Romping Through the Rice Paddies

During my interview to join the Peace Corps, they asked what I would do if I was ever feeling bored or lonely at my site. I have rarely felt those feelings very strongly while abroad. I told them that I’m used to adapting to whatever situation I am in and finding ways to make do with a boring situation. I talked about how I would probably not be very lonely because I would have made friends in my village. I also talked about how I am happy to read for hours or listen to music. They told me that I might not have electricity and my book supply isn’t endless. Well, so far, and I know its early after only a couple of months, I have never felt even close to bored. Even though I do have electricity and laptop, I have occupied myself in a lot of different ways. I have started doing yoga, I spend a lot of time cooking, I go running, I explore the surrounding areas, I have taken up various food preservation projects, like making jam, chutney and wine. My book supply actually does look endless. I brought a lot of them, and also have acquired plenty along the way. As disappointed as I was to find that I was one of the few people who brought real books instead of a kindle, I have found plenty of interesting things to read. I have barely even touched my tin whistle or harmonica, and the music books I have to help me get better at them. In fact, all of these things have led me to spend less time in my community than I had expected. I think I spent so much time getting ready for the potential boredom, that I over-prepared myself. I have not completely neglected my community. I go visit people, and I have made some friends. I am just saying that I have been impressed with my ability to be alone and still be enjoying myself.

Once I spent the better portion of my day making mango chutney. This was part of my plan to exploit the mango season as much as possible. For about 5 or 6 weeks of the year, my village is dripping with mangos. There are so many that you see people eating them in public. Eating in public is taboo, so it is almost like there are just so many that people have to break rules so the mangos don’t go to waste. I was only limited by the number of jars I had. I had managed to accumulate a few during my time in Kigali, left over from other people’s mayonnaise and what not. I managed to make four jars of delicious, spicy mango chutney. I had more chutney than jars, so I found an extra plastic container to put the leftovers in. That would be for immediate use.

Inspired by my newfound ability to seal fruit in jars, I am planning on looking into doing a side project in my community that deals with food preservation. I will probably need to look into whether much fruit or other food goes to waste due to spoilage, but I am curious if there is something there. If nothing else, it could serve as an income generation scheme for low-income women. There is locally made strawberry jam from a commercial farm in Rwanda. It is mostly marketed to foreigners and wealthy Rwandans and is very expensive. Making mango jam is cheap during the season. I have spoken with a group of the Chinese workers here and they said they would definitely buy locally made and jam if it was available, since their breakfast is currently plain bread and tea. The only obstacle would be the jars. If I can solve that, I might have a good idea. But it’s just an idea so far.

At this point I was still getting settled into my house and had some stuff that I had not unpacked. I was at the point, though, were I could allow the neighborhood kids in on occasion to hang out and dance. Oline, who is just adorable doesn’t stop talking in her excited, shrill voice. I understand almost nothing of what she says, but since she is only four, she doesn’t seem to notice that I never answer her questions because she is already talking again.

Most of my visitors are pleasant, and I try to make tea for them if it is possible. Sometimes, though, the visitor is just there because they want something from me. One time, there was a kid trying to get me to turn on a movie on my laptop while I was cooking dinner. I tried subtle things to get him to leave that seemed hospitable like giving him some mango chutney on bread. I knew he wouldn’t like it, as it is laden with spices and flavor unfamiliar to the Rwandan palate. It was funny to watch him struggling to eat it out of politeness. When he wanted to listen to some music, I put on Django Reinhardt. These attempts did not work that well, but I also have not seen much of him since then.

After cooking some amazing dishes in my home all the time, I realized I had completely neglected the local food scene. This is not usually like me. Eating at cheap little diners is one of my favorite things. So I went to one of the few local restaurants for a cheap plate of bland Rwandan food. For the first couple bites of plain rice, beans, boiled bananas and a tiny bit of red sauce, I felt nostalgic for my home stay during training. After that, the only nice thing about it was that it was saving me time, which I already had plenty of. Cooking is always a big production and it always shocks me how much time I spend doing it.

Then I went to visit Mama Jeanette. Construction had resumed on their new, brick house. There were about seven guys passing bricks and stacking them with mortar made from mud. It did not look too sturdy, but it would definitely be a step up from their mud and stick hut that they were currently living in. Although they had given me one of their prized chairs to sit in, when I saw Mama Jeanette help out with the brick passing, I realized I needed to get up and help. I was glad that they didn’t protest. Although I was a guest, they actually seemed to like that fact that I was willing to help.

On one of my walks around the village, I had come across an incredible view of the valley below. It was covered with rice paddies, and I could see a river winding right through the middle. I vowed that I would go down there the next day and try to make it to the river. When I did, I accumulated a trail of young boys as I walked through the rice paddies. I was lucky I had them with me, as they could show me the best way to get through the maze. It surprised me that of all the rice-growing countries I had been to, this was actually my first time walking through paddies. It seemed that they had an impressive irrigation system set up. It is one of the few areas in Rwanda where they eat domestic rice. Some of it, I have heard, comes from Tanzania, but I think most comes from Pakistan, and perhaps India. Although there were raised trails above the flooded rice, it gave way in places and we had to jump over patches of mud or puddles. It was quite the obstacle course, but eventually they showed me the proper place to to go swimming. The river was moving fast, but they knew a place with a little pool. They all jumped in, above the pool, and let the river carry them quickly down stream, until they arrived at the calm spot. It was like a sort of water slide. I was impressed with the kids’ ability to swim. In Ghana and Mali, where I had been in places with water, Most of the population generally does not know how to swim. These kids were having no problem swimming against the fast current. After splashing around with them for a bit, I decided to start throwing them. They weighed all of 30 pounds or something, so  I could toss them pretty far. They loved it, of course, and kept getting in line, yelling, “Nanjye! Nanjye!” Me too! Me too! After half an hour of throwing kids, and seeing the impending storm heading or way, we headed back. The kids were so sure the rain was on its way that they started running. The obstacle course that I had traversed slowly on the way in was now on expert mode. Somehow I never fell into the wet paddies or died.

