Motos

Generally it is Peace Corps policy that volunteers are not allowed to operate or ride on motorcycles of any kind while serving. This policy was implemented after it was realized that the largest numbers of deaths and injuries to PVCs included motorcycles, especially considering that volunteers used to be issued motorcycles as their main mode of transportation (nowadays we just get bicycles). Rwanda is one of the few countries where there is an exception to that policy because motorcycle taxis are such a crucial aspect of getting around here. However, to balance out the danger we were issued some super intense motorcross helmets. Literally though, these must have been out of the clearance bin because they are the most riddiculous gaudy patterns imaginable. For example mine is zebra print and sparkly. To make matters worse we can be medically seperated for not wearing them so we are forced to carry them with us when we know we will be using motos, and then we look riddiculous riding them. Quite honestly though I dont mind the helmets because they make me feel safe since the moto drivers are insane. There is actually nothing scarier than flying down a mountain gripping onto a stranger. I thought I would feel bad ass but literally I was on the verge of tears instead. There was one hillarious moment where I made the moto driver stop so that I could get off the bike and hyperventilate on the side of the road. The poor man had no idea what was happening and was just staring at me like, "shit what I am going to do with a crying Muzungu." When I was finally able to explain to him in French that I was scared his only response was, "Oh there is no reason to be, this is very safe." Oh sir, I beg to differ. Now that I've become more accustomed to the motos, however, I am starting to see the appeal. I can imagine that it would be very satisfying to be driving one but sometimes as the passenger my Type A personality really kicks in and I would much rather be in control. I think for now I will take the motos as little as possible and but maybe in two years things will change. Who knows? Maybe I'll get a motorcycle when I return to America....Wenda (Maybe)...but probably not.

The Rwandan Way

Here is it, my rant about my biggest pet peeve in Rwandan culture: a country wide epidemic of always needing to be write. It is an indisputable fact that there is only one way to do anything in life and that is the Rwandan way. 

-You want to wash your clothes once with soap instead of three times? Too bad that's incorrect.

-You want to wash your shoes delicately so they dont get destroyed in the first 2 months in country? Sorry scrubbing the shit out of them is the only acceptable protocol.

-You cut potatoes on a slab of wood instead of in your hand? Incorrect, you must be stopped.

-You don't set up your blackboard in 3 sections like every Rwandan teacher was taught to? Your students will not understand.

There is literally nothing that I do in my life where a Rwandan, usually from my host family but this happens in all spheres of my life, doesn't attempt to stop me and correct me. Its a country suffering from some serious OCD. I mean shit I was functioning perfectly well as an adult in America doing things very differently. There are certain situations where you just give in and do things there way, resistance is futile and quite draining. But on several key aspects of my life I have held my ground. The main two are on how  I set up my chalkboard and how I wash my clothes because 1. my students will learn the critical thinking skills to take notes in my class with out being force fed them - giving them a crucial leg up in a country where I swear critical thinking is almost non-existent and 2. I refuse to stretch out and ruin my clothes in the first months in country. The stress of constantly being corrected - and may I add in the most condescending of ways and with many accompanying obnoxious facial expressions and tongue clicks - is really just an added burden to my day. This mentality is a roadblock that volunteers run up against constantly here in Rwanda and I'm not looking forward to two years of asserting that I know what I am doing and there is more than one answer. During a moment like this the other day where a waitress made us all stand up and rearranged our seats the way she wanted them I made a quip which I've decided is very telling of the experience here:

"Time, the truth, and the meaning of words are flexible but there is only one correct way to arrange chairs, or anything else for that matter." 

Malaria Drugs

Despite the fact that we do no have Malaria in the United States it is still a very serious disease in many parts of the world today. Rwanda, being in Africa, is one of the places. Sadly this lack of exposure to Malaria as children actually leaves us American Peace Corps volunteers at a significant disadvantage when it comes to staying healthy. Our body has never seen Malaria and thus doesn’t have the defenses necessary to ward it off. To counteract this effect we take drugs that remain in your system on a constant basis that mimic the resistance native Rwandans, or Africans, would have to Malaria. Since you will probably see it mentioned here many times the name of the medication I take is Mefloquin, and it is a bitch. For starters the mefloquin causes increased levels of paranoia, anxiety and insomnia. Most of the time the effects are mild and thus not cause enough to switch to one of the two other malaria medications (more on those in a minute). So basically when you are searching for a pen and can’t  find it and it makes you wanna cry? Mefloquin. When waiting for dinner feels like the end of the world? Mefloquin. And when you go for a run in the morning and your heart feels like its pounding out of your chest? Mefloquin. In a post conflict country far from home, you can imagine the kind of thoughts that can race through your mind when you’re having a bad day and you’re on mefloquin. The whole thing really becomes  an issue of mind over matter and its very interesting when your body is experiencing all the physical symptoms of anxiety but your mind is perfectly calm because you know its just  a chemical reaction. Now if only I could master the physical effects we’d be fine and dandy, ihangane. There are 2 other approved Malaria medications in the world today, doxy and malerone, and as a PCV you must be on one medication at all times to remain an employee. The side effects of doxy is extreme sensitivity to sun – well looks like I’ve already got that so I won’t be taking doxy anytime soon. There are almost no side effects that I have heard of from the last drug, malorone, but it is expensive so you have to be resistant to the other two drugs first. Anyways this a super boring post but it is a crucial aspect of my life and maybe it will help everyone understand a little better how Mefloquin effects my everyday life and why I hate it so much.

