Bon Apetite

Here in Rwanda, people eat based on need and availability.  Their food selection wanders back and forth between what the can grow and what they can afford (which merely includes rice and beans).  They eat only when they’re hungry and even then, they eat only enough to get them to the next meal.  As you may have realized, this drastically differs from what we’re used to in the U.S. of A.  Americans display an entirely different mindset as we choose from a nearly endless selection of food and gorge ourselves until we’re full.  In this blog, I could babble about the obstacles that accompany the construction process in a developing country, but, as an American, I’m more inclined to tell you what’s on the menu.  The following is a quick rundown of each meal period in Rwanda.

Carbs.

Now for a more detailed rundown of each meal period in Rwanda.

               

Breakfast:  Three courses.

Loaf of Bread (whether you want it or not) – So you’re gluten intolerant? Here’s three pieces of toast.  If you don’t eat all of it, you’re rude.  No tagbacks.

Spanish Omelet – Because it has bell peppers?

Produce Section – More fruits than you can find in San Francisco (pineapple, banana, papaya, passion fruit, and tree tomatoes; the latter of which is not found in San Francisco, to my knowledge)

Short story: A couple of days ago, I ordered American Coffee with breakfast.  After confirming that I wanted American Coffee, the waiter went into the kitchen and, after a couple of minutes, returned with a warm cup of whole goat milk. 

“Thank you” I said.  That’s what I meant by American Coffee.

            Lunch:

Cliff Bars – A word of advice: If you ever purchase more than $30 worth of energy bars, get more than one kind.

Local Surprise – Not an everyday thing and not much of a surprise.  If it comes in a pot, it’s potatoes.  If it comes in a basket, it’s avocadoes.

Dinner:  This is where things get interesting.  Three options.

La Pelloete – Doin’ Italian better than the Italians (in the middle of Africa).

Hotel Bar – Make a mean goat on a stick and stir-fry pizza… if you’re into that sort of thing.

Shaky’s8 – One plate of all-you-can-eat carbs.  Offer potatoes, rice, beans, potatoes, potatoes and potatoes.

As Mazungus (white people) from a first world country, we’re privileged to have been able to experience these luxuries that I’ve just mocked.  It’s been apparent over the past few weeks that most of the families in Cyanika probably couldn’t afford to have these meals more than a couple of times a year (if that) let alone every day for three weeks.  The food is merely a small part of the culture shock that I’ve delved into this summer.  I’ve been inspired and humbled by the hard work that the community members have put forth.  This has been a great experience and is shaping up to have been a very successful one. 

For those of you who were looking for a project update, I will tell you that, of the three sites, Gasebeya and Munini are essentially finished and, after tomorrow, Nyarutosho will be as well. 

Thanks for reading.  Keep checking for more blogs. 

Even Jesus Needs Some Privacy

First, the business;

The grand sum of the considerable efforts expended by both of this summer’s construction teams thus far –excavating foundations, setting rebar, forming and pouring columns, fabricating trusses and welding  purlins– has been for one elusively simple end: to support a roof.

It is my honor to announce that as of Saturday evening, just in time for Sunday’s mid-morning downpour of old women with clubs (the Afrikaans idiomatic equivalent of raining cats and dogs), our pavilion at Gasebeya was completely covered. As one would expect, the corrugated sheeting successfully collected and channeled the precipitation into our gutter. Though such an occurrence may be unmentionably banal back home, among four filthy muzungus in the heart of Africa it proved the highest achievement of recent memory.

For its part, the pavilion at Nyarutosho (while not yet sheathed) is no less impressive. The fully assembled steel skeleton, accented by crimson trusses raised high on monolithic pillars, captivates the passerby from the peak of a distant hill atop which the first approaching view of the structure is revealed. As the premier concrete and steel framed building in Cyanika, its alien yet clearly communal character has drawn many a curious Rwandan down the trail.

Last but not least, our third implementation at Munini has made major conceptual if not yet physical headway. After deliberating with our endlessly resourceful local compatriots, we have decided to adapt the existing banana-drying house for rainwater catchment by adding gutters supported on knee braces fixed to the raw lumber columns.

