I remember having a conversation with Sr. Rose today about the genocide. I have always been under the impression that Rwanda has made incredible progress in these 16 years. There are televised memorial services, there is a week-long national memorial period, each district has its own cemetery/memorial grounds, people wear purple livestrong bracelets advocating “Never Again,” the slogan posted all around on purple banners, and I’ve found that people talk about it without my bringing it up. I’ve been pleasantly surprised, thankfully. I have never witnessed any forms of ethnic hatred or even any kind of division…everybody just looks Rwandan to me.
Well, Sr. Rose reminded me that I am an outsider. Of course everything looks a-ok because everybody is really nice to me. Hutu and Tutsi alike want to talk to the Muzungus and show them Rwandan hospitality. But in the neighborhoods, behind-the-scenes, it’s a different story. She said that the government has tried erasing ethnic lines. They’re trying to erase history such that there is no Hutu or Tutsi. “We are all one family. We are all Rwandan,” said President Paul Kagame. This is certainly a good mindset, but the problem is that people still know each other. Families know whether their next door neighbors are Hutu or Tutsi. Kids know which ethnic group their classmates belong to, even though the ethnic role call was banned long ago. People still hold grudges deep within because they know that so-and-so is a Hutu, and therefore they killed so-and-so of my family, even though they may not have been directly responsible.
Sr. Rose said that the tension is building beneath this surface appearance that I perceive. She also said that it is perfectly acceptable for a Tutsi to cry aloud and wail in public at memorial services. This is normal because Tutsis were the ones who were slaughtered. But, Hutus also lost many people in the cross-violence, plus, many moderate Hutus who were not blatant Tutsi-haters were killed for being apathetic. But, if a Hutu were to cry aloud, the people, knowing that this person is a Hutu simply by association and family ties, would completely shun them. It would be completely unacceptable for a Hutu to show their grief. So, they are holding it all inside because they have no outlet. Again, the tension builds.
I sure hope that the surface ok-ness that I saw will perfuse deeper and deeper into the ethnic structure of Rwanda. If anything, it seems that acknowledging the presence of the two ethnic groups living and working in harmony as “one family,” as Rwandans, would be a good thing. Let’s all hope and pray that the elections coming up in August 2010 will be peaceful, and that the next president will work towards true healing of the nation.
Towards the end of my mission, I had been in Kigali for some reason…I think I was on my way back to Gisenyi from Kibeho. I rode with Sr. Lumiere, who was driving. We had a really fun journey – she’s one of those people who asks good questions and gives really energetic and detailed responses when you ask her a good question. So we had been happily chatting, and we soon approached Gisenyi. She all of a sudden says, “I wonder if Monseigneur is home. It had been a very long time since we last spoke. I think I should greet him.” I asked for a bit more clarification, and she said that the bishop of Nyundo (the diocese that Gisenyi is part of) knows her very well since she was one of the original Sisters who started up the mission in Gisenyi back in 2001, before the Sisters even broke ground to build the school that I currently work in. She felt that it was only right to stop in and say hi to him, since he is such a good friend of the Sisters, and it has been such a long time. Well, she calls him up, and he of course is overjoyed to hear that she’s in the area, and of course she should stop by!
So, up we go. The cathedral is waaaay up this hill, and the bishop’s residence is also there. Its super rocky, uneven, and twisty-turney. But we finally made it. I got to poke my head inside the cathedral, which was actually on my list of places to see before I go home. It looks a lot like Muhato – long rows of benches instead of pews, colored flags hanging on the walls and across the aisles, very high ceilings with colored glass windows at the peaks. We then walked around aimlessly for a few minutes trying to find which door was the door the the bishop’s house. We eventually found him, and he welcomed us into his sitting room, where he was visiting with another priest.
Bishop Alexi Habyarimana is perfectly Rwandan – very jolly, very welcoming, and bubbling over with smiles and happiness. He’s a very big man, and I had never met a bishop before. I wasn’t sure how you’re supposed to greet a bishop…I think you normally kiss his ring, if he is in the full bishop vesture. But he was just in casual dress, and I followed Sr. Lumiere’s lead. She gave him a big hug, so I greeted him in the same manner – it felt as if I had also known him for years and was seeing him again after a long time, just like Sr. Lumiere! He offered me some wine, but I was really hoping he’d ask Sr. Lumiere first what she’d have so that I could just accept whatever she took. But wine is pretty fancy…I’ve only had it on a few occasions…but, this was the bishop’s house, so I guess this is a special occasion just by circumstance…what to say, what to say…as I deliberated, he caught my indecision. He was speaking a mixture of French and English with me, it was obvious that his English was quite good, and he persuaded me to have some wine. So I caved and accepted. The only kind of wine I’ve ever had in Rwanda is Drosdy-Hoff, a Franzia-like wine that comes in a box. That was what the bishop had, so he gave me an empty glass, placed the box on the little table in front of me, and told me to serve myself. The others proceeded with their conversation. Well, I had a bit of difficulty with the spout protruding from the box, but it eventually started releasing a small stream of wine into my glass. A very small stream. Little did I know, but the rest of this small stream was dripping out of this spout, around the outside of the box, onto the WHITE tablecloth. Fantastic! I’m soiling the bishop’s white linens!
Finally, Sr. Lumiere, the priest, and the bishop notice that I’m having trouble. I apologized like crazy for the damages, but he was so chipper and cheerful about the whole thing! He said “no problem, no problem, someone will come to clean it up.” And didn’t even get up out of his chair, just kind of brushed it off. Sr. Lumiere responded similarly by just laughing and saying “oh no, I see you are spilling,” and helped me fix the spout so it was fully out of the box (apparently that was the problem, it wasn’t pulled out far enough). Monseigneur gave me a new empty glass (mine had wine all around the outside of it too), and told me to have some more. I politely declined, stating that I can just finish what was in my original glass. Sr. Lumiere says, “You are traumatized? Have some more!” And of course, the bishop persuaded some more. So it was impossible to not have more wine! Oh Rwandan hospitality, how I love you.
After a few minutes, a cheerful, smiling nun came in with a bucket. She mopped up the wine mess that was on the table and floor, and took away the dirty white linen to wash it. You’d think she was coming in the room to pick up puppies she was so joyful! But no, just cleaning up the red wine mess I had made of the bishop’s white tablecloth. There’s something I never thought I’d do…
This was a great day, so great that I wrote it down so that I can record it accurately now two months later! First, I went to Mass in the morning and saw an old friend, John Paul. He was one of the brighter, more confident English students I had during vacation when I first arrived. I saw him occasionally after Mass and we’d always chat. He should be in form 5 (junior year of high school), but he can’t afford the school fees. He said he is trying to work and earn the money to study next year. He actually told me that he wants to enter hotellerie and study at the Sisters’ school next year. The last time we talked, he was going to Kigali to look for a job at a restaurant or hotel. On this particular day, he was back in Gisenyi and had found a job at a cabaret. That is really good for someone who wants to go into hotel management, to have that kind of experience on your resume, even before completing the internship he’ll have to do as part of his hotellerie training. So anyways, we were talking about that and probably just other random stuff, when all of a sudden his face gets a huge smile on it and he says, “Ah Jacqui! I do not know if I can say that I like you or if I love you!” I don’t even know what I said that would bring out this kind of reaction! But I just laughed and thanked him.
