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.

Questions and girlie magazines

Well, I’m back to my old crowd creating! Good to know I’ve still got the power to bring in an audience after being trumped by a man in orange and a punctured tyre! This morning I took a walk through the fields to the Teacher Training College where I’d run into a student on Tuesday I’d met over a month ago in Butare where Emma and I had some special adventures (which I wrote about but never posted!) whilst Catherine lay in hospital with unexplained stomach pains.

I was being given a guided tour of the dormitories and kitchens at the college when a familiar face greeted me with a big grin. It was Pinard. He asked me if I remember him (which I did, thankfully!) and reminded me of a promise I’d made which was to bring him some English reading material. I’d hoped that at some point I would return to Butaro and honour my promise. As it was, I was able to do it today. My good deed is probably slightly questionable however as the only material I had to give him was a trashy novel that had a glittery front cover (need I say more) and a women’s health magazine! Possibly not the most appropriate of reading material for an 18 year old Rwandan boy, but certainly likely that I’ve upped his popularity stakes J

Pinard found me pretty quickly, I guess I stand out in a crowd! Within a couple of minutes a small assortment of boys had gathered. The questions started pretty abruptly and it didn’t take long for the two deep crowd to establish itself. The nice thing was that it really wasn’t all that overwhelming, probably because there was genuine interest and curiosity. This wasn’t just blank staring, this was a group of student teachers with lots of questions. Sometime they were hard to answer because I didn’t have the information and sometimes it was hard to answer because in the cold light of day I’m privileged, wealthy and have endless opportunities; I couldn’t paint a picture that said anything different. I was asked about whether the English were cultivators, about whether we all paid taxes, it was decided I was rich, I was asked if it was possible for an English person to marry a Rwandan. There were questions about the weather, the seasons, why teachers in England don’t support or sponsor teachers in Rwanda by paying them the equivalent of their local salary (£30 a month!), whether I have a lap top, whether I speak any other languages, why I wont live forever in Rwanda, how many children we’re allowed to have in England, about the education system. I struggled not to feel guilty for my answers, for my luck at being born in the UK. It’s incredible what a big role geography plays in your lot in life. I think the phrase that springs to mind is ‘it’s just not fair’. These boys were eager, bright, full of optimism and with aspirations but how far will this get them in a country that quite simply cannot provide the opportunities England has for me? And then there is the issue of parents. Geography is one half, the other half is the start you’ve been given in the world. Pinard has neither parent. Money is a huge barrier to him achieving his true potential, yet he is hard working, bright, enthusiastic and possibly most important of all, he is a good person. It is quite simply not fair. I have had both a good start in life from my parents and the luck of geography on my side

And whilst the questions made me feel guilty for having so much, the companionship, the sense of humour, the genuine interest and warmth really made my day. I shared my music with them and they passed the headphones round in a way that an English teenager would never day, with generosity and consideration for their peers. And during this whole time, not one girl joined the crowd, not one girl stopped to ask a question, which probably says a lot for the gender divide. The girls lack confidence and it shows.

I left the crowd gathered round the girlie magazine hoping I hadn’t done the very thing that I hate about our society - shown them the bright lights of what they can’t have; bred dissatisfaction by selling an image. Maybe that’s too deep, maybe I just made some teenage boys’ day with half naked pictures of women in bikinis eating Special KJ

This is Yousef. I took this photo in my first week in Kirambo little knowing that the straight faced man on the bike would become my driver and hisdelapidated bike become my noble steed! He quite literally refused to crack a smile for days on end!

The teachers get competitive at one of my training sessions. And my art work for all the world to see and admire!

Rice sack resources. Endless hours of work for a methodology trainer in Rwanda.

