Featured Post

International Meet-cute

August 13, 2023 Elle Featured Post Travel

International meet-cute

“Is this seat open?” The handsome stranger asked in accented English. I made an exception to the ‘don’t talk to strangers rule’. I’m a lot better at being open when I’m 8000 miles from home as opposed to being in my own town.

“Yes”. I replied as he sat down.

“Do you know those people?” He was referring to the three people in my group of 7 who pitched a total fit about sleeping arrangements.

“No. I only joined the group this afternoon. I don’t even know their names.”

A scheduling snafu, or perhaps this is how it’s always done, had me sleeping in a tent with two guys. One–from Hong Kong, who barely spoke English, and the second–the handsome stranger with the accented English who was my current dining companion.

We started chatting, the way travelers do when they first meet someone. “Where are you from?” [Me: the United States; Him: Italy, Milan specifcally]. What do you do when you aren’t traveling? [Me: I’m a RN; Him: journalist] Why are you in Kenya [Me: to teach; him: to explore]. Verbal parrying continued, each trying to suss out whether the other person would make an interesting companion past tonight’s dinner.

Dining Companions

Dinner was a simple meal; white rice and a meat stew on top. I’ve learned not to ask what “kind” of meat is in meat stew. Most often, it’s goat, or chola in Kenya, and while I’ll not be eating any goat in the US, when in Kenya….

After dinner we leave the communal dining room together. Despite the long travel day and our early morning start tomorrow, I’m not quite ready to turn in. I notice you following me to the bonfire. I’m a sucker for a bonfire. Any bonfire. Any where.

After the sun sets, it’s surprisingly chilly. After nearly a month in this country, the nighttime chill shouldn’t surprise me. Yet, it does. Every time. “I’m going to run and get my jacket.” I say to no one in particular, but especially to you so that you won’t leave.

I run back to our shared tent, which seems a lot more intimate than it is, and grab my flannel shirt. That’s what’s been serving as a ‘jacket’ these last few chilly days., and run back out to the bonfire. You are writing in your journal as I quietly take a seat opposite from you. I stare into the fire, somewhat lost in thought, when you blurt out, “What do you think of the state of the world right now?”

Borrowing a line from Harry Potter, I reply, ‘The whole world’s gone topsy-turvy.’ I hope that satisfies you, because the truth of it is, I don’t enjoy discussing politics. Or religion. People generally have forgotten how to have intelligent discourse and disagree without resorting to personal attacks.

“Do you know who the prime minister of Italy is?” he asked.

“I do. Her name in Meloni. Georgia, or something like that.” I can tell you’re impressed. I didn’t volunteer that I’d only just learned that recently due to a listening to podcast. “Most Americans don’t know that” you replied.

“Most Americans don’t know who their own representatives are” I countered.

“You’re not like most Americans” you assess with certainty although we’ve only known each other about 3 hours.

“Well, I try”

Things suddenly got serious. “Well, I don’t know many Italians to compare you to. Italian-Americans, maybe, but actual Italians, not so much.”

You laugh. “What is it with Americans claiming to be “something”-American. No other country does that.”

Now, it’s my turn to laugh. ‘I have no idea. My European ancestors literally came over on the Mayflower 400 years ago. And they were from the UK. I don’t go around saying ‘I’m British-American'”

You laugh again.

The Conversation Turns Serious

“Do you have on-line dating in Italy? Like Tinder?” I don’t know why I ask this.

“Yes. Of course. Why? Are you on it?

“Me? No.”

“Why not?” you ask.

“Well, I was in a relationship for a really long time and now I’m not. But picking someone out and ‘adding to cart’ like an Amazon purchase seems like the wrong way to go about meeting a potential partner. Besides people are superficial. Especially online. No one takes the time to get to know anyone anymore.”

“You mean like this” you ask.

“Yes. Exactly like this. No one in America has time for hours long dinners that lead to chatting around a bonfire for two hours. It’s go-go-go. All the time. And, besides, I don’t like small talk.”

“So what do you like to talk about, then”

“oh you know, ones hopes and dreams and fears. Goals in life. And bears”

“Bears?” you ask questioningly.

“Specifically the coastal Alaskan brown bear. And even more specifically, a bear named Otis” I reply.

You laugh.

“Well tell me about Otis” you say.

And I do. At length. At times, I wonder if I’m following the unwritten dating rules. Or is this an exception since this isn’t really a date. I decided to go with exception and talk way too much about Otis. And Pete. I do not mention my ex. No matter the situation, that’s definitely not an exception. You talk about Italy. And Ukraine. And South Sudan, You avoid mentioning other humans.

Somehow it’s midnight and the fire has almost burned out.

“I suppose we should get some sleep. We’ve got an early start.” I say to myself. And you.. As we walk back to our tent, I feel your hand brush against mine.

A Truly Magical Day

Who the fuck puts on make-up for a safari I thought as I carefully applied eyeshadow. Wait scratch that–Who the fuck BRINGS make-up on a safari. Apparently I do. If this isn’t some irony. A person who rarely wears make in the everyday life is putting on make-up to go on a safari.

Safari ready, make-up and all.

Shortly after our breakfast of beans and toast, we loaded up into our (separate) safari jeeps and set off to chase animals around Amboseli National Park.

It was amazing.

So many elephants.

And flamingos.

And some hippos.

I saw hundreds of zebras.

And giraffes.

I even saw the one animal I really wanted to see

After the safari was over we met back at the campsite and compared stories and animal sightings over dinner. You said it was cute how excited I got over seeing a lion for the first time.

“Better than seeing Otis” you joked. “Only because I’ve never actually seen Otis in person I replied”

“Come with me. I want to show you something even better than Otis. And lions.”

We walk outside, and the full moon is rising over snow-capped Mt. Kilimanjaro. It was an awe inspiring sight.

“I know you said you don’t kiss strangers, but I’ll hope you’ll make an exception. Besides we’re not really strangers anymore, are we? We’ve known each other exactly 26 hours.”

And standing there, in the shadow of Kilimanjaro, with the full moon shining overhead, you kiss me. And then we walk hand in hand back to our shared tent.

