I’ve only been gone a year so don’t sell the car and kick the renter out of my room.

Wow, where to begin. It is difficult to accept that a year in Nyagatare is nearly elapsed. It is certainly, almost painfully, bittersweet. There are many things I will and won’t miss about Nyagatare, but every bit of it has been enlightening, even at the lowest points. What’s more, this past year has shown me how much there is to learn about the world, myself, and the incredible complexities inherent in simply trying to help other human beings. I’m also very fortunate to have caught the travel bug early, and I think central Africa will call to me for the rest of my life.

In repose now considering a year’s worth of work and travel, I thought I’d offer a brief roundup of some things I’ve done or accomplished in no particular order:

I’ve been to six different African countries, although I’ve only got an actual visa for five of them. Five of the countries have suffered some form of serious civil conflict and social upheaval in the past twenty-five years, and may be at risk of conflict again in the near future.

I’ve met teachers and students, engineers and mathematicians, professors, peasants and politicians, bus drivers and traffic police, business owners and servants, not to mention former rebel soldiers.

I’ve seen deep calming lakes ringed by stupendous mountains and tranquil beaches cradling a picturesque turquoise ocean.

I’ve rafted the Nile, peered over the misty edge of Victoria Falls, and snorkeled with whale sharks.

I’ve helped dislodge a bus mired in mud.

I’ve eaten Lebanese food in Pretoria, Indian food in Kigali, Persian food in Kampala, southern-fried chicken in Botswana, and pizza in Tofo, Mozambique.

I’ve travelled by overnight train in Zimbabwe without derailment due to collision with an elephant.

I’ve nursed debilitating stomach aches and incredible hangovers and tended to malaria-stricken children.

I’ve learned to accept cold showers, overcrowded public transport, and uncomfortable levels of platonic body contact with perfect strangers.

I’ve survived scores of motorcycle rides on bumpy dirt roads (knock on wood!).

I’ve seen firsthand the terrible, ravaging effects HIV has on a person’s body.

I’ve coaxed shy students into finally beating me at Scrabble.

I’ve somehow consumed gelatinous rice and watery stewed beans nearly every weekday for eleven months.

I’ve learned I’m frankly a crappy teacher, but I am an expert at complaining about students.

I’ve endured serious mismanagement and unprofessionalism such that I hope to never see the likes of it again…but I know I will.

I’ve been ashamed, amused, frustrated, embarrassed, overjoyed, terrified, triumphant, dumbfounded, tired, sick (but not too often), hot and cold, occasionally bored but never for long, mostly dry, and worm-free (to my knowledge, although this will be confirmed by actual medical tests).

And, above all, I feel like a more complete person who strangely (or perhaps not so strangely) has so much unfinished business (if that’s not too cheesy).

Fortunately, I could continue on almost indefinitely. A stream of memories flooded me as a drafted this blog. So much so I was surprised by how much I had seen and experienced. I hope to share these experiences and more in person when I get back, so more on that briefly. I return to the U.S. on November 22nd. I will spend a day in Atlanta, then go north to spend time with family for the Thanksgiving holiday. However, the entire month of December will be spent in Atlanta (and maybe a day or two in Athens...in the library). I intend to fly back to Rwanda shortly after New Years to start a new job. I would love to see friends, family, and neighbors to catch up on lost time and compare notes on effective treatment of fungal infections (or, you know, whatever). With that said, I will also be very busy preparing for another position in Rwanda while wrapping up grad school applications and readjusting briefly to a much different lifestyle. In other words, free time might sadly be in short supply. At the risk of sounding like a pompous self-important jerk, I’d just like to share a few suggestions if you’d like to know more about Rwanda and my experience there (which I hope you do!).

First, I like Rwanda a lot, as much for its quirks as for its stunning beauty. It has some tremendous challenges ahead of it, and many things are far from perfect. However, blatantly insensitive questions, particularly about the genocide, are not welcome. For example, the question “Are all Rwandans really psychopathic killers?” is hopelessly stupid and patently ridiculous. Such questions are offensive, and I might just bluntly tell you so. I hope that my service here has motivated friends and family to learn a modicum about the country.

Second, and in contrast to the first suggestion, ignorance is okay. There is so much that I have to learn about Rwanda, much less other faraway countries I’ve never been too. Sometimes we know so little it’s tough to even formulate a decent question. Still, asking me, “How was Africa?” probably will not receive a very interesting answer. Instead, I suggest thinking about some aspect of your life that you might imagine changing dramatically in Africa, whether humorous or serious, and phrasing a more specific question accordingly. For example, “Did you really eat rice and beans more than three hundred times in a year?” Now that would likely generate a much more impassioned answer.

Third, I beg your pardon. I think we are all guilty of “out of sight, out of mind” to varying degrees. A year is a long time to be out of contact with close friends and family, and so much can happen in a year. People have gotten married, had babies, survived life-threatening illnesses, grieved lost loved ones, had personal successes and failures, etc. Likewise, I have had a great many things happen in my life the past year. Forgive my ignorance as I forgive yours. You never know what you might discover if you assume someone has been living in a cave for a year (not that I have been…or anything).

Expect this to be my last blog for the year. I have enjoyed writing this past year immensely; it was always a good release when I got the itch. However, the next few weeks will be spent assisting with national examinations, traveling a bit within Rwanda, and submitting applications to graduate school. I will probably return to blogging, with a different bent, when I return to Rwanda in the New Year.

Cheers,

Zach

ps. Headed back here for a few days of R&R next week:

Just what is frustrating about teaching in Rwanda?

In public, on this blog and elsewhere, I have bemoaned a general lack of critical thinking and very basic learning methods common in Rwanda. Usually such descriptions are somehow couched in a humorous anecdote or irreverent joke. For those with whom I have corresponded personally, you know my private observations are much more serious, worried, and cutting.

Now that my service is basically finished, and without going into a slew of details (some of which cannot be published on this blog anyways), there are systemic pressures and historical realities that strongly shape the ways students think and learn. In general, these combine to frustrate the hell out of me. The frustration is one part personal exhaustion and one part fear for my students’ futures. While certainly not unexpected, such frustration has, for better or worse, really shaped my experience here in Nyagatare (among other things!).

However, there are those really brightly shining stars in the classroom. Students who you know have so much damn potential, but they are being suffocated by a lack of resources, unprofessional teachers, and a formulaic system. These are the students that truly inspire; the ones who force you to show up to class even though their classmates openly mock you, skip lessons, and generally disregard instruction.

The following excerpt is pulled directly (unedited) from a recent exam I gave. The student, who will remain anonymous, is one of those exceptional students with the ability to think clearly about issues beyond his or her notes and then concisely record those thoughts. The student is very articulate and thoughtful, which sadly are wonderful skills that have little importance in the system.

Prompt: Discuss how starting lessons later at Nyagatare Secondary School might help you.

Student’s response:

“Starting lessons later in our school might help all of us students yet there are some that wake up earlier as four or five in the morning.

“On my opinion, I should propose to the school administration to first change the way of teaching students. Because students are forced to cram everything and to live in notesland; if the school could change the way of teaching the lessons, by making the students understand the material, and examine them in that way, students will have enough time of sleeping and take rest.

“That was of teaching and the early starting lesson time, hurts a lot students, because for example immediately after lunch you may find students sleeping in the dormitries. And due to that, they miss after lunch lessons, which to recover that time last is another big deal. Due to these, there are very low extra-curriculum activities; like no many students do sports, clubs are empty, others are not working, etc.

“So, to help students to a better success, and to have a healthy life later on, I propose that the school administration should study a lot about this issue, and try to find a solution. I as a student, I may suggest that we start lessons later like at eight in the morning, and make the evening prep ending at ten in the night, without forgetting to change the teaching method.”

After reading that, I quickly shared it with Evan, who also teaches the author. Evan is closer with the student than I am, and he immediately sent another student to fetch the author. The “notelands” reference is from Evan, who constantly beats a drum about thinking outside of notes in his entrepreneurship and General Paper courses. He sat the student down and had a long conversation about the student’s future and how to realize his or her incredible potential.

Thank goodness for such students. Rwanda, and the world, needs more young people like them.

Rub-a-dubs, overgrazing, and side dishes.

Relationships and sexuality are always interesting parts of culture, and Rwanda is no exception. What is interesting, from my perspective, is in Rwanda (and much of east Africa) how deeply entrenched very different dating and sexual norms are in society. Men and women, but men in particular, tend to have more concurrent sexual relationships but fewer partners on average over their lifetime than westerners. At the same time, sexuality also seems a less visible part of society, where touching others (regardless of gender) is widely accepted (and practiced!) but in entirely platonic forms. Any shred of intimacy is largely left behind closed doors. Few people speak openly about relationships or sex, and students appear to exhibit little knowledge or willingness to engage in conservation about them.

