Thatched Roof Ranting: A Rebuttal to a Stranger.

Generally speaking, a howling wilderness does not howl: 

it is the imagination of the traveler that does the howling. 

_Henry David Thoreau

There's one in every hostel. No matter where you find yourself laying your head in the youth hostelling world - you are sure to encounter one "round-the-worlder." He or she is usually upper 20's, spent the beginning of their 20's working a decent job and saving money before being disenfranchised, deciding to search for meaning in the big, wide world, buying a backpack, and a one-way ticket to Asia (if they are a hippy and like elephant-print clothing), Europe (if they forgot to study abroad in college and want to re-live their youth), or Africa (if they don't mind growing body hair and paying exorbitant amounts of money to go on safari). 

This "round the worlder" can be genuinely inquisitive and good hearted, raucous and independent, super fun and friendly, or the worse kind - a narcissistic soul who thinks because they have seen one city in a country that they "know" that place and can make sweeping generalizations about a culture.

Last weekend my friend/colleague and I went 6 hours northwest of my small town and visited the border town between the Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda: Gisenyi. It was an incredibly beautiful place. I wish we could have turned our 2 nights into 5 or 6. It had a different energy than the places I have been in Rwanda so far - this could possibly be attributed to the proximity to Congo. We ate goat brochettes by Lake Kivu and got to visit our friend who is a Fulbright teacher in the town. I took two hot showers! The whole experience in Gisenyi was loveliness. 

We stayed in a private room at the youth hostel in town and spent the evenings chatting with the other traveler patrons. That's when we met him. The "round the worlder."

We had a great chat about his 1.5 years outside his native Canada. He started in Europe, made his way to Asia, and has spent the last 11 months traversing Africa on a motorbike. Cool, right? 

Then he said it. And I haven't been able to take it out of my head. We asked him how he viewed Rwanda after visiting other East African countries. I am very proud of Rwanda and I guess I was anticipating something along the lines of "It's very clean," "People are friendly," "The food is boring," etc. Instead we got...

"Where are the huts? Where are the thatched roofs?" in a disappointed voice. 

I was like......what? 

That's what you are here looking for? Thatched roofs? This place is somehow not the vision of Africa in your head because people who live off the main roads (which is the only place you have been in this country) sleep in homes that are covered with sheets of tin? 

It felt like he was disappointed by not encountering extreme poverty. Like his Rwanda experience didn't meet his expectations because the people live too nicely. With tin roofs. 

When I think about that question I am sent down a rabbit hole of philosophical reasoning and anger at backpacking culture and the notion that travelers paint the picture they want to see in their heads, rather than encountering reality. I saw this in China quite often. My Chinese friends would go to America and come back and complain about mundane things. New York City has too many homeless people, a bus broke down in Vegas (therefore all transportation in America was bad), etc. Meanwhile I would be asking them, "What about the amazing salads! Blue skies! Customer service!" Nope. They didn't notice any of these things. Just the things they wanted to see to confirm to themselves that China is better than America. 

Our Canadian counterpart's statement puts him in this same category, in my opinion. He is looking for a narrative of Africa that he has been fed by Western media and is disappointed that he isn't finding it. He has a picture of what Rwanda should be - and because people do not live in thatched huts along the main roads, (surely they do in more rural areas he will never see), then he is not getting his utmost satisfaction. 

Traveling in Rwanda can be stunning in many ways. The landscape is gorgeous no matter where in the country you find yourself, while on the opposite end of the stimulation spectrum - recent history is shocking and heartbreaking. There is a dichotomy of positive and negative that feels at war with itself. It's a country moving forward - with a government that is working against poverty in vivacious ways. Rwanda has been one of the most economically successful countries in recent times thanks to a one party system that values order and growth over personal freedoms. (Can we blame them?) 

Rwanda is 83% rural. My province is 99% agriculture. Yet, real GDP grew 7% in 2014. Part of this growth has been the housing project planned by the government to move citizens into planned and economically viable settlements (think: commerce). Citizens in "settlements" rose over 20% from 2012-2014. This is huge. (source: http://www.afdb.org/en/countries/east-africa/rwanda/rwanda-economic-outlook/). 

Part of this project is a plan to eradicate thatched roofs so that people are not living in mud. It rains often in Rwanda, and thatched roofs bring in water, need constant and expensive upkeep, and contribute to disease, rodents, and other economically disastrous conditions. The government is smart, and in 2008 started a plan to end thatched roof housing. Of course, as with any government mandate anywhere, there have been some issues. (http://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2011-05-31/rwandan-government-program-to-end-thatched-housing-leaves-pygmies-homeless). But the overall success of the project has led to greater economic advantages for families in rural areas. 

