I am back Home. Some conveniences are welcomed--a solid bed, my beautiful kitchen, my favorite chair by the fireplace. At the same time, I miss some experiences from Rwanda--the slapping handshakes, the shy "Good morning" from the school kids studying English, the rapidly changing skies with torrential rain followed by sunshine. Mostly I miss the sharp sense of being an observer, appreciating the culture while trying to fit in. I have waded back into the stream of my "normal" life, yet I have been changed by the last seven weeks.
I have seen again that life can be brutal and stark for the Rwandans. They couldn't believe that I was 55 years old, or that my parents could possibly be alive at 85! This is because the years are harder on them--carrying heavy loads on their heads, going without medical check ups, vaccinations and even without meals, their eyes and skin unprotected from equatorial sun. The privileges I consider to be my rights are completely out of reach for most of them, like owning a house, a car, a textbook. Their patience with power failures and lack of basic supplies, drugs and instruments baffles me. My American reaction is "let's get our act together and FIX this!" Their approach is "let's make the best of this and hope it improves."
My heart has been broken by the man with tetanus who died for lack of an isolation room and a ventilator. By the two year old with an amputated arm due to gangrene, crying alone in his bed until a doctor walks by, smiles, and bumps his fist. By the pastor who spent his morning digging in the mud to plant beans so that sixteen orphaned children living in his rented house can eat. By the younger brother of a comatose ICU patient who hangs on my every word as though I will somehow figure out a cure. I am humbled by the faith of people who have nothing to give and yet extend hospitality to me. And by the faith of a technical school graduate who prays that God will supply him tools so he can use his new skills. I am inspired by the taxi driver who says his children are speaking English because President Kagame says it will be good for Rwanda. And by the genocide offenders at Nsinda prison who dance and glorify God for His forgiveness of their unspeakable crimes. I am frustrated, energized, and alternately hopeless and hopeful about the challenges that face this country and its people.
April 7 is the anniversary of the beginning of the period of intense conflict and murder in the 1994 genocide. The world turned the other way seventeen years ago while evil temporarily triumphed. The entire country spends April remembering, mourning and honoring the dead. Jesus said "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted." I am mourning, because I have seen and felt the pain of Rwanda for a short time. I would like to turn the other way, to pretend that poverty, disease and suffering don't exist. It would be less painful. But if I want to identify with the heart of Jesus I will have to mourn, to be angry at evil, to encourage and support faith and hope, and to love my Rwandan friends the best I can. The price is to share the Rwandan's pain, yet the promise of God's comfort is the blessing.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
ENSINDA PRISON
Yesterday was Monday. Wednesday early we leave for the USA. The plan was to use Monday as a day to go inside Ensinda Prison and preach to the inmates. We were to be "picked" at 8:30 and taken to the facility. At around 10:00 we finally saw our transportation and began our journey. Time means something different here than at home. As we traveled across this small country I was given a sheet of paper comprising what I was asked to include in my sermon. The sheet made it clear that I was to talk about remembrances of the horrors of the genocide, God's forgiveness, and our response. The month of April is a national day of remembrance for the genocide and I was to speak to the offenders. Amazing!
Ensinda is a large facility. As it turns out it contains the most serious offenders, some from other countries, but mostly genocide offenders from Rwanda. These are the prisoners I have read about, the ones on the front lines of the unimaginable events of seventeen years ago. We met in an office with the prison director and his staff for a few moments, then proceeded into the meeting area where I had found myself a year ago. Change was evident. The prisoners were now allowed to wear their own clothing; there was a sound system and keyboard together with two microphones. Guma, my quiet and meek handler for the last two years, took one of the microphones and began to work the crowd. The next thing I knew he was shouting, waving his arms, and receiving the same response from the crowd. Many of the exchanges included the words, "amen" and "alleluia" ...so I knew generally what was taking place. After a few moments, he began to beckon the audience to join him in an area below the stage. They then began to dance together praising God and shouting together their devotion. What a sight. Needless to say this white man learned some new dance steps.