The concept of concurrent relationships is an important public health concern as HIV/AIDS rates have skyrocketed in most sub-Saharan African countries since the 1980s. In her alarming yet incredibly enlightening book The Invisible Cure, Helen Epstein explores the rise of AIDS in Africa and the continent’s attempts to deal with the epidemic. She concludes that patterns of partner concurrency are largely to blame for the rapid transmission of AIDS in southern and eastern African countries. Male circumcision also appears to play a vital role, a potential reason Islamic west African countries experience much lower HIV/AIDS rates. HIV/AIDS in Rwanda is a serious problem, but not quite as acute as some southern African countries (check out the rates of HIV infection in Namibia, South Africa, Botswana, and Lesotho – terrifying!). Still, I have heard that HIV rates are dramatically underreported in Rwanda, although I cannot confirm this. All manner of campaigns have been launched in east Africa to educate people about the dangers of concurrent relationships. Uganda, which successfully combated the AIDS epidemic there in the early 1990s, has some catchy slogans: “No side dishes,” and “Overgrazing.” Clever.

The nature of dating and sexuality in Rwanda makes it difficult for people like Evan and me, who already are singled out as different, to understand how people view dating and sex. Evan teaches General Paper, an all-purpose current events and history course for upper secondary students. Sexuality and HIV/AIDS are part of the curriculum, but Evan cannot accurately determine what many students think because students do not openly discuss such issues. At the same time, we know some of our students have boyfriends or girlfriends and are sexually active (think, empty condom wrappers on the football field…no, seriously). The social obfuscation which pervades much of Rwandan society does not exempt dating and sex. Unsurprisingly, the cultural barriers have also largely prevented Evan or me from having any relationship with a Rwandan woman, which I must admit is a shame because Rwandan women are beautiful. Sigh. We’ll just have to content ourselves with the ever popular rub-a-dub. I’ll let you stew on what that one is!

He gets the mélange, too.

Wow, time flies. It has been a churning whirlwind of a term filled with unexpected holidays and massive upheavals to schedules. I’ve been so consumed by getting things done and managing the mismanagement that the blog has been neglected. Expect a few more blogs before my service wraps up in three weeks. Term ends in about two weeks, then a week of preparing reports, then some freedom.

Evan and I, like Sawa, have become common figures in the Nyagatare scene, traipsing to the market, eating at a few different establishments, and drinking at one local watering hole on occasion. Generally people have grown accustomed to seeing us around, especially the motorcycle taxi drivers and university students. This blog is dedicated to those university students who try so painfully hard to pretend they are our friends.

When we’re out and about oftentimes university students will approach us or make contact when we walk by. Inevitably they tend to act as if they know us, even though our range of what I might call friendly acquaintances at the university is quite limited. Most often, they belie their posturing by calling us Ivan and Isaac – our two cover names given to people who we quite likely will never see again or don’t particularly want to hang out with at any future date and time. Ivan and Isaac are common names in Rwanda, Evan and Zach are not, so we just make it easy for them. The ruse has extended into our private life as an inside joke.

Evan’s take on the whole situation is good, and it’s best explained by the simple statement, “He gets the mélange, me too!” (A mélange is just a plate of mixed food – gastronomically terrible but filling). You see, sometimes we wonder if people psychologically make themselves our friends simply because they observe us so much and find commonalities. Wow, he drinks beer at Blue Sky. Wow, they eat omelets at City Center Restaurant. Wow, they shop for crackers at the ‘supermarket.’ Just like me. This kind of identification is fine except when it actually intrudes too much into my real personal life. If someone wants to yuck it up for a few minutes on the road with the umuzungu, fine. That’s often a funny exchange. There are even some university students I enjoy sharing a beer with. However, it becomes a little tiresome when you become a linguistic punching bag for someone’s poor English and drunken Kinyarwandan.

While I enjoy meeting new people, and I certainly have met some interesting people in Nyagatare, the simple fact is my social circle is relatively small for a reason. Evan and I socialize with people with whom we have more in common, whether it’s another volunteer, a professor at the local university, or a teacher at school who we particularly like. Ten months have been enough to convince me of that. So watch who you call Isaac, you might just give yourself away!

When MJ met MC.

I had the distinct honor of presiding over my first high school dance this past weekend. Evan, like me a bit burnt out from a particularly rough two weeks of mismanagement and incompetence at work, had gone to Butare to visit John, our traveling partner from southern Africa. The Anti-AIDS club had arranged to use the dining hall for a series of performances, skits, and dancing sometime last week, but it was continuously rescheduled. Finally, Saturday night was a go ahead, and I was responsible for providing the supervision.

To my surprise and utter dismay, the students had actually decided to just dance, and perform not drama about AIDS education. They had already set up the dining hall with AV equipment and rearranged the benches and tables so I gave, assuring the Anti-AIDS group president that the shindig would last no longer than 10:00PM.

At first, students stood ringed around the enclosed area created by upturned tables used to contain the sound a bit and protect the windows. The girls especially, who trickled in slowly, just watched with bemused or ambivalent expressions. Small groups of boys jittered furiously, kicking, stomping, and sliding their sandal-clad feet, rhythmically twisting their shoulders and hips. However, with the lights on, most students seemed (unsurprisingly, I guess) unwilling to brave the “dance floor.” What’s more, the boys and girls were decidedly separated, boys to my right, girls to my left. It was just like those dreadfully awkward high school dances of yesteryear.

Eventually I caved on the lights. The bright fluorescent bulbs can be shut off piecemeal in the dining hall, so I allowed the students to leave the lights off in the third where they danced while the remaining two thirds stayed garishly lit. Within twenty minutes many more students were gyrating, swaying, and vibrating to the ubiquitously bad Rwandan hip-hop blaring out of overburdened speakers. Their dance style is distinctive, some silly hybrid of Michael Jackson, MC Hammer, and the Twist, but they are good nonetheless. In fact, really good. Hell, at least they’re exercising, I thought. And I was amused.

The night turned out to be good fun despite the chaperoning bit. A former student who now works as a lab assistant turned up to help supervise, along with Claude, the night watchman. Predictably the students bemoaned the admittedly early end time (although I had given them four extra songs past our agreed stop time!), and I could understand their displeasure. The students are so cooped up at school with little to entertain themselves. Dancing is a great reprieve for them from an otherwise stressful experience. I imagine that’s why we have the alcohol problems we do amongst some of our older students (who, were they not students, could drink freely outside of school as many are of legal age).

While I was sad to cut off the music, I knew if I didn’t put my foot down it would be a slippery slope. Some of the students will take all they can get and more if you let them. Plus I was famished having not eaten dinner. With dancing finished, the students trouped off to do god only knows what. With their energy levels spiked, I just hoped they wouldn’t break anything too big!

Retracing our steps.

After another wonderful flight on Kigali Air’s new 757-300 Johannesburg-Kigali route, we stepped off the plane into the pleasantly warm night air of Kigali. We spent the night briefly catching up with fellow volunteers over dinner, then the following morning sorting out phone issues. In the smoggy mid-afternoon glare we boarded a bus back to Nyagatare, quite unsure what might await us at home.

The heat in Nyagatare was immediately a stiff reminder of our everyday reality. The air sat heavy and still, not a cloyingly sticky humid heat but a weighty, oppressive heat pushing down, settling in and around the house over the course of the day. The curtains hung limp and motionless in front of the open windows; the trees stood mostly bare, lifeless, and statuesque outside. The sun shone as fierce and bright as ever. Occasionally a sharp, brief gust of dusty wind pierced the house, a rather grim reminder that we more or less live in a desert six months of the year.

Thankfully everything was in order at home (no sign of the rat!). Rainy season is also picking up here in Nyagatare, as elsewhere. Rain means cooler weather, more water, and less dust, all of which are welcome changes. We’ve also planted a new garden with Sawa, so we’ll see what grows. More updates soon.

Cheers,

Zach

Paraíso.

Tofo is truly stunning. And overrun with foreign tourists, but that’s neither here nor there. I contemplated posting a long report about each and every thing we did, but such a tranquil and relaxing place deserves a clean and spare treatment.

The beach stretches out in a long palm-tinged arc cradling the clear blue-green Indian Ocean. Swells roll in softly most of the time, providing just enough background music to soothe one to sleep. All along and behind the beach are restaurants and relatively shabby backpacker’s accommodations. We stayed in a plain palm thatch bungalow perched atop a dune looking directly onto the ocean. In town, situated neatly just behind the beach, a small market sat quietly staffed by ladies overcharging (understandably) for delicious produce and gleaming seafood. All around them were locals selling copious amounts of liquor and beer for the tourist crowd. Next to the market a local (and cheap) restaurant served heaping plates of rice, stewed cabbage, carrots, and tomatoes, and your choice of fried just-dead seafood (prawns, fish, calamari). Other restaurants dotted around Tofo served similarly delicious grub, ranging from fried eggs and salad on fresh bread to Greek salad and pizza. The matapa, a soupy greenish local dish commonly eaten with rice was also not bad.

Our only real goal in Tofo, besides relaxing and mentally recharging for Term 3, was to swim with whale sharks. Having seen whale sharks in captivity (sadly, I might add), Evan and I both relished the idea of swimming freely with them. Tofo is basically the place to go if you want to see the gentle giants in the wild. Roughly 300 of the world’s approximately 1,000 whale sharks are found for most of the year off the Inhambane province coast. Tofo is chocked full of ocean safari companies that organize snorkeling excursions to swim with the sharks just off the shore (no more than a kilometer!). Despite some early technical difficulties, our boat crew proved their worth. They found three different sharks in the span of two hours.