This is great news. 

I do not want my Rwandan friends to live in thatched roof housing. I want all Rwandans to live comfortably. They deserve the same life that I have had by luck of the "where you are born" draw. I want my Rwandan friends to be dressed well, to eat well, to sleep well, and to have access to health care and education. Do they not deserve the same as me? Or should economic growth not be celebrated because it impedes the small-minded notion that this is not "Africa" as we have been told it should be? If I return to Rwanda in 20 years and find it's housing/education/health systems developed to Western standards I will celebrate, not bemoan the loss of the National Geographic photo in my mind. 

Ancient, indigenous, and historical cultural ways should be preserved, cultivated, and celebrated. But also, modern advancements should be as equal as possible across the globe. Rwanda can stay Rwanda while also allowing it's children to sleep in a dry, clean home under a tin roof. 

It's unfortunate our "round the worlder" didn't take the time to learn about Rwanda. To celebrate it's economic achievements in the wake of horrendous atrocity. He didn't pause to think about the actual people who live in the houses along the road and consider their well-being rather than the portrait in his head of "Africa." There is a depth to the answer of, "Where are the thatched huts?" 

They're not here, dude. Have a safe trip.

look, roofs!

walk slow. xoxo. 

Mushu, goat boy, and the goats.

This is a story of surprising friendship. 

Somehow in the last few weeks, the town goat boy, his goats, and my cat have become friends. I would include myself in the mix, but really I am just the cookie-giver, photo-taker, and giggling observer to this motley crew. 

Each day in the afternoon, goat boy takes his 12 goats on a walk through town to graze. I know enough kinyarwanda to have discovered his age: 7, and that he goes to school in the mornings over the hill. He knows that I am the white lady who showed up in the house at the crossroads with a cat. This is our extent of knowledge and conversation capacity. But none of that matters. What matters is that Mushu is here and goes out to say, "hello," each afternoon when goat boy and the goats graze by. 

Sometimes we sit outside for hours. (Because honestly, there's not much else to do in this town but talk to a cat and goats and smile at a little boy). It makes my heart so full and gives me so much entertainment to watch this trio of living beings interact. 

First, goat boy comes running to the gate and yells into my windows, "hello!" or, "ipusi!" (cat). I hear him, and go to the back of the house to get the cookies that I keep just for him. I grab Mushu from wherever he is sleeping, and head out to the gate to pass cookies through the chains and set Mushu down in the grass to see his friends. 

The goats slowly realize that Mushu and I have entered our yard, and when they see us, they start to make their way closer. There are a few of the bigger goats who are particularly entranced by Mushu and watch him for long periods of time. I giggle. Goat boy giggles. Mushu stares. The goats stare.

Sometimes Mushu gets close enough to the gate that goat boy can reach through and pet him. He now knows that if he touches Mushu's paws that Mushu might back up out of reach, so he should pet his head or back. Mushu is so friendly and sociable (thankfully) and really likes the attention from goat boy, though he doesn't take his gaze from the goats for very long. 

It's our little afternoon routine of friendship. 

It's pure and it's sweet and it's one of my favorite things about living in my town. 

About once a day, I feel overwhelmed or exasperated by living here at the proverbial semi-end of the earth. Usually when I hear the rats in my ceiling or need to boil water to bathe and get cranky. But then, I remember that if I was placed in a fellowship in a city, Mushu and I wouldn't have goat boy and the goats. And goat boy and the goats wouldn't have us. 

Tri-species friendship. It's a thing. Come see us in Eastern Rwanda and laugh and eat cookies with us. No language requirement necessary. Just curiosity and a free afternoon. 

walk slow. xoxo. 

Stickergate 2015.

Here in the land of goats, electricity outages, and never-ending plates of boiled bananas, my first teaching module has come to an end. It was meant to be Speaking and Listening class but then the night before I was told it was changed to Reading and Writing. The freaking night before. 

C'est la Rwanda. 

