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.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Did you get that memo?
It’s another night in the life of Patricia and it is time to write a blog. I must warn you that I have nothing really important to say tonight. I just haven’t written in a while so I thought I would give a little update. I’ve also promised myself that I would not write about food in today’s blog. It seems like every blog I write mentions food in one respect or another so I’m going to close that book and move on. Although I should mention that the market was especially well-stocked today and therefore I had a good meal tonight. Okay, moving on.
Well, it’s been seven months since I landed in Rwanda and four and a half months since I started living in the boonies, a.k.a. my site. I realized today that I only have a year and a half left of my service and that got me kinda thinking about what I’ve accomplished so far. Bad idea. I then had to buy myself a fanta and finish a whole package of cookies.
I guess you’re wondering what I am exactly doing here in Rwanda. I remember wondering myself what I would be doing when I started applying for the Peace Corps a year and a half ago. I would peruse the Peace Corps website meticulously, read all the stories, and waste hours on the web reading volunteer blogs. It was all a lot of fun and good material for daydreaming but it was also, to be honest, all kinda vague. I understand now why they were always so vague with their stories and blogs because that describes my life now. Vague, vague, vague. And random. That’s also a good word.
Let’s see. About my job. Yesterday, I distributed seed and farm equipment to a whole village. The week before, I saved a child’s life by rescuing him from a rushing river full of hungry crocodiles. Just before that, I had just finished work on a brand new house for a widow and her fifteen children. Now, I’m finalizing touches on a grant that will provide money for a brand new school for my town plus pay for the school fees for every single child. Oh, I almost forgot. Last month, I installed electricity and running water in my town. Yep, that’s my life now. Or at least my life in the movie version. You know how Hollywood writers embellish a little.
Uhm, yea. So, in reality, my volunteer job is in community health. I’m paired up with my sector’s clinic so I work there every day. I show up to work every day at 7 am and do random work the rest of the day to help the nurses with their jobs. I take temperatures and blood pressure. I weigh children and pregnant mothers and monitor their nutrition levels. I fill out forms for patients and fill syringes with vaccines. I also teach health topics sometimes to the patients in my baby kinyarwanda. Two days a week, I teach the staff English and I’ve started teaching them “the machine” or the computer as I like to call it. When there’s no work, I go over to the NGO’s office, bother them with requests for translations or ask to tag along on one of their community visits.
In all the empty space that’s between, I sit in a tiny office full of records, try to look busy on my computer, and wonder how I’m going to fill up the empty space the next day. I guess I can’t blame my co-workers. They don’t know or maybe don’t care how bored I am. Plus, they are blessed with working for the slowest clinic in the world. I think that we can have around twenty patients a day. Today, I saw five sitting on the bench outside the consultation room. In the afternoons, all the patients disappear and the nurses sit around till 5 pm doing nothing. Sometimes, I sit with them in the afternoon, watch the people walk by outside, and wonder about this clinic I work for, where the hardest workers are the janitors.
In all practicality, I’m my own boss. This would be good for some but not so much for me because my last few jobs and my whole school career trained me to be a very good robot. Unfortunately, this job requires me to be more like a computer with a good processor and access to Internet. Uhm, don’t know if that analogy worked. Anyway, my point is that I’m on unfamiliar territory and it’s been a little shaky. I’m not referring to teaching English or taking temps. What’s unfamiliar territory is having disease, hunger, and poverty staring me in the face every day when I teach English or take temps and knowing I should do something about it but not knowing exactly how to go around doing it. I do have a couple of ideas for projects and hopefully they will pan out. We'll see. It’s just month four and I’ve got twenty more months to figure things out. Maybe, I can still build that widow’s house or solve the hunger problem in my community. Probably not but why not dream. At least, I had a good dinner tonight.
Well, it’s been seven months since I landed in Rwanda and four and a half months since I started living in the boonies, a.k.a. my site. I realized today that I only have a year and a half left of my service and that got me kinda thinking about what I’ve accomplished so far. Bad idea. I then had to buy myself a fanta and finish a whole package of cookies.
I guess you’re wondering what I am exactly doing here in Rwanda. I remember wondering myself what I would be doing when I started applying for the Peace Corps a year and a half ago. I would peruse the Peace Corps website meticulously, read all the stories, and waste hours on the web reading volunteer blogs. It was all a lot of fun and good material for daydreaming but it was also, to be honest, all kinda vague. I understand now why they were always so vague with their stories and blogs because that describes my life now. Vague, vague, vague. And random. That’s also a good word.
Let’s see. About my job. Yesterday, I distributed seed and farm equipment to a whole village. The week before, I saved a child’s life by rescuing him from a rushing river full of hungry crocodiles. Just before that, I had just finished work on a brand new house for a widow and her fifteen children. Now, I’m finalizing touches on a grant that will provide money for a brand new school for my town plus pay for the school fees for every single child. Oh, I almost forgot. Last month, I installed electricity and running water in my town. Yep, that’s my life now. Or at least my life in the movie version. You know how Hollywood writers embellish a little.
