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.

Beautiful smiles in unexpected places.

There are few things more pervasive in Rwanda than religion, and Evan and I are often questioned about our religious affiliations (not to mention our Sunday morning plans…”ummm, well, we’re busy!”). I appreciate the fact many Rwandese are deeply committed to their (usually) Christian faith, but I frankly have little personal interest in their beliefs or their churches. I’m not religious and feel that one’s religious beliefs are personal. Moreover, Rwandese church services are a bit like Homer’s Odyssey: the journey is always long, arduous, filled with pitfalls, and ends at some undisclosed, undecided time in the distant future.

However, religious services are often comingled with more clearly social events that we occasionally feel obligated to attend. Two weekends ago was a perfect example of how smoothly such events can go. Late in the week, a lovely administrative employee at school, Valentine, whose friendly smile more than makes up for her truncated English vocabulary (French, no problem) invited us to a concert and service in town.

The event was a fundraiser for a student choir and dance troupe made entirely of Nyagatare Secondary School students. Although we didn’t know it beforehand, on arrival the church appeared to be one of those hyper-emotional, hand-waving, jump up and down shouting hallelujah affairs. These scenarios quickly make me uneasy. I don’t enjoy being roped into such religious matters without fair warning, but of course that’s practically impossible in Rwanda.

Evan and I had not eaten before we walked to town at 2:30pm, so grumbling stomachs and low blood sugar made us cranky and stressed. By the time we arrived, most of the service and concert were thankfully over (we timed it well, these things can last six hours or more if you aren’t careful). The church was hidden down a narrow little rubble-strewn alley off the main strip in Nyagatare, sunk down behind a noisy video rental business. The church itself was roughly semi-circular with a lofty cheap tin roof and spindly metal support columns. At the front a large stage stretched from left to right, where the keyboardist cranked out generic Rwandan tunes. Behind the stage was an odd, billowy, folded pink fabric background that reminded me of deflated Bazooka chewing gum post-bubble burst. Simple folding chairs were arrayed across the entire expanse of cold concrete flooring. At the rear, large double doors were opened to a nice little courtyard area.

Students, we could see, made up most the remaining congregation. Our arrival meant they had to perform one last song and dance, which they dutifully (albeit perhaps a bit begrudgingly) did. I felt embarrassed since many of the students appeared dog tired. I couldn’t have predicted how happy it would make me though to see my students singing and dancing in unison. Many of my students, for whatever reason (I suspect it’s my poor teaching skills and lackluster attempts at humor), always have scowls or bored expressions etched on their faces in class. I wonder if they are truly unhappy and dislike school. I wonder if there are some larger issues that I miss. But then along comes this concert and each and every student was grinning ear to ear with genuine joy as they rhythmically stomped and swayed and shook their hips together. And they were genuinely pleased we turned up to watch and contribute to their fundraiser (so they can record some videos). Revisiting their beaming faces and limber bodies twisting and hopping as one is more than enough to make my day. Any day. Every day.

Zach and Evan’s Big Adventure: Killer Kampala and the Naughty Nile, Act 1

Four weeks ago, with our first term nearing completion, Evan and I decided to travel north to Uganda during our brief holiday to see Kampala and whitewater raft the Nile at Jinja. We were unsure what to expect since everyone we spoke with gave us wildly different narratives about the luxurious development or cramped, polluted squalor of Kampala. Jinja apparently was the industrial manufacturing ‘heartland’ of Uganda (as it turns out, everything in Jinja town appeared rusting, run-down, abandoned, or half-derelict).

Early on a Thursday morning, well before the sun’s rays beamed between my shoddy curtains, we dragged out of bed ragged and half-asleep. Down the hill and through maize fields we cut and criss-crossed our way in darkness to the bus station, arriving just as a bus destined for Kigali was rolling away. We hopped on, negotiated a cheap price to the Ryabega ten kilometers away on the main Kayonza-Kagitumba road, and sped off.

At Ryabega we needed to purchase tickets for Kampala via Kagitumba (Rwandan border town). Upon arriving we were immediately accosted by two salesmen, each from a different bus company. Both claimed their bus would arrive earlier and provide a better ride. The price was the same, so were baffled. Eventually I suggested to Evan we flip a coin (mistake!). It landed heads up, Jaguar was pronounced the winner, and the Horizon Coaches salesman walked away dejected. It was a decision we would ultimately regret.

We bought the tickets from Jaguar, thinking we had better purchase them to make sure we get on the bus when it arrived (mistake!), and waited. And waited. Then waited some more. In the meantime the Horizon Coaches bus had come, picked up a couple passengers, who, we could see, comfortably found seats. Damn, even the coin conspires against efficiency! Eventually the big Jaguar bus, mud-spattered and spewing choking diesel fumes, rolled in. The bus definitely had seen better days, and we instantly realized our error. What’s more, we hurriedly climbed aboard only to find there were no seats! I struggled to the back and half-stood, half-sat on two older gentlemen with my pack strapped uncomfortably to my chest. Evan got trapped in the aisle further to the front and was forced to stand. The bus sailed (relatively) smoothly to Kagitumba and everyone disembarked to go through border control.

After receiving our exit stamps from the Rwandan authorities we hoofed it across the border and up to the Ugandan border house. The parity in professionalism was clearly evident, but our foreign status, packs and white skin, for better or worse, seemed to expedite our experience. A worker pulled us out of line and into the house’s office where we each paid our $50 entrance visa. Afterwards we tracked down the bus which had driven a hundred or so meters down the road and managed to snag two seats, albeit at the very back of the bus – a decision we would also regret.

The roads in Uganda, well, they suck. Especially near the border with Rwanda. For hours that seemed to stretch to eternity we were jostled and vibrated into oblivion. My ass still goes numb just thinking about it. The bus was so cramped with people that you could hardly adjust position and the stench of sweat, body odor, and spilled soft drinks was at times stifling. If you opened a window to get air, you invited stinging clouds of dust; if you closed a window you risked suffocation. On top of all of this, the heat was oppressive in the bus and outside. The road to Kampala crosses the equator but it felt like we crossed into Dante’s the sixth ring of hell.

Finally, seven hours post embarkation, the bus crept into Kampala (we arrived during early onset rush hour…a real disaster!). We unloaded ourselves from the bus, squinted awkwardly in the hazy sunlight, and trudged off to find boda-bodas (motorcycle taxis) so we could drop our worldly possessions at the hostel. The hostel was quite nice and comfortable, the staff friendly, and the hot showers indeed luxurious. After recouping a bit of energy, we set off to check out some of Kampala…meaning the shopping malls. Yea, Kampala has shopping malls. At least two of them. And big.

We had a reviving dinner and ice-cold Fantas then made plans to rendezvous with a Rwandese friend from Kigali who studies at Makerere University in Kampala. There was some initial confusion, but Buonfice eventually tracked us down and we hopped on more boda-bodas for the trip to a popular student hang-out. It would be a long night.

To be continued…