Today, I feel compelled to write about latrines. Hope you do not mind. There are several types of latrines actually, in case you did not know. There are ones made out of wood, cement or brick. You can see some latrines with ventilation systems and clever fly traps. There are latrines that are very shallow (like most of the latrines in my sector) and there are latrines that have very deep pits. Some latrines have doors; some do not. Some latrines don’t even have little buildings built around them. There are also latrines that have tubing connecting them to a sewage cistern. My latrine is, fortunately, the latter, and after six months at site, I have come to deeply appreciate it. Some of the volunteers actually have toilets and plumbing in their houses. That’s very nice but when they do not have water (which is a common occurrence here), it’s a pretty bad scenario. With my latrine, I don’t have to worry about not having enough water. I just use my waste water (like dirty dish water or bath water), pour it down my latrine and it “flushes” all the bad stuff to the cistern twenty meters away. No mess, no smell, no hassle, no wasting clean water. I love it. So convenient. The World Health Organization actually calls my type of latrine (the pour-flush latrine) an “improved” latrine technology, just so you know.
The latrines at the health center scare me. No joke. I literally choose to walk home to use my latrine or just wait until the end of the day. The reason they scare me is that they are so freaking deep, I feel like I’m standing on top of an entrance to Mammoth Cave or something. And when you’re peeing, you feel vulnerable enough. Add to that the fear of falling into a bottomless pit and you can see why I choose to walk home. Also, I’m afraid I’m going to drop my cell phone in there or worse, my house keys. It has happened to many people, you know. One volunteer dropped her cell phone into a latrine during her site visit. Her counterparts actually fished the cell phone out of the latrine and cleaned it for her. Now, that’s hospitality.
Cell phones and keys are not the only things to fall into latrines. People also fall in. And when you do fall into the latrine, the main concern is not getting dirty but getting burned by the acid. Yea, one of my friends told me that acid is produced down there by all the waste and is very dangerous to the skin. Who knew? Soooo, this is the reason why mothers never let their small children use the latrines. They always pee or defecate outside in the bush and the mothers, hopefully, clean up after them. The latrines at the health center, for example, are 20 meters (65 feet) deep. I would hate for a kid to fall in there.
Okay, moving on.
Lately, I’ve been trying to integrate into the Rwandan culture of “fanatic soccer love” and I’ve been watching and attending several of the soccer games. Even though I watched no sports back in America, it’s been a lot of fun and I think I might keep this hobby. Anyway, Rwandans love soccer. I mean, they really do love it a lot. Whenever there’s a game on t.v., guys flock to the bars and restaurants to watch the “big game” on a projected screen. As poor as they are, they will even pay money to watch these games. And the teams they watch and cheer for are the European soccer teams, mainly the British. They cheer for teams like Manchester United, Chelsey, and Arsenal. It’s kind of humorous actually but I guess it’s because I’m from Brazil and I’m not accustomed to seeing a bunch of pasty white guys actually good at soccer. Yea, the British teams are really good and I hope to choose my favorite team soon. That is, as soon as I watch all the games in the Premier league. That might take a while.
I also attended a soccer game here in Rwanda a few weeks ago, and let’s just say it was an interesting experience. First, it was a big game, Rwanda vs. Egypt, the qualifying game for the World Cup. Even the President, who loves soccer, attended the game. Because he was there, security was super tight and we waited in the security line for an hour before we were cleared. The security girl even checked my camera.
Although it was kind of intimidating to see all the military guys walking around with their sniper rifles and other equipment, the atmosphere was pretty festive and we got awesome seats, right in front of some crazy old Egyptians who flew in just to see the game and a semi-naked crazy Rwandan.
Around twenty minutes before the game, I left the stadium and went outside of the safety perimeter to buy some water and a cap for the game. I stayed out there for a while so one of my Rwandan friends called me to warn me the game was about to start and that I should get in. I told him, “Okay, I will be right in.” He called me two more times saying the same thing and I was thinking, “Wow, he really doesn’t want me to miss the beginning. Why is he so concerned? It’s not a big deal. I can miss a few minutes.”
Okay, have you ever been outside the stadium when a big game is about to start and there’s a huge crowd still wanting to get in? Then, you know what happened to me. I started to head for the entrance gate a few minutes after my friend called and I slowly realized that people were running. I turned around and with a shock, realized that two hundred people were stampeding towards the gates. I turned to the front and was horrified to see the military closing the gates on us. With only a few seconds to think, I did the only reasonable thing I could think of. I ran. I ran like crazy with the rest of the mob and I jumped inside the gates right when the guard was closing it. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it very well; the gate jarred me so I fell to the ground and lost my shoes. The mob continued running and fortunately, they didn’t run over me but around me. Then, this Ugandan guy materialized out of nowhere, picked me up off of the ground and helped me find my shoes. I stared dully at my guardian angel while he cleaned the blood off of my scratches with his shirt. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. He led me to the stadium doors where we saw the crowd in a deadlock with the military. As I warily eyed their guns, the military, uncertain how to security-check all these people at the same time, finally let us all through with a quick pat-down. After what seemed an eternity, I made my way to my seat and thanked my Ugandan guardian angel. And although I was out of sorts, I enjoyed the game. Unfortunately, Rwanda lost. The Egyptians in front of us had a field day with the game and ran up and down the aisles when Egypt scored, loudly singing Arabic songs. I don’t know what the Rwandans thought of that, but I was pretty amused.