Uhm, yea. So, in reality, my volunteer job is in community health. I’m paired up with my sector’s clinic so I work there every day. I show up to work every day at 7 am and do random work the rest of the day to help the nurses with their jobs. I take temperatures and blood pressure. I weigh children and pregnant mothers and monitor their nutrition levels. I fill out forms for patients and fill syringes with vaccines. I also teach health topics sometimes to the patients in my baby kinyarwanda. Two days a week, I teach the staff English and I’ve started teaching them “the machine” or the computer as I like to call it. When there’s no work, I go over to the NGO’s office, bother them with requests for translations or ask to tag along on one of their community visits.
In all the empty space that’s between, I sit in a tiny office full of records, try to look busy on my computer, and wonder how I’m going to fill up the empty space the next day. I guess I can’t blame my co-workers. They don’t know or maybe don’t care how bored I am. Plus, they are blessed with working for the slowest clinic in the world. I think that we can have around twenty patients a day. Today, I saw five sitting on the bench outside the consultation room. In the afternoons, all the patients disappear and the nurses sit around till 5 pm doing nothing. Sometimes, I sit with them in the afternoon, watch the people walk by outside, and wonder about this clinic I work for, where the hardest workers are the janitors.
In all practicality, I’m my own boss. This would be good for some but not so much for me because my last few jobs and my whole school career trained me to be a very good robot. Unfortunately, this job requires me to be more like a computer with a good processor and access to Internet. Uhm, don’t know if that analogy worked. Anyway, my point is that I’m on unfamiliar territory and it’s been a little shaky. I’m not referring to teaching English or taking temps. What’s unfamiliar territory is having disease, hunger, and poverty staring me in the face every day when I teach English or take temps and knowing I should do something about it but not knowing exactly how to go around doing it. I do have a couple of ideas for projects and hopefully they will pan out. We'll see. It’s just month four and I’ve got twenty more months to figure things out. Maybe, I can still build that widow’s house or solve the hunger problem in my community. Probably not but why not dream. At least, I had a good dinner tonight.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Lists
Ways to tell you’re a Rwandan Peace Corps volunteer
1) You speak Kinyarwanda like a three-year-old.
2) Six months later, you’re wearing the same clothes you brought from the States even though they’re too big/small and are starting to disintegrate.
3) Unlike the other foreigners (with their big SUV’s and hired drivers), you ride around in the local minivans and public buses, covered in dust and packed more tightly than sardines.
4) Your diet consists of rice and beans and some more rice and beans.
5) When you gather in groups of two Peace Corps volunteers or more, your conversation centers around American food. And Mexican food, and Chinese food, etc.
6) You argue fiercely in the market over a few hundred francs (a few American cents) and get mad when they charge you the foreigner rate.
7) The children call you Muzungu k’uruhu, meaning you’re a foreigner by skin only, not by culture. Translation: you don’t dole out money.
8) You spend more money on the telephone and Internet than on food and other living allowances combined.
9) You develop gross conditions like worms, giardia, chiggers, and more diarrhea than you thought possible.
10) You have gotten your phone or camera or other valuable stolen, at least once, while you’ve been here.
11) You’re so poor that even the Rwandans tell you that you need new shoes. Unfortunately, you can’t afford to buy new shoes because you spent it on Internet and you walk around in shower flip-flops.
12) You’ve become an expert English teacher because everyone in Rwanda wants to learn English.
13) You haven’t trimmed or cut your hair in months because the only person who knows how to cut Muzungu hair is another muzungu.
14) You’re the first muzungu to show your village children a picture of themselves or speak to them in their native language. You may be the first white person they’ve seen.
15) You’re the expert Internet and communications specialist in your village, even though in the United States, your only specialties were Microsoft Word and Facebook.
16) You spend the equivalent of $6 on a banana split when you travel to the capital.
17) You're not insulted when another volunteer offers the remains of a food item to you, such as cookie crumbs or half-eaten cake. This is especially true if it's in a package from the States or if any part of it consists of chocolate.
18) You take toilet paper with you whenever you travel. And laundry soap.
Other random lists
Things I miss from the States, besides family and friends of course
1) Food
2) Vegging out in front of the T.V. Especially watching Criminal Minds, Jon Stewart, and Law and Order.
3) Convenience and speed. If I’m hungry, order take-out. If I need something, I can go to Wal-mart.
4) Being completely understood, at all times. At least language and culturally wise.
5) Always having family at home when I came home from work or school.
6) Having a job I’m really good at.
7) A long, hot shower
8) Having enough money to buy frivolous things.
9) My car
Perks of being a Peace Corps volunteer
1) Having a job that actually matters.
2) Developing all sorts of random skills, like latrine maintenance and bargaining.
3) Being the superstar of a village.
4) Learning a second and potentially a third language.
5) Being the most eligible bachelor or bachelorette in town (This may not be a perk for some)
6) Kids love you. (Well, most do. Some cry.)
7) Having a huge network of other volunteers in other countries to support you when you travel, need information, or a favor.
8) Good healthcare
9) Meeting awesome people you never would have met otherwise.
10) Changing your way of looking at life, rearranging priorities.
11) Learning to appreciate the small things in life, the small victories and gifts.
12) Learning to live on your own, gain independence and maturity.
13) Developing life-long friends.
14) Gaining a new culture.
1) You speak Kinyarwanda like a three-year-old.
2) Six months later, you’re wearing the same clothes you brought from the States even though they’re too big/small and are starting to disintegrate.
3) Unlike the other foreigners (with their big SUV’s and hired drivers), you ride around in the local minivans and public buses, covered in dust and packed more tightly than sardines.
