Sindi Umurambuzi

It means “I am not a tourist” in the local language, Rufimbira. I’m hoping this utterance and others like it will serve me well in my efforts to integrate into my new community. If I’m to be effective in my work here - and also to minimize the degree to which I become a target for robbery and other crime - it is vitally important to establish clearly with the citizens of Kisoro the fact that I am a resident and their compatriot for the next two years. This is a challenge common to Peace Corps Volunteers everywhere, but in a community like mine, I’m afraid the challenge might be a little more… well, challenging. Most people here see my skin color - white as the driven snow soon to be featured prominently in the lives of many of you readers back home - and assume I’m one of the many western tourists who breeze through town on their way to Bwindi Impenetrable Forest or Mgahinga National Park seeking an audience with the mountain gorilla.

So when I say “Umez’ute?” (“How are you?”), the denizens of Kisoro often reply, in perfect English, “I am fine. Give me money.” The children are especially prone to produce that verse. It’s as if they’ve been trained or given a script. And given the steady stream of Dollar and Euro wielding prospects frequenting these here parts, perhaps those children’s parents have done exactly that. Oh, but fear not! I am up to the task. I passed my Peace Corps language test with flying colors and my Rufimbira vocabulary is pretty damn relatively impressive when it comes to introducing myself and explaining what I’m doing here. Don’t believe me? Behold! I sayith unto that child: “Ndava America ariko nzatura muri Kisor imyaka ebyiri. Nkora adahembwa kandi simfite isente nyinshi.” (“I’m from America but I will be living here in Kisoro for 2 years. I work for free and I don’t have much money.”) Impressive, no? Surely, a command performance such as this - a transcendent exhibition of cross-cultural, bilingual, and just generally totally sick, bills-paying skills - would illicit an inspired response, right? Right? The staple fruits of my labor: a pause, a blank stare, and then “You give me money.”

But, again, that’s usually just from the children. And half the time, they’re not even wearing pants (the fact that they can get away with this but I can not actually makes me incredibly jealous, by the way, but that’s the subject for a whole ‘nother blog entry). The adults, upon hearing a Muzungu speak in the local tongue, typically light up like Times Square on New Years Eve, or like Las Vegas on Tuesdays. These people, the pants-wearing majority of Kisoro, typically then let loose such an avalanche of Rufimbira, that I am compelled to employ my trusty, go-to rejoinder: “Vuga buhoro buhoro! Ndikwiga.” (“Speak slowly! I am learning.”) They’re more than willing to oblige. In fact, some offer to become my personal tutor. They’re so happy, so honored, I believe, that a white person is even making an effort. Even the few other westerners here from Canada and Brittan on long-term volunteer assignments don’t speak the language. Unlike Peace Corps, language is not part of their program’s pre-service training curriculum. Furthermore, I, along with the two others from my group stationed here in Kisoro, constitute the first Peace Corps delegation to the district since the genocide in Rwanda some 15 years ago. I therefore reckon that we could very well be the first three white people with any degree of proficiency in Rufimbira the locals here have come across since - watch out, symmetry ahead! - Positive K dropped the album The Skills Dat Pay Da Bills (which, incidentally, featured a hit single that would go on to inspire this blogger in ways that are still being quantified - the subject of a whole ‘nother blog altogether).

Anyways, Peace Corps is so, so right to beat us senseless with language during the two-month training period about which I‘ve often complained. I may not ever develop a sophisticated enough vocabulary to actually conduct my work in the local language - it’s unlikely I’ll even ever speak Rufimbira as well as the average local speaks English - but just being able to introduce myself, greet people, buy food at market, bribe the police, and all the other regular day-to-day type stuff in the local language, does so much in terms of ingratiating myself to the people of Kisoro, which, again, is my primary goal at the moment.