Punctures and Damsel in Distress Roadside Services

I had a mini adventure today. One where I wasn’t the centre of attention and where I discovered something more interesting than a muzungu on a bike (or in her garden or walking down the road, or hanging her washing out for that matter!) I’d driven about 40 minutes from Kirambo to a school to do some training. All had gone well, really well in fact; I got a thank you song sung to me about having Jesus as my friend! After the training had finished, my moto driver came to pick me up...the same guy I always have, Yousef. He speaks no English and no French and I speak no kinyarwanda, so communication is always quite amusing... and consists of a mixture of no communication at all, a few words we have learnt together like 'rain, the days of the week and tomorrow' and hopeful hand flailing! In fact, the other day, in an effort to open up communication, the poor guy started singing a song he’d obviously learnt in school many years ago about his mother in the kitchen and the father in the fields and the brother and the sister doing equally gender specific jobs! I digress, but the point is that our levels of conversation are limited and we have developed our very own system where he looks after me and I provide him with an income and smiles.

So I'm happily driving along, when Yousef suddenly stops.

The grey clouds are looming ominously.

 I get off the bike.

This has happened a number of times before.

He squeezes the back wheel.

I squeeze the back wheel.

Completely flat.

Nobody needs to know the Kinyarwanda or English for ‘puncture’, we are both aware of the situation.

Now when we've broken down before (on two other occasions!) we've (I?) been very lucky. The first time Yousef managed to  flag down a local taxi bus - basically a dilapidate mini bus where the gears grate and the speedometer is broken, which they fill with double the number of people that can realistically fit. It is imperative that the gear stick is shared between passenger and driver and that at least one person is bent at an angle round the roof of the bus. They rattle along on their last legs at great infrequency. It was purely down to good luck that we had just over taken one on the way up the road so it didn’t take long to cram me on to the vehicle as it came shuddering past. I quite literally was levered and wedged in. It was not a comfortable experience. And the other occasion a truck was coming by because it was evening, and it was on the way back home. I was put on board without any problem and no questions asked.

This time... well, the road is empty.

 And it is so going to rain as Yousef so kindly points out by pointing at the sky and saying 'invura' ... my new and most frequently used word.

So we walk back up the hill because he indicates that this is what we should do.

When we get to the top of the hill, he parks the bike, takes off his coat and marches back off down the road in the direction we've just come -leaving me sitting on the side of the rain looking very out of place and muzungu-ish!

People wander by, but no crowd gathers which is a miracle. A few brave children shake my hand, a woman gives me a grin as we strangely enough witness another muzungu whizz by on a fully functioning bike, it's not pouring with rain yet, so all is good.

I just have to wait....for what I don't know. But waiting is definitely the name of the game.

About fifteen minutes later a guy in luminous orange overalls that are about five inches too short comes skidding to a halt on a bicycle, dismounts, and shakes my hand with a very confident good afternoon as if he has worked for Michelin his whole life! He takes out a puncture repair kit and sets to work.

Yousef is nowhere to be seen.

And for the first time since I've arrived Rwanda a crowd gathers around something other than myself

In fact I'M part of the crowd. Me, about 10 kids and a helpful old man who has taken it upon himself to assist in the rescue mission. The kids are fascinated. I'm fascinated by their fascination.

He's fixing the bike in these too short orange overalls like rescuing the muzungu in distress is a completely normal part of his day. Distressed Damsel Roadside Services Inc.  All in a day’s work.

And then of course the heavens open....and the rain comes down with no apologies. The kids try to stick it out...some shivering as the winds pick up. They're bedraggled and their clothes are torn and filthy, but this is the highlight of their day, so they continue to watch. I few less hardy souls run for the trees but most are determined that the rain will not stop their staring.

I make an executive decision and decide that a little staring in my direction is a small price to pay for remaining dry. My water proof trousers are conveniently (and always these days!) in my back pack.

The thing is, I'm on the side of the road, in the middle of the countryside, in a long skirt, in close proximity to a number of stare-prone children and I'm a muzungu!

But, I would rather be stared at that soaking wet. So there I am, with a punctured bike, no driver, a man in orange overalls and a bunch of drenched kids.... pulling on a pair of trousers and trying to whip off my skirt all without creating a scene or exposing myself!

The kids do stare.

But I grin at them now I'm kitted out for the most torrential of rains.

They catch my grin and start to laugh.

I mean, it really is funny.

The little old man is holding his coat over his head, the repair guy is levering the tyre back into place with some miniature crow bar thing, now wearing Yousef’s jacket. All is looking good. Then I'm directed by Too Short Orange Overall Man to get back on the bike.  He drives me to the next village which is by pure luck, very close given how far the villages are apart up here.

