July 10, 2008
I’m pretty tired of writing, sorry to say. Recent posts and writing for my projects have me at a loss for coherent strings of ideas.
I do want to say thanks for all the IMs, emails, and phone calls. I do promise not to tweet at y’all until a decent hour, say, 7 a.m. This morning’s tweet though, I have to say, was especially productive! Thanks!
I had dinner tonight with two interns at Never Again who deserve a loud shout-out: Mike and Steph are two energetic, bright, and knowledgeable people who are looking for internships/jobs/graduate programs with TAships in the field of human rights. Email me (fedbycuriosity@gmail.com) if you see anything interesting, and I’ll pass it on.
We had dinner at an Italian restaurant before they set off on a two-week excursion to Tanzania hiking Kilimanjaro and then a safari! What a fantastic opportunity! Dinner was tasty: thin-crust pizza. Mine had a different cheese on each quarter, including some local cheeses. So goooooooooood. I have been staying at the offices til 7 p.m. then picking up dinner in the form of a small bag of peanuts and some baked goods on my way home. So a big dinner was an extra treat.
Before you start emailing me reminding me to eat enough calories, please know that I eat breakfast at the inn—coffee so strong it’s almost opaque, two rolls with butter and jam, and a banana—and then eat lunch at the office, where a cook prepares Rwandan food every day. We eat lunch between 1 and 3, so dinner really is an afterthought. So yes, I’m eating enough.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Genocide Research
July 10, 2008
Morning meetings at the Kigali Memorial Centre to begin to establish a research relationship between the centre and my research partner.
While I am there, a young lady who works at the centre as an executive secretary chatted with me while I waited for the meetings to begin. She told me how much she loves her country and how other Africans from the Great Lakes region—Tanzania, Uganda, Burundi—don’t believe it is safe here.
On Tuesday, when I visited the centre for the first time, a young man who was there on a field trip with his university asked me questions on a similar riff. After he found out I am American, he wanted to know what I knew about Rwanda before I came, then wanted to know what was different after I experienced the country firsthand. Then he wanted to know what Americans think of his country—and he politely pressed me for details.
To both of these proud, young Rwandans, I said the same things: The Genocide is the dominant image the Americans have of Rwanda and when I mention this country to people at home, they think of “Hotel Rwanda.” And Americans have a difficult time understanding how Rwandans can live together peacefully after such bad history. This living together, this peace, is what young Rwandans need to teach to the world.
That’s what Research Partner and I are trying to learn to do as well. And after I’ve described what we are studying here and hoping to communicate to a larger audience, more than one Rwandan has extended thanks for doing Genocide research.
Thank you. It’s so good to be part of this big team.
Morning meetings at the Kigali Memorial Centre to begin to establish a research relationship between the centre and my research partner.
While I am there, a young lady who works at the centre as an executive secretary chatted with me while I waited for the meetings to begin. She told me how much she loves her country and how other Africans from the Great Lakes region—Tanzania, Uganda, Burundi—don’t believe it is safe here.
On Tuesday, when I visited the centre for the first time, a young man who was there on a field trip with his university asked me questions on a similar riff. After he found out I am American, he wanted to know what I knew about Rwanda before I came, then wanted to know what was different after I experienced the country firsthand. Then he wanted to know what Americans think of his country—and he politely pressed me for details.
To both of these proud, young Rwandans, I said the same things: The Genocide is the dominant image the Americans have of Rwanda and when I mention this country to people at home, they think of “Hotel Rwanda.” And Americans have a difficult time understanding how Rwandans can live together peacefully after such bad history. This living together, this peace, is what young Rwandans need to teach to the world.
That’s what Research Partner and I are trying to learn to do as well. And after I’ve described what we are studying here and hoping to communicate to a larger audience, more than one Rwandan has extended thanks for doing Genocide research.
Thank you. It’s so good to be part of this big team.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Kigali Memorial Centre, part 2
[Caution: tough reading ahead]
This post is dedicated to Mark.