I have thought of myself as a fair communicator. What was communicated to me yesterday, among other things, is humility and that I have a lot to learn about spiritual communication. I was not satisfied that I successfully gave a message to my audience. But perhaps that wasn't important. I received a lot. What I was given was an amazing amount of love, appreciation and acceptance. If I am to communicate with folks like this I really need to be much less focused on the content of what I say and much more on the spiritual happening of which I am only a small part. In any event, I am very grateful for the experience of being ministered to by these transformed lives. We had brought a sack full of reading glasses and another with pens. They gave a cheer when told they would have them to read their Bibles with. We then began looking into possible places where Bibles could be acquired for them and may have found that the Gideon's society will provide them.
Today we give our goodbys to Pastor Deo, his staff, Aristote, the young lawyer in the Parliament, Steven, the young man who ministers to the women victims of AIDS, and others. I will be present when the President of Burundi addresses the East African Congress. It should be an interesting event. Then we begin the long journey home.
See you soon!
dlm
Ensinda is a large facility. As it turns out it contains the most serious offenders, some from other countries, but mostly genocide offenders from Rwanda. These are the prisoners I have read about, the ones on the front lines of the unimaginable events of seventeen years ago. We met in an office with the prison director and his staff for a few moments, then proceeded into the meeting area where I had found myself a year ago. Change was evident. The prisoners were now allowed to wear their own clothing; there was a sound system and keyboard together with two microphones. Guma, my quiet and meek handler for the last two years, took one of the microphones and began to work the crowd. The next thing I knew he was shouting, waving his arms, and receiving the same response from the crowd. Many of the exchanges included the words, "amen" and "alleluia" ...so I knew generally what was taking place. After a few moments, he began to beckon the audience to join him in an area below the stage. They then began to dance together praising God and shouting together their devotion. What a sight. Needless to say this white man learned some new dance steps.
I have thought of myself as a fair communicator. What was communicated to me yesterday, among other things, is humility and that I have a lot to learn about spiritual communication. I was not satisfied that I successfully gave a message to my audience. But perhaps that wasn't important. I received a lot. What I was given was an amazing amount of love, appreciation and acceptance. If I am to communicate with folks like this I really need to be much less focused on the content of what I say and much more on the spiritual happening of which I am only a small part. In any event, I am very grateful for the experience of being ministered to by these transformed lives. We had brought a sack full of reading glasses and another with pens. They gave a cheer when told they would have them to read their Bibles with. We then began looking into possible places where Bibles could be acquired for them and may have found that the Gideon's society will provide them.
Today we give our goodbys to Pastor Deo, his staff, Aristote, the young lawyer in the Parliament, Steven, the young man who ministers to the women victims of AIDS, and others. I will be present when the President of Burundi addresses the East African Congress. It should be an interesting event. Then we begin the long journey home.
See you soon!
dlm
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Gratitude
Friday was the last day for me as "volunteer professor." It began with a morning meeting of the anesthesiologists and technicians, presenting the emergency cases from the night before and discussing the complicated cases for the day ahead. One of the emergencies had been an exploratory surgery in a five year old boy with a distended abdomen. When the surgeons got inside, they found dead worms surrounding his intestines. Apparently they had perforated through his bowel and had gotten trapped in his body. This case is one we would never see in Hillsboro!!
I had the opportunity to give each of the three senior residents an "oral exam" practice session, followed by explaining my comments on their monthly evaluation. This was particularly gratifying because they did remarkably well with the hypothetical patient, and seemed to have retained a lot from our academic lectures. Even the resident who did poorly on the written exam did well with the oral exam. So I felt like my efforts have made an impact. They all asked if I would come again, and seemed truly grateful for the time I spent with them.
Saturday was the party for the technical school graduates. About 100 people attended, mostly orphans or extremely poor kids. The students each had signed a letter drafted by an American college grad who volunteers for PFR. She had interviewed them and wrote down their feelings for their supporters. We will enjoy giving copies of this letter to our friends and family who contributed to the school fees for the kids. After formal presentations, thank yous, photos of awarding their certificates etc. everyone ate a huge lunch of rice, beans, spinach and boiled bananas--the kids ate with their hands! Then Doug and I were given plates with slivers of cake to pass out to the kids. A few pieces fell on the ground and we had to act quickly to prevent the kids from chowing them down.
