February 27, 2011
When you ask a Rwandan about their past, or if they ever offer the information (this has happened to me several times; out of nowhere, kids will start talking about their lives and families before they came to the village) they will refer to a time called “Before.” Before the genocide, before Rwanda became a country torn apart and all but destroyed by violence and misplaced hatred. There was a time before, cluttered by European colonizers and UN attempts at peacekeeping (the UN presence still exists in Rwanda, you see their trucks driving around), and then before turned to “During,” a bloody 100 days that cost almost a million people their lives. Eventually, Rwanda moved to “After,” a time to recover, to rebuild, to regain what they lost. I’ve only seen and lived in Rwanda’s After, and I’ve heard many stories of Before and During, but I know that my life has been so different, and after being here, I know I will continue to change.
Like Rwanda, my life, I now realize, has many Before, During, and Afters. Before I came to Rwanda, I knew the world was a big place, but I never understood just how big, I knew I lived a fortunate and blessed life, but I never knew just how lucky I am. I got caught up in college applications, trivial drama with friends and teammates and I now know I didn’t make enough time for things that simply mattered more. Then a During happened. I left Israel and all the people, places and things I never wanted to give up, to come live in Rwanda for a month. It was during this time that I found new meaning to what is important to me, what it means to appreciate people and things I’ve always taken for granted. I changed. I know I am a different person than I was four weeks ago, and when I return to Israel, I will take the lessons I’ve learned and all the wonderful experiences I’ve had here, and every time I feel overwhelmed by my own silly little life, I will remember my time here. When I take my family and friends for granted, I will think of my time in the village and all the kids who only wanted to know if I have a family and parents where I live, and I will be more appreciative. I don’t know exactly what After will be like, but I know it won’t be easy and I know it will take some adjustment, but I know I will be a richer person, emotionally, mentally and, after weeks at a construction site, physically, for it.
Today I woke up and went to Protestant church services in the dining hall. Church was scheduled to start at 9, which, as I’ve learned, means 9:30 in Rwanda. All the kids (and I) were dressed in our Sunday best. The majority of the service was gospel music, complete with dancing, an African drum and guitar players. Listening (and watching) the kids sing so beautifully and soulfully made me tear up; it wasn’t just a service to celebrate their religion and praise their God, but to celebrate life. They are some of the liveliest, happiest and most unbelievable people I’ve ever met. Despite what they’ve been through, what they survived, what their “Before” was like, their faith never waivered. As Wilton told us weeks ago, surviving the genocide meant God was with you. These kids have never lost their faith; it only got stronger. They believe and love and praise with all their hearts. Sharing that with them this morning was incredible and very emotional. Throughout the service, kids went up to the microphone to give thanks to God. One girl from my house got up and, as the security guard sitting next to me translated, said, “Thank you God for every day I am alive. I have so many questions and problems but you always have the answer. Thank you God for letting me be alive.” This to me is a prime example of Rwanda. Simply being thankful for life, for all that we know or don’t know, and for finding our way when we don’t know where to turn. This is something I know I will take back with me when I leave.
Toward the end, the service leader (there are no pastors in the village, so sometimes, one will come from Rubona or a nearby town, but not this week) invited everyone to stand up and dance in the aisles and in front of the chairs set up on the dining hall balcony. This was my favorite moment, dancing with girls from my house, listening to them sing along and chant to the beat of the drum. Granted, I had no idea what they were saying most of the time (it was all in Kinyarwanda, except for when the guard, dressed in a suit – I didn’t recognize him – translated for me) but it was still beautiful and heartwarming.
After church and lunch (the one thing I will not miss about Rwanda is the constant rice and beans) we had a meeting, our entire group and Ilan, the village director, under the mango tree. This is where our experience here began, and where it’s about to end. Ilan told us how much we’ve impacted the village, not only by building our warehouse, but by interacting with the kids, teaching in the school, learning from them as much or more than we have given. It’s really true: to give is to receive. I came here thinking I would volunteer and work as hard as I could, giving as much of myself as possible, but as it turns out, as much of myself as I’ve given, as much time and French vocabulary and math help and bricks that I’ve taught and carried, I have received that much more. Being here has taught me more about myself and what’s truly important to me than any other experience I’ve ever had, and possibly ever will have. I’ve been given a whole new perspective, a whole new set of eyes through which to see this crazy world, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
As a final surprise, we were given two trees to plant anywhere we wanted in the village, along with a plaque with all of our names and Year Course painted on it. We planted one outside the administration building and the other on the corner across from the mango tree, where everyone walks and passes by at least once a day. This way, every time they pass it, they can think of us and our time here, and, like our tree, the students in the village, and us, can grow from all that we’ve experienced together in the last month.
Once we finished planting our trees and situating our plaque, I went to my family’s house one last time to help them research prospective names for the family. They were still set on naming it after either King David or John Lennon (two very different yet very important men in history), and when I Googled John Lennon, Assoumpta read the URL address on the top of the screen: “Wawawajohnlennoncom? What is this?” I explained to her it’s the website we were using to research John Lennon. She didn’t quite get it. Later, I also convinced them to research at least two women as well. First, we looked up Golda Meir (they had a lot of trouble saying her name, at first), and they loved learning about her and a little bit of Israel’s history in the 70s. Next, I showed them Rosa Parks. One of the girls said, in shock, “She is black!” I explained to them that yes, she is, and she is a very important woman in history because of it. Then we got into a discussion about civil rights, Rosa Parks’ famous refusal to go to the back of a bus, and the change she made in fighting for equality in America. The girls said they are voting for a name soon, they think either tonight or tomorrow night, and I told them I want someone to tell me what they decide. They all promised to send me a message. Before I left, they insisted we sing Amahoro together; we sang it last night at the Talent Show, and now they keep asking us to sing it for them (I think they’re shocked that a bunch of Muzungus have mastered a chorus of a song entirely in Kinyarwanda). For the second time today, my eyes teared up; we were sitting around the living room of their house, singing Amahoro (Peace) together, and at the end, they all piled on top of me, hugging me. I tried to make them understand that leaving isn’t my choice; it’s not that I want to leave, but I have to. They seemed pretty understanding, until Cadette came over to me, as I was about to walk out the door, and said, “You cannot forget us. You promise?” I looked at her and I said, “Of course I promise. I won’t ever forget you. I can’t.” Satisfied with my response, she hugged me goodbye and said she’d see me at dinner.
We (the Young Judaea volunteers) decided to plan a little surprise for dinner: someone would stand up on their chair and start singing Amahoro, and then the rest of us would follow, two at a time, taking cues from one another. Dinner started at 7, so at 7:30, as planned, Jenna stood up on her chair and began to sing at the top of her voice, and then the rest of us followed, singing along, clapping and carrying on while standing on the dining hall chairs. The kids loved it; some were singing with us (none stood on their chairs, unfortunately). The last time I stood on a chair to sing? I was probably seven or eight years old and reciting the Four Questions during a Passover seder at my grandparents’ house. So it’s been a while. In any event, we finished our rendition of Amahoro and as soon as we sat down, the ASYV soccer team came storming into the dining hall, carrying a huge trophy. Immediately, everyone stood up and started cheering. It was nuts! The guys had won a big game in Rwamagana (a town about 10 minutes from the village) and brought home a great trophy, which they placed on the stage in the dining hall for everyone to admire. Truly, a perfect ending to a great night. Definitely the best dinner I’ve ever had in the village (entertainment-wise, not food-wise. The food was, as always, rice and beans and potatoes. Yum).
After dinner we had our final group meeting, which, tonight, included cleaning the guesthouse, packing our suitcases and talking about transferring to the airport tomorrow. Before we all adjourned to finish organizing our things, we filled a bucket (generally used for showering around here) with water and put in 14 candles, one for each of us. We also passed around note cards and each wrote something we contributed to the village, something we are leaving here, and threw the paper into the water. As we watched the paper open up and the ink dissolve in the water, lit only by the candles floating at the top of the bucket, we talked about our time here, passing around a ball of yarn, unraveling it around our wrists as we shared memories of each other, about new friends, about our impact on one another and on the village. When we were finished, we each had a piece of the string around our wrists; we were all attached in a giant, messy web of red yarn. We cut the yarn and now all have pieces of it in bracelets on our wrists, symbolizing what we’ve shared, that we are now a group of people connected by an unbelievable experience, a life-changing one. We are all changed, in our own ways; it’s safe to say that Africa does something to you. For me, it gave me perspective. It taught me to calm down (ha!) and have a little patience when it’s worth waiting, to take risks and trust in myself. Africa has taught me to appreciate everything that I take for granted, all the people and the things that I was never thankful enough for, until now. So thank you, Africa, most specifically, thank you Rwanda, for teaching me, helping me and changing me. I’ll be back soon enough; this Muzungu isn’t gone forever.
We leave the village tomorrow around 9 AM, check out some craft shops in Kigali, have lunch at an Indian restaurant and then go to the airport. The next time I post, I will be in Israel, back to my “usual” life, but I know that everything I’ve done here, learned here, experienced here, will stay with me, no matter where I am, where I go or what I do, I will always have a piece of my heart at ASYV.
Amahoro from Rwanda, one last time,
Elana
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Reach for the stars
February 26, 2011
Before I start today’s blog, here are a few things that in my exhausted stupor, I forgot to mention earlier:
1. Village Time is done all in Kinyarwanda, with the exception of Ilan’s speech in English and, last night, Anne also presented in English. However, the rest of the hour and a half is complete confusion to me, so I was sitting with some of the housemothers, who were translating for me. One of them translated from Kinyarwanda into French, and then I translated into English. They are such awesome women, and I will never forget them (not to mention their fantastic outfits).
2. During the birthday celebration last night, before the crazy dance party ensued, the people whose birthday it was in the past month or part of the year stood up on the stage in the dining hall and then everyone – I mean everyone, like more than 300 students and volunteers – dashed up to the stage to give them all birthday hugs. I made my way down the line, others doing their best to make a hole for me to sneak my way through while trying not to bump into too many people. I hugged everyone, wishing them a happy birthday and many more. They all thanked me profusely, shaking my hand, hugging me back, and I even got a few pecks on the cheek. Everyone was so excited that we were even there, that we were celebrating their birthdays, that it made me feel as though sometimes, simply being present is the best present of all.
Ok, now I can begin today’s entry:
I woke up this morning, one final time, at 5:30 to run Muchaka Muchaka with my family. There’s something amazing about waking up to blue mountains lit only by a rising sun behind fog and clouds. It’s a gorgeous sight, one I know will never be replicated. I walked to my family’s house and to my surprise, the first person outside the house this morning, waiting for the guards to start our run? Mama Hillary, dressed in one of her finest hand-printed fabric outfits, and her house slippers. I asked her if she was running; she told me of course, she loves Muchaka! I couldn’t contain myself. Eventually, the girls stumbled out of the house and we made our three-line formation to begin the run. Unfortunately, Mama Hillary didn’t actually jog along with us, but she did clap and cheer as we passed. About halfway through, I stopped because my stomach just didn’t feel right. Well, sure enough, I ran right back to the guesthouse and I’m pretty sure last night’s samosas were duking it out in my stomach. This did not end well.
Luckily, I crawled back in bed and woke up feeling much better. I then took up the grim task of packing my suitcase. I know I won’t want to deal with it tomorrow – I want to spend one final day relaxing and spending time with the girls in my family. I am donating my towels and bed linens to the village (volunteers are asked to do this since the village can’t buy hundreds of sets of sheets and hundreds more towels; they just don’t have the funds to spare) so that freed up space for my new African art acquisitions (they all fit, along with my clothes, which was a relief). So now I have a packed suitcase standing in the corner of my room, constantly reminding me that in less than two days we’ll be leaving ASYV to get on a plane and fly back to Israel. It’s not a pleasant reminder, but it’s a dose of reality that I know I needed. A month, I’ve learned is a very short time. In the course of my life, it seems like nothing. But these weeks were something. What I’ve done and experienced and lived in this month will supply memories and lessons for a lifetime; I know I will remember this month forever.
After lunch, I went to visit my family. The girls all came to greet Hannah and me, handing us more cards (one of mine has “Jose” written on the front. This was confusing for a while since I thought it said Jose as in “ho-say,” but it’s from Joselyn and she just ran out of room writing her name on the front of the card. Adorable). For a short while, Cadette showed me pictures of her family, including one of her father that looks like it was taken thirty years ago. She told me it was taken in Israel; he traveled there before the genocide, during which he died. We spent a while talking about America; the girls all want to go to college there. They were asking me how university “happens” (they meant “works”) in America, how they would be able to apply and then go there. I told them they need to work very hard in school now so they can apply and maybe, if they are lucky, got to college in the States. They all promised me they will; they said they want to go to an American university so they can see me and meet my family. I said that this was very thoughtful, but they should want to go to college to get the best education they can, that my family and I would love to see them, but it’s not a reason to go to college in America. They still seem to think it is.
The conversation then turned to after whom they are going to name their house. There’s been buzz around the village about naming houses after Benjamin Franklin; I convinced my girls out of this not only because it’s unoriginal, but also because there are so many other important people in history and they need to do more research. I started naming some of history’s remarkable women (who came to mind immediately): Rosa Parks, Golda Meir, Princess Diana, just to name a few (they had heard of none of these women). The idea of naming their house after a woman inspired them; they had only researched a few people, all of whom happened to be men. I told them that I’ll come back tomorrow with my laptop so we can research more prospective female namesakes together. They all clapped at this, and Mama Hillary opened a box of cookies for us. Then, to show me how prepared they are for school on Monday, they began reciting the French poem I helped them memorize for class, Le Corbeau et the Le Renard. They did very well, given their pronunciation troubles when it comes to “l” and “r,” and they were clearly quite proud of the progress they’d made. Before I left, they all stood up to give me hugs and tell me how much they love me and are going to miss me. I gave them my Facebook contact information so we can keep in touch; they hung the piece of paper I wrote it down on in the living room.
Later in the afternoon brought the dreaded meeting: what we do now that we’re leaving. I know that returning to Israel means going back to some semblance of “real life,” my friends and Roi, classes and volunteering. It feels impossible to give up this new life that I’ve made here with a group that, a month ago, was a bunch of strangers, from all different social circles, and now feels like a family. I’ve spent a month doing what I love to do, helping others, day in and day out, for fifteen or sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, for four weeks. There are so many small things that make this place special, so many people to miss and habits I’ll have to break. I’ll miss the MTN cell phone guy who sells minutes through the fence of the village, the guys with pineapples on bicycles that we can buy for less than 25 cents apiece, the people who make samosas fresh for us when they see us walking through the market, brown paper bags in hand, ready to order a dozen. I’ll miss the Mamas and cooking class, Ciprier and our endless translated conversations, the workers and our English classes together, the school and Aimable and Vincent, and of course, most of all, the kids. Leaving them will be the hardest.
Tonight was our cultural talent show. It was, to say the least, a very Rwandan production. This means it started 45 minutes and ran over an hour late, and featured presentations like traditional African dance, a fashion show of tribal wear, complete with spears and woven baskets, songs and speeches. We performed with the village’s culture club. Our “talent” came in several parts: first, we all did an African “dance” (swaying with strange-looking arm movements, really) while the village culture club sang a traditional song, then we did Ain’t No Mountain all together, followed by the Cupid Shuffle, an American line dance, and we concluded with Amahoro, a Rwandan song that means “Peace.” We got some laughs, lots of dancing and enthusiasm from the crowd, and a very nice round of applause at the end (probably because it was over). Several students performed, including the village’s acclaimed rapper, two of the dance clubs, and Momma Hillary even presented a speech and ended with a song! To finish the show, it’s traditional in Rwandan culture to drink milk, so the village culture club, along with the hospitality club, passed around pitchers of milk and mugs. On the stage (the talent show was held in the village amphitheater) was a traditional African “scene,” complete with a straw mat, woven baskets and small, dome-covered containers filled with milk. Two of the volunteers were invited up to the stage to take part in the scene, only unbeknownst to them, they had to actually drink the milk from the containers. In front of about 400 people. This was, of course, absolutely hysterical.
After the show, a bunch of us brought back the decorations – giant woven baskets (you could put me in one of them), wall hangings, spears and vases – to the dining hall, which is not exactly close to the amphitheater. Doing this walk in the dark carrying a piece of African art the size of me was not exactly easy. On the way from the dining hall to the guesthouse, I looked up and saw the most gorgeous night sky I have ever seen in my life. Amidst complete blackness is an endless patch of stars that seem to shine brighter here than anywhere else. Maybe it’s because of the altitude or the fact that the only light is coming from the stars and not traffic or buildings or streetlamps, but the simple beauty of the sky. They seem close enough to touch, as if I could reach my hand out and pull one down. I continued walking, listening to the birds squawk and the frogs croak, taking in the beauty of this place. It never ceases to amaze me, how unbelievably beautiful Rwanda is; it’s like waking up to a postcard, only it’s real (you realize this when the bugs start eating you).
Tomorrow is our last day in the village, and I know it won’t be an easy one. I’m waking up for church services in the morning, so I need to get some sleep, especially after my talent show efforts followed by schlepping giant baskets across the village. The next time I post from Rwanda, it will probably be my last until Jerusalem, so I’ll do my best to make it a good one.
Lots of love,
Elana
Before I start today’s blog, here are a few things that in my exhausted stupor, I forgot to mention earlier:
1. Village Time is done all in Kinyarwanda, with the exception of Ilan’s speech in English and, last night, Anne also presented in English. However, the rest of the hour and a half is complete confusion to me, so I was sitting with some of the housemothers, who were translating for me. One of them translated from Kinyarwanda into French, and then I translated into English. They are such awesome women, and I will never forget them (not to mention their fantastic outfits).
2. During the birthday celebration last night, before the crazy dance party ensued, the people whose birthday it was in the past month or part of the year stood up on the stage in the dining hall and then everyone – I mean everyone, like more than 300 students and volunteers – dashed up to the stage to give them all birthday hugs. I made my way down the line, others doing their best to make a hole for me to sneak my way through while trying not to bump into too many people. I hugged everyone, wishing them a happy birthday and many more. They all thanked me profusely, shaking my hand, hugging me back, and I even got a few pecks on the cheek. Everyone was so excited that we were even there, that we were celebrating their birthdays, that it made me feel as though sometimes, simply being present is the best present of all.
