tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57801730114188223192024-03-13T15:46:35.833+02:00afrique-in' out IImy peace corps journey continues...<br>
from mauritania to RWANDAJAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-65603448902371589172010-12-24T08:27:00.005+02:002010-12-24T09:04:46.196+02:00The EndIt's after midnight here in Kennett Square, so it's officially Christmas Eve. I've been home for a week now and haven't found any time to write this blog! Turns out America is pretty overwhelming. Lots of people ask me if I've "adjusted." Like it's just a yes or no question. At moments it's so normal -- I'm happy to be here, and I'm blown away by how <i>friendly</i> people can be while working in the service industry (a foreign idea). But my mind is definitely still confused. Example #1: I was in the basement when my mom turned off the lights, but I didn't blink an eye because I assumed the power had gone out... until I remembered that that doesn't just randomly happen in America. #2: I was in my room when out of the corner of my eye I saw something move across the wall (my own shadow). I first assumed it was a lizard, obviously... but I guess they don't populate domestic interiors in suburban Pennsylvania. In December.<br /><br />The fact that I traveled a bit on my way home, though, definitely helped to ease the transition. It certainly would have felt stranger being transplanted here directly from a rural African village. My time in Senegal was pretty luxurious as Peace Corps goes, I have to say. My friend Andy lives in a high-rise apartment overlooking the ocean in metropolitan Dakar (the nation's capital, population 2.5 million). Then I passed a few days at Emilie's site, Louga (regional capital, population 85,000). I've spent time in Senegal before so most of the sights weren't new to me, but it was nice to have a chance to relax and catch up with old friends. Emilie is quite proficient in Wolof, so it was fun to see her interact with neighbors and her host family. Speaking of which, check out the sweet impact Em has made in the form of American hand clapping games. Featured here is her young sister, Aïda Lô:<br /><br /><center><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/rFb6nOvV0K0?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/rFb6nOvV0K0?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></center><br />Other highlights of the time in Senegal included ever-entertaining market shopping, delicious food (both Senegalese and other international fare), cooking adventures, Christmas decorations, and a visit to a Belgian-owned liqueur factory that uses only local fruits. See pics for more brief stories.<br /><br /><center><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" width="600" height="400" flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&captions=1&noautoplay=1&hl=en_US&feat=flashalbum&RGB=0x000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Fjulie.ann.clark%2Falbumid%2F5553244424434153025%3Falt%3Drss%26kind%3Dphoto%26hl%3Den_US" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></center><br />But THE ABSOLUTE BEST part of my West Africa travels was... the opportunity to go back to my village in Mauritania!!! I wasn't sure if it would work out, and frankly it was a bit of a hassle to get there, unsurprisingly. The visa cost about $83, and transportation was as fickle and agonizing as ever. But it was all absolutely worth it.<br /><br />One of my big concerns was that I wouldn't be able to speak Pulaar anymore, something kind of essential in my tiny village where that is the *only* thing spoken. When I took a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Share_taxi#Bush_taxi_.28West_and_Central_Africa.29">bush taxi</A> from Dakar to Rosso, the border town with Mauritania, there were a few Pulaars in the car with me. As I listened to them speak to each other and on the phone, I just kept smiling to myself as I recognized one thing after another. It was just like opening a floodgate in my brain, some torrential force that had been barricaded up for so long but suddenly came flowing out in abundance. Honestly, by the end of that six-hour ride, I felt just about fluent again! Which was certainly helpful for the border crossing. "Oh, she speaks Pulaar!" they all said. "Are you Peace Corps? You must be Peace Corps." Sadly, no one seemed to realize that PC has left the RIM (Mauritania).<br /><br />I had so much anticipation as I finally pulled up to my village, sitting on a pile of pebbles in the back of a "prison van" delivery truck. In 18 months since my leaving, I had spoken to literally not a single person from Dar el Barka. What if the village looks different? What if my family's not there for some reason? What if I'm not welcome?<br /><br /><center><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/hYJGeVAvjTw?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/hYJGeVAvjTw?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></center><br />...not welcome?! HA!! I guess I was forgetting this was <i>Mauritania</i>, home of seriously the most hospitable people in the world. I got off the van and started shuffling across the village towards my family's house. It was 2:30 PM, a great time to arrive. A couple people recognized me on the way and called out to me by name. I smiled to myself, trying to contain my excitement. I rounded the last bend, spotting some of the girls' heads over the compound wall. I think Goggo spotted me first. "HAAAAAAIIII-YO, RAKY TUBAKEL!!!" She physically dropped what was in her hands and came racing to me, followed quickly by at least five others. They swallowed me in hugs and breathless greetings. The children hopped up and down. I had envisioned this moment for months upon months, and in the end it was better than I'd dreamed.<br /><br />I spent less than two days in Dar el Barka, but truthfully that was all I needed. It gave me such a wonderful sense of closure that I just had been lacking. And other than the little kids getting taller, everything was exactly the same; that was somehow so comforting to me. When I rode away this time, with hennaed feet and beaded wrists, it was not with sadness but with peace. <br /><br /><center><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" width="600" height="400" flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&captions=1&noautoplay=1&hl=en_US&feat=flashalbum&RGB=0x000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Fjulie.ann.clark%2Falbumid%2F5553246087541915697%3Falt%3Drss%26kind%3Dphoto%26hl%3Den_US" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></center><br />The flight to Washington, D.C., was uneventful and fine. I got through customs very quickly, even though the agent seemed surprised when he read the list of countries I'd visited during my stay abroad: Rwanda, Uganda, Togo, Benin, Senegal, Mauritania. He asked what I was doing there, and I hesitated before deciding to answer, "Visiting friends." He gave me a skeptical look. "You have <i>friends</i> in all <i>these</i> places?" Yes sir, in fact I do!<br /><br />For my welcome to America, my mom's car broke down on the drive home, just as a snowstorm kicked up. While we sat at the garage, everyone seemed so apologetic -- about the snow, about the car, about the wait. I just laughed. I was thrilled! There was a 7/11 right next door where I could get SO MANY KINDS of food!! So my first "meal" in America was dried-out chicken tenders with bleu cheese dressing, a taquito, a muffin, and overly sweet cappuccino. And in that moment I was so excited about seeing snow that I didn't even much mind that my only protection against it was my thin rain jacket (all I had!).<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TRQ-rBTXpHI/AAAAAAAADEY/CZNLS-88QEg/s1600/IMG_0545.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TRQ-rBTXpHI/AAAAAAAADEY/CZNLS-88QEg/s320/IMG_0545.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554133149259637874" /></a></center><br />And that's all, folks. Thanks for following me on this meandering, two-and-a-half-year-long Peace Corps journey. Murabeho from Rwanda and... well, there's no word for goodbye in Pulaar. You just say thank you: On jaaraama.<br /><br />P.S. I CAN'T BELIEVE HOW FAST THE INTERNET IS HERE. God bless America.JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-16057997503061149892010-11-26T20:41:00.009+02:002010-11-29T12:10:19.044+02:00Been in BéninOn November 13, I passed through (and attempted to sleep in) five countries and thus survived the most extensive solo travel experience of my life! At about 10:45 PM the night before, I took a moto to the tiny international airport in Kigali, Rwanda. The "system was down," so they couldn't confirm my booking -- but no problem, they just issued me a <I>handwritten</i> ticket. Seat number: "FREE." Awesome. We took off half an hour ahead of schedule, at 1:30 AM. Good thing, because after less than an hour in the air we had a surprise unscheduled stop to board passengers in Entebbe, Uganda. But we made it to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, in plenty of time for my next flight. The Addis airport is a great place for people-watching, as it's a hub for much of Africa and also the Middle East. And I would like to go on record as saying that Ethiopian women are stunning! <br /><br />I found my connecting terminal, where we boarded an hour late for the flight to Lomé, Togo (with onward service to Abidjan, Côte d'Ivoire -- you're forgiven if you've never heard of these places!). Fun fact: I was literally the only white person on the entire Boeing 757. These aren't hot spots on the tourist circuit, I guess. We landed around 1 PM local time, and as I stepped off the plane in exhausted excitement, a brick wall of heat rocked me. I had been mentally preparing myself for the fact that West Africa is considerably hotter than eternal-spring Rwanda, but it still just takes the breath out of you.<br /><br />All things considered, my arrival in Togo went pretty smoothly. At the airport I needed to purchase an entrance visa... which had to be paid for in West African CFA francs... which cannot be obtained outside of West Africa... and yet there is no place to exchange money before the immigration checkpoint. (In moments like this, you just think, <I>surely</i> I am not the first person who has <I>ever</i> had this issue in the history of this airport.) The immigration official was a little testy with me, but fortunately he allowed a guard to escort me out into the lobby where I could change my money. I got my visa without too much hassle, as well as my one checked bag that had arrived safe and sound.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TO__ehfgmZI/AAAAAAAACz8/TcmsUOCT73I/s1600/BCEAOFranc.png"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 177px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TO__ehfgmZI/AAAAAAAACz8/TcmsUOCT73I/s320/BCEAOFranc.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543930566168058258" /></a></center><br />I found a local cab to take me to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Share_taxi#Bush_taxi_.28West_and_Central_Africa.29">bush taxi</A> park, which was little more than a deserted dirt lot with a few broken-down vehicles on offer. I found one headed to Cotonou, Bénin, and we were on our way immediately, picking up other passengers along the way. The border crossing was painless, and even after hitting some traffic and rain (plus losing an hour due to a time difference), by about 8:30 PM I made it to the Cotonou Peace Corps office where I was warmly received by my friend Dave.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TPAAa15E_SI/AAAAAAAAC0M/WtN9w5pX40I/s1600/IMG_0383.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TPAAa15E_SI/AAAAAAAAC0M/WtN9w5pX40I/s320/IMG_0383.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543931602436160802" /></a></center><br />Dave and I went to Boston University together and met in our a cappella group, In Achord. He has been a PCV in Bénin since July 2009. For his first year he was posted to a tiny village where he had no electricity or running water and was the only foreigner around. But now he's moved up in the world, assuming the big bad position of "PCVL" (Peace Corps Volunteer-Leader). My PC programs did not have this role in Mauritania or Rwanda, but here in Bénin it's a pretty sweet deal for Dave. He lives at and maintains a regional "workstation" for other PCVs, and he serves as a community liaison in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parakou">Parakou</A>, the departmental capital of about 200,000 people. I can attest that Dave works really hard and is kept quite busy! And since he did put in the time roughing it last year, I don't begrudge him that he now lives in a gorgeous palace (okay, Peace Corps-grade palace) and has the highest-speed wireless internet I've ever encountered in Africa.<br /><br />So what have I been up to here? Became well-acquainted with the delicious, abundant, and cheap street food. Celebrated the Muslim holiday Tabaski (Eid al-Adha) with some Beninese friends. Sat in on a <a href="http://www.wolframalpha.com/input/?i=Baatonum">Bariba language</A> lesson and a meeting at the <A href="http://www.unfpa.org/public/">UN Population Fund</A>. Got a private guided tour of an up-and-coming local music history museum. Visited another PCV in a more remote post (and felt some oddly fond nostalgia for the familiar blistering heat of an African day without electricity). Went for bike rides around town, and in related news remembered how sadly out of shape I am. Spent a lovely Thanksgiving with the greater PC family, about 15 of us together.<br /><br />Don't want to ramble, so I'll let some pictures do the talking...<br /><br /><center><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" width="600" height="400" flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&captions=1&noautoplay=1&hl=en_US&feat=flashalbum&RGB=0x000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Fjulie.ann.clark%2Falbumid%2F5543987781786430113%3Falt%3Drss%26kind%3Dphoto%26authkey%3DGv1sRgCPnasoqA_7zCowE%26hl%3Den_US" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></center>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-38370110115461581242010-11-10T12:23:00.002+02:002010-11-10T12:37:31.053+02:00Murabeho, RwandaI'm <I>thisclose</i> to being an RPCV (Returned Peace Corps Volunteer, meaning I completed my service successfully). Tomorrow is the official day, but it's a PC holiday for Veterans Day so I need to have all my stuff closed out by the end of today. Currently I'm just sitting in the PC bureau in Kigali, waiting on staff to sign some documents for me and give me more documents to keep track of. Your taxpayer dollars at work, folks!<br /><br />Among all my "last" experiences in Rwanda, I had a lovely evening with some PCV friends on Monday night. There is a great restaurant in Kigali that hosts trivia nights once a week, but because I lived too far away and worked during the week, I hadn't gotten to go to them. Let me insert here that if you aren't already aware, I'm kiiiind of obsessed with pub trivia nights in America. Let me also say that during my first month at site in Rwanda, I had a lot of down time, and I memorized all the world capitals. Yes. Kind of just for fun, but also with the hope that SOMEDAY, SOMEWHERE, this knowledge would enable me to wow my teammates and rival teams at a pub trivia night. Anyway, I'll cut to the chase: it happened. It was my crowning achievement. Capital of Montenegro? <b>Podgorica</B>, bam! I was absurdly happy.<br /><br />A lot of people have been asking me how I "feel" with respect to COSing, or closing my service. <I>Are you sooo excited? Are you really sad? Is it so weird?</i> And usually I've been responding simply that I'm at peace with it (no pun intended). I certainly enjoyed my Peace Corps service, and I'm really glad I decided to do it. But for me, I'm definitely ready to be coming home to the grand ol' USA. I'm not counting the minutes and hours until I get on a plane, but I'm ready. I will leave Rwanda at 2:00 AM local time on Friday night/Saturday morning. (Then my crazy epic travel adventures begin!)<br /><br />I moved out of my site on October 25 without too much fanfare, which was fine. I don't like super emotional goodbyes; I have my memories and I am content with them. Then I headed to Nyanza, 90 minutes south of Kigali, to help with pre-service training (PST) for our newest arrivals. About 70 trainees are learning all the ins and outs of Peace Corps and will swear in at the beginning of January. I assisted mainly with TEFL-related training, talking about my experience being a teacher in Rwanda. The trainees are great and very motivated, full of questions. One thing that I was asked several times was how often I'd gotten sick in Rwanda. "Never!" was my emphatic response.<br /><br />So, <I>of course</i>, then I became extremely ill during my second week in Nyanza. It seemed like it could possibly be malaria at the onset, but the final diagnosis was tonsillitis. I never knew that could affect a person so seriously, but I was laid up in bed for 72 straight hours! Let's just say that of the symptoms listed on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tonsillitis">Wikipedia</A>, I had ALL of them:<br /><blockquote> * red and/or swollen tonsils<br /> * white or yellow patches on the tonsils<br /> * tender, stiff, and/or swollen neck<br /> * bad breath<br /> * sore throat<br /> * painful or difficult swallowing<br /> * cough<br /> * headache<br /> * sore eyes<br /> * body aches<br /> * fever<br /> * chills<br /> * nasal congestions</blockquote><br />But our Peace Corps Medical Officer (PCMO) is the greatest, and he got me everything I needed to be back up to snuff in a few days. Sadly, the last random issue is that this week I have some unexplained rash on my chest and back, which the doctor says does <I>not</i> seem to be from my meds... so who knows! At least it's not bothering me; I just look like a leper. Ah, Peace Corps.