some leaving, some coming home

You should be warned that as I write this, I am LUIDW. That is, Living Under the Influence of the Developed World.

What exactly, you might ask, does this entail?

It means, most importantly, that I can take a hot bath whenever I want. Bubble bath included. 1, 2, 3 times if I so please. Number two, I can drink clean water from the tap. Unlimited clean water, bring it on. LUIDW has also propelled and compelled me to at times whilst in England drink 5 cups of coffee in one day, not because I need it, but because I want it (and I can!). Cappachinos? Lattes? I’m sorry, you can add flavored syrup? Where have you been all of my life? (and by life, I of course mean the past 20 months or so, I haven’t completely forgotten the magical powers of America in my first 23 years.)

LUIDW can provide great joy. Not because of all the STUFF (this tends to actually make decisions difficult and results in a sort of sensory overload) but because you can be easily impressed. The electricity works! The dishwasher is readily available! The tea cooks in 3 minutes! Wow, this internet is fast! Hey girl, look at all of these kinds of apples!

Getting around is a lot smoother too. Cars, trains, whatever, it comes on time. The roads are for the most part quite nice and maintained.

Oh! And the toliets….don’t even get me started.

LUIDW = a very easily entertained, pleased, happy, and grateful Heather.

Certainly, the added benefits of traveling while a Peace Corps Volunteer has reaped me significant reprieve also because I’m NIR.

(Perhaps Peace Corps is rubbing off on me a bit much with all my acronyms here, as they are notorious for all of their own acronyms; for example, PCMO (that mean Peace Corps Medical Officer, our doctor), MSC (Mid-Service Conference, the conference we do at the mid-point in our service), and CD (Country Director, the leader in charge of all operations in a given country that Peace Corps works in). Believe me, that’s just the beginning of a very long list that acts very much so as its own language and lingo.)

But like I was saying, I am NIR and this refers to Not In Rwanda.

This brings about special breaks and pleasures that are unique to the Rwandan Peace Corps experience.

For all the joys in LUIDW, I have also been able to go walking on the street–any street–and move about completely unnoticed. Nobody cares who I am, nobody cares where I am going.

Maybe best of all, nobody screams out the English translation of “White person! White person! White person!” as if I already didn’t know my skin color.

I don’t have to speak Kinyarwanda 24/7 and I don’t hear people whispering (good or bad) about me when I pass by.

I can eat in public, I don’t have to carry everything in a bag upon purchase and I can wear a dress that reaches above my knees and not feel a single twinge of guilt.

If I got asked for spare change it wasn’t just because I’m a white person, people appeared to make few assumptions about me, and moving around in general was significantly much easier.

The state of NIR is both relieving and weird; unfamiliar and welcome; relaxing and strange. I mentioned the positive sides of NIR above, but of course, after 20 months of constantly trying to integrate into Rwandan culture, it struck me as odd that not every single person says hello to each other, that people don’t care where I pray (because the assumption is that all people do), and of course, why people just move so much quicker than I remember! Just because I’m NIR doesn’t mean I don’t love Rwanda, you know.

The developed world isn’t perfect– I’m not that misguided, y’all–but I sure can appreciate the conveniences a lot more, that’s for sure.

But I’m going to be real here.

The hot baths and tap water withstanding, I don’t credit LUIDW or NIR for providing the kind of peace that I’ve found in my 12 days in England. Absolutley, it’s been amazing, and it’s helped, but “recharging your batteries”, so to speak, isn’t enough to mend a frazzled and frayed spirit.

Moreover, all of the things that I did while visiting–a spur of the moment trip to Paris, walking through parks, having tea parties, ending my pub-virginity, hitting the gym, watching Rob Bell speak live, getting a hair-cut, perusing Oxford, and exploring the historic sites of London, to name a few–are now incredible memories that helped me feel alive, light-hearted, and free. They allowed me to feel, I dont know, normal? If there is such a thing. But, these activities alone wouldn’t have been enough either.

More than anything, it was being able to do all of the things that I listed above with one of the most important people in my life, Michelle.

Michelle and I were fast friends at Hendrix and after graduation with her wedding and move to England and my move to Rwanda for the Peace Corps, our lives, quite literally, went in separate directions.

But, the best thing about friendship, I think, is that no matter time or distance, you are always binded together. At least with the really, really good ones.

So, when I saw Michelle (for the first time in a year and a half) at the waiting area at Heathrow after my flight from Addis Ababa in Ethiopia (Michelle and I say “Addis A-bo0-boo”; classy, I know), I could have been in any country, state, or county in the world and I would have been happy.

Michelle and Jon, her Manchester City-golf-ice pop-lovin’ husband opened their home to me for nearly two weeks. They gave me free reign to “make myself at home” and I usually have no fear in doing so, and with them, it felt completely natural. I was jogging pretty English roads, trying to learn street names, and always trying to learn new English lingo (“chav” and “cheeky” are my most recent acquisitions). Staying at the home of really great people, and in the home of your best friend is definitely the way to travel.

Last night, as we prepared to watch Julie & Julia, I hunkered down on the uber-comfortable red couch with the comforter from the guest bedroom along with a glass of sparkling water and my PJs.

“This is why you are here,” Michelle said with a contented smile.
“Oh you know girl, whatever I can do to provide entertainment,” I laughed back, thinking she meant I was being a goober having removed the comforter completely from the upstairs bed.
She chuckled for a second and then quickly corrected my misinterpretation,
“Um. No. I mean because you live in Rwanda, Heather!”

Oh. Rightttt. I’m here, to chill out and to enjoy the comforts that come with a cozy home.

Michelle was right, that was one of the reasons why I came.

The best moments weren’t necessarily the big sights and beautiful views; it was driving around with Michelle in her car, seeing her life first-hand. It was reminiscing about the past, explaining our present lives, and contemplating the future. It was going on a “picnic” (it was freezing, y’all), sleeping in, sharing breakfast in the morning, skyping our friends, playing Monopoly, drinking wine, and visiting local coffee shops. It often is the simple things you know, and what usually matters most is who you are with.

