Saturday, December 22, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
New York Times Article, "Rwandans Weave Baskets of Hope"
October 11, 2007 Design Notebook Rwandans Weave Baskets of Hope By LESLEY JANE SEYMOUR BASKETS transformed Pascasie Mukamurigo’s life. A weaver since age 14, she had gone to Kigali, Rwanda’s capital, from her home in the village of Gashoba one day in 1994 to sell baskets. That afternoon violence by militants forced her to seek refuge at a church, violence that would become mass killings.
Inside, Hutu militants “killed the men first,” she told me. “Then they started killing the women.” To duck the attackers, she stayed in a crouched position for three months, moving from room to room, which is why she walks with a cane today.
She survived, but she returned home to find that her husband and one of her three children had been killed. When I met her in August, 13 years after those events, she was a regal 63-year-old widow sitting with me in the town of Ruhashya and recounting her story. Twelve of her best friends had lost their husbands as well. She brought these widows together to form the weaving group Avega (Association des Veuves du Génocide d’Avril) to support the orphans each took in; Mrs. Mukamurigo adopted 13. She also invited members of the Hutu families who had committed the atrocities to join the group.
Two and a half years ago, Avega began producing baskets for macys.com, and this summer, I joined six Macy’s executives who on their own time and money flew to Africa because they wanted to meet the women who were producing such beautiful objects.
I went with the group because I was fascinated by what the women were doing. Four years ago, as the editor in chief of Marie Claire magazine, I had published one of the first stories about Avega and sold the first 1,200 “peace” baskets in the United States through orders placed with the magazine. After that, the photographer for that article, Willa Shalit, an artist and a producer of “The Vagina Monologues,” saw a chance to help the women expand their business making the sisal baskets, which are used to carry wedding gifts.
“What struck me,” she said, “was that these women who’d suffered so horribly — who’d been raped, machete-hacked and watched their children get killed — had created this object that was so exquisite and elegant, with tiny, even stitches.” The fact that the weaving groups included both Hutus and Tutsis, Rwanda’s two main ethnic groups, heightened the appeal. “I thought, what an incredible embodiment of reconciliation,“ Ms. Shalit said. “I can sell this.”
Ms. Shalit wanted to help create a sustainable business backed by a huge corporation. She called Terry J. Lundgren, chief executive of the Macy’s parent, Federated (now, confusingly, called Macy’s Inc.), who was also a friend of her father’s.
Mr. Lundgren was surprised when Ms. Shalit refused his charitable check and asked for a business relationship instead. “I said, ‘but do you guys have product?’” he said. When she pulled out the baskets, he recalled, his response was immediate: “There’s a customer for this.”
Macy’s ordered 30,000 baskets. Each one takes weeks to weave and sells for $35 to $120 at macys.com; sales grew to $1.5 million in 2007 from $150,000 the first year.
To produce the order, Ms. Shalit created Fair Winds Trading and sent Dean Ericson, the president, to live in Rwanda. Mr. Ericson, who studied industrial art and design and worked on restoration projects for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, taught the weavers quality control and repetition of sizes and shapes.
When a customer commented at macys.com that “the basket is beautifully woven, but very very thin and almost flimsy,” Mr. Ericson sought a redesign. A weaver named Agnes Nirere showed him a firmer basket made using banana bark and papyrus, and Mr. Ericson decided to use the Macy’s gathering in Rwanda to pass the design change along to the women.
On our second day there, the Americans piled onto a bus and drove to the Kinkanga Commercial Center, a group of mud-brick meeting houses in Butare, a province in the south. “Many of these women work alone,” he said. “It’s very hard to let them know about a change in design.”
Holding the firm basket aloft, he said: “We can sell a lot of these baskets, which are stronger. This is what I want to see.” Mrs. Mukamurigo slipped on her glasses and noted that the fine stitches on the edge “are hard to make.” The bigger impediment, she said, would be finding strong papyrus, which she believed grew in marshland only near Burundi. They managed to get the material, and all Macy’s baskets now use the new design.
