Thief!

My friend Chantal, drinking sorghum beer before a wedding

Last week, as I walked down the main road of Kigali, a man grabbed my arm. At this point in my Peace Corps experience I’m pretty unfazed by street harassment, but this guy grabbed my arm hard. I turned and pushed him away, giving him a piece of my mind in a mix of English and Kinyarwanda. As he crossed the street, I realized my phone was gone. 

“HEY! That man has my phone! Stop him!” I screamed in Kinyarwanda. The man standing next to me looked concerned, and ran after the first. As I watched them both run, I realized the second man was the one who had taken my phone.

I walked in the direction the men had run, not exactly sure what I could do. As I turned the corner and looked around helplessly, another man approached me.

“Did someone just steal from you?” he asked. I explained to him what had just happened. “Yes! I saw the men running. My friends and I, we are the taxi drivers here, we will find your phone.” I thanked him, gave him the contact information for the Peace Corps Safety and Security Officer and headed back to the Peace Corps Office.

When I arrived at the office an hour later, the Security Officer saw me and immediately said “Alma! I’m so sorry about your phone!”. Surprised and confused about how she already knew, I started to explain what had happened. “I know, I know! Richard, the taxi driver, he called me. He has your phone!” she told me.

Back downtown, I met up with Richard and thanked him a million times. He and the other taxi drivers had tracked down my phone, which had already been sold off, and then found the thieves, who had kept my SIM card, and gotten that back from them too. “There are a lot of thieves downtown, and we business people don’t like it. You are a nice umuzungu, you speak Kinyarwanda! They cannot steal from you! We just want peace in the city, we are all happy to help.”

So my little Nokia phone and I are reunited again. No amount of Peace Corps evacuations, latrine falls, or thefts can keep us apart … I think it’s true love.

Volunteer Tourism

At Cornell, I took part in a service-learning course that culminated in a three week malaria intervention project in Ghana. It was my first time in sub-Saharan Africa, and the experience solidified my desire to work extensively in the region.

Before leaving, a professor, who would two years later become my thesis advisor, put the trip into context for me: “Listen, there’s no denying that no matter what you give or do for these people, you’re getting much more out of this experience”.

Service trips have become very popular in the United States. Whether building houses in the Mississippi Delta or stocking libraries in Nicaragua, energetic, inexperienced, idealistic young people are hoping to “save the world” and “make a difference”, all while soaking in sun and posing for a Facebook picture. The programs usually require more funding than the communities they visit will ever see.

Pre-Wedding Grub with two Local Leaders in my community

Full disclosure: I was (and in many ways, still am) one of those people.

Nonetheless, Peace Corps Volunteers love to hate these types of ‘volunteers’. We meet them in the fancy western bars in big cities, and after a two hour visit to the local school and health center, they claim to understand the problems faced by rural African families. After these volunteers make their flashy appearances, it’s pretty hard for PCVs to explain to our community why we don’t have suitcases of donated clothes and soccer balls, we do not eat at fancy hotels, but we are here to stay.

If you are considering this type of tourist volunteer work, I say by all means go for it. Just be realistic.

In September a group of twenty or so masters students from an American university came to my site for an afternoon visit. Before the group arrived, rumors spread around the hospital that abazungus from the Clinton Foundation and UN were coming to build a new maternity ward, pediatric ward, school, and cyber café.

The day was amusing. In many ways, I felt more comfortable with my Rwandan friends, who I’ve lived with the last nine months, than the Americans, who I share a language and culture with.

The group spent two weeks in Rwanda: meeting with the Minister of Health, talking to genocide survivors, touring a refugee camp near the DRC border, and coming all the way to my hospital to experience ‘village life’ and engage with ‘stakeholders’.

Before leaving, the group held a meeting in Kigali to share their experiences with everyone they had visited. The group said they wanted to help Rwanda. They gave everyone bookmarks.

I have no doubt the students had the best of intentions, and I found most of them to be very pleasant. But the patronizing attitude I observed from some (perhaps subconscious, perhaps intentional) was embarrassing. In conversations with the top two health workers of the district, the group kept referring to “the literature” they had read, and their unique solution which involved mobile health technology. The ideas and discussions presented by Rwandans themselves seemed barely heard. The group had come with a planned vision (researched and developed in a comfortable, American, university library), and no amount of experience or insight from Rwandans with years of work experience and a lifetime of understanding could stop them. We’re Americans, we know all!

My Rwandan neighbors were very excited about the big group of abazungus who came to visit. It was the largest number of Westerners most of them had ever seen. The Americans seemed grateful for the opportunity to experience something so different. Since the visit, a few hospital staff members have started intense English classes with me. I’ve exchanged emails with one of the professors from the group who said some of the students were now considering Peace Corps.

A short service trip can do a lot of great things for all parties involved. But it will not save starving children from malnutrition or provide steady jobs for the local population. I encourage anyone to join or support short service trips, so long as the people involved take some time to reflect about what they can do, and more importantly, what they cannot. This is true for anyone interested in community development, long or short term, in sub-Saharan African or in the Mississippi Delta.

