I've migrated my blog to http://jenosborne.wordpress.com/
You'll find my posts on my travels to Rwanda, my Twitter feed, and Flickr stream.
I invite your comments.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Rwanda always on my mind
The Institutional Review Board for the Protection of Human Subjects at Texas Tech has approved my research for this summer. I'm looking forward to a month in my home-away-from-home, making more friends, and learning more.
Now begins the nitty gritty work of coordinating the details, including recruiting the women to participate in the study. Thank goodness for Never Again Rwanda, who will once again host my research in Rwanda.
Here's what's on tap: a five-day writing workshop for ten women who survived the 1994 Rwandan Tutsi Genocide and liberation war. The women and I will retreat from daily life to the Hotel Bethanie in Kibuye, on the shore of Lake Kivu. I'll have a Rwanda female trauma counselor at the workshop in case anyone needs to talk through issues.
We'll spend some time together developing camaraderie and writing one trauma narrative, the memory of one specific event of those "bad times." At the conclusion of the workshop, each participant will have her story to do whatever she likes with it.
Writing has demonstrated healing capacities, even though it may be painful during the writing process. Jamie Pennebaker's research has studied the effects of writing about painful subjects. But his research differs from mine in that the writers he works with write for themselves only. In my 13 years experience as a composition teacher, I've had, on average, one student choose to write a trauma narrative (all my students choose their writing subjects) in every section of every class of every year. They consistently say that, while they felt better after writing, that it was very important to them that I read it. In other words, they wanted a witness to their retelling of the trauma.
Writing trauma narratives can be useful to human rights workers who interact with traumatized populations, and perhaps this condensed workshop can be adapted for their use. Trauma narratives themselves have strong implications for writing teachers, too. There are structural and imagery issues, and it's not unusual for presentation issues such as grammar, mechanics, and usage to fall apart when writers perform the challenging cognitive and emotional work of writing trauma. Revision and assessment are especially touchy matters for some teachers, and they struggle with how to work sensitively with writers to improve the communicative capacity of these narratives.
But traumatized people need these stories. They need to tell them, and as much as it hurts to read them, to experience alongside another's terror, we too need their stories.
Now begins the nitty gritty work of coordinating the details, including recruiting the women to participate in the study. Thank goodness for Never Again Rwanda, who will once again host my research in Rwanda.
Here's what's on tap: a five-day writing workshop for ten women who survived the 1994 Rwandan Tutsi Genocide and liberation war. The women and I will retreat from daily life to the Hotel Bethanie in Kibuye, on the shore of Lake Kivu. I'll have a Rwanda female trauma counselor at the workshop in case anyone needs to talk through issues.
We'll spend some time together developing camaraderie and writing one trauma narrative, the memory of one specific event of those "bad times." At the conclusion of the workshop, each participant will have her story to do whatever she likes with it.
Writing has demonstrated healing capacities, even though it may be painful during the writing process. Jamie Pennebaker's research has studied the effects of writing about painful subjects. But his research differs from mine in that the writers he works with write for themselves only. In my 13 years experience as a composition teacher, I've had, on average, one student choose to write a trauma narrative (all my students choose their writing subjects) in every section of every class of every year. They consistently say that, while they felt better after writing, that it was very important to them that I read it. In other words, they wanted a witness to their retelling of the trauma.
Writing trauma narratives can be useful to human rights workers who interact with traumatized populations, and perhaps this condensed workshop can be adapted for their use. Trauma narratives themselves have strong implications for writing teachers, too. There are structural and imagery issues, and it's not unusual for presentation issues such as grammar, mechanics, and usage to fall apart when writers perform the challenging cognitive and emotional work of writing trauma. Revision and assessment are especially touchy matters for some teachers, and they struggle with how to work sensitively with writers to improve the communicative capacity of these narratives.
But traumatized people need these stories. They need to tell them, and as much as it hurts to read them, to experience alongside another's terror, we too need their stories.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Trajectories
July 27, 2008
Two of the interns asked me a few weeks ago if I have had any great realizations here, and I had to think a moment. I ended up telling them that I haven’t, although I feel that everything about me and what I know about life has deepened here.
So here is how I’m thinking of this: I work in the US for eleven months and in Rwanda for one month. Work, of course, doesn’t mean employment, but rather it is just work. Some of the time here is research; lots of it is doing what I can for peace, healing, and recovery. I still haven’t jumped onto the reconciliation wagon yet; but the unity I get. Peace I get; healing and recovery I get. Right now, that work includes writing grants and any other materials that Help Life Rwanda needs. I am the NGO’s honorary advisor, which translates basically as mother.
Rwanda is really a good place to feel needed, like my abilities are valuable, like I can make a difference. Like a mother without the biology. Of course I feel needed in the US; my kids and family need me, but that need will not always be so intense. My friends like having me around, but with internet and cell phones, hey, I can be right there, wherever they are. The concept of need and my job is a bit different: I need my job, but if something happened to me and they needed to fill the position, there would be two hundred well-qualified candidates to fill it. My colleagues would be sad for a bit, but everything would go on as normal. So does my college really need me? Not so much. But do you know how many PhDs the National University of Rwanda has on staff? Five.
So in terms of trajectories, I feel like I have been at or near the pinnacle, the top of the arc: great kids, a terrific career, about halfway through a PhD. My trajectory hasn’t changed, but now I’m on just the other side of the arc, like I’m aiming toward home. It doesn’t feel like going downhill. Rather, when I think about the point later in my life, when this middle part done, the idea that I could land in Rwanda fills me with solace.
The night before I left Rwanda, Julius and Help Life Rwanda gave me parting gifts, two pieces of traditional artwork. Now that I am back in Texas, they hang above my desk to the left of my computer. One piece of art is of a man and woman working in front of two traditional style Rwandan homes. The man carries a hoe; the woman carries a huge jug of water on her head, and I can’t help but see my Aquarius self in that female figure. The other piece of art depicts a man and a woman in a boat, just before they get to shore, where normal life is taking place. Julius, when he gave me the gift, noted that the figures in the boat were he and I on Lake Kivu as we checked out sites for next year’s writing retreat. But the more I look at it, the more it feels like coming home.
Two of the interns asked me a few weeks ago if I have had any great realizations here, and I had to think a moment. I ended up telling them that I haven’t, although I feel that everything about me and what I know about life has deepened here.
So here is how I’m thinking of this: I work in the US for eleven months and in Rwanda for one month. Work, of course, doesn’t mean employment, but rather it is just work. Some of the time here is research; lots of it is doing what I can for peace, healing, and recovery. I still haven’t jumped onto the reconciliation wagon yet; but the unity I get. Peace I get; healing and recovery I get. Right now, that work includes writing grants and any other materials that Help Life Rwanda needs. I am the NGO’s honorary advisor, which translates basically as mother.
Rwanda is really a good place to feel needed, like my abilities are valuable, like I can make a difference. Like a mother without the biology. Of course I feel needed in the US; my kids and family need me, but that need will not always be so intense. My friends like having me around, but with internet and cell phones, hey, I can be right there, wherever they are. The concept of need and my job is a bit different: I need my job, but if something happened to me and they needed to fill the position, there would be two hundred well-qualified candidates to fill it. My colleagues would be sad for a bit, but everything would go on as normal. So does my college really need me? Not so much. But do you know how many PhDs the National University of Rwanda has on staff? Five.
So in terms of trajectories, I feel like I have been at or near the pinnacle, the top of the arc: great kids, a terrific career, about halfway through a PhD. My trajectory hasn’t changed, but now I’m on just the other side of the arc, like I’m aiming toward home. It doesn’t feel like going downhill. Rather, when I think about the point later in my life, when this middle part done, the idea that I could land in Rwanda fills me with solace.
The night before I left Rwanda, Julius and Help Life Rwanda gave me parting gifts, two pieces of traditional artwork. Now that I am back in Texas, they hang above my desk to the left of my computer. One piece of art is of a man and woman working in front of two traditional style Rwandan homes. The man carries a hoe; the woman carries a huge jug of water on her head, and I can’t help but see my Aquarius self in that female figure. The other piece of art depicts a man and a woman in a boat, just before they get to shore, where normal life is taking place. Julius, when he gave me the gift, noted that the figures in the boat were he and I on Lake Kivu as we checked out sites for next year’s writing retreat. But the more I look at it, the more it feels like coming home.
Young humanitarians
July 25, 2008
I have been working alongside a number of young people from the US, Canada, and Holland who are interning, volunteering, researching or otherwise working toward peace here in Rwanda. Their ages range between 19 and 25.
The two youngest ones, young women, came to Rwanda alone. One experienced her first wedding and first funeral here; the other lived for a number of weeks in a village of Genocide orphans where the children constructed families with assigned family roles; they are called child-headed households. She has learned basic Kinyarwandan phraseology to the merriment of Rwandans who hear her speak, and believe, me, this is no small task.
These two young ladies came here hungry for experience, knowing that while the US can provide myriad experiences, Rwanda would be different and would challenge just about every assumption that their US lives were based on. They also challenge Rwandan stereotypes that don’t align with contemporary views of human rights, especially the objectification of women. I think some of these Rwandan men will remember these young ladies for a long time.
A couple of other young Canadians work to exhaustion teaching orphans conflict management and peace-building through soccer. Both have decided here that they want to continue humanitarian work and are trying to align money, skills, and education so that they can work for peace and human rights, especially for children.
The thing is, really, that they are committed to helping other people, a simple life, and transcendent values. I wanted to do something like this, too, when I was young, but through a series of poor decisions combined with fear, I didn’t. But they are here, living in a place where the language and culture are completely foreign.
Humanitarians with deep pockets—a generation ahead of these twenty-somethings—need to help nurture this fresh generation of humanitarians. Even if this new batch receives less than half of their costs they need to live simply and do their work, they’d raise the rest of the funds. I am amazed at their fundraising creativity, ranging from door-to-door solicitation to benefits at hometown clubs. My own pockets are just deep enough to pay for one Rwandan teenager’s educational costs, but if I won the lottery, I’d fund these young people in a heartbeat.