I get to the village and Yousef is sheltering under some villagers porch...of course he has no money so I pay the repair guy and give him a packet of biscuits to show him how grateful I am. I’m not sure if this is local currency but he seems happy.

And off we go.... to the usual stares and frantic waves.

I think the thing I loved most was that I was not the centre of attention. Finally there was something more interesting than a muzungu on a bike!

I like thinking of the children who were in that crowd this afternoon. Imagine their conversation when they returned to their homes given their days aren’t usually very varied: “hey mum hey dad, today I went to school, then I got water for you, then I cut some grass for the cow, then I saw a muzungu changing her skirt on the side of the road while this guy in bright orange overalls changed the tyre on her bike in the pouring rain!!!! And we all stood and watched!”

Office boredom and 20 ways to recycle

An office day. Which basically translates as a ‘make up things to do and make them last as long as possible’ day. Bored, and no amount of rice sack visual aid making, or bottle top bashing could remedy the restlessness. Having said that, I did make a rather impressive water cycle visual aid this afternoon, with improvised labels made from cut up coloured plastic ring binder dividers from our Rwanda arrival folder! I am taking recycling to new heights. In fact, I think our recycling has reached its absolute pinnacle as during a hole-making, bottle-top stringing afternoon our ever strange chickens decided to eat all the silver foil from the tops of the mutzig beer bottle tops. They attack our compost daily, they eat the silver foil, I’m just waiting for the golden eggs to start appearing! It is surprisingly how little waste you create when all the food comes direct from the market and plastic bags are banned. Catherine is currently rather proud of her powdered milk paper weight which she brought to the office today to hold up Rwanda’s first ever school filing system J

I was training yesterday, my first one. I think after that high, it was hard to spend two mornings in a row in the office. 7:00 to 12:00 lasts a very long time, when you have nothing of substance to do. The training however was like being back at work finally. It felt a bit like being back in the classroom (which I shockingly miss quite a lot!) but with a slightly less receptive audience. Talk to your partner is an unheard of request. My attempt at getting the teachers to do a drum roll fell on deaf ears and left me a slightly embarrassed at my one man band. However, with a fantastic warm up using a pair of socks instead of a ball (this is a country were making do, and improvising is part and parcel of everyday living) the teachers really began to get involved and ask questions and make suggestions. The workshop lasted four hours with the ubiquitous fanta-break, although thank god nobody tried to force a second fanta on me which is quite the norm. It felt good to be doing what I came out to do. It felt good to be active and working hard. It’s incredible how much I hate slowing down!!!! I love being surrounded by countryside and I love not having to work all evening, but it is very hard to adapt to the pace when you’re so used to running round like a headless chicken all day every day. So, yesterday was good. I felt like myself and as far as I could tell the teachers not only enjoyed the workshop (and got amusingly competitive with some of the games/teaching tools I suggested to them) but found it useful, which of course is the most important thing. Next step is to return to the school and see if there is any impact at all. I think the thing I feel the strongest about, is getting across the idea that learning can be fun. It was fascinating to see the teachers competing and discussing and getting involved in a dynamic manner and wondering if they could see that you can have fun AND learn, that they are not mutually exclusive.  I was really tired at the end, but it was worth it. Having said that, I have another tomorrow afternoon and a following one on Thursday and Friday, then Monday too. I’m going to be exhausted! But hopefully very satisfied.

