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?