After the huge lunch and cake, which I'm sure some of the kids had never seen before, they were on a sugar high...we danced, they rapped, they posed for pictures, hung on Doug begging to be twirled upside down, and generally had an amazing time, all in equatorial sun. We were exhausted by the time it ended, but very happy and had many hugs and handshakes. Seventeen year old Victor came up solemnly and shook my hand. "I remember you from last year. Do you remember my name?" I certainly remembered him, as he was the one who was worried about Doug after the marathon and came down to the seats where we were resting and held Doug's hand. Victor has grown a few inches and put on some muscle, but still has the same tender heart. "I pray for you and Douglas every day," he said. What a gift!
Today we went with Pastor Deo of Prison Fellowship Rwanda to visit a small congregation in the hills north of Kigali. About an hour on pavement, plus an hour on a rutted dirt road, crawling up a hill into the clouds. Small children waved and cried "Muzungu!!" as we passed. I think they might never see white people and rarely see a vehicle. Finally we reached the tiny church, just a roof, four walls and a concrete slab floor. About 15 adults and 25 children filled the place with songs and prayers as we arrived. About the same time the skies broke open and a heavy rain storm beat on the tin roof, punctuating the songs and sermons with thunder and darkening the interior until we could barely see. I say sermons because there were more than one. Peter, the pastor of the flock gave a warm up, followed by introductions and greetings, followed by Doug giving the most sedate of the talks, followed by Pastor Deo. His theme was Rise up and Walk, directed to encourage this poor congregation to use their energies to improve their situation rather than being passive. He was remarkable, dancing and shouting Alleluia, acting out the story by getting a teenaged girl to play the part of the lame man whom the disciples Peter and John healed in the book of Acts.
After the two and a half hour service we walked back down the muddy hill and were welcomed into the pastor's small home. He and his wife live there with five children, the youngest of them a four year old boy named Danga. As we chatted, his wife disappeared into the kitchen. Pastor Peter excused himself and came back in a few minutes with a case of bottled drinks and a fistful of straws. We sipped Fanta Orange and asked him questions about his congregation, about their challenges. He is not salaried, but grows some crops and sells them to make ends meet. The children have to walk about 6 miles to school, so the youngest ones can't go. They have inconsistent demand for their produce because they are so far along the dirt road that buyers sometimes give up before getting to them. About 10,000 people live on this hill without a health center or market.
Peter's wife suddenly appeared with pots of beans, rice, boiled potatoes and a delicious tomato based sauce with lovely chunks of tender meat. These people who had so little were sharing it with the city folks and the Muzungus who had arrived in a sparkling Toyota 4WD truck. They were so gracious. Peter said he had "big joy" to have guests in his humble home...
So tonight the theme of this blog is gratitude. Ours for the Africans who have allowed us into their lives and stolen our hearts, theirs for the help and encouragement of retired Americans who visit, the students' gratitude for help to get training, and all of our gratitude to God for His faithfulness to care for us and guide our lives.
I had the opportunity to give each of the three senior residents an "oral exam" practice session, followed by explaining my comments on their monthly evaluation. This was particularly gratifying because they did remarkably well with the hypothetical patient, and seemed to have retained a lot from our academic lectures. Even the resident who did poorly on the written exam did well with the oral exam. So I felt like my efforts have made an impact. They all asked if I would come again, and seemed truly grateful for the time I spent with them.
Saturday was the party for the technical school graduates. About 100 people attended, mostly orphans or extremely poor kids. The students each had signed a letter drafted by an American college grad who volunteers for PFR. She had interviewed them and wrote down their feelings for their supporters. We will enjoy giving copies of this letter to our friends and family who contributed to the school fees for the kids. After formal presentations, thank yous, photos of awarding their certificates etc. everyone ate a huge lunch of rice, beans, spinach and boiled bananas--the kids ate with their hands! Then Doug and I were given plates with slivers of cake to pass out to the kids. A few pieces fell on the ground and we had to act quickly to prevent the kids from chowing them down.