It was challenging. I cried in class my second day when the projector didn't work, my throat hurt from yelling so all 103 students could hear (but not understand) me, and after discussing how to write a summary for 45 minutes a student raised his hand and asked, "What is a sentence?" And then a teacher came to tell me they would be taking over my classroom for a government meeting and couldn't tell me when I could start class again. I didn't know where to find chalk, and when I did find it, was told to take it home between my classes so other teachers didn't steal it. Um, ok. It was a wild ride. And I'll get to ride this rollercoaster every weekend until my contract is over or until I can find a way to get the powers that be to schedule me in the weekday classes rather than the "16 hours a weekend" modules. 

For now, I have the same students for 16 hours a weekend for two weekends, and then get all new students. It's a rotation that is not efficient or built to foster actual learning. It's just moving them through the modules so they can get a certificate in the end. It seems the end goal is not true learning, but just having had been there and survived. 

In the midst of the educational chaos, there were some truly sweet moments. It is very true that small victories abound in even the most disheartening circumstances. There were also some hilarious times. 

Like when I found out the hard way that my students don't know what stickers are. 

I had my students write summaries of their "Happiest days," and turn them in for credit. Before coming to Rwanda, I went to the teacher's store in Tampa and stocked up on tons of stickers for use in class, orphanages, and to give to random kids. I have some cute little elephant chart stickers that I decided to stick onto each happiest day summary as proof that I had been there and seen their work and approved. 

This turned out to be a bad/funny idea. 

Because after giving back 103 essays, I had 103 people literally FREAKING OUT. 

"What does this mean?" 

"Teacher what is this?"

"Why is this animal a cow and his is an elephant?"

"Why is this blue and hers is red?" 

"Why is this on my paper?" 

Oh good Lord. 

After answering maybe the 20th time that the stickers all mean, "good," I just stood and laughed. It had never dawned on me that my students had never seen a sticker before. I took the opportunity to have a teachable moment and pulled the pack of stickers from my bag. I wrote STICKER on the board and described that these little pictures are used in America to say, "yay good job," from teachers to students. I explained there was no difference between a blue elephant and a red cow - they all mean, "good." And I showed them how stickers work, you peel off the sheet and it can stick to things. 

They nodded their heads and made sounds of understanding, "ohhhhhh." Then, feeling really amused at life, I let the students go. 

And then, after having explained what a sticker is for over 3 minutes, a male student approached me and asked, "Miss, what does this mean?" pointing to his sticker. 

God help us. 

I'm never sticking another sticker on a Rwandan student's work. It's not worth the 45 minute chaos. And I thought I was being cute. hahaha. Lesson learned - never take for granted that another culture/people group has been exposed to what you know. Nothing is learned by osmosis, we must encounter and then process the knowledge. If you've never seen a sticker, a blue elephant on your paper might freak you out! 

Hilarious. 

Have some pics of my first module...

can you tell I haven't washed my hair in 2 weeks? 

"Take pictures of teacher" time. 

sweetie-pies

*the* stickers

group work time

wore my new kitenge to our last class 

group shot

love bugs getting their reading on 

I knew this whole experience would be a trip. And it is not disappointing. haha. Next time you see a sticker, don't take for granted that you have a life that has stickers in it! 

walk slow. xoxo.

On Being Alone. And House Tour.

It's a conversation that has happened multiple times in the short time I've lived in Rwanda. Always going a little something like this...

Random Human: "Are you married?" 

Me: "No." 

Random Human: "Oh, I'm sorry." 

Me: "I'm not sorry." 

Random Human: "You have someone to take care of you?" 

Me: "I live with my cat." *pulls out phone to show pictures of cat*

Random Human: "You are......alone?!?!?!" *cue shock*

The truth is, I don't really think of myself as alone. Sure, I get lonely. That's different. Everyone gets lonely, whether you live in a random town in Rwanda or a huge city in America. It's life. Sometimes we are lonely and sometimes we are not. I don't need anyone to "take care of me." I am perfectly functional on my own. 

But being alone. That is something I keep contemplating thanks to the daily reminders from Rwandans that I am in fact...a single woman living in a house alone with her cat in the heart of Africa. 

Truth is, I've lived "alone" for 8 years. But it hasn't felt like it. In China I was either in a dorm or in a relationship or had such a tight knit community that I never felt "alone." I had my space, but I was not an island trying to make my way through life. 

Here in Rwanda, I did not come alone either. There are 3 fellows in Rwanda, the most of any African country who hosts fellows. The other two are 2.5 hours away in the capitol, and I am here in the boonies. They are never more than a whats app message away and I see them all the time. I talk to my family every day and keep up with friends in China via We Chat. I really don't feel alone at all. I woke up this morning lonely as hell, but then some kids came to my window and hollered at Mushu and it made me laugh and I was reminded I am part of a community. However challenging that community is. I get to be the white lady with a white cat who is entertaining to children. That's cool. 

