Guma Guma... Superstars!

            I can’t help but be fully immersed in the countdown of my time left in Rwanda these days. Especially without a computer, and at least for a day or two each week without power, I find myself with less and less to do, and more times to either drive myself crazy, read (although I only have a couple books left), eat (which I do a lot of), or simply sit and think about how drastically my life is changing but how slowly it seems to be doing so. Granted, one month is really not that long of time, but it seems somewhat like it’s dragging through the stasis of my life these days. I can see the horizon of emotions, the sadness to go, the excitement to leave, the anticipation of travel and being back home, yet right now, it’s just static. So I am trying to fill my time with the little things, like I did in the beginning, the small goals… today I am going to buy food, today I am going to do laundry, today I am going to visit this person, rather than ticking of the list of tasks I’ve kept myself busy with for the last two years. 

            It does seem to be giving me time to be a little more spontaneous however, most notably last Saturday going to Guma Guma Superstar 3 in Nyamagabe. This is kind of like the Rwandan version of American Idol. Down to ten singers/groups, they are touring the country and performing for free on a temporary stage made out of an RV or something. The people can come, watch and then text their votes in to the organization. It all started Friday evening. Another PCV and I were saying what we thought was our final farewell to Nyamagabe and toasting to our last two years, when a group of people comes in with a bunch of Primus (the PBR of Rwanda, and the main sponsor of Guma Guma) shwag and an “awesome” cutout where you could stick your face in the hole and become one of the stars. I won a Guma Guma hat and we took our pictures in the hole, and discovered that Guma Guma was coming to Nyamagabe the next day! With a little prodding from my friend, she convinced me and a couple others to go the next day to Guma Guma.

            Saturday began with my site mate, Nick, coming and making me pretty amazing belated birthday cinnamon rolls, after which we headed to Nyamagabe to meet the others and begin the Guma Guma adventure. I think in previous blog postings I’ve talked about the sometimes mortifying, sometimes obnoxious, and sometimes awesome benefits of being a foreigner in Rwanda. One of these is that you are often offered the nicer seats, which are usually more comfortable, shielded from the sun, and at the very front of whatever is happening. I admittedly have taken advantage of this at different times, for example receiving seats under tarps to protect me from the rain or sun, or getting a nicer seat on a bus to avoid being squished between creepy or somewhat drunk men. There are times when I have actively refused this, like at church when they’d like me to sit in front of the entire congregation as an “honored” guest, or to take one of the five nice chairs at the front of Genocide Commemoration ceremonies. 

            I didn’t come to Rwanda for two years to be set apart, to be seen as different, and “honored” or separated because of those differences. I came to integrate, become a member of a community, and work with the local population as an equal, as best I could. I tried as often as possible to deny this advantage. So, we arrived at Guma Guma and were instantly taken to the VIP lounge. Sitting with lots of other community “bigwigs,” the chiefs of police and armed forces for the district, amongst others, we were placed front and center, right by the stage, right by the speakers. Instantly we were handed free Primus, and we got free Guma Guma hats and Primus wristbands, and a completely unobstructed view of the stage. It was pretty darn nice, but I couldn’t help feeling guilty about all the Rwandans dancing behind the barrier who would probably value the experience so much more than we did. How many people who knew me were standing in the crowd watching us? The answer is too many, as I found out when I ran in to several of them later in the day. They laughed at my attempts to dance.

            The VIP lounge was pretty darn nice. We were never without a dry glass, but I also felt like “one of those” expats. I do think there is a place for each type of aid agency and aid worker, but I must admit that I tend to appreciate the Peace Corps model a bit more than the others, maybe simply because I’m headlong into it these days. There’s something to be said for the way we live, in my case in a house comprable to my coworkers, making about the same money each month as some of my coworkers and less then some others, taking public transportation (no agency labeled range rover driving me around). We work to become a part of the community and learn the language, and attempt the mythological feat of grassroots development, a task particularly difficult in Rwanda which utilizes the top-down approach seemingly exclusively.

            So, ingrained in me has become the desire and the drive to try to be “one of the community” to be seen as an equal (this was probably a part of me before admittedly), yet here I am instantly getting taken to the VIP section without a single word of protest on my part, and enjoying myself (in spite of the ringing in my ears for the next two days). I watched the teenagers constantly being pushed away from the barrier as they danced too close, some of them drinking Primus without a care in the world that the cops in front of them would enforce some semblance of a drinking age law. I was mortified when one of the artists came off the stage and tried to drag me and another volunteer up there to dance, and relieved when it was vehemently shot down by a stage hand who yelled, “No white people!” at us. So we (and I thankfully) danced just in the grass by the VIP lounge, but still drew enough attention to have our pictures taken and posted on the organizations Facebook page. 

