"Do the likelilest and God will do the lest."

Behind the glamour and nice architecture of my new school, the Kitabi College of Conservation and Environmental Management, I am discovering my new site is quite rural and impoverished, more so than my previous site.

The villagers of Kitabi are very unaccustomed to seeing an American, especially a young girl. I have a feeling the name-calling will continue for a while, especially since I caught children telling others that I’m going to eat them. I noticed that these children seem more poor and unwashed than other areas I have seen. Their clothes are tattered and dirty. The market in town was so small and shabby that they didn’t know to give me the “Muzungu price”, which I would have gladly given. The market contained little more than onions, tomatoes, sweet potatoes, potatoes, mangos and bananas. Another thing I’ve interpreted as a sign of poverty is that the town is often out of phone credit.

This afternoon, herds of children were running around my house so I suspiciously asked my domestic worker what they were up to. It turns out they were collecting the swarms of large, green grasshoppers that are all over the place. My domestic, who showed me how to dismember one, insists that they are delicious when fried in oil and salt. Instances like this led me to ask a new colleague of mine why this region is so poor.

It turns out that this district, which is called Nyamagabe, is notoriously poor and undereducated. This has several causes. First of all, the soil is poor and the climate is cold. In addition to these conditions, the hills are very steep and the valleys very narrow. This makes subsistence agriculture very challenging. Because of the many steep hills, it is hard to both build schools and obtain good attendance.  A final cause, my colleague whispered, was that this region is made up largely of the ethnicity that was ostracized by the previous administration. Now that the genocide and ethnic tensions are largely in the past, large amounts of funding have been poured into the district’s health care and education system so it is now performing better.

I’ll be starting my English teaching this January so I will be sure to share some stories then. In the meantime, please enjoy this picture of my neighbors: 

This is why I'm here...

New site in the south 

It was day one at my new site, the Kitabi College of Conservation and Environmental Management. I woke up to silence, light and a feeling of change. Outside my house are rolling hills of forest and tea. Here in Kitabi we are up high where it is cold and the clouds are constantly changing their mind.  I spent time with new colleagues then organized my new room and walked the campus but by afternoon, I had a familiar, unpleasant feeling. It was a feeling of disappointment and emptiness, inevitable after any big expectation is checked by reality. What am I doing here? Will it be too much? Too little? How do I take care of myself while helping Rwanda? Is this site too different from my last one? These are common questions I ask myself but today I decided they were intolerable and restrictive.

I was not in the mood to hole up in my house so I ventured outside and off campus for a little walk.  To my left was a heavy storm cloud and to my right was forest where just this morning I had seen a baboon. I continued straight and decided to buy some airtime for my phone. This led me from boutique to boutique, with lots of confused-looking Rwandans wondering who this Kinyarwanda-speaking foreigner was. I made it to one house that promised to have airtime when the kids started shouting to get the camera because the white person was there. “Appareil appareil!” they shouted.

As I got to the house and paid, it started pouring. This Rwandan woman, Mama Yvette, ushered me into her house where I sat with eight other children. The children passed around a broken Polaroid and “took” pictures of me all afternoon.

The rain kept me for a while, enough time to make some friends, eat some bananas, see the bath of a two month old and exchange some English-Kinyarwanda lessons. It was chilly and damp and the electricity was intermittent; still, there was a beautiful energy in the room. One girl was knitting a scarf using to sticks as needles. Two of the boys turned out to be some of the most talented dancers I have ever seen… although their song “ipusi ipusi” (cat cat) was not so great. One of the boys, Zidane, was smitten. He had dirty clothes, gap teeth and a shy spirit like mine. He started a chorus of “will she stay the night? Will she stay the night?” that continued until the rain slowed and I left. His pleas, “ararara, ararara?” turned in to a song and I was sorry to disappoint.  

I was accompanied home and have carried a smile ever since. For me, this experience exemplifies Peace Corps. Just walking out of your house and using your language and cultural skills to spend the afternoon with a village family is unique to Peace Corps. I couldn’t have done this before Peace Corps and for this skill, I am grateful. 

Colleagues from my old school

Just*

Goodbye Kirambo...

Sorghum replaced the corn and now beans have taken the place of the sorghum. From my yellow house in the valley, I’ve watched the fields shift from purple, to red to lime green. In the middle of this rainy, bean season, I find myself saying an emotional goodbye to the North and preparing for next year’s adventure in southern Rwanda.

I had my final market day yesterday, which I took in slowly as I meandered the aisles and greeted everyone. We laughed, touched and chatted and I promised to return to visit. I commissioned my last project at the tailor while her child screamed and covered his eyes at the sight of me. I took photos of my kids and exchanged numbers with everyone (because everyone in Rwanda has a cell phone!).

I have loved my final moto rides, which cleared my head and fed my heart. The scenery in the North is so breathtaking. I will miss the hustle and bustle of Base, the town where I catch motos and am offered rides on bicycles, motorcycles and cars by smiling men that call me Umurerwa or Kayitesi.

I have taken the chance to say goodbye to my favorite villagers, like the shop keepers, Mama Shafik and her new baby, my dear old Mama Devotha and of course, my bestie Christine. She is my lifeline, my number one. We share walks, tea, meals, conversations, music and laughs. And recently we shared bacon and French toast. I will miss these friends. I will also miss my morning wake-up call from the mosque. And those children that drive me crazy… I will miss their echoes of “Good morning Penina!” that reverberate across the valley.

