Ihangane: Kinyarwanda 101

It turns out Monday is a Rwandan holiday ("Heroes' Day"), so the first day of school will be Tuesday, February 2nd. What's one more day, anyway? This week I hung out at school a bit with the secretary, Divine -- pronounced as French, dee-VEEN. She's my bud. When work slowed down, she pulled up some music videos on the office computer. These included a karaoke version of "My Heart Will Go On" and, even more hilariously, the classic "Right Here Waiting for You." I almost couldn't handle the cheesiness of the video, but Divine seemed to study the big '80s hair quite seriously.

I got to meet some kids one day, as I helped Divine to distribute grade reports to the hopelessly curious students who took national exams last fall. They lined up in the hallway and approached us in the office one at a time. Without fail, each student supplied his or her impossibly long name to me in nothing more than a cryptic mumble, and it was all I could do to fumble for some small scrap of it to aid me in finding the same sounds somewhere in the stack of papers before me.

Interestingly, Rwandans don't do family names. When a child is born, the parents typically give one name in Kinyarwanda and a second in French. Siblings rarely share a common name between them. The Kinyarwanda name is written in all caps and serves as something of a "last name," though here it comes first. The individual may be called by either name (though it seems more common to go by the French one). The Kinyarwanda name always has some significance, and frequently it has to do with God. A sampling: NKUNDIMANA "I love God," HANGANIMANA "Face God," TUYISHIME "Let's praise Him," IRAKOZE "Thanks be to God."

I continue determinedly to study Kinyarwanda, trying to improve my vocab and ease of speaking. It doesn't help that my poor mind's clouded up with Pulaar, the language of my village in Mauritania (not to mention French and, doggedly, Spanish). Pulaar and Kinyarwanda don't have much in common on the surface, but I've happily been noting a few surprising similarities:

- In both, "to marry" is a different word depending on your gender. For males, it's an active verb; for females, passive.
- In both, the word for "month" is the same as that for "moon."
- In both, the names for various days of the week are simply "the second, the third," etc. (but, tryingly, the Pulaar week begins with Sunday, whereas the Kinyarwanda week starts on Monday).
- In both, there is no specific word for the sister of your mother, or the brother of your father. You just call them another parent.
- In both, to say "we're leaving now," you use the past tense, as if it's already happened.
- In both, the word for "trouble" is exclusively used in the plural.

One of the new Kinyarwanda words I learned this week was gukama, the verb "to milk." As I said before, the stable boys at my house bring me a fresh pitcher of milk each morning and evening. My school director had started a little running joke that they should teach me how to milk the cows myself. "What if no one is here one day?" he reasoned. "You will die of thirst!" So the other night, when the youngest boy (about 16) came in to get my empty pitcher, he said something largely incomprehensible in Kinyarwanda but which I somehow understood to mean he wanted me to come outside. I consented, and then he said something else and pointed to his rubber boots. Gotcha. I went in my room, cuffed up my pants, and put on my own pair.

It was dark already, but another kid held a flashlight for us. The young one squatted down next to the cow, pulled on an udder three or four times, said okay and handed me the pitcher. I offered only a nervous laugh. He laughed too, showed me once more, squish squish squish so effortlessly, and held out the pitcher again expectantly. Learn by doing, I figured, and cautiously I gripped an udder. I could barely get a trickle! Graciously, he showed me yet again, really yanking on it and using his thumb to squeeze out the milk. I improved -- though also the udder occasionally got away from me, causing me to miss the pitcher. And yes, at one point I squirted myself in the face. But the onlookers praised me: "Ni byiza cyane! Ur'umuhanga pe! So good! You're so skilled!" I just laughed again. When I drank my evening tea that night, it was with a special sense of satisfaction.

Unfortunately, my new house is still not ready. The latest estimated completion date is February 10th. I went to see it this week, and they are making progress. Ihangane -- be patient. Afterwards I walked with my director up the path to the school, and I breathed in the tranquil hills, all the green green green, the morning mist in the valley. Jarring me from this reverie, my director pointed out the original house they'd been planning to give me. Apparently he had shown that one to Peace Corps initially, but then, he told me, he discovered there are some mines beneath it.

...MINES! And suddenly I remember where I live. I saw scars on the faces of so many of my future students this week, and I can't forget. In 1994, while my best friend and I choreographed Ace of Base dances in her living room, these kids' families died. Still can't believe that.