Later that day, I had the most wonderful outing in town. First, I’ll have to explain last night’s happenings. Sunday night at 10:30pm, I receive a phone call from Frere (Brother) Alexandre. He had recently started coming to study English on Saturdays with Sr. Rose. He really knows little English, so we mostly spoke French outside of the classroom. That past Saturday, we reviewed vocabulary concerning recreation/sports/leisure activities. One vocab word was “to go out to eat.” Frere asks me if he and I can go out to eat. I instantly knew he was joking, because I figured religious Brothers are pretty similar to Sisters, in that they take vows of poverty, they don’t have money to go spend gallivanting about, and they have to obey the rules of living in community with others. So I jokingly agreed. He takes this joke even further and picks a day and time when we will meet up. I again jokingly agree. Then we proceeded with the rest of the lesson.
So the next day, Sunday, at 10:30pm, he calls me. I’m almost in bed and I’m super confused, again because I figured Brothers have to wake up super early like Sisters do, so why is he calling me so late?? Here’s how the conversation went (the original was in French though, making it all the more interesting to figure out what he meant):
Frere: What happened to you today?
Me: What do you mean?
Frere: You did not come to go eat.
Me: Oh goodness I’m so sorry…(sarcasm, still thinking he’s joking)
Frere: I waited and waited, and you did not come.
Me: Oh really! (laughing)
Frere: Yes, I even refused an invitation from someone else because I thought we had plans.
Me: Are you serious? (starting to wonder if he was actually not joking)
Frere: Yes, yes! I was ready to go out to eat with you! But you did not come. This is a big problem.
Me: Wait wait, you are serious? I thought you were joking!
Frere: No, I don’t joke! In general, I don’t joke. If I were joking, I would verify that you knew it was a joke. But I was serious, and you missed our plans. It’s a big, big problem.
Me: (laughing, now incredulous, but still responding with humor and a bit of sarcasm) Oh goodness. Well what can I do?
Frere: You need to make it up somehow.
Me: Ok you know what? Tomorrow I need to go into town, so I will come and visit you.
Frere: Ok. And you must bring an “amande.”
Me: What is an “amande?”
Frere: You don’t know this word? It is something you bring to reconcile when you have made a very serious mistake. So you must bring an amande.
Me: (laughing) ok fine, I’ll come and visit and I’ll bring an amande.
Frere: Ok, that will be fine. Sorry to bother you so late! Good night.
I hung up and was still laughing to myself in the incredulity of this whole situation. But after our phone call I was certain that I actually did have to go visit Frere and bring an “amande,” he wasn’t joking about it!
So on Monday after school, I went into town because I actually had some things I needed to buy. I was planning to bring samboosa, a local specialty – a triangle shaped fried piece of dough filled with a mix of meat and sometimes veggies. I knew just where I had to go to buy them, so that made me feel really independent, as if I were one of the locals. On my way, I ran into three people that I knew! It was so cool, I stopped and talked to all of them for a minute, and I again felt very at-home, like I truly belong here in Gisenyi. Then I headed on towards the Brothers’ compound, and shared samboosa with Frere. We laughed and chatted for at least an hour, and another Sister from a different congregation also stopped by. It turns out I met her once before when Sr. Charlotte and I were by the lake and I had to pee. So we stopped by there and I used their toilet, and we ended up staying there basically the whole afternoon, just chatting, drinking Fanta, and even eating lunch (we hadn’t eaten, and they were just itching to feed us). So it was nice to see this Sister again, and she said I must come visit them again before I left (but unfortunately I never did get this chance). I finished my visit with Frere, and started walking the block or so back into town where I would pick up a moto. Sr. Gisele called me and asked me to stop by the Virunga office to see if a package came for her, and she asked if I could pick up a few grocery items from the store. I felt, again, so amazingly at home! The fact that my superiors are entrusting me with errand-running, and that I even knew exactly which stores she meant, was such an awesome realization! I felt very Rwandaise :)
That evening, after all the dishes were done and most of the Sisters were either going to bed or checking their email or something, I agreed to help remove the braids that Jo had in her hair but were getting to annoying for her. It was such a nice sisterly, almost slumber party-like evening! I stayed up till probably 11:30pm taking her braids out, and we just talked and talked. I remember that Jo was telling me more about the genocide, how the ideologies are perpetuated by the intellectuals. She said university students tend to hang out in ethnic-based groups, and if a Tutsi comes over to try starting a conversation with somebody in a Hutu group, the others will shun that person and scold him/her for associating with the Tutsi. She told me the story shared by one of the men who gave his testimony at Rubavu’s memorial service a few weeks back, during the national memorial period. She said that he had no one left, and that he saw his own mother tortured in the street. They stripped all her clothes off her, and shoved a pole inside of her until it came out her mouth. I couldn’t believe my ears and was revolted at the thought of it. The rest of the conversation was unsettling because she told me about how things look pretty good from my outsider’s perspective. But in reality, grudges between people, between families, between ethnic groups do exist deep below the surface. But she reaffirmed the goodness found within the people we work with. She said that the teachers sometimes get into heated arguments about ethnic thinking, but that they do not possess any hatred. She told me that Pascale is really a very good person, a good Christian. He had the courage to say out loud, “Jo, what we did to you Tutsis was very terrible.” That is really something. Though he probably never did any harm during the genocide, he is acknowledging it and even bringing it to awareness in the workplace. I admire him greatly. Even though the conversation Jo and I had was quite serious and intense, we still had a very nice time just talking. We joked and laughed a fair amount too. I really treasure these kinds of bond-making memories with my Rwandan sister, Jo!
On Holy Saturday, we were all busy decorating the house with “Alleluia”s and hand-made Easter candle cut-outs. Maria came over to help color Easter candles for the church. It was a very joyful time. When lunchtime rolled around, I found a nicely wrapped, silver package at a place at the table. No other places had any special presents…I was very curious…no to/from tag…what could it be? I picked a seat at a different spot, but Sr. Gisele told me that one (with the gift) was mine. Hmmm…well, when everyone was gathered at the table, they all beckoned me to open it. So I did, and out popped the dress that Pascale had been making for Jo! A while back, she had asked me if Pascale could use my measurements to make a dress for her friend in Kigali, who was the same size as me. She showed me the fabric, which I loved, and Pascale even had me try on the dress after he had nearly finished it. I was so excited about it, mostly because I saw how beautiful his creations were, he now had my measurements, and he was almost finished with Jo’s order. This meant he could soon begin one for me. I had even given money to Mama Bora to buy me a pagne. Well now I see this dress wrapped up as a little gift! My first thought: “Oh. So Jo is gonna have Pascale make another one for her friend, and she’s giving this one to me?” My confusion must have shown on my face, because Jo immediately explained. “You are my friend Jacqui! There is nobody in Kigali who is waiting for a dress…I tricked you!” Ah! All along it was for me and I was totally oblivious!