<br /><br />Speaking of how I look, I'd wanted to post some pictures of all my African outfits. I'd had a bunch made in Mauritania because that was all we really wore there, no Western clothes. As I'm leaving Rwanda, I'm giving almost all my clothing away, so these photos will serve as the last documentation. Enjoy.<br /><br /><center><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" width="600" height="400" flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&captions=1&hl=en_US&feat=flashalbum&RGB=0x000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Fjulie.ann.clark%2Falbumid%2F5537851007126875505%3Falt%3Drss%26kind%3Dphoto%26hl%3Den_US" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></center>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-80886981473881767782010-10-27T11:15:00.000+02:002010-10-27T11:15:35.688+02:00Freestyle FarewellYou're in for a treat! Here it is, in all its glory, what you've all been waiting for...<br /><br /><center><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/wk-RPW6czHE?hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/wk-RPW6czHE?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></center><br />(There was more to it, of course, but unfortunately I only captured a portion of it on film. You get the drift.)JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-80042155262725636042010-10-23T19:17:00.001+02:002010-10-23T19:18:49.805+02:00Bye-bye, BuyogaI proctored 8 final exams, each 2-3 hours long. I graded my 285 English exams. I recorded all of their grades in my computer and also in my grade book. Then I calculated end-of-year grades for every one of my students. If I were a typical Rwandan teacher, after those calculations I'd get to copy every figure onto a grade reporting sheet. Let's do the math: (2 marks per term x 3 terms + 1 grand total) x 285 students = 1,995 numbers to write by hand. And let's be honest, if I were a typical Rwandan teacher at my school, I'd have more than 285 students and more than one subject's exam to grade -- but you get the idea. Anyway, I took a shortcut and printed out all my grades in nice pretty spreadsheets. Oh, how I love thee, Microsoft Excel.<br /><br />The monotony of grading was tempered with the cute little personal notes that many kids include on their exams. Examples (you can click to enlarge):<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TMMYFJ0IblI/AAAAAAAACwM/_s-LSky-jj4/s1600/IMG_0213.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 88px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TMMYFJ0IblI/AAAAAAAACwM/_s-LSky-jj4/s320/IMG_0213.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531291244154089042" /></a><BR><BR><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TMMUztVlGnI/AAAAAAAACv0/7UN7i2RBWPo/s1600/IMG_0189.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 132px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TMMUztVlGnI/AAAAAAAACv0/7UN7i2RBWPo/s320/IMG_0189.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531287645917092466" /></a></center><br />With that, my responsibilities at Buyoga Secondary School were complete. But as Rwandans love ceremonies, they insisted on having a send-off celebration for me. It was held where all large school gatherings are, in the cafeteria. They remove all the tables and arrange the benches in rows for the spectators. But inevitably there is not enough space, so kids jam together as tightly as possible and the latecomers stand crowded in the back.<br /><br />The festivities began with a few students doing traditional dance while another small group sang and played a drum. At first I didn't pay much attention to the Kinyarwanda lyrics, but then my ears seemed to hear "Juliana." As I listened closer, I heard that the chorus did indeed sing my name, followed by <I>umurezi wacu na mama we</i> meaning "our teacher and her mother." So I could only assume this was a little piece penned in my honor (and my mom's, who the kids all talk about ever since she visited in July). Really sweet. <br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TMMWUgT4YiI/AAAAAAAACwE/tW1Em_wSnhI/s1600/DSC00760.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TMMWUgT4YiI/AAAAAAAACwE/tW1Em_wSnhI/s320/DSC00760.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531289308867617314" /></a><br /><I>(Disclaimer: These ceremony pictures are not from my camera. It's somewhat unbelievable to me that the quality is so terrible, because the school actually has a really nice 10.1-megapixel camera. C'est la vie.)</i></center><br />But that wasn't the only original composition! Some time later, two of my boys took the floor, each clutching a microphone at a rapper's angle. They proceeded to perform an amazing a cappella freestyle song that they had written for me. It was both touching and hilarious. If by chance you are familiar with Kanye West's <I>808s & Heartbreak</i>, it reminded me of the last track <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L1EkDEoCW48">"Pinocchio Story."</A> Basically the boys screamed out my name many times over, dropped to their knees in anguish, and kept returning to the chorus: "I TAKE THIS MICROPHONE / TO TELL YOU BYE-BYE..." I have some priceless video of it, so maybe if I can get to fast internet sometime soon, I'll try to upload it because this description really doesn't do it justice.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TMMUHCIkghI/AAAAAAAACvs/i6AeYproDi0/s1600/DSC00768.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TMMUHCIkghI/AAAAAAAACvs/i6AeYproDi0/s320/DSC00768.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531286878405558802" /></a></center><br />At the end of the ceremony, the headmaster and the "head girl" and "head boy" student representatives presented me with a small gift: a hand-carved wooden map of Rwanda. It was unexpected and really thoughtful.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TMMSqjpq6UI/AAAAAAAACvk/ik26rzA4nL8/s1600/DSC00796.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TMMSqjpq6UI/AAAAAAAACvk/ik26rzA4nL8/s320/DSC00796.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531285289674926402" /></a></center><br />After that two-hour long ordeal, there was essentially an after-party in the school library. In attendance were about half of the teachers, a handful of select students, the headmaster, and a local government rep (I guess to make everything more official). Of course, in typical Rwandan fashion, EVERY SINGLE PERSON had to make a personal speech to me. It's kind of obnoxious, not to mention time-consuming. Over half of the people who gave speeches have hardly said two words to me this entire year, but sure enough they get up there and talk for 5 or 10 minutes straight. I'm continually amazed how every Rwandan is so good at speaking extemporaneously, especially since sometimes the emcee cold-calls with a specific topic ("Antoine, tell what you learned during the teachers' classes with Julie Ann"). The payoff for enduring the never-ending speeches was a small feast of goat brochettes, seasoned potatoes, and <A href="http://differentrhythmsabroad.blogspot.com/2010/10/fanta-orange.html">Fanta</A>. Yum yum yum.<br /><br />Many of you have asked me when I'm leaving Rwanda. I deliberately hadn't mentioned it yet because the plans were a little bit up in the air, due to some miscommunication that I don't need to rant about here. In the end, I am moving out of my Buyoga this Monday, October 25. For two weeks I will be in Nyanza, helping to train our newest class of Peace Corps recruits. Then I will leave Rwanda on the evening of Friday, November 12. (So, please don't send me any more mail! There's not enough time to ensure I'll receive it.) I'm planning an epic journey through West Africa, and at last I will be back in the States sometime in December. <I>I'll be home for Christmas</I>... =)<br /><br />My favorite goodbye experience was heading to the Buyoga market on Thursday to bid farewell to my tomato lady, Mukashyaka. This woman brought me joy every single market day. Here's a typical exchange: she lights up when she sees me coming, and she greets me in Kinyarwanda. Then she says, "<I>Ushaka inyanya</i> -- You want tomatoes." It's a statement, not a question. I ask how much. "Today, they're 500 for the small bowl. But FOR YOU, 400!" Then she personally picks out the best-looking ones, fills the bowl to overflowing, and throws about 5 extra tomatoes in my bag for free. Then she says, "And I know you love green peppers, too!" and she dashes off to a nearby stall to pick the best peppers for me there. She brings those back and throws them in my bag, for an equally rock-bottom price (not sure how that works, since the peppers aren't hers to begin with). "So you'll come back!" she explains. I thank her profusely, and she just says, "You're my good customer."<br /><br />So I took her a small gift of a scarf I was going to get rid of anyway. She was so taken aback! Then I really floored her by asking to take her picture. She did the typical Rwandan pose of looking down with a serious expression -- but she gives herself away. Her eyes are smiling.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TMMVvZhNiSI/AAAAAAAACv8/9nTlUuq6gGY/s1600/IMG_0270.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TMMVvZhNiSI/AAAAAAAACv8/9nTlUuq6gGY/s320/IMG_0270.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531288671389321506" /></a></center>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-3882580682381127682010-10-12T17:29:00.009+02:002010-10-12T18:29:32.563+02:00A Red, Red RoseOur third trimester of school was extremely short. After I gave my midterm (<a href="http://jacinrwanda.blogspot.com/2010/09/why-even-plan.html">belatedly</A>), I was left with a meager total of 5 class periods before final exams. I had really wanted to look at some poetry with my kids, just as a very brief introduction, but would there be time now? And let's be honest, my students can barely speak English. Could they handle <i>poetry</i>? Did I dare?<br /><br />Why not! With the short amount of time, I chose to focus on just five poetic devices: imagery, end rhyme, repetition, simile, and alliteration. I spent a good amount of time searching for works that would be simple enough for my students to grasp. The best piece turned out to be <A href="http://www.robertburns.org/works/444.shtml">"A Red, Red Rose"</A> by Robert Burns. Where feasible, I took the liberty of updating much of the old Scottish language into more comprehensible terms -- e.g. <i>a' the seas gang dry</i> became "all the seas go dry" -- but some of it I couldn't bring myself to defile in that way. (I attempted to explain to the kids about outdated language that they should not use; nevertheless, I have no doubt that thanks to me, at least one Rwandan teenage boy will be writing a love note to his "bonnie lass.") <br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TLSBjxzsQtI/AAAAAAAACvE/cyr108Wc1lk/s1600/IMG_0105.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TLSBjxzsQtI/AAAAAAAACvE/cyr108Wc1lk/s320/IMG_0105.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527185094355993298" /></a></center><br />"A Red, Red Rose" was an especially good example because it's so lyrical and has a distinct rhythm. And so I had the kids practice reading out loud as a class, first repeating after me one line at a time, then reciting a whole stanza at once. It was a blast. I have one particular student who is quite good at English, but I think school bores him entirely, so about 80% of the time he skips my class in favor of wandering around outside. But on the day that we were boisterously reciting, he heard us from wherever he was, and I noticed him quietly creep back in the room and sit in his seat. While we all clapped the beat to keep time, he softly tapped the table in front of him. One small success.<br /><br />As we discussed the meaning of the poem -- that he will love her until the seas are dry, that he will come 10,000 miles to see her -- an unconvinced Fanny cried out, "Teacher! He is a LIAR!" Then Jonathan raised his hand. "Question, teacher. Is this hip-hop, or R&B?" I laughed. I had already noted that Robert Burns lived from 1759-96. I pointed to those dates on the board. "Ah," nodded Aimable, understanding: "It is old-school."<br /><br />My final class period with each of my sections was special. Because the kids looove American pop music, I brought my iPod and speakers and let them listen to a song. But the catch was that I made them identify poetic devices -- who knew Jordin Sparks & Chris Brown were so prolific with end rhyme and imagery? There's even a simile! "Losing you is like living in a world with no air," which one of my sweethearts announced that he would like to change to "Losing you is like living in Buyoga with no English teacher." Love.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TLSBHZ0SGUI/AAAAAAAACu8/5sPqA0MYb-0/s1600/IMG_0120.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TLSBHZ0SGUI/AAAAAAAACu8/5sPqA0MYb-0/s320/IMG_0120.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527184606879684930" /></a></center><br />As I exited one class, a student caught me outside the door and presented me with a small folded-up note:<br /><br /><center><I>BECOUSE YO TEACH ME POEM<br />I WRITE TO YOU THIS POEM<br />THIS IS MY GIFT TO YOU<br />THANK YOU<br /><br />"MY BEST KNOWLEDGE"<br /><br />My knowledge,<br />deep of my knowledge.<br />I respect you until land become sky.<br /><br />I know,<br />I know your kindness,<br />when you become our teacher,<br />who teaching well.<br />Your ideas is well,<br />is well like my father,<br />My father is a Rwandan.<br /><br />I want to be with you,<br />you you are my happy,<br />my happy like my study.<br />My study when continue,<br />I'm never forget my best knowledge.</i></center><br />Throughout the year, I've really tried to give a lot of positive reinforcement, since in general students just don't receive much of it here. So I always give stickers on every assignment for good marks, and I also give an additional prize of a fancy American pen for each section's top scorer on my tests. As the year draws to a close, I wanted to give special recognition to the kids who have continuously worked hard. Since I'm a nerd who's obsessed with Microsoft Excel, it wasn't hard to find the students who have achieved an average of 85% or more for the entire year, and these I invited to a special ceremony. I gave them each a certificate (because THEY LOVE CERTIFICATES), and they also each got to choose a small gift from my smorgasbord of American magazines, books, pens, notebooks, etc. (This served the added function of helping me to empty my house before I move out in a few weeks!)<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TLSAX3Lc2cI/AAAAAAAACu0/5cm59fPFnAc/s1600/IMG_0114.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TLSAX3Lc2cI/AAAAAAAACu0/5cm59fPFnAc/s320/IMG_0114.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527183790127765954" /></a></center><br />And thus ends my formal teaching experience in Africa. I have to say, though I miss Mauritania all the time and especially my host family there, my work has been far more rewarding in Rwanda. My students here are, simply put, the best. And certainly the best part of my time in this country. <I>And I will luve thee still, my dear(s), / While the sands o' life shall run.</i><br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TLSCUaovfiI/AAAAAAAACvM/yd2YwhMgZZE/s1600/IMG_0122.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TLSCUaovfiI/AAAAAAAACvM/yd2YwhMgZZE/s320/IMG_0122.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527185929949642274" /></a></center>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-28894839824134204852010-09-27T20:05:00.008+02:002010-09-27T20:51:40.952+02:00Why even plan?I needed to go to Kigali for a training development workshop for a few days, but I really didn't want to miss any precious class time. I teach six sections of the same level, and it's very frustrating when due to missed classes they're are at all different points and then I try to coordinate things like scheduling a midterm. Thus, I went to great lengths beforehand to arrange for making up all the hours I would miss. I juggled stuff around, once got usurped by another teacher and had to <i>re</i>-reschedule, worked my booty off -- but I did it. I was set to go away for the conference, and when I returned all my sections would be on the same page again.<br /><br />...or so I PLANNED...<br /><br />Honestly, I never learn. I know I have previously mentioned on here the frustration of "surprise holidays," but I really can't over-emphasize how often they seem to crop up and drive me insane. (A subset would also be "surprise staff meetings," which are almost always held during teaching hours.) People here often ask me some variation of, "How can Rwanda become like America?" And in situations like this one, I just want to scream: <i>STOP! DOING! THIS!</I> Stop missing all these class hours for nonsensical reasons, or your kids will never, ever get ahead.