I was pretty much okay, shedding a few tears here and there, until the children’s room. In a small corner in the second golden room, I couldn’t help but cry, really cry. I thought about my own children, about all of those children and babies who were murdered, and the more I tried to fight the tears back, the more intense they became, so I quietly, alone, cried until I was done for while.
I tried to focus on each child, each set of eyes, all the way through.
As I was leaving the building, a few steps after the end of the children’s exhibit, I heard wailing coming from the first floor. I didn’t know Rwandan schoolchildren were on a tour there, but I fled as quickly and quietly as I could outside the building, down the stairs to the terraces of mass graves. As I was descending, I really questioned whether I can do this research, this work with survivors. There is so much pain.
It felt like I was opening, being pulled in half, and that I would break apart. I remember this feeling.
As I concentrated on that pain, the abominable loss, the fear that I might be unable to do the work, the shame of inadequacy, and I let myself cry hard, I started to notice that even though I felt like I would separate into parts, something was holding. It took awhile. The parts seemed to want to come apart, but they held at the base.
Slowly, slowly, it seemed to me to be like a flower, the base of which held not only two halves, but many petals—an electrifying red. And when those petals opened, oh god.
After more time and more tears, I slowly noticed that this flower didn’t have just a base; it was attached to a strong stem; then a branch came into focus, and eventually, to my amazement, a tree with an enormous, broad, reassuring trunk. When I could gaze into the distance, I could see that I was in the middle of many other trees, some also blossoming with enormous, bright flowers.
I kept this visualization throughout the next few hours as I walked the grounds and thought about how to prepare myself to help survivors write their stories next summer. Today, in those gardens, I couldn’t help but notice how life insists on just being.
After awhile, I heard more schoolchildren wailing, and instead of avoiding them, I walked into the lobby and waited for them to come out, supported by friends or staff. One was sobbing, calling for her mother and father; one boy was sniffling but I could see he needed to cry. There was nothing I could do, except be calm, dig way down with my toes into the roots of the tree.
I think about the possibility—inevitability—of deep emotion at my writing retreats next summer. Even for those who are not in active trauma, for those who have developed coping skills, sometimes all you can feel is the opening, the breaking apart. It’s all too easy to forget the tree, the roots, the forest of other trees. When this connection is lost, it seems to help to have someone near who is calm, who is capable of blossoming, but is living at the roots.
My writing students taught me this very quickly. My friends have also helped me learn about this, this emotionally intimate connection.
But I don’t think that I would be able to do this work—and I will be able to do it—had it not been for the trauma I survived throughout the second five years of my life and the healing work during another five years in my thirties. Traumatologists often write that survivors can ultimately become grateful for their particular terror, the terror that changes everything. And I’ve known for a long time that I wouldn’t be who I am without my particular terrifying experiences, but grateful? No way.
Until now. Now I get it: I can do a good job here, can be effective, not only because I know how it feels to open and feel like I might break apart, but also because I’ve learned how to move from blossom to trunk to root to forest and back. And I know how writing can help create a map for that journey.
This post is dedicated to Mark.
I was pretty much okay, shedding a few tears here and there, until the children’s room. In a small corner in the second golden room, I couldn’t help but cry, really cry. I thought about my own children, about all of those children and babies who were murdered, and the more I tried to fight the tears back, the more intense they became, so I quietly, alone, cried until I was done for while.
I tried to focus on each child, each set of eyes, all the way through.
As I was leaving the building, a few steps after the end of the children’s exhibit, I heard wailing coming from the first floor. I didn’t know Rwandan schoolchildren were on a tour there, but I fled as quickly and quietly as I could outside the building, down the stairs to the terraces of mass graves. As I was descending, I really questioned whether I can do this research, this work with survivors. There is so much pain.
It felt like I was opening, being pulled in half, and that I would break apart. I remember this feeling.