Museums of Broken Relationships

May 18, 2020 Elle Featured Post Wanderlust

2020 Michelle here: This museum I found in Zagreb, Croatia is perhaps one of the more interesting museums I’ve ever been in [The Sex Museum in Naples is another]. While Zagreb is no uber charming city, this museum had me enthralled. The end of a relationship is always a trying time for everyone involved even if it’s just a ‘whew, I dodged that bullet’ thought. But I’ve never thought of putting my relationship detritus in a museum for others to look at. Let this be a reminder that atypical museums can be some of the more educational, informative, pleasurable. museums out there.

A break-up is like a broken mirror: it’s better to leave it alone than to hurt yourself picking up the pieces.

His name was Michael. Today is his birthday. I shouldn’t remember that, but I do. When we met he was 32, and I was 24. We met at work. I loved his sense of humour and he loved my adventurous spirit. We were friends first. Nearly a year, before anything more than friendly happened. But as is often the case between men and women, something did happen. I practically dared him to kiss me, and when he did, it was as if time stood still. July 19, 2004 –after lunch. The kiss lasted exactly 42 seconds. I know because I had a digital atomic clock on the wall in my office. The kiss touched every neuron in my body, and for the first time in my life, I felt alive.

I named him “Nobody” and he called me “Girl. ” If people asked me who I was dating, and they did because people love to meddle in the affairs of others, I’d say “Nobody.” If people asked him who he was seeing, he’d say “Just some girl.” It was our secret, and it was exciting.

We carried on our secret affair for 18 months –until I moved away… co-workers weren’t supposed to date. And even after moving to a different state, the thought of him was like a drug. We were like addicts addicted to each other; couldn’t stay away, yet couldn’t get enough.

The first step in recovering from an addiction is admitting that there is a problem, and oh boy, there was. Michael was as strong as any drug I’d ever encountered, and willpower alone wasn’t enough to make me quit him. Over time I came to rely on a power greater than myself and contact with Michael became more and more sparse. Withdrawal is a painful master. There was physical pain. There was emotional pain. There were tears.

There were no stuffed worms. No legs were broken in this break-up.

The last conversation I had with him was right before I left for Moscow. He said “you always did want to go places.” and I said “I will always love you, but this will be the last time I tell you that.” And I haven’t had contact with him since. After returning from Moscow, I wanted to call him. I wanted to tell him all the amazing adventures I had. Instead, I got a cat. I named her Lily. She was a sweet cat.

Lily helped me heal.

I still have a post card he gave me. And ticket stubs for various events. And a necklace. And various little notes. What can I say, I’m a sentimental soul.

I knew before I went to Zagreb that I wanted to go to the museum of broken relationships. I find it fascinating to see what people keep as mementos from relationships. Not every relationship ends on a sour note. Some have other obstacles that time just could not overcome. Some just aren’t meant to be. Some exist solely to prepare you for the future. Michael was not my first boyfriend, but he was my first love, and without that relationship, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

I’ve held on to the mementos of the relationship with Michael for 10+ years, and karma, good energy, and such being what it is, it’s time to release that energy into the universe. Good bye Michael, and with that I turned my items over to the museum of broken relationships

PS...I have a slight confession to make. Once upon a time I was dating this guy, James. Now I knew the relationship with James was never going to be long-term, but he was ummm, fun, and I had recently broken up with a cheating bastard I caught with another woman. I made James brownies for his birthday. I left them on the kitchen table with a ‘Happy Birthday’ note. I came over the next day to find everything in the trash. I was pissed to say the least. Livid. Irate. Incensed. A seething cauldron of raging fumes; you get the idea. He was being such an ass. I went to the local World Market, bought a bottle of cheap $7 Il Bastardo wine, and switched it out for his fancy $200 bottle of French Bordeaux. My friend and I drank the rich, velvet wine while sitting in her hot tub cursing all the shallow men in the world. I still feel no shame in taking Il Bastardo’s prized bottle of red wine.

In retrospect, the Il Bastardo was still probably pretty tasty. After all it comes from Tuscany and is a Sangiovese so probably still good. I really would have like to have smashed Il Bastardo over the bastard’s head, but I got my revenge in other ways that even though the statute of limitations has passed, I’ll still keep my mouth shut because some things are just better left unsaid [or in this case… things are better left un-typed].

at least no axes were ever involved in any of my break-ups although a knife was involved in one very traumatic incident.

PPS…Names and dates have been changed to protect the innocent…Except Il Bastardo. His name really was James.

PPPS...If I dated women, I’d totally give every.single.one I ever broke up with this bar of chocolate. Because I am a petty mistress.

Mr Wendel

June 16, 2019 Elle Featured Post Peace Corps

On the surface Mr Wendel actually has nothing to do with this post. However that is one of the first songs I remember hearing played on the radio, It’s all about poverty. In the US. Not some rural village in Rwanda.

Wealthy

When I worked my last shift at the hospital on June 2, 2018, I didn’t have a sudden feeling of insecurity when I pulled out of the parking lot around 7:30 because I was suddenly unemployed. Even though I knew I was choosing poverty, it didn’t hit me then. That came about a month later when my first disbursement was paid to me… in cash. 47,000 Rwandan Francs (about $50) which was to be enough for two weeks of living with my host family in Rwamagana.

A lot of that 47000 RWF was spent at the Rwamagana market on lunch and supplementing breakfast and dinner.

As I pulled out of the parking lot for the last time I mentally calculated how long this last American paycheck would last in Rwanda. Having this money in the bank allowed me mentally prepare myself for the poverty to come It was measured in months, not days like in the USA. The cost of living is significantly less and my expenses are less too, but my income is much, much less as well. My monthly living allowance in Rwanda was nearly equivalent to ONE 8 hour shift at the hospital–without any shift differentials. I knew that by choosing to join the Peace Corps’, I’d be choosing poverty.

Then Not

Much like in the US, I spend a lot of my Rwandan income on food. But instead of going to restaurants, I’m going to the markets. I’m what I call a ‘Village Vegetarian.’ Meat products are too expensive and too raw to consume. I occasionally buy UHT shelf-stable milk in 500ml bags, but other than that, no dairy. Eggs are pricey (proportionally) 100RWF each, and I walk a lot to avoid paying 500RWF (or more!) for short moto rides. These little relatively small amounts are what we call being ‘nickel and dimed to death’. On their own, it won’t break me, but added up, over time, my monthly Peace Corps income diminishes rapidly.

Rwandan pool days keep me sane. Even if the water is made of icicles.