<br /><br />This time it was a national holiday for President Paul Kagame's second swearing-in, on a Monday. Banks, post offices, schools, all closed. Then it was announced the following Thursday that the next day would be yet another national public holiday, for the Muslim celebration of Eid ul-Fitr. This day off in particular made me even angrier than the first. Let me just say, I love Muslims, and I have much respect for Islam after my 14 months living in Mauritania. Commemorating the end of Ramadan is an important event -- FOR MUSLIMS. Do you know what percentage of Rwanda is Muslim? Reports vary, but my almanac says 5%. And more importantly, that 5% is all but ignored the other 364 days of the year. In public schools and public ceremonies, prayers are always given. And they are always given to a Christian God and Jesus, never to Allah. It just disgusted me that suddenly when an opportunity arose for another day off, everyone would embrace the Muslim population, and only then.<br /><br />Anyway, I digress. So my classes were all messed up despite my best efforts, and I had to push back my midterm by a week and add some additional "filler" lessons for the sections who would have extra class hours before the exam. When I went to grade them, the first class I looked at performed so well that I wondered if I had made the exam too easy. The next class was the same, and the next. But then two of my sections, even some of the best students, scored rather atrociously. I was so confused, at first. What's going on here? Then I realized: Duh. What do you know. The two sections who did so terribly were the exact same two who did not get the extra in-class practice. And the results were undeniable: the median grade in my worst-performing class was a full <B>20%</B> lower than that of the best class. It sickened me to discover. I'm sorry, children. I'm so, so sorry.<br /><br />In other news, rainy season is back in business, and with it my treacherous-moto-rides-of-death down my mountain. I achieved possibly my all-time worst moto experience not too long ago. When we set out on the 45-minute ride back to my village, the weather was very overcast, but dry. Then before long, it started POURING. It got extremely cold, and a dense fog surrounded us. My bag was getting absolutely drenched, and I felt certain that my computer inside was done for. Helplessly I just sat shivering behind the driver and fought the urge to cry in misery. My guy drove very slowly so that we wouldn't wipe out, but in the moment I couldn't be grateful because I so desperately wanted to be in my house, dry and warm. Miraculously, the computer survived relatively protected. The worst damage was to a paperback novel I'd thrown on top of the bag, but even that dried out okay.<br /><br />My PCV friend Mandy came to visit my site for a weekend, which was a good time. I gave her the grand tour, which mainly consists of showing off the animals:<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TKDlG1YN76I/AAAAAAAACuc/4TNrRxYRC_0/s1600/DSCF1469.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TKDlG1YN76I/AAAAAAAACuc/4TNrRxYRC_0/s320/DSCF1469.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521665048726859682" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TKDj2lJp-qI/AAAAAAAACuU/NGUsxQPCCY0/s1600/DSCF1452.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TKDj2lJp-qI/AAAAAAAACuU/NGUsxQPCCY0/s320/DSCF1452.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521663669981280930" /></a></center><br />Even got Mandy to milk a cow for the first time! <br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TKDnClUXIHI/AAAAAAAACus/cHQv6Z3k0ec/s1600/DSCF1475.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TKDnClUXIHI/AAAAAAAACus/cHQv6Z3k0ec/s320/DSCF1475.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521667174719496306" /></a></center><br />And we couldn't miss the opportunity to cook up some delicious Mexican cuisine. We noted how for this same meal in America, we would just buy a bag of tortillas, buy a bag of shredded cheese, buy a jar of salsa, buy a tub of guacamole. All we'd have to "do" really would be to heat up some meat. Here, we rolled out the tortillas by hand, used a veggie peeler to shred the cheese that Mandy had carted literally halfway across the country, bleached and then chopped up tomatoes for the salsa, mashed an avocado for the guac but didn't have any lemons so made do with a bit of vinegar, then warmed and seasoned the canned chicken sent in a care package from my mom. Ah, that Peace Corps get-up-and-go.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TKDmLmvimRI/AAAAAAAACuk/GXvOwTV7yWk/s1600/DSCF1446.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TKDmLmvimRI/AAAAAAAACuk/GXvOwTV7yWk/s320/DSCF1446.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521666230209124626" /></a></center>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-41887803873090341232010-08-28T18:07:00.001+02:002010-08-28T19:15:23.671+02:00Stop telephoning me-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eThere is better cell phone coverage in Rwanda than in much of rural America (granted, the country's the size of Maryland, but still). Go to the smallest possible barely-a-village you can find, and someone there will own a cell phone. It doesn't matter if they don't have electricity; many small shops or even government offices will allow people to charge their phones for a small fee.<br /><br />It's easy and relatively cheap to get yourself a phone number. There are no contracts to sign up for. You buy a SIM card from a little corner store, for $1.70 or less. You pop this into any cell phone, and you're good to go. The most economical phone model only costs about $16. Then you buy phone credit as you go in the form of a little card with a code you punch into your phone. You can check your credit balance on the phone at any time. It's pretty efficient. <br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/THkz2KfPNLI/AAAAAAAACuE/FQG1ZXGau2s/s1600/IMG_0066.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 260px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/THkz2KfPNLI/AAAAAAAACuE/FQG1ZXGau2s/s320/IMG_0066.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510492624685839538" /></a></center><br />You are only charged for outgoing calls, never for incoming. Consequently, if someone wants to talk with you but they're low on credit, they will "beep" or "flash" you -- that is, call you so it rings once, then quickly hang up. If you are the recipient of a flash, you are expected to call that person back (and spend your own money on it). It's a pretty annoying practice, if you ask me. There are only a handful of people from whom I'll tolerate a flash.<br /><br />When you do answer the phone, who speaks first? This is always a fun game. A lot of times here, it's the person making the call, not the one answering. I can't help but find it a little disconcerting when I am just bringing the phone to my ear and I already hear someone greeting me. But sometimes they do wait for you to speak first, which brings us to the next question -- what does one say when answering the phone? The French "<i>Allô</i>" ("Hello") is possible, but more common is the French "<I>Oui</i>?" (or Kinyarwanda translation, "<I>Karame</i>?") At first I hated this, because it's like you're answering and just snapping, "Yeah? What?" But I confess that now this is actually how I answer the phone when speaking with Rwandans.<br /><br />And to end the conversation? Well, that's easy. Just hang up. No need for goodbye! When you've said all you need to say, hit "end" -- as quickly as possible, it seems. You get charged by the second, after all.<br /><br />Now in the U.S. we have a certain social convention that says you're not supposed to call most people, say, before 8 AM or after 9:30 PM. This rule DOES NOT APPLY in Rwanda, to my deep regret. Here it's acceptable to call absolutely anytime you feel like it. I have woken up to the sound of my phone ringing as early as 4:40 AM (seriously) and as late as 10:45 PM (I tend to get in bed at 8), and these calls were from people I barely know. Charming.<br /><br />But if you <I>don't</I> answer the phone when someone calls you? Well, God help you. Rwandans cannot fathom what you could EVER <I>POSSIBLY</i> be doing that would preclude you from picking up their call. It is not only acceptable, but in fact expected that you answer your phone any time it is ringing. This includes: if you are on public transportation, if you are a teacher teaching a class, if you are sitting in a meeting, if you are in church, even if you are the guest of honor at a special ceremony. Accordingly, when I don't answer my phone because perhaps I've decided that I don't want to speak to that particular caller, the person will continue to call. And call. And call. And call. Twenty times consecutively is not unheard of.<br /><br />We have another social convention in the U.S. that says you probably shouldn't pass around someone's phone number without their consent (be it implicit or explicit). Nope. Not here. Rwandans share my number like it's going out of style. I can't confirm the following chain of events, but I honestly believe something like this has happened more than once:<br /> <blockquote>1: I give a moto-taxi driver my number while arranging a pick-up.<br /> 2: This driver then, I can only assume, tells all his friends, "Hey, guys! I met a <I>muzungu</i>, I even have her number!" <br /> 3: Random men I've never met start calling me incessantly (flashing me, more likely) and attempt to practice their very, very poor English.</blockquote><br />Sigh.<br /><br />So the title of this blog comes from, of course, the Lady Gaga song "Telephone." The lyric above is what I often sing out loud while trying to send a telepathic message to my relentless caller.<br /><br />To close, in other news, today marks two years since I first swore in as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Mauritania. I shaved my head. Hair grows back.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/THkxFCMIyKI/AAAAAAAACt0/6BgC4VpeR5A/s1600/el+pelon.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/THkxFCMIyKI/AAAAAAAACt0/6BgC4VpeR5A/s320/el+pelon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510489581621397666" /></a><br /><i>(If you never got to before, you can see more head-shaving photos <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/julie.ann.clark/BaldBeginnings?feat=directlink">here</A>.)</i></center>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-18860250160480544382010-08-13T16:11:00.002+02:002010-08-13T16:24:41.327+02:00Welcome to my crib(I know I promised this some time ago, but if I may quote two clichés: easier said than done & better late than never...)<br /><br />So I hope you're happy! =P I just sat in this chair for the better part of an entire day in order to upload this short video, a tour of my house in the village. I wanted to add some captions to it, but at this point I'm too sick of sitting here! You're all smarties -- I think you'll be able to figure most things out. And sorry the quality isn't great, but it gives you an idea.<br /><br />Disclaimer: For the record, I know that I'm not "roughing it" as much as I could be, and not nearly as much as I did before in Mauritania. I'm grateful for my nice little house here!<br /><br /><center><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/rvvXB1zW-ik?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/rvvXB1zW-ik?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></center>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-55349529153138779792010-08-08T10:50:00.004+02:002010-08-08T14:32:26.224+02:00Mama meets Africa!<center><iframe width="640" height="480" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" src="http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&msa=0&msid=103083092418624357553.00048d4ac6de6fe00f2d9&ll=-0.692122,31.365967&spn=3.166667,4.0175&output=embed"></iframe><br /><small><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&msa=0&msid=103083092418624357553.00048d4ac6de6fe00f2d9&ll=-0.692122,31.365967&spn=3.166667,4.0175&source=embed" style="color:#0000FF;text-align:left">View Larger Map</a></small></center><br />Total time Mom spent in Africa: <B>21 days</B><br />Total time on public transportation: <B>55 hours</B><br /><br />But, if I can speak for both of us, it was a glorious time! First we spent four days at my site, the little village of Buyoga. Usually I am the only white person for miles around, so since my mother doubled the local <I><a href="http://morganinafrica.blogspot.com/2008/07/why-muzungu.html">muzungu</A></i> population, we attracted quite a lot of attention. In particular, my students were SO excited to receive her. They even arranged a precious little welcome ceremony, where different groups performed traditional dance and modern hip-hop routines. There were also a number of "speeches" made in careful halting English.<br /><br />It was really fun to get to share with my mom how I live here. First order of business, a tutorial on the squat-latrine -- yes, it may sound scary, but I pride myself on keeping mine really clean! Then I showed Mom how I wash my hands, cook food, wash dishes, bathe, do laundry... no simple tasks without running water. I also taught her about the different rhythm of village life, and I was pleased she was already getting the idea when after the second day she was slipping on her pajamas by 6:30pm! (Once the sun goes down, what is there to be awake for?)<br /><br />After Buyoga, it was on to the south of Rwanda. We visited Butare a.k.a Huye, where there is an informative national museum and a newly opened <a href="http://bluemarbledreams.wordpress.com/our-projects/inzozi-nziza-rwanda/">ice cream shop</A> (the first of its kind in Rwanda!). I also took my mom to our favorite local "pork joint," where we buy fried pork by the kilo. My friends and I typically share a platter between just two people, so that's 1.1 pounds of meat apiece. Mmmm. Then we had a lovely drive through a rainforest (Nyungwe) to reach Nyamasheke, right on Lake Kivu. There was a Peace Corps kickball tournament there, so Mama got to meet some of my PCV friends.<br /><br />Next came the big day we'd especially been waiting for, the gem of tourism in Rwanda: GORILLA TRACKING! Less than 700 mountain gorillas exist worldwide, and all of them live in the wild in a region that spans Rwanda, Uganda, and D.R. Congo. (These are the same gorillas of Dian Fossey/<i>Gorillas in the Mist</i> fame.) For visiting the gorillas, the limited number of daily permits sells out months in advance, but we had secured ours for July 27.<br /><br />We got a car to drive us up to the entrance of Volcanoes National Park, where we were assigned to a group of gorillas. Ours was called Hirwa, which means Luck. There is a maximum of 8 people who may visit any group on a given day. You set out together with a park guide, who communicates via walkie-talkie with trackers who locate the animals. The gorillas make new nests every night, but normally only travel about 1 kilometer per day.<br /><br />We walked for about an hour, ascending the mountain, pushing our way through the dense forest. Then the guide told us to leave all our things with the guards who were with us, and we were able to bring only our cameras as we continued. And suddenly, there they were. Right in front of us. In a small clearing, the massive silverback "daddy" lounged on his stomach, scratching his chin, completely indifferent to our company. A mama (one of six in the family) tended her two tots in a bush to our left. The rule in the park is to maintain a distance of 7 meters from the gorillas -- but the gorillas themselves of course don't mind this restriction, and one pushed right by us when we evidently were in the way of his crossing. It was incredible!<br /><br />We were allowed one hour to spend observing the gorillas, an hour that passed far too quickly but was unforgettable. My photos aren't spectacular because I don't have a fancy enough camera and flashes were forbidden (plus I'm sure my hands were shaking!), but I do have a few shots and I managed to post one video too:<br /><br /><center><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/znzrVi55et0&hl=en_US&fs=1?rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/znzrVi55et0&hl=en_US&fs=1?rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></center><br /><br />Mom and I spent a lovely afternoon and overnight in Gisenyi on Lake Kivu before we crossed the border north to Uganda. We have a friend from home, Janet, who's been there for five years now working as an engineer, so we stayed with her and enjoyed her generous hospitality. She lives with a Ugandan friend "Mama Jordan" (meaning the mother of first-born Jordan) and her two children, Jordan and little Janet. While in Uganda, we traveled to Jinja, self-proclaimed adventure capital of East Africa. We white-water rafted on the Nile River! It was awesome, yet another truly memorable experience. We camped right on the shores there, and then the next day we hiked around Mabira Forest and spotted some monkeys.