            For almost three hours we watched the musicians and the crowds, we sang along to the songs we knew, and gawked at some of the provocative dancing we were watching. One teenage boy was brought on stage and continued to grope and fondle the hostess of the event for a good five-ish minutes. I couldn’t help thinking that if that were me that boy would probably have been slapped up-side the head right quick! I kind of feel like an old conservative lady now, writing that (no offense to old conservative ladies).  Towards the end of the performance when the bad brews and loud music finally started to wear on me, the music seemed to turn into a repetitive mantra of “hejeru, hejeru” or telling the crowd to put their hands up… what had happened to the music? And we were all disappointed that the one female artist, Knowless, did not make an appearance.

            After the show we headed back into downtown and said our (what I think will be) final farewells to Nyamagabe and the Golden Monkey Restaurant. It was a fun way to finish that part of

 my experience. As for work these days, my counterpart (the health center employee who partnered with me on my animal husbandry project) Flandrie and I, agreed to go to one of the five cells in my sector each week for my remaining five weeks and visit the community health workers (CHWs) who have animals there. Two weeks down and three to go. It has gone well so far, there are some participants who have baby chickens right now, and others who complained that someone stole all of their animals. So a mixed bag I guess. 

It’s really hard to convey the magnitude of the number of hills in Rwanda unless you see it. Known as the land of a thousand hills, I think Rwanda is really closer to a million hills. I guess it all depends on how you define hill. In my part of this country however, the hills are tall and steep, descending into narrow valleys and starting right back up again. As I walked with my counterpart this week, I asked her why all the Rwandans live on the tops of the hills, and all on different hills. She took this question at face-value and launched into an explanation about the rainy season, as we trudged up yet another steep hill to the next CHWs house. I guess I should have spent some time explaining rhetorical questions in my two years here, as that is one of my major forms of communication. So I listened to her breathless explanation wishing that the hill would end, and eventually it did. 

We hiked about 13 miles that day visiting people, and I was greeted by name repetitively by different community members and children. My counterpart turned to me towards the end of the trip and said “So many people know you, and nobody knows me.” I explained that I’ve actively chosen to walk to all the rural villages the last two years rather than be seen as just another foreigner passing through on a moto. It felt pretty awesome though to see and feel the effects of this decision after two years, to see something so tangible as being more known in rural villages than my Rwandan counterpart. At one point a group of kids passed us and one of them yelled out “umuzungu” or “white person,” to which another kid calmly turned and said, “she is not umuzungu, she is the one who makes the children laugh.” That was pretty awesome too, even if the kids were calling me a clown. I think I would rather have spent the last two years being called a clown than white person.

So rarely in this experience do we get to see the tangible benefits of what we have done, and this simple walk through my community really showed me what I’ve done and who I am to these people. Although it might sound relatively conceded, it makes me feel pretty good that I am already remembered for being more friendly and present than my co-workers, and also for my sense of humor. As this countdown becomes ever smaller, I have been struggling with my common frustrations, being stared at, being treated differently for my skin color, being identified by my skin color. I call my friend here daily and sigh into the phone venting about some idiot staring at me for an entire bus ride, or some woman trying to increase the price of her peas because of my skin color. It’s tiring, and I must admit I’m happy the end is very much in sight. 

I’m going to miss this place, the people, the culture, so much. It has been my home for the last two years and I have become a part of a place, one that I never thought was an option or a possibility. It has changed me in good ways and bad, and it has created in me the visible opportunity to become the better person that I want to be. I look forward to seeing how this place, experience and these people have changed me, and who I will continue to become because of this experience. It is immensely rewarding to see the subtle impacts I’ve made and the feelings my Rwandan community has about me. I guess we all need a little ego stroking every now and then! So in spite of all the amazing things and the truly obnoxious or crappy things, I think it is officially and mentally time for me to move on to whatever comes next in my life, to leave Rwanda, at least for now.

Pictures: 1. Rita, Christine and me celebrating my birthday and one final farewell to Butare. 2. CHW Marcelline in front of the chicken house she built for the animal husbandry project. 3. Nick, Griff and Christine posing as Guma Guma Supertars. 4. The stage at Guma Guma. 5. Christine and I with the Guma Guma sign. 6. The sign for my work and the main road passing by it that goes all the way to the DRC. 7. Looking back on my village, just under the big hill. 8. One of the baby chickens. 9. Flandrie and me after marching up one of the many hills.