4) Your diet consists of rice and beans and some more rice and beans.
5) When you gather in groups of two Peace Corps volunteers or more, your conversation centers around American food. And Mexican food, and Chinese food, etc.
6) You argue fiercely in the market over a few hundred francs (a few American cents) and get mad when they charge you the foreigner rate.
7) The children call you Muzungu k’uruhu, meaning you’re a foreigner by skin only, not by culture. Translation: you don’t dole out money.
8) You spend more money on the telephone and Internet than on food and other living allowances combined.
9) You develop gross conditions like worms, giardia, chiggers, and more diarrhea than you thought possible.
10) You have gotten your phone or camera or other valuable stolen, at least once, while you’ve been here.
11) You’re so poor that even the Rwandans tell you that you need new shoes. Unfortunately, you can’t afford to buy new shoes because you spent it on Internet and you walk around in shower flip-flops.
12) You’ve become an expert English teacher because everyone in Rwanda wants to learn English.
13) You haven’t trimmed or cut your hair in months because the only person who knows how to cut Muzungu hair is another muzungu.
14) You’re the first muzungu to show your village children a picture of themselves or speak to them in their native language. You may be the first white person they’ve seen.
15) You’re the expert Internet and communications specialist in your village, even though in the United States, your only specialties were Microsoft Word and Facebook.
16) You spend the equivalent of $6 on a banana split when you travel to the capital.
17) You're not insulted when another volunteer offers the remains of a food item to you, such as cookie crumbs or half-eaten cake. This is especially true if it's in a package from the States or if any part of it consists of chocolate.
18) You take toilet paper with you whenever you travel. And laundry soap.
Other random lists
Things I miss from the States, besides family and friends of course
1) Food
2) Vegging out in front of the T.V. Especially watching Criminal Minds, Jon Stewart, and Law and Order.
3) Convenience and speed. If I’m hungry, order take-out. If I need something, I can go to Wal-mart.
4) Being completely understood, at all times. At least language and culturally wise.
5) Always having family at home when I came home from work or school.
6) Having a job I’m really good at.
7) A long, hot shower
8) Having enough money to buy frivolous things.
9) My car
Perks of being a Peace Corps volunteer
1) Having a job that actually matters.
2) Developing all sorts of random skills, like latrine maintenance and bargaining.
3) Being the superstar of a village.
4) Learning a second and potentially a third language.
5) Being the most eligible bachelor or bachelorette in town (This may not be a perk for some)
6) Kids love you. (Well, most do. Some cry.)
7) Having a huge network of other volunteers in other countries to support you when you travel, need information, or a favor.
8) Good healthcare
9) Meeting awesome people you never would have met otherwise.
10) Changing your way of looking at life, rearranging priorities.
11) Learning to appreciate the small things in life, the small victories and gifts.
12) Learning to live on your own, gain independence and maturity.
13) Developing life-long friends.
14) Gaining a new culture.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
visit from the U.S.!!
So I haven’t written in a while…it’s not been because of lack of things happening in my life. I guess my life has been just as eventful as before but because of circumstances, I haven’t felt the urge or had the heart to write a blog.
It was around the middle of June when I got sick for the first time. I developed fevers, chills, and fatigue, which left me bedridden for a few days. I guess it’s not that bad of an illness but when you’re thousands of miles away from home and missing your mom’s care and chicken noodle soup, it can feel a lot worse. I hitched a ride to the nearest town and got put up in a motel for a few days, compliments of Peace Corps. The Peace Corps doctor also gave me enough amoxicillin to treat an elephant so I quickly recovered after that. For some reason, although I recovered physically, the illness left me really down, unmotivated, and homesick. I hope I never get sick here again because it packs quite a punch, physically and mentally.
It’s been over for a month so I’m all better now. I’ve been working some and I also visited two other Peace Corps volunteers on the 4th of July weekend. Many of my projects and lessons have been put on hold because of holidays, going to a Peace Corps meeting and other obligations so I’ve been feeling like a slacker. Next month, however, I’ve already told myself to become a workaholic and really start Peace Corp volunteering in earnest. There can be no American slackers in my town.
In other news, my father and stepmother have come to visit me in good ole Rwanda for two weeks. To be honest, I was a little worried when my father first told me he was coming to visit. After all, my house is sorely lacking in certain commodities and amenities. In addition, getting around Rwanda is not exactly luxurious or easy. Fortunately, they have been really good about adjusting to everything and seem to actually be enjoying the experience. I’ve taken them to visit the university town, my town, and the capital city. We’ve been to shops, a museum, a wedding, walking randomly around my villages, and tomorrow, we will explore Kigali City. Normally, I hate going to the capital because it’s big, intimidating and my monthly salary has a tendency to disappear. Ever since my dad and stepmom have come to visit however, I have been obligated to learn my way around the city and I have been surprised at how much I know and that I can actually get around (well, sorta). The person I usually depend on for everything Rwandan (language translations, bargaining, advice about things mundane and important) has gone to America for three weeks so I’ve been forced to rely on myself for all that. Fortunately, my kinyarwanda was enough to rent hotel rooms, bargain for taxis and find a way to my village 250 kilometers away without losing my sanity. Like I told my stepmom, nothing in Rwanda is ever easy or convenient. I guess it’s just highlighted when you have visitors from the States. I was kinda getting used to the discomfort, dust, bargaining, lack of conveniences (like water), and various mishaps, cancellations, and bad deals that comprise my life now. When my dad and stepmom came to visit, I was reminded again of all those things and the fact that my life in the United States was actually pretty cozy.