I live somewhere on that remarkably modest hill.

When I finally got my bike in working order, I took a ride towards the hot springs that leave nearby me. I timed it perfecty and arrived just in time for the rain. The hot springs are the best when its raining, since it is already so hot outside. Plus it makes a moody steam come of the boiling water. After a bit of a soak, I decided to continue on my bike past the hot springs, away from my village. It was an enjoyable ride, as I was treated to different small villages, and new beautiful views. Some of the villages seemed exceptionally poor and a little depressing compared to my village. My village, which is relatively large, appears to be fairly well off. It may just be an illusion that the cement factory gives off. We have short stretch of paved road (!) a basketball court, a tennis court, decent housing for the military and factory workers and relatively well-stocked shops. There are plenty of people with decent jobs at the factory that afford them nicer houses. So there is a lot more money in my town than others, but it is hard to tell if the people untouched by the factory are doing any better than they would otherwise. I hope to find this out during my time here. I can’t help the feeling, sometimes, though, that my services as a volunteer could be better used in a smaller, poorer village. Anyway, after a fairly long ride away from home, I stopped to buy some mangos, so that it felt like I had had a destination. Then I turned around and rode home.

That afternoon, I ran into Mama Soleil, the administrator at my school who lives nearby me. She was on her way to choir practice, and she invited me to come along. I was hesitant. I really felt it would be a good opportunity to meet people in my community, but this was also one of the activities that Jeff, the previous volunteer, had been best known. I wanted to use the good reputation he had built for himself to my advantage, but I also did not want to be in his shadow for two years. People frequently asked me if I played instruments or sang. They always seemed disappointed when I told them I am not a musician. I tried to console them by telling them I liked to dance. I reminded Mama Soleil that I am not a musician and that I would not join the choir, but that I would like to meet everyone. So I went along. The Methodist Church is the largest, most popular church in town. It is quite a monstrosity, and surprisingly modern. I could be impressed with their huge sound system and variety of soundboards, keyboards, guitars and drums. But those seemed standard at even the most impoverished churches. It was the plastic chairs, tiled altar, and unbroken glass windows that seemed to be showing off. When I arrived, I was surprised how many people I already knew. Most of them were people that I had met through Jeff when I had visited him, and had since re-connected with. Jeanette, Mama Jeanette’s eldest daughter (hence the name Mama Jeanette), I learned, had a beautiful singing voice, and I was treated to one of her solos. Her brother, Enok, plays the keyboard with agility. One of their neighbors, a driver for the cement factory, was on the bass. There were a few others too. After they sang a few songs, Mama Soleil had me introduce myself in my broken Kinyarwanda. Everyone, I could tell, realized that I had something to do with Jeff, and I disappointed them by explaining them that I would not be singing with them, but that I was very happy to be visiting their choir practice. They seemed to appreciate my gesture though, and I was glad I went.

That night I went on a pork hunt. Jeff, for whatever reason, had never bought meat at site. I am guessing it was in his efforts to live at the levels of most Rwandans, who cannot always afford meat. If it was this, I respect it. If it was out of fear, well, that might be a different story. I had bought goat meat before, but really, if there is a choice, why would I ever choose goat? So I asked around, and was eventually brought to this little ramshackle booth behind some of the other shops in town. It was next to some sketchy banana beer bars. I knew that they were around somewhere, but I was never that close to them. In most places, I love visiting the most down home local bars. Drinking millet beer in Ghana, honey wine in Mali, or coconut beer in the Philippines are always great pastimes, and invariably done with hysterical old men. However, here in Rwanda, I was trying to keep up the good reputation that Jeff had made for Peace Corps volunteers by not drinking at my site and especially not at the banana beer bars. Because of the huge upsurge in popularity of protestant churches in Rwanda, drinking has been on the decline. In protestant towns, like mine, drinking can be hard on the reputation. As I was buying the bloody, hanging chunk of pork meat from the booth, I got a glimpse of the old poor man drinking culture of Rwanda. It was not that pretty. In fact, it seemed really depressing. During my transaction, at least a couple sloshed old  men screamed incomprehensibly in my face in either Kinyarwanda or French about something important, clutching my arm, shooting spittle into my face. No doubt they were happy to see me, but it did not make for an appealing scene I wanted to get involved in. I guess it will take some time for me to figure out what my community here will be. If it can’t be the choir, and not the drunken old men, who will it be?

Homemade Hammer

December 13, 2012

Most of my time between arriving at site and Christmas was spent being shown around by my counterpart, Gabriel, wandering around the town, exploiting the short mango season, exercising and cooking.

Gabriel took me to our school’s library. Our school is fortunate enough to have a library, a rare thing in Rwanda. However, it would be of little use to me. My school was focused on the sciences, and the few textbooks devoted to teaching English were for the lower level students. I would be teaching the highest two grades in secondary school. One of my biggest worries about teaching was that I had very little idea of what I would teach. Most volunteers teach the lower, “ordinary” level classes. They had a wealth of resources about what to teach as well as fleshed-out lesson plans. Our model school was conducted entirely in the lower level classes. I asked Gabriel about the curriculum that I would be teaching, and he fished out a little booklet from somewhere. I was shocked by how vague it was. It seemed to be basic guidelines, but it really said nothing. Under the section for “specific objectives” we have, “Recognize the meaning of words as quickly as possible, To show commend (sic) of an extensive scientific vocabulary, to study effectively and independently, to identify the main point or important information.” Even for what little information this gave, it meant nothing, as the expectations in the schools here seem to be grossly off-the-mark when it comes to the actual skill level of the students. I still had a few weeks before school started, so it would seem that I would have plenty of time to prepare. However, I did not want to start lesson planning until I had some sort of idea of the level of my students. I could go ahead and plan weeks of lessons, but I knew that I would need to completely re-work everything as soon as I got a chance to interact with my students.

