following reasons:
First, market day is Saturday in Gihara. That is, every Saturday people come from all over to sell fruits and vegetables on blankets and rice sacks laid out in the town square. Yesterday was not Saturday. Yesterday was a Wednesday, and during the week fresh fruits and vegetables are difficult to come by.
Second, whether on market day or not, produce must be purchased directly from the farmers. This means prices are not set, so everything must be bargained for.
Third, muzungus (white people and other obvious foreigners) are often given prices that are two or three times what is standard because it is assumed that foreigners are tourists and tourists have money. That and we’re easy to cheat because we don’t speak the language very well or at all.
Lastly, I really, really, really hate bargaining.
In this context, I went into town on a Wednesday evening to try and find a pineapple. I knew I might not succeed, but I was hopeful. Fortuitously I found a vendor selling an assortment of fresh fruit on a table outside her shop. She only had one pineapple. It was small and oddly shaped but it looked edible so I asked her how much she wanted for it. She said 200 francs. This is the standard price for a really good pineapple. The one she had wasn’t worth more than 100 francs and I knew it but I really, really, really hate bargaining and I was in a hurry to get home before dark so I accepted her price.
While I was fishing around in my bag for the money a woman came over and asked me how much I was paying for the pineapple. I said 200 francs. She looked affronted. She asked why I would pay 200 francs for such a small pineapple. I don’t know how to say “I’m in a hurry” in Kinyarwanda so I just shrugged and gave the vendor the money. The woman told the vendor to give me back half. The vendor started shouting something about amafaranga (money) and umuzungu (foreigner) and the woman started shouting back and I started yelling “It’s no problem, it’s no problem” over the din as loud as I could and pretty soon there was a huge crowd of people standing around us staring. At some point I ducked out of the crowd and ran home, vowing silently never to buy a pineapple in Gihara ever again.
This evening I was out for a walk and I saw that same woman sweeping in front of her house. When she saw me she waved me over. She said in Kinyarwanda, “Do you remember me? The market? The pineapple?” I said I cannot forget a friend. I thanked her for helping me and explained that it’s difficult for me to bargain because I don’t speak much Kinyarwanda and she nodded gravely. She said she hates it when people try to cheat muzungus. I said, “Well, I understand, it’s because they think I have money.” She said yes, but it should not matter - your skin might be one color and mine might be another color but we are the same. For most Americans this kind of rhetoric of racial equality is familiar to the point of being cliché and disingenuous. But when I heard this woman in rural Rwanda say that she and I are the same I knew that she meant it with all her heart, at that moment at least, and I was almost moved to tears.
The woman’s name is Goreti. I think next week I will visit her. Maybe I will bring her a pineapple.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
The Moon Hangs Low
It hasn’t been long since my last post but I don’t feel like finishing my lesson plans for next week so I’m blogging instead. Or, to put it another way, I feel inspired to blog because I’ve had a really good week. The lesson plans will get written.
Yesterday I took a walk past the school up a hill I’d never explored before and met a young woman on her way home from the market. She had her month-old baby girl tied to her back with a cotton cloth, which is how mamas carry their babies here. She immediately invited me to visit her at her house and due in equal parts to curiosity and confusion over what she was saying, I followed her. When we arrived she brought a stool out for me to sit on and unslung her baby girl and burped her and then handed her to me. My first thought was, this is going to be messy. As if on cue, the baby urinated all over my legs. The mother ignored this. When the baby started to cry she took her from me and began to breastfeed her without batting an eye. I tried my best to be calm and cheerful despite being soaked in pee. I sat for as long as I could stand to and then I got up, promised a future visit, and went home to change.
As soon as I got inside it began to pour rain. I left the door open and sat on my bed and played guitar with a pen cap because I can’t find my pick and sang as loudly as I could into the downpour. I have no idea what there was to be so happy about, but I was ecstatic. Simple pleasures are profound here - like, for example, not being caught in the rain, and not being soaked in pee.
I should be starting an English club sometime in the next couple of weeks. I’ve located the teacher who is supposed to help me and now that I’ve met him and I can see why he was chosen to do so. He’s been teaching English in Rwanda for the last eight years and he speaks English impeccably, if haltingly and pedantically. He is in the process of writing a comprehensive English textbook with explanations in Kinyarwanda and as a result he’s been too busy to start an English club by himself, but he told me that if the club meets once a week only he can be there with me. I told him we could talk about it again after I give a midterm exam. I have no idea what the process is for giving a midterm and I want to tackle one unknown at a time.