Lake Kivu from Kibuye, Rwanda

Millions of people across the world (hundreds of thousands of them born, raised, and educated in sub-Saharan Africa) are working hard, every day, on improving education, healthcare, and economic conditions of the poor. It’s great if you want to join them, but you won’t be the first, or the last, and you certainly won’t solve anything by yourself.

Obama Style

Overgeneralized Alma Fact Number 230984: Americans are sloppy dressers.

Example: American citizens are the easiest people to spot in airports around the world. While in American culture comfort is key, the rest of the world sees traveling as an important time to show off your stuff. It makes sense: you’re making a lot of first impressions—sweatpants and a hoddie don’t translate to anything impressive, in any language.

Not long after President Obama swore in, a New York Times article described the controversy surrounding the ‘casual’ makeover the White House was getting, particularly as it related to the President’s attire. I remember thinking the attention was ridiculous. As far as I know, coats and ties have no magical powers to fix the economy or stop terrorism. If wearing sandals and Bermuda shirts help Obama concentrate, that’s fine by me. 

Well, it turns out New York Times reporters are not the only ones paying attention to what the leader of the free world wears to work.

Rwandans are very formal dressers. They are particularly serious about their shoes, which are always perfectly polished, no matter how much mud and dirt they've tracked through. My outfits are scrutinized on a daily basis for spots, holes, and ironing (or lack there of). Mama Fils has given up reminding me that my shoes are muddy.

I recently acquired a cute pair of khaki pants, courtesy of an unknown Peace Corps Volunteer who left them in the volunteer grab box. The pants are perfect for Rwanda: they look nice (I think), they're dark (to hide dirt), with pockets (for my phone and hand sanitizer), not too light but not too heavy (perfect for the consistently changing weather patterns). Best of all, these pants have special buttons so they can be rolled into capris, ideal for the many rainy days that turn the bottoms of my pants into mud sponges.

When I showed up to work wearing my stylish-yet-practical “new” pants I was expecting complements. Instead, Mama Fils gave me a good up-down and asked “Alma! Are you going to farm?!”. I didn’t understand. “Why are your pants rolled up? It’s ugly, it’s not correct.”

It should be no surprise that my attempts to explain capri pants failed miserably. Fashion isn’t my thing. Just as I started to unroll the pants and make them acceptable for my counterpart, a young hospital nurse came over and complimented my outfit. I laughed and explained to Claudine that Mama Fils disagreed. The two women began a heated argument about the legitimacy of my outfit. Much to my surprise, Claudine won and Mama Fils agreed I might have some sense of style after all.

Claudine’s winning argument? Well, Alma is just following Obama’s style of course! The man roles up his sleeves; his countrymen role up their pants.

Sporting Rwandan Style Festive Attire at a Wedding in Kigali

Abashitsi (Visitors)

Ben drinking traditional sorghum beer

As I’ve mentioned before, hosting visitors is a huge honor in Rwandan culture. Visiting someone is a way of showing respect, appreciation, and friendship. I love visiting my friends and coworkers, and have been honored to receive quite a few visitors myself, Rwandans and Americans as well! 

Several volunteers from the most recent health group have been installed at sites near mine, and showing them around my community and the District Hospital has been a really great way for me to see how far I’ve come since I arrived eight months ago.

The most exciting visit so far was from my world traveling friend Ben Cole, who worked for Google all of last year and was based out of Accra, Ghana. Introducing my “cousin” to neighbors and colleagues was really fun and a huge cultural moment for me. In a society where family is so highly valued, why a single, twenty-three year old white girl would move half way across the world to work is hard to explain. A visitor from home seemed to make my existence a little more real. 

So: karibu, karibu! You are all welcome!  

Latrine Adventures, Part II

I really saw this one coming. 

In Niger, I had a rather unfortunate incident with a latrine and my iTouch. Here I will pause for a moment and endorse all Apple products full heartedly. I managed to get said piece of electronic equipment back to the States, and with the help of my loving parents and my dear friend Brian, it made its way back to me in Rwanda, fully repaired. Apparently dropping your iTouch into an outdoor toilet, pouring a bucket of water, and a bottle of anti-bacterial gel on it, will not cause water damage.

Anyway, I’m a slow learner. You would think after such a scaring experience I would keep all electronic equipment far away from large, dark, deep holes filled with human feces. Actually, you would think anyone in their right mind would keep everything away from such holes. As I said, I’m a slow learner.

The latrine at my health center is, what Rwandans would call, serious. It’s actually four latrines that all dump into the same enormous underground hole. I try to use it only in the case of emergency, and on this fateful day, I had an emergency, and in my rush, I let my phone slip.

