When I got back to school a day before this term started I found that I had been given a whole new slew of classes, one of which was "C.P.". Luckily, this turned out to stand for Creative Performance (rather than the dreaded Computer Programming), but when I asked my DOS what that actually meant, he vaguely mumbled something about drawing and/or dancing and then wandered off. Since the rest of my schedule is packed with infuriating Computer Science classes, I've taken C.P. as a carte blanche to do whatever I want with my O-Level students. Near the beginning of the term, I decided that since I love plays, and live in a seemingly theater-free country, I would spend two months having the kiddos envision, script, and ultimately perform group dramas.
The performances finally started this week (the performance itself is their final exam for the term) and with a few minor exceptions, they are ON FIRE. During their lessons and in general around campus, the kids are pretty subdued, and by and large they hate talking out loud in class, so it's been a giant pleasant surprise every time this week when a near mute student takes the stage and launches into an Oscar-worthy display of emotion. Predictably, a handful of the students whose borderline malicious impishness makes me blind with rage in their computer classes have turned out to be star actresses; one S2 kid named Safi, who I've banned from the computer lab for life, made me laugh till I nearly cried during her group's drama today.
Another great surprise: These kids aren't exactly Tarantino, but their overall concepts for the dramas are not bad at all. Love triangles, and the forgiveness or lack thereof that they entail, seem to be the themes of the day. My favorite drama today was about a man who helps his best friend in a time of need, only to have said best friend run away to Zanzibar with the man's wife. That one was particularly awesome because the group included a Puck-esque character (I'm reeeeeeally reaching here; pretty sure they don't know who Puck is) in the form of a housemaid who stirred the pot and commented under her breath on the behavior of the main characters. Most of the dramas are really funny, too, and the more the audience laughs, the more the actresses ham things up.
A few weeks ago, some of the classes asked me if they could use "special dress" (read: costumes) for their performances. I said of course and didn't think anything more of it, because where the hell were these girls, who essentially live in prison and can't even have hair, let alone excess clothing, going to get costumes? Well, they made it happen, in a big way. The girls showed up on stage this week swathed in kangas (ubiquitous colorful sheets of fabric that I guess they all have), scarves, cleaning aprons, paper hats, track pants (to represent male characters), and basically anything else they could get their hands on to differentiate characters and help their stories. They also took it to the wall with props, using ping pong paddles as serving platters, colored paper to represent food, money, gifts, etc., hand mirrors as cell phones, pencils as straws and cutlery, and generally putting every scrap of material lying around the school to good use.
All I required of these kids was for each group to write and perform a ten-minute drama. They beavered away for the entire term and, largely unbeknownst to me, put in a ton effort to make their performances awesome. I can't wait for more of these next week, and hopefully I'll sneak some pictures, too.
All of this means that we are finally at the end of Terrible Term Two! This term has been a beast; it was a month longer than the last one, and almost everyone in our WorldTeach group had a pretty rough time of things at one point or another. But now it's the last day of regular teaching, and it feels fantastic. Next week is "Examens Hors Serie", which are the "minor" exams, including Computer Science and Creative Performance. The week after that is "Examens En Serie", or the "major" exams. The only one that applies to me that week is Senior 5 English. The exam weeks are pretty fun for teachers, because even though we've got a ton of grading to do, we can do things at our own pace and generally have lots of free time while all the pressure rests on the students' shoulders. And after that, on Saturday, July 17, less than three weeks away now, I'm freeeeeee!
Ah.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Canned Heat
On my first day in Shyorongi, when the nun gang was showing me around the school grounds, I was introduced to "the new dormitory", which looked to me suspiciously like an abandoned dirt field on the mysterious west side of campus. Thanks to the constant effort of our alarmingly hard-working handymen, the dirt patch has been quickly transformed in these five months into a beautiful red brick dorm with space for what looks like about 250 students. The uninhabited dorm was the only quiet, student-free place I found on campus and has a beautiful view of the misty hills of central Rwanda, so I used to like to sit on its steps at night and watch the stars come out. But, of course, our uber-efficient school cannot let good resources lie fallow for any length of time, so I was a little bummed but not surprised yesterday to get a text from our DOS inviting me to the inauguration of the new dorm at 4:30pm.