As I concentrated on that pain, the abominable loss, the fear that I might be unable to do the work, the shame of inadequacy, and I let myself cry hard, I started to notice that even though I felt like I would separate into parts, something was holding. It took awhile. The parts seemed to want to come apart, but they held at the base.
Slowly, slowly, it seemed to me to be like a flower, the base of which held not only two halves, but many petals—an electrifying red. And when those petals opened, oh god.
After more time and more tears, I slowly noticed that this flower didn’t have just a base; it was attached to a strong stem; then a branch came into focus, and eventually, to my amazement, a tree with an enormous, broad, reassuring trunk. When I could gaze into the distance, I could see that I was in the middle of many other trees, some also blossoming with enormous, bright flowers.
I kept this visualization throughout the next few hours as I walked the grounds and thought about how to prepare myself to help survivors write their stories next summer. Today, in those gardens, I couldn’t help but notice how life insists on just being.
After awhile, I heard more schoolchildren wailing, and instead of avoiding them, I walked into the lobby and waited for them to come out, supported by friends or staff. One was sobbing, calling for her mother and father; one boy was sniffling but I could see he needed to cry. There was nothing I could do, except be calm, dig way down with my toes into the roots of the tree.
I think about the possibility—inevitability—of deep emotion at my writing retreats next summer. Even for those who are not in active trauma, for those who have developed coping skills, sometimes all you can feel is the opening, the breaking apart. It’s all too easy to forget the tree, the roots, the forest of other trees. When this connection is lost, it seems to help to have someone near who is calm, who is capable of blossoming, but is living at the roots.
My writing students taught me this very quickly. My friends have also helped me learn about this, this emotionally intimate connection.
But I don’t think that I would be able to do this work—and I will be able to do it—had it not been for the trauma I survived throughout the second five years of my life and the healing work during another five years in my thirties. Traumatologists often write that survivors can ultimately become grateful for their particular terror, the terror that changes everything. And I’ve known for a long time that I wouldn’t be who I am without my particular terrifying experiences, but grateful? No way.
Until now. Now I get it: I can do a good job here, can be effective, not only because I know how it feels to open and feel like I might break apart, but also because I’ve learned how to move from blossom to trunk to root to forest and back. And I know how writing can help create a map for that journey.
Kigali Memorial Centre, part 1
July 8, 2008
[Caution: some graphic descriptions follow]
Julius set up a private tour of this country’s main Genocide memorial, and I was to meet its coordinator, Claudien, at 9:00 am. I arrived early and the armed guards, military men, confiscated my pocket knife. It hadn’t occurred to me not to bring it, but it makes sense. [On my way out late in the afternoon, I asked for “mon couteau petit” and it was given back to me. One of the soldiers was keeping it in his pocket for me.]
Claudien began my tour by walking me through the outside areas: the mass graves and the gardens.
There are about ten mass graves here, and when I ask how many bodies, Claudien replies, “Right now, about 258,000.” Right now. They are still locating mass burials throughout Kigali and as bones are discovered, they are reburied here. He showed me the area that is being prepared for more mass graves, three terraces down the hill from the main building.
I pretty much held it together, although I couldn’t help but wipe some tears away when Claudien wasn’t looking. (What I read about Rwandan etiquette is that public displays of emotion are not “polite.”) Claudien hears my voice struggling, so I know he knows I’m not insensitive.
The mass graves are anywhere between five by five meters across to about seven by seven meters across. I’m not sure how deep they are, but several layers, I think. (Rwanda is the most densly-populated country in Africa and land is used efficiently.) Several mass graves lie next to each other, each one a few feet below its neighbor. Each is covered in concrete and beautiful plantings surround the graves. There are no signs or other markings on the burials. The concrete slabs are remarkably clear of debris, and little birds and small lizards scurry over them.