Ok, now I can begin today’s entry:
I woke up this morning, one final time, at 5:30 to run Muchaka Muchaka with my family. There’s something amazing about waking up to blue mountains lit only by a rising sun behind fog and clouds. It’s a gorgeous sight, one I know will never be replicated. I walked to my family’s house and to my surprise, the first person outside the house this morning, waiting for the guards to start our run? Mama Hillary, dressed in one of her finest hand-printed fabric outfits, and her house slippers. I asked her if she was running; she told me of course, she loves Muchaka! I couldn’t contain myself. Eventually, the girls stumbled out of the house and we made our three-line formation to begin the run. Unfortunately, Mama Hillary didn’t actually jog along with us, but she did clap and cheer as we passed. About halfway through, I stopped because my stomach just didn’t feel right. Well, sure enough, I ran right back to the guesthouse and I’m pretty sure last night’s samosas were duking it out in my stomach. This did not end well.
Luckily, I crawled back in bed and woke up feeling much better. I then took up the grim task of packing my suitcase. I know I won’t want to deal with it tomorrow – I want to spend one final day relaxing and spending time with the girls in my family. I am donating my towels and bed linens to the village (volunteers are asked to do this since the village can’t buy hundreds of sets of sheets and hundreds more towels; they just don’t have the funds to spare) so that freed up space for my new African art acquisitions (they all fit, along with my clothes, which was a relief). So now I have a packed suitcase standing in the corner of my room, constantly reminding me that in less than two days we’ll be leaving ASYV to get on a plane and fly back to Israel. It’s not a pleasant reminder, but it’s a dose of reality that I know I needed. A month, I’ve learned is a very short time. In the course of my life, it seems like nothing. But these weeks were something. What I’ve done and experienced and lived in this month will supply memories and lessons for a lifetime; I know I will remember this month forever.
After lunch, I went to visit my family. The girls all came to greet Hannah and me, handing us more cards (one of mine has “Jose” written on the front. This was confusing for a while since I thought it said Jose as in “ho-say,” but it’s from Joselyn and she just ran out of room writing her name on the front of the card. Adorable). For a short while, Cadette showed me pictures of her family, including one of her father that looks like it was taken thirty years ago. She told me it was taken in Israel; he traveled there before the genocide, during which he died. We spent a while talking about America; the girls all want to go to college there. They were asking me how university “happens” (they meant “works”) in America, how they would be able to apply and then go there. I told them they need to work very hard in school now so they can apply and maybe, if they are lucky, got to college in the States. They all promised me they will; they said they want to go to an American university so they can see me and meet my family. I said that this was very thoughtful, but they should want to go to college to get the best education they can, that my family and I would love to see them, but it’s not a reason to go to college in America. They still seem to think it is.
The conversation then turned to after whom they are going to name their house. There’s been buzz around the village about naming houses after Benjamin Franklin; I convinced my girls out of this not only because it’s unoriginal, but also because there are so many other important people in history and they need to do more research. I started naming some of history’s remarkable women (who came to mind immediately): Rosa Parks, Golda Meir, Princess Diana, just to name a few (they had heard of none of these women). The idea of naming their house after a woman inspired them; they had only researched a few people, all of whom happened to be men. I told them that I’ll come back tomorrow with my laptop so we can research more prospective female namesakes together. They all clapped at this, and Mama Hillary opened a box of cookies for us. Then, to show me how prepared they are for school on Monday, they began reciting the French poem I helped them memorize for class, Le Corbeau et the Le Renard. They did very well, given their pronunciation troubles when it comes to “l” and “r,” and they were clearly quite proud of the progress they’d made. Before I left, they all stood up to give me hugs and tell me how much they love me and are going to miss me. I gave them my Facebook contact information so we can keep in touch; they hung the piece of paper I wrote it down on in the living room.
Later in the afternoon brought the dreaded meeting: what we do now that we’re leaving. I know that returning to Israel means going back to some semblance of “real life,” my friends and Roi, classes and volunteering. It feels impossible to give up this new life that I’ve made here with a group that, a month ago, was a bunch of strangers, from all different social circles, and now feels like a family. I’ve spent a month doing what I love to do, helping others, day in and day out, for fifteen or sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, for four weeks. There are so many small things that make this place special, so many people to miss and habits I’ll have to break. I’ll miss the MTN cell phone guy who sells minutes through the fence of the village, the guys with pineapples on bicycles that we can buy for less than 25 cents apiece, the people who make samosas fresh for us when they see us walking through the market, brown paper bags in hand, ready to order a dozen. I’ll miss the Mamas and cooking class, Ciprier and our endless translated conversations, the workers and our English classes together, the school and Aimable and Vincent, and of course, most of all, the kids. Leaving them will be the hardest.
Tonight was our cultural talent show. It was, to say the least, a very Rwandan production. This means it started 45 minutes and ran over an hour late, and featured presentations like traditional African dance, a fashion show of tribal wear, complete with spears and woven baskets, songs and speeches. We performed with the village’s culture club. Our “talent” came in several parts: first, we all did an African “dance” (swaying with strange-looking arm movements, really) while the village culture club sang a traditional song, then we did Ain’t No Mountain all together, followed by the Cupid Shuffle, an American line dance, and we concluded with Amahoro, a Rwandan song that means “Peace.” We got some laughs, lots of dancing and enthusiasm from the crowd, and a very nice round of applause at the end (probably because it was over). Several students performed, including the village’s acclaimed rapper, two of the dance clubs, and Momma Hillary even presented a speech and ended with a song! To finish the show, it’s traditional in Rwandan culture to drink milk, so the village culture club, along with the hospitality club, passed around pitchers of milk and mugs. On the stage (the talent show was held in the village amphitheater) was a traditional African “scene,” complete with a straw mat, woven baskets and small, dome-covered containers filled with milk. Two of the volunteers were invited up to the stage to take part in the scene, only unbeknownst to them, they had to actually drink the milk from the containers. In front of about 400 people. This was, of course, absolutely hysterical.
After the show, a bunch of us brought back the decorations – giant woven baskets (you could put me in one of them), wall hangings, spears and vases – to the dining hall, which is not exactly close to the amphitheater. Doing this walk in the dark carrying a piece of African art the size of me was not exactly easy. On the way from the dining hall to the guesthouse, I looked up and saw the most gorgeous night sky I have ever seen in my life. Amidst complete blackness is an endless patch of stars that seem to shine brighter here than anywhere else. Maybe it’s because of the altitude or the fact that the only light is coming from the stars and not traffic or buildings or streetlamps, but the simple beauty of the sky. They seem close enough to touch, as if I could reach my hand out and pull one down. I continued walking, listening to the birds squawk and the frogs croak, taking in the beauty of this place. It never ceases to amaze me, how unbelievably beautiful Rwanda is; it’s like waking up to a postcard, only it’s real (you realize this when the bugs start eating you).
Tomorrow is our last day in the village, and I know it won’t be an easy one. I’m waking up for church services in the morning, so I need to get some sleep, especially after my talent show efforts followed by schlepping giant baskets across the village. The next time I post from Rwanda, it will probably be my last until Jerusalem, so I’ll do my best to make it a good one.
Lots of love,
Elana
Friday, February 25, 2011
The beginning of the end
February 25, 2011
Saying goodbye is never easy, especially when it can be said in one of several languages. Today, however, began the long list of goodbyes that, unfortunately, lead to our departure on Monday. This morning I went to teach my final classes in the school – double chemistry. I walked into the classroom and was immediately bombarded with questions, “Teacher, question! Teacher, me! Teacher, please, help me!” Someone then explained to me that they were having an exam today, so they were all very caught up in their final minutes to study. I answered their questions, going around the room to make sure everyone had a chance to ask me at least one, and reminded them that they are all excellent students and should be confident while taking their test. Their teacher, Carissa (a man, who is also called Eugene by some, which is confusing, unless they are two different people and I’m the one who’s confused) had some trouble making copies of the exam, so instead he wrote all of the test questions on the board and had the students copy them down). Once the entire test had been written in chalk and recopied onto notebook paper, I had to leave the room because the kids aren’t allowed to ask me questions during a test. So, I went into the teacher’s lounge where I usually spend my breaks and all of the teacher in there came up to me, telling me how sad they will be when we leave in a few days; Rachel, one of the English teachers who is always wearing at least three inch heels, told me she will be upset not to see my face in school on Monday. I told them all not to worry, that we can keep in touch, so we exchanged email addresses.
At the end of the hour, I went to my usual class, Enrichment Year Class D (I teach chemistry to second year, Senior 4, students) to say goodbye to them. When I walked in, they all started clapping, and we took a class photo, with Aimable, of course. As I stepped into the picture, Emile, who was standing behind me, grabbed my hand and said, “Please, don’t leave. I will be so sad when you go.” Emile usually sits in toward the back of the class, keeps to himself and does extremely well in school. His English is very advanced; more than once, I’ve caught him reading Chekhov in the back corner. We’ve had a few conversations over the past month; he’s very curious about life in America and how it is different from Rwanda (where do you even start when asked that question?) He’s a very intelligent, curious and kindhearted kid, and I’m going to miss him, and the rest of the class, very much. On my way out, Assoumpta stopped me, making sure that I’ll come visit the family over the weekend. I told her a promise is a promise and of course I’ll be there; she said, “Ok, good, because we will miss you. We want to see you. And take more pictures.” They LOVE taking photos, especially being able to see them afterward on digital cameras. I told Assoumpta not to worry, that I’ll be at the house, with my camera, and we can take lots of pictures. As I left, I turned back, and she was smiling, giving me a thumbs-up.
One last time, I trekked back down from the school to the work site. I found the rest of the group cutting up pineapple Ido had bought from a passing bicycle; we got 34 pineapples, so for about 200 francs each, the guy selling them probably went home for the day since his profit from our purchase alone makes for a better business day than most. We all took turns cutting them open, taking off the outside, and saving the tops because tops of pineapples can be planted to grow more fruit, no watering necessary. After opening, coring and chunking 30 of the pineapples into pieces, Ciprier and Eric, the work site managers, gathered all 80 workers (some are building other houses in the village, but we’ve worked with all of them at least once, and they are our English students) and I gave a small speech, in French, on behalf of Social Action Rwanda, and Ciprier translated it into Kinyarwanda. Then, some of the workers wanted to say a few words (in Kinyarwanda, of course) so Ciprier translated into French and I translated to English. It seems like a much more laborious process than it was, but it was crazy hearing all these languages flying around a construction site that smelled of pineapple and cement, all at once. Finally, when the workers and Ido had all finished speaking (Ido joked about none of them taking advantage of our presence to find a Muzungu wife. They found this hysterical, as did we… sort of), the pineapple disappeared in record time (under five minutes, easily). We said goodbye to all of them; many of my and Ilyssa’s English students came up, saying “Teacher, miss you!” and “Thank you, teacher!” I’m going to miss them very much, especially Pelage. Who’s going to hand him bricks? I guess now that the warehouse is essentially done, the point is moot, but not seeing him and the rest of the workers every day for several hours, laughing (usually them laughing at us, but we laugh along anyway) and joking and making the time pass together, is going to be a rough adjustment.
After taking some pictures (including one with Ciprier. He was very excited about this) we washed our hands of pineapple juice and were getting ready to leave for the Rubona market when Ido stopped us. He told us we needed to have a short meeting. Ido began by telling us that the warehouse was built by moving bricks and cement from one place to another, from disorganized piles to neat stacks to the walls that now support a roof and are built on a solid rock foundation. He then said (and this was our surprise) that everyone who comes to the village should know who built it, who moved the bricks and the cement to make it into what it is. So, in front of the warehouse, the path leading to the door, is a cement patch on which we got to write Year Course 2011, put our handprints in the cement (this was a total mess, but lots of fun) and write our initials. There will forever be evidence of the hands that put that building together: our hands. Fourteen sets of hands, all different shapes, sizes and strengths, working together to build something wonderful. What we built doesn’t end with our warehouse; we built relationships, friendships, memories that will never be forgotten. We built a home here, and it’s going to be nearly impossible to leave.
When we had finally finished our handprints and washed off the remaining cement, we walked to the Rubona market. On the way, as usual, we were stopped by children running from their houses and the primary school, screaming, “Good morning, how are you?” It was unusually hot today, so the walk seemed longer than normal, but when we arrived at the market, kids, chasing after us in packs, watching our every move, swarmed us. I went to go look at the printed skirts (they’re in piles on tables made out of tree trunks and spare branches), and I found one! I tried it on over my shorts and the woman told me I could have it for 1000 francs (just under $2). However, it was a little long, so I took it to one of the several women who sit with sewing machines near the fabric stores, and showed her that it was too long. She spoke no English and no French, so lots of miming was involved, but she told me to come back in 15 minutes and it would be done. Well, sure enough, fifteen minutes and 200 francs (34 cents) later, my skirt had been shortened. This is a process that, in America, takes days or weeks and costs way more than 34 cents. I think we have something to learn from the seamstresses of Rubona.
I wandered the market, picking up some fabric (no surprise – it’s cheap and beautiful and packs easily. Triple win) a few mangos to snack on for the next few days, some brochette skewers (last ones for a while) and, for Shabbat, 50 potato and hot pepper samosas for us and the long-term volunteers (Talia and I split the cost of these). We loaded up our brown paper bags (recycled from Nakumatt) and began walking back to the village, stopping along the way for some nun wine. When we got back, I went to braid challah for Shabbat in the kitchen, where Hiram (the head of the kitchen) kept feeding us pineapple and fruit salad. Ido even came to make one with us (he made his challah in the shape of a giant croissant. We were ready to put them in the oven when he realized that there was no egg on top, so he went to go get us an egg and, I have no idea where he found it, a pastry brush). Between the samosas and brochettes, and all the fruit, I felt so full it was borderline nausea.
Later, we went back to pick up the challahs (which turned out delicious) and had kabbalat Shabbat at the guesthouse with all the volunteers. After a short service, we feasted on challah, tomatoes, pineapple (the four remaining after Ido’s morning purchase), bananas and samosas imported to ASYV from the Rubona alleyway samosa guy. After we finished eating, it was time to go to the dining hall for Village Time, the weekly all-village meeting led by clubs and village directors. There is also a weekly village “newscast” done by the ASYV TV club (it really is a cute video). This week, Ilan, the director of the village, after mentioning some world news, talked about saying goodbye to the Young Judaea volunteers. This, for me, made it real. We’re really leaving. In the next two days, we have to pack and leave for Israel. It won’t be easy or fun, but it’s happening, and there is no way around it.
Right after Village Time is always dinner, but Talia planned us a special group dinner – chicken soup! She brought us instant noodles in soup from Israel (she checked through several boxes of food, including one of peanut butter and another of granola bars), which we all had tonight for dinner, just us, at the guesthouse. It was a very nice way to start our last Shabbat together. We finished our group dinner and went back to the dining hall (there was a lot of schlepping involved this evening, but given my samosa and brochette intake, I need all the exercise I can get) for the monthly birthday celebration. Since there are so many kids in the village and some don’t know their birthdays, the last Friday of each month is a village birthday party for anyone born during that month or part of the year. The birthday celebration included cake and roasted nuts (they tasted like peanuts, but weren’t) and performances by several students. At the end, the celebration turned into a dance party on the porch of the dining hall, which is always a blast here because the kids are amazing dancers.
It’s now after 11 and I need to wake up very early tomorrow to run Muchaka Muchaka a final time (and perhaps get it on video… I’m going to need a way to practice my African chanting at home). 5:30 will be here before I know it!
More about my final days here soon, lots of love,
Elana
Saying goodbye is never easy, especially when it can be said in one of several languages. Today, however, began the long list of goodbyes that, unfortunately, lead to our departure on Monday. This morning I went to teach my final classes in the school – double chemistry. I walked into the classroom and was immediately bombarded with questions, “Teacher, question! Teacher, me! Teacher, please, help me!” Someone then explained to me that they were having an exam today, so they were all very caught up in their final minutes to study. I answered their questions, going around the room to make sure everyone had a chance to ask me at least one, and reminded them that they are all excellent students and should be confident while taking their test. Their teacher, Carissa (a man, who is also called Eugene by some, which is confusing, unless they are two different people and I’m the one who’s confused) had some trouble making copies of the exam, so instead he wrote all of the test questions on the board and had the students copy them down). Once the entire test had been written in chalk and recopied onto notebook paper, I had to leave the room because the kids aren’t allowed to ask me questions during a test. So, I went into the teacher’s lounge where I usually spend my breaks and all of the teacher in there came up to me, telling me how sad they will be when we leave in a few days; Rachel, one of the English teachers who is always wearing at least three inch heels, told me she will be upset not to see my face in school on Monday. I told them all not to worry, that we can keep in touch, so we exchanged email addresses.
At the end of the hour, I went to my usual class, Enrichment Year Class D (I teach chemistry to second year, Senior 4, students) to say goodbye to them. When I walked in, they all started clapping, and we took a class photo, with Aimable, of course. As I stepped into the picture, Emile, who was standing behind me, grabbed my hand and said, “Please, don’t leave. I will be so sad when you go.” Emile usually sits in toward the back of the class, keeps to himself and does extremely well in school. His English is very advanced; more than once, I’ve caught him reading Chekhov in the back corner. We’ve had a few conversations over the past month; he’s very curious about life in America and how it is different from Rwanda (where do you even start when asked that question?) He’s a very intelligent, curious and kindhearted kid, and I’m going to miss him, and the rest of the class, very much. On my way out, Assoumpta stopped me, making sure that I’ll come visit the family over the weekend. I told her a promise is a promise and of course I’ll be there; she said, “Ok, good, because we will miss you. We want to see you. And take more pictures.” They LOVE taking photos, especially being able to see them afterward on digital cameras. I told Assoumpta not to worry, that I’ll be at the house, with my camera, and we can take lots of pictures. As I left, I turned back, and she was smiling, giving me a thumbs-up.
