First a shout-out to my Kinyarwanda language tutor, friend, and fellow teaching colleague, Habarurema Jackson.
He’s been rather patient with my slow Kinyarwanda uptake, and through our conversations, I’ve learned more about Rwanda and my local village while he has learned more about America through my eyes.
Day One
A whole helluva lot of nothing but sitting around, chatting with fellow teachers, and wondering what will be next. A staff meeting occurred later in the afternoon. Not until 3 p.m., but lasting until almost dark. It was obviously in Kinyarwanda and I believe I visibly nodded off a few times.
Day Two
Still no start to classes, but progress has been made. Timetables for teachers are in-the-works. Also, I’ve come to the realization that the children who have talked to me before school started last month in broken English that I thought sounded like a smart-ass tone was due to their primary teacher, who talks that way in English. I almost laughed when it registered. Only a sly smile crossed my face instead. No harm, no foul. #themoreyouknow
Follow-up thought: By the end of my service, I’m going to have a bunch of Rwandan’s saying “I DO DECLARE”, “my BOYYY”, and “Good show old chap!”
Day Three
While sitting in the teacher’s staffroom, I’ve noticed that that sound of students playing during morning break can be rather soothing. Specifically, the girls are playing a game, I have no idea what, but it has the same, distinct sound that is made when watching professional golf on TV. The sound that occurs when a player hits a solid shot straight up the fairway or nails a long putt across a devilish green. That sound is the spectator’s “golf clap.” It’s the type of sound that can put a person to sleep almost instantaneously. For me, watching golf was always a decision to take a nap, not actually watch golf. I must be wary of this sound here.
Day Four: A small revelation
My counterpart, Niyonizeye Jereminatha, introduced me to two out of three of our secondary (S) English classes today. We will be teaching S1 A, B, and C classes. That’s five periods each week for each class in S1.
Jereminatha and I after two weeks of classes.
The students were chipper, sharp in their uniforms, and above all hungry. Hungry to learn, eager, alive and energetic. I realized at that moment the sheer weight of my responsibility in this school. I am here so that these individuals may learn to speak English. This skill alone carries with it so much weight. More so than other subjects because it directly impacts them all.
Currently, English is the language of commerce throughout the world. To know it is to provide yourself with an immense competitive advantage, especially in rural villages, regions, or countries where it is not widely known. If I succeed, even minimally, I can have an immense impact on the future success of these students.
I suspect it is because, as things currently stand, America is the dominant world order, with obvious historical aid by way of our former colonizer’s, the British Empire (one in which the sun previously never set). Travel abroad as an American and you’ll realize in most of the world, you can easily explore without issue or hindrance because there are always people (even if few) who know and speak English. In most of the world, learning English, or at least a second language is a school requirement. We Americans have the privilege of being born into a country that speaks this language. By birthright, we are already ahead in the “Game of Life.” Sure, we have our own problems and divisions (especially right now), but every single person in Rwanda I’ve met who talks of travel or has hopes for future success always cites America; wanting to see it, wanting to live there, and wanting to make money “like Americans do.” Every. Single. One.
So, if you are an American, look in the mirror. Smile. Thank your parents. Thank the gods. Praise the stars. Be grateful. You were born in America. Despite its many faults, compared to large swaths of this one strange rock, you’re already ahead of the curve. Recognize this and every day, or at least every week, try to do at least one good thing. You’ll feel much better for it. Guaranteed.
Addendum: I recognize that I’m a tall, white, blond-haired and blue-eyed male. Not everyone born in America has equal rights, and things like the color of your skin, your sexual preference(s), disabilities you have, or whether your parents entered America legally can all lead to their own sets of issues. I’m not immune to this knowledge.
Day Five
After arriving on Friday morning, I found out from my co-teacher that we would finally hold our first class in three hours and together we only have 40 mins to prepare for the lesson. Luckily, the lesson went smoother than you would think, considering the circumstances.
Week Two, Day Six
This has nothing to do with school, but my neighbor, Florence, who I share my compound with, informed me that she saw a large mouse enter my home. We went on the hunt and successfully chased that little bastard out. Later in the evening, I entered my kitchen and noticed the bastard was back, gnawing on my avocados. I chased him out again, but I suspect obtaining a cat or a mouse trap is now in order. I’m going on the hunt. I’ve much experience dealing with rats in DC. This little GUS GUS doesn’t know what’s coming.