The inauguration was a much bigger to-do than I expected. Every student in the school was crammed into one half of the cement courtyard that wraps around two sides of the dorm, and the other half was set up with chairs and tables for the non-student attendees, which included the teachers, school administration, nun gang and various visiting nun friends, the local priest, the police chief, and various other local bigwigs that I think may have helped in financing the dorm. Everyone filed in according to their station and took their seats, and the festivities kicked off with a song that everyone sang heartily and I swayed along to. The priest led everyone in a prayer and a student read a passage from the Bible. Then, a bucket of water was trotted out for the priest to bless, after which he dipped a pine branch in said water and proceeded to flick it all over the crowd, making sure that all of the non-students got an individual splashing.
All the adults and a few select students then followed the priest on a tour of the inside of the dorm. The students sang the whole time, and the priest continued his blessed flicking over every inch of the interior. The dorm is totally packed with beds (really, it's just wall-to-wall bunk beds, with space enough for a slim person to walk between the rows and one 1'x1' bedside table for every four sets of beds), but it has lots of sunlight and seems like it'll be pleasant place to live for the kiddos. Once we had finished our slow crawl through the dorm, the priest flicked his holy water all around the outside of the dorm, and finally we headed back to our seats in the courtyard.
A few speeches followed from the headmistress, the priest, the police chief, and a couple of the visiting nuns. All was in Kinyarwanda, so I didn't understand anything, but it appears that the police chief is quite a character because his spiel got a lot of laughs. He mentioned me directly for some reason at one point, and I had to stand up and wave. Maybe it was the fact that I had no idea what was being said, or maybe it was the fact that they lasted for an hour, but the speeches seemed interminable.
Finally, after the last speech wrapped up, the dancing began! Traditional Rwandan dance is a popular hobby among the students, and the best of them were picked to dance for the ceremony. The younger kids came on first, all in traditional costumes (for this dance, that meant wrap skirts with sort of streamer-tassle things hanging from them in the school colors with bells tied to their ankles to keep time) and did a sort of mellow but intricate dance, accompanied by surprisingly skillful drumming from one of my favorite S5 students, Brigitte, and singing from the rest of the girls. After this dance, refreshments were brought out. It's never clear to me whether or not food is going to be provided at school gatherings; sometimes we blow right through dinner with nary a mention of a bite to eat, and other times they go all out with beers and food. Luckily, this was an all-out occasion, so out came the trays filled with Fantas and Mutzigs. It was freezing, so I had a beer, even though this may be a little scandalous for a woman to do at a gathering. Next, they brought out sambusas (little meat-filled dough pockets of fried yum) for the adults and amandazi (sort of like giant unsweetened donut holes) for the students. While we were eating, the older kids (about ten of them) came out to do their dance for us, and basically knocked it out of the park. Their costumes were long black-and-white wrap skirts with a big sheer white scarf/sheet thing tied around their shoulders, which they tied and untied and wafted around as part of the dance. Their dance was more lively than the younger kids', and even included each pair coming forward from the group to do a sort of freestyle. They were so fantastic! This group basically consisted of an all-star cast of some of my favorite students, and it was great to see them letting go and clearly loving what they were doing.
When we had finished eating, the one of the dancers pulled the headmistress from her chair and got her onto the dance floor. I was immediately terrified that I would be pulled up too, and I barely had time to acknowledge this fear before Alice, one of my prize S5PCM students, came up and yanked me from my seat, telling me, "You MUST, teacher." I threw my crippling fear of public grooving to the wind and did my best imitation of a freestyle Rwandan dance. I even tied my scarf around myself like a Rwandan kanga. The kids flipped their biscuits, and the adults clapped and hoorayed, and with everyone cheering me on in spite of my turning their respected traditional pastime into a gawkish funky chicken, I felt more at home and accepted by my school than I ever have over these past five months. Soon, everyone was dancing, all the kids and the teachers and the nuns and the police chief and even the priest, and it was wild and glorious an so much fun.
Often times, my students drive me crazy, and I can't wait until I'm 9,000 miles away from them. But seeing them enjoying themselves, letting loose and having fun, reminds me that they really are a remarkable collection of girls. They're incredibly hard-working and disciplined, they put up with all sorts of garbage from the administration, they take their rough schedule in their stride. And then, the one chance they have to kick back and relax, they make it their business to make sure that everyone is included and is as happy as they are. I am learning from them in the most cheesily inspirational made-for-TV-movie ways, and I'm happy to know that I'll miss them when I'm gone.