After the huge lunch and cake, which I'm sure some of the kids had never seen before, they were on a sugar high...we danced, they rapped, they posed for pictures, hung on Doug begging to be twirled upside down, and generally had an amazing time, all in equatorial sun. We were exhausted by the time it ended, but very happy and had many hugs and handshakes. Seventeen year old Victor came up solemnly and shook my hand. "I remember you from last year. Do you remember my name?" I certainly remembered him, as he was the one who was worried about Doug after the marathon and came down to the seats where we were resting and held Doug's hand. Victor has grown a few inches and put on some muscle, but still has the same tender heart. "I pray for you and Douglas every day," he said. What a gift!
Today we went with Pastor Deo of Prison Fellowship Rwanda to visit a small congregation in the hills north of Kigali. About an hour on pavement, plus an hour on a rutted dirt road, crawling up a hill into the clouds. Small children waved and cried "Muzungu!!" as we passed. I think they might never see white people and rarely see a vehicle. Finally we reached the tiny church, just a roof, four walls and a concrete slab floor. About 15 adults and 25 children filled the place with songs and prayers as we arrived. About the same time the skies broke open and a heavy rain storm beat on the tin roof, punctuating the songs and sermons with thunder and darkening the interior until we could barely see. I say sermons because there were more than one. Peter, the pastor of the flock gave a warm up, followed by introductions and greetings, followed by Doug giving the most sedate of the talks, followed by Pastor Deo. His theme was Rise up and Walk, directed to encourage this poor congregation to use their energies to improve their situation rather than being passive. He was remarkable, dancing and shouting Alleluia, acting out the story by getting a teenaged girl to play the part of the lame man whom the disciples Peter and John healed in the book of Acts.
After the two and a half hour service we walked back down the muddy hill and were welcomed into the pastor's small home. He and his wife live there with five children, the youngest of them a four year old boy named Danga. As we chatted, his wife disappeared into the kitchen. Pastor Peter excused himself and came back in a few minutes with a case of bottled drinks and a fistful of straws. We sipped Fanta Orange and asked him questions about his congregation, about their challenges. He is not salaried, but grows some crops and sells them to make ends meet. The children have to walk about 6 miles to school, so the youngest ones can't go. They have inconsistent demand for their produce because they are so far along the dirt road that buyers sometimes give up before getting to them. About 10,000 people live on this hill without a health center or market.
Peter's wife suddenly appeared with pots of beans, rice, boiled potatoes and a delicious tomato based sauce with lovely chunks of tender meat. These people who had so little were sharing it with the city folks and the Muzungus who had arrived in a sparkling Toyota 4WD truck. They were so gracious. Peter said he had "big joy" to have guests in his humble home...
So tonight the theme of this blog is gratitude. Ours for the Africans who have allowed us into their lives and stolen our hearts, theirs for the help and encouragement of retired Americans who visit, the students' gratitude for help to get training, and all of our gratitude to God for His faithfulness to care for us and guide our lives.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
HUTUS AND TUTSIS
Today will be an interesting day. I am hanging around the apartment while it is being cleaned. This will be our last night in it as tomorrow we move to a hotel and the apartment becomes home to the new doctor-professor. This afternoon I am invited to be a spectator of the Chamber of Deputies in the office of their Speaker. This is one house of their Parliament and the Speaker is a woman of whom they are deservedly very proud.
My contact is a young lawyer who works as a policy adviser to the Parliament. Sue and I took him out for dinner last night and reflected a bit with him as to the difficulty of maintaining the spirit of these wonderful people together with the demands and discipline of organization, accountability, participation, honoring of differences and eventually unity of purpose. This is a journey they are on and have not yet accomplished. However, the dream of building something of real value for their children from the wreckage of their parents is truly captivating. The genesis of the genocide at least in part was the past failure to fully appreciate and honor those organizational efforts toward inclusion however megere they may have been. Eventually the Hutus and Tutsis lost hope in those institutions and resorted to name calling, stereotyping, and eventually violence.