Day Twelve Update: A trap has been acquired, but the mouse, as if sensing the trap, has yet to return.
A second day twelve update, as I’m writing this: The mouse ate the peanut butter off the trap and scurried away. I noticed this while taking a break from writing this to make dinner. To test the trap, I used the plastic spoon from my rice cooker. The trap worked flawlessly, destroying my spoon in the process. Thank you, Gus Gus. I will get you soon enough.
Day Seven
Whilst making spaghetti for dinner after school, I picked out the juiciest looking tomato, cut myself a fat slice, added some salt and fresh A’ pepper, and BAM, I’m in FLAVORTOWN.
The tomatoes here, when picked with correct know-how and when jived down from the umuzungu price, are spectacular.
Day Eight
One if these days, I’ll get used to teaching. Now, still, every day before class begins, I’m nervous and have the gut-wrenching feeling in the pit of my stomach that everything which could go wrong, will go wrong. I realize this will change though.
An additional thought that I’ll title, “The Civilizing Process”: Teaching children that stare at me while I cultivate in the field next to my house, while also trying not to lose patience with them, is going to be a process. Otherwise known as Children of the Ibishyimbo (more on this in a later post).
Day Ten
I’ve realized that right around 6:15 a.m. every morning, the chickens deem it safe enough to leave the confines of their coup, and they half fly, half flap down into the abyss that is my courtyard in search of whatever morsels their small pea brains may find. Or perhaps they are just hoping they can escape? The world may never know.
In one of my classes today, during the morning break, a student snuck back into class and placed a wreath of flowers on top of my notebook. It was extremely touching. I’m told by my counterpart that means she likes me as a teacher. I’m blessed.
Week Three, Day Eleven
No one at school liked my shaved face. Not the teachers. Not the students. A beard, I’m told, is good. Never, ever shave it off completely, I’m told. Duly noted.
P.S.
Jackson and Jereminatha are married and they have two beautiful boys. Twice now they have brought me vegetables from their garden, as well as one of the two chickens from the previous video (it’s the one that’s being assaulted). I am deeply grateful.
After almost two weeks at my site living in this still foreign land, the reality that this was my life for the next two years had started to sink in. Travel to/from my site to other locations in Rwanda wasn’t an easy endeavor, nor was it cheap considering my monthly teacher’s salary as a volunteer. Integrating into any foreign community is tough, much less one in which your local language skills are subpar. It’s a slow progression and it takes time to make friends, but on the day before Christmas Eve, my perspective on this process and the patience it required were nonexistent. In my mind, all I could think about was how isolated my existence would be.
Combine these realizations with a mild sinus infection, a two-burner gas stove that went on the fritz coupled with a power outage while I cooked dinner, and my mind was in a definitive melancholy state. It was the holiday season, I could see through social media that friends and family back home were traveling to see one another, and homesickness had set in. This, I’ve heard, is a feeling many in my cohort faced these past weeks.
Luckily, here in the Northern Province, a few different groups in my cohort were hosting other PCVs for Christmas. My problem was determining how to easily get to them while also doing so without spending money. I wanted to be thrifty with any holiday travel until the 2019 school year started on January 14 (click here for more info and potential dates when I will be free for visits).
Background: As part of our site move-in, Peace Corps provides us with a stipend to help pay for the essentials we will need at our site (cooking supplies, furniture, toiletries, bedding, etc.). I had gone over budget and used some of my own money to help with this process. And perhaps my acoustic guitar wasn’t an “essential” purchase, but it will give me happiness over the next two years. No regrets there!
After some investigative Googling and travel questions answered from my site counterpart, I realized I could hike to my friend and fellow PCV, Eden Rose, who was hosting Christmas for those that wanted to come to her site. It would take roughly eight hours and 31 kilometers, but it was possible.
From experience, whenever I was feeling downhearted about anything, my solution was always to get outside and explore. I did it many times while living in Washington D.C. and this would be no exception. I set out early on the morning of Christmas Eve with half a liter of coffee to propel me onward.