It has now been 13 months since I left for Peace Corps and this means over 11 months at site. I recently left site for a while and coming back helped me see just what those 11 months mean. Those months of exposure to a Peace Corps Volunteer have left my village open, accepting and loving. Upon my return, I was greeted with “where’ve you been?” and “we missed you!” and “our muzungu!” Absent was the judgment and hurt I was expecting. Cultural exchange is a huge goal of Peace Corps and it is happening… in fact it is working! I have settled into a comfortable pattern of life in which I have accepted many Rwandan traditions and norms but kept some of my own. My village seems to have accepted this too.

Someone recently challenged me to find things that I love in Rwanda. Can you tell by this blog post that there are many?

Just.

Final market day in my site

Some Peace Corps Volunteers acting like turkeys on Thanksgiving. Look at our feast!

*Rwandans often say "just" to mean yes. It drives us English teachers crazy.

Ladies and gentlemen, Justin Bieber has arrived in Rwanda: "That small kid is very interesting."

But this blog is not about Justin Bieber. The runner up title was "1 in 200,000"

The Peace Corps starts a program in a country when the country requests its presence. They decide which sectors they would like help in: agro-forestry, small enterprise development, health, etc. Over 200,000 volunteers have served or are serving in the Peace Corps. We are currently in around 70 countries. Rwanda asked the Peace Corps to return to Rwanda in 2008 and they’ve set the goal of having 250 volunteers teaching tens of thousands of students by around 2014. When you put it in perspective, you can see what we are actually accomplishing. Oh the ground, things seem to move a little slower. Currently, PC Rwanda only has education and health sectors. I am an education volunteer and as our school year comes to a close, I’d like to tell you more about Peace Corps, my school, students and classes.

Last week I met with a Peace Corps staff who was doing site development in my district. We had a motivating discussion about what it means to be a Peace Corps volunteer and why PCVs are so exceptional. I’m eleven months in and often lose site of my purpose and goals. The PCV is a teacher not only in the classroom or at their job: the PCV is also a teacher in the community. Just publicly washing my hands before I eat, other villagers can say, “look! She is washing her hands. I think I will too!” They can observe us in the market, making healthy food choices with the same options they have. Also, as volunteers greet villagers on their daily walks, community members learn that foreigners, or Americans in general, do not need to be treated differently than others. They are not above anyone.

This is an important distinction to fight in Rwanda. The Peace Corps staff member and I discussed the divisive social hierarchy that exists in Rwanda. It is something I discovered only after I moved to my site. In Rwanda, there are many social divisions. Many education volunteers see the artificially imposed distinction between “villagers” and “the educated.” School and government officials, raised and educated in larger towns, often move to rural settings for work. For many of us, these are our colleagues. On the weekends, they return to the larger towns like Kigali and Musanze. This creates a harmful distinction that I am fighting. I have had colleagues tell me, “You should never visit your neighbors” because they are bad, uneducated people. Nonetheless, I continue to visit and greet my rural villagers and friends. When people see me at the tailor, greeting a poor neighbor while talking with a successful female colleague, they see the possibility of breaking these barriers. In a culture where judgment and division are prevalent, it is important to show friendship and acceptance.

The other part of my job is teaching in the classroom. Rwanda offers 9 years of free, basic education. Twelve are available- if you can pay or get a scholarship. I teach at a private, boarding school where parents or guardians work very hard to pay school fees for students. Our school fees are around $140/year. Students come from all over the country to my school to specialize in math, sciences or business. We have a staff of around 30 from Rwanda, Uganda, Burundi and America (that would be me). We also have our own cows, which is a huge source of pride.

I teach 250 students in 10^th grade economics, 10^th grade English and 11^th grade English. Class sizes are large, around 50, so the bare classrooms are crowded. My resources are chalk, a chalkboard, pens and a small library. I make do. I feel fortunate to have natural lighting, desks and one chalkboard giant chalkboard, though I do not have my own classroom. In the Rwandan system, students stay in one classroom while teachers rotate. It has its advantages and disadvantages.

We are now halfway through our third and final term. This many months in, it’s exciting to see the progress my students have made. The first two terms, I focused on speaking and listening exercises in my English classes. We’ve done activities like skits, telephone, Circle Talk, group work, dictations and tongue twisters. Their achievements are remarkable but I know I am not the one to thank. It is their hard work and motivation to learn English as well as the effort all the other teachers have made to learn English and use it in the classroom. We are now focusing on grammar and writing, which some classes love. They are hungry for definitions, rules and new words.

My economics class is my favorite class and it is where I have seen the most improvement in my teaching and my students’ performance. To see so many boys and girls participating is very gratifying. Last term, I noticed a marked improvement in their English and decided it was because I use a content-based TEFL approach to teaching them. Through verbal review, lots of exercises and having students read my notes on the board, their English has gotten much better. I decided to apply this content-based methodology to my English classes. As an example, we’re now studying Sustainable Development in my 11^th grade class and through this I will teach outlining and composition writing.

My teaching style is more casual than my students are used to but I believe it creates a very safe classroom environment where students aren’t afraid to talk, make noise and make mistakes. My first week teaching economics, one student said, “Teacher, this is not how you teach in Rwanda” to which I replied, “I know.” And they’ve gotten used to it. If class finishes early, I open it up for a Q&A session on English vocabulary. My favorite questions? “What is the meaning of ‘I am so hood’” and “cantertable?” I am not sure.