There is one mass grave that has a glass-topped chamber that demonstrates how the bodies—often only bones—are consecrated. There are wooden coffins, and sometimes they hold one body if it is found intact; sometimes when many bodies are recovered together, the families choose to bury the bones together. Thus, some coffins contain the remains of up to ten people. Each coffin is draped with a purple “flag” of what I surmise is Christian significance.
There are beautiful gardens at the Memorial, several fountains, small pools, and many plants and small wildlife. In the center courtyard, there is a fountain in a pool, and at the center is an abstract sculpture of six human figures, a pair at each of three heights. Each of the pairs is touching foreheads, a traditional greeting of friendship here. On the heads of the two tallest figures, there is a metal bowl shaped as a traditional woven bowl made here. From April 7 to July 17 of every year, fire burns in this bowl to signify the 100 days of the 1994 Genocide.
The broad steps leading to the main building are shiny black granite. Across from these is a sort of amphitheatre, with a lawn and benches composing the other two sides.
As I was sitting on a bench looking out to this central courtyard, a child of about four years ran up to the fountain and studied it hard. After a few minutes, the child ran back to her mother and said very emphatically, “It doesn’t make sense! How can fire and water be together?” Indeed. That is a very apt metaphor for the Rwandans. The complexity of the continuing trauma here makes peace and reconciliation seem impossible, yet Rwandans live in peace.
Also from this bench, I notice the Kigali Memorial Centre signage on the building. It’s very beautiful. The letters are cut from metal and are offset a few inches from the building wall. The color of the metal shifts from a silvery grey to a warm cream depending on the angle from which you view it. But it’s the “k” that commands my attention. I don’t know the font exactly and Doc Design seems like a million years ago, but it is a serif font, all lower case. But that “k”. The downstroke, the part that sweeps down and to the right—normally the last stroke of the letter—is the shape of a panga, a machete. It is subtle, but clearly an adaption to the font. In Western eyes, this traditional farming implement seems to be the symbol of the destruction and bloodshed of those terrible days.
After the outside tour, Claudien pointed me toward the beginning of the self-paced tour through the interior exhibits. There are two floors: the first presents Rwandan history and then proceeds through the Genocide; the second presents information about other genocides, and there is a memorial to the children who were lost in the Genocide.
The exhibits are Western style, with large images that dominate a wall which is overlaid with visual and textual information. There are some artifacts as well as some brief videos. All the information is in Kinyarwandan, French, and English. The sections were divided by Rwandan history, both pre-colonial and colonial. (I hadn’t read yet that prior to Western influence, Rwanda had 11 clans, with Hutu and Tutsi signifying fluid economic status across clans. Interesting.) Other sections included the lead-up to the Genocide, several panels on the events of those 100 days, the aftermath, the long-term consequences (which focused mainly on Genocidal rape against women and HIV/AIDS as a weapon of genocide), propaganda, the world’s reaction to the Genocide, resistance, heroes who hid and otherwise protected Tutsis, and justice. Interestingly, the material did not single out the United States in any part, not did the material include anything about Paul Kagame, the leader of the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) which engaged in a war with the Hutu government to end the Genocide; Kagame is now the Rwandan president.
Also on the first floor are the two stained glass windows made by the son of a Holocaust survivor. They depict the descent into Genocide and the aftermath. At several points in the exhibit, there are places to exit to a sunny balcony outside and then re-enter.
At several points during my slow progress through the exhibits, Claudien finds me to ask if everything is clear. I answer that it is. He does not ask if I understand, and I do not. He does not ask if I have any questions, and I have many, most of which are unanswerable.
The second floor presents the concept and origins of the word “genocide.” (In Kinyarwandan, this word is spelled “jenocide.” I am thankful that Julius added the íe to my name.) The other genocides included in this exhibit are Cambodia, Bosnia, the Holocaust, Armenia, and the Hereros of Namibia. This material does not attempt to be all-inclusive; rather, it provides a sampling of mass tragedies. There is also a panel on genocide prevention.
