every time is tea time

31 january 2010

Commander Jean Jacques strikes again.

I'd been working away at my charcoal fire - trying to make it hot enough to rehydrate the beans I bought in the market when I went to town today with the old man, taking Richard, the youngest of the 8 brothers, to school - when my phone rang.

Umunezero, how are you!??

Jean Jacques, I'm fine! How are you??

I'm good, I'm good. Just reaching my tent now.

(laughs - the man truly loves that tent!) Ohh, I'm cooking. Jean Jacques, guess what! I have a bike!

You have a bike? Let's meet!

Where?

At the beach!

When?

Just now.

(hesitation - as I finish adding the last of the spices to my bean soup) I really want to.... but I'm cooking... but, okay! See you soon!

So I grab my oven mitts, carry my boiling pot of soup inside, decide to leave the hot fire in my yard, grab my bike and helmet (use protection - wear a helmet - of course!), lock up my gate and I'm on my way.

Imagine my delight to find half of the village sitting on the hill by the primary school, always willing to dedicate an uncomfortably long period of time to staring at the muzungu, but shoot.. now she's got a shiny new bike... and she's a woman (or girl, rather. Here you're not a "woman" unless you're married - and even then you have to have children if you really want to deserve the title) who's going to ride a bike?! Girls don't do that here in Rwanda - or if they do, they're labeled "unruly".. well shoot, that's just as good as going to the movies back home. A white girl on a bicycle in the village. Entertainment at its best.

Thankfully I was able to overcome the challenges of navigating the "roads" without being hit by a truck coming around the mountain corners and without accidently (or not so accidently) crushing one of the children running behind/besides me screaming "muzungu, muzungu" on the way. I arrived at the beach and was quickly surrounded by a crowd of children. I've come to find that if I greet them and make small talk in Kinyarwanda, they are so fascinated by the spectacle that they forget to ask me for money.

Eyeballing the two guarded military trucks, I realized that Jean Jacques had beaten me to the beach and found him sitting with Charles, another RDF man, in a couple of camp chairs right by the water's edge.

I love that Jean Jacques always calls me Umunezero and he greeted me with a big smile, dressed head to toe in his Sunday's best. I sat down and pulled out my water-bottle as he asked what I would take - order. I tell him that I have water, I'm fine.

Do you like black tea?

Sure.

And omelets?

Tea and omelets? That's breakfast food!

Every time is tea time, he tells me.

So tea and omelets it is.

Charles ate quickly and excused himself to return to town to watch the football match, leaving Jean Jacques and I to enjoy the golden hour as the sun set behind Muhabula - the volcano.

It was another evening of heartfelt conversation that had me on the brink of tears. Once again we somehow managed to cover every topic of the utmost importance to my being - but I guess that's what happens when you spend your time talking with a man who's a genuine romantic like Jean Jacques.

From coping with homesickness by reaching out and integrating into the community (as in when I locked my laptop up in my trunk all of last week - rather than locking myself in my room with photos and music that are drenched in memories).. to conversation about adoption to taboos - such as demanding ones marital status within the first minute of your very first conversation - excused with "culture" mislabeling, to my dream of living in a tree to the selfish ways of people to the grace of God - we covered it all. Earth to heaven as we watched the sky transform before our eyes, where there was once the warmth of the sun, the stars and planets began to peek through the darkening sea above.

Every night as I am brushing my teeth or as I get up to use the toilet in the wee hours of the morning, I take a look at the sky to see if the presence of the stars is worthy of a text or a phone call to Jean Jacques, telling him to leave his tent to have a glance at Mother Nature's Christmas lights. Tonight I found it ironic that before the brightness of the full moon found its way to us, the sky was absolutely blanketed in stars - the kind of night I would make that phone call for. Being that Jean Jacques was sitting right there besides me on the beach, as the frogs sang for us their song, no technology was required. We enjoyed the marvels together, fascinated by the different sizes, brightnesses and colors of the stars.

We held out as long as we could, taking bets on if/when the moon would ever rise, but without the sun around to heat things up, the temperature quickly dropped. We decided to load up my bike in the back of the truck - Jean Jacques, much too tall for the short frame, rode it to the car, all the while my heart was overflowing trying to remember the Earth-quakingly good quotes that had left the man's mouth this evening

a woman is the treasure of the home

he'd just told me, expressing his profound respect and love for his wife.

Sure enough, in the time we made our way around the mountains, the moon began its climb to its proper position, front and center, the spotlight in the night sky. Jean Jacques delivered me safely home, reassuring me when I expressed doubts and reservations about school starting and my nervous about teaching.

You are far beyond that, he told me.

Don't even think those thoughts.

He brought my bike in and parked it nestled against my living-room wall and then we spent a good 5 minutes going through the (amazing) treehouse calendar I received for Christmas - thankyouverymuch,Cathy! Neither of us could hid our enthusiasm about the beauty and simplicity of these tree houses, I think Jean Jacques is growing rather fond of the idea - as he told me tonight, men in Congo sleep in trees just to escape the sting of mosquitos! - and we tried to figure out some of the logistics - stairs? pulley systems? I will do some research, I'm sure.

*One of the tree houses featured in this calendar is actually in Portland, Maine! KPers - please please please, have an adventure to town next summer, find this treehouse, take a picture and tell the owner that somewhere in Rwanda, a young woman dreams of one day having a home such as itself.

So we wished one another a good night and Jean Jacques was on his way back to town, back to his tent.

A couple of minutes later, a text from my dear friend Conor, or my "fiancé" as he is known around these parts, came in. He told me that he'd just turned down a proposition from a woman in a bar somewhere in Uganda with the excuse that he was engaged, and knowing that on a daily basis I turn away creeps with "mfite fiancé" (I have a fiancé), I found comfort in our imaginary engagement and the fact that it is serving us both well as we experience these incredible journeys here in Africa.

