During
Peace Corps’ Pre-Service Training (PST), several hours every week are devoted
to integration and learning about Rwandan culture. You learn what things are
big no-no’s in Rwanda, like having dirty shoes, women whistling, eating in
public, or asking what ethnic group someone belong(ed) to. Peace Corps staff practically
beat you over the head with the message of integrate! Integrate! Integrate! And
for the first few months of my service, I tried to avoid every possible
cultural faux pas. I was determined to blend in, to become one with Rwandan
culture. I painstakingly cleaned my shoes every day, for maybe the first few
weeks at my site. Okay, maybe the first few days. As a woman, I avoided
drinking at any public events.
I was basically terrified of ever showing my knees in public, and I never wore makeup.
And
then, after a few months, I started to realize two things: one, that no matter
how hard I try to integrate, no matter what level of fluency I attain in
kinyarwanda, no matter how much I dot the cultural I’s and cross the cultural
T’s, I’m always going to stick out like a sore thumb here. And two, that there
are times when you should listen to cultural mores (for real, don’t ask
Rwandans about their personal history during the genocide unless they bring it
up. That means you, tourists), and other times you should just be yourself,
cultural integration be damned.
For
example, I’ve kind of given up on keeping my shoes impeccably clean, since it
seems like pretty much the biggest waste of my time ever. In the rainy season,
it’s impossible to walk anywhere without a solid caking of mud on your shoes,
and in the dry season, they’re coated with an inch of dust. My shoes are never
filthy, but I don’t wash them two or three times a day like most Rwandans seem
to. I wear pants in my village, despite the jokes about how I’m a man because I
wear
ipantalo. The joke is just as
unfunny the one-hundredth time, but I’m over it. I finally understand that no
matter how many times I tell people my name isn’t “white person”, there will
always be some people who rush into their house, yelling to have all their
family members come out and see the muzungu pass by, even after I’ve been here
sixteen months.
I guess the
excitement never gets old.
 |
| rainy season blues... |
I think there are even some
cultural stereotypes that are, dare I say it,
good to break. I’ve ridden a bike in my village before (to the utter
shock of the villagers that saw me), an activity almost exclusively reserved
for men. I have yet to see a Rwandan female bike rider, or a female driving a
car except in Kigali.
The first Rwandan female pilot is actually forbidden from making flight announcements, lest some sexist passengers become terrified that
a female is flying the plane. Some of the women watching me pedal around our
football field told me they didn’t even think it was physically possible for a
woman to ride a bike. Take that, dumb gender stereotypes!
I’ve
come to realize that since day one, a lot of people in my village already
thought I was crazy. And there’s a hidden power in being seen as the crazy
American. Short of going streaking through my village, there are few things
that I could do that could make me stand out anymore than I already do.
It’s
kind of like, well, I’m already crazy, so why not go big or go home?
So a couple of Sundays ago, after a long day of
studying for the GRE, I decided to take a run. I need to explain that running
and I have had an on-and-off relationship my entire life. I’ll go through passionate
periods of running every day in preparation for a half-marathon, and then once it’s
over, I won’t run for months. And I almost always like to run alone, for two
reasons. First, I find I can clear the frantic thoughts from my head a little
easier when I’m by myself, and secondly, I am the world’s slowest runner. If I
were an antelope, the lion would definitely eat me first. No question. I’ll
take occasional runs in my village, but often, the combination of intense
staring, forty kids all trying to run with me and yelling my name the whole
time, and those infamous Rwandan hills are enough to keep me doing workouts in
the privacy of my own room. The urge to swat a few kids running right in front
of me or trying to touch my skin also needs to be kept under control.
But that day, my need to get
outside and take a run was greater than the shiver that went down my spine when
I thought of all the people gaping at the crazy muzungu running down the dirt
paths of my village. I stepped outside the convent door, and almost immediately
turned back into the comfort of my own home. There was a soccer game happening
on the field right outside my door, and a few hundred Rwandans were watching
the match taking place. After a slight panic attack and a deep breath, I just
decided to
go for it.
Who cares?! Embrace
it! Be the crazy lady! Ride the lightning!
It
was just like a movie: all three hundred Rwandans turned their attention from
the field to the muzungu in a weird outfit and headphones unsuccessfully trying
to creep out of her house without being seen. I’m pretty sure the soccer game
actually stopped while the entire crowd silently stared at me running by. But I
kept going. My legs felt fresh, and I turned the music up load enough to block
out the calls of “white person!” and “helloIamfinethankyouteacher!” It wasn’t a
long run, since it’s the rainy season and it started pouring after thirty
minutes. But it was exactly what I needed.
I
think in the future, I’ll be running a lot more in Rwanda. I’m going to fully
embrace being the crazy lady. But I’ll also breathe a huge sigh of relief the
day I can go on a blissful, completely anonymous run back in the U.S. next summer.
Although still equally crazy
:)
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