Rwanda runs on polychromic or “African” time and for many volunteers, this means school starts minutes, hours, even days late. My school is particularly serious and this isn’t as much of a problem. Still, our students have many responsibilities including cleaning the classrooms and fetching water so sometimes class is disrupted. One week, I kept walking into classrooms of only boys because the girls were having mandatory pregnancy tests at the clinic. Discipline is very serious at my school but not something I want to discuss on my blog. Afternoons are difficult, either because of the heat or the rain. Staff meetings are becoming regular. Our morning tea has enough sugar to kill a diabetic. Our library has a dozen English dictionaries. We are one of the few schools to hold our own genocide commemoration week. We have no hand washing facilities (yet). We have a working computer lab. Our girls volleyball team is one of the best in the country. All in all, things are pretty impressive at my school. This past year has been quite a positive experience, despite my own personal struggles.

"But I think taking beer and urusenda are for married women" - when I had beer and urusenda

The presence of my mother in Rwanda helped me realize how incredibly awkward my daily interactions in Peace Corps Rwanda are. We used the phrase “Peace Corps is the name, awkward is the game” often. Daily. I’ve decided to share a few moments with you of ordinary interactions made awkward by language and cultural differences.

The Greeting

In Rwanda, greeting someone is of extreme importance and neglecting to formally greet someone is taken as an insult. The greeting involves some form of “hello” but also a handshake. The handshake takes on many forms: a handshake, a handshake where you touch your left hand to your right elbow, grabbing the wrist instead of the hand, doing this half-hug, bringing your head near their cheek three times and sometimes touching foreheads.  The problem comes in using that half a second to determine which physical greeting they are expecting and being able to smoothly return it. My poor mother, I threw her into the village without teaching her the greeting! Within a span of about 5 minutes, she greeted half a dozen people without knowing what to do. She did GREAT! Better than me.

An awkward greeting looks something like this: a little too much distance, hand placement must be corrected a time or two and when the one person goes in for a cheek greeting and the second person doesn’t, the second must overcompensate for this mistake by strongly jumping into the movement. My most awkward greeting to date was just like this last scenario. My female neighbor went in for the cheek/embrace but I did not. This caused me to belatedly jumped into it and, overzealous me, we essentially kissed.

The Cultural Taboos

There were a few cultural norms I learned in training that I forgot to share with my Mom before she came. Some of them are so irrelevant that I didn’t bother; however, I should have warned her about smelling food. When we ate at my colleagues’ house one night, she sat down and as any American would do, she picked up the dish, smelled it and said, “ah delicious!” before serving herself.

Imagine someone sitting at your dinner table and farting. Or insulting your cooking. This is what my mom accidentally did. I read my two colleagues for signs of anger or discomfort but they hid them well. And luckily she didn’t smell the ubugare.

The Sexual Advances

I’ll periodically have a conversation with a random male and my friendly, foreign nature is interpreted as an invitation. The conversation immediately turns from greetings and small talk to “I need you” or “I want an American girl but I can’t find one.” Though embarrassing, I do not let myself blush or get too angry. The interesting thing I would note about these sexual advances is that they only appear to me awkward FOR ME.

The Labeling

For an indirect culture, Rwandans sure like to label people. Everyone is either good or bad, serious or not serious, a girl or a woman, etc. They immediately label me a rich girl (never woman) and they laugh at any objections I make. This tendency to label gets particularly awkward when I am with other volunteers. Any Rwandan, a stranger or long time friend, will be quick to say who is fatter, skinnier, smarter, more beautiful or who has a richer mother. We’ve learned to take it with a grain of salt and laugh it off.

The Language Misunderstanding

This is an example of a language misunderstanding that occurred between my neighbor and I on the telephone. It was harmless, as they usually are. Italics indicate words spoken in Kinyarwanda.

Me (Penina): Hello Odille! How are you?

Odille: When are you coming?

Me: I will come tomorrow in the afternoon.

Odille: [something in Kinyarwanda that I in no way understand]

Me: I don’t know what you are saying.

Odille: Thank you. The same to you!

Me: Ok, see you tomorrow! Bye.

The Jealous Neighbor

I’m told by many Rwandans that villagers often poison people out of jealously and anger. This is supposedly a common practice in my district. Because of this fear of poisoning, it is customary to prepare, open and/or sip food and beverages in front of a guest to show that they are not poisoned. This is another thing I forgot to warn my Mom about.

Mama Devotha and her daughter came over for tea late one evening. We poured both their teas but the daughter’s had some milk chunks floating in it so my mom innocently took the cup to the kitchen to remove them. I ran after her while our two guests sat frozen, certain that death or at least painful stomach cramps were coming their way.

At this point, I started getting really flustered because I knew they thought I was poisoning the daughter. So I carried the cup out myself and before presenting it to her, I took a sip. My Mom was like, “what are you doing? That’s hers.” So I had awkward coming at me from both sides but I didn’t want to explain in their presence. It was so typically awkward. In the end, Devotha did not drink her tea.

The Unusual Maladies of White People

Rwandans have many questions about my health and let’s just say these conversations never make me feel comfortable. Sometimes, I will be asked if women in America have periods and if the reason I stayed home from school was because of “women’s problems.” Also, Rwandans do not have acne so not only do they notice acne on a white person but they routinely comment AND THEN PUT THEIR FINGERS ALL OVER YOUR PIMPLES TO TOUCH THEM. People also like to grab your arms, hair, etc. When a man is grabbing my upper arm to comment on how fat I am, he will usually remark on my rough skin and ask what I am sick with.

It’s pretty fun.