<br /><br />We also accompanied Janet on a site visit to consult on some local water projects. It was neat just to see more of the countryside and to compare. In general, my impression of Uganda was that the poor are poorer and the rich are richer than in Rwanda -- but I don't know if that's accurate. There is an abundance of street food, which is heavenly since it's illegal in Rwanda. There is also more litter, though. The landscape is different, too, because whereas Rwanda is one rolling hill after another, Uganda has a considerable amount of flat space, and at a lower altitude (therefore hotter). We visited a tiny rural church literally made out of sticks, and a <A href="http://www.royaluganda.org/">lavishly funded orphanage/school</A> where the children have an <a href="http://www.myspace.com/suubitour2006">impressive show choir</A>: <br /><br /><center><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/a8YbuRxrj-c&hl=en_US&fs=1?rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/a8YbuRxrj-c&hl=en_US&fs=1?rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></center><br /><br />Our last couple days together were spent relaxing and unwinding a bit back in Kigali. After mostly roughing it in "austere" rooms with questionable foam-pad beds and occasional hot water, we upped the ante a bit and lodged in relative extravagance at <a href="http://step-town.com/">Step Town Motel</A>, for which I'd like to give an enthusiastic recommendation. They just opened within the past year, so they're pretty unknown in Rwanda, but we had a fabulous stay and the staff were excellent.<br /><br />I whittled my array of photos down to a manageable amount, so please enjoy. (The fact that I was able to upload this many pics AND two videos is courtesy also of Step Town Motel and its incomparable wireless internet!) You can browse through the slideshow below, or click through to the external Picasa album to see the photos in larger format.<br /><br /><center><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" width="600" height="400" flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&captions=1&hl=en_US&feat=flashalbum&RGB=0x000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Fjulie.ann.clark%2Falbumid%2F5502428665785755105%3Falt%3Drss%26kind%3Dphoto%26hl%3Den_US" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></center>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-78335974828163205552010-07-05T21:41:00.000+02:002010-07-05T22:48:10.346+02:00Catching upYou may have noticed I've been terribly, terribly delinquent with my updates. I apologize! I have lots of excuses, but they're all pretty lame and predictable: busy, work, traveling, sick, etc. etc. (Nothing cool like burning my face off this time.) And the longer I wait, the more I want to tell you! Sigh... I don't like doing mega-long blog entries, so I will choose only the highlights and also try to break this up with a few sub-headings for you.<br /><br /><center>*<br /><B>Surprise!</B></center><br />Trimester 2 of school is winding to a close. The close-of-term date that the Ministry of Education originally gave us was July 23. It's assumed that this is the day kids get to leave (it's boarding school), so I guessed that exams would be the week leading up to that, putting the last day of classes around July 16. Then I found out that teachers demand an entire week for grading, so the last day of classes would be more like July 9.<br /><br />I went to teach last Thursday, July 1. It was Rwandan Independence Day. I knew it was Independence Day. Several times now in the past weeks, I've had this conversation:<br /><br />- Will we have class on July 1st?<br />- <i>Why? What's July 1st?</i><br />- Well, it's <I>your</i> Independence Day. [I point to the red-inked date on the wall calendar.]<br />- <i>Oh, is it? No, yeah, of course we'll have class. Independence Day isn't really a big deal.</i><br />- Really? Because it's important to me to plan. It's near the end of the term, and I want to know how many more class periods I'll see my kids.<br />- <i>Yes yes yes, of course. No, we'll definitely have class.</i><br /><br />So, clearly we had no class that day. I reeeeally should know better by now -- this happened frequently in Mauritania, too. It's like every time an ANNUAL holiday comes up, it seems to be the first time anyone has ever heard of it and they have no recollection of it until the day before. Or day of.<br /><br />In addition to the surprise holiday, we had a surprise teachers' meeting that day, in which we discussed the proposed exam schedule. "OK," says the school director, "so the last day of classes is tomorrow. Right?" Everyone agrees. <I>What?!</i> Tomorrow? And you're telling me this now?? That's just great, because I don't even teach on Fridays, meaning I've unwittingly already taught my "last" class to each of my sections. I was not pleased. The final compromise was that this week will be a week of "revision" (review), but if teachers want to still teach last-minute things, they have that option. Fine. I figured I'd have two hours left with each of my classes, and I would be able to get them all on the same page before exam time. I planned accordingly.<br /><br />Came to school this morning for my 8:00 class. I found only one person in the teachers' lounge, but that's not strange because teachers are often late (a fact my director pointed out to them during the staff meeting, saying that Julie Ann is the only teacher who is always on time -- not awkward at all, yes). But this teacher then informed me that it was a holiday today. <i>Again?</i> Surprise! Two surprise holidays in a row! Happy Liberation Day (which was really yesterday, the 4th, but why not take an extra day off school as well?).<br /><br /><center>*<br /><B>Live from Buyoga...</B></center><br />I saw an idea in one of my language teaching manuals about having kids prepare a "newscast" presentation in groups. They suggested you show an example clip first so that the students clearly understand what's expected. Well, that's great, I thought, but I don't have anything to show them... <I>or do I?</i> So, some PCV friends helped me out, and I had far too much fun making a 5-minute faux-newscast, complete with amazing transitions and news-y music. (Wish I could post it here for you, but my connection can't handle that!) I wasn't sure if the kids would "get" it, but they seemed pretty into it when I showed them in class on my laptop. Then I divided them in groups of 6 and set them free over the weekend to prepare.<br /><br />I had a blast watching them present. Some of them really got into it! One boy fashioned a necktie out of notebook paper, looking very sharp. I had some real characters, trying on their best enthusiastic American accents (which more resemble a speech impediment) and using some of the same tag lines I'd had in my sample newscast -- they have great memories.<br /><br />Maybe my favorite group set up a desk like a little panel, and the "host" stuck his compass in it, pointy-side down, with the pencil directed towards him like a microphone. He finished his bit and the next girl sat down, but she was nervous so she didn't notice the compass there and was not facing it. Her group was trying to whisper to her, but she didn't hear, so the host walked over and casually spun the "microphone" pencil so that it was pointed toward her. I was cracking up!<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TDJC4zYf8YI/AAAAAAAACf4/lFNRREmt-W8/s1600/IMG_9483.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TDJC4zYf8YI/AAAAAAAACf4/lFNRREmt-W8/s320/IMG_9483.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490524439351128450" /></a></center><br />And then their stories... I told them the news didn't need to be true, since I was more concerned about their presentation abilities than actual content. One group reported on our school's football club in a match with Manchester United, and another had Beyoncé and Rihanna coming to perform a concert in our school refectory. One girl cast all her friends as Miss Rwanda, Miss East Africa, etc., and had them all in attendance at the BET Awards. A few other stories of interest, in their own words:<br /><br />"In last day America told to Iran let to produce nuclear weapon. Iran refused and answer America we are continue to produce them. If you want to fight us come we are ready to fight with you."<br /><br />"The new singer called Lady Gaga who likes to wear knickers in her clips now is going to stop wearing knickers in her clips."<br /><br />"On Friday 51st Septdecember 2030, in Amazone forest the lion was collided with mosquiato, after that accident the lion was dead. But mosquiato had only problem on leg and on buttocks, after that accident two elephants quickly take a mosquiato to the hospital and doctors told us that tomorrow this mosquiato will be allright."<br /><br /><center>*<br /><B>Little Miss Sunshine</B></center><br />Up until now, I haven't really had a Kinyarwanda name in my village. During training, my teachers had given me the name <I>Kamikazi</i>, which I thought was hilarious and awesome. It means little queen. I tried to introduce myself with that name when I arrived to my village, but the few people I told just laughed and asked what my real name was, so I gave up.<br /><br />Now that I've been here a while, I decided to let my students choose and vote on a name for me. Their suggestions were super sweet and touching. In the end, the winner far and away was <i>Akazuba</i>, which is a diminutive form of the word "sun." One group summed up their choice thus:<br /><br />"We name you this name because it's that we love and you shine and you are white as sun. Many people like the sun in the morning and all students love our teacher as that sun. Before that you come here, our knowledge was low, we were like in darkness. But after that you get here we're in light. It means that you are like a sun in darkness. Thank you!!!"<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TDJAZeLlWEI/AAAAAAAACfw/4rAojAzh9BE/s1600/IMG_9481.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TDJAZeLlWEI/AAAAAAAACfw/4rAojAzh9BE/s320/IMG_9481.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490521702060611650" /></a><br /><br />*<br /><B>Umunyarwandakazi</b></center><br />I got my hair braided again, with extensions. This woman did a much more thorough job than I had last time, and everything's holding up well after about 19 days now. Even in Kigali people have been impressed that I got it done in the village. It took 7 hours and cost 5000 francs, about $10. Now, I'm told, I am a true <I>umunyarwandakazi</i> -- Rwandan woman.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TDI5_RcGNJI/AAAAAAAACfg/rdQfV2X_rTo/s1600/IMG_9544.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TDI5_RcGNJI/AAAAAAAACfg/rdQfV2X_rTo/s320/IMG_9544.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490514654893847698" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TDI86Q57aGI/AAAAAAAACfo/SaL9zRtAris/s1600/IMG_9553.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TDI86Q57aGI/AAAAAAAACfo/SaL9zRtAris/s320/IMG_9553.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490517867386071138" /></a></center><br /><i>P.S. My mom arrives on July 17, to stay for 3 weeks! Not sure that I'll get to update while she's here, so perhaps expect another short hiatus... =) I promise to take lots of pics!</i>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-51345534183889362102010-05-30T09:56:00.014+02:002010-05-30T10:29:37.676+02:00Relishing RubavuThis past week I was with 30 other PCVs from my class at an "in-service training" (IST) conference. These events can feel a little tedious, but -- perhaps as consolation -- they're typically held at very desirable locations. Our IST was in Rubavu, also known as Gisenyi. In Rwanda's burgeoning tourism industry, this spot is one of the highlights. It's on the shores of Lake Kivu, touching Goma in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.<br /><br />Our hotel was gorgeous, tucked up on a hillside overlooking the lake:<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIbxCTEfSI/AAAAAAAACeY/bBPwaKIQBXw/s1600/14488350.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIbxCTEfSI/AAAAAAAACeY/bBPwaKIQBXw/s320/14488350.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476970626080341282" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIg01Y9aJI/AAAAAAAACfQ/lac7J4BDEtQ/s1600/IMG_9435.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIg01Y9aJI/AAAAAAAACfQ/lac7J4BDEtQ/s320/IMG_9435.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476976188892997778" /></a></center><br />It came with many amenities. As wonderful as it all was, though, there are constant little reminders that it's still the developing world. Let me illustrate this for you:<br /><br /><B>- The hotel was quite sizable...</B><br />but the layout was incredibly confusing. We commented that it resembled an M.C. Escher print -- stairs, stairs, everywhere.<br /><B>- There was a large, professional billboard down by the road, thanking you for visiting Rubavu...</B><br />or, as the case may be, "Rubava." Close.<br /><B>- All around the hotel, the walls and railings shone with bright, crisp paint...</B><br />which rubbed off on your clothing if you happened to lean against anything.<br /><B>- There was high-speed wireless internet...</B><br />which stopped working after the first day, supposedly because after a bit of lightning the staff didn't know how to reset the router.<br /><B>- We had a color TV in our room...</B><br />which only got four channels. (Some rooms got fewer or none, though.) And the batteries in the remote were all corroded, so I had to replace them with my own.<br /><B>- We also had a phone...</B><br />but not all the rooms did, so you could only call certain people. <br /><B>- The beds were large, with many pillows...</B><br />but they were more foam than a "real" mattress, so that your body digs a nice a little valley each night.<br /><B>- There was a net hanging up for protection against the ubiquitous mosquitoes...</B><br />but only a single net, in between the two beds. And no screens on the windows, so skipping the net was hardly an option.<br /><B>- There were private showers with great water pressure...</B><br />but the drain would always stop up, so usually you were standing in water up to your ankles while you bathed.<br /><B>- The hotel provided flip-flop shower shoes...</B><br />but the left and right didn't match -- in pattern, color, or even size.<br /><B>- Over the sink was a fancy-looking glass ledge...</B><br />but you didn't dare place anything on it because it quite easily slipped out of the wall.<br /><B>- The bathroom boasted deliciously hot water...</B><br />but no shower curtains, or drains in the floor, so you had to constantly navigate through a huge pool on the tile floor every time you wanted to use the toilet or wash your hands.<br /><B>- There was maid service each day, and they mopped up those floors...</B><br />but there was only one key to each room, so you had to track down the head maid every morning and give her your key, or else your room wouldn't get cleaned. And the pool would grow.<br /><br />I'm not saying I didn't enjoy my stay, though! In particular, the food was amazing. I'm used to cooking for myself on a single burner, so it's usually a one-pot affair. But here we had a fabulous all-you-can-eat buffet for each meal! And on the first day, we arrived early so we ordered food from the hotel restaurant. I had a Nile perch (<i>capitaine</i>) filet, fresh from the lake, in a pepper cream sauce. I'm pretty sure it was the best food I've ever had in Rwanda.<br /><br />We also got one afternoon free to have a little picnic down on the beach. The beach is very clean with nice sand, but it's pretty narrow. Abruptly, lush grass and thick trees disrupt the landscape. I tried to capture a pic of this as I lounged in the driver's seat of a PC car (don't worry, Washington, I wasn't driving!). Also, a shot of fellow Mauritania PCVs Ashley and Michele with PC staff Kassim, Assinath, Claudine, and Alphonsine:<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIgLIBgHUI/AAAAAAAACfI/MYaSSUdCXcU/s1600/IMG_9469.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIgLIBgHUI/AAAAAAAACfI/MYaSSUdCXcU/s320/IMG_9469.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476975472340376898" /></a> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIf1QEvrtI/AAAAAAAACfA/hooGsVrvL4E/s1600/IMG_9468.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIf1QEvrtI/AAAAAAAACfA/hooGsVrvL4E/s320/IMG_9468.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476975096544341714" /></a> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIe8cVTEFI/AAAAAAAACe4/zhR7OyrF05g/s1600/IMG_9462.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIe8cVTEFI/AAAAAAAACe4/zhR7OyrF05g/s320/IMG_9462.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476974120582451282" /></a></center><br />A few of us went out on a little "speedboat" (I use the term loosely), and although we got splashed a fair amount, it was a good time. We scooted right up to the Congo border, and I was amazed at how posh it looked on the other side! Goma is said to have really cheap markets with lots available, since nothing is regulated there -- the upshot of having a government in shambles, I guess.<br /><br />Here's me in the back seat of the boat with PC staff Alphonsine again and PCV Chris, and in the second pic the hills behind me are Congo:<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIdtIgCQ9I/AAAAAAAACeo/1-fhSQovX8E/s1600/IMG_9439.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIdtIgCQ9I/AAAAAAAACeo/1-fhSQovX8E/s320/IMG_9439.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476972758049113042" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIeD3uHdyI/AAAAAAAACew/sYG--qyGzHo/s1600/IMG_9455.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/TAIeD3uHdyI/AAAAAAAACew/sYG--qyGzHo/s320/IMG_9455.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476973148681762594" /></a></center><br />All in all, a fun week spent with friends, and now I'm equipped with concrete new ideas to tackle the second term of school.JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-12995967666954884922010-05-11T22:44:00.006+02:002010-05-11T23:09:29.246+02:00The future of RwandaTrimester 2 is underway, and it's found me rather busy again! But so happy to be back with these kids again. In teaching some weather vocab recently, I shared some photos of snow. My sister had sent me one shot of my nephew flopped down in a blanket of white after the big blizzards this winter. I walked around my classroom with this pic and asked: what is he doing? The kids were, suffice it to say, SO confused. "He is washing? He is swimming?" Nope. Tried another tack: <I>where</i> is he? "In the water?" No... "In the -- sky??" So awesome.