The not being married bit is a little harder to swallow and incredibly irritating. Unlike many single women my age who make the life choices I have to live abroad and become invested in foreign communities for various reasons - I have dreams of a family. Before leaving China, I was in a relationship that was quickly heading towards marriage. He is an incredible man who loved me dearly and I wish the best for him. But, I left him for many reasons, one of which was to come to Rwanda. I want to tell these Rwandans who inquire about my marital status, "I could be married if I wanted to be, but I chose to come here to you instead, so be kind and stop judging." The truth is, I want the best for myself (and all the women in my life). And right now the best for myself is living in Rwanda, overcoming new challenges, observing a new continent/country/culture/way of life, being the best teacher I can be, and...living alone while doing it. I can do this alone. Because I'm really not alone at all. 

The idea of "being alone" is something I have been contemplating. It's fascinating to have a whole culture describe me as something I don't describe myself as. 

In the same vein, here are some photos of my newly improved house. I feel much better, though not great, about the situation. It is hard not to compare to fellows who have much nicer accommodation than I do. I'd do almost anything for a hot water heater, some cabinets, no rats, clean walls and some privacy. But - I've gotta let some things go about what I think I deserve and be thankful for my cute (and free) house. 

new fence to keep all the friends back a few feet

Bao Bei likes his home

Front room, table for cooking/laundry/everything

art bought at Inema Studio in Kigali, done by street children

guest bedroom with a giant Florida on the wall

my bedroom (cat included) 

my favorite part of the house - my "vanity" area with woven basket and necklaces from Rwanda

other side of my bedroom - laundry hamper and books on the floor, red pattern on the wall from China 

my bathroom - buckets of water and a bucket for my showers (I boil water and pour into the bucket then pour on my head)

new Africa panel

more street kid art 

lots of friends visiting Mushu 

gas stove, spices from america on the window ledge

"kitchen" area, more water buckets on the ground for washing dishes (no sink)

And that, my friends, is how the lucky single ladies (ok, just me) live in Eastern Province, Rwanda. 

walk slow. xoxo.
w

slamming my face into the ground and other funny things.

Two days ago I met a handsome RDF soldier on a bus from Kibungo to Kigali.

(Isn't that how all great stories should start?)

I was planning to come to Kigali to help my friend with a workshop she created and was happy to find a fluent in english, easy on the eyes, interesting person to chat with. When we exited the bus in Kigali, it was very hectic in the station. We had formed a bond and he asked me if I wanted to walk with him to meet his sister who could drive me to my friend's house. "Of course!" I responded, free ride and a connection to this cool political family. We walked along the sidewalk and I happily chatted away, watching everything that was happening around me and just being very Jessica.

And then I went SPLAT.
And suddenly I realized I was face first on the concrete, bleeding, and not exactly sure what was happening.

My handsome soldier friend pulled me up and into a school yard gate directly next to us. He disappeared into the school and I franticly tried to assess how much was emotion/embarrassment and how much was actual physical issues/pain. I wiped the blood from my face with a wet wipe while looking into my iPhone camera screen (haha) and then my soldier appeared with a bucket of water and a swarm of little Catholic school children in uniform. Who proceeded to approach me and hug me en mass. It was so cute. I stood bleeding from my face while little children hugged me and a solder tried to clean my feet and hands and face.

(Now that I am ok, this is a hilarious, awesome story.)

Soon nuns showed up and inquired what I am doing in Rwanda and how they could help me. They told me to see a doctor (ya, right) and told the soldier to watch after me (which he already was).

So now there is a soldier, hugging children, and nuns in my story. It just gets better and better.

In the end, I am totally fine. Just dealing with some scratches on my face, scratched glasses, and a horrible headache. I didn't have a concussion and I have a haggle of awesome humans who cared for me, and are still caring for me. I had a great friend with bottles of tylenol to stay with and a nurse friend who I gave a call to. People are checking in on me and it is so nice to know that if I am hurt on the street, Rwandans will come to my rescue (this is not the case in most Asian countries, including China).

Now that I know that I am ok, this story is hilarious. I have a new soldier friend, got hugged by cute little kiddos, and I have a great story about the kindness of the Rwandan people. Even the bucket of water given by the school to a stranger was a great kindness - water is a precious resource.