I usually diffuse an awkward situation with a smile. I frequently play the “dumb umuzungu” card. What else can you do? :-)

"Climbing lion trees": Our safari adventure in Tanzania

What a wonderful time my mom and I had on safari in Tanzania. (but who wouldn't?) We traveled with Wild Things Safaris and saw Tarangire National Park, Lake Manyara, Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater. The most beautiful place for me was Tarangire, which has one year-round river flowing through it where all the animals come together. Lake Manyara has tree-climbing lions, or climbing lion trees as our guide said, and the Serengeti is vast and wild.

We had a kind and knowledgable guide, Joseph, who was quick to correct our mislabelings and just as quick to laugh. He referenced the movies "Coming to America" and "Lion King" so he was alright in my book.

I particularly enjoyed seeing another East African country and found myself constantly comparing Tanzania to Rwanda. I found the culture very welcoming, peaceful and non-aggressive. They have STREET FOOD which meant I could buy grilled corn from street vendors and dance around like a child on Christmas. The village life looked very different from Rwanda as it was more tribal and the houses were more traditional. The country has around 121 tribes!! Tanzanians were very curious about my life in Rwanda and openly expressed prejudices they had about Rwandans.

This may not be interesting to you but it sure is to me: we ate so well on safari. Instead of rice, pasta, potatoes, repeat, we had meat, fish, spices and vegetables. The beef we had was the best I will ever have and it came from the most natural, free cattle you can imagine. Happy cows => happy Amanda.

Mom and I had wonderful talks and beautiful silences. One of our most spectacular nights was the night of the sunset above that was followed by dinner and white wine around a campfire. I have never seen the Milky Way so clear. I'd take "bushmen television" over real television any night.

"You are the best of the best"- Hotel Manager on us taking local transportation

Before my mom and I begin our once in a lifetime Tanzanian safari, I thought I’d share all the fun memories we have made in East Africa. Since the day my mom arrived, we’ve been playing a game of tallying who’s winning: America or Africa. “One point for USA!” my mom will say. Props to her because Africa sure seems to be in the lead.

America Wins Again:

To begin on a positive note, my mom has experienced and seen beautiful things in Rwanda. She’s seen new grains, climbed hills, seen the bases of volcanoes, the top of Kilimanjaro, drank lots of Fantas and tried Rwandan corn. She was serenaded to by my students and colleagues on two separate occasions. She has had outfits made and done so many Rwandan greetings, you’d think she was umunyarwanda kazi. She was successfully yelling at and scaring away the children that stalk my house by the second day. “Oya Oya!” she would yell at the top of her lungs, just like her daughter. She turned down some marriage proposals for me. She has ridden not one broke down, sketchy matatu van but several. She has dipped her toes in Lake Kivu and saw a caged Black Mamba snake. Mama Amanda has killed spiders and used a squatty-potty for days at a time. She has also mastered the whole Peace Corps routine:

-       heat a small amount of water

-       fill bucket with hot and cold water

-       use cup to pour over body

-       repeat as necessary

C’mon, how many moms do you know that could do that?

But Africa keeps winning:

Day one I got my mom on malaria meds but that didn’t stop me from constantly suspecting she had it and therefore scaring the crap out of her.* In English conversations, my mom commonly replies, “oh yeah”, only to remember that in Kinyarwanda that means no. She had to eat ubugare, a dish made from cassava which smells and tastes like “rotted, fetid horse flesh.” Mama Amanda experienced a smelly, crammed bus ride during which approximately 22 people were crowed into a van that seats 18. During this journey, Creepy McCreepster kept grabbing her hand and his partner in crime, Leann’ Unclean Dean kept invading her personal space more and more. On a later bus ride, a squealing puppy nipped at her feet and peed on the floor below her seat. She became violently ill one night in Kigali and had resulting aches and pains for 24 hours. She took so much pepto bismol that her tongue became black.  Our first night in Tanzania I removed an intact sac of chigger eggs from her foot.* Afterwards, she went at her mosquito bites with a Swiss army knife out of fear that they were also parasites.* On this same day, we were robbed on the bus (ok, just a dollar) and I burned my finger to the point that it’s covered in huge blisters. She’s suffering from mosquito, spider and flea bites while I have none.

I would say that in this epic battle of wits and nerve, it is neither America or Africa that is winning: it is my Mom. We have had a great time and she’s been incredibly supportive when my spirits were at their lowest. We’ve spent a few days in Kigali, we did the whole Peace Corps Rwanda thing in my village, we stayed with Tressa for a night and spent my birthday week in Gisenyi on Lake Kivu. She has been able to meet my exceptional Peace Corps buddies, most of my colleagues, Rwandan women who have been like family to me and lots of beautiful children.

Most important to me is that I have someone to share the day to day with and that is my mother. I can still feel crazy, frustrated and angry while she is heroically putting up with the terrors of a less developed country but at least we are together!

Goodmorningee finethankyouteachersitdown!

*Mom thanks Grandma for the valium and Zanax.

“You know, you are like Jesus”- HC when I served leavened bread

I want to familiarize you with all the transportation options we have in the land of 1000 hills. It has been a pleasure getting to know most of them. First of all, let me tell you that Rwanda has 4 classes of roads:

Class I: nice, paved roads. Like “damn, are we in a developing country?” nice.
Class II: paved but with potholes the size of Lake Victoria. A lot of these roads are in the south so at least every winding, bumpy journey promises a monkey spotting or two.
Class III: Nice dirt road. This is what I have at and around my site and is great except during the dry season.
Class IV: Say a prayer if it’s the dry season and you’re on this type of dirt road. Don’t even bother if it’s the rainy season, right Julie Ann? These roads are treacherous, bumpy and often steep. I’d rather walk.