We can’t afford to let this fresh generation of humanitarians burn out, give up, or lose hope. What comes to mind are the words spoken by the minister at Dr. J’s wedding: “You are too young to fail. You are too smart to fail. You are too important to each other to fail.”
I have been working alongside a number of young people from the US, Canada, and Holland who are interning, volunteering, researching or otherwise working toward peace here in Rwanda. Their ages range between 19 and 25.
The two youngest ones, young women, came to Rwanda alone. One experienced her first wedding and first funeral here; the other lived for a number of weeks in a village of Genocide orphans where the children constructed families with assigned family roles; they are called child-headed households. She has learned basic Kinyarwandan phraseology to the merriment of Rwandans who hear her speak, and believe, me, this is no small task.
These two young ladies came here hungry for experience, knowing that while the US can provide myriad experiences, Rwanda would be different and would challenge just about every assumption that their US lives were based on. They also challenge Rwandan stereotypes that don’t align with contemporary views of human rights, especially the objectification of women. I think some of these Rwandan men will remember these young ladies for a long time.
A couple of other young Canadians work to exhaustion teaching orphans conflict management and peace-building through soccer. Both have decided here that they want to continue humanitarian work and are trying to align money, skills, and education so that they can work for peace and human rights, especially for children.
The thing is, really, that they are committed to helping other people, a simple life, and transcendent values. I wanted to do something like this, too, when I was young, but through a series of poor decisions combined with fear, I didn’t. But they are here, living in a place where the language and culture are completely foreign.
Humanitarians with deep pockets—a generation ahead of these twenty-somethings—need to help nurture this fresh generation of humanitarians. Even if this new batch receives less than half of their costs they need to live simply and do their work, they’d raise the rest of the funds. I am amazed at their fundraising creativity, ranging from door-to-door solicitation to benefits at hometown clubs. My own pockets are just deep enough to pay for one Rwandan teenager’s educational costs, but if I won the lottery, I’d fund these young people in a heartbeat.
We can’t afford to let this fresh generation of humanitarians burn out, give up, or lose hope. What comes to mind are the words spoken by the minister at Dr. J’s wedding: “You are too young to fail. You are too smart to fail. You are too important to each other to fail.”
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Thank goodness for naps
July 27, 2008
After a much-needed nap, I and five others from NAR headed to FESPAR, an international cultural dance festival that lasts a week long. Patrick, a traditional Intore dancer with the national troupe, would be performing, and rather than crash a wedding where he was hired, I would see him dance for first time.
After worrying about getting there for the supposed 3:00 start, we arrived and stood on looooong queues. There were many people jumping line and we sent several people up to the front to scope out what was holding us up.
It seemed like there were two lines because each person needed to be patted down before entering. There was a huge metal gate and lots of military police. The first surge felt a bit like a concert at the Warped Tour, an experience provided to me by one of my nieces on her 16th birthday. People from behind pushed and the queues dissolved into a single mass. It was now 4:30.
A couple of people tried to body-surf over the gate but didn’t succeed. At some point, the gate was closed and people started getting really…annoyed. They were waving their tickets overhead and yelling and we all agreed that things could get really interesting.
And they did.
Whatever tension was building erupted into the MPs beating back people with batons. There was no blood, and it didn’t look like a mob scene from CNN, but seeing people getting hit was disturbing.
Little did we know that we would experience this part of the culture.
After a few more rushes at the gate and more baton incidents, the crowd finally pushed through. I was holding onto A, my young Rwandan friend for whom I felt responsible, and I lost track of the others. A and I ended up on the edge of the crowd next to the MPs, and although the baton went up, it didn’t rain down on us. A and I got through and waited a few yards away. The other muzungus made it through eventually, but one girl, whose toes were injured on her descent from Mt. Kilimanjaro, was shaken up and her foot was stepped on. She and another girl were pinned against the gate, which upset the MPs greatly. They didn’t want the girls to get hurt.
We were in—or so we thought.
We walked through the campus of the ULK (Université LIbre Kigali) toward the stadium and the dance. It is a lovely new campus; one of the interns hopes to attend school here in January. We neared the stadium and encountered another MP checkpoint. When we saw that this would very likely take time and possibly result in more mob-like roughness, we decided to sit on a wall and find drinking water.
We saw the various delegations arrive: Namibia, Burundi, DRC, Congo, Japan, and others. When I saw the Chinese contingent, I asked the others what they would think if I went into the crowd and started yelling “Free Tibet!” I thought I could get lots of Rwandans to join me. My friends then figured out the probable reason why the current American president’s administration didn’t allow me (at first) to tour the White House with my students a few years ago.
Instead, I suggested that we do whatever the MPs told us to do.
The MPs chased everyone else into the now-orderly lines as they admitted about 20 people at a time for the pat-down. When the lines were nearing the end, we walked down and stood at the end of the queue.
As soon as we got to the end of the queue, I looked up and saw an MP 25 meters away pointing to me. My herd instinct is strong here, but I looked around anyway to make sure he meant me. I had a flash of anxiety that I had done something unintentionally wrong, but he wanted me to move to the front of the line. I grabbed onto A and told the others to come with. When I got to the front of the line, the MP grabbed my arm and inserted me between two people. I heard the Rwandans behind me grumbling, but I figured that the MP was working on the combination of age and visitor status rather than simply race.
A few seconds later, I was through and proceeded through security. When I was done, I looked back and noticed that A still hadn’t made it past the final through-point. I was headed to the MP to tell him, “Elle est avec moi,” and he let her through.
It was close to 6:00.
The first group of seats we found were okay, but I couldn’t see the stage well, so A and l left the others and found seating almost directly center stage, although we were about 50 feet up. The stage was incredibly beautiful—blonde wood poles constructed as an abstract traditional Rwandan dwelling. There was a large center structure—the top of which was as high as I was sitting—and two smaller structures to each side.
Before the sun set, I could see a familiar curve of a hill across from Gisozi. When I asked A, she verified it is the hill on the west side of Nyamirambo. It is the hill I gazed at on the bus ride to the offices.
At this point, bands were playing. The National Choir performed beautifully. The sun went down and the lights of the city started to come on, appearing like fires in the darkening sky.
One of the singers had two young dancers come on stage to dance. Though they were very far away, I pointed out to A that one of the dancers was Patrick’s age. (The next morning when Patrick came for breakfast, he asked, “Did you see me up on stage with [----]?”)
Later, when it was a bit darker, I saw a familiar curve illuminated with street lights on the hill beyond the stadium and a little to the right. I knew from my visits to the Kigali Memorial Centre (called locally the Gisozi Centre) that this hill is Muhima, where I have lived these few weeks. From my vantage point tonight, that familiar curve looked like an upside down question mark. I pointed it out to A, and together, we identified landmarks: there was the rond poin; there was the UTC and the bank. In my mind’s eye, I could visualize the inn on the curve that began the round part of the question mark.
Pretty soon the First Lady entered the stadium, as well as the Prime Minister, although President Kagame did not attend. This explained the security issues getting into the stadium.
In the dark night, the lights in the stadium were low, and the boy sitting to my left struck up a conversation with me. His name was Emmanuel. He mistook me for a young woman and told me he was sure he was in love with me. After I assured him that I am old enough to be his mother, he was quiet for a moment, and then said, “You can be my father. I want to come to the US.” He explained that he is an orphan and that his parents were killed in the Genocide. I gave him my condolences but tell him I have enough children.
At 7, A left. My fellow muzungus also left, but I stayed to watch Patrick dance. Soon his troupe came out and danced for twenty or thirty minutes. It was amazingly beautiful. And Patrick? I recognized his smile, as bright 50 metres away as it is 5 feet away. I also recognized his joy and flair as he danced.
There was so much music, and in the stands, everyone danced. The young men in the row in front of me were teaching each other different steps as they danced on the benches.
But the music was just getting started. A famous Rwandan Reggae singer took the stage and within moments, the floor in front of the stage was filled with exuberant dancing. Emmanuel, who had been persistently trying to woo me as an adoptive parent, gave it up and excused himself to dance.
After some time, a limo winded its way in back of the stage and the crowd started to get really excited. I asked the boys around me, and they said it was the arrival of the headline group, Brick and Lace.
I can tell you, when those beautiful Jamaican girls took the stage in MTV-style costumes, everyone—male and female alike—went wild. A hundred blue lights of cameras taking video lit up near the front of the stage. Parts of their concert were unintentionally humorous. At one point, one of the singers yelled out, “Where are the sexy men?” and there was a sort of collective “ummm…” even from the attractive youth that surrounded me. Then the performer yelled, “Where are the sexy women?” This time, there was a collective silence. Rwandans are a modest people, but you can’t always know your audience.
After a dance contest of young Rwandan women, the cultural festival was over. I walked out with at least several hundred Rwandans, and I figured they knew where they were going, so I followed. Finding a moto under these circumstances seemed foolhardy, and I didn’t want to climb into the jam-packed buses. It was a beautiful night, and I walked.
Pretty soon, a young man joined me and commented that I walked "like a Rwandan.” I didn’t ask what he meant exactly, but it was a compliment. His name was Oliver, and he wanted to marry an American girl. We walked and walked and he extolled the virtues of American women. I asked how he knew American women, and he said, “TV.” I finally asked him if the reason he wanted to marry American is because of “this,” and I held out my arm and pulled up my sleeve to expose my white skin. He laughed, knowing that I knew. I told him that was a really, really bad reason to want to marry someone. I advised him to come up with alternative plans, and to find one of the many beautiful women in his country.
Oliver and I both live on Muhima, but he eventually took a road and I kept walking. Nothing looked exactly familiar, but I came to a road that took an angle that looked just about right. This was the right street, and it was close to midnight. I headed uphill, walking the question mark.
Catching up
Aug. 24, 2008
The posts that I started near the end of my stay in Rwanda and those started just after my return are ready to post. These were too difficult to finish sooner, with the emotional ache of leaving people I care for deeply.
I've left the original dates intact, so there appears to be a time-space anomaly in the blog. That's just the way writing goes, though, sometimes.
The posts that I started near the end of my stay in Rwanda and those started just after my return are ready to post. These were too difficult to finish sooner, with the emotional ache of leaving people I care for deeply.
