June 3rd
So it’s very possible I might have an African husband by the
time I get back. Besides being called “mazungoo” several people have called me
“mwiza”. Mazungoo I picked up right
away. It means white traveler. It’s quite funny actually; people will wave and
scream “mazungoo, mazungoo” as I walk down the street. At first I wasn’t sure
if it was derogatory, but I have come to learn it’s just what white people are
called. Mwiza took me a little longer to figure out since I have not heard it
used to attract the attention of a white person. A few women and men have said
it to me, and then they just stare. Finally I found someone who could speak
enough English to explain it to me, mwiza means beautiful in Kinyarwanda. It’s
very flattering, but slightly embarrassing when that’s one of two things people
say to you.
People, mostly children will also touch me skin. This I find
hilarious! They run up screaming “muzangoo” and then just stop and stare, unsure
what to do next. I usually stick out my hand because I have noticed people love
to hug or shake hands. At that point they usually understand they have
permission to touch me. We shake hands and then they rub my skin. I want to
tell them this is the way I was born, and its not getting any darker. They
continue to rub my skin as if maybe something darker will appear. Or, maybe
they think I have a disease, I don’t know. Mothers will also encourage their
children to touch me. I have noticed the younger children will often hide
behind their mothers staring at me unsure what to think. It’s funny they are
afraid, but I understand, I’m sure it would be pretty scary to see a white
person when your entire life you have only seen East Africans.
In addition to the several interactions I have had with the
locals, I also went to explore Kigali a little more. Finally I found some type
of shopping, a market. It was outside and had an array of things you could buy.
The market sold fruit, meat, vegetables, clothes, and even had a salon. The
idea of a salon fascinates me. Both men and women have shaved heads here, why
in the world would you need a salon. I walked in interested at what I would
find. There were several women sitting around putting weaves in each other’s
hair. Fascinated I watched, finally a man came up to me who could speak English
and asked me if I wanted a weave. The
idea of braids are tempting but I think I would look a little out of place if
had an African weave. He said I would look “mwiza” but I have a feeling dark
weaves with my blond highlights would not look so good. I asked him if he could
give me one… just to see how it looked. I know I confused him by that comment
because he then turned to the women and asked them in “Kinyarwanda”. Once again
they all laughed. When did I become such a comedian?
Apparently there is also an African version of the American “catcall”.
To get your attention they will make a hissing sound between their teeth until
you look their way. Once again I thought it was derogatory but I have come to
find out this is how they get each other’s attention. Everywhere I go I walk down the street and
people hiss at me, this is a little hard to get used to.
June 5, 2012
I know this experience is going to be unlike anything I could
have ever imagined. Yesterday I arrived in Gisyni. Packed in a van meant for
five we squeezed seven of us in, along with our entire luggage, needless to say
it wasn’t a very conformable experience. We drove 3 hours up a windy road into
the hills of Rwanda, about 1.4km from the DRC. First stop was the children’s
orphanage. The orphanage houses over 600 children, ages ranged from 4 days old
to 19 years old. These children come
from families who abandoned them, mothers who died during childbirth, parents
who were victims of HIV/AIDs, and parents who were killed during the genocide. I
wish I had a way with words or some sort of writing talent to describe what I felt.
From the second I walked through the gates children clang to me. They would hug
me, want to be held, and tell me they loved me. Not one moment throughout the
day did I have a free hand. All staved
for love and attention, I had to divide myself among them. Next stop the clinic
which I will be working at. To get there we drove through a dirk/rocky path
into the middle of nowhere!!!! On the drive dust began to fly everywhere and my
chest got tight immediately. When I said I wanted to be placed in a rural area I
guess GVN listened. Although my chest was tight we continue to proceed. Once we
arrived, I was shocked, for lack of better words. It was completely understaffed;
when I stay understaffed I mean there was one nurse running the clinical and a
few “nurses” helping the patients. Completely
overwhelmed I took a tour of the clinic. HIV/AIDS patients lay scattered across the
grass, most of them females, victims of sexual abuse. My breathing continued to
worsen as I walked through the maternity ward. I walked in and was greeted by a
woman who had just given birth to her 7th child. Not watching where I
was walking I stepped in ammonic fluid. When she said she had just given birth,
I didn’t realize she had just given
birth. We said our goodbyes and made it out of the clinic. We then drove to our guest house in Gisyni. Because
I was having trouble breathing once we got there I went to the pharmacy and
hospital looking for asthma medication, which was an experience! I don’t know if it was the dust, pollution, nearby
volcano, or just the stress of seeing people in these conditions that sent me
over the edge. Unsure what to do, and still unsure what to do, I had to make
the decision to stay in Gisyni or go back to Kingili where there could possibly
be a better medical center for me. I was worried because honestly I felt like I
had the most medical experience in this town, but I knew though if I could calm
myself down my breathing would improve. I called my family, tried to take some
deep breaths and came to the decision to stay in Gisyni for now. Gisyni is
everything I wanted out of this trip, but in order to stay I need to keep my
body and mind together.
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