Along the way, I greeted just about every Rwandan I passed with either a “Muraho” (Hello) or “Mwaramutse” (Good morning) followed with “Noheli Nziza” (Merry Christmas)! Some would ask where I was going or try to offer me a moto ride. I would smile and say “Nkunda gukora siporo” (I like to do sport). Usually, this was followed by laughter, a grin, and the words “Komera” (Be strong). In most cases when it came to children, they would smile, point, and yell out “Umuzungu” (White foreigner)!
Around the halfway point, I met a fellow traveler named Batista. He is 20 years old and wants to start his own auto/moto mechanic shop. We talked about our families and travels, likes and dislikes, and hopes for the future.
Once it became clear we were both headed in the same direction, he helped me traverse my way around the Rugezi (also known as Ruhengeri) Marsh, a protected wetland in Rwanda that is also one of the many sources of the Nile River.
After crossing the lake, I left Batista at his village and continued onwards. Within minutes, what started as small drops of rain turned into a full-fledged rainstorm, as is often the case in Rwanda.
Praise be! I’d packed my umbrella and raincoat.
The storm didn’t last for long, and around early afternoon I came upon Delicious Restaurant, owned and operated by Bernard.
He was a friendly chap who graduated university in hospitality management and now teaches students the same subject matter as a professor.
I was in dire need of rest and sustenance. I ate four brochettes, downed some water, and had a grand Mützig as well.
I left the restaurant in high spirits but soon realized I still had many miles to go, and my JIMMAY legs were becoming quite sore as if made of jelly.
Despite this, views such as this valley, part of the massive Sorwathe Tea Plantation, kept me in high spirits.
Upon reaching the valley, an ever-increasing contingent of local children started following me. This will occur frequently in any Rwandan village because children are fascinated by white foreigners, more so those with a tall, bearded and lanky-legged disposition. I would suspect, to some extent, an African man traveling through rural America may garner the same type of attention, depending on the location.
It can feel rather disconcerting to have children following you, chattering away with statements that are mostly incomprehensible, at times touching your arm tattoo with awe. It’s as if you’ve become Forest Gump.
Oftentimes, they’ll say one of the only English phrases they know, which is “give me money.” I’ve become quite used to it, and I know that most of the time these children know exactly what they are saying. I’ll usually smile and reply along the lines of “Udashaka amafaranga? Ndashaka amafaranga kandi, ariko simfite amafaranga!” (You want money? I want money too, but I have no money!). This will usually be met with awe that I can speak Kinyarwanda and laughter at my response. Other times, they will then ask me for my watch, or for a pen, or something else they see on me. For the most part, they know that asking such questions of any stranger is not considered polite.
In the case of these children, after we completed the whole ‘song and dance’ about them wanting things from me, and me being a umuzungu, I started talking with a few of the older boys at the front. They decided they would help me reach my destination and quickly became leaders of the group with me, scolding those that asked me any questions they deemed rude.
Music became a topic of conversation, and like most Rwandans, Justin Bieber and Chris Brown were two of their favorite American artists. We climbed out of that valley jamming to these artist’s hits over my Bluetooth speaker. I introduced them to “Peanut Butter Jelly” by Galantis. Some might say we danced up that valley. And it was needed because by then, I’d popped an Ibuprofen and could barely feel my legs.
As I got closer to my destination, I realized I needed to shake these kids. I couldn’t show up with a troupe of revelers after all. One new Kinyarwanda verb I’ve learned recently, “kuguma” (to stay), had been very helpful in similar situations. I made it clear I knew which way I was headed, thanked them for their help, and told them they needed to stay and head back to their homes. After a few repeated attempts in Kinyarwanda, the leaders kept everyone at bay, I said goodbye and wished them all a Merry Christmas.
After my arrival at Eden’s house, I had a very Merry Christmas with her and Sarah.
Just around each hill is another, beautiful vista. It’s called the ‘Land of 1,000 Hills’ for a reason. And the views will never get old.
Finally, when in doubt, get outside, explore, and dance like no one’s watching, always.
I’ll leave you with this quote from my favorite author, Kurt Vonnegut, via his first novel, Player Piano (1952): “I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge, you can see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center. Big, undreamed-of things — the people on the edge see them first.”
