I love kale. Anyone who knows me from back home in America knows this.
I love it so much that I have a shirt that says “kale.”
So much so that when I applied to the Peace Corps, I talked about growing my own vegetables, and specifically mentioned kale. I talked about how I would share the vegetables I grew with my neighbors and teach them about foods different from those they consume, including cooking my favorite dishes for my friends, neighbors, and colleagues.
So much so that when Peace Corps Rwanda asked me what I considered to be my most important factors regarding the location of my future site for the next two years, I requested somewhere rural that was cold vs. hot. Essentially, perfect kale growing weather.
The Peace Corps Mission consists of three goals. Of those, goal number two is “to help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served.” To that end, American’s have a recent cultural love affair with kale, and I wanted to pass along my love for this leafy green to my friends and colleagues in Rwanda. Especially considering that so many Rwandans still subsistence farm (even among teachers) and kale grows so perfectly here, I wanted to spread the knowledge of this nutritious and delicious vegetable.
Sharing is also held in high regard here. If you eat your food in public, you are expected to share it. If you don’t, you are being rude. When someone visits your house, you provide tea, a beer, or Fanta. It’s an extremely generous culture. My host family here at my site has shared their homegrown veggies with me on numerous occasions, and my compound neighbor has frequently shared local Rwandan dishes she cooks with me.
So, on this rainy day in the midst of the rainy season, I became a good Kale-Bor (ha, HAA) and traveled around sharing the green gospel of kale with my host family and numerous teachers at the school where I teach who saw me cultivating next to my house and had asked about this strange looking vegetable. It made me quite jolly to do so.
Since many of you haven’t seen a photo of me in a while, here I am, with increasingly longer hair. I’m turning into a bushy mountain man.Here is my counterpart/co-teacher Niyonizeye and her husband Habarurema (my Kinyarwanda language tutor) with a few large bunches of kale on a rare, sunny day earlier this week.
There’s a truth to what they say about not needing a green thumb to grow food in this country. The red dirt here is incredibly fertile.
Toss some seeds in the ground during the rainy season. Forget about them. Two/three months later, voila. Set it and FORGET IT.
This is a tale about site integration, the correct way to go about laying claim to land for gardening, and the growing reservoir of patience required to say what you mean to say in a tone that does not come off sounding like an obnoxious jackass, with limited Kinyarwanda at that.
Background
Growing up on a farm in Northeast Kansas, my family had a huge, one-acre garden on our farm.
That’s me on the left, next to my older and younger sisters.
When I moved into Washington D.C. in the Spring of 2012, I wanted to start a garden again. In the high-stress environment of public relations, where I spent most of my time staring at my computer analyzing media for clients, being outside and tending to a garden was a therapeutic endeavor. I got to use my hands, be closer to the earth in an urban environment, and see and eat the tangible results of my labor.
Washington D.C. (not a state, even though it should be!) contains the limited space one would imagine being available in an expensive, cosmopolitan area. Couple that with its height restriction, and not only is there a lack of affordable housing, but also a lack of land for gardening. Every communal garden in the city at the time had a multi-year waiting period for admittance.
I also had a scruffy, five-year-old spazz of a mutt named Dylan, which meant having a yard of some sort was a requirement.
In the ensuing five years, I rented four separate row houses, each with its own unique name either associated with Kansas, gardening, or pop culture. At each of these locations, I offered the Gods my best attempt at gardening prowess.
Some years experienced bumper crops, while for others, the tomatoes consistently got the BLIGHT.First, there was Eisenhower’s Historical Residence.
Then, there was Eisenhower’s Castle of Enlightenment.
Many a fond memory was had at this fine corner row house a block off of H Street NE.
My last two residences were named after gardening.
There was the Garden of Eden, an in-law suite in the basement that was too musty for this tall, lanky gentleman.
And then there was HighGarDen. This was a reference to Game of Thrones, the fact that we had a garden on our rooftop deck, and a throwback to my roommate’s previous residence, known fondly as “The Den.”
It had an amazing deck that was always filled with friends, veggies, music, laughter, and dancing.
So, with that background in mind…
Back in October 2018, when I first visited my future site, I asked about having land for gardening and where I could do so. At the time, my headmaster informed me it shouldn’t be a problem and it was only a matter of asking the landlord.
Upon moving to my site in December, the land surrounding my abode looked as if it had recently been harvested of its crops, which had me chomping at the bit to begin planting. Inyas, the security guard at the local health center and a good chap who was instrumental in helping me integrate in the first week at my site had said I could start planting on this land. Little did I realize at the time that he didn’t exactly have the power to make such decrees.
