The North

This past weekend I went to visit Musanze in the north, just in time because cabin fever was setting in. Marvin is a Marylander who has been in Rwanda for nearly a year working for a community health nonprofit called CCHIP. I met him when he was on campus a couple of times for a project to install rain barrels here to increase the water supply, and he invited Laura and me to come visit.  So we drove with Marvin in his NGO’s Land Rover to Musanze, Laura bouncing around in the back with the Rwandan contractor for the water project and a couple of hitchhikers, two women with a young baby.

The town, known as Ruhengeri until recently, is the closest to Volcanoes National Park, the home of the world-famous mountain gorilla. Many tourists use it as a jumping off point for gorilla tracking in the park. I just finished reading a biography of Dian Fossey, the renowned and eccentric gorilla primatologist who was murdered in 1985 at her research center. Dian became famous because of her extensive research on the gorillas’ social patterns, collecting more data and getting much closer to the animals than anyone had before. The book and film Gorillas in the Mist give her own account of her work and her extraordinary relationships with the gorillas. Accompanying her gorilla studies, Dian became known for her grit and tenacity in the wilderness as well as her quick temper, especially surrounding the protection of her gorillas and their habitat from poachers and encroaching cattle farmers. She was known to intimidate, interrogate, and sometimes torture those who would do harm. Although she and the locals did not have a good relationship, the Rwandan government came to understand that the gorillas are an important resource of international investment and tourist income, and Dian Fossey deserves the bulk of the credit for protecting these animals for many years. Her murder remains a mystery, but she had many enemies, and those who knew her were not surprised to hear about her fate.

My own trip to Musanze did not involve gorillas. Gorilla tracking costs hundreds of dollars and must be scheduled way in advance, owing to the scant number of visitors permissible (something like 60 per day). What I did do was see the NGO where Marvin works, go out to dinner, meet a couple of other NGO and Peace Corps workers, and finally go out dancing for the first time since arriving in Rwanda. The place had a bar, a dance floor and a pool table under a tin roof in a courtyard. It was just crowed enough, and we had a great time. I learned that all my lindy hop hip practice has paid off: Rwandan boys/men think I’m a good dancer!

On Saturday, we piled back into the Land Rover en route to Gisenyi, the tiny lakeside town in northwest Rwanda. There was a party hosted by a Swedish woman involved in the apparently lucrative business of extracting methane gas from the lake* and her English husband, who has recently gotten involved with a project refurbishing and selling bicycles to Rwandans. Their back yard was this crazily well-tended garden and patio, and just beyond, a staircase led down through a white metal gate to the very edge of the lake. At first, I felt out of my element in this place of luxury, where everyone seemed to be speaking French, but after awhile I began talking with the other young people and having a good time. I watched the fishing boats go out on the lake, three long narrow boats abreast held together with logs. From the boats extended long arching poles which I think held the fish nets, and the fishermen chanted as they rowed. As the sun went down and the stars peeked out, the boats stationed themselves on the lake and lit their lanterns. Later in the night, a few of us went lake swimming in the moonlight, clamoring precariously over slippery rocks.

Overall, a fun, eventful weekend, but sadly I’ve started the week feeling rather sick with some kind of virus. I’m kind of congested and headachy and fatigued. I tried and failed to take a nap today, but I am drinking weird gross electrolyte salts that really have no excuse for not being flavor-disguised as Gatorade.



*It turns out that if they do not extract the subterranean gas, there is some danger of the carbon dioxide there bubbling to the surface all at once one day, known as a limnic eruption, and killing the whole lakeside population by asphyxiation.  it happened in Cameroon in 1984 and 1986.  Natasha insisted it was highly unlikely at Lake Kivu anytime in the next couple of hundred years without some serious seismic activity.  Currently the gas has about half as much pressure as the water on top of it, but you never know; seismic activity isn't so hard to come by. 