This past Tuesday morning, I was officially sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer of Rwanda during a ceremony in Kigali.
Me and my cohort were joined at the ceremony by the guest of honor, the Honorable Dr. Eugene MUTIMURA, Minister of Education for Rwanda. The oath of service was administered by U.S. Ambassador to Rwanda, Peter Vrooman and the Peace Corps Pledge was administered by Peace Corps Rwanda Country Director, Keith Hackett.
First, we stated the Peace Corps Oath:
“I do solemnly swear or affirm that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, domestic and foreign, that I take this obligation freely and without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, and that I will well and faithfully discharge my duties in the Peace Corps, so help me God.”
Second, we stated the Peace Corps Pledge:
“I, Levi Benjamin Clay Rokey, promise to serve alongside the people of Rwanda. I promise to share my culture with an open heart and open mind. I promise to foster an understanding of the people of Rwanda, with creativity, cultural sensitivity, and respect. I will face the challenges of service with patience, humility, and determination. I will embrace the mission of world peace and friendship for as long as I serve and beyond. In the proud tradition of Peace Corps’ legacy, and in the spirit of the Peace Corps family past, present, and future – I am a Peace Corps Volunteer.”
This moment admittedly choked me up a quite a bit.Post swear-in, we were all smiles, taking a photo with the Ambassador’s wife, an returned Peace Corps Volunteer (RCPV).
It was a powerful moment that encapsulated the hard work of three months of pre-service training and the leap into the next stage of our service; moving to our individual sites where we will be teaching for the next two years.
I like to call this accidental shirt “America with a splash of Rwandan COLOR.”With the swipe of a pen, it’s official.
As I begin my service as a PCV, I cannot express enough my gratitude towards my language teachers, the Peace Corps staff, my host family, and my fellow cohort as we went from trainees to volunteers. I had a blast with ya’ll in Kigali!
Site move-in day was rough for many reasons. I regret none that were within my control.My first Kinyarwanda language teacher, Honorine (to my right).Album Cover: “The Motley Mattress Crew. Tired, disheveled, and hungry.”Future inter service training (IST) talent show guitars acquired.Treating ourselves to some delectable Indian food in Kigali.
In the past few weeks, as PST winds down, my feelings are rather conflicted. On one hand, this is exactly how I feel about PST ending:
On the other hand, there’s a certain bond you form with 40+ people after going through intellectual boot camp for three months. A bond forged in the fires of Mount Doom (ahem, PST). We’ve juked and jived in the “hot box” over correct voting procedures for speakers at swear in, shared food and recipes over lunch each day, and complained about petty incidents that don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. We’ve also helped each other to walk home after dark, speak in Kinyarwanda, plan a lesson, exercise on the weekend, or just chill (JC). The good far outweighs the bad. All of this is to say that I’m going to miss these goofy chaps.
Here we are at dawn, with little sleep between us, dancing to classic rock while tending to turkeys for our local Thanksgiving celebration.
Our model school ended today. This involved two weeks of us trainees learning how to teach in an actual school with actual students and counterpart teachers. Students who are technically on break, but who volunteered to come to school so that they could learn more English. Teachers who helped us co-teach and also gained insight into American teaching practices. Instead of being on break. I am humbled by these individuals.
Me and my co-teacher, Lucie, with our Rwandan co-teacher Dorothy on our last day of model school.
During this time, I was frequently exhausted and grumpy on more than one occasion. Our eight-hour days turned into ten-hour days. Despite this, nothing energized me more than teaching. I always left class with an outfit covered in chalk, a huge smile on my face, and gratitude for my temporary students and their yearning for learning.
I cannot wait to begin teaching English in my village next year in January.
My aspirations to publish blog posts on a semi-regular basis to inform friends and family of my crazy Rwandan adventures as a future volunteer in the Peace Corps quickly succumbed to the realization that there isn’t time for such things in pre-service training (PST). At least not the amount of time I’d prefer to devote to comprehensive musings on my activities, state-of-mind, and whereabouts. So, apologies to those who’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to. I do DECLARE and promise you it will happen again. Because it’s best to have no expectations during PST.