They brought gifts from the United States. I gave my dad quite a list to bring me, including: an antivirus for my computer (very important here), a cowboy hat for a friend, my backpack, my good dress, seeds for my garden, movies, songs, and books, and the Catch phrase game (I might use it in my English class to increase vocab.) Dad also brought some English teaching textbooks and cd’s for me, for which I’m extremely grateful and my sister packed some curtain material for me. Before, I just had an old rag across my window and a bedsheet across my kitchen window. When my stepmom saw my bedroom curtain, she said it looked like Pigpen’s blanket (you know from Charlie Brown’s comic). Hehe. Yea, I guess it was pretty bad but I’ve been too lazy to seriously try to find suitable curtain materials, haggle for prices, go to the market to buy rods and rings, haggle for prices, measure the curtains and cut the material, go to the seamstress to get them hemmed up, haggle for prices, then go home to sew on the rings. Too much work for me. I rather just have Pigpen’s blanket across my bedroom window for three months. Well, unfortunately, Dad doesn’t know how lazy I can be because he made me do just that. We finally got all that finished yesterday and now I have brand new curtains hanging up in my living room and two bedrooms. Pigpen’s blanket is the curtain for my stockroom now. It’s an ugly room anyway.
When I first brought my parents to my town, they were surprised I lived so far from anything. My dad said that I lived at the end of the world. I guess it’s kind of true. It’s completely different from anywhere I’ve ever lived. Fortunately, they really liked my small town. We walked to three villages and all the villagers came out to see the strange white people walking through. Children ran, babies cried, and old men delightedly shook our hands. I was quite gratified to realize that the people knew me or at least recognized me. Many of them called me “umuganga” which means doctor in Kinyarwanda. I guess you’re wondering why they wouldn’t know me if I’ve been living here for three months. Well, where I live is composed of 26 different villages or umudugudu. Where I was taking my parents was the neighboring village or umudugudu.
I gave my parents the grand tour of my house and of the clinic where I work at. I suspect they had quite a different idea of where I lived or at least were not expecting what they saw. I don’t know for sure but they quickly got used to living with little water, cooking on charcoal, using a latrine and washing clothes by hand. I thought they would be all impressed by my charcoal lighting abilities but Dad already knew how to light the charcoal the old fashioned way. The next day, he lit it no problem and cooked on it whereas it had taken me two months to learn how to light the charcoal without kerosene.
My parents also made several improvements to my home. Compliments of my father and stepmom, I now have enough groceries for several weeks, two bedrooms and a living room freshly painted in yellow and green, curtains on all my windows, a new set of tools (screws, nails, saw, screwdrivers), a dustpan, three fixed doors that actually close and lock, new sandals (My old shoes were falling apart…literally), and various other things I can’t think of right now. I also think my dad felt really bad about all the children dressed in rags because he left half of his clothes and a pair of shoes to be given away to them. My neighbor’s house-servant will now be walking around in my dad’s clothes. It’s actually a really good thing. I think he only has one shirt and pair of pants.
Well, this blog is already too long. My parents fly away in two days and I will go back to my site the next day. It will be weird living alone again but I will get used to it as always. (I saw a cat today and seriously considered taking it back with me.)
It was around the middle of June when I got sick for the first time. I developed fevers, chills, and fatigue, which left me bedridden for a few days. I guess it’s not that bad of an illness but when you’re thousands of miles away from home and missing your mom’s care and chicken noodle soup, it can feel a lot worse. I hitched a ride to the nearest town and got put up in a motel for a few days, compliments of Peace Corps. The Peace Corps doctor also gave me enough amoxicillin to treat an elephant so I quickly recovered after that. For some reason, although I recovered physically, the illness left me really down, unmotivated, and homesick. I hope I never get sick here again because it packs quite a punch, physically and mentally.
It’s been over for a month so I’m all better now. I’ve been working some and I also visited two other Peace Corps volunteers on the 4th of July weekend. Many of my projects and lessons have been put on hold because of holidays, going to a Peace Corps meeting and other obligations so I’ve been feeling like a slacker. Next month, however, I’ve already told myself to become a workaholic and really start Peace Corp volunteering in earnest. There can be no American slackers in my town.
In other news, my father and stepmother have come to visit me in good ole Rwanda for two weeks. To be honest, I was a little worried when my father first told me he was coming to visit. After all, my house is sorely lacking in certain commodities and amenities. In addition, getting around Rwanda is not exactly luxurious or easy. Fortunately, they have been really good about adjusting to everything and seem to actually be enjoying the experience. I’ve taken them to visit the university town, my town, and the capital city. We’ve been to shops, a museum, a wedding, walking randomly around my villages, and tomorrow, we will explore Kigali City. Normally, I hate going to the capital because it’s big, intimidating and my monthly salary has a tendency to disappear. Ever since my dad and stepmom have come to visit however, I have been obligated to learn my way around the city and I have been surprised at how much I know and that I can actually get around (well, sorta). The person I usually depend on for everything Rwandan (language translations, bargaining, advice about things mundane and important) has gone to America for three weeks so I’ve been forced to rely on myself for all that. Fortunately, my kinyarwanda was enough to rent hotel rooms, bargain for taxis and find a way to my village 250 kilometers away without losing my sanity. Like I told my stepmom, nothing in Rwanda is ever easy or convenient. I guess it’s just highlighted when you have visitors from the States. I was kinda getting used to the discomfort, dust, bargaining, lack of conveniences (like water), and various mishaps, cancellations, and bad deals that comprise my life now. When my dad and stepmom came to visit, I was reminded again of all those things and the fact that my life in the United States was actually pretty cozy.
