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.