That evening I wore the dress to the Easter Vigil Mass. It felt like my first day outside of the compound – overly aware of people staring at me. I felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb because I was dressed so traditionally. But I was proud of it, and I was happy to sport a Rwandan fashion that my dear Rwandan friend had given me. But I was still too sheepish to leave my sweater behind…it was cold outside, and wearing a typical American fleece over the shoulders made it less obvious, I thought. Sr. Charlotte yelled at me for that. “Next time, you won’t wear that. It’s beautiful, show it off!”
The Easter Vigil Mass itself was pretty awesome. Maria was in town, and I was hoping to sit by her, but we didn’t find each other in time. Mass actually started like 20 minutes late, still not sure why. Everyone began outside to see the large grill that served as a fire pit. Everybody was already looking in the direction of our convent since that was the direction of the firepit, so naturally everyone noticed me as I walked to join the mob. It soon started to rain, so everyone crowded under the overhang of the church, which seemed much too small to fit everybody. But somehow very few people got uncomfortably wet, it seemed. Fr. Valens and the altar servers (lots of them) finally began their procession, lighted the Easter candle, passed the light around to the candles that individual people were holding (you had to bring your own), and everyone proceeded into the dark church. I was certain that someone was going to get their clothes or hair singed! But no one did :)
Mass was about 3 hours long, but it was really nice. Sr. Charlotte and I sat next to a 3e Hotellerie student, Françoise, and her 2 kids, Chancey and Lucky. Chancey fell asleep in Sr. Charlotte’s lap! I think the power didn’t come on when it was supposed to, so we didn’t have the nice darkness-to-light transformation. But it was still a beautiful atmosphere having the church dimly lit throughout the entire Mass. There was lots of singing, accompanied by off-beat drumming. Everyone was expecting a second Thanksgiving song, but we only did one. Afterwards, the drummers were outside performing some nice tunes. Fr. Antoine and Fr. Valens invited us back to the rectory for some celebration. The Sisters had been working all day to prepare a delicious feast for after Mass, and we were all hungry, and it was past 11pm. But out of politeness, Sr. Charlotte, Sr. Rose, and I agreed to go. We shared some stories, jokes, Fanta, and typical snacks of peanuts, cheese cubes, and then briochette (really tough meat on a stick, only on special occasions). But, Sr. Gisele didn’t show up! She called to give some excuse (which I can’t remember, but I think it was clever). When we got home she was with Aline, who had to spend her spring vacation with us because she doesn’t have any family left to go home to. When the rest of us came home, we laughed like crazy at them – they said they were just too hungry and wanted to get home to feast! So at nearly midnight, the rest of us heated up a plate and sat down to watch an Easter program on one of our three TV channels.
We went to Easter Sunday Mass the following morning, as I hurried to finish setting the table all pretty for when we returned. I gave everyone a candybar from the package Mom mailed me! I again wore my dress, and I saw Pascale at Mass, who seemed very proud of his work. Rightly so. I also got to see Fabrice, Edouard, and Jean d’Amour, home on break! I hung out and chatted with them for a while. The rest of my Easter Sunday afternoon was so much fun. After our delicious and very relaxed meal, we peeled 50 kg of carrots. It was so much fun. All of the Sisters, Aline, and me were all sitting in the outside part of our kitchen. Sr. Gisele was cleaning fish, and the rest of us were peeling the most enormous pile of carrots that I had ever seen. We told jokes, practiced English, and sang some songs. I taught them the picnic basket game, where you have to say “I’m going on a picnic and I’m bringing…” and you have to say something starting with a certain letter of the alphabet, remembering all the previous people’s items. It was a really good practice exercise for Jo and Aline, and everybody cracked up when I said I’m bringing “nukwihangana” when “n” conveniently fell to me. This is a Kinyarwanda word meaning “to be patient,” but for some reason it became a huge inside joke in the convent. We said it ALL the time, usually after the phrase “ah ha,” to express surprise or shock, and now it lost all sense of meaning “to be patient.” It was and always will be the source of many laughs. Eventually some of the Sisters had to go do things, so it was just Jo, Aline, and me. Aline had been singing the Abba song “I believe in angels,” claiming that there is some Rwandan band that sings it. I argued with her about the artist, and mentioned the movie Mama Mia. Soon enough, I had my laptop outside with the movie playing, giving brief explanations of what was happening in the movie. We watched the rest of it as we finished peeling carrots! It was so much fun.
All of the next week was also vacation. Unfortunately, I had a heartbreaking moment when I greeted Samuel who came to work with the others who work to pay for their school fees. I asked him if he had a good Easter, and he gave me the biggest smile ever, but responded “No, it was very bad.” I replied “Oh no, why?” Again with the same big smile, he replied “Well, I am not sick, but I have nothing to put in my (pats stomach).” I simply replied “Oh no, that’s not good…” not knowing what I could say. I wrestled with this for a long time…what should I do? I can’t give him food that belongs to the Sisters without their permission. I had a few candybars, but I felt that giving him candy was not the solution. The Sisters needed to know about his situation in order to help him in the long run. So I mentioned it to Sr. Gisele, as clearly as possible, but still with some difficulty because it was hard for me to get the words out without tearing up. She said that we can give him some potatoes at the end of the day to take home. I instantly felt relief that I had done my part, but still unsettled that he would have to work the whole day before getting those potatoes. I didn’t want Sr. Gisele to forget about him either, so I reminded her a few times throughout the day. It turned out somehow they missed each other, because he went home before picking up the potatoes, and I felt terrible. But I knew that my telling her about him was the best I could do, because they could continue to give what they could to help his family in the future.
Throughout my 7 months in Gisenyi, I did a bunch of different jobs. The most important quality of a volunteer at a Salesian school, I've found, is FLEXIBILITY! You've got to be ready for anything, at any time, for any length of time. Here's a synopsis of my job duties throughout my mission experience:
1) Patronage Kids camp counselor – dance, sing, clap, run around, make goofy faces at kids. Pretty much that was all I could do since I didn’t know the language!
2) Teaching English to the local teens during Patronage – super fun atmosphere, but not without teaching difficulties. Playing crazy acting games to learn adverbs, zumbaing after every class, getting bombarded with questions about America and about the meanings of random words that the students found in books.
3) Teaching one of my best friends, Fr. Antoine. By the end of the 7 months, we had our lesson down to a science – 6 parts: 1) opening prayer in English 2) “sharing,” as Fr. Antoine called it, basically just talking about the day 3) reading tomorrow’s Mass readings 4) “sharing” aka discussing the readings, or me happily listening to Fr. Antoine get caught up in his passion, which is God 5) Singing a song or two in English, we learned several 6) closing prayer, sometimes also singing the Veni Creator in Latin.
4) Making tea for the teachers during their training before the academic year began. I also taught English to a small group of more advanced teachers, which sometimes involved a few “English marathons,” in which Sr. Gisele couldn’t be there so I ended up teaching English the entire day.
5) On-the-spot subbing, my most difficult job. Actually I was a somewhat scheduled sub as well, since a few teachers did know the days they’d be gone. But many also were simply unable to make it on an given day, due to any number of reasons. So, I would have to go teach English or give the original teachers notes for an unspecified length of time. Not easy, but builds patience and obedience. A lot.
