IYFD... what the hell are you doing to me?

We bid our friends goodbye and 

Promised we would write them 

and headed north up 95.  

Into the great unknown, 

Turned up our stereo, felt so reckless and alive.  

We didn’t know where we would be, 

We didn’t know where we would end up, 

When we headed down that road.  

A little food and our guitars, 

In the back seat, that old cello, 

That would get stolen in a town in Idaho

It’s a long way... 

I truly believe I have been given a rare gift.  Several rare gifts, actually, and for these I am in constant amazement and eternally grateful.  Life is beautiful.  Now, believe me, I am acutely aware of how painful life is.  I am acquainted with disappointment, heartbreak, betrayal, death, and brokenness.  But, by the good grace of God, I am also deeply acquainted with love.  

Some would say I see the world through rose colored lenses.  Others might say I’m young and idealistic, I’ve had a charmed life, or I’ve been so transient I’m escaping reality.  Maybe these things are true.  

But I will say, whatever the truth of my circumstances and my life’s path, I have loved and been loved, served and been served, and celebrated and mourned with many along this winding path that has been my life thus far. 

Two years ago I made a move on a dream I’d carried for a long time.  I had been afraid that if I tried I would fail.  But the encouragement of one person I really valued was all it took.  I was accepted to graduate school, made a huge life change, and was met with a community of strong, smart, and passionate women.  

The program is called Intercultural Youth and Family Development and is an interdisciplinary Masters degree that’s administratively housed in the Counselor Education department at The University of Montana.  We weren’t really Counselor Ed students, or anthropology students, social work, public health, etc, though we took all those classes.  We called ourselves IYFD and more than half the faculty at Montana had no idea what that meant when we asked to be signed into their graduate level classes.  Maybe it’s because we found no other place to really fit in in the school.  Maybe it’s because we were some of the few who ended up at the bar or brewery on evenings and weekends talking about the world’s social problems, theories of counseling, or public health crises.  Or because none of us were actually from Montana, were all pretty unfamiliar with the territory, and we all went on a camping trip our first weekend where we were terrified by grizzlies and some strange howling outside our tent and then the car broke down and we were briefly stranded in Glacier National Park only to be rescued by an angel/rule breaker of a tow truck driver from Browning, MT.  Or maybe it’s because it was our destiny to do so, but we bonded quickly and deeply.  

And I’m not even mentioning the incredible teachers who facilitated our learning.  We were challenged and pushed and new ideas were drawn out of us by a faculty who really care.  And still care, as I’ve gotten two emails just yesterday from my advisors, checking in and confirming their support. 

It lasted only a year, though, or nine months to be precise, and we were all off on separate adventures in the Peace Corps.  We knew it was coming to this.  It’s why we had come to Montana.  It was more difficult than I expected it to be and I miss it more than I thought I would.  

My words, I’m afraid, are failing to capture the magic and mystery of this community that gives me so much strength.  It’s when I think of Rachel in the Philippines, KG in Peru, Amanda in Ethiopia, Ashley and Katy in Botswana, Caitlin in Cameroon, Whitney and Sarah in Azerbaijan, Katier in Ohio preparing to leave for Ukraine in a few months, and Meredith back in Missoula guiding the next cohort through this experience, that I find the strength to carry on here in Rwanda.  I feel loneliness so often in my village here.  I try like hell to fill the silence in my little house with music, books, podcasts, and movies.  But I know I’m not alone.  I know there are others living this experience in different ways all over the globe.  And we’re keeping each other in mind.  We “promised we would write,” and we’re making good on that promise.  

I don’t know where our Peace Corps journeys will take us.  I mean, I know what countries we’re currently serving in, but nobody knows what will come next.  I constantly wonder if I’ll finish my own service (and at least 5 of the ones I've shared my doubts with lately have said almost the same words, "you are a light wherever you are and whatever your heart tells you to do, I fully support you").  We plan to meet back up in Missoula in a few years and I’m pretty sure that will happen, but who can really know the future.  Inshallah, as my friend here says. 

But I do know, right now, right this minute, as I’m wondering what today holds for me and how I’ll try again today to integrate, do something positive, be involved, engage those around me, that I am being supported and loved by people who really know what this is like.  Gratefulness isn’t strong enough a word.  

*Let the record show, that though this blog post is about IYFD, they’re not the only ones who love me, believe in me, and make me a stronger person.  The list goes on... I am feeling the love from Georgia, Missoula, Nairobi, Southern California, Portland, Texas, Virginia, all over Rwanda, and all those other countries I already mentioned. 

happy new year! and hello again

Umwaka musha muhire! Happy New Year! 

