Do they know it's Christmas?

My Christmas started off bright and early, as I opened amazing Christmas packages that my family had sent and ate leftover sweet potato pudding that I’d made on Christmas Eve (recipe below). I dressed in my Sunday best, then entertained myself with solitaire Bananagrams for a while as I waited for Bwiza and her mother to swing by and pick me up for church.

Bwiza finally came around 8:30, half an hour late, and we walked down to her house, where I explained the American custom of Christmas gifts. I presented her with a small gift and gave Adolph a wind-up frog toy my parents’ had sent. I have never in my life seen a child take such joy in a gift. He laughed hysterically every time the frog did its backflip. His 8-year-old uncle also got a kick out of the toy, and was a little more adept at winding it.

Bwiza explained that the Catholic church in our village had changed its program and was not holding services. Christmas mass would instead be at a church “ku mazi:” by the water. It would be a long walk, perhaps an hour and a half, so they were not sure I would be able to do it. “No problem!” I explained, “I just want to return home to change my shoes.” I changed from heels to chacos, threw a granola bar, water bottle, sunscreen and raincoat (you never know which you will need) into a bag, and we set off on our Christmas hike.

The road/path to the church was one I’d been meaning to explore for several months, and it was great to finally see the winding road towards the water. It was mostly downhill on the way there, and we traversed several bridges that consisted of only one or two logs: balance beams. As we drew near the church, crowds surrounded us in both directions. Some were headed towards our 10am mass while others were departing the earlier mass. As a white girl in a dress tailored form local fabric, I drew more than a few stares as I joined hands with Bwiza and her brother to weave through the well-dressed throngs.

The church is perhaps the biggest building I’ve seen in my district; there must have been three thousand or more worshippers from several sectors crowded onto the benches, which had long supports on the ground so that they could also be knelt upon for prayer. There was a group of boys drumming outside and a generator to power the Christmas light display and sound system.

Inside, the church was decked out with festive metallic streamers, a few pseudo-Christmas trees, and flowers. There was even a nativity scene!

Although Catholics have a reputation for short services (short meaning perhaps two hours), mass dragged for almost three hours. It was a sunny day and we were the third group of several thousand people to cram together under the tin roof, so it was hot. I regretted not bringing a fan. At one point Bwiza mercifully proposed that we go outside, “to take oxygen,” would be the literal French translation. She then got a taste of what it’s like to be a muzungu: as we rested in the fresh air and shade of the church, scores of children crowded within a few feet of us, impervious to commands of “musubire” (to move back).

We returned for the end of services, which included sitings of a Red Sox championship shirt and a Youkilis jersey, pictured (as the three hour mark ticked by, this was very entertaining to me). Finally we poured out of the church and greeted others from the village, including the health center titulaire and his wife, and Mama Benjamin.

We walked back, uphill, with Mama Benjamin and her son and a couple others from near Kinihira. It began to rain, so we sought shelter for a while in a stranger’s house. By the time we returned, maybe two and a half hours after we left the church, I was exhausted.

After a brief rest, Bwiza knocked on my door and invited me to dinner. At her house, she served me beef in a red sauce. Given that she probably buys meat only two or three times a year, it was an incredible honor to share this meal with her.

My evening was capped off with Christmas TV specials on my iPod, hot chocolate, wonderful phone calls from friends and family, and the making of a Christmas bananagram - it's imperative to play with the new toys on Christmas day!

Do they know it’s Christmas? Rwandans definitely knew it was Christmas, and some went to church or prepared a special meal, but for the most part they didn’t make nearly the fuss about Christmas that we do.


Sweet Potato Pudding

* 1 cup milk
* 2 eggs
* 2 1/2 cups sliced sweet potatoes (I grated them by hand, and because they are white threw in some carrot for the orange)
* 1 cup sugar
* 1 tsp cinnamon
* 1 tsp nutmeg
* 1/2 tsp ground cloves
* 1/4 tsp salt
* 1 tsp lemon or lime zest
* 1 tsp vanilla

Preparation:
In a blender, combine the milk and eggs; process until well mixed. Add sweet potato slices and process until potato is shredded fine. Add remaining ingredients; blend well.
Note: You may also shred the sweet potatoes finely with a shredder or food processor and beat ingredients with a hand mixer.

Pour mixture into a well-greased 1 1/2-quart baking dish. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 1 hour or until knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Serve warm or cold, with whipped cream or ice cream.
Serves 4.

Preparing for the office Christmas party

Hannukah in Rwanda

I’ve been celebrating Hannukah here in Kinihira, using the opportunity to do a little cross-cultural sharing with my friends and colleagues.

Sunday I taught my adopted family dreidl with dried beans. It was a big hit, from age 5-50! I’m planning to pass out a few dreidls now that the holiday is over; my dream is that in a few years some Jewish tourist will pass through the village and wonder why there are kids sitting on the side of the road playing dreidl in the middle of August.

