The holy draft.

Le 16 mars    Being religious is pretty much the equivalent of being a free-agent during the draft season – you can be sent anywhere. Except in the religious realm, draft season is your entire life.

We’ve had quite a few changes since I first arrived in Gisenyi. Now, a few more have been added to the list. In the fall, Sr. Lumiere took the National Exam in Hotel and Restaurant Management. With the release of the scores a few weeks back, the Provincial in Kenya decided that Sr. Lumiere should make the most of her good marks and start studying at Rwanda Tourism University College – Gisenyi branch.

Yay! I was so happy to get the news. Sr. Lumiere is wonderful in so many ways and it’s wonderful and enriching to have her around.

And then a few days later, we got some more news – with Sr. Lumiere’s addition to our community, we would have to be sending our Sr. Josephine to Nairobi. Not even Kigali! With the nun-shuffle, Sr. Lumiere is coming here, Sr. Josephine goes to Nairobi and a Kenyan sister will be heading to Kigali.

It’s sad to see one of my dear sisters go, but all were very accepting of the news because, as they say, “it’s all a part of the life.” And they’ve grown used to it. Where we had a loss, there was also a gain. Besides, there’s nothing much that these sisters can get flustered or frustrated about, because they say, “C’est ca que Dieu veut.” (“That’s what God wants.”) It’s a nice way of looking at everything beyond our control. I like it.

“there are three types of bananas…”

Le 16 mars     There are a few things that Rwanda has an abundance of: tea, hills, and bananas just to name a few. If you take one step out of the airport, you’re bound to see “bananiers” (banana trees). Everywhere you look, hills, banana trees, and a place where you can buy tea.

During the hike up the nearby mountain with my class in December, the students gave me an education. They showed me around their neighborhood and told me everything that there is to know about the people, the animals, and the plants.

“Do you know what this is?” said Patience, pointing to a tall, leaning tree with broad green leaves and a bunch of yellow bananas.

“Yeah, it’s a banana tree.”

“Yes. This tree grows the bananas we eat as fruit. There are three types of bananas: bananas to eat, bananas to cook, and bananas for beer.”

It’s true – life here in Rwanda wouldn’t be able to function without bananas. There are the “puny bananas” as my predecessor Jacqui called them, which is quite accurate – they’re TINY. They grow not more than four inches long and therefore it makes two a serving. (Quite often, too, there will be a hand of bananas with “gumelles,” (twins) – two bananas that are Siamese twins.) These bananas are for eating as fruit, and I will truly miss them when I go back home and find only pretty-tasty-normal-size-bananas.

The bananas for cooking can be made in a series of ways – you can fry them or grill them and eat them as you would French fries, or you can make them in an array of casseroles which I’m becoming quite fond of. Much tastier and far more exotic than potatoes, bananas can be cooked many ways but I prefer them with peas. Mmm.

Then there’s the type of bananas that are used to make beer. Banana beer, in fact.

Holy leftovers.

Le 14 mars     Living in a convent, daily mass is encouraged. It’s not required, though I’ve come to like my Rwandan mass – even if it is at the crack of dawn. I’ve gotten used to the customs, the language (I have my mass booklet which has been a savior), and the songs – some I even sing along to! I’ve also gotten used to having priests. In fact, at every mass I’ve ever been to, they come standard.

This morning when the choir began their processional hymn, I watched as the parade of gown-laden men and youth came out of the Sacristy. Okay, Father’s just running a little slow today… But he never came.

And then it dawned on me – Fr. Valens and Fr. Antoine went down South to Butare for the day, so they would have left early in the morning. They were headed to play a priestly basketball and football tournament. Go figure.

Usually when one of our two priests isn’t around, another from the surrounding churches fills in. This morning, however, it seems as if everyone had headed to the tournament. Instead, I watched as a man dressed in the simple white robe and sash went about the opening prayer then after the readings he read aloud the Gospel and gave a homily. I see this guy every morning at church – he’s not a priest… does he know that?