Rwanda is a country of harsh contrasts — of horrifying history and friendly people who welcome you to their homes with a treasured glass of milk. “Never again” is painted on banners hanging from buildings and stamped on rubber bracelets the weavers wear; genocide memorials pop up in mundane spaces.
The next day, we visited a church in Byimana where 1,000 women from Gahaya Links, a weaving association, gave us a singing, dancing reception. The weaving group’s president, Irene Dukuze Mugaybzu, said that baskets have taken women “out of the back room,” letting them buy clothes and food. Good weavers can earn $2 to $3 a day, around $14 to $40 a basket, giving them more than the average per capital annual income of $206. About a third of the retail price goes to the weavers, Ms. Shalit said.
At this point, the magnitude of corporate responsibility hit me. The criticism of charity is that when sympathy stops, checks dry up. But decorating trends evaporate, too. What happens when baskets stop selling? Though Mr. Lundgren said there’s “growth potential in front of us for baskets,” he is looking for alternative woven products. “The key is, there has to be an amazing story,” he said.
Inside, Hutu militants “killed the men first,” she told me. “Then they started killing the women.” To duck the attackers, she stayed in a crouched position for three months, moving from room to room, which is why she walks with a cane today.
She survived, but she returned home to find that her husband and one of her three children had been killed. When I met her in August, 13 years after those events, she was a regal 63-year-old widow sitting with me in the town of Ruhashya and recounting her story. Twelve of her best friends had lost their husbands as well. She brought these widows together to form the weaving group Avega (Association des Veuves du Génocide d’Avril) to support the orphans each took in; Mrs. Mukamurigo adopted 13. She also invited members of the Hutu families who had committed the atrocities to join the group.
Two and a half years ago, Avega began producing baskets for macys.com, and this summer, I joined six Macy’s executives who on their own time and money flew to Africa because they wanted to meet the women who were producing such beautiful objects.
I went with the group because I was fascinated by what the women were doing. Four years ago, as the editor in chief of Marie Claire magazine, I had published one of the first stories about Avega and sold the first 1,200 “peace” baskets in the United States through orders placed with the magazine. After that, the photographer for that article, Willa Shalit, an artist and a producer of “The Vagina Monologues,” saw a chance to help the women expand their business making the sisal baskets, which are used to carry wedding gifts.
“What struck me,” she said, “was that these women who’d suffered so horribly — who’d been raped, machete-hacked and watched their children get killed — had created this object that was so exquisite and elegant, with tiny, even stitches.” The fact that the weaving groups included both Hutus and Tutsis, Rwanda’s two main ethnic groups, heightened the appeal. “I thought, what an incredible embodiment of reconciliation,“ Ms. Shalit said. “I can sell this.”
Ms. Shalit wanted to help create a sustainable business backed by a huge corporation. She called Terry J. Lundgren, chief executive of the Macy’s parent, Federated (now, confusingly, called Macy’s Inc.), who was also a friend of her father’s.
Mr. Lundgren was surprised when Ms. Shalit refused his charitable check and asked for a business relationship instead. “I said, ‘but do you guys have product?’” he said. When she pulled out the baskets, he recalled, his response was immediate: “There’s a customer for this.”
Macy’s ordered 30,000 baskets. Each one takes weeks to weave and sells for $35 to $120 at macys.com; sales grew to $1.5 million in 2007 from $150,000 the first year.
To produce the order, Ms. Shalit created Fair Winds Trading and sent Dean Ericson, the president, to live in Rwanda. Mr. Ericson, who studied industrial art and design and worked on restoration projects for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, taught the weavers quality control and repetition of sizes and shapes.
When a customer commented at macys.com that “the basket is beautifully woven, but very very thin and almost flimsy,” Mr. Ericson sought a redesign. A weaver named Agnes Nirere showed him a firmer basket made using banana bark and papyrus, and Mr. Ericson decided to use the Macy’s gathering in Rwanda to pass the design change along to the women.
On our second day there, the Americans piled onto a bus and drove to the Kinkanga Commercial Center, a group of mud-brick meeting houses in Butare, a province in the south. “Many of these women work alone,” he said. “It’s very hard to let them know about a change in design.”