Once a whale shark was spotted the boat crew positioned the boat ahead of the advancing behemoth and everyone slid (or floundered awkwardly) into the water. I bobbed on the surface and dove down deep to swim right next to the sharks. My decent swimming skills proved handy. Each was large, but one in particular must have been seven or eight meters and entirely docile. It was, for lack of a better term, magical (am I gushing too much?). Highly recommended to anyone visiting southern Africa; in fact, almost worth a trip to Mozambique itself. And the price? Not too shabby: $30 for snorkel gear and two hours on the water.

Other than whale sharks, Evan and I just lounged around, wake up late, ate tasty food, read books, played pool at the hostel, swam, and sunned ourselves on the beach. Evan also built more than one sand castle. We met a lot of very different people, many from Europe, South Africa (obviously), and Australia. We shared beers and laughs, and did a bit of dancing. We even ran into the same older Dutch man from Zimbabwe at our hostel!

After our sojourn in Tofo, we took an early (think 4AM) bus back to Maputo, and then an overnight bus back into South Africa. Before leaving Maputo, Evan and I just sat for hours in a restaurant having lunch and coffee, then sipping Laurentina beers as the sun sank lower over the Indian Ocean. Before hopping on our bus we loaded up on tangerines, loaves of delicious bread, chocolate and devoured two highly suspect but scrumptious hamburgers (fried egg and pickles included) from a sidewalk shack. It had been a highly successful trip by most accounts. No crimes committed or arrested for, no major thefts (unless you count that bank hold-up…er I mean…canoe trip in Botswana), and some interesting (or phantom) visas for the passport. Would have been nice to see lions and other game in Zimbabwe, but life isn’t a script. We felt refreshed after five days at the beach, ready to tackle another four months of teaching.

The last chappa to Tofo.

Despite our border ‘troubles,’ we managed to get safely back to Pretoria. Unfortunately we arrived far too early in the bracingly cold early morning. We took a taxi from the Pretoria train and bus depot across town to the relatively safe and pleasant Hatfield neighborhood where we first stayed. We literally loitered outside the twenty-four hour McDonald’s for over an hour before another restaurant opened. Afterwards we gratefully dropped our bags at the same hostel and bid farewell to our travelling companions; Evan and I then grabbed a surprisingly stellar Lebanese lunch and watched a (rather disappointing) movie starring over-the-hill Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz.

That evening we boarded another overnight train (no sleeper births this time) for the run to the Mozambique border. Unlike our previous overnight train adventure, this trip turned into a miserable, numbingly cold, horribly uncomfortable fifteen hour misadventure. I cannot underscore what a dire state I was in mentally at 10:00am the following morning…hungry, exhausted, and barely defrosted.

We hopped a chappa to the border less than 10 kilometers away, still jammed into a tight uncomfortable space but happy for the warmth emanating from the dozen or so bodies packed into the van. At the Mozambique border we walked through a mildly perplexing maze of construction work and random buildings to exit South Africa and then strolled past an army checkpoint to the bustling Mozambique border post. Evan and I knew that Mozambique has a penchant for unexpectedly raising visa prices and admission requirements, but we hoped for the best. Turns out, it was highway robbery, but with a fancy visa: $82 for a full page brightly colored sticker visa complete with digital picture and oh-so-snazzy hologram. A visa not dissimilar to the damn Zimbabwean visa stuck in Hewsan’s passport.

Once through border control, we grabbed a few tangerines from the roadside, piled into yet another chappa, and took off for Maputo, the capital of Mozambique. We spent an uneventful afternoon and night in Maputo; I managed to sleep for about 10 hours despite a 5AM wake-up. It had been such smooth, if exhausting, sailing for so much of the trip, and Evan and I were grateful to make it uneventfully into Mozambique. Sadly our traveler’s luck had, unbeknownst to us, also exhausted itself.

A taxi ride to the bus park in Maputo was followed by a rather epic twelve hour bus trip to the picturesque laid-back beach town of Tofo. First, as we approached Xai-Xai, roughly three hours to the north of Maputo along the coast-hugging N1, the driver began intermittently pulling on the emergency brake. The bus rolled slowly through Xai-Xai’s main strip until without warning the driver pulled to the curb, hopped down from the cab, and sprinted across the street to a faded, rundown automotive supply store. He returned within minutes holding a small generic bottle, whose contents I couldn’t make out. At the northern edge of town, the bus pulled into a garage, and Evan and I both emitted the low, barely audible moans. We are accustomed to mechanical problems in Rwanda that can delay a trip for hours and hours. Generally, those delays are tire-related, but this new dilemma appeared brake-related, which could only mean serious trouble.

Surprisingly, although the issue was the brakes, the driver, conductor, and a few guys from the garage managed to remove four wheels, change two brake disks, and replace the wheels in about two hours – highly competent (by my standards)! We were back on the road. Little did we know that the trouble had only begun.
Roughly an hour further down the horribly pitted and rough highway extending northwards from Xai-Xai towards Inhambane province, we encountered an even greater obstacle. Somehow, in the hollow of two stubby hills, a tractor trailer had jack-knifed, flipping dramatically on its side, successfully blocking the entire two lane highway and an remotely passable areas to either side of the tarmac. A long line of idling trucks, buses, and 4x4s idled impatiently and expectantly in long queues up either hill, dots of a mechanical army ant war party snaking to the crest of the far hill. Within a few moments of our arrival, private vehicles began emerging along a sandy track to our left, seemingly out of the bush itself. Some had branches stuck in grilles and leaves clinging to windshields. Soon buses began appearing, too.

Other vehicles and their drivers began to take note and braved the deep, loose sand. 4x4s managed easily with enough speed, buses failed or didn’t fail based on the drivers’ skill. Unfortunately, our driver seemed to be a congenital idiot (just wait). Our first ill-fated attempt took us away from the worn path already forming, but rather to the left, up a small rise that would cut across a small plot to the sandy track leading into the bush. We hit the rise with too many people (read: everyone; they hadn’t thought to remove passengers) and too little speed. Shit, now we’re stuck.

After assessing our predicament, the driver and conductor began an elaborate back and forth dance to extricate the stalled bus. The conductor, befitting his title, conducted by digging furiously with a shovel and instructing passengers where to place branches and other debris to ensure traction. The whole affair became a communal struggle, first against the soft, tire-eating sand and then against the slick red mud churned up by the spinning tires. The effort, by most measures demonstrated everyone was ready to get back on the road, but the driver was a moron, turning the wheels in entirely wrong directions at the most inopportune moments.

Streaked with mud and sweating from exertion in the humid Mozambique afternoon, Evan and I rued our previous luck. It seemed travel karma had finally found a cosmic cure for our earlier good fortune. Eventually, we managed to get the bus back on the road. The driver, this time with an empty bus, drove headlong at the existing sandy track. To my astonishment, he managed to get stuck again. Doh! We pushed and soon had the bus free again. We bumbled down the sandy road through cassava fields and thickets of dense brush, dodging oncoming vehicles, before finally reaching the paved highway again. Inhambane here we come!

Our earlier delays put us into Inhambane late, really late. We had expected the bus to continue to Tofo, one hour by dirt road to the east directly on the coast. The driver and conductor flatly refused and ordered us off the bus. We had little recourse since neither Evan nor I speak Portuguese. A small boy immediately approached us offering small treats and the ubiquitous coconut bread. Instead, we asked him to find us a chappa to Tofo. The ride, and day in general, had been exhausting and humbling, but we desperately wanted to make it to Tofo the same evening. I was astonished when the boy beckoned us to follow right away, mumbling something about the last chappa to Tofo. Sure enough, Evan and I piled into the very last chappa of the evening, just after 7:00PM bound for the idyllic Tofo. We wedged ourselves and packs into the back row and waited. Before long, the chappa was filled to overflowing. The driver did some sort of vexing victory circle around the bus park and then careened towards the road to Inhambane. At first count, before anyone hopped off the bus, our small Toyota minivan taxi had twenty-five – yes, 25 – people crammed into its cabin or hanging precariously from the open sliding door. Bodies were draped over bodies; hands clung to whatever stable piece of metal or flesh they could grab (or grope). I’ve been squeezed before, but this was a new level of leave-none-behind public transport. I grinned the whole way to Tofo, praising the travel gods for our last little bit of luck in a depressingly luckless day.

Look for a final installment tomorrow, wrapping up holiday stories.

Zach

Warning: Do not open whilst train is in motion.

For anyone considering travel in Zimbabwe, especially to Victoria Falls, definitely check out the overnight train connecting the northwest tourist city with Bulewayo, located in west central Zimbabwe. Evan and I discovered the train online via a random BBC article metaphorically contrasting the current, decrepit state of the train with Zimbabwe’s own predicament. The rolling stock was built in Birmingham in the early 1950s then imported for use on Rhodesian Railways track. You can still see the chipped and faded fanciful R&R logo on all of the cars. At its inception, I’m quite sure the train would have been something, but today its glory is but a faint memory: no electrical power, all original fixtures (mattresses, it appeared, included), the barest of WCs, and doors at the end of the trains that swung freely and unpredictably open like hinged saloon doors.





