Backseat drivers

This week, I have spent a fair amount of time behind the wheel. Tuesday, I blasted through town on errands for the Water Board, Mbalanguzi Renovation Project, Beit Housing Project, overdue accounts, etc. all while trying to keep track of 3 other people and where they needed to go. Wednesday, I bounced all the way to Mbalanguzi clinic (it's 25 km into the bush) and to the airport. Today, I was just a chauffeur. On Tuesday, Ed complimented me by saying I appeared to know my way around town quite well. However, Cristy asked me to take her some places in town today, very few of which I knew. I turned to her and asked, "Would you like to drive?" (this came out a bit brash even though it was supposed to be jest, pepani amai). She joked that she was content to be a backseat driver and we left it at that.

Why do we have backseat drivers? Some, such as myself, are control freaks. We can't risk our fate to the hands of others, even if our skills are inferior. A few people earnestly believe they are better at driving than whoever is actually driving. A generous dose of criticism occasionally follows, the constructive-ness can be debated. I like to think of a third group as lab rat technicians. They will happily provide helpful suggestions (turn right, change lanes, etc.) even if it's a little bit late. Otherwise, they are content to sit back, watch what happens, and come to conclusions. Occasionally, these are then proclaimed for all to hear. Finally, there are the people who are simply accustomed to driving a different way (slower/faster, aggressive/defensive, granny style/videogame tutored, male college dropout with a street racer and a sound system worth more than his house-style) and comment. But does backseat driving still qualify as such if the driver never hears it?

This week has been exceptionally frustrating, for a menagerie of reasons. There were many times when I wanted to turn to someone and say, "Since you think you can do a better job, here you go!" I see technical shortcomings around the hospital, although more often than not the problems find me. Beyond what is officially given to me are more general issues. Typically and thankfully, I'm not directly involved, but rarely do I lack an opinion. I may think "Yes, he's right", "No, that's not wasteful", "Uh oh, she is showing her knees (here, women showing their knees is considered indecent)", or "That pear bread is delicious." But is it helpful to have an opinion? Should I stick my nose where people haven't requested it be stuck? Is an outside viewpoint going to be helpful? Does playing the devil's advocate make one a heathen, a heretic, or a criminal? My goal for the week is to be less condescending (whether verbally or mentally) to people's faces and less of a flibbertigibbet behind them.

Habits

I love Nutella! Plain and simple. Absolutely anything goes with Nutella. Somethings mesh a little better than other. For instance, mangoes, bananas, and bread are better with a dab (read: glob) than tomatoes. Strangely enough, I hadn't eaten Nutella before coming to Africa, a massive mistake (and perhaps a healthier one). It has become part of my diet, a taste from home or, in this case, a reminder of it. It's things like Nutella, GPS, and driving that remind me of what I was once a member.

Another thing I have noticed is how I speak. To prevent confusion, I use some words such as chips and petrol instead of french fries and gas. The words are of much less importance than the way they are said. In order to be sure someone understands, I try to speak as clearly as possible. This often means spending more time enunciating at the expense of speed. A couple days ago, while sitting in her kitchen, Cristy offered me a hot drink. I replied, "Oh thanks, I will get it myself so I can do a little something something to it" (meaning "make it the way I like it"). In America, "little something something" is pronounced "lil' sum'n sum'n" and more mumbled than spoken. However, I had unintentionally enunciated each syllable. Cristy, being American and familiar with such phrases, turned towards me, gave me this look of "I can't believe you just said that", and laughed.

It's odd the things we bring with us, what is left at home, and what is acquired along the way. I brought clothes from home, clothes familiar to me. They were comfortable because they fit my body, my budget, and my image of myself. Those clothes are still with me although they have suffered long and have aged considerably. Likewise, I brought the "I know, therefore I do. Now I'm done, good-bye" mentality. Western society was like a house key: you don't think about it until you need to get into your own quiet place that feels secure. Many things stayed at home: grilled veggie burgers, well-paved roads to wherever I needed to go, reliable internet, and a scolding hot shower. Occasionally, life teases me and reminds me of America. But what I like the most is what's been acquired along the way (excluding some viruses and the such): appreciation of labor that doesn't require paperwork or a desk, a new-found respect for the simple act of communion, an amalgamation of what I liked about my culture with what I like about this one, just to name a few. Although I, in the somewhat distant future, may ingest copious quantities of Nutella from the comfort of the parents' sofa, I don't want to forget the things gained, the things which don't require a suitcase.

The words you don't want to hear

"This is your captain speaking. We will have a slight delay." Not some words you want to hear when sitting on the tarmac.