Holding the firm basket aloft, he said: “We can sell a lot of these baskets, which are stronger. This is what I want to see.” Mrs. Mukamurigo slipped on her glasses and noted that the fine stitches on the edge “are hard to make.” The bigger impediment, she said, would be finding strong papyrus, which she believed grew in marshland only near Burundi. They managed to get the material, and all Macy’s baskets now use the new design.
Rwanda is a country of harsh contrasts — of horrifying history and friendly people who welcome you to their homes with a treasured glass of milk. “Never again” is painted on banners hanging from buildings and stamped on rubber bracelets the weavers wear; genocide memorials pop up in mundane spaces.
The next day, we visited a church in Byimana where 1,000 women from Gahaya Links, a weaving association, gave us a singing, dancing reception. The weaving group’s president, Irene Dukuze Mugaybzu, said that baskets have taken women “out of the back room,” letting them buy clothes and food. Good weavers can earn $2 to $3 a day, around $14 to $40 a basket, giving them more than the average per capital annual income of $206. About a third of the retail price goes to the weavers, Ms. Shalit said.
At this point, the magnitude of corporate responsibility hit me. The criticism of charity is that when sympathy stops, checks dry up. But decorating trends evaporate, too. What happens when baskets stop selling? Though Mr. Lundgren said there’s “growth potential in front of us for baskets,” he is looking for alternative woven products. “The key is, there has to be an amazing story,” he said.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
The Joys and Woes
Teaching is an incredibly difficult job. Ask any teacher. The super powers required to settle darting questions, jiggling knees, clicking pencils, raging hormones, cliques, insecurities, independence, and, oh yeah! learning! is hard for the mere mortals we are. There are moments when I look around the classroom and see the stacks of essays waiting to be graded, the students' expectant or blank faces, the standards I want to meet, the child I know can do so much more, and I have to take a deep breath before jumping in.
In Rwanda, teaching isn't any different. Kids are kids. They are all waiting - to grow up, to feel good, to know, to play, to go to lunch, to belong, to question - it is a universal theme of development. Yet in Africa, "Slowly, slowly" is a favorite saying. It has taken a long while (okay, I'm not quite there) to balance having a classroom that is to meet International/American curriculum and standards in this environment.
Progress is happening. After doing an in-depth novel study of To Kill a Mockingbird one of my ninth graders looked up and said, "Miss Lewis, this is the only book I have ever read. Ever." Our class spontaeneously began clapping. She pointed out that the theme of walking in someone else's skin applied to her now - that because she had gotten involved in the novel, she was able to view the world through Atticus, Scout, Boo, and the many other characters in the novel. She is now reading her second book. Ever.
In Rwanda, teaching isn't any different. Kids are kids. They are all waiting - to grow up, to feel good, to know, to play, to go to lunch, to belong, to question - it is a universal theme of development. Yet in Africa, "Slowly, slowly" is a favorite saying. It has taken a long while (okay, I'm not quite there) to balance having a classroom that is to meet International/American curriculum and standards in this environment.
Progress is happening. After doing an in-depth novel study of To Kill a Mockingbird one of my ninth graders looked up and said, "Miss Lewis, this is the only book I have ever read. Ever." Our class spontaeneously began clapping. She pointed out that the theme of walking in someone else's skin applied to her now - that because she had gotten involved in the novel, she was able to view the world through Atticus, Scout, Boo, and the many other characters in the novel. She is now reading her second book. Ever.
Peep-hole
Each day I walk by gaurds who gather away from their posts and sit together on the street by our school. I wave and smile. They wave, stare, or nod. Since this has been going on for several months, nods became waves and waves became greetings. They have now become my Kenyarwandan teachers. The most outgoing gaurds, Pascal and Evien, have taught me common phrases for hello, how are you, I am fine, I am going to school, etc. I still stumble on these. They roll off my tongue like peanut butter. Even when I get them right, it's a laughing matter. It's these encounters, peep-holes into another's culture, and such simple gestures of kindness that make Rwanda beautiful.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
corner of the world
I am sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Kigali. I came for a moment of alone time and to also prove to myself that I can get out and about on my own now. I sit in a corner (always the best spot) listening to a podcast of George Saunders reading for the New Yorker. Large coffee, bigger salad -I am happy. My friends and family are twenty four hours of travel away but also, when the internet is up, right here with me. Hi y'all.
