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.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, June 7, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
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.
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.
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