Shaken, not stirred.

29 january 2010

I woke up last night feeling quite shaken, but I couldn't quite explain why. The roof sounded like it was being pounded by wind, I thought maybe a storm was upon us and knowing that my clothes were hanging on the line to dry, i figured I ought to try and salvage what of the dryness I could. Reaching for my headlamp and keys, I made my way to the front door. I always pull back the curtain, reaching for the handle, nervous that I might find a pair of eyes starring back at me. Creeps me out. Alas, there was no louche standing at my front door, I unlocked it and opened it to a night sky as clear and star-full as I'd ever seen it. "That's weird" I dreamed to myself, because at the time I was still half asleep. My clothes were in their proper place on the line and without any clouds in sight, I didn't much think it necessary to bring them in just to have to hang them up again in the morning. I was suddenly hit by the urge to pee so in the light of the moon, which is so bright these days as it nears full roundness, I tiptoed to the toilet, trying to distinguish between rocks and the giant toads that inhabit my yard during the night. For one reason or another, I felt as though my balance was very off and thought for sure I'd end up with one leg down the hole of my toilet. Fortunately I proved myself wrong, returned to the house, locked up. Finding my room uncomfortably warm, I decided to open my bedroom window for the night, hoping that those 8+ legged monsters wouldn't come crawling in and attack me in the night, but as I climbed under my mosquito net back into bed, I found the cool breeze refreshing and decided it was worth the risk. Besides, I thought, this mosquito net makes me invincible. All of the sudden, there it was again! As I was drifting back into sleep, I once again thought the roof was going to fly off my house. Knowing there was not a cloud in sight, I wrote it off as one of those unexplainable phenomenon that sometimes happen just to wake up frightened young American women in Rwanda..

Maybe taking my Mephaquin right before bed last night wasn't the best idea because the life like resemblance of the golf ball sized spiders in my dreams throughout the early hours of the morning made me wonder if they were in fact dreams -nightmares- or real spiders clinging to my mosquito net, quilting me in a blanket of one of my biggest fears. Yikes!

I awoke to Richard's voice through the walls this morning,

"Nicole.. Nicole...?"

"huh?" I mumble.

"My father is going to Musanze, do you want him to bring you anything?"

Not quite sure why I'm so incredibly tired, I make my way to the living-room, grab my shopping list and a 2,000 RWF bill and slide it under the door that separates their part of the house and my own (this is also the escape route the rats like to take when I catch them crawling around my kitchen table).

"I am so tired, Richard"

"Why?"

"I don't know"

"There was... there was a problem of geography" he tells me.

"A problem of geography?"

A few minutes later, his father, Shrek, the old man whom i adore, arrives at my gate to translate a few of the items on my list.

"Est-ce que vous avez senti les tremblement de terre hier soir? Il y en avait 3 ou 4"

"un tremblement de terre?!" - An earthquake!

There were 3 or 4?!

Well shoot, that would explain a whole lot, wouldn't it?

With this knowledge, I returned home.. skeptical.

My books are all in place, the dishes didn't spill all over the floor (granted the good majority of them are currently sitting in my washing tub on the floor already anyway)... Things seem to me to be in their proper spots, so I count my blessings recalling recent events in Haiti.. put on some tunes and go on to eat my porridge for breakfast.

Just one of those unexplainable phenomenon that sometimes happen just to wake up frightened young American women in Rwanda.

I don't feel scared, but feel free to say a prayer, if you're into that kinda thing.

27 january 2010

crust - up in smokes

cheese - slightly melted

sauce - tomato-ish

1st attempt at pizza made from scratch - edible.

Success!

I'll try again tomorrow.

A few notes:

Today:

there is a bug like one I've never seen before, that scared the geebers outta me the other day, wrestling around in a plastic sack on the floor in my kitchen - it sounded so big, I figured it was one of my rat neighbors and then goodness, out walks this thing, like one of those connector CATA buses at MSU - two times bigger than they ought to be. He went creepin' and crawlin' around the floor, concerned about my safety and curious as to what exactly the monster was, I reached for a plastic cup, so bravely put it overtop of him, and well, there it has been for a good 3 days or so now. I forgot to ask the brothers about the bug and now I'm just too scared to pick up the cup - what if he's still alive!? What if he's asexual and made a bunch of little babies in the past 72 hours. Yikes! Who knows?!

You may, or may not have noticed, but I made a conscious decision these past few days to not use my computer. When I wasn't busy curled up in bed, lost away in my little America, I was out and about in my community. Playing cards with local village children who now might know me as the freckle-faced whitey who kicked our butts at cards, rather than just "the rich muzungu" who likes to catch rides in and out of Kagogo shotgun in RDF trucks. What else?

I spent many nights this week nearly doubling the number of card games played in Rwanda (apparently there were 3, as Richard told me). I introduced BS - or "urabesha" (liar) as we decided to call it here as well as Speed - which lacks any sort of vitesse, but with time. Buhoro Buhoro. I give my neighbors, Richard and Adeline an American bonbon every time they come over for card nights.. sometimes I wonder if that's the only reason they show up at all! But really, playing cards, I'm finding, is so much better than movie nights with the kids because we get to talk, to laugh, to make jokes about being good or bad Christians, ect. rather than staring at a computer screen in silence for an hour and a half or so.

Although I haven't been typing, I certanly have been writing. The old fashioned way - on a typewriter.

Just kidding.

But really, my journaling has taken a new life of it's own.

For example, Notes:

1:58pm 22 Jan 2010

...I hear something big wrestling in my ceiling.