I've left the original dates intact, so there appears to be a time-space anomaly in the blog. That's just the way writing goes, though, sometimes.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
A few photos are up on Flickr
Many hours of sleep, lots of calls to Rwanda, a malaria scare, and a few weeks later, I now uploaded a few--really, just a few--photos to Flickr. I think this link will work:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/27528382@N06/
The photos I posted were taken by me; I have others, but some can't be posted because of lack of permissions. I'll get the ones I'm comfortable posting onto Flickr soon.
However, the most wonderful photos and video clips were taken by Patrick, who carried my niece's camera for a couple of weeks and documented daily Rwandan life in ways that I never would have been able. So next time you see me, just ask to see them.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/27528382@N06/
The photos I posted were taken by me; I have others, but some can't be posted because of lack of permissions. I'll get the ones I'm comfortable posting onto Flickr soon.
However, the most wonderful photos and video clips were taken by Patrick, who carried my niece's camera for a couple of weeks and documented daily Rwandan life in ways that I never would have been able. So next time you see me, just ask to see them.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Back in Texas...
Just a quick post that I arrived safely back in Texas. Will post more soon--about seven posts in varying degrees of completion in the queue.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Ugh.
July 27, 2008
I’m sitting here in my room and, for those of you who are keeping track of the various metaphors in this blog, that means I’m floating. Basically, I’m trying not to have a meltdown.
I feel like throwing up; there’s a low-frequency buzz running through my brain, maybe like snow on old TV sets, and I’m trying really hard not to cry. Maybe I need to cry; maybe that will wash these feelings away.
I miss my family so much. But I will miss Patrick (who calls me “mom”) and my friends here too.
Oh, and on my way back from Sunday breakfast at Bourbon, I saw my first accident. When Dr. J tells us that motos are so dangerous, we have always responded, “But we haven’t seen one accident yet.” Well, that response won’t fly anymore. It happened right under the bridge/sign that indicates where the road splits off from the rond poin. As I was about 50 metres away, I saw children running and then noticed a crowd gathering. I thought maybe the President was passing, but then I noticed that traffic wasn’t moving. Then I realized. I asked a man on my right, “C’est une accidente?” He gave the Rwandan verbalization for assent.
I didn’t see what happened, but a white sedan and a moto collided. There was broken glass on the street, but I didn’t see a moto down. I think the driver was okay, but there was much happening in the back seat of the car, and I believe someone was hurt. I don’t know if the person was a passenger in the car or on the moto.
There were so many people at the scene, and I figured they would know whether a doctor or ambulance was needed, so I kept walking. I passed an older white man with a huge camera, clearly a tourist, and I swear, if I had seen him taking photos of the scene, I would have pushed him over the side of the hill.
So there is this terrific dissonance within me: wanting to stay, wanting to go. But I think the division is a false dichotomy. I know, of course, that I will be physically in one place—and that could be anywhere—but I can live in two cultures. I almost wrote “two worlds,” but my home in the US and my sense of home and belongingness here are in the same physical world.
So if I have any great breakthrough, a new discovery, a major surprise during this trip, it is relearning to trust myself more deeply than I ever have. I am remembering now what it was like being a brand-new mother, having to absolutely trust my instincts about what my son needed, but that lesson in trust seemed easier than now. Then, I could assess either right away or soon if I needed to keep doing what I was doing or adjust or change or call someone for help.
So now I have to trust myself that I can live and work in the US and Rwanda and that that life can have coherence and meaning. It means, of course, that my world is quite a bit larger than it was just a month ago, which may mean that balance will be an issue. Having someone I love like a son on the other side of the earth is mind-boggling (and frankly, heart rending), though I took this into consideration when I committed to sponsoring Patrick. Sustained work with my partners here certainly helps bridge my two personal worlds. I mean, it’s not like I have two lives—wouldn’t that be great?—but I have only the one and for me, there needs to be coherence, alignment between the two places and among all the relationships in my life.
I suppose that this means that my sense of self or my self-identity is stretching a bit. And maybe that’s why I feel like heaving. I do feel afraid. The thing is, though, that I’m not sure of what. Maybe I should try a list:
What if the world economy collapses and the cost of flying over here skyrockets and I can’t afford it?
What if my college closes and I lose my job?
What if something happens to Patrick while I’m in the US?
What if something happens to W and T while I’m in Rwanda?
So the thinker, the technical communicator, in me wants to classify, analyze, sort out these fears. A common denominator looks to be power:
What if something happens beyond my control and I can’t take care of it?
Are these a mother’s fears?
I’m suddenly so sleepy, although it’s 11:00 a.m. here and I’ve slept seven hours. At least I don’t feel like barfing.
Maybe I’ll take a little nap. Everything is too big right now.
I’m sitting here in my room and, for those of you who are keeping track of the various metaphors in this blog, that means I’m floating. Basically, I’m trying not to have a meltdown.
I feel like throwing up; there’s a low-frequency buzz running through my brain, maybe like snow on old TV sets, and I’m trying really hard not to cry. Maybe I need to cry; maybe that will wash these feelings away.
I miss my family so much. But I will miss Patrick (who calls me “mom”) and my friends here too.
Oh, and on my way back from Sunday breakfast at Bourbon, I saw my first accident. When Dr. J tells us that motos are so dangerous, we have always responded, “But we haven’t seen one accident yet.” Well, that response won’t fly anymore. It happened right under the bridge/sign that indicates where the road splits off from the rond poin. As I was about 50 metres away, I saw children running and then noticed a crowd gathering. I thought maybe the President was passing, but then I noticed that traffic wasn’t moving. Then I realized. I asked a man on my right, “C’est une accidente?” He gave the Rwandan verbalization for assent.
I didn’t see what happened, but a white sedan and a moto collided. There was broken glass on the street, but I didn’t see a moto down. I think the driver was okay, but there was much happening in the back seat of the car, and I believe someone was hurt. I don’t know if the person was a passenger in the car or on the moto.
There were so many people at the scene, and I figured they would know whether a doctor or ambulance was needed, so I kept walking. I passed an older white man with a huge camera, clearly a tourist, and I swear, if I had seen him taking photos of the scene, I would have pushed him over the side of the hill.
So there is this terrific dissonance within me: wanting to stay, wanting to go. But I think the division is a false dichotomy. I know, of course, that I will be physically in one place—and that could be anywhere—but I can live in two cultures. I almost wrote “two worlds,” but my home in the US and my sense of home and belongingness here are in the same physical world.
So if I have any great breakthrough, a new discovery, a major surprise during this trip, it is relearning to trust myself more deeply than I ever have. I am remembering now what it was like being a brand-new mother, having to absolutely trust my instincts about what my son needed, but that lesson in trust seemed easier than now. Then, I could assess either right away or soon if I needed to keep doing what I was doing or adjust or change or call someone for help.
So now I have to trust myself that I can live and work in the US and Rwanda and that that life can have coherence and meaning. It means, of course, that my world is quite a bit larger than it was just a month ago, which may mean that balance will be an issue. Having someone I love like a son on the other side of the earth is mind-boggling (and frankly, heart rending), though I took this into consideration when I committed to sponsoring Patrick. Sustained work with my partners here certainly helps bridge my two personal worlds. I mean, it’s not like I have two lives—wouldn’t that be great?—but I have only the one and for me, there needs to be coherence, alignment between the two places and among all the relationships in my life.
I suppose that this means that my sense of self or my self-identity is stretching a bit. And maybe that’s why I feel like heaving. I do feel afraid. The thing is, though, that I’m not sure of what. Maybe I should try a list:
What if the world economy collapses and the cost of flying over here skyrockets and I can’t afford it?
What if my college closes and I lose my job?
What if something happens to Patrick while I’m in the US?
What if something happens to W and T while I’m in Rwanda?
So the thinker, the technical communicator, in me wants to classify, analyze, sort out these fears. A common denominator looks to be power:
What if something happens beyond my control and I can’t take care of it?
Are these a mother’s fears?
I’m suddenly so sleepy, although it’s 11:00 a.m. here and I’ve slept seven hours. At least I don’t feel like barfing.
Maybe I’ll take a little nap. Everything is too big right now.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
What I thought I knew about beauty
July 23, 2008
The issues of how I represent myself physically have always been tangly for me. It seems to me that body image, class, gender, age, boldness or timidity, money, intellect, availability, values, rebellion, profession, authority, sexuality, and personal history all vie to take precedence and so throughout most of my life I have represented myself in many ways, some of which are contradictory. I can do the skirts and suits and high heels, but really, I’d rather be in jeans and a t-shirt. My own need for beauty now manifests itself mostly in my home. And like I’ve written in other posts, for this trip I brought…well, mostly shabby clothes. They are clean and mostly new, but absolutely not stylish. And not beautiful. To remedy this error, I’ve had a few outfits made so I can present myself more appropriately.
People here dress, as I’ve written before. Julius tells me it’s a vestige of colonialism. When I ask him how he stays pressed, he looks a bit shocked. I follow up by asking if his houseboy does his laundry and ironing. Julius tells me he does it himself; it takes just one minute to iron a shirt and pants. Julius describes the style here as descended from the Belgian (and the French, indirectly): ironed clothes, belted pants worn close to the body, women in very put-together outfits, little girls in party dresses—what a Dutch intern called princess dresses—little boys in nice clothes and sometimes even suits.
Julius goes on to say that representation is hugely important here, that if you are dressed shabbily for a meeting, then no matter what comes out of your mouth, it will be perceived as bullshit. That was his exact word, by the way—bullshit. Julius also said that this pride in dress is unique to Rwanda. In East Africa, where there is more colonial influence from the British, people dress…how should I say?...less carefully.
Normally I might have a problem with the importance of this “superficial” aspect of presentation, but I think that here in Rwanda, emphasis on dress is productive: better to attend to a person’s external presentation rather than to his or her falsely-constructed group identity, especially when that group identity is fraught with trauma, pain, and political danger. Or perhaps this emphasis on external representation is another way to define group identity according to class or economic levels. But at least with this form, some Rwandans can, like I have, occasionally change how they are perceived based on what they wear.
This Rwandan emphasis on cleanliness, neatness, beauty, pride helps me make sense of why victims’ clothes are hung in some of the Genocide memorials here.
