diaries of a mzungu: motos and mi casa

I don't know if I've mentioned the term "mzungu" before, but in case I haven't allow me to explain. "Mzungu" literally means "white person" in kinyarwanda (the common language here). It's not a derogatory term, it's just what they call white people, whether it be Americans or Europeans. Even though I might not understand the language most of the time, it's very easy to pick out the term "mzungu" in a sentence, therefore, very easy to know if people are talking about me as I'm walking down the street :) Being a mzungu has its disadvantages; you get stared at like you have arms growing out of your face, you get charged ridiculous prices for pretty much everything (but when I argue back with the little kinyarwanda I know, they tend to resort to the "Rwandan" price), people look at you, see your white skin, and think money money money (which I don't have much of), and did I mention you get stared at a lot? Most days I'm not a fan of being white, but it does have its advantages. If I were to walk across the street, I'm less likely to get hit by a car because the punishment for harming a mzungu is worse than for harming a Rwandan (kinda corrupt, I know, but it works out for me). And it's pretty easy to track down a moto because the moto drivers think that because I'm white I'm lost and need serious help getting to where I need to go.

ANYWAY...speaking of motos.

Motos are the common taxis here and they are motorcycles. Yes, I ride on the back of a motorcycle to get to my every day places. There are regular car taxis, but those are significantly more expensive; taking a moto is dirt cheap. Besides, car taxis aren't nearly as much...fun? It's always an adventure taking a moto.

Number one, the drivers speak zero to little English. Take a white girl like me, who speaks zero to little kinyarwanda, throw in the guy who speaks zero to little English and who's supposed to get me from point A to point B, and you've got quite a mess of sign language and directions. If I'm desperate I'll call a Rwandan friend and have them talk to the moto driver on the phone.

Number two, you think the initial part of telling the moto driver where to go is tricky? Just wait until he starts driving. Sometimes even he doesn't know where to go, so the new white girl in town (me) has to direct the non-English-speaking driver around a city where I'm still learning where everything is.

Number three, the actual driving. Some drivers are better than others, like in the US, except with fewer driving rules. They fly over speed bumps, they weave in and out of the lane against oncoming traffic, sometimes they stop at stop lights and sometimes they don't, and they squeeze in between two lanes of cars due to impatience (I swear I'm going to lose a kneecap due to hitting a car's side mirror one of these days). Oh, and sometimes as they're weaving in the lane or flying over speed bumps they'll talk on the phone. And cobblestone roads are not your friend.

Number four, the adventure calms down here, as paying the driver is probably the easiest part. I know what it costs to get to various places from home, so if they try to rip me off I at least know how to say "no, that's too much money" in kinyarwanda.

So there you have it. Moto adventures. I will admit, it does fulfill my adrenaline needs.

I'll leave you with a YouTube video tour of my apartment, since I know most of your are curious as to what it looks like and pictures are nowhere near adequate.

the little things

Culture shock paid me a visit last week. It wasn't pleasant. I've been here almost two weeks and already there have been a couple days where I've wondered, "What the heck am I doing?!" There have been times where I would certainly prefer curling up on my couch with my dog with a glass of wine in hand and fall asleep to a movie over battling stomach issues, being in a place where I can't understand the language being spoken, and sometimes having no running water. It's the little things that I miss. Yes, I miss being a phone call away from my family. I miss randomly showing up at friends' houses to watch Friends. I miss my church and the familiar faces inside it. I miss coaching softball. I miss being able to watch my Hokie football dominate on Saturday and my Dolphins more than likely lose on Sunday. I miss being a short drive away from Panera and ice cream. I will admit I miss getting back scratches. Yes, I do miss these things. I miss what's comfortable and familiar. Guess what? I'm human.

However, once the wave has rolled over...

I remember what God did to bring me to this exact place. I remember all the things that He has provided. I remember that's it's not my own strength that helps me through. I remember that it's not a passion that I gave to myself, it's God's passion for these kids that becomes my daily strength. It's the little things that remind me why I'm here. It might be one of the boys running into the office to give me a hug with a huge grin on his face. It might be the squeal of a little girl next door as she runs over wanting to give the mzungus (white people) a hug. It might be the "What did you learn in school today?" or "Be good and have a good day at school tomorrow!" that comes out of my mouth and I realize that I'm practicing to be a mom already. It might be seeing the dependency that the people here have on God and how it makes me re-examine my own dependency on Him. Most days it's knowing that the next 50 boys coming through the program will be changed throughout the next year.

Every day it's knowing that the work that I'm doing here for a year is worth SO MUCH MORE than enjoying what's comfortable for the rest of the time.

My little thing for today:

Seeing all the boys in their school uniforms on the first day of the term.

Keep praying. I'm in for a ride. And I yearn to keep my eyes on what is above throughout it all.