Later that day, I went on a run. I passed by a tall, wiry man with too much energy. He suddenly joined me on the run and started yelling something that sounded like military chants. The guy pushed me to go a little farther than I was planning, but eventually I realized that he could probably run forever, so I turned back around. I wasn’t able to understand much of what his chants meant, but eventually I realized they were nonsense, and he was making them up based on what he saw around us. He was yelling about the cement factory, the children, the banana trees. “The President is great, he loves all the children,” was one that I specifically remember. I was happy to be around a Rwandan with a little more personality and liveliness than most, but then I started to wonder if he wasn’t an “umusazi”, a catch-all term for crazy people, or perhaps mentally disabled. This was confirmed when he got all the way to my house and demanded to come inside because he wanted something to eat. I felt bad, but I knew it was not a good idea. He started to get angry when I tried to say goodbye and leave him behind. One of the soldiers that lives next door to me came out and scolded him and sent him away. There is not much sympathy for the umusazi here, but I was a little relieved that he had dealt with this man for me.

That night I made my first attempt at making mango jam. I bought a couple kilos of sugar and a bunch of mangos. I can get mangos for cheap during the season. About 30 for a dollar, sometimes cheaper. I knew it would only last a few more weeks, though, and I needed to make as many things out of the mangos as I could. It took a lot of time, and I made a huge mess, but I eventually had a couple of big jars of jam, sealed properly and everything. It was far easier than I had expected, and when I saw that the seal had formed correctly on my old mayonnaise jar I felt a huge sense of accomplishment. Gabriel had been there, watching me make it. I don’t know what he thought of it. He didn’t express much, but I can only assume he thought it was weird. I’d never made jam before, and I never even ate much jam in America, but there I was, making and canning my own in Rwanda. I take my mangos seriously.

On the first market day since I was at site, I got up early and left before I had any visitors so I was sure to be on my own in the market. It is almost an hour walk away, but it is flat, for Rwanda, and beautiful. A huge stretch of the walk goes between expansive, Technicolor rice fields on the floor of the valley. I’ve said it before, I’m sure, but nothing puts me in a good mood like walking around a market in Africa. Sure, plenty of people were incessantly yelling, “chinoise!” or “mzungu!” at me, but usually I can ignore it. Some of the market women remembered me from when I had come with Jeff a couple months before. I bought a couple kilos of rice, a pineapple, plenty of mangos  and a big grass mat. As I walked through the town, after my shopping, the moto drivers started yelling to me, trying to get me to take their ride. One of the more obnoxious ones was yelling, “Nihow! Chinoise! Chinoise! Nihow!” followed by some mocking faux Chinese. I was trying to ignore them, but I lost it. I went up to him, and surprised him, first by speaking in Kinyarwanda, something the Chinese here cannot do, then by telling him off. After I was done yelling at him, there was a brief moment of silence, then all the other moto drivers erupted in laughter. I had humiliated the driver. As I walked off, I felt hugely victorious.

My front door has a glass window, and if you look through it, you can see my bathroom door. One day when I was in the bathroom, I heard the neighborhood kids arrived, banging on the doors and windows. I decided to pretend that I was not home. I figured  I could wait them out. If I walked out of the bathroom, they would know I was home, and they would continue to hound me for at least an hour. I underestimated them, and they outlasted me. I walked out, and decided to try to hang out with them outside, in front of my house. As soon as I open the door, the kids start to pour in though. I had to corral them, and push them back onto my porch. I turned on some music, because they like to dance. There are a set of twins, both named Fred, who are two years old. They are named after RPF war hero Fred Rwigiyema (sp?), who had initially led the fight to stop the 1994 genocide, before he was killed. The Freds do not really look alike, mostly because one of them looks extremely malnourished. He can barely walk upright. With every step, he wobbles back and forth, almost falling down. Well, as I was hanging out with this gaggle of kids on my porch, I took a step backward, and knocked over the frail little Fred and he hit his head on the porch. I felt so bad, but he had his revenge before he even started crying. As I leaned down to pick him up, I saw that as he had fallen over my bare foot and covered it in the poop that he apparently was smothered in underneath the dress that he wears. It was quite the bonk, but he was ok after a few minutes of sobbing. We had not gotten off to a good start. In the middle of all of this a girl, who might have been eight, asked me to give her some food. I told her I didn’t have any food to give. Just then, Gabriel arrived, saying we were going somewhere. I went inside to wash off my foot, and change into nicer clothes. When I came out, the girl that had asked me for food told me my shirt was dirty and I needed to change it. I felt like only in Rwanda could I be begged from a person one minute, then told by the same person that I was dirty the next minute. So, grumblingly I went to go change shirts.

I bought a homemade hammer with a rebar handle at the market, which finally enabled me to hang my mosquito net. It looked like this would be the first time in my life when I would actually use my mosquito net on a regular basis. I hate using them, but the mosquitoes in my house are bad enough, and I don’t have a fan that blows them away from me.