Much work remains to be done in the coming week, but as a team we feel confident completion is realistic. Regardless, the accomplishments to date merit a mention of the immense gratitude we as EWB-CU have to the impossibly hardworking masons, welders, community leaders and members without whom this project would not even be imaginable, let alone possible. Another special word of thanks to the always upbeat Willy, our NGO partner, the infinitely patient Mezack, our translator, and the imposing yet affable Cyanika patriarch Don Jaque, as well as all of you across the Atlantic who have supported us from the outset.

Now, the fun;

If you’ve been following this blog, then you’re already familiar with the difficulty our team has encountered in remembering and reciting the often half-a-dozen syllable names of Cyanika’s endearing children. Turns out it goes both ways, the primary difference being that when they mispronounce our names the variation is often marginally more musical than the original; ‘Michael’ becomes ‘Marico’,  ‘Oak’ becomes ‘Ohkay’, and ‘Christian’ becomes ‘Kreestiani’.

Dakota’s name, however, becomes much more illustrious- ‘Zahquotah!’ has become a rallying cry for many of the kids, occasionally prefaced by the epithet ‘Yasu’, or as we know it, ‘Jesus’. Our resident pastor and translator explained to me that this is on account of his voluminous beard, grown wild in good African bush fashion. Admittedly, I am less qualified in ecclesiastical matters; still I prefer to believe our very own Dakota has been endowed with some degree of legitimately divine providence by the glow-in-the-dark plastic Christ figurine hanging in our bedroom. Either way, the cult of the muzungu has gained so much attention that now whenever we need to take bathroom breaks, another team member must be conscripted to distract the masses of minors in order to save them the corrupting trauma of witnessing some glaringly pale flesh.

On the subject of children, in addition to gaining their spiritual loyalties we’ve also managed to focus their boundless enthusiasm for white visitors into an effective work force. After becoming transfixed by the Viking power with which our hirsute fellow Christian hammered to oblivion the rocks obstructing our drainage way, they tikes began to pick up axes, shovels and hoes on their own volition to assist our earth moving. Since, they’ve also helped us gather mountains of gravel as well as schlep beams and roofing from site to site. To those with more legal awareness than I- is child labor still frowned upon if unpaid?

Unfortunately, not all of Cyanika’s youth have been so charming. Most youngsters wave cordially upon seeing a muzungu whip by on a moto, but on yesterday’s excursion to Lake Burera one decided to flip Dakota the bird. Doubtful his messianic reputation has spread beyond our immediate acquaintances this quickly, so it’s hard to chalk that particular aggression up to religious protest. More likely, pre-teen angst merely respects no cultural boundaries.

Happily, not only offensive gestures are universal. The utter incomprehension of lyrics does nothing to prevent Cyanika’s children from enjoying our singing, more out of jest than admiration given how hilariously nasal they find our voices. All of us being engineers, only one of whom was ever in a choir (bet you won’t guess who), our harmonies are only as atrocious as our shared repertoire is limited. Eventually we exhausted our set and settled on the one tune all Americans can recount- our national anthem. Wailing about the ‘broad stripes and bright stars’ in the shadow of a looming volcano with a hundred dark eyes staring perplexedly was to say the least, surreal. To say just a bit more, it was surreally obnoxious.