... 99% of the things I put in my rubbish bin are from America.

Truthfully, it's all packaging. Everything Rwandan, well most, is compostable.

Says a lot.

oh, and this realization, about my rubbish - which ironically my friend katy told me, she just recognized in her own garbage as well - lead to a few other thoughts (explored on the 23rd..)

There is a cricket making a ruckus and over staying his welcome in my guest room!

I think I've eaten about 1/2 a cabbage so far tonight, hope I don't get sick.

8:59pm (through the walls)

Richard - Nicole, I have to pray my God before I go to sleep. And you?

Me - ...um... sometimes.

Richard - (laughs) why not all the time?

Me - sometimes I fall asleep first.

Richard - (laughs) you are not a good Christian.

Me - I know! Pray for me.

Richard - In the name of the Father, the son...

... my bean soup keeps getting better and better.

On the 23rd I thought about all of the different kinds of things I am learning here - many of which we never take time to learn in America unless there is a problem and we have no other choice. - this topic is too big to explore and there is no map.

I will just give you a few examples.

I am learning about my body;

- what makes it healthy

- what makes it sick

- what makes it function properly

Where does food come from?

- in America, some kids may grow up thinking that things like milk and meat come from the dairy or meat section of the grocery store. Here, if you want chicken for dinner, you don't reach into your freezer and de-thaw some animal who lived who knows what kind of life, suffering who knows what kind of cruelty, infused with who knows what kind of steroids ect ect. No, here, if you want chicken for dinner, you get your butt outside, chase that damn thing around the yard for a bit and then kill, pluck it and whatnot yourself (I'm glad to be a vegetarian - peskaterrian, excuse me).

I don't know, I could go on and on, just in general, I feel as though I joined the Peace Crops and I am starting to take care of myself,

- trying to eat right (here you have to think about how much protein you're getting on a daily basis and how)

- cooking for myself - deciding how much oil to put in my food, ect rather than leaving that up to someone else's' judgement

- shoot, I even started taking vitamins and flossing. - that's big!

I also have quite the sunburn on my bum. I'll leave that one up to your imagination.

27 january 2010

Last night my friend Katy and I went out to dinner at a restaurant in Kigali. The cafe was called "Shokola" pronounced as a French "chocolat".

It was an outdoor restaurant, lounge couches with throw pillows and flickering candles all about.

"Nda shonge" (I'm hungry) I tell the man who greets us.

He asks where we'd like to sit. With so much warmth around us, we stood overwhelmed. Sensing our hesitation, our waiter suggested: "as you're hungry, you should sit at a table".

A table it was.

We took a small one, square, 4 chairs, and sat across from one another.

Lost in the twinkling of the candles and caught somewhere between Rwanda and Espresso Royal at home, Katy and I were quickly snapped out of our minds as the twang of an American voice shattered the ambiance.

In filed a parade of white, middle aged Americans. These adults were not alone though, on their hips or at their finger tips were little Rwandan children dressed in brand new, Western clothes... speaking to one another in Kinyarwanda as their new parents gave commands like "sit next to papa" or "come with mama" in English.

One woman wore her baby strapped in on her front, another sat down at the table and pulled out a bottle of white formula.

Something about village life made me feel that everything about this situation was unnatural.

Why was the baby on the woman's front when he belonged bundled up in wax print on her back? And a bottle of white formula at the dinner table where normally a woman's black breast was meant to be.

To me, it felt wrong. But is there really a right or a wrong if these women are only acting on the culture that they grew up in and know?

Not right or wrong, I guess. Just different.

Katy and I fought back the urge to converse with the little ones as their parents made awkward motions to ask if they were thirsty while discussing whether or not one or another's had had an "accident" that day.

The father's were friendly enough. Having chosen three tables (about 9 families in total?) surrounding us, they were just as curious about the presence of 2 young ladies - one sporting a Nebraska tshirt, the other looking like a dirty hippy after a long, hot day of climbing the mountains of the city - in a country like Rwanda, as we were about this Midwestern/African clash of a sight.

"We're in the Peace Corps" we tell them.

And the exchange of questions and answers began.

"We came over in a big group to adopt"

"Arrived here at the beginning of the week"

"We got here in October"

"Are you going to learn Kinyarwanda?"

"They'll learn English soon enough"

"How are your language skills?"

"We're learning, buhoro buhoro"

"What does muzungu mean?"

"Where are you folks from?"

"I thought adoption wasn't available in Rwanda"

"Only if there is absolutely no living relative in the country"

and on and on it went, this conversation back and forth with the fathers, while the women, I'm guessing some mothers for the very first time, sat looking just as uncomfortable and uptight as can be. The expressions upon their faces would be like those of a woman seeing her husband flirting with a hot little number at a bar... except the only eyes being made were those between Katy, the children and I.. and the only flirting was with the language "Bite?" (what's up?) we asked the little girls not too shy to look at us. They respond in their mother tongue while their white mama's come to snatch them up, perhaps upset over their own inability to communicate with their new children.

Some American kids are along for the trip too, there to gather up their new siblings. Two daughters sit - both looking as unpleasant as their mother, and then a little boy, interested in nothing but his comic book, raises his eyes only when his fruit kabob arrives. Not more than 7 years old, his high little voice irritates our ears as he asks "was this washed with a water bottle?!" holding up his dinner.

Do you remember the baby elephant in Tarzan?

"does this water look sanitary to you? .. it's pretty questionable to me"

Immediately Katy and I meet eyes as we ponder the future encounters with bullies this kid is sure to have.

I try to take as many mental notes as possible but quickly find the pages far too full.

Too many thoughts,

too many emotions.