In spite of (or maybe because of?) all the minute frustrations and confusions, I feel more and more every day like I belong here. Earlier this evening I was out watching the sunset and struck me how badly I will miss things like the smell of charcoal fires and I was incredibly sad for a moment, but then I realized I have almost a whole two years ahead of me.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Some Q&A
I was going to wait awhile before updating again but I’ve received some letters and emails with questions about my situation at site and I think it’s most convenient for everyone if I answer them here.
Some of you asked me what amenities I have at site. I have to admit that my situation is pretty luxurious as far as Peace Corps Rwanda goes. I have electricity in my house most of the time which allows me to charge my phone and computer on a regular basis and to read at night without having to use a kerosene lamp or a candle. It also means I can cook with electricity if I want to and I do have a hotplate that I use for quick-cooking things like rice but I don’t like to use it too often because it ends up costing a lot if I do. I do most of my cooking on a charcoal stove called an imbabura. It’s messy and a bit of a hassle but since matches cost next to nothing and charcoal is less than two dollars for a big bag it’s by far the most cost-effective way to cook. I do not have running water in my house so I have to fetch water from the rain tankard next door. I keep my water for cooking and dishwashing in jerry cans and my water for bathing in a big bucket in my bathroom. I do not heat my bathing water. Cold bucket baths are a great way to wake up quickly and most days I wake up before sunrise so I need all the help I can get.
A few of you also asked if I have access to television or other media. The answer is yes and no. I live next door to a convent and the nuns own a television, so when I have dinner with them I get to watch one of two Rwandan TV stations. One has news and the other has music videos and that’s it. I have sporadic internet access via a thumb drive modem that uses the same network as my cell phone and I’ve been using that for email, blogging and occasionally reading the news, but it costs per amount of data sent so I can’t download or upload things very cheaply. My shortwave radio works quite well here but it only picks up local stations. Occasionally I can pick up French radio stations and very occasionally I get the BBC, but it’s almost inaudible with all the static. I do not have a way to access movies or music other than what I have on my computer. If there’s a movie theater in Kigali (I’m pretty sure there is) I have no idea where it is or what kind of movies are shown there. Chances are I’ll be two years behind in movies and music when I come back to the States, but those are fun things to catch up on so it doesn’t worry me too much.
I think someone asked me in an email about the local wildlife. Truth be told, there aren’t a lot of exciting animals at my site. Most of the more exotic faunda - monkeys, gorillas, that kind of thing - inhabit the far west and north, but I’m right in the center of the country. My neighbors own things like goats and cows and chickens and there are lots of colorful little birds and beetles but that’s about it. Oh, and there are tons of honeybees. They like to come in under my door at night and crawl into bed with me which is a little unnerving, but since they’re by far the most dangerous animal in my immediate vicinity I consider myself lucky.
Things are still going well at site, but I’m realizing I have a lot to learn yet. There’s a phrase in Kinyarwanda that people use to describe gradual progress - buhoro buhoro. It means “slowly, slowly.” So, buhoro buhoro I am getting to know my community and the people who live in it. Yesterday my colleague Anonce showed me a small village adjacent to Gihara where people make pottery. They had everything from giant clay pots for storing traditional sorghum beer to tiny ceramic gorillas to sell to tourists. We hiked to the edge of town where we could see out over a vast green valley with a river running through. She told me that some day she will take me down into the valley to see the crocodiles in the river. She also told me that sugarcane groves grow on the riverbanks and promised that she will find me some raw sugarcane so I can see what it tastes like. I told her I feel lucky to know her, which is true.
I haven’t organized an English club yet largely because I found out that another teacher has been assigned to help me but I don’t know who he is. I asked my dean of studies who gave me a physical description, so now my mission is to hang out in the teacher’s lounge until I see him. I’m kind of glad I can’t get started right away because it means I can focus on teaching and getting to know my students. I’ve been trying to learn their names but I’m having quite a lot of trouble because I have almost ninety students in total and about six of them are named Jean Claude. Another six are all named Clementine. Another dozen never say anything in class so when I run into them in town they have to remind me that I’m their teacher, which is thoroughly embarrassing. But I’ll get to know them eventually.
I’m impatient to get started on a project or several so I can start giving back to this community that has been so good to me, but whenever I start to wonder, “Why am I not organizing English classes for the nurses at the health center? Why am I not tutoring the other teachers at my school? Why haven’t I written the midterm exam yet?” I am reminded in some way or other that I’m still incredibly new to this place and that I need to take the time to find my way around. Buhoro buhoro, nzabimenya.