They brought gifts from the United States. I gave my dad quite a list to bring me, including: an antivirus for my computer (very important here), a cowboy hat for a friend, my backpack, my good dress, seeds for my garden, movies, songs, and books, and the Catch phrase game (I might use it in my English class to increase vocab.) Dad also brought some English teaching textbooks and cd’s for me, for which I’m extremely grateful and my sister packed some curtain material for me. Before, I just had an old rag across my window and a bedsheet across my kitchen window. When my stepmom saw my bedroom curtain, she said it looked like Pigpen’s blanket (you know from Charlie Brown’s comic). Hehe. Yea, I guess it was pretty bad but I’ve been too lazy to seriously try to find suitable curtain materials, haggle for prices, go to the market to buy rods and rings, haggle for prices, measure the curtains and cut the material, go to the seamstress to get them hemmed up, haggle for prices, then go home to sew on the rings. Too much work for me. I rather just have Pigpen’s blanket across my bedroom window for three months. Well, unfortunately, Dad doesn’t know how lazy I can be because he made me do just that. We finally got all that finished yesterday and now I have brand new curtains hanging up in my living room and two bedrooms. Pigpen’s blanket is the curtain for my stockroom now. It’s an ugly room anyway.
When I first brought my parents to my town, they were surprised I lived so far from anything. My dad said that I lived at the end of the world. I guess it’s kind of true. It’s completely different from anywhere I’ve ever lived. Fortunately, they really liked my small town. We walked to three villages and all the villagers came out to see the strange white people walking through. Children ran, babies cried, and old men delightedly shook our hands. I was quite gratified to realize that the people knew me or at least recognized me. Many of them called me “umuganga” which means doctor in Kinyarwanda. I guess you’re wondering why they wouldn’t know me if I’ve been living here for three months. Well, where I live is composed of 26 different villages or umudugudu. Where I was taking my parents was the neighboring village or umudugudu.
I gave my parents the grand tour of my house and of the clinic where I work at. I suspect they had quite a different idea of where I lived or at least were not expecting what they saw. I don’t know for sure but they quickly got used to living with little water, cooking on charcoal, using a latrine and washing clothes by hand. I thought they would be all impressed by my charcoal lighting abilities but Dad already knew how to light the charcoal the old fashioned way. The next day, he lit it no problem and cooked on it whereas it had taken me two months to learn how to light the charcoal without kerosene.
My parents also made several improvements to my home. Compliments of my father and stepmom, I now have enough groceries for several weeks, two bedrooms and a living room freshly painted in yellow and green, curtains on all my windows, a new set of tools (screws, nails, saw, screwdrivers), a dustpan, three fixed doors that actually close and lock, new sandals (My old shoes were falling apart…literally), and various other things I can’t think of right now. I also think my dad felt really bad about all the children dressed in rags because he left half of his clothes and a pair of shoes to be given away to them. My neighbor’s house-servant will now be walking around in my dad’s clothes. It’s actually a really good thing. I think he only has one shirt and pair of pants.
Well, this blog is already too long. My parents fly away in two days and I will go back to my site the next day. It will be weird living alone again but I will get used to it as always. (I saw a cat today and seriously considered taking it back with me.)
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
reflections on the day
June 11, 2009
Sometimes life is taking a deep breath and plunging in. That’s how I felt this morning once more as the mothers gathered together so I could start teaching them. I began my lesson on nutrition by introducing myself, then I started reading from my translation, trying to pronounce the words, hoping they understood it. Fortunately, a coworker was there, to repeat anything they did not understand and to expand on the subject.
If someone had told me a year ago I would be teaching a community about nutrition, HIV and family planning, holding English classes and conducting community assessments and interviews, I would have been intimidated and perhaps wondering how I would become qualified to do all this. Even now, when I think about what I do every week and what I will possibly be doing the next two years, I become a little terrified and I have to shut my mind and concentrate on what I am doing that day. Or sometimes, I have to just stop worrying and just do it. Because the alternative, that of not even trying, is many times worse than trying to do something and failing spectacularly. For example, the first time I taught a group of mothers, they did not understand a word I said. And I was speaking their language (or at least, some version of it)! In short, the lesson did not go well. As time went by, however, and as I taught more lessons, I started speaking more slowly, pronouncing the words more clearly, and remembering them. Now, when I teach a lesson in which I’m familiar, people can understand me and I can speak freely in Kinyarwanda for a few minutes without having to read my notes. And you can’t imagine how good of a feeling it is to be able to converse and teach in that language without having to read a translation from a piece of paper.