I've considered adoption for if/when I some day want to have a family - lord knows there's already loads of children in this world in need of a good home, and the thought of adopting African babies has crossed my mind.

Seeing this, seeing the daydreams manifested before my eyes, I realized that if I do end up pursuing adoption, I wish to adopt children from a country, a language, a culture that I have at least spent some time learning about first hand. I imagine that these children will go on to have really wonderful lives in America.. that they will quickly learn English and that they will have so many opportunities made available to them there that their peers here in Rwanda will only dream of. I wish these things for them, at the same time however, I cannot help but to believe that they will feel some unexplainable connection with a mysterious culture lost on them. Then again, what do I know? Maybe these children, are young enough that Rwanda will not even touch their memory banks. It has to be in their hearts though, just as when I find myself homesick, I feel it there in my own.

As the mother's and father's pack up their dipper bags, exhausted after what I am sure has been and will continue to be a whirlwind tour of emotions and Rwanda, I pass on another Kinyarwandan word.

Komera.

What does that mean?

Be strong.

What do you use it for?

For anything.

If you fall or drop something, komera.

If you look exhausted, komera.

If you have just brought two brand new children into your family, komera.

They understand and with that we wish one another the best of luck,

and I really do.

I sat there watching these couples.

Seeing the lack of sleep, the feelings of doubt washed over their faces,

adoption.

that takes a major kind of love.

Komera.

sometimes, i eat something and then i think to myself,

21 january 2010

"well, maybe I shouldn't wander too far from home today"

... just in case this (or that) ends up making me sick.

Eggs.

How do you know if you've got a rotten egg?

and I'm not talking like a spoiled child or anything, I mean, how do I know if an egg is going to put me in the squat pot for the duration of the day?

I hear there's a trick about putting them in water to see if they float.

Is floating a good thing?

What about if the yoke is runny?

Cus I threw out maybe 3 eggs today due to runny yokes,

but then I thought that was ridiculous, that was nearly half the eggs I had!

So I started accepting runny yokes as long as the rest of the egg seemed alright.

who knows?

Also, I tried to make pancakes this afternoon.

flour, egg, water.

they turned out more like shriveled up chapatti omelets than pancakes.

I suppose if you cover your disaster in enough peanut butter and jelly, you can make it taste just alright.

Otherwise, you wouldn't believe the blandness of the food I am fixin' myself here.

No matter how much cayenne pepper or Mrs. Dash I add, every dish ends up as boring as a 2 hour long ENG 421 Shakespeare lecture at 8:30 in the morning, Monday and Wednesday of every week.

Maybe I should have paid more attention in Home Ec.

... definitely not in Shakespeare though - what good is that knowledge doing me over here?

I'd also like to take a moment to acknowledge the fact that tomorrow is my half birthday. I will be 22 and 1/2, thankyouverymuch.

I suppose that's all today on Nicole's Kitchen.

Stay tuned, we've got an exciting episode of hand-washing the dishes 101 coming right up.

P.S. I watched "Into the Wild" tonight for the first time in a couple of years. It means a hell of a lot more, I can tell you that, watching it under my mosquito net in the heart of Africa than it does sitting on a leather couch in a cozy livingroom. If you don't hear from me for a while, maybe give that DVD a go, I think it can help us all to understand.

ALSO:

http://supportingeducationinrwanda.shutterfly.com/

I am not able to offer prints of photos taken during my time of service, but there are beautiful (if I may say so myself) pictures - and more will be posted this weekend! - from my travels in the States and Europe. All proceeds will help to cover the costs of shipping donated books - to begin a library here at my school in Kagogo, Rwanda.

*Think: mother's day gift, decorating a future apartment, a beautiful shot.. a good cause!

Thank you for your ongoing support.

Nicole Gaunt

E.S. Kagogo

BP 217

Musanze, Rwanda

Africa

jesus in technicolor

17 january 2010

okay, so I had to look up what "technicolor" means and it's not exactly fitting to describe my 2+ hours in church this morning.. but that word kept running through my mind as I sat in the steamy church, right up front by the pastor and visiting priest as well as other preachers (the highly e-steamed guests), listening to the notes of synthesized keyboards drowned out only by incomprehensible voices resulting from overly-enthusastic men and women yelling far too loudly into microphones. Yikes.

I wanted to attend church with Jean Jacques today as a way to thank him for taking my 3am phone call the other night - I was terrified, receiving repeat calls from someone saying something I didn't understand into the phone over and over again - he called them back, it was a wrong number.. but imagine, you're all alone in a house in the middle of Africa with someone dialing you over and over again, saying something you can't translate.. thinking to yourself "Oh my gosh, are they right outside my house??". That's scary.

So, being Commander Jean Jacques' "VIP" today, as he called me, he picked me up in a military truck, right outside my gate - which involves driving all across the school campus to reach. I was glad to see him and we asked about one another's families and whatnot as we made our way to town. I told him how glad my mom had been to hear that I called him the other night when the mystery caller kept ringing me... that it was a relief to her that I have someone here to go to incase of trouble.. I told him to imagine how he'd feel if one of his 6 (almost 7! - shooting for 10) children moved away to some far off land and whatnot. He said of course, he said that I was his first born and that he was my bodyguard. I liked that. Later this afternoon, he introduced me to the waitress at the restaurant we went to (where he treated me to lunch) as his first born.

So we got to church and as I said.. it was loud. My eyelids were heavy but all of the noise was too much. I closed my eyes and bowed my head (in prayer, of course), although some might say otherwise - but it was too loud in there to properly doze. Besides! How could I doze if Jean Jacques himself was translating the whole sermon into English - me, his VIP - well shoot. It would've been rude to sleep on his watch. This church was Protestant, as is the director's church I have been to a couple of times, but even still, this mass was different, very different from those that I'd attended in my village.