So many of our conversations were interlaced with our experiences living in an entirely new culture. There were some similarities, some differences, but we certainly both had stories to share about the cultures we had arrived in.

Both of us found solace in what it’s like living in places heavily rooted in tradition. It’s how we have always done things is something we have both had to face head on as newbies.

In England, at a pub, Michelle tells me it is common for one person to buy a round. Then, another person will pitch in, and this continues through the evening. You should also remain quiet on the train station (if you are loud, you could be a dead give away as a potential American). The English value football, tea, and who doesn’t love the Queen?

I told Michelle about the complexity of Rwandan culture; of how getting to know people is a difficult (but entirely rewardable and beautiful) process. I tried giving examples from the families I have become a part of. I noted what it’s like being a celebrity of sorts in my tiny village. And of course had to highlight the importance of church. Praying, it’s just what you do.

It’s time to go, and of course, I’m sad, but there is so much comfort in having a friend who understands what it’s like to try and fit in such a radically different place. What’s better, is that sometimes in these exchanges of cross-culture, you realize that as crazy different as the world is, we’re all humans, right? And so, we’re different, but we’re linked too.

My favorite example is being at the pub with Michelle and two of her girl friends, Venetia, and Becky, both of who are in a study group with Michelle. Best of all, they are reading through “Bad Girls in the Bible” (what’s not to love about this?) and yet when we all met up, the time was spent discussing practical ways to clean the bathroom, what work has been like, and the latest hubby tales.

I sat there in awe. Because y’all, the women in my village meet up for Women’s Council every Monday afternoon for nearly 3 hours and discuss these very things. Of course, it’s not the same, but in a way, it is. And that’s maybe the most enlightening thing to take away from the way our world works. There’s so much we don’t understand, but when you try, you find micro examples of how God has connected us all.

It’s time to go, but there’s a reason to be brave and the reason is that we’re all held together, by some sort of grace, with God. He loves us and He will see us through everything; whether it’s coming or going, leaving or staying.

 

“life continues”

My friend and fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, Sarah Epplin (out of Indiana and a graduate of Indiana University–this is something she will remind you probably each time you are together; she loves her Hoosier roots!) is a regular blogger about her experience as a volunteer in Rwanda. She lives in my region (out East) and so I’ve been able to exchange stories, feelings, and ideas with her relatively regularly over fanta, amadazi (that’s the Rwandan version of doughnuts), and tea while we all meet to pick up our packages from America in our “big” town.

One continual theme that she occasionally blogs about is a list of reasons, people, and things that have kept her in Rwanda over the course of this experience. She can get as specific as something that she might enjoy eating, or as broad as a desire to fulfill some sort of life purpose or value. I’ve always enjoyed reading her posts when she reflects on what keeps her here because whenever you read the reflections of others, you are usually pushed to reflect in your own way as well.

It’s really not been a secret in our close-knit (and gossip heavy) Peace Corps community that I’ve hit a rather large slump over the last couple of weeks. A lot of us have been here too, and so it does help to know that I’m not alone.

And, I’ve been pretty open about it on my blog. This is for a variety of reasons. Most importantly, my blog is a pretty important way for me to reflect on what I’m going through, and in order to do this to the fullest extent, I have to be honest. But also, it’s crucial to describe the difficulties here because while this experience has been 90% wonderful and amazing for me, there are low points that have put me in dark emotional places that I really have never known before. It’s important to me, as a daughter, friend, sister, and acquaintance, to be open about these things so that people back home can realize that being a Peace Corps Volunteer isn’t a pit-stop in my life. It is my life. And so you continue to feel the same things you would anywhere else in the world. Though more recently, I would say that as I have become a more seasoned volunteer, the highs have certainly become much more intense, and in turn, the lows have become equally intense. Overall, I’m feeling everything a lot more strongly than say, a year ago, and so I’ve had to adjust and “go back to basics” as they say, and recall what I love about my life here. And so you have this blog.

Why Am I Still Here?

• this is a part of my story. When I made a decision to commit to this, I was all in. That hasn’t changed. Even when I consider the idea of leaving, it’s no longer like thinking about quitting a job. It would be leaving a life. And I just can’t do that.

• 10 months ago I was hesitant as to if this would work. then, there was no looking back. I’ve hit a hard spot. But really, up until now, I’ve been cruising. I know I can get back to that feeling.

• my girls. if nothing else, it’s them. It’s always been them, it will always be them. Divine, Maisara, Zahara, and Yazina (among many others) make me want to be a strong woman, a woman of God, and a woman who puts God and my loved ones first. They bring out the best in me. They make me laugh. They make me happy. We’ve hit rough spots (no relationship is perfect) and yet each and every time, they redeem themselves, and I think I redeem myself too. Divine, in particular, is my best friend here, and I cannot fathom not seeing her every day. She’s my rock and we’ve both talked about how it’s unbelievable (and totally the work of God) in the way our lives have crossed at such a time. We both needed (and continue to need) each other.

• there is work still to be done. My grant just finished the fundraising phase and after the holiday will need to begin implementation. Also, the shelves have finally arrived for our library and so after organizing the books it will need to be opened.

• the food and tea just keeps getting better. and better! The fruit loop tasting tea (I’m not kidding) makes for strong motivation to get out of bed in the morning. I’ve found a renewed love for bananas. I have even started to have cravings for Rwandan food. Would I STAY in Rwanda solely for a plate of cooked plantains? Um. No. But it does help on more difficult days, believe me.

• i want to be a constant for my students. Rwandans move like crazy. Things change in an instant and they have an incredible ability to adjust. However, I know they need constants–every human does. Even if it’s just for 2 years (a blip on the radar in the grand scheme of life, I know) I want them to see and know I’m here. I said I would be here for a certain amount of time and as long as I’m emotionally healthy and able to be here, I will be.