Obviously, I’ve been a bit out of touch lately.  Two weeks before I began traveling (work and play) for nearly a month, my computer broke.  It has just now been mended up (and is barely hanging on to life, fingers crossed and prayers said for another year of life) and I’m back in the old writing saddle.  The return of my computer and some birthday and new years resolutions has me writing a bit more... hopefully... 

So let me catch you up:

At the end of November, Thanksgiving week, actually, I was selected, along with 7 other PCV’s in Rwanda to attend the Rwanda National Pediatric Conference on Children and Youth Affected and Infected by HIV and AIDS.  May the lengthy name of the conference give you an idea of how jam packed this three day event was.  

Then, after another week back at site, I had the honor and pleasure of filling in for an injured PCV in the role of Camp Director at Camp BE in Bugesera District in Eastern Province.  Nearly 50 teenage boys, 30 young adult male facilitators and junior facilitators, a lot of information about life, HIV, and sex and relationships, more beans and cabbage than I ever want to eat again, late night dancing and talent shows, and temperatures 20 degrees hotter than I ever see here in Musanze.  This is Camp BE. 

Camp BE Bugesera 2012

Finally I was back at site for just one night before I left on my epic Southern Africa Christmas adventure to Botswana to visit Ashley and Katy!  I went with Beth and John to  Johannesburg, South Africa (for just one night on each end), Livingstone, Zambia (to see Victoria Falls) and finally to Maun, Medie, Gaborone, and Lehututu Botswana (and just about every little town in between).  Epic indeed.  

Victoria Falls on the Zambia side.

There are so many details about each of these things so I won’t give it all to you at once. I’m splitting it up into several posts so you can find and read them as you have time. 

Now I’ve been back in Kabere for about two weeks now and I’m trying to understand what’s going on here and get involved where I can.  I’m all ready to go with a hygiene project and a nutrition project.  I’m just waiting for a budget from the district on the hygiene training and for my language to improve so I can understand what the hell is happening in nutrition.  School started on Monday, though, and the kids are eager to being GLOW/BE club.  So am I.  Youth development is why I’m here anyway and it’s probably the place where I can be most effective.  

this lovely babe was born on the morning of my 30th birthday.  i'm very happy to share my day with him. 

Also, my garden went to pieces while I was gone (except for the miracle cabbage and beets; they must be strong!) and now my Titulaire has reclaimed the space he apportioned me to plant.  So I will be doing some negotiating and planting new seeds (hopefully) in the very near future.  It seems these days people are growing tomatoes, cucumbers, and eggplants.  Perhaps I will follow suit.  I will keep you posted. 

So as I look forward to what’s ahead, you can look forward to hearing about it! :)

a zucchini I harvested on my birthday (Nov 12).  I was trying to show shock and surprise so I could send this picture to my friend Ashley who gave me the zucchini seeds.  yes, I know I waited too long to harvest it and that's why it was so big, but it was still tasty. it's all about learning, right? :)

October in Rwanda (while thinking of Georgia)

29 September 2012

No matter where I am or what I’m doing, even on the really good days of my life, when it’s the end of September/beginning of October, there’s no where I’d rather be than Rome, GA.  

Today I find myself in Musanze, Rwanda sitting in my little cinder block house with the doors and windows open to the beans and vegetables growing in my yard.  I just returned from participating in the cultural tradition of Umuganda with my Rwandan neighbors.  The last Saturday of each month everyone is required to participate in community work.  The projects vary month-to-month, but everyone meets in the morning and works together.  Well, usually, men and women do separate projects.  I spent the last hour and a half bent at the waste pulling up weeds with some old women discussing community service activities in America and why I’m not married.  And it’s just now 8:45 a.m.  We get started early around here.  The weather is such that it’s comfortable to wear a hooded sweatshirt and flip flops.  That, the sliced tomatoes I’m eating, and the Zac Brown band playing on my laptop brings my thoughts back home... to Rome.  

This time of year, and when the weather here matches the weather there, I can’t help but remember how much I love things like Mountain Day at my beautiful alma mater and the Chiaha Harvest Fair where it used to be, down by the river at Heritage Park.  I remember Heritage Holidays where each year of middle and high school I would stand on risers downtown, singing with my school choir, while my Nana stood in the audience clapping her hands to the music.  And I think of the trail ride that stops traffic all through town and then leave surprises that we’d find all over our school playground on Monday morning.  Mom would always tell us the story of how one time she was riding in that “wagon train” and her hand got caught in a rope that was tied to a spooked horse.