I have been doing my best to proceed with the water system at Mugonero Hospital. In doing so, I am torn between working towards the goal of reliable water, and working to please the donors. Too often, I must choose to listen to the donors' requests or listen to logic and reason because doing both is impossible. After hearing this and that from the donors for months, my time ran out. Patience fizzled. I couldn't take it anymore and neither could my superiors. With so much need elsewhere, I packed my bags and headed out, full of gratitude and frustration. Frustration because the people who claim to help are one of the biggest hindrances. Frustration that none of the people I had tried to help even cared. Frustration that I had spent 6 months trying to improve a hospital while accomplishing nothing more than acquiring a stack of messy papers, organizing a pile of rocks, and buying some buckets (ok, so it was a pile of quotations, a 125 cubic-meter stone foundation, and a couple 10,000 liter water tanks) because someone else thought I was incompetent. Gratitude that soon, I would be able to go to work, have more to do than I can accomplish, and go home knowing there is more to do tomorrow. Gratitude that I could soon lay in bed and be satisfied. Gratitude because of the endlessly open arms of my Malamulo family.

Would you like to know what the rest of the captain's announcement was? "We are having a problem with a valve in engine number one. Our flight engineer is going to get out and start it by hand." As I nervously looked out the window at engine number one, all that came to mind were the smiling faces waiting for me in Blantyre, Malawi, less than an hour flight away.

Now, as I blaze through a day with no end to work in sight, there are more words that I don't want to hear. "Can you fix my printer and connect me to the internet?" "You're an engineer! Here, do this!" "We need more money for this project. Is there more funding available?" "Today, we are saying farewell to (insert missionary's name)." But the words I fear most? "It's time to go back to Rwanda." Have I become too complacent and content here in Malamulo, the Loma Linda of Central Africa? Aren't we supposed to always be pushing ourselves? Am I fulfilling the command to "Go into all the world"?

That old time religion

Over two months ago, Victor and I unanimously decided that we wanted pizza. Mediocre pizza can be had in Kigali, but importing one from the International Space Station and cooking it during re-entry is a financially-comparable solution. Then, early last week, Victor decided it was time...time to splurge, time to recall old debts and settle them, time to enjoy a staple of the Western diet which long ago faded from the taste buds' memory (Victor forgave a considerable debt in exchange for a pizza).

Why this weekend? Because we had guests. A volunteer has been fearlessly helping for the last two rather exciting weeks, which included him nearly getting struck by lightning in a freak storm. A German and a Brit, both living in Kigali (and both of whom I had previously met) were also out for the weekend. It was a perfectly sized group: enough people to make it special, but few enough that everyone gets plenty of pizza.

So there we were, lounging around a bonfire, absolutely destroying the pizzas and relishing the company, swapping stories of harrowing bus rides and laughing at the locals' frequent mix-ups of "R" and "L" (yep, I'm Arexi just as often as I am Alexi [virtually no Kinyarwandan words end with consonants, which means they tack on an extra "e", "i", or whatever]). As the evening progressed, we even broke out the marshmellows and chocolate, truly a memorable occasion. All that came to mind was "The last time I enjoyed a day this much was as long ago as the last time I had pizza!" (both of which happened 69 days prior). But then, something changed.

In case you didn't guess, I am the oddball around here, and here are some examples. I am white, red-headed, vegetarian, not an alcohol consumer, but a Christian. The first two are the most obvious differences between Rwandans and myself. The last three are notable differences between myself and most other foreigners in Rwanda. And so, when Victor, Ralph, and Julian left for a couple minutes, Lorianne's curiosity got the best of her (she knew I was Adventist). She posed a question which nearly froze the blood in my arteries: "When you return to the States, will you go back to that style of religion?" Other questions like "What is your real hair color?", "Are you vegetarian because of animal rights?", "Would you like a beer?", and "How often do you shave?" have all been voiced many times, but this completely blindsided me. In an attempt to conceal my utter astonishment and to stall for time, I started talking until my wits recovered enough to formulate a coherent response. What was the reply? I honestly can't remember although it followed along the lines of "Probably, although I don't think the Western form of Adventism is all that different from the way the locals worship."

My frazzled nerves struggled to cope with the initial onslaught. Though nothing more was mentioned of the topic, I hardly thought of anything else the rest of the evening. "Are there really so many differences? We sing the same songs and read the same Bible, don't we?"; "Do my convictions mirror the attitude of the local believers?"; "Am I upholding the command to 'GO!'?"

Over the next few weeks, most student missionaries head for home, where open arms await them. They have laughed and wept, suffered and conquered, loved knowing they would lose their new friends soon. But I venture to say they have sensed their purpose, all of them. Some found it early on while others only recently saw the light. What about me? I'm not headed home any time soon, but perhaps this is better. I say such because I may have finally discovered my purpose. It's not to build a water system, fix some pumps, learn a language, or even minister to Rwandans. The first three are object-oriented tasks. Even the Rwandans (most of those who know me are also believers) are unlikely to understand what I say, what I do, and why I do it. On the other hand, westerners know what I gave up to come here. They know that surviving here in the remote corner of the far side of the world isn't a walk in the park. Maybe, just maybe, my assignment is to witness to my own culture by living for Him in the context of an entirely different one.