6) Exam secretary – removing staples, counting and coallating, proctoring exams and trying to prevent cheating, although it was still shockingly rampant.
7) Library organizer – putting a number to each book, then having to re-do it all because I realized I had the system all wrong. Whoops.
8) Zumba teacher – every Tuesday at 11am at school! Plus with other groups of kids at the parish occasionally. My favorite part :)
9) Art director – making posters for the church’s feast days, making banners for the school’s celebrations, decorating the school and convent for celebrations. I liked this job…who doesn’t like to step aside from their original job because there’s coloring that needs doing?
10) Giving a few “Good Mornings,” the inspirational note given by one of the Sisters or teachers each morning to the students.
11) Still doing a bit of occasional subbing by the end of my service, but it was not nearly as frequent or as difficult as earlier.
12) Visiting other parts of Rwanda, making friends, being a visitor, yet living like a resident of Gisenyi!
Sometime in early May, we had a visit from the Provincial Council. This is the group of Sisters who are in positions of authority across the entire East African Province, which includes the Sisters' communities of Rwanda, Kenya, and Tanzania. Each year they make a visit to one country to spend some time in each of the schools/orphanages operated by the FMA in that country. So this year was Rwanda's turn! Keeping with the Rwandan high value of welcome and hospitality, we went all out to welcome these special visitors.
I had been teaching a dance to "Receive the Power" for the past month or so in order to prepare for our feast of St. Mary Domenica Mazzarello, at the end of May. Well, the Provincial visit provided the perfect "dress rehearsal." So we really polished up those moves.
Jo and I were in charge of decorations, so we strung ribbons and balloons all around the gazebo, along with a big Don Bosco banner. Also, with about 2 days notice, I was asked to make about 20 banners depicting students' completion of the sentence "Jesus is ___________" in any of the 3 languages spoken here. It takes a good hour and a half to make just one, so I really was only able to make about 10 of them. I really like being the "art director," though. I think it’s a lot like being a mom – sometimes you've just got to drop your agenda, pick up some markers, and color.
The students were lined up in two curves all the way from our front gate to the gate into the convent, all waving scarves and singing a "You are welcome!" song in 3 languages. The Provincial Council was running late, and the students were starting to get ancy and tired. But eventually they showed up and came happily driving/walking through our little path of songs and scarves. The Sisters went in the convent to get settled in, then they headed out back to the gazebo where the students were all in place for the show.
And what a show it was! The traditional dance group did a great performance, the choir sang a cute song in French, we did some Zumba, Prof. Kagabo did a fine job emceeing and translating (English is the only language common to all the Provincial Council members), and the Provincial Superior, Sr. Therese, gave an inspirational speech to the students. At the end, I got the impression that all of the students felt very empowered and encouraged "to work hard, to overcome laziness, and to treat one another like brothers and sisters," as Sr. Therese advised. These Sisters really are committed to improving the education of the young, and they're very good and encouraging them to persevere during all its difficulties.
I took the bus from Kibeho to Butare, where I spent the next few days staying in the new FMA community there. Actually this new community hasn't been formed yet, they're still feeling out the area to determine what the need is. But at that time, Sr. Emma and Sr. Josephine were staying there in what used to be a school building within the Salesian priests' novitiate house compound. I really had a nice time staying with these two Sisters, they're very simple and peaceful, and we spoke only French because Sr. Emma doesn't know English. We went to Mass at the novitiate house, which was awesome because the novice priests rock at the keyboard, drums, and guitar. Unfortunately I got ripped off by a moto driver here. I tried to negotiate, but he came back with even stronger negotiation about how gas was so expensive, and then I felt really taken aback that he got so heated about it. What a good actor…so I just caved and gave him almost double of what a fair fare (ha!) was. Grr. Never again!
Aside from that, my visit to Butare was wonderful! The National University of Rwanda (NUR) is there, along with Edouard, one of the Animators, who was in his first year of studies. So the city has a real college feel – lots of cute little shops, cafés, and a great artisan/souvenir shop where I bought lots of great gifts. I met up with Bosco, my friend from Kibeho, who conveniently was also passing through Butare on his way home to Kigali from Kibeho. So we had a brief chat at a café, and it felt very college-y! Haven't had that kind of "normal" thing in a super long time!
I got to spend an entire day hanging out with Edouard and his friend Seth. They gave me a very thorough tour of their campus. All of the departments and facilities of their campus are pretty comparable to those found at a typical American university, only a bit smaller and a little grungier. They have dorms, even with custodial staff that does the students' laundry (by hand) for them. We were there on a Saturday, so there were all kinds of clothing out on the lines and on the grass to dry, and many students were home for the weekend. Those that were still on campus were playing sports, hanging out in the cafeteria, and just being students! It was cool. I also got to visit the parish where Edouard sings in the English choir! I'm so proud of him :)
It was a super fun day hanging out with these guys, mostly because Edouard just loves to talk, and once you get him going he'll just keep going. It was really hot outside and we walked a LOT, but I've gotten pretty used to that. It was cool to see Edouard out and on his own as a college student – he will do great things in the world of physics! Seth too – now in retrospect as I write this, I see that he will also achieve a lot in the legal realm. He's studying law, and he writes me these awesome facebook messages that say stuff like "remain well in God, joy, peace, family…"
I also got to visit the National Museum of Rwanda. I went during the week by myself, and I was the only person in the entire museum (it is a pretty small museum). It is all about pre-colonial history – ancient Rwandan traditions, big walk-in grass huts, butter churning gourds, hunting and gathering techniques, music, animist religions, "witch doctor" healings, and various social practices.
I also had the joy of realizing that I lost my digital camera in Kibeho. I actually realized this the second I got out of the bus when I first arrived in Butare from Kibeho. It had been in my pocket, which was tied around my waist. When I realized it wasn't in there, I quickly checked my purse as the bus began to pull away. Seeing that it wasn't there, I rapped on the matatu door and they let me back in to look for it. I searched all over the sketchy backseat where I was sitting, and all along the unfinished metal floor, but it was nowhere to be found. When I got to the Sisters' house, I told them about this, and they suggested that I try to contact the Marian Fathers whom I had visited. I knew that the last place I had it was at their house, so it was highly possible that it could be there somewhere. I did not have their number, but I went through a lovely phone-call-journey to find it. First I called Sr. Gisele, who referred me to Sr. Mary in Kigali, who gave me the number of one of the Pallotine Sisters in Kigali. These Sisters have another community in Kibeho and a nice guest house. I called the Pallotine Kigali community to get the number of someone in the Kibeho community, with the hope that they might have the number of one of the Marian Fathers in Kibeho. All this telephoning was in French, and what was really funny was that the Sister who answered for the Pallotines in Kibeho was about to go get a different Sister who spoke French better than her because she was having difficulty following me! When we realized that English was the better language for both of us, we chuckled and continued with our phone conversation. She was so sweet I can't even describe it. She said she'd call me back with the priest's number, and that she hopes that I find my camera. Well, I finally got in touch with Fr. Leszek, and he hadn't seen my camera anywhere. While I was on the phone with him, he walked out to the car to take a peek in there, and ta-da, there it was! It had fallen out of my pocket and was sitting on the front seat! And fortunately for me, he was planning to come to Kigali in a few days, so he could bring it with him and leave it with the FMA there. How providential! Thank you St. Anthony for always finding our lost stuff! It pretty much took all afternoon to do all this calling, tracking-down of numbers, and waiting for reply, but it was certainly worth it!