*Catalin, I was thinking of you the entire time because you could have dished up this mass into a 36 scoop-multi-flavored bowl of awkwardness.

Okay. Differences:

1. English. This mass was given in Kinyarwanda and translated into English as well as Swahili. You know, you might think that attending a service where English was spoken would be a good thing but as I discovered.. all of the sudden I was being held accountable. When they introduced me, in front of the entire congregation, as JJ's guest, I couldn't just laugh it off as if they were talking about the muzungu who showed up that given Sunday. No, they properly welcomed me and I had to stand up and wave and be polite. Weird. Also, now I understood what all of those loud shouts were about. These people LOVE God. They love God so much that they scream and whistle and you know... I didn't mind those noises before, and I'd assumed what they were about, but to hear these cries in English.. and then to feel pressure to enthusiastically praise the Lord in chorus.. well shoot. That's awkward, especially for a girl raised in a Catholic church where the "praise" and "thanksgiving" is limited to a slew of old squawkers in the choir and the monotone, expressionless response of the assembly. Catholic church, at least from my experience (and I'm sorry if you find this opinion offensive), is stand up, sit down, kneel, try to stay awake. This Protestant church is. Well. A lot more involved that anything I've ever seen before, I can tell ya that.

2. Electricity, meaning microphones and electric keyboards. I have a new-found appreciation for the simple beating of drums and the way that the rain covers the voices of those giving thanks (a lizard just came in my front door.. yesterday he used the window as his means of entrance) a my director's church. These city folks were yelling into the mic the way you see used car salesmen on TV yelling about their great deals in their husky, drained voices - trying to get in as much information as loudly as possible into their 20 second commercial time-slot. I couldn't even try to pick out the familiar words, practicing my listening skills, as they were all completely lost on me.

3. The Dancing - at my school director's church, you can get up and dance if you like, but it's mostly the old mama's who sit up in the front left part of the church and the children who occupy the first couple rows of pews. Here, EVERYONE danced. I'm not usually one to give into peer pressure but okay, when you're the only white person in the church, you stand out just as much as a fresh hickey on a teenage girl's neck stands out to her father's infuriated eyes. So that's one thing, but then, if you're the only white person AND the only person in the entire building not out of your seat, moving your feet, waving your arms (or as was the case with one man - imitating a chicken with the occasional Free Willy jump) and dancing your butt off.. well, damn. What'd you even come to church for?

A friend of mine likes to say "Simplicity is the best spice". Comparing this city church to the small one in my village, I'm thinking maybe he's right. I'll pass on the electricity and keep my eardrums, thankyouverymuch.

So after mass, Jean Jacques and I went out to lunch at "tourist hotel" where I ate the first Rwandan food I've had in nearly a month (the lack or Rwandan food in my diet is a choice, by the way, not misfortune). But we scoped out the buffet and ordered a couple mugs of hot, fresh-squeezed milk. We talked about everything.

Jean Jacques loves the Lord so we talked about God and faith and religion a bunch. He was really glad to hear that I knew the story behind Easter (which I am sure only added more points to mom & dad's - good job raising your daughter - score, p.s. you got extra points for the fact that I was in Girl Scouts, attended Sunday School and played on sports teams growing up). We talked about war and peace and AIDS and safe-sex and rape and abortion and favorite foods and the importance of family and different languages he speaks (12 total, by the way) and the strength of Rwandan mamas and helping the less fortunate and how it's a good quality to wear your heart on your sleeve and say what you mean and mean what you say and parenting and finding your purpose in life and our most important values (integrity - his, honesty - mine) and after all that, Jean Jacques seems to think that I have the presence of God's spirit in me, even if I don't know it yet.

I was nearly brought to tears so many times during our conversation. It felt so good to talk about my dreams to a fresh perspective and to tell him about my family and how yeah, you know what, my family, even my crazy parents, are pretty great and I have had so many wonderful opportunities already in my short life of just 22 years (I know, I know "I told you so" mom and dad are thinking. and you're right, but sometimes I guess you have to find yourself surrounded by people who have nothing to really see and count all your blessings).

So, it was pretty fantastic. We finished up lunch, got back in the truck, the guards hopped on the back and we pulled back onto the main strip in town. We drove past the gorilla hotel where a big white family was dining outside on the patio. Sometimes (depending on location) I have come to see white people with just about as much shock as Rwandans and as I starred at them, gawking (gosh, I'm awful), I caught a couple of them looking back at me. I wonder what thoughts or questions must have crossed their minds at that moment, seeing this young American in a RDF military truck. It felt good though, to have just spent the past 2 hours covering subjects A to infinity with Jean Jacques, to make this real, concrete connection with someone, rather than to just be passing through to visit the volcanos, see the gorillas and then make like a banana and split.

I needed to pick up toilet paper so Jean Jacques pulled off the main road and ran in a store and brought out a bag of 5 rolls (5 rolls = 1,000 RWF = $2). I'm not kidding when I say that toilet paper is a luxury here.. the mark on the last roll I used literally was "luxury".. it's pink, "luxury" wrapper reminds me that toilet paper is a comfort, often seen as a necessity, but in fact really just another luxury we often take for granted. Gosh, I felt silly sitting there while Jean Jacques ran in to buy me toilet paper.. as a girl might feel silly asking her dad or boyfriend to pick her up some tampons. But, if I'm Jean Jacques' first born, I guess that riding shotgun with the RDF and having him pick up some toilet paper for me are just a couple of the perks that come with the position.

As I type this Jean Jacques rings me. He told his wife about me,

"did you tell her that she has a new oldest daughter?"