Budgeting

Just like being in the US, you learn to cut corners. What is necessary vs what will be nice to have. A nice push broom with a long handle vs a standard Rwandan sweep broom. For example, imagine something breaks. Let’s say a handle on a bucket. Some big and some small. Back home I would have just gone out and bought one the next day. But here, it’s not so simple. If I buy a bucket then I have to cut out something different, likely a more luxurious food item like potato chips or apples. When a hole developed in my favorite skirt because the laundry detergent is really that strong, I had to do without.. Because having one made would cost about 20,000 RWF, and 20,000 RWF is equivalent to my food budget for the week.

This may sound alarming to you, and sometimes it is to me too. Rwanda is in transition from a third world (or subsistence) country to a second-world (or middle-income) country. Village life is still quite cheap. If I never took a moto, walked everywhere I needed to go, only bought the ten items sold in our local market, I could live like a king, but alas, escaping the prying eyes of village life is as much of a necessity to me as apples. Thus, I escape to Huye every chance I get.

And while Huye is not Kigali, it is not cheap. Food costs more. Motos cost more. There’s a swimming pool (two actually), and hotels with decent (read fast) wi-fi that one can hook up to and surf the net to one’s heart’s content as long as you buy Something. And for me that’s usually a Fanta Citron.

A fancy coffee milkshake… while tasty, quite expensive on a Peace Corps’ budget

Choosing Poverty

It is easy for it to be about me every day. Worrying about what I can and can’t buy. Worrying if I am eating healthy enough. It has no importance when I compare myself to my community members. Because this is a choice for me. (And I also get care packages containing vital amounts of protein in the forms of American peanut butter and tuna fish). When I took the oath to be a Peace Corps volunteer, I knew that for the duration of my service that I would select to live below a means that I have been accustomed to my entire life. And that when that time is over, I will walk out of poverty and back into (relative) luxury–real luxury compared to my Rwandan neighbors and co-workers.

I won’t have to work hard for that to happen. I have a furnished house and driveable car waiting for me upon my return. I’m almost certain I can return to the same job I had before I left as soon as I set foot on American soil. I will go back to working in the hospital for 30-40 hours a week and in that amount of time make more than my Rwandan neighbors make in a year. I will still have more than 100 hours of ‘leisure’ time each week. Time where I will not have to do back breaking manual labor such as washing clothes by hand or dig in the the hard Rwanda red clay with hand tools.

If I do laundry, it will be in a machine with the accompanying dryer. Dirty dishes will also be done by a machine. If I work in the garden, it will be a choice–a stress reliever–not as a means of survival. I won the citizenship lottery just because I was born where I was born. My neighbors in Rwanda cannot even comprehend the level of freedom I have.

The 1%

We don’t realize in America that being the 99% (as in the not exorbitantly wealthy 1% of Americans) still puts us in the 1%. In comparison to the rest of the world, we all all rich. We don’t see how even a lower-middle class lifestyle is so excessively over the top as compared to how billions of other people are living. And it is hard for me to wrap my brain around it even after living in the midst of the 99% here in my village. Even with my modest little Peace Corps living allowance, I am in the top 10% in my community.

What I have in my American savings accounts is more than what most people in my village will make in a decade or two. To them, wealth is having a concrete floor or land for a cow (and a cow). To us, it’s having 3+ bedrooms and a corresponding number of bathrooms. Wealth is marble or granite countertops and a 2+ car garage. It’s fancy electronics and that extends into the bedroom with the advent of adjustable base beds. Here, even having a mattress signifies wealth. And even though RwandaFoam is a company that boasts of its quality mattresses the fact is its foam flattens out in about six months. Here, I am wealthy because I can afford a 47,000RWF mattress just for me. I am wealthy because I alone live in a two room house.

I chose to join the Peace Corps and move to rural Rwanda. According to the numerical standards used in the US, I live below the poverty line. Poverty is a choice for me. I used to feel ambivalent about my ‘friends’ protests and rage about being the 99% in America. Now I am pissed off by it. It exposes our lack of exposure to the rest of the world and the conditions they live in. The real 99%.

What does this mean for you? I don’t know. I’m not saying everyone should choose poverty. I am not that you should feel guilty or motivated to take drastic action. I am sharing how amazing I think it is that I chose when to be poor and when to stop being poor—relevant to the rest of the world. What does this mean for me? It means I won’t ever take my choice for granted. Because to me, that is the respectful thing to do after I thrust myself out of poverty.

Shout out to Arrested Development’s Mr Wendel for this post’s title. As a side note, this was one of the first CDs I ever bought.

Umuganda, you say? What the heck is that?

January 27, 2019 Elle Featured Post Peace Corps

What is Umuganda?

In Kinyarwanda, Umuganda roughly translates as ‘coming together to achieve a common goal’. It was originally started after Rwanda achieved independence in 1962. In the beginning, Umuganda was often called ‘umubyizi’ –and was a day set aside by friends and family to help each other. It officially became a government program in 1974. The last Saturday of the month is umuganda day and lasts from about 8am until 1p. Officially.

History of Umuganada

Initially, Umuganda did not go over well with Rwandans. Rwandans considered it forced labor, but due to its significant achievements in erosion control and infrastructure improvement – especially building projects– people came to like it and participated in it voluntarily. The 1994 Rwandan genocide disrupted the spirit and practice of Umuganda. It was re- introduced in 1998 as part of reunification efforts. Often times Umuganda projects are still the way community projects are completed.

Who participates in Umuganda?

On Umuganda day, the Rwandan government encourages Rwandans and others [*ahem Peace Corps Volunteers*] to participate. Rwanda requires citizens between 18 and 65 to participate [unless medically compromised or pregnant]. Participation by those above 65 years and below 18 year is optional. To *encourage* participation, public transportation is stopped, restaurants are closed until noon, and most market stalls are closed. [Woe to the PCV who is not in his/her community because getting there is a bitch, and Thanks Peace Corps Rwanda Staff for scheduling almost all our training sessions to end on the Saturday morning of Umuganda which makes getting back to site before dark a real challenge.]

Additionally, Umuganda also serves as a forum for leaders at each level of government to inform citizens about important news and announcements. Community members are also able to discuss any problems the community is facing and propose solutions. So it’s easy to see how umuganda can last all day.