I’m not trying to sound all clichéd and inspirational. I’m trying to make a necessary point because if any of you guys reading are like me, then you need to hear this. Life is not safe; it’s not predictable or kind. If you want to make something of yourself, if you want to grow and learn, and leave behind something meaningful, then you have to take risks. You have to leave, for a time, whatever it is that makes you feel secure (your family, school, the living room couch) and make that gamble. It will change your life. Now I’m not saying that one decision will change your life. Instead, what changes your life is consistently overcoming your fears and taking chances. Take a chance and apply for that job or internship you think you will never get or that promotion at the office. Go out with that guy at the coffee shop although you’re afraid of getting hurt again. Sign up for that college class although you think you are not smart enough. Hey, apply for the Peace Corps. If you want to completely leave anything that could be called a safety zone, that’s one way to do it. I emphasize this point because, for many years, I played it safe and did not take many chances. I was afraid of not being talented or smart enough, of failing in general. I had so many excuses and reasons for not going anywhere significant in life. Fortunately, I realized this so I overcompensated slightly and did what could be considered either the smartest thing I’ve ever done or the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I decided to take a two-year volunteer position in a small African country thousands of miles from home and doing a job I had never done before in a language I had never heard of.
Yea, my life now is hard and new. Yea, I don’t know what I’m doing half of the time. I live and eat very poorly by American standards. I walk around half understood and half understanding, gossiped about and stared at. But when I think about these things, I start thinking about my fellow villagers. My life is hard but their’s is harder. Have you ever met someone so poor that he has to go out into the forests or countryside every day to try to find something to eat? His children have never gone to school or been vaccinated. Their clothes are literally falling off of their bodies. You probably wouldn’t even use those clothes for rags. Yea, my life is easier. And about being half understood, imagine living your whole life in one little village, struggling in the fields day by day to feed your family. There are few to no opportunities for advancement, education and a way out of that life. No one really cares or comes to try to make your life better. You don’t really have a voice.
When I start considering these things and thinking about the people I live with, I remember why I took that risk and joined the Peace Corps.
Sometimes life is taking a deep breath and plunging in. That’s how I felt this morning once more as the mothers gathered together so I could start teaching them. I began my lesson on nutrition by introducing myself, then I started reading from my translation, trying to pronounce the words, hoping they understood it. Fortunately, a coworker was there, to repeat anything they did not understand and to expand on the subject.
If someone had told me a year ago I would be teaching a community about nutrition, HIV and family planning, holding English classes and conducting community assessments and interviews, I would have been intimidated and perhaps wondering how I would become qualified to do all this. Even now, when I think about what I do every week and what I will possibly be doing the next two years, I become a little terrified and I have to shut my mind and concentrate on what I am doing that day. Or sometimes, I have to just stop worrying and just do it. Because the alternative, that of not even trying, is many times worse than trying to do something and failing spectacularly. For example, the first time I taught a group of mothers, they did not understand a word I said. And I was speaking their language (or at least, some version of it)! In short, the lesson did not go well. As time went by, however, and as I taught more lessons, I started speaking more slowly, pronouncing the words more clearly, and remembering them. Now, when I teach a lesson in which I’m familiar, people can understand me and I can speak freely in Kinyarwanda for a few minutes without having to read my notes. And you can’t imagine how good of a feeling it is to be able to converse and teach in that language without having to read a translation from a piece of paper.
I’m not trying to sound all clichéd and inspirational. I’m trying to make a necessary point because if any of you guys reading are like me, then you need to hear this. Life is not safe; it’s not predictable or kind. If you want to make something of yourself, if you want to grow and learn, and leave behind something meaningful, then you have to take risks. You have to leave, for a time, whatever it is that makes you feel secure (your family, school, the living room couch) and make that gamble. It will change your life. Now I’m not saying that one decision will change your life. Instead, what changes your life is consistently overcoming your fears and taking chances. Take a chance and apply for that job or internship you think you will never get or that promotion at the office. Go out with that guy at the coffee shop although you’re afraid of getting hurt again. Sign up for that college class although you think you are not smart enough. Hey, apply for the Peace Corps. If you want to completely leave anything that could be called a safety zone, that’s one way to do it. I emphasize this point because, for many years, I played it safe and did not take many chances. I was afraid of not being talented or smart enough, of failing in general. I had so many excuses and reasons for not going anywhere significant in life. Fortunately, I realized this so I overcompensated slightly and did what could be considered either the smartest thing I’ve ever done or the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I decided to take a two-year volunteer position in a small African country thousands of miles from home and doing a job I had never done before in a language I had never heard of.
Yea, my life now is hard and new. Yea, I don’t know what I’m doing half of the time. I live and eat very poorly by American standards. I walk around half understood and half understanding, gossiped about and stared at. But when I think about these things, I start thinking about my fellow villagers. My life is hard but their’s is harder. Have you ever met someone so poor that he has to go out into the forests or countryside every day to try to find something to eat? His children have never gone to school or been vaccinated. Their clothes are literally falling off of their bodies. You probably wouldn’t even use those clothes for rags. Yea, my life is easier. And about being half understood, imagine living your whole life in one little village, struggling in the fields day by day to feed your family. There are few to no opportunities for advancement, education and a way out of that life. No one really cares or comes to try to make your life better. You don’t really have a voice.