One of the negative sides of having such a hot site, is that my food goes bad a lot quicker. I had made a big batch of mango curry, and it went bad in less than 48 hours. I knew that if I was in one of the high elevation sites, I would be able to cook less often and in bigger batches. One of the dishes I made a lot at the beginning was phad thai. I had found a jar of phad thai paste in a free box in the Peace Corps house in Kigali. I had also bought  a few packs of ramen in Kigali. With an egg, some garlic, maybe even a little bit of mango, it was  a good, simple dish, that I would never be able to make after my paste and noodles ran out.

One day, I ran into Mama Jeanette, the matriarch of a family that Jeff had been very close with. I was so happy to see her. She was a very sweet woman. She told me that her son, Enok, who I had met, was sick with malaria. I gave her my number and said I would visit the next day. I got the call the next morning, far earlier than I had expected. I was in the middle of doing some yoga, but I had to abandon it. I walked to the health center and found Mama Jeanette. We walked into the room where Enok, who is about my age, was staying. He was actually recovering quickly, and was about to check out. Mama Jeanette served us some tea and bread. In the time that I was there he actually received a few more visitors, who brought gifts. I realized that visiting people in hospitals must be an important thing here, and I felt bad for not bringing a gift. Come to think of it, it is probably about the same in America. However, I haven’t visited anyone in a hospital since I was a child, so I have never really thought much of that etiquette.

Afterward, they invited me back to their place for lunch. I was surprised to find their home looking much different than I had remembered it. This was because they were in the process of constructing a new, brick house, next to their old mud and stick house. Enok said that he was paying for the construction, but the money was coming slowly. Right now it was at a standstill. The bricks were about four feet high so far. We went into Enok’s dank, mud-floored room and sat on his bed, as Mama Jeanette prepared lunch. We chatted in a mixture of French and Kinyarwanda. Just after our lunch of rice, boiled plantains, beans and tripe was served, a nasty storm came. Some of the lightning strikes were so close they didn’t leave time between their flash and the thunder. Enok struggled to deal with the many leaks in the corrugated tin roof. He tried to plug some, and moved his clothes from underneath others. I was happy that they were building a new house. They deserved something better. I was surprised to learn that Mama Jeanette had ten kids. That would make her, approximately, a lot older than I would have expected. She does not seem old. She has a vitality about her. The only time I see her age show, is when she puts on reading glasses to use her cell phone. I like her because she gets, and laughs, at my jokes. Most Rwandans seem too literal, and don’t get my sense of humor. For example, I responded to their goats’ bleating, with bleats of my own. I explained that while I don’t speak Kinyarwanda very well, I’m actually fluent in goat. I proceeded to translate to them what the goat was saying. They all thought it was hilarious, but I felt that most Rwandans would have responded with, “but goats don’t talk. How can you speak goat?” Or maybe they would have just thought I was lame, or crazy.

Later that day I went down to Bugarama, a small town about 12 km from my site to meet up with a fellow volunteer. She had walked from her site with some friends, who were heading back home. We had not met before, so we hung out for a bit over a beer. It was the middle of the afternoon, but there was a guy dancing in the bar alone. He was wearing a Mickey Mouse baseball cap, rubber galoshes and was eating a cob of grilled corn. He was not holding back his dancing either. This served as our entertainment for about half an hour. It restored a little bit of my faith in Rwandans’ ability to let loose and have a good time. 

Arriving at Site

Dec. 11, 2012

Before being dropped off at my site in the southwest corner of Rwanda, we took my companions Luke and Caitlan to their site a couple hours away from where I would be. They were far from a main road, in the mountains in the center of our sector. Their village looked small, and slightly depressed. The only thing that seemed to make this a town of any significance was its hospital, which served most of the district due to its central location, and its very large Catholic church. While I am sure this town did not receive many foreign visitors, they had had an American living there for the previous two years. Regardless,  a crowd formed around our vehicle as we loaded our arms to carry their belongings up the hill to their house. It was a five or ten minute walk. I was amazed that nobody in the crowd offered to help carry the stuff. It seemed like a hospitable gesture that I had seen countless times in other parts of Africa. Rwanda, or maybe just this village, was different. I had a negative feeling as indifferent, and occasionally mocking stares permitted for close to an hour. Finally as we were finishing up some young men arrived, offering their services as porters. How had this only occurred to anybody after such a long time? This was obviously a poor village, as evidenced by at least a couple people begging from me in that short period of time.

The house that Luke and Caitlan were moving into looked as depressing as the town itself. The previous volunteer had left it a complete mess. The floor looked like it hadn’t been swept in months, cobwebs had run amok and he hadn’t even cleaned the dishes that they had bought from him. At least a couple of items that he was supposed to leave for them were gone. It was dark and pretty dingy. I could tell they were feeling down about their place, so I tried to stay positive. I mean, I was jealous for parts of  their house, like their large outdoor area where they could cook, garden or raise chickens. My house, on the other hand, was very indoors-oriented.

It was sad to say goodbye, but on the other hand, they were my best friends throughout training, and I was grateful that they were the closest volunteers to my site.

Just around sunset we arrived to my site, down in what I refer to as “the pit”. My site is at nearly the lowest elevation in Rwanda, and it is the hottest and most humid area in the country. Even on a map, it looks like it is in a little pit, in the far southwest corner of the, cut off from the rest of Rwanda by the sprawling Nyungwe Forest. Our relatively low and flat terrain makes it swampy and mosquito-infested. I am not painting an attractive picture of it, but it is in fact beautiful there, and a unique corner of Rwanda. I couldn’t wait to get there.

