Village life

The other day I toured this old lady’s home. It was a perfectly round house made out of adobe and cow dung and it had a straw roof. In other words, it was a hut and it was awesome. Inside this tiny hut (the size of my room in the U.S.), it was separated into even tinier rooms. In the center of the hut was the fireplace, a.k.a. the kitchen. Go three feet that way and there’s the storage room. Go three feet the opposite direction and there’s a sleeping room. Head straight past the kitchen and turn a curtain aside and tada! there’s the old lady’s bedroom. And you know what’s even better about this hut…the old lady built it herself.

Now, let me give you some context or history about all this. Rwandans traditionally lived in grass and mud huts but that was a long time age. Now, most people live in square houses made out of either mud mixed with cement or bricks. The houses have clay tiling or metal sheets, if you can afford it. This is all village housing. In the capital, there’s the whole spectrum of housing from the little clay houses in the poor neighborhoods to large mansions and apartments in the rich part of Kigali where all the NGO workers live and pay New York-style rents. Anyway, the little grass huts are for the very poor of Rwandan society. In my sector (comprised of 27 villages), there are about 500+ grass huts. We know this because the government is trying to come in and rebuild these houses into modern homes. During the genocide, many of the homes and possessions were destroyed. There were many widows after the war and not enough men so women took on traditional male roles (such as building houses). This broke many stereotypes and helped advance the status of women in Rwanda. So, now Rwanda is one of the more equitable countries in regards to women’s rights, jobs, etc. There are more women in parliament than in any other country and women can work all types of jobs from the military to construction work wielding a pack axe cracking gravel (I saw this with my own eyes the other day.) In my sector alone, women are the executive secretaries of two cells (commanding five villages each) and there are many female executive secretaries of villages.
Sooo, to make a long story short, this old lady is a war widow and she built her hut after the war because her first house was destroyed. The government is going to build her a new house soon so she’s looking forward to that. I’ve seen other huts all over the place since I started my nutrition rehab project. This project of mine has me walking to villages all over the place and I get a chance to meet many people and know the geography very well. So, I have noticed all the traditional huts in my area and have seen how poor the people really are. I have also had the chance to learn about the people’s lifestyles and work routine which I find really fascinating. One thing which I had never considered before but I learned the other day was how villagers paint their homes. They obviously can’t buy paint at the nearest paint store. They actually find white stone from the hillside (chalk), grind it up and mix it with water. So, they paint their houses white. They can also add cassava powder to the mix so that the dry paint on the walls does not come off on their clothes, etc. Cassava powder is really sticky so it helps bind the paint to the walls. If they want black paint, they make a mix of cow dung and water.
Another thing I learned from one group of women is that they have to make a two-hour trip to get water. That made me sad. I only have to walk ten minutes to my water source and even then, I have a girl fetch water for me every day. I wonder how much water these villagers use. Imagine six people in a house and the amount of water they go through. I bet they probably only use one or two jericans (20 liters or 5.3 gallons) a day and that’s not enough to bathe everyone, cook food and wash dishes. I usually only use 10 liters of water a day which is 2.6 gallons of water. If I do laundry, I will use over 5 gallons of water or a whole jerican. If I have to wash sheets that day, all is lost. Sooo, I guess my point is, we stress hygiene so much in our public health messages to villagers but if you had to walk two hours to get water, would you bathe every day?

Grumpy Santa Claus

Yesterday, a little bird was resting outside my kitchen on the ground. It didn’t move when I stepped next to it so I assumed it was hurt. I went back inside for an hour and when I finally came out, all that was left of the little bird was some feathers on the ground and a little skull. Horrified, I searched for the culprit and soon eyed the ubiquitous crows that circle my house. I hate those birds. They’re big, ugly, loud and I guess, cannibals also. All day long, they love to jump and dance on my tin roof. Anyway, today, I went into my kitchen and I saw another little bird just like that one on the floor. It suddenly dawned on me that these were baby birds that had just left their nest. I had been eyeing this nest for weeks hoping the birds would grow up so I could knock the nest down since it’s in my kitchen. Oh well, I guess the birds have left the nest now. Too bad, they just sit on the ground waiting for other animals to eat them. That really is kind of unsettling.