I always cherish my memories of the Coosa Valley Fair and feeling anxious, excited, and so very proud to represent my school at the cheerleading exhibition.  I say exhibition with emphasis because we were always reminded it wasn’t a competition, but we knew better.  It was the premier of our competition season where, after a long summer, we could finally see the routines of the other squads we rivaled so much. There were no trophies, but nobody forgot how each team performed at the fair.  Then there’s trips to Burt’s Pumpkin Farm, getting apples in Elijay, hayrides with church youth groups, trick-or-treating in Sherwood Forest and Maple Wood AND Celanese, football games, hiking and camping, eating dinner outside, bonfires, chilly mornings, flannel and jeans, and much much more with smells, tastes, and feelings that can’t always be captured in words or photos.  You know what I’m talking about.  

But, back to my little Rwandan village.  Soon today the equatorial sun will climb higher and higher and the temperature with it.  My thoughts of my home will ease to rest in the back of my mind while I visit friends in the village, hike to a waterfall, spend time at the health center where I work, and cook dinner over a hot plate on the floor, all the while speaking Kinyarwanda and trying to understand a way of life that still, after almost 5 months is quite foreign to me.  No matter how much I long for home, looking at pictures and listening to country music, right now, at least, I am here.  In Rwanda.  Serving this country and my own as a Peace Corps Volunteer.   And for that I am grateful.  

If there’s anything I’ve learned thus far in my service its that community and local culture are vitally important.  Nobody was created for or understanding of your own community quite like yourself.  Every day I walk past toddlers working in fields alongside their parents wielding machetes and I think of how we are molded and taught to function in our culture.  Were I in America, I’d run up and snatch that machete out of said toddlers hands and call the police (I can’t help it, I used to work for DFCS).  I often feel so lonely and like such an outsider when I’m the only one who shows up on time to work at 7 a.m. each morning or I don’t get the joke, I wear the wrong shoes, I find the local traditions tedious and boring, or they laugh at how in America, the work they do by hand we do with machines.  This happens all the time.  My Rwandan friends get such a kick out of asking, “In America, you have a machine for this?” about everything.  

So, I encourage everyone to travel, volunteer, serve in another culture, welcome foreigners to our own culture, and see as much of the world as you can.  I also very heartily encourage you to appreciate your community and your home culture.  If you find yourself at home this beautiful season, going to the same old football games, watching the same old parade, barbecue-ing with the same old neighbors, building the same old bonfire, or simply raking and burning the same old leaves that won’t stop falling, look on it with gratefulness.  People all over the world are doing their traditions in this specific season.  Hold tightly to yours when you get to do them, whether that be planting beans and praying for rain, or taking your kids to the fair.  These are the only days we get.  We are who we are and we live where we live.  There’s beauty in that.  Let’s look for it.  

Nana at Berry. this is where my heart is.

gusenga imana

 gusenga imana = to pray God

Have I talked about church in Rwanda yet?  Well, if I have, it’s such a part of life here that it warrants another post. 

The religion question in Rwanda isn’t, “are you spiritual?” or “are you religious?” Or, “do you go to church?”  No, it’s “where do you pray?” It’s a given that you pray and, obviously, you don’t pray at home alone. You must be praying somewhere with some group of people who have a title and a doctrine (and a keyboard, sound system, microphone, multiple choirs with dance routines, and possibly an electric guitar). 

The majority of Rwandans identify as Catholic while the rest are protestant (a large part of protestants are Seventh Day Adventists) and a few are Muslim.  Katier, I don’t know how many are Mormon and I haven’t seen any LDS churches around... perhaps you can give us that statistic???  

In my village we have a huge Catholic church with two Masses on Sunday, an even bigger Adventist church, a smaller Baptist church, a smaller still Pentecostal church, and the smallest, an Anglican church.  During training we discussed what we were going to tell our village regarding our religion.  Our training staff advised us that not attending church might be a barrier to integration.  At first, in my village, I thought I would try attending the Catholic church because Mass is a guaranteed short two-hour service.  But then I quickly remembered that I’m not Catholic and, for various reasons that probably won’t ever go on my blog for public discussion, I won’t become Catholic... at least while in Rwanda (never say never in one’s evolving spiritual awareness).  I still like going to Mass. I like it a whole lot, actually, but I had to find a different “church home” as they say.  I went to the Anglican church next because thinking that’s probably where I would most closely identify.  That service was about 5 hours long and I, unfortunately, sat beside the loud speaker which was apparently busted and had a terribly fuzzy sound so that, even if I could understand the rapid Kinyarwanda sermon, I could barely hear it and developed a nice headache from the volume, the dust from dancing with closed doors and windows, and the heat of the tin roof.  Praise be to God.