(he chuckles on the other end) "yes, she laughed!"

I thanked him for a wonderful day and tell him to go switch on his generator so he can read in his tent (literally.. this man sleeps in a tent at their "camp" near the main road) "the tent looks sweet" he tells me. We visited it today in the day light, but this man is proud of his tent.. and I've got to give him credit, for a tent, it is actually pretty sweet. So it's dark out now, i watched "inzuba yagiye gusinzira" (the sun goes to sleep - don't check the spelling.. or grammar for that matter, the point is that people understood what I was doing when they asked) with Aderine and some other children. We had a good time taking pictures, Aderine has become my new little photographer/assistant (makes me really glad I opted to get the tumble-resistant, water-proof camera after all) and well, I think it's time for a bucket-bath.

Last night the stars were out in a way I don't know I've ever seen before. I was so happy to see them, I ran back inside, grabbed a sheet and crossed the road to lay down in the grass. Just as the thought "I wish Shell was here to see this with me" my phone rang. Sister ESP. Her timing couldn't have been more perfect and I was so glad to share a few minutes together. I saw a falling star while still on the phone with her but I'll never reveal my wish. I really hope it comes true.

do people still die of the bubonic plague?

9 january 2010

I think I might.

Let me explain.

I am just sitting here in my living-room, on the "couch", listening to music, minding my own business, waiting for my neighbors to show up to watch a movie (the 16 year old caught me listening to music this afternoon while I was cleaning when he brought me water. Muzungu has a computer - cat's outta the bag, so might as well embrace it - for a cultural exchange (and entertainment - there's no such thing as night life here in Kagogo, Rwanda - and being that the sun sets at 6 o'clock, the nights are very, very long). So anyway, I'm sitting here and I'm feeling creeped out knowing that there's a golfball sized 6 legged spider on the wall in my kitchen, but THEN, as if that wasn't enough.. out of my fireplace I see a furry critter come darting my way, spot me, turn around, and disappear.

THE RAT.

Apparently the rats here have spider-man abilities because when I got out my flashlight to see where the heck he went, he was gone. Nowhere to be seen.. and the only option out of the fireplace (apart from coming my way) is to go up. So - he climbed the chimney.

The old man (the one with 8 children) came over to tell me that his kids are running late (I knew when he told me that 7:30 really meant 8, or maybe even 8:30 - we're on Africa time here) and I told him, flustered that I'd seen the rat in the fireplace.

Oui oui, c'est comme ca. Il va dans la plafond.. (yes yes, it's like that, he went up to the ceiling) **Which would explain why I hear things running around above my head from time to time!

Il y a beaucoup de rat ici (there are many rats here).

Wonderful.

And then I piece it together.

The packet of peanuts that went missing yesterday, I searched for them, checked the kitchen table must've been 3 times. GONE.

Then, today when I was building a charcoal fire to cook lunch, well hot damn.

There's that packet of peanuts.

What the heck is it doing in my fireplace?

I try and convince myself that maybe when I was throwing charcoal in the "stove" maybe somehow they'd gotten mixed up in that mess - and accidently torn open?

No, that doesn't make sense.

I don't know, but those peanuts are a salty treat...

and I'm a starving white girl in Rwanda

and although the story doesn't add up,

I eat them anyway.

And now, NOW seeing that damn rat come running outta my fireplace.. the missing peanuts in the fireplace, I'm putting 2 and 2 together and you know what that equals?

BUBONIC PLAGUE.

That's what that equals!

So folks, if the plague doesn't get me in my sleep, I'm sure that 6 legged spider (which escaped the *bare hands* of the old man) will come back, seeking revenge and finish me off.

Yikes!!

any given friday

8 january 2010

So I was just about to leave the squat pot when out of nowhere drops the biggest grasshopper I've ever seen. He lands on all 4 (6?) right in front of me, the fear knocks me off balance, and let me tell ya, my balance in there is pretty shotty to start with, I'm always about slight breeze away from being up to my eyeballs in you-know-what (just kidding, it's a brand new "toilet" so it's not that full yet). Anyway, I'm serious though, I thought the grasshoppers in Nyanza were monsters, well this guy, he'd win a gold medal if you entered him in the State fair for something or other. Plus, unlike the g'hops in Nyanza, which were all green, this guy had on a jacket of camo. Anywhere other than my feet in the squat pot, and I wouldn't have suspected a thing. He could pass so inconspicuously by, wouldn't even register on my dangerous-insect radar - and I'd like to think that mine is very finely tuned these days.

So he does a little hop and I do a little scream as I struggle to pull my capris back up to their rightful place on my hips. He aims himself for the door and it appears as though we both have the same idea "GET ME OUTTA HERE". I courageously open the door and we're free.

Thank goodness.

As if that wasn't enough, I hear something wrestle on my haphazard fence.

(what, is this pick on Nicole day or something?)

I look.

A lizard is sitting there, watching me.

Mocking me, is probably more appropriate.

"Don't even think about it"

and I scoot back home to safety.

Although considering I spotted a rat scampering across my kitchen table yesterday, I'm not real sure just how safe this house really is - at least on the 4+ legged critter front.

Yikes.

I spent all morning with Aderine, my 9 year old neighbor (the youngest in that family of 8 children), my new best friend.

Sometimes when the sun is out, I get it in my mind to go out wandering my new place.

Sometimes when the sky is grey and threatening rain, I'm just quite alright sitting inside and passing the day with a book.. or the bucket of dirty dishes crying for attention from my kitchen floor.

Today the sun was out and I had an itch to move.

So I put on my gear, packed up some toilet paper and hand sanitizer as well as safe drinking water (you just never know) and approached my neighbors home.