So, I have not written a blog in a long time. For a while, I struggled with mechanical problems such as my computers dying. I killed my last computer so well that I not only fried the hard drive, I also broke the motherboard. Another reason for not writing a blog was that I only had the opportunity to write a blog when I was in a bad mood. I decided that was not a good idea either. I guess my last reason for stopping to write as much is that I’m starting to think writing blogs is a little pretentious. I guess it depends on how you write a blog or for what purpose, but when you’re in the Peace Corps, some blogs do come out sounding self-serving or gloating. Despite all these negatives, I’m back to blogging. I figure it’s a better use of time than staring at the walls in my bedroom and generally going insane. Actually, I’m not surprised people can go insane when they’re in the Peace Corps. It can really get to you.

So, maybe you’re wondering what I have been doing with my time here. Well, lately, I’ve been chicken shopping. And if you’ve ever tried to go chicken shopping, you will realize it’s not as easy as one might think. When I decided to give a chicken to each parent in my nutrition program (around 120 of them), I inconveniently forgot that I’m not in the United States and can simply go to a chicken farm and order them. The first ten chickens I bought off of the nutritionist, my partner in this project. That was easy enough but that purchase supposedly zeroed out the stock of chickens available for sale in my sector. A sector is about the equivalent of a county in the U.S. Therefore, I decided to buy chickens in the markets in the other sectors. The only problems to my idea were the following. Number one, I have no transportation of my own; two, I am a muzungu so the price of chickens is essentially tripled for me; three, I don’t really know how to buy young, egg-laying chickens so anybody can essentially cheat me. Despite these problems, I decided to at least try, and after some asking around, I caught a lift on my hospital ambulance to a sector and market around 20 kilometers away. Miraculously, one of the NGO workers volunteered to help me that day and we took a motorcycle to the market to buy chickens.

The market was huge but the chicken selections not so huge. After identifying me as a muzungu, the sellers immediately started doubling and tripling the price. Exasperated, the NGO worker told me to go hide in one of the shops while we sent a villager to go bargain down the price. After several hours, we ended up with one chicken and a rooster. Too bad I needed eleven chickens. That day, I finally arranged for a local health clinic worker to buy chickens for us and we would pick them up the next week. Well, that failed completely so we came back the next week to buy more chickens ourselves. This time, we fared a little better. We bought three chickens after two or three hours. Not deterred, I decide to try another market in another sector two days later. Unfortunately, I missed the bus so I had to walk the whole way to the market, about 8 or 9 kilometers away. There, I got chided again by my co-workers for being muzungu because all the sellers started increasing their prices when they saw me. This time, I bought five chickens that morning so I’m still missing one chicken now. I figure, after going to the market three times and not finding enough chickens for my program, I’m just going to let my clients start finding the chickens. If they really want chickens, they will have to find them and I will buy them then. As it turns out, being a muzungu is really a bad thing when you want to buy chickens.

Another bad side-effect of my project is that many of my villagers are asking me for money and chickens now. I have turned into the “money volunteer,” which if you ask any Peace Corps volunteer, that is not a good thing. I have again become a walking dollar sign. Imagine having people come up to you and instead of greeting you or making small talk, they just immediately ask, “What will you give me?” I feel like I’m Santa Claus living with hundreds of children on Christmas Eve.

Oh well, I guess being Santa Claus for two years is not that big of a deal in the overall scheme of things. People are getting chickens and hopefully the kids are recovering from malnutrition. Now, if I can only have my sleigh with reindeer or even a motorcycle would be nice.

Out of the many things I’ve learned being a Peace Corps volunteer, those that stand out recently are that eating bread and cheese for four days straight is not good on the digestive system, East African wedding receptions also have the electric slide as the token dance and Congolese doctors like to play scrabble after work…French Scrabble that is. Oh, I almost forgot this too…watching eight shows of the Gossip Girl in one day can seriously lead a Peace Corps girl into depression.

So, I haven’t updated this blog in a while. I hope you haven’t worried too much. I haven’t died or mysteriously dropped out of the Peace Corps or immigrated to Kenya to live among the Maasai tribe. I’m still gainfully employed as a Peace Corps community health volunteer in my village’s health center.

Latest events: 38 fresh Peace Corps volunteers just arrived in Rwanda, bringing our total number of volunteers up to around 90. If Rwanda’s population density is around 300 people per square kilometer, it must also be around 100 Peace Corps volunteers per square kilometer too. I personally have three Peace Corps volunteers that are less than twenty kilometers from me. Ironically, I never see them except when we travel to the capital, which is around 150 km away.

