BEing in Nyanza

            This past week I donned my camp-counselor persona and ventured into a new part of Rwanda. Nyanza’s Camp BE (Boys Excelling) began on Sunday August 12^th, and continued on to Saturday. My experience was filled with games, teaching about gender roles and peer pressure, and lots of arts and crafts. Although I had a lot of fun, it’s a good thing that I never tried to become a teacher. Two days of it was enough, and sustaining my enthusiasm non-stop from 7AM to 10PM beyond those two days seems relatively impossible. But, it was so much fun. I try to think back on my camp experiences, like 15 years ago. How was the experience different? Well, I wasn’t learning about preventing HIV or gender roles, that’s for sure. I remember playing Mafia with around 50 kids on the shores of Lake Courd A’lene, Idaho, staying in large burlap tents, my dysfunctional attempts at arts and crafts, singing songs, playing games, staying up until 8:30 in the morning (that was a questionable camp theme – night owl camp; keep the kids up all night, and have them sleep all day).

 

            So I reflected on my camp experience and tried to bring out this supposed inner enthusiast and kid person. Surprisingly, I found it. As a group leader, I met with my boys every day and tried to play new games, hear about what they were learning, and make camp feel somewhat campy. I heard my Kinyarwanda getting better every day, and surprised myself with the ability to explain all these random games in Kinyarwanda without stumbling or confusing my audience. The games were even successful too! One of my favorites was “monkey, monkey, gorilla,” the now Rwandan version of “duck, duck, goose.”

             The boys were impressive though (for the most part, there’s only so much 14-18 year old boys can give before they have to start acting like goofy teenagers again, which was ok too). In my gender roles lesson (which I’m not too fond of teaching anyways) several boys asked questions like, “what if we see a girl who is being treated poorly, what do we do?” and “how can we work to make our lives and girl’s lives more equal?” and “how do we change?” During HIV awareness videos, my group told me how they would help protect themselves and others from HIV. I was concerned as a wave of “wows” echoed through the audience when a woman was telling a man off for assuming she’d have sex with him because he brought her gifts, but was surprised when the boys were impressed by the woman and valued her reaction to the man.

            The camp left me hopeful and proud of these boys, and more confident in the future of Rwanda. I compare these boys to Rwandan men I know, how creepy they can be, how they tend to profess their love for me (or any woman) before even asking our names, age, job, anything, before considering our wishes. I think about my male co-workers who have told me they would never carry a baby on their backs because people will laugh at them, and how they think it’s a man’s right to decide when his wife will have sex with him. I see these men, who I respect, yet also loathe at times for their sexist behavior, and superior mentality towards the opposite gender, then I think about these young boys, how much potential they have, and who they may or may not become, and it’s inspiring.

 

            As HIV prevention videos played from a projector in Kinyarwanda, I gazed through the darkness at all these young boys, intermixed with a Peace Corps Volunteer here and there. Less than 11 months left in my service in Rwanda, and I was shocked, in the darkness, to realize that this has become so normal to me. I know I’ve ranted a bit about the differences between here and there, home and my new home, even toilets in Rwanda and toilets in America; but at this moment, I started thinking about how, when I do go home, no one else will have spent the last two years of their life sitting amongst Rwandans. Consciously, I know this, but how separate, or different our lives have been when I do make it home, is daunting and exciting all the same. The days of commiserating about class schedules and professors are beyond my scope. I can’t walk up to my best friend and say, you remember those Rwandan children who would run up and hug you every time they saw you, screaming “Komera, Komera” (be strong) until you walked out of their line of vision again.

            It is possible, I’m sure, that this is simply a function of getting older, when friends begin to live lives that take so many varying paths, in so many varying directions, one could stand at the intersection forever just trying to make an educated decision about which path they’re supposed to take, follow, or create. So, as much as my life has changed, I realize that everyone else’s has too in the 16 months since I boarded my first plane towards this adventure. I realize that so much has changed, yet so much will be the same, and at times I feel like there is so little about me that remains unchanged, and other times I defiantly claim that I am exactly the same as I once was. It is a confusing dichotomy and ultimately easier to put at the back of my mind as I venture out of my front door, dreams of Kilimanjaro on my mind, and head off along another Rwandan dirt road into the depths of my community.

            From pondering the future of Rwanda, and my own future, to rushing back to a wedding in my village, my week ended in a fluster of celebration. People no longer stare (as much) when I enter into a church, dressed in my igitenge best, and begin snapping pictures per request of the bride. Much to many different lore, weddings are supposed to be sad for the bride in Rwanda. She is supposed to be sad that she is leaving her family. This is extra strange when the couple has already been married for five years and have a daughter together. I can assume they got married because she got pregnant, but apparently never actually had the wedding ceremony. A great, more modern, Rwandan couple, I have really enjoyed visiting them over my time here. I would watch her as she drinks an Amstel beer and frowns as I decline her offer to join her in drinking, yet again. She’s also the only woman who asks me every other week if she could use my nail polish, nail polish being forbidden in some religions here.