In retrospect, I think it was all worth it. Although I gained a few scratches from the experience, I learned a few things about pre-game activities and got to see a live game. Amazing experience overall. Next time, however, I’m getting there two hours early and I’m staying glued to my seat.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Concerning hunger season, water babies and other random facts
About two weeks ago, the winds arrived, cool and steady, stirring up huge piles of dust and blowing through the trees and houses in an ominous manner. Then the rain started falling and falling and falling and it forgot to stop, washing away all the dust off the trees, roads, and buildings and turning my little part of Rwanda green again. Rainy season arrived at last, God bless it.
Rainy season means several things. To me, it means no more dust covering my clothes and possessions whenever I travel, no more dust in my throat and cooler weather. To the farmers, this is around the time they start planting and replenishing their food for the rest of the year. Rwanda has two growing seasons, one time around the beginning of the year and one time right now. By the way, we’re also now in hunger and thief season. I bet you haven’t heard of that season before but basically it means that the people have run out of food from the last season’s harvest and are basically eating very little until the next harvest. Some of them get so hungry that they resort to breaking into other people’s houses and stealing their food. That’s the thief season part.
Actually, I feel very guilty about the whole hunger season. I’ve never had to deal with that before. At least, I don’t live in the Sudan or some other desperate country where it’s basically hunger decade. Nevertheless, we still have a season dedicated to it. Since I’m the assistant to the nutritionist at the clinic, I get the honor of seeing all the kids in the sector come in to be weighed. I can always tell which are the malnourished ones by their mood. They’re screaming bloody murder or are very lethargic and lifeless. I think the lifeless ones scare me the most. The well-fed babies, with their little bundles of fat, gurgle and say “da-da” and never mind when I measure their arms or height. We also get the water babies. These babies can fool some people at first sight because they look fat. Unfortunately, the reason they look fat is because their bodies are swollen with water; they’re severely malnourished with kwashiorkor. They’re not getting enough food, especially protein foods. Actually, most of the malnourished babies and toddlers I see are either the kwashiorkor babies or the medium malnourished babies. The marasmus children, the skin and bones children, go to the hospital to drink some miracle porridge and recover. I wonder what happens when they go back home. Actually, I wonder how much these families eat exactly. And what does it feel like to always be hungry. An old woman came in the other day with her kwashiorkor baby but we had to turn her away from the food distribution program because her baby’s arms were too thick to qualify for the program. She kept telling me the baby was an orphan; her mother was a fellow villager who died recently. The baby lived off of sweet potatoes because, well, there really wasn’t much else to feed her. I felt really bad for this old woman. She was like one hundred years old and caring for this water baby and I’m feeling helpless because I can’t do anything to help her. I guess I could be a typical muzungo and throw money at her but that won’t really solve anything long-term and, plus, I would have the rest of my sector knocking at my door asking for money. So, I did what I always did. I gave her the nutrition spill and told her to come back next month to get her baby re-weighed. Man, you can bet I felt good after that, a real hero, telling her to feed her baby vegetables and beans when the woman’s problem is not misinformation but just poverty. The kinyarwanda word for poverty is ubukene. I think I have it stuck in my head now forever. I used to think I was poor. That was before I came here. Now, I think I must have been a millionaire back in the States eating meat two times a day, having piped hot water and as much electricity as I can ever use, a paid university degree and a paid car. Even now, as a Peace Corps volunteer, I am rich. I have the good life. Not only do my villagers think that, I think that. If I can spend $4 dollars in one day to call my friends on the cell phone, if I can have an egg every day and a gas tank to cook my food. If I can have electricity in my own home and travel to the city on the weekend, how can I not be rich?
Actually, I’m beginning to realize how relative being rich and poor can be. In the States, as a waitress and college student, I definitely did not make enough money to be in the middle class. I did not consider myself rich by any means. But how can you explain to an African that a poor person in the States might have a rented apartment, a car, fed kids that go to school and a job? In our mind, we can argue, “Well, the family lives in the ghetto in subsidized housing, the car was new when the “I love Lucy” show was playing, the kids live off of soft drinks and chips and the father has a job at McDonalds.” But to an African, our arguments sound hollow and spoiled and basically don’t make any sense. This family may live in the ghetto but they have a place to sleep that protects them from the elements. Their children can go to free school on free school buses and eventually have the chance to go to university and improve their lot in life. The father may have a job at McDonalds but at least he has a job and he has a car that can take him places easily like to work or to the hospital when necessary.