Benefits of Umuganda

Rwanda is the cleanest country in Africa. Rwanda first banned plastic bags in 2008 in an effort to limits the amount of roadside trash. Incredibly, one can be jailed for using plastic bags. [This knowledge did not stop me from smuggling in nearly 250 ZipLoc bags of varying sizes. I know, I’m a rebel.]

The tourist sections of the country are incredibly clean as umuganda projects are often about cleaning up the roads; however, in the non-tourists areas, rural areas, or ‘real Rwanda’, trash is still a problem mainly because there is no centralized collection. People burn their trash or throw it in the latrine. I’ve personally taken trash from my home (especially plastic bottles) and threw it away when in cities where public trash cans were sometimes available. I don’t know that this is the best solution, but living so close to a larger city, it’s an option for me. I really don’t like burning plastics.

Economically, Umuganda adds a lot back into the local economy. Since 2007, labor associated with Umuganda contributed more than US $60 million to the country’s development. Some reports estimate more. Like a lot of things in Rwanda, umuganda sounds good in theory but often translates poorly in practice. Sometimes too many people show up for one project; sometime not enough people show up. In the poorer areas, people often refuse to show up especially during harvests because time is literally money. Some people see the value of education. Some are too poor to pay school fees, and therefore don’t want to waste time on a school.

It’s difficult to enforce umuganda laws if one simply stays home. However, the government imposes a fine of 5000RWF if one misses Umuganda duty. Here’s a link from NPR about a story they ran in July 2018 about umuganda. Here’s a clip showing Rwanda’s president participating in Umuganda.

I’m a stranger here myself

September 30, 2018 Elle Featured Post Peace Corps

What the actual F*ck am I doing here?

It’s a question I ask myself daily, sometimes hourly, and occasionally every few minutes. Even now, I don’t have a clear answer. I’m a stranger in an area used to having Peace Corps’ trainees. As long as I stick to main roads and predictable schedules, all is well. But when have I ever stuck to main roads and predictable schedules?

I have been in Rwanda two months and yet, I’m still a stranger. All of that time other than one week has been in our training village of Rwamagana, Eastern Province. Here we learn the Kinyarwanda language and learn how to be a Peace Corps Volunteer. How to be a volunteer? Yes, because as of now, I am still NOT a Peace Corps Volunteer, merely a lowly Peace Corps Trainee. The one week not spent in Rwamagana was spent visiting my site. Aka the place where I’ll arrive a stranger and leave a full-fledged villager [PC gaol for intergration]. Let me tell you, during that week I asked myself the above question about 100 times. A day.

After two months, I’m still a stranger in the host family I’ve been placed in. Truth is most evenings I’m ‘home’ alone. Host mom spends an ungodly amount of time at church. And host sis is a teenager doing teenager things. Which means not hanging around the American Adult who has kicked her out of her own bedroom.

What the actual f*ck am I doing here? y5rWhere the h*ll am I? Why isn’t there any food? How can I get the f*ck out of here? Why am I headed to yet another bar when I’ve told this person I don’t drink? Is it too late to go back to work at my [nice] job in America? The one with awesome co-workers? Or my house with my [oh-so-comfy] bed? Or my kitty cats? Why did I think becoming a Peace Corps volunteer was a good idea anyway?

One of the two sweet kitties I left behind–Hey Miss Lucy

My Peace Corps Journey

I considered applying to the Peace Corps when I was in high school. And then again after college. It was part of the reason I studied foreign languages in college. But as LIFE tends to do, it got in the way and I saw my immediate post-college years running away from a bad relationship [quite literally as I spent years 22 and 23 on the run in Mexico–and Belize–and Guatemala–and El Salvador…you get the drift] and then running towards a career [any career].

24 would have been the perfect time for me to join the Peace Corps. I was mostly unencumbered by responsibilities. I was nearly fluent in Spanish. I’d spent much of the last year and a half teaching English as as Second Language in various places to various groups of people. Aside from the political aspect [and while PC claims to be apolitical, an overwhelming majority of PCVs lean democratic. That’s neither good or bad; it’s just a fact], at 24, I was a Peace Corps’ poster child–a person with just enough life experience to still see the good in everyone and still want to save the world. I was a person unsure of my life and career goals. I was exactly the type of person that the Peace Corps seems to attract.

At this stage of my life, my 20’s have long passed [thankfully]. I am still about as apolitical as they come, and I while I have a career as a nurse, no one in their right mind would call me a professional do-gooder. I am as sure of my career and life goals as one can be when FATE is involved.

So what am I doing here and why I am I doing this exactly?

Well, it took me a long while to work that out.

I’ve written about that a couple of times already, but even though there are several contributing factors, at my core, I want to help people. And yes, I could ‘help people’ without putting my life on hold, and moving 7800 miles and three continents away, but where’s the adventure in that?

To date, I have traveled in 54 countries [although none in Africa until now], but never really lived in one area other than the upstate of South Carolina for a period longer than four months [except that one time, I moved to North Carolina, but my LIFE was still firmly ensconced in South Carolina.] My reasons are as varied as any other PCV’s reason are, and yes, at the end, I hope to get something tangible in exchange for my service.

My site seems to already know about permagarden techniques

Where is here? And Rwanda?

Well, it wasn’t my first choice….

But when was the last time you met anyone who has been to Sub-Sahara Africa, let alone lived there. I know a few people who have visited a handful of countries, mostly in East/Southern Africa. Not many people I know even consider Africa [as if it is one country instead of one rather large continent consisting of 54* individual countries] as a vacation destination. And Rwanda? If not for this opportunity, I can almost guarantee than I would have never set foot in the country. And I like to consider myself a traveler,and in my mind that means doing my best to experience the touristy parts of the world as well as places that are off grid. And in 2018, Rwanda is still off most people’s grid.

“I want to help people.”

And I really do want to help people. I’ve worked in healthcare for most of my adult life. If I didn’t truly want to ‘help people’ there are a lot of other, less strenuous, less soul-draining professions out there. Professions where I could make more money, have a better life-work balance, and not spend all hours of the night awake.

But American healthcare is complicated. The overwhelming majority of my co-workers want to ‘help people’. Yet we often know that whatever we do–whether it’s a life-saving measure in the Emergency Department or Continued Care in a Rehabilitation Department–it’s a stop-gap procedure. Yes, SOME people do GET IT. Some people see it the catalyst needed to do massive behaviour change. However, for the most part, Americans are repeat offenders in the health care system.