When I arrived, I was surprised to find a small welcoming party. My counterpart from my school, a school administrator, her son, one of the previous volunteer’s friends and a couple of the neighborhood kids I had met before were all there waiting for me. We greeted each other, and Oline, the little girl that lived nearby came running up and jumped into my arms. I was impressed that she had remembered my name. Everyone helped carry my belongings into my home. It had been left in immaculate condition. The floors were swept, the bed was made, and Jeff (the previous volunteer) had even left me a few things I wasn’t expecting, like sheets, a charcoal stove, a mop and a broom. Everything about my site installation was the complete opposite of Luke and Caitlan’s. I felt blessed to have a supportive community already there waiting for me. This was one of the positives of replacing a volunteer that had integrated himself so well into the community and had made so many friends. The negative side was that I had big shoes to fill. I was not intimidated by stepping into his working role. It was being as good of a person in the community that scared me. I felt that everyone expected me to step right in and be just like him. One of the most frequent questions I got was whether I was a musician. Jeff had joined the church band, playing guitar and singing. For many it was a shock to find out that I was not a musician. Some people would ask me if I would join anyway and learn to play guitar or sing. He was obviously already missed.

As soon as all of my bags were moved into the home, the Peace Corps van drove off. I had been looking forward to some alone time in my own place for a couple months. I move around a lot and a sort of spiritual ceremony that I always  cherish is slowly putting together my living space as I like it, usually listening to some music. This, however, was not something I would get to do on my own terms. The administrator from the school, Mama Soleil invited me over to dinner at her house. I was happy for the hospitality, even if I was anxious for some solitude.

Their house, just around the corner from mine, was very nice. I sat on the couch with the Mama Soleil’s husband and watched Chicago on their TV. She served us mangos and grilled corn as pre-dinner snacks. It reminded me a lot of my home stay family. The dynamic in households with a TV is completely different than in those without. There was not much conversation, and when dinner was served the TV remained on.

After dinner, they walked me back home. It is customary here to accompany your guests outside of the house and walk them at least partway home. I get the impression that how far they walk you is a sign of their respect, or maybe closeness of friendship. It was late and I was tired, but I really wanted to make some tea. I took the hot plate out of its box and plugged it into the power strip. While I was in the other room, starting to put some things away, I heard a couple of pops. Then I smelled smoke. I ran back and found my living room filled with smoke. There was so much smoke I thought I had set my house on fire. Maybe the electrical fire was festering in the walls or ceiling. Not sure what to do I went to unplug the power strip. When I got there, I realized that this was not necessary as the cord had completely melted off of the plug. In fact, the entire rubber casing was melted and was sagging onto the floor. I worried that I might have also destroyed my laptop, which was also plugged into the power strip. In the end, though, there was no fire, and the only casualty was my power strip. I didn’t want to use that outlet again, but I still wanted tea. So I went to my bedroom and tried to plug my hot plate in, but the cord would not reach. So I used my other power strip as an extension cord. Long story short, I filled my new home with smoke and destroyed both my power strips within half an hour of moving in. It was not a good start. For a moment I wanted to curse the Peace Corps for giving me one of the sites with electricity. In fact, I had one of the most fortunate sites, as I am one of the few who does not even have to pay for the electricity. I am almost ashamed to admit that I even have running water in my house.

In the first few days at site, I was struggling to put my house together and unpack my bags. I arrived in country with less stuff than most of my colleagues, but I had accumulated a lot since arriving. Getting settled in, though, was not a simple process as I constantly had visitors and business to take care of. It was very hard to welcome guests as my house was a mess, my stuff was everywhere, but not in its right place, and I couldn’t even prepare tea for people. I didn’t even get a chance to hang my mosquito net until I had been there for a week.

My counterpart from the school, who, ideally, would help me to get integrated into the community and the school, had said he would come to my house on my first morning at 8 AM. Of course I wanted to sleep in, but I went along with it. Sleeping in wouldn’t have been possible anyway, as I was woken at around 7 by the neighborhood kids banging on my door and windows, yelling for me to come out, or let them in. Jeff had had something of an open door policy with the neighborhood kids. He was very close with them and spent a lot of time with them. I admired this, but at the same time, I knew that I would not be able to be like that, at least at the beginning. I needed to set my boundaries and let them know at the beginning that I was not Jeff and they couldn’t come in whenever they wanted. This was incredibly hard to do for those first few days. They could spend hours just sitting around the door, occasionally banging on it and yelling for me. Oline would lay down on my window ledge, reach through the broken screen and pull back the curtain to watch me as I cooked or arranged my kitchen area. My heart broke for them, knowing that they missed Jeff and just wanted me to be him. I felt like an old curmudgeon. Sometimes I would think back to traveling in Mali or Morocco with Jonathan, who always hated the kids coming around wherever we were living. I usually didn’t mind welcoming them (as long as they weren’t throwing rocks at us) and felt he was far too harsh. Now I felt like him. In the end, though, I knew that if I ever wanted peace and quiet in my house, I would need to put my foot down and say no for a while. Sometimes, however, I would let them in for a while. I would play music and we would dance and they would run around touching everything they could find, asking what it was, then probably putting it in there mouth.

When my counterpart came around that morning, I assumed we had some business to take care of or he was taking me somewhere. We walked toward town and then kept going. He suddenly asked, “where are we going?” I was confused. I said I had nowhere to go, thinking that he was the one who had insisted on coming to get me at 8 in the morning. I realized that he was taking his role as counterpart very seriously and felt the need to simply accompany me if I ever needed to do anything in or outside of my house. I had mixed feelings about this. He didn’t think I was capable of buying things in markets or shops, so he would do this for me, while I stood behind him. To me, this was not integration. I felt that I had enough of a grasp of Kinyarwanda to get around, go to  the markets, meet people and make basic conversation. I felt that he did not really agree. He always seemed disappointed in my ability to speak Kinyarwanda. He spoke very fast and I almost never understood him. When I would tell him that I didn’t understand, he would repeat the same thing at the same speed.