Tired is the adjective I use the most here. Everything takes a few extra steps, many more minutes, and much planning. My favorite taxi driver, Tachien, comes to a complete stop before maneuvering over the many speed bumps on Kigali's rough roads, my computer is not compatible to our one school printer (I save on flash drive, borrow another teacher's computer, print, return computer, realize I have printed the wrong document, repeat steps), and everywhere I go, there is so much to take in, language barrier to overcome, etc. It is not hard, in fact, this transition has been easier than I first assumed it would be. But I am tired. Very tired. It seems each summer I forget (as does voice and feet) how much school takes out of me. I'm trying to get in the rythm, figure out my kids, and get a vision of where each class will go.
Today, with 9/11 as the subject of my dailey journal writing, each student was to write on a course of action that altered his/her country's history. Eleven countries were represented in one of my classes and every student shared a portion of their world. They told of their family members deaths in the genocide, their ancestors part in the formation of the slave trade, their flight out of South Africa...
"Nobody in the world knew what truth was till somebody had told the story." Rudyard Kipling
Tired is the adjective I use the most here. Everything takes a few extra steps, many more minutes, and much planning. My favorite taxi driver, Tachien, comes to a complete stop before maneuvering over the many speed bumps on Kigali's rough roads, my computer is not compatible to our one school printer (I save on flash drive, borrow another teacher's computer, print, return computer, realize I have printed the wrong document, repeat steps), and everywhere I go, there is so much to take in, language barrier to overcome, etc. It is not hard, in fact, this transition has been easier than I first assumed it would be. But I am tired. Very tired. It seems each summer I forget (as does voice and feet) how much school takes out of me. I'm trying to get in the rythm, figure out my kids, and get a vision of where each class will go.
Today, with 9/11 as the subject of my dailey journal writing, each student was to write on a course of action that altered his/her country's history. Eleven countries were represented in one of my classes and every student shared a portion of their world. They told of their family members deaths in the genocide, their ancestors part in the formation of the slave trade, their flight out of South Africa...
"Nobody in the world knew what truth was till somebody had told the story." Rudyard Kipling
Sunday, September 9, 2007
languages of art
My first week of teaching at the Kigali International Community School has posed many different challanges and adjustments that I will strive to overcome and be flexible with. The staff is incredible - serving the purpose of creating an influential learning environment and sharing the goal of getting K.I.C.S. accredited.
Mrs. Laura and Mrs. Christine teach Pre-K and are from Kenya. Mrs. Christine moved to Rwanda with her husband, who coaches Rwanda's national basketball team. The team just placed 14th in the African playoffs - which is very good considering there are fifty plus countries in Africa. When I visited last February with Stephen and Teena Tucker, I met a woman from the States who played on the Rwanda Women's basketball team. I ran into her at church with Christine and her husband last Sunday, and am going to watch her play in a tournament in the ucpcoming weeks. Since I can't cheer and yell at Razorback games this year, I will cheer and yell for Rwanda!
Miss Amy teaches Kindergarten and 1st grade, my roomate Lauren teaches 2nd and 3rd grade, and Linda Huang teaches 4th and 5th grade, as well as computer courses. For secondary classes, my roommate Amanda teaches courses in math and history. Our principal, Brian Dolinger, teaches high school Algebra and Geometry and three parent volunteers (who are also college professors) teach Psychology, Biology, and Chemistry. I am teaching seven grades of Language Arts - 6 through 12, and elementary art! I see the entire school throughout the week.