Cheers from the motherland,

Michael Salka

The Continuing Adventures of Cap'n Transit

                Thus far Cap’n Transit has adjusted well to the recruitment of his new band of merry men. Each of the mateys has proven his worth as we have tackled many beasts along our voyage. This morning began with the classic, obnoxious brick-phone ringtone startling me awake to an unsettling conversation with our translator that not only has our welder decided not to answer his phone/come to the work site, but that our generator guy, who we are relying on to power all of our welding equipment, has gone MIA. So I skip the shower, bang on the others doors and let them know we have some work to do before we can go and do the work we need to work on. Finding a generator in downtown Musanze within an hour of waking was a great start to the rest of our day. Bussing up to our work site there are half a dozen welders working alongside the road, not using the classic MIG or TIG machines, but using a stick welder with a rubber strap for a clip, two large hand-rolled coils nailed between two pieces of wood for a transformer, and a stripped wire leading somewhere to the back of a house hooked up to who knows what kind of power source. Jacque, who seems to be the Don of Cyanika, found us one of the local welders and we finally began work on our roofs. After deliberating thoroughly how we were going to lift the trusses up four meters onto the top of the columns, we were able to easily hand them up to our workers on the scaffolding. The scaffolding is made of local tree trunks and old column form work. It gets the job done. (As Health and Safety Officer of the trip I approve the scaffolding.  I’m qualified to make that judgment.) Over the next two days we were able to acquire a second welder which quickened our pace with the roof substantially. With the completion of welding the purlins and trusses at Gasebya we are now able to start making headway on the monster roof of Nyarutosho. We had gotten off to a rough, sluggish start with delays in material gathering and workers not following through, but with the recent progress we are hoping to follow in the same path as our first trip. We have the ball rolling now. So after a few days of hard work we’re taking a night to get our laughs out on Salka’s heritage and enjoy some Celtic Cola’s with one of new local friends named Bosco.

Celtic Cola  -  Classic American Coke with Irish Guinness, found in the heart of Africa. Don’t ask questions, just drink it. 

Lost in Translation

“Good morning!”

“Good morning!”
“What is my name?”

“My name is Oh-ka, what is your name?”

“My name is Jacqeumbemilamumblemumblemumble.”

I have had this exact conversation at least thirty times in the past two days. Occasionally it is followed by a brief exchange of ages, but more often the discussion simply ends with the Coloradan hoping that he will never have to recite his partner’s name: the final quick and quiet syllables are inaudible behind a wall of unceasing giggles and smiles. 

In a community where English is taught only to the very young, it is not surprising that we are in desperate need of a translator. Our project dictates constant communication with the community and boasts little room for error. Mezack, our Morgan-Freeman-esque companion, has thus been an invaluable resource as we grapple with the difficulties in constructing complex structures in a land where rocks are more common than pennies.

With his help and supervision, progress is not only possible but steady. Makeshift scaffolding has been erected with lightning speed around each site. Trusses have been expertly manufactured and delivered to a yard rarely accessible by car. Roofs, pipes and gutters rest in organized fashion between cows and pig pens. Purlins stacked against sugar cane lay waiting to be assembled.

In all, our communication with the community has been miraculous. I am not worried that we will be able to convey our thoughts and expectations, receive constructive feedback and local advice, and debate to adjust our plans accordingly. Instead I find it more challenging to convey the experience to you.

We are living in a dream. It has only been a week since we landed at the Kigali International Airport, but enough has happened to fill a novel cover to cover. But such a book is nearly impossible to write. How can I explain to you the vividness of the past week? How can I share with you the taste of fresh marakuja? The feel of volcanic soil between toes and fingers? The sound of fifty beaming kids?

I have never been so amazed by a place – by a people. It seems that the entire community is one welcoming entity intent on doing everything possible to help us complete our tasks. Willing to share a burden and a gift alike, everyone nearby will jump into action if they see an opportunity (within five minutes of starting a modest collection of small rocks for use in drainage, a mob of children joined in to turn the collection into a mountain.) The warmth of every interaction would be enough to melt even Scrooge. Smiles and cheerful greetings are required at every corner.

At the end of the day, a game of Frisbee-volleyball-peekaboo-soccer-pattycake-tag-gymnastics breaks out in a nearby field. While pig bladders wrapped in cloth and string are tossed around in the shadow of a volcano and the Frisbee runs off out of sight with fifteen sunny faces, the kids realize that I will chase after my hat if it happens to run away. Game after game of keep-away-from-the-Mzungu ensues. We are saved from this endless energy and joy when we are forced to leave and catch our bus.  Promising to come back tomorrow, we head off down the road and around the bend. “Mister! Mister!” Here comes a young girl chasing after us. We had forgotten the Frisbee!

In all reality, my chances as an exhausted engineer of conveying the brilliance of this culture to my friends back home thousands of miles away are slim to say the least. If I had the strength to keep my eyes open I would start on that novel, but alas – sleep calls, and we still have a lot of work to do. Maybe when I close my eyes I will find that this has been just one fantastic dream all along. I would not be surprised. 

Where's My Moto?