<br /><br />Taking a cue from a Voice of America daily feature, I introduced a new long-term project this term that I'm calling "On This Day in History." For each class period, two students sign up to speak. I write up some short texts (~75 words) about an event that happened on that particular date, and the kids present the text by memory. When I first announced the idea, I was met with rather blank stares and just a couple brave souls venturing to go first. Now each week when I ask for volunteers, a sea of hopeful hands shoots up before me. It's been really great! Some kids choose to recite the text verbatim, but I'm encouraging them to paraphrase as long as they hit all the relevant information. I love to see them really own it, with cute introductions like "Good morning, class. Firstly I want to thank our English teacher..." Their pronunciation is frequently creative (I enjoyed hearing about "Deekay Erringtone" and his contributions to American jazz), but above all the goal is just for them to make themselves comprehensible in oral English.<br /><br />Inspired by Earth Day, I did a discussion-based lesson that I titled "Rwanda of Yesterday and Tomorrow." First I had the kids brainstorm in pairs what Rwanda was like 100 years ago, in 1910. We shared the results together, and I listed their contributions on the board.<br /><br />Then, above a second column I wrote the heading: "Rwanda in 2060." In EVERY one of my six classes, before I even said a word, there were audible responses of amazement. It's like they've never been granted the freedom to think creatively, openly, with <i>no</i> limitations. I think they really enjoyed it.<br /><br />Most of them had grand ambitions for their country. I got a couple "It will be like heaven/paradise" responses, and Zainabu's which I just loved: "It will be like WOW." But then there were also some pessimists. One kid was convinced there won't be any people because they'll all have died from AIDS. Yikes! Another girl said it "will be like Sodom and Gomorrah"! Some predicted the traditional culture will be "destroyed." A few very bright kids hit on the fact that I wanted to drive home: there will likely be a ton of people, and the same small land area. There are 10 million people in Rwanda today; I had the kids guess predicted population numbers for the years 2025 and 2050. When I shared the actual figures (15 and 25 million, respectively), an exasperated Jean-Baptiste cried out in disbelief, "Teacher! HOW THEY WILL LIVE?!" My question exactly, buddy.<br /><br />There were some creative solutions to the population issue. More than one class said we'll all be able to go live on Mars by then (one kid was even pulling for Jupiter and Saturn). Some said they'll just move to other countries, so I tried to illustrate the concept of a brain drain. One kid said we can just invade Congo or even Uganda and take some of their land by force (I replied that personally I would not want to mess with Congolese soldiers). One of my real smarties raised maybe the most plausible answer, that everyone can live in high-rises, thus artificially creating more land.<br /><br />For homework after this lesson, I gave the kids some critical thinking questions (another foreign concept) related to the environment in Rwanda. I was a bit dubious about the kinds of responses I would get. I really wanted them to express some cogent opinions, regardless of minor errors with wording. The somewhat odd thing about many students in this all-anglophone school system here is that they end up knowing words like infrastructure (or "inflacitricture" as I've seen it rendered), but can hardly form a grammatical sentence. My feeling is, at the end of the day, teaching grammar ain't no thang. But can these kids <i>think</i> for themselves? That, I'm not sure I can teach.<br /><br />The good news is: these kids are on their way. <br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/S-nDkBl-DqI/AAAAAAAACeQ/YKRm9wuCs6o/s1600/IMG_9336.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/S-nDkBl-DqI/AAAAAAAACeQ/YKRm9wuCs6o/s320/IMG_9336.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470118246088576674" /></a></center><br />Enjoy a few sample responses:<br /><br /><I>Why are plastic bags not allowed in Rwanda?</i><br /><br />"plastic bags not allowed in Rwanda because the plastic bags are not distroyed when it is in the soil and these plastic bags against water to travel or to enter in the soil or land"<br /><br />"the plastic bags are not allowed in Rwanda Because they wasn't to use for fertilizing the soil, so when the people finished to use them, they put the plastic bags every where for example on the farm. because the plastic bags are increases the developement are reduces because the crops are scarce."<br /><br /><I>What can YOU do to help Rwanda to be beautiful in the future?</i><br /><br />"There is many events which I can do. I must continue to study when I finish university in USA I will became a pilot. and when I get for money I will put in different activities like agriculture or mineral exploitation is will create the industry of crops which I will cultivate and I used many people in these industry; so our country it can develop."<br /><br />"To help Rwanda to be beautful in future, I can do the following:<br />- I must study.<br />- I can go in the others countries to coperate the modern activities.<br />- I make a good election for the leaders.<br />- I can remove those children who live in the roads without job, to the school.<br />- I can fight against Genocide Ideology.<br />- I can advice the Rwandese to do their own business and avoid to beg.<br />- I will tell the people to have a self confidence of being well."JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-29497442975539947202010-04-17T21:33:00.005+02:002010-04-17T22:51:32.506+02:00Never AgainWhat do I tell you about the Rwandan genocide? It seems that the more I learn about it myself, the further muddled it becomes. It wasn't just 100 days in 1994; the groundwork had been laid for decades, and the repercussions continued to claim lives for years after. The story is far more complicated than just Hutu vs. Tutsi. There were extremists and moderates on both sides, and killing bloodied the hands of government forces <i>and</i> a rebel army <i>and</i> organized militias <i>and</i> ordinary citizens (not to mention the various foreign abettors allegedly involved).<br /><br />The single event that sparked the inferno of death was the fatal shooting-down of a plane carrying the Rwandan president on the night of April 6, 1994 -- the exact circumstances of which have remained a mystery even to this day. What is certain, though, is that widespread slaughter began immediately, methodically and earnestly: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wish-Inform-Tomorrow-Killed-Families/dp/0312243359">one author</A> reports, "The dead of Rwanda accumulated at nearly three times the rate of Jewish dead during the Holocaust. It was the most efficient mass killings since the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki." Husbands killed their wives; priests, their parishioners. Children killed children, and mothers with babies on their backs killed mothers with babies on their backs.<br /><br />Rwandan survivors are committed to remembering these atrocities. They've dedicated <a href="http://genocidememorials.cga.harvard.edu">memorial sites</A> all over the country, in almost every little town. And from April 7-13 each year, they observe a week of mourning for the dead (between 500,000 and 1,000,000, depending who's counting). There is no school during this time, and businesses are required to be closed all day on the 7th and in the subsequent afternoons.<br /><br />I'd had simultaneous dread and curiosity about what it would be like to be here during these days. Truthfully, I felt a little awkward about being here at all, like I would be intruding on a private time that I couldn't possibly understand. How would people act? <I>We have a Memorial Day, too,</i> I mused. What do we do? Oh, yeah -- Have a picnic. Go to the beach. Somehow I doubted that's what would be going on in Rwanda.<br /><br />I opted to lay pretty low. I listened to President Kagame's speech on the radio. He grew up in anglophone Uganda, and he tends to slip in and out of English without a second thought (helpful for me, though I'm guessing it might be frustrating to many Rwandans who listen to him). Throughout the week the radio played various pop tunes decrying the genocide. Some were catchy, upbeat; for the songs in Kinyarwanda, you'd never even guess the ghastly things they were referencing... until your ears happen upon those unmistakable syllables, <I>jen-o-seed</i>. But it's great to know the radio is being used now as a constructive medium for solidarity, as opposed to the horrific role it played 16 years ago in enjoining Hutus to kill the "cockroaches."<br /><br />I spent a good part of the week reading <I><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Shake-Hands-Devil-Failure-Humanity/dp/0786714875">Shake Hands with the Devil</A></i>, the two-inch opus written by Lt. Gen. Roméo Dallaire, Force Commander of UNAMIR, the UN peacekeeping mission to Rwanda. (Aside: He declares his most beloved spot in the country to be Kinihira, which I could literally see out my front window as I read. A little surreal.) Dallaire was on the ground from August '93 to August '94, and he saw the worst of the worst. A million dead is a whole lot of bodies -- he tells of rotting bodies piled into dump trucks, dismembered bodies stacked on the side of the road, bloated bodies clogging up the rivers. Rats actually grew to the size of small dogs as they feasted on the endless supply of decomposing flesh.<br /><br />The book is subtitled "The Failure of Humanity in Rwanda," and that is the message Dallaire drives home: yes, by all means, the machete-wielders and gun-toters are the ones ultimately responsible -- but we the international community could have done something to stop them <I>and chose not to</i>. It's heartbreaking as he details the support he repeatedly begged for from UN member states, with little response. Mid-bloodbath, one U.S. government rep asked for an accurate count of the death toll so far, because "estimates indicated it would take the deaths of 85,000 Rwandans to justify the risking of the life of one American soldier." But how many U.S. soldiers were risked in Yugoslavia? How many so far in Iraq? Is it worth it now? When it comes to human rights, Dallaire raises the question: are some humans "more human" than others?<br /><br />The crazy thing is, looking around this place, you'd never IMAGINE the horrors that happened only 16 years ago. Kigali is modern, clean, organized, and above all safe. As I learn disturbing stories about now-familiar landmarks there and elsewhere in the country, I have so much trouble reconciling the past with the present. I try, really try, to picture these terrifying scenes that I read about. How is it possible?<br /><br />I was thinking: I wonder what Germany felt like in 1961, 16 years on. Well, guess what? That's the year the Berlin Wall was built. But here, killers and victims now live side by side. In peace. Sound idealistic? It's somehow the astounding, unprecedented reality here. <br /><br />Over 42% of Rwanda's population today were born after 1994. They will build the better tomorrow. Turns out maybe, eventually, unbelievably, there is a happy ending after all.<br /><br /><center><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/S8oYRvDvGeI/AAAAAAAACds/C4N3vcEJjL8/s800/DSCN0122.JPG" height="500"><br /><br />* * * * *<br /><b>We bear witness today not just to Rwanda's suffering but also to its renewal -- to survivors who have rebuilt shattered homes and restored battered lives -- to parents who have taken orphans into their arms and their hearts -- to refugees who have found the courage to go home and start anew -- to soldiers who have laid down weapons and taken up tools that build -- to men and women who have won fresh prosperity and brought new comfort to their neighbors and their region -- to leaders and public servants who have strengthened the institutions that enshrine the rule of law and ward off the temptation of turmoil -- to ordinary citizens who have searched their wounded souls and chosen healing over strife, forgiveness over grievance, and reconciliation over revenge. Just as genocide cannot happen without thousands of individual decisions to destroy, recovery happens only with thousands of individual decisions to create.</B><br />- <a href="http://allafrica.com/stories/201004081042.html">Ambassador Susan E. Rice</A><br />U.S. Permanent Representative to the United Nations<br />April 7, 2010</center>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-56272638355331821522010-04-03T16:23:00.006+02:002010-04-03T20:16:36.199+02:00Home sickThis is the Blender Bottle® :<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/S7dSOojKN0I/AAAAAAAACdk/UM2rOI8I7lk/s1600/blenderbottle.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/S7dSOojKN0I/AAAAAAAACdk/UM2rOI8I7lk/s320/blenderbottle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455919884939179842" /></a></center><br />It's awesome. That little whisk ball goes inside. Then you unscrew the lid, pour in your ingredients, shake shake shake, and dispense out the handy flip-spout. I use it all the time to whip up salad dressing, stir-fry sauce, milkshakes, or just powdered drink mix with water. I love it. (I admit, I guess it wouldn't find it as cool living in the Western world, where you probably just use, you know, an actual blender.)<br /><br />The other night I was thirsty and thought I'd fix some lemonade. I went to my little pantry cabinet to get the drink mix, and there I spotted these apple cider packets that my mom just sent. <i>Mmm, sounds yummy.</i> I changed my plan and set some water on to boil. I emptied the cider mix into my faithful Blender Bottle and waited.<br /><br />Now, honestly: are there red flags screaming out to any of you at this point? Through a loophole at my high school, I was the only member of my graduating class never to take a physics course. Maybe this is where it's doomed me. *Apparently* (as corroborated on <a href="http://www.blenderbottle.com">Blender Bottle's website</A>), you are at no point to put hot liquid in this container. Nor baking powder, nor carbonated drinks. Because it's possible that if you do...<br /><br />The thing will explode in your face.<br /><br />And it turns out boiling water to the face really kills! Who knew?<br /><br />For a brief moment, I was frozen in shock, my eyes still squeezed tightly shut. Slowly I blinked them open and was immediately very relieved that my vision was normal -- but instant pain started stinging at my face. Confused, I managed to grab a bandana and run to my water filter. I got the bandana wet and started dabbing frantically at my face, but pain was increasing by the minute and I realized I was shaking. Not knowing what to do, I dashed for my phone and weakly dialed the Peace Corps Medical Officer (PCMO) in Kigali. She authorized me to go to the little village clinic, which happens to be right by my house. My very sweet neighbor escorted me and translated for me, since I sure wasn't up to fending for myself in Kinyarwanda. This was about 7 p.m.<br /><br />A receptionist or nurse seemed quite unhurried and unconcerned as she wrote my name in a book and then disappeared. I kept blotting at my face and tried to concentrate on breathing normally, because I kept gasping and I felt like a child. The woman came back accompanied by a man, who wanted to give me an injection of some kind but I refused because the PCMO had advised against it -- can you imagine what could go wrong with that? So they put some zinc oxide ointment on me (it's worth noting, actually, that they did not personally apply it but just gave the tub to my neighbor, who then smeared it on for me) and gave me two little ziplock baggies of pills and sent me on my way. No paperwork and no payment.<br /><br />Fortunately, I thought to ask what the pills were. The first were just ibuprofen, but the others were amoxicillin -- good to know, because I'm allergic to penicillin. Later, I thought about how often average Rwandan citizens must be administered drugs they might be allergic to, maybe even dangerously so. I'm sure meds are abused all the time, since the clinic staff didn't exactly give me clear instructions about how long to continue medicating, and the supply I received was excessive to say the least.<br /><br />So, I didn't take the amoxicillin, but the PCMO said ibuprofen and Tylenol should be enough. The pain was really bad that first night, although the zinc oxide helped some, and it subsided considerably the next day. The water hit me the worst around my mouth and under/inside my nose, so they were very sore and numb. My eyelids also were quite tender. <br /><br />The pain seemed to decrease in inverse proportion to the ridiculousness of my appearance. At first I was just kind of pink and swollen, although suffering greatly. Two days after the fact, I thought I'd return to school because I was feeling basically fine. I got dressed and ready, but upon stepping back from the mirror I realized I actually just looked like a clown. So I resorted to staying home a while longer, following a strict thrice-daily routine: cleaning my face with a baby wipe and carefully removing all the dead skin, lathering up almost my whole face with antibiotic ointment, then covering it all up with gauze.