When it comes to these hard tasks the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. We want to believe that somehow intuitively answers to our differences can just show up because we believe so strongly in the spirit. None of us like rules of procedure, committee work, submission to authority of leaders, agendas for discussion, etc. However, without the hard work of the flesh...the organization of ourselves to honor differences, debate viewpoints, so that all are honestly heard, not just those who like to hear themselves speak, holding each other accountable, and jointly finding unity of purpose...we seem to fall into the predictable divisions. Sounds a lot like our problems organizing churches, businesses, schools, and government, doesn't it?
God's love,
dlm
My contact is a young lawyer who works as a policy adviser to the Parliament. Sue and I took him out for dinner last night and reflected a bit with him as to the difficulty of maintaining the spirit of these wonderful people together with the demands and discipline of organization, accountability, participation, honoring of differences and eventually unity of purpose. This is a journey they are on and have not yet accomplished. However, the dream of building something of real value for their children from the wreckage of their parents is truly captivating. The genesis of the genocide at least in part was the past failure to fully appreciate and honor those organizational efforts toward inclusion however megere they may have been. Eventually the Hutus and Tutsis lost hope in those institutions and resorted to name calling, stereotyping, and eventually violence.
When it comes to these hard tasks the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. We want to believe that somehow intuitively answers to our differences can just show up because we believe so strongly in the spirit. None of us like rules of procedure, committee work, submission to authority of leaders, agendas for discussion, etc. However, without the hard work of the flesh...the organization of ourselves to honor differences, debate viewpoints, so that all are honestly heard, not just those who like to hear themselves speak, holding each other accountable, and jointly finding unity of purpose...we seem to fall into the predictable divisions. Sounds a lot like our problems organizing churches, businesses, schools, and government, doesn't it?
God's love,
dlm
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Habituated
This weekend we had planned to visit the Nyungwe Forest and hoped to see a large troop of "habituated" chimpanzees. But, alas, several things happened to prevent the trip; an appointment for Doug on Friday, (which was later canceled,) a bout of gastrointestinal rapid transit, and the RAINY SEASON! Nyungwe Forest is a rain forest, and the local people looked amused when I told them of our plan.
Instead we visited Lake Kivu at Gisenyi, close to the border with Democratic Republic of Congo. We stayed in a lovely hotel room with a view out over the lake, a good solid bed, and a "real" shower. The only glitch was that we had not gotten visas for the DRC, and today when we tried to cross the border into Goma, we were told we would have to go back to Kigali(a three hour bus ride)and speak to the embassy on Monday in order to qualify. Doug made a run at the official to stamp our passports, but she didn't budge. Oh well, we saw the Congo even though we didn't actually set foot in it.
On the bus ride home from Gisenyi, I was thinking about that word, habituated. Applied to the chimpanzees, it means they have seen enough humans to be undisturbed by them and to behave normally in their presence. I believe I have been habituated to several things while living in Africa these last six weeks:
1.Sleeping in a mosquito net and more importantly getting out of it to the bathroom
2.Smelling the pungent body odor in a bus loaded with damp human beings
3.Soup for breakfast in hotels, usually left over from dinner the night before
4.The 5 a.m. call of the muzzein for the local mosque
5.Saving napkins from restaurants for future use as toilet paper or towels
None of these behaviors seem unusual to me, although they took some getting used to. I suppose when I return to the U.S. I'll have to be re-habituated to America...
Instead we visited Lake Kivu at Gisenyi, close to the border with Democratic Republic of Congo. We stayed in a lovely hotel room with a view out over the lake, a good solid bed, and a "real" shower. The only glitch was that we had not gotten visas for the DRC, and today when we tried to cross the border into Goma, we were told we would have to go back to Kigali(a three hour bus ride)and speak to the embassy on Monday in order to qualify. Doug made a run at the official to stamp our passports, but she didn't budge. Oh well, we saw the Congo even though we didn't actually set foot in it.