Of Cobblers and Tailors

Today I had no exams to proctor, so I amused myself at home for a while. In the afternoon, Laura and I decided to go into town to see if we could have some dresses made from the cloth we had bought. I’d also had the idea for some time that I’d like to repair a pair of leather sandals Peggy handed down to me. I’d heard rumors that there is a man who comes to school sometimes to repair shoes, but so far, I hadn’t seen him. Just outside the gate on the way to town, there he was, sitting under a tree with a big canvas needle and an entourage of three young ladies getting shoes repaired. I pulled my shoes out of my bag and commenced to embarrass myself awkwardly trying to understand the price he was asking. I have learned my Kinyarwanda numbers up to ten, but gatatu (3), gatanu (5), and gatandatu (6) are easily confused in my head. Laura came to the rescue. He had said gatatu, three. Three thousand francs, around $5 wasn’t super cheap, but it was definitely less than I would have paid for new shoes. I told him I’d be back, and we walked away. At the end of the lane I reconsidered and realized we might be gone too long: we should leave the money with the guard at the gate to give to the cobbler when he’d finished. Luckily, he was pretty smart and understood what I wanted him to do, despite my lack of linguistic ability. [I guess all that practice with pantomiming and mindreading in Cranium paid off—right Rachel? (and Rachael and David) Flying butt-dresses?] So I handed the guard my trois mille, and he called something over to the cobbler. It turned out, to my great embarrassment, that he was asking for 300 francs, not 3000. I corrected the amount I had given the guard, but as we walked away, I suddenly wanted to cry. I couldn’t believe how cheap this service was. I paid about $.50 to a skilled laborer for his time, materials, expertise, and door-to-door service. And I am so rich that I was willing to pay ten times the amount he asked. Both of those things upset me. Yes, the cost of living is less expensive here than at home. But 300 francs still doesn’t get you very far. It is enough to buy a pound of tomatoes, a coke, or a third of a loaf of bread. I don’t know how this man supports his family with such a low value for his skill. Laura tried to help me put it in perspective a little. Many people here rely on subsistence agriculture. So, although 300 francs doesn’t buy much at the market, he might not need to buy much if he has a bunch of avocado and banana trees at home. According to actual (not theoretical) economics, the price of something is determined by the relationship between supply and demand. If the cobbler couldn’t make a living cobbling, he probably wouldn’t be doing it. Anyway, I still feel a little sick over it. He did a really nice job on the shoes, with some skillful stitching and gluing, and I was really pleased to be able to get them repaired--something that warms every fiber of my sustainability-loving soul, yet would probably be cost preventative at home.


On the dressmaking front, we were escorted from one tailor shop to another, a little shop with maybe five or six sewing machines behind the counter and four people busy at work. There was room to walk between the sewing machines, but not much extra. Behind them on the main wall was a rack of wooden dowels where lots of colorful fabrics were draped, creating a very lively backdrop. We handed the woman our fabrics and my drawing and Laura’s printout of the design. There was some more gesturing and resorting to French, but I knew I was I business when she pulled out the tape measure. She said our dresses would be done next Wednesday (or so Laura tells me), so we’ll just see!

In other news, our little household was surprised Wednesday morning with the news that later in the day we would be having a new housemate, “a girl” who was coming for a month. Oh, good to know. Antoinette turned out to be a young Rwandan woman (here, she’ll be considered a “girl” until she gets married) who is here working with Sr. Constance, the bursar, on matters of finance and accounting. She speaks very little English and seems shy anyway. I’m happy that Providence will have someone to talk to.

"Theoretical Economics"

I visited Sande’s home on Sunday. He lives in Maranyundo, which, as it turns out, is the name of the neighborhood/village just up the hill from us. It may actually be the name of the hill. Compare if you will, the economy/standard of living in Rwanda and the U.S. Sande is an ambitious and judicious 27-year-old teacher (and also a master’s candidate). He took out a loan that will take him two or three years to pay back, and with it he built a house. Needless to say, I would not be able to do that on a teacher’s salary back home.


