22 november 2009
It has been just a wonderful day.
I woke up bright and early, just after 7:30 or so. The sun was out and a heavy fog hung over the mountains in our backyard. Penny and I split a pineapple for breakfast and I decided that the sky was far too blue to spend much time inside today so I went to my room, packed up a to-go sack and headed out the door.
My destination was the art museum that sits on a hill (mountain?) overlooking all of Nyanza. The museum was originally built to be the new home for the king, but he died (suspected murder) before that was possible. On the way, I stopped to snap a picture of what I think is the most beautifully colored house in all of Nyanza. I've been meaning to photograph it since we first arrived but only today did I fell comfortable enough taking my camera out in the early hours of the morning, before the streets were too heavily populated with wanderers and church-going traffic afoot.
Here, grass and weeds are all cut by hand... or more-so by tool, but there certainly are no gas-powered lawnmowers in town. On my way to the top of the perch where the museum sits, I passed by different groups of men in charge of "mowing" the enormous lawn. What a job, swinging this tool away hour after hour in the burning sun. But you'd be amazed by how evenly cut the fields are. I felt slightly nervous, having all sorts of valuables in my bag, as I passed by, but after the men got a good glance at whatever it was they were looking at, they got back to work and let me be as I found my resting spot. I sat there, soaking up the sun, listening to memory-infused tunes and pouring my thoughts out in letters for what must have been a couple of hours. Long enough to get a little burn on my arms and chest - a sun kiss to warm my skin.
This afternoon I visited my resource family. I made plans to come home and cook around 3:30, leaving myself an out, a legit excuse to go, if things were too awkward and uncomfortable. Fortunately this was one of the most pleasant visits I've had to my family and time passed by quickly without me even noticing it.
My host mother said that she wants to have a "kwita izina" - a naming ceremony for me. She wants to give me a Rwandan name. I'd been hoping that this would happen, but I told her that I did not want to be "Kayitesi" (which ultimately means "spoiled girl" - the name a couple of girls in our group have been given) but that I wanted to be named "Guseka", which is the verb "to laugh" in Kinyarwanda. I asked what my host family's Rwandan names were and they explained. The daughter, Diane's means "comfort" and I nearly had tears in my eyes as my host mom said in Kinyarwanda, "my comfort". (For a family who has experienced so much hurt and struggle - a mother who has lost all of her siblings, adopted all of their children, whose husband is in the hospital and has been/will be for who knows how long - hearing her talk about her daughter, whose Rwandan name literally means comfort, it warmed my heart). Lembert on the other hand, when he told me what his Rwandan name translates to, he made me blush and giggle: Breast.
Breast?!?.
Breast.
.... do you know what a breast is? You mean this?? (as I point to my sunburned chest)
Breast.
..why??
Because I am breast from God.
You are the breast of God?
Because I am breast.
(a realization!) BLessed!!
Breast.
You are a bLessing from God. BLLLLLLLessed.
Blllllllessed.
That whole darn L/R thing here...
Let me tell ya, another girl, Michelle, couldn't help but to crack up when speaking about politics and a man said "women's erections".
eRection. eLection.
pRay. pLay.
...
Maybe we should have an entire week of school dedicated to correcting this mistake.
Walking home from Mama wanjye's house, a young guy struck up a conversation with me. I am proud to say that about 80% of it took place in Kinyarwanda.
He asked where I was going. I said home.
He asked where I was coming from, I told him the market, town.
I told him that my mother works in the market, that she is a vender.
He got a kick out of this.
(I just didn't specify that I have a couple of mothers in this world - a good few in the States, a keeper in France.. shoot, and you know what.. I just happen to have one who works at the market in Nyanza, Rwanda).
He asked what I did.
I told him I was a fishermen.
A fishermen?
He was shocked.
Then I told him I was a farmer.
Then I told him, no, no, I am a driver.
Finally, I told him that I was an English teacher.
(might as well practice as much vocab as possible I figure)
He asked if I had children.
I said yes. Two.
Their names are Valence and Assinath.
(these are the names of our language teachers at school)
He was so surprised.
Uri umumama??! (You are a mother?!)
Yego. (Yes.)
I asked how old he was.
He said twenty.
He asked how old I am.
I said 40.
He said I could be his mother!
Yego.
Then I told him the truth. 22.
He caught on, no, I don't have children.
Then I reached home and our little game was over.
It was fun while it lasted.
It's nearly 6:30 now. The sun has set, leaving just a lighter spot, highlighting the clouds in the distance, only to fade into a rich navy over my shoulder.
The scent of the spices seeped into my skin.
Ethiopian food.
I feel like here, I will discover, or rather, create the foundation for what will later in life be my culture.
Yes, I am American, but what does that even mean?
If/when I have children, I want them to have a special home life, a family culture.
I want us to cook some sort of traditional meals,
I want us to have our own language at home, one different from that spoken at school.
This is a big idea and I don't quite have the time nor the battery power left to put into exploring it.
Just,
I feel like over these next couple of years,
I will grow up.
I will have my first career,
I will have my first home,
I will learn to cook for myself,
I will do all of these things that I haven't done in the States.
I will become an adult in Rwanda.
Gosh, I think that's really exciting.
No comments:
Post a Comment