On Monday my coworkers and I did a potluck dinner. I made applesauce, taught Rebecca’s houseboy how to make latkes (potato and white sweet potato), and we coupled these with a few Rwandan dishes. I explained the origin of the holiday, lit the candles, and then they dug in. I’m happy to say that there was not a single latke left and one notoriously picky coworker even asked for the recipe! We played dreidl with desert.

I’ll take this opportunity to talk a little bit about matches in Rwanda. Matches here absolutely suck. They are far inferior even to those paper matchbooks that are impossible to use: basically rolled pieces of paper with tips that often fly off when you strike them, lit or unlit. Lit tips make a bit of a fire hazard and really hurt when they stick to your finger (which you must use to press the tip against the striking surface because the matches are too feeble to strike without this).

On the first night of Hannukah I went through about 12 matches before I got one to light; I was starting to think I’d need a Hannukah miracle to get the menorah going. The next day, running low, I set off to buy another book of matches, in search of a different brand. The first store I went into had “S.H.U.M.U.K.” matches - no joke! However they could not break my 500 franc note for the 15 franc matchbox. I went to another store, bought a pack of Sunny matches there (brand diversity = insurance against cold dinner), and then returned to the first store with change so that I could light my menorah with Shumuk matches (which were slightly more cooperative than the last brand I tried).

Thanksgiving in Rwanda

I managed to turn a day of feasting into a full week here, so I think I’ve done pretty well for myself.

On Tuesday I “catered” a party for GACP’s forest research staff: pizza, bean dip and guac, pudding. We (the researcher Rebecca and I) explained that America is a nation of immigrants who’ve brought their food with them, creating a diverse culinary scene including Italian pizza and Mexican bean dip and guac and English (sort of) pudding. In keeping with the Rwandan love affair with beans, the bean dip was the biggest hit. I think they enjoyed beans that had a little more going on than just being boiled to death.

Wednesday we had a little vegetarian Thanksgiving in the village. I taught Rebecca’s house boy how to make garlic mashed potatoes and stuffing in a frying pan, and talked about the origins of Thanksgiving. When we went around the table to say what we're thankful for, he said "for the delicious food Tuesday and Wednesday."

Thursday I got together with my Peace Corps posse in Musanze and we made a delicious instant Thanksgiving from packages - canned cranberry jelly (also good on muffins the next day, FYI), stove top stuffing with instant turkey gravy and canned chicken, and heavenly Betty Crocker sweet potatoes topped with marshmallows. Friday I stuffed myself until I felt sick at an expat Thanksgiving that included turkeys freshly killed on Wednesday! And Saturday my boss, Rebecca and I had a girls’ night at a restaurant in Gisenyi. Topics of conversation included the difficulties of finding and managing housegirls/boys and email identity theft.

There was also shopping - a quick Black Friday trip to the Musanze market (I got the cutest aprons! $.12 each!) and today while waiting for an appointment I found some nice clothes in the Gisenyi market. Bet you can’t get $11 DKNY jeans in the US, even on Black Sunday (alas if I were a different size DKNY could have been Diesel for $11).

So have no fear, I’ve already started working on my holiday weight gain and consumerist binge, even in Rwanda.

I want to say how thankful I am for my amazingly supportive family and friends from home who spoil me rotten, my wonderful friends and colleagues here, and for being born into such incredible privilege in America.

Flowers of Rwanda

Happy birthday Mama Wacu! More Rwandan flowers in my Picassa album here.

July 4th

July 4th is not just American Independence Day. In Rwanda, it marks the day the RPF recaptured Kigali and signifies the end of the 100 days of the genocide (although in the French-managed west of the country, killings continued until the RPF gained full control of Rwanda). It is alternatively referred to as Hero’s Day or Liberation Day. Rwanda’s Independence Day (from the Belgians) passed with much less notice on July 1st.

Sorry the picture isn’t that interesting – I’m always wary of fussing with my camera in urban areas, and this was taken in Kigali.

A University Graduation

Today I went to the first ever graduation ceremony for INES University in Musanze, a city about an hour east of Gisenyi on the road to Kigali. The first class finished in 2007, but the ceremony and awarding of diplomas had finally been approved now, so the festivities were for the 400-odd students in the classes of 2007, 2008, and 2009. It was long – over five hours, including speeches from various dignitaries, an excellent Rwandan dance performance, and the reading of every student’s name.

The professors' hats were a bit different than I'm used to:

The dance performance included people holding the many symbols of Rwanda: a couple different baskets, a double-bowl, the gourd. The giant book isn't traditionally Rwandan but it was, after all, a university graduation.

At one point these two doves were released from one of the little pointed-top baskets that had been on a woman's head. She'd been dancing with it for at least ten minutes:

Day of the African Child

 Today I went to Nyamyumba, the sector of Rubavu district that overlooks lake Kivu, to observe the sector’s belated celebration of Day of the African Child. (They said they were celebrating on a Sunday so the children would be free to participate, but I’m pretty sure they just couldn’t get organized in time for Wednesday.) Several classes from each of the sector's primary and secondary schools assembled for the festivities.