<br /><br />For roughly 84 hours straight I was locked up inside my house. But the human body is an amazingly resilient thing, and I'm pretty much all better now. Because I guess I'm a masochist, I leave you with some brief photo documentation of my fun-filled week. I don't know how well you can see all the gory details, but enjoy.<br /><br />Oh, and for the record: I still love you, Blender Bottle.<br /><br /><center><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" width="600" height="400" flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&captions=1&noautoplay=1&hl=en_US&feat=flashalbum&RGB=0x000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Fjulie.ann.clark%2Falbumid%2F5455616663328300353%3Falt%3Drss%26kind%3Dphoto%26hl%3Den_US" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></center>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-90335391090689293272010-03-19T20:07:00.006+02:002010-03-19T21:10:02.798+02:00Lovin' my kids, my house, and LarryI've been BUSY! What is that all about?<br /><br />School is great. I only wish I got to see my kids more -- two 50-minute periods a week per class is not much. As hard as I try in my planning, I almost always run out of time in class for all that I want to do! But we're having fun. I love that I can have legit conversations with these kids in English. Their contributions may not always be entirely grammatical, but they can make themselves understood.<br /><br />We just did a really fun activity for International Women's Day where I divided the students into small groups to read and summarize a short text about a particular distinguished female. I tried to pick mostly strong black women as good role models for these kids, so we had Michelle Obama, Condoleezza Rice (though some found it hilarious that she is named "rice"), Rosa Parks, Wangari Maathai (ashamed to say I'd never heard of her before researching this project, but what a cool Nobel laureate from Kenya). Summarizing in a foreign language is not an easy task, so I was, yet again in this country, really impressed by some of the results. I also asked them to write what they had learned from the text. Actual responses: "to love each other and never care about the color of the skin," and "try and fail, but do not fail to try." Where that came from, no idea. Awesome.<br /><br />Plus, my kids here are SO well-behaved! I've not had a single discipline issue so far in six weeks of teaching. When I gave my first quiz, I prefaced it with my customary ixnay-on-cheating spiel. In Mauritania, cheating was the standard, and the kids were masterful. One rolled up a tiny strip of paper inside the clear barrel of a pen; another had a friend outside the classroom toss a balled-up sheet in through an open window. But here -- I didn't see a single instance. And I'm darn good at busting cheaters. I was stunned, happily.<br /><br />In grading, there are the mistakes that break your heart because they're just so far off the mark, but I prefer the mistakes that just crack me up. For instance, one kid gave me a late assignment with a handwritten note: "I didn't the homework because I was illing." (Yeah you were, son, yeah you were.) Anyway, the most enjoyable part of marking midterms for me was the fill-in-the-blank vocab section, with a word bank. Here are a few priceless errors that felt the wrath of my red pen:<br /><center>- The doctor will give you <B>INJURIES</B> to make you feel better.<br /><i>[Only if I'm looking to win a malpractice suit!]</i><br />- In a democracy, everyone has the same <B>OPPRESSION</B>.<br /><i>[Technically I guess so?]</i><br />- Mutoni brought the <B>SKUNK</B> to start the fire for cooking.<br /><i>[Count me out for that meal]</i><br />- The USA has more than 300 million <B>RIGHTS</B>.<br /><i>[Interesting from an outside perspective]</i></center><br />In other news, I'm thrilled to announce to you that I'M IN MY NEW HOUSE!! I had to fight for it ("But the fence isn't done, and we still need to paint" -- <I>I don't care, let me move my stuff!!</i>), but I forced my way in about two weeks ago now. It's pretty spectacular. I'm getting all settled, still waiting for a few pieces of furniture, but I promise to give you a proper tour when it's all set up. I'm loving it, though. Here's a teaser pic of the view out my front door. The tallest mountain in the distance is Muhabura, 30 miles away on the border with Uganda. It's a volcano about 13,500 feet high.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/S6O-cmRew_I/AAAAAAAACZU/IOOW3rFFY_4/s1600-h/IMG_9214.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/S6O-cmRew_I/AAAAAAAACZU/IOOW3rFFY_4/s320/IMG_9214.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450409372567913458" /></a></center><br />So I got the big birthday present of getting to be in my new house! Other highlights of that day included teaching my adult English class to sing the "Happy Birthday" song to me, opening two stellar care packages (props to Teresa and my sister Brenda!), and most importantly, a shout-out on Voice of America radio. Now, please understand: VOA broadcasts <I>worldwide</i>. And the best DJ is Larry London, who I listen to every day. So I was giggling like a little girl for a solid hour after he wished me a happy birthday in Rwanda *and* said I put a smile on his face! OH, LARRY LONDON!<br /><br />I leave you with this: for the past several birthdays, I've taken photos of myself displaying my new age. Turns out 26 doesn't work quite as well.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/S6O_eVMSnKI/AAAAAAAACZc/IX9Nsx8eQXw/s1600-h/26collage.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/S6O_eVMSnKI/AAAAAAAACZc/IX9Nsx8eQXw/s320/26collage.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450410501854108834" /></a></center>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-56508867613080041462010-03-01T21:49:00.001+02:002010-03-01T21:56:17.290+02:00Odd & cheesyI owe you a blog. I also owe you photos, in a big way. Trouble is, I was waaaaaiting and hoping to show you pictures of my new house.<br /><br />BUT I STILL. DON'T. HAVE. A HOUSE.<br /><br />This is my biggest point of frustration lately. When I moved to Buyoga on December 30th, they told me the house needed a few repairs and would be ready in two weeks. So, why should I be surprised that now it's March, and I've yet to move into it? Sigh. It's progressing... slowly... I repeatedly am given be-all-end-all deadlines that pass without fanfare, but it looks like I actually may get into it soon. "Soon," like, perhaps by the end of this week. Maybe. My birthday is the 10th, and lately I just have my fingers crossed that the house will be my big gift.<br /><br />In other news, it's the rainy season here. Majorly. For the past week it's been coming down HARD. I understand that America's been hit with a slew of snowstorms recently, and actually the rainstorms here are quite similar. People just lock themselves inside, postponing appointments or work or school (my students can't believe when I actually show up to class, with my umbrella and rain jacket and boots). And the rural areas don't have the infrastructure to deal with such relentless deluge. Roofs notoriously leak, fields get flooded out, and rocky hillsides crumble dangerously onto roads below.<br /><br />This past Friday I'd had plans to go to Kigali, but the rain would not let up. It'd been pouring all the day before, and by that morning it was still sprinkling steadily. I knew the "roads" (read: rugged dirt paths) would be a muddy mess. Remember, my primary -- and only available, normally -- mode of transportation out of my site is by motorcycle taxi.<br /><br />Well, it was a wild ride alright. I was wearing my jacket over top of my huge hiking backpack, plus my awesome ginormous astronaut-looking helmet on my head. The whole time, with white knuckles, gritted teeth, and knitted brows, I was praying an inner monologue something like this: "Don't fall, don't fall, goslowgoslowGOSLOW!, oh please, oh God, oh God please..." ad infinitum. My driver navigated the way commendably, and very wisely had me get off and walk at about five different points. But even so, I experienced my first moto wipeout. It wasn't so much catapulting through the air as it was a very ungraceful slow capsize. And the consequence of falling wasn't so much danger of bodily injury as danger of getting absolutely covered in mud. Which is what happened. Plus, okay, a fabulously gnarly purple bruise on my hip and a skinned knee. What are you gonna do? We made it, which is what counts!<br /><br />Part of the reason I wanted to get to Kigali so badly was to meet our newest class of Peace Corps trainees, who arrived Thursday night. There are about 35 of them, all working in the health sector. It was fun to get to chat a bit and answer some of their questions. After being in the Peace Corps for over 20 months now (is it already so long?!), it's nice to share this hard-won knowledge with people who can benefit from it. I'll be headed down to their training site in a couple weeks to facilitate some sessions.<br /><br />I'm trying to continue studying Kinyarwanda when I can, although I'm busier nowadays. And truthfully I don't get a ton of opportunities to speak it on an everyday basis, since everyone at school speaks English to me (in some degree of comprehensibility). But I like to greet the villagers I pass as I'm walking to work, and of course I use it in the market to negotiate prices. Inevitably, a surprised bystander overhears me and comments to no one in particular, "<I>Arakizi</I>!" It's pronounced like "odd-a-cheesy," which is how I always render it in my head, and it means <I>she knows it</i>. It never fails to bring a satisfied smile to my face.<br /><br />So that's my life these days. Odd & cheesy. And more than a little muddy.JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-91820670484875928512010-02-13T22:17:00.004+02:002010-02-13T22:24:22.097+02:00Seriously, where am I?On my final weekend before school started, I went to visit Mark and Matt, fellow transfers from Mauritania. They get the prize for sweetest set-up in Peace Corps Rwanda. They are working at a university and living on the campus, overlooking gorgeous Lake Kivu (16th largest lake in the world, you know!). The boys live together in a cushy 3-bedroom house with a furnished living room, indoor bathroom, running water, kitchen with 4-burner electric stove/oven and fridge, and free high-speed wireless internet. Not exactly roughing it! But fortunately, Mark and Matt are quite amenable to receiving visitors. We had fun making some delicious food (facilitated by a care package -- thanks, Yates!) and night-swimming in the lake. The water is a ridiculously perfect temperature, at all times of day and all seasons of the year. The full moon was rising over us just as we waded in, and if I swam out far enough I could see it barely peeking through the trees. It was one of those ridiculous moments where you look around like: seriously, <I>where</i> am I?!<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/S3cJWI_VouI/AAAAAAAACY8/r-aCBg9glbA/s1600-h/19664_823694941633_6208783_45615759_1880637_n.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/S3cJWI_VouI/AAAAAAAACY8/r-aCBg9glbA/s320/19664_823694941633_6208783_45615759_1880637_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437825351048078050" /></a></center><br />The boys' site is about two and a half hours from Kigali. On my bus ride there, I grabbed a window seat and settled in with my iPod. After a bit, I happened to see the girl two over from me with some viscous liquid on her hand, dripping onto my backpack on the floor below her. My initial thought was: aw, poor girl, did she break an egg or something? I noticed she was holding a brown paper bag -- which she promptly puked into. AND then the girl between us joined in vomiting too, in the same bag!! Unbelievable, so gross. Leaking all over the floor, onto my stuff, which they didn't even attempt to wipe off. And wryly I remembered PCVs' horror travel stories about people spewing out of control on these buses. In this "Land of a Thousand Hills," the roads have many twists and turns, and yes, the drivers tend to whip around them, but get it together. Honestly.<br /><br />Sure enough, there was more throwing up on my ride back.<br /><br />School has been a little slow getting started here, unsurprisingly. For the first week I just played secretary and helped to register new kids (continuing in my valiant struggle to interpret Kinyarwanda names). It's a boarding school, so before classes could really get underway, we had to wait for at least the majority of students to arrive. They came from all over the country, rolling up to the school on motorcycle taxis or in private cars, each kid invariably toting the same things: a backpack, a small suitcase, a bucket with a lid, and a rolled-up foam pad mattress. Guess that's all you need for boarding school in Rwanda.<br /><br />Now, two full weeks since our start date, a few slackers are still trickling in, but stuff has gotten started at least. I am teaching all 5 or 6 sections of the highest level at our school, S4 (4th year of secondary school, about equivalent to 10th grade American). For English, each section has two one-hour classes per week. I am thrilled about only teaching one level, because that means only one level to plan for. Planning is what takes forever here, when you're working with such limited resources. In Mauritania I only taught 8 hours per week, but that was for 4 different levels. I much prefer this.<br /><br />I'm really impressed with the kids. I feel like we run a pretty tight ship at our school, so there aren't discipline issues. The biggest struggle for me, I think, will be working with such a multi-level classroom. I have some students who grew up in anglophone Uganda and are absolutely fluent in English. One doesn't even speak Kinyarwanda! So of course these kids are bored out of their minds when I am speaking painstakingly deliberately in my "Special English."<br /><br />But overall, teaching has put a pep back in my step. The general skill level here is enabling me to do so much more than I could in Mauritania. This past Thursday I'd wanted to do a lesson on Nelson Mandela, since February 11 was the 20th anniversary of his release from prison (a fact I knew only from the relentless coverage on BBC and Voice of America). Completely coincidentally, when visiting Mark I had just gotten a copy of the movie <I>Invictus</i>, which so happens to be all about Mandela. I haven't even watched it yet, but I thought I'd flip through it just to see if there might be anything to jump out at me. And what do you know, the very opening scene reads: "South Africa: February 11, 1990" -- followed by real footage of Mandela (due respect to Morgan Freeman). How perfect, I thought! Am I brave enough to show this clip in class? I wouldn't have dared in Mauritania, with 75 wild kids in a single classroom. But here, the classes are a relatively much more manageable size, 30-40, and they're so good.<br /><br />Well, I dared. And it was GREAT! After watching the clip, kids that hadn't spoken all class were suddenly raising their hands. I loved it. They picked up on the white and black boys playing football separately, visual evidence of apartheid. And when I asked what it means for a country to be democratic, one girl told me, haltingly with crisp enunciation, "It means a government of the people." "Yes!" I replied, impressed with the answer. But she wasn't done: "...by the people, for the people." Are you kidding me?! Seriously, where am I?JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-66972986409772074382010-01-29T10:00:00.003+02:002010-01-29T15:41:06.559+02:00Ihangane: Kinyarwanda 101It 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, <I>dee-VEEN</i>. 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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQF9kpwupeU">cheesiness of the video</A>, but Divine seemed to study the big '80s hair quite seriously.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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:<br /><br />- In both, "to marry" is a different word depending on your gender. For males, it's an active verb; for females, passive.<br />- In both, the word for "month" is the same as that for "moon."<br />- 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).<br />- 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.<br />- In both, to say "we're leaving now," you use the past tense, as if it's already happened.<br />- In both, the word for "trouble" is exclusively used in the plural.<br /><br />One of the new Kinyarwanda words I learned this week was <I>gukama</i>, 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.<br /><br />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, <I>squish squish squish</i> 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: "<i>Ni byiza cyane! Ur'umuhanga pe!</i> 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.<br /><br />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. <I>Ihangane</i> -- 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.<br /><br />...