The whole year...

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Philbert

One of my boys, Philbert, drowned in a boating accident last week. He was on his way to a Genocide memorial service.

I feel an unsettled sense of urgency to be with the kids right now, and I feel the crippling distance more than ever. As incredibly challenging as it would be to be there right now, it's so much harder to not be.

I turn my lights off, put my headphones on, and listen to the song the kids wrote for last year's memorial... I am there. I'm watching them rehearse on a Friday afternoon, the farm workers are carrying buckets on their heads as they walk past my window that frames the quilted hills... they start jogging when the late afternoon rain starts pounding on our roof. Then the track skips, and I'm gone.

Reflections on a year

So I guess this is my last post...

What's a year? I've measured my time by the length of my hair, what's left of my toothpaste, and the ink in my pen. I survived my transition from a little white office in a big black building to my little green village tucked into one of Rwanda’s thousand hills.

I admit, since I left NYC, there may have been times I've missed washing machines, waking up to a hot shower, and ice cubes, but when I return home, there will be more times I'll miss the way my laundry dances on my clothesline when it's about to monsoon, waking up to the sound of cows mooing in the rain, and the satisfaction of a juicy 50 cent pineapple.

Somewhere in between my sponge baths and malaria pill-induced dreams, I found time to scribble 80 pages in blog on border-crossing bus tickets, math notebooks, and phone cards. I remember the first time I wrote: I propped my computer on my lap underneath a mango tree, and stared at the misty hills. I was in the middle of a painting. Within a month, a blanket of heat would absorb the hills’ moisture, revealing the lush patchwork of countless shades of green that would soon become the backdrop of my life.

And have I changed since then... or have I been changed? Are the subtle differences I've noticed in myself the result of living in Africa for a year, or are they the result of moving on my own and living on my own anywhere for a year? The surfacing and not surfacing of my familiar quirks taught me to differentiate which are products of my surroundings, and which I create on my own and carry with me wherever I go.

But I am only human, after all. And how easily do we change? Surrounded by people who have nothing, still I found my mind wandering to boys. Still I found myself fiercely, frighteningly independent at times. Sitting on a crowded matatu, still I felt alone. Still I couldn’t help finding it rude when a little boy in a tattered sweater declared “muzungu ('white person')– give me my money” simply because he was hungry, and no teacher taught him how to ask nicely.

The reality, the truth is that there were times I felt a little checked out, a little lonely, a little too far from home. I felt an intense pressure to appreciate every moment, guilt for wasted years not understanding how privileged I am, and more guilt for wasting time thinking about feeling guilty.

Then there were the times when I'd see my visitors' shocked faces as the terraced Rwanda hillsides clashed with their recent memories of sidewalks and subways, and I'd feel a simple comfort just knowing I live here.

For the first time in my life, I was able to truly appreciate each passing moment; I soaked in the carpeted landscape and hugged the kids every chance I got. My friends here teased me for my unrelenting positive attitude and amazement of everything that surrounded me - it’s just that I’ve met other volunteers when I’ve traveled in the past, and I always felt I would give anything to do what they were doing... I never lost that.

--
Komeza. Buhoro, buhoro, nirwo rugendo.
(Continue. Slowly, slowly, such is the journey.)
- Rwandan Proverb

Sarah left last weekend, meaning I am the only volunteer and the only American left. The worst part about being the only one left in my house is that I have no one to play Rumikub with and I think I hear scary things at night.

The best part was the going away present that Sarah's Kigali friend gave me to give to her. It was inside of an unsealed brown paper envelope, so I obviously took a peek. I was disappointed at first when I saw that the present was wrapped, but then I took a closer look and needed to see no more:

ASYV Road again... but on a moto

More moments I'll miss...

"Have you been touching Mor, Gilboa, and Andrew?"

- D. (one of the kids... pretty sure he meant "keeping in touch with," but it was still rather difficult for me to say yes)

Just another normal morning in Rwanda

Despite feeling a bit like I was violating her and despite being nervous I was going to rip one of her teets off, this is likely the happiest you'll ever see me at 6:30 AM:

And the rainy season has begun

But the best thing about the rainy season is...

The kind of moments I'll miss most

Just ran into the farm worker who I gave the aqua socks my mom sent me to:

Can't break old habits...

As clearly illustrated in the images below, the preferred method of transporting items of all shapes and sizes here is via the top of the head:


I totally see the benefit of having full use of your hands, but the other day I saw a woman in full Rwandan flare balancing a shiny new suitcase WITH WHEELS (!!!) on her head. Sadly, I didn't have my camera, but I did catch this woman carrying a backpack on her head:

Typical post-dinner conversation when you live off of beans:

J.: You are small, so you have little farts. I am big, so I have big farts.