In other news, I have been traveling around lately. My villagers, at one point, thought I had gone back to America. In February, I was sent to Nairobi, Kenya for about a week to have a medical procedure done. Nothing too serious but it was still dramatically called a “medical evacuation.” For me, it turned out to be a mostly all-expenses paid trip to a city that has everything a girl could wish for. And by everything, I mean shopping malls, cinemas, and Mexican food. If you’ve never been to Nairobi, I seriously recommend a visit. It is amazing. I probably gained five pounds because I insisted on eating pizza and ice cream every single day I was there. I also racked up around $150 in credit card charges because of all the shopping and restaurant dining. I even went to a Brazilian steakhouse. You know, those restaurants where the waiters dress like South American cowboys and bring around skewers of meat to your table until you feel like you want to die of fullness and sheer happiness. They even had alligator meat, which was quite tasty.

Tell you what, after being in pseudo America for a week, it was really weird going back to Rwanda and my village. Really weird. It kinda got me thinking about the things we love most in life and how many times, they are small, unimportant things like ice cream. We don’t even realize that until they are gone. I thought that going to the Peace Corps would make me realize the triviality of all that stuff. Instead, it just showed me that the smallest things, like paper towels and wearing jeans, maybe aren’t necessary but they bring a person closer to home.

fresh thoughts for a new year

So I am sorry about the ranting in my last blog. I should never write when I’m angry. I read it again a while ago and it made me cringe just a little. I sound like a terrible person. Anyway, I guess I will leave it up on the site as it gives you guys an idea of the frustrations people encounter in the Peace Corps. At least now, I have happier news and am going to give all of my family and friends a long update of my life since then. At least, until my boss comes back and takes over the office. I’m using his office and computer right now to write this blog. My computer has been dead for a few weeks now, another reason I haven’t updated my blog.

As many of us are approaching our one year mark here in Rwanda, we have been handling it in different ways. Some have already started planning their next move once they’re back home--grad school, job hunting. As for me, I have yet to nail down a concrete plan once I return. Having been away from the States for almost a year now, I envision coming home to a land of no jobs and huge debts. It sort of makes me thankful I still have about a year and a half left in a secure job, a long time to make vague fanciful plans about my life.

I have to be honest, being here has definitely had its ups and downs. Just read my last blog for proof. Yet, even with the bad stuff, things turn around in a really good way sometimes. The political guy I complained so much about in the last blog has now become my best ally in getting my nutrition project funded. And even though it has been frustrating creating a project proposal with all the different languages and misunderstandings, I am actually really proud of how it turned out. I really hope we get funding by the end of this month. If so, we can start this project by March and continue until I leave. Oh, I guess I haven’t told you about this project yet. I am really excited about it. It’s called HEARTH or Positive Deviance and it’s a behavior change nutrition project. It has a really cool concept and is super sustainable. The concept of Positive Deviance is that, in every poor community with malnutrition, there are mothers who have innate knowledge of good feeding habits. They use the foods available in the area to feed their children healthy meals. These mothers are called Positive Deviants because they are poor villagers who have healthy children in a community of unhealthy children. Anyway, in this HEARTH project, we find the positive deviant moms in a community and use them as teachers in a community cooking class. In this class, women with malnourished children bring their children and a variety of local, affordable foods to the class. They all cook together using a nutritious recipe and get taught a lesson in nutrition, parenting, family planning, etc. Afterwards, they all feed their children. After two weeks, many children start showing improvements. They gain weight, improve their mood and energy level. During the class, the women also learn good hygiene habits since they wash all the food before cooking and their hands before eating. The program idea is so simple but it has been really successful in many countries. The key to its success is that it’s cheap and uses behavior change techniques really effectively. Mothers bring food locally available and learn from a neighbor. They also learn by doing through an extended period of time instead of sitting for an hour listening to someone lecture them. The recipes and the habits stick with them. They take these good habits home with them and implement them in their lifestyle. This program has rehabilitated children in Haiti, Egypt, Mozambique, Cambodia, Vietnam and many others. In Vietnam, it rehabilitated 80% of the children in the communities where it was implemented. Anyway, now I want to start it in the villages around here and see if it works. We also plan to have the women in the classes form cooperatives and raise chickens. We’re giving them six chickens for each group and we’re planting gardens in each of their homes. I really hope it works out because it’s a more sustainable solution to the malnutrition problem than just giving money and free food. Obviously, this program would not work where there’s food insecurity--in other words, in a desert or in a war zone. I’m a little worried because there’s a little bit of food insecurity in my villages but I will see how it pans out.