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.JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-44166913312783992552010-01-11T12:47:00.002+02:002010-01-11T12:52:35.208+02:00Officially a Buyogan (Buyogian? Buyogite?)I arrived in Buyoga on December 30th. From Kigali, you head north to Rulindo District for an easy 40 minutes on a snaking paved road that seems to ascend endlessly higher and higher. Then comes the "fun"... For my initial arrival, I got to travel with all my luggage in a nice Peace Corps SUV, but normally the primary mode of transport from this point is an exhilarating motorcycle taxi. You weave your way up crumbling dirt paths, climbing to still <i>higher</i> heights. After another 40 minutes, you reach Buyoga, perched on a mountainside with views of terraced farms on adjacent hills and meticulously-groomed tea plantations in the valley below. I know, I know, I'm living the hard life. That's just the beginning, though!<br /><br />My headmaster gave me the tour of the secondary school where I'll be working, and let's just say I'm pretty excited. It bears little resemblance to my school in Mauritania, as it boasts among other things: electricity (with back-up solar power as well as a generator), a photocopier, a computer lab, a fully-stocked chemistry lab, satellite TV in the teachers' lounge, basketball and volleyball courts, and a brand new library. In September $50,000 worth of donated books arrived from the nonprofit World Vision. There are textbooks in all subjects, dictionaries, CD-ROMs and audio cassettes -- mostly in English but some in French also. Unbelievable. Additionally, my very-motivated headmaster has plans to buy laptops and equip the school for wireless internet perhaps as soon as April. (YES, PLEASE!)<br /><br />The school also has some animal husbandry projects. Literally in my backyard are six cows, and just down the road are five special cows that were a gift to our school from the President of Rwanda, Paul Kagame. In October they arrived on a plane from Ireland. Their dairy production is up to 5 times that of a Rwandan cow! And there are also about 200 rabbits, all colors and sizes -- and all really cute.<br /><br />As for accommodations: upon my arrival at site in Mauritania, I was given an empty one-room cement block, about 10' x 10', with no electricity and a latrine outside. Here I have a whole <I>house</i>?! My headmaster picked one out for me, so now it's being pretty much gutted and revamped. Probably not necessary, really, but that was already in the works. They told me it'd take two weeks when I arrived, and then someone said a month, so I'm hoping to split the difference perhaps. Anyway, I guess the Ministry of Education is paying for all this, because I'm sure not. But the new house will have three bedrooms, a living room, electricity and -- an indoor bathroom! Now, admittedly, this is still rural Africa, so yes, it's really just a cement hole that you squat over... but THIS hole is indoors! And it drains to a pit outside. I am thrilled. Until the new place is ready, I am staying in a similar house, also all to myself. I have sofa chairs and a coffee table and a big wooden bed. <i>And</i> I don't even have to sleep in a net because there are no mosquitoes at this elevation. Oh, the luxury.<br /><br />So, I have a lot to look forward to this year! For now, though, I pretty much just have a lot of time to kill. The first day of classes isn't until February 1st, so that's essentially when my work begins. In the interim I've been settling back into that familiar Peace Corps life of perpetual free time. I've achieved my long-time goal of being able to name the capital of every country in the world, so that's pretty exciting (South Africa has three; Nauru has none!). Also I have a cumulative score of $6127 on iPod Solitaire, if that means anything to you. And pretty much whenever I'm in my house, I'm listening to the BBC or Voice of America on the radio. They have some excellent programs, which keep me in touch with world news <i>and</I> American pop music -- from yesterday and today! Who could ask for anything more, right?<br /><br />OK, OK, I try to do some "useful" things with my time as well. I've been meeting people in the community, and I started giving daily English classes at the school to 4 or 5 enthusiastic coworkers. Also, I've been having fun experimenting with my cooking. You have to understand, cooking totally from scratch on a single burner takes some time and effort. But I have made a successful tomato sauce, and gazpacho, and you can't beat good old French fries. Produce is super cheap here. There is a market every Thursday in Buyoga, so I stock up for the week by spending about $2. Each of the following costs the equivalent of 20 cents (100 Rwandan francs): a kilo of potatoes, 20 small tomatoes, 3 avocados, 4 large green bell peppers, a pineapple. And the stable boys outside my house even bring me fresh milk from the cows twice a day!<br /><br />As I glance back over this blog entry, I see an exclamation point in every paragraph. You got me: I'm pumped.<br /><br />I do have fleas, so you can't win 'em all, I guess. But there's hydrocortisone for that.JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-23049017950164749582009-12-23T14:18:00.007+02:002009-12-27T14:47:11.647+02:00Because you only swear in once... oh waitAfter another 10 weeks of mentally grueling training, I am officially a Peace Corps Rwanda Volunteer. Our swear-in was held on Saturday at U.S. Ambassador Stuart Symington's residence in Kigali. He has a lovely backyard where we held our ceremony under some tents. Our country director, John Reddy, gave a few words of welcome, and then we had some short thank you speeches from PCVs: Michele and Kevin together in Kinyarwanda, I in French, and lastly <a href="http://www.katy-moran.com">Katy</A> in English. Then the ambassador gave us some words of encouragement, and we swore our oath. The oath is the most exciting part to me because it's the same words that all U.S. government employees recite. (The PCVs from Mauritania did not technically need to take the oath again, but most of us chose to repeat it anyway.)<br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzdUBmSOgYI/AAAAAAAACXQ/wKMXvVsBq0E/s1600-h/IMG_9118.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzdUBmSOgYI/AAAAAAAACXQ/wKMXvVsBq0E/s320/IMG_9118.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419893062997279106" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzdTKOwA1iI/AAAAAAAACXA/i-A9L3jgCCs/s1600-h/IMG_9109.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzdTKOwA1iI/AAAAAAAACXA/i-A9L3jgCCs/s320/IMG_9109.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419892111786956322" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzdTptS73mI/AAAAAAAACXI/-eersRYrvRs/s1600-h/IMG_9152.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzdTptS73mI/AAAAAAAACXI/-eersRYrvRs/s320/IMG_9152.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419892652562439778" /></a></center><br />Following the ceremony we had some delicious catered food and entertainment from a traditional dance and drum troupe. We were told that the group was created to give opportunities to children from "disadvantaged" backgrounds. Each year they travel internationally, and last time they took first place for all of Africa in a competition in Holland. I am awestruck by how gracefully some of these children can move. One girl pulled me up to join her in a dance at the end. She kept pushing my arms up higher and then would nod with satisfaction when I got them in the right place. It was fun, even though she far outshone me! <br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzIWQ2mu0eI/AAAAAAAACWY/UnrYAaIU3Os/s1600-h/IMG_9147.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzIWQ2mu0eI/AAAAAAAACWY/UnrYAaIU3Os/s320/IMG_9147.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418417780471812578" /></a></center><br />Perhaps the only sad thing about training being over was having to say goodbye to our LCFs (Language and Cross-Culture Facilitators, which is fancy Peace Corps-speak for "teachers"). Our relationship with LCFs here was much different than in Mauritania. There they were all male and at least 45 years old. Here there were more female than male, and their average age was 26. (I'm 25.) Also, in Mauritania we had the same LCF for all of training, but here we would switch often so we got to know everyone. They were definitely more like peers here, and we would go out to meals and bars with them in the evenings.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzdSs7NSVcI/AAAAAAAACW4/jSQs6sIkAB4/s1600-h/IMG_9104.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzdSs7NSVcI/AAAAAAAACW4/jSQs6sIkAB4/s320/IMG_9104.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419891608324822466" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzdSVSB-QzI/AAAAAAAACWw/iU50kwQW6ok/s1600-h/IMG_9096.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzdSVSB-QzI/AAAAAAAACWw/iU50kwQW6ok/s320/IMG_9096.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419891202134524722" /></a></center><br />Last week we had a farewell party with a Secret Santa gift exchange, and I was put in charge of the decorations. We had already bedecked the room with paper snowflakes and stockings I sewed out of dental floss (PCVs gotta be resourceful!), but the final pièce de résistance was a one-of-a-kind winter landscape. It included hand-sketched Santa and Mrs. Claus in a sleigh drawn by 12 reindeer, with a few elves looking on -- but each character's face was one of our training staff! Unsurprisingly I ran into a big hassle trying to print the photos, but in the end everything turned out so amazing, thanks to the help of many artistically talented PCVs. I'm not sure the Rwandans really "got" what the scene represented (considering one told me, "Oh, they're goats!"), but they really appreciated it and many were taking photos of themselves next to their little characters.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzdUbL7e1OI/AAAAAAAACXY/K09JO-NK1A0/s1600-h/IMG_9094.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzdUbL7e1OI/AAAAAAAACXY/K09JO-NK1A0/s320/IMG_9094.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419893502599156962" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzIfmK3BNBI/AAAAAAAACWo/-ntj89KR2E0/s1600-h/IMG_9095.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SzIfmK3BNBI/AAAAAAAACWo/-ntj89KR2E0/s320/IMG_9095.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418428042290738194" /></a></center><br />I'm sure you all know that Peace Corps Volunteers don't earn much in the way of money during our service, but we do get a nice one-time "settling-in allowance" just after swearing in. Consequently on Monday, fresh from opening our new bank accounts, we all raided the shops in Kigali and purchased more than we could ever need for our new homes. Pots, and pans, sugar and spices, brooms and buckets -- we're ready to go! Peace Corps gave us some nice heavy-duty foot lockers to pack our goodies in, and we hauled everything back to Nyanza. We'll be here for Christmas together, and then we begin dispersing to our sites on Monday (in Peace Corps transportation, thankfully). Can't wait!<br /><br />'Til then, I've got Christmas tunes on my iPod, Christmas lights from Kigali, and Christmas joy in my heart. ;) Wishing you the best. <b>Noheri Nziza!</b>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-48197877319723964852009-12-15T14:29:00.001+02:002009-12-15T14:37:27.471+02:00Winding down and Buyoga-bound!It's seemed like quite a long road, but my second go of Peace Corps "pre-service training" is drawing to a close. As they say in Mauritania, <i>alhamdulillah</i> -- thank God! I am appreciative of our training staff because it's sure not an easy task to build a Peace Corps program from scratch, and I don't envy their task. All things considered, I feel I've learned some useful and pertinent information, and I feel very ready to start this next chapter!<br /><br />We closed out our TEFL training with a final all-day technical workshop that I helped to organize. I facilitated one of the sessions, on Community Content-Based Instruction or CCBI (I'd be happy to teach you about it, if you're interested!). Then last Friday, a full nine weeks into our ten-week training, we finally learned our site placements. Usually Peace Corps trainees find out about halfway through, but again since our program is new, they were still coordinating them until just recently.<br /><br />My future home is called <B>BUYOGA</B>! I have not seen it before and probably will not get to until I actually move there just after Christmas. But I can tell you that it looks like it's about an hour from Kigali, with a motorcycle-taxi ride for some distance off the paved road. When I asked for details from one of the Peace Corps staff members who had visited this place, she gushed, "I <i>LOVE</i> your site!" She said the school has a lab with 15 computers and a brand new library with books donated from World Vision. They also have animal husbandry projects with pigs, rabbits, and cows (including five shipped over from Ireland!). I don't want to say too much more because some of it is still just rumors, but I'll be sure to give you a full run-down once I arrive and get settled in home sweet Buyoga!<br /><br />The last training hurdle was on Saturday as we had our final language exam, which is an oral interview called the LPI. You have a conversation with a certified tester, and they give you a holistic score. The categories are Novice, Intermediate, and High (each broken into Low, Mid, and High), and then Superior is reserved for fluency of a native speaker.<br /><br />I was surprised to find that, going into the test, I actually felt more prepared than I had before my LPI in Pulaar at the end of training in Mauritania. True, I was much more immersed in the language there, as I was living with a host family and had language class for about eight hours a day. Here we seemed to spend less time in formal class, but consequently I made more of an effort to study on my own. Plus I think that the second time learning a wildly different, non-Germanic/Romance language is just that much easier. Pulaar and Kinyarwanda have a few commonalities as far as their grammar goes.<br /><br />Anyway, I took the LPI in the morning, and I felt like it went pretty well. I hadn't studied much per se because I had been reviewing a lot all through training. After lunch that day, our training director told me he wanted to see me in his office. I followed him in, and he told me to take a seat. He's a little bit of a prankster, so I couldn't tell if I should be worried or not. "I want to talk about your LPI," he said. "I am <I>very</i> surprised with the results." Surprised like bad? Did I do much worse than I had anticipated?<br /><br />He then went on to tell me I had received a score of Advanced-High. I couldn't believe it! For the record, since our program is new we do not have testers who are officially certified in LPI, so this counts only as a mock assessment. But even so, I felt shocked and very humbled, not deserving of such a ranking. Perhaps it's because I threw in some good jokes? Like when I had to pretend I was in the market and I told the tester, "<I>Umva, mucuruzi, ndi umuzungu ku ruhu, noneho gabanya</i>." [Listen, vendor, I'm a white person only on the outside, so reduce your price to something fair.]<br /><br />Final interviews and recommendations this week, and our swear-in will be this Saturday, December 19th, at the ambassador's residence. Photos to come, promise!JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-55703994396069897002009-12-01T13:32:00.004+02:002009-12-01T14:05:07.054+02:00Celebrate good timesIt's been a busy few days! This past week was our last of Model School, the student-teaching to prepare us for working in Rwandan classrooms. We had about 500 kids total in 9 sections. Their ages ranged from about 10 to 21. I really enjoyed getting in front of students again, and Model School kids are especially fun to teach because they are the ones who have volunteered to attend class on their vacation! They are very bright, too; I was continually impressed by their skills and vocab.<br /><br />I observed a class where another trainee, Bethel, facilitated a debate. I had my doubts -- even my sharpest Mauritanian students would not be able to handle such an assignment -- but these kids were totally on point. The topic was whether it's good for English to be the new medium of instruction in Rwandan schools. One boy suggested buying a self-guided CD to improve one's English. "But on those CDs, I find it difficult because I cannot understand the pronunciation," one girl countered. "Well," another boy offered, "you can practice by listening to the radio, English programs like BBC or Voice of America." I couldn't believe it! Real cogent arguments! It makes me really excited about teaching in Rwanda, that these types of activities are possible.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SxUF5ODFAAI/AAAAAAAACWI/bPM9AntvogM/s1600/IMG_9028.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SxUF5ODFAAI/AAAAAAAACWI/bPM9AntvogM/s320/IMG_9028.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410237007937208322" /></a></center><br />My final lesson was on Thanksgiving, and we talked about other holidays as well. As we brainstormed a list together, the students mentioned Valentine's Day. To check their comprehension, I asked them what happens on that day. "It is a day to visit your friends," one student told me. <i>Any</i> friends, I clarified? "Your honey," he said. Fair enough.