E.: And your mom is old, so she has old farts.

Inappropriate for the blog?

I was innocently reviewing my recently discovered favorite Google Analytics feature today, which allows you to see what keywords people are googling to get to your blog, and I kid you not:

#62.

benna balls

1

Another fun project

I've seen goods with “Made by the women from x cooperative in x country” labels for sale in department stores, but I never quite digested the reality of what that meant until now.

Over the past few months, I have been working with a small cooperative in Kigali during my free time. It's been wonderful. The Kinamba Project is a primary school attached to a cooperative that employs the students' mothers (mostly former prostitutes) as seamstresses. They' little “Made by the women from Kinamba in Kigali” tag has come to life.

VIDEO:

The one good thing about Mor & Gilboa leaving is

that I moved into their old room and get to take advantage of all the fun things Gilboa crafted. One of these items is a shelf (/shrine?) with candles next to a picture of Gilboa and Tzuf on the farm. I'm still debating whether it's more awkward to leave it up or take it down...

The very best part is that my bathroom light finally works! Yes, at this point, our village has working lights virtually everywhere except for my old bathroom. For the past 9+ months, when I woke up in the middle of the night, I was forced to choose between complete blackness or a middle school dance party strobe light (which was actually kind of fun when it wasn't 3 am). This may sound like no big deal, but it led to two late night injuries, the second of which was mildly serious... I walked around with a bandaid on my face for 2 weeks and I have a scar to prove it.

Mor's goodbye gift

The other day, two of the women who work on the farm came over in their Sunday best and presented the following goodbye card to Mor:



In case you can't see it clearly, it reads:

"My sweetheart: Loving you is all that I want to do."

"My joys of living come from the pleasure of loving you and having you near me."

A-mazing.

My road

"Muzungu" = "white person" in Kinyarwanda

On a bus in Uganda

As a teenager growing up car-less in New York City, I never had that rite of passage cross-country road trip that every American kid dreams of; the closest I ever came to crossing anything was riding the subway from Chinatown to the Upper West Side... But here I am, on a bus driving across a different country: Uganda.



It may lack the romantic hair blowing out the open windows and coming of age classics blasting through my speakers that I've imagined all my life, but my airplane headphones and “road trip” ipod playlist (I wonder if I realized I was mocking myself when I titled it that...) will have to suffice.

It's 5:45 AM. I took an ambien, but the road is bumpy, and I swear the driver is purposefully avoiding the paved parts. I'm sitting in the last row, and I just bounced onto the lap of the woman next to me, whose left leg and butt cheek are already occupying half my seat. She refuses to open the window for me in fear of messing up her freshly twisted hair extensions, though she happily makes an exception to buy a goat brochette and cassava dough from a man on the street. The juxtoposition of the brochette stench with the cute family of goats on the road, combined with the fact that cassava dough literally smells like barf and that I'm writing this on the back of my bus ticket, is making me queasy.

I forgot the Ugandan border is less than two hours from Kigali. I'm awake, but drugged and loopy, and our bus driver is shuffling us to the front of the line, telling us to hide our paperwork...

That bus ride was just the beginning of quite the adventure... we rafted on the Nile River, which is known as the best white water rafting in the world; spent a night at a local Reverend's house who literally killed a goat for us and told us he didn't believe there were poor white people in America because “all the poor white people turn black”; took a 7-hour matatu ride with 23 people (a matatu comfortably seats 14); and went on a 6 hour hike in the Rwenzori Mountains, where the female guide wearing a skirt and flip-flops offered to carry me.

Zach enjoying the feast the Reverend's family prepared for us:



Hiking in the Rwenzori Mountains:







(please note my awesome fanny pack below - $1 in the Kimironko market)



Dinner in Kigali for my birthday:

Only in Rwanda #1

Today, I was having a cavity filled at the dentist and the power went out.

Want to volunteer in Rwanda/Africa?

One of the most amazing things about being here has been seeing something come out of nothing, while an unexpected difficulty attached to that has been trying to reconcile the fortuitousness of ASYV with the world outside still waiting for help. In my free time, I’ve tried to do what I can by helping Elie Nduwayesu, founder of "Fair Children Youth Foundation," who is in the process of opening his third school focusing on educating deaf children, vulnerable youth, and women struggling to rebuild their lives.