My students come from a wide range of backgrounds - Embassy kids who have had schooling all over the world and speak four languages, Rwandans, South Africans, Costa Ricans, missionary and NGO children - such a variety of ages, schooling, cultures, etc. When I read their experiences from journal writing or stand in front of the classroom explaining a concept - I understand now how small my worldview is - how much I have to grow and learn - how I am the student.
Mrs. Laura and Mrs. Christine teach Pre-K and are from Kenya. Mrs. Christine moved to Rwanda with her husband, who coaches Rwanda's national basketball team. The team just placed 14th in the African playoffs - which is very good considering there are fifty plus countries in Africa. When I visited last February with Stephen and Teena Tucker, I met a woman from the States who played on the Rwanda Women's basketball team. I ran into her at church with Christine and her husband last Sunday, and am going to watch her play in a tournament in the ucpcoming weeks. Since I can't cheer and yell at Razorback games this year, I will cheer and yell for Rwanda!
Miss Amy teaches Kindergarten and 1st grade, my roomate Lauren teaches 2nd and 3rd grade, and Linda Huang teaches 4th and 5th grade, as well as computer courses. For secondary classes, my roommate Amanda teaches courses in math and history. Our principal, Brian Dolinger, teaches high school Algebra and Geometry and three parent volunteers (who are also college professors) teach Psychology, Biology, and Chemistry. I am teaching seven grades of Language Arts - 6 through 12, and elementary art! I see the entire school throughout the week.
My students come from a wide range of backgrounds - Embassy kids who have had schooling all over the world and speak four languages, Rwandans, South Africans, Costa Ricans, missionary and NGO children - such a variety of ages, schooling, cultures, etc. When I read their experiences from journal writing or stand in front of the classroom explaining a concept - I understand now how small my worldview is - how much I have to grow and learn - how I am the student.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Planes, taxi, bus, car, canoe....
Rosemand Carr's book, The Land of a Thousand Hills gives a wonderful portrait and history of Rwandan life, and I encourage all to read her book. She died several years ago but not before opening an orphanage for victims of the genocide. Kay Ellen now runs her orphanage and invited our house to come with her to teach Rwandan teachers simple methods of teaching English.
My first week in Rwanda and I am off for a weekend away. I packed a small backpack full of conservitive dresses (the island where we are headed is known for it's traditional views - parents used to threaten to send their unruly children here), camera, toilet paper, and chapstick. We walked down our hill, grabbed a taxi, and headed for the bus station in the center of town. While waiting for the bus, Amanda and I hopped on motorcycle taxis and got coffee at the Uniun Trade Center - which houses my favorite spot- Bourban Coffee. Motorcycle taxis are quite scary - the cleanliness of the helmet is enough to make me choose another mode of transport - but, it is cheap, fast, and what a thrill!
The bus ride lasted several hours - which then included several hours of a radio program that ranged from a guy hysterically laughing ( they loved this), to rap from the Congo, to Justin Timberlake. I luckily had my iPod. The landscape is beautiful. Rwanda's hills, scaffold crops, mud huts, kiosks selling fantas and cokes, the ever present Rwandans walking for water and work, the occassional baboon or monkey sighting, bright green tea fields, all of this...so incredible.
We arrived in the town that houses Rwanda's only university, had a lunch of grilled cheeses and soup, and met a missionary named Martha. Martha has been living in Rwanda for 16 years, and experienced first hand the tragedy of the genocide in 1994. Her stories of close friends lost, of family hoping for her safety, of her grandmother sighting her on CNN and knowing she had made it out, were fascinating and hard to imagine. Martha drove us four hours on a rough steep road to the Congolese border where we met Kay Ellen and spent a night in a Catholic guest house that had glow in the dark crucifixes above every bed. No joke.
We woke early and had a breakfast of very yellow omelettes, very weak coffee, and bread before heading to Lake Kivu's water for our canoe ride to the Island. We were met on the beautiful island by many children who followed us through the village asking the mazungus for money, books - "Give me paper, Mazungu. Give me." Give me is something I hear on a daily basis. We then went to the island's restaurant - an open air room where we waited an hour for a peice of banana, grilled, and a skewer of goat stomach. I couldn't stomach the stomach - so I chewed my banana and tonic water slowly.