In Nyamata, about 45 minutes south of Kigali, there is a church where 5,000 people gathered seeking sanctuary in the early days of the Genocide. They had brought mattresses, jerry cans of water, huge bags of beans and rice. And even in this fairly remote village, they were dressed. The men wore suits and leather shoes. The women wore the beautiful traditional flowing dresses that resemble saris, and dress pumps and sandals. The children were neatly dressed.
How do I know how they were dressed? These garments hang now on the walls of the bombed-out church, bloodstained, torn, stained with senseless violence. They hang multilayered on a long wall, between a shorter wall with tall racks of skulls that are cracked or have unnatural holes or even a piece of wood still embedded, the smallest skulls in the front. Next to these are rows and rows of femurs, pelvises and other bones. The opposite wall has another tall rack filled with approximately twenty coffins. Next to the clothes are all their shoes, dusty now. The cooking implements are there, too, as well as the food.
If you look carefully, behind the rice and beans, there are three pangas (machetes) and a huge, heavy metal ball like a cannonball or shot put. The pangas are crude, one fashioned from a badly cut piece of metal. The handles are gone; one had wire wrapped around its base. These were left after the grenades opened holes in the walls and the génocidaires entered the church, its Sunday school room, and the sacristy to murder their friends and neighbors.
The clothes also hang from the rafters of the church, ghostly witnesses.
There is a large trunk among the beautiful flowers and wreaths adorning the coffins and former altar. In this trunk are all the books and papers gathered from the church afterward, when there was finally peace. There are bibles, bloodied identification cards, a blue book filled with notes on choir activities, books of liturgy, a voting card.
The Memorial grounds are now sacred in a different way. There are gardens, neat rows of flowers bordering a wall that has the names of only about 130 of the 5,000 who died here. Purple ribbons adorn the walkways, and there is a contemplation bench of polished native brick.
And it is both beautiful and horrifying.
I suppose that I had thought that beauty was secondary or otherwise apart from the basic necessities of life. I’m reminded now of the old American union slogan, “Bread and roses.” Yes, we need food. We need peace, and we also need beauty.
The issues of how I represent myself physically have always been tangly for me. It seems to me that body image, class, gender, age, boldness or timidity, money, intellect, availability, values, rebellion, profession, authority, sexuality, and personal history all vie to take precedence and so throughout most of my life I have represented myself in many ways, some of which are contradictory. I can do the skirts and suits and high heels, but really, I’d rather be in jeans and a t-shirt. My own need for beauty now manifests itself mostly in my home. And like I’ve written in other posts, for this trip I brought…well, mostly shabby clothes. They are clean and mostly new, but absolutely not stylish. And not beautiful. To remedy this error, I’ve had a few outfits made so I can present myself more appropriately.
People here dress, as I’ve written before. Julius tells me it’s a vestige of colonialism. When I ask him how he stays pressed, he looks a bit shocked. I follow up by asking if his houseboy does his laundry and ironing. Julius tells me he does it himself; it takes just one minute to iron a shirt and pants. Julius describes the style here as descended from the Belgian (and the French, indirectly): ironed clothes, belted pants worn close to the body, women in very put-together outfits, little girls in party dresses—what a Dutch intern called princess dresses—little boys in nice clothes and sometimes even suits.
Julius goes on to say that representation is hugely important here, that if you are dressed shabbily for a meeting, then no matter what comes out of your mouth, it will be perceived as bullshit. That was his exact word, by the way—bullshit. Julius also said that this pride in dress is unique to Rwanda. In East Africa, where there is more colonial influence from the British, people dress…how should I say?...less carefully.
Normally I might have a problem with the importance of this “superficial” aspect of presentation, but I think that here in Rwanda, emphasis on dress is productive: better to attend to a person’s external presentation rather than to his or her falsely-constructed group identity, especially when that group identity is fraught with trauma, pain, and political danger. Or perhaps this emphasis on external representation is another way to define group identity according to class or economic levels. But at least with this form, some Rwandans can, like I have, occasionally change how they are perceived based on what they wear.
This Rwandan emphasis on cleanliness, neatness, beauty, pride helps me make sense of why victims’ clothes are hung in some of the Genocide memorials here.
In Nyamata, about 45 minutes south of Kigali, there is a church where 5,000 people gathered seeking sanctuary in the early days of the Genocide. They had brought mattresses, jerry cans of water, huge bags of beans and rice. And even in this fairly remote village, they were dressed. The men wore suits and leather shoes. The women wore the beautiful traditional flowing dresses that resemble saris, and dress pumps and sandals. The children were neatly dressed.
How do I know how they were dressed? These garments hang now on the walls of the bombed-out church, bloodstained, torn, stained with senseless violence. They hang multilayered on a long wall, between a shorter wall with tall racks of skulls that are cracked or have unnatural holes or even a piece of wood still embedded, the smallest skulls in the front. Next to these are rows and rows of femurs, pelvises and other bones. The opposite wall has another tall rack filled with approximately twenty coffins. Next to the clothes are all their shoes, dusty now. The cooking implements are there, too, as well as the food.
If you look carefully, behind the rice and beans, there are three pangas (machetes) and a huge, heavy metal ball like a cannonball or shot put. The pangas are crude, one fashioned from a badly cut piece of metal. The handles are gone; one had wire wrapped around its base. These were left after the grenades opened holes in the walls and the génocidaires entered the church, its Sunday school room, and the sacristy to murder their friends and neighbors.
The clothes also hang from the rafters of the church, ghostly witnesses.
There is a large trunk among the beautiful flowers and wreaths adorning the coffins and former altar. In this trunk are all the books and papers gathered from the church afterward, when there was finally peace. There are bibles, bloodied identification cards, a blue book filled with notes on choir activities, books of liturgy, a voting card.
The Memorial grounds are now sacred in a different way. There are gardens, neat rows of flowers bordering a wall that has the names of only about 130 of the 5,000 who died here. Purple ribbons adorn the walkways, and there is a contemplation bench of polished native brick.
And it is both beautiful and horrifying.
I suppose that I had thought that beauty was secondary or otherwise apart from the basic necessities of life. I’m reminded now of the old American union slogan, “Bread and roses.” Yes, we need food. We need peace, and we also need beauty.
Working for peace
July 20, 2008
You’ve been reading in various posts about Julius, who is the Administrative and Financial Manager of NAR. But what I haven’t written about yet is this man’s tireless work for peace and reconciliation.
Julius is one of the two full-time NAR staff members and like many of his compatriots, has other initiatives that he works on after hours. It’s hard to tell, though, what “after hours” means for NAR. Julius and the Executive Secretary, Ildephonse, work what seems like around the clock. The week before last, for example, both stayed late in the office working until at least eight in the evening then conducted a training workshop for young leaders the entire weekend.
Both were back in the office the following Monday, although Ildephonse left early because he wasn’t feeling well. Julius stayed late on several evenings again, and was running errands until ten Friday night. We met at the bus station at 6:15 on Saturday morning to go to Kibuye, and Julius was on the phone for almost an hour on the bus ride untangling various work-related details.
At one of the possible research sites for next summer, Julius shared that he has malaria; he found out on Friday afternoon. I asked him some version of what the heck was he doing trekking hither and yon with me when he should be in bed. He laughed and said that he would sleep in on Sunday, but I knew he would be cooking a celebratory supper on Sunday for the Dutch interns who are leaving Tuesday.
As we were leaving Kibuye around two, Julius started to fade a bit and even in the cool air, he was starting to break a sweat. At one point, Ildephonse called him as he himself was headed to the doctor because he was feeling very ill. (It turns out that Ildephonse also has malaria.) After making and taking a few more calls, Julius was able to sleep hard for a couple of hours on the way back to Kigali, and seemed a little more like himself when we returned.
He met me again, though, about 45 minutes later at my hotel, where my translator/guide for the Monday trip to Nyamata would meet us, and where Patrick’s sister also met up with us. Julius, Patrick’s sister, and I jumped in a cab and picked up Patrick and the headed to the sister’s house for a home visit.
After more than an hour there, I left Julius in his neighborhood and headed home. It was almost ten p.m.
How many hours a day does it take to make peace happen? Apparently many. As many as we have and more.
Julius and I don’t always see eye to eye on causes, effects, definitions, and processes. But I have the highest respect for him. I trust him. And I’ve never met anyone else who works as hard as he does.
You’ve been reading in various posts about Julius, who is the Administrative and Financial Manager of NAR. But what I haven’t written about yet is this man’s tireless work for peace and reconciliation.
Julius is one of the two full-time NAR staff members and like many of his compatriots, has other initiatives that he works on after hours. It’s hard to tell, though, what “after hours” means for NAR. Julius and the Executive Secretary, Ildephonse, work what seems like around the clock. The week before last, for example, both stayed late in the office working until at least eight in the evening then conducted a training workshop for young leaders the entire weekend.
Both were back in the office the following Monday, although Ildephonse left early because he wasn’t feeling well. Julius stayed late on several evenings again, and was running errands until ten Friday night. We met at the bus station at 6:15 on Saturday morning to go to Kibuye, and Julius was on the phone for almost an hour on the bus ride untangling various work-related details.
At one of the possible research sites for next summer, Julius shared that he has malaria; he found out on Friday afternoon. I asked him some version of what the heck was he doing trekking hither and yon with me when he should be in bed. He laughed and said that he would sleep in on Sunday, but I knew he would be cooking a celebratory supper on Sunday for the Dutch interns who are leaving Tuesday.
As we were leaving Kibuye around two, Julius started to fade a bit and even in the cool air, he was starting to break a sweat. At one point, Ildephonse called him as he himself was headed to the doctor because he was feeling very ill. (It turns out that Ildephonse also has malaria.) After making and taking a few more calls, Julius was able to sleep hard for a couple of hours on the way back to Kigali, and seemed a little more like himself when we returned.
He met me again, though, about 45 minutes later at my hotel, where my translator/guide for the Monday trip to Nyamata would meet us, and where Patrick’s sister also met up with us. Julius, Patrick’s sister, and I jumped in a cab and picked up Patrick and the headed to the sister’s house for a home visit.
After more than an hour there, I left Julius in his neighborhood and headed home. It was almost ten p.m.