So. Just under two months. That’s how long I’ve been in Rwanda. It’s the longest I’ve ever been outside of the United States. Time flies when your weekdays are fully planned from early morning (07:45) until late afternoon (17:00), including a mandatory curfew to be at your host family’s house by dusk (18:30).
This schedule applies to everyone in my cohort. We’re known as ED-10 Peace Corps Trainees (PCTs). To interpret that, we’re the tenth cohort of future English education volunteers to take up residence in Rwanda since 2008, when the Peace Corps returned to Rwanda after leaving before the genocide in 1994. Previously, the Peace Corps was in Rwanda from 1975-1993. In addition to English teachers, Peace Corps Rwanda also has health volunteers to assist rural health centers throughout the country in improving maternal and child health.
So, what exactly do I do every day? On weekdays, I have multiple sessions of Kinyarwanda language class, as well as meetings on Rwandan culture, safety/security, health, and English teaching preparation. Occasionally, I’ll go to the local ‘posh’ hotel for free WiFi that usually doesn’t work well, or the local bar to imbibe with fellow trainees, but most of the time, I head to home to complete assigned language homework, practice Kinyarwanda, and integrate.
Integration involves becoming an adopted member of my local Rwandan host family, including learning from each other about our cultural differences, as well as how to cook using charcoal and clean clothes and shoes via handwashing. I am extremely grateful to my host family because they remind me daily of my own family, especially from the time when we were growing up on the farm back in Kansas.
On Saturdays, we either have four hours of morning language class or we participate in Umuganda (community work) on the last Saturday morning of every month. Translated, Umuganda means “coming together in common purpose to achieve an outcome.” It involves members of the local community coming together to help each other complete various tasks, such as picking up litter, pruning bushes, clearing roadsides, or constructing a new house/footbridge/etc. In these polarizing times, some in America could learn a thing or two from such practices.
Here I am cutting some brush back in late September for Umuganda. Flashbacks of walking milo in Kansas were rampant in my brain.Here’s most of my cohort after our first Umuganda.
Sunday is really the only full day of freedom to choose what you want to do. But it’s never a “lazy Sunday” in the parlance of Americans. Upon awakening, I sweep and mop my room, as well as handwash my clothes and shoes, trying in vain to remove ingrained red dirt from every wrinkle and crevice. I do this as the family’s umukozi (housekeeper) looks on in disapproval. She has tried her best to show me how to effectively hand wash (scrub?) my garments, and she frequently makes repeated attempts to retrain me.
At this task, I may never be an expert. And that is ok.
My Papa and Mama in Rwanda are both hard workers that lead the family by example and emphasize the importance of education to their children, including ensuring I complete my Kinyarwanda homework each day, even when I’m rather frustrated with it. They are kind and patient with my attempts to speak in Kinyarwanda and always try to help me navigate the local culture and language. Oftentimes, their questions about my day are met with a blank stare, either because I cannot understand what was said, or my brain is so frazzled from constantly being ‘on’ during PST that I cannot muster the correct response in Kinyarwanda.
They have five beautiful children, four boys, and one girl. First, let me tell you about Junior. He’s the last born, and at only nine year’s old, his intelligence continues to surprise me. I can still recall the first time I met him on the day we learned who our host families would be. Our cohort was nervous, jet-lagged, and slightly bedraggled, having been in Rwanda for less than three days. The Peace Corps staff methodically read off each trainee’s name, their host families name, and they both stood up and met for the first time while the rest of us cheered them on. After I greeted Papa for the first time, while sitting next to Junior, he quickly asked me for my phone because he wanted me to show him where my home in America was on Google Maps. It quickly became apparent that he loves to draw maps, because he presented me with maps of the world, Rwanda’s districts, and Africa, within days.
Junior proudly showcasing his artwork.
Junior is also a voracious reader that speaks impeccable English and loves to borrow my laptop to devour movies. Usually, one of the first things I hear upon my arrival home each evening from PST is, “Can I see some movies?” It’s become a bit of a running joke between us.
On my birthday last week, he drew a portrait of me which melted my heart, replete with my wristwatch, bracelets, maroon jeans, fauxhawk and boots.