One last time, I trekked back down from the school to the work site. I found the rest of the group cutting up pineapple Ido had bought from a passing bicycle; we got 34 pineapples, so for about 200 francs each, the guy selling them probably went home for the day since his profit from our purchase alone makes for a better business day than most. We all took turns cutting them open, taking off the outside, and saving the tops because tops of pineapples can be planted to grow more fruit, no watering necessary. After opening, coring and chunking 30 of the pineapples into pieces, Ciprier and Eric, the work site managers, gathered all 80 workers (some are building other houses in the village, but we’ve worked with all of them at least once, and they are our English students) and I gave a small speech, in French, on behalf of Social Action Rwanda, and Ciprier translated it into Kinyarwanda. Then, some of the workers wanted to say a few words (in Kinyarwanda, of course) so Ciprier translated into French and I translated to English. It seems like a much more laborious process than it was, but it was crazy hearing all these languages flying around a construction site that smelled of pineapple and cement, all at once. Finally, when the workers and Ido had all finished speaking (Ido joked about none of them taking advantage of our presence to find a Muzungu wife. They found this hysterical, as did we… sort of), the pineapple disappeared in record time (under five minutes, easily). We said goodbye to all of them; many of my and Ilyssa’s English students came up, saying “Teacher, miss you!” and “Thank you, teacher!” I’m going to miss them very much, especially Pelage. Who’s going to hand him bricks? I guess now that the warehouse is essentially done, the point is moot, but not seeing him and the rest of the workers every day for several hours, laughing (usually them laughing at us, but we laugh along anyway) and joking and making the time pass together, is going to be a rough adjustment.
After taking some pictures (including one with Ciprier. He was very excited about this) we washed our hands of pineapple juice and were getting ready to leave for the Rubona market when Ido stopped us. He told us we needed to have a short meeting. Ido began by telling us that the warehouse was built by moving bricks and cement from one place to another, from disorganized piles to neat stacks to the walls that now support a roof and are built on a solid rock foundation. He then said (and this was our surprise) that everyone who comes to the village should know who built it, who moved the bricks and the cement to make it into what it is. So, in front of the warehouse, the path leading to the door, is a cement patch on which we got to write Year Course 2011, put our handprints in the cement (this was a total mess, but lots of fun) and write our initials. There will forever be evidence of the hands that put that building together: our hands. Fourteen sets of hands, all different shapes, sizes and strengths, working together to build something wonderful. What we built doesn’t end with our warehouse; we built relationships, friendships, memories that will never be forgotten. We built a home here, and it’s going to be nearly impossible to leave.
When we had finally finished our handprints and washed off the remaining cement, we walked to the Rubona market. On the way, as usual, we were stopped by children running from their houses and the primary school, screaming, “Good morning, how are you?” It was unusually hot today, so the walk seemed longer than normal, but when we arrived at the market, kids, chasing after us in packs, watching our every move, swarmed us. I went to go look at the printed skirts (they’re in piles on tables made out of tree trunks and spare branches), and I found one! I tried it on over my shorts and the woman told me I could have it for 1000 francs (just under $2). However, it was a little long, so I took it to one of the several women who sit with sewing machines near the fabric stores, and showed her that it was too long. She spoke no English and no French, so lots of miming was involved, but she told me to come back in 15 minutes and it would be done. Well, sure enough, fifteen minutes and 200 francs (34 cents) later, my skirt had been shortened. This is a process that, in America, takes days or weeks and costs way more than 34 cents. I think we have something to learn from the seamstresses of Rubona.
I wandered the market, picking up some fabric (no surprise – it’s cheap and beautiful and packs easily. Triple win) a few mangos to snack on for the next few days, some brochette skewers (last ones for a while) and, for Shabbat, 50 potato and hot pepper samosas for us and the long-term volunteers (Talia and I split the cost of these). We loaded up our brown paper bags (recycled from Nakumatt) and began walking back to the village, stopping along the way for some nun wine. When we got back, I went to braid challah for Shabbat in the kitchen, where Hiram (the head of the kitchen) kept feeding us pineapple and fruit salad. Ido even came to make one with us (he made his challah in the shape of a giant croissant. We were ready to put them in the oven when he realized that there was no egg on top, so he went to go get us an egg and, I have no idea where he found it, a pastry brush). Between the samosas and brochettes, and all the fruit, I felt so full it was borderline nausea.
Later, we went back to pick up the challahs (which turned out delicious) and had kabbalat Shabbat at the guesthouse with all the volunteers. After a short service, we feasted on challah, tomatoes, pineapple (the four remaining after Ido’s morning purchase), bananas and samosas imported to ASYV from the Rubona alleyway samosa guy. After we finished eating, it was time to go to the dining hall for Village Time, the weekly all-village meeting led by clubs and village directors. There is also a weekly village “newscast” done by the ASYV TV club (it really is a cute video). This week, Ilan, the director of the village, after mentioning some world news, talked about saying goodbye to the Young Judaea volunteers. This, for me, made it real. We’re really leaving. In the next two days, we have to pack and leave for Israel. It won’t be easy or fun, but it’s happening, and there is no way around it.
Right after Village Time is always dinner, but Talia planned us a special group dinner – chicken soup! She brought us instant noodles in soup from Israel (she checked through several boxes of food, including one of peanut butter and another of granola bars), which we all had tonight for dinner, just us, at the guesthouse. It was a very nice way to start our last Shabbat together. We finished our group dinner and went back to the dining hall (there was a lot of schlepping involved this evening, but given my samosa and brochette intake, I need all the exercise I can get) for the monthly birthday celebration. Since there are so many kids in the village and some don’t know their birthdays, the last Friday of each month is a village birthday party for anyone born during that month or part of the year. The birthday celebration included cake and roasted nuts (they tasted like peanuts, but weren’t) and performances by several students. At the end, the celebration turned into a dance party on the porch of the dining hall, which is always a blast here because the kids are amazing dancers.
It’s now after 11 and I need to wake up very early tomorrow to run Muchaka Muchaka a final time (and perhaps get it on video… I’m going to need a way to practice my African chanting at home). 5:30 will be here before I know it!
More about my final days here soon, lots of love,
Elana
Gisenyi
February 23-24, 2011
Hello readers! It’s now a few minutes past 7:00 PM in Rwanda and we just arrived back in the village from Gisenyi, which is on Lake Kivu in the northern province, near the gorillas. Before I give you the details of our adventure, let me share with you a sad piece of news I heard on Wednesday morning:
According to a message one of my roommates received, the Sudanese community in Arad has been deported. The gan has been locked for at least the past week and is apparently shut down; the Sudanese families are, according to this message, gone. Before I become outraged and upset, I tried to determine the extent to which this is true, and I found a Jerusalem Post article that claims that the Sudanese are leaving voluntarily and are looking forward to returning to South Sudan. However, other sources, as the article acknowledges, say that the Israeli government is forcing, or even bribing, the Sudanese community to leave. While the article refutes these claims and insists that this is an ongoing process to return the Sudanese to their homeland, the fact remains that one day the gan was open and the Sudanese community was doing relatively well in Arad, and the next, it was closed and they were gone. The abrupt nature of their departure makes voluntary return to South Sudan questionable. Would the entire Sudanese population really all get up and leave at once? Still, we aren’t sure exactly what did or did not happen, and if any Sudanese families are still living in Arad. Hopefully, they are still there and simply figuring out their status in Israel, or if they did return to Sudan, they did so by choice. To read the JPost article, follow this link: http://www.jpost.com/NationalNews/Article.aspx?id=209450. We are awaiting further information on the status of the Sudanese community in Arad, if anyone even knows where they are or what is actually happening.
In happier news, our trip to Gisenyi was wonderful. We left early Wednesday morning and drove north for several hours in our van (white metal rickshaw, really). Along the way, we stopped for lunch at a Rwandan restaurant and ate a delicious meal. Before getting to the hotel, we drove along the Rwanda/Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) border. The border is actually a stone wall and a small gate guarded by two Rwandan army officers. Due to the ongoing conflict in the DRC, we didn’t cross this “border” but instead drove on to the hotel. We finally arrived at the hotel, the Paradise, which is an adorable collection of wood and grass-thatched huts (furnished huts) connected by winding stone pathways, situated right on the lakefront. Lake Kivu is the only lake in Rwanda open for swimming. No sooner had we arrived and put our things in our guestrooms did the maître d’ come running outside with life vests, and an even skinnier (if this is even possible) Rwandan followed, running behind him, carrying a boat engine on his shoulder. We threw on bathing suits and got into the small wooden boat beached in front of the hotel. The smaller guy, who we later realized would be our captain, attached the motor to the boat and we went across the lake to the hot springs. There, we met the “mayor” of the hot springs, who is nearly 94 years old and has been there for over 60 years. These hot springs are so hot that if you were to drop a potato in one, it would take about twenty minutes to cook through.
After the hot springs, we piled back into the boat and went toward the middle of the lake where there is a small island, owned by the Paradise. We lounged around, soaked up some sun, and eventually got back in the boat to return to the hotel. It’s quite cool to take a boat to your hotel room, I must say. Dinner was awesome; the lake is home to tilapia (there are no other animals in the lake because of volcanic eruptions on the DRC side that make it impossible for anything but fish to survive in the water. This is part of what makes it okay for swimming) so we all had to order that for dinner (there were other options, but I’ve never had fresher fish in my life). Of course, as we were sitting down at our table, two traditional African dancers came running in, dressed as warriors, spears and shields and all. They were accompanied by drummers who chanted along to the beat set by the bells on the dancers’ ankles. Every few minutes, they would pull one of us up to dance with them; I attempted to pick up some of their moves, and I even requested wearing their ankle bells, but neither really happened (the latter was a definite no). Once we finished our tilapia, we had a small surprise activity. We were all given paper and pens and told to write letters to ourselves that we will receive in six months or a year from now. I don’t know exactly where I’ll be, or what I’ll be doing, but I do know that when I receive it, I will think of Rwanda, of the village and the kids, of my trip to see the gorillas, of Gisenyi and Akagera and Murambi and all the places I’ve visited, of my friends here and all the memories we’ve made. I know I will remember all these things, and I will smile.
I woke up this morning, without an alarm, at 7:00 to the sound of screaming. It was coming from the lake, as I would later find out. The fishermen, in their wooden fishing boats, were rowing out onto the lake to begin their workday. It was an awesome sight, if a bit early, but my body has adjusted to waking up at ungodly hours sans alarm. I can’t decide if this is such a good thing…
After a very nice breakfast (omelettes, crepes, fruit salad, toast and jam, and COFFEE!) I spent some time laying out on the lake front, trying to even out the color difference between my arms (they are very dark, I’m beginning to look less like a Muzungu!) and my legs, which don’t see the sun much since I usually wear pants here (women in Rwanda aren’t supposed to show their legs, so we don’t wear shorts around the village or when we’re out). By 11:00, we left the hotel and went to the Gisenyi outdoor market, where, of course, I found some beautiful African fabrics (I got to bargain in French) and hot sauce that is sold in eyedropper containers because you can only use one drop at a time, it’s that spicy. It’s also yellow-orange, which makes me nervous.
Once we finished shopping at the market, and finally persuaded the posse of school children following us that no, they could not get in the van (there’s barely room for us and our stuff) we drove toward Kigali, stopping along the way for pizza. As we were eating our lunch, it began to pour. Our driver, Bosco, explained to me that because of the mountains in that area, clouds are trapped and therefore it rains very hard every day there. At one point, it even began to hail! Rwandan driving is crazy without awful weather, so I truly am impressed by Bosco’s driving skills in the pouring rain, hail, thunder and lightning. Before returning to the village we stopped, one last time, at Nakumatt for any remaining items we may need for the next few days. I’m pretty sure the people who work there know us now, and are probably expecting us to return next week for more snack foods that don’t require refrigeration. Unfortunately, we won’t be back any time soon.
It’s hard to believe that we only have three full days left in the village. Tomorrow is our final morning at the work site and my final morning at the school, so I need to say goodbye to Aimable and Vincent and all of my students. We are also throwing a party for the workers, complete with pineapple. Afterwards is our last trip into Rubona for samosas, brochette skewers, six mangos for 100 francs and of course, passion fruit wine made by nuns. Over the weekend, I promised my girls I’d visit them, which I will, and at some point, unfortunately, I need to start packing my things, fabrics, hand-woven baskets and all, to return to Israel. I won’t get into how much I’m going to miss Rwanda and all that’s here right now, but be prepared, that post is coming soon.
All the best from a slightly tanner me,
Elana
Hello readers! It’s now a few minutes past 7:00 PM in Rwanda and we just arrived back in the village from Gisenyi, which is on Lake Kivu in the northern province, near the gorillas. Before I give you the details of our adventure, let me share with you a sad piece of news I heard on Wednesday morning:
According to a message one of my roommates received, the Sudanese community in Arad has been deported. The gan has been locked for at least the past week and is apparently shut down; the Sudanese families are, according to this message, gone. Before I become outraged and upset, I tried to determine the extent to which this is true, and I found a Jerusalem Post article that claims that the Sudanese are leaving voluntarily and are looking forward to returning to South Sudan. However, other sources, as the article acknowledges, say that the Israeli government is forcing, or even bribing, the Sudanese community to leave. While the article refutes these claims and insists that this is an ongoing process to return the Sudanese to their homeland, the fact remains that one day the gan was open and the Sudanese community was doing relatively well in Arad, and the next, it was closed and they were gone. The abrupt nature of their departure makes voluntary return to South Sudan questionable. Would the entire Sudanese population really all get up and leave at once? Still, we aren’t sure exactly what did or did not happen, and if any Sudanese families are still living in Arad. Hopefully, they are still there and simply figuring out their status in Israel, or if they did return to Sudan, they did so by choice. To read the JPost article, follow this link: http://www.jpost.com/NationalNews/Article.aspx?id=209450. We are awaiting further information on the status of the Sudanese community in Arad, if anyone even knows where they are or what is actually happening.
In happier news, our trip to Gisenyi was wonderful. We left early Wednesday morning and drove north for several hours in our van (white metal rickshaw, really). Along the way, we stopped for lunch at a Rwandan restaurant and ate a delicious meal. Before getting to the hotel, we drove along the Rwanda/Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) border. The border is actually a stone wall and a small gate guarded by two Rwandan army officers. Due to the ongoing conflict in the DRC, we didn’t cross this “border” but instead drove on to the hotel. We finally arrived at the hotel, the Paradise, which is an adorable collection of wood and grass-thatched huts (furnished huts) connected by winding stone pathways, situated right on the lakefront. Lake Kivu is the only lake in Rwanda open for swimming. No sooner had we arrived and put our things in our guestrooms did the maître d’ come running outside with life vests, and an even skinnier (if this is even possible) Rwandan followed, running behind him, carrying a boat engine on his shoulder. We threw on bathing suits and got into the small wooden boat beached in front of the hotel. The smaller guy, who we later realized would be our captain, attached the motor to the boat and we went across the lake to the hot springs. There, we met the “mayor” of the hot springs, who is nearly 94 years old and has been there for over 60 years. These hot springs are so hot that if you were to drop a potato in one, it would take about twenty minutes to cook through.
After the hot springs, we piled back into the boat and went toward the middle of the lake where there is a small island, owned by the Paradise. We lounged around, soaked up some sun, and eventually got back in the boat to return to the hotel. It’s quite cool to take a boat to your hotel room, I must say. Dinner was awesome; the lake is home to tilapia (there are no other animals in the lake because of volcanic eruptions on the DRC side that make it impossible for anything but fish to survive in the water. This is part of what makes it okay for swimming) so we all had to order that for dinner (there were other options, but I’ve never had fresher fish in my life). Of course, as we were sitting down at our table, two traditional African dancers came running in, dressed as warriors, spears and shields and all. They were accompanied by drummers who chanted along to the beat set by the bells on the dancers’ ankles. Every few minutes, they would pull one of us up to dance with them; I attempted to pick up some of their moves, and I even requested wearing their ankle bells, but neither really happened (the latter was a definite no). Once we finished our tilapia, we had a small surprise activity. We were all given paper and pens and told to write letters to ourselves that we will receive in six months or a year from now. I don’t know exactly where I’ll be, or what I’ll be doing, but I do know that when I receive it, I will think of Rwanda, of the village and the kids, of my trip to see the gorillas, of Gisenyi and Akagera and Murambi and all the places I’ve visited, of my friends here and all the memories we’ve made. I know I will remember all these things, and I will smile.
I woke up this morning, without an alarm, at 7:00 to the sound of screaming. It was coming from the lake, as I would later find out. The fishermen, in their wooden fishing boats, were rowing out onto the lake to begin their workday. It was an awesome sight, if a bit early, but my body has adjusted to waking up at ungodly hours sans alarm. I can’t decide if this is such a good thing…
After a very nice breakfast (omelettes, crepes, fruit salad, toast and jam, and COFFEE!) I spent some time laying out on the lake front, trying to even out the color difference between my arms (they are very dark, I’m beginning to look less like a Muzungu!) and my legs, which don’t see the sun much since I usually wear pants here (women in Rwanda aren’t supposed to show their legs, so we don’t wear shorts around the village or when we’re out). By 11:00, we left the hotel and went to the Gisenyi outdoor market, where, of course, I found some beautiful African fabrics (I got to bargain in French) and hot sauce that is sold in eyedropper containers because you can only use one drop at a time, it’s that spicy. It’s also yellow-orange, which makes me nervous.
Once we finished shopping at the market, and finally persuaded the posse of school children following us that no, they could not get in the van (there’s barely room for us and our stuff) we drove toward Kigali, stopping along the way for pizza. As we were eating our lunch, it began to pour. Our driver, Bosco, explained to me that because of the mountains in that area, clouds are trapped and therefore it rains very hard every day there. At one point, it even began to hail! Rwandan driving is crazy without awful weather, so I truly am impressed by Bosco’s driving skills in the pouring rain, hail, thunder and lightning. Before returning to the village we stopped, one last time, at Nakumatt for any remaining items we may need for the next few days. I’m pretty sure the people who work there know us now, and are probably expecting us to return next week for more snack foods that don’t require refrigeration. Unfortunately, we won’t be back any time soon.
It’s hard to believe that we only have three full days left in the village. Tomorrow is our final morning at the work site and my final morning at the school, so I need to say goodbye to Aimable and Vincent and all of my students. We are also throwing a party for the workers, complete with pineapple. Afterwards is our last trip into Rubona for samosas, brochette skewers, six mangos for 100 francs and of course, passion fruit wine made by nuns. Over the weekend, I promised my girls I’d visit them, which I will, and at some point, unfortunately, I need to start packing my things, fabrics, hand-woven baskets and all, to return to Israel. I won’t get into how much I’m going to miss Rwanda and all that’s here right now, but be prepared, that post is coming soon.