Ugiye He?

 Ugiyehe?

Ugiye he? Ugiye he? Their cries follow me down the street, becoming more persistent with each emerging ray of light. “Ugiye he Muzungu?” It’s 5am on a dusty road somewhere deep in Africa and I am running. It’s cultural here in Rwanda to ask everyone where they are going when they pass you on the street, especially the Muzungu (white man) because everything they do is inherently interesting based simply on their color. The tricky part about “Ugiye he?” the reason its nips at my nerves like a winter frost, is that you are never supposed to answer truthfully. Everything is a secret in Rwanda and as a result people are always trying to find the truth or lying to cover it up. This rule applies to literally everything in a person’s life. “What are you making for dinner?”

“Food”

“Where are you going?”

“South”

The more evasive the answer ,with out being rude, the better.

            The children are catching up to me now. This ritual the Muzungu has of running quickly down the street alone before the sun has risen baffles them. They try to keep up as long as they can but today I don’t slow down. I don’t answer.  Many of them are my students and I have explained many times that I run for sport, so that my heart works well and my mind is clear and I look good in a bikini but somehow the meaning is always lost. And every morning here they are again, chasing me, “Ugiye he?”  

The one with the Imbeba ( and the friends reference)

For those of you who don’t speak Kinyarwanda Imbeba is a mouse. And they are really using the word mouse generously here, the imbeba in question was most certainly a well polished rat. Me and the this particular imbeba became acquainted a few nights ago while I was sitting in my bedroom doing homework and saw him scamper across my room. Considering the fact that I had taken my Mefloquin that night (Malaria medications that are prone to cause insomnia and paranoia) I knew the battle was on, this mouse was leaving my room before bed time! My frantic attempts to move my trunk around and catch the mouse, instead caught the attention of our umucozi (house boy) who came in to investigate why the muzungu was making so much noise. Obviously my make shift mouse catching device – see also my PVC Pipe material chamber pot – was taken away from me as the umucozi tried to help me. Eventually I was sent out of the room because me jumping every time either of us moved was sending us both into hysterical laughter and slowing down the process considerably. Finally the mouse was caught and removed from the premises but not without my host parents getting a pretty good laugh at how upset I was by its presence. (If I hadn’t been upset they wouldn’t have removed it at all).  Papa Yason informed me in French that there was no reason to be afraid of mice because they cannot eat people, and there was really no convincing him that there was any other reason to be afraid of an animal. Finally, we agreed to disagree as I told them that Americans hate mice and that all Americans would have reacted the same way – sorry for throwing you all under the bus with me there Americans but I was really getting nowhere. As a nice gesture they did give me something to block the gap in my door from future imbeba attacks and they told the house boy to be extra sure that no more enter the house because for some mysterious reason they really freak out the American.

Model School

We started our first day of model school yesterday, meaning that I am officially team teaching a classroom full of Rwandan students with another trainee. Since the students are technically on their winter break we are actually teaching a group of children who volunteered to come to extra English lessons four hours a day during their holiday. Naturally this leads to some self-selection of the best and most motivated students so model school isn’t the best representation of a true classroom setting. Luckily because I am teaching in a boarding school some of this same weeding out process will contribute to the students in my permanent classroom as well. So far of our two lessons we’ve taught (each has lasted 2 hours) one was a total success and the other a total failure. I’m ok with that breakdown, however, because I know it is very indicative of my life as a peace corps volunteer on the whole. Some days will be incredible, some days you will change the world or a child’s life or a teacher’s mind, and other days you will mime adjectives for an hour and your students will be none the wiser.

On Dancing with Children

I know I’ve mentioned them already but I have a blog of little boys who I consider to be my own personal street gang. Don’t be alarmed they are 9 and harmless, they do however break it down with me whenever they see me. As the weeks progress we have covered a wide range of dance genres ranging from the hokey pokey to thriller to the one that started it all: soldier boy. Now that I have class near their home and see them even more frequently we have started getting quite extravagant. Every time I walk down the main street of my village I run into them screaming “micheleeey micheleeey magnifique” (I have no idea where the magnifique came from) but then we dance! Today I ran into them and clearly they had been bragging to some of the other children that the Muzungu is their friend and dancing with them because when they saw me pretty much all hell broke lose. Before I knew it I was teaching 35 children all my best moves with my little boys right up front asking me their names so that everyone could hear I knew them. After our impromptu dance party – which let me tell you gathered quite the crowd – they all grabbed my hands and escorted me home en mass. It was the perfect end to my day.