That evening, when we went on another walk, we passed an area of the cement factory where many of the Chinese workers lived. I saw a couple of Chinese men in hardhats with a crowd around them going to a nearby shop. There were a couple of large fish, maybe ten pounds each, hanging outside of the shop. They looked fresh, and I could only imagine that they were there specifically for the Chinese. The nearest water source where you could get a fish that big would be Lake Kivu, two hours away. A kid playing in a stream suddenly called out to me in Kinyarwanda. My counterpart told me that he was saying, “I’m sorry Chinese man, I do not have any crabs to sell you.” Apparently you can find crabs in the nearby streams and the kids catch them and sell them to the Chinese workers.

Most people in town think that I am Chinese because the only foreigners here are Chinese and maybe a few Indians. Usually people call me Chinese, and every once in a while Indian. The kids chase me yelling, “Chinois, bon bon!” as they ask me for candy. Sometimes they say in a weird, nasally voice, “nihow!” Sometimes they continue in a mocking tone making up Chinese sounding gibberish. Or they will just speak in Kinyarwanda in a nasally voice. It seems incredibly offensive and if I was Chinese I would hate the kids here. The weird thing for me, though, is that I find myself offended more that I am being mistaken for being Chinese. I mean, I understand why they think it; it makes complete sense. However, I simply don’t want to be associated with the cement factory or Chinese business. I would prefer people know that I am a volunteer teacher at the school, but it is a difficult distinction to make. I feel that even when I explain that to people, they still don’t really believe me. Or maybe they think that I am still hired by the cement factory, and I’m probably lying about being American. I will say, though, that as I write this about six weeks since arriving at site, I have noticed a significant decline in the level with which I am called Chinese. In fact, one day I noticed that I was actually called American more frequently than Chinese. That felt like true progress.

We went to the market and my counterpart did all the mediating between me and the sellers. I appreciated the gesture, but felt that it wasn’t helping me at all with my integration or language skills. A few days later, when I went to the next town for their bi-weekly big market, my counterpart was astounded. He was like, “but how did you go to the market by yourself?” I had to remind him that not only had I been in Rwanda for three months, I had also had to shop in markets in other African countries where I knew even less of the language. Afterward he came home with me and watched as I started to prepare my dinner. When he decided to leave, I told him he was welcome to eat with me, but he left anyway.

Then the son of the administrator visited me. I received a lot of visitors during the first week. His visits, however, were usually more self-interested than most. He had asked the day I arrived about the bike that the Peace Corps had given me. It was a flashy mountain bike that looked a lot nicer than it really was. It had a flat tire, the shocks (yes, it had shocks) needed lube, the back breaks were jammed and there was plenty of rust on the chain and chain rings. I had told him that I needed to fix it, and that is why he couldn’t borrow it. Jeff had had a bike too, but he lent it out and it came back broken, and he never used it again. This boy would come over almost every day, asking if I had fixed the bike yet so he could use it. One day he grew impatient and said his dad wanted to borrow it, and that he would take it to the local bike mechanic to fix it. I finally had to explain the truth. He seemed disappointed. Although he tried to make it seem like his visit was just to visit me, as soon as the bike was off the table, he left. He would occasionally ask about the bicycle after that, but I had to be firm. I needed to keep reminding myself that I would  be here for two years, and if I let other people control me from the beginning, it would make things constantly difficult.

After one more visitor, I finally finished cooking my dinner. My first meal was mango coconut curry. I was pretty proud of my improvised recipe. With all the spices I brought, I would have the luxury of keeping my meals pretty elaborate for a while.

I realize that what I have written about my first few days at site sound pretty negative. I think I was very stressed out, and it is hard to admit, but those days were difficult. I mean, I was still excited about being at my site, and looking forward to all the work I would do in the next two years. The hardest part was definitely knowing that the community expected me to be a certain way, and feeling like I would let them down for not being like Jeff. Jeff had written me a long letter and left it in the house. It encouraged me to make my experience my own, and that I should not feel obligated to follow in his footsteps. The best advice was that it was important to find the people that I wanted to be friends with and not the people that want to be friends with me. I would need to forge my own path. This seemed encouraging, but also daunting as I felt that I would still disappoint Jeff’s old community. 

Arriving at Site

Dec. 11, 2012

Before being dropped off at my site in the southwest corner of Rwanda, we took my companions Luke and Caitlan to their site a couple hours away from where I would be. They were far from a main road, in the mountains in the center of our sector. Their village looked small, and slightly depressed. The only thing that seemed to make this a town of any significance was its hospital, which served most of the district due to its central location, and its very large Catholic church. While I am sure this town did not receive many foreign visitors, they had had an American living there for the previous two years. Regardless,  a crowd formed around our vehicle as we loaded our arms to carry their belongings up the hill to their house. It was a five or ten minute walk. I was amazed that nobody in the crowd offered to help carry the stuff. It seemed like a hospitable gesture that I had seen countless times in other parts of Africa. Rwanda, or maybe just this village, was different. I had a negative feeling as indifferent, and occasionally mocking stares permitted for close to an hour. Finally as we were finishing up some young men arrived, offering their services as porters. How had this only occurred to anybody after such a long time? This was obviously a poor village, as evidenced by at least a couple people begging from me in that short period of time.