I was fortunate enough to make a pilgrimage to Kibeho, the first Vatican-approved Marian apparition site on the African continent! And its in Rwanda, amazing! I was planning to go with Maria, the German volunteer from Kigali that I had met a few times, but our plans fell through at the last minute and I ended up going there alone. It was alright though. I had spent the night at Maria's house in Kigali, and the next day I rode into town and surprisingly found the Horizon bus station without any troubles (I had only had a vague idea of where it might be). I had a nice early-morning bus ride to Butare, about 3 hours. Had a good English conversation with an older man studying political science at the university there. He was kind of like a tour guide, pointing out all kinds of landmarks on the way. From Butare, I got out and took another Horizon bus to Nyaruguru. It was confusing because I was expecting the destination to be "Kibeho," but I soon learned that Nyaruguru is the name of the village, and Kibeho is the name of the parish. I had to walk across the street to where a lone, shady-looking matatu (what matatu isn't shady-looking, really?) was parked all by itself. There were a few people inside, fortunately, which makes it slightly less shady. So I asked them if they were going to Kibeho, and everyone pleasantly replied that they were. I had a nice chat with an older man sitting next to me for a good portion of the way. However, after only about 10 minutes out of Butare (on a paved road, thank God), we broke down. There was smoke coming out from under the vehicle, so we all got out and had to wait for another to come take us the rest of the way. I was sure we'd be there for at least an hour and a half, but we were on the road again in a fresh new matatu after only 20 minutes! The rest of the road from Butare to Nyaruguru is a perfectly African road. Not paved, quite muddy in certain areas, and completely in the depths of the hills, through the wilderness. You're really going into the "vrai baturagye," the "true village."
The nice man next to me eventually got out, and I had more room to spread out. Soon thereafter, a guy who was sitting in front of me turned around and struck up a conversation in very good English. I was very grateful for this conversation, because when we finally arrived at the "station" in Nyaruguru, I was completely lost. The "station" was just a cloth "Horizon" banner attached to the side of one of a handful of shacks that make up "town." I saw no church, no beautiful signs pointing toward the virgin Mary, nothing that I would expect to find in a Marian apparition sight. It seemed we were in the middle of no where. Good. But I've certainly learned to avoid panicking because there'll surely be a way out. And yep, my friend from the bus, whose name was Bosco, showed me that I just have to go up the hill a bit, and you'll see the parish of Kibeho appear in all its glory.
Bosco turned out to be another perfect example of Rwandan hospitality. He walked me all around the church, and even helped me find a place to stay for the night. And funny, he actually entered seminary but left after a few years. Along the way he freely shared with me that he is a genocide survivor who lost most of his family. We encountered a memorial procession with many people wearing their purple scarves, and he brought this up very casually.
We parted ways when I decided to go find a room at the Centre d'Acceuil, because I couldn't find any other place to stay that were clearly labeled as such. According to Sr. Yvette, there are "so so many" guest houses in Kibeho. I dunno, maybe you need to know the priests or sisters who own them, because there sure weren't any signs or info anywhere in order to find them. Luckily, there is one across the street from the sanctuary run by some Sisters whose charism is caring for pilgrims to the holy site. They actually had a sign, so I felt more comfortable going there. Bosco carried on with his business in the region, but we agreed to stay in touch.
Finding a room at the Centre d'Acceuil was harder than it should have been. The reception area was closed at 1 o'clock in the afternoon, but I heard voices coming from one open door a bit further down. This room turned out to be the dining hall. So, I went there and soon a young girl who was not very confident in her French but was smiley and nice showed me all the rooms. There were apparently no other guests. I was the first one registered in her book for the day. I asked her if the place really was empty, and she said there will be more in the evening. I ended up getting the most expensive room, which was $20 a night. This room had a functional shower, sink, and toilet of its own, along with a large bed and a desk. The cheaper rooms were dorm-style with a shared bathroom, but there was no water in the bathroom. There were large barrels of water in the hall that you filled up your basin with. However, since it was still early in the day, before the "rush," these barrels had not yet been filled. I desperately needed to at least wash my face, so I splurged and paid for the expensive room.
I got some food in the dining room, after a bit of surprising interaction with the girls who worked there. For some reason, everybody just seemed really surprised to see me. I don't really get it…is it not that common for lone pilgrims to show up tired and hungry? The girls only spoke Kinyarwanda, which I also thought was weird since this is a site that people from all around the world have visited. It didn't perturb me too much, because again, I've gotten used to stuff being the opposite of what you expect. I had a good meal in this single room that was detached from the rest of the dining hall. I have no idea why the waitress put me in there instead of out in the big room…oh well, I didn't mind.
Throughout the course of the weekend, I saw the sanctuary of Our Lady of Sorrows, the little outdoor meditation garden in between the sanctuary and the new school, the outdoor rosary walk, the 7 sorrows walk, the outdoor stations of the Cross, and the original church that is now a genocide memorial site because many people were killed inside the church. The church itself is still used as a regular place of worship for the parish. I actually went to Sunday Mass there because I didn't know when they had Mass in the sanctuary. Another thing that was surprising – the girls who worked at the guest house didn't know the Mass times. You'd think that would be a commonly asked question by pilgrims. I just got up early on Sunday morning to do the stations walk by myself, and just followed the people I saw walking. Yep, sure enough, they were going to church. It was nice because many of the songs were the same exact songs we sing at Muhato, but none of them were ones that I knew the words to.
I did enjoy some nice quiet time in the sactuary and on the different prayer walks, but the whole weekend was not what I was expecting or hoping for. I think my time there was darkened ever so slightly just by all the surprising disappointments. I expected there to be lots of other people there on pilgrimages, since it was the month of May, but there was no one. I only met a nice guy from Uganda named Martin who was there to pray. He was staying at another guest house that I have no idea how he found. I also expected the local people to be pretty accustomed to seeing white people, and to therefore have fewer stares and kids calling me muzungu. But it was no less than in any other area of Rwanda. And of course, I was hoping to have a really spiritually refreshing retreat, but I didn't have any deep moving encounters or profound scales dropping from my eyes. Don't get me wrong, it was a peaceful weekend, but not earth-shaking. All of these things, combined with the lack of information about mass times, lodging, and where to buy souvenirs, made for a sub-par journey. I enjoyed it, but I certainly hope to go back on a Marian feast day, when the place is packed and mass is celebrated outside because there's no way everybody can fit inside the church. Sr. Josephine told me that on any ordinary weekend, even in the month of May, it is usually empty. Only on special Marian days is it what I was expecting.
On a brighter note, I did spend quite a bit of time with my friend from the bus, Bosco. I met up with him later that afternoon the day I arrived there. His cousin owns one of the bars there, so she gave us free Fanta! We sat and chatted there in a multitude of languages so everyone could understand, and also enjoyed some brochette (meat on a stick) from a butcher across the street.