I finally found myself at the Baptist church, and like Goldilocks thought it “fit just right.”  Or as “just right” as Rwandan church can be.  It was actually fun.  There’s so much singing and dancing and the sermon, which I am now able to follow a bit, is only 20-30 minutes.  And I already told you that I’m gettin’ real good at sitting on a bench for 4 hours.  I’m also getting good at having a slow and peaceful Sunday morning at home with coffee, classic Caedmon’s Call, fresh fruit, my journal, and then going an hour late to church.  I’m only missing the first few choir performances... it’s not a big deal... right?  I still see at least 7 choir performances, greet everyone, and hear the sermon. 

The thing is, before I knew how much church was a part of culture here I wanted to take a break for a while since there probably isn’t a church in my village that I’d feel comfortable being a part of.  In Missoula, I had just found a church that I loved and felt like I could, with a clear conscience, identify myself with and tie myself to.  I’m a deeply spiritual person and I want my personal convictions to align with my public behavior.  This is something I always taught my youth group kids -- remember, guys? your behaviors reflect your priorities which reflect your values.  During adolescence my challenge with this was nonconformity to the more liberal morals all around me.  But then since college the pendulum is shifting and my personal convictions may be more liberal than many people I once identified with.  I’m striving to make sure the things I believe are really the things I believe because they are true and right and not because I like all the other people who believe them.  As a person who likes to be liked and to identify with a group and who is also wildly controlled by her emotions, lining my outward behaviors up to my inward convictions is a difficult thing to master.  I imagine this is true for many people.  Add all this to the idea of “cultural integration” that I’m working for wherein I have trouble finding the lines sometimes between accepting cultural norms and sacrificing who I am.  

A big part of Peace Corps is cross-cultural exchange.  In America, it’s totally ok to be a Christian and not always go to church.  Here, even if you are a church-goer in America, it’s a different experience here: really long, really hot inside the buildings, you get stared at, sometimes people behind you pluck your hairs for examination, you have to sit in a visible spot and introduce yourself to the whole congregation, they don’t speak your language and it’s difficult to catch everything... sometimes I find myself angry for being there, which is, I think, the opposite effect church is supposed to have.  

Ok, digression over.  On to my appreciation of Rwandan church culture...

Like I said, church, all of the ones I’ve been to, are full of dancing, singing, shouting, formal introductions, loud and long prayers, and some intense worship.  Rwandans really believe.  Or at least on Sundays they party like believers. 

One of the things I really love about Rwandan church is that, in the village, they have adapted Christianity to their culture instead of adapting themselves to a Western Christianity.   They sing Christian lyrics to traditional tunes, sometimes wearing traditional clothes, and always doing traditional dances.  And it’s best if they have a goat skin drum.  I mean, I know that Christianity is not their traditional religion, but nobody can really remember what there was before Christianity, only that they have always been monotheistic, and now, Catholicism especially, is a big part of Rwandan culture. Catholic Mass has all the traditional parts to it, but there’s definitely Rwandan flare.  The leader in front will sing the monotone Latin verse and the congregation will respond with unruly melodies, drums, and jumping.  Here’s a video of one of the more tame church services I’ve been to.  This is a Baptist church and it’s all I have right now, but you can see the traditional style of dancing: jumping while thrusting your knees into your chest and then swaying side to side with arms outstretched to resemble cattle walking slowly in a herd. There’s usually a group of women dancing like cattle and one man carrying a staff dancing in front leading the dance (like shepherding the cattle). Sorry this is so shaky; I was dancing too. 

And here’s the sweet family that took me to church with them that Sunday... 

gotta love the seriousness of having your family's picture taken

this girl is a pro at staring. she didn't even bother to act like she was paying attention to church. 

the staring was almost outdone here. i don't think she took her eyes off of me for an hour.