How many hours a day does it take to make peace happen? Apparently many. As many as we have and more.
Julius and I don’t always see eye to eye on causes, effects, definitions, and processes. But I have the highest respect for him. I trust him. And I’ve never met anyone else who works as hard as he does.
Falling in love in Rwanda
July 20, 2008
What can I say? It happened. His name is Patrick.
But it isn’t what you may think.
He is fourteen, studying in the secondary 2 year at a school here in the Northern Province. He is a traditional intole dancer, an accomplished one, in fact—he is a member of the national troupe that danced at President Kagame’s brother’s wedding last night.
Patrick and I met on the street, where it seems all young people hang out to socialize in their free time. I, not being a young person, was on my way back to town after working in the office. He and I started talking, and it struck me immediately that Patrick is different from the other kids I’ve met on the street who want to sell me something or just ask straight out for money. I still can’t describe why he is different, but I definitely felt a connection with him.
Here was this young man—I asked his age even though I knew he is fourteen (being as I am quite familiar with that age)—who was tidy, polite, well-spoken. The best way I can describe Patrick is that he is open. He is calm, conducts himself with the same pride that is evident in the vast majority of Rwandans, and there is a transparency in his face and manner.
Oh, and did I mention his smile? It lights up his face.
Something just goes click.
You know what I’m talking about.
I met his family last night. Julius, coordinator extraordinaire, was our translator and facilitator. I met Patrick’s older sister and her young children, as well as her mother-in-law and (I think) sisters-in-law. So these are all the female members of his family. His sister is married, but I didn’t meet her husband last night.
If you’re reading carefully, you will have noticed two missing family members: Patrick doesn’t have a mother or father. His mother died in an accident and his father died of a heart attack while studying or working in India. Asking further about this story is not only inappropriate, but could traumatize Patrick, so that’s the story. So I’ve offered to be Patrick’s educational sponsor.
Already an orphan in a developing nation, Patrick faces increasing vulnerability, especially in terms of his education. Whereas 99% of Rwandan children attend primary school where the fees are low, less than 50% of young Rwandans attend secondary school. In a country whose only natural resource is its people, Rwanda desperately needs educated young people, especially people like Patrick, who is very bright.
However, in this culture that values the primacy of the group, often at the expense of the individual, Patrick will face increasing pressure to cede to the needs of the larger family group because he doesn’t have a mother or father to advocate directly for him. Patrick’s sister, who clearly values education and the opportunities it affords, pays for the education of not only her children, but some in the extended family as well. But my financing of his school fees ensures that Patrick can finish secondary school and focus his energies on winning a scholarship to the national university here in a few years. He now has an advocate.
When I was meeting Patrick’s family at his house last night, I realized how vulnerable his family feels. When both Patrick and his sister asked when I was leaving the country—now nine days—I saw worry flash across their faces. It must be terrible to have promises made but not kept. What if this muzungu got swept away while she was in the country and made all these promises, but then when she gets home, other priorities arise or she forgets or or or….
So Julius and I and Patrick’s sister will draw up a written agreement, a memo of understanding, in which I commit to paying Patrick’s school fees and related educational expenses, and his extended family will continue to advise him and provide continuing familial and cultural support. Julius will try to get Patrick placed in a better school and will scan and email me Patrick’s grade reports.
All this is made easier because Julius has a brand-new NGO called Help Life Rwanda that focuses on secondary school scholarships for Rwanda’s most at-risk youth. HLR will identify ten especially vulnerable young people (nine now) who are experiencing difficulty funding their secondary school education, particularly the school fees that are currently about US$100 a term, roughly $300 a year. Julius, who has a degree in management and accounting, will channel school fees from donors directly to the schools. The kids are easy to find, especially because NAR has youth clubs in all Rwandan provinces. Donors, on the other hand, are more difficult for Julius to find.
So you know what I’m going to ask next.
If you feel inclined to make an important difference in a kid’s life and you can afford to fund one of these scholarships—or even a part of one—please consider this program. I’m happy to email you with more information. Rwanda’s future rests on the creativity and critical thinking of its youth. The country has come so far in fourteen years. Its future is bright.
Consider it a good long-term investment in peace and reconciliation.
What can I say? It happened. His name is Patrick.
But it isn’t what you may think.
He is fourteen, studying in the secondary 2 year at a school here in the Northern Province. He is a traditional intole dancer, an accomplished one, in fact—he is a member of the national troupe that danced at President Kagame’s brother’s wedding last night.
Patrick and I met on the street, where it seems all young people hang out to socialize in their free time. I, not being a young person, was on my way back to town after working in the office. He and I started talking, and it struck me immediately that Patrick is different from the other kids I’ve met on the street who want to sell me something or just ask straight out for money. I still can’t describe why he is different, but I definitely felt a connection with him.
Here was this young man—I asked his age even though I knew he is fourteen (being as I am quite familiar with that age)—who was tidy, polite, well-spoken. The best way I can describe Patrick is that he is open. He is calm, conducts himself with the same pride that is evident in the vast majority of Rwandans, and there is a transparency in his face and manner.
Oh, and did I mention his smile? It lights up his face.
Something just goes click.
You know what I’m talking about.
I met his family last night. Julius, coordinator extraordinaire, was our translator and facilitator. I met Patrick’s older sister and her young children, as well as her mother-in-law and (I think) sisters-in-law. So these are all the female members of his family. His sister is married, but I didn’t meet her husband last night.
If you’re reading carefully, you will have noticed two missing family members: Patrick doesn’t have a mother or father. His mother died in an accident and his father died of a heart attack while studying or working in India. Asking further about this story is not only inappropriate, but could traumatize Patrick, so that’s the story. So I’ve offered to be Patrick’s educational sponsor.
Already an orphan in a developing nation, Patrick faces increasing vulnerability, especially in terms of his education. Whereas 99% of Rwandan children attend primary school where the fees are low, less than 50% of young Rwandans attend secondary school. In a country whose only natural resource is its people, Rwanda desperately needs educated young people, especially people like Patrick, who is very bright.
However, in this culture that values the primacy of the group, often at the expense of the individual, Patrick will face increasing pressure to cede to the needs of the larger family group because he doesn’t have a mother or father to advocate directly for him. Patrick’s sister, who clearly values education and the opportunities it affords, pays for the education of not only her children, but some in the extended family as well. But my financing of his school fees ensures that Patrick can finish secondary school and focus his energies on winning a scholarship to the national university here in a few years. He now has an advocate.
When I was meeting Patrick’s family at his house last night, I realized how vulnerable his family feels. When both Patrick and his sister asked when I was leaving the country—now nine days—I saw worry flash across their faces. It must be terrible to have promises made but not kept. What if this muzungu got swept away while she was in the country and made all these promises, but then when she gets home, other priorities arise or she forgets or or or….
So Julius and I and Patrick’s sister will draw up a written agreement, a memo of understanding, in which I commit to paying Patrick’s school fees and related educational expenses, and his extended family will continue to advise him and provide continuing familial and cultural support. Julius will try to get Patrick placed in a better school and will scan and email me Patrick’s grade reports.
All this is made easier because Julius has a brand-new NGO called Help Life Rwanda that focuses on secondary school scholarships for Rwanda’s most at-risk youth. HLR will identify ten especially vulnerable young people (nine now) who are experiencing difficulty funding their secondary school education, particularly the school fees that are currently about US$100 a term, roughly $300 a year. Julius, who has a degree in management and accounting, will channel school fees from donors directly to the schools. The kids are easy to find, especially because NAR has youth clubs in all Rwandan provinces. Donors, on the other hand, are more difficult for Julius to find.
So you know what I’m going to ask next.
If you feel inclined to make an important difference in a kid’s life and you can afford to fund one of these scholarships—or even a part of one—please consider this program. I’m happy to email you with more information. Rwanda’s future rests on the creativity and critical thinking of its youth. The country has come so far in fourteen years. Its future is bright.
Consider it a good long-term investment in peace and reconciliation.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Notes on posting
July 22, 2008
Posting is definitely getting harder. I’m feeling incredibly pressed for time as I enter my final week in Rwanda. Also, my formal research is in full swing; plus there’s a really interesting conference on reconstruction of identity going on this week in Kigali that a Canadian told me about. But it’s not just the time factor.
Things are just getting more complex.
There are several posts—clothing, annoyance, mini-buses, to name just a few—that I would very much like to revise in significant ways. Now that I’ve had more experience with the content and have continued thinking about these issues, there’s so much more to write about.
Other, newer posts are more challenging to write as well. There are so many people I can’t wait to write about, but they are coming along very slooooowly. I’ll probably be blogging about this time here for awhile to come.
Posting is definitely getting harder. I’m feeling incredibly pressed for time as I enter my final week in Rwanda. Also, my formal research is in full swing; plus there’s a really interesting conference on reconstruction of identity going on this week in Kigali that a Canadian told me about. But it’s not just the time factor.
Things are just getting more complex.
There are several posts—clothing, annoyance, mini-buses, to name just a few—that I would very much like to revise in significant ways. Now that I’ve had more experience with the content and have continued thinking about these issues, there’s so much more to write about.
Other, newer posts are more challenging to write as well. There are so many people I can’t wait to write about, but they are coming along very slooooowly. I’ll probably be blogging about this time here for awhile to come.
Kibuye, or the perks of research
July 20, 2008
Julius and I went to this incredibly beautiful town located on the shores of Lake Kivu on Saturday to scope out possible places for my (potential) research next summer.
Kibuye, pronounced like ch BOO yeh, is about two and a half or three hours north of Kigali, depending on how fast the bus driver chooses to go. We traveled up, up, through several small villages, into the Western Province, around countless hills to arrive at the dark turquoise lake surrounded by woods filled with what look like different varieties of cypress trees. Along the highway we saw see people carrying seemingly impossible loads of produce on their heads as they made their way to market, children toting water and long bunches of sugarcane, and even a bride and two bridesmaids heading toward a church. I also saw one of Rwanda’s traditional breeds of cow, the Ankole, with its graceful longish horns.
