Conversations with Students

I think The Man is definitely spot on for me - I may be a mild hypochondriac. Now, I know I am under a bit of stress and exhaustion, and I know that those things can take a heavy toll on your body. But one day this week, I had pretty intense back pain. And I was having some difficulty breathing deeply. And my heartbeat was pretty damn fast while staying stationary. And I had a very low grade fever. Of course, I thought either my thyroid was about to fall out, or I had Typhoid Fever. Now I think it might have just been my menses....

This week was a big week for me at school. I have had to make some big decisions this last month, and I had to come to terms that I wouldn't be able to come back to this school next semester. My last day will be at the end of April.

A lot of reasons are going into this decision, and I really am quite happy with my decision. I look forward to my new goals and carving out some pathways towards the dreams that have newly minted themselves into my psyche. It's hard, though, because I do care about my students, even if they can drive me nuts sometimes.

Mount Gahinga

"Off the beaten path" is not at all as fun as it sounds...

On Friday, I discovered that I could not, in fact, extend my stay in the US this coming May. I was going to try to delay my flight back to Rwanda, so I could see my family, The Man, and some friends. The airline agent basically chuckled at me and told me I might as well buy a new round trip ticket, because it would cost roughly the same thing. I nearly lost it. Okay, maybe I actually did lose it.


My grand scheme had been to stay longer in the US and heal a bit from some of the negative occurrences that have happened to me since my stay here. I would come back for a little bit more in Africa, work here and there, travel some, and then return the US in August, for good. Now, my grand plan was turned down outright. I don't know if I can last here without a longer reprieve at home. It's been really hard, as I might have illustrated. It almost felt like condemnation, to a lesser extent. Do I have to stay here that long? Of course I know I don't absolutely have to, but I don't want to feel like a quitter, either. I'm now trying reflect on myself and to figure out how to make some lemonade out of these lemons.

Stories of Sillines

How my stomach feels on glulten, only more violent...

Last night I went to tutor some Asian girls in English. We arranged to meet at the UTC building in town, and sit at the Bourbon Coffee that is considered a popular hotspot for expats and well-off locals alike. I opted to get my favorite side dish, meatballs with salad, because I had never had problems with that dish (in a digestive way), and it is so affordable - for about $5 for a big plate, I don't feel like I can do much wrong there. And so I munched on some french fries (a.k.a. chips) while I explained words like "fascinating" and "silly" to the women.

Oh, how wrong I was to eat that. About an hour and a half into my tutoring session, I felt the volcanic lava piercing my inner organs and creating some staged revolt in my mid-left abdomen. It was not like that feeling I get after I eat gluten - the feeling where I feel like I've located a missing Amazonian tribe, and they are welcoming the new intruders with spears - but really more like there were little pistols going off (PEW PEW!) in my stomach, ricocheting bullets off of my intestinal walls. I shifted uneasily for about 15 minutes, until I made a run for it to the toilet in the shopping center. I had to do this another 2 or 3 times while I tutored, and my students began to wonder with me if it was that my food was toxic, and maybe I was experiencing food poisoning. I'm still not sure, but let's just say what happens in the toilet, stays in the toilet. I'm not going to talk about it.

Not Much

Hey.

Hey.

What's up?

Nothin' much. You?

Same.

And that is my story for the moment. Not many stories to mention. Teach some. Eat some. Sleep some. Have a few glasses of wine, responsibly. Missing my little island between the Atlantic and New Jersey, is all.

St. Patty's Day Dinner Shindigs

And she doth bringeth the drink of glory to the people, and it was good!

Saturday evening, Denise and I decided to invite friends and colleagues to our house to have a St. Patrick's Day Dinner Party. A good number of people RSVP'ed, and we planned for a week or two just what we'd have and do for these few hours of Saturday to celebrate the patron saint of Ireland.

So Saturday morning came, and we went off to the market and bargained our way to two heavy bags of produce to whip together in a few hours. I meandered (a bit lost) in the Kimironko Market, while Denise talked to her "brothers" and "sisters" about the good prices they could offer her. We scurried home and the cooking began. Well, really, Denise began. She's a wizard in the kitchen (as a culinary arts degree-holder should be). She just put in her earphones, and hummed along to the invisible music while grooving and doing magical things to the food we just purchased. And quickly.

More Life Lessons

I am still learning a lot about myself as I continue to journey forth on my adventure here in Rwanda. I'm learning so much about what I can tolerate, and more importantly, what I cannot tolerate.

I'm often surprised by my boundaries and what I find unacceptable for my life. I've always thought of myself as the person who is totally able and willing to "rough it" - to live the life of abject poverty happily, as long as I have myself. I always thought I'd be able to brush off the cultural and economic difference coming to Africa, and that I'd be able to easily assimilate into the areas I travel. I thought I would be able to fall in love with every place, and all of this massive continent.