Mwaramutse (good morning), Aderine ari hehe? (where is Aderine?)

La petite - as they call her, being the youngest in her family, came out of the house with a fist full of corn-on-the-cob, just like her brothers, all sitting around outside, snacking.

Her brothers and I later get into a conversation (French, English, Kinyarwanda) about whether or not Americans eat corn - because rumor on the street is that it's just for animals over there in the USA. I explain that we have different kinds of corn, one that's sweet - which people eat, another which isn't and which is for animals. They ask if the corn they enjoy eating just about every day would be for humans or animals in America.

I blush.

"Animals" I tell them.

They all have a good laugh.

I apologize and tell them that I am just being honest. I go on to explain that I've heard no matter what kind of corn you plant here, it all turns out the same - hard and chewy. I tell them I've brought seeds from America that I want to plant. I run home to get them. Fascinated, they read the packages (two of these young men study agriculture at university). I tell them they can open the packets of seeds. Before I know it, they're poppin' kernels of the dried corn into their mouthes "C'est sucre" (it's sweet) they say. I know. Told you so.

So anyway, before all of this seed talk took place, Aderine and I were on our way into "town" to pick up some isabuna yo kumesa na umunu (clothes-washing-soap and salt) for her brothers.

I like to explore, I really do.

I just am not used to having EVERYONE watching me as I do so.

With Aderine by my side, it's like I have a personal tour guide who doubles as my link to the community. I feel I am one step closer to getting a foot in with people here if they see the muzungu walking hand-in-hand with La Petite, it's kinda like she has taken me under her wing, you know? And I much prefer to go to town with her rather than show up there alone for first time, just waiting for the stares to devour me.

Shoot, not only is she my tour guide and body guard, Aderine is my Kinyarwanda tutor as well. We spend our entire hike exchanging words, phrases and giggles.

"Mfite ubwoba" (I have fear) I say over and over again as we make our way down the steep paths to town.

People literally stop in their tracks at the sight of me, but Aderine ignores it and I do my best to as well.

Greetings in Kinyarwanda take them by surprise.. as if a white person in their village wasn't enough, but a white person who knows a few words of their language as well, it's almost too much.

We reach town, a small road lined with a few closed up shacks.

Aderine makes her purchases and teaches me the words "Udushwi dutoya" (baby chicken) so that I can ask how much they are on our way back home.

Stopping where the mama chicken and her slew of "udushwi dutoya"s are, a crowd quickly gathers around us.

Udushwi dutoya n'angahe? (how much is a baby chicken?)

Ibihumbi bibiri (2,000)

*doesn't take a genius to know that 2,000 RWF is a ridiculous amount to ask for a baby chicken ($4)

Ni menshi chanye!!! (that is WAY too much - I tell him)

n'angahe? (how much - he wants to know how much I have and that I am willing to pay)

Oya, maurakoze. (No thank you)

Arriving back home to find Aderine's brothers sitting right where we'd left them, I ask THEM how much a baby chicken ought to cost. As low as 600 RWF they tell me.

That's what I thought.

I tell them that a young guy in town tried to charge me 2,000.

It's because I'm white they tell me in so many words. I know.

So they offer to purchase the chickens for me (getting the better deal) and we go on chatting for a while. Lunch time rolls around and I excuse myself, dreading spending my entire afternoon begging my charcoal stove to light. They ask what I will cook with and I say charcoal. They are surprised and I tell them yes, it's very difficult for me, takes me an hour or more each time. They offer up La Petite "she knows how to light a fire" and so we make our way the shot distance between the two houses.

We pile up some charcoal (my mind and empty stomach are full of doubt) and Aderine goes outside, pulling dried leaves from my fence. Inside she immediately gets to work, (she is 9 years old, remember? Who in America would let their 9 year old use matches or build a fire?) piling the leaves on and under the charcoal. Strikes a match, the leaves catch. Then it's all a game of once again keeping the fire alive. The smell of burning eucalyptus leaves fill my home as the leaves smolder and La Petite puts all of her lung power into spreading the heat. It's almost as though she is capable of breathing fire because miraculously the coals glow red and flames appear.

In what takes me all afternoon, she got the fire going in 10 minutes.

Shown up by a 9 year old.

I put my soup on to boil and we pass the time playing a card game - her game, I pick up on the rules without language but rather with pointing (same suit or same number - it's an acceptable card to throw down, no luck with either of those, pick one up from the pile). I bring out the wonderful "Building Language Library" flash cards I received in a care package (thankyoukathy!) and once again Aderine gets right to work, absorbing the new words like a thirsty sponge.

The soup is done, we eat, we play, we tucker out and curl up on my couch for an afternoon nap.

Not a bad day, not at all.

Yesterday, chatting with the brothers:

"How is it that people from Kigali cannot stand to live her, but you, an American, can?"

"I don't know. How?"

"That is what we ask ourselves."

"I wanted to experience a new lifestyle."

"Yego."

so this is your world

5 january 2010

a hike around the lake,

exploring with Katy.

greeting everyone we meet.

a SUV full of RDF (Rwandan Defense Force) men pulls up,

impressed to find that we are not just tourist passing through,

they offer us a ride back to school in their air-conditioned SUV.

The commander had come to town to meet the new muzungu,

me.

jokes, laughs.

they take us out for fantas on the beach,

lake level.

the noise of waves greets our ears,

the mountains fill our eyes.

beauty beyond belief.

treated to lunch at a fancy hotel,

conversing in english and kinyarwanda.

our table: 2 young American women and 5 RDF men.

more laughs and jokes.