And then the unthinkable happened. In all of my 23 some years, I’ve never witnessed this before. Sometimes when mom’s made too much chicken soup, we eat the same meal for a few consecutive nights. The man went over to the tabernacle and pulled out the previously-blessed Eucharist.

WHAT?

I suppose that’s usually the case, though. The priest blesses the wine and Eucharist in his hand and then goes to the tabernacle to pull out the others, which I presume have already been blessed. Something about this – the whole morning – struck me as funny. And everyone else must have seen this before, because no one else even batted an eyelash.

I turned to Petite to ask what was going on – “Yes, this does happen from time to time. It’s called ‘Sharing of the Word,’ so it’s not mass.”

I’ll have you know that this was all worthwhile – our Muhato priests won in their basketball match.

A monster under my bed.

Le 13 mars   Okay, so it wasn’t a monster. And it wasn’t under my bed, either. But it sure as hell scared me.

At the end of a very lovely, relaxing day, I came to my room to unwind before another week of school and running around at 100 miles an hour. To make sure I’d start the week off right, I decided to tidy up. Being busy so often means rooms get disheveled quite frequently.

Just as I was about to pick up a pile of clothes from my chair, I spotted movement on the desk. Did I imagine that? No… that movement just continued on off the desk and onto my exercise ball, then scurried away along the edge of the room.

What exactly is protocol for seeing a rat? In the movies, the woman stands on a chair and screams while jabbing at it with a broom. Me, well I’m in a convent at 9pm – I can’t just scream. So I run next door to Petite Gisele’s room (which I’d just left moments before) and knock franticly on the door. I tell her what happened and she comes in to survey the scene. (Mind you, she was not nearly as flustered as I was.)

I search with my handy dandy flashlight along the perimeter of the room – he can’t have gone too far. Sure enough, behind the stacked up luggage that has no place to be put away and thus has been turned into a table, I see him – beady-eyed – staring back at me. Poor little guy, he was probably just as uncomfortable to be looking me in the eyes as I was him.

“There he is! Do you see him? There he…aah!” and he scurried his way right on out the door. WHEWPH!

But he took a right. As my dad well knows, taking a right out of my room is a dead-end. Unless you’re Petite Gisele, that is – she’s the only one in my neighborhood. Onward runs the little guy (not little – he was definitely a rat and definitely at least the size of a hotdog bun), turning into the only place he had to go… right under the closed door of Sr. Gisele’s room.

Oh, good. That’s so much better.

Trying to think quickly, I ran to put my sweatshirt along the bottom of my door to prevent my new neighbor from returning to my room. We searched high and low, but no luck. (I suppose, really, it was a great deal of luck that we didn’t see him.) Discontented that we weren’t able to verify for sure that he wasn’t there, but pleased to know that the door to the outside was open down the hall and he could have easily run past us in our frenzy and out to safety, I left Petite my flashlight and we again said our goodnights.

I had been tired before. I had been quite content after a peaceful, refreshing day and was about to head to bed to get a solid night’s sleep, but now I can’t. The sweatshirt’s still barricading the door, but until I relax a bit more I won’t be able to get to bed. No worries – it’s only a rat. God forbid it’d been anything worthy of truly fearing!

The tables have turned.

Le 12 mars   There’s such a perfect Catch-22 to being far from home. There’s a pain that comes with loving life. The first few months of my time in Rwanda (finishing around January after the holidays were over, more or less), I missed my family and friends from home very much. I was enjoying the thrills of meeting new friends, experiencing a new culture, and the challenges that came with teaching, but there were times when I did miss home very much.

So I threw myself into my life here in Rwanda whole-heartedly (and that may be a part of the reason my communication has been so terrible, I apologize), and I am completely in love with Rwanda and her people.

The irony is that just as soon as I cease feeling the pain of missing home, I begin the grieving process of leaving my Rwandan home.

I think the reality of my imminent departure came to fruition when my parents were preparing to leave Rwanda. They were here for only ten or twelve days and were so torn up about having to leave. “If I was in Gisenyi for 3 days and feel this way, I can’t imagine how you’ll do leaving after 8 months,” my dad said somberly as we pulled away from my neighborhood of Muhato. I think the safest thing would have been for me to keep my distance enough that I wouldn’t have to hurt upon leaving, but that just wouldn’t have been a fulfilling experience – and that wouldn’t be me to not love each person I meet.