Some of you asked me what amenities I have at site. I have to admit that my situation is pretty luxurious as far as Peace Corps Rwanda goes. I have electricity in my house most of the time which allows me to charge my phone and computer on a regular basis and to read at night without having to use a kerosene lamp or a candle. It also means I can cook with electricity if I want to and I do have a hotplate that I use for quick-cooking things like rice but I don’t like to use it too often because it ends up costing a lot if I do. I do most of my cooking on a charcoal stove called an imbabura. It’s messy and a bit of a hassle but since matches cost next to nothing and charcoal is less than two dollars for a big bag it’s by far the most cost-effective way to cook. I do not have running water in my house so I have to fetch water from the rain tankard next door. I keep my water for cooking and dishwashing in jerry cans and my water for bathing in a big bucket in my bathroom. I do not heat my bathing water. Cold bucket baths are a great way to wake up quickly and most days I wake up before sunrise so I need all the help I can get.
A few of you also asked if I have access to television or other media. The answer is yes and no. I live next door to a convent and the nuns own a television, so when I have dinner with them I get to watch one of two Rwandan TV stations. One has news and the other has music videos and that’s it. I have sporadic internet access via a thumb drive modem that uses the same network as my cell phone and I’ve been using that for email, blogging and occasionally reading the news, but it costs per amount of data sent so I can’t download or upload things very cheaply. My shortwave radio works quite well here but it only picks up local stations. Occasionally I can pick up French radio stations and very occasionally I get the BBC, but it’s almost inaudible with all the static. I do not have a way to access movies or music other than what I have on my computer. If there’s a movie theater in Kigali (I’m pretty sure there is) I have no idea where it is or what kind of movies are shown there. Chances are I’ll be two years behind in movies and music when I come back to the States, but those are fun things to catch up on so it doesn’t worry me too much.
I think someone asked me in an email about the local wildlife. Truth be told, there aren’t a lot of exciting animals at my site. Most of the more exotic faunda - monkeys, gorillas, that kind of thing - inhabit the far west and north, but I’m right in the center of the country. My neighbors own things like goats and cows and chickens and there are lots of colorful little birds and beetles but that’s about it. Oh, and there are tons of honeybees. They like to come in under my door at night and crawl into bed with me which is a little unnerving, but since they’re by far the most dangerous animal in my immediate vicinity I consider myself lucky.
Things are still going well at site, but I’m realizing I have a lot to learn yet. There’s a phrase in Kinyarwanda that people use to describe gradual progress - buhoro buhoro. It means “slowly, slowly.” So, buhoro buhoro I am getting to know my community and the people who live in it. Yesterday my colleague Anonce showed me a small village adjacent to Gihara where people make pottery. They had everything from giant clay pots for storing traditional sorghum beer to tiny ceramic gorillas to sell to tourists. We hiked to the edge of town where we could see out over a vast green valley with a river running through. She told me that some day she will take me down into the valley to see the crocodiles in the river. She also told me that sugarcane groves grow on the riverbanks and promised that she will find me some raw sugarcane so I can see what it tastes like. I told her I feel lucky to know her, which is true.
I haven’t organized an English club yet largely because I found out that another teacher has been assigned to help me but I don’t know who he is. I asked my dean of studies who gave me a physical description, so now my mission is to hang out in the teacher’s lounge until I see him. I’m kind of glad I can’t get started right away because it means I can focus on teaching and getting to know my students. I’ve been trying to learn their names but I’m having quite a lot of trouble because I have almost ninety students in total and about six of them are named Jean Claude. Another six are all named Clementine. Another dozen never say anything in class so when I run into them in town they have to remind me that I’m their teacher, which is thoroughly embarrassing. But I’ll get to know them eventually.
I’m impatient to get started on a project or several so I can start giving back to this community that has been so good to me, but whenever I start to wonder, “Why am I not organizing English classes for the nurses at the health center? Why am I not tutoring the other teachers at my school? Why haven’t I written the midterm exam yet?” I am reminded in some way or other that I’m still incredibly new to this place and that I need to take the time to find my way around. Buhoro buhoro, nzabimenya.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Urabwira Iki?