Joseph is the oldest son, and he’s currently in school to become a doctor. He recently came home due to a school break, and we’ve quickly bonded over a shared interest in cooking, travel, future aspirations, and music.
A few weeks back, Joseph and I made spaghetti for the family. This past weekend, he showed me and some fellow trainees from the cohort how to make chapati.
Victor and Esther were in boarding school and have both recently returned home, while Eric still has final exams before his school year is complete. Victor and Esther are both talented artists, while I’m told Eric is the best dancer in the family. This past Sunday, everyone was home for lunch. It was the first time eating with all my host siblings, the mood was merry, and the room was filled with Kinyarwanda, English, and laughter.
Learning any new language is tough, and Kinyarwanda is no exception. Anyone who knows me knows that I like to talk cyane (a lot). Once I get to know you, it’s all hugs, banter, laughter, and frequent opinionated debates on politics, policy, history, culture, and anything else under the sun. I enjoy learning from someone else’s perspective. And while I will always welcome a challenge, learning this language is perhaps one of the hardest tasks I’ve ever taken on. So much so, that I often must be nudged and reminded by my teachers to speak in Kinyarwanda.
Me and my first language group with our teacher, Honorine, and her seven-month-old baby, Nessa.
I know many in America may think that me being “shy” and not speaking is incomprehensible, but when you know you’re going to make mistakes, sometimes you feel that saying nothing at all is better than trying. This is false. You will make mistakes and that’s ntakibazo (no problem)! It’s something I will consistently remind my students of next year when they speak English, and it’s something I keep having to remind myself of now.
Here’s an anecdote on speaking the language: In the third week of October, me and my cohort were told by the Peace Corps where we would be placed after PST. Essentially, our homes for the next two years, starting in December. We then visited our sites for one week to meet our future colleagues and students, see our future homes, and prepare for our eventual move. Halfway through my site visit, after school one day, I decided to watch the sunset on the stoop of the house I was staying at when two local teenage boys nearby yelled my way. I think I heard them say “Umuzungu!” (white person) whilst they laughed. At that moment, I could have goofily smiled, waved, and retreated to the back side of the house and the perceived safety and seclusion of my temporary room inside. Instead, I walked over, introduced myself, and said, “Turi kumwe.” This is a beautiful Kinyarwanda phrase meaning “we are together, we are one.” Those words were all it took to form a friendship.
Kagabo is 19 while Alexander is 18. Their fathers are farmers.
Shortly thereafter, with little comprehensible words spoken between us, we were strolling towards the Ugandan border. The conversation was difficult at first, but we had mutual goodwill and a common mind towards exploration. We spoke with what little we knew (me in Kinyarwanda and them in English), and it worked. They had both missed school that day. This quickly became apparent when we ran into my counterpart teacher and he said as much. I then told them that if they started coming to school, I would help them learn English.
As the sun set behind the peaks of Mount Muhabura and Gahinga to the west, we went on a small loop from my village to the border and back again. They gave me their parents names and taught me many words in Kinyarwanda for various animals and plants. Both are good chaps who had clearly been raised right. Later that night, I realized how one small decision to push myself outside my comfort zone and speak the language, even if incorrectly, made all the difference. As Lee Ann Womack sang in a country tune I’m not ashamed to admit I love, “When you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance.”
Every day is a new adventure with Kinyarwanda. Just when you think you’re starting to understand things, your language teacher or your host brother or your colleague tosses you a new curveball, a new noun class, a new and better way to say something. Couple that with the fact that as I learn this language, there are times when I want to respond in Spanish instead of Kinyarwanda. Neurons in one’s brain become activated when they learn a language. Any language. So past knowledge that’s reactivated meshes with the new and you get yourself into speaking a jumbled mess of kinyaspanish in your head and perhaps even accidentally out loud from time to time.
In just three months, we are expected to reach an intermediate-mid level of language proficiency before we are officially sworn in as Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs) in mid-December. Our teacher’s constantly stress how vital this will be towards integration into our local communities and they are correct. My language comprehension is improving, but buhoro buhoro (Slowly, slowly)!