So now it begins. I have just less than ten weeks to go, and I know it will fly by. I’m trying to keep the reality of that in my mind, as for such a long while it felt as though I was here to stay. After this realization made my heart heavy this afternoon, I went over to the school where our students are preparing for our exams which start on Thursday. It was the perfect remedy. Ten or so of us huddled around a tiny table, going about the logistics of Front Office – acting out scenarios, circling key words and laughing often. It was just what my soul needed.

Then, lucky me, I got to see off the group of students (some of whom are from other secondary schools in the area) who have started up a Kung Fu Club. It’s amazing – they’re very dedicated and very talented. So, as if it was from divine providence, I got another round of hugs. Ah… as I was at the gate with them? A few friends were passing. More hugs. I was nearly eaten alive by mosquitoes, but I suppose it’s a good testament to how much these people mean to me that I willingly stood in a cloud of mosquitoes to be with them.

I knew that I wanted to come on mission for a longer period of time that just a couple of months in order to truly establish relationships and have more lasting experiences. However, that’s a double-edged sword – being around long enough to love your friends means leaving them will be all the more difficult. I knew what I was getting into, but also told myself that this experience would be worth it. And it is.

Ash Wednesday

Le 9 mars   Growing up in New England, we children used to say after we received our cross, “How’s mine? Oooh, yours is HUGE!”

All of us, no matter how small the cross, were clearly sporting ash on our foreheads.

Leading up to Ash Wednesday in Africa, I was wondering just how it would go. If their skin is dark, and the ashes are dark… Well, I just had to wait and see what would happen.

As luck would have it, our school as well as the other primary and secondary schools in the area, decided to have a joined mass at the parish to celebrate this mid-week holy day. Primary school means lots of children. Rwandan children, particularly in areas like Gisenyi, absolutely love muzungus. I always get waves and smiles and “good morning!”s when even walking from the house to school.

A church packed with children meant all eyes on me – even though I was in the back half of the church during mass.

As I went up to receive my ashes, I could hear some little voices saying, “muzungu!” Please, Lord… let me receive a small cross, I thought.

Sr. Gisele marked my forehead with a cross of ash, and as I turned to go back to my seat, I felt hundreds of little stares on me – in awe. I literally thought I was going to lose it at this point and break out into a big Barry laugh, but somehow I restrained it and instead settled with beaming from ear to ear.

Finally some restful sleep.

Le 6 mars   Having a rooster is great – it’s like having an alarm clock that you can’t hit the snooze button for. It wakes up when the sun’s getting up and won’t let you sleep through 6h15 mass. How great!

Except there’s one day a week that I don’t have to be awake with the sun. And even though the rooster helps me out of bed each morning, it’s because I’m frustrated that I no longer have a peaceful environment to sleep in. I’ve just about had it with that …

And then Sr. Ema asked to have the rooster prepared for our meal on Sunday. Finally, I can take a nap without having to blast my ipod to drown out the cock-a-doodle-doo’s. And I will not only be able to sleep tranquilly on Sunday morning, but we’ll also have a wonderful feast at lunch!

Reading is bad for your health.

Le 4 mars   On the way to Rwanda, my dad was busy reading instead of sleeping. I poked fun at him the first day, as I’ve rarely seen him this tired and out of it, telling him “Dad, you said you did everything to avoid jetlag, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to sleep on the plane.”

The book he was reading was Left to Tell by Immaculee Ilibagiza, which is about the author’s story of the Rwandan Genocide and how she found God throughout this time. He wanted to finish the book before landing, he said, and he succeeded. He was, however, extremely tired.

The day before my parents left, my dad handed me his copy of Left to Tell and told me just how much it had meant to him and how excited he would be if I, too, would read it.