<br /><br />Thanksgiving came to Nyanza in a big way. For starters, somehow Peace Corps rounded up five live turkeys in this country. Then, on Thanksgiving Day, the U.S. Ambassador paid a special personal visit to us from Kigali. His name is Stuart Symington and he was kind enough (on his day off, no less) to bring us yet another turkey, homemade stuffing, and -- more than I could have hoped for! -- genuine pumpkin pie. Also, I congratulated myself for the foresight to bring Ocean Spray jellied cranberry sauce from America. Yes, it took up precious space and weight in my luggage, but it was so worth it! I cradled my can like a little baby in the hours leading up to our feast. I promise I did share, but I also had a healthy portion myself. (And I may or may not have slurped up the last of it with a straw.)<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SxT_6UcXZGI/AAAAAAAACV4/VAqdS7uKSyA/s1600/IMG_9051.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SxT_6UcXZGI/AAAAAAAACV4/VAqdS7uKSyA/s320/IMG_9051.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410230429763986530" /></a></center><br />Between that and the pumpkin pie, it was a true Thanksgiving, not just a cheap Peace Corps imitation. We also made our own stuffing, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, green bean casserole, corn & avocado gazpacho, and a plethora of desserts: apple pie, banana pie, mango-pineapple pie, strawberry pie, chocolate mousse, crepes with chocolate fondue, banana cake, and chocolate-peanut butter no-bakes. DELICIOUS! Some trainees picked lots of fresh flowers in autumn hues for some festive centerpieces. On the walls were kindergarten-like hand turkeys we had traced and decorated, and we also put up a big poster-sheet where we listed things we're thankful for. Then we ate by candlelight with light jazz playing in the background. It was a warm and fuzzy and happy day.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SxUC-shsSrI/AAAAAAAACWA/egB98f5c2T0/s1600/IMG_9045.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SxUC-shsSrI/AAAAAAAACWA/egB98f5c2T0/s320/IMG_9045.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410233803483138738" /></a></center><br />But the celebrations didn't stop there! This weekend was also the most important Muslim festival of the year, which is called Tabaski in West Africa or just Eid elsewhere. It commemorates the sacrifice of Abraham and is traditionally celebrated with a great feast. Mauritanian PCVs never miss a chance to party, so on the heels o Thanksgiving we also brought Tabaski to Nyanza. (There is a Muslim population in Rwanda, but it's pretty small, less than 2%.) We got a 2-for-1 deal on goats, only $44 total.<br /><br />After a year in Mauritania, I've certainly seen my share of animals being slaughtered, but I still can't really bring myself to watch the act of it. The blood makes me queasy; once that's all cleared away, I find the skinning and organ removal pretty interesting, like a cool science lesson. Goats' stomachs are really big, for instance. Their hearts seem comparatively small -- something I can tell you because this weekend, for the first time in my life, I tasted some heart. It tasted fine because it was smothered in butter and garlic and curry, but the consistency was odd. Squishy, not firm at all, almost spongy. Anyway, we made lots of delicious kabobs (not with heart meat) and perhaps the most wonderful Mauritanian dish, <I>banafe</i>. It's a meat and potato stew with lots of thick broth that you soak up with bread.<br /><br />The final cause for celebration is that last week I FINALLY got my luggage I'd requested from Mauritania. When we were informed of our evacuation, we were in Senegal and were not allowed to return to Mauritania, but we could give Peace Corps an itemized list of things we wanted (up to 100 pounds). Various staff members went to every one of our sites and attempted to get what we'd asked for. Our Mauritania country director had told us that our bags would be waiting for us here in Rwanda when we arrived eight weeks ago, but unfortunately I guess there was a lot of red tape to sort through.<br /><br />I'd heard horror stories of other PCVs who were missing a bunch of stuff or who received "surprise" items (like Marta, who got a mysterious pair of gold sequin panties... ?!) But in the end I got all the important stuff, which is pretty amazing and I am really grateful to Aw, the Associate Peace Corps Director who packed my bags. I got all my lesson plans and teaching materials, and my Pulaar language books, and all my clothing. Alllll the other stuff that I left behind I bequeathed to my host family. It's all good, I was going to leave all that stuff for them eventually anyway. Guess they've been living high on the hog with my thick foam mattress and sharp American knives and solar-powered lantern and big buckets and woven mats and...JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-34043152815597963772009-11-16T12:58:00.006+02:002009-11-16T13:30:51.231+02:00The Mwami of Rwanda: a brief historyFor these ten weeks of Peace Corps training, I am living in the town of Nyanza. It is the capital of Rwanda's Southern Province, yet it's considered rural (which I find funny since there are 230,000 residents and several internet cafés). We're about an hour and a half from the national capital, Kigali.<br /><br />The coolest thing about Nyanza is that for hundreds of years, it was home to the King of Rwanda and thus was the heart of the kingdom. I've now had the opportunity to visit the museum and palaces here in Nyanza, as well as the national museum in Butare, so I'll share some of the interesting historical stuff I've learned. (Apologies for any inaccuracies; I am far from an expert. Most of the facts here were taken from <I>Rwanda: The Bradt Travel Guide</i>, Philip Briggs and Janice Booth, 2001.)<br /><br />Because of its geographical location deep in central Africa, Rwanda was very isolated until as late as the 1890s. Unlike neighboring Tanzania and Kenya, here there is no evidence of visits from Arab or Asian merchants. In Rwanda there was very little foreign trade and no known monetary system. Also, notably, Rwanda is one of a few African countries never to have sold its people (or enemies) into slavery.<br /><br />Written language is only a recent phenomenon in Rwanda, and thus most of its history is known only through oral tradition. It is generally accepted that the Kingdom of Rwanda was founded in the 10th-11th century. In the language Kinyarwanda, the king was called a <I>mwami</i>. As a rule, he was of Tutsi ethnicity and was considered the principal authority of the land. The well-being of the country was inseparable from the health of the mwami; if he fell ill, people worried that trouble was in store.<br /><br />The royal palace was located in Nyanza. The original ancient palace has been destroyed, but a replica was reconstructed close to its original site. Now, when I hear the word <i>palace</i>, I typically think of towering ramparts and moats with drawbridges. In Rwanda it was a little different: namely a large compound of circular straw huts. The mwami's personal hut was by far the tallest, with a huge bed ("California king size" does not begin to describe it) made of animal skin stretched tightly across a wooden frame. Outside his hut was a sort of foyer for receiving his subjects, as the mwami served as supreme judge in all disputes. Many smaller huts housed all the mwami's retinue: cooks, hunters, guards, runners, hangmen, and palanquin bearers (to transport the mwami on his covered litter); those in charge of weapons, those in charge of wardrobe, and those in charge of furniture; historians, dancers, musicians, mimes, soothsayers, magicians, and artisans.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SwE1ECu2I5I/AAAAAAAACVU/B-bT8V09dFs/s1600/Nyanza+king+palace.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SwE1ECu2I5I/AAAAAAAACVU/B-bT8V09dFs/s320/Nyanza+king+palace.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404659371390411666" /></a></center><br />In contrast to most of Africa, Rwanda and Burundi were <I>not</i> given artificial borders by European colonizers. They had both been established kingdoms for centuries when, in the Berlin Conference of 1885, they were assigned (as "Ruanda-Urundi") to Germany as part of German East Africa. Interestingly, hitherto no white man had ever set foot there.<br /><br />The first official European visit to Rwanda was by a German count in 1894. He visited Nyanza and met the mwami, Rwabugiri. The foreigner caused an uproar among the aristocrats when he dared to shake the mwami's hand. Surely disaster would follow, they reasoned! (Perhaps they were right -- the beginning of the end, of life as they knew it...) It's worth noting that at this point the mwami had no idea that his kingdom had been "officially" under German sovereignty for the past nine years. The Germans in fact were rather surprised to find Rwanda so highly organized, with tight hierarchies and administrative divisions.<br /><br />But Germany didn't stay in Rwanda very long. Belgians invaded in World War I, and a succeeding League of Nations mandate in 1919 officially transferred the territory to them. At this time the mwami was Musinga, but he resented colonization so much that Belgium eventually forced him to abdicate the throne in 1931. His more westernized son, Mutara III Charles Rudahigwa, became the new mwami. To match his new attitude, Mutara was given a new home, built by the Belgians. The traditional straw hut was abandoned in favor of a "modern palace," a Western mansion of polished marble floors. It still stands in Nyanza, although personally I found it far less appealing to walk through than the original home. While the mwami's hut was fragrant, dark, cozy, and peaceful, the Belgian palace is cold, uninviting, vast, and austere.<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SwE2OMf4RRI/AAAAAAAACVk/WAmmfCLejh8/s1600/modern+palace1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SwE2OMf4RRI/AAAAAAAACVk/WAmmfCLejh8/s320/modern+palace1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404660645322310930" /></a></center><br />Mutara generally accepted the colonists and even paid a visit to Belgium himself. In the palace museum there is a particularly striking photo of the mwami, in his traditional robes and headdress, face-to-face with a giraffe in a zoo.<br /><br />The Belgians later built another, more imposing palace for Mutara. It still sits high atop one of Nyanza's many hills, making it visible from a great distance. Unfortunately, Mutara passed away in 1959 just before it was finished, but today the palace houses a really splendid art museum (with an awe-inspiring panoramic view).<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SwE1friEcrI/AAAAAAAACVc/ae7q4YKvV9c/s1600/art_1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SwE1friEcrI/AAAAAAAACVc/ae7q4YKvV9c/s320/art_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404659846199145138" /></a></center><br />The people of Rwanda started itching for independence in the 1950s, as did much of Africa. In 1961, Rwanda's elected local administrators assembled at a large public meeting with 25,000 supporters. Together, they declared Rwanda a republic, and the United Nations had little choice but to accept this self-determination. Independence was confirmed in 1962.<br /><br />I believe the museum guide said that the last surviving Queen Mother was killed in Butare during the genocide. But Kigeli V, the last mwami, went into exile after Rwanda's independence. He fled to Tanzania, then Kenya and Uganda, and he is currently living in Washington, DC. This is crazy to me. I wonder what his house is like? Does he insist to his neighbors, "I was a KING in Africa!" -- ?? And they say, "Sure, sure, crazy old man..."JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5780173011418822319.post-1372036557078712192009-11-03T13:09:00.004+02:002009-11-03T13:43:33.101+02:00Slowly by slowlyImagine you're in high school, and you're taking some pretty tough classes. At first you were failing, and you almost wanted to drop out entirely, but you've worked really hard and paid attention and you're finally managing to do well. It feels good; you've <i>earned</i> these successes.<br /><br />Then suddenly, by no fault of your own, you are informed that effective immediately you are going to have to repeat kindergarten.<br /><br />This is kind of how I feel right now.<br /><br />I am still really excited to be in Rwanda, but I guess the newness of it has worn off a bit and I'm realizing that it's not so fun to be a trainee all over again. In Mauritania, I had worked so hard -- to know how to travel from point A to point B, to negotiate the market, and especially to learn to speak Pulaar. I really prided myself on being able to shock locals by being perhaps the first white person they'd ever heard speaking their language. Now I'm back to square one. I go into a little corner store and greet the shopkeeper in Kinyarwanda, but when he lights up and replies with further questions, I can only stammer that I don't understand. I hate that.<br /><br />This pre-service training (PST) is really different from my last experience. (I feel like a broken record comparing the two all the time, but it's impossible not to.) Just one week after I got to Mauritania, I was dropped off in a dusty village of 50 people with only three other trainees. We had no electricity or running water. I was given a room with a host family who spoke only Pulaar. (At the time I arrived to their home, all I could say was "How are you?" -- and smile. A lot of smiling.) For the 10 weeks of training and my following year of service, I slept on the ground on a foam pad. From day 1 I was "eating with my right" -- hand, that is, sitting on the floor around a communal bowl -- and "wiping with my left," in an open-air latrine. I had language class for eight hours a day, sitting outside on the sand in the shade of a grass hut. And it was all wildly exotic, sure, but it wasn't <i>so</i> difficult. Being with a family really forced me to learn intimately all about the culture and language.<br /><br />But Peace Corps Rwanda is only 10 months old, and Rwandans are evidently more private than Mauritanians, so we were not able to live with host families for this training. Instead, all the trainees and Rwandan facilitators are split between four houses in the same community. We have electricity and tiled floors and Western toilets and toilet paper and brand new bunk beds. Someone comes to clean our house and do our laundry. We eat our meals together, all the trainees and staff, and we have tables and chairs and silverware and individual place settings (such foreign ideas, I know!). All our classes take place in a central location, so essentially I am just with 34 other Americans all day every day. It feels like I live in a college dorm. Clearly, this is not very conducive to foreign language immersion.<br /><br />So, to borrow a phrase from Rwandan English, "slowly by slowly" I am learning some Kinyarwanda, frustrating as it may be. I am very eager to get my final site placement, but I probably will not find out about that for several more weeks. Since we are the first group of TEFL PCVs, our future sites are new posts, and they have not all been selected yet. This Wednesday through Friday I will be visiting a PCV currently serving in the Health sector, to experience a sampling of life there. It's pretty likely that I won't get to see my own site until the moment I'm dropped off there permanently. So it goes serving in a new Peace Corps country, I guess.<br /><br />Apologies for the complaining! I <i>am</i> having some good times, I promise. For one thing, the fruit here is absolutely amazing. It's safe to say tree tomatoes are a new obsession, and I'm also enjoying passionfruit and the best bananas and pineapple I've ever tasted.<br /><br />And in other news, this weekend we had a great Halloween party that I helped to plan. It was the first such celebration for most of our Rwandan staff members, so it was amusing to try to explain to them all the little Halloween traditions we have in America. "You dress in clothing to look like someone different. And you go to houses of people you don't know and ask for candy, and they have to give it to you. And you buy pumpkins and cut them into faces or shapes, and you light candles inside of them" -- how bizarre, honestly.<br /><br />Somewhat for the occasion of Halloween, but really just for kicks: fellow PCV Megan and I had shaved our heads together last year, so we went the opposite route this time and got long extensions braided into our hair. Synthetic hair is really cheap in the markets here (like just over a dollar a pack) and comes in every color and texture you could dream of. I opted for mid-length brown with magenta tips. The braiding took about four hours and cost me 3000 Rwandan francs, about 6 bucks. Pretty great, I think. It's fun to have long hair again, for a time!<br /><br />My subsequent "costume" wasn't too terribly original, but the Rwandans enjoyed it... ;)<br /><br /><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SvAVIRObd_I/AAAAAAAACVM/m2EE-Ok_C1k/s1600-h/IMG_9010.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SvAVIRObd_I/AAAAAAAACVM/m2EE-Ok_C1k/s320/IMG_9010.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399839185024284658" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SvAT-rmAWmI/AAAAAAAACVE/uyPsphIgNVQ/s1600-h/IMG_9014.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UCNMSPA8omU/SvAT-rmAWmI/AAAAAAAACVE/uyPsphIgNVQ/s320/IMG_9014.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399837920792173154" /></a></center>JAChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16603627403017199102noreply@blogger.com4