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.