• i’m an addict. to rwandan culture, that is. For every annoying bit of the culture here (secret-keeping, lack of honesty, staring), there’s 20 redeeming aspects, like hospitality, saying things like “be strong”, greetings, and dancing that make up for it. I’m just used to that now. And I love it!

• routine. While I can never predict what will happen on the road, at school, or in transit, I have found solace in that. The unpredictable has become predictable. I like that life is different here. I like being in a challenging environment. But in even the most challenging of places to live, we are human, and we find ways to make life normal. Sure, maybe I’ll encounter different people, have a new problem, or visit a different student than normal. But on most days, I wake up in the same bed, I drink the same coffee, I teach, I walk the same roads, and I do the same things at night (cook, journal, push-ups, talk on the phone, pray, watch a TV show). Rwanda, in a sense, has become normal despite how crazy and weird it is here.

• glow club. “teacher, we have a good friendship because you help me to have confidence in the life.” dream job, realized.

• simplicity. Life is complex, hypocritical, and confusing sometimes, but when I take walks on the road and greet my neighbors and go to buy petrol to cook, I appreciate how the excessive amounts of STUFF doesn’t surrond me here. I know my life still isn’t anything like that of my neighbors and community members, but for me–on a good day–life is simple.

• it feels right when I pray to God. I really believe I should have been here all along. Sometimes, I want to run away. But, when you’re doing what you should be, you find a way to come back. And each and everytime, this has worked for me. And it will this time too.

• every day is a chance to help someone. This is true ANYWHERE in the world in ANY situation. We live in communities for a reason. However, this is one of the most tied-together communities that I have lived within and because of this, being able to help someone, anyone, is there for the taking. And it’s not just because I’m white (let’s be real, that’s another issue altogether) but it’s because I’m a teacher in rural Rwanda, and with that role, a lot of other doors to help people are open. This is what I have always wanted the focus of my life to be, so I stay because I know I’m helping someone. And maybe the best part is that the people I am trying to serve or serving me right back. I tell them this all the time. I hope they know it. I hope they understand just how much they have added to my life.

• it’s beautiful here. Who wouldn’t want to live amidst trees, mountains, birds, blues, greens, yellows, and rolling hills that make the scenery look unreal? Rwanda folktale say that Imana (God) goes all over the world in the day but that at night, he comes back home, to Rwanda, to sleep. I would too. This is one of the most gorgeous places I have ever seen.

• i’ve come this far. I have finished teaching 4 terms at my school. 4 out of 6. I have lived in Rwanda since September 2011. That’s like, 19 months. I’ve spoken some kind of word in Kinyarwanda for every day that has passed. I’ve figured out how to stand my own at the market, where the best running trails exist in my village (still finding new ones every day), how to handle the frusturation of disorganization, how to exist in what we call ‘Rwanda time’, and I know who to go to when I have a problem. I have literally made a life here. There is no shame in walking away if it’s time to go, but for me, it’s not that time. I have come this far, surely I can continue. I’ve been able to withstand harassment, security issues, crazy people (quite literally), and being the only white girl around. If I can make it for 19 months, I know I can not only do, but do well in the remaining 8 months.

ONWARD AND UPWARD.

Yesterday, I sat on my bed with Divine as she cried.

Yes, crying. Rwandans RARELY do this in the presence of another person; and I could count on my hand the times I had seen Rwandans cry.

Divine was upset because she was concerned about her mathematics marks after not being allowed to sit for the exam because she didn’t bring a notebook to contribute to the communal books of paper that the school uses during exam week. We won’t talk about how she actually did bring her book (the assistant principal wasn’t around when she came by the office) and when she tried again on the day of the exam (before any exam was even administered) he just remarked that it was too late and she’d have to take no marks for that exam.

She buried her face in her hands and cried for about 10 minutes. She refused to talk. She didn’t even take the tissue I offered. I tried to console her but it didn’t really work, I think. Crying is a different sort of thing in Rwanda, and she just needed to have her moment.

As I rubbed her back, I simultaneously became once again infuriated with my school and more determined than ever to stay here. In the same moment, I wanted to quit my job in protest of the ridiculous decisions our administration makes and also wanted to continue so that there could be an open space for my students if they so wanted. Obviously, Divine felt safe to be in my home; she woudn’t be crying there if this wasn’t the case.

After her tears finished, I gave her some chocolate and threw on “Kiss Me Kate”, a musical that had her laughing continously when she watched it the week prior. She loves the dancing and singing parts in particular.
I called her later that night after she had returned home and that same energy and spirit in her voice was back.

I asked how she was feeling and she said, “wonderful!” I smiled and said she was a very strong girl. She told me,

“Heather, before my heart was sad. Even me, I cried! Yeee weeee (oh my Jesus!)….but now it is okay. I will pray that God can find the solution for me. It is okay to be sad sometimes but life continues.”

Me: “Life continues?”

Divine: “Life continues. You continue to be happy in the life. No fear.”
She couldn’t have known, but these were the exact words I needed to hear. It’s the sort of thing that gives me purpose, inspiration, and motivation all in one. She’s right.
Life continues. I’m still here, and I’m still so glad to be. Let these reminders hold me in the challenging times. Let me remember what really matters.

murakoze (thanks).

A couple of weeks ago, I was at a Rwandan party (typical) that had to do with some pre-wedding celebration (as to be expected) with Divine (we are basically attached at the hip). I get invited to these sorts of gatherings occasionally with an invitation but most often with a short-notice verbal offer. And usually I say yes. Divine had mentioned the party on a Friday—the final day of school where we passed out reports—and the party was the next day, on Saturday. No problem, I said. And so it was.