I was also thrilled to see a woman carrying one of the traditionally-shaped Rwandan baskets on her head. I’ve seen these everywhere—they are printed on one side of the 5,000 Rwandan franc note because of their cultural significance—but I hadn’t seen them used before in a practical way. The baskets are so beautiful. (Please indulge me if I’ve written about these before.) The round bottom section is tapered at the bottom; the base is perhaps twice as narrow as the mouth, and the tight-fitting lid fits over the bottom part and narrows to a point, like a Chinese hat. The point seems like an artistic detail rather than a practicality.
In the Western Province, we also saw the famous terraces that farmers cut into the hills so that they can grow as much as they can in this fertile soil. These terraces not only increase production but also cut down on soil erosion. One of my other favorite sights was the stairwells that are cut into these steep hills near the highway. These stairs are maybe three or four feet wide and are paved with local stones cemented into place. I saw one stair in particular that took my breath away. It was about 100 metres long and there was a short wall that acted like a handrail on the side closest to the hill, but on the open side of the stairs, there was nothing. I can’t imagine walking up the stairs and looking down the hill, which was, for all intents and purposes, straight down.
In the clear, cool air of Kibuye, Julius and I checked out two hotels on the southern side of the lake. The layout of the first hotel was a bit labyrinthine, with hallways leading off from strange areas. Built into the side of a hill—like most Rwandan buildings—it had oddly curved stairwells and low ceilings. At one point when we were on the outside of the hotel, we went down a long outside staircase, maybe 20 steps, where we reached a small landing that didn’t lead to anywhere but another long staircase that went up up up. I used to have dreams that I thought were Kafkaesque in that the stairs did strange things just like this, but now I think I was dreaming of Rwanda.
This first hotel would have been okay, but Julius and I decided to take a boat to the other side of this small part of this huge lake. There we could scope out one more place, although it was newer and nicer, and so probably more expensive. Julius arranged for us to ride in a boat maybe 20 feet long and maybe 4 feet wide. It was piloted by a man dressed in leather shoes, suit trousers, and a button-up shirt. (What did I tell you about men’s dress here?) We reached the other hotel in about fifteen minutes. The lake was so calm. It looked like there was some sort of current in it, but no big waves. It reminded me in a way of Lake Michigan from a few weeks back (although it feels like a lifetime ago).
This second hotel seemed impossibly out of price range. The buildings are spacious and sit on various terraces leading out to the lake. The restaurant was elegant and the hotel had mostly uniformed staff. As Julius and I walked up the many stairs to the office, all I could think was “$$$.” At the reception desk, Julius inquired about the types of rooms they have, prices, and the all-important meeting room where we will (potentially) gather to write.
Can you imagine our delight when the better-appointed rooms here turned out to be the same price as the rooms at the first hotel? Can you picture our faces when we were told that the meeting room was half the price of the first hotel’s? Just to be sure, Julius and I toured each of the types of rooms we will potentially book, and had a glance at the light-filled salle where the participants will write. Each room has an attached bathroom which was in good shape, and most have semi-private lawns or other places to relax. And we had a delicious lunch in the restaurant.
Julius, who first laughed at me when I asked if we could reserve a week for July 2009 because nobody here makes reservations a year in advance, suggested that we negotiate a reservation with the front desk. This place is so affordable, so beautiful; I know it books up fast. In those few minutes we were at the desk, the manager fielded requests for rooms from several people, but she had to turn them away.
In the end, we were able to get the receptionist to write the dates for the week of (potential) research, and set aside the rooms and salle. And that was that. No commitment, no money. Of course it all depends on me writing persuasive, successful grants for this project, as well as gaining approval from my dissertation committee and Tech’s Institutional Review Board.
But now I have a designated week, and a place filled with light and fresh air, steps away from the clear waters of beautiful Lake Kivu where next summer I can hopefully begin my work with writers and continue this journey into Rwandans’ lives and stories.
Julius and I went to this incredibly beautiful town located on the shores of Lake Kivu on Saturday to scope out possible places for my (potential) research next summer.
Kibuye, pronounced like ch BOO yeh, is about two and a half or three hours north of Kigali, depending on how fast the bus driver chooses to go. We traveled up, up, through several small villages, into the Western Province, around countless hills to arrive at the dark turquoise lake surrounded by woods filled with what look like different varieties of cypress trees. Along the highway we saw see people carrying seemingly impossible loads of produce on their heads as they made their way to market, children toting water and long bunches of sugarcane, and even a bride and two bridesmaids heading toward a church. I also saw one of Rwanda’s traditional breeds of cow, the Ankole, with its graceful longish horns.
I was also thrilled to see a woman carrying one of the traditionally-shaped Rwandan baskets on her head. I’ve seen these everywhere—they are printed on one side of the 5,000 Rwandan franc note because of their cultural significance—but I hadn’t seen them used before in a practical way. The baskets are so beautiful. (Please indulge me if I’ve written about these before.) The round bottom section is tapered at the bottom; the base is perhaps twice as narrow as the mouth, and the tight-fitting lid fits over the bottom part and narrows to a point, like a Chinese hat. The point seems like an artistic detail rather than a practicality.
In the Western Province, we also saw the famous terraces that farmers cut into the hills so that they can grow as much as they can in this fertile soil. These terraces not only increase production but also cut down on soil erosion. One of my other favorite sights was the stairwells that are cut into these steep hills near the highway. These stairs are maybe three or four feet wide and are paved with local stones cemented into place. I saw one stair in particular that took my breath away. It was about 100 metres long and there was a short wall that acted like a handrail on the side closest to the hill, but on the open side of the stairs, there was nothing. I can’t imagine walking up the stairs and looking down the hill, which was, for all intents and purposes, straight down.
In the clear, cool air of Kibuye, Julius and I checked out two hotels on the southern side of the lake. The layout of the first hotel was a bit labyrinthine, with hallways leading off from strange areas. Built into the side of a hill—like most Rwandan buildings—it had oddly curved stairwells and low ceilings. At one point when we were on the outside of the hotel, we went down a long outside staircase, maybe 20 steps, where we reached a small landing that didn’t lead to anywhere but another long staircase that went up up up. I used to have dreams that I thought were Kafkaesque in that the stairs did strange things just like this, but now I think I was dreaming of Rwanda.
This first hotel would have been okay, but Julius and I decided to take a boat to the other side of this small part of this huge lake. There we could scope out one more place, although it was newer and nicer, and so probably more expensive. Julius arranged for us to ride in a boat maybe 20 feet long and maybe 4 feet wide. It was piloted by a man dressed in leather shoes, suit trousers, and a button-up shirt. (What did I tell you about men’s dress here?) We reached the other hotel in about fifteen minutes. The lake was so calm. It looked like there was some sort of current in it, but no big waves. It reminded me in a way of Lake Michigan from a few weeks back (although it feels like a lifetime ago).
This second hotel seemed impossibly out of price range. The buildings are spacious and sit on various terraces leading out to the lake. The restaurant was elegant and the hotel had mostly uniformed staff. As Julius and I walked up the many stairs to the office, all I could think was “$$$.” At the reception desk, Julius inquired about the types of rooms they have, prices, and the all-important meeting room where we will (potentially) gather to write.
Can you imagine our delight when the better-appointed rooms here turned out to be the same price as the rooms at the first hotel? Can you picture our faces when we were told that the meeting room was half the price of the first hotel’s? Just to be sure, Julius and I toured each of the types of rooms we will potentially book, and had a glance at the light-filled salle where the participants will write. Each room has an attached bathroom which was in good shape, and most have semi-private lawns or other places to relax. And we had a delicious lunch in the restaurant.
Julius, who first laughed at me when I asked if we could reserve a week for July 2009 because nobody here makes reservations a year in advance, suggested that we negotiate a reservation with the front desk. This place is so affordable, so beautiful; I know it books up fast. In those few minutes we were at the desk, the manager fielded requests for rooms from several people, but she had to turn them away.
In the end, we were able to get the receptionist to write the dates for the week of (potential) research, and set aside the rooms and salle. And that was that. No commitment, no money. Of course it all depends on me writing persuasive, successful grants for this project, as well as gaining approval from my dissertation committee and Tech’s Institutional Review Board.
But now I have a designated week, and a place filled with light and fresh air, steps away from the clear waters of beautiful Lake Kivu where next summer I can hopefully begin my work with writers and continue this journey into Rwandans’ lives and stories.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Cuppa love
July 17, 2008
Call it African Tea; call it chai.
Strong black tea brewed with ginger and milk is love, period.
The instant it pours out of the pot, I’m transported to R’s kitchen, with friends in my dorm room at Tech, my own kitchen at home….
Call it African Tea; call it chai.
Strong black tea brewed with ginger and milk is love, period.
The instant it pours out of the pot, I’m transported to R’s kitchen, with friends in my dorm room at Tech, my own kitchen at home….
Deep Water
I thought I was capable, was sure of myself in deep water, as familiar as I am with my own pond. But this pond found an opening into larger water and I am in it, gurgling and trying to stay afloat as the powerful currents sweep me out and away. These unfamiliar waters are both warm and cold, a confluence of many, many small ponds. I can’t even begin to see where the water ends, either below me or around me. I swim around, thrashing, trying to explore. Is this ocean map-able? Often I am frightened. I thought I was a good swimmer. Have I fooled myself?
There is no place to rest my feet; these waters are unknowably deep, cavernous, and dangerous if one is not a strong, patient swimmer.
Me, I need to gain strength; I’m not yet used to these depths, the vast water.
Once in a while, either when a wave crashes over me or when I get brave and dive below, I try to look around under here, but it’s so hard to see. Slowly I guess my way through, backing out, going around, pushing through. Within these depths I gradually make out the most amazing structures. I thought I knew coral, but these jagged formations are massive, connecting in unimaginable ways. Gravity seems not to have influence under these waters; it is the currents of the water itself that shape what is below. When I can look hard, I try to examine the coral up close, close enough to see and touch, but careful not to get swept up into it where I’d be ripped up. When I can, I gently swim through tender deep-water plants, careful not to pull their roots. Are they, too, needing to surface?
