An Ode to PST

On our first day in Rwanda, each member of my cohort was handed a color-coded, hour-by-hour, 10-week training schedule. I hungrily skimmed our Pre-Service Training (PST) program, doe-eyed at the sessions to come: lesson titles included “Behavior Change Communication”, “Permagardening” and “Peace Corps’ Approach to Development” with Kinyarwanda language blocks sprinkled about. From previous discussions with returned PCVs and various online forums, there was a general consensus regarding PST: while some liked it, most were underwhelmed, rejoicing when they made it to their two-year site placement. As I continued to peruse my colorful calendar, I wondered how anyone could not like PST - I would be learning about subjects I was passionate about while surrounded by peers that were equally as engaged with the material.

Fast-forward a few weeks and I was facing, as the professionals would say, a “culture-shock-curve low” or as my colleagues would put it, I was “broken”. The sprinkles of language classes now seemed like a torrential downpour, our 6:30 p.m. curfew was reminding me of my elementary years and the family of cockroaches that shared by bedroom was keeping me up at night. Through a rush of tears and mildly manic laughter, I proclaimed I was going to go “crazy” that evening and watch a film on my computer while indulging in my American candy, a shining moment of mine that a friend often likes to remind me. While it’s a point of humor now, that day I began to understand why people bemoan PST.

That being said, this is an Ode not a Diatribe. Yes, sometimes sessions were redundant and a single day often felt like a month, but I was surrounded by hardworking colleagues, encouraging staff members and a hands-off host family that provided me two loving sisters. PST was tough but the hard times bore bountiful joy, and at the very least, fodder for jokes. The integral piece to my positive PST experience is the people I was working with and for.

The PC Rwanda staff supported our adjustment to the Rwandan lifestyle while simultaneously facilitating our understanding of health and development. Our Training Manager is the definition of relaxed. With a shockingly calm aura to him, we could always count on him to be fair, direct and generous with his bluetooth speaker for our tri-weekly workouts. Our Programming Staff provided us information pertaining to child and maternal health while always including silly energizers and perfectly timed eyebrow raises. We also had a great group of 12 Language and Culture Facilitators (LCFs), who were first our language teachers but quickly became our friends.

Upon arriving in Kigali, we stayed at the illustrious Five-to-Five Hotel, where we had crash courses in maneuvering a squat toilet, fending off malaria and avoiding any large cultural faux pas, such as crying in public and eating while walking. These lessons were accompanied by our first language groups facilitated by two LCFs. After three days of classes, I felt attached to my gregarious language teachers and hoped I would have one of them as my long-term LCF in Rwamagana, our training town. Upon arriving in Rwamagana, I learned my LCF would be Denyse, a woman that had been with us at the hotel but had been a quiet observer of the language lessons. I was hesitant about a different teacher; while navigating my new home, I was striving for some familiarity that a LCF that had previously taught me would provide (albeit the fact that I had known these LCFs for three days). But those hesitations were strongly misguided. Within days, Chris, my language class colleague, Denyse and I had established magnificent rapport. We laughed, danced and joked our way through learning Kinyarwanda. Even the dreaded days of double, or worse triple, language lessons were mitigated by having a great teacher and colleague to learn with.

Before coming to Rwanda, I had a fanciful idea of how learning a language went. I would pick up Kinyarwanda swiftly while simultaneously becoming fluent in French, a language more commonplace than English in Rwanda. After a few weeks of PST, I relayed this story to a friend, admonishing myself for being so naive. Learning Kinyarwanda was tough and I’m still a beginner, but I’m not sure I could’ve learned as much as I did without Denyse’s support through the highs and lows. One morning, we were learning how to tell time in Kinyarwanda, which Rwandans borrow from Swahili. In Kinya-Swahili, 7 a.m. is the first hour of the day, so you must convert the time assuming 7 a.m. is now midnight and translate that to Swahili. This was another day I found myself feeling “broken”. Denyse could read it on my face and see it in my eyes. As I cried in a culturally-inappropriate manner, Denyse sat next to me, patted my arm and assured me all would be well while empathizing with me: she too cried. She further explained, saying when she goes to weddings, she has to try her hardest to hold back her tears and the same when she’s watching a sad movie. But she has the hardest time holding back tears when she sees talented people, specifically children on Britain’s Got Talent. There is nothing like a seven-year-old dancing the tango to bring tears to one’s eyes. Jokes aside, Denyse always got me back on track, assuring me that I knew enough, I just needed to unearth my confidence, advice that is often given but hard to follow. In a plot twist I wasn’t expecting, I found my confidence in Kinyarwanda, largely due to the support I received from Denyse, PC Staff and the rest of my cohort.

Which brings me to the finale of my Ode: my cohort. Throughout the weeks we were in Rwamagana, we consistently heard that we were a very “unique” group, quoting our seriousness (ha!), dedication to the job and, most notably, our cohesion. Putting together a group of 25 adults ranging from new college graduates to those with years of career experience, some with fiancés and others who’ve never left the United States until now is quite the social experiment. But an experiment our cohort passed with flying colors. Our group chat is still going strong and I know if I needed support, I could depend on any one of those 24 people. As a group, we founded an elite exercise group called “Team Komera” and laughed our way through particularly long technical sessions. We showed photos of friends and family at our favorite bar in town, the same bar that saw our tears, my 23rd birthday and rabbit intestines dropping from a hawk flying overhead, gracefully landing on a friend’s arm. While we are a culturally, religiously, racially and geographically diverse group, we managed to find spectacular strength in our differences as well as the commonality we share in moving away from our homes to rural Rwanda.

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PST came to a close about three weeks ago. Our last few days were as busy as ever as we ate our last cinnamon rolls, said goodbye to our favorite waitstaff and bartered for our last must-have items to bring to site. We boarded the same bus that originally brought us to Rwamagana, all of us reiterating the disbelief that is had already been ten-weeks and that we were already moving to site. With our return to Kigali came our return to the Five-to-Five hotel and our anticipation of becoming the coveted Peace Corps Volunteers many of us have been envisioning for over a year. Our swear-in ceremony was held at the U.S. Ambassador to Rwanda’s home with all of the PC Rwanda staff present. My cohort and I flitted around the Ambassador’s gardens, wearing our heavily discussed igitenge outfits while taking selfies and dancing to traditional Rwandan music. I paused to watch as everyone mulled about, sipping on Fanta and giggling at our cake with icing letters forming “P-Scorps”. With PST behind us, we were all eager to begin the next step of our Peace Corps adventure. And whether we liked PST or not, all of us could agree that PST was the beginning of many friendships that will last a lifetime. And that, I think, deserves an Ode.