On the other hand, Sande’s house is pretty basic, even with the addition he put on. It is five rooms altogether. The bedroom has a bed and not much else, and the living room has a coffee table, loveseat, and two chairs. The windows are large with wrought iron frames, keeping the house cool and well-lit. In places, you can see that the walls are built up with mud and plastered over with concrete. There is minimal electric wiring, and although I didn’t see the kitchen, there is probably no refrigerator or coffee maker.  There would be light in the evening, although we kept them off since our visit was during the day. There are exposed rafters, which still have the shape of tree limbs, since the trees here are small. You can see all the way up to the tin roof. Sande says he had the ceiling lofted because that is another way to keep the house cool.

Now, I’m not saying I’d like to give up my refrigerator, (and the durability of Sande’s walls bear further consideration), but there is a part of me that is jealous. Why can’t I own property and a place to live with a teacher’s salary and a three-year loan?  My cousin Stephanie just signed a 15- (or maybe 30?)-year mortgage—an enormous commitment. Maybe our “standard of living” has advanced too far if we can’t actually afford it. As far as I’m concerned, it wouldn’t hurt for amenities at home to be scaled back a bit.  I would rather buy a small house lacking some amenities than rent an apartment until I’m 32 and then sign my life away on an eternal mortgage. Who needs lights on during the day anyway?

Finally, Sande lives with a “house boy”; yes, someone to cook and clean for him. I will also NOT be able to afford this—probably ever.

Clearly, this entry is full of what I like to call “theoretical economics” (in other words, made up). I don’t really have the training to think through the relative purchasing power of a salary, the relative cost of amenities, the health and safety implications of housing, and the cost and availability of labor and natural resources in Rwanda versus the U.S.  Undoubtedly, part of the reason costs are higher is the electrical and plumbing infrastructures at home, as well as the need for heating and air conditioning (but then again, I know for a fact that we could be building with natural materials that both insulate and keep cool better than what we use).  Maybe most people at home would prefer the huge investment for the high amenities as opposed to whatever it is you might be able to get with a three year loan. But I also wonder, I just wonder, if we’re letting ourselves be robbed by using more than we can afford.

Without you my life's gonna be forever Tuesday morning.

Somehow it's already exam week, and I can't believe how quickly we ran out of school days.  For the rest of the school, this is the end of the second term out of three, but for me, it's the end.  Because nobody else is leaving, it doesn't really feel like an end.  All this week and next Monday, the girls have two exams each day.  The girls will stick around for a few days extra, when I hope to teach a workshop on notetaking and lead some arts and crafts as well.  I am also hoping some kind of end-of-term talent show performance will manifest.  I was scheduled to proctor only 2 exams all week, though I was asked to be a substitute proctor yesterday.  This morning I'm lying low.

I've been doing yoga every day for the past five days or so, and it really helps my mental state.  I want this trip to be about being present, but it can be difficult when I have so few tasks to figure out what I'm being present to.  If I can't be peaceful and balanced here, then I never will.  I've been using my time to do a lot of reading, talking with Laura, and thinking.  Reflecting on the meaning of peace, considering the conundrum of the haves and the have nots, and thinking about my own future.  How can I properly wrap up my life in Boston?  What will it be like to be in Baltimore again? Where will I find a job?  I could spend my time here answering these questions, but if I wanted to jump right into that stuff, I wouldn't have come here.  So I'm holding it in tension.

One of the books I'm reading is Peace is Every Breath, by Thich Nhat Hanh.  He writes that we are more than our cravings.  This comforts me: I can get very worried over the things I want for the future, and I sometimes also feel controlled by surface-level bad habits like nail biting and snack cravings.  But none of these defines me or needs to control my actions.  Neither the empty compulsions of the present nor the shapeless objects of the future have much to do with my present happiness. 

One of the lessons of Rwanda is this: take it easy.  Your eagerness and your anxiety only hurt you.  What you want, what you need to do will happen in its own time.

On Faith and Rwandanness

Today, I went to church with the girls at the parish. This is the very same parish where the genocide memorial is held. We followed that dusty dirt road past the church and the mass graves. It curved to the left, and we passed the incomplete construction of the new church. It has been that way for years, Laura, says; the parishioners cannot fund the completion of the project. The services are now held is a building that used to be a school. Like most schools here, it is one long brick building, just a row of classrooms with doors to the outside. The walls between the classrooms had been knocked out, so the interior is a long rectangular space.