Tomorrow morning I head back to Kibungo via the same bus station. But don't worry, I will look where I am walking this time.

haha. Can't let me out anywhere.

Here, have some photos for fun....

the aftermath of letting me loose on the streets of Kigali

A text from a student. The most perfect thing ever. 

selling bananas from a truck

Kimironko Market in Kigali 

grading papers with Mushu in Kibungo on our porch 

fish brochettes and "chips" = YUM

I found a man selling jackfruit from his bicycle! I love jackfruit! 

The event in Kigali has gone super well (more on that later) and I am happy to head back to Mushu in Kibungo for a little relaxation before the insanity of weekend classes starts.



Watch where you are walking. :)




walk slow. xoxo. 

While Marta Mops the Floor.

As part of my housing, the university cleaning ladies come and mop my floor and take my trash to where all the trash gets burned. Marta is the lady who comes by most often and sometimes her 4 year old boy is in tow. I haven't gotten his name yet because every time I ask his name he replies, "Baby," and this is all I've heard Marta address him as. So I call him Baby, too.

Today Marta came by to bring Baby to see Mushu and mop the floor since I've been gone and the concrete has acquired a layer of dust. When Marta comes over, she moves slowly. Mopping the floor of my tiny house takes an hour and a half. Since I can't really go anywhere during this time, Baby and Mushu and I hang out.

I think all three of us have fun.

walk slow. xoxo.

A Homecoming. Of Sorts.

“And then I feel the sun itself

as it blazes over the hills,

like a million flowers on fire --

clearly I'm not needed,

yet I feel myself turning

into something of inexplicable value.

-from The Buddha's Last Instruction” 

― Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Vol. 1

Mushu and I have returned to Kibungo via embassy motor pool and I am overjoyed to finally begin teaching tomorrow evening. When I teach, I am filled with endorphins and a sense of purpose and that I actually am good at something, so I know that beginning my work will have a huge impact on my overall life satisfaction. 

(But is life satisfaction necessary? Ponder that one for a bit, as I have been...) 

It was a wonderful, though unexpected, few weeks in Kigali. I formed connections and relationships, had fancy dinners with other human beings who are interesting and smart, became a moto-taxi regular, bought tons of dried goods (lentils, coffee, chickpeas, rice cakes, etc.) to bring to my city in the boonies, got to assist and observe some very meaningful projects, and overall enjoyed getting to experience my first impressions of Rwanda with friends rather than alone. It was truly a gift. Out of precarious circumstances can sometimes come the greatest experiences. 

I have returned to a home that is safer, has (cold) running water, and a toilet that flushes at the push of a button! I feel like a queen. Or at least some version of a demented royal. There are still rats running around, after all.

Yesterday was spent going to the market alone for the first time and stocking up on produce, flour, sugar, TP, and random things like nails to hang art I purchased in Kigali and rope to make a clothesline. All along the way through the market I was keenly aware of everyone's eyes on me, and was lucky enough to find people to help me make my purchases at most stalls. When someone wasn't around to translate, I had sellers write prices on a piece of paper. This was very amusing to the masses. "I'm not afraid to look stupid, I just want some mangos, please, and stop giving me white man prices" may have exited my mouth at some point. 

I came home and hung my mosquito net and clothesline, cooked lentil stew over my gas stove, and spent time in the library downloading The Walking Dead and preparing for my lessons this weekend. At the end of my first day back I felt accomplished (little things matter!), proud of myself, and ready to face (mostly) whatever comes my way in this tiny town. I have a gift of better perspective and expectations for my (first?) year here in Rwanda. I am not super-teacher. I am not super cultural ambassador. Hanging my mosquito net and using pen and paper to have people write down prices of produce in the market adds up to a successful day. It is enough. It has to be enough. If I tell myself it's not enough, then I will constantly feel like a failure. Because life in Africa is just damn hard. It's beautiful and redeeming and contemplative and life giving and there's no where else I'd rather be - but it's still hard. 

I could wax on semi-poetically about Rwanda, but rain clouds are building and I have to walk 20 minutes to the post office today to send some paperwork to DC. So my ramblings can wait. (You're welcome, probably). 

Kibungo market 

Market victories 

new clothesline, whooohooo. 

Mushu greeting his fans 

the 2 hour ride to Kibungo from Kigali 

new nightly activity: gecko chasing! 

evenings in Kibungo brought to you by battery lanterns and coloring books. who needs electricity? 

Homecoming. 

walk slow. xoxo.