I arrived to the wide-open arms of old women draped in traditional Rwandan dress, to a bark brown colored cow, and to a slew of old men on benches already sucking the straws of their shared banana and sorghum beer. Why yes, a Rwandan party indeed. After a few minutes of greeting the family (and let’s be real, working the crowd), Divine whisked me away to a small room on an attached part of the house. The room was quite a bit isolated from everything else, and we sat on an old bed frame with a small blanket, adjacent to a small table holding various household items, like a large spoon to serve and a red jacket to keep warm.

Here, we got to take a break from the stuffy room full of family members discussing wedding formalities, and instead relax, hug, and catch up for a few moments. Abruptly Divine left for a few moments and so I was left alone for a bit (quite common when visiting homes in Rwanda) and wondered what exactly that girl was up to. And y’all, that girl came back holding a 1-liter yellow jug full of banana beer. We kind of have this understanding as I had let her in on my little secret: I like beer. Moreover, I like banana beer (oh yeah, totally have been in the village too long). And so, Divine and I shared this smuggled jug of banana beer in a small, cramped, one-window room in our little village. True friendship.

That party framed the end of not only the school term, but the school year. Before I committed to a long list of holiday obligations and commitments, I spent the last week in my village working on my library project, doing some last minute home visits, and taking some time to just relax. I knew I would need it. My holiday schedule is as follows:

-Model School (helping observe Peace Corps trainees as they practice teaching)

-BE (Boys Excelling) Camp

-Visiting Divine in Eastern Rwanda at her mother’s home

-Visiting another student, Joyce, at her home near the Ugandan border

-Attending and celebrating at the swear-in ceremony for the new group of Education volunteers (called ‘Ed-4’ in Peace Corps lingo)

-DAD’S VISIT TO RWANDA (!!!!!!!)

-New Year’s safari with friends in Eastern Rwanda

-Mid-Service Conference (Peace Corps sponsored conference to discuss ideas, issues, and experiences with my group (‘Ed-3’) as we reach the half-way point of our service)

This particular holiday is approximately 2 months and yet almost every week I have various commitments and events to attend. It’s crazy—even living in rural Rwanda keeps me busy.

In other big news, my sports grant was officially approved by Peace Corps Washington! Which means I can start fundraising. To donate money to help our school acquire materials for our sports program you can follow this link and donate online. Super easy. Everything helps and we would appreciate any contribution you can make!

https://donate.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=696-021

I went out for pizza last night with 4 other Peace Corps friends to celebrate Thanksgiving. We went around the table, as per tradition, to share what we are thankful for.

Admittedly (and so not surprisingly), I got a bit emotional and teary-eyed as I explained how much I have treasured and valued the support I’ve received the past year.

From my wonderful network of family and friends back home to the new support systems and families that I have found in Rwanda, not a day has passed that I haven’t been encouraged. Packages, letters, phone calls, hugs, smiles, skype dates, conversations, greetings, and the building of relationships are just the beginning of this kind of support. I can’t really explain it, but I suppose when you move a bagillion miles away to a new place you are able to see your life in a new way, with a fresh lens. I’ve reflected on a lot of things and one things for sure: the people in my love are the driving force for all that I do. I can do this because people believe in me. I can do this because it’s beyond worth it—even in the tough days. I do this because I think God brings us to exactly what we need. I can do this because it’s what is meant to be. My life in Rwanda is no longer just about me, and I think that’s important to note. It’s a strange mixture of the past and present, of the people who shaped the woman I have been, and the people that are influencing the woman I am becoming. It’s a blending of giving and receiving, of believing and trusting. It’s an extraordinarily difficult experience sometimes, but that’s why I love Thanksgiving. This day, in particular, reminds you of what you can offer to the world and what the world gives you. It helps you reflect on what God has put in your life and what exactly you can do with it. Thanksgiving makes you believe in your potential and life again. And so even celebrating a couple days late, I’m just bursting at the seams with gratitude, unsure of exactly how ended up here, but just so glad I have.

 Murakoze (thank you). 

the dark days are over

I feel like I’m living like a king.

I’ve changed my cooking methods, for one. For the past 10 months I’ve relied on the black sooty chunks of charcoal to generate enough heat to power my meals, coffee, and water for bathing my often dusty body. When the charcoal bag reached ends meet, I contemplated purchasing another 10-ish dollar rice sack of amacara (that’s charcoal in Kinyarwanda). Yet, I put that thought on the back burner when I stumbled (quite literally) over this old dinky pea green petrol stove I bought before moving from the Peace Corps training site to my home. Let’s give this petrol stove a trial run, I thought.

BEST. DECISION. EVER.

I can cook water in 10 minutes (not 45) and I can come home and get right into cooking—not prepping my source of heat for an obscene amount of time (though, my charcoal lighting skills have gotten quite advanced, I would say). Oh and speaking of power. I GOT IT! And, I don’t mean the self-encouraging, confident, believe in yourself type. I HAVE ELECTRICITY.

I was gone from site for several days due to taking part in Peace Corps training (teaching new trainees how to teach listening and speaking in the classroom) and visiting Suzi and so I was rather consumed with things outside of my home and outside of my site. However, I got a call one morning from our school accountant and my friend Emi, who told me that they would be breaking into my house to install electricity. Seriously? Did I hear that correctly? And truth be told, I didn’t really believe it—that is until I saw it. Concrete crumbles were scattered in all of the nooks and crannies of my wall corners, workers were meticulously connecting things together in every room, and red and black wires began to intertwine with my beige bamboo ceiling. Oh the sweet wires. When I saw those babies I knew this was the real deal. When it was time to flip the white switch in my front room, I saw the bulb light every where I could see and I gleefully absorbed all of what this meant. I can cook at night  enjoyably (without knocking over pots, pans, and spices due to the lack of light); I can actually see my floors (maybe assess whether they are actually clean); I don’t have to have a strategic game plan every single time I want to charge my electronics; I can grade papers (I have 381 students so you do the math) without hurting my eyes more than they will already hurt; and I can watch a tv show. Or two. Or three. My life will change, and hey, I’m cool with that.