This past Sunday at church I was dragged to the front to join the mosh pit style dance party.  Laughing, jumping, sweating, clapping, and trying not to fall down, I think I just integrated a little more. :)

So I have more thoughts on church and Rwanda, but this is enough for now.  I’m still learning.  I know I barely understand the culture and there are many unanalyzed aspects of my own culture that are certainly influencing my perception of this one.  Please give me grace as I reflect and share.  And, please, I’d love to know your thoughts and be challenged by your questions.

my first guests

I am so blessed.  Most of the time I wallow in self-pity that all my favorite people live so far away from me.  Ok, maybe not most of the time; I’m not bad at enjoying what’s around me.  But when I think of all the folks I love so much who don’t live in this Rwandan village, it’s more than just a few people.  And I have a whole lot of love for them.  A few weeks ago, worlds collided a bit as two of my dear dear friends paid me a visit.  

Kim and I have been colleagues, housemates, roommates, traveling companions, and more for almost 9 years.  I love laughing at the fact that before I knew her she was a Camp WinShape legend I’d heard about since 2002 and who I was nervous to talk to when I finally met her on the ropes course at Wilderness.  It was, like, maybe, my first few weeks of being a facilitator and I was paired with Kim one day while she was visiting WinShape.  I guess we were short handed for that program and the Wilderness culture was such that “legends” could come back and work a day here and there any time.  (I haven’t forgotten that the same invitation was extended to me, by a one Mr. Harter not too long ago.) So 30 minutes before the program started Kim said something like, I’ll just stand back and let you take the lead today, ok?  What?! I was so new and didn’t yet know that facilitating groups would come so natural to me and here was this outdoorsy, campy, ropes course-y LEGEND going to just watch me! But, the day went off just fine and by the end of it, Kim had convinced me to spend the summer in Kenya working at her camp.  And thus are the pivotal life-defining moments of our lives. 

It is the gifted and smart Lexi, who by grace and mercy, followed God to Kenya in 2011 speaking life into me from the very beginning of our friendship, who is now the Director of Camp BlueSky, so very dear to my heart and to Kim’s, providing strong leadership that is really making camp better than it’s ever been.  Not only is Lexi a beautiful friend that I will always cherish and be grateful for, but she encouraged me when applying for grad school and danced in her bedroom with me at midnight the night I got my acceptance email.  I couldn’t have left Kenya and Camp if she hadn’t been there.  There’s so much more I could say... 

Anyway, they made the trek to Rwanda  few weeks ago, all the way out to my little village, by way of plane, taxi, bus, and dark, wet, and muddy motorcycle ride to sleep under a mosquito net and cook noodles on the floor.  And spend time with me.  How sweet it was!

We visited Kigali... 

Kim and me at the hotel in Kigali. I'm so happy!

Kigs is way calmer than Nairobi

greeted people in my village and shopped in the market...

um, can you say rainy season?

yes, the muzungu knows Kinyarwanda. it's truly amazing.

ok, we shopped at two markets

went out to Gisenyi to sit by Lake Kivu... 

I forgot the stats, but there's tons of methane beneath this lake.  Enough to electrify the whole country for a long time. It's just real hard to get out.  But don't worry, they're on it.

PCV's aren't allowed to swim here because we could contract schistosomaisis.  But, who's scared of schisto? 

climbed Mt. Bisoke, one of the volcanoes in the Virunga chain... 

we're so clean and happy pre-hike

please look at the trail. and this was NOT the hard part.

SUMMIT!

there's a lake beneath that mist.  half of it belongs to DR Congo.

                                                 

and here we are so glad to be done and wondering why we thought this would be fun. please note our feet.  this was a source of entertainment for our guides all along the way.

and we talked and talked and talked about all we’d missed in each other’s lives in the last year.  I know I’m so blessed to have such good friends.  I pray everyone can know friendship like this.  

Oh, and KARIBU MURWANDA (Welcome to Rwanda)!!! I will host you just as well. :)

“You make the going out of the morning and the evening to shout for joy.” 

Some days, occurring more often than I’d like to admit, I wake up and my first thought is, “I don’t want today.”  These days I’d rather just go back to sleep and try again tomorrow.  However, to my immediate dismay but my overall good health, staying in bed is not an option... at least not an option I’ve given myself.  I know that at the day’s end I’ll look back at it with peaceful appreciation.  Thank God my personality is so positive and His grace so abundant that I am almost always able to see beauty.  

To remind me when I forget I’ve displayed, all over my house, some reminders of the joy and beauty found in our world and the Source from which I may draw strength.  

Perhaps you’ll be reminded of the places and things that motivate you to get out of bed and meet the beauty of each day. 

And here is some of the beauty around me...

"promise"

where i sometimes sit to write

outside my fence

..... mmmm and I’m at peace, appreciating the blessings of today.

a little more on language

This is a little scattered... please bear with me...

