The uzufunguzo to Life in Rugabano

Jacqueline looked at me skeptically as I shook the pan over the charcoal fire. It was nearing dark and the sun was slowly setting behind the hills. The air was cool and the soft chat of Viate (the guy who gets our water and charcoal) and his friend was the only sound other than the sizzling oil in the pan. “I can do this…” I told her, trying my best to sound confident. We were making chipati, which is a type of bread that has the consistency of both pancake and pita. The trick is that once you harden up one side you must flip the chipati with a flick of the wrist, turning it onto the opposite side to finish cooking. This was something I’ve done before with luck on my side and I was determined, much to Jacquie’s dismay, to become a chipati flipping champion. She shook her head at my stubbornness (a dismantled chipati already sat sadly on a plate) and watched as I prepared to flip. One… Two… Three… I flipped and caught the chipati in the pan and was greeted with small cheers of support. For the past few weeks Jacqueline (the animatrice who is in charge of the male and female dorms), Jacques (the secretary) and I have been getting habituated in Rugabano. We have cleaned up the school and the house, making our little mark before 500 teens show up on our hills. Earlier in the week, Viate, Jacqueline and I planted a garden in our front yard. We had flowers and various plants that were cleverly removed from the schools abundant supply and re-transplanted into our little yard. We also checked out our village’s local “movie theater”. This is a small room that has a T.V. that is powered by a generator and crammed with wooden benches. You pay 100 Rwandan Francs to get in (about 15 cents) and can watch a film or a soccer match, depending on what’s advertised on the chalkboard in from of the shop. Jacquie continued to test me on new words in Kinyarwanda, building up my vocabulary. “Uzufunguzo..” She would announce, holding up a key. We visited our local market, open on Mondays and Fridays, and visited some friends around town. We have made lunches and dinners of potatoes and beans, plantains and beans, rice and beans, and the occasional ubugali (a cassava paste that is the consistency of playdough) and meat sauce. Ubugali is one of my favorites mainly because you eat it with your hands – Mauritania memories! – and though feels like playdough, tastes pretty delicious. Sometimes we like to treat ourselves and have Fantas or Cokes in the small local bar with a few plastic tables and chairs. One day Jacquie and I made plans to go into town for some well deserved Fantas. I locked my room with a padlock and stuck the key in my pocket, waiting for Jacquie to finish. She came out locked her padlock, sighed, and sat down in front of the door with her hand on her cheek. “Ufite ikibazo?” I asked, wondering what the problem was. “Yego..” she said shaking her head, “Uzufunguzo mu chumba chanjye…” She had locked her key in her room. We sat for a second in stunned silence at the situation and suddenly both burst out laughing – mostly because just that morning she had taught me about the word Uzufunguzo and now it was locked in her room. After a few calls and a couple Fantas we get someone to pry off the lock and open the door.
Now our students are beginning to show up to the school to collect their grades from last school year. Their curious faces peer out of the director’s office at me confirming the rumors that a foreigner would be teaching at their school this year. Looking at the results from last school year and talking with some of the teachers I realize what a job is cut out for us. Kagame’s education reform making English the language of instruction is going to hit some rough waters. My village is based on agriculture so the majority of students don’t aspire to get out into the world or even to the busy cities of Rwanda. Grown in soil and raised in the sun they have always been taught in Kinyarwanda – the previous francophone identity of their country not having much weight on the language teachers chose to teach at Rugabano (mainly Kinyarwanda). You can confirm this by looking at the subjects passed and failed from the previous year. French was at the low end, followed by chemistry and at the high end… yeah you guessed it… Agriculture. So it will be interesting to see how the new law wraps itself around my school. English only when some teachers can’t hold a basic conversation? Not likely. But as they say here Buhoro buhoro; Slow by slow we will make the changes. Here’s to a great start to 2010 school year in Rwanda and the beginning of another decade of adventures.

Catch and Release

"Tok, tok, tok."  I look up from my book toward the window and see a fluttering behind the curtain.  "Inyoni!" Shouts Valence, a boy who works in my directors house.  For the weekend I was invited by my school director Froudouard to stay with him and his wife Louise in their house close to Kibuye.  My village, Rugabano, is very quiet right now - especially because I live in a house on a hilltop right above school grounds and school doesn't start until February 1st.  The boarding school will have about 600 students and teachers, so very soon I can expect constant action in my little village.  "Reba!  Inyoni m'inzu!"  He shouts again.  I walk to the window and see he has used a curtain to trap a tiny bird against the glass.  I tell him that I will take it out and move him to the side before he hurts the frightened creature.  I gently cup it into my hands and walk the little guy to the open door.  I can feel its tiny heartbeat humming against my palm.  When I reach the door I peek into the space between my thumbs.  Its as small as a finch, maybe a touch bigger, and has small wide black eyes and a bright orange beak.  The feathers are soft and change in color from deep red on its head to dark purple toward its tail.  "Beautiful.."  I say into my hands.  "Beautiful." Valance repeats, watching me hold the little bird.  "O.K. You're free." I say as I open my hands and point it toward the sky.  It blinks once in the bright sun and takes off into the open air.  I watch the little jet of color soar over a field, sweep up a hill and land in a tree across the road.  Below, three children follow each other in a line carrying bundles of wood on their heads.  The oldest has a large bundle, the middle slightly smaller and the youngest grips the smallest amount with one hand and swings the other playfully at his side.  Behind them a moto is approaching and gives a warning honk as it passes.  On the moto a man and a woman hunch down against the wind.  The woman is older and wearing a traditional colorful wax print skirt and shirt.  She has a bag of vegetables in one hand and holds a bright piece of cloth around her shoulders that flaps behind her like a cape.  They zip past a woman with a bucket of water on her head and baby tied to her back.  She is talking animatedly to a barefoot man with a hoe slung across his shoulder.  A group of giggling children dart across the road.  The One That Leads carries what seems to be a dirty and frayed ball of string, but what I know by now is a homemade soccer ball.  The group scatters and disappears behind a hill.  The woman in the road adjusts her baby on her back, shakes the man's hand goodbye and continues on, balancing her bucket expertly.  The drone of the moto fades in the distance and the three children in a row continue their journey-one behind the other behind the other.  I close my eyes and let the warm sun sink into my skin and hear a cacophony of whistles from the trees.  I wonder if one of those chirps comes from the bright tiny bird whose heart once hummed in my hands.