The house that Luke and Caitlan were moving into looked as depressing as the town itself. The previous volunteer had left it a complete mess. The floor looked like it hadn’t been swept in months, cobwebs had run amok and he hadn’t even cleaned the dishes that they had bought from him. At least a couple of items that he was supposed to leave for them were gone. It was dark and pretty dingy. I could tell they were feeling down about their place, so I tried to stay positive. I mean, I was jealous for parts of  their house, like their large outdoor area where they could cook, garden or raise chickens. My house, on the other hand, was very indoors-oriented.

It was sad to say goodbye, but on the other hand, they were my best friends throughout training, and I was grateful that they were the closest volunteers to my site.

Just around sunset we arrived to my site, down in what I refer to as “the pit”. My site is at nearly the lowest elevation in Rwanda, and it is the hottest and most humid area in the country. Even on a map, it looks like it is in a little pit, in the far southwest corner of the, cut off from the rest of Rwanda by the sprawling Nyungwe Forest. Our relatively low and flat terrain makes it swampy and mosquito-infested. I am not painting an attractive picture of it, but it is in fact beautiful there, and a unique corner of Rwanda. I couldn’t wait to get there.

When I arrived, I was surprised to find a small welcoming party. My counterpart from my school, a school administrator, her son, one of the previous volunteer’s friends and a couple of the neighborhood kids I had met before were all there waiting for me. We greeted each other, and Oline, the little girl that lived nearby came running up and jumped into my arms. I was impressed that she had remembered my name. Everyone helped carry my belongings into my home. It had been left in immaculate condition. The floors were swept, the bed was made, and Jeff (the previous volunteer) had even left me a few things I wasn’t expecting, like sheets, a charcoal stove, a mop and a broom. Everything about my site installation was the complete opposite of Luke and Caitlan’s. I felt blessed to have a supportive community already there waiting for me. This was one of the positives of replacing a volunteer that had integrated himself so well into the community and had made so many friends. The negative side was that I had big shoes to fill. I was not intimidated by stepping into his working role. It was being as good of a person in the community that scared me. I felt that everyone expected me to step right in and be just like him. One of the most frequent questions I got was whether I was a musician. Jeff had joined the church band, playing guitar and singing. For many it was a shock to find out that I was not a musician. Some people would ask me if I would join anyway and learn to play guitar or sing. He was obviously already missed.

As soon as all of my bags were moved into the home, the Peace Corps van drove off. I had been looking forward to some alone time in my own place for a couple months. I move around a lot and a sort of spiritual ceremony that I always  cherish is slowly putting together my living space as I like it, usually listening to some music. This, however, was not something I would get to do on my own terms. The administrator from the school, Mama Soleil invited me over to dinner at her house. I was happy for the hospitality, even if I was anxious for some solitude.

Their house, just around the corner from mine, was very nice. I sat on the couch with the Mama Soleil’s husband and watched Chicago on their TV. She served us mangos and grilled corn as pre-dinner snacks. It reminded me a lot of my home stay family. The dynamic in households with a TV is completely different than in those without. There was not much conversation, and when dinner was served the TV remained on.

After dinner, they walked me back home. It is customary here to accompany your guests outside of the house and walk them at least partway home. I get the impression that how far they walk you is a sign of their respect, or maybe closeness of friendship. It was late and I was tired, but I really wanted to make some tea. I took the hot plate out of its box and plugged it into the power strip. While I was in the other room, starting to put some things away, I heard a couple of pops. Then I smelled smoke. I ran back and found my living room filled with smoke. There was so much smoke I thought I had set my house on fire. Maybe the electrical fire was festering in the walls or ceiling. Not sure what to do I went to unplug the power strip. When I got there, I realized that this was not necessary as the cord had completely melted off of the plug. In fact, the entire rubber casing was melted and was sagging onto the floor. I worried that I might have also destroyed my laptop, which was also plugged into the power strip. In the end, though, there was no fire, and the only casualty was my power strip. I didn’t want to use that outlet again, but I still wanted tea. So I went to my bedroom and tried to plug my hot plate in, but the cord would not reach. So I used my other power strip as an extension cord. Long story short, I filled my new home with smoke and destroyed both my power strips within half an hour of moving in. It was not a good start. For a moment I wanted to curse the Peace Corps for giving me one of the sites with electricity. In fact, I had one of the most fortunate sites, as I am one of the few who does not even have to pay for the electricity. I am almost ashamed to admit that I even have running water in my house.

In the first few days at site, I was struggling to put my house together and unpack my bags. I arrived in country with less stuff than most of my colleagues, but I had accumulated a lot since arriving. Getting settled in, though, was not a simple process as I constantly had visitors and business to take care of. It was very hard to welcome guests as my house was a mess, my stuff was everywhere, but not in its right place, and I couldn’t even prepare tea for people. I didn’t even get a chance to hang my mosquito net until I had been there for a week.

My counterpart from the school, who, ideally, would help me to get integrated into the community and the school, had said he would come to my house on my first morning at 8 AM. Of course I wanted to sleep in, but I went along with it. Sleeping in wouldn’t have been possible anyway, as I was woken at around 7 by the neighborhood kids banging on my door and windows, yelling for me to come out, or let them in. Jeff had had something of an open door policy with the neighborhood kids. He was very close with them and spent a lot of time with them. I admired this, but at the same time, I knew that I would not be able to be like that, at least at the beginning. I needed to set my boundaries and let them know at the beginning that I was not Jeff and they couldn’t come in whenever they wanted. This was incredibly hard to do for those first few days. They could spend hours just sitting around the door, occasionally banging on it and yelling for me. Oline would lay down on my window ledge, reach through the broken screen and pull back the curtain to watch me as I cooked or arranged my kitchen area. My heart broke for them, knowing that they missed Jeff and just wanted me to be him. I felt like an old curmudgeon. Sometimes I would think back to traveling in Mali or Morocco with Jonathan, who always hated the kids coming around wherever we were living. I usually didn’t mind welcoming them (as long as they weren’t throwing rocks at us) and felt he was far too harsh. Now I felt like him. In the end, though, I knew that if I ever wanted peace and quiet in my house, I would need to put my foot down and say no for a while. Sometimes, however, I would let them in for a while. I would play music and we would dance and they would run around touching everything they could find, asking what it was, then probably putting it in there mouth.