Well, that’s all I have for now. I will try to update you guys more later. Hope you had happy holidays and welcome to 2010!

Christmas grinch in Rwanda

So, it turns out most of the clichés about Peace Corps are true. Unfortunate but my reality nevertheless. When I first came to my site and to Rwanda, I kinda ignored a lot of them and just rolled with it because I was new and didn’t want to rock the boat. Actually, I think I was a little numb through it all, which is my typical response to new situations. But the other day, it hit me. It is really hard to work here and get things done. After months of trying to get students to regularly come to my English class and actually be on time, I have just given that up. When they ask me why I stopped teaching English, I just tell them that people never came and when they did come, they were half an hour late or more. Ironically, its usually the ones who never come to my English class who are the most interested in why I have stopped teaching and when will I pick it up.

On to the next topic. I can predict now when my supervisors and partners or political bigwigs in my town will miss meetings or appointments with me. Almost always. It takes weeks or months to get things finalized because people never have a definite schedule or they overbook themselves like American doctors. And one of them always has the nerve to ask me when I will get a certain project done or a certain paper written when it is a huge task that depends on others’ collaboration and it’s really none of his concern anyway.

Now, what tops that though is trying to do project planning and budgeting because we have to speak three freaking languages to get our point across to each other (not to mention that none of us are fluent in each others’ language). Give you a quick example. I’m trying to budget construction of a chicken house. We ask a guy’s help and he rattles off figures and prices in kinyarwanda. All very good but then one of the guys has to try to translate building materials and prices to me by hand gestures, pointing or a mix of French, English and Kinyarwanda. Then, we have to get on the same page about dimensions and we have a long argument about whether we should buy traditional chickens or the new exotic breeds (or modern breeds) that lay more eggs, etc. My argument is that we should use the traditional breeds since they are acclimated to the harsh living conditions and are less likely to die to diseases and no food. Then, the others whine about how it’s according to the national policy to raise the modern breeds. Their only argument. My thinking is that it kind of defeats the purpose of giving away chickens if they’re just going to die once we give them away. Seriously, the villagers just let the chickens roam completely free. They don’t feed them, protect them from predators or build them a little house to nest and roost.

It’s all so excruciatingly frustrating. I’m lucky I have a pretty calm temperament. I’ve been stood up, delayed and told false promises to so many times that it’s so tempting to not do anything. But if I do nothing, I just get bored and that’s even worse.

One last thing and I’m finished with my pity party. My computer, after six years of existence, is giving serious signs of old age. My cable started burning up a few weeks ago and when it finally started smoking, I decided it was time to replace it. This past weekend, I went into the capital and bought another cable for $50. My computer almost immediately started burning this new cable as well so that it melted into my computer. Seriously. I cannot pull it out. Surprisingly, it still works (most of the time) which is why I’m writing this blog to you right now. I hope it lasts till next May so I can buy a new computer when I visit home. I don’t think it will though.

Well, that’s all I have to say for now. Sorry to be such a bummer on my blog but I’m just in a bad mood. Been in one for a while, I think. I’ve been going through so much chocolate in my house that I think I am creating cavities. I’ve also found a new taste for icing. I buy confectioner’s sugar in the city and I make icing and just eat it straight up although sometimes I make a cake too. The day before, I had icing for dinner and then for breakfast the next morning. I do that sometimes and when I have a bad day, I eat one of those Mounds bars that Mom sent me. I guess I’m taking my emotions out on food because when I go to Kigali, I get a half kilo of ice cream and eat it all in one setting. I haven’t cooked a decent meal in about a week and a half. I’ve literally been living off of sweets and bread. The irony of it all is that I’m creating a community nutrition program right now, and I’ve been eating so awful. The other irony is that I hardly ever ate sweets in America. Cakes would grow stale and ice cream would get freezer burn. Now, I will eat one of my cakes in about one or two days.

Who's your English soccer team...and what type of latrine do you have?

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.

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.