On the bus ride home from Gisenyi, I was thinking about that word, habituated. Applied to the chimpanzees, it means they have seen enough humans to be undisturbed by them and to behave normally in their presence. I believe I have been habituated to several things while living in Africa these last six weeks:
1.Sleeping in a mosquito net and more importantly getting out of it to the bathroom
2.Smelling the pungent body odor in a bus loaded with damp human beings
3.Soup for breakfast in hotels, usually left over from dinner the night before
4.The 5 a.m. call of the muzzein for the local mosque
5.Saving napkins from restaurants for future use as toilet paper or towels
None of these behaviors seem unusual to me, although they took some getting used to. I suppose when I return to the U.S. I'll have to be re-habituated to America...
Thursday, March 24, 2011
LEADERSHIP
These days I almost always include a walk to city center for a cup of coffee at Boubon Street Coffee Company. On the way I commonly encounter a multitude of unfortunate souls asking for money. It is not uncommon for children to call out after me something like, "give me money." My ultimate role in both organizations I am striving to help is that of giving. The entire subject is difficult for me...to say the least.
On my return to the apartment today I had become steeled to the vendors of magazines, the people asking for money, and was pretty much inside myself when I heard someone say "How are you?" It was a very nice young man who just wanted my company during the walk. He shared his hope for the future of his country and his love of the people. I agreed on both points and then posed the question I have been dying to ask. In my few travels I have been exposed to a number of cultures and have never found people so loving and kind as those in this country. How can it be that this, of all countries, experienced the genocide of one tenth of its population in ninety days?
Augustine took his breath in and then said he believed it was the leadership of the country. He described how artfully the past leaders had stirred up those resentments we all have and how they simply created an atmosphere of hate between brothers. I thanked him for the explanation and in response to his question whether I understood I told him I really can't because I simply didn't live through their experience.
As I walked up the stairs a few moments ago I couldn't help but reflect upon some of my faltering efforts at leadership during the past few years. I do think the Rwandan experience is far more complex than even Augustine believes. However, it is truly a challenge when leading others to nurture and grow those positive qualities between ourselves and to avoid using our differences as a method of accomplishing personal goals.
None of us is perfect. That includes the Rwandans and those leading the orgznizations I serve. Can I devote my day to generous giving both of "my" money and whatever time and talent I have left? I guess the alternative is selfish ambition, deviciveness, hate, exploitation and ultimately what happened here seventeen years ago.
dlm
On my return to the apartment today I had become steeled to the vendors of magazines, the people asking for money, and was pretty much inside myself when I heard someone say "How are you?" It was a very nice young man who just wanted my company during the walk. He shared his hope for the future of his country and his love of the people. I agreed on both points and then posed the question I have been dying to ask. In my few travels I have been exposed to a number of cultures and have never found people so loving and kind as those in this country. How can it be that this, of all countries, experienced the genocide of one tenth of its population in ninety days?
Augustine took his breath in and then said he believed it was the leadership of the country. He described how artfully the past leaders had stirred up those resentments we all have and how they simply created an atmosphere of hate between brothers. I thanked him for the explanation and in response to his question whether I understood I told him I really can't because I simply didn't live through their experience.
As I walked up the stairs a few moments ago I couldn't help but reflect upon some of my faltering efforts at leadership during the past few years. I do think the Rwandan experience is far more complex than even Augustine believes. However, it is truly a challenge when leading others to nurture and grow those positive qualities between ourselves and to avoid using our differences as a method of accomplishing personal goals.