            Saturday, she dresses in one of the biggest wedding dresses I’ve seen, and definitely the most form-fitting, and of course, as white as could be. Their daughter Kenny, is also dressed in a white dress that she flings about her constantly, I assume enjoying the swishing sound that it makes. I enter the church about an hour late due to impossibly full busses and sneak up by the pulpit to snap some pictures. The bride sees me and a big grin moves across her face. The rest of the wedding seems to follow this trend. She struggles to maintain the tradition of sadness at leaving her family, yet huge smiles momentarily crease her face throughout the ceremony and reception. This feels like one of the most light-hearted weddings I’ve been to in Rwanda thus far. We all laugh as she tries to pick up to groom and carry him in her arms, but he is surprisingly one of the biggest (both tall and weight-wise) that I’ve encountered in this culture. The tradition of holding the glass while the other one drinks is acted out, as a box of wine on a silver platter is carried to the couple. The box even has a spout on it for ease of pouring.

            The reception takes place on the top of the hill by the entrance to Nyungwe. A procession of wedding-goers makes the two kilometer trek in their fancy clothes, and we sit overlooking the forest. They feed us, although all of our cheap plastic forks break, and the well-dressed women struggle with the task of gracefully eating their food. I even get a piece of the small wedding cake. We give our gifts to the couple, which thanks to the bus delay I was able to buy them a basket, although, what do you give a couple who’ve already been together for five years. I walk up, and greet the bride, handing her my gift. We do the traditional hug, touching our cheeks together, left side, then right, then left again, and her smile is huge. Then I move to the husband who happily greets me, smiling and saying, “Munezero!” We repeat the traditional hug. Then the health center presents a gift, and we are all called out in a line to present it. I know nothing about this because I have been gone for a week, but I join them all the same. Not having any clue what is going on has become such a common and accepted part of my life; I learn to go with the flow.

            I snap some more pictures, then the bride and groom gracefully dance their way out of the reception to the cars that take them to the after party. I retire to my home before this though, and listen as the music from the party travels through my front door into all hours of the night. Standing in my doorway, I can look down the hill and across the road to their house, watching at 11PM the people singing and dancing, and knowing that box of wine and probably many others, and cases of Primus and Mutzig beer have been consumed amongst the celebrators. Asking my titulaire the next day, he says they finally came home around 1AM. People always ask me how American weddings compare to Rwandan weddings, and I always say that they are pretty similar, but shorter. I claim that we Americans tend to be impatient and wouldn’t want, or maybe wouldn’t have the energy, to sit at a wedding for up to 13 hours. Maybe I’m wrong though. My wedding knowledge is almost solely based on Rwandan experience at this point.

            Thus is another event filled week in the life of me. My first batch of pickles turned out good, all of them eaten already. I also made a coffee cake the other night. I wonder though if my newfound cooking skills end at the Peace Corps oven, and about how well they will transfer over to a westernized kitchen, temperature control, specialized bake ware, all of those things. I guess we will see. Otherwise my life speeds on towards its Rwandan conclusion. My nightly dreams are now dedicated mostly to my pending Kilimanjaro trip. They also include post-hike resting on Zanzibar’s beaches, gazing out at the other side of the Indian Ocean, knowing that my toes touched it’s waters off the beaches of Indonesia four years ago.  I dream of walking up a mountainside, gazing out at the world, seeing snow, sleeping exhaustedly at night, and sleeping well without even the malicious efforts of mefloquin able to interrupt my slumber. I dream of seeing my dad and of Obama bags hung on the wall.

            In case you couldn’t tell where my mind has been as of late, my dad comes in a little over three months. It doesn’t feel like my mom was here that long ago though, and I miss her so much already. Time is going so fast, and although it’s stressful and sad, it’s exciting too. I am sure a piece of me and my heart will forever be stuck in the East African jungle, with my host family, running from the baboons, eating fresh avocado and mango, but I also miss the comforts of my American home so very much. My family, my friends, driving a car, the next adventure, although I still don’t know what that will be. But the downhill slope is getting steeper and everything is moving faster, and soon enough I’ll be somewhere else, doing something new, paying my students loans, and other bills, OY! I can’t believe it. You should all probably start gearing up for the words, “This one time in Rwanda” pouring out of my mouth incessantly, because it’s bound to happen. But before then, I will continue to strive for what my BE boys wrote on their group flag (without any prompting from me), “With all sides of the earth, with unity and peace, we will have a brighter future.”

The first steps down the hill...