Things are changing the village too. When I first arrived I felt like the circus freak, people were in so much shock that they couldn’t even respond to my smile with a smile in return. There was a lot of staring, standing still was an impossibility if you didn’t want to gather a three deep crowd and going into a shop alone was a scenario I didn’t welcome. I couldn’t deal with the language confusion, the staring, the lack of knowing what was there, the vulnerability, and so I just didn’t do it at all. It’s quite strange how this has begun to shift in recent days. I’ve heard my name called out by children on my lane and wave with smiles, which is a long way from the muzungu call and stare. I say they say my name, that is they call ‘Rachelli’ or ‘Rashelly’ if you want it a little more phonetically, which I really quite like. And then today, out of the blue, one of the shop keepers spoke to me in English and another remembered my name and smiled and laughed at our little ritual greeting role play until we both discovered the other spoke French! It seems I’ve made a few assumptions. Number one that people only speak Kinyarwanda, and two that it’s going to be impossible to make connections because it is such a simple village of simple, hardworking village folk. I think Kirambo is beginning to let me in, little by little. The next step is mine, I know. I’ve made an arrangement today to start getting Kinyarwanda lessons, this is the beginning for me. Language is my all access backstage pass. As soon as I have a little more to say, I hope that I will find more people entering my day to day life. I’m not necessarily expecting great friendships, but it will be nice to know the names of my neighbours, to communicate with the shop keepers I meet regularly, to play a game with the kids, to understand if someone asks me a question. I live here, and I need to find a way to open up my world, because at the moment it is so closed and sheltered and I’m suffering from really bad cabin fever!

Travelling in convoy muzungu styley

On the way to two days of training with Erin and Mary. You've got be prepared especially when you're about to embark upon one and half hours on a moto bike. Very saddle sore by the end, but training was amazing. Feel much more prepared for my first one Monday now.

Moto cycle chic 6am, no rain, no wind, no cold, no dust gonna prevent us from getting to this training!

Welcoming committee!

Four muzungus on bikes travelling in convoy creates quite a stir in rural Rwanda

Road side excitement

Distractions at the water tap

The Motor Cycle Diaries

I was on top of the world today, not euphorically, although I was certainly happy, but more geographically and physically. The route to the school I had to visit today was as far off the beaten track as I have been since arriving in Rwanda. In fact, so few motor bikes had ever gone down the tracks that the goats and cows leapt and bucked in fear as we passed, tugging at the ropes around their ankles in panic. Women in their fields froze, tools held paralysed by their side at the sight of the muzungu on the bike. Yousef, my motor cycle driver, and myself tackled all manner of terrain and turf, him holding the bike steady as we navigated log bridges with huge gaping holes in and puddles of sticky mud, me holding firmly to the back of the bike to top myself sliding into him and catapulting us both head first down the rock strewn, pot holed hills. The bike began making strange noises as it panted and groaned it’s way up unimaginably steep and rutted slopes. I’m sure it was my weight on the back causing the bike to complain. It seemed on many occasions that a gear even lower than first would have been helpful. At one point I made an executive decision and got off the bike to walk up a hill that looked like it would cause some kind of bike failure should I stay on, and another time, Yousef himself, ever the optimist, pointedly stopped for me to disembark at a particularly ominous looking log bridge that offered great potential for wet and painful accidents.

We climbed so high at the beginning the land began to plateau and the valleys and hills lay below us in great undulations of green. It was like the Long Mynd on stilts and with extra colouring in. Breathtakingly beautiful and remote. The air felt so clear and the smells were fresh and real – fragrant wood smoke, earth, greenery – but as always when you go up, one has to go down. Every ten minutes or so Yousef would call out to a pass-by, whilst not slowing his speed remotely to receive a full answer, for directions to Mugano, the school we were attempting to reach. Each time the response was the same; hand movements in the general direction we were heading (there WERE no other paths!) with implications of distance. By the fourth person we asked the message became clear – it is a very very long way in the direction you are heading. We both laughed though we had no language in common other than the shared experience of the journey. It’s amazing how much understanding can be achieved without a common language.

But incredibly we arrived at the school with no mishaps and made the even longer return journey without incident, although I was walking a little like John Wayne after two and half hours of travel. The school’s I visit are so often so remote it’s a wonder the children have seen a white person at all, so it’s not surprising the attention I get, wanted or not.

Oh, and I baked upside down pineapple cake on the charcoal stove oven yesterday.