But I have found out that I was wrong, to date.

Racondo, aka Lost in Translation (Literally)

Our house guard's name is Racondo. Don't ask me if that's the official spelling - it's phoenetic. He speaks Kinyarwandan and a smattering of French and English words, which can be helpful somedays because, well, none of us in the house speak a drop of Kinyarwandan.

Racondo is a super sweet guy, though. You can just tell. When Denise and I were checking out the house before we moved in, I caught him picking dandylions from the backyard and twirling them around. Now, he's just very nice, rather quiet, and basically our live-in helper. Though it's a bit peculiar to know the guard who protects your stuff sleeps in the back sometimes at night, and sometimes in the day, and his radio is blasting at all times, so you know when he's awake. He sings really high, so he kind of sounds like a male soprano, or Christoph Willem.

Discovering My Comfort Zone

There have been jarring instances when I walk around town that make me reflect on myself and how the world works for me, a bit.

The other day Denise and I were walking home...and by walking home here, I mean we were hiking up a few hills. It takes about an hour to walk home because of the large, sloping hills. Sweat pours down Denise's face in the beating sun, and we both pant up the constant inclines. It's a nice little workout, I'll admit.

Anyways, we were hiking home, and man approached us on the road. Normally, people here just gape at me, smile, perhaps wave, exchange a mwiriwe (hello), and then leave us alone. This man, started approaching us and gibbering off to us about something. He seemed a bit off in the head, but I couldn't put my finger on why. He looked at me adamantly, as Denise stepped to the side, and I said to him, "I don't speak Kinyarwandan!"

Sunburned and Baffled

People here love country music. It surprised me quite a lot, waking up to the sounds of old-time country music echoing off of the courtyard into my bedroom on Sunday. I remembered, when I heard it so clearly with its twang and "dang da-da-dang dang" guitar, that a few of my students have mentioned to me their love of country, specifically greats like Dolly Parton, Don Williams (who?!), and Patsy Cline, to name a few. I find it so perplexing that, of all music genres in the world from which to choose, they pick old-time country music to relish. And apparently, I've been told by a colleague, it's considered a high-class thing, to listen to country music. Talk about a different perspective on things!

A Wedding...?

Before I get to the story, I just have to say that I'm a bit perplexed at the absences of a few of my students. One of my students has Typhoid Fever (I saw her pass out), and another one was in a moto accident and her teeth were cut. I don't feel like these kind of occurrences happen every day in the US with classes. But here, it's happened.

I am so, so glad I have the Typhoid vaccine. I thought it was an obsolete thing to take, but now I find out, actually, it's very real. And I don't want to mess with that stuff. She looked absolutely wretched.


Denise and I were invited to a stranger's wedding a few weeks ago. We didn't want to go, but we said okay anyways. I was fully aware I would being the only white person there, so I was reluctant to go in the first place.
 

GRE, Hills, and Women

So I have been working this week.

I started an evening job teaching a GRE review to some professionals who want to get a graduate degree somewhere. The classes in the evening, compared to my classes in the daytime, are like night and day! My GRE class has professional adults with office jobs and bachelors degrees. And they speak English! I mean, really speak English. They understand me, and I barely have to explain myself at all! And it's a room with less than ten people (we had six on Tuesday), which means I can preserve my energy more and focus more on the students. We joked a bit, and one of them even drove a few of us home! It's nice to have professional students...

Weekend in Gisenyi

Denise and I took a random bus last Saturday afternoon. I think it had become over 2 months of being in the same place that got us. The feeling of being in a cage, or perhaps even in a bubble, took us Saturday to the bus park in Nyabogogo for a weekend respite somewhere out of town. Anywhere out of town. That would cost $5, that is.


But since our friend Ariel was going to be in Gisenyi, we decided that, indeed - Gisenyi it was. The town on the big Lake Kivu that borders the DRC, that is. So I took my well-needed Dramomine, and we waited on the bus until it finally trucked up and down and along the hills of Rwanda towards the Congolese border. 

March for Me

The last few days have been less than stellar. I've been pretty sick and weepy, for starters. Our students were all sick pre and during midterms, and apparently covering your mouth when you cough is not standard etiquette here. What does that mean? Well, it means that they cough on your while you walk around the classroom, and three days later, you're sniffly and congested and coughing. It's not fun. And especially during midterms, when you're grading under a tight deadline and administering over hundreds of individual exams, it breeds the perfect cocktail to make you an emotional wreck.

Hi, nice to meet you. I'm an emotional wreck. Have we met before?