With our bags packed and goodies for the train purchased, we clambered aboard the old sleeper car and into our cabin. Luckily, the arrangement of cabins is by two and four people, perfect for John, Evan, Hewsan, and me. Two bottom bunks, two top bunks, and two large windows looking out on the passing scenery. Temperatures dipped considerably during the night, but we had blankets supplied to us in enormous plastic zip top bags large enough to fit a small child comfortably (no bed bugs!). Everything about the cabin, like the rest of the train, was washed out, worn out, nonfunctional, but perfectly reasonable for $4!



There were more than a few stories online about the train hitting elephants on the tracks late at night, and there were clearly anti-elephant measures placed along the tracks in certain places. Fortunately, there was no elephant-related derailment, nor any derailment of any kind, although I think we did stop for an interminable period in the early hours of the morning. Regardless, we had a good time.

We arrived in Bulaweyo late but not terribly so (maybe two hours) and went in search of a bus to Pretoria. Greyhound, it turns out, had screwed us, but there were plenty of coach buses to be had, so we bought tickets later from another company. In the intervening time we wandered a bit through Bulewayo, which is a rather odd city in my opinion, and ate lunch. It seemed like something out of 1960s or 70s rustbelt America, with ugly, nondescript concrete block buildings dotted with the occasional aged colonial building surrounded by greenery.

Although the bus from Bulaweyo also left late (more than an hour), it turned out to be a comfortable ride complete with, yes, eight hours straight of Shaka Zulu. Now, if you haven’t seen this classic marvel of a series, run, no, sprint to your nearest computer and attempt to illegally download said program. It was a revelation filled with elaborate sets and costumes, large-scale battle scenes, and a really uncomfortable level of jiggling bare breasts. Okay, so maybe revelation and marvel are bit too complimentary, but it was rather (darkly) humorous to watch so much of the series.

The only rough bit of the trip back to Pretoria, as we had been warned, was the border crossing back into South Africa. The entire process took about three hours and there were people just everywhere, even late in the evening. The most worrisome event of the entire trip also transpired on the South Africa side. After going through border control and nonchalantly circumventing a baggage check with all the other passengers on our bus, the South African border police did one last spot check on us before allowing everyone back on the bus. Sure enough, the guy managed to grab the four white guys and four random African men for a “random” search. I didn’t expect anything different, but you it pays to be a little wary in such situations.

The officer escorted us to the “screening area,” which was in fact a small enclosed space off a men’s bathroom. Uh-oh. He proceeded to pat down the four African men, pausing only to give one Zimbabwean guy a hard time because his reason for visiting SA was rather vague (come on man, just say you’re visiting a friend!). At this point, I wasn’t really sure what to expect, but I was bracing myself and secretly hoping Hewsan’s would keep his Bostonian mouth shut (Hewsan, god bless him, has a sometimes worrisome knack of arguing or confronting in the entirely wrong situations). Does he want money, cameras, something else of value?

Turns out, the guy was just a pervert and wanted to cop a feel; he wasn’t corrupt, or, at least, not in your traditional way. Were we violated, yes, but we didn’t have to fork over any money or other valuables, which just might have been worth the trouble. My body involuntarily shuddered as I climbed aboard the bus but we were moving onwards to Pretoria! Border successfully navigated.

Back again with Mozambique in tomorrow or Saturday.

Zach

The spy who loved...chicken.

My series of updates on holiday travels will continue as expected tomorrow, but I also thought to share a brief excerpt I pulled from a Ugandan magazine recently (before I lose the scrap it is scribbled on!). The story concerned the former Ugandan internal security chief (domestic spy master, basically) and his laundry list of infractions and wild expenses. And I quote...

"It was reported that the former ISO chief has been living the life of a superstar characterised by high expenditure, booze, and yes, lots of chicken. Mukumbi has been feasting on a whole, long-legged cock from Teso per day. Thus the five years he has been head of ISO, the bespectacled ex-spy chief has eaten 1,865 cocks - a record that could earn him a slot in the Guinness Book of Records."

A true poultry fan. He also imported two young Rwandese women to work in the secure offices of ISO, and was apparently also keeping them as girlfriends. Classy guy, huh? Reading the article, I couldn't help but think of Dave Chappelle's hilarious stand-up bit about chicken and black people. Worth a view here.

Unfortunately, on a more serious note, this is decent example of how political power begets lack of accountability and abuse of office. I could easily imagine there being ten Mukumbis living freely (and lavishly) for every one busted in Uganda.

Phantom visas and the ass-end of the animal kingdom, Part 2.

Well, turns out we were fine. The would-be corrupt cop was past unceremoniously shortly after he passed us, caught relieving himself on the side of the road. And, our luck and the driver’s gas gauge hung until we pulled into the hostel very near the center of Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe.

Victoria Falls is clearly set up to accommodate the tourist crowd, and tourists there certainly are. Not just westerners either. For dinner our first night, however, we went down to a local bar and restaurant that served traditional African meals and Zimbabwean beer (best to stick with South African imports). Of course the proprietress thought us crazy, but we assured her Zimbabwean food could be no worse than Rwandan food. In fact, it was eerily similar, but saltier and with more greens.

Our hostel was reasonably comfortable and busy, and any given person you sat down with to share a beer or a meal almost certainly had a better story to tell about their travels. Evan and I later remarked to each other how cool, just cool, some travelers are. One guy, an older man from Holland, had been travelling through central Asia, the Middle East, east Africa, and, when we met him, southern Africa.

Clearly we had to see the Falls, which, true to form, were absolutely stunning. On our short walk down through town to the park, we were greeted by a herd of elephants (enormous!) casually munching on trees less than ten meters from the paved path. Now, for those unaware, elephants are seriously dangerous, and can trample easily. Quiet and slow movements were called for all-around. Following our elephant encounter, we continued on to the park. I will put some pictures up as soon as I get them from Evan (read: stop being lazy), but suffice to say, Victoria Falls is an awesome, powerful natural wonder. Something akin to the Grand Canyon for wow-factor. The mist from the falls wafts over you from hundreds of meters away, and much of the Falls itself is shrouded in a dense vaporous haze streaked with the occasional rainbow. Essentially you traipse around the rim of the Falls on well made paths, viewing it from various vantage (and soakage) points looking back towards the river flowing in immense sheets off the cliffs.

After taking the obligatory tourist pictures and checking out all the angles, Hewsan, John, Evan, and I went back out of the park and along the road leading to the border with Zambia. The border itself splits the Zambeze river and an enormous span bridge clinging to high, steep cliffs. We crossed through the border post, realizing all too late that only Hewsan had brought his passport. The only option was to carry on and hope we weren’t stopped or arrested trying to reenter. My three companions all decided to bungee off the bridge, but I had no inclination to do so. (Like Jinja, I just have no interest in bungee jumping; plus, it’s Zimbabwe…come on). In any case, things went off without a hitch, and Evan said it was much wilder than Jinja. Sure, whatever.

Getting back in to Zimbabwe proved to be easy, but only because Hewsan had brought his passport. Thankfully there wasn’t a cock-up on our part, but it surely could have been; crisis avoided. We cruised back up to the Fall entrance, then continued on past it down a paved then dirt road leading to what signs described as “The Big Tree.” Sounded promising since there are numerous great, big, bulbous, spiky baobab trees sprinkled throughout Victoria Fall’s surrounding areas. However, the further we trekked without seeing anything particularly remarkable save for warning signs not to feed dangerous wildlife or venture off marked roads and trails, the more foolish we thought. Perfect, I thought, classically stupid tourists get ravaged by wildebeest or consumed by ferocious Tiger…er…I mean…lion. I could see the headlines forming in my mind as my head swiveled to and fro scanning the bush for the first sign of danger. John was likewise disposed but Evan and Hewsan, perhaps as their own defense mechanism, twittered away. Fortunately, as we had thus far managed, nothing happened, although I can’t claim to have seen anything truly massive in the tree department. There were a fair number of specimens, plus the danger we had placed ourselves in, so that was fun.

That night Evan managed to arrange us a shoe-string driving safari for early the next morning and we thoroughly enjoyed (almost) our western fast food pizza and fried chicken (save Hewsan, who, having already decided to trade some of his t-shirts for a small wood carving, proceeded to eat an entire box of chicken and pizza, then overdose on Ciproflaxin).

The next morning, in the chilly early morning dawn, we waited for our driver to pick us up. Par for the course, we waited, waited, and waited some more. Eventually he showed up, and it became clear the middle man we arranged through really shafted the guy. However, we refused to budge, and ultimately prevailed, although we felt terrible because our driver really got the short end of the stick. Perhaps karma, and less-than-stellar planning, caught up with us.



As we rolled down dirt tracks through yet another national park within a few minutes of Victoria Falls, the cold wind buffeting our faces and feet beneath musty blankets passed around by our guide, we hoped to see a wide range of game Zimbabwe is known for. To make a long story short, we basically saw the ass-end of the animal kingdom, and not much else. No lions or other cats, no elephants, no crocs, and a few giraffes only from the remotest of distances. We did, however, see lots of warthogs, guinea fowl, an extremely large stork, troops of baboons, and a fair number of deer or antelope types. Literally everything ran away at the first sign of our presence, leaving only their backsides for us to photograph mostly. In any case, it was a risk worth taking, because you just never know. Plus it was a hell of a lot cheaper than our rather boring makoro trip in Botswana.