Hi again, just wanted to let you all know that I have a personal post office box now. The address is:
B.P. 216
Gitarama, Rwanda
If anyone has sent anything to my old address within the last three weeks it’s not a problem, just let me know so I know to check for my mail in Kigali and not in Gitarama (they’re about two hours apart by bus). I tried on Thursday to get a box set up in Kigali to keep things simple but after getting there, locating the post office, having a friendly but unduly long chat with a post worker and finally getting directed to the appropriate desk, I was told that no post office boxes are available in Kigali and that I should try back another time. I didn’t feel like waiting so I got one in Gitarama yesterday.
Other than the new mailing address there’s not a whole lot to report. I’m slowly getting into the swing of things here. Last week I sat through a four-hour staff meeting that was conducted entirely in Kinyarwanda. About three hours in I gathered that they were selecting teachers to be in charge of various after-school clubs and that someone had nominated me for traditional dance. I explained in French that I don’t know anything about traditional dance but that I could be in charge of an English language club. My headmaster said in English, “We don’t have one.” I said, “Would you like one?” This was met with cheers and applause. I’m not entirely sure what I’m expected to do to get started, but I’m meeting with another teacher tomorrow for lunch and I intend to bring a notepad and ask a lot of questions.
I’m learning how to cook Rwandan food with the help of one of my neighbors. So far she’s taught me how to prepare beans, cabbage, potato soup, fried plantains and “frites.” She offered to show me how to cook meat but I’m terrified of buying meat so I told her I don’t like to eat it. I’m also terrified of buying unpasteurized milk so I’ve been vegan for the last two weeks except for the occasional egg. I successfully made some banana pancakes this morning and shared them with my neighbors who seemed to enjoy them. Next I’ll introduce them to French toast.
I guess that’s all for now. One final note: thanks, Grandma and Grandpa, for the Christmas package! It finally arrived last week. I’d almost forgotten what chocolate tasted like and now I have more than I know what to do with. It’s a nice problem to have.
B.P. 216
Gitarama, Rwanda
If anyone has sent anything to my old address within the last three weeks it’s not a problem, just let me know so I know to check for my mail in Kigali and not in Gitarama (they’re about two hours apart by bus). I tried on Thursday to get a box set up in Kigali to keep things simple but after getting there, locating the post office, having a friendly but unduly long chat with a post worker and finally getting directed to the appropriate desk, I was told that no post office boxes are available in Kigali and that I should try back another time. I didn’t feel like waiting so I got one in Gitarama yesterday.
Other than the new mailing address there’s not a whole lot to report. I’m slowly getting into the swing of things here. Last week I sat through a four-hour staff meeting that was conducted entirely in Kinyarwanda. About three hours in I gathered that they were selecting teachers to be in charge of various after-school clubs and that someone had nominated me for traditional dance. I explained in French that I don’t know anything about traditional dance but that I could be in charge of an English language club. My headmaster said in English, “We don’t have one.” I said, “Would you like one?” This was met with cheers and applause. I’m not entirely sure what I’m expected to do to get started, but I’m meeting with another teacher tomorrow for lunch and I intend to bring a notepad and ask a lot of questions.
I’m learning how to cook Rwandan food with the help of one of my neighbors. So far she’s taught me how to prepare beans, cabbage, potato soup, fried plantains and “frites.” She offered to show me how to cook meat but I’m terrified of buying meat so I told her I don’t like to eat it. I’m also terrified of buying unpasteurized milk so I’ve been vegan for the last two weeks except for the occasional egg. I successfully made some banana pancakes this morning and shared them with my neighbors who seemed to enjoy them. Next I’ll introduce them to French toast.
I guess that’s all for now. One final note: thanks, Grandma and Grandpa, for the Christmas package! It finally arrived last week. I’d almost forgotten what chocolate tasted like and now I have more than I know what to do with. It’s a nice problem to have.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
So, I'm a Volunteer...
Hey everyone! It’s been awhile, as predicted - I still have internet access via modem, but it’s unreliable because it uses the same network as my cell phone and the signal isn’t very strong here. Also, it actually costs me money to go online now. I’m still going to try and post once or twice month or whenever there’s anything important to report - like my new mailing address.
About that - I’m currently in the process of figuring out the process of setting up my own P.O. box. I can still receive mail at the Peace Corps mail box (BP 5657) but the Peace Corps has asked that all volunteers try and set up a different mailing address within a month, otherwise they’ll charge us exorbitant amounts to retrieve our mail. Or something like that. So if you want to send me anything, hang on - I should have a new mailing address within the week and I’ll be sure to post it.