Now I’ll get my chance to work with patients who really want and need help. Of course, creating behavior change is still going to be hard.

Panoramic view of an area near my future house

Third Goal

One of PC’s central missions for each volunteer is to share their story with people in America. A blog or Instagram account is an easy way to do that. So is writing for the local paper or sharing my story in person. In addition to writing this blog, I’ll be doing a presentation in at least one elementary school classroom during my service.

Forth Goal

Ok, so there is no official 4th goal, but for me, joining Peace Corps’ is a way to slow down in inevitability of life. People say the older you get, the more time flies, and at this stage of life, I’m starting to see that. The pressure to settle down, get married, have a career is intense. Momentum is carrying me along and sometimes I can’t seem to stop it. Of course, there are less dramatic and more practical methods of changing habits and behaviors than moving to a remote Rwandan village for two years. But where would be the fun in that?

Learning a language that will never be used again

August 12, 2018 Elle Featured Post Peace Corps

One week later…

On our second day in Rwanda, our group of 24 trainees was split into six groups, and I sat beside three other trainees watched our Language and Cultural Facilitators, act out a short dialogue.

They stood a few feet apart, facing away from each other, then turned around and began to walk slowly with their heads down, as if they were walking along a street. Then they make eye contact with each other and one, and upon doing so, one of them breaks into a wide smile and exclaimed “Muraho!” to his freind. On cue, after hearing this, the other also grinned and returned the word.

“Muraho!”

The dialogue then came to a quick end. Upon ending, each of our language teachers looked at our group inquisitively. “Iki ni iki?”. They continued to stare at us, in silence, waiting for someone to respond.

I stared right back not knowing what a ichie or a nichie was. I’m a little unusual in the fact that silence does not bother me. I can sit comfortably in a room full of people and never say a word. I attribute that to my psych background.

Our teachers, still smiling, said nothing but went back and repeated the little sketch, beat for beat. After saying Muraho! to each other again, they repeated their question: “Iki ni iki?”. The lightbulb then managed to click in someone’s [read: not my] mind. “Oh! They are just asking us what Muraho means.

Someone [read: not me] said “It means hello!”. We all nodded with recognition. Oh, so this is how language class in Peace Corps was going to go. I am so fucked…

“Yego!”, they said laughing.

As they continued, some of the smaller and more basic words were written down on flip chart paper [I never knew I could hate an object so incredibly much, but I’ve come to despise flip-chart paper], with their English definitions so we could reference them consistently.

Yego means yes.
Oya means no.
Iki means what.
Murabyumva means, do you understand?
Iki ni iki means, what is it/this?

On this first day, our little group buzzed with excitement. The teachers continued to act out small dialogues in lieu of telling us the words by didactic translation. They waved to each other and walked away, saying to each other “Mwirirgwe!”

Someone [again, read: not me] blurted out ‘goodbye?’ and correct guesses would be rewarded with an enthusiastic “Yego!” and wrong guesses earned a soft and disappointing “Oya…”.

“Amakuru?” means, how are you? We figured out slowly.

“Ni meza” means, I’m good.

“Wowe?” means, and yourself?

tiny Rwandan bananas; sometimes used to supplement breakfast — banana–a universal word in the Western hemisphere… In Rwanda it’s umuneke

One. Month. Later.

I have Double Language today. Double Language. Four straight hours. No snacks. Can’t I just get food poisoning for the day?

On a random morning about one month in, I thought this to myself as I walk to language class. The thought rattles around my mind with every step down the road. DoubleLanguage. DoubleLanguage.

No matter how many times I’ve mentioned that I’d prefer both fruit AND eggs for breakfast, I rarely get both. Some days it’s one or the other, and thankfully not all that often, it’s neither. Today, it just a piece of stale bread. Walking to my language teacher’s class, I kept thinking ‘no snacks today because double language…I need snacks because the stale sweet bread I got for breakfast just isn’t cutting it.‘

In the one short month I have been here, I have lost nearly 15 pounds and I have learned one thing: I need protein in order to function. And I need lots of protein to function optimally. And my Rwandan diet, has been lacking protein at almost every meal. As a result, I feel sluggish most of the time and randomly emotional. As every American knows, BREAKFAST is the most important meal of the day and why Rwandans think one piece of bread and tea is a proper breakfast is beyond me.

But here I am.

On the day with double language, my breakfast is stale sweet bread. And water. Prisoners get better food than this.

But like the semi time-conscious American I am, I arrive for DoubleLanguage right at 7:45am.

OK 7:50

I am here because the schedule says to be, and despite my proclivities for being a free-spirit and not planning anything, one thing I am not is late. At least not in Rwanda. Additionally, Peace Corps emphasizes in our training sessions to ‘Respect Time‘; however, none of my classmates nor the teacher are here. So I sit, in a plastic chair and nibble on my stale sweet bread, and drink my water…

Best to fuel up, I mumble to no one in particular.

By 8:00, my other classmates have arrived and my teacher begins asking questions. All in Kinyarwanda, of course.

The teacher asks ‘What did you eat for breakfast?’

I fumble, my brain searching for the right words. Oh…past tense… we haven’t learned that yet. Kurya… the verb for to eat… How do you conjugate it again?

M-fee-tay ke-ke na a-ma-zi….I sputter out and produce said cake and water as evidence that I do in fact HAVE cake and water…not that I was avoiding the question

And this is how every language class goes. We are asked questions. I translate what I think I hear from Kinyarwanda into English in my mind. Then I think of what vocabulary I actually have in order to answer the question, and do I have the ability to conjugate that verb correctly? Once I run through this scenario in my mind, I compose the sentence in Kinyarwanda and then sputter out an answer that could come from a 2-year old child.

Gusa? My teacher asks.

She wants me to expand on that phrase. Make it a sentence or preferably a paragraph.

“Donna-ni-way can-di da-shon-jay”, I answer, with a smirk. I am tired and I am hungry. All day every day, I am tired and hungry. One question down, four hours to go. Class has just begun, and it’s another two hours until there’s a break long enough to get snacks.