With the Falls, bungee jump, Big Tree, and game drive wrapped up, we prepared to leave Victoria Falls. Our return trip to South Africa was planned via Bulewayo, first by overnight train and then overnight bus back to Pretoria. Another update coming tomorrow…hopefully.

Ramadan ends tomorrow with Eid ul-Fitr (often just Eid), and we have the day off. A fair number of our students are Muslim and they rightly deserve the day off (plus, fasting for weeks is tough, especially for young students who are already malnourished). As one of Islam’s holiest days approaches, take some time to think about the state of Islam, and religion in general, in the United States, just as I will do here in Rwanda.

Cheers

Zach

Phantom visas and the ass-end of the animal kingdom, Part 1.

The world seems constantly bombarded with catastrophic news about Zimbabwe, especially its cynical and tyrannical leader Robert Mugabe, who has caused or instigated the implosion of the agricultural industry, the collapse of the currency and state services, rampant corruption, and vicious political violence. So, obviously, I was very interested to visit and see it!

We were immediately approached in the Zimbabwean border house by a few different men claiming to have the best taxi rate for the one hour trip to Victoria Falls. Before we negotiated for the taxi however, we needed to successfully get through customs and border control. I didn’t anticipate any serious problems, but you never know, especially in a place like Zimbabwe. The two fellows serving us were affable and helpful enough; one was a former high school English teacher who specialized in English literature (Shakespeare being his favorite). They were also jokers; they ribbed John fairly good (Mr. Stanlake being an English subject and all).

Evan, John, Hewsan, and I handed our passports over collectively to the border police while one of the officers filled out full-page, brightly colored adhesive visas to be placed in each passport. Somehow, inexplicably, the officer placing the visas in the passports managed to stick mine directly behind Hewsan’s in Hewsan’s passport! By the time they, and we, had realized their mistake, the visa was permanently adhered to Hewsan’s passport pages; removing it would void his passport and open him to federal prosecution (or at least a stern discussion at his next American port of entry, confiscation of his passport, and an unavoidable yet totally inappropriate feel-up from some underpaid rent-a-cop).

To make matters worse, the border police refused to issue me another visa, instead instructing me rather nonchalantly to continue travelling with Hewsan until departing Zimbabwe. Morons. In place of an actual visa, the literature know-it-all simply wrote a scribbled note referencing receipt numbers and Hewsan’s passport, which he assured me would be fine so long as Hewsan and I were congenitally attached at the hip. After clearing other matters up, including a “gate fee,” whatever the hell that is, we proceeded to the taxi rank.

The taxi rank was situated just beyond a shabby chain-link fence and peeling red-and-white striped pole gate manned by a bunch of random-looking dudes, and it was less than impressive. A short line of beat-up, rusted sub-compact junkers desperately in need of paint jobs, engine and transmission overhauls, and some Xzibit lovin (well, maybe not that last bit) waited. We were, of course, accosted immediately by several drivers, and we bargained hard. To our surprise, we actually got one older gentleman to drop from $40 to $10 for all four of us. We thought, hell, that’s a steal and hopped in with our bags. He was a kindly older guy with graying beard and his clothes faintly resembled the faded, busted, beat-up interior of his dilapidated hatchback. Another driver rushed up to the side window facing John and matter-of-factly explained that it just wouldn’t be fair to fork over only $10 – we agreed, shamed by our honed bargaining skills, settled on $20, and were off.

The drive from Kasane to Victoria Falls runs through several natural parks and preserved areas in Zimbabwe’s extreme northwestern corner, including a hunting park and elephant preserve (I think, little fuzzy on those details). Anyway, the terrain is straight out of that sensational(ist) African epic (I’m joking) Ghost and the Darkness starring a gun-slinging, elephant gun-wielding Val Kilmer. It’s rough bush and one can only imagine what lurks out there, but it’s also beautiful. The wildness is both captivating and very intimidating; we would definitely place lower on the food chain out there.

We crested and descended hills pocked by taupe boulders warmly lit by the descending sun and swept around gentle bends through the hilly terrain all the while happily chatting away with our driver (Zimbabweans generally speak very comfortable, competent English – a colonial legacy). He informed us that he was a former police officer (sure, okay) but was retired and thus driving his taxi to make ends meet.

At one point, without warning, a man in another other rickety four door coffin whizzed past. Our driver ever so casually informed us he was an active police officer hell bent on contacting his active buddies to set up a roadblock to arrest our driver and possibly extort money or other valuables from us. We had chosen the older guy, apparently snubbing this guy who had showed up late but demanded to jump the queue given his job title. Shit, we momentarily looked to be in it less than one hour into Zim. To make matters even stickier, the guy’s gas gauge was slowly but surely ticking lower and lower. John and I exchanged half-worried glances in between jokes and stories shared with the driver. Geez I hope we make it!

Part two coming tomorrow!

Making it rain Pula in Botswana.

Damn. Botswana is not for the financially faint of heart. Ten or fifteen years ago Botswana was supposedly affordable, but it is certainly not that anymore. Still, Evan, Hewsan, John, and I were looking forward to one of the most renowned natural wonders in Africa (and the world), the Okavango delta. The delta is located in central Botswana where a river floods into a large desert pan. We heard and read incredible stories about wildlife and scenery, especially during the dry season when animals cluster together around dwindling water holes.



Outside of the delta, Botswana is a bit of an arid, but still beautiful, wasteland…if that makes sense. Everywhere there an intensely bright sun; the most beautiful sunrise I believe I have ever seen crept up from behind the endless stretches of low scrubby trees as we rolled north northwest towards Maun from Gabarone. In addition to the delta, Botswana is also famous for its enormous shimmering salt pans: vast flat mirage-filled stretches of desert once covered by water.

We arrived late in the afternoon in Maun and were again taken aback by how developed Botswana is. They had fast food outlets and all sorts of shops and stores catering to the tourist crowd. Okay, a little bizarre, I thought. We made it to our hostel situated literally right on top of a small finger of the delta about five kilometers outside of Maun. From there we managed to book a makoro day trip, a makoro being a long, shallow canoe traditionally hewn out of whole trees poled by the native Batswana who have lived in and around the delta for centuries.



Little did we know that a day trip is, more or less, flushing money down the proverbial toilet. Wildlife sightings, we learned, were most common very early in the morning when animals go in search of water in the cool temperatures. By the time we had poled (or been poled, I guess) for two hours, the sun was arcing high into the clear blue sky and temperatures had begun to spike. Shortly thereafter, when we did reach a wildlife viewing area, nearly everything had disappeared into the bush to sweat it out in the shade. Zebras were all we managed (see above). We were all quite disappointed since we forked over $100 for the day!

Much to my chagrin, I realized that our planning had failed us (or more that I was alternately too lazy and too busy to help Evan enough with holiday plans). Had we done a modicum of research on wildlife and makoro trips, we probably would have planned differently, but lesson learned! Still the delta is a beautiful and immeasurably peaceful place. It’s a bit different than I expected, and expensive, but a three day trip would in all certainty be worth the cost.



After our day trip through the Okavango we planned to continue northward along the Zimbabwean border to Kasane, the Botswana border town to the far northeast roughly an hour from Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. We traveled on one bus a fairly comfortable three hundred kilometers back to a crossroads town and disembarked to find a ride to Kasane. In Botswana, public transportation is really sparse so backpacking can be tricky. You have to be prepared to hitch, and do so decisively so you’re not caught out late somewhere inhospitable.

We waited, waited, and waited some more at the de facto bus stop – a combination gas station, fast food joint, and Barclay’s bank. The public restrooms were immaculate and there was much fried chicken to be had, so we enjoyed ourselves, but as noon approached we began to ask around for rides to Kasane. We had to budget enough time to get to the border another three hundred kilometers to the north, get across the border, and negotiate any “problems,” if you catch my drift.

Eventually a small bus, hardly largely than a chappa mini bus taxis, pulled in stuffed to the gills with people. Somehow they managed to shove us in, Evan and I wedged into the very back seat with three friendly Batswana men (two of whom also appeared to very much enjoy fried chicken). My shoulder just might have suffered permanent, irreparable damage due to my horribly awkward position, but I’m holding out hope. In any case, we made it safely to the border.

Luckily for us, Batswana are incredibly nice and generous people. The bus driver and conductor went a few kilometers out of their way along a spur to the border just for us. Once extricated and properly limber we breezed through the completely empty Botswana border control post. Like all else in Botswana, it was efficient and indicative of the country’s successful development.

And then there was Zimbabwe.

Holiday beginnings… and a shameless plug for RwandAir.