A graceful day

Do you ever get the feeling that the day will be elegant and glorious? Today, my day was neither elegant nor glorious, but full of grace at every bend. It started before 6 when the guards outside my house took it upon themselves to wake the dead, namely me. Worse things have happened and I enjoyed the additional reading time. Shower, breakfast outside (an exquisitely beautiful moth joined me but wasn't too chatty), and then off to work. Along with the usual email checks and project notes, a trip to Kibuye for cement and some piping supplies constituted my labor, and I was happy to be driving again, despite the risk of a compressed spine and ruptured kidneys (these didn't happen, which seems amazing given the road condition). Some of the orphanage kids scored a lift from me on their way back to secondary school (like boarding academy). Despite the slow pace, they were happy to not be paying for the bus. Before lunch time, I was in Kibuye, loaded with 1000 kg of cement, and relieved of the $300 required to purchase it.

At this point, I looked toward the restaurant where Jean and I typically eat lunch during town trips. It was utterly decimated, along with the stores on either side of it. No problem, we just went to the next closest one and ate the same food as always. Post-lunch, our final shop stop was for some plumbing supplies. As expected, the store didn't have all the parts necessary for a simple solution. After half an hour of rummaging through all the shelves to form an unwieldy solution, we had our booty. I returned to the truck and took it out for a drink, which wasn't cheap. However, that's when things started to go more awry than usual. I couldn't get the truck into gear, which aroused far too much attention. After much straining, we turned for home.

The first few km passed as mundanely as always, that is until we met a bus on a road barely wide enough for one of us. Talk about close! I was piloting the hospital delivery truck, which is right-hand drive. But Rwanda is a left-hand drive country, which made judging distance more difficult. After avoiding the bus with literally centimeters to spare (I looked out the back window to check the separation and must have gone pale), a rather pungent odor filled the cockpit. We both thought it was exhaust from the bus, at least until we noticed a small plume of smoke emanating from the gear shift (the engine is below the cab). After coaxing the rancid vehicle to the top of the hill, I was able to cool the engine on the downhill. My driving became ever more cautious, constantly watching the temperature gauge and never sure if it even worked (most of the gauges don't). On virtually all the major remaining uphills, the truck stalled at least twice.

Finally, almost to Gishyita (the last town before home) and the police tell me to stop for a routine check. I show them my license and they ask for some vehicle papers, which I don't have and have never seen. I direct them to the insurance sticker. Little did I know it was expired. They then asked for some proof of a technical inspection of the vehicle, an inspection the hospital has never undertaken for this vehicle. Because they speak very little English, I call Dr. Mfizi (a hospital administrator) and hand the phone to the police. They chat/argue for several minutes, then return my phone. I'm informed that not all the violations can be forgiven but run out of airtime before Dr. Mfizi finishes. And he won't call me back! Now, Jean won't get back in the truck. He continues chatting with the officers and ignoring me. Finally, after several minutes, he pops back, hands me my license (which the police have had the entire time), and tells me we are free to go. He has convinced the police to let me off the hook! Great! Except that they stopped us on an incline and I can't get the truck into gear. After arousing even more interest (from the police this time), we finally pull away and breathe a heavy sigh of relief. But all is not finished. To save strain on the engine, we head to the orphanage for delivery #1. Our arrival concludes sans mishap and Victor even gives me some cake, which made my day. However, as we depart, the clutch pedal goes straight to the floor. Courtesy of the topography, we are able to make our retreat. Once we get out of the gate, I can't engage any gears since the clutch is annihilated. After a push from some people, I slip it into first and keep it there. The remaining two km pass dreadfully slowly and changing gear is out of the question since everything is steep uphill. Despite numerous children chasing us (most easily kept pace), we stumbled to the maintenance building to part with our burden. Never before have I been so thrilled to unload a ton of cement!

Peace

This morning, I woke to the sound of silence, when the flittering of a moth could overpower a wildebeest stampede. Indeed, even now, the hum of a computer fan incessantly pounds my senses. Most mornings, the administration building hums with the daily tedium of accounting, printing, signing, and deciding. So why is today so serene? It's not entirely due to the soldiers I passed on my way to the hospital this morning. You may ask why soldiers armed with assault rifles patrol the streets on a national day of mourning. The answer to that query lies in the nature of our sadness. Today, we remember the genocide, and the soldiers stand their ground to ensure peace remains.