All the best from a slightly tanner me,
Elana
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
In my heart, next to Jesus
February 22, 2011
Hello from Rwanda, readers! The last few days have been mostly uneventful; Shabbat is quiet for us, and then Sunday, the village doesn’t have much going on because the kids go to church and spend the day relaxing. Yesterday was another voting day, so the school and the work site were closed for a “vacation." However, we did have Enrichment Programs, which meant a final cooking class with the Mommas. We made crepes that were, of course, full of sugar and absolutely delicious. Luckily, this week, we were without any major lightning storms, so we were able to cook outside.
Today returned to our normal crazy schedule. I was on kitchen duty this morning, so at 8:00, I reported to the dining hall to start chopping, dicing and peeling to help prepare lunch for about 500 people. I cut up tomatoes, hollowed out cucumbers to be diced, peeled sweet potatoes (this lasted about ten minutes before the kitchen staff realized they could do five potatoes in the time it took me to do one, so instead, they switched me to chopping onions). Then I started taking the stems off some very bizarre-looking vegetables (no one in the kitchen knew what they’re called; I asked) and then we started cutting those in half. At the end of the morning, the staff gave me a short tour of what was cooking in the gigantic metal tubs in a room adjacent to where I was cutting and chopping and generally moving at a third of the pace of everyone around me. Most of the tubs contained rice and “sauce,” which is the term for a mix of mystery vegetables, sometimes beans, water and perhaps, if you’re lucky, a tablespoon of tomato paste (one tablespoon for 500 people doesn’t exactly get you far). As we were finishing up (I was working with my friend Jenna), a delivery from the farm drove up the path to the kitchen: pineapples! Unfortunately, the pineapples didn’t make an appearance at lunch (but a small vegetable salad did!) but they did make the kitchen smell amazing.
At 1:00, it was time for my final hour teaching the construction workers English. Tuesdays are generally, for me, long and exhausting days at the work site, but teaching this hour makes my day that much brighter, watching people who, four weeks ago, didn’t speak a word of English, come over to our meeting spot, greet me with a “Hello, teacher. How are you?” and then proceed to tell me, in full sentences, that they like cement and Jesus, can they please have more bricks and a level, and, my personal favorite, they love teacher. It’s amazing to me how far they’ve come in such a short time; this week, they did “head, shoulders, knees and toes” without my or Ilyssa’s help, and did remarkably well (very little eyes, ears, mouth, nose confusion, relatively speaking). We reviewed everything from clothing to colors, “I like” and “Can I have” to “Thank you” and “Please.” At the end of the hour, after having done “jump right, jump left, front and back” with only a few collisions (there were many more last week), everyone came around, shaking our hands, telling us “thank you, teacher” and that they love to learn English. Hearing this, knowing they have started learning something new and now have mastered new skills, makes me realize that my time here has meant so much not only to the students, but to people who never had the opportunity to be students at a place like ASYV. Knowing this, I have no choice but to smile a little wider.
Immediately following English class and lunch was my final Tikkun Olam at Peter’s house. Today was more mud mixing, bringing piles of it from outside the house to the inside to finish the dividing walls, and, of course, playing with Peter’s children (who love to “help” us throw the mud at the wall). At the end of today’s work, Andrew, our group leader, told us that they will always remember us for our work there, and that the group will be sad to continue working at Peter’s house without us. It’s strange to think that in a week from today, I will be moving into my Jerusalem apartment, unpacking the clothes and shoes and everything that I haven’t seen in weeks, everything I’ve been too busy to miss (although my socks are starting to become permanently brown, despite my attempts at washing them repeatedly). While I’m doing all this, Andrew and the Tikkun Olam group will return to Peter’s house, mix more mud and continue slinging at the walls until they are completely improved. Part of me, a big part of me, wishes I could be there; I wish I could stay and return to Peter’s house, to play with his children and throw mud at the holes in the interior walls, I wish I could stay in the village, with my students and Aimable and everyone who has made this place a home for me. I know that these are just wishes, that all good things must end, but I also know when I do say goodbye in less than week, it will be only temporary; I know I will come back to my home in the Rwandan hills.
After Tikkun Olam, I had a brief (and completely strange and disorganized) meeting to discuss the upcoming Talent Show we (Year Course volunteers) are trying to plan for the village. Well, whether or not it a) happens and b) is any sort of success remains to be seen. I will keep you all updated on this as the saga unfolds.
Tonight was, sadly, my final Family Time with my girls in Family 8. Hannah and I got to run the activities tonight, so we brought them candy (they LOVE sweets because they never get them, so they are a major treat), mango-flavored hard candies and chocolate-covered caramels. As they were unwrapping their dessert, I handed out bracelets I brought from Israel. They were red chamsa bracelets, I explained to them that in Judaism, we wear chamsas (the hand of God) for luck, to ward off evil spirits. They loved them, Momma Hillary included, and put them on immediately. After figuring out the clasps on their bracelets, the girls all passed around our journals, signing them and writing us notes, and made us cards from construction paper and crayons. When one girl, Cecille, handed her card to me, she said, “Elana, you know that you are in my heart. You are in my heart next to Jesus.” Having her tell me I am right next to Jesus in her heart is a big deal; all of the kids are very religious and despite the hardships and atrocities they have faced in their lives, their love for Jesus never falters. So, this was a bold statement.
We listened to some music (Michael Jackson and Beyonce, of course) and subsequently had an impromptu dance party. As the music played, I showed the girls (Cadette, in particular, who has been asking for photos of my family since I got here) pictures of me with my parents and of my family. They commented on how nice I looked (in the pictures, I’m wearing makeup and “real” clothes… this must have shocked them). We took a family photo (they had a great time with this, but Momma Hillary didn’t understand the whole flash thing), and after, Momma gave us a speech, in Kinyarwanda, of course, with translation by Francoise and Cadette, telling us how thankful they are for everything we have done, for everything we have taught them and most of all, for the love we have shared. She reminded us that God will bless us, that we should have a safe journey home, and that we must return to Rwanda. When she was finished, she gave me a huge hug and a kiss on my cheek, and I thanked her for everything she does and will continue to do for her girls, who have become my girls, too. The house mothers, Momma Hillary especially, are amazing women. They lost their families and their children in the genocide and now have a second chance at being mothers to children who really need them. Their strength and love and compassion are unending, and therefore, unbelievable.
The girls didn’t like seeing us walk down their stone path at the end of Family Time. They followed us outside, hugging us and begging us to stay. We promised to come back over the weekend when we have some spare time and they aren’t studying. Souvenir followed me, hanging onto me by my shoulders, saying, “You will always be in my heart. I will never forget you.” Hannah and I walked back to the guesthouse, cards and journals full of well-wishes in hand; behind us, the girls lined up on the walkway, waving and screaming our names. I’ll see them again before we leave, but knowing there won’t be another time we sit in a circle, drink tea and listen to Erica (the family counselor) translate for Momma, pray in Kinyarwanda, French, Hebrew and English all at once, answer questions about why I don’t believe in Jesus, make adorable cards, exchange email addresses, open candy and sing along to MJ, I want to cry with them, and all of a sudden, the promises I made all of them that it will be okay, that it’s no use to cry, seem empty. They don’t know it, but they have taught me just as much, if not more, than I have taught them. I have learned, laughed, cried and shared with them, as they have with me. I always asked my parents for a sister, and now, I have sixteen of them. I have sixteen beautiful, smart, brave Rwandan sisters, and they are in my heart just as I’m in theirs, but unlike them, I don’t hold them next to Jesus. They are on a level all by themselves.
Tomorrow is our volunteer “vacation” to Gisenyi, which is about an hour north of the gorillas. Gisenyi is on Lake Kivu, the only lake safe for Muzungus to swim. We are visiting the hot springs (by boat), soaking up some sun (hopefully) and enjoying some meals that do not involve rice or beans (hurrah!) We arrive back on Thursday night, so I will update all of you on the details of our adventure then (or perhaps Friday… it depends how tired I am).
As always, thank you for reading.
Lots of love,
Elana (the Muzungu sister with soft hair)
Hello from Rwanda, readers! The last few days have been mostly uneventful; Shabbat is quiet for us, and then Sunday, the village doesn’t have much going on because the kids go to church and spend the day relaxing. Yesterday was another voting day, so the school and the work site were closed for a “vacation." However, we did have Enrichment Programs, which meant a final cooking class with the Mommas. We made crepes that were, of course, full of sugar and absolutely delicious. Luckily, this week, we were without any major lightning storms, so we were able to cook outside.
Today returned to our normal crazy schedule. I was on kitchen duty this morning, so at 8:00, I reported to the dining hall to start chopping, dicing and peeling to help prepare lunch for about 500 people. I cut up tomatoes, hollowed out cucumbers to be diced, peeled sweet potatoes (this lasted about ten minutes before the kitchen staff realized they could do five potatoes in the time it took me to do one, so instead, they switched me to chopping onions). Then I started taking the stems off some very bizarre-looking vegetables (no one in the kitchen knew what they’re called; I asked) and then we started cutting those in half. At the end of the morning, the staff gave me a short tour of what was cooking in the gigantic metal tubs in a room adjacent to where I was cutting and chopping and generally moving at a third of the pace of everyone around me. Most of the tubs contained rice and “sauce,” which is the term for a mix of mystery vegetables, sometimes beans, water and perhaps, if you’re lucky, a tablespoon of tomato paste (one tablespoon for 500 people doesn’t exactly get you far). As we were finishing up (I was working with my friend Jenna), a delivery from the farm drove up the path to the kitchen: pineapples! Unfortunately, the pineapples didn’t make an appearance at lunch (but a small vegetable salad did!) but they did make the kitchen smell amazing.
At 1:00, it was time for my final hour teaching the construction workers English. Tuesdays are generally, for me, long and exhausting days at the work site, but teaching this hour makes my day that much brighter, watching people who, four weeks ago, didn’t speak a word of English, come over to our meeting spot, greet me with a “Hello, teacher. How are you?” and then proceed to tell me, in full sentences, that they like cement and Jesus, can they please have more bricks and a level, and, my personal favorite, they love teacher. It’s amazing to me how far they’ve come in such a short time; this week, they did “head, shoulders, knees and toes” without my or Ilyssa’s help, and did remarkably well (very little eyes, ears, mouth, nose confusion, relatively speaking). We reviewed everything from clothing to colors, “I like” and “Can I have” to “Thank you” and “Please.” At the end of the hour, after having done “jump right, jump left, front and back” with only a few collisions (there were many more last week), everyone came around, shaking our hands, telling us “thank you, teacher” and that they love to learn English. Hearing this, knowing they have started learning something new and now have mastered new skills, makes me realize that my time here has meant so much not only to the students, but to people who never had the opportunity to be students at a place like ASYV. Knowing this, I have no choice but to smile a little wider.
Immediately following English class and lunch was my final Tikkun Olam at Peter’s house. Today was more mud mixing, bringing piles of it from outside the house to the inside to finish the dividing walls, and, of course, playing with Peter’s children (who love to “help” us throw the mud at the wall). At the end of today’s work, Andrew, our group leader, told us that they will always remember us for our work there, and that the group will be sad to continue working at Peter’s house without us. It’s strange to think that in a week from today, I will be moving into my Jerusalem apartment, unpacking the clothes and shoes and everything that I haven’t seen in weeks, everything I’ve been too busy to miss (although my socks are starting to become permanently brown, despite my attempts at washing them repeatedly). While I’m doing all this, Andrew and the Tikkun Olam group will return to Peter’s house, mix more mud and continue slinging at the walls until they are completely improved. Part of me, a big part of me, wishes I could be there; I wish I could stay and return to Peter’s house, to play with his children and throw mud at the holes in the interior walls, I wish I could stay in the village, with my students and Aimable and everyone who has made this place a home for me. I know that these are just wishes, that all good things must end, but I also know when I do say goodbye in less than week, it will be only temporary; I know I will come back to my home in the Rwandan hills.
After Tikkun Olam, I had a brief (and completely strange and disorganized) meeting to discuss the upcoming Talent Show we (Year Course volunteers) are trying to plan for the village. Well, whether or not it a) happens and b) is any sort of success remains to be seen. I will keep you all updated on this as the saga unfolds.
Tonight was, sadly, my final Family Time with my girls in Family 8. Hannah and I got to run the activities tonight, so we brought them candy (they LOVE sweets because they never get them, so they are a major treat), mango-flavored hard candies and chocolate-covered caramels. As they were unwrapping their dessert, I handed out bracelets I brought from Israel. They were red chamsa bracelets, I explained to them that in Judaism, we wear chamsas (the hand of God) for luck, to ward off evil spirits. They loved them, Momma Hillary included, and put them on immediately. After figuring out the clasps on their bracelets, the girls all passed around our journals, signing them and writing us notes, and made us cards from construction paper and crayons. When one girl, Cecille, handed her card to me, she said, “Elana, you know that you are in my heart. You are in my heart next to Jesus.” Having her tell me I am right next to Jesus in her heart is a big deal; all of the kids are very religious and despite the hardships and atrocities they have faced in their lives, their love for Jesus never falters. So, this was a bold statement.
We listened to some music (Michael Jackson and Beyonce, of course) and subsequently had an impromptu dance party. As the music played, I showed the girls (Cadette, in particular, who has been asking for photos of my family since I got here) pictures of me with my parents and of my family. They commented on how nice I looked (in the pictures, I’m wearing makeup and “real” clothes… this must have shocked them). We took a family photo (they had a great time with this, but Momma Hillary didn’t understand the whole flash thing), and after, Momma gave us a speech, in Kinyarwanda, of course, with translation by Francoise and Cadette, telling us how thankful they are for everything we have done, for everything we have taught them and most of all, for the love we have shared. She reminded us that God will bless us, that we should have a safe journey home, and that we must return to Rwanda. When she was finished, she gave me a huge hug and a kiss on my cheek, and I thanked her for everything she does and will continue to do for her girls, who have become my girls, too. The house mothers, Momma Hillary especially, are amazing women. They lost their families and their children in the genocide and now have a second chance at being mothers to children who really need them. Their strength and love and compassion are unending, and therefore, unbelievable.
The girls didn’t like seeing us walk down their stone path at the end of Family Time. They followed us outside, hugging us and begging us to stay. We promised to come back over the weekend when we have some spare time and they aren’t studying. Souvenir followed me, hanging onto me by my shoulders, saying, “You will always be in my heart. I will never forget you.” Hannah and I walked back to the guesthouse, cards and journals full of well-wishes in hand; behind us, the girls lined up on the walkway, waving and screaming our names. I’ll see them again before we leave, but knowing there won’t be another time we sit in a circle, drink tea and listen to Erica (the family counselor) translate for Momma, pray in Kinyarwanda, French, Hebrew and English all at once, answer questions about why I don’t believe in Jesus, make adorable cards, exchange email addresses, open candy and sing along to MJ, I want to cry with them, and all of a sudden, the promises I made all of them that it will be okay, that it’s no use to cry, seem empty. They don’t know it, but they have taught me just as much, if not more, than I have taught them. I have learned, laughed, cried and shared with them, as they have with me. I always asked my parents for a sister, and now, I have sixteen of them. I have sixteen beautiful, smart, brave Rwandan sisters, and they are in my heart just as I’m in theirs, but unlike them, I don’t hold them next to Jesus. They are on a level all by themselves.
Tomorrow is our volunteer “vacation” to Gisenyi, which is about an hour north of the gorillas. Gisenyi is on Lake Kivu, the only lake safe for Muzungus to swim. We are visiting the hot springs (by boat), soaking up some sun (hopefully) and enjoying some meals that do not involve rice or beans (hurrah!) We arrive back on Thursday night, so I will update all of you on the details of our adventure then (or perhaps Friday… it depends how tired I am).
As always, thank you for reading.
Lots of love,
Elana (the Muzungu sister with soft hair)
Saturday, February 19, 2011
All the small things
February 19, 2011
I've been learning to appreciate all the smallest things in life over the past weeks, and they are worth mentioning. Here are some small anecdotes and things that don’t necessitate individual posts, but I think they're important anyway:
1. Stinging Nettles. During the hike to the Umubano gorillas on Friday, one of the things about which we were warned was stinging nettles. Stinging nettles are plants that have small thorns on their stems. If you touch them (or in my case, one swings back and touches you because it was being held back until you crossed its path when naturally, it moves rapidly backward to hit your hand). Coming into contact with stinging nettles is very unpleasant; your skin feels like it’s getting bitten about a hundred times over in the same spot by the most persistent of mosquitoes. Eventually, the red dots and the pain subside, but nonetheless, it was the ONLY downside to the gorilla trek. It also just had to be mentioned.
2. Because I am an idiot, I woke up again at 5:30 this morning to participate in Muchaka Muchaka, the weekly Saturday morning run led by the village athletic coaches and the security guards. The kids run by families, and every family has a meeting point to join their assigned guard and the other families jogging in the same group. My family meets outside their house at 6 to start running a few minutes after. We were running with two other families (the other girls’ family that lives next door to my family and a boys’ family a few houses down). By 6:05, our guard was in the front of our group, chanting and singing in Kinyarwanda (all the kids sang along) to set the pace. One song had a clapping beat, which I was able to participate in, but other than that, I just had to run and try not to get run over. At one point, one of the girls in my house, Francoise, grabbed my hand and Souvenir, another girl in Family 8, grabbed my other hand, and we pulled each other along. After about twenty minutes of this, my whole body started to ache and I wanted to pass out (waking up before 6 AM two days in a row, one to hike up a mountain and the other to go on a run complete with African chanting and singing, was a bad idea). Muchaka Muchaka (which they scream over and over again, “Muchaka muchaka! Brrrrr ahh! Rrrah, rrrah! Muchaka, muchaka!”) was a great time with my girls and an awesome experience.
3. After running this morning (three of us went to Muchaka Muchaka, everyone else slept), we left for a hike to the rice paddies. The walk itself was gorgeous; we went through Rubona and down a huge hill into the rice paddies which are divided in half in a giant valley by a tree-lined dirt road. Unfortunately, my legs were in serious pain given my gorilla hiking and my morning run, but otherwise, it was a really nice walk. On our way back, a little girl was walking alongside me and holding my hand on one side, a jerry can on her other. She kept smiling up at me as we walked along the road back toward Rubona, passing small huts and lone goats tied to trees (this is how they are kept from running away). I kept thinking that things like this would never happen in America (or Israel), but in Rwanda, given its friendly and welcoming culture, having a little girl come up and take my hand isn’t out of the ordinary. We walked along for some time, and then I think she realized she had to fill her jerry can and was straying a bit too far from her necessary path, so she waved goodbye and went along her way. This moment stuck with me, for some reason, and I’ve been thinking about all the children in Rwanda, what their families are like, if they have them, where they come from, what their homes are like, if they go to school. Their childhoods are clearly so different than mine was, and I wonder all the time if they realize just how different we are, yet at the same time, in small ways, how similar.
