Another Evacuation

Disclaimer for anyone reading this blog and thinking about joining the Peace Corps: my experience does not in anyway reflect that of a “typical” volunteer.

Greetings from Pretoria, South Africa.

Those who know me well might remember a small incident a few years ago in Ithaca, New York where I slipped and fell in a gorge. Seven stitches, two fake teeth, a root canal, and several painkillers later, I thought it was over. Turns out I was wrong.

A couple weeks ago I noticed an inflammation above the tooth that had been severely damaged during the accident three years ago. When the PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer) in Rwanda first told me I needed a root canal, I thought I had won the PCV lottery.

As I hope you’ve gathered from reading this blog, medical care in most of Africa is lacking. PCV’s who need specialized medical attention during their service are evacuated to the nearest country where such services are available. For most volunteers in Africa, this means a free trip to South Africa. I remember learning about this during training in Niger, plotting with my fellow trainees about the best possible med-evac situation. Broken bone? Appendicitis? We agreed a root canal would probably be the most ideal.

Eight months later, I boarded the plane from Kigali to Johannesburg prepared for my second evacuation in less than six months. I was confident this one would be better than the last, how could it not?

Med Evac perks: playing with lion cubs

Arriving in Johannesburg was strangely similar to arriving in Casablanca. The cleanliness of the airport’s bathrooms, the wide and well paved roads, the telephone and electricity poles everywhere -- all served as signalers that I had entered a much more developed country. Everything seemed strangely unfamiliar and disorienting.

As the Regional PCMO looked over my file his brow wrinkled, “your case is rather complicated”. I laughed and explained my accident-prone ways that lead me to his office.

A couple minutes later, I was no longer laughing. Due to the complicated nature of my dental history, the chances of me needing a tooth extraction are rather high. Due to the complicated nature of tooth extractions, I cannot remain a Peace Corps Volunteer if this procedure is necessary.

So, this evacuation is turning out to be a lot like the last one. I am in limbo. The dentist here has redone the root canal, and now we’re waiting to see what happens. There is a chance I might have to go home, there is a chance I might not. I am being asked to remain flexible and patient. Things that are rather difficult to do when, for the second time in six months, I am unsure of what continent I’ll be on next week, or whether or not I will still have a job.

Nitkwa A-L-M-A

Many of your probably know that my dad writes a blog. Not too long ago, he wrote (actually Dad, you rambled) about his frustration with people always addressing each other on a first name basis. So, friends: when you see my father, please make sure you address him as Mr. Aldrich. Professor Aldrich or Dr Aldrich will also probably make his day.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my own first name recently. The one that you gave me Dad! Alma. It means soul in Spanish. (To the many sleazy guys in bars across the U.S. who have tried to use this bit of information as a pick up line: yes, I know what my own name means. No, I am not impressed by your limited Spanish speaking abilities). I like my name. Thanks Mama and Papa.

If you are American chances are you pronounce my name incorrectly. It’s not Ulma or Olma or Elma, it’s Alma—emphasis on the first A, like when you say “Ah ha!”, A-lma.

When I got to Niger, I was pleasantly surprised to hear that Nigeriens were able to pronounce my name correctly. For some reason this small phonetic detail was very comforting. During training, we were all given Nigerien names (mine was Maimouna), but once I got to my site I introduced myself to everyone as Alma; because that’s my name. Everyone’s ability to pronounce it properly, the way my parents do, made me feel immediately more at home.

Rwanda is a different story. There is no difference between the “l” and the “r” sound in Kinyarwanda. Furthermore, it’s extremely unusual to have two consonants together. (When asked about my morning runs, neighbors want to know if I went “es-po-ro”. Yes, I went sport). Introducing myself as Alma often makes people scratch their heads. A-RI-MA? AN-I-MAR? ANA? ANNE MARIE? Umuzungu!

Dad, I think you would be happy in Rwanda. Rwandans take name formalities beyond last names (which actually don’t exist here-- you have a Christian name and a Kinyarwanda name, no such thing as family name).

In Rwanda you address people by their title or status. For example, no one calls the Hospital Director in my town Bosco. We call him Director. Older people are addressed as umucecuru (old woman) or umusozi (old man) to show respect. Parents are addressed as Mama or Papa followed by the name of their oldest son (or daughter if they have no sons). When people call me umuzungu (white person) it’s not meant as a racial slur, it’s just what I am. The same way the driver is umushoferi and the storeowner is umucuruzi.

I struggle with this. Yes, I am an umuzungu, but I am not the same as every other umuzungu in Rwanda. I am Alma. I like addressing people by their names.This could be because while growing up in the United States, my first name was rather unusual, and a source of insecurity during my early years of high school. If this is the case, Dad, I will bill you for the psychotherapy later.

It is, however, much more likely that my preferences are generational. In this case, Dad, I’m afraid you are out of luck. For me (and I think this is an opinion held by many of my generation) the ability to remember your name, to identify you as an individual, is my way of showing respect.

Now, I am a Peace Corps Volunteer as well as my-American-father-and-Spanish-mother’s-daughter. I am aware of the importance of culture and respecting it. In Rwanda I will call Bosco Director and I will call my neighbor, Donatille, umucecuru. In the United States I will refer to people of my parents’ generation as Mr. or Ms blah-blah-blah. But everyone is free (and in Rwanda, encouraged) to call me Alma, especially if you can pronounce it correctly!