Elie’s schools are located in the northern part of Rwanda called Musanze. While Musanze is an international tourist destination for its beautiful volcanoes and gorillas, the tourism stands in stark contrast to the local poverty. Elie’s foundation provides an integrated program that provides skills to community members, so they may rebuild their lives after the consequences of genocide, HIV/AIDS related diseases, poverty, and disabilities.

I had the opportunity to visit Elie’s schools, and I was able to communicate with the children using the most basic level of sign language I could remember, which is limited to spelling out every word by signing letters of the alphabet. I signed my name, and in unison, they spoke, “Benna.” Together, they gave me their own name for me: two hands sign the letter “B” while motioning the sign for “thank you.” I want to give them the world. So does Elie. Determined, he takes personal loans from the bank to fund his schools, telling me it’s worth it just to see these kids smile, and he’s right.

Elie’s dedication and the kids’ motivation despite his means motivated me to become involved with his project. I’m currently recruiting volunteer social workers and teachers to teach English, sign language, provide psychosocial support activities, and give training in a variety of vocational, computer, and business skills. Construction is also still needed at both urban and rural centers.

Please contact me for details and an application if you or anyone you know is interested:

bennawl@gmail.com

http://www.fairchildrenrwanda.org/

This literally could not have less to do with Rwanda

But I have to share...

Lex has a Taylor Swift obsession comparable to my Hanson obsession (except I was 12). She entered a contest to dance in her video and live on stage with her at MTV's VMAs... AND SHE WON. She filmed the first part last week:

"I was dancing so close to her that her hair hit me in the face. Then at the end she hugged us all... I told her I loved her... and she said she loved me too."


They went shopping so they could dress like "hip and trendy 16 year olds," per the instructions.

Boniface's genius moment #2

I don't think Boniface has ever seen a beauty mark before because yesterday he pointed to one on my arm and dead seriously told me it was evidence that I'm turning Rwandan.

Tanya

Tanya left for good at midnight a few days ago. I wasn't sure how I would feel when she left - whether it would hit me, or whether I would be in a constant state of thinking she's about to walk through our sliding door.

Eight months ago, we arrived to this tiny landlocked African country knowing absolutely no one. We have since become a family - anchoring and understanding each other without needing explanations. And I do feel a hole now; I feel an empty room adjacent to mine, an empty seat on our couch, an empty cup of tea, and the first sign of the reality that this isn't forever.

The night Tanya left, she said something that really stuck with me. She spoke about a girl who, as she said goodbye, thanked Tanya for her help carrying things to her house on her first day at ASYV.

Tanya orchestrated the painting of our 80-foot mural, garbage bins throughout ASYV, front gate, chicken coups, as well as a large mosaic bench and plaque in school.

Still, this girl was grateful that Tanya had helped her with her bags.

With her story, Tanya reminded all of us that it's easy to forget the moment when we get carried away in end results; that to these kids, the little things we do naturally that no one has ever done for them before - the things we often overlook because we're looking too far ahead of ourselves, are what make each day for them and are what they'll remember about us once we're gone.

Dad & Dana visit Kenya & Rwanda!

There's something fantastically indescribable about seeing animals in the wild that I've thus far only seen in zoos. There are no trained handlers, no de-thawed butchered steaks, and no metal fences.

The countless species coexisting here and the way they just melt into the landscape is so incredible that it's almost a caricature of itself. Zebras seem to strategically position themselves so their stripes bleed into rainbows on the horizon. Lions hypnotize us with their size until they're dwarfed by a family of elephants walking by in a single file line moments later. A cheetah climbs on top of the highest mound in sight, as if she's done this so much that she knows we'll get the best shot when sun is in that position and when she looks at us from that angle. But we're not in Disney World's "Animal Kingdom"; these animals are not marionettes on the strings of some trainer waiting with treats behind a bush. This is real.

Sometimes we're so enchanted that we forget to take pictures, and sometimes we concentrate so much on capturing the moment that we don't even notice our LCD screens and 4x4 Jeep clashing with the prehistoric-looking rhinos and crocodiles, making them seem anachronistic. But we're in their world, they're not in ours.




I can't think of a good transition right now, but here are some facts I picked up along the way:

1. Warthogs are probably my favorite animals for the following reason:

They have "such short memories" that when a lion is chasing them, they'll stop running after 100 feet because they'll forget why they're running.



2. When lions are in heat, they do it every 25 minutes for 7 days straight.



3. Rhino horns are made out of Keratin, the same thing human fingernails are made from, so it doesn't hurt them when their horns are cut or damaged. Apparently my dad didn't find this too interesting - despite seeing a few wild rhinos, he felt the rhino sanctuary was "a bit disappointing" because "all they had one one blind, hornless rhino."