So on these four types of roads, you have several transportation options.
1.    The white bus: these are nice, maybe 30 passenger buses that are common in Kigali and in between large towns. This is always your first choice. They only sit one person to each seat. This is a win-win-win situation for you Office lovers.
2.    The taxi bus or matatu: this is the most common form of transportation in Rwanda. They are small buses with sliding doors. The “seat” 19 but usually carry around 22. I like to count the number of people each time. These buses are extra special because they have unique messages painted on them supporting one team, singer or religion. Our favorites? Free T.I., Jesus is Caming, Jesus Cames, Thanks God, Why Clife, Michael Scofield and May God Befront Us. If I can incorporate math into this blog, I would say you have a 20% chance of riding a matatu with a screaming child. You have a 2% chance of every bag of potatoes being searched for grenades. You have a 10% chance of riding one with lots of smelly fish. I have a 50% chance of being seated in the front with the driver. And finally, a 5% chance of getting your phone stolen. Though I love matatus, I am terrified of dying in a fiery explosion while trapped inside a small metal cage with 21 other people. That’s why I pull the muzungu card and hop in the front seat. At least that way I can see what’s coming. It’s standard to text other volunteers and tell them how awful your matatu ride is. The other day, I had the matatu ride from hell during which I was in a matatu for 2.5 hours (for a 1 hour trip) with 16 people and:
a.    10 purses
b.    a dozen buckets
c.    approximately 20 boxes of food
d.    tin roofing
e.    sugar cane
f.    lots of toilet paper
g.    about 20 rubber boots
h.    a child
i.    about 50 lbs of peanuts
Then we got a flat tire.

3.    The green bus of death (see above): most of our towns are lucky enough to have their own Onatracom bus from Japan. It is much easier for me to remember it as the green bus of death. I fear you could tip one of these buses over like an oversized-green domino and down the steep mountain it would go. These huge buses probably roamed the earth with Gigantasaurus and T-rex: they are that old and that big. One time I was riding one of these with probably 100 other people. My body was touching 7 people at one time and the smiling man above me was literally dripping sweat onto me. During this journey, I attempted to have an out of body experience as to escape to my “special place”. Still, the green bus of death is a place of class and chivalry. Men will fight to get me on the bus and get me a nice seat. I appreciate that. It’s also really cheap and the expressions on people’s faces when they see a white person on board are priceless.
 4.    The taxi car or imodoka: You can often catch a sketchy ride in one of these sketchy cars for a decent price. It’s like low ridin’ with Snoop in one of those cars with hydraulic lifts (I’m not sure what they’re called) because it is so bouncy. This is a generally pretty fast method of transportation.
5.    The moto: Motorcycles are frowned upon by Peace Corps because they have caused many deaths and injuries. (Un)fortunately, my site is mainly accessible by moto so I ride motos when the green bus of death or a matatu are not available but I have to get to Kigali for a meeting, the doctor, etc. A moto, though prohibited for PCVs, is the best way to see this country. I would recommend it to all non PCVs. So before you get on a moto, make sure you have your own helmet. My Peace Corps approved helmet is aerodynamic, flashy and a hot item to steal because, believe me, people have tried. Some moto rides cause intense abdominal workouts, some drivers talk on their cellphones, some insist on talking to you. It really depends.
6.    The bicycle taxi: Rwanda, despite its hills, has an admirable biking culture. These men groom and treasure their bikes. Most are pretty tricked-out with lights, reflectors, pegs and colored tape. Bikes can be used to transport people (ladies ride side-saddle on the back) or to transport HUNDREDS of pounds of produce. I am not exaggerating. When one of these bikes tips over, the poor rider has to summon help from bystanders to right the heavy bicycle. I have only seen two women riding bicycles but I am told most know how to ride them.
7.    All other vehicles are reserved for government officials, foreigners, schools and the rich. It is difficult to catch a ride in one of these unless your last name is Figure Skating.*
8.    The last option is to go by foot. This is pleasant and standard for short distances. Rwandans are still amazed to see me on foot. Riding a car or moto is a status symbol and they expect someone like me to never walk anywhere. In Kigali, the women wear flashy heels because they do not walk anywhere.

*inside joke. I hope to be a part of one someday.

"Why is it the first time [since 1932] that USA is at this stage? They have much money. It is because they use their money fighting other countries?" - a colleague on the World Cup

This is a blog of my daily interactions, or what I like to call “bite se Penny we.” This is not pronounced “bite Penny” but rather “beetah say Penny way”. Italics indicate phrases translated from Kinyarwanda to English.

Scenario One:

Child to other children: Look the white person is coming.

Child: Good-a morning.

Me: Good afternoon.

Child: fine thank you teacher.

Me: um…

Child: when will you come visit us?

Me: where do you live?

Child: up there on the hill.

Me: (scanning the hill with dozens of houses). Oh. I will come.

Scenario Two:

Student and Jehovah’s Witness: Ah sister. How are you?

Me: I am fine. How are you?

Student: No matter, no matter. When are you coming to visit us?

Me: Where?

Student: There at the kingdom of Jehovah’s Witness.

Me: I am not coming.

Student: so maybe you will come?

Me: No. I am never coming. I am Catholic.

Student: So you will try.

Me: No. I cannot. Ok see you!

Student: Ok see you Tuesday at the meeting [of Jehovah’s Witness].