Rwanda is small when compared to other African nations, only taking up the same land area as Massachusetts. But with its fertile land and perfect weather, it can produce a stunning variety of fruits and vegetables. Subsistence farms sprout up anywhere a spare plot of red dirt exists. In fact, a plot near my host family’s house just exploded with eight-foot-tall sunflowers.
This is a pleasant surprise, considering it’s the state flower of Kansas.
It also rains quite often and unexpectedly during the rainy seasons. If you get caught in a rainstorm, it’s likely you will acquire your fair share of this dirt. Add to this that Rwandans are obsessed with cleanliness. Not only in the sense that the country itself is known as one of the cleanest in Africa (umuganda, plastic bags are banned, etc.), but also in appearance. For example, it is a sign of slovenliness if your shoes or clothes have even the small bit of Rwanda’s ubiquitous red dirt on them. Sometimes our cohort will arrive at PST each morning wondering how our teachers’ shoes are so perfectly free of red dirt. It’s as if they received a piggyback ride to work from Mr. Clean himself.
The best way to experience any culture’s local dishes is by trying everything at least once, with no preconceived notions about how they should taste. To dive right in. To observe how the locals eat their food. I’ve come to realize that many dishes are meant to be mixed together. Beans on top of rice. Cabbage on top of beans. Toss in some mashed avocado. Mix, and voila! Deliciousness.
There are staple dishes you are likely to encounter at almost every meal, including white rice, baked beans, potatoes (Irish, sweet, fried, boiled, you name it), and plantains. It’s a carb heavy diet. You will be energized, but you will be satiated too. In fact, it’s considered a sign that you are still hungry if you finish every bite on your plate. Doing so could lead to looks of concern from family members and suggestions to take a second helping.
Many of you know how much I love to cook, eat, and try new cuisines. It’s one of the daily activities I enjoy so much right now; being able to choose and make my own lunch. That’s perhaps partially due to the control and free will I have over the process (something we don’t have much of during PST), but also due to the creativity involved in whipping something up in only one hour while jostling for table prep and oven burner space with my colleagues. Currently, my colleagues and I are all in a self-contained cohort bubble, constantly stressed out and ready to be set free.
A friend in my cohort recently said to me, “You know, the Peace Corps didn’t really make it very clear just how hard PST was going to be.” So, for those of you out there considering the Peace Corps, the only expectation you should have about your pre-service training is that it’s not easy. You will be thrust into a foreign country filled with people speaking a language you won’t fully comprehend for many months. You will likely get sick at some point, whether from food poisoning or something else horrid that leads to frantic and frequent sprints whatever latrine is closest. You will be homesick when you haphazardly decide to check social media right before falling asleep, leading to wacky FOMO (fear of missing out) dreams about friends and family. You will also grow as an individual every single day. Just remember that PST itself is only a fraction of your 27-months of service in the Peace Corps. It will be over soon, and you will be a fully-trained volunteer, doing what you set out to do.
So, in reflecting on my first two months in Rwanda, it’s the little things in life one thinks they miss. The hot, seemingly endless showers. The laundry that you toss into a machine and two hours later it comes out clean and dry. The frozen, quick-cook, easy-bake, sliced and diced, prepackaged, processed, microwaveable meals. The supermarket with every edible food imaginable at your fingertips. The high-speed internet which brings a 24/7 stream of not entirely necessary content to your brain, causing either a rise in blood pressure or a release of dopamine due to the latest spike in your social media engagement metrics.
Then, you experience the opposite and you realize how little those things matter. Surely some things make life easier. But, do they make you appreciate life and its intricacies more?
Every morning while strolling to school, I am greeted by neighbors and smiles from schoolchildren that walk beside me to hold my hand or stare with curious bewilderment at the tall, lanky, whistling umuzungu. Some children will even break away from their parent, run over with the grandest of smiles, and give me a hug.
This happens almost every day. It doesn’t matter how stressed or how bad my day may have been, because in that moment, it’s all better. That’s Rwanda. That’s Rwanda’s people. They are helpful, patient, hard-working, energetic, optimistic, and generous. It’s infectious. And I can’t wait to be sworn in as a Peace Corps volunteer so that I can in some way contribute to this magical country and its peoples.
If This Isn't Nice, I Don't Know What Is 