The inauguration was a much bigger to-do than I expected. Every student in the school was crammed into one half of the cement courtyard that wraps around two sides of the dorm, and the other half was set up with chairs and tables for the non-student attendees, which included the teachers, school administration, nun gang and various visiting nun friends, the local priest, the police chief, and various other local bigwigs that I think may have helped in financing the dorm. Everyone filed in according to their station and took their seats, and the festivities kicked off with a song that everyone sang heartily and I swayed along to. The priest led everyone in a prayer and a student read a passage from the Bible. Then, a bucket of water was trotted out for the priest to bless, after which he dipped a pine branch in said water and proceeded to flick it all over the crowd, making sure that all of the non-students got an individual splashing.
All the adults and a few select students then followed the priest on a tour of the inside of the dorm. The students sang the whole time, and the priest continued his blessed flicking over every inch of the interior. The dorm is totally packed with beds (really, it's just wall-to-wall bunk beds, with space enough for a slim person to walk between the rows and one 1'x1' bedside table for every four sets of beds), but it has lots of sunlight and seems like it'll be pleasant place to live for the kiddos. Once we had finished our slow crawl through the dorm, the priest flicked his holy water all around the outside of the dorm, and finally we headed back to our seats in the courtyard.
A few speeches followed from the headmistress, the priest, the police chief, and a couple of the visiting nuns. All was in Kinyarwanda, so I didn't understand anything, but it appears that the police chief is quite a character because his spiel got a lot of laughs. He mentioned me directly for some reason at one point, and I had to stand up and wave. Maybe it was the fact that I had no idea what was being said, or maybe it was the fact that they lasted for an hour, but the speeches seemed interminable.
Finally, after the last speech wrapped up, the dancing began! Traditional Rwandan dance is a popular hobby among the students, and the best of them were picked to dance for the ceremony. The younger kids came on first, all in traditional costumes (for this dance, that meant wrap skirts with sort of streamer-tassle things hanging from them in the school colors with bells tied to their ankles to keep time) and did a sort of mellow but intricate dance, accompanied by surprisingly skillful drumming from one of my favorite S5 students, Brigitte, and singing from the rest of the girls. After this dance, refreshments were brought out. It's never clear to me whether or not food is going to be provided at school gatherings; sometimes we blow right through dinner with nary a mention of a bite to eat, and other times they go all out with beers and food. Luckily, this was an all-out occasion, so out came the trays filled with Fantas and Mutzigs. It was freezing, so I had a beer, even though this may be a little scandalous for a woman to do at a gathering. Next, they brought out sambusas (little meat-filled dough pockets of fried yum) for the adults and amandazi (sort of like giant unsweetened donut holes) for the students. While we were eating, the older kids (about ten of them) came out to do their dance for us, and basically knocked it out of the park. Their costumes were long black-and-white wrap skirts with a big sheer white scarf/sheet thing tied around their shoulders, which they tied and untied and wafted around as part of the dance. Their dance was more lively than the younger kids', and even included each pair coming forward from the group to do a sort of freestyle. They were so fantastic! This group basically consisted of an all-star cast of some of my favorite students, and it was great to see them letting go and clearly loving what they were doing.
When we had finished eating, the one of the dancers pulled the headmistress from her chair and got her onto the dance floor. I was immediately terrified that I would be pulled up too, and I barely had time to acknowledge this fear before Alice, one of my prize S5PCM students, came up and yanked me from my seat, telling me, "You MUST, teacher." I threw my crippling fear of public grooving to the wind and did my best imitation of a freestyle Rwandan dance. I even tied my scarf around myself like a Rwandan kanga. The kids flipped their biscuits, and the adults clapped and hoorayed, and with everyone cheering me on in spite of my turning their respected traditional pastime into a gawkish funky chicken, I felt more at home and accepted by my school than I ever have over these past five months. Soon, everyone was dancing, all the kids and the teachers and the nuns and the police chief and even the priest, and it was wild and glorious an so much fun.