I’m proud of myself—I did the no electricity thing for over a year. And you can make it. It’s possible. Most people in my village do it just fine. But, it’s hard. And I don’t think I’m some unsung hero or anything; I just remember thinking how scary/crazy it was when back in the ‘burbs the power would leave for like 23 minutes and Lance and I would grab blankets, security devices, and extra snacks for the duration without electricity. And this would be midday, mind you. I just have some added perspective, that’s all. And so you can bet that with each hour of light and power, I’ll be oh so grateful.

Another great thing about all of this is timing. Suzi had been planning a trip out East to visit me for several weeks and so as I went through all of these positive adjustments, Suzi was right there with me. Our journey to my house was full of rain, leaky bus roofs, and small cramped bus rides, but we made it. Even with added miscommunications with the bus people and the always present beast in the room: KINYARWANDA.

Suzi got to meet some of my students (and see some of them do their choreography to ‘Baby’ by the Biebs), talk with my headmaster, and see the rain damage to our school all within an hour in my village. It was just the beginning: Suzi’s visit was full of wine (thanks to Jon—an Australian merlot straight from England, HOLLER), magazines, macaroni and cheese, salad, coffee, ‘Abana daycare’ (Abana means children)—this involved Suzi and I hanging out with 14ish neighborhood kids playing Frisbee, bubbles, serving porridge, duck-duck-goose (changed to ihene-ihene-inka for cultural purposes—ihene means goat and inka means cow), and lots of photographs—, visiting my dear friend Jacqueline, watching 30 Rock, and lots of laughter, catching up, and relaxing in between.

There are some photos and there are these words but I guess I just forgot how wonderful, reaffirming, and joyous it is to share life with others. I do mean life in the most general sense: whether you’re sharing your family, showing the place you grew up, or cooking a special meal for another person, it’s just a really neat thing to open your life up a bit. I don’t know of a more heartwarming feeling than standing by and watching someone love what you love, to find the same joy in something you really care for, and to understand and have a context for a life you take a lot of pride in. And the best part is, for me, is that Suzi gets it. She exclaimed ‘your site is awesome!’ and how adorable my students are numerous times and I just wanted to jump up and down yelling, ‘YES! I KNOW, RIGHT?!’

The same sort of giddy contentment rushed through me when I visited the family last week while teaching the new group of Peace Corps education trainees. I had spoken with Taylor (the new trainee who lives with my host family, the third volunteer to do so, I was the first one) and I told her I was coming for a visit but I wanted it to be kept a secret as to surprise mama and papa. I was all but skipping down the familiar paths of my training days. I may be glad (beyond glad actually) to be done with training, but I always always enjoy seeing the people who took me in as their own, despite me being American, me being white, and me being just plain weird. When I turned the corner, I gulped down some adrenaline fueled energy, braced myself for the biggest hugs you could ever imagine from the neighborhood kids, and glanced up in time to see mama jumping up and down with her hands to her face in sheer surprise. I have been back three times now, and literally, each time it’s like coming home. It’s the closet thing I will have here; and really, it is actually that very experience, because in so many ways, that will always be a home for me.

It had been a long time—over 6 months—and so a visit was long overdue. As I downed 4 cups of milk tea, ate cassava bread with Taylor, and basked in all of the ruckus and excitement, I learned quickly how Taylor was equally happy with our host family. It’s a tough situation without a doubt, but we wholeheartedly agreed: we got SO blessed with Emmanuel and Bernadette and the kiddos as our host family in Rwanda (and the most beautiful part is that both mama and papa would tell you the same about the Peace Corps trainees that they have hosted, like I said, they are so precious). Taylor told me stories of her teaching ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes’ to some of the girls, we exchanged mama superwoman stories (she’s superwoman if I’ve ever seen one) and how she literally can do anything, and of papa praying in the morning (followed by mama’s beautiful singing), and how they are just about the most welcoming people we have ever encountered. She was glowing and raving and spilling out with all of this positivity and again, I was reminded of how amazing it is to be able to relate to her in such a way and to share these very similar feelings and experiences. We’re sisters of sorts and we have a family with hearts of solid gold.

When you open parts of your life to people and you take a step back, you see things from a new perspective, as if you are seeing with fresh eyes. It’s renewal and the best part is you realize exactly what’s in front of you. These weeks have glided by effortlessly (even with my computer, phone, and French press all breaking in the same day about a week ago) and I’m realizing how much I have here.

When did that happen?

I’m seeing that even if my best village friends consist of a 3 year old, a 19 year old, and a 45 year old, it doesn’t really matter because the love that they have is quite real.

I’m finding that seeds grow.

I’ve spent the better part of the last 10 months in my village greeting, visiting, praying, visiting again, playing football, and going on aimless walks—and for what? To show my community that I’m here. To “integrate” as Peace Corps would say, which to me means sucking it up and putting yourself out there, even if you get laughed at. It means doing things that might make you uncomfortable (like 6 hour church services, a super long visit, or going on long trips) because you love someone and you want to show that to them. It means sharing yourself, hoping they’ll share in return. This process takes time. And Lord knows, it’s Rwanda, so it takes a VERY long time.

But it’s going. As we say here, slow by slow. Buhoro, buhoro.

As I’ve seen my life here with new lenses these last couple of weeks, I’m grateful, humbled, and happy with what I see.

It’s not my horn that I’m tooting—it’s my community’s. I live in a great place with really good people. Sure, it’s the village, with poverty and an entire slew of problems, but I’ve been more than welcomed and taken care of for nearly a year. I’ve been let in homes, in families, and in relationships. When I leave site for whatever reason, I can’t wait to come back. When I first got site, I remember checking frequently how many days remained in my service. Yes. My service. The whole whopping two years. I would check one day and it would read: 615. Soon, it would be under 600. One day it read 559. I can’t believe I did that. I haven’t done that in probably 7 or 8 months. I imagine what it will feel like to leave here and well….I can’t. I’ve planted the seeds, but it’s been my community, my students, my loved ones here that have tilled the soil, cultivating something far more beautiful than I really ever expected.