Once when I was walking into "town," I was politely greeted by two women chatting by the side of the road. We were right in front of the Kibeho gift shop. There was only this one building with a sign saying "The Kibeho Foundation. Items for prayer, gifts, devotionals" in several languages. I really expected there to be people selling rosaries and stuff all over the place, but there seemed to be just this one store. And it had been closed all weekend. Well, it sure does pay off to be smiley! It turned out that one of these women who greeted me outside owns the shop. She opened it right up for me, and put up with me in there for like an hour! I had a list, I meant business. I had wedding gifts to buy and lots of people to get chaplets and other holy souvenirs for. I really spent a lot of money there. But once again, the woman helping me seemed so surprised about all this. It seemed that every time I asked her to see certain things up close (everything was behind the counter, you must ask for it), she was shocked that I wasn't finished buying stuff yet. Honestly, it was embarrassing and a bit uncomfortable to see her shocked facial expressions, but I knew I wouldn't be back here again. I had to get these gifts! I heard her give a sigh of relief when I finally walked out of that store with loads of stuff in my bag.
After this, I had an enjoyable experience visiting Nyarushishi. This is a distant hill near Kibeho, where there is a giant statue of the Divine Mercy. I had to ask one of the many Sisters hanging around the Our Lady of Sorrows chapel. She was very kind and helpful. She instructed me to just take a moto and tell them I want to go to Jesus Miséricorde, and they'll know just what I mean. So, I went there, and it was quite a hike. Definitely would have either a) gotten very very very lost trying to walk there or b) gotten so tired that I would have just given up. Thankfully, I did not take my fellow pilgrim-friend, Martin's, advice and walk there. I saw the giant statue, which was in Chicago for a period of time but was sent to Rwanda as its final resting place. As I was there, I realized that this place is the community of the Marian Fathers! I remembered that there was a Marian Father present at Rambura with Sr. Gisele and I when we went there for a vocational talk with the students. He had mentioned that they have a house in Kibeho, and specifically said to me that I should stop in if I do end up going there. So, I called Sr. Gisele to ask her if she remembered this particular priest's name. Unfortunately she did not, but she remembered that this priest was the one in charge of novitiate. She encouraged me to just go knock on the door anyways and explain myself. Well, I mustered up the courage to do so, and I rang the bell. An extremely friendly European priest let me in, but said that the novitiate priest that I knew lives in a community in a different city. Well, I explained all about who I was, and this guy let me in as if I was one of his own volunteers! He offered me a quick lunch, since I was planning on catching the bus back to Butare in an hour. After trying to politely refuse, I realized I could not, and I enjoyed the deliciousness. I can't even remember what it was but it sure was good. He then took me on a comprehensive tour of their entire compound, and told me all about his 20+ years in Rwanda! He apparently knows and works closely with Immaculée Ilibagiza, and can see the plot of land that she recently bought to build a childrens' home. To top off this priest's amazing hospitality, he offered to drive me to the bus station.
He did drive me there, and I bought a ticket just in the nick of time. There was a bit of confusion about what time the next bus left, but I got lucky. The priest went back home, and I gratefully got on the bus. The drive home was insane. The road was very muddy in certain areas, so our rickety matatu would lurch forward as if driving through 6 inches of snow, crawling along through the muck. Then we'd hit a dry patch and would speed like the devil. But in no time we'd be lurching again. It was like that the entire way, for a good hour. But we did not break down, unlike the ride there! So, overall, my weekend in Kibeho was good. In terms of my actual pilgrimage, it was much the opposite of what I had thought/hoped it would be. But Rwanda, Africa probably, is often the opposite of what you expect. Instead, you find people like Bosco and the Marian Fathers whose acceptance, friendship, and hospitality more than make up for any disappointment in not getting what you expected.
From here on out, I've started going through my post-it notes of memories and experiences I had in Rwanda during my last 2 months but simply didn't have enough time to actually write about them while in mission. Now that I'm home, I've got more free time! So I tried to reach back in my mind and re-create these memories. Unfortunately they're a bit stale from their original awesomeness, but I assure you, they were indeed awesome :)
Dearest blog followers,
I am now home in America! I arrived in the States on June 1st, and since then I've been happily busy with family visits, weddings, graduations, and getting accepted to the University of Wisconsin Madison School of Medicine and Public Health! So I apologize for the very large gap in blog posts. I do still have many stories to share with you, and I hope to catch up during the weeks of summer that still remain! Thanks for being with me throughout these wonderful 7 months in Gisenyi.
By now, I'm quite a pro at taking moto-taxis. I've successfully argued my way out of paying too much on several separate occasions in which the driver was trying to take advantage of a seemingly-naïve muzungu.
Not so!
I daresay if you try to make me pay more than 300 frw, I'll bite your head off! Just kidding. The best one was in Kigali. Now, this time the joke is really on the driver because he really could have ripped me off good and I would have had no idea. So I was at a bank after having yet again tried and failed to find a place that will cash traveler's checks. Long story short – there are no banks in Rwanda that accept them. Good. Anyways, I needed to go to this bookstore next, and since I don't know my way around Kigali I just flagged down a moto, told him where I wanted to go, and agreed to pay the 300 frw that he quoted me. Well, silly me, the bookstore was seriously a block away. It was just around the corner and about 200m down the street. I felt really stupid, but how could I have known? But this driver, honestly, why he didn't drive me around in a couple circles and bring me there I'll never know. I would have paid him the 300, thinking it was a fair price for such a long distance. And since I have the worst sense of direction in the world, I would not have realized he'd ripped me off. So, this guy actually just drove me down the road and let me off. Here is the conversation that followed (which was in French actually):
me: eh! We're here already! I am not paying 300 frw for that! Maybe 100 frw, but since you only drove me down the road I will not give you 300 frw.
driver: (smiles and laughs. He seemed to be a real light-hearted guy). No no, that's too small an amount of money.
me: that was too small of a distance! (rummaging through purse) And I see that I don't have 100 frw. Here's 50. Take your 50.
driver: (laughs at my response. Also another moto comes up beside us to listen to the debate and see if he can recuperate some business from an unsatisfied customer. Another bystander stopped to watch and listen as well.) No really, it is not enough!
me: Nuh uh, you cheated me! You drove me just down the road and you tell me its 300 frw! That's not right. Take your 50. (all the while I was also laughing too. It was kind of a friendly chuckling debate, but I was determined.)
driver: it’s a lift, it's a lift.
me: I know, it was a very short lift! Here, take your 50 frw.
driver: no no, it’s a lift.
me: aaah, you mean its free?
driver: yes, its free.
me: ah, ok. That's good. Thanks, have a nice day.
Since this incident, I've been able to put into practice these debate tactics, and have never paid more than the fair price of 300 frw from home into town!
Just today somebody tried to charge me 400 frw but accepted 300 frw, and even told me along the way that when they see a white person, they up the price because they assume we don't know what the normal price should be. But me, hah! I know! I argued with another guy for several minutes before getting on, and he wouldn't back down from 400 frw, but he said to get on and we'll negotiate later. Hmm…well along the way we were riding right next to one of his moto buddies, and I asked his friend "He tells me its 400 frw – isn't he cheating me?" And his friend said "You son of a bitch, its 300!" (they spoke good English) Wow. Bold.