Two groups of people, the Hutus and the Tutsis, had vied for power for decades. After a civil war between the Tutsi-led RPF and the Hutu regime, the government decided to eliminate the Tutsis (who comprised of about 15% of the populous) and therefore eradicate the opposition. The atrocities began with the elimination of the Hutu president by his fellow Hutus. The assassins felt the president was trying to make peace with the Tutsis and couldn't accept this. Almost immediately extremist Hutus began to execute their plan, execute their countrymen. Many moderate Hutus were given a choice, kill their Tutsi neighbors or suffer the same fate. Finally, after three months, the tides turned and relative peace once again reigned.





Although this happened 17 years ago, the reminders still resonate today. Every day, I see a memorial to locals who lost their lives. Every time I travel to Kigali, I pass at least five monuments to the same tragedy. Like many Westerners, I still struggle to understand how hatred could motivate such actions. I fail to comprehend how those of us who claim to preserve life could have abandoned them and our peacekeeping mission. But I also see the efforts to overcome evil. The current president, Paul Kagame, has promoted peace despite being one of the tribe the Hutus tried to annihilate. I see integration of all people in all aspects of life. I see the respect everyone exhibits for the memorials commemorating those lost.

No longer are labels of Hutu or Tutsi applied. Whether tall or short, rich or poor, light-skinned or dark, we are Rwandans. Today, the towers of pine, mango, and eucalyptus bow their crowns in remembrance of the evils they witnessed yet utter not a word. The thunder roars and wails for its absent audience. The clouds weep their tears for the children who never jumped in the puddles. The rain washes away the auburn stains of the clay. Although we grieve tremendous loss, we can look forward. Why? Because today is a day of forgiveness.

Living off the grid

Have you ever tried to live off the grid? Cooking, bathing, and working off grid? If "living off the grid" meant anything like "living off the land", you would deduce that almost everyone lives off the grid because almost everyone depends upon it for their daily activities. This being the English language, logic isn't applicable. In addition to my regular job, which I discussed last time, I have an array of side projects, which primarily work off the grid. Electricity heats my shower and boils my rice, and the hospital has power for my computer. But notice that washing clothes failed to make that list. Yep, washing clothes takes more than a toss into the machine and a turn of the dials, it's by the brawn of your biceps and the wringing of your radii. That goes for both myself and the hospital. You can imagine the amount of work required for an 80-bed hospital. The current laundry facilities are stretched to capacity and need some refurbishment. That's where I pop into the picture. Even though construction really isn't my cup of tea, as the most technical person around these parts, it falls to my lot. What's the design? It's a simple building with slightly more space and better planning. Washing, drying, folding; two rooms and a courtyard for the primary steps of laundry. This week, we hope to solicit some bids. In perhaps two or three weeks, we may have a contractor and yet another construction project happening here at Mugonero.

For all you parents out there, what is the biggest cost associated with children? Buying clothes? Food? School (if you sent them to private school)? What if you had over 100 kids? You understand the need for a significant source of income, but relying on donations is foolish because of unpredictability. At the orphanage, Victor is creating industries with the profits helping to pay for clothes, food, and education to reduce the dependency upon charity (no, the children are not working in the industries). The government is working with Victor to develop a nursery to sell fruit trees to the locals. During the dry season, these saplings will need water, which is why Victor likes having me at his disposal. Behind the orphanage is a ravine with a creek snaking it's way along the bottom. A couple years ago, a German built a dam and a pump house to pump water up to the orphanage. The pumps are driven by water wheels and require no electricity. However, due of poor design both by the German and the Brazilian pump manufacturer, I have a task - get them working, ideally before the end of the wet season. This water is too dirty to be used for drinking and would clog any filter. However, a little soil with the water is just fine for the plants.

Another cost associated with children is the electricity bill. The orphanage's electricity bill comprises of bottles of distilled water. They have solar panels and a battery bank (courtesy of the German government) to power Victor's computer, the UV water purifier, and two lights so the kids can do their homework after dark. You would think that living so close to the equator would mean plentiful sunshine. But clouds seriously diminish the sunshine available, particularly in the rainy season. Any true Washingtonian can appreciate rain, primarily because it supplies the majority of their electricity. Likewise, my final project is to complete a design that would modify the pump house to include a hydroelectric generator. Thus, whenever the rain renders the solar system incapable of meeting demand, the rain itself will provide electricity. This is certainly the most difficult and complex project, even more so than my actual job, but this is also the most interesting and my favorite.

What do I like doing here in Africa? I like doing what I am most capable of accomplishing. Pilots, doctors, and even translators are all needed in the far reaches of the world. Evangelists and preachers have their calling. But someone decided not to bestow such abilities upon me. Instead, He created me to tackle those non-functional water pumps, a dog-chewed piano dehumidifier, those haphazard sketches of hospital buildings, a leak-prone hospital water system, and numerous other imperfect creations of man. With a passion for such, how can I say no?