We walked through the primary school where children flocked to touch and shout the strange white ladies marching across their world. We went into a classroom that had long tables, pews, and a chalkboard. Teachers ushered students away from the open window with weeds as whips, and we began sing song versions of English lessons. Three schools were represented, and the professional development went a long in about the same manner as in our public schools. There were teachers who actively listened, those who talked among themselves, and those who kept staring at the clock. They all had a good time when we began our activities.
That night, after a long day of teaching, singing, explaining, and walking with kids hanging off of me, we took a boat back to the main land and went to a headmistresses home for dinner. She had prepared traditional Rwandan food with several of her friends - and under the bare bulb and her children's shy gazes, we ate and talked and had a wonderful feast. Life is beautiful.
My first week in Rwanda and I am off for a weekend away. I packed a small backpack full of conservitive dresses (the island where we are headed is known for it's traditional views - parents used to threaten to send their unruly children here), camera, toilet paper, and chapstick. We walked down our hill, grabbed a taxi, and headed for the bus station in the center of town. While waiting for the bus, Amanda and I hopped on motorcycle taxis and got coffee at the Uniun Trade Center - which houses my favorite spot- Bourban Coffee. Motorcycle taxis are quite scary - the cleanliness of the helmet is enough to make me choose another mode of transport - but, it is cheap, fast, and what a thrill!
The bus ride lasted several hours - which then included several hours of a radio program that ranged from a guy hysterically laughing ( they loved this), to rap from the Congo, to Justin Timberlake. I luckily had my iPod. The landscape is beautiful. Rwanda's hills, scaffold crops, mud huts, kiosks selling fantas and cokes, the ever present Rwandans walking for water and work, the occassional baboon or monkey sighting, bright green tea fields, all of this...so incredible.
We arrived in the town that houses Rwanda's only university, had a lunch of grilled cheeses and soup, and met a missionary named Martha. Martha has been living in Rwanda for 16 years, and experienced first hand the tragedy of the genocide in 1994. Her stories of close friends lost, of family hoping for her safety, of her grandmother sighting her on CNN and knowing she had made it out, were fascinating and hard to imagine. Martha drove us four hours on a rough steep road to the Congolese border where we met Kay Ellen and spent a night in a Catholic guest house that had glow in the dark crucifixes above every bed. No joke.
We woke early and had a breakfast of very yellow omelettes, very weak coffee, and bread before heading to Lake Kivu's water for our canoe ride to the Island. We were met on the beautiful island by many children who followed us through the village asking the mazungus for money, books - "Give me paper, Mazungu. Give me." Give me is something I hear on a daily basis. We then went to the island's restaurant - an open air room where we waited an hour for a peice of banana, grilled, and a skewer of goat stomach. I couldn't stomach the stomach - so I chewed my banana and tonic water slowly.
We walked through the primary school where children flocked to touch and shout the strange white ladies marching across their world. We went into a classroom that had long tables, pews, and a chalkboard. Teachers ushered students away from the open window with weeds as whips, and we began sing song versions of English lessons. Three schools were represented, and the professional development went a long in about the same manner as in our public schools. There were teachers who actively listened, those who talked among themselves, and those who kept staring at the clock. They all had a good time when we began our activities.
That night, after a long day of teaching, singing, explaining, and walking with kids hanging off of me, we took a boat back to the main land and went to a headmistresses home for dinner. She had prepared traditional Rwandan food with several of her friends - and under the bare bulb and her children's shy gazes, we ate and talked and had a wonderful feast. Life is beautiful.
Food is MMM good.
For those who were concerned about the digestables, it has not been an issue by any means. And for those who suggested, like Keiko, that losing weight would be an easy accomplishment in Africa, I think personal discipline will have to continue to rule. The third night I was in town, I went with a large group of teachers, Salvation Army workers, and Food for the Hungry employees, to a birthday party at an Indian restaurant. The food was incredible. This has been the case for all the places I have gone - pizza places (though, there is really only one kind of cheese in Rwanda), a coffee shop with internet access and better than Starbucks americanos, and a city market that has a variety of choices for my grocery list - cheap vegatables and fruits, soy milk, fresh bread, etc. The meat is questionable and will remain that way for me. And, Oh! The ice cream, or an ode to ice cream.....mmmm delicious.