4. On our way back from the rice paddies, we were very hungry, so we stopped at a samosa shop in Rubona (not the one we go to on Fridays. That one, like most shops and stands in Rubona, is only open on market days which are Tuesdays and Fridays). We literally bought the two guys working at the stand out of samosas; they had none left, no more potato mix and, as far as I could tell, no more paper-thin dough wrappers, to make any more. As a group we probably bought somewhere near 40 samosas. In the space of ten minutes. That’s probably not a normal day of business for these guys.
5. It’s not almost 7 PM, I’m exhausted, and I am considering attending church services tomorrow morning, if I’m awake. On Saturday nights, we all sit around and discuss which church service we want to see the next morning (Catholic, Protestant, etc.) This is especially hysterical because we’re all Jewish. Tomorrow, however, there is a soccer tournament happening in the village, so church may either be delayed or not happen since the teams are coming early in the morning so they can play before it gets too hot in the afternoon. I really wanted to attend services, so this would be a major disappointment (luckily, I can still go next week).
5b. One of my roommates just walked in and said, because she is British, "I have wind." I only just figured out what this means. I really think I should get some sleep.
That’s all for now from here. Weekends are very nice and relaxed in the village because there is no school or construction and we have time to catch up on much-needed sleep after a long week of work.
Thanks for reading, as always. Shavua tov (a good week) from the hills,
Elana
I've been learning to appreciate all the smallest things in life over the past weeks, and they are worth mentioning. Here are some small anecdotes and things that don’t necessitate individual posts, but I think they're important anyway:
1. Stinging Nettles. During the hike to the Umubano gorillas on Friday, one of the things about which we were warned was stinging nettles. Stinging nettles are plants that have small thorns on their stems. If you touch them (or in my case, one swings back and touches you because it was being held back until you crossed its path when naturally, it moves rapidly backward to hit your hand). Coming into contact with stinging nettles is very unpleasant; your skin feels like it’s getting bitten about a hundred times over in the same spot by the most persistent of mosquitoes. Eventually, the red dots and the pain subside, but nonetheless, it was the ONLY downside to the gorilla trek. It also just had to be mentioned.
2. Because I am an idiot, I woke up again at 5:30 this morning to participate in Muchaka Muchaka, the weekly Saturday morning run led by the village athletic coaches and the security guards. The kids run by families, and every family has a meeting point to join their assigned guard and the other families jogging in the same group. My family meets outside their house at 6 to start running a few minutes after. We were running with two other families (the other girls’ family that lives next door to my family and a boys’ family a few houses down). By 6:05, our guard was in the front of our group, chanting and singing in Kinyarwanda (all the kids sang along) to set the pace. One song had a clapping beat, which I was able to participate in, but other than that, I just had to run and try not to get run over. At one point, one of the girls in my house, Francoise, grabbed my hand and Souvenir, another girl in Family 8, grabbed my other hand, and we pulled each other along. After about twenty minutes of this, my whole body started to ache and I wanted to pass out (waking up before 6 AM two days in a row, one to hike up a mountain and the other to go on a run complete with African chanting and singing, was a bad idea). Muchaka Muchaka (which they scream over and over again, “Muchaka muchaka! Brrrrr ahh! Rrrah, rrrah! Muchaka, muchaka!”) was a great time with my girls and an awesome experience.
3. After running this morning (three of us went to Muchaka Muchaka, everyone else slept), we left for a hike to the rice paddies. The walk itself was gorgeous; we went through Rubona and down a huge hill into the rice paddies which are divided in half in a giant valley by a tree-lined dirt road. Unfortunately, my legs were in serious pain given my gorilla hiking and my morning run, but otherwise, it was a really nice walk. On our way back, a little girl was walking alongside me and holding my hand on one side, a jerry can on her other. She kept smiling up at me as we walked along the road back toward Rubona, passing small huts and lone goats tied to trees (this is how they are kept from running away). I kept thinking that things like this would never happen in America (or Israel), but in Rwanda, given its friendly and welcoming culture, having a little girl come up and take my hand isn’t out of the ordinary. We walked along for some time, and then I think she realized she had to fill her jerry can and was straying a bit too far from her necessary path, so she waved goodbye and went along her way. This moment stuck with me, for some reason, and I’ve been thinking about all the children in Rwanda, what their families are like, if they have them, where they come from, what their homes are like, if they go to school. Their childhoods are clearly so different than mine was, and I wonder all the time if they realize just how different we are, yet at the same time, in small ways, how similar.
4. On our way back from the rice paddies, we were very hungry, so we stopped at a samosa shop in Rubona (not the one we go to on Fridays. That one, like most shops and stands in Rubona, is only open on market days which are Tuesdays and Fridays). We literally bought the two guys working at the stand out of samosas; they had none left, no more potato mix and, as far as I could tell, no more paper-thin dough wrappers, to make any more. As a group we probably bought somewhere near 40 samosas. In the space of ten minutes. That’s probably not a normal day of business for these guys.
5. It’s not almost 7 PM, I’m exhausted, and I am considering attending church services tomorrow morning, if I’m awake. On Saturday nights, we all sit around and discuss which church service we want to see the next morning (Catholic, Protestant, etc.) This is especially hysterical because we’re all Jewish. Tomorrow, however, there is a soccer tournament happening in the village, so church may either be delayed or not happen since the teams are coming early in the morning so they can play before it gets too hot in the afternoon. I really wanted to attend services, so this would be a major disappointment (luckily, I can still go next week).
5b. One of my roommates just walked in and said, because she is British, "I have wind." I only just figured out what this means. I really think I should get some sleep.
That’s all for now from here. Weekends are very nice and relaxed in the village because there is no school or construction and we have time to catch up on much-needed sleep after a long week of work.
Thanks for reading, as always. Shavua tov (a good week) from the hills,
Elana
Friday, February 18, 2011
Gorilla Tracking
February 17-18, 2011
Something I’ve learned from my time in Rwanda is that the best stories don’t necessarily have a definitive beginning or end, but rather, they go in a circle, they are continuous. So, that being said, I am going to start what will probably be my longest and most exciting blog post of the month at the end, and by the time it’s over, you’ll have the whole story, and you can decide how to read it:
We arrived back from the northern province to the village and lugged our backpacks (and new purchases) to our guesthouse, where we proceeded to collapse. It’s exhausting, waking up before the sun to track mountain gorillas, and despite fantastic meals and wonderful beds to sleep in, physical exhaustion can triumph, and we didn’t fight it. However, a little over an hour after returning, it was time for the weekly village activity. Every other Friday night, this means a dance party in the dining hall. Of course, I had to go, and a bunch of the other volunteers joined me, despite our inability to form sentences due to being so tired. We walked up to the dining hall and the music was playing, but no one was dancing. And these kids are great dancers. So, we clearly took it upon ourselves to liven things up and get the dance party started. I’m sure the kids had a laugh watching us dance around, but it did the trick; eventually, most of them joined us and we had an amazing time, laughing and dancing. I left early because I’m waking up tomorrow at 5:30 (again, for the second day in a row) to do Muchaka Muchaka! which is the weekly run around the village led by the security guards. On my walk back to the guesthouse, I found myself reflecting on all the unbelievable things that have happened to me in the past three weeks, especially in the last day and a half. Rwanda is so alive and its people have so much joy to share. As the music from the dining hall began to fade in the distance behind me, and the sounds of the frogs and birds who live across from our guesthouse began to overpower the boom of the speaker system, I began to think of how to best relay to all of you one of the most incredible and unforgettable experiences of my lifetime.
I’ve had some crazy adventures while in Rwanda, and in Israel, but none quite like the last 36 hours of my life. Rwanda’s most (and only, really) famous tourist attraction is its mountain gorillas, the only gorillas in the world still living in their natural habitat where humans can visit them. Our adventure began Thursday afternoon when Thousand Hills Expeditions (the travel company who plans trips to the gorilla park; there are only 50 gorilla tracking permits sold a day, so the company buys them in advance for groups like ours) came to the village to pick us up in Land Cruisers. These were very nice, cushioned and well-kept Land Cruisers (they had seatbelts. This is major for any vehicle in Rwanda; most don't) and I was quite excited to spend four hours sitting in one. We left the village after lunch time and drove north. Our driver, Hussein, was awesome. He told us he spent a few years in Israel, so his Hebrew and his English are excellent. Any time we had a question about what we were passing, or if we could possibly stop for bathroom break, Hussein was always able to answer our questions or pull over so we could stretch our legs, run to the bathroom or change money from dollars to francs. As we drove through the hills of Rwanda, children came running up to the car. They don’t usually ask for money (never in the isolated provinces, but in Kigali there are a lot of beggars, many of whom are children), but they just want to see us, to see the Muzungu. Rwandans love seeing Western people in their country. I’m not sure if it’s because of our skin or our language or simply where we come from, but we get a lot of “USA! We love USA” followed by a thumbs-up, or simply waving and screaming “Hello, teacher. Good morning teacher!” (all the kids call us “teacher,” probably because we are Muzungu).
We made a few stops (Nakumatt, naturally, for necessary snack items – I got a diet coke that the woman opened for me to put a straw in and it exploded all over her, me and the entire counter – and some scenic viewpoints to take photos) and passed coffee plantations, corn fields, rice paddies and sugarcane. Everywhere was green, rolling hills, land being farmed (anyone working in the fields either waved or came running to see us pass by in our trucks) and women walking on the sides of the road, babies tied to their backs and baskets balanced on their heads. Eventually, we reached the Gorilla Nest Lodge, where we were greeted with hand towels and ginger tea. The lodge itself was gorgeous; grass-thatched roofs, African art, sprawling landscapes and one of Rwanda’s few (if only) golf courses. We were handed dinner menus after checking in and placed our dinner orders (dinner was a four-course ordeal) and then the concierge asked us when we wanted our dinner. We said whenever it was ready, but they corrected us by asking when we wanted to have our dinner because whenever we wanted it, it would be ready. We decided on 7:30 and therefore had time to put our things in our guesthouses (each room was its own guesthouse, complete with a porch, flowers and plants and a view) and take much needed showers. It started to pour a little while before dinner, so several lodge employees delivered umbrellas to our rooms and told us that there was a surprise performance in the main house. We went to go check it out: a group of traditional African dancers was performing, along with drummers and singers, in the lobby! The staff had set up couches and giant armchairs for us to sit and watch the show. The performers were unbelievable, and at the end, they invited us to dance with them, and they even tried to teach us some steps! Once our dance debut ended, we were all sweating and laughing so hard it was difficult to breathe, and it was time for dinner.
We had a delicious meal and after a short while of hanging out in the main house, it was time for bed. The next morning at 5:30, our wakeup call came in the form of someone knocking on our door (they knock on your door to wake you up instead of calling your room) and saying “Good morning, this is your wake up call. Please get up. Thank you.” Easily the most polite wakeup call ever. We put on our tracking gear (jeans, sneakers, and long sleeve shirts) and headed to breakfast, which was also fantastic (I had coffee – real coffee – for the first time all month, and an omelet. So tasty). By 7 AM, we were back in the Land Cruisers, on our way to Volcanoes National Park in Kinigi. Volcanoes National Park is where the gorilla tracking offices are, so it was there that we met our guide, Oliver, and he told us about the family we would be tracking.
Since there were nine of us, we had to split into two groups (only eight trackers in a group, plus a guide, an armed guard and porters). There are fifteen gorilla families living in the mountains of northern Rwanda, so each group tracks a different family and hikes a different path. In my group, there were four Year Coursers (me and three other girls) and four tourists, all of whom came to Rwanda solely to see the gorillas. Our group, other than us, included a British couple, Ian and Annabelle, a woman named Caroline who is originally from Zimbabwe but now lives in London, and a man named Burkhard from Germany (he’s almost 70 and has been traveling through Africa for the past 3 months. Rwanda is his final destination before returning home). Oliver briefed us about our gorilla family. We tracked the Umubano family. In Kinyarwanda, Umubano means “friendship.” This family has an interesting history, which earned it its name:
Years ago, there was one chief silverback gorilla of the family, and when he died, there was an ongoing power struggle between the two male gorillas next in line to be the leader. They fought for some time and then split up, either realizing that the mountains are big enough for both of them or simply out of frustration. After some time, the two reconciled and they are now one family; the male gorillas share wife gorillas and they all live together with the babies. It is one big family that remains whole due to friendship, to umubano.
After meeting Oliver and learning about the Umubano family, we left tracking headquarters and drove to the mountains where we would begin our hike. This was a crazy drive; the road that leads from the main town (i.e. the two restaurants, one bar and a few homes and shops) to the mountain is not paved, not dirt, but rocks. Huge, bumpy rocks. This made for an adventurous drive, but Hussein, my main man, go us there without a scratch. At the starting point we met up with our group and our porters, who ended up saving my life several times on the hike up and down the mountain. First, we were given walking sticks (mine was about as big as I am) and we walked through daisy fields to the foot of the mountain. Daisies are grown in Rwanda and then dried in the sun because their dried centers are used as a natural insecticide. After weaving our way through the fields of flowers, we reached the foot of the mountain. I made the grave mistake of looking up: all I saw were trees, branches, and a straight incline to the top. Immediately, the porters took out machetes and used a walking stick to clear us a path and make foot stairs in the side of the mountain. The ascent was, to say the least, difficult, but it was short. The porters were jumping (literally jumping… on the side of a mountain) from the front of the group to the back, clearing our path, taking people by the elbows to lift them up and over obstacles like fallen trees and tangled braches. Half an hour later, after the porters had to hoist me up at least three times by my shoulders, we had reached our family. We had to leave most of our things (except cameras and video recorders) with the porters, at least 100 meters from the gorillas; they can’t be around any food or water we were carrying because they would probably smell my protein bar and want it (I would tell them it tastes like sand and not to bother, to stick to their grass and leaves, but chances are good they wouldn’t exactly listen).
We moved slowly and quietly into the trees, and all of a sudden, we heard a tree fall. In it was Mr. Charles, the head of the Umubano family and a silverback, who looks like he weighs about five hundred pounds, loves to eat his tall grasses, and, of course, fart. No, I am not joking, you have not laughed sufficiently until you are within two feet of a farting gorilla (please excuse the bathroom humor, but this is all very true). We tracked Mr. Charles for a while and then moved down the mountain to find a wife gorilla (a Mrs. Gorilla, as I started calling them) and two of the babies. One of them is only six months old, and crawled right in front of my feet! The babies were playing, hanging in the trees, running after one another. I wanted to take one home, they were so adorable, but a) we aren’t allowed to touch the gorillas (the oils on human hands are dangerous to them) and b) I wouldn’t exactly be able to bring him back through customs to Israel, and then to New Jersey, so logistically, it wouldn’t work.
Every group spends an hour with their gorilla family, and I think I took about two hundred pictures and several video clips; watching them in their natural habitat, going about their daily business of eating, playing, sleeping (and in Mr. Charles’ case, farting), was unbelievable. It is recommended to stay at least 7 meters away from the gorillas, but because our family was particularly friendly (hence Umubano) they came quite close to us, and a few times, the guards told us to move back. At one point, there was a baby hanging above my head and ended up breaking the branch on which he was hanging and fell about four feet from me. He then scurried down the mountain, looking for his playmate, and probably his mom, Mrs. Gorilla. They are so much like humans – they have opposable thumbs, which allows them to peel their tall grass (looks like celery) and eat it like string cheese, they communicate with one another (grunting, mostly, and the guards grunt back at them to either attract them or tell them to move further away), they stay in families with organized hierarchy, and many of their mannerisms and behaviors seem human. It was a surreal experience, getting so close to them, no fence or barrier like at a zoo, watching them live their daily lives, interact with one another, and at times, stop and stare at us.
The hike back down was very short because we were tracking the Umubano downhill, so we only had to hike a short ways to the bottom and back through the daisy fields. At the end, we said goodbye to our porters, bought t-shirts (very necessary) and received certificates of finishing our gorilla trek. After snapping a few final photos and thanking Oliver profusely, we piled back into our Land Cruiser with Hussein. Near the National Park offices, we had spotted a craft store, and since we finished our hike early, we asked Hussein if he could take us back there for a short while. He agreed, and so we drove back to the gorilla tracking base and across the parking lot is the artisan shop. Clearly, it is strategically placed; at least fifty tourists and their guides pass through every single day going gorilla tracking, so they always have customers. The store was beautiful, covered in colorful baskets, gorilla and elephant statues and art, African masks and fabrics. The best part, however, was in the back of the store. Behind the shop, the women who make the baskets were sitting and working, their children playing on their laps as they started and finished baskets and placemats. These women are quite famous in Rwanda, and around the world. After the genocide, Rwanda was 70% female, so women took on roles (previously dominated by men) of reviving the government and economy. A small group of women took up basket weaving and created a business; they now export their baskets to Macy’s in America and have an estimate yearly revenue of $1.5 million. Whenever a basket is sold via Macy’s, the Rwandan women make about $9 per basket (it’s sold for almost $50) and in Rwanda, each one costs about $6.50. Meeting these women and watching them work was incredible; I told them I had bought some of their work in America and now I’ve been living in Rwanda for a few weeks and I love what they do. Hussein was translating for me (none spoke French, only Kinyarwanda) and he also told them that we are volunteering in a children’s village in the eastern province. Upon hearing this, their faces lit up; they loved that we weren’t just in Rwanda to buy some baskets and visit the gorillas, but that we are living and working here (and we happened to go on vacation for a day). Having the opportunity to sit and talk to them, and take a few pictures, really made the day even more perfect.