The last of the inside exhibits is in several small, connecting rooms that are painted a deep, golden yellow. The exhibits in these rooms memorialize just a few of the many children who were killed in the Genocide.
In the first few rooms, there are large photographs, maybe three by five feet, of one or two children with his or her name across the top. Near each photo are a few facts about that child.
The plaques read like this:
--Name
--Age (15 months to 15 years)
--Favorite food, drink, toy (chips with mayonnaise, meat, chocolate; mother’s milk, Fanta, tea; doll, truck)
--Best friend (sister, friend’s name, father, auntie)
--Personality (liked to talk to her older brother; liked to play with his friends; good in school; a small, weak baby who cried a lot)
--Last words (“UNAMIR will come for us”; “Mum, where can I run?” and “Pray”) or last sight (his mother dying)
--And the last fact is how the child died (gunshot to the head, machete, torture, grenade thrown into the child’s bathroom, machete in his mother’s arms, crushed against a tree)
The exhibit concludes with a place to hang other children’s photos.
The Memorial Centre is run on donations and it has a terrific web site: http://www.kigalimemorialcentre.org/
[Caution: some graphic descriptions follow]
Julius set up a private tour of this country’s main Genocide memorial, and I was to meet its coordinator, Claudien, at 9:00 am. I arrived early and the armed guards, military men, confiscated my pocket knife. It hadn’t occurred to me not to bring it, but it makes sense. [On my way out late in the afternoon, I asked for “mon couteau petit” and it was given back to me. One of the soldiers was keeping it in his pocket for me.]
Claudien began my tour by walking me through the outside areas: the mass graves and the gardens.
There are about ten mass graves here, and when I ask how many bodies, Claudien replies, “Right now, about 258,000.” Right now. They are still locating mass burials throughout Kigali and as bones are discovered, they are reburied here. He showed me the area that is being prepared for more mass graves, three terraces down the hill from the main building.
I pretty much held it together, although I couldn’t help but wipe some tears away when Claudien wasn’t looking. (What I read about Rwandan etiquette is that public displays of emotion are not “polite.”) Claudien hears my voice struggling, so I know he knows I’m not insensitive.
The mass graves are anywhere between five by five meters across to about seven by seven meters across. I’m not sure how deep they are, but several layers, I think. (Rwanda is the most densly-populated country in Africa and land is used efficiently.) Several mass graves lie next to each other, each one a few feet below its neighbor. Each is covered in concrete and beautiful plantings surround the graves. There are no signs or other markings on the burials. The concrete slabs are remarkably clear of debris, and little birds and small lizards scurry over them.
There is one mass grave that has a glass-topped chamber that demonstrates how the bodies—often only bones—are consecrated. There are wooden coffins, and sometimes they hold one body if it is found intact; sometimes when many bodies are recovered together, the families choose to bury the bones together. Thus, some coffins contain the remains of up to ten people. Each coffin is draped with a purple “flag” of what I surmise is Christian significance.
There are beautiful gardens at the Memorial, several fountains, small pools, and many plants and small wildlife. In the center courtyard, there is a fountain in a pool, and at the center is an abstract sculpture of six human figures, a pair at each of three heights. Each of the pairs is touching foreheads, a traditional greeting of friendship here. On the heads of the two tallest figures, there is a metal bowl shaped as a traditional woven bowl made here. From April 7 to July 17 of every year, fire burns in this bowl to signify the 100 days of the 1994 Genocide.
The broad steps leading to the main building are shiny black granite. Across from these is a sort of amphitheatre, with a lawn and benches composing the other two sides.
As I was sitting on a bench looking out to this central courtyard, a child of about four years ran up to the fountain and studied it hard. After a few minutes, the child ran back to her mother and said very emphatically, “It doesn’t make sense! How can fire and water be together?” Indeed. That is a very apt metaphor for the Rwandans. The complexity of the continuing trauma here makes peace and reconciliation seem impossible, yet Rwandans live in peace.