So guys, I'll miss big ice teas, ice in general, restaurants with service that comes within a couple of hours, and protein, but other than that, I am satisfied.
So guys, I'll miss big ice teas, ice in general, restaurants with service that comes within a couple of hours, and protein, but other than that, I am satisfied.
This Is Africa
When you look out your small portal to the outside world after being restrained to one spot by a fasten seatbelt sign and two crying newborns for 24 hours, the lights of Rwanda's capitol seem few. The prayers that went up in those few minutes of landing were heard, and after going through customs and holding my breath until the last huge blue trunk with a green ribbon (thank you mom) were gathered, I was greeted with smiles and roses by my new community. It seemed the entire Kigali International Community School faculty showed to greet the principal's wife, Christy Dolinger and myself, as we arrived.
Jessica Brogdon and two of my fellow teachers, Linda and Lauren, drove me to the duplex I share with Lauren and Amanda. My room was set up with a few of the things I had sent over with Dale Dawson, and though the exhaustion was great from travel, I knew I was where I was supposed to be. Todd and Jessica Brogdon live next door to us, and that has been such an amazing touch of home.
The next few days were spent adjusting, unpacking (but where to unpack? There are no drawers!), and meeting an interesting mix of "Mazungus" who create the ex-patriot community in Kigali. I also began setting up my classroom at the beautiful new K.I.C.S. facility that is a two minute walk from my house and shares a view of rolling hills. I also began taking daily runs around the busy Kigali streets. It has been during this time that I have felt a bit of independence and begun to get a since of the geography of the town. Each morning run brings a new adventure, whether being followed by small children chanting "Mazungu, Mazungu!" or having to avoid a herd of goats, veering away from a huge dead snake, and always, ALWAYS being stared at. This never ends. Ever.
But I guess a white girl running through a herd of goats with small children chanting behind her to avoid a dead snake would be something funny to stare at. I would laugh at me.
Jessica Brogdon and two of my fellow teachers, Linda and Lauren, drove me to the duplex I share with Lauren and Amanda. My room was set up with a few of the things I had sent over with Dale Dawson, and though the exhaustion was great from travel, I knew I was where I was supposed to be. Todd and Jessica Brogdon live next door to us, and that has been such an amazing touch of home.
The next few days were spent adjusting, unpacking (but where to unpack? There are no drawers!), and meeting an interesting mix of "Mazungus" who create the ex-patriot community in Kigali. I also began setting up my classroom at the beautiful new K.I.C.S. facility that is a two minute walk from my house and shares a view of rolling hills. I also began taking daily runs around the busy Kigali streets. It has been during this time that I have felt a bit of independence and begun to get a since of the geography of the town. Each morning run brings a new adventure, whether being followed by small children chanting "Mazungu, Mazungu!" or having to avoid a herd of goats, veering away from a huge dead snake, and always, ALWAYS being stared at. This never ends. Ever.
But I guess a white girl running through a herd of goats with small children chanting behind her to avoid a dead snake would be something funny to stare at. I would laugh at me.
I boarded a plane for Rwanda on the 13th of August. It took a lot to get me on that plane - not physically get me on, but many years of growing up, having a support system, and undeserved grace from God. I boarded after turning around several times to find my family and best friend still standing past the security gate waving - remove shoes, turn, wave, tear up - remove belt, turn, wave, tear up - take out laptop, turn wave, tear up, etc. I did make it on that plane after excessive waving and tissue use to land first in Chicago, then another boarding without waves or loving faces for Brussels, and then another for Kigali, Rwanda. My final destination will be my home for the next year. I will be teaching Language Arts for grades 6 through 12, and Elementary Art for grades K through 5. Let the adventure begin...
Friday, April 20, 2007
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