Term 2 was a grueling slog of a term, so Evan and I were really grateful for a holiday. A chance to recharge our depleted batteries and see a bit more of the beautiful continent we call home. By sheer luck, Evan discovered that RwandAir was running a brilliant deal to Johannesburg during our holiday window: $500 round-trip direct! We had initially planned an overland bus, train, and boat trip that would take us through Burundi, perhaps Tanzania, Zambia, and then Botswana and Zimbabwe. The price of visas alone made the airfare a much better deal.

We departed Kigali with a friend and fellow volunteer, John, who hails from rural southwest England but now teaches in a small village just outside Butare in southwest Rwanda. Let me say this before I continue on: RwandAir’s Johannesburg route is the nicest, most comfortable, best served air journey I have taken…ever. If you ever want to make a trip between South Africa and Rwanda, maybe to see the gorillas, take RwandAir. You’ll thank me. Flight attendants were wonderful, food was decent, and they give away free booze (as much as you want, in fact, as Evan discovered feeding his red wine urges)!

We arrived at Johannesburg’s recently renovated OR Tambo International Airport, a gleaming, airy, very modern glass and steel structure situated some kilometers outside the city center. Cruising on Johannesburg and Pretoria’s smooth freeways past enormous industrial and commercial parks, there was a creeping feeling of disbelief and awe. South Africa truly is a strange place: one of immense disparities in wealth and opportunity, very much African in some ways and quite European (or American) in others. A country with alarmingly high unemployment, a shocking AIDS epidemic (an HIV infection rate of 33%, or higher, in some provinces), corrupt politicians, and a notorious reputation for violent crime (electrified anti-scaling fences are everywhere), and yet a single district, Gauteng (which comprises Johannesburg and Pretoria), constitutes roughly 10% of Africa’s entire GDP (or so our fellow volunteer Hewsan informed us; I’ve yet to fact-check that one but it seems entirely plausible).

Our hostel was located in the middle-class area of Pretoria called Hatfield just a few minutes walk from the towering campus of the University of Pretoria and a glut of retail and restaurant outlets serving the University’s community. Everywhere you looked, there were young people fashionably dressed cavorting with their friends, drinking beers in a large open courtyard, grabbing a bite to eat at the McDonald’s, running a quick errand to the copy shop, playing video games in the internet café, perusing books in the bookstore. Blacks, whites, Indians, Asians – South Africa is also a relatively multi-cultural African state (very much unlike Rwanda).

After sleeping like the dead in very warm and forgiving beds, John, Evan, Hewsan, and I aimlessly roamed the Hatfield area for a bit the following day before boarding an impressive coach bus for the trip to Gabarone, capital of Botswana. Check back in a day or two for my update about Botswana and Zimbabwe – the stories are too good not to check back. I promise!

Goal-line saves and school girl squeals.

I know, I know. I promised a hiatus from blogging during exams but this tantalizing tidbit couldn’t wait. As if exams weren’t exhausting enough between dodging teachers, whiny students, a see-sawing Dean of Studies, and a earthen heat wave, Evan and I returned home earlier this week to find a visitor in our house. A most unwelcome visitor.

You see, our house has some vulnerable points where all sorts of unsavory guests can sneak into, or invade, our living spaces. Prime among them are the doors, which leave at least a good half inch space between their bottom-most edges and the smooth concrete floors. We’ve had mild ant invasions and massive, more troubling spider invasions. Birds and bats swoop dangerously close to open doors (Sawa's had birds in her house before), flies are constantly buzzing through the living room, and wasps occasionally make an appearance from the porch or courtyard. We also have geckos from time to time, which are always welcome since they eat the bugs with uncanny ability.

Yesterday marked a new low in the long list of uninvited creatures. I arrived home a few moments before Evan and proceeded to drop my bag in my room as I waited for a call from mom and dad. Just as I rested my exam-laden bag on the concrete floor at the very edge of my bed, a small, dark object skittered from under my headboard, zoomed across the room, and vanished out of my bedroom door. I stood stock still, unsure of whether to chase or scream. My mind instantly began cranking; I knew exactly what I had seen. A hairy, dark gray, jumping rat. A rat!

Evan and I do our best to keep the house clean despite the constant water shortages we deal with. With that said, sometimes dishes have to wait a day or two to get cleaned properly. We never leave food on the floor and usually do a good job of removing garbage. I shudder to think what that rat got into during the day or what it might have done had we gone to bed with it still in the house.

After a quick appraisal, we deduced the rodent had absconded to Evan’s room. A once over and a poke here and there revealed the interlocutor under Evan’s bed. We managed to clear him out once, twice, three times but he just scurried back under the bed after leaping into Evan’s empty closet. Finally, we managed to herd him out of the room wielding a broom and an oversize squeegee. As the rat made a break for Evan’s bedroom door, I bolted to avoid his frantic escape and prevent him reentering my room. I hopped the step up to my room, spun on my heel, squeegee in hand, only to find the rat still bearing down on me. The squeegee head met rat torso in midair about twelve inches off the ground. The rat crumpled on impact, hit the floor, floundered momentarily, regained it’s footing and bolted the opposite direction into the living room. After more herding we managed to get him out the back door and away from the house.

For anyone who has never faced removing a five inch rat from their home, it is an oddly terrifying but hilarious experience. I’m sure Evan and I gave some silly shouts at key moments when the rat was on the move, but the rest of the time we just cursed our luck and laughed really hard. Thank goodness it was only one, because that is not a task I want again. But wait!

After dinner with some friends and lecturers at the local polytechnic university, Evan and I settled down to some popcorn and a movie. About an hour into the movie, my eye caught movement on the floor to my left, along the wall where our desk sits and next to the back doors. The f-ing rat was back! We managed to trap him into the kitchen, block his path to the rest of the house with an extra mattress, and then force the rude intruder out the courtyard door. During his second escape, the rat nearly managed to jump over the mattress into Evan’s chest before flopping awkwardly backwards and fleeing through the open door.

Good riddance. Doors are all now specially barricaded to prevent another intrusion.

Flexible schedules, phantom deadlines...and other examinable topics.

Exams are underway at Nyagatare Secondary School. While we got off to a decent start this past Friday, thanks almost exclusively to the extremely diligent but highly surreptitious work of Sawa, things began to break down this morning. We started fifty-five minutes late, which is both the good news and bad news...we started late but managed to start before the hour mark!

Exams tend to be very stressful at N.S.S. because there is a so much disorganization and so little planning. Sadly, the volunteers tend to spearhead much of the work (unfortunately initiative is not something our colleagues exhibit with great frequency). As such, I will return to blogging in about a week with what I'm sure will be an entertaining recount of the week's frivolities. I'll also give a brief rundown of the upcoming holidays planned for Southern Africa.

Until then.

Zach

ps. What a sorry end to the World Cup. The two most deserving teams play a marvelous consolation match filled with exciting attacks and admirable professional behavior. Two petulant and disturbingly violent teams combine for a lackluster, tepid finale. Too bad for SA and the rest of Africa.

Mutsinzi, I am your father: The Revenge of the Mic-Eaters

Yesterday our debate team competed against another high-performing school in Eastern Province, Kayonza Modern School. Unfortunately, Evan, who is the debate club sponsor, and myself, the annoying sidekick, had only one day to prepare our students. Due to some avoidable confusion our students had only one day to prepare for the debate, the motion being: “Privatization should be encouraged in Rwanda.”

Kayonza, unlike Nyagatare S.S., offers students arts concentrations like HEG (= history + economics + geography). This meant their students had another distinct advantage over our students. In a country where education is predominantly directed solely towards two different national exams, one’s knowledge is geared specifically towards passing those exams. That means rote memorization is a key component of your academic development. Our kids study sciences, their kids study economics. So, it was unsurprising that they outperformed us.

What remained painfully obvious, however, in the brief snatches of back-and-forth I could gather from the rear of the dining hall was that critical thinking and worldly exposure remains a distinct problem regardless of your school. Sure, the Kayonza students spouted off a fair amount of theoretically viable economic theories for the adoption of more privatization-friendly policy. They also spouted off a fair amount of unsubstantiated babble, just as our students did. But most remarkably for a debate, there was a serious dearth of detailed examples, applicable anecdotes, or statistics to substantiate any of the claims either team made.

This is the challenge: to initiate a learning process of self-exploration and contemplative reflection on one’s own ideas in a bunch of students who have no idea how valuable those skills are, and, to be honest, don’t really need them to graduate and go to university. If I can get even a fraction of my students to increase their capacity to think critically in whatever time I may have remaining here at Nsheke, then I will be happy. But not satisfied.

What’s more, even if the kids had been using their noggins, we wouldn’t have heard it. They often have wildly exaggerated speaking styles characterized most notably by their near consumption of the microphone. I thought for the briefest of moments yesterday one girl was having an asthma attack as she exploded into the microphone. It sounded uncannily like Vader threatening some peon in the Death Star, only the peons were my students.

The Rwandan Play-by-Play

Living in Rwanda can admittedly be a very stressful experience. Everyone obviously suffers different stresses according to his or her own personality and individual placements. Evan and I usually have to contend most with dysfunctional organization at school and a growing water shortage problem at home. Travel can be painfully slow and uncomfortable. Food is universally bland and often unappealing (like small bugs and rocks in school lunch). Rwandan people are almost unfailingly friendly (especially if you speak some Kinyarwandan), but paradoxically they are often impolite and intrusive. On the whole though, most stresses are bearable and even understandable. I’m easy-going and prefer to just relax or disengage in situations of great stress.