I am barely scratching the surface of Rwandan culture. Every day I’m learning more about these two themes I’ve noticed that permeate this society.  Be patient and be strong.  

Ihangane

Meaning, be patient, this phrase is used in a variety of settings.  Many days people will ask me what I’m cooking.  It doesn’t have to be a meal time, they are just amused that a white woman can cook food in Rwanda.  I’ll tell them and then they’ll say that they’re hungry (keep in mind these are usually people with means to feed themselves, like nurses at the health center).  “Ihangane,” I tell them, be patient.  

I see sick people every day.  The dialogue goes: “I’m sick.”  “You’re sick with what?”  “I’m sick with (insert ailment here).”  “Oh, ihangane.”  

Also, you can say, “ihangane (be patient with me), I know only a little Kinyarwanda.”  This is a phrase I use quite often. 

Komera

It means be strong.  When a baby is crying, komera.  When you trip and nearly fall down (and maybe get a bloody toe or two) while walking on the rocky roads, komera.  When you’re carrying a bundle of sticks on your head, komera.  Or when you arrive to work/church/the market/wherever you are going, komera. It is an encouragement through pain, suffering, or frustration, and it’s also just a normal, “hello.”  

Once, during training, a small herd of cows ran into my friend’s fence in front of his house sending me, screaming and running, into the house for fear of charging cows.  “Komera! Komera!” he said to the guys herding the cows.  “Komera Amanda!” he called after me too. 

Living here as already required of me much strength and much patience.  I feel like I’m doing fine with Kinyarwanda acquisition, yet I still get very frustrated when I try to talk to people.  I’ve scheduled 3 meetings for needs assessment activities, had over one hundred people show up for the first, nobody at the second, and the third was canceled the night before it was to happen (not by me).  It’s difficult to figure out how things are supposed to go.  It’s already hard not knowing the local language... then you think you know a little of it, but really even the words you do know have multiple meanings... everything is highly contextual and wrapped up in a complex, private, and slow-to-trust-outsiders culture.  

Another example:  inshuti translates into English as friend.  BUT, it actually can mean friend or boyfriend/girlfriend/lover/spouse.  Then add to that the Rwandan culture piece of having multiple inshuti (the boyfriend/girlfriend kind) until you settle on the one you want to marry.  Even then, until you’ve officially tied the knot (in all 3 ceremonies!!!) you can still have multiple inshuti.  Don’t even get me started on how things like Facebook has compounded this inshuti issue.  And your inshuti don’t always find out about your marriage until they receive an invitation to your wedding.  Also, there’s no way to differentiate feminine or masculine words in speech.  Imagine how complicated a conversation may get when some random moto driver is trying to hit on me while I’m picking up my visiting friends from the airport in Kigali... or worse when I show pictures of friends who are men... and I thought the word friend could sometimes be a loaded word in my own language...

So it’s impossible to teach and learn language without learning culture.  I’ve also discovered, once again, just how much I thought my own culture is the center of the universe.  It’s (ashamedly) frustrating when I want something to translate into English, but it just doesn’t.  There are ideas here that just can’t be adequately expressed in my own language and my first reaction is dislike.  Then I become frustrated with and embarrassed of myself for assuming that every other language and culture must have come from mine first.  I supposed that’s a natural feeling, but I’m happy to be expanded in this way. So much of Rwandan culture is about being patient and being strong.  I may have described this already but just a visit to our health center is all about waiting and being strong...

We deliver babies every single day.  Women walk up to 2 hours while they’re in labor to get here.  I’ve seen them sit waiting in the waiting room for up to a whole day.  They wait to see the nurse.  Wait on their baby.  Then I’ve seen the most incredible strength as they push the things out and then get stitched up (yes, stitches, and I think you know where they are: yikes.) with no pain meds.  Be patient.  Be strong.  I think I have no idea how patient and strong people are here.  

As I reread that paragraph I fear that all this language immersion has caused my English speaking and writing to be a little less clear.  Ihangane, please, as I try to express myself here. 

There’s also no word for please in Kinyarwanda.  It’s such a culture of sharing and everything-belongs-to-everyone and everyone’s-time-belongs-to-everyone kind of culture that please is implied.  Or, it isn’t necessary.  

I was going to show you some pictures of Kim and Lexi's Rwandan adventure, but my good internet died with the electricity which died with the rain just a few minutes ago.  Oh, life in Africa.  Next time: details about my guests and pictures of drinking beer on the lake, climbing a volcano, and hanging out in town! What fun and what good friends I have!