None of us is perfect. That includes the Rwandans and those leading the orgznizations I serve. Can I devote my day to generous giving both of "my" money and whatever time and talent I have left? I guess the alternative is selfish ambition, deviciveness, hate, exploitation and ultimately what happened here seventeen years ago.
dlm
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
African tenacity
Half my teaching time has passed...there is so much material and so little time! Monday we had our third of four "academic" days, with lecture/case presentation/discussion. I have become accumstomed to the individual approaches of the residents--one always questions my explanations, one nods approvingly, one falls asleep when the lights are down. I hope they are retaining what they hear, but more importantly I hope they can apply this new knowledge to patients. A patient in the recovery room developed post-operative acute renal failure just three days after we discussed this problem and how to avoid it in class. We discuss how to approach a particular anesthetic challenge, then a few hours later I watch as a different approach is used. And, I realize that I haven't even scratched the surface of role modeling for them, of getting them to reflect on their strengths and weaknesses, or of creating opportunities for them to practice specific skills.
So, like many experiences in Rwanda, teaching anesthesia is not as easy as I would like. Also not easy are washing clothes, keeping your shoes clean, driving to a remote village, finding a job after graduation, deciding how to deal with a street kid, avoiding traveller's diarrhea, or finding an entree' that doesn't feature goat meat. I am in awe of the Rwandans who deal with these inconveniences, as well as the huge burden of their past, and keep smiling, keep trying, keep putting one foot in front of the other. The least I can do is hang in there.
We had an experience Saturday of African tenacity in action. We were being driven to place where a local Rwandan pastor has organized widows to sew clothing and make jewelery to give themselves an income. The building is about three miles from the main road on a dirt track. Six people crammed into a small Toyota pickup truck, and a heavy rain storm--soon the road was only muddy ruts. Our truck had four wheel drive, but it wasn't working...The truck got stuck, spun its wheels, slid sideways and ended up firmly against a mud wall. People arrived with a shovel and a hoe and began chopping away at the mud. Several more attempts to get out of the ditch ended without success. A group of young men from the market arrived and offered to "lift" the truck out of the ditch, but only after a price had been negotiated. They proceeded to bounce on the bumper, directing the driver to "step on the gas." Finally, our leader proposed that we strike out on foot, and leave the driver and truck to the crowd to deal with. Soon, we heard a cheer from behind, and turned to see the truck sliding down the track with the group of men standing in the back waving and flexing their muscles. The driver actually picked us up, drove another two miles on the muddy, rutted road, and then while we visited the widows he drove back to town to wash the truck inside and out so it would be presentable to drive us home. In Rwanda you wash your truck with a wet rag, because there is no hose. Needless to say, he got a big tip...
So, like many experiences in Rwanda, teaching anesthesia is not as easy as I would like. Also not easy are washing clothes, keeping your shoes clean, driving to a remote village, finding a job after graduation, deciding how to deal with a street kid, avoiding traveller's diarrhea, or finding an entree' that doesn't feature goat meat. I am in awe of the Rwandans who deal with these inconveniences, as well as the huge burden of their past, and keep smiling, keep trying, keep putting one foot in front of the other. The least I can do is hang in there.
We had an experience Saturday of African tenacity in action. We were being driven to place where a local Rwandan pastor has organized widows to sew clothing and make jewelery to give themselves an income. The building is about three miles from the main road on a dirt track. Six people crammed into a small Toyota pickup truck, and a heavy rain storm--soon the road was only muddy ruts. Our truck had four wheel drive, but it wasn't working...The truck got stuck, spun its wheels, slid sideways and ended up firmly against a mud wall. People arrived with a shovel and a hoe and began chopping away at the mud. Several more attempts to get out of the ditch ended without success. A group of young men from the market arrived and offered to "lift" the truck out of the ditch, but only after a price had been negotiated. They proceeded to bounce on the bumper, directing the driver to "step on the gas." Finally, our leader proposed that we strike out on foot, and leave the driver and truck to the crowd to deal with. Soon, we heard a cheer from behind, and turned to see the truck sliding down the track with the group of men standing in the back waving and flexing their muscles. The driver actually picked us up, drove another two miles on the muddy, rutted road, and then while we visited the widows he drove back to town to wash the truck inside and out so it would be presentable to drive us home. In Rwanda you wash your truck with a wet rag, because there is no hose. Needless to say, he got a big tip...
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