I could really go for a fruit salad right about now

Challenges

Not unsurprisingly, learning Kinyarwanda is considerably different from anything I’ve ever tried to learn in my life. I’ve always considered myself ‘decent’ at learning languages. I’m semi-fluent in Spanish and have safely navigated around using Portuguese, French, Romanian, German, and Russian in addition to English and Spanish. But Kinyarwanda is different… just listening to it makes my head spin. I’m six weeks in and I am still very much at an elementary level. I don’t need an exam to tell me that.

My host family has had 8 previous volunteers so they are used to speaking slowly and enunciating words properly and switching to French when I answer their questions with blank stares. Learning a language by immersion is exhausting. It takes a significant amount of mental energy, commitment, and time; and these three things are required every single day. After a long language session, I am exhausted…even more so than days requiring physical labor.

When I hear Kinyarwanda, I have a hard time understanding it. My language progress checks with my teachers also reflect this fact. [Mid LPI result on July 7, I scored Novice-Mid. Final PST LPI on August 7, I’m up to an Intermediate-Low, but don’t worry, we’ll be tested again in three months where I’m sure I’ll have the exact same level, because this language does.not.make.any.sense to me].

Speaking the language is also difficult, although I would argue it is not quite as difficult as listening. This is in large part because as a native English speaker the sentence structures, particularly of questions, are almost entirely backwards. In Kinyarwanda, question words almost always go at the end of sentences.

For instance, “Ukora iki”, means, what do you do?; but literally translates to “You do what?”. It is like that for just about everything. You are here why? This is what? The market is where? In addition to putting question words at the end, adjectives go after nouns; this is similar to Spanish. But when you put these two elements together, it forces your brain into cryptic problem solving mode anytime you have to say a sentence with any more than 5 words.

When I think to myself a moderately detailed sentence like, “What do your American friends like to do?”, my head spins. The question word goes to the end, there are plural words, there are possessive words, there is one adjective. It all goes completely out of what we would consider “order”: Inshuti wawe muri Amerika bakunda gukora iki? That translates literally to: Friends yours in America they like to do what? It’s a difficult puzzle to solve each and every time. Don’t forget to blend Gukora and Iki … or they’ll know you are not native Rwandan.

The words for things, and the lack of words for thing captures stark differences between American and Rwandan culture. There is no word for “Please”. You can just tell people to do things, and it’s not considered rude. At all. As evidenced by all the people coming up to me saying ‘Give me money.’ No please. Just declaring. And I will always think that it is rude. Cultural differences be damned.

Some of my favorite words to say are:

“Umudugudu” which means village. Oo-moo-doo-goo-doo.
‘Abakoreabushake‘ which means volunteers. A-ba-co-re-ra-bu-sha-che.
‘Ikigonderaubuzima’ which means health center post. Ichie-gon-der-a-u-bu-zima.
‘Nka Kibazo’ which means no problem, don’t worry about it… Naa che-ba-zo.
‘Tugende’ which is “Let’s go” too-gen-de

I’ve got two years, right?

5 steps to survive taking an electric shower

March 18, 2018 Elle Featured Post Wanderlust

2018 Michelle checking in here: The electric shower is a scary occurrence in several areas of central/south America. One one hand, I’m grateful for hot, flowing water; on the other hand, I was seriously scared for my life. BUT figuring out how to work this calamity was one of my greater travel achievements. I don’t think there will be electric showers in Rwanda, but if there are, it’s OK. I’ve figured that out once before.

The shower in my hostel in Bogotá. It’s a toss-up: You may get clean; you may die

Either this was such a traumatic experience for me before that I’ve put it out of my memory or this is some Colombian designed torture device; this is what greeted me the morning after my arrival to Bogotá.

It’s a large electrical time bomb hanging above my head; luckily all the ends of the electrical wires were covered in electrical tape. I have since found out that this is not always true nor is this device confined to Colombia.

5 steps to surviving an electric shower

Is it high enough so that you will not hit your head? I’ve had problems with showers before that were mounted for people no taller than 5 feet tall. Luckily, all the electrical showers I’ve encountered are way up there out of the way of an errant splash.
Are there any bare wires that could come in contact with water? Did you bring electrical tape? If not, a wash cloth and the sink might be the best option.
Get naked. Do your thing, and get out. If you have rubber soled sandals, wear them. This is not the time to reminisce about the day. Chances are the water won’t be at optimum temperature anyway. The only way I’ve found to control the temperature of the water is to control the flow of the water. There’s a science-y explanation for this but essentially the water needs time to roll through the metal plumbing to heat it up before it before comes out. So you can have warm water flowing like maple syrup in winter or cold water flowing like a fire hydrant. But not both. Your choice.
If the pop off valve does indeed pop off– DO. NOT. SCREAM. Like I did the first time this happened to me. Uninvited visitors will show up and cause some slight embarrassment. It is supposed to keep water from spraying up into the wires which could save your life,. However, I have found that they just pop off whenever they feel like it.
Yay! You are clean, but also soaking wet. How to turn off the faucet? You will only reach for the metal knobs once before muscle memory kicks in and you will remember why you never want to do in again. Nobody in these parts have ever heard of grounding wires. My suggestion is to have a small towel–hand towel sized–that you use for turning off the knobs.

No need to fear the electrical, non-grounded shower. I, like several before me have survived; you can survive it too.

Conversations from a bar

June 4, 2017 Elle Featured Post Wanderlust

Every empty bottle is filled with stories.

Raise your glass

This is a conversation that occurred in a Colombia bar in August, 2010.

Colombia is a beautiful country. The Andes Mountains, the Amazon jungle, the Cocora valley are all amazing. In addition to the natural beauty, Colombia has beautiful people. Some of them are naturally beautiful and some of them–well, they have a little help. The plastic surgeons in Colombia do a fantastic job. Medellin is my third stop in Colombia. It is kind of like Goldilocks and the 3 bears. The weather in Bogota was too cold. The weather in Leticia was too hot, but the weather in Medellin is just right. The days are warm and the nights are cool. It feels like fall [or spring].