It hit me at some point that I felt very disturbed to be worshipping God as if nothing had happened in that place. I am not certain of the story in Nyamata, but I know that in many places during the genocide, when people flocked to the churches for asylum, not only were they not protected, but the clergy sold them out, welcomed the killers, and in some cases even encouraged brutality.  How can the people forgive the church? Why do we trust priests? Why would anyone want to commit to a religious life within an organization in which such atrocity occurs? If there was so much wrong in the world that this could happen, and the Church (leaders and members) was just as vulnerable to it, then what makes anyone think it can do better in a more peaceful time? I understand that religion can be a way of making the spirutal tangible; at the same time, maybe it just as often takes the place of a meaningful personal connection with God, morality, or human love.
This makes me think back to a conversation I had with Lydia last week.  In Rwanda, there is no shared family name; both names are chosen for the individual. It bothered me a little, when it occurred to me, that most Rwandans use their Christian names primarily and their Rwandan names less commonly. When they use French and English Christian names, aren’t they downplaying the importance of their own culture and embracing that of a people assocaited with so much turmoil in their country?

I later realized that I have no right to assume that using Christian names means rejecting Rwandan-ness. Who am I to say how Rwandans should wear their own culture? Perhaps a Rwandan name is kept more sacred and intimate by using it less often. Similarly, who am I to say that Christianity belongs to the imperialists and does not authentically belong to the Rwandans? In fact, it is probably more authentic to them than it is to me, (as would be obvious to anyone who has heard me facetiously label myself an “agnostic Catholic.”)
Lydia (a teacher here) explained to me that Rwandans very much separate Christianity from colonialism; the use of Christian names is a mark of their Christianity, but to them it is neither a lasting trace of their colonizers nor a rejection of their own culture. I don’t know how or why they were able to make this separation; Christianity came at the same time as missionaries and colonialism and taught people that many aspects of their own beliefs and culture were flawed. But Rwandans are extremely faithful, and of course in order to be genuinely faithful, they must have made a distinction between the religion and the white people who brought it.  Likewise, they have separated the terrible actions of people in the Church from the faith itself.

Frustrations

I usually paint a pretty picture because it’s usually a pretty picture.  But I guess it’s about time I share some of the things that are less pretty.  Culture shock is bound to happen sometimes, and it definitely does.  Maybe it’s unbalanced to write about it all at once, but it sort of poured out of me this way a couple of weeks ago, so here it is.

The starkness of my room slowly began to drive me crazy.  Plain white and empty.  First I changed my mosquito net to a blue one, but it wasn’t enough.  So I brought in a table, then extra rugs.   Then I hung some fabrics I bought.  Then another time I switched the comforter.  Then I brought in a chair.  Finally, there is some color and life in there, but I realized that all that color, all that stuff, is unRwandan. 

I get tired of cold showers or of waiting for water to boil for hot ones.  I sometimes desperately miss snack food, although for the most part I am satisfied by the wholesome meals.  I would like to continue this way of eating when I come back, because it’s healthy and simple, but the adjustment is not easy.  I am very used to having chocolate or a box of mac and cheese available as a comfort food if I am feeling out of sorts.  Indulgence, I have realized, is a way of life in the U.S.  And by that, I don’t just mean that our standard of living is indulgent (it certainly is, compared to Rwanda.)  But even if you take for granted microwaves, hot water, cheap fast food, and transportation that, on average, respects personal space, there are lots of things that I consider indulgences: sharing a bottle of wine, nibbling a 74% chocolate square, getting my hair done.  They are not everyday things, but they are some-days things, and enjoying them is a part of our culture.  Self-indulgence is a part of how we live, as can be seen in slogans like Loreal “because you’re worth it” and the once-used McDonald’s “Have you had your break today?” and the messages inside Dove chocolate wrappers like “Go ahead.  Have another.”  Here, the things that are special are really special, as in we hardly ever have them.  Dessert is pineapple—twice a week. Cake has happened exactly once, when Andrew and Nathan went home.