As I share this with visitors and friends, y’all will see that too and I think be equally moved.

It’s this kind of stuff that makes this world a better place.

sunset outside my house.

 

me, Josiane, Ange, and Joselyne outside my house having our photoshoot!

always jumping it seems. me and the kiddos.

k

Divine and Yazina; these girls are amazing. I kind of sort of LOVE them.

n

classic Baracka. CANNOT HANDLE THE CUTENESS (of him!)

 

Divine (da-vee-nay)

I found myself last week on a crickety old bed with wooden slots and a stacked mat to act as a mattress. A double bed, I was sharing it with Divine at her family’s home in Rusumo, about 2 hours from where I live in Rwanda. Divine, a GLOW girl, student, and friend of mine lives in my village in order to take care of her sick and dying grandmother. In Rwanda, it is of the utmost importance to take care of the elderly, and Divine fills in that role beautifully for her family. So, she lives here while school is in session, and then goes to visit her family (mother and sister to name a few) on the holiday. Living situations and families are never quite simple here.

We had celebrated Divine’s mom’s “wedding” (she married God but isn’t quite considered a nun because she has already birthed 4 children) and even though I was cuddling up into bed, winding down, and ready to find some much needed sleep, the party managed to continue. I smiled and laughed as Divine, her mother, and her aunt danced, hooted, hollered, and hugged to their own beat. The men had long since retired, but power to the woman! They kept going…and going…and going!

The release of energy and continued shouts slowly became drunken slurs as the hours passed and ticked away. Eventually, they decided to sit on the bed and chat. They tried to whisper as to accommodate my clear desire to sleep but they whisper no better than I do. Which means they were extraordinarily incapable. I sat up, laughed, and decided to let my guard down a little bit. It was pitch black besides the small, tiny petrol powered candle, it was late at night, and it wasn’t like I would be sleeping anyway, so I just thought, oh what the hell. For the first time, I drank with only Rwandans, and truth be told, it felt good. I love the occasional wine, beer, cocktail, you name it, but up until this point, I had reserved that kind of activity for Kigali, when I was with my Peace Corps friends. It took them by surprise too, I could tell, as I had refused alcohol for the previous 10 hours. I sipped the banana beer through a worn straw and slurped the vodka from a plastic flask. So, we sat in this bed, sweaty, happy, together, and drinking the local brew well past midnight. I thought to myself, after I told Divine how this would be our little secret, that it’s amazing how I would do this with very few Rwandans (women drinking doesn’t always mesh well with societal expectations here) but it felt perfectly fine around her and her family.

But, our relationship didn’t come from nowhere. It’s taken a lot of time to develop the trust and understanding and ease that I feel when I’m with Divine. She was a new student, I found out, this year back in the first term, when I was also a newcomer. She was often eager to participate in lessons and I noticed her rather quickly amidst the sea of the over 300 students that I teach.

She also has one of the best laughs I have literally ever heard. It’s so hearty and joyful, you can’t help but smile. She’s 19 and I can tell–she’s youthful, fun, and goofy but I can sense a strong feeling of maturity that she carries with her. She speaks to me in English first–always–and only resorts to Kinyarwanda if she can’t express herself adequately in English. She prays at the Catholic Church twice a week–she’s as devoted to God as anyone you’ll ever find. On her phone, her display screen says God is love, an allusion to 1 John 4:7-9, one of my favorite verses in the bible. She is confident (she strutted and was the arguable winner of our very own fashion show the other day at GLOW club), dedicated, and also a really big dork. I’ve taught her to greet and talk to animals as Americans often tend to do, and she has totally embraced this, shouting Hello cow! when we go on walks together. It’s easy to be with her and that’s a coveted comfort anyone could ever want–no matter where in the world you are.

She’s been open about the possibility that her grandmother will die any day (she tells me that she has no fear) and her concerns about not having enough money to continue to study after Senior 3 (currently she is studying in Senior 2). I’ve told her how the rumors are not true–I’m not always happy–and that being away from my loved ones really hurts sometimes. She gets that. She even knows a bit about my brother, as I’ve explained his situation, and she always tells me that she will pray for him. We’ve often talked about how laughing and staying positive is important in life, and one of my favorite things she has ever told me was when we were discussing happiness.

Divine: Teacher, people they see you and they want you to visit them. They see you and wow! They are happy.

Heather: Well, I love visiting you students and the people in the community because they make me happy. Sometimes, I’m not happy, but you help me to feel better.

Divine: Ah yes! To be happy is the best part of the life!

Heather: I agree. I love to laugh, and I know you do too. Everyday, I see you, and you are laughing. Always laughing!

Divine: Ohlalala! Because if you have no laugh, you have no life.

I’m her teacher and she’s my student and yet, it’s just so much more than that. I’m terrible at keeping professional boundaries sometimes, you know, and so I’ve let this particular relationship grow and you know what?

I’m so glad I have.

I see her and she reminds me why I wanted to do Peace Corps and why I want to continue to stay. She brightens my day, and if you have ever had a person like that in your life then you know how special that is.

Sometimes, I feel as if I’m not helping, as if my presence here is doing nothing. Sometimes, I feel unmotivated, discouraged, and heartbroken. Sometimes, I leave the classroom, confident few students grasped any part of my lesson. Maybe I will hear the continual shouts of umuzungu or I will be asked for money or I will be laughed at for something stupid and I’ll think, why? Why should I see this through? Why do I stay?

Because, I remind myself, I have people like Divine.

Because those relationships matter more than I even know. Maybe I’m teaching them, but they’re teaching me way more in return. And it’s people like Divine, and the other strong relationships that I have, that help me remember that they are more than enough. They are more than I could have asked for in this experience. Divine, and many others, are changing my life forever, and that’s just pretty darn beautiful. God really is love.