Scenario Three:

(Colleagues laughing and saying something about Amanda. They are either talking about me or bread but nine times out of ten it is me.)

Me: What?

Male colleague #1: They are saying that you cannot be late or your fiancé will find other girls.

Me: Yes, that is possible.

Male colleague #2: That is why you must have others in Rwanda like me or Gerald.

Me: ha ha (awkward… so I open my locker and expose the picture of my fiancé to the staff room)

Male colleague #3: This is your fiancé? Ah how he is big.

Male colleague #4: It’s psychology. Small girls like big men.

Female colleague: So you will have medium children.

Scenario Four:

Child: Something small for my wrist? *

Me: What did I say?... I said NO.

Child: Something small to wear?

Me: You’re not going to greet me?

Child: good-a morning.

Me: good morning.

Child: fine thank you teacher.

* think carefully before giving a Rwandan child a friendship bracelet

Scenario Five:

Rwandan boy/man: Good morning teacher. How are the news?

Me: The news are fine.

Rwandan: I have a question.

Me: Yes?

Rwandan: My English is very poor. How can one find English books*

Me: I do not know.

Rwandan: but what advices can you give me to find those things?

Me: Go to Kigali.**

Rwandan: ah but it is very expensive. One must first find money to go to Kigali.

Me: Sorry. It is not my job to help you find this. My job is to teach…

*can be replaced with learn English, school fees, scholarship, pen pals, computers or a plane ticket to America.

** listen to the radio, go on the school’s wireless internet, etc.

Scenario Six:

Rwandan woman: Look at the white person.

Rwandan woman #2: I see her.

Rwandan woman #1: She is wearing…

(Women stare)

Me: Good morning.

Rwandan woman #1: Yes.

Rwandan woman #2: eeEEEeeeh.

Rwandan woman #3: Eh! She knows Kinyarwanda!

Scenario Seven: (not daily but bi-weekly)

Construction worker at market: Hey look, it’s my girlfriend!

(Men laughing)

Me: Hello! What’s up.

(Men cheering)

Scenario Eight:

Old woman: (takes me hand) Muraho umukobwa. Hello girl.

Me: Muraho neza. A nice hello to you.

Old woman: Jesus save you.*

Me: Yes, thank you.**

Old woman: How is the news, how is the news?

Me: It is good.

Old woman: Are you strong?

Me: Yes, thank you.

Old woman: Strength strength.

Me: yes.

Old woman: May you have many husbands.

Me: I will accept them.

Old woman: (still holding my hand) May god save you.***

Me: Yes. ** Have a nice day.

* This is an approximation of some greeting about God.

**This is a culturally unacceptable response but I do not know the correct one.

*** Again, some approximation of a blessing

Scenario Nine

(Opening my locker, again my colleagues notice the picture)

Colleague: Amanda I think this is your cousin?

Me: No it is my fiancé.

Colleague: Ah! You must buy a strong bed!

Me: (too flustered to comment)

Colleague: And you are saying you only want two children? I am telling you you must have MANY children.

Penina, Kowabuze?

 This morning, while I was cleaning, I picked up some old letters lying around my house. Though all my letters are treasures, one distinct closing line turned my whole morning around. It contained the phrase, “ the possible is always better than the actual”, which was like receiving a slap in the face and $100 at the same time. I found this phrase liberating this time around, this particular morning, hung-over on sad thoughts and ready to shelve them for a while.

I think this phrase is very relevant for PCVs who may be suffocating in their ambition to do good while missing their homeland. For me, it is a reminder to be present and to be realistic. My daydreams of my past, others’ presents and our futures are not constructive but destructive. They are addicting, like staying inside and hiding from what I am afraid of. Today is my “dry season cleaning”, another Saturday at site that I will just love. This Saturday brings the market, laundry, sun, Tressa and time to observe my community and myself. Saturday is my favorite day of the week as it seems to shield me from the abrasive staring and instead bring me peace. I’ve let the dishes, stacks of letters and cobwebs accumulate: it’s time to take care of them.

(The dry season has replaced the wet season and sorghum has replaced all the corn)

At our recent In-Service Training (IST) in Gisenyi, my headmaster told me I was “umukobwa mwiza”, an endearing term meaning “good girl.” Along with this, he told me how every single headmaster that attended the training was happy with their PCVs. This was very reaffirming for all of us who struggle with lack of feedback and feelings of inadequacy. IST was the most fun I have had in a long time. During this week with my American colleagues, I found that freedom I have been craving at site. If I wasn’t laughing with other PCVs, my mind was brewing new ideas to take back to site. All the volunteers were able to share horror stories, common complaints, common struggles and teaching feats. We had trainings in teaching techniques, language lessons and presentations from outsiders including an incredible morning with the foundation Project Wet. A big topic of discussion was our secondary projects. Every Peace Corps volunteer is expected to initiate a sustainable secondary project apart from his or her primary responsibility. I have not settled on one yet but I have some ideas. That aside, these are some of the projects I will start/have started at site:

-       Weekly office hours

-       A “pamphlet project” where I use students in the English Club and the Anti-Aids/HIV club to make educational pamphlets in English and Kinyarwanda to pass out to villagers at the Saturday market. I would like to thank my Uncle Dave for sending me the paper to do this!

-       Using Appropriate Projects (check them out! INCREDIBLE RESOURCE!) I plan to install hand-washing stations at my school and the primary school.