Also from this bench, I notice the Kigali Memorial Centre signage on the building. It’s very beautiful. The letters are cut from metal and are offset a few inches from the building wall. The color of the metal shifts from a silvery grey to a warm cream depending on the angle from which you view it. But it’s the “k” that commands my attention. I don’t know the font exactly and Doc Design seems like a million years ago, but it is a serif font, all lower case. But that “k”. The downstroke, the part that sweeps down and to the right—normally the last stroke of the letter—is the shape of a panga, a machete. It is subtle, but clearly an adaption to the font. In Western eyes, this traditional farming implement seems to be the symbol of the destruction and bloodshed of those terrible days.
After the outside tour, Claudien pointed me toward the beginning of the self-paced tour through the interior exhibits. There are two floors: the first presents Rwandan history and then proceeds through the Genocide; the second presents information about other genocides, and there is a memorial to the children who were lost in the Genocide.
The exhibits are Western style, with large images that dominate a wall which is overlaid with visual and textual information. There are some artifacts as well as some brief videos. All the information is in Kinyarwandan, French, and English. The sections were divided by Rwandan history, both pre-colonial and colonial. (I hadn’t read yet that prior to Western influence, Rwanda had 11 clans, with Hutu and Tutsi signifying fluid economic status across clans. Interesting.) Other sections included the lead-up to the Genocide, several panels on the events of those 100 days, the aftermath, the long-term consequences (which focused mainly on Genocidal rape against women and HIV/AIDS as a weapon of genocide), propaganda, the world’s reaction to the Genocide, resistance, heroes who hid and otherwise protected Tutsis, and justice. Interestingly, the material did not single out the United States in any part, not did the material include anything about Paul Kagame, the leader of the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) which engaged in a war with the Hutu government to end the Genocide; Kagame is now the Rwandan president.
Also on the first floor are the two stained glass windows made by the son of a Holocaust survivor. They depict the descent into Genocide and the aftermath. At several points in the exhibit, there are places to exit to a sunny balcony outside and then re-enter.
At several points during my slow progress through the exhibits, Claudien finds me to ask if everything is clear. I answer that it is. He does not ask if I understand, and I do not. He does not ask if I have any questions, and I have many, most of which are unanswerable.
The second floor presents the concept and origins of the word “genocide.” (In Kinyarwandan, this word is spelled “jenocide.” I am thankful that Julius added the íe to my name.) The other genocides included in this exhibit are Cambodia, Bosnia, the Holocaust, Armenia, and the Hereros of Namibia. This material does not attempt to be all-inclusive; rather, it provides a sampling of mass tragedies. There is also a panel on genocide prevention.
The last of the inside exhibits is in several small, connecting rooms that are painted a deep, golden yellow. The exhibits in these rooms memorialize just a few of the many children who were killed in the Genocide.
In the first few rooms, there are large photographs, maybe three by five feet, of one or two children with his or her name across the top. Near each photo are a few facts about that child.
The plaques read like this:
--Name
--Age (15 months to 15 years)
--Favorite food, drink, toy (chips with mayonnaise, meat, chocolate; mother’s milk, Fanta, tea; doll, truck)
--Best friend (sister, friend’s name, father, auntie)
--Personality (liked to talk to her older brother; liked to play with his friends; good in school; a small, weak baby who cried a lot)
--Last words (“UNAMIR will come for us”; “Mum, where can I run?” and “Pray”) or last sight (his mother dying)
--And the last fact is how the child died (gunshot to the head, machete, torture, grenade thrown into the child’s bathroom, machete in his mother’s arms, crushed against a tree)
The exhibit concludes with a place to hang other children’s photos.
The Memorial Centre is run on donations and it has a terrific web site: http://www.kigalimemorialcentre.org/
Practicalities
July 7, 2008
Lots of you are wondering about some of the more practical matters regarding a month in Rwanda.