Unlike in Niger, there was no question about whether or not I could stick my hand in to retrieve the fallen article. My phone was at least twenty feet down, lost forever. I walked out of the latrine feeling defeated. I told a couple of my coworkers, who responded with very sympathetic “yooooo”, “ihangane”, and head shakes. Luckily, one of my friends was heading into the big city that day, so I went over to his office to ask if he wouldn’t mind getting me a new one.

Ten minutes later, three maintenance workers ran towards me, demanding a flashlight. Noticing the confused look on my face, the head cleaner Shashi exclaimed “we’re getting your phone back!”.

 “I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” I responded hesitantly. “It’s probably broken, let’s try to call it first”. But Shashi’s reasoning: there’s no service that far down, and I have an original Nokia so it definitely still works, won over my hesitation.

Three hours later, a triumphant maintenance worker walked towards me with my recovered phone (disinfected with the tools used to sterilize surgical equipment at the hospital). Just as I opened my arms to give this kind, brave man a hug and offer him a beer and my most sincere gratitude, I was stopped in my tracks.

“That will be 5,000 francs” he said with a huge smile on his face. I looked to my other coworkers in disbelief. I hadn’t asked this man to retrieve my phone, and while I had been planning to express my gratitude in financial terms anyway, I had not agreed to anything specific.

A screaming match between the maintenance man and my very honest coworker followed, allowing the forty plus people standing around to learn about my latrine troubles and give their own opinions on a suitable reward. Three thousand was the amount agreed upon, which I handed over as quickly as possible, eager to put the whole fiasco behind.

PCVs getting ready for a boat ride on Lake Kivu

The next day, my counterpart smiled and handed me her phone, “Alma, I’m going to the bathroom, could you hold this for me while I go?”. This time, I think I’ve learned my lesson. 

Joy Ride

On a particularly slow work day a few weeks ago, a friend asked me if I wanted to go for a ride. “Sure!,” I respond, not entirely sure what I was getting myself into. Squished between Innocent, my favorite ambulance driver, and Fulgence, one of my favorite nurses and closest friends, I set off for another sector in my district. 

On the road, we discuss everything from the status of the road (atrocious, the worst in the district, possibly the country), to the physical appearance of the gorillas in the north (really ugly, but I still want to see them, like every other white person who comes to Rwanda). Conversation flows between Kinyarwanda, French, English, and the language if laughter, which I am becoming very fluent in.

We arrive at the health center and are greeted by its head nurse and director. They tell us about the patients who need immediate transfers. The first patient is a young man who just had a moto accident. His eye is covered with a bandage but blood is pouring out, his arm is also wrapped in bandages tied tightly to his torso. 

The second patient is a woman who has been in labor for over twelve hours. I accompanied Fulgence to the health center’s birthing room where she lay on the delivery table, fear and pain in her eyes. She slowly walked herself to the car (over one hundred feet away) and onto the ambulance stretcher. Her husband tried to follow but was turned away for lack of space, he’ll have to walk. 

“Has anyone ever given birth in the ambulance?” I ask Innocent. “Oh yes, plenty of times,” he responds. 

We head off, but after a minute realize the woman in labor has forgotten her insurance card, so we make twenty point turn on the narrow, pot holed road that drops off into a steep valley, to retrieve it. The woman in labor tries to hold her pain first with deep breaths, then quiet moans, but the road is just awful and the pain too much, and pretty soon she’s screaming bloody murder.

“Ihangane Madame!”,  Fulgence says from the front seat, have patience. To me he says, “the pain and stress of the road can induce labor—I’m not trained in deliveries, so you’ll have to help!”.

Lake Kivu from Kibuye, Rwanda

 “I’m dying! Stop! I’m dying!” she repeats every few seconds. “Hold on, we’re getting closer!” was the only comfort any of us in the front could provide.

After what seemed like days to me (probably years to the woman), we finally reach the hospital. She is carried to the birthing table and connected to an IV. Reviewing her transfer sheet, the nurses tell me the woman is thirty-two years old and this is her seventh child. “Madame, you have too many children!” they say disapprovingly, but she is barely conscious.

A doctor finally comes to check in. He checks her cervix and discusses with a nurse the correct plan of action. The nurse thinks she needs a c-section, the doctor thinks she’ll deliver soon. An hour later, I help prep the surgery room and put on surgical scrubs. “I am going to look only!” I remind everyone repeatedly.

Two seconds later, another nurse runs into the surgical room “Hurry, it’s coming!”. We run back to the patient and within sixty seconds the most enormous newborn baby I have ever seen (and I’ve seen quite a few at this point) is out! Now I know why they call it the miracle of life.

Over the last few hours I could not stop thinking about the atrocious conditions this woman was being put through—from the excruciating hours of labor at her health center, to the hellish ambulance ride, to the lack of bedside manners of the hospital staff. Once she recovers her senses, this woman is going to raise hell, I thought. Instead, all she did was thank me and the other nurses, praising God for her healthy baby and asking him to protect us and our future children.

And now you might know what to expect if a hospital nurse in Rwanda asks you to go for “a little stroll” on a slow work day.