Divine and her family at the wedding for her mother. Divine is in the middle with the orange/red shirt.

Divine in Rusumo

Divine and I at GLOW: at the baseball field!

Divine, far left, and myself with the rest of the GLOW girls at GLOW Camp.

friendship, love, or something like that

Sara: “This land is totally and completely pre-historic looking.”

Heather: “You are so right! That’s like, the perfect way to describe this place.”

Sara: “Yeah—it’s like freakin’ right out of Land Before Time or something.”

*pause*

Heather: “You know, it’s crazy to think about dinosaurs and then roaming the Earth—like can you just imagine? They would have been as big as these mountains! Incredible.”

*even longer pause* *laughter* *pause*

Sara: “Um. Dinosaurs were big…but not THAT big. If that was the case, there would have been like 6 dinosaurs on the whole Earth.

Somehow, after the revelation _­that I had a pretty misguided conception of dinosaurs when gazing upon Lake Kivu in Western Rwanda, Sara still continues to be my friend. As Southerners would put tenderly, “bless her heart.”

Sara is one of my good PCV friends and I’m lucky to have her. Sara is quiet—not shy—and her humor is sharp as a brand-spanking new razor. She loves goats, cats, hails from the state of Pennsylvania, and has an equally deep appreciation for the mystical powers of cheese. Plus, her favorite Friends character is Ross which is good for two reasons:

1)      I’m a firm believer that your favorite character from that wonderfully made TV show definitely says something about you. And,

2)      My favorite character is also Ross. So it just works.

It’s been relatively easy to connect with PCVs and find a good niche of friends. I suppose the difficult part was realizing how special my college girls were (and are) and that the closeness and trust I had with them is not easily replicated—nor should it be! That’s what makes friendships so special in the first place. But, when you have chosen Peace Corps as your life for over two years (and, in fact, it is YOU wholly responsible for having to relieve yourself in a queasy-smelling latrine, live every night by candlelight because of the lack of electricity, and teach in a profoundly changing, disorganized, and transitional education system) well, there is certainly lots to talk about. It really does take a different kind of person to do this, and when you are here in country, it’s essential to have a support network of people who at the end of the day, they just get it. They get why you are here, they get what you are going through, and it’s easy to explain those awkward-you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me moments that happen time to time (or more realistically, every day).

But, ultimately, this isn’t about them, because a good chunk of your time as an education volunteer is spent where it should be: in your village, at your site, at your school, and at your house where it is totally dependent on you to make your own friends. Like being back in elementary school, looking for some kind of connections on the playground, albeit the four-square domain or the monkey bars, it’s a new territory and you have no choice but to just put yourself out there.

For me, it’s gone as well as I really think it could. I don’t mean that I’m on the verge of revolutionizing the Peace Corps experience and becoming volunteer of the year—believe me, far from it. By no means do I have a Rwanda BFFL quite yet (best friend for life for those who missed the 90’s craze of best friend bracelets) but I have a good group of what my friends and I call ‘mamas’ (older women who basically are superhuman in strength and energy) and some fellow teachers who I’ve been able to talk with at length in English, share meals, and play cards. I’ve been good about getting into my community (running, walking around aimlessly, going to market, visiting neighbors and students, praying at church, and even like today, carrying market goods on my head proclaiming loudly that indeed, I have become Rwandan—the trick to winning people over is acting like a complete loon, something that comes very natural for me). All of this has undoubtedly aided in my integration. But lately, I have wondered and contemplated about how so many of these people know me, but even after 2 years, will really not know me. You know what I mean?

I’m really not trying to be all existential here, instead, I’ve just tried to take stock of the limitations I have here when it comes to relationships. It’s an entirely new set of rules—a new cultural context—and with that, I find myself in the passenger seat. In many situations, despite being a teacher by profession here, it is me that is the learner and because of an incredibly complicated language, I can’t even fully (or adequately) express my emotions or ideas. To be frank, that’s hard. Really hard. I come from a culture of words and words are power. It’s that simple. I long for companionship and when the conversation is about potatoes or tea every day, how much of that intangible, magnetic, strong, and mutual longing to be together and share more can really grow?

All of this is one side of relationships for me as a 7-month Peace Corps Volunteer.

I suppose I didn’t mention a key element in the plight for friendship: given my role, and given the situation—friendship is exactly like a double edged sword. Stay with me. I promise it makes sense.

On one side is this unattainable longing to just be me and have people who know what that is and what that looks like, no questions asked. I’m talking about the little things that actually, when put together, make a person whole. It’s the little things, you see, that often make up who we are.

It would be oh so comforting to have a person here who gets that I don’t like sugar in my coffee (Rwandans are OBSESSED)—black coffee will be just fine, thank you. They would of course understand the good and bad about my tendency to want to keep everyone happy. That same person wouldn’t look twice if I was carrying around a water bottle 24/7, they would laugh off my quest to speak in a bagillion different accents simply for fun (which I admit, often all sound the same), and they would already know that I do everything intensely: I walk intensely, I write intensely, I laugh intensely…you get the idea.

It’s like doing these things, or acting a certain way—it just feels like home. And believe me; here I have few false pretenses (the only one I can really think of is when I lied to my host family about liking ‘ubugari’—a really strange traditional Rwandan dish—so that they would like me). I am who I am. But as I’ve been saying, in a new culture, well, somehow who you are doesn’t always translate directly.

Ah, yes, but like I told you this whole relationship thing? Well, it’s like a double-edged sword, right? The other side of the sword so to speak:

At the end of the day, culture plays a huge role in who we are. That’s undeniable. But even with a language and cultural barrier, it doesn’t mean you can’t know the very core of someone. It doesn’t make sense, does it? How can you possibly know the core of someone if you don’t really know what they are about? That’s the mystery of relationships, I suppose. That’s the bigger mystery of who we are as a people, how we relate to each other, but also how our lives can also signify something so much greater than ourselves. The old cliché (which, excuse the use of cliché’s here, but if you notice, they are often correct) seems to ring true: actions speak louder than words.