Often times, my students drive me crazy, and I can't wait until I'm 9,000 miles away from them. But seeing them enjoying themselves, letting loose and having fun, reminds me that they really are a remarkable collection of girls. They're incredibly hard-working and disciplined, they put up with all sorts of garbage from the administration, they take their rough schedule in their stride. And then, the one chance they have to kick back and relax, they make it their business to make sure that everyone is included and is as happy as they are. I am learning from them in the most cheesily inspirational made-for-TV-movie ways, and I'm happy to know that I'll miss them when I'm gone.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side
Got a text from Mitesh early yesterday afternoon to say that his dad, who's visiting this month from the US, was making chili and that we were all invited. I immediately canceled my plans (read: put my Buffy DVD back in its case) and hit the pavement after school to wait for a bus into Kigali. The buses were few and far between, and soon I saw the school's pickup truck trundling down the lane, choc full of nuns. Oh a whim, I asked if I could have a ride into town in the bed, and the good-natured sisters agreed. Getting a ride into town is an awesome treat, because 1) it's way more fun to ride around in the open air than crammed into a taxi; 2) it's FREE and therefore wonderful; and 3) it's rare and therefore exciting. It was late afternoon and the weather was perfect as we drove along the beautiful road from Shyorongi to Kigali.
The one downside of hitching into town is that you have no control over where you get off. I was itching to get to the bank, which is perched at the top of the most heinous calf-busting hill in Kigali. So my second pleasant surprise of the afternoon came when the nun's truck rolled right on up the hill and passed straight in front of the bank. I hopped out, said my thanks, and skipped up the steps to check my balance. Surprise number three: I'm lousy with money! Alright, maybe not lousy with it, but I was definitely shocked and happy with the amount that's piled up in the last couple months. I've been making a decent effort to save and have done without some comforts to do so, so this was a great payoff. I stopped by Simba Supermarket to get some wine to contribute to the chilifest, and bought some phone credit on my way out. I got 1,000Frw worth, but when I plugged the credit code into my phone it said that 1,200Frw had been added to my account! Turns out this is a promotion that the phone company is doing this summer, but I didn't know that yet. Feeling like the luckiest sluginaditch in the northern province, I skipped along to the Patel compound for dinner.
DINNER. When I got the chili announcement, I was expecting a pleasant snack with friends. Turns out, Mr. Patel is a chili aficionado, and he had commandeered the whole kitchen of his hotel to make a feast for us. When I got there, they were making fresh roti to go with the chili and chopping up carrots for a starter salad. Inga showed up soon with a veritable trough of delicious homemade guacamole and chips. There was even quality shredded cheese for the chili - I haven't seen decent cheese in five months. It was a FEAST! We ate and drank to our hearts' content and beyond, and it felt great to be in such good company.
This morning, after a pleasant sleep on a concrete floor that's never felt so soft, I caught a moto to the taxi park and snagged a front seat in the next bus to Shyorongi, another rare treat. I sat reading my book with my feet on the dash, enjoying the early morning cool. I saw a woman selling oranges and beckoned her over. The "oranges" here are a trial - they're the green sour kind with the tough, clingy skin, so eating them is not such a pleasant experience, but one wants one's vitamin C so I bought a couple. I stuck my thumbnail through the skin of the lightest one and was surprised at how easily it came away, then even more surprised to see a bright orange fruit underneath, instead of the pale yellow mish mash I expected. The skin came off and the sections separated easily, but I was still keeping my hopes as low as I could - this couldn't possibly be what I thought it was. I popped a wedge into my mouth and, honestly, squealed with delight. It was a SATSUMA! A sweet, tangy, intensely flavorful Christmastime treat. I ate the whole thing with my eyes closed, cementing my reputation as the weirdo muzungu of the taxi park, and it was one of the most pleasant incidents of my time in Rwanda so far.
On the ride back up to Shyorongi, the girl sitting next to me struck up a conversation in perfect English. She was working for a company that set up distribution centers for health supplies (like bed nets and condoms) in rural communities, and she's working in Shyorongi this week. She's a National University graduate who's spent a good amount of time in the United States, and was super pleasant to talk to. We traded numbers, and I hope I see her again. I hopped off the bus in Shyorongi and made it to school in time to snag some podcasts before my first class. Sweet!
The one downside of hitching into town is that you have no control over where you get off. I was itching to get to the bank, which is perched at the top of the most heinous calf-busting hill in Kigali. So my second pleasant surprise of the afternoon came when the nun's truck rolled right on up the hill and passed straight in front of the bank. I hopped out, said my thanks, and skipped up the steps to check my balance. Surprise number three: I'm lousy with money! Alright, maybe not lousy with it, but I was definitely shocked and happy with the amount that's piled up in the last couple months. I've been making a decent effort to save and have done without some comforts to do so, so this was a great payoff. I stopped by Simba Supermarket to get some wine to contribute to the chilifest, and bought some phone credit on my way out. I got 1,000Frw worth, but when I plugged the credit code into my phone it said that 1,200Frw had been added to my account! Turns out this is a promotion that the phone company is doing this summer, but I didn't know that yet. Feeling like the luckiest sluginaditch in the northern province, I skipped along to the Patel compound for dinner.