4. My dad started a food diary:

My dad decided that he wanted to start writing in his journal so he wouldn't forget all the amazing things we were experiencing. On our first truly incredible day of sights (cheetahs, lions...), Dana and I asked him to share an excerpt with us:

"This morning they served a beautiful buffet - there were eggs, sausages, pancakes, croissants, and the most delicious pineapple. Lunch was even better - they served Indian food, traditional Kenyan dishes, salads, pastas, and more delicious pineapple... exclamation point! [Yes, he actually said "exclamation point!" out loud in case we didn't get his excitement]."

Food highlight of the trip: Breakfast & champagne with the hippos:

Essential items for surviving in Africa

I recently received a package from my mom containing the following:

1. A headlamp (because I told her I saw a snake on the way to dinner one night)
2. Neosporin (because I fell on my face carrying jerry cans of water once)
3. Dried Fruit (because I'm in Africa and it just seemed appropriate to send trail mix?)
4. 3 Umbrellas (because it rains a lot here...)
5. Hand Sanitizer
6. Tevas (My personal favorite. See below for what motivated her on this one - the best part is that the warning is for when I get home to the bacteria-ridden streets of NYC):

This page was sent to you by: Mom

Message from sender:
Warning re flip-flops. For when you return to the city. This could be really dangerous.

NY Daily News: Flip-flops are a magnet for dangerous, deadly bacteria

The flip-flop is the preferred summer shoe for many New Yorkers. But on city streets, the flimsy footwear can be deadly. That film of grime that coats your feet at the end of a day of flopping around town is some dangerous dirt.

HP Book Drive on cnn.com!

A few months ago, I wrote about the book drive I worked on with the The Harry Potter Alliance.

It was an amazing success thanks to everyone who listened to the podcast and donated, and it was just mentioned in this article on cnn.com!

My weirdo obsession

While everyone else comes back from the market with bags full of signature Rwandan fabrics, handmade baskets, and banana leaf place mats, why is it that every time I come back with a lone oversized whittled wooden map of Rwanda or Africa??

I can honestly spot these things from a mile away and I swear they magnetically draw me to them. Not only are they the one souvenir here with no practical value (what does one do with not one, not two, but THREE of these? Hang them on a wall? Display them like trophies?), but they're also the one thing that I can pretty much guarantee people from home will have zero interest in if I attempt to divvy up my collection.

Despite the fact that I've let go of my need for hot water, Ben & Jerry's, and Tivo, apparently I can't survive without these:

I don't even know these people!

Benna in Rwanda is written up in the Online start up GHOST Magazine - woohoo!!

Renewed Appreciations

I've been here 7 months now. I feel at home to an almost crippling extent, existing in the moment so much that I forget each passing day strikes a line through yet another box on my thinning calendar.

I try to appreciate my limited time by recognizing the little things that have become delightfully ordinary, the things I'll likely never again experience once I'm gone: How I still check if my phone is vibrating every time I hear a cow mooing, how a flushing toilet has the ability to put me in a good mood, how a spider that looks like a prop from the "Honey I Shrunk the Kids" set chilling on my floor is just no big deal, how the sky looked from the middle of the football field when all the power went out for miles the other night, how in 5 months I'd probably give anything just to take a lukewarm sponge bath or scrub and wring my clothing out to dry only to find them mocking me from a muddy pile on the ground when I return home from school.

And last, but most certainly not least: These kids. Oh man, these kids. I have to say, an unexpected really nice side effect of the Opening Ceremony was my inadvertent comparison of the distance in the relationships between kids and visitors, and the closeness of the relationship between kids and me.

It was clear how genuinely the guests wanted to know the kids, and it filled me with an incredible appreciation for the fact that I do, and how they constantly remind me through the little things they do: J. pauses to scan her unfamiliar audience during her biology presentation, finds me, winks, and continues; C. timidly answers questions from someone and then extends her fist toward me for a pound, exclaiming “Yo Wise, whadddup?” (our inside joke ever since she told me she wants to learn slang... and to name her first daughter "Wise" after me); the entire singing club comfortably laughing at me every time I start crying while watching them practice the ASYV Anthem; how I pounce on E. during capture the flag because I know his little body is stronger than it appears, and how he confirms my decision as he continues running toward the flag, carrying me on his shoulder as if he doesn't even notice...

Mural Evolution/Tanya is A-mazing

The Canvas: An (over) 80-foot long wall attached to the back of the dining hall.



The End Goal: This image, a collage Tanya created from paintings the kids made when asked to draw what ASYV means to them.



The Process:

1. Project a picture of the collage onto the wall and trace its outline:



2. Paint: