Pioneering and issues with hills

Last week I was a pioneer! Myself and another volunteer went well and truly off the beaten track, in fact sometimes we were off the track entirely! Despite my complaints about endless rain and the isolation, something I’ve never lost track of is the beauty of the area I live in. Who could fail to appreciate two island dotted lakes, a back drop of four volcanoes, deep fertile valleys and layers of multi-hued hills? The only problem for me has been getting out into it. Burera district may be stunning but getting round it is hard when public transport amounts to two matatu a day and not much else. This area is totally undeveloped, no tourist infrastructure exists and there is very little information to be found on the area surrounding the lakes on the internet or in the Bradt guide. This was unchartered territory that we were entering. We didn’t know the names of villages, where we might find water or food, what type of paths we would find, what kind of distances we might cover or even where we stay for the night. For me, this just added to the adventure but did make for quite heavy back packs!

 

So on Friday morning, armed with blind optimism, 6 litres of water, a tent, samosas, bread, beans, tea bags (but no cups!) a packet of biscuits and a completely useless map we set off, clean, full of energy and intrepid!

We took motos to the point where the road divided and immediately chose to leave the easy option of the red dirt road that would skirt around the top of the lake, and instead descended into the valley below. We soon picked up some boys who leapt down the dusty tracks through plots of carefully farmed land with an impressive light footedness that completely alluded myself and Abigail with our cumbersome packs and less than nimble progress.

They lead us to the shores of the lake and then cleverly left us when the path disappeared and only a steep scramble up loose scree and through eucalyptus woods would take us to the road again!



 

We must have climbed for about an hour with no top in sight and the road that we could see across the valley remained illusive despite the fact that we could plainly here the rumbles of trucks as they went by. However, the higher we climbed the more impressive the views of the lake became. Fingers of land reached out into the water like the spine of some prehistoric watery creature.We could see an inviting grassy inlet where children were swimming and playing and dreamt on the idea of finding a camping spot as perfect as that.

 

The road suddenly appeared to us and the elation was tangible. There were high fives and grins and after numerous greetings and 'where are you going's from inquisitive locals we set off determined not to leave the road for one second! We were kept company by a man with a bicycle who chatted in English and kindly offered to strap one of the packs to bike. After about 45 minutes we entered a small village, Gahinga we are told, and we decide it's time for a fanta stop. Apparently we can get a pirogue from here for a few hundred francs but we are reluctant to do any descending after the previous energy sapping climb earlier, so we decide to keep walking with the intention of reaching a town called Umugu. We ask various people how long it will take us to get there and we get a range of answers from 30 minutes to three hours. We both observe how strange it is that you can tell someone that they have a 5 minute break and they take half an hour, but a walk that takes 3 hours, they judge to take 30! Time, it seems, is a personal matter, and peoples' perspective on it differs hugely. I guess when you get up when it's light, and go to bed when it's dark, time, time keeping, and time tables suddenly seem quite a Westernised concept. Not wanting to risk walking three more hours we decide that should any viable transport come our way we will take it. Needless to say, nothing but an overloaded matatu passes us and a new plan must be made. The road has been gradually descending again, and as I look down to the shoreline I see a perfect sight - the camping spot we'd fantasized about but didn't think could exist, and not too much of a scramble down at this distance. Road weary, and logistical we realise that we'd be better to stop there for the day, and not even consider tackling the ascent back up to the road in the morning, but getting ourselve a pirogue across the inlet to the next spit of land. Of course, we are wishfully thinking again, but it seems karma is on our side for that evening we meet Osee, the Protector of the Island (what a title!) who just happens to own a pirogue and who will help us out in the morning.

We put up our tent just behind the women washing clothes
 



Murabora volcano creates the perfect backdrop to our idyllic camping spot. We swam off the reed-free beach just behind the fishing boats



Of course we did get ourselves an audience for the first couple of hours and there was some discussion as to where the muzungus would sleep and concern over apparent wild dogs. We sent their minds to rest by putting up our tent in full view of about fifteen impressed and awestruck children. We even got a round of applause when we opened the zip to show them our portable house! We decided that we'd already made so much of a scene that stripping off down to bikini bottoms and t-shirts and jumping into the water couldn't possibley create more of a stir than we already had, so we ducked into our tents for a quick change, emerging to a sea of inquiring faces and an imaginary fanfare. As we plunged into the water, we were followed by at least ten of the children. The peace was shattered by the shrill shouts of excitements as Abigail and I shared e'those' moments; the ones that can happen nowhere else but in that exact place at that exact time, in that exact way, that can never be recreated or repeated and that stay indelibly marked in ones minds as a pretty magical moment.

 

After drying off, I found few moment alone to take in the peace, the view, the incredible moment.

A couple of kids found my spot but only wanted to dig for worms that they tied to home made fishing rods. It was nice not to be watched but to watch instead; to see the concentration on the childrens' faces and the pride when they pulled small sambaza fish from the shallows of the lake. Later that night, after a group effort to find wood (it only took us picking up one of two sticks before we had 15 children running round gathering fire wood for us!) and some silly songs with a hardcore group who refused to go home, Abigail and I lit a fire and heated our beans and hardboiled egges, eating them with teaspoons, and enjoyed the peace around us.

The next morning, having slept very little due to the hard ground, we rose to see mists rising from the lake and the women slowly coming down to the shores to wash clothes. Fondly, we waved goodbye to the children and set off in our pirogue with Osee.

Crossing from our camping spot near Gahinga to Musangabo

We had intended on heading to the finger of land that the map said was the location of a fishing village called Musangabo. Although there was no village to speak of, with a short sharp climb we were back on the main road. Osee accompanied us to make sure we safely found our way. Many times throughout our three day adventure we seemed to be meeting with all the right people at all the right times. We repeatedly experienced countless displays of warmth and welcome and always at the exact point that we needed it. Osee told us that we would reach Gitare town shortly where we could stock up, he also mentioned a hotel on the shores of the lake. Abigail began to suggest that we might shortly be sitting sipping tea lakeside, I reminded her that this was Rwanda and to perhaps expect the term 'hotel' to be a little loose! But, through a strip of eucalyptus trees and across a shallow cover where children were swimming and women were clothes washing I spied quite a fantatic sight! White plastic chairs and tables no less! On a flat grassy bank right ont he shores of the lake! Well, where there are chairs and table there is food, and where there is food we are happy! We stumbled slightly deliriously through humps of newly cultivated earth interspersed with piles of black volcanic rock right to the very doors of the 'hotel'. A big Primus sign welcomed us, and when we discovered that they did indeed have food, we thought we'd died and gone to heaven! We're not entirely sure what we ordered, but with mention of eggs and potatoes and chips we thought we couldnt go wrong, and sure enough, an hour later we were dining on the freshest tilapia fish pulled straight from the lake that very morning, and a thick chip omletee with copious cups of tea.

 

 

 We decide to explore the area and spend the night if the people at the restaurant are ok with it. Once again, luck is on our side.They are happy to keep our bags locked somewhere safe, we can go off for a walk without the weight of the packs, it's 5000rwf (£5) to put up the tent and they even have two mattresses!  We practically hug the girl, Tenthia, when she says yes to our pitiful question! During our wanders inland to Gitare centre we get invited to someones home. The front room is decorated with cut out christmas snowflakes made from the pages of an exercise book. Smiling faces pop out from everywhere, the sun is shining, there are no hills to be climbed and we know when we get back to the restaurant there will be a bilhaerzia free, hippo free swim.

We swim, watch the children skipping stones, take photos of a kite having a quick wash, read, and start negotiating the last leg of our journey. We meet a man who is building a discrete hotel just set back from the a lake. He tells us he will focus on low price, good quality service and will provide camping space and tents. It's exciting to think that this beautiful part of Rwanda might actual get a bit of attention in the future. It's quite sad to think that because there is no infrastructure (guest houses, public transport) few people will actually venture out and find this stunning part of the country.

Burera Beach near Gitare

That night we play cards snug in our tent as a storm brews and the sweet african tea goes to our head. Thunder keeps me awake most of the night, but we are warm and safe inside our tent and keep our fingers crossed that the rain will have cleared by the morning in time for our last wish to come true - a pirogue across the lake back to a spit of land that I once walked to many months ago and is a pleasant two and half hour walk from my village. Sure enough, our fairy godmother is looking over us, and despite waking up to heavy grey skies, thick milky mist and more rain, the clouds suddenly part, the sun comes out, our boat arrives and we are able to set off into the swirls of mist that make the horizon appear half erased, like a pencil drawing that someone doesn't know how to complete it.



We are lucky to negotiate a pirogue with a motor and even life jackets! We barter the price down from 25 000rwf to 15 000rwf. Given that the motos back to the village alone would have cost about 7000rwf each we felt we'd got ourselves a good deal!

Ndago

 Within half an hour we have crossed the milky white expanse and arrive at the tip of Ndago sector. We are on the homeward stretch. The landscape changes again and now we are surrounded by vivid green banana trees and bundles of mud brick houses. That's something that fascinates me about this small country, the ever changing countryside, from deep fertile valleys to steep cultivated terraces, from vast expanses of glassy lake to the dark silhouettes of the volcanoes and from the silvery green and fragrant eucalyptus forests to the flat farmed plots strewn with piles of black volcanic rock at the foothills of the Virungas. The landscape is anything but forgettable and as we turn our backs to the lake for one last time we both quietly revisit all that we have seen and experienced along our random meandering path. From no plan came a pretty magical adventure. Aching feet were matched by aching cheek muscles from all the smiling. We reached my home with a true sense of satisfaction and a lovely warm feeling of having done something special. Three days, two sleepless nights, two pirogues, one moto, one killer hill, some tent-related hysteria, a night of thunder and lightening, three lake swims, one home invitation, copious cups of african tea, 6 litres of water and one crumpled useless map and we can safely say that we know a lot more about Lake Burera and the surrounding areas than the Bradt Guide! To make an adventure all it takes are some spur of the moment decisions, a few random acts of kindness, some surreal experiences, general good karma and an open mind and the road and all the people on it seem to welcome you with open arms.

Soapy hot water and a box of guylian chocolate shells end the journey perfectly!



Last week I was a pioneer! Myself and another volunteer went well and truly off the beaten track, in fact sometimes we were off the track entirely! Despite my complaints about endless rain and the isolation, something I’ve never lost track of is the beauty of the area I live in. Who could fail to appreciate two island dotted lakes, a back drop of four volcanoes, deep fertile valleys and layers of multi-hued hills? The only problem for me has been getting out into it. Burera district may be stunning but getting round it is hard when public transport amounts to two matatu a day and not much else. This area is totally undeveloped, no tourist infrastructure exists and there is very little information to be found on the area surrounding the lakes on the internet or in the Bradt guide. This was unchartered territory that we were entering. We didn’t know the names of villages, where we might find water or food, what type of paths we would find, what kind of distances we might cover or even where we stay for the night. For me, this just added to the adventure but did make for quite heavy back packs!

So on Friday morning, armed with blind optimism, 6 litres of water, a tent, samosas, bread, beans, tea bags (but no cups!) a packet of biscuits, some peanuts and a determination to be open to opportunities we set off, clean, full of energy and intrepid!

We took motos to the point where the road divided and immediately chose the road less travelled, heading off the red dirt track that would skirt around the top of the lake, and descended into the valley below. We soon picked up some boys who leapt down the dusty tracks through plots of carefully farmed land with an impressive light footedness that completely alluded myself and Abigail with our cumbersome packs and less than nimble progress. They lead us to the shores of the lake and then cleverly left us when the path disappeared and only a steep scramble up loose scree and through eucalyptus woods was the only option.

The weird and the wonderful and the almost washed away

When people coming back from extended holidays make the remark about hoping the house is still standing I don’t expect most actually worry that their home will have disintegrated into a pile of rubble. The same is not to be said for my house however. And the evidence is plainly obvious. I return home to find the entire fence running between my home and the road collapsed and the tell tale signs of a pretty large and recent landslide. Huge chunks of land have detached themselves from the bank behind my house, taking with it an entire tree and at least 6 meters of bamboo fencing.

Round the front the damage makes me wonder how the house hasn’t already quietly slipped down the hill to settle in the football pitch below. The whole garden is a combination of mudslide, subsidence and building site. All my vegetables have been pulled up, the lettuce is no longer, the shrubs have disappeared and instead are piles of rocks, cement and stick clay like mud. Cracks run along the whole of the front step, drainage troughs, inside walls and porch. We are most definitely on the move!!! Luckily, our landlord has seen the urgency in the matter and has started to dig some weird moat-like ditch around the house and has constructed a wall which may or may not hold up against the next rains. Nothing is very clear other than we are living amongst cement and mud (there is always mud) and the whole word thinks we are open for viewing now there is nothing between us and the general population of Kirambo!!! AND it's not even supposed to be the wet season! Look at me, barely back 48 hours and I'm already talking about the rain!!!

For those who assume I am exaggerating please see the photos as evidence….and this is after the landslide had been cleared and the building has progressed so I can almost tell what the plan is.

Back in the office today and had both some highly Rwandan and highly unRwandan experiences all in quick succession. At merely the suggestion that there was no internet connection, a Mr IT man was at my door with correct cable and within seconds I was connected! I was so ready for the oh so common ‘patience Rachelle, patience’ (please put on a French accent for authenticity), but the problem was solved within 20 mins! Add that to the declaration from the immigration man that I was lucky that he was married otherwise I’d have to watch out, and the random assortment of men and women carrying rocks in my garden greeting me in fantastic combinations of kinyafranglais plus a lengthy conversation with a previous P6 student in almost perfect English (who you’ve only ever said amakuru to!) and you’ve got the makings of a day full of surprises and head shakes and smiles! Not a bad start and I’ve barely had a stare all day!

Invitations

I had my first invitation to someone’s home yesterday and it turned out to be one of those Rwanda moments where you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. A teacher friend, Marceline, from my favourite school was getting married and I’d been invited to the pre wedding ceremony where the families exchange dowry. Entering the home was nothing less than intimidating as every pair of eyes turned towards me as I picked my way through the crowd. People were seated on benches in rows around a mud courtyard with a makeshift plastic shelter for the occasion. Men and women sat together, some clasping oversized metal mugs of sorghum beer which was ladled out from two huge gourds in the centre of the gathering and covered with banana leaves. Mugs were passed around and the celebratory drink was shared. The woman looked incredible; the wedding party in mishinanas, the traditional wedding outfit in Rwanda that resembles the Indian sari, the local women in bright kangas and igitengas and head scarves. Spirits where high and I quickly joined the other teachers I knew from the school who immediately made me welcome and squished me down on a bench and tightly sandwiched me between them. I was handed sorghum beer and had my first try as the congregation shamelessly  watched to see my reaction. A sea of blue and mustard gathered at the gate of the house, as the students in their uniforms flocked to see their teacher’s new fiancé and the muzungu guest.

I’d only been sitting for a few minutes before I was summoned into the family home to greet the bride to be. The room she waited in was pitch dark and my untrained eyes could barely make out the shapes of the many people surrounding her. Bodies filled the room as I hugged and hand-shook various family members and friends. I was brought the ubiquitous two fantas and my eyes began to adjust enough for to see how beautiful Marceline looked with her slick elegant hair, simple mishinana and glowing smile and plastic string of pearls. When the visiting grooms family arrived the ceremony could begin. It started with three young family members having to choose between three men including the husband to be. The joke is that the children are supposed to pick the wrong man and make the audience laugh, and dutifully they did. There was a lot of humour in the air. Then the bride and her bridal party came out to high pitched ‘eeeeeesss’ from the female members of the congregation, not quite a tribal call, nor a cheer, but definitely a sound of approval and celebration. The beer was blessed in prayer and then the bride and grooms family ceremonially drank from the large gourds of sorghum beer together and  the bride and groom did the same. Gifts of shovels and hoes were given to the daughter’s family to more undulations of female calls of approval. Food was handed out to the bridal parties, plates of potatoes, ground nut, beans, aubergine and rice, and then to my surprise, every person in the crowded courtyard was offered a plate of food as well as beers and fanta. There must have been well over a 100 people there, and that wasn’t including the growing crowd of children at the gate. Many photos were taken of the bride with each family member with a retro point and shoot camera that had to be hand wound on each time. Photos were a serious event and the face had to show it.

Unfortunately, rain looked imminent and the dirt track back to the main road was pretty treacherous when it got wet, with steep drops, log bridges, rocky hairpin bends and lots of steep mud and gravel down hills, so it was time to say my goodbyes. I picked my way between the chairs to thank Marceline, only to get myself caught in a series of Rwandan style hugs and an awkward photo shoot. There was much hilarity as I had my photo taken with the bride and her fiancé in different arrangements (me, her, him and her, him, me and then lastly her, me, him!) and huge ripples of laugher as i put my arm around his waist. I guess I commited some kind of wedding faux pas, but rather laughter than social exclusion. I thought my farewell was complete but instead the group of female teachers I’d been sitting with and one male member of the wedding party who had decided we were next in line for marriage ceremonies paraded me up the mud steps onto the dirt track for an individual less formal photo shoot. It was all very heart warming and inclusive and it was probably the first time that I felt some true connection between myself and Rwandan women in the area.

My only disappointment from the whole experience was that I didn’t see even one cow change hands!

The hills are alive with the sounds of music

Sitting on my veranda with a string of underwear drying on the fence in front of me, the sounds of the pentacostal church celebrations fill the house and the valley below. The voice of god comes across loud and clear through a distorted amplifier and an over enthusiastic sound system. The bank of grass in front of the church next to our house has become a sea of rainbow coloured umbrellas where people have gathered in their absolute finery to celebrate the Pentacoste. Benches have been put out, speakers are strategically placed to send the voices directly into our front garden, a choir in mint green and white dance with unreserved energy and a woman tirelessly screeches her songs into a microphone. The whole valley reverberates and echoes bounce like a call and answer from one side to the other. Every once in a while the sound system fails and the beauty of the natural voice can be heard, but it seems as a rule voices must be loud in order for God to hear. At the end of each bluesy, steel band like songs where Jamaica meets New Orleans meets 80’s synthesised pop songs meets Mariah Carey there is the ubiquitous chorus of hallelujahs and Amens. It’s lovely, heart  warming, uplifting, annoying, loud, long and slightly painful all in the same breath. I’d love to go watch, sit amongst the crowd for a bit, but I fear that instead of watching I’ll be the watched! Muzungu trumps God every time. Not the desired effect!

So this weekend has been one of song. It started with song and now it’s ending with song.



 We had visitors on Saturday. The great thing about visitors is that it gives you the chance to show off where you live, and to re-see your home through other’s eyes. For me it brings renewed appreciation, and, on this particular occasion, a serious case of wonderment. Since arriving in Kirambo, Catherine and I have been trying to walk to the lake with our guard as our guide, but every attempt has been foiled due to the rain. However, this weekend all looked promising. The walk itself was beautiful, for most of it we were within sight of the lake which stretched so much further than I’d imagined, with inlets, and islands and shores flanked steeply with terraced fields or long stretches of banana plantations. We must have been quite a sights, two Rwandan men leading five assorted white women up and down steep hills and along narrow mud paths. For the first part of the walk we gathered an inoffensive, totally manageable following of about seven who just fell into step with us on thei r way to wherever they were going. When we stopped, they stopped, but their journey with us seemed to be purposeful. At one point we reached the brow of a long arduous hill and unwittingly collected at least another twenty children. They scampered happily along side us for miles, one pushing a wooden bike, some in school uniform, others in ragged scraps of ancient party dresses, all kicking up clouds of dust with their florescent plastic shoes and eager trotting. As we passed through each hamlet our entourage swelled until at one point I turned round to see what must have been at least 70 children engulfing our small muzungu melange. We started off all piped piper-ish walking in single file down narrow dust tracks clinging to the edge of the hill sides over-looking the lake, but piped piper gave way to Jesus and disciple-like crowds as the roads widened and the homesteads became more frequent.



Pied Piper of Kirambo - the kids behind



The kids in front

I normally find my frustration levels rise when I’m followed by children, the scuffling feet behind and the lack of space gets me tense, but this was different. The children were sharing the walk with us, not following meekly behind, many ran ahead, lots walked along side us, smiles and giggles were offered up. It was really quite lovely, despite the element of claustrophobia and the dust in the eyes.

All along gusts of wind threatened rain but our guard insisted that it there would be no ‘invura’. We teased but took his word for it. The sun burst out at one point and made beautiful late after noon shadows on the lake and bounced off the water in silver sparkles, the smell of mint filled the air at unexpected moments and we were all filled with energy. And that was when the first rumble of thunder filled the skies. We were going to get wet. Very wet we surmised by the colour of the sky and the clouds scuttling towards us. But this didn’t dampen our buoyant moods, in fact it took the whole experience up a notch as Christine, an Aussie volunteer, and I initiated a round of ‘I hear thunder’. The kids soon picked up the call and answer element, and despite some serious flexibility in the words being sung, soon we had a choir of at least 70 children singing in unison with us. When the song finished the crowd burst into a huge round of applause. And that was the beginning of the singing. We must have only been twenty minutes into the return journey before the heavens opened. We rushed to take cover under a tree but there was no possible way it could offer shelter to all so our guard asked in a local house, and we all filtered in, muzungus, children, guard. The whole motley crew! It took a few minutes for our eyes to adjust to the dark interior. The only light came from the door which quickly diminished as children filled each available space. The house was one simple room barely three meters by three meters. We sat on benches whilst the children and various adults crossed round. A young family stared saucer-eyed at the new comers and squeezed through gaps in the crowds to get a glimpse of the action. So we sat the dark, damp, bemused, surrounded by half a small village; what else is one supposed to do other than break into song? And so we did. The acoustics were quite incredible. Seventy little voices rose into the darkness, lead by five damp volunteers. The words I hear thunder, hark don’t you, pitter patter rain drops, I’m wet through, so are you, never held such meaning nor such beauty.

So we sang on repeat, and then another song was demanded. Catherine suggested London’s Burning, and to our amazement, the children took the song and flew with it; they’d already learnt it in school with some little variations in accent and rhythm, African style. They knew Frere Jacques too, but If you’re Happy and you know it, clap your hands through them. They loved the actions which got huge rounds of applause each time, but the words were left to us. Then it was the children’s turn, lead by a tuneless large limbed grinning man the children broke into the most beautiful Rwandan song. The voices filled every corner of that little homestead and then filled up my heart, and then in true over-emotional Rachel style, filled up my eyes too. The rhythm then caught our domestique who couldn’t help himself and got up and started dancing which was contagious, for me at least. Soon everybody was clapping and stomping and grinning inanely as the rain fell heavily outside. It was so amazing to be reminded how song brings people together, how it is another one of those universal languages that people the world over share. And I don’t think there was anybody there who didn’t realise they were experiencing something truly special and impossible to recapture. A shared, snap shot moment that we will all take away with us and indelibly mark in our memories as one of those perfect moments.

Lake Burera

Our entourage!

Sing I here thunder and celebrating the completion of the first round

Clouds brew, thunder rumbles, we gather and start singin

Wooden contraption for ferrying cabbages and other weighty vegetables. Also doubles as a child's scooter.

When the rain stopped we all emerged blinking into the daylight, and with many thanks and much hand shaking, continued on our journey home. From this point until we returned to the brow of the hill, song accompanied us. Small groups of girls, walking hand in hand, or arms around shoulders would initiate a song, tentative at first until they were secure in the knowledge that the rest of the group had decided to join them and they were no longer alone. The scampering stopped, something had changed, we now had a shared experience and the children had relaxed, we weren’t this exotic thing to stare at, we were their friends. We even managed Kumbaya up hill! It seemed fitting.

We walked for four hours that day, and all returned aching but as much from the smiling as from the many hills we’d climbed.



Mud and the mire and the Muzungu - a modern fairy tale

So whilst all you people at home have been blessing the warm sunshine and good weather I’ve been stove-drying my shoes, wearing wellies to school (emblazoned with pink climbing roses!)and wondering if I’ll wear something other than water proof trousers and rain coat ever again. At the back of the house, where my room happens to be, there has been a landslide. At the front of the house a huge wall, that was supposed to be holding the bank up on which our house sits , has collapsed into the house below’s front yard, which in turn is looking decidedly castle-like with it’s moat of muddy water surrounding it. Oh, and we’ve had an attempted break in so now we are not only a quagmire of clay landslides and muddy puddles but we’re also beginning to resemble fort knocks. There are four nails of the front gate which move back and forwards to keep the gate shut and outsiders out and a padlock too. Then we have two front doors which are locked and then padlocked on top of that. There is a key for every room in the house and an unnecessary number of doors which only serve to bump, bruise, fly back, rebound, jam, or catch you as you walk by. Architectural design is not a highlight of the house, and probably wasn’t a major consideration when the house was under construction. In fact, when putting up my mosquito net in the first week of arrival, we discovered the ceiling in my room was a foot higher than the ceiling in Catherine’s room (and we live in a bungalow!!!)

Yesterday , I truly discovered ‘the wet season’..it's wet. Very wet, and with the rain comes the mud and with the mud comes the slipping and with the slipping becomes embarrassment and strange contortions of the body. I don't understand how it rains in England and I cope, it rains here and I look like a women wearing a dustbin bag, who is incapable of keeping upright and who has to have her shoes washed every other day because she can't seem to keep herself clean!!! I had to wring my tights out today, the feet part, I was so soggy. And I lost my shoe....somehow managed to fling it into a brown puddle too far away (and too dangerous to hop to), so had to walk shoeless to retrieve it. Chose a stupid alternative route to the house as wel , just as the heavens opened. Found myself with an audience (comme d'habitude!) as I hurtled down a sheer mud and clay slope, slipping and sliding uncontrollably, talking to myself in an attempt not to go arse over tit (as the English so elegantly put it!), unable to chose my step carefully and knowing the only option left was to run and hope for the best. I got a round of applause when I reached the bottom in my stupid little white ballet pumps and dustbin bag waterproofs! Was actually secretly a little impressed with the performance as I was sure I was going to go over and be the muddy muzungu that everyone has to help up and bash down with clothes and sluice down with water. It’s happened I’m afraid.

And today...Today I discovered just how slippery mud can be. And wet clay. It’s dangerous stuff, especially when you discover that the back tyre on the moto you’re riding daily is completely bald. And I don’t mean bald by MOT standards, I mean, bald as in bald man’s head, baby’s bottom, not a tread in sight kind of bald. The driver discovered without having to actually looks at his tyre this when I leapt off at the first moment of slippage, before the bike had even stopped and absolutely refused point blank to re-mount. He tried to continue only to discover that the bikes rear end had a life of it’s own and was happily going to slide and slither without any hope of ever getting a grip again. He got the message when I pointed at the tyre with great hand-flailing exclamations and head shaking disappointment. Needless to say, when he picked me up at the end of the day there was a brand new tyre to welcome me. Even walking had been close to impossible, despite lovely pink and grippy wellies! Must have been a sight. Had to take a route down the valley, across the fields and up the other side to get to my school. This alone was challenging. Mud does not like you to stay upright, clay has even firmer ideas about whether you’ll keep you’re footing and steep down hills and even steeper up hills do not add happily to the mix. I confess to grappling with a few trees and making small ardent prayers about not falling in front of the head teacher or a huddle of school children. Luckily, all was worthwhile, mud, rain, bald tyres and all. My day was fantastically rewarding. Another one of those “Ohhh, that’s why I do this!” days.

Shoe drying inventions - desperate times lead to desperate measure. Both pairs wet, neither pair showing any potential for drying in the past two days. The whole world is just too soggy. And I can't live in wellies and walking boots!



Open sesamee, abracadabra, taa daaa! Or so I hope

Yoyo day. Started the day pretty demoralised, and yet by the time I walked home I was filled with renewed faith. I know it was probably pretty naive to think that one three hour training could have had any kind of impact in classrooms where child-centred is a concept so far in the future the words haven't even been invented yet, but I did have hope that this week I might see some small changes. Well I didn't, not yesterday and not this morning and despite my best intentions not to be disappointed I couldn't help but start to ask what was the point of  all this. The picture sometimes just seems to big. Although VSO is working with advocacy, it's frequently hard to feel the results of your work here because of the systems we're working with. They're just not changing fast enough, and as a volunteer it's easy to feel adrift. So when I walked into school this afternoon, late because of the rain and mud covered from an impromptu decision to start walking instead of waiting for  my moto, to see three teachers using methodology straight from my training sessions you can imagine how uplifted I felt. In fact, I'd go as far as to say I was pretty ecstatic! I saw children standing in circles throwing a sponge (a ball substitute!) to each other in order to practice abstract nouns, I saw children playing games to help the teacher evaluate learning at the end of a lesson, I saw a teacher who only wrote four points on the board in the whole 40 minute lesson as opposed to writing reams and then expected the class to sit and copy, I saw children generating their own questions, I saw a group of Primary 1 children exchanging beans, bags and pens in a circle and saying the name of the item offered and the name of the item recieved. I saw happy engaged children participating in active, learner-centred  classrooms. These teachers had real guts to try all these new ideas all in one go, and whilst being observed. It made me so buoyed up to see. I guess it doesn't matter how much change there is as long as it is beginning, and now I know there is potential for more.
I then got dropped off in the village to buy some milk and airtime in my two shops which I've decided to frequent to help me feel more integrated. It was market day, which is both buzzy in a good way and annoying for the towns muzungus as out-of-towners are not yet acclimatised to our presence and so tend to do a lot of staring, standing frozen mid-task and umuzugu-ing. Just not acceptable after three months in the village I say! But today, being the aforementioned 'buoyed up' (and post-first kinyarwanda lesson!) I decided to take it all in my muzungu stride. Stepping into the first shop, I almost collided with our domestique, Gango, to whom i explained in perfect Kinyarwanda that I wanted milk. Ndashaka amata. I was promtly greeted with 'muzungu related' mutterings by young men hanging out in the doorway, to which I responded with immaculate precision and grammatical accuracy that my name is not muzungu my name is Rachel.They laughed heartily, smacked their hands into my palm with near gangster style vigour and grip, greeting me like an old friend and using my name. Well, that told them! Then I went into my second local and had another lengthy conversation in Kinyarwanda with equally resounding success. It was only a few phrases and a couple of numbers but there is something so satisfying about using what you know and getting those big laughs and impressed grins at my pitiful but painfully-learnt words. It just spurs me on to use more and to practice more, because the different is huge. The only problem is that once you start to use your well rehearsed sentences people seem to think you actually speak the language. In fact I got told I was very good at the lingo whilst in the shop just because I was able to say Sinvuga Kinyarwanda, "I DON'T speak Kinyarwanda!" Oh the irony!! But it was heart warming. I remember when i arrived and the town felt so cold and reserved. People didn't smile easily at my greetings, there seemed to be suspicion or fear or lack of comprehension in their eyes. A smile normally begets a smile, but it wasn't true here. I honestly felt like there would never be a break through, that it wasn't going to be possible to feel at home here. But over the past couple of weeks I have sensed a change. I'm a great believer in putting out there what you want back (thanks Nadie), and I realised that shutting my gate and hiding behind closed doors no matter how much of a relief it was at the end of another day of staring and umuzungu-ing was never going to get me 'integrated'. I remember the day it changed... the children on my dirt track called me Rachelli instead of muzungu as I walked home. This happens a lot now... on all my routes to each of my schools I hear children call out my name. It's almost impossible to explain how good that feels. So these moments in the two shops, well they mean everything. They tell me there is hope yet for me to 'know' people here. I don't expect to make lasting friendships, but acquaintances, people in my everyday life, well, that would make a big difference to life in Kirambo. When I got back from Uganda I told myself that it was time to start making more of an effort. That if I wanted things to change then I had to be that change (that's a little Gandhi-like isn't it!?). But it really has made a difference, just putting out a more positive energy towards the people in this town has allowed me to start getting that energy back. And hopefully the Kinyarwanda lessons are going to be the key. So, i guess if happiness is all about a series of moments, then today I was happy.