Inyas and I a few days before Christmas.
Early one morning, one week after move-in, I successfully pissed off some abahinzi (farmers). While not fully awake, I went to fetch water from the underground, tarp-lined rainwater cistern in my compound. I peered over the tin roof and saw a female farmer encroaching on the land I was promised for my garden.
I smiled and said, “Mwaramutse!” (Good morning!) and then immediately followed that up by proclaiming, “Nzahinga hano” (I will cultivate here). Bad idea.
The woman did not take kindly to that. Luckily, Inyas happened to be walking by. He doesn’t speak a lick of English, but he took over in talking to the farmers.
I went outside to explain I only needed part of the land and definitely not all of it. Then I tried to say if they had already planted potatoes that I could wait until they were harvested, but I’m not sure if that got thru with my limited language knowledge.
I retreated back inside and I could hear their frustrated chatter outside. I imagined they were talking about me as the privileged umuzungu who thought he could just come in and steal land with no recourse. In my head, all I could think about was how I was going to have veggies that were abused, stomped on, and ripped from the earth due to my actions.
Ntakibazo (No problem)!
INTEGRATION.
And then I saved it.
I had a good chat with the family that was out front. A peace offering if you will. First, I nailed down a location for my portion of the garden. I told them that when my veggies mature, I will give them some. I gave them half of my tomato and green pepper seeds and met their son, one of my S1 students.
I showed them the aforementioned picture of me when I was a child in my family’s garden surrounded by green beans. I wanted them to know that I knew how to grow vegetables and this wasn’t my first rodeo.
I talked about how my dad was a third generation farmer. He had been a dairy farmer and he had many cows.
Me on the right with my sisters riding a hay wagon (feed for the cows in the wintertime).
Fast forward to today. Other than having to adapt to the constant, unwavering stares of Rwandans curiously and amusingly watching me work in my garden, my small plot of land is thriving.
From left to right, onions, spinach (two types), kale, Swiss chard, and beets. Some irrigation was required in January during the dry season.Kale loves the chilly, Northern Province weather of Rwanda.
And over time, my neighbors and the local children have realized a white man can also cultivate too.
Why did I write this blog post tonight?
I just had my first harvest of kale!!! And anyone that knows me knows how much I absolutely love kale. And I am missing my friends and family back home. If it wasn’t obvious, this wasn’t just an ode to gardening, but an ode to a wonderful life back in Washington, D.C.
This is one of four different varieties on their way to feeding me dependable, healthy greens.It was quickly turned into a steamed deliciousness. Kale with garlic, onion, cayenne pepper seasoning and a lime vinaigrette dressing.
Bring on the eventual Rwandan version of my kale salad, which I refined over many, many moons back in America and recently created at the request of my brother, Josiah Rokey (see the recipe below).
Lewi’s Big-Ass Kale Super Salad
Ingredients
Kale (stems removed): half a bunch
Extra virgin olive oil (California Olive Ranch recommended): three/four tablespoons
Balsamic vinegar (Find a brand you like, but Costco’s Kirkland brand is good): five tablespoons
Kalamata olives (Recommend buying a huge tub of Roland’s brand via Amazon. Otherwise, find a brand you like, but know that the taste can drastically change based on the brand): half a cup, chopped and pits removed
Capers (Ensure they are non-pareil. Costco sells a huge jar of these for a good price): three tablespoons
Lemon (get a real lemon, not juice from concentrate): use the juice of half a lemon, save the other half for your next salad
One can of Sardines (Recommend Wild Planet brand or at least a brand that soaks them in olive oil vs vegetable oil. Boneless is easier to handle. Otherwise you have to carefully remove the spine/bones). Optional Substitute: smoked salmon or any smoked fish, canned tuna, anchovies, chopped chicken/bacon, one/two runny eggs (breakfast salad!), hummus, or quinoa/lentils/chickpeas (if you want to go meatless)
Feta cheese (Recommend you buy one soaked in brine. Do not buy any that are low-fat. It’s a flavor destroyer of cheese. Costco sells Dodoni Feta in brine. It’s the shit): 1/4 to 1/2 cup
Cashews: half a cup, chopped. Optional substitute: sunflower seeds, pine nuts, almonds, etc
Tomatoes (Recommend cherry tomatoes, halved): one cup, chopped
Purple onion: 1/4 cup, chopped
Mushrooms (Recommend Cremini vs White): 1/4 cup, chopped
Kosher salt/freshly ground pepper: Add in small amounts until desired taste is reached
Optional: A dash or two of cayenne pepper or curry powder
Instructions
Rinse the kale in water and then chop it up, ensuring you remove the thick-stemmed parts of the leaves (freeze them for later use in smoothies). Drop that kale in your big-ass salad bowl.