-       Commit to teaching the Primary School teachers

-       A new Books For Africa shipment is also in the works

The last thing I want to share about IST and my Rwandan life is this: PCVs are the finest people in the world. I have been surrounded by outstanding people in my life but never have I been with a group of such kind, good-intentioned people. Their hearts are so big that I admire and adore everyone single one of them and adore beyond words. If you’ve caught my smiling recently, it was probably because I am so in love with my colleagues. Or because it’s 6:30 pm and children are screaming “Good-a morning teacher!”

1. My Rwandan boyfriend! just kidding I'm not a shuga mami.

2. My students marching through town during our school's Genocide Commemoration Week

3. This was the trench for installing a fiber optic cable to provide my village with wireless. Maybe next they can give the villagers electricity and running water. 

 

4. My students at our commemoration ceremony.

"He was going to hang his clothes to dry but he was short man." - Student

This is not a serious post. For heavier reading, see earlier posts. This is in fact a list of similarities between the lives of the infamous Robert Pattinson and me, a Peace Corps Rwanda volunteer.

Rob Patz and Penny We
1. We are known for and recognized by our pale skin.
2. We cannot go anywhere without being met by staring, pointing and sometimes shrieking. 3. This forces us to stay inside for hours at a time.
4. We are constantly approached by people we do not know.
5. We have problems with the opposite sex. Rob constantly has women asking him to bite them whereas I constantly have men asking for private English lessons.
6. Neither hats nor sunglasses do the trick: can’t disguise these faces.
7. Our careers are acting.
8. We have a new understanding of “freedom” since our entry into stardom/Peace Corps.

*If you are interested in seeing my facebook albums of Rwanda pictures, email me. 

My Coljaction agrees like a dog*

Each blogtown entry I try to give a theme. I’ve been feeling so much these past weeks but have difficulty expressing it and therefore difficulty in settling on a theme. The strongest emotion I’ve felt recently is love from my community so we’ll go with that since it has curtailed my criticism of myself.

I experience it everyday and it is a gentle reminder to smile. I see it in 3 year-old Divine who waits for me in the street in the morning with her arms open wide. And I feel it in her small, soft hand as I take it in mine. My heart is warms when I see the community’s approval of my Kinyarwanda attempts and they pay for my bus ride. I see it when I visit my neighbors in the evening and the youngest children run around the yard like chickens  clucking “Good morning Peacher!” (A mix of teacher and my nickname Penina.) The oldest boy, who dreams of being the “Chucken Norris” of Rwanda, sings to me, “Low low low low your boat gentry down the streeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaa.”

The recent theft and return of my camera showed me what the community thinks of me. The family that returned the camera to me invited me into their barren house – no cushions on the couches – and told the story of its theft. I tried hard to follow but all I really caught was “camera… shoes… I really like her… small white person.” It was a typical Rwandan conversation in that every 20 words spoken in Kinyarwanda somehow equated to only about 5 in English. This is to say, it was a long conversation. In the end, I gave them the equivalent of $20 for returning the camera to me and not selling it in Kigali. Judging by the barren walls, dirty children and missing cushions, this would be a lot to them.

And it meant a lot to me. The Mama spent the last 5 minutes talking about how much she likes me even though we had never met. The Mama, her name is Gloriose, said, “this little white person (akazungu) is like a child (umwana), how can you steal from her? It’s a shame. (Mama weeeeeee!)” I am often confused as a child here because of my size and this was the first time it did not upset me. The Mama is a vegetable vendor at the market who now sends me home with a heavy bag of my favorite food: Rwandan corn.  My new house guard brings me corn, too. There is nothing in the world like grilled corn from your friend’s field.

I spent Saturday harvesting corn with my neighbor and the following day, she invited me to participate in a women’s march for development. Little did I know I was one of the guest stars of this national holiday. I sat with the mayor and some of the strongest Rwandan women I know as we heard testimonies about women’s development in our district and watched live performances. Rwandan traditional dancing is beautiful and shows off the female body without making it sexual. When I joined in, all these women whipped out their camera phones (I know! Development!) to take pictures. The mayor spoke about women’s rights and said, “I know some men here do not like what I am saying but as long as I am mayor of Burera, no man may beat his wife.” I was so happy this day, surrounded by big mamas and progressive-thinking males that I was brought to tears several times.

I know there has been a lot of negative press recently about Rwanda and the upcoming elections. I want everyone to know how safe and accepted I feel in my community. We are hoping the elections will pass with minimal violence, the tensions will subside and we’ll continue to kick it Peace Corps style. That is to say, Chacos, the inability to speak any language correctly, cramped bus rides, large spiders to keep us company in our solitude and catchy Rwandan pop music.   

* The title of this blog comes from a game of telephone. The original sentence was Michael Jackson laughed at the ugly dog. That is what a student wrote. 

“When you return to the States, people will ask you if you are sick. You will say, ‘yes, I am suffering from Africa.’”

Am I suffering from Africa already? It’s possible. I’ve begun to walk slower. My work ethic has become worse. I give a non-committal “eh” when I mean yes. I stare at white people. And I arrive late sometimes. Oh and yesterday, I accidentally punched a hole in my window. I swear it was accidental. Some kids were tapping on my window and trying to enter my house so I “tapped” back a little too strongly.