Anyway, I’m a volunteer now! I was “installed” at my site on Friday and I began teaching on Monday (technically, anyway - more on that later). All in all, it’s been pretty great. When I came here for site visit in November the village seemed claustrophobically small, but now that I’m living here I feel like there’s infinite territory to explore. There’s a maternity center, a family planning center, a Catholic church, a tailor and a number of shops not just within walking distance of my house but literally within sight of my front gate. Every Saturday there’s a market where you can buy fresh vegetables and fruit, clothes, sandals and other odds and ends. I’m still navigating my way around, but my neighbors are very eager to help me out.
I learned today that the shop where I bought airtime during site visit occasionally sells bananas and avocadoes. Things like this are cause for endless excitement, especially since I haven’t figured out how to effectively shop for food yet.
Coming here was an experience unto itself. Unlike PCVs in many countries, we weren’t required to use public transportation to get to our sites (and thank God, because I had way too much stuff to take with me on a bus). Instead we were driven to our sites in small groups. I rode with four other volunteers and Kassim, our Program and Training Assistant Director. We only took about an hour getting to Kamonyi from Nyanza but we spent an additional hour and a half going up various dirt roads to find the district office so Kassim could alert the authorities of my presence. At one point we came to a spot in the road that was covered with felled eucalyptus trees. We stopped and Kassim got out to talk to a group of shirtless axe-wielding men who were presumably responsible for the roadblock. After some very rapid Kinyarwanda was exchanged, Kassim got back in the car. I thought we were going to go back, but instead our driver shifted gears, revved the engine and drove right over the felled trees. Then Kassim turned to us and said, “This is a four-wheel drive.” No kidding.
The first day of classes was a little chaotic, as anticipated. My first class simply didn’t happen because the students were mopping out the classrooms. Then no one showed up to take my place at the end of my second class (in Rwanda, teachers go from classroom to classroom, not students). I taught for an extra twenty minutes and eventually left to find the headmaster. I never found him, but on my way to his office I collected a herd of about 200 children from the primary school, all of which wanted to touch my skin. I found out later that my schedule actually involved teaching two two-hour blocks three times a week instead of two one-hour blocks five times a week. I’m still not sure if something had gotten lost in translation or if my headmaster just didn’t want to tell me that he didn’t know the class schedule.
Scheduling mishaps and small children aside, I’m completely enchanted with my site and my job. My headmaster and Dean of Studies are incredibly supportive and my colleagues and neighbors are very friendly. The nuns from the health center and the women who work at the maternity center check on me several times a day, which means that I generally have no privacy and plenty of food. Everyone I meet is always asking me when I will visit and I haven’t yet figured out if they’re serious or not, but either way it’s nice. And Gihara, my cell, is beautiful. There are mango trees, corn groves, coffee groves and banana groves in abundance. It’s sunny every morning and rains almost every afternoon. I like it.
I miss everyone back home, though. I taped some photos to my wall yesterday and it made me really happy. If and when I get a P.O. box I’d love for people to send me more photos to put up.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Nzaba Umukorerabushake wa Peace Corps!
This week was the homestretch to becoming a volunteer. We had a series of exams on language, cultural knowledge, health, safety and Peace Corps policies culminating in the final LPI (Language Proficiency Interview) on Thursday. The LPI is apparently a huge stumbling block for a lot of trainees - basically how it works is, you go into a room with an LCF and have a conversation in Kinyarwanda and if you understand most of what's going on, you get to swear in. If you don't pull that off, you don't swear in.
Well, today I found I passed all my tests - including the LPI - with flying colors. I will be going to Kigali on Sunday with the rest of the trainees and staff and I will officially swear in as a PCV on January 3rd. The ceremony will be held at the ambassador's estate and a Rwandan television crew will be present - it will be quite an event. In a moment I'm heading off to a local seamstress to pick up my dress for the ceremony (hopefully it's finished!) but before I do, I want to make a brief statement in Kinyarwanda:
Icyumweru gitaha, nzarahira na nzaba umukorerabushake wa Peace Corps. Nzakora indahiro gufasha abantu wa Rwanda. Nishimiye cyane. Nzakumbura abariumu banjye na bagenzi banjye - nzabasura mugihi ndi mu Rwanda - ariko ndashaka kuba kuri site yanjye. Ndakumbura umuryango wanjye muri Amerika noneho - ni kubaberako ndi hano, kandi ndabakunda cyane.
My apologies to any native speakers who read this - I'm still working on my use of object pronoun infixes. Thanks all, happy New Year!
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