Last night, I went out with some English/Australian guys that were staying in the same hostels [Funny story: We had actually met on the cable car that goes to the top of the city.] So at some point during the evening after an indeterminate number of drinks, in an unidentified bar, a conversation much like the following took place:

Guy 1: “Are those real?” (referring to boobs, but not mine of course)
Me: “Nope. No way”.
Guy 2: “Yeah. I reckon. You can tell the difference.”
Guy 1: “Aha ha. I agree. Definite difference in shape.”
Me: “Yeah. But there’s no way that they could be real.
Guy 2: Compare hers (Colombian chic) to hers (mine). Definite extra perkiness. No offense” (referring to Colombian chic)
Guy 1: “I’m still not convinced. They’re too good to be real.”
Me: “Why don’t you just ask her?”
Guy 1: “Huh?”
Guy 2: “What?”
Me: “Just ask her”
Guy 1: “That would be funny.”
Me: “Yeah. Go on. Or I will.”
Guy 2: “I don’t know. That’s pretty random. Imagine if someone came up to you and…”
Me: “C’mon’. It’s the only way to settle it. Fuck it. I’ll do it…”
Me and two guys in a bar

So somewhere, in the night, after an indeterminate number of drinks plus a few more, in the same unidentified bar, another conversation, much like the following, took place:

Guy 1: “What the fuck did you touch them for?”
Me: “She said I could.”
Guy 1: “And so you just grabbed them?”
Me: “Yep.”
Guy 2: “And?”
Me: “Real.”
Guy 1: “Definitely? Did she say so?”
Me: “Yep.”
Guy 2: “What did she say exactly?”
Me: “They’re real. Good hmm?
Guy 2: “In English?”
Me: “In English.”
Guy 2: “Fuck off”

Me : You know, that’s the first time I’ve ever touched a pair of boobs other than my own…
Me and two guys in a bar

These are definitely fake

Conversations similar to the one above are, probably, not uncommon in Medellin. It is, apparently, the plastic surgery capital of the world in a country that is probably the most plastic surgerized in the world. Or at least close to. Such a place has a significant reputation to live up to. However, Medellin does it with aplomb, cosmetic surgical intervention striking you anywhere you turn. Seriously, fake boobs are everywhere. They are more normal than natural boobs.

If you don’t have them, you’re the odd one out. Old woman have them. Girls far younger than the legal drinking age have them. Yes, I even saw a cat that had them (this may or may not be true… this may or not have occurred at the bar). I read somewhere, but I now don’t recall where, that the prevalence of silicon in Medellin is largely due to Medellin’s former status as the center of the world cocaine trade. Don’t ask me why that means fake boobs all over the place – I guess drug lords liked them big. In any event, the reality remains, and it is one scary, bouncy and far too perky reality.

The same can be said for the fellas

Fernando Botero

The theory attributing Medellin’s curvaceousness to the drug lords is a popular one. However, my own personal theory is that the female of residents of Medellin are paying homage to the great Colombian artist, Fernando Botero.

Medellin born and Medellin raised, Botero’s sculptures dominate the public artistic landscape of central Medellin, his ludicrously proportioned, voluptuous and humorous bronze figures in the Plaza Botero in particular a highlight. If you are not familiar with Botero’s work, I can probably sum it up for you in a single word – fat. Not ‘ph’ fat. Just plain old ‘fat’. Like everything being seen through one of those crazy mirrors that makes everything look fat. Not ‘ph’ fat. Just plain old lazy bastard fat. Having viewed a reasonably large collection of his work in Bogota, it’s clear to me that his work is at its most impressive in sculpture – the central focus of his work, the roundedness aka ‘fat’, most effective and striking when experienced in three dimensions. Fat. Not ‘ph’ fat. Just good old ‘if it sits on you it’s going to hurt’ fat.

No rain

February 15, 2015 Elle #HistoryNerd Featured Post Travel

As an introvert, I live a lot of my life in my head. And as an avowed #historynerd, I think a lot about the past. I think about how 21st me would fair in various time periods. Would I survive? Would I thrive? For example, 21st century me does not like human sacrifice. The weather fascinates 21st century me, but not so much that I want to control it. 21st century me knows that I nor anyone else can make it rain on command. 21st century me like to build things and garden, but in fact does not offer human sacrifices to the deities in order to get rain. Evidently, I would not last long in Mayan society.

Did you know? I did my senior thesis project on Mayan Art and Architecture. In Spanish. So much of a #historynerd.

Large and in charge

Being in charge is no joke. Sometimes at work I’m forced into that position. I don’t like it, and it’s not a position I enjoy. It’s hard work being in charge. However, at least when I’m in charge I know there are things outside my control. Like admissions. Or orders.

In ancient Mayan society, rulers were responsible for governance, organization, warfare, keeping the calendar… Oh, and CONTROLLING THE WEATHER. By claiming divine descent and direct communication with the gods, the ruling elite was able to justify its power and obtain necessities like food, clothing, shelter, and status symbols from lower social classes in exchange for divine protection.

Long dead rulers, who were thought to be God-like themselves, continued ‘living’ in these amazingly intricate temples. Mayan offered ritualistic offerings to appeal to the gods.Mayas believed that their gods rewarded such sacrifices with blessings such as prosperity, fertility, and military success.

The God of rain and lightening

One of the most insatiable deities was Chac, the god of rain and lightning. Chac is a snake-shaped being with a reptilian face, large round eyes, a down-pointing snout, and fangs. He carries a lightning axe. Chichen Itza is often thought to be acoustically designed so that feet climbing the steps would mimic the pitter-patter of rain drops and please Chac– who in turn would cause real rain drops to fall. Not coincidentally, Chac is depicted all over the exterior of Chichen Itza.

On the Yucatán Peninsula, rain wasn’t a guarantee, but it was absolutely necessary for survival; rulers were even known as supreme rainmakers in honor of their most important job. Rituals involved feasts, ceremonious smashing and burning of ceramic vessels, and even mass public bloodletting with stingray spines. Temples were also important divine pathways, and construction was often punctuated with rituals that left artifacts within the building’s structure itself.

No rain for YEARS

During droughts, however, regular rituals just didn’t cut it. During droughts, human sacrifice was a common practice. Young kids served as the sacrificees. Kids represent growth and development. Such things were needed for growing crops. On the Yucatan peninsula, archaeologists have recovered the hearts of young boys. Their hearts were ripped out of their body and thrown in the area cenotes. [Side note curiosity: How were hearts discovered? Who discovered them? Hearts do not contain bones, and water accelerated decomposition. Unless frozen. And it’s way too warm on the Yucatan to freeze.] In the southern highlands, priests dropped infants in cenotes and they drowned.