After our short shopping trip, we went back to the lodge. On our way, we passed a Rwandan wedding party! The bride was in the middle of the procession, covered by a colorful umbrella and was, it looked to me, wearing a crown with beads on it. We tried to follow them, but it looked like they were heading to a nearby field for the ceremony, and they were moving a bit more slowly than our car. When we arrived back at the lodge, more towels and tea, and lunch menus, were waiting. Eventually, the second group returned, we took our final luxurious showers, packed our bags and headed to the main house for lunch, which was another three-course extravaganza. We said “Morakoze chane” (thank you very much) to all the hotel staff and packed into the Land Cruisers one last time. On our way back, we stopped at Nakumatt, of course, and arrived in the village before dinner time. Exhausted, sweaty and laden with our newest acquisitions, we made it back to the guesthouse where challah and guacamole (and the rest of our friends) were waiting for us to welcome Shabbat.
If you go back to the beginning of this post, I think you’ll find we’ve come full circle. Gorilla tracking was an incredible experience, one I know I will never forget. I’m learning that the world is a huge and sometimes crazy place, and there is no other place in it quite like Rwanda. Not just for its gorillas, which are amazing and awe-inspiring, but also for its people, like the group of ladies making baskets who have turned themselves into international businesswomen and the children who scream “We love USA!,” for its culture, as I witnessed in watching the wedding procession, for its warmth and kindness and genuine spirit. The gorillas are one more reminder, for me, that Rwanda is full of life and beauty and wonder, full of opportunities and experiences that can’t be found elsewhere.
Believe it or not, this post has taken me quite a while to finish. It’s now 7:30 on Saturday morning and I’ve been awake for two hours. I did Muchaka Muchaka (run run) with my village family and the security guards this morning at 6; the kids all chant, sing and scream in Kinyarwanda as we run, clapping along to the pace (I was able to do this… the singing, not so much) which makes the time pass. We run all through the village, up and down its hills, and finish at the dining hall for breakfast. I cut out before making it up the hill to the school and then back down to the dining hall because I took one look at the incline and my knees pretty much gave out. After hiking yesterday, and hiking again today (we leave for the rice paddies in an hour) my body needs somewhat of a break.
I’m going to go take a short rest and then get ready for the rice paddies – onto the next adventure!
Lots of love and umubano from Rwanda,
Elana
Something I’ve learned from my time in Rwanda is that the best stories don’t necessarily have a definitive beginning or end, but rather, they go in a circle, they are continuous. So, that being said, I am going to start what will probably be my longest and most exciting blog post of the month at the end, and by the time it’s over, you’ll have the whole story, and you can decide how to read it:
We arrived back from the northern province to the village and lugged our backpacks (and new purchases) to our guesthouse, where we proceeded to collapse. It’s exhausting, waking up before the sun to track mountain gorillas, and despite fantastic meals and wonderful beds to sleep in, physical exhaustion can triumph, and we didn’t fight it. However, a little over an hour after returning, it was time for the weekly village activity. Every other Friday night, this means a dance party in the dining hall. Of course, I had to go, and a bunch of the other volunteers joined me, despite our inability to form sentences due to being so tired. We walked up to the dining hall and the music was playing, but no one was dancing. And these kids are great dancers. So, we clearly took it upon ourselves to liven things up and get the dance party started. I’m sure the kids had a laugh watching us dance around, but it did the trick; eventually, most of them joined us and we had an amazing time, laughing and dancing. I left early because I’m waking up tomorrow at 5:30 (again, for the second day in a row) to do Muchaka Muchaka! which is the weekly run around the village led by the security guards. On my walk back to the guesthouse, I found myself reflecting on all the unbelievable things that have happened to me in the past three weeks, especially in the last day and a half. Rwanda is so alive and its people have so much joy to share. As the music from the dining hall began to fade in the distance behind me, and the sounds of the frogs and birds who live across from our guesthouse began to overpower the boom of the speaker system, I began to think of how to best relay to all of you one of the most incredible and unforgettable experiences of my lifetime.
I’ve had some crazy adventures while in Rwanda, and in Israel, but none quite like the last 36 hours of my life. Rwanda’s most (and only, really) famous tourist attraction is its mountain gorillas, the only gorillas in the world still living in their natural habitat where humans can visit them. Our adventure began Thursday afternoon when Thousand Hills Expeditions (the travel company who plans trips to the gorilla park; there are only 50 gorilla tracking permits sold a day, so the company buys them in advance for groups like ours) came to the village to pick us up in Land Cruisers. These were very nice, cushioned and well-kept Land Cruisers (they had seatbelts. This is major for any vehicle in Rwanda; most don't) and I was quite excited to spend four hours sitting in one. We left the village after lunch time and drove north. Our driver, Hussein, was awesome. He told us he spent a few years in Israel, so his Hebrew and his English are excellent. Any time we had a question about what we were passing, or if we could possibly stop for bathroom break, Hussein was always able to answer our questions or pull over so we could stretch our legs, run to the bathroom or change money from dollars to francs. As we drove through the hills of Rwanda, children came running up to the car. They don’t usually ask for money (never in the isolated provinces, but in Kigali there are a lot of beggars, many of whom are children), but they just want to see us, to see the Muzungu. Rwandans love seeing Western people in their country. I’m not sure if it’s because of our skin or our language or simply where we come from, but we get a lot of “USA! We love USA” followed by a thumbs-up, or simply waving and screaming “Hello, teacher. Good morning teacher!” (all the kids call us “teacher,” probably because we are Muzungu).
We made a few stops (Nakumatt, naturally, for necessary snack items – I got a diet coke that the woman opened for me to put a straw in and it exploded all over her, me and the entire counter – and some scenic viewpoints to take photos) and passed coffee plantations, corn fields, rice paddies and sugarcane. Everywhere was green, rolling hills, land being farmed (anyone working in the fields either waved or came running to see us pass by in our trucks) and women walking on the sides of the road, babies tied to their backs and baskets balanced on their heads. Eventually, we reached the Gorilla Nest Lodge, where we were greeted with hand towels and ginger tea. The lodge itself was gorgeous; grass-thatched roofs, African art, sprawling landscapes and one of Rwanda’s few (if only) golf courses. We were handed dinner menus after checking in and placed our dinner orders (dinner was a four-course ordeal) and then the concierge asked us when we wanted our dinner. We said whenever it was ready, but they corrected us by asking when we wanted to have our dinner because whenever we wanted it, it would be ready. We decided on 7:30 and therefore had time to put our things in our guesthouses (each room was its own guesthouse, complete with a porch, flowers and plants and a view) and take much needed showers. It started to pour a little while before dinner, so several lodge employees delivered umbrellas to our rooms and told us that there was a surprise performance in the main house. We went to go check it out: a group of traditional African dancers was performing, along with drummers and singers, in the lobby! The staff had set up couches and giant armchairs for us to sit and watch the show. The performers were unbelievable, and at the end, they invited us to dance with them, and they even tried to teach us some steps! Once our dance debut ended, we were all sweating and laughing so hard it was difficult to breathe, and it was time for dinner.
We had a delicious meal and after a short while of hanging out in the main house, it was time for bed. The next morning at 5:30, our wakeup call came in the form of someone knocking on our door (they knock on your door to wake you up instead of calling your room) and saying “Good morning, this is your wake up call. Please get up. Thank you.” Easily the most polite wakeup call ever. We put on our tracking gear (jeans, sneakers, and long sleeve shirts) and headed to breakfast, which was also fantastic (I had coffee – real coffee – for the first time all month, and an omelet. So tasty). By 7 AM, we were back in the Land Cruisers, on our way to Volcanoes National Park in Kinigi. Volcanoes National Park is where the gorilla tracking offices are, so it was there that we met our guide, Oliver, and he told us about the family we would be tracking.
Since there were nine of us, we had to split into two groups (only eight trackers in a group, plus a guide, an armed guard and porters). There are fifteen gorilla families living in the mountains of northern Rwanda, so each group tracks a different family and hikes a different path. In my group, there were four Year Coursers (me and three other girls) and four tourists, all of whom came to Rwanda solely to see the gorillas. Our group, other than us, included a British couple, Ian and Annabelle, a woman named Caroline who is originally from Zimbabwe but now lives in London, and a man named Burkhard from Germany (he’s almost 70 and has been traveling through Africa for the past 3 months. Rwanda is his final destination before returning home). Oliver briefed us about our gorilla family. We tracked the Umubano family. In Kinyarwanda, Umubano means “friendship.” This family has an interesting history, which earned it its name:
Years ago, there was one chief silverback gorilla of the family, and when he died, there was an ongoing power struggle between the two male gorillas next in line to be the leader. They fought for some time and then split up, either realizing that the mountains are big enough for both of them or simply out of frustration. After some time, the two reconciled and they are now one family; the male gorillas share wife gorillas and they all live together with the babies. It is one big family that remains whole due to friendship, to umubano.
After meeting Oliver and learning about the Umubano family, we left tracking headquarters and drove to the mountains where we would begin our hike. This was a crazy drive; the road that leads from the main town (i.e. the two restaurants, one bar and a few homes and shops) to the mountain is not paved, not dirt, but rocks. Huge, bumpy rocks. This made for an adventurous drive, but Hussein, my main man, go us there without a scratch. At the starting point we met up with our group and our porters, who ended up saving my life several times on the hike up and down the mountain. First, we were given walking sticks (mine was about as big as I am) and we walked through daisy fields to the foot of the mountain. Daisies are grown in Rwanda and then dried in the sun because their dried centers are used as a natural insecticide. After weaving our way through the fields of flowers, we reached the foot of the mountain. I made the grave mistake of looking up: all I saw were trees, branches, and a straight incline to the top. Immediately, the porters took out machetes and used a walking stick to clear us a path and make foot stairs in the side of the mountain. The ascent was, to say the least, difficult, but it was short. The porters were jumping (literally jumping… on the side of a mountain) from the front of the group to the back, clearing our path, taking people by the elbows to lift them up and over obstacles like fallen trees and tangled braches. Half an hour later, after the porters had to hoist me up at least three times by my shoulders, we had reached our family. We had to leave most of our things (except cameras and video recorders) with the porters, at least 100 meters from the gorillas; they can’t be around any food or water we were carrying because they would probably smell my protein bar and want it (I would tell them it tastes like sand and not to bother, to stick to their grass and leaves, but chances are good they wouldn’t exactly listen).
We moved slowly and quietly into the trees, and all of a sudden, we heard a tree fall. In it was Mr. Charles, the head of the Umubano family and a silverback, who looks like he weighs about five hundred pounds, loves to eat his tall grasses, and, of course, fart. No, I am not joking, you have not laughed sufficiently until you are within two feet of a farting gorilla (please excuse the bathroom humor, but this is all very true). We tracked Mr. Charles for a while and then moved down the mountain to find a wife gorilla (a Mrs. Gorilla, as I started calling them) and two of the babies. One of them is only six months old, and crawled right in front of my feet! The babies were playing, hanging in the trees, running after one another. I wanted to take one home, they were so adorable, but a) we aren’t allowed to touch the gorillas (the oils on human hands are dangerous to them) and b) I wouldn’t exactly be able to bring him back through customs to Israel, and then to New Jersey, so logistically, it wouldn’t work.
Every group spends an hour with their gorilla family, and I think I took about two hundred pictures and several video clips; watching them in their natural habitat, going about their daily business of eating, playing, sleeping (and in Mr. Charles’ case, farting), was unbelievable. It is recommended to stay at least 7 meters away from the gorillas, but because our family was particularly friendly (hence Umubano) they came quite close to us, and a few times, the guards told us to move back. At one point, there was a baby hanging above my head and ended up breaking the branch on which he was hanging and fell about four feet from me. He then scurried down the mountain, looking for his playmate, and probably his mom, Mrs. Gorilla. They are so much like humans – they have opposable thumbs, which allows them to peel their tall grass (looks like celery) and eat it like string cheese, they communicate with one another (grunting, mostly, and the guards grunt back at them to either attract them or tell them to move further away), they stay in families with organized hierarchy, and many of their mannerisms and behaviors seem human. It was a surreal experience, getting so close to them, no fence or barrier like at a zoo, watching them live their daily lives, interact with one another, and at times, stop and stare at us.
The hike back down was very short because we were tracking the Umubano downhill, so we only had to hike a short ways to the bottom and back through the daisy fields. At the end, we said goodbye to our porters, bought t-shirts (very necessary) and received certificates of finishing our gorilla trek. After snapping a few final photos and thanking Oliver profusely, we piled back into our Land Cruiser with Hussein. Near the National Park offices, we had spotted a craft store, and since we finished our hike early, we asked Hussein if he could take us back there for a short while. He agreed, and so we drove back to the gorilla tracking base and across the parking lot is the artisan shop. Clearly, it is strategically placed; at least fifty tourists and their guides pass through every single day going gorilla tracking, so they always have customers. The store was beautiful, covered in colorful baskets, gorilla and elephant statues and art, African masks and fabrics. The best part, however, was in the back of the store. Behind the shop, the women who make the baskets were sitting and working, their children playing on their laps as they started and finished baskets and placemats. These women are quite famous in Rwanda, and around the world. After the genocide, Rwanda was 70% female, so women took on roles (previously dominated by men) of reviving the government and economy. A small group of women took up basket weaving and created a business; they now export their baskets to Macy’s in America and have an estimate yearly revenue of $1.5 million. Whenever a basket is sold via Macy’s, the Rwandan women make about $9 per basket (it’s sold for almost $50) and in Rwanda, each one costs about $6.50. Meeting these women and watching them work was incredible; I told them I had bought some of their work in America and now I’ve been living in Rwanda for a few weeks and I love what they do. Hussein was translating for me (none spoke French, only Kinyarwanda) and he also told them that we are volunteering in a children’s village in the eastern province. Upon hearing this, their faces lit up; they loved that we weren’t just in Rwanda to buy some baskets and visit the gorillas, but that we are living and working here (and we happened to go on vacation for a day). Having the opportunity to sit and talk to them, and take a few pictures, really made the day even more perfect.
After our short shopping trip, we went back to the lodge. On our way, we passed a Rwandan wedding party! The bride was in the middle of the procession, covered by a colorful umbrella and was, it looked to me, wearing a crown with beads on it. We tried to follow them, but it looked like they were heading to a nearby field for the ceremony, and they were moving a bit more slowly than our car. When we arrived back at the lodge, more towels and tea, and lunch menus, were waiting. Eventually, the second group returned, we took our final luxurious showers, packed our bags and headed to the main house for lunch, which was another three-course extravaganza. We said “Morakoze chane” (thank you very much) to all the hotel staff and packed into the Land Cruisers one last time. On our way back, we stopped at Nakumatt, of course, and arrived in the village before dinner time. Exhausted, sweaty and laden with our newest acquisitions, we made it back to the guesthouse where challah and guacamole (and the rest of our friends) were waiting for us to welcome Shabbat.
If you go back to the beginning of this post, I think you’ll find we’ve come full circle. Gorilla tracking was an incredible experience, one I know I will never forget. I’m learning that the world is a huge and sometimes crazy place, and there is no other place in it quite like Rwanda. Not just for its gorillas, which are amazing and awe-inspiring, but also for its people, like the group of ladies making baskets who have turned themselves into international businesswomen and the children who scream “We love USA!,” for its culture, as I witnessed in watching the wedding procession, for its warmth and kindness and genuine spirit. The gorillas are one more reminder, for me, that Rwanda is full of life and beauty and wonder, full of opportunities and experiences that can’t be found elsewhere.
Believe it or not, this post has taken me quite a while to finish. It’s now 7:30 on Saturday morning and I’ve been awake for two hours. I did Muchaka Muchaka (run run) with my village family and the security guards this morning at 6; the kids all chant, sing and scream in Kinyarwanda as we run, clapping along to the pace (I was able to do this… the singing, not so much) which makes the time pass. We run all through the village, up and down its hills, and finish at the dining hall for breakfast. I cut out before making it up the hill to the school and then back down to the dining hall because I took one look at the incline and my knees pretty much gave out. After hiking yesterday, and hiking again today (we leave for the rice paddies in an hour) my body needs somewhat of a break.
I’m going to go take a short rest and then get ready for the rice paddies – onto the next adventure!
Lots of love and umubano from Rwanda,
Elana
"It should be about love"
February 17, 2010
For those of you who know, I spent the last day-plus gorilla tracking in the north of Rwanda, which was unbelievable, and that blog is coming. But before I post that, here is a short one about my morning on Thursday before we left for our gorilla adventure:
I work in the school on Thursdays, and I must say, they have been some of my favorite days in the village. My morning begins at 7:30 with IT class (luckily, they are still learning right click, left click, mouse and keyboard, so I can keep up) and then I teach French with Vincent. Well, Vincent was sick on Thursday (and no one told me this until the first ten minutes of class had gone by and I was the only person resembling a teacher in the room) so I took over French Class B. I gave the kids an option, since I am not exactly what you’d call a certified or credible professor of French, they could either learn some French with me for what was left of the class period, or they could use the time to study for their other classes. Shockingly, they chose to learn French with me. I asked them if Vincent had started Le Corbeau et le Renard with them, and I got several blank stares and many heads shaking “no.” So, I wrote the first two lines on the board and they began to recite them; the third and fourth lines followed, and we ended up getting through the first half of the poem. They all volunteered to recite it by themselves; they wanted to show me that in the space of half an hour, they knew the poem “par coeur” (by heart). At the end of the class, a few of the kids asked me for copies of the poem so they could learn the rest of it. I returned with the copies and every kid in the class (keep in mind, only 10 of them asked me for copies, and there are 32 in the class) lunged for a paper; I had to go make more. They all want to have the entire poem memorized so they can recite it for me next week.
I had a break in between French and English, and I was about to begin writing in my journal when Aimable approached me and said we had to go to the kitchen. This confused me, and the thought of hiking back down the hill from the school to the dining hall made my legs burn (because it also meant hiking back up). Aimable, however, seemed to have a plan (and was carrying two very large bowls, which he then handed to me) so I went with him down the hill to the dining hall. We went into the kitchen and Aimable told me he wanted to teach our class vocabulary words about food and utensils today, but instead of simply giving them lists of words, he wanted to make it more interactive and fun by having actual objects to show them. I’m all for props, so I thought this was a great idea. We collected (with the kitchen staff’s help) a bowl, pepper, onion, bread roll, a whisk, a ladle, rice, salt, knife and fork and other necessary items. The two larger bowls Aimable had handed me earlier were for the bread rolls the kitchen makes every day for the teachers; we filled one bowl with the rolls and used the second to cover them. Lucky me, I got to schlep the huge bowl full of bread, and its cover, back up the hill, while Aimable took the small bowl of our props (I didn’t complain; Aimable weighs as much as my right arm, so I wouldn’t expect him to carry the bread. He would probably tip over). As we were trekking back to the school, Aimable was telling me that he thinks teaching is about love: love for his job, love for his students, for volunteers like me who make his job and his day “a bit brighter.” He is clearly so passionate about what he does and about engaging his students; so passionate he is willing to walk all the way to the kitchen to pick up a few veggies and cooking supplies (with me, of course) just to make his class more interesting. He has inspired me so much during my time in the village. His passion and love for his students are contagious; he keeps asking me if I’m going to become a teacher (apparently he thinks I’d be good at it) and I tell him that no, I do not have the kind of patience he has, and therefore any more than a few hours a week (which is what I do now) and I couldn’t handle it. He, however, is truly an unbelievable teacher and person and has made me consider what it means to love what you do.