Having heard such ravings about the book, I set right to it, once I sat down for the 4 hour bus ride back from Kigali to Gisenyi. And then in every waking moment from there, my nose was in my book. It moves quickly and is hard to put down.

And it was. Two days after I’d started the book, I had already finished it. Maybe I wasn’t getting full nights’ sleep, but I was truly enjoying reading. So…I pulled another book off the shelf that I’d been looking forward to reading for months. It’s one that my cousin Melissa recommended to me by her favorite author, Jodi Picoult, and she’d said, “Laura, you’ll really like this one.” At T. F. Green airport, before my departure in September, I found the book on the shelf and promised myself that I’d read it before I got back.

I tore open the book and dove in. Five days later, I was already done with the 500 page book. HOW on earth did I ever do that? That’s right – I forfeited writing, journaling, and even sleeping just to read one more page. I suppose there are better places to get caught up in a good book, perhaps a vacation or a relaxing weekend, but I happened to pick “middle of volunteer work in Rwanda where 7am means sleeping in.” I was exhausted all week and all I thought about was getting to my book. That being said, once I finished, instead of diving into another book, I decided to catch up on my sleep and writing.

How to keep your whites white in Africa

Le 26 fevrier   Well, this should be a short entry.

Even at home, I tend not to wear too much white. White is a tough color to have in your wardrobe, because after only a few washings the white turns to off-white, and soon to a slightly yellowish color. Great.

Before coming to Rwanda, however, I picked up a few t-shirts that would be nice enough, versatile, and I could just leave them to someone once I go – they’re blue, gray, dark gray, and white. WHITE. What was I thinking?

Needless to say, it’s been a pain in the neck. I’m not quite sure how the nuns can wear white habits so fearlessly and keep them so crisp and clean. I’ve been learning a whole lot about washing clothes by hand since I’ve been here, and I realize that part of the trick is making it a process, not a one-and-done type of deal.

I’ve watched as the sisters come to the washing area, fill up their bucket, and then scrub some soap into their clothes, putting extra elbow grease into any stains. Here comes the important part – they let them sit. They let the water and soap tackle the stains while they go off to do other things. From here, they may come back later (or even the next day) to continue washing and then rinse by hand or even throw them into the washing machine. (Yes, we do have a washing machine, but it’s used once or twice a week and fits not more than 5 habits.)

This seems to do the trick for the sisters. Truly, they should get some kind of award for this, because I’m still struggling. I’m not sure exactly what their secret is, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it has something to do with being devout Christians.

"Lend me your shoes."

Le 26 fevrier   Rwandan people are quick to share with others. They also are eager to help one another out, even if that means their personal space is smaller than Americans’. In church, for example, I will sometimes see a woman fixing the collar of the person in front of her or an old man tying the dress of a small child walking by. Sometimes I’m the one whose personal space will be violated – but violated with love.

When my parents were here, they caught the first football match of an interscholastic tournament. The boys’ volleyball team and girls’ football team made it to the finals. Today was the girls’ game, way down by the lake and along the road that leads right out of Gisenyi town. I was hoping to capitalize on the opportunity and walk home with the group from the match, so I wore my running shoes and just prayed that I’d be able to shake the dust out of them and hit the road.

All was going well when we arrived at the field – all of our girls had showed up, and a good number of our boys were there, too, to support our team. I was pretty excited. Once the teams were both present and ready, they headed out to the center of the field. And then I got beckoned. “Laura, Sr. Gisele needs you.”

I hustled out to the edge of the field where I met my dear friend Petite Gisele. “Laura, please, can Diane have your shoes? The game’s about to start and she cannot play in her sandals.”

Never having been asked such a question before and fully used to Rwandan culture, I willingly handed over my lovely Asics trainers (with my orthotics, by the way) and my socks. I felt slightly selfish, knowing that these shoes cost more than one trimester of this girl’s schooling. The orthotics, too, were made especially for me and even with insurance they were expensive.

Before I had too much time to think about it, my friend Ferdinand had taken off his sandals and thrown them by my feet. I tried to object, but he had already made up his mind.

What more can you ask for than a culture where a friend will literally give you his own shoes?