Actually, he was joking and we were all laughing quite a lot the whole ride. I should probably mention that the 100 frw difference is equal to about 20 cents. So really its not worth all this trouble.
But I just enjoy the fun I have in weaseling my way to a fair price the satisfaction of winning the debate!
Skipping ahead to 4/19/2010 (hopefully to catch up on exam week, Easter, and things in-between later):
I took a weeklong vacation to go visit Lauren, another VIDES volunteer who hails from Minnesota, in Kenya! We had such a blast…where to begin…
I traveled with Sr. Rose, who had to go to Nairobi also. We took the Kampala Coach, a 26-hour coach bus ride. Basically, it sucked.
We were miserable together. But hey, its at least a good story to tell! So, this bus is not air-conditioned, and it does not have a bathroom. The seats are comfortable enough, but only about half of the journey is on paved road. The rest of the way is on rocky, pothole-y, uber dusty roads. And of course, the sun is bright and shining during the daylight hours, so its quite hot.
You can find a bit of respite by falling asleep, but you'll shortly be awoken by the "turbulence" (if I can even call it that) of the ride, and you'll be nice and hot and sticky. As an added bonus, you'll find a lovely mixture of your own sweat and dirt underneath your fingernails after scratching any part of your face. Mmm.
We took a bus that left at 3pm, traveling north through Rwanda, all the way across Uganda, and into Nairobi in the middle of Kenya. So it was good that we drove through the night because it was cool. But I know I woke up thousands of times because it seemed that the whole night-drive was on rocky roads. But the driver speeds ahead, probably at a dangerously fast pace for that type of terrain. We arrive at the main station in Kampala, Uganda at about 5am, where people are strewn all over the place sleeping on mats and blankets.
Here, everyone gets off to take bread and tea. That was nice, but unfortunately the butter on the bread or something must have been slightly contaminated, because about an hour after our tea when we were back on the road, I had mild diarrhea. Oh good There's no bathroom on this bus! Sr. Rose later reported that she had the same problem, only a bit later than it hit me. So I basically had to just pray and deal with the discomfort until we stopped, which was maybe every 3 hours. And when we did stop, there were only stand-over-this-hole-and-squat toilets. Vive l'Afrique.
When Sr. Rose and I purchased our tickets, we were under the impression that a meal was also included in this price. However, the bad bread and tea was all they gave us. So we were hot, dirty, hungry, jostled to and fro, and having digestive issues. We bought some juice and cookies for lunch during the second leg of our trip.
Also, I was amused, but not at all surprised, by the things our chauffeur tried to pull. It is quite normal for drivers to pass those in front of them who are going to slow. Well, somewhere in Uganda there was an accident in which a container became detached from the semi pulling it. It was blocking the entire road, and it seemed to be in the middle of a marketplace where there were tons of pedestrians. The cars had to take turns letting traffic in one direction pass through one lane; it was extremely slow-going.
Well, our driver decides that because he's got a monster of a big red coach bus he must be king of the road. He pulls right up onto the shoulder, which is really just a rocky ditch because this is an unpaved road, and crawls along past everybody. Soon the rocky ditch becomes too steep, and it seems our bus is gonna topple right over, but we press on. Its kind of funny, as we were driving along like a horizontal tower of Piza, you'd think I should be terrified. But by now, these kind of things don't really surprise me or phase me very much. Its Africa. What is "sketchy" for us is normal here. Just roll with it, you'll be aight. And indeed we were.
Our leaning bus needed to merge back into the one lane of traffic, and all the other cars were justifiably pretty mad about that. The pedestrians standing around were shrugging their shoulders and shaking their heads in a gesture of "seriously, what does he think he's doing?" So the cars in the lane had no choice but to re-arrange themselves, them being tiny subjects of the giant red king of the road who is much bigger than all these. It probably took a good 20 minutes of this gradual pushing our way forward, disturbing all the other cars, moving on and off of the rock-ditch-shoulder, forcing the direction of traffic flow to change to let us through, etc.
But we made it through and continued on our way, speeding waaay too fast when we broke free of the traffic jam. But alas, here I am safe and sound, made it through this bus ride!
When we finally got to Nairobi, the entire trip took 2 hours longer than scheduled (28 hours). Part of it was probably due to that traffic jam, but I still have no idea why we took so long. Many of the smaller towns in Kenya have lots of speedbumps in commerce areas, so maybe that caused us to be so late? No idea. But anyways, we arrived and found a taxi to take us to the Sisters' house (the Salesians also have a community in Nairobi). The guy drove us a couple hundred feet and then ran out of gas. He said "Don't worry," and got out and pushed the car while reaching through the window to steer. He steered us to a nearby parking spot, asked Sr. Rose to spot him a couple shillings, got a plastic jug out of the trunk, and walked to the nearest gas station to fill er up. Good golly. So we finally arrived at the Sisters' house around 9pm. I really can't describe how wonderful it was to eat some food and go to the bathroom in a flushing toilet.
Like I said, it’s a good story to tell. But I was not looking forward to doing this all again on the way home. Actually what really discouraged me from taking the bus home was the fact that you need to cross two borders, and I'd be alone the way back because Sr. Rose needed to stay a bit longer in Nairobi than me.
Now, the border-crossing was actually quite complicated, and I'm pretty sure that if I were alone, they would have left me behind while I stood there waiting in line not knowing how to push my way through and get my visa. How it works is the bus drives up to the barrier separating Rwanda and Uganda, and the driver has to do some kind of paperwork in order to get the vehicle across. Meanwhile, all the passengers get out, run to the Rwanda immigration building to get their exit stamp, (literally, we run because nobody wants to be left behind), and then cross the border into Uganda on foot. And we arrived at the border at about 2am, so its dark out, mind you. After entering Uganda, you need to again run (Sr. Rose and I walked briskly and were just fine) to the Uganda immigration building, which was actually kind of hard to find. You'd think it would be the very first thing on the other side of the border, but it was a bit of a ways down, amidst all kinds of other random shops. I would not have found it alone. So there you need to pay for your Uganda transit visa. $50 just to drive through their country. Sheesh. You need to repeat this entire process at the Uganda-Kenya border. Except here, the Kenya immigration building is even further away from the border that everyone gets back on the bus to drive for about 20 seconds down the road.
Again, would not have known that I should get back on the bus. Actually it was pretty funny – before paying for my Kenya visa, I had to, of course...... go to the bathroom. There was a bathroom attendant collecting a 100 shillings. I told him it was an emergency and that I'd pay after. He agreed, but I certainly knew that I didn't have any Kenya shillings. After relieving myself, I told him I'd go find Sister who has my money and come back and pay him. Yeah, paying the bathroom man is not high on my priority list when I've got to run like a madwoman to get a good spot in the visa line lest the bus leave me behind. So I got my visa ($25) and didn't pay the bathroom man. Bahahaha. I think he called after me a little bit, but I just ignored him…oops. But there are tons of people around trying to sell you things or change money for you, its actually quite annoying. All you want is to find the immigration building, and people swamp you saying "You want Kenya money? You need to change dollars? Euros? Ugandan money?"