However, there is one annoying widespread practice that really irks me. Across Rwanda people are obsessed with western music, television, and film. Walk into any mom-and-pop shop or restaurant and there’s a good chance western music is blaring from a beat-up AM-FM radio perched on the counter. Or, there’s a miniature TV stacked precariously on some dubiously constructed shelf connected to a veritable rainbow forest of AV wires pushing out a fuzzy, bootleg version of some random western (or kung-fu!) movie.

Occasionally in these movies, there is what can only be described as Rwandan play-by-play. That is, a man (it’s always a man’s voice) screaming a description of the film’s proceedings as they play out on the screen. These most unwelcome disruptions are interspersed amongst the dialogue, sound effects, and soundtrack of the actual film. It’s so wacky but I guess people dig it. Movies I can accept. However, when you mess with Bob Marley, you’ve crossed the line. Crossed by about 100 kliometers.

Evan and I were recently on a bus returning to Nyagatare from Kigali. The driver was playing all manner of obnoxious music as loud as he possibly could. I had no real qualms aside from the fact that my eardrums were on the verge of rupturing. Then he popped on a Bob Marley CD (some sort of greatest hits compilation). Inexplicably there was some a-hole screaming in Kinyarwandan over poor Bob. Totally unacceptable. What could have been a mellow, relaxing trip turned into brain-liquifying migraine. I had to restrain myself from unleashing a hail of foul-mouthed expletives at the driver as I exited the bus (not that he would have gotten everything, but the gist would have been clear). I mean, have a little taste and respect. He’s six feet under. Honestly.

I love a good stoning. Don’t you?

Good lord we have the most ridiculous staff meetings sometimes. Two weeks ago, the class teachers gathered to discuss a variety of matters. This one was a rare beauty of a staff meeting replete with all manner of wildly preposterous proposals and totally inappropriate discussions. Central among matters (actually, the ONLY thing we did) were our official appointment letters confirming that yes, you are indeed a class teacher. Happily the appointment letter arrived only five months late.

The appointment letter detailed all of the responsibilities of a class teacher. Some were obvious and I have been performing them for months already. The self-important pomp and circumstance of the letter in general was so laughably at odds with its delivery.

First up: a discussion concerning how to properly field requests and complaints from your students, including passing those concerns on to relevant administrators (or, a deep, dark void from which no request returns). Instead of a constructive discussion on protocol and timing, our Dean of Studies launched into a comedy routine/public lashing of a Senior Six class teacher. Now, this teacher’s name is Omoding. Is Ding in any part of your name? If so, you probably aren’t given benefit of the doubt very often. It’s just such a short leap to Dingbat. Honestly.

So, the teacher in question had submitted a handwritten request at the behest of his students. The primary issue was the time at which power is switched on in the morning. Our school has some serious debt issues and we pinch pennies every where we can. Power is currently turned on at 5:00AM and shut off at 11:00PM. Apparently these students (who, I must confess, I do teach) decided that 3:00AM was a reasonable time to turn power on because they needed to study before class.

I almost choked on the water I was sipping. Evan nearly fell out of his chair. Our Dean of Studies and three other teachers began laughing hysterically. When asked his appraisal of the request, the class teacher simply stated (I shit you not), “I haven’t decided yet.” If not for a sense of burning embarrassment for the teacher, tears of uncontrollable mirth would have streamed down my face. My side did hurt very badly from laughing so hard. There is not a joke good enough to encapsulate the utter stupidity of the entire conversation.

Not to be outdone, we were then treated to the lame, peevish grumblings of our assistant Dean of Studies. His pet peeve is our school’s dress code and many students’ disregard for it. This teacher can carry on a conversation with himself for nearly an hour on this very topic. Unfortunately, he sucked other teachers in, and we found ourselves knee deep in a discussion on whether students with untucked shirts could eat meals in the dining hall. In the meantime, the school is running millions of francs in debt, teachers dodge their own lessons, and water at school is becoming spotty, among other more pressing issues.

After recovering from flips flops and exposed shirt tails, we moved on to safety drills. At this point, I actually perked up because I think there are some serious safety issues that should be addressed. Unfortunately, our DoS decided that the nurse shouldn’t be responsible for addressing those issues in a school-wide assembly. Instead, a bunch of first aid-illiterate teachers should handle it individually. What’s more, there was a relatively brief thirty minute discussion on whether one should tilt a student’s head back during a bloody nose episode (doh!).

Now brace yourselves for the real kicker. We jumped quickly from nose bleeds to contingencies in case a thief breaks into school. Leaving aside the fact that the worst thieves at school are our own students, there was dissension among teachers as to how to proceed. For the briefest of moments, it seemed there was the proverbial elephant in the room, but Evan and I couldn’t quite catch what that elephant was up to. Then someone mentioned stoning. Wait, stoning? You mean, like, stoning stoning?

Well, for almost forty-five minutes we discussed all the potential uses and consequences of stoning as Evan and I sat in stunned disbelief. We protested vociferously along with our Dean of Studies and a couple other teachers against any potential stoning. Sadly, some teachers seemed to see it as a necessary last-ditch effort to contain a thief. The most pressing concern was in fact how to prevent students from stoning each other instead of whether stoning was even appropriate to begin with.

There was no discussion of detaining the intruder simply for trespassing. Nor was there of the likelihood that a teacher would ever be at school late at night, hanging out with students observing possible thieves. It’s all so ludicrous, but “we” spent nearly an hour reaching the following conclusion: if, after having ascertained that the intruder is indeed a thief, and if said thief’s escape appears imminent, you are to organize a small group of capable students to stone the intruder to subdue him. Otherwise, just organize a few students to tackle him or something. Yea, whatever. Put it in a memo.

T9 gave me herpes. And gingivitis.

In discussions with friends and family before departing for Rwanda, many people were surprised that I would have access to a cellphone. I assured them that were widespread in the Rwanda (almost of Africa, for that matter), and upon arrival this was confirmed. Everyone, I mean everyone, has cellphones. Okay, maybe not the gurgling, giggling babies strapped to women’s backs, but nearly everyone one else.

Unsurprisingly, cell phones in Africa come with all the attendant malfunctions, poor reception, and user error common elsewhere. The only major difference is that almost everyone uses pay-as-you-go phones, buying credit and loading it on via text message to the provider. Many Rwandans also own two phones, one for the MTN carrier and the other for the TIGO carrier, for a variety of cost- and convenience-related reasons. (I’m beginning to feel left out, about one third of volunteers with WorldTeach now have dual phones).

The most interesting quirk of the Rwandan phones (produced almost without fail in China) is the predictive text. It’s really quite confusing and illogical (as predictive text programs go). I’ve not been able to master the T9 here, so I don’t bother. However, other volunteers frequently use the predictive text function, with some highly interesting and bizarre consequences.

Just to illustrate, last weekend volunteers gathered in Kigali for the Saturday night throw-down in Rustenburg between the Red, White, and Blue and those imperialist dogs, the English. A fellow volunteer received a text from another volunteer who just flew to South Africa for a few matches (lucky!!!). Except that his T9 replaced the words “going to” with “gingivitis.” Well, that’s odd, I thought. Then a third volunteer suggested ever so casually that gingivitis was the least of one’s T9 worries. “T9 gave me herpes,” she said. Touché.

Wild magical gesticulations of a topless levitating women in an isosceles triangle of shame.

Last week I popped into a Senior 6 class to reschedule a missed period and happened to read some General Paper notes left on the chalkboard. The notes were bizarre but highlighted perfectly the ridiculous incongruities I experience daily in Nyagatare.

General Paper is an all-purpose (supposedly) discussion-driven class on a wide range of topics: Rwandan politics, public health (i.e. AIDS), East African integration, global warming, genocide, gender, etc. I guess it’s an attempt to impart some worldly knowledge to a bunch of students who are utterly disconnected from the world around them. Unfortunately, it really is a rather feeble attempt, and often the notes either lack prioritization or are patently wrong.

These particular notes concerned “Moral Decay” in Rwanda. First of all, seventy percent of my Senior 6 students cannot define the word decay, nor can they define what is moral (obviously, people much smarter than me or my students disagree, but one can make an attempt). That notwithstanding, I was intrigued to see what exactly was rotting Rwanda’s morals. One culprit caught my eye in particular.

Among the half dozen or so reasons for the decay are Rwandese who adopt or imitate European and American culture, thereby undermining Rwandan culture. Listed prominently near this ‘factoid’ was the dissemination of pornography. So, apparently, globalization and the adoption of western culture has increased the viewing of pornography in Rwanda, and consequently Rwandan morals are being attacked from outside. Okay, fair enough.

Later in the day I happened to be in the staff room finishing some lessons. I was alone save for Sawa, the Rwandese school driver, and two Ugandan teachers. The driver and teachers were clustered closely around a laptop and were intently watching something. Well, occasionally the volume would kick up and it sounded suspiciously like the teachers were watching pornography…in the staff room…in the middle of the day! I was dumbfounded and not the least embarrassed. What the hell were they thinking!? What if a student had walked by!?