            The last few weeks have been busy and somewhat hectic in spite of my barely leaving my village. The fourth of July kicked off the month with barbecued summer sausage hot dogs, and real Heinz ketchup, and the month has closed with a celebration at an Ethiopian restaurant to say goodbye to one of our Peace Corps bosses. The in between was mellow yet immensely productive. The most exciting news, at least in my eyes, is that the first draft of my grant proposal to do an animal husbandry project has been submitted. Much to my norm, I wait impatiently to move forward and to receive feedback, but if PC has taught me anything, it’s “ihangane” or that I must be patient. I’m trying. My co-host of camps GLOW and BE in the Nyamagabe District, and myself, have been busting away the plans for this next year and to get the necessary pieces submitted as well. 

            Needless to say, I have lived in a productive world this last month. But July hasn’t only been sitting in front of my computer, crunching numbers yet again for my project budget. Lots of other Peace Corps volunteers made it out to visit us in our village on the edge of the forest. It seems to have become a fun habit, at least for myself, that when guests come, we do dinner at my site-mate’s house. We, and by “we” I mostly mean Nick, has made some incredible food, and it’s a really nice reprieve from the norm, although I do love my veggie soup diet. I’ve learned how to cook in Peace Corps, in a place where everything doesn’t come pre-made in jars or boxes. Although I can say I do slightly miss the frozen food aisle at the grocery store, fish sticks, frozen desserts, waffles…

            But my Grandma should be proud. I still remember the sound of her voice when I said I didn’t know how to make biscuits from scratch while in college. Just the other day though, I made a carrot bread, which was amazing… so, as they say in Rwanda… “slowly by slowly.” Sometime in the near future, my site mate is going to teach me how to make pickles too! PC service is about to get a whole lot easier!

            Continuing with the food theme, we had a dinner celebration to say goodbye to Gordie, our DPT (or some acronym). He was the second in command for PC Rwanda. Health 3, my training class, ten of the thirteen of us, took Gordie out to Ethiopian food to say goodbye, and thank you. A volunteer in Zaire, back when the Democratic Republic of Congo was Zaire, Gordie worked on fish farming, and extended his service there for at least four years. For many in my group he was our go-to person. We sought him out for advice on projects, different resources and general life in the PC. When I was freaking out about a potential site change, Gordie was the one who helped me to calm down, and see that it’s not the end of the world. Needless to say, he’s really going to be missed here.

            PC has rules about the length of time any one person can work for the organization. After which they have to take a break equal in time to that which they were employed. So if you worked for PC for five years, you’d then have to take a five year break before returning. The rule makes a lot of sense, but it’s really unfortunate when we’re forced to lose such a great asset to the organization… that’s not to say there aren’t a lot of other really amazing people to do the job out there. So we said goodbye with dinner and stories of our favorite Gordie memories, and of course many thanks too.

            In other news… my health center decided to do a separate genocide commemoration event this week. On Tuesday, we loaded into a squeeze bus and headed to Murambi Genocide Memorial. This was my third trip there, and yet still had a different dynamic, and it conjured varying emotions. The first time I went was over a year ago with my PC training class. Feelingly right off the plane, we were brought to this insanely emotional place with people we really didn’t know. It was uncomfortable, confusing and scary. I returned this May with my mother, which again had a different feel. The major differences that time were that our guide spoke English, so I understood what was going on, the history and the circumstances. They had also finished the museum, so we could walk through and learn, in English, in detail about the events of the memorial.

            Finally, this time… the car dropped us off at the main road and my 20 coworkers and I walked the three kilometers to the memorial. In front of us was a purple banner stating who we are and what we were doing there. The health center of Kitabi remembering the genocide… never again. The “never again” is the tagline, so to speak, of Rwanda’s genocide commemoration. Each consecutive year has a separate theme too, this year’s being focused on the future. Anyways, we walked the dirt road, banner carried in front of us, moving aside for cars and motos. Arriving at the school grounds, we silently walked up the gravel entryway, holding our bouquets of flowers wrapped in purple ribbon. We start the tour at the mass graves, observing a moment of silence, then laying our bouquets upon the graves that hold approximately 18,000 people.

            Next we are taken to the classrooms where around 200 bodies preserved in lime are on display. Just like with my mom’s visit, I walk along the outside of the building. I don’t want to see them again. Out of the corner of my eye, I occasionally see a glimpse of the victim’s twisted bodies, or a preserved face in agony, and I struggle to fight back tears behind my oversized sunglasses. The key difference on this visit to Murambi, was the accompaniment of Rwandans. Some were crying and also refusing to enter the rooms. Stupidly, I forgot that I was enlisted to carry a roll of toilet paper in my tote bag, for this purpose and finally realize to pull it out for people after the tour was over. I keep my focus on the rolling hillsides in the distance, but every now and then the smell of lime wafts over me and chokes me. I’m vaguely certain that every time I encounter this smell in the future, the images of these people will pass through my mind.