I float sometimes, my back to the water, but it keeps pulling at me. Is that a siren song? I can’t resist. I turn over and kick into it, forcing my eyes open. How far down can I go today? There are places that are so dark. Are those really sunken boats there? Who else is here? Who tried to swim here and drowned instead? Just when I think my lungs will burst, I look for the sun, the moon, any light and shoot upward, gasping for breath as I break surface. I breathe, see where I come up, try to tell if I can see land.
Sometimes I really can’t see the shore and it seems there is no solid place to hold. Often my sight goes when I’ve been down too far or too long. I think I will never see land again, never feel it under my feet. But those are the times when I see a beacon, maybe a lighthouse, maybe just a glimmer of dawn. And then I can see in the distance there are places, maybe the shore, maybe islands, that I could get to if I need to. When I need to.
---
Thanks to E, who provided feedback on a very early version of this.
There is no place to rest my feet; these waters are unknowably deep, cavernous, and dangerous if one is not a strong, patient swimmer.
Me, I need to gain strength; I’m not yet used to these depths, the vast water.
Once in a while, either when a wave crashes over me or when I get brave and dive below, I try to look around under here, but it’s so hard to see. Slowly I guess my way through, backing out, going around, pushing through. Within these depths I gradually make out the most amazing structures. I thought I knew coral, but these jagged formations are massive, connecting in unimaginable ways. Gravity seems not to have influence under these waters; it is the currents of the water itself that shape what is below. When I can look hard, I try to examine the coral up close, close enough to see and touch, but careful not to get swept up into it where I’d be ripped up. When I can, I gently swim through tender deep-water plants, careful not to pull their roots. Are they, too, needing to surface?
I float sometimes, my back to the water, but it keeps pulling at me. Is that a siren song? I can’t resist. I turn over and kick into it, forcing my eyes open. How far down can I go today? There are places that are so dark. Are those really sunken boats there? Who else is here? Who tried to swim here and drowned instead? Just when I think my lungs will burst, I look for the sun, the moon, any light and shoot upward, gasping for breath as I break surface. I breathe, see where I come up, try to tell if I can see land.
Sometimes I really can’t see the shore and it seems there is no solid place to hold. Often my sight goes when I’ve been down too far or too long. I think I will never see land again, never feel it under my feet. But those are the times when I see a beacon, maybe a lighthouse, maybe just a glimmer of dawn. And then I can see in the distance there are places, maybe the shore, maybe islands, that I could get to if I need to. When I need to.
---
Thanks to E, who provided feedback on a very early version of this.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Let There Be Guacamole
July 15, 2008
Went back to Kimironko today. The money guys on the buses call out what sounds like “chimirango Kimironko” in a sing-song voice to attract riders. Will go back Thursday afternoon to pick up more Rwandan clothes. But I also shopped for produce. Managed to get a kilo of tomatoes, three small purple onions, three bell peppers, two limes, a small bag of garlic cloves, and the biggest avocado I’ve ever seen. It must weigh two pounds. The young guy who was negotiating with me (I say negotiating, but I just ask how much and pay that much—sorry RR.) was offering me this one and that one, but the lady sitting next to him shook her head until he picked one that met her approval. As they say here, thanks, sista.
As I was buying parsley and lettuce, another guy came over and spoke softly into my ear: “Coriander…rosemary….” When my brain worked out the translation of coriander to cilantro, I asked, “You have coriander?” Yes, he did.
I also bought a bottle of pilli pilli, and let me tell you that people here do not mess with their chiles. Straight habañeros. The tomato vendor wanted to sell me a small bag—about ten of the little explosions, but I laughed and said I knew about those. No thank you. But the bottled stuff is more easy to work with.
I also bought a little aluminum pot with a lid that will suffice for a salad bowl.
Everyone at the market kept offering the most beautiful veggies, pulling out the “special” ones—broccoli, and the anise-flavored bulb, as well as beautiful little beans. One of the vendors spoke English and I explained to him that I don’t have a kitchen here, but that the produce was beautiful. He said that I would come back, that this is a good market. And I agreed.
I also bought a couple of shopping bags. Here everything is recycled—reused really. Shopping bags are reused from the large ones in which food is shipped here. I’ve been looking for one that had something from Rwanda, and I found some good ones today.
BTW, if there are any conference organizers reading this, we want conference bags that we can use for groceries after the conference. Not fancy, but sturdy; not complicated, but useful.
Okay, so back to the food. I had lettuce and tomatoes for a quick lunch. It felt a little ana to count out lettuce leaves, but I was trying to keep track of the ones I washed with purified water.
So for dinner, I stopped by the little convenience store next to the inn and bought a dozen rolls, sort of like hotdog buns. Then I came back to my room and made awesome guacamole: three little garlic cloves and a third of an onion (I’m kissing no one, so what the heck, right?); two tomatoes, the entire avocado (what else could I do?); a small handful of coriander, and about a half-teaspoon of pilli pilli.
This deserves its own paragraph: when I opened the bottle of pilli pilli (which was bottled like soda), it fizzed just like thick, red Coke. Luckily, I was fairly close to the shower, and I held it over the tiles there. What a mess. About half a cup bubbled out. I thought about salmonella and other reasons that the stuff would fizz, but I took one tiny taste from my finger and decided that anything that might have been in there would surely be killed by the firepower in that bottle. I rinsed it off, being sure that no water got inside, and proceeded to try to clean up the shower. Remember that Rwanda is the land of a thousand hills? Well, my shower drain is in the uphill half of the basin, so I have to sweep the last of the water up into the drain with my feet. So after running the water for a sec, I rinsed off the huge thick puddle of pilli pilli and started pulling the water into the drain. So when all the red water was gone, I put back on my leggings (didn’t want them to get wet earlier), and the cuffs got a little damp. Which was fine, until it seeped into my legs that I had shaved this morning. I’ve heard of hot legs, but really.
Half a teaspoon of the pilli pilli in all that guacamole was almost too much. Almost.
Finally, I smooshed everything together in the little pot and broke open the rolls and had guacamole sandwiches. So good.
Went back to Kimironko today. The money guys on the buses call out what sounds like “chimirango Kimironko” in a sing-song voice to attract riders. Will go back Thursday afternoon to pick up more Rwandan clothes. But I also shopped for produce. Managed to get a kilo of tomatoes, three small purple onions, three bell peppers, two limes, a small bag of garlic cloves, and the biggest avocado I’ve ever seen. It must weigh two pounds. The young guy who was negotiating with me (I say negotiating, but I just ask how much and pay that much—sorry RR.) was offering me this one and that one, but the lady sitting next to him shook her head until he picked one that met her approval. As they say here, thanks, sista.
As I was buying parsley and lettuce, another guy came over and spoke softly into my ear: “Coriander…rosemary….” When my brain worked out the translation of coriander to cilantro, I asked, “You have coriander?” Yes, he did.
I also bought a bottle of pilli pilli, and let me tell you that people here do not mess with their chiles. Straight habañeros. The tomato vendor wanted to sell me a small bag—about ten of the little explosions, but I laughed and said I knew about those. No thank you. But the bottled stuff is more easy to work with.
I also bought a little aluminum pot with a lid that will suffice for a salad bowl.
Everyone at the market kept offering the most beautiful veggies, pulling out the “special” ones—broccoli, and the anise-flavored bulb, as well as beautiful little beans. One of the vendors spoke English and I explained to him that I don’t have a kitchen here, but that the produce was beautiful. He said that I would come back, that this is a good market. And I agreed.
I also bought a couple of shopping bags. Here everything is recycled—reused really. Shopping bags are reused from the large ones in which food is shipped here. I’ve been looking for one that had something from Rwanda, and I found some good ones today.
BTW, if there are any conference organizers reading this, we want conference bags that we can use for groceries after the conference. Not fancy, but sturdy; not complicated, but useful.
Okay, so back to the food. I had lettuce and tomatoes for a quick lunch. It felt a little ana to count out lettuce leaves, but I was trying to keep track of the ones I washed with purified water.
So for dinner, I stopped by the little convenience store next to the inn and bought a dozen rolls, sort of like hotdog buns. Then I came back to my room and made awesome guacamole: three little garlic cloves and a third of an onion (I’m kissing no one, so what the heck, right?); two tomatoes, the entire avocado (what else could I do?); a small handful of coriander, and about a half-teaspoon of pilli pilli.
This deserves its own paragraph: when I opened the bottle of pilli pilli (which was bottled like soda), it fizzed just like thick, red Coke. Luckily, I was fairly close to the shower, and I held it over the tiles there. What a mess. About half a cup bubbled out. I thought about salmonella and other reasons that the stuff would fizz, but I took one tiny taste from my finger and decided that anything that might have been in there would surely be killed by the firepower in that bottle. I rinsed it off, being sure that no water got inside, and proceeded to try to clean up the shower. Remember that Rwanda is the land of a thousand hills? Well, my shower drain is in the uphill half of the basin, so I have to sweep the last of the water up into the drain with my feet. So after running the water for a sec, I rinsed off the huge thick puddle of pilli pilli and started pulling the water into the drain. So when all the red water was gone, I put back on my leggings (didn’t want them to get wet earlier), and the cuffs got a little damp. Which was fine, until it seeped into my legs that I had shaved this morning. I’ve heard of hot legs, but really.
Half a teaspoon of the pilli pilli in all that guacamole was almost too much. Almost.
Finally, I smooshed everything together in the little pot and broke open the rolls and had guacamole sandwiches. So good.
“No Caffeine for You.”
July 15, 2008
Not sure exactly what happened this morning, but the ladies in the inn’s restaurant did not want to serve me breakfast. I asked for a cheese omelette anyway, and they brought me one, but no coffee. ”Thé? I asked. “C’est fini,” she answered, and then took coffee to another patron.
Hm.
I have a caffeine-withdrawal headache that you wouldn’t believe. Wah. I could go out and get a coke somewhere, but it’s a big thing; you can’t drink on the streets—it’s considered unhygienic and rude. Beside that, I want to sleep tonight.
I can tell you now that if I don’t get caffeine tomorrow morning, I might be a ferociously ugly American. The thing is, though, that you should never, ever, piss off anyone who has anything to do with your food. Remember “The Color Purple”? Well, that’s only the half of it. So if I don’t get coffee here, I’ll go up to Bourbon and pay American prices.