When I start considering these things and thinking about the people I live with, I remember why I took that risk and joined the Peace Corps.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
The ten plagues of Rwanda
Blog June 1, 2009
I had a visitor last week. He stayed for several days, with no prior notice. Fortunately, he was pretty quiet and stayed out of my way most of the time. His only annoying habit was trying to eat my food and run under my feet when I was near him. He was also small, furry and ran very fast. And I was absolutely terrified of him.
As you might have guessed, my visitor was a mouse. A little, brown mouse. The first night I saw him I was in my bed talking on the phone. I screamed and started banging things around to get him out of my room. I made so much noise, my neighbors thought I was being robbed and came over to check on me. I then barricaded myself in my room and finally went to sleep. In the morning, I looked around for him but did not find him. Thinking he had run out my back door, I left for work. That night, when I was cooking, I saw him again! He was in my kitchen running over my plates and kitchen utensils. Taking drastic measures, I grabbed my squeegee and started chasing him. My neighbor came over for something and I recruited him in the mouse hunt. Under no circumstances was I sharing quarters with a mouse! Unfortunately, the mouse outsmarted us. After thirty minutes of searching and sealing all the doors, we could not find him. Disheartened, I let my neighbor go home and I went to bed. The next morning, I went into the kitchen and found my cheese eaten. Furious, I vowed that this situation would end that same day. Grabbing the squeegee, I started banging around the kitchen until the little monster showed himself and started running across the floor. I closed the kitchen door but the mouse, being so small, escaped underneath. I chased him into the hall and saw that he had hid himself behind the hall door, the little fool. Gathering my courage, I did what had to be done and the mouse died. After I finished, I realized that my whole body was shaking. Sure, I had killed insects before but never something that was so obviously warm-blooded and breathing. I scooted it outside the house into my backyard. Afraid it would wake up and run inside again, I raised my squeegee high in the air, closed my eyes, and gave a good last wham on the poor thing.
I wish I could tell you this was my only incident with unwanted guests. Since that day, it seems like I have been inundated with various uninvited critters and I have been trying to get rid of them. Ants are a big problem in my house especially when I bring in pineapple and other such goodies. They don’t really bother me that much; they are just annoying. Spiders are also common but they don’t really bother me either. What really bothers me is looking into my latrine one day and realizing, oh crap, what are those white worms crawling all over my poop. Yeah, sorry to be so direct about this but if I have to deal with it, you, my reader, can deal with it too. Like an idiot, I had never bothered to cover my latrine. Therefore, flies decided to make it their main nesting ground and voila, hundreds and hundreds of fly larvae now live there. Yeah, I know. Gross, super gross. But what can I do about it. I can’t really relocate them. The first few nights, I stared in amazement at the colony. When they started trying to migrate upwards, I realized I was in deep trouble and I broke out my bleach. Like a sadist, I poured the bleach into the hole, watched the critters struggle for a minute and then covered the hole. Unfortunately, the larvae are tough and lived on. I have been pouring bleach into my latrine for the past few days but they still live! Maybe, I should just pour kerosene down the hole and set the whole shebang on fire. Haha. Just kidding, Mom. I would never do that, no matter how tempting it is.
A few days before the latrine incident, I decided to cook some pinto beans. Realizing I was out, I went to the store and bought a kilo. After I came home and opened my bag, I realized my beans were moving. Incredulous, I adjusted my eyes to see hundreds of these pinto bean termites crawling all over my beans. I had been invaded by one of the plagues of Egypt! At the time, one of my Rwandan friends was visiting. He took one look into the bag and asked me, “You didn’t check the beans before buying them?!” Feeling like a fool, I replied dully, “Noooo, I didn’t even know you had to check beans before buying them.” I poured my beans out on a platter and stared at the termites dredging tunnels through all the beans. Annoyed and embarrassed, I decided to boycott the store and storekeeper who sold me the beans; then, I realized it was probably the only store in town that sold beans. I finally exclaimed (like I had done several times before), “In the States, this would never happen!” To which my friend replied, like a real smart-ass, “Oh, I’m sorry the FDA didn’t have time to inspect that batch of beans before it was sold. Maybe, you should go back to the store and get your money back.” He then told me the beans I bought were about five seasons old so it would take much longer to cook than ordinary beans. Like I didn’t already cook my beans for about five to six hours, now I had beans that took longer!
Anyway, I guess that’s life, right. We make mistakes, learn from them and hopefully do not commit the same mistakes again. Granted, it is embarrassing when you first do them, but what can you do about that? In case, you are wondering what I did with the beans, I did not throw them away. We put the beans out in the sun so the termites would crawl away. After several hours, I threw away the beans that had termites still in them or that had more than two holes. With the rest, I just threw them in a pot and ate them that night. You think that’s gross. Just wait until I tell you what I do with my bread when I find ants on them. I blow and shake the ants off of my bread and then I eat it. I can’t throw it away, like I would in the States! If I threw all my bread away, I would have nothing to eat for breakfast and lunch. I lose enough weight as it is. So far, I have lost about 12 pounds and I have gone down two dress sizes. The Peace Corps diet, my friend calls it, and I’m on it. Don’t worry. I won’t starve or anything. I will just be a little thinner when you see me next time. Anyway, I guess my sister must have realized my situation because she sent me a care package. You know what she sent me through the mail?! She sent me chicken! I had never thought of chicken being sent in a package but it was. And I can’t even tell you the last time I ate chicken here. I’m going to save it for a special occasion because it looks really good.