So, I felt very very very grateful to be traveling with Sister Rose through all this immigration stuff. And people really respect Sisters. When we joined the masses of people in the immigration lines/blobs, they were very helpful towards us. They gave us a spot at the table to fill out our forms, they sent someone to get forms for us, and overall people were very willing to give us priority, help us out, and answer our questions. But, these crossings were into Swahili and English-speaking countries. Sr. Rose speaks Swahili, but her English is still in the elementary stages. So we had to make a team effort of asking questions in one language to the immigration officers, and translating the responses into French in order to communicate with each other. It was a learning process for both of us.
So, the heat/dust/rocky road/diarrhea/hunger plus the complicated border crossings led me to decide that I should book a flight back. It was a fantastic decision. The flight was only an hour and fifteen minutes, they gave us food, and I was so beautifully comfortable. The total cost of my return trip was $100 more than my trip going into Kenya, but I'd say it was well worth it.
The rest of my trip:
Lauren and I had so much fun together! Its really awesome that we only just met during VIDES formation, and now I feel like we're best buds :) awww… It was quite funny to see all the similar ways in which we've both adjusted, particularly in speaking. With each other we talked with normal American colloquialisms and rapidity, but the influence of several months in mission always slips through in humorous ways. We both tend to speak in the same overly clear, very exaggerated and highly enunciated way, and we use very simple descriptions that, in America, would be considered as the worst explanation ever. Example: in a conversation about the difference between Siakago, a city in Kenya, and Chicago, Illinois: "Chicago? Well, It’s a place with many people and many buildings."
The matatu experience is certainly worth describing. So, a "matatu" is the Kenya version of the "local taxi's" that we have in Rwanda. They're these junky, beat-up, dirty 14-passenger vans that are found everywhere and go everywhere.
They (and all trucks/vans actually) often have big lettering across the top of the windshield or across the back bumper saying something like "God lives," or "Jesus love" in Swahili or Kinyarwanda or sometimes incorrect English (hence the "Jesus love" as opposed to "Jesus loves.")
I had a fantastic time taking the matatu with Sr. Agnes from Nairobi to Makuyu, where Lauren and Sr. Agnes live/work. It was an hour and a half ride, and it was unlike any other public transit experience I've ever had, let me tell you.
So, as I mentioned, these things comfortably seat 14 passengers. But do you ever find only 14 people in a matatu? Absolutely not. It is not unusual to cram 40 people into one of these beasts. You just squish and squish, getting real comfortable and cozy with your matatu-mates. And not just people, but sacks of stuff too. People bring big burlap sacks of maize or shoes or glucose biscuits imported from the middle east (yes, they're very common) or whatever they just bought in Nairobi, probably to sell in their shop out in the more rural parts.
Mamas bring their babies strapped on their backs or their toddlers sitting on their laps. And children aren't considered in the head count. There apparently are laws about how many people can be in a matatu, but the farther away from Nairobi you go, the less it is enforced. So, Sr. Agnes and I were able to get a seat when we found the right matatu at the "stage" (the station). But, in no time we were squeezed in like anchovies, with people sitting on their bags of stuff packed in between the seats. Eventually we had not only packed the inside of the matatu full of people, but we decided it would be fun to try and fit about 6 more people into an already full matatu. Result: about 4 guys had to put their feet on the runners, reach their arms in to grab onto one of the bars on the front seats, and leave their backs exposed to the open air as the sliding door could obviously not close. I wish I had a picture.
Apparently there was also an incident with one of the passengers urinating on the seat. He had some kind of developmental disability, so he probably just couldn't control it. But, the poor woman and her baby who were sitting next to him – when he got out at his stop, she had no choice but to slide over and sit in the vacant spot. There were simply too many people hanging out of the sides of this vehicle to leave a place open, even if it had been peed on. So, over she slid. Ew.
Let me also tell you about the interior of this most delightful vehicle: just like the Rwanda local taxis, these things are just basically metal shells of a car with seats put in them. But man alive, do they ever try to pimp these things out…the seats are often covered with a dashing bright orange and blue or other strange color-combo vinyl, or some kind of retro print. And, some of them have tv's and play music videos! It is ESSENTIAL that the matatu play very loud music. Lauren says that the drivers compete to have the loudest music, because they believe that the young adult customers who are hip and cool won't want to ride in a matatu that doesn't play good music. But, in Nairobi its illegal to blast music, so they always turn it down when nearing police, but as soon as we're out of earshot, up goes the volume.
Another vital aspect of the matatu experience is the role of the "conductor." The conductor is the guy who collects money from everybody and opens the door when we approach a stop. These guys get a workout, really. They open the door while the car is still moving, they stand up and yell out to people standing on the side of the road, they jump out to see if anybody wants to get in, and they're always the last one to cram in after all the passengers, of course jumping in after the driver has already started pulling away. So this guy is often sitting on somebody's lap, or just standing up in a bent-over kind of position. And you must have a good memory to be a matatu conductor. He remembers exactly where everybody got on and where they want to go. When he wants you to give him your fare, he just taps you on the shoulder, sticks his hand in your face and rubs his thumb across his fingers in the "where's the cash?" gesture. Usually they just hold all these bills and coins in their hand – no wallet or cash pouch or anything. And they never let any of it blow away, which is amazing because they spend so much time hanging out the window with all this money in their hand. They also use the coins people give them to notify the driver that somebody wants to get out. Tapping any part of the metal shell with a coin, nice and loud so the driver can hear it over the blaring music, indicates a desired stop.
I still haven't figured out if matatu's have scheduled stops at specific places, or if you can just get out whenever. I think they have final destinations in terms of what city/village they're traveling to. But anywhere along the way, they'll pick up any people standing by and let out anybody who wants to get off.
And of course, the drivers are crazy. They speed like there's no tomorrow, and they pass other cars on the dangerously rocky shoulder. Once, in Nairobi during rush hour, Lauren and I were in a matatu that got a ticket! It was because traffic was at a standstill, but our driver decided (much like the Kampala coach driver) that it would be ok for him to drive on the shoulder and try to pass everybody. Yeah, that's not allowed.
So, Lauren and I rode these things quite a lot, and we've decided to start a business. It seems that in order to be a matatu driver, you need to know somebody as your "in." And you need to get your cousin or brother or somebody to be your conductor…it's not just anybody you entrust that job to. But since driving a matatu takes lots of guts, a no-fear attitude, and an auditory adjustment to loud music, special training is required.
Likewise, conductors must practice jumping into and out of moving vehicles, holding money in their hand while hanging out the window, and they must learn the special conductor language that they all seem to speak to the drivers with. But, where do people learn these skills that are in such high demand? There is no such thing as matatu school. You simply must know somebody who can get you into this business. What an injustice! Share the benefits of this exciting and rewarding trade! So that's where Lauren got the idea to open a school. In order to help the underprivileged, we've decided that after I'm a doctor, I'm going to use my medical knowledge to cure the old ladies of their cataracts so they can see clearly. Then, Lauren will train them in her matatu driver school.
So, the next time you see an old lady throwing open a sliding beat-up van door while its still moving, think of us.
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