I become impatient with how long it takes to do everything.  Nobody is ever in a rush, and everything takes twice as long as you expect.  All of this works out fine, provided you never schedule more than one thing to do in a day.  Church services are delayed by at least 15 minutes and last for two hours—or three!  Classes start late and end late.  Walking into town takes 30 minutes.  Cooking dinner takes over an hour because the vegetables apparently need to be boiled down until there is no fiber left.  If I go out for a meal, I can expect that it will take 30 minutes to get to town, plus easily 45 minutes to get served.  Once, I was just walking to class, and one of the teachers, maybe Valens, said “You are hurrying!”  “Yes,” I replied curtly, “I am always hurrying.  I walk too fast for this country.” 

I’m tired of the scarcity.  There’s always the minimum of things but no extra.  When we ran out of matches, I went to get some from the kitchen, and they gave me five more.  We get toilet paper in packs of 8 small rolls, and we run out in under a week and have to ask for more from the stock, which means going during the work day when staff are there and struggling to pantomime the item one desires.  I dislike having to feel guilty when I print paper handouts for the girls because there isn’t enough paper.  I wish I didn’t have to share one “stapling machine” with 10 other teachers. 

I find myself a little overwhelmed by shopping.  Vendors don’t list prices, which means I can be overcharged anytime because I am a Muzungu.  Negotiating in a foreign language is unsettling at best.  It also puts me on edge to have children constantly yell to me “muzungu!” when I walk down the street.  They don’t mean anything offensive by it, only to express their surprise and in many cases delight.  I understand this, but I have not gotten used to it because in my culture, it is generally inappropriate, if not rude, to a) initiate conversation with a stranger on the street, b) point out that someone is different, and c) make explicit reference to how much money someone has. 

I also become frustrated sometimes with not having much to do at school.  I could be more useful than I am being, teaching more classes, tutoring, leading sports, teaching art.  But the girls’ schedules are booked, and I am here for too short a time to push for Big Changes.  I was invited to be here, so I have to assume that, making myself present and available, I am doing exactly what they want me to be doing, even if that means unvoiced ideas.

Churching it

I accompanied Sande to church this morning.  I was ready at 8:30, since he told me the service was at 9, but I wasn’t surprised that he called me at 8:45 and showed up at about 9.  So we arrived around 9:30 (which, according to African-time, was just about right).  This was the first time I have really gone off the main road in Nyamata.  The church, Anglican, I'm told, was a rectangular building made of orange-colored local bricks, with unprocessed wooden beams and a tin roof.  The pews were sparsely-backed and wooden.  The floor was dirt, and a single electrical wire reached in through the window.  From it was plugged a single socket with one compact fluorescent bulb as well as a keyboard, an amplifier, and a microphone.  Sande later told me they are still in the process of construction. 

People sat to the left and right of the altar table as well as in front.  A 9-year-old boy from the front row wearing rubber sandals led us in praise songs, to which we swayed gently and clapped.  There were women in traditional dress, colorful printed cloths done up into full-length dresses with embroidered necklines and artful head wraps.  There were men in ties, little girls in satiny purple Sunday-best dresses, and kids in grubby tee-shirts.  The pastor began to speak, and after a bit Sande told me that he had welcomed new comers and asked us to stand.  I was one of three.  I stammered something in partial Kinyarwanda, “Nitwa Kate.  Murakoze cyane for welcoming me.  I come from the United States.  I am a teacher at the Maranyundo Girls’ School with Sande.”  Before long, we were singing again, and I was wishing I knew Kinyarwanda and that they had printed lyrics so I could join in.  I was able to more or less follow the readings, and then a visiting preacher was invited for the sermon.  He talked for seventy-five minutes.  I nearly died.  I walked outside to stretch (I was seriously falling asleep) and two hours had passed since the service began.  A group of children lined up in front of me and stared at me.  I shook their hands, said hello, and asked their names, and then we ran out of shared language.  Sande and I left early, after the offertory.  It was 12:30...gah.