The kids loved learning their new vocabulary words; they tried to draw everything I picked up from the bowl. They had some issues saying “ladle” since the letter “l” isn’t easy for them, but they did a fantastic job. Aimable promised to make them all dinner after their university entrance exam (which is three years from now) because he is sure they will be “the very best students in all the exam. And then, I cook for you.” He is too much.
After English, it was time for me to pack my bag for gorilla tracking and head north to Kinigi, where the gorillas live. That blog coming ASAP!
More (very) soon,
Elana
For those of you who know, I spent the last day-plus gorilla tracking in the north of Rwanda, which was unbelievable, and that blog is coming. But before I post that, here is a short one about my morning on Thursday before we left for our gorilla adventure:
I work in the school on Thursdays, and I must say, they have been some of my favorite days in the village. My morning begins at 7:30 with IT class (luckily, they are still learning right click, left click, mouse and keyboard, so I can keep up) and then I teach French with Vincent. Well, Vincent was sick on Thursday (and no one told me this until the first ten minutes of class had gone by and I was the only person resembling a teacher in the room) so I took over French Class B. I gave the kids an option, since I am not exactly what you’d call a certified or credible professor of French, they could either learn some French with me for what was left of the class period, or they could use the time to study for their other classes. Shockingly, they chose to learn French with me. I asked them if Vincent had started Le Corbeau et le Renard with them, and I got several blank stares and many heads shaking “no.” So, I wrote the first two lines on the board and they began to recite them; the third and fourth lines followed, and we ended up getting through the first half of the poem. They all volunteered to recite it by themselves; they wanted to show me that in the space of half an hour, they knew the poem “par coeur” (by heart). At the end of the class, a few of the kids asked me for copies of the poem so they could learn the rest of it. I returned with the copies and every kid in the class (keep in mind, only 10 of them asked me for copies, and there are 32 in the class) lunged for a paper; I had to go make more. They all want to have the entire poem memorized so they can recite it for me next week.
I had a break in between French and English, and I was about to begin writing in my journal when Aimable approached me and said we had to go to the kitchen. This confused me, and the thought of hiking back down the hill from the school to the dining hall made my legs burn (because it also meant hiking back up). Aimable, however, seemed to have a plan (and was carrying two very large bowls, which he then handed to me) so I went with him down the hill to the dining hall. We went into the kitchen and Aimable told me he wanted to teach our class vocabulary words about food and utensils today, but instead of simply giving them lists of words, he wanted to make it more interactive and fun by having actual objects to show them. I’m all for props, so I thought this was a great idea. We collected (with the kitchen staff’s help) a bowl, pepper, onion, bread roll, a whisk, a ladle, rice, salt, knife and fork and other necessary items. The two larger bowls Aimable had handed me earlier were for the bread rolls the kitchen makes every day for the teachers; we filled one bowl with the rolls and used the second to cover them. Lucky me, I got to schlep the huge bowl full of bread, and its cover, back up the hill, while Aimable took the small bowl of our props (I didn’t complain; Aimable weighs as much as my right arm, so I wouldn’t expect him to carry the bread. He would probably tip over). As we were trekking back to the school, Aimable was telling me that he thinks teaching is about love: love for his job, love for his students, for volunteers like me who make his job and his day “a bit brighter.” He is clearly so passionate about what he does and about engaging his students; so passionate he is willing to walk all the way to the kitchen to pick up a few veggies and cooking supplies (with me, of course) just to make his class more interesting. He has inspired me so much during my time in the village. His passion and love for his students are contagious; he keeps asking me if I’m going to become a teacher (apparently he thinks I’d be good at it) and I tell him that no, I do not have the kind of patience he has, and therefore any more than a few hours a week (which is what I do now) and I couldn’t handle it. He, however, is truly an unbelievable teacher and person and has made me consider what it means to love what you do.
The kids loved learning their new vocabulary words; they tried to draw everything I picked up from the bowl. They had some issues saying “ladle” since the letter “l” isn’t easy for them, but they did a fantastic job. Aimable promised to make them all dinner after their university entrance exam (which is three years from now) because he is sure they will be “the very best students in all the exam. And then, I cook for you.” He is too much.
After English, it was time for me to pack my bag for gorilla tracking and head north to Kinigi, where the gorillas live. That blog coming ASAP!
More (very) soon,
Elana
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Machete Madness
February 16, 2011
From a moral standpoint, I think walking through the street holding a machete is a bad idea. In Rwanda, given its history, this is an especially bad idea. However, it is exactly what I did today. We reported to the work site at 7:30 this morning and by 8:15, Ciprier, the head construction worker, handed me and two of the other volunteers (there were five girls building today… imagine this picture) machetes the size of my arm. We waited as several of the porters (about twenty of them) gathered near us so we could head toward the gate. Ido, who is an Israeli long-term volunteer and is in charge of all construction projects in the village, told us we would be walking for about fifteen minutes down the road to a local forest where we would be chopping down trees. Just like that, huh? Wrong. First of all, we ended up walking for about an hour, uphill, to a forest that for the last twenty minutes of our trek I was almost positive did not exist. As we walked, children approached us in the street, screaming, surprise surprise, “Muzungu!” Normally, this wouldn’t bother me, but the fact that we were walking through their town carrying giant machetes made me feel more than a little uncomfortable. These were more than gardening tools at one time in Rwanda; they were weapons. They were, and still are, a symbol of destruction. And I was holding one as children no taller than my knees came up to me, clapping and waving and trying their best to stammer out, “Good morning!” Maybe it’s because they’re simply too young to understand that a machete was once more than a gardening tool, but them flocking to me as I held what I always considered a weapon, really bothered me. In present-day Rwanda, machetes being carried down a public road are usually wrapped in banana leaves to signify they are not weapons. Our banana leaves, however, were being used for other purposes (I will explain this soon) so we couldn’t use them to wrap around the blades of our machetes. Instead, we walked (well, hiked, really) up the road, machetes in hand, blades turned away, as children continued to point, scream and huddle around us.
Eventually, we reached the province line of Rubona (yes, we had walked out of the province where the village is located and into the neighboring one) and Ciprier instructed us to turn left. At this point, the forest proprietor (he owns all the land where the trees were that we were chopping down. Apparently, the deal is chop 17 trees, get the 18th free. That’s exactly what we ended up doing) indicated where we should start chopping. We followed Ciprier, machetes in hand, down the side of the cliff. No, I am not joking. Rwanda being the land of a thousand hills is not just to sell postcards; we are up at a very, very high altitude here, and we walked up more hills to get to the forest. Then, we literally tiptoed (I had visions of taking a nosedive off the side of the mountain. That would have been less than fun, I would guess) down the mountain to where large groupings of trees were. We watched the porters chop down the first one, hacking away at the bottom of the tree. Then, they pointed at the branches, and then at us. We were to cut the leaves and branches off the tree so it could be transported back to the village. I have never swung a knife the size of one of my own limbs in my life, but today, that changed. The workers showed us how to angle the machete to the tree in order to get the branches off in the fewest number of strikes. I must say, I got the hang of it eventually, and soon, the guys were asking me to help them carry trees up to the road. This would have worked if they hadn’t all been taller than me and weren’t balancing the trees on their heads. They tied up the banana leaves in knots to make cushions for between the tops of their heads and the trees; I didn’t have such an advantage, and as soon as they put the tree trunk on their heads, I was unable to reach, let alone balance it on my shoulder. So, I made a few attempts, but eventually they realized they should leave branch chopping to me and the tree carrying to them.
By about 10:15, we had chopped our eighteen trees (not forgetting our one free, obviously) and the porters started carrying the trees back, balancing them on their heads as we walked behind them (it was decided that we would be too slow to actually be useful). During the walk back to the village, Ciprier was explaining Rwandan primary school to me, in French. What he told me is that there is “avant-midi” and “après-midi” class; some kids go to school in the mornings, others in the afternoons. The schools are too overcrowded for all of the kids to be in school for a full day. When they aren’t in school, the kids are generally working on their families’ land or farm, or they are walking along the streets, pointing and screaming at passing Muzungu. Ciprier also told me that he lives in the valley into which we were looking while we were chopping wood; it takes him an hour and a half to walk to work every morning (he arrives at the village at 6:30 every day, so he leaves at 5) and he has three small children. Learning about Rwandan life from people who have been living here forever, raising their families and going to work, leading what I consider to be difficult lives, has been a huge part of my experience here. Most of what has changed me most is learning about Rwanda and its history from its people; there is something very genuine about talking to the kids and the workers, having them tell us about their lives and hardships, triumphs and dreams, which makes this experience even more important to me.
We returned to the village and went right to moving bricks and cement. This lasted for about an hour before I felt my arms turn to jelly; I was carrying a jerry can full of cement and I dropped it. I knew it was time to throw in the towel and go to lunch; I couldn’t feel my legs (or anything else).
After lunch (which was SPAGHETTI… Woohoo!!) I had yoga with Senior 4 girls. They would clearly rather talk to each other than stretch, which I was fine with given that I had no control over my limbs and only wanted to crawl into my bed. It’s now about 7 PM and my pillow (and my bottle of Aleve) is looking fantastic; I may have a can of tuna (and perhaps some crackers, if I’m feeling gastronomically adventurous) and then crash.
Lilah tov from Rwanda, too sore to continue typing,
Elana
From a moral standpoint, I think walking through the street holding a machete is a bad idea. In Rwanda, given its history, this is an especially bad idea. However, it is exactly what I did today. We reported to the work site at 7:30 this morning and by 8:15, Ciprier, the head construction worker, handed me and two of the other volunteers (there were five girls building today… imagine this picture) machetes the size of my arm. We waited as several of the porters (about twenty of them) gathered near us so we could head toward the gate. Ido, who is an Israeli long-term volunteer and is in charge of all construction projects in the village, told us we would be walking for about fifteen minutes down the road to a local forest where we would be chopping down trees. Just like that, huh? Wrong. First of all, we ended up walking for about an hour, uphill, to a forest that for the last twenty minutes of our trek I was almost positive did not exist. As we walked, children approached us in the street, screaming, surprise surprise, “Muzungu!” Normally, this wouldn’t bother me, but the fact that we were walking through their town carrying giant machetes made me feel more than a little uncomfortable. These were more than gardening tools at one time in Rwanda; they were weapons. They were, and still are, a symbol of destruction. And I was holding one as children no taller than my knees came up to me, clapping and waving and trying their best to stammer out, “Good morning!” Maybe it’s because they’re simply too young to understand that a machete was once more than a gardening tool, but them flocking to me as I held what I always considered a weapon, really bothered me. In present-day Rwanda, machetes being carried down a public road are usually wrapped in banana leaves to signify they are not weapons. Our banana leaves, however, were being used for other purposes (I will explain this soon) so we couldn’t use them to wrap around the blades of our machetes. Instead, we walked (well, hiked, really) up the road, machetes in hand, blades turned away, as children continued to point, scream and huddle around us.
Eventually, we reached the province line of Rubona (yes, we had walked out of the province where the village is located and into the neighboring one) and Ciprier instructed us to turn left. At this point, the forest proprietor (he owns all the land where the trees were that we were chopping down. Apparently, the deal is chop 17 trees, get the 18th free. That’s exactly what we ended up doing) indicated where we should start chopping. We followed Ciprier, machetes in hand, down the side of the cliff. No, I am not joking. Rwanda being the land of a thousand hills is not just to sell postcards; we are up at a very, very high altitude here, and we walked up more hills to get to the forest. Then, we literally tiptoed (I had visions of taking a nosedive off the side of the mountain. That would have been less than fun, I would guess) down the mountain to where large groupings of trees were. We watched the porters chop down the first one, hacking away at the bottom of the tree. Then, they pointed at the branches, and then at us. We were to cut the leaves and branches off the tree so it could be transported back to the village. I have never swung a knife the size of one of my own limbs in my life, but today, that changed. The workers showed us how to angle the machete to the tree in order to get the branches off in the fewest number of strikes. I must say, I got the hang of it eventually, and soon, the guys were asking me to help them carry trees up to the road. This would have worked if they hadn’t all been taller than me and weren’t balancing the trees on their heads. They tied up the banana leaves in knots to make cushions for between the tops of their heads and the trees; I didn’t have such an advantage, and as soon as they put the tree trunk on their heads, I was unable to reach, let alone balance it on my shoulder. So, I made a few attempts, but eventually they realized they should leave branch chopping to me and the tree carrying to them.
By about 10:15, we had chopped our eighteen trees (not forgetting our one free, obviously) and the porters started carrying the trees back, balancing them on their heads as we walked behind them (it was decided that we would be too slow to actually be useful). During the walk back to the village, Ciprier was explaining Rwandan primary school to me, in French. What he told me is that there is “avant-midi” and “après-midi” class; some kids go to school in the mornings, others in the afternoons. The schools are too overcrowded for all of the kids to be in school for a full day. When they aren’t in school, the kids are generally working on their families’ land or farm, or they are walking along the streets, pointing and screaming at passing Muzungu. Ciprier also told me that he lives in the valley into which we were looking while we were chopping wood; it takes him an hour and a half to walk to work every morning (he arrives at the village at 6:30 every day, so he leaves at 5) and he has three small children. Learning about Rwandan life from people who have been living here forever, raising their families and going to work, leading what I consider to be difficult lives, has been a huge part of my experience here. Most of what has changed me most is learning about Rwanda and its history from its people; there is something very genuine about talking to the kids and the workers, having them tell us about their lives and hardships, triumphs and dreams, which makes this experience even more important to me.
We returned to the village and went right to moving bricks and cement. This lasted for about an hour before I felt my arms turn to jelly; I was carrying a jerry can full of cement and I dropped it. I knew it was time to throw in the towel and go to lunch; I couldn’t feel my legs (or anything else).
After lunch (which was SPAGHETTI… Woohoo!!) I had yoga with Senior 4 girls. They would clearly rather talk to each other than stretch, which I was fine with given that I had no control over my limbs and only wanted to crawl into my bed. It’s now about 7 PM and my pillow (and my bottle of Aleve) is looking fantastic; I may have a can of tuna (and perhaps some crackers, if I’m feeling gastronomically adventurous) and then crash.
Lilah tov from Rwanda, too sore to continue typing,
Elana
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Caution: Flying Mud
February 15, 2011
Today was one of those days that doesn’t seem to end until it’s finally dark, you’re about to go to bed and you know nothing else (like mud being thrown at a wall) can get in the way of you and your pillow. My morning began at 8:00 at the work site, where I spent five hours schlepping bricks and cement and then more bricks, and of course, tons more cement, from the front of the warehouse-in-progress to the back, where the workers were all standing on wooden scaffolds (they made the scaffolding themselves out of spare lumber and nails, using machetes) and telling us to pile “more blocks” (they have issues saying “bricks”). Well, this was working fine (it’s entertaining for about the first twenty minutes, and then it gets tedious, and then the sun comes out fully and it’s hot and tedious, all at the same time), and I felt quite like Pelage’s secretary (this was an ongoing joke because clearly, I wasn’t typing anything or answering his phone and saying “Hold, please,” but instead, every time he said “Blocks!” and pointed, or “Cima!” I ran to go get more, lifting it up to him on the scaffold). However, about an hour and a half in, the scaffolding collapsed, with the workers on it, bricks, cement and all. We raced to move the bricks (some were still on the scaffold, which was now more like a lumber ramp) and clear the cement so the guys could recover from their tumble.
We took a short break while the scaffolding was repaired and then returned to our work, making piles of bricks, filling half-jerry cans (they cut the jerry cans in half a while ago to use them as cement transportation devices) with cement and carrying them (shoulders are best for this) around the back of the building. A little while later, I went up to the school because Aimable told me that the kids in English Class D would be performing short plays they prepared to practice their “communicative English.” Well, I hiked from the site to the school and, lo and behold, they had gotten caught up in an activity and the plays wouldn’t be happening for at least another hour. I knew I had to return to construction and I couldn’t exactly wait around in a class I wasn’t meant to be teaching, so I thanked him, apologized to the kids for not being able to stay, and began my descent back to the warehouse.
This afternoon, once construction ended, we taught the workers and farmers English for our weekly hour. We reviewed “head, shoulders, knees and toes,” which went significantly better than last week; instead of simply covering their faces with their hands during the “eyes, ears, mouth, nose” verse, they actually motioned to the correct body parts. We also taught directions (right, left, forward, back) during which we attempted to teach them the Hokey Pokey. This did not go well since, let’s be honest, it’s a ridiculous dance and they really didn’t get the whole “turn yourself around” thing. So, we stuck to directions and “Elana and Ilyssa Say” (once again, we couldn’t do “Simon Says” since the question would inevitably be asked “Who’s Simon and why isn’t he here?”) We also taught them “Can I please have,” which will come in handy when they want more bricks and cement (which is all the time at the work site) and will hopefully prevent them from pointing to what they want and saying “Cima” or “Blocks!” At the end, they all came around, shaking our hands and bowing slightly, saying "Thank you, teacher!" This made my day.
Needless to say, after all this I was completely exhausted. But, every Tuesday at 3 PM is Tikkun Olam, so despite my fatigue (and smelling like cement), we left for Peter’s house down the road from the village. Today, we actually started working on his house, mixing mud (we brought gardening tools from the village and a bunch of the guys used them to loosen a pit of dirt) by mixing dirt in Peter’s yard (well, dirt patch, really) with jerry cans full of water that we brought from ASYV. To mix it well, the guys threw their tools to the side and stood in the mud barefoot, grabbed each others’ shoulders, and jumped in circles (it highly resembled the Horah) until the dirt and water became mud. Then, they began handing us mud piles to bring into the house where people were on makeshift ladders, throwing the mud at the wooden wall frames to create rooms within Peter’s originally one-room hut. They let me give it a shot; take a huge pile of mud, remove a handful and throw with as much force as possible at the wall to fill any visible holes. Yes, there is photographic and video evidence of this. Where else (and when else) would I be throwing mud at a wall to improve a hut in rural Rwanda? One of the best moments was watching Peter’s kids carry as much mud as their little hands could (often balancing it under their chins) and then throw it at the wall (it generally ended up on the floor because they aren’t tall enough to reach parts of the actual wall). Their effort was unbelievable, and adorable.