When my counterpart came around that morning, I assumed we had some business to take care of or he was taking me somewhere. We walked toward town and then kept going. He suddenly asked, “where are we going?” I was confused. I said I had nowhere to go, thinking that he was the one who had insisted on coming to get me at 8 in the morning. I realized that he was taking his role as counterpart very seriously and felt the need to simply accompany me if I ever needed to do anything in or outside of my house. I had mixed feelings about this. He didn’t think I was capable of buying things in markets or shops, so he would do this for me, while I stood behind him. To me, this was not integration. I felt that I had enough of a grasp of Kinyarwanda to get around, go to  the markets, meet people and make basic conversation. I felt that he did not really agree. He always seemed disappointed in my ability to speak Kinyarwanda. He spoke very fast and I almost never understood him. When I would tell him that I didn’t understand, he would repeat the same thing at the same speed.

That evening, when we went on another walk, we passed an area of the cement factory where many of the Chinese workers lived. I saw a couple of Chinese men in hardhats with a crowd around them going to a nearby shop. There were a couple of large fish, maybe ten pounds each, hanging outside of the shop. They looked fresh, and I could only imagine that they were there specifically for the Chinese. The nearest water source where you could get a fish that big would be Lake Kivu, two hours away. A kid playing in a stream suddenly called out to me in Kinyarwanda. My counterpart told me that he was saying, “I’m sorry Chinese man, I do not have any crabs to sell you.” Apparently you can find crabs in the nearby streams and the kids catch them and sell them to the Chinese workers.

Most people in town think that I am Chinese because the only foreigners here are Chinese and maybe a few Indians. Usually people call me Chinese, and every once in a while Indian. The kids chase me yelling, “Chinois, bon bon!” as they ask me for candy. Sometimes they say in a weird, nasally voice, “nihow!” Sometimes they continue in a mocking tone making up Chinese sounding gibberish. Or they will just speak in Kinyarwanda in a nasally voice. It seems incredibly offensive and if I was Chinese I would hate the kids here. The weird thing for me, though, is that I find myself offended more that I am being mistaken for being Chinese. I mean, I understand why they think it; it makes complete sense. However, I simply don’t want to be associated with the cement factory or Chinese business. I would prefer people know that I am a volunteer teacher at the school, but it is a difficult distinction to make. I feel that even when I explain that to people, they still don’t really believe me. Or maybe they think that I am still hired by the cement factory, and I’m probably lying about being American. I will say, though, that as I write this about six weeks since arriving at site, I have noticed a significant decline in the level with which I am called Chinese. In fact, one day I noticed that I was actually called American more frequently than Chinese. That felt like true progress.

We went to the market and my counterpart did all the mediating between me and the sellers. I appreciated the gesture, but felt that it wasn’t helping me at all with my integration or language skills. A few days later, when I went to the next town for their bi-weekly big market, my counterpart was astounded. He was like, “but how did you go to the market by yourself?” I had to remind him that not only had I been in Rwanda for three months, I had also had to shop in markets in other African countries where I knew even less of the language. Afterward he came home with me and watched as I started to prepare my dinner. When he decided to leave, I told him he was welcome to eat with me, but he left anyway.

Then the son of the administrator visited me. I received a lot of visitors during the first week. His visits, however, were usually more self-interested than most. He had asked the day I arrived about the bike that the Peace Corps had given me. It was a flashy mountain bike that looked a lot nicer than it really was. It had a flat tire, the shocks (yes, it had shocks) needed lube, the back breaks were jammed and there was plenty of rust on the chain and chain rings. I had told him that I needed to fix it, and that is why he couldn’t borrow it. Jeff had had a bike too, but he lent it out and it came back broken, and he never used it again. This boy would come over almost every day, asking if I had fixed the bike yet so he could use it. One day he grew impatient and said his dad wanted to borrow it, and that he would take it to the local bike mechanic to fix it. I finally had to explain the truth. He seemed disappointed. Although he tried to make it seem like his visit was just to visit me, as soon as the bike was off the table, he left. He would occasionally ask about the bicycle after that, but I had to be firm. I needed to keep reminding myself that I would  be here for two years, and if I let other people control me from the beginning, it would make things constantly difficult.

After one more visitor, I finally finished cooking my dinner. My first meal was mango coconut curry. I was pretty proud of my improvised recipe. With all the spices I brought, I would have the luxury of keeping my meals pretty elaborate for a while.

I realize that what I have written about my first few days at site sound pretty negative. I think I was very stressed out, and it is hard to admit, but those days were difficult. I mean, I was still excited about being at my site, and looking forward to all the work I would do in the next two years. The hardest part was definitely knowing that the community expected me to be a certain way, and feeling like I would let them down for not being like Jeff. Jeff had written me a long letter and left it in the house. It encouraged me to make my experience my own, and that I should not feel obligated to follow in his footsteps. The best advice was that it was important to find the people that I wanted to be friends with and not the people that want to be friends with me. I would need to forge my own path. This seemed encouraging, but also daunting as I felt that I would still disappoint Jeff’s old community.