So I think I didn’t get served this morning because the ladies there might think I had something to do with the hotel personnel getting held overnight at police headquarters for questioning. Yes, there’s a story.
Most of this I heard through my open window. The Dutch interns next door sit on my porch, and it tends to be a congregation area for people in their 20s, so I end up hearing way more of their stories than I’d like.
But anyway, on Sunday, a woman from Kenya who was staying in No. 1 across the courtyard from us went to the restaurant to order some food. She locked her door, but she said that when she came back, she discovered her camera and money were stolen. One of the desk clerks, the one who has been nothing but helpful and kind, asked the intern sitting outside if she saw anyone enter No. 1. They went round and round for awhile, and that’s when we heard the story from the Kenyan woman. I came out to see if there was trouble, and since I couldn’t help, I went back inside to continue working.
There was more conversation for awhile, off and on, including the desk clerk asking to borrow an intern’s phone to call the supposed thief, a guy who works at the inn. The intern asked him to explain why he wanted to call, and he explained that if the guy had stolen, he would have turned off his phone (or something to that effect). The desk clerk wanted to call the guy from a number that the guy wouldn’t recognize. The intern told the desk clerk that was stupid and didn’t lend him her phone.
So when I got back to the inn very late yesterday, like 9:40, I was supposed to get a book back from the nice desk clerk. But instead of him behind the counter, it was some new guy, and he said my friend wouldn’t be there that night. When I got to my porch, one of the Dutch interns was sitting there, working on her laptop. I asked her if anything interesting happened and that’s when she told me that the police had come and taken both desk clerks, the gardener, and two cleaning boys and were going to hold them overnight so they could make a statement.
Tonight they are still not back. So things could be much worse than a caffeine-withdrawal headache.
Not sure exactly what happened this morning, but the ladies in the inn’s restaurant did not want to serve me breakfast. I asked for a cheese omelette anyway, and they brought me one, but no coffee. ”Thé? I asked. “C’est fini,” she answered, and then took coffee to another patron.
Hm.
I have a caffeine-withdrawal headache that you wouldn’t believe. Wah. I could go out and get a coke somewhere, but it’s a big thing; you can’t drink on the streets—it’s considered unhygienic and rude. Beside that, I want to sleep tonight.
I can tell you now that if I don’t get caffeine tomorrow morning, I might be a ferociously ugly American. The thing is, though, that you should never, ever, piss off anyone who has anything to do with your food. Remember “The Color Purple”? Well, that’s only the half of it. So if I don’t get coffee here, I’ll go up to Bourbon and pay American prices.
So I think I didn’t get served this morning because the ladies there might think I had something to do with the hotel personnel getting held overnight at police headquarters for questioning. Yes, there’s a story.
Most of this I heard through my open window. The Dutch interns next door sit on my porch, and it tends to be a congregation area for people in their 20s, so I end up hearing way more of their stories than I’d like.
But anyway, on Sunday, a woman from Kenya who was staying in No. 1 across the courtyard from us went to the restaurant to order some food. She locked her door, but she said that when she came back, she discovered her camera and money were stolen. One of the desk clerks, the one who has been nothing but helpful and kind, asked the intern sitting outside if she saw anyone enter No. 1. They went round and round for awhile, and that’s when we heard the story from the Kenyan woman. I came out to see if there was trouble, and since I couldn’t help, I went back inside to continue working.
There was more conversation for awhile, off and on, including the desk clerk asking to borrow an intern’s phone to call the supposed thief, a guy who works at the inn. The intern asked him to explain why he wanted to call, and he explained that if the guy had stolen, he would have turned off his phone (or something to that effect). The desk clerk wanted to call the guy from a number that the guy wouldn’t recognize. The intern told the desk clerk that was stupid and didn’t lend him her phone.
So when I got back to the inn very late yesterday, like 9:40, I was supposed to get a book back from the nice desk clerk. But instead of him behind the counter, it was some new guy, and he said my friend wouldn’t be there that night. When I got to my porch, one of the Dutch interns was sitting there, working on her laptop. I asked her if anything interesting happened and that’s when she told me that the police had come and taken both desk clerks, the gardener, and two cleaning boys and were going to hold them overnight so they could make a statement.
Tonight they are still not back. So things could be much worse than a caffeine-withdrawal headache.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Food
July 12, 2008
I went again to the Kimironko market today and after visiting a seamstress and buying more beautiful baskets from women vendors, I wandered into the food part of the market. There were mounds of flour on rows of tables, carefully shaped like great mountains; huge bags of rice on the floor, open and ready to be scooped; there were rows and rows of tiny little ripe bananas and huge bunches of green bananas that people somehow carry over their shoulders one at a time.
Then there were tables with beautiful little piles of ripe tomatoes, green beans, all sorts of onions, dried beans, green peas, garlic, habañero peppers, green bell peppers, leeks, carrots, beets, white potatoes, cassava, spinach-type greens, avocadoes, and probably more that I didn’t notice. There were some kiosks surrounding this part that sold fresh fish and chickens, and the most beautiful brown eggs. I could hear live chickens, too. They were behind stacks of vegetables ready to be prepared for sale. Oh, and there were smoked fishes too, great big flat ones and little tiny ones that looked almost like dried leaves.
One of my wishes as I was taking in that bounty was that I wished so much that I had a kitchen here. It would be so much fun to cook with these beautiful, fresh ingredients. Talk about eating local! This afternoon, I had to satisfy my hunger with a beautiful bunch of little bananas, which I later ate with peanuts. These will make a good snack tomorrow, too.
Tonight I ate at Bourbon, hoping to be able to access the internet (but that’s another post). I had what seems to be the national food of Rwanda, a brochette. A brochette can be made with any meat, but tonight, mine was beef tenderloin that had been rubbed with a reddish, rich spice. It was skewered and grilled with sections of white onion, tomato, and green bell pepper. It was incredibly delicious, a 10. And at 2300 RWF ($4.39US), an incredible bargain. It was served with French fries (huge serving) and a little garnish of lettuce, a slice of tomato, and a few thin rings of fresh white onion. Just about everyone says not to eat fresh produce, especially if it has been cup up, but I was so so so hungry for fresh food that I ate the tomato and onion anyway.
Delicious.
After visiting Kimironko and strolling through that market, I realize now that I simply have to buy a bowl, some tomatoes, onions, salt and pepper at the very least so that I can make salad in my room. Or tomato and onion sandwiches! If I can find vinegar, oil, some herbs, and a baguette, I can make some bread salad—panzanella—an Italian meal usually made from leftovers that is one of my comfort foods. Come to think of it, if I add pilli to the list, I could make really good guacamole. Hm.
I was surprised by the prevalence—dominance—of refined wheat and rice products here. White bread. White rice. White potatoes. White people food. Surely Rwandans would get more nutrients per calorie if they were eating whole wheat products and brown rice. And sweet potatoes. There isn’t rampant hunger here apparently, but the nutritional quality of the carbs could certainly be improved. I will say, though, that sugar here is somewhat unrefined. It’s cane sugar, like “Sugar in the Raw.”
Steph and Mike said the other night that there is a big market near the Never Again offices. I’ve seen the ingredients I’m hoping for at various places and I hear there are limes, too, so here’s hoping for yummy fresh goodness. And soon.
I went again to the Kimironko market today and after visiting a seamstress and buying more beautiful baskets from women vendors, I wandered into the food part of the market. There were mounds of flour on rows of tables, carefully shaped like great mountains; huge bags of rice on the floor, open and ready to be scooped; there were rows and rows of tiny little ripe bananas and huge bunches of green bananas that people somehow carry over their shoulders one at a time.
Then there were tables with beautiful little piles of ripe tomatoes, green beans, all sorts of onions, dried beans, green peas, garlic, habañero peppers, green bell peppers, leeks, carrots, beets, white potatoes, cassava, spinach-type greens, avocadoes, and probably more that I didn’t notice. There were some kiosks surrounding this part that sold fresh fish and chickens, and the most beautiful brown eggs. I could hear live chickens, too. They were behind stacks of vegetables ready to be prepared for sale. Oh, and there were smoked fishes too, great big flat ones and little tiny ones that looked almost like dried leaves.
One of my wishes as I was taking in that bounty was that I wished so much that I had a kitchen here. It would be so much fun to cook with these beautiful, fresh ingredients. Talk about eating local! This afternoon, I had to satisfy my hunger with a beautiful bunch of little bananas, which I later ate with peanuts. These will make a good snack tomorrow, too.
Tonight I ate at Bourbon, hoping to be able to access the internet (but that’s another post). I had what seems to be the national food of Rwanda, a brochette. A brochette can be made with any meat, but tonight, mine was beef tenderloin that had been rubbed with a reddish, rich spice. It was skewered and grilled with sections of white onion, tomato, and green bell pepper. It was incredibly delicious, a 10. And at 2300 RWF ($4.39US), an incredible bargain. It was served with French fries (huge serving) and a little garnish of lettuce, a slice of tomato, and a few thin rings of fresh white onion. Just about everyone says not to eat fresh produce, especially if it has been cup up, but I was so so so hungry for fresh food that I ate the tomato and onion anyway.
Delicious.
After visiting Kimironko and strolling through that market, I realize now that I simply have to buy a bowl, some tomatoes, onions, salt and pepper at the very least so that I can make salad in my room. Or tomato and onion sandwiches! If I can find vinegar, oil, some herbs, and a baguette, I can make some bread salad—panzanella—an Italian meal usually made from leftovers that is one of my comfort foods. Come to think of it, if I add pilli to the list, I could make really good guacamole. Hm.
I was surprised by the prevalence—dominance—of refined wheat and rice products here. White bread. White rice. White potatoes. White people food. Surely Rwandans would get more nutrients per calorie if they were eating whole wheat products and brown rice. And sweet potatoes. There isn’t rampant hunger here apparently, but the nutritional quality of the carbs could certainly be improved. I will say, though, that sugar here is somewhat unrefined. It’s cane sugar, like “Sugar in the Raw.”
Steph and Mike said the other night that there is a big market near the Never Again offices. I’ve seen the ingredients I’m hoping for at various places and I hear there are limes, too, so here’s hoping for yummy fresh goodness. And soon.
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