First, let me say that I am back in my Rwandan home, Auberge La Caverne, after a couple of nights at a hotel up the street. Apparently the Auberge double-booked my room and so I moved. (BTW, I thought that “auberge” meant eggplant, but a quick check in my handy French-English dictionary clarifies that eggplant is “aubergine;” auberge is “inn.” Strange etymological coincidence.)
The other room was where my electrical near-fiasco occurred. The nearby bar was really loud, and I just couldn’t sleep there, so I’m happy to be back. When I told Julius of Never Again that the Auberge wanted to move me out of my room again later this month, that did not sit well at all, and after some phone conversations, I was told that I will be moving, but only to another room here at the Auberge. It pays to have someone look after your practical matters here.
So this room has two double beds with intact, ample mosquito netting, a large shelf to accommodate suitcases, a little table between the beds, a phone (for the front desk to call you up), a little TV that picks up three channels: Spanish weather, international business news, and Rwandan news. There is also a big attached bathroom with a large shower area, a sink that doesn’t leak, and a toilet that flushes (a definite improvement over the other room). It helps to have basic knowledge of plumbing, preferably toilets, when you travel. And at home, for that matter. I have yet, though, to be able to get hot water in this nice room. That was the only redeeming quality of the other place. Oh well. I’ll pretend I’m at the dorms for May Seminar (haha).
The water throughout Rwanda is iffy, a highly technical term. I’ve seen floaters and sinkers in it only once, but otherwise I’ve been using my SteriPen and things have been fine. I have to say that it looks like something else in its case, though, so I definitely don’t whip it out in public.
Come to think of it, I still haven’t figured out if drinking water on the street is polite. Smoking or eating food on the street is considered vulgar and slovenly, but I’m not sure about swigging water. Something to ask Julius. The thing I worried about and knew I’d do eventually actually happened last night: as I was getting ready to brush my teeth, I stuck my toothbrush under the tap. I’d been so careful about using only purified water, but damnit! I just didn’t think. Quickly, I dried the toothbrush on my favorite grey t-shirt which I hoped had magical protective qualities, took a swig of Pepto just to be sure, and then proceeded with purified water. No troubles 24 hours later (knock on wood). Oh, and BTW, when liquid Pepto travels, it gets gloopy, like Pepto pudding. Ick.
Other practicallities? Oh yes—travelling alone at night. I left Never Again at 7 p.m. tonight after an exciting, productive day. But that meant that I had to find my way to the mini-bus stop in the dark. And it was the first time I took that route. But luckily, I’m awake, and my spatial sense has kicked back in, so I made it just fine. I was carrying a little flashlight (thanks, Thomas!) in my purse, but couldn’t find it, so I sort of stumbled along. Lots of chuckling from the neighbors, but that’s fair.
The Nyamirambo neighborhood is busy by day, but at night, wow! Literally, the sidewalks are filled with people, and not just here and there, but everywhere! All the little shops have lights in them and people are socializing.
Because Rwanda is almost on the equator, day and night are just about equal. But as I was riding the bus back to mumuji (town center), I had the same feeling that I had when I was about seven and that I recognize in my younger son as we drive through town at night: All the lights! All the activity!
More practicalities? Most Westerners don’t wear make-up here, unless they are tourists. Those of you who know me know that I struggle with issues about make-up. Frankly, I can’t stand it, so I wear as little of it as possible to fit the stereotype of a woman who has access. Here, I wear make-up or not, with no difference in perception.
Oh, and the weather. It’s very pleasant here, what I guess would be the 80s. There are lots of hills to traverse and lots of people crowding into small spaces, so even people who don’t sweat much sweat a lot here. There was rain on Sunday and it was a bit cooler, maybe the low 70s. Rwandans broke out their sweaters. Really. And the moto drivers were in heavy jackets.
Send me more queries, and I’ll try to answer them. And yes, I’ll blog more about clothing. And food. Later.
Lots of you are wondering about some of the more practical matters regarding a month in Rwanda.