I had a visitor last week. He stayed for several days, with no prior notice. Fortunately, he was pretty quiet and stayed out of my way most of the time. His only annoying habit was trying to eat my food and run under my feet when I was near him. He was also small, furry and ran very fast. And I was absolutely terrified of him.
As you might have guessed, my visitor was a mouse. A little, brown mouse. The first night I saw him I was in my bed talking on the phone. I screamed and started banging things around to get him out of my room. I made so much noise, my neighbors thought I was being robbed and came over to check on me. I then barricaded myself in my room and finally went to sleep. In the morning, I looked around for him but did not find him. Thinking he had run out my back door, I left for work. That night, when I was cooking, I saw him again! He was in my kitchen running over my plates and kitchen utensils. Taking drastic measures, I grabbed my squeegee and started chasing him. My neighbor came over for something and I recruited him in the mouse hunt. Under no circumstances was I sharing quarters with a mouse! Unfortunately, the mouse outsmarted us. After thirty minutes of searching and sealing all the doors, we could not find him. Disheartened, I let my neighbor go home and I went to bed. The next morning, I went into the kitchen and found my cheese eaten. Furious, I vowed that this situation would end that same day. Grabbing the squeegee, I started banging around the kitchen until the little monster showed himself and started running across the floor. I closed the kitchen door but the mouse, being so small, escaped underneath. I chased him into the hall and saw that he had hid himself behind the hall door, the little fool. Gathering my courage, I did what had to be done and the mouse died. After I finished, I realized that my whole body was shaking. Sure, I had killed insects before but never something that was so obviously warm-blooded and breathing. I scooted it outside the house into my backyard. Afraid it would wake up and run inside again, I raised my squeegee high in the air, closed my eyes, and gave a good last wham on the poor thing.
I wish I could tell you this was my only incident with unwanted guests. Since that day, it seems like I have been inundated with various uninvited critters and I have been trying to get rid of them. Ants are a big problem in my house especially when I bring in pineapple and other such goodies. They don’t really bother me that much; they are just annoying. Spiders are also common but they don’t really bother me either. What really bothers me is looking into my latrine one day and realizing, oh crap, what are those white worms crawling all over my poop. Yeah, sorry to be so direct about this but if I have to deal with it, you, my reader, can deal with it too. Like an idiot, I had never bothered to cover my latrine. Therefore, flies decided to make it their main nesting ground and voila, hundreds and hundreds of fly larvae now live there. Yeah, I know. Gross, super gross. But what can I do about it. I can’t really relocate them. The first few nights, I stared in amazement at the colony. When they started trying to migrate upwards, I realized I was in deep trouble and I broke out my bleach. Like a sadist, I poured the bleach into the hole, watched the critters struggle for a minute and then covered the hole. Unfortunately, the larvae are tough and lived on. I have been pouring bleach into my latrine for the past few days but they still live! Maybe, I should just pour kerosene down the hole and set the whole shebang on fire. Haha. Just kidding, Mom. I would never do that, no matter how tempting it is.
A few days before the latrine incident, I decided to cook some pinto beans. Realizing I was out, I went to the store and bought a kilo. After I came home and opened my bag, I realized my beans were moving. Incredulous, I adjusted my eyes to see hundreds of these pinto bean termites crawling all over my beans. I had been invaded by one of the plagues of Egypt! At the time, one of my Rwandan friends was visiting. He took one look into the bag and asked me, “You didn’t check the beans before buying them?!” Feeling like a fool, I replied dully, “Noooo, I didn’t even know you had to check beans before buying them.” I poured my beans out on a platter and stared at the termites dredging tunnels through all the beans. Annoyed and embarrassed, I decided to boycott the store and storekeeper who sold me the beans; then, I realized it was probably the only store in town that sold beans. I finally exclaimed (like I had done several times before), “In the States, this would never happen!” To which my friend replied, like a real smart-ass, “Oh, I’m sorry the FDA didn’t have time to inspect that batch of beans before it was sold. Maybe, you should go back to the store and get your money back.” He then told me the beans I bought were about five seasons old so it would take much longer to cook than ordinary beans. Like I didn’t already cook my beans for about five to six hours, now I had beans that took longer!
Anyway, I guess that’s life, right. We make mistakes, learn from them and hopefully do not commit the same mistakes again. Granted, it is embarrassing when you first do them, but what can you do about that? In case, you are wondering what I did with the beans, I did not throw them away. We put the beans out in the sun so the termites would crawl away. After several hours, I threw away the beans that had termites still in them or that had more than two holes. With the rest, I just threw them in a pot and ate them that night. You think that’s gross. Just wait until I tell you what I do with my bread when I find ants on them. I blow and shake the ants off of my bread and then I eat it. I can’t throw it away, like I would in the States! If I threw all my bread away, I would have nothing to eat for breakfast and lunch. I lose enough weight as it is. So far, I have lost about 12 pounds and I have gone down two dress sizes. The Peace Corps diet, my friend calls it, and I’m on it. Don’t worry. I won’t starve or anything. I will just be a little thinner when you see me next time. Anyway, I guess my sister must have realized my situation because she sent me a care package. You know what she sent me through the mail?! She sent me chicken! I had never thought of chicken being sent in a package but it was. And I can’t even tell you the last time I ate chicken here. I’m going to save it for a special occasion because it looks really good.
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