Add in all the other ingredients listed.
Mix everything together THOROUGHLY for a few minutes with a big-ass spoon. Your whole salad should be drenched in the dressing of olive oil/balsamic/lemon. If it’s not, add a bit more of the oil/balsamic, but not to the point where there is a large puddle of liquid in the bottom of your bowl.
Once thoroughly mixed (this is known as the kale “massage” stage), let it sit for five/ten minutes. This is important. The kale will soften up and absorb the dressing and other ingredient’s flavors.
I’m currently sipping a small cup of Johnnie Walker Black Label whisky out of a Tupperware container in pure darkness. I’ve had quite the day.
The proof is in the plastic.
This morning, I fried my electrical supply.
I was making coffee with my kettle and there were a series of frenzied sparks followed by the pungent smell of burning plastic and a cloud of smoke around the electrical box on the outside wall of my abode. Luckily my home doesn’t contain much flammable carbon so there was no fire, but my power no longer works. I think there was a faulty plug in my kitchen. And the way things work with my landlord, it’s likely to be months before it’s fixed.
After almost burning my house down, me and my counterpart teacher, Jereminatha, introduced our S1 A, B, and C students to a new set of classroom rules. Yesterday, after a frustrating attempt to review unit one test results that were rather horrid because students wouldn’t shut their yappers, I found this initiative rather necessary.
Side note: Grading tests–and I suspect homework–takes a long-ass time. So a shout-out to all you teachers out there. Your work doesn’t go unnoticed.
Working with Jereminatha, we came up with a list in English and Kinyarwanda and I got as artsy as I could in making three versions of this beauty.
Guess which rule was emphasized as the most important to students?
Number six!
After some back and forth among teachers about whether we should permanently hang these rules in class or remove them for fear of having them destroyed, tenacity won out and we put up our first of three posters. Numerous teachers asked to take a picture of it and many talked about wanting to use the rules for their class as well. It was a good feeling. Change is in the air.
As for the students?
May the iron fist of god have mercy on your souls.
After our first two periods, Jereminatha slyly invited me to lunch. It was done as if she had a trick up her sleeve. Her husband and my Kinyarwanda tutor, Jackson, also mentioned the invitation and how they would be serving a traditional Rwandan lunch.
Upon my arrival, we had heaping piles of potatoes, beans, and chayote. It was all cooked together using a block of ancient salt from a local lake (and one of many sources of the Nile River), all without any oil added whatsoever. This is an important point. Traditional dishes here do not utilize oil. I was told cooking the dish is a tricky process and can be easily messed up.
We ate with our hands. It reminded me of eating ubugali with my host family during pre-service training. For such basic ingredients, it was delicious. Jackson told me it is one of his favorite meals and reminded him of growing up as a child. And at that moment, I kind of felt like Anthony Bourdain.
As we finished up, Jackson smiled, exclaiming, “You passed the test!” While he and Jereminatha laughed, I realized he was referring to me eating with my hands. Touché my friends, touché.
It’s these little experiences that make me appreciate being where I am, right now. Live for today, folks. Live for NOW. You never know what can happen.
This evening, I almost fried my brain as well…
I zapped myself trying to separate the hot wires near my electric box that may burn my house down tonight. It felt like one of those hot wire fences back in Kansas that we use to keep cows from getting out. My neighbor, Florence, got a real kick out of the whole ordeal.
So if you don’t hear from me tomorrow, tell the world I love it.
Yesterday, I woke up bright and early at 6:20 a.m. Not as early as I’d hoped because the alarm I had set for earlier in the morning was accidentally scheduled to release its unflattering vibrations on weekdays instead of a Saturday.
The reason for this?
I had two packages from friends and family in America to pick up from the post office of my regional town in Byumba, Gicumbi. From my village, the only time to catch a twege is within a one-hour time frame in the early morning when a few pass through my village.
What is a twege you ask?
It’s a Toyota mini-bus share taxi. They are everywhere in Rwanda and are the cheapest form of transport from one location to another. They are much cheaper than a moto, but they do have their many, many downsides.