Although the day was quite long, I enjoyed watching the children’s performances, particularly the dancing. Pictured below is the sector's executive secretary, giving a speech. Behind the crowd you can see lake Kivu and clouds settling over the Congolese mountains. Also note the kids who climbed the trees for a better view, wearing only foam sandals or with bare feet. (Click to enlarge.)

The celebration was not without irony: following multiple speeches against child abuse of various kinds, as the crowd of children crept forward to better see the acrobatics, karate, and drama performances, several headmasters used sticks to beat the children back.

At the end of the festivities, I was pulled up to dance the traditional Rwandan intori dance. Afterwards the sector’s executive secretary told me that I dance very well!

Ubukwe!

I attended a wedding ceremony this afternoon. My boss was the best man, and I was somewhat the token muzungu for photos.

I didn’t go to the “introduction,” which is the traditional Rwandan ceremony. The wedding in the church was a variation on the familiar ceremony: the bride and groom walked together down the aisle and sat, flanked by their best man and maid of honor (they call them the honorary father of the groom and mother of the bride). There were a few prayers and songs before the couple exchanged vows.

Yes, that’s a Hooters t-shirt in the foreground.

The couple exchanged rings and then knelt and were surrounded by the seven or so ministers for a blessing (yes, they’re Pentacostal). Then they signed their wedding contract in front of the congregation, and finally a basket was placed at the front of the room for donations. Each step of the wedding was photographed and videotaped by everyone in the audience rich enough to have a camera.

Some of the guests piled into cars and proceeded down to the lake for photographs. Two SUVs were decked out with ribbons, and all the cars in the procession had their flashers on and drove through town blowing their horns. Some of the cars zig-zagged wildly across the road, and each time we reached a roundabout or traffic triangle we circled it several times, kicking up dust. When we reached the lake, the wedding party and guests posed for a series of photos.

Most Pentacostal women don’t wear earings or braid their hair, so head wraps and accessories are particularly important.

I was asked to be in several photos – I heard the phrase “take one with me and the muzungu” a few times. At first I felt a little exploited but then I remembered I was photographing things I found strange to share on the internet, so I guess the exploitation goes both ways. For example, multiple members of the wedding party had on name tags declaring their roles: “Time keeper,” “MC,” “Head of Protocole,” “Service,” “Stock,” “Table de Honeur.”

We then went to the reception. At the head of the hall was the wedding party, surrounded by Christmas lights and flanked by the bride’s family on the left and the groom’s family on the right. After a toast by family members (made with Sprite and Fanta Citron), the bride and groom came forward. Champagne (or what looked like it) was uncorked and sprayed on them before they shared a glass. They lit sparklers on top of the cake and were sprayed with whipped cream, which was then cleaned off of them by the best man and maid of honor.

Then they cut the cake – sadly only the wedding party and families got cake! They did serve soda and little boxes with a hard boiled egg, potato, and piece of meat. A group of woman did the traditional Rwandan dance while others sang. Finally, the couple was presented with gifts – quite a few of them! The four cakes that were left were to be eaten at the bride’s house, much to my chagrin.

Ndi umukorerabushake wa Peace Corps!

Translation: I am a Peace Corps Volunteer! Yes, the word for volunteer is eight syllables long. That's "oo-moo-core-air-ah-boo-shah-chay."

I was sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer yesterday in a lovely ceremony at the US Ambassador’s residence. After months of training, I was incredibly happy to take the oath. And eat the cake, lasagna, mac and cheese....

The event was filmed and aired on TV that night, and I’ve received multiple comments from other muzungus, the ladies at the bank, etc saying they saw it. Today’s New Times has an article including a picture I’m in – check out my tailor-made dress.

Now I’ve got the weekend in Kigali to enjoy the food (Indian! Ethiopian! Pizza! Burgers! Ice Cream! Mutzig Draught!) and shop for my house, plus build a pantry of goods from the Indian stores and Western supermarkets (cous cous, lentils, spices, chick pea flour, healthy oil…)

Then it’s off to Gisenyi Tuesday to get to work.

A birthday haircut

I had an awesome birthday, thanks to my new friends here. Mup, the amazing training director, arranged for corn bread at snack time (called keke, it’s fantastic). I picked up my swearing-in dress from the tailor, who finally got it just right. Jenny cut my hair in her host family’s barber shop, which resulted in a hilarious video in which the barber next to us was shaving a poor customer’s head while looking at us. I’ll update this post with video when I have decent internet.

We cooked fantastic grilled cheese, fries and tomato soup. Her host family was incredulous about the soup with milk in it and cooked cheese sandwiches, so they also cooked beans and rice, but they seemed to like the American food. I certainly did.




Note: I'm labeling this post umunsi mukuru which means "holiday/day with a celebration" in Kinyarwanda.