Imagine being a Mayan parent. The elites select your kid for sacrifice. 21st century me can not get on board that train, but 800s meso-american me, I can see the value of sacrifice one for the good of all. In, fact, that’s a common historical occurrence that the selfishness of the 21st century seems to forget. But I digress. My kid for the survival of all of us. Ummm, OK, but Chaac, my harvest better be extra bountiful for the next few years, and I better be able to get pregnant again.

The Crystal Maiden

A sacrificial human skeleton known as the Crystal Maiden was found in the dark zone of a cave and dated back to the ninth century, a dry and turbulent era for the Maya. The god Chaac lived at the bottom of caves, cenotes, and other dark places, with his pet serpents guarding the water. Archeologists discovered human remains dating from the Early Classic period at cave entrances. However as times got more difficult, priests ventured further and further in the caves. By the 8th and 9th centuries, Mayans have not seen predictable rain for many years. Times are increasingly more difficult, and priests advanced to the rear of the caves to offer sacrifices like the Crystal Maiden. Times were hard. Priests and the elite grew desperate to satisfy both Chaac and an angry populace.

Unfortunately for the elite, no rain came. Humans sacrificed increased in quantity and the community worked at a frantic pace to construct a new, more pleasing to Chaac temple. However, infighting increased. Kingdoms collapsed. The peasant class shifted blame to its rulers. Many elites were killed for failing to allow rain. The established social hierarchy deteriorated until the population collapsed. But it didn’t die out completely.

Modern Mayans still worship Chaac, sending offerings into the cenotes he dwells in. At least today, kids aren’t sacrificed. More importantly, beating hearts remain encased in bodies. And infants see their first birthdays.

Climbing the tallest peak in Wales

July 7, 2013 Elle Featured Post Trail Tales Wanderlust

Taking on Wales’ tallest peak

A South Carolinian stumbles into a quaint bar somewhere in Northern England.

Well, well, isn’t this the set-up for a hilarious punchline!

After braving my initial weeks in Stafford, I suddenly feel an overwhelming itch to flee the town. But as a foreigner, I’m as clueless as a kangaroo in a cricket match when it comes to picking a destination. And, naturally, when you find yourself in England, the ultimate oracle of knowledge is none other than a cozy bar.

For my grand escapade, I embarked on a weekend adventure to the delightful village of Betws-y-coed in North Wales. Population? A whopping 500 souls. Betws-y-coed is nestled right in the heart of Snowdonia, where Wales may not boast the tallest mountain peaks in the world, but boy, does it still offer a good ol’ challenge for hikers. So, off I went, marching uphill and testing the limits of my poor unsuspecting calf muscles.

It also has charming waterfalls.

But seriously, what brought me to Snowdonia National Park was the majestic Mount Snowdon, and boy, did it live up to the hype! You see, I like to consider myself a tough cookie when it comes to hiking. I daydream about conquering the Appalachian Trail or tackling epic treks like Aconcagua and Denali. But let’s face it, in reality, I’ve mostly done some overnight camping and the occasional day hike. Scaling peaks? Not exactly my expertise. However, back when I spent a whole summer in Great Britain, I was a fearless 19-year-old college athlete who believed she could conquer anything. And by anything, I mean attempting to climb mountains with zero preparation and only the bare minimum of supplies. Ah, the good old days!

Well, well, well!

Take a look at those fancy little squiggles! Can you believe that’s the hiking path?

Quite a sight, I must say. It’s a bit on the narrow side, and dare I say, a tad bit spooky the higher up you go. Little did I know that these peaks double as ski paths during the winter. Talk about a dual-purpose destination! Had I known what I was getting myself into, I might have been perfectly happy spending the entire day lounging by the lake. But alas, here I am, conquering the heights with squiggles and all. Life’s full of surprises, isn’t it?

Tips for Climbing Mount Snowdon

Entrance to the park is a whopping 0 pounds. Yep, it’s 100% free! Yep, you read that right. Zero dollars, nada, zip. But hold on, there’s a catch. It’ll cost you to park your car. Don’t sweat it though. Some fancy schmancy B&Bs offer shuttles to the park. So, if you can manage to snag one of those shuttles, guess what? The total cost is F-R-E-E. Who doesn’t love a sweet deal like that?

Now, let me drop some wisdom on you. When you venture up to the summit, make sure to bring lots and lots of layers. Trust me, you’ll thank me later. Even in late June, it can get quite chilly up there. Picture this: you, shivering on the summit, regretting your life choices because you only packed a light windbreaker, a long-sleeved shirt, and a baseball hat. Yeah, not so smart, huh? Lesson learned: pack a water-resistant parka, some gloves, and a hat to keep yourself snug as a bug.

Pro tip: Go for the climb on a clear day. Your photos will be breathtaking! I got lucky, purely by chance. Turns out, the weather at the bottom of a mountain is not exactly a prophecy for the weather at the top. Who would’ve thought, right? So, save yourself from misty camera shots and go for that clear sky.

Oh, and don’t forget your survival kit. Snacks, water, and for me, ibuprofen are absolutely crucial. I might have learned this the hard way, but hey, at least you can learn from my mistakes. I went up there with just 1 liter of water, a few power bars, and some fruits. And guess what? I had zero painkillers. Needless to say, I regretted it. After stumbling back to my room, I curled up into a pathetic little ball. But thanks to a couple of hot showers and a hefty dose of motrin and paracetamol, I could finally walk like a normal person again.

Last but not least, believe in yourself! Before I embarked on this adventure, I never doubted my abilities. Did I do any research beforehand? Nah, why bother? I just heard about it and thought, “Hey, that sounds pretty cool!” And let me tell you, it WAS cool. But I probably wouldn’t do it again.

This is the tallest peak in Wales. If someone had given me a heads-up that I’d be taking on a precarious ridge, I would have definitely thought twice before embarking on this crazy adventure. You see, graceful balance has never really been my thing. But hey, who needs to be nimble when you can stumble your way to victory, right? Climbing Snowdon is absolutely worth it. This is one of best adventures in Wales, and one that I’ll always remember.

Be prepared for anything when you are hiking in the Welsh mountains. The weather can change in an instant.

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;span data-mce-type=”bookmark” style=”display: inline-block; width: 0px; overflow: hidden; line-height: 0;” class=”mce_SELRES_start”&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/span&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;

The view from the highest peak in Wales–will simply take your breath.

adventureadikt