First, let me say that I am back in my Rwandan home, Auberge La Caverne, after a couple of nights at a hotel up the street. Apparently the Auberge double-booked my room and so I moved. (BTW, I thought that “auberge” meant eggplant, but a quick check in my handy French-English dictionary clarifies that eggplant is “aubergine;” auberge is “inn.” Strange etymological coincidence.)
The other room was where my electrical near-fiasco occurred. The nearby bar was really loud, and I just couldn’t sleep there, so I’m happy to be back. When I told Julius of Never Again that the Auberge wanted to move me out of my room again later this month, that did not sit well at all, and after some phone conversations, I was told that I will be moving, but only to another room here at the Auberge. It pays to have someone look after your practical matters here.
So this room has two double beds with intact, ample mosquito netting, a large shelf to accommodate suitcases, a little table between the beds, a phone (for the front desk to call you up), a little TV that picks up three channels: Spanish weather, international business news, and Rwandan news. There is also a big attached bathroom with a large shower area, a sink that doesn’t leak, and a toilet that flushes (a definite improvement over the other room). It helps to have basic knowledge of plumbing, preferably toilets, when you travel. And at home, for that matter. I have yet, though, to be able to get hot water in this nice room. That was the only redeeming quality of the other place. Oh well. I’ll pretend I’m at the dorms for May Seminar (haha).
The water throughout Rwanda is iffy, a highly technical term. I’ve seen floaters and sinkers in it only once, but otherwise I’ve been using my SteriPen and things have been fine. I have to say that it looks like something else in its case, though, so I definitely don’t whip it out in public.
Come to think of it, I still haven’t figured out if drinking water on the street is polite. Smoking or eating food on the street is considered vulgar and slovenly, but I’m not sure about swigging water. Something to ask Julius. The thing I worried about and knew I’d do eventually actually happened last night: as I was getting ready to brush my teeth, I stuck my toothbrush under the tap. I’d been so careful about using only purified water, but damnit! I just didn’t think. Quickly, I dried the toothbrush on my favorite grey t-shirt which I hoped had magical protective qualities, took a swig of Pepto just to be sure, and then proceeded with purified water. No troubles 24 hours later (knock on wood). Oh, and BTW, when liquid Pepto travels, it gets gloopy, like Pepto pudding. Ick.
Other practicallities? Oh yes—travelling alone at night. I left Never Again at 7 p.m. tonight after an exciting, productive day. But that meant that I had to find my way to the mini-bus stop in the dark. And it was the first time I took that route. But luckily, I’m awake, and my spatial sense has kicked back in, so I made it just fine. I was carrying a little flashlight (thanks, Thomas!) in my purse, but couldn’t find it, so I sort of stumbled along. Lots of chuckling from the neighbors, but that’s fair.
The Nyamirambo neighborhood is busy by day, but at night, wow! Literally, the sidewalks are filled with people, and not just here and there, but everywhere! All the little shops have lights in them and people are socializing.
Because Rwanda is almost on the equator, day and night are just about equal. But as I was riding the bus back to mumuji (town center), I had the same feeling that I had when I was about seven and that I recognize in my younger son as we drive through town at night: All the lights! All the activity!
More practicalities? Most Westerners don’t wear make-up here, unless they are tourists. Those of you who know me know that I struggle with issues about make-up. Frankly, I can’t stand it, so I wear as little of it as possible to fit the stereotype of a woman who has access. Here, I wear make-up or not, with no difference in perception.
Oh, and the weather. It’s very pleasant here, what I guess would be the 80s. There are lots of hills to traverse and lots of people crowding into small spaces, so even people who don’t sweat much sweat a lot here. There was rain on Sunday and it was a bit cooler, maybe the low 70s. Rwandans broke out their sweaters. Really. And the moto drivers were in heavy jackets.
Send me more queries, and I’ll try to answer them. And yes, I’ll blog more about clothing. And food. Later.
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