So, speaking of goals, what have I actually been doing here the last couple weeks? What have I accomplished? Not much, to be honest. Or maybe a ton. I can’t decide. Both my supervisor and my counterpart - the person with whom I’m supposed to be working on a day-to-day basis while I’m here - were out of town the entire first week I was in Kisoro. And while I spent the majority of last week in the office, officially working, I’m definitely still meandering through the obligatory orientation phase, which I think is the same everywhere. It features lots of grinning, nodding, saying “okay,” and just generally pretending like one knows between three and five times more than one actually does. So, there’s been that. Also, I’ve been: 1) exploring the town, 2) designing furniture (everything is custom made here, which is pretty cool for anal-retentive folks like yours truly), and 3) doing my best to perfect the art of crafting comfort foods from locally available raw ingredients. All three things are going splendidly so far. I’d say I’m about 70% of the way towards what I’m now confident will eventually be a killer burrito, complete with handmade tortilla and do-it-yourself refried beans.

I’ve also gone on a couple field trips. Last Sunday, I walked the 13 km (about 8 miles) from Kisoro Town to the Mgahinga National Park gate at the base of Mount Sabinyo, whose peak marks the confluence of the borders between Uganda, Rwanda, and Congo. It’s five hours round trip by foot, and leads one past many farms and through several small villages. And, because I was walking and not riding on a bike or in a car, I also got a chance to talk with and get to know many of the local residents, who would walk with me for some distance on their way to their own destinations or before turning around and returning to their homes. Then, later in the week, I went on a bicycle tour led by my aforementioned counterpart, Charles, to the rural areas to the southeast of Kisoro Town en route to the health center at Lake Chahafi, which lies right on the border with Rwanda. In the case of the first trip, I really just wanted an excuse to get some exercise (I’ve gained 5 or 10 pounds in Wakiso and am determined to ditch them in Kisoro). The official purpose of the second trip was to become familiar with some of the new water resources - wells, protected natural springs, etc. - my organization has received funding from the government to monitor. In both cases, the primary mission was accomplished, but what I really gained from the two excursions was a much better sense of how life is lived for the vast majority of the 250,000 or so residents of the district.

So, how is that life lived? Well, in stark contrast to what I’ve realized to be the relative luxury and homogeny of Kisoro Town, that’s for sure. A visit to the village will expose a traveler to all the beauty and all of the blemish, all of the dignity and all of the disgrace, all of the gaiety and all of the gloom of this place. Rural Africa is the “Real Africa,” I think. For better and for worse.

First, the scenery, at least in my particular version of Rural Africa, is picturesque. There is the lush landscape and the mountains, of course - their grandeur is readily apparent from any vantage point in the district. What I dwelled on and appreciated in much greater detail on my field trips, though, was the terraced farming, which I know I mentioned in the entry previous to this one. I’m not sure what it is I find so remarkable about it; perhaps the synergy between the innate beauty of the natural setting and human beings’ ability to mold it to suit various wants and needs. I love golf courses back home for the same reason. Also impressive is the sheer practicality. Ugandans know agriculture; and they waste not an inch of the very fertile soil here. The people claim that they can grow anything in Kisoro, and they do so on what seem to me to be near vertical planes. It’s amazing and certainly something to be respected and admired. And during my first excursion, I witnessed much merriment, as well. It was a Sunday and for many people here, religion is the only thing they have besides their families and their farming. Church is something to look forward to in ways I’m not sure are entirely common elsewhere. In the villages of Kisoro, going to church is like going to the football game, the rock show, or the water park. There was drumming and other music, big beautiful smiles aplenty, and just general good cheer. Life is brutally hard in Rural Africa, but not on Sundays.

Alas, interwoven in this otherwise serene human tapestry are the all too common perturbences endemic in Africa. It’s like static marring a favorite song on the radio. In the foreground of that lusciously green, misty-mountain-dominated mural are dilapidated and crumbling buildings serving as homes, hospitals, and schools; the settlements are littered with trash, debris, and even human waste. While some people are seen tirelessly working their fields, others are heard shouting in slurred speech, drunk by noon, apparently taking advantage of the generosity of others to survive. And when church services conclude, when the music stops, the populace returns to the reality of their lives: lack of access to drinkable water and to basic medicine, that their child must stop attending secondary school because there is no money to pay the school fees, and the fact that at that very moment, they are walking the rocky, muddy path home on swollen and deformed feet because they have no shoes.

This is the Real Africa, I think. The best of and the worst of this place is out in the village. And while I know that what I’ll continue to witness there won’t often be pleasant, I nevertheless feel fortunate that I’ll be exposed to it regularly as part of my work here. I’m thankful I am not a tourist.