Murabeho, Rwanda

I'm thisclose 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!

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? Podgorica, bam! I was absurdly happy.

A lot of people have been asking me how I "feel" with respect to COSing, or closing my service. Are you sooo excited? Are you really sad? Is it so weird? 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!)

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.

So, of course, 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 Wikipedia, I had ALL of them:

* red and/or swollen tonsils
* white or yellow patches on the tonsils
* tender, stiff, and/or swollen neck
* bad breath
* sore throat
* painful or difficult swallowing
* cough
* headache
* sore eyes
* body aches
* fever
* chills
* nasal congestions

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 not 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.

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.

Freestyle Farewell

You're in for a treat! Here it is, in all its glory, what you've all been waiting for...

(There was more to it, of course, but unfortunately I only captured a portion of it on film. You get the drift.)

Bye-bye, Buyoga

I 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.

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):

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.

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 umurezi wacu na mama we 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.


(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.)
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 808s & Heartbreak, it reminded me of the last track "Pinocchio Story." 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.


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.


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 Fanta. Yum yum yum.

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'll be home for Christmas... =)

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, "Ushaka inyanya -- 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."

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.

A Red, Red Rose

Our third trimester of school was extremely short. After I gave my midterm (belatedly), 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 poetry? Did I dare?

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 Red, Red Rose" by Robert Burns. Where feasible, I took the liberty of updating much of the old Scottish language into more comprehensible terms -- e.g. a' the seas gang dry 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.")

"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.

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."

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.


As I exited one class, a student caught me outside the door and presented me with a small folded-up note:

BECOUSE YO TEACH ME POEM
I WRITE TO YOU THIS POEM
THIS IS MY GIFT TO YOU
THANK YOU

"MY BEST KNOWLEDGE"

My knowledge,
deep of my knowledge.
I respect you until land become sky.

I know,
I know your kindness,
when you become our teacher,
who teaching well.
Your ideas is well,
is well like my father,
My father is a Rwandan.

I want to be with you,
you you are my happy,
my happy like my study.
My study when continue,
I'm never forget my best knowledge.
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!)


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. And I will luve thee still, my dear(s), / While the sands o' life shall run.

Why 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 re-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.

...or so I PLANNED...

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: STOP! DOING! THIS! Stop missing all these class hours for nonsensical reasons, or your kids will never, ever get ahead.

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.

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 20% lower than that of the best class. It sickened me to discover. I'm sorry, children. I'm so, so sorry.

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.

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:

Even got Mandy to milk a cow for the first time!


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.