DINNER. When I got the chili announcement, I was expecting a pleasant snack with friends. Turns out, Mr. Patel is a chili aficionado, and he had commandeered the whole kitchen of his hotel to make a feast for us. When I got there, they were making fresh roti to go with the chili and chopping up carrots for a starter salad. Inga showed up soon with a veritable trough of delicious homemade guacamole and chips. There was even quality shredded cheese for the chili - I haven't seen decent cheese in five months. It was a FEAST! We ate and drank to our hearts' content and beyond, and it felt great to be in such good company.
This morning, after a pleasant sleep on a concrete floor that's never felt so soft, I caught a moto to the taxi park and snagged a front seat in the next bus to Shyorongi, another rare treat. I sat reading my book with my feet on the dash, enjoying the early morning cool. I saw a woman selling oranges and beckoned her over. The "oranges" here are a trial - they're the green sour kind with the tough, clingy skin, so eating them is not such a pleasant experience, but one wants one's vitamin C so I bought a couple. I stuck my thumbnail through the skin of the lightest one and was surprised at how easily it came away, then even more surprised to see a bright orange fruit underneath, instead of the pale yellow mish mash I expected. The skin came off and the sections separated easily, but I was still keeping my hopes as low as I could - this couldn't possibly be what I thought it was. I popped a wedge into my mouth and, honestly, squealed with delight. It was a SATSUMA! A sweet, tangy, intensely flavorful Christmastime treat. I ate the whole thing with my eyes closed, cementing my reputation as the weirdo muzungu of the taxi park, and it was one of the most pleasant incidents of my time in Rwanda so far.
On the ride back up to Shyorongi, the girl sitting next to me struck up a conversation in perfect English. She was working for a company that set up distribution centers for health supplies (like bed nets and condoms) in rural communities, and she's working in Shyorongi this week. She's a National University graduate who's spent a good amount of time in the United States, and was super pleasant to talk to. We traded numbers, and I hope I see her again. I hopped off the bus in Shyorongi and made it to school in time to snag some podcasts before my first class. Sweet!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Tower of Babel
The language situation in Rwanda: In rural villages, most people speak Kinyarwanda. In competitive, religious schools, most people speak French. Near the capital, Kigali, you can find the highest concentration of English. I work at a competitive religious school in a rural village near the capital. Shyorongi is Babylon, right after God got angry.
Most of the rural Shyorongi villagers rarely get the opportunity to practice their French and basically never get to try out the English they know. So whenever I go for a stroll around, people open the floodgates and release every foreign word they've ever retained, probably worried that they may never get the chance for a glowing white apparition to appreciate their efforts ever again. When I pass by the little kiddos that live on my running trail, their unvarying reaction, day after day, is
"goodmorningteacherhowareyoufinethankyouwhatisyournamemynameis____byebye"
after which they collapse breathless in a fit of laughter at this crazy ol' thing called life.
An old man followed me up the hill today muttering a string of sweet nothings into my ear in French. No one ever seems to be peeved when I don't respond, so usually I just listen quietly and then say goodbye when it seems like they're finished. Whenever I say even the most basic of hellos in Kinyarwanda, most people lose their minds with ecstasy and amazement, so maybe they're expecting the same thing when they show off their Euro languages to me. Sorry, Shyorongians!
Most of the rural Shyorongi villagers rarely get the opportunity to practice their French and basically never get to try out the English they know. So whenever I go for a stroll around, people open the floodgates and release every foreign word they've ever retained, probably worried that they may never get the chance for a glowing white apparition to appreciate their efforts ever again. When I pass by the little kiddos that live on my running trail, their unvarying reaction, day after day, is
"goodmorningteacherhowareyoufinethankyouwhatisyournamemynameis____byebye"
after which they collapse breathless in a fit of laughter at this crazy ol' thing called life.
An old man followed me up the hill today muttering a string of sweet nothings into my ear in French. No one ever seems to be peeved when I don't respond, so usually I just listen quietly and then say goodbye when it seems like they're finished. Whenever I say even the most basic of hellos in Kinyarwanda, most people lose their minds with ecstasy and amazement, so maybe they're expecting the same thing when they show off their Euro languages to me. Sorry, Shyorongians!
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