Let me tell you about riding a twege in Rwanda.
First, note that locals call them “twegerane”, which means ‘let’s sit together’ in Kinyarwanda. This is important because if you think a twege is full, you’re mistaken. Room will always be made for everything. Personal space is fiction. One seat will become two seats, or even three. The front of the bus in the passenger seat (not next to the driver) is always the best spot if you can snag it. No matter how uncomfortable you are, I guarantee you the most recent, unlucky soul that has been crammed in like a sardine next to the usually half-broken door is much less comfortable than you. Most of the time, your bus buddy or someone within touching vicinity of you is transporting a large grain sack chock full of potatoes or some other type of hard, root vegetable. And damn it that sack is going to fit under that seat, leg room be damned.
The pace will be tortoise-slow. It’s as if the driver cares not how his flock feels, nor that they even have feelings. Stops will be made so that random passengers can obtain random items given to them by seemingly random people through the vehicle’s open windows. Oftentimes, your journey will start with a trip to the gas station. Because why do something silly like fill up the tank before cramming in the passengers?
Your ass will get chapped. Chapped raw. These past few weeks I noticed my bottom was, in fact, chapped. I could not pinpoint the source of this mystery until yesterday, while sitting my bony ass on a well-worn twege seat, weighed down with packages and my bookbag in my lap. At times, I’d stuff my hands under my bottom to provide my butt cheeks some much-needed relief from the bony pressure points.
At some point, you’ll also start to question which is safer. Riding a moto and having your brains potentially bashed in when it crashes, or being crammed into a bus that could veer off a cliff and kill everyone in a crushing tangle of limbs and body parts at any second. Such is life getting across Rwanda cheaply.
All of this to say that every journey here is an adventure. And while it can be uncomfortable and frustrating at times, it also shows you the spirit of cooperation, patience, and grace required of everyone involved.
“You’re either on the bus or off the bus.”
-Ken Kesey, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test (1968)
I love this quote. As Colin Pringle writes in wild-bohemian.com, “The idea was to put individual differences aside and work as a group…an attuned group. Those who weren’t attuned were seen as rocking the boat, disrupting the trip. These were the people who were considered “off the bus.” The ones who were attuned to the group consciousness, those who did their share of the work, and smile rather than pout, these were the ones who were “on the bus.” Thus, the literal meaning of “You are either on the bus or off the bus” is “You are either attuned to the group consciousness or you are not attuned to the group consciousness.””
There is a corollary to this statement in Kinyarwanda which essentially means the same thing. “Turi kumwe” (We are together).
Pringle’s description could aptly apply to many things in Rwanda. Sharing is simply something that you do here. Case in point: Upon arrival to Byumba, initially the post office was closed because the chap who was supposed to be there happened to be absent. While waiting, I committed a heinous act. I ate outside. In Rwanda, to do so, by default, means you share your food with others. Otherwise, it’s considered bad culture.
It was nearing late morning and I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. I was partially hidden by a bush next to the post office gate, and I had just purchased three steaming hot sambusas and a boiled egg. I removed the first sambusa from the brown paper bag and sneakily bit into it. The feeling I had in doing this reminded me of the time I scarfed down a footlong Subway sandwich on the Washington D.C. metro while hiding behind a partition (you aren’t supposed to eat on the metro).
At that exact moment, a teenage boy came dashing towards me from across the road, yelling incomprehensibly and pointing at my sambusa. He jovially sat beside me, smiling and repeating words that made no sense. He then tried to grab my half-eaten sambusa. All I could do was yell, “OYA!” and swiftly put it back in the bag. It was at that moment that I realized the boy was mentally challenged. I felt horrible and quickly extricated myself from the situation.
What else did I purchase whilst in Byumba?
Mushrooms!
I had no plan to do so, but upon seeing them at the market, I had to have them. It had been almost five months since I’d last eaten them.
Upon returning to my village, I transformed those fungi into a late lunch.
Mushroom, egg, onion, and parmesan cheese sandwiches (with bread originating from The Women’s Bakery in Byumba).Mushroom and onion stir-fry, topped with parmesan cheese.
The trip as a whole, coupled with opening the packages and letters, was (and is always) worth it. I am extremely grateful, blessed, and lucky to have a karass such as I do back in America.
“…Buy the ticket, take the ride…and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well…maybe chalk it up to forced consciousness expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten.”
-Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1971)
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.”
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 