Now must stop procrastinating and have my much needed bucket shower. No it’s not cold water, but the water has to be boiled and put in flasks in preparation every few days and no amount of warm water will make a bucket shower in the chilly hills of Burera in our lovely (but cold) tiled bathroom enjoyable, or something to look forward to. So I’m going to have to brace myself. There are only so many fringe washes you can have before you finally have to concede defeat and wash the whole head of hair! Ughh, it’s no wonder hygiene is somewhat lacking here! MY hygiene is somewhat lacking here!!! My favourite most missed, most coveted thing .... hot running water. Since I’ve discovered UHT milk as a replacement for the powdered crap that passes for milk, a decent cup of tea is no longer on the list of most missed! Who would have thought, me singing the praises of UHT! Oh and apples. I crave apples. Right, off to shower.

Sweetcorn and hardboiled eggs with Head Teachers

I don’t know whether I’ve been experiencing the kindness of strangers or the strangeness of those who are kind but I’ve certainly had a week of incredible and unusual gestures. In three days I have had sweet corn and hard boiled eggs with head teachers in their offices, been force fed orange fantas, had my bag stuffed to the brim with biscuits, been presented with a huge bag of tree tomatoes and passion fruit and been stared at, thanked, and hand shaked endlessly. One Head Teacher walked me twenty minutes through the country paths from his school to the next when my moto got a flat tire – he carried my backpack and helmet all the way.

My days are certainly not average. I get to work my motorbike, I arrive at schools in the middle of nowhere down dirt tracks, over precarious log bridges and through fields of bananas and potatoes. I arrive not knowing whether I will be greeted by a prepared head teacher or a hoard of inquisitive faces, kicking up dust and surrounding me in seconds. I communicate in pigeon English and French I didn’t even know I had. I watch lessons in dark classrooms perched on wooden benches. And incredibly I love it.

One of my schools - Nemba II

Sometimes it feels quite overwhelming to receive the response I do. I’m certainly not sure I’d respond all that well if some complete stranger turned up in my classroom in the UK and took it upon themselves to watch my teaching and advise me on how to improve. On so many levels there are opportunities to question what I’m doing. Who am I to be telling teachers how to improve their methodology? Do I really have something to offer? Can I come up with solutions which are practical, contextual, helpful? But what I find incredible, is that when I stop questioning the way I’ll be received and what I have to offer, what I find is that I am received openly and with what can really only be described as gratitude and that I can think on my feet and offer feedback that is practical. I’ve only been into five schools this week, normally two a day. Sometimes I get the impression that no one has let the teachers know I’ll be there, and when I feedback to them they look nervous, uncomfortable and even expressionless. Yet, despite these perceptions, in fact they all end their session with me smiling, thanking me for my help, telling me they are very happy to be working with me. I certainly anticipated when I started here in Rwanda that I might meet some resistance – to change, to an apparently increased workload, to an outsider – but I’ve met none. Every teachers seems so open to what I have to offer. They WANT to improve, they WANT new ideas, they WANT to work with me.

What I HAVE had however has been some amusing and slightly awkward moments like the time the Head Teacher decided that his secondary students (this particular schools went up to S3 – senior 3) needed to be introduced to me as I was fielding a fair amount of attention as I moved round the school. Apparently, I was told, they were fascinated by my shoes and my clothes despite my very proper attire, so he told them I would present myself to them formally. I was NOT part of this little agreement and shortly after found myself at the looking down from a height at a playground of over 500 purple and mustard clad secondary school children, all standing in perfect lines in silence waiting for this grand speech that I was apparently going to make!! So that wasn’t at all overwhelming! I got laughs, claps and their undivided attention. Quite amazing, and certainly a snap shot on the virtual camera in my head. So already I am fascinated to find out what I will see next week when I go back to the same schools and the same teachers. Will they have had a go and some of the things I discussed? Will changes already have been made? Will they be feeling positive? The only problem is that it is exhausting. The school day starts at 7:20, normally it has taken about half an hour to get there, sometimes longer, I stay until 11:40 when the first shift of children have finished their day at school, get my moto to the next school and stay until 5:00. I don’t know how the teachers get through their days.

So work has really started, I just hope the schools will stop plying me with fanta as the toilet facilities leave a lot to be desired!!

Achievements, discoveries and chick-flops!

