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.