Another thing to watch out for: flying mud. People on ladders (pieces of wood nailed together into a triangle with a few rungs) were throwing the mud at the cracks between the ceiling and the wall, and inevitably, not all of it would stick, so some fell… on my head. I returned back to the village covered in mud, my hair included. But, one of the biggest surprises of my day came during showering off my mud-covered self; the water got HOT. I haven’t had a hot (or even warm) shower since arriving in Rwanda; we were promised cold showers, when the water is even running. How this happened I have no idea, but it was certainly a high point. Not ten minutes later, however, the power went out in the guesthouse, and as we later found out, in the entire village with the exception of the dining hall. Luckily, the power came back eventually; Peter’s house has no electricity, so losing it for a while means having it in the first place. We are fortunate that this was only temporary.
It’s now almost 10 and I’m so tired I’m falling asleep while typing. My family time got canceled tonight because the girls were in the Science Learning Center for extra study time, so I will have to visit them another day (most are in my classes at school, so I get to see them anyway). Tomorrow we are chopping wood for the construction project – I’m going to learn how to cut down trees… with a machete.
Timber! from Rwanda,
Elana
Today was one of those days that doesn’t seem to end until it’s finally dark, you’re about to go to bed and you know nothing else (like mud being thrown at a wall) can get in the way of you and your pillow. My morning began at 8:00 at the work site, where I spent five hours schlepping bricks and cement and then more bricks, and of course, tons more cement, from the front of the warehouse-in-progress to the back, where the workers were all standing on wooden scaffolds (they made the scaffolding themselves out of spare lumber and nails, using machetes) and telling us to pile “more blocks” (they have issues saying “bricks”). Well, this was working fine (it’s entertaining for about the first twenty minutes, and then it gets tedious, and then the sun comes out fully and it’s hot and tedious, all at the same time), and I felt quite like Pelage’s secretary (this was an ongoing joke because clearly, I wasn’t typing anything or answering his phone and saying “Hold, please,” but instead, every time he said “Blocks!” and pointed, or “Cima!” I ran to go get more, lifting it up to him on the scaffold). However, about an hour and a half in, the scaffolding collapsed, with the workers on it, bricks, cement and all. We raced to move the bricks (some were still on the scaffold, which was now more like a lumber ramp) and clear the cement so the guys could recover from their tumble.
We took a short break while the scaffolding was repaired and then returned to our work, making piles of bricks, filling half-jerry cans (they cut the jerry cans in half a while ago to use them as cement transportation devices) with cement and carrying them (shoulders are best for this) around the back of the building. A little while later, I went up to the school because Aimable told me that the kids in English Class D would be performing short plays they prepared to practice their “communicative English.” Well, I hiked from the site to the school and, lo and behold, they had gotten caught up in an activity and the plays wouldn’t be happening for at least another hour. I knew I had to return to construction and I couldn’t exactly wait around in a class I wasn’t meant to be teaching, so I thanked him, apologized to the kids for not being able to stay, and began my descent back to the warehouse.
This afternoon, once construction ended, we taught the workers and farmers English for our weekly hour. We reviewed “head, shoulders, knees and toes,” which went significantly better than last week; instead of simply covering their faces with their hands during the “eyes, ears, mouth, nose” verse, they actually motioned to the correct body parts. We also taught directions (right, left, forward, back) during which we attempted to teach them the Hokey Pokey. This did not go well since, let’s be honest, it’s a ridiculous dance and they really didn’t get the whole “turn yourself around” thing. So, we stuck to directions and “Elana and Ilyssa Say” (once again, we couldn’t do “Simon Says” since the question would inevitably be asked “Who’s Simon and why isn’t he here?”) We also taught them “Can I please have,” which will come in handy when they want more bricks and cement (which is all the time at the work site) and will hopefully prevent them from pointing to what they want and saying “Cima” or “Blocks!” At the end, they all came around, shaking our hands and bowing slightly, saying "Thank you, teacher!" This made my day.
Needless to say, after all this I was completely exhausted. But, every Tuesday at 3 PM is Tikkun Olam, so despite my fatigue (and smelling like cement), we left for Peter’s house down the road from the village. Today, we actually started working on his house, mixing mud (we brought gardening tools from the village and a bunch of the guys used them to loosen a pit of dirt) by mixing dirt in Peter’s yard (well, dirt patch, really) with jerry cans full of water that we brought from ASYV. To mix it well, the guys threw their tools to the side and stood in the mud barefoot, grabbed each others’ shoulders, and jumped in circles (it highly resembled the Horah) until the dirt and water became mud. Then, they began handing us mud piles to bring into the house where people were on makeshift ladders, throwing the mud at the wooden wall frames to create rooms within Peter’s originally one-room hut. They let me give it a shot; take a huge pile of mud, remove a handful and throw with as much force as possible at the wall to fill any visible holes. Yes, there is photographic and video evidence of this. Where else (and when else) would I be throwing mud at a wall to improve a hut in rural Rwanda? One of the best moments was watching Peter’s kids carry as much mud as their little hands could (often balancing it under their chins) and then throw it at the wall (it generally ended up on the floor because they aren’t tall enough to reach parts of the actual wall). Their effort was unbelievable, and adorable.
Another thing to watch out for: flying mud. People on ladders (pieces of wood nailed together into a triangle with a few rungs) were throwing the mud at the cracks between the ceiling and the wall, and inevitably, not all of it would stick, so some fell… on my head. I returned back to the village covered in mud, my hair included. But, one of the biggest surprises of my day came during showering off my mud-covered self; the water got HOT. I haven’t had a hot (or even warm) shower since arriving in Rwanda; we were promised cold showers, when the water is even running. How this happened I have no idea, but it was certainly a high point. Not ten minutes later, however, the power went out in the guesthouse, and as we later found out, in the entire village with the exception of the dining hall. Luckily, the power came back eventually; Peter’s house has no electricity, so losing it for a while means having it in the first place. We are fortunate that this was only temporary.
It’s now almost 10 and I’m so tired I’m falling asleep while typing. My family time got canceled tonight because the girls were in the Science Learning Center for extra study time, so I will have to visit them another day (most are in my classes at school, so I get to see them anyway). Tomorrow we are chopping wood for the construction project – I’m going to learn how to cut down trees… with a machete.
Timber! from Rwanda,
Elana
Monday, February 14, 2011
Maître corbeau, sur un arbre perché, tenait en son bec un fromage…
February 14, 2011
Hello everyone and happy Valentine’s Day from Africa! Today was yet another full day in the village. Beginning at 7:30, I taught Enrichment Year (equivalent to freshman year in America) math with Francoise for two hours. The class is still working on simplifying complex fractions with square root expressions in the denominator. Unlike last week, Brigitte volunteered to do problems in front of the class, without my help and without hesitation, and got them all right! I didn’t have to translate for her and she was completely confident in front of her peers and Francoise. On her way back to her seat, she came over to the front corner where I sit (so I can see the entire class if someone raises their hand if they need help) and high-fived me.
Next, in English, Aimable kept asking me how long I can stay in Rwanda. As I’ve explained to him several times, I have two more weeks here because we are only in the village for a month. He continues to ask, however, if I can stay longer. He told me, and I quote, “I will be feeling very sad when you leave. Please stay here forever? You are such a good teacher to my students.” I wanted to hug him but since we were in the middle of class and the kids were working on writing exercises that I was supposed to be walking around and correcting, I figured I should wait until another time. He really is an amazing person, and teacher. At the end of class, Aimable, being his usual friendly self, asked me what I thought of the museum in Murambi yesterday. I told him it was difficult to see, but important. His response has stayed with me throughout the day: "It makes you realize you're in Rwanda, doesn't it?" This made me think of what a crazy place this world can be, and made me aware, perhaps for the first time, of where I am and what I'm doing here.
In keeping with the theme of Valentine's Day, one of my students came up to me and asked me what I was doing to celebrate. They all know I have a boyfriend who lives in Israel; I’ve been asked this about thirty separate times by the same group of students. Instead of explaining to them that Israel doesn’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day, I assured them that I would talk to Roi and my Valentine’s Day would not be a total disappointment. However, this student wasn’t taking my answer and instead, he asked me flat out if he could celebrate Valentine’s Day with me. Well, as much as I wanted to say, “Absolutely not” and turn away in embarrassment, I explained to him that I have a boyfriend (yes, still, same as last time he asked) and that he should really celebrate Valentine’s Day with one of his friends in class; there are lots of smart, pretty girls in Enrichment Class D. I don’t know if he liked my response, but he gave me a hug regardless, wished me a happy Valentine’s Day and went along. Crisis averted.
French today was probably the highlight. Vincent is teaching them the very famous French poem by Jean de la Fontaine “Le Corbeau et le Renard” (The Crow and the Fox), which I memorized senior year in AP French and performed with puppets (I was really wishing I had my puppets with me… too bad they would have gotten crushed in my suitcase between my tuna cans and my sneakers). To illustrate the poem – it is very complex and employs very advanced structures – Vincent decided to act it out, crouching down and wagging his hand behind his back to be the fox and then switching to (attempting to) balance on one foot and flap his arms to be the crow. Well, Vincent is not exactly a young man, so balancing on one leg and flapping his arms to be a bird is not the best idea. This was made clear when he fell into the blackboard and nearly took a tumble; luckily, the wall and his arm in mid-flap caught him. He whispered to me, in French, “I am too old for this.” He’s not wrong; clearly, his acting days have come to an end. He told the class that their assignment for the next week is to memorize the poem. At this, they all groaned and began getting rather unruly, which is unusual for them. To show them that it’s not an impossible feat, memorizing this poem, I recited it for them (I’m still surprised I remembered it; I haven’t exactly been practicing the past few months) and they kept asking me how long it took to memorize, is it difficult, etc. I told them that anyone who wants help can come find me after school the next few days and I will work with them on their memorization. I reassured them that they are all very smart, hard-working students and they can certainly do it.
This afternoon was cooking and kitchen class with Momma Florida (Flor-eeda). This week, we made omelettes and home fries; the kids were shocked that a Muzungu could a) chop vegetables and b) actually cook. I showed them that I’m not totally incompetent and I got a round of applause after finishing the potatoes. Usually, we cook outside on the coals, but about twenty minutes into class, the skies turned black and a thunder and lightning storm ruined our al-fresco cooking setup, so we had to move “indoors.” Indoors means under a covered mud shed where there is one light that flickers on and off and beans are all over the floor (it’s where the kitchen staff sifts through beans for lunch and dinner). Cramming twenty people, plus Momma Florida, into this little shed was interesting, but fun. Toward the end of class (which always runs at least half an hour late), Momma Florida, who has only ever spoken French to me, asked me in English, “Where is your camera?” She remembered me taking pictures last week during our meatball class and wanted me to take some of our omelettes. Well, as soon as my camera was out of its case, the kids were all smiling, wanting me to take their picture with our food. It turned into quite the photo shoot. After dividing up and devouring our creations, we helped clean up (despite Momma Florida urging us to put the pots down) and literally ran back to the guesthouse in the pouring rain. Every time lightning strikes here, because we are so high up in the mountains, the entire village lights up. This was scary but convenient for finding where we were walking; none of the paths are well-lit, so walking at night, especially without a flashlight, becomes somewhat dangerous. We booked it from the dining hall to our side of the village (the two buildings couldn’t be further apart, naturally), and I am now recovering from being soaked through my clothes.
In other news, I did my laundry for the first time today. By hand. I have a whole new appreciation for washing machines and dryers. I scrubbed two articles of clothing together, as if I were trying to build a fire (I must have looked ridiculous), just to get them some semblance of clean. Luckily, I saw the lightning and heard the thunder before it reached the side of the village where the guesthouse is located, so I called people still in the guesthouse while I was in the kitchen, asking them to clear my newly cleaned clothes off the lines. Thank goodness for MTN cell phones (sometimes, when they work) and buckets for my clothes. I think I’m going to hang them in my room to dry, and perhaps to redecorate the place, if only temporarily.
Off to our nightly meeting now, and then tomorrow I’m back to schlepping bricks and cement at the work site!
Lots of hugs and kisses from Rwanda,
Elana
Hello everyone and happy Valentine’s Day from Africa! Today was yet another full day in the village. Beginning at 7:30, I taught Enrichment Year (equivalent to freshman year in America) math with Francoise for two hours. The class is still working on simplifying complex fractions with square root expressions in the denominator. Unlike last week, Brigitte volunteered to do problems in front of the class, without my help and without hesitation, and got them all right! I didn’t have to translate for her and she was completely confident in front of her peers and Francoise. On her way back to her seat, she came over to the front corner where I sit (so I can see the entire class if someone raises their hand if they need help) and high-fived me.
Next, in English, Aimable kept asking me how long I can stay in Rwanda. As I’ve explained to him several times, I have two more weeks here because we are only in the village for a month. He continues to ask, however, if I can stay longer. He told me, and I quote, “I will be feeling very sad when you leave. Please stay here forever? You are such a good teacher to my students.” I wanted to hug him but since we were in the middle of class and the kids were working on writing exercises that I was supposed to be walking around and correcting, I figured I should wait until another time. He really is an amazing person, and teacher. At the end of class, Aimable, being his usual friendly self, asked me what I thought of the museum in Murambi yesterday. I told him it was difficult to see, but important. His response has stayed with me throughout the day: "It makes you realize you're in Rwanda, doesn't it?" This made me think of what a crazy place this world can be, and made me aware, perhaps for the first time, of where I am and what I'm doing here.
In keeping with the theme of Valentine's Day, one of my students came up to me and asked me what I was doing to celebrate. They all know I have a boyfriend who lives in Israel; I’ve been asked this about thirty separate times by the same group of students. Instead of explaining to them that Israel doesn’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day, I assured them that I would talk to Roi and my Valentine’s Day would not be a total disappointment. However, this student wasn’t taking my answer and instead, he asked me flat out if he could celebrate Valentine’s Day with me. Well, as much as I wanted to say, “Absolutely not” and turn away in embarrassment, I explained to him that I have a boyfriend (yes, still, same as last time he asked) and that he should really celebrate Valentine’s Day with one of his friends in class; there are lots of smart, pretty girls in Enrichment Class D. I don’t know if he liked my response, but he gave me a hug regardless, wished me a happy Valentine’s Day and went along. Crisis averted.
French today was probably the highlight. Vincent is teaching them the very famous French poem by Jean de la Fontaine “Le Corbeau et le Renard” (The Crow and the Fox), which I memorized senior year in AP French and performed with puppets (I was really wishing I had my puppets with me… too bad they would have gotten crushed in my suitcase between my tuna cans and my sneakers). To illustrate the poem – it is very complex and employs very advanced structures – Vincent decided to act it out, crouching down and wagging his hand behind his back to be the fox and then switching to (attempting to) balance on one foot and flap his arms to be the crow. Well, Vincent is not exactly a young man, so balancing on one leg and flapping his arms to be a bird is not the best idea. This was made clear when he fell into the blackboard and nearly took a tumble; luckily, the wall and his arm in mid-flap caught him. He whispered to me, in French, “I am too old for this.” He’s not wrong; clearly, his acting days have come to an end. He told the class that their assignment for the next week is to memorize the poem. At this, they all groaned and began getting rather unruly, which is unusual for them. To show them that it’s not an impossible feat, memorizing this poem, I recited it for them (I’m still surprised I remembered it; I haven’t exactly been practicing the past few months) and they kept asking me how long it took to memorize, is it difficult, etc. I told them that anyone who wants help can come find me after school the next few days and I will work with them on their memorization. I reassured them that they are all very smart, hard-working students and they can certainly do it.
This afternoon was cooking and kitchen class with Momma Florida (Flor-eeda). This week, we made omelettes and home fries; the kids were shocked that a Muzungu could a) chop vegetables and b) actually cook. I showed them that I’m not totally incompetent and I got a round of applause after finishing the potatoes. Usually, we cook outside on the coals, but about twenty minutes into class, the skies turned black and a thunder and lightning storm ruined our al-fresco cooking setup, so we had to move “indoors.” Indoors means under a covered mud shed where there is one light that flickers on and off and beans are all over the floor (it’s where the kitchen staff sifts through beans for lunch and dinner). Cramming twenty people, plus Momma Florida, into this little shed was interesting, but fun. Toward the end of class (which always runs at least half an hour late), Momma Florida, who has only ever spoken French to me, asked me in English, “Where is your camera?” She remembered me taking pictures last week during our meatball class and wanted me to take some of our omelettes. Well, as soon as my camera was out of its case, the kids were all smiling, wanting me to take their picture with our food. It turned into quite the photo shoot. After dividing up and devouring our creations, we helped clean up (despite Momma Florida urging us to put the pots down) and literally ran back to the guesthouse in the pouring rain. Every time lightning strikes here, because we are so high up in the mountains, the entire village lights up. This was scary but convenient for finding where we were walking; none of the paths are well-lit, so walking at night, especially without a flashlight, becomes somewhat dangerous. We booked it from the dining hall to our side of the village (the two buildings couldn’t be further apart, naturally), and I am now recovering from being soaked through my clothes.
In other news, I did my laundry for the first time today. By hand. I have a whole new appreciation for washing machines and dryers. I scrubbed two articles of clothing together, as if I were trying to build a fire (I must have looked ridiculous), just to get them some semblance of clean. Luckily, I saw the lightning and heard the thunder before it reached the side of the village where the guesthouse is located, so I called people still in the guesthouse while I was in the kitchen, asking them to clear my newly cleaned clothes off the lines. Thank goodness for MTN cell phones (sometimes, when they work) and buckets for my clothes. I think I’m going to hang them in my room to dry, and perhaps to redecorate the place, if only temporarily.
Off to our nightly meeting now, and then tomorrow I’m back to schlepping bricks and cement at the work site!
Lots of hugs and kisses from Rwanda,
Elana
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