They tell me to call for any safety issues

including, but not limited to:

spiders

mice

mosquitos.

new vocab.

nda shoje

- i am hungry

nda haze

- i am satisfied

inshuti

- friend

umukunzi

- lover

confusion of translations,

talk of fiances coming to visit in april.

(Cono - that's you).

a ride into town

on a truck with open seats on the back,

guarded by military men.

back to Kagogo.

"so this is your world" Commander Jean Jaques says,

as we drive through the small roadside towns.

a story of how two people met

and fell in love:

my friend had a girlfriend.

he told me that she had a sister

who was very beautiful.

so i went to their house

to see this beautiful girl.

she was beautiful,

but i did not talk to her.

twenty minutes or so after arriving,

another girl came in.

she was cleaning the house,

her skin dirtied with charcoal.

our eyes met

and in that moment,

i was attracted to her.

so i went back a couple of days later.

I wanted to get to know her,

talk to her,

see if she had a boyfriend.

she did.

and i waited.

maybe 6 months later,

she was going to school in Butari.

she agreed to be my wife.

she did not have a boyfriend,

she only wanted to see if I was consistent.

you know,

if you put the two women side by side,

and asked which was beautiful,

you would pick the first.

but there was something about her.

in a marriage,

there has to be more there to hold you together.

Claudine and Jean Jaques,

expecting their 6th child,

he hopes for a daughter.

They have also adopted 2.

Wishes to have 10 in total.

He is a good man.

It was an amazing day.

don't let the fire die

2 january 2010

I think most often when we hear or say that phrase, it's referring to romance, to a relationship.

Living here in Africa, I literally mean it about this charcoal fire I have spent 3 hours working on.

I am a slave to the fire.

I must feed the fire,

fan the fire to keep the coals burning,

tending to the charcoal that took me half a candle, half a dozen matches, half of a notebook as well as half of the afternoon to start.

I'd like to think that I am a pretty independent young woman, at least this is true in America, isn't it?

It's now 3:30 in the afternoon,

my arms are black with charcoal,

my skirt is filthy from wiping my blackened hands all over it

Just as I type this my neighbor, a man in his late fifties, with 8 children (2 girls, 6 boys = jackpot) to his name (which I forget at the moment), knocks at my door. "Injira" I tell him "come in". He has such a kind, friendly face, he reminds me of Shrek before he turned into a prince and all. He tells me, in his African French, that his children, particularly his sons I take it to mean, are there to help me.

I'd just wandered out of my gated mud-yard a few minutes earlier carrying my two empty jerry cans, in need of more water. I felt weak (is that the correct adjective?) asking his 16 year old son, Richard, to help me with the water. I thought maybe he would take one and I would take the other. He took them both and told me he'd have them back to my house in ten minutes. So I returned home, added some charcoal to the fire, checked my bean soup - still needs a few more minutes - and found myself just absolutely exhausted. I seem to have a cold (cough, stuffy nose, stuffy head for that matter) and my voice est en train de disparu (is in the process of disappearing).

So when my jolly ol' neighbor arrives and tells me that his children are there to help with things like water and whatnot, in my weak voice and poor French, I respond to him saying that in the States, I am very independent, I am used to doing things for myself. I believe this to be true about myself in general, but reflecting on it now, I find it depends entirely on the context... or perhaps the continent.

Today;

I hand washed dishes - without a sink equipped with running water - without a sink at all actually

I spent an hour and a half working away at that damn charcoal fire

I then spent another couple of hours tending to that fire as well as to the soup I have boiling on it

I brought in laundry (that'd I'd hand washed a couple days before - but which hadn't finished drying, and was then re-soaked in the rain yesterday.. and which now need to be re-washed by hand due to the mud that has splashed up all over it) from where it was hanging to dry when the rain began

Do ANY of these things play a role in my daily routine in America?

No, they don't.

So when just the idea of washing out another pot to boil water to take a warm bucket bath overwhelms me with exhaustion, if a thought alone can do that, to my body that is already crying out for rest, should I really be so hard on myself about asking for help fetching water?

Naw, I don't think so.

These days are all about little victories,

the small moments of success.

For example

- finding that the fire has actually caught

- catching rain water in buckets - water I can later use to wash my dishes

- having drinkable water (boiling it, filtering it)

- tasting that this soup I've spent the entire day working on is actually really good

- taking a walk, hand-in-hand with my 9 year old neighbor (the youngest of that family of 8)

- getting all of the black charcoal dust out from under my fingernails

- using the squat pot without pissing on my sandals

- finding the courage to squash the wasp that has been hanging out on my ceiling for the past couple of days to avoid being stung if/when he decides to attack

You know, things like that.

I guess I ought to describe a bit more than these mundane chores.

I think this is their vacation.

This is our life.

Katy and I said to one another as we passed an open-air African style "tour bus" full of muzungus on the way to our sites for the first time (december 30th).

The mountains covered with pinwheel banana trees, even after 3 months in-country, still make us catch our breath. For two girls from what might be America's flattest states (Michigan and Nebraska) imagine then, the excitement we experienced seeing the gigantic volcanos as we rounded the corner of yet another mountain.

Screams, giggles, pictures.

Beauty.

Now take the green mountains and the monstrous volcanos and throw in an islandfull lake that extends far to the peak-silhouetted horizon, all of which wrap so perfectly around a peninsula that gives you a spectacular view of said landscape (as long as the top of the volcano is not lost in the clouds) and there you have it, my home for the next two years.

Honestly, I nearly cried the last day of 2009, the first day of my life here. It wasn't from sadness, nor an aching heart, but because I felt so fortunate to find myself in a place of the utmost natural beauty - a place where I will have the opportunity to live and grow and teach and learn. It felt so right.

And that's that,

words could never do this place justice,

guess you just ought to come and see for yourself.