What does all this mean? Am I trying to make you feel guilty? Well, yes. If I’m going to feel guilty, then I may as well not suffer alone. But I think the lesson here is more than emotional. It is instructive in life to sometimes look at the outside world, to see how other human beings are getting along and to put oneself in context. It is misfortunate and very nearsighted to put oneself in a box and live there oblivious of others for the rest of one’s life. Because if you do so, you miss out. You really do. For us Americans, we miss the opportunity to realize how blessed and full our lives really are.
Rainy season means several things. To me, it means no more dust covering my clothes and possessions whenever I travel, no more dust in my throat and cooler weather. To the farmers, this is around the time they start planting and replenishing their food for the rest of the year. Rwanda has two growing seasons, one time around the beginning of the year and one time right now. By the way, we’re also now in hunger and thief season. I bet you haven’t heard of that season before but basically it means that the people have run out of food from the last season’s harvest and are basically eating very little until the next harvest. Some of them get so hungry that they resort to breaking into other people’s houses and stealing their food. That’s the thief season part.
Actually, I feel very guilty about the whole hunger season. I’ve never had to deal with that before. At least, I don’t live in the Sudan or some other desperate country where it’s basically hunger decade. Nevertheless, we still have a season dedicated to it. Since I’m the assistant to the nutritionist at the clinic, I get the honor of seeing all the kids in the sector come in to be weighed. I can always tell which are the malnourished ones by their mood. They’re screaming bloody murder or are very lethargic and lifeless. I think the lifeless ones scare me the most. The well-fed babies, with their little bundles of fat, gurgle and say “da-da” and never mind when I measure their arms or height. We also get the water babies. These babies can fool some people at first sight because they look fat. Unfortunately, the reason they look fat is because their bodies are swollen with water; they’re severely malnourished with kwashiorkor. They’re not getting enough food, especially protein foods. Actually, most of the malnourished babies and toddlers I see are either the kwashiorkor babies or the medium malnourished babies. The marasmus children, the skin and bones children, go to the hospital to drink some miracle porridge and recover. I wonder what happens when they go back home. Actually, I wonder how much these families eat exactly. And what does it feel like to always be hungry. An old woman came in the other day with her kwashiorkor baby but we had to turn her away from the food distribution program because her baby’s arms were too thick to qualify for the program. She kept telling me the baby was an orphan; her mother was a fellow villager who died recently. The baby lived off of sweet potatoes because, well, there really wasn’t much else to feed her. I felt really bad for this old woman. She was like one hundred years old and caring for this water baby and I’m feeling helpless because I can’t do anything to help her. I guess I could be a typical muzungo and throw money at her but that won’t really solve anything long-term and, plus, I would have the rest of my sector knocking at my door asking for money. So, I did what I always did. I gave her the nutrition spill and told her to come back next month to get her baby re-weighed. Man, you can bet I felt good after that, a real hero, telling her to feed her baby vegetables and beans when the woman’s problem is not misinformation but just poverty. The kinyarwanda word for poverty is ubukene. I think I have it stuck in my head now forever. I used to think I was poor. That was before I came here. Now, I think I must have been a millionaire back in the States eating meat two times a day, having piped hot water and as much electricity as I can ever use, a paid university degree and a paid car. Even now, as a Peace Corps volunteer, I am rich. I have the good life. Not only do my villagers think that, I think that. If I can spend $4 dollars in one day to call my friends on the cell phone, if I can have an egg every day and a gas tank to cook my food. If I can have electricity in my own home and travel to the city on the weekend, how can I not be rich?
Actually, I’m beginning to realize how relative being rich and poor can be. In the States, as a waitress and college student, I definitely did not make enough money to be in the middle class. I did not consider myself rich by any means. But how can you explain to an African that a poor person in the States might have a rented apartment, a car, fed kids that go to school and a job? In our mind, we can argue, “Well, the family lives in the ghetto in subsidized housing, the car was new when the “I love Lucy” show was playing, the kids live off of soft drinks and chips and the father has a job at McDonalds.” But to an African, our arguments sound hollow and spoiled and basically don’t make any sense. This family may live in the ghetto but they have a place to sleep that protects them from the elements. Their children can go to free school on free school buses and eventually have the chance to go to university and improve their lot in life. The father may have a job at McDonalds but at least he has a job and he has a car that can take him places easily like to work or to the hospital when necessary.
What does all this mean? Am I trying to make you feel guilty? Well, yes. If I’m going to feel guilty, then I may as well not suffer alone. But I think the lesson here is more than emotional. It is instructive in life to sometimes look at the outside world, to see how other human beings are getting along and to put oneself in context. It is misfortunate and very nearsighted to put oneself in a box and live there oblivious of others for the rest of one’s life. Because if you do so, you miss out. You really do. For us Americans, we miss the opportunity to realize how blessed and full our lives really are.
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