Here’s the crazy thing. The two teachers are best friends with the same teacher who put those GP notes on the board. They’re all from Uganda, one is preaching about pornography undermining Rwanda, and his two buddies are busy watching pornography in the middle of the afternoon at school. The scenario is so incredible, wacky, and unprofessional it can only be true. And sadly, I see this kind of stupid, totally incongruous behavior daily. One sometimes wonders if a single moment’s thought passes through some people’s minds. I suspect that if I did raise issue with something like this, most Rwandese people would just shrug as if being absolutely insane is a normal state of mind.

I resolved to write a post about this little anecdote late one night last week as Evan and I unwound to some Squire brothers stand-up comedy. They have a hilarious skit about a horribly inappropriate magic show involving a topless levitating woman, and the timing could not have been better. For all I know, those teachers could have been watching the wild gesticulations of a topless levitating woman. Ugggh.

Evan just shattered his ass. Or, how we found out about Dennis Hopper’s death.

It seems Evan and I meet an endlessly interesting stream of people on our forays into Nyagatare town, especially when we drink at our favorite hangout, the Blue Sky Hotel. We are good friends with the manager and assistant manager; the former is a Kenyan expatriate and the latter is moving very soon to become food service manager at the Serena Hotel in Kigali (think transatlantic luxury…rooms start at $$365 a night). There is gregarious Olivier, a former RPF/RDF soldier who now alternates between supremely competent UN driver and supremely competent alcoholic. The owner of City Centre Restaurant and his wife always chat us up when we come in (twice a week at least). Then there is our Dean of Studies’ friendly brother who owns Umwembe Supermarket, which given the size of Nyagatare could actually claim that title, and can comfortably alternate between English and Kinyarwanda. And course we have met numerous university students from Umutara Polytechnic University. Our best friend amongst the students is Charles, who I honestly don’t know very well but he is a nice, low key guy with good English.

We have met so many different people it takes a truly singular personality to surprise us anymore. Fortunately, we do still meet people like this, and last weekend was a perfect example. But first I need an aside to illustrate how fortuitous our encounter last night was.
Evan had gone into town earlier in the afternoon to watch French Open action. Sawa and I planned to follow later in the afternoon, but one mid-afternoon Scrabble game at school dragged into three. Sawa and I left just before 6:00pm as the sun sunk methodically behind the high mountains to northwest, streaking the sky a million shades of glowing yellow-orange behind a curtain of prodigious billowy clouds.




Near school there is a trail that branches left and breaks down the hill through maize fields and pastures. Sometimes we take this trail when we are going to the market, which is located on a far fringe of town. Sawa suggested we take a “short-cut” to town along this trail, and despite my doubts (with the sun setting behind us) I relented.

Well, the short and sweet of it is that Sawa’s short-cut was actually a super roundabout long-cut traversing half of Nyagatare’s outer ‘neighborhoods.’ Sawa won’t accept this version of events, but she’s not a good judge of distance to begin with. What’s more, she insisted that it must be shorter because a Rwandese woman working at school told her so. The day when I accept at face value a Rwandese person’s assessment of distance and travel time is the day I check into the asylum. They are almost unfailingly unreliable in the same way they cannot attend meetings en masse on time. Don’t worry: this is not a sensationalized attack on Rwandans, it’s just true! And I love them for it.

The upside of our excursion was bumping into Gervais and Elizah, two old friends of Sawa who lecture at Umutara. Gervais is the former boyfriend of a VSO volunteer who worked in Nyagatare town, and Sawa met him through her. We invited them to join us later for a drink at Blue Sky and they happily agreed. Our timing was perfect to meet Gervais and his friend, so Sawa’s meandering path actually worked out for the best.

Swing back to drinks at Blue Sky with Gervais and Elizah. In the almost six months Evan and I have been in Nyagatare, we have yet to meet anyone as well-informed and as easy to converse with as Gervais and Elizah. Both did their studies in Dakar, Senegal, speak fluent French and impressive English (having just started one year ago), and, as well-educated academics, can carry very well-informed conversations.

As Evan and I cruised the internet earlier in the day we saw Gary Coleman had died, so when Gervais prompted us about the Hollywood actor who had just passed, we immediately assumed he meant Coleman. Wrong. Unbeknownst to us, Dennis Hopper had also died, and Gervais knew who both were!

We chatted for three hours about Senegal, the U.S., the Rwandan education system, American movies, and security for the World Cup in South Africa (including a comparison of private security contractors employed in SA and Iraq). It was incredibly refreshing to expound upon so many relevant world issues that many Rwandese seem unconcerned about, unaware of, or uninterested in. Needless to say, Evan, Sawa, and I will be contacting them again.

As we clambered onto a motorcycle taxi together in the damp, chilly night air, Evan and I began our ridiculous ruminations on new blog post titles. With me sandwiched between the driver and Evan, I offered Evan the lone passenger helmet. He declined, predicting that if we did go down, there would be two warm bodies between him and the hard, dusty, rock-strewn road. Then he paused, and added that it would be different if he fell off the back of the moto (quite likely given the roads). I reminded him that his head would be the least of his worries. He’d likely shatter his ass. He replied, yea, shatter, probably not shat, nor shart. If you’re confused, check out urbandictionary.com and be repulsed by our coarse, immature humor.

Chewbacca’s Bride!

I stumbled across this abandoned blog post title in my blogs folder this week. Honestly I’m wasn’t quite sure what the blog was supposed to be about, but I’m sure that Evan and I thought the title was too hilarious to leave by the wayside. We often concoct dumb titles to entertain ourselves that remain shells of unfulfilled stories, most especially as we stumble in from a night of inebriation (one beer turns into three – or six since every beer is a double).

According to Evan, this one was supposed to be about our neighbor Sawa and her crazy monosyllabic tonal form of communication. We love Sawa, and she doesn’t really sound like Chewbacca (or look like it either), but the principle is the same. What’s more, she uses it most when shouting through our shared concrete wall when interpretation is practically impossible. Enough said.

A week from Hell, or maybe Hell's second cousin. I'm not sure.

Evan and I add the unenviable task of being “on duty” this past week. Duty, in its boiled down, no bullshit, unadulterated state requires two teachers to control the movement of one thousand students for an entire week. Fortunately, most students at our school are boys….and my students. This means I can actually track them down at their dormitory (I cannot, for obvious reasons, track down dozens of girls in their dorms on a whim).

Duty starts early. Before the first class at 7:00 am, teachers on duty must round up all students and ensure their punctuality. After break at 9:30am and lunch until 1:00pm teachers on duty must do the same. If there is an assembly after classes, the hunt begins anew. After dinner students must go to their classes for two hours of preparation time (like study hall), so again we drive the errant ones to classrooms.

Many of our students are unversed in the fine art of punctuality. They expect to roll into class fifteen minutes late or more. Or they simply skip class (dodge class) for no good reason. If we happened to catch one out and about without permission, they sputtered the most incoherent lies and fabrications about their tardiness. It was if they just had to keep trying various justifications until one stuck…it was more than a little pathetic. They’re simply really bad liars (and cheats for that matter), which I guess is not terrible except that I think they believe they actually are good liars. Their modicum of deceptive skills doesn’t carry them far, but they just plow ahead anyways.

Constantly hounding and herding students is a physically and mentally exhausting task. I now understand why most of the Rwandese and Ugandan teachers just half-ass their duty (with predictable discipline results). If you are not on your feet teaching a class, you’re outside patrolling for wanderers. On top of the physical strain, students are constantly trying to outwit you and sneak off to play hooky behind the toilet or water barrel. And they lie. And they complain, and bitch, and moan. And they’re completely disrespectful. And they don’t LISTEN! For whatever reason, many students seem to think that walking away as if unaware you are calling them will absolve them of responsibility…wrong! Those are the ones who are punished more severely.

Punishment, inevitably, is some form of cleaning. Our method of choice last week was a long, bent end machete used to slashing grass. Carry one with you at all times and you are ready to dole out some quick justice (and keep the grass a respectable length at the same time). I don’t take pleasure in punishing students because it wastes my time and their time. Plus Nyagatare was hotter than hell last week. However there is a certain satisfaction knowing that some smug fourteen year-old didn’t pull a fast one on you or any other staff member.

After a week of 5:00AM wake-up calls I was ready to sleep in on Saturday, but it was not to be. Out of the blue, we were told Friday that the district office was holding an awards ceremony for the best performing girls in S1 and S4 at our school on Sunday. What’s more, Janet Kagame, wife of President Paul Kagame and First Lady of Rwanda, was rumored to be attending. Well, the school went into DEFCON 1 alert, and all students were conscripted to clean and manicure the school grounds in anticipation of her arrival.

So on Saturday morning, after a really trying week and more than a few cold beers the night before, I found myself standing in the welcome shade of a cassia tree watching students slash grass and sweep pathways at 7:00am. I was so completely exhausted and sick (bad head cold) that I stayed home all day Sunday to sleep and watch movies…and no, I didn’t care about missing duty on Sunday. Evan and I had already so outperformed our colleagues there was no need. Bleh.