One month later...

First of all, a few words about socks and toothpicks.  I was expecting there to be huge culture shocks when I moved to Rwanda.  After all, how could there not be? But what’s really been most surprising to me has been the little things that catch me off guard and remind me again and again that I’m not in Kansas anymore.

            Rwandans are immaculate dressers.  I don’t know how they do it.  It’s like they have an aura about their pant cuffs that repels the ever-present gooey red mud.  I can barely walk ten feet without looking like I just trudged my way through an episode of Dexter, while the Rwandans manage to always look freshly pressed and ironed, even during the rainiest of days.  More than once, I’ve felt as though my entire wardrobe is completely inadequate, especially for any sort of professional setting.  Then I discovered The Socks (and yes, this is a phenomenon that deserves capitalization, even when spoken aloud).

            The Socks cannot be purchased in a neatly wrapped ten-pack, the way we do back in the States.  Instead, you go to the market and delve into a pile of used (some more obviously than others) clothing, trying desperately to find a matching pair.  The matching is important, but the actual appearance of The Socks does not seem to matter all that much.  For example, I was sitting in a bar with my one of the teachers at my school and some of his friends.  One of these men was the lieutenant in charge of the army outpost near my village.  This was not a man to be trifled with.  In fact, he was a bit intimidating.  Then I looked down and saw something bright pink peeking out from the top of his shoe.  Closer inspection (done with the utmost tact and subtly, of course) revealed that his socks were not only pink, but decorated with a frolicking kitten motif.  Suddenly, I felt a little more at ease.  I’m pretty sure that The Socks will continue to be an ongoing source of quiet enjoyment for me over the next two years.

            Dinners here can sometimes be somewhat awkward.  There’s the language barrier to deal with, and the simple fact that the food is occasionally completely disgusting.  Thankfully, toothpicks are able to alleviate some of the uncomfortable silences that I’ve experienced over the last month.  I never used toothpicks back home, aside from testing to see if my muffins were finished baking.  However here in Rwanda, toothpicks are a big deal.  After each meal, we sit around the table, filling the postprandial silence by picking our teeth and avoiding eye contact.  Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but there is a definite lull in the conversation, when everyone arms themselves with a little stick of wood and starts digging away at their teeth.  And each person has their own unique technique--some people start from the back and work their way forward, some go right to left or left to right, some hide their actions behind one hand, some chew and spit, and still others sporadically pick between sips of the traditional after-meal icayi.  I’ve yet to find the technique that feels right, but I’m sure I’ll know it when I do.

            And now on to more important matters!  I’ve been in Rwanda for an entire month!    Training has been intense, not only due to content, but also owing to the fact that I have very little free time or alone time.  Last week, though, we got our first taste of what life was going to be like come January, when we spent five days visiting our permanent sites.

            My village is called Higiro, and has about 3000 people in it.  It’s in the Southern province, seven kilometers from the Burundi border.  That’s right...I can see Burundi from my house.  It’s about 45 minutes away from Butare, which is a large college town containing ice cream and peanut butter.  And the easiest way to get from Butare to Higiro?  Motorcycle taxi.  Yup, I am now officially a bad-ass biker chick.  Or as bad-ass as I can manage to be, while wearing my giant Peace Corps issued moto helmet.  The moto drivers perhaps lean a bit toward the lunatic end of the spectrum when it comes to driving skills, but that might also be partly due to the fact that the road out to my village is unpaved and could kindly be called rustic.  At one point, we got delayed for several minutes behind a herd of cows.  And because it’s Rwanda, everything is on a severe incline.  One of my moto drivers would slow down and make the sign of the cross every time we successfully made it to the top of a hill.  I’m pretty sure that many a Muzungu has found religion on the back of a moto taxi...

            Higiro was just starting a week of umuganda when I arrived.  Umuganda literally means “community work,” and the entire village was out planting flowers, fixing roofs, constructing latrines, and actually building a new addition to the primary school.  The district council tries to plan umuganda so that it coincides with the trimester breaks for school so that the kids can all be involved.  And they were out in full force, digging, planting, and just generally schmoozing. 

            The school that I’ll be working at is a secondary school, grades S1-S3, which roughly translates to 6-8th grade.  The ages of the students varies greatly, however: some are teen-agers, but there are a few that are older than I am.  Due to the genocide, many kids my age had their schooling severely interrupted for many years, and are just now trying to take advantage of the increased government emphasis on education.  Plus, many kids can’t afford to pay the school fees each year and drop out for awhile, or simply have to stay home some trimesters to take care of domestic obligations.  This is, of course, especially true for the girls.  Many of the students I talked to were extremely interested in starting an English club, and I would love to also be able to spearhead a creative writing, poetry, or journalism club.

            My village does not have running water or electricity.  I have now officially learned  how to bathe (and wash my hair) while using roughly two liters of cold water.  Yes, I feel accomplished! And not entirely clean.  I might have to go into Butare once a month or so  simply to have a real shower.  I was told that Higiro was supposed to have water and electricity last year, but that the government funds never materialized.  I was also told that this should be fixed by January.  Then again, I was told that a lot of things were going to be happening in January.  I have a healthy degree of skepticism about all that--maybe next, Rwanda will join the E.U. in January!

            My house is right down the road from the school.  It’s also directly across from the medical center, which I find reassuring.  There are already potatoes planted in my backyard, so the leprechaun in me did a little happy jig.  And my view is absolutely spectacular.  I get to look out across the rolling hills and valleys, filled with misty banana groves.  Of course, my view is especially amazing right now due to the fact that it is unobstructed by such trifling obstacles as walls.  Yeah, my house is still under construction.  In fact, I think they started building it after I can to visit.  I distinctly remember walking by that way earlier in the week, and I’m pretty sure that there was no house there...So we’ll see what happens in January!

            Okay, I was going to write about what it takes to cook and do laundry here, but I’ve already written a ridiculous amount and will save that for another time.  So goodbye for now, far-away friends! And happy Thanksgiving!