Achievements

·         Managed to get caught in a torrential downpour in Kigali with another volunteer. The kind where you are drenched through in two minutes and get slightly hysterical from the experience. There was crashing thunder and a sky filled with flashes of lightening, and to top it off hurtling winds that flung the rain in our faces like buckets of water. Tricia and I were screaming with laughter and hysteria. It turns out it is a poor decision to attempt to walk in a storm in leggings. Not only did I look and feel like a drowned rat but a drowned rat in skin tight lycra who seemed intent on catching rain water in her helmet!!! It took two days for the inside of the helmet to dry and a good few minutes to peel the leggings off once I’d reached dry land! But the moral of the story is, Rwandan don’t let muzungus struggle in the rain. A car stopped right in the middle of the dual carriage way, flung the doors open and demanded that we got in. We didn’t argue. He drove us to our guest house and wished us luck!

·         Baked! On a charcoal stove oven that I made! A proper cake-like banana cake! Very proud moment. Possibly the achievement of the week! We ate it hot from the pan, with a cup of tea, sat on our doorstep in the late afternoon sun.

·         Got 50 Heads to write One Year Action Plans at a series of workshops run by Catherine. Through a mix of French and English, patience, determination, and lots of repetition we will be the first sector to have every school with an Action Plan. 30 more to go over the next three days.

·         Got sunburnt in the same week that I’ve bundled myself up in layers and got caught in a storm. Plenty of opportunities to talk about the weather here!!

·         Got over my heart in mouth motorbike journey fear. Which is good as it’s very hard to be appreciative of amazing views when you think you’re about to topple over the edge of one of Rwanda’s thousand hills.

·         Been taken to very posh hotel for lunch with the sister and for lazy sunbathes round the pool afternoon. Was a very decadent experience, followed by an evening five days later with her in Kigali.

Discoveries

·         I have a food fantasy list that seems to be all about spices. When asked what I’d like to have sent out to me, I replied ‘tumeric and paprika’! It seems most volunteers request chocolate and Heat magazine (if you are considering sending parcels, please DON’T assume I DON’T want chocolate, I do, I just like spices more!)

·         Our chickens like to wear high heels!!! Not only are they intent on being part of the Bottle Top quality control team, but they also want to experiment with their versatility. It seems that bottle tops are not only good for time tables strings (us) and pecking at (them), but also very exciting to trample on when wet with paint. The ridiculous creatures then get them stuck to their feet and spend the next five minutes clopping round like they’re in stilettos until the paint dries and the shiny newly named chick-flops fall off! Our garden is currently strewn with abandoned bottle top/high heels!

·         Living without running water is challenging. We are now on day five of no water. Catherine has decided she is going to refuse to pay our water rates! We are catching rain water in buckets to sluice down the toilet. Unfortunately our domestique wasn’t aware that the muzungus had a plan for the dirty water that had fallen off the roof, and tipped it all away!!! We’re keeping fingers crossed for water tomorrow.

·         If a vehicles acts like it’s going to break down, it probably is. If someone decides that blowing into some part of the engine is going to solve the problem, it probably wont, and if the vehicle breaks down once, it’ll probably break down again. My instinct told me that a mutatu (mini bus) that shudders and lurches in first, and wont accelerate in second or even GO into third, is going nowhere fast...I’m just wondering why my instinct didn’t tell me to get off and catch a different bus! Oh well, lesson learnt!

·         I have nasty large buzzy things that like to sneak their way into my room at night, hurl themselves repetitively at my light, swing round the room at 90 mph, dive bomb my head and collapse to the floor exhausted where they spin round and round on the floor like a strange black and yellow Catherine wheel until I find a book or flip flop to splat them with. And then they crunch. I don’t enjoy this evening ritual.

·         Our local football teams like to formation train. They skip, hop, jump, two step, grapevine and clap their way to fitness in some amazing formations that travel with seamless grace across the football pitch. It’s a little bit like choreographed ice dancing in football kits. Highly amusing and strangely impressive. I watch football from my front yard; I feel the anthropologist observing the local behaviour from her veranda. I just need my gin and tonic now!

Quality control - storage facilities inspection

The beginning of the finishe product ready for a preliminary grand unveiling to the headteachers next Wednesday