            The only other time I really recall the smell of lime however is at the Jackson family’s ranch in Oregon. They keep lime in the outhouse to keep animals and insects away, or subdue the smell, I’m not too sure. I think about this as I gaze over the Rwandan hillsides, about the face of my best friend hiking through the hills on her family’s property, about such a beautiful place’s memory being triggered by this smell, and how it is now shadowed by the image of hundreds of genocide victims. I watch my co-workers as we walk through the museum, some not removing their sunglasses until we part ways in the evening. I watch them listen to the guide, who I’ve tuned out as she is speaking Kinyarwanda, and I’ve had this tour enough times before. I sit on the benches watching, outside of the crowd, reminded that as much as I try, I can never be completely integrated into this culture. These are things, memories, history that I can view from my outside perspective, yet not comprehend.

            This was the first time I really experienced my co-workers mourning the 1994 genocide. Most of the talks that took place during genocide commemoration week in April were attended by other villagers. I only saw a co-worker there once or twice. It was an interesting experience to attend this memorial with Rwandans, and Rwandans that I have relationships with, that are my friends. Afterwards, we returned to the health center and had fantas and brochettes (meat on a stick). My titulaire turns to me and says, “Munezero…. amakuru?” I respond with the typical, “I am fine, and you?” He replies that he doesn’t know. I make a joke about the large beer in front of him and ask “are you drunk already?” My co-workers laugh, and then another turns to me. “We cannot be ok today, because of where we were,” he says to me, “but, we are moving forward.”

            With 11 months to go in my service as a PCV in Rwanda, every time I say I do not know something, or do not understand, I am met with, “But you must, you are Rwandan now.” I have inside jokes with my Rwandan friends and family. I even look at other white people or foreigners with a tinge of judgment and elitism. “How could they wear that, don’t they know it’s culturally inappropriate?” “Is that person seriously stopping on the side of the road to take pictures of Rwandan children out of their car window?” “How come they don’t know the language?” I find myself lecturing Rwandan men on their poor behavior because they think they can get away with things; that I do not know any better. But I do, I have learned.

 I think about life back in the states, about a medium rare steak, being able to have a beer at a bar wherever I want, carpeting, hot showers, bug-free beds, shorts that show my knees, swimming without the fear of potentially horrible diseases, going out at night, driving. I also think about the things I’ve forgotten… what would a US American’s response be to a random stranger sitting on their lap in a sardine packed car? It’s not normal for two straight men to hold hands walking down the street? What are personal space boundaries? What is considered a personal question? What is it like not to be stared at constantly? What is it like to not be recognizable to everyone and have people yell out my name in greeting as I walk down the street? What is it like to not be asked why I do not have a husband, I am after all, already 24 years old.

I have had so much time, the last fifteen months to analyze who I am, who I am becoming, and who I want to be. I’ve thought about where my life will go after Peace Corps, and what I want to be when I eventually grow up. But it’s interesting as well to look at my idea of “normalcy” and how that has changed with this experience. Although I am sure I will readjust quite quickly when I do make it home in almost exactly a year. But it’s really strange to think about how truly different life is in the USA compared to Rwanda. It’s amazing how we are able to adjust and adapt to our surroundings. A year ago, I struggled with balancing myself and this culture, and now I wonder if I will not struggle with that same thing in a year’s time, when I return state side. Time has gone so quickly, and so much has happened in the time that I’ve been here. I like to joke with my Rwandan friends that I am not really Rwandan, yet I’m not really American anymore. I feel somewhere in between. Maybe I’m finally working towards becoming a citizen of the world.

             A year ago today, my beautiful niece (who I still have never met) was born. Her second birthday seems so far away, yet that is when I will finally be coming home to the states. Her second birthday feels potentially a decade away, but the year I have left here as a PCV in Rwanda, feels like it will be finished  tomorrow. Soon enough I will probably be enduring culture shock yet again, simply sitting on my family’s living room couch. I foresee myself standing next to the fireplace switch and simply flicking it on and off in amazement, or finding things to microwave just for the sake of heating things up instantly, or staring indefinitely at the frozen food section of the grocery store.  But before that time, I will hopefully have reached the summit of the highest peak in Africa, and traveled to more African countries, and finished an animal husbandry project to help malnourished children, and had at least four more girls and boys empowerment camps here in Rwanda. Wherever this adventure, and the ones to follow take me… tuzareba… we shall see!

Pictures: 1. Mushrooms being grown at my health center 2. Health 3 and Gordie at his goodbye dinner 3. Justin and Callixte sitting on the water tower by my hosue 4. My coworkers and I at Murambi