I’ve just returned from visiting my host family for the second time since I became an actual volunteer. It was uncanny how comfortable it felt. They’ll never know my middle name, they don’t know about my education history, they maybe won’t ever fully know the depth of my dorkiness tendencies, and explaining my family has proved difficult (‘divorce’ is a fairly uncommon concept in Rwandan culture). And yet, I feel at home with them. They know my pronounced preference of Coke to Fanta, my love of sport and desire to be outside whenever possible, and they get that I like to hug people. A lot. Moreover, after my travels back home, accompanied the whole way by my host dad (he wanted to know how to get to my house so he can bring the whole family next time—I KNOW HOW CUTE IS HE??) he told me over my coffee table that I was a woman with a good heart who loves people. It blew me away—what a wonderful, beautiful compliment from someone who I think knows me better than I even realize.

I felt honored. I thought back to times we’ve shared.

The first three months I was like a baby. I was scared, unsure, and quite literally, I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even speak to them—my family. I can tell you this much, I was completely prepared to pack my bags and fly back home after the first couple of days in Rwanda. I was afraid that I was way in over my head; I made a vow to myself that I would give it a whirl with my family and see if maybe I was jumping the gun too early. Oh, and was I ever! I’m trying to stay on the cusp of not being overly dramatic, but seriously. They’re the reason I stayed. As my understanding and knowledge grew, so did my perception. These people—my new Rwandan family—they are good. They love people for the sake of loving others. They live in the middle of Rwanda, this family, they don’t’ have much, but they have hearts of complete gold. Maybe in the same way that they won’t completely know me, I can never fully know them. But, I’m learning to never underestimate the power of humans and reading each other. Sometimes, a good person is just that—good. You don’t even need words. It just is. It’s the truth.

Maybe it’s here where the real love and friendship exists. It’s the recognition of goodness in an often broken, messed up, and confusing world, and the commitment to care for that person in whatever way you can. With my best friend that could mean a 4 hour phone conversation in complete comfort and openness without holding anything back. Here in Rwanda, that could simply mean a clean and comfortable bed to sleep in for the night. A warm cup of tea. A home cooked meal. Laughter.

Even more beautifully, what I’m seeing is that good people, well, they are there when you need them the most.

My wonderful wonderful WONDERFUL (did I say wonderful?) friend Jackie lives in my sector, in the next village over. She’s a community health worker—which means she gives out medicine to people with malaria, AIDS, you name it. She’s probably around 34, maybe? She has 4 children, but no husband. Where the father of her last three children is, I’m not sure, but her first husband died in the Genocide in 1994. She didn’t go to secondary school, she doesn’t speak English, and my, how people love Jackie. People told me about her—they told me that it’s Jackie that has the greatest heart, and man, they were right. Jackie and I met through a mutual teacher friend and since then, I’ve visited her house a couple of times while she has also visited me. She’s given me plantains and vegetables, and I’ve given her macaroni and soup mix. But nothing compares to what she gave me the other day.

Last weekend, on Saturday, we had a 5 hour (that’s normal for any kind of ceremony) memorial service in my village. It was a time of remembrance (the whole week was spent remembering the Genocide, particularly at community meetings that we had every day that were mandatory for all people). Specifically, the community had found some remains in a nearby river from people that had died and were left in the water and were going to properly bury them in the village memorial. With my friend Philos translating, we heard from all sorts of officials—most notably the district mayor—and heard a couple stunning and moving songs from a popular music artist. We even heard a survivor story. The entire time, the emotion was thick and palpable. I could sense it. However, many kept their grief to themselves. Only once did I see one woman break down completely and moan as though pain was leaving her body and subsequently, had to leave the ceremony. That was, however, before the casket was brought into the memorial and when people were allowed to go inside and pay their respects.

I thought it would be good for me to go inside. And it was. I saw people finding their family members’ names on the new, updated tarp that was freshly printed for the service. I saw people leaving flowers, many marked with specific names of people who died 18 years ago. After a few minutes, I knew I needed to leave. Tears had continually lined my eye ducts for the entire 5 hours, but now I could feel them coming. And fast. I walked briskly away and became even more choked up when I was greeted by a couple of my students who looked somber and sad. I need to get out of here. That was when I saw Jackie. She was hugging her friend from behind and looked sad, but also resolute. She was not crying. I thought of her pain. I thought of her and what people had said about her: Genocide survivor. Survivor. SURVIVOR. I don’t know if I’ll ever know why, but as I shook her hand to greet her, I just burst into tears. I’m not a pretty crier—my friends and family can tell you that—and so I was grateful that she embraced me without any hesitation and let me cry right into her chest, on her perfectly tailored satin green dress. I couldn’t hold it anymore. I was just, so so sad. And then, when I realized  that HUNDREDS of people were watching this scene unfold, I cried more. I cried because I felt silly. Why am I crying? This isn’t even my story; I can’t even BEGIN to understand this kind of pain. But, I cried. What can you do? After being brushed away to another friend’s house for a nap (apparently in Rwanda, resting is the cure for everything…they may be on to something…) and dinner, Jackie told me that I couldn’t go home for the night—it was too dark, it was too late. She insisted I stay at her house. And so, that night, I slept in Jackie’s bed, right along with her, under a white mosquito net. It’s a twin bed—a tight squeeze—but I saw her sticking to the edge as much as she could; she wanted me to have as much space as possible. I coughed a lot that night (it’s gotten colder with it being rainy season and all) and I woke up to her making sure I was covered with the blanket.

This was all from a woman that though I have grown to deeply admire, I don’t really know her that much. And in the same way, she doesn’t really know me either. But it’s that double-edged sword, isn’t it? When you are a good person, it’s just who you are. No language can really express what that looks like anyway.

 Friendship, love. It’s all relative sometimes.