Village Life

I knew I would be leaving for the Peace Corps eight months before I departed. Therefore, I got used to answering a litany of questions: Yes, I would be living somewhere in rural Rwanda. No, I don’t know where, I could be close or far from another volunteer. No, I don’t know if I’ll have running water or electricity, but I’m guaranteed concrete floors! And I do have concrete floors! I don’t have running water nor electricity. I’m isolated from the majority of my group but one of my closest friends is an hour motorcycle ride away. I could be more conveniently placed to get to the capital but it’s manageable.

The past few weeks, I’ve been reflecting on the questions family, friends and strangers had asked me about my life in Rwanda. After living in Nyagatare for four months, village life is simply life and while there are obviously tremendous differences between here and America, my Rwandan life ultimately doesn’t feel that different from my life back home: I buy my produce at a “farmers market”, I go on runs, I visit friends and coworkers at their homes, I read books and I watch Fixer Upper. But when I talked to a close college friend recently, I realized that my life in village still remains a mystery to most (unless you are on the receiving end of Granny’s email forwarding sprees). After four months in my village, I finally have an understanding of the place, established various communities and generally have a routine.

I live in the foothills of the Rwandan mountains with banana trees and maize blanketing the land. My health center is situated in the middle of a village that is rapidly developing: since I’ve moved here, there was been infrastructure development of the roads, a new government subsidized housing unit for the village’s poorest citizens with a primary school and police station to match as well as the promise of electricity in the 2018 fiscal year. A new modern style market has slowly been built and I’ve been witness to many campaigns and events put on by Akagera National Park. The communications department has hosted the prestigious Lion’s Cup soccer tournament for villages bordering the park as well as a 5K race with rain barrels and bikes for prizes.

For my own exercise, I have identified a running route across the government-made reservoir, up a hill surrounded by cattle grazing fields and through a neighborhood of mud huts and tall banana trees. The route is not for the faint hearted, especially when every neighborhood child decides to run with you. On a good day, I’ll manage to only have a group of ten children but I’ve counted nearly fifty before. Running has been one of the better things for my integration into my community; I’ve found many people introducing themselves by saying they’ve seen me “do sport” before. Plus, stopping to talk with a group of women sitting on their front lawn is always a good excuse for a break.

My favorite part of my day in village is my nightly gutembera. Directly translating to “to travel” in Kinyarwanda, to gutembera simply means to meander slowly through village while talking with anyone who will listen. For me, this means stopping at the night market to buy whatever vegetables I can find as well as a visit to John, my egg guy. My gutembera would not be complete with out a visit to my favorite shopkeeper, Mama Rukundo. Mama Rukundo sells the most delicious sweet bananas in all of my village. We have established quite the repertoire: she has given me free bananas on two occasions and often tells me that she loves me. In return, I dutifully purchase bananas only from her and brought cinnamon rolls to share with her on Christmas Eve. As my weeks turn into months in my village, I’ve found myself stopping to talk with more and more people. As my Kinyarwanda grows, so do my friendships. And as my time here grows, the more comfortable people seem to talk with me.

While I’ve slowly gained friends in village, my community is largely found in my colleagues at the health center. I live on the health center compound and share a duplex styled house with three other nurses. My Rwandan mother, Flora, lives in a house adjacent to mine and has three nieces and nephews living with her. My unofficial little siblings are known to kill mice that find refuge under my dresser in exchange for a cookie and love to empty out my Bananagrams tiles to spell whatever words they can think of. We practice our respective new languages and dance to African pop music in my living room. I’ve also found a big brother in one of the nurses that shares my duplex. We greet each other by yelling “my sister” and “my brother” in Kinyarwanda and manage to find little inside jokes that he likes to overuse (in a charming way).

My other large community comes from the Protestant church I attend with Flora. Never one for going to church as a child, I find myself sitting in 3+ hour long services most Sunday mornings. Because I don’t understand anything that happens, I find it a time I can sit and purposefully think. Plus, I’ve acquired a Kinyarwanda hymns book so I can now sing along and I’ve finally gained the courage to join in on the mid-service praise dancing. I have come to love my Sunday tradition of sharing porridge with my family, getting dressed up, talking with my various friends after service and having a slow 30-minute walk home to a delicious Rwandan meal.

After seven months in Rwanda, four of which I’ve spent in my village, life is feeling extremely normal. I have my friends, my work and my routines. I’ve adapted to life without electricity and have picked up on many Rwanda-isms. While I’ve swapped my craft beers for milk tea and my running water for bucket baths, I feel the same sense of belonging I've felt in Minnesota and Colorado. I feel fortunate for the community and family I've cultivated in my sliver of Rwanda.