This blog is about an incredible organization called Books for Africa. Peace Corps Rwanda was lucky enough to be contacted by Books for Africa and most of the ed volunteers received large shipments of books to their primary schools. I honestly am not sure where the funding came from. Going through the books was a delight and these were just a few of the jewels I found:
George and Martha: One Fine Day
A Sherman Alexie book
Tortilla Curtain by T.C. Boyle
10 Ten Most Influential Rappers
Spanish books about killer whales and sharks (I’m keeping those)
Phantom Tollbooth
Goosebumps
Glow and Gleam
A book about the life of Angelina Jolie
A book based in Littleton, Colorado

My high from receiving all these books was instantly crushed when I had a conversation with officials and teachers from the primary school. They appreciate the books but need dictionaries to understand them and shelves to house them. They won’t be read while they collect dust in boxes. The school has no money for either of those, nor do I. There are two ways to look at this dilemma. I am using both viewpoints now as I decide what to do.

The first way of seeing this problem is this: “I can show you the way but it is up to you to go.” I can bring you food, but it is not by job to feed you myself. So I’ve helped you receive these books, here, it is a gift but now it is up to you to build shelves and see that they are used. The opposite way of looking at this problem is that I have ultimately failed them. And this is how development often fails Africa. I have facilitated this delivery of English books to meet the need of their new English curriculum but without a dictionary, how can they understand them? Without shelves, how can they use and organize them? Without instruction can they use them? Though my primary responsibility is teaching at the secondary school, I will make an effort every week to see that there is progress with the library. I will hound people (headmasters, education directors) about shelves and dictionaries. I will see that the books are stamped, organized and USED by the teachers and pupils. In this way, I’m finding the middle ground between those two outlooks on the shipment that I talked about above.

Books for Africa is an incredible organization. They sent containers of used/new books to Africa and the recipients must fund 25% of the shipping cost. We are currently working for a new order for our secondary schools. The need is great at my school because the school has many books for “ordinary level” (S1-S3, provided by the government) but has little to no books for the advanced level (S4-S6). Teachers at my school have had to skip whole sections in their curriculum because they do not have the books to teach. We hope to overcome this problem by the end of the school year in October. Support Books for Africa if you can!

See this article about Tressa's school and Books for Africa: http://www.newtimes.co.rw/index.php?issue=14243&article=28496 

"I'm going to the market to selfish"

I've been working on this blog for a while. It's called... Note to self(ish): 

Don’t do hundreds of push ups and then expect to be able to write on the chalkboard the next day. 

Don’t tell a Rwandan male that your back hurts or they will assume you were making lots of sexual intercourse. 

Don’t leave clothes outside unattended for even a second. 

Your mood swings are giving the neighbor kids whiplash.

Don’t expect there to be class just because it’s a Monday.

Boiling spoiled milk doesn’t fix the problem. 

Don’t assume everyone has parents. 

Rwandans can hike for hours without food or water. Which leads to the next… Don’t travel without snacks. 

Stop bringing up homosexuality in class. They weren’t ready last couple times and they won’t be ready anytime in the near future. 

Don’t touch your eye. Do you know how dirty your hands are? 

Don’t show your knees at school. 

The word amazi (water) should never follow the verb kugira (to have). 

Sometimes the thing that you want to do the least and the thing you must do are the same. Like bathe. Leave your house. 

Don’t wear tennis shoes with business attire. Don’t worry, I didn’t make this mistake. 

Don’t ignore people that try to flag you down on the road. They could be your good friend’s mom, the leader of the Women’s Equality Association, or both. 

Now that you know what goat’s butt looks like, you can avoid eating it next time. 

Carry your cell phone in your right hand so if a man tries to shake your hand directly after urinating, you can offer you wrist. 

Even if it’s posh, Peace Corps is still hard.

What does 16 years mean?

Yesterday marked the 16^th year anniversary of the start of the genocide in Rwanda. Though the violence lasted a decade, we are specifically commemorating the 100 days of slaughter that began April 6^th, 1994 and led to the deaths of close to 1 million Rwandans. The theme for the commemoration this year is “Let’s remember the genocide perpetrated against the Tutsi by uniting more in the fight against trauma.”

 

At least 2000 villagers crowded around our town’s small genocide memorial today for the five-hour ceremony of speeches and prayers. I was the only white person.  It’s more than taboo to mention ethnicities in Rwanda so it was shocking today to hear those names.  A group of widows placed flowers on the memorial and I continued to watch them throughout the ceremony. I wanted to monitor their sorrow and exhaustion so I could understand how much pain 16 years had erased. Their faces were the most expressive that I saw but we’re talking about a culture that is averse to showing emotion. As I watched people’s physical and emotional responses to the event, I began to question what 16 years means.

How much do you remember and how much can you forget in 16 years? What do you hold on to but what have you let go? Does it depend on how well you knew the killers? Or how large the massacre was? What’s 16 years when people lived in constant fear from 1990-1998, when the country only became “normal” in 2003 and when there is still intermittent ethnic violence? What does 17-year old Fabian think of the 16 years he’s been an orphan? How were those 16 years if you could not share them with your loved ones? What’s 16 years when the Parliament still bares battle scars?

I cannot gauge it. Is 16 years a long or short time? Seeing the rapid development in country, you would imagine it’d been a quarter century, at least. Hearing people’s monotone descriptions of killings makes it seem like they’re telling their grandparents’ stories. But if I think about losing half my family, unborn nieces and nephews, and schoolmates, I think those 16 years would have been too dark to do anything more than slowly crawl through the wreckage. 

After 16 years, where should the country be? Well, I think they’re ahead of schedule. They are full of forgiveness and I am full of admiration.

I cannot believe I am here.

__________________

I am revisiting this blog post after the commemoration week ended. A fellow volunteer read my post and asked a colleague if 16 years was a short or long time. He said that 16 years is neither: when it’s something you’ll never forget, 16 years is just 16 years.