I’ve spent the past two days in Kigali; the land where the phrase “all-you-can-eat” has a limitation and the guards are smaller than the guns that they carry.  The trip has been a great experience thus far.  When we stopped in D.C. on the flight over, the President asked to have coffee with Michael and I, but we told him we were too busy.  Aside from that, the 30 hour flight was just as boring as I dreamed it would be; that is, until the custom’s hold up for our reluctant involvement in a seemingly illegal pellet stove business.  After we were released by customs, we met Willie, Oak, and Christian outside of the airport while the song that says “reunited and it feels so good” played over the loud speaker.  Later, we did what any good tourists would do after their arrival in an African country… we ate Indian food.

Since then, my diet has involved more beer than water; partly due to the fact that the water can potentially lead to typhoid fever, but more so because getting a beer at a restaurant costs about $1.25, so I say smoke ’em while you got ‘em.  Last night we ate (and drank) at Mezze Fresh, also known as Chipotle (except, on their menu, they’ve replaced ‘barbacoa’ with “goat meat”).  In order to get to Mezze Fresh, we paid some strangers a dollar to clutch on to the back of a dirt bike and cross our fingers while they drove across town and ignored the rules of the road; or, as Rwandans would say, ‘we took motos’  (despite my seemingly negative take on motos, I actually think they’re awesome). 

During the past two days, we’ve also accomplished quite a bit of work, set up the pre-fab and delivery of the trusses and material, and managed to go broke, but, what I’d already mentioned seemed more interesting. 

The following list is one that I’ve developed based on my vast 2 days of experience.

           

     Things to keep in mind (while in Kigali):

1.       Paul Kigame likes his privacy, don’t f*** with his fruit bats.

2.       If you want to avoid the Muzungu stereotype, don’t be white, it’s that simple.

3.       2.5 million Franks is worth approximately 1/700^th of what it sounds like.  Don't get excited.

4.       At stoplights, there are green and red lights. Yellow is missing because, here in Rwanda, drivers don’t slow down and they’re never cautious.

5.       At a restaurant, you can get a beer for about $1.25… that’s worth mentioning twice.

If you were expecting more from this list, too bad, I’ve been here two days.  Stay tuned.

- Dakota Miller

Beautiful People

Tuesday, June 24th, 2014

Wrapping things up! Two weeks ago we feared that we might not finish the first phase of construction, but today all the columns have been poured and the tank foundations are almost complete. We are happy to report that the first phase of implementation will finish on time.

It will be hard to say goodbye at the end of the week. Our names are no longer muzungus. Everyone is greeted by name when we walk on site in the morning. 

Nyrotosho 

Yesterday during lunch time at Nyrotosho, Florida gave Steve, Christian, and me a bundle of avocados and tomato fruits in her most precious basket usually reserved for weddings and special occasions. 

Florida (Irreho in the background (best dancer in Cyanika))

She lives in the house next to the site and has graciously hosted us for the past three weeks. She and her husband Wilson have worked on the site everyday and continued to amaze me with their strength and kindness. They have four adorable girls. Their youngest, Rebecca, insists on being on site at all times and cries every day when she has to go to school. She says she wants to stay with the muzungus. She quietly watched everyone work the first two weeks and would barely say a word even though she followed us everywhere.

Rebecca

Wilson is security chief of Nyrotosho and will help facilitate the water system when it is finished. We have spent many a morning talking and signing at one another trying to communicate. One of our first mornings on site, we were leveling the footers. Wilson and I worked right alongside one another leveling with the transit. He spoke in Kinyarwanda and we talked back in English. Having no idea what the other had said. Mezack, our wonderful translator, walked on site around noon and I was eager to explain to Wilson what I had been trying to sign for the past couple hours. Mezack told me Wilson already knew. It is amazing how little we need words to communicate.

Wilson and me

Captain Transit & His Merry Men

T'was a damp dusken evenin' and the crew found 'erselves waylaid at Shakey's Tavern the Second - itself newly equipped with tiled floors and minted walls. With rice and bean victuals weighing down our grateful bellies, the crew reminisced on bygone adventures...

--

A bleak storm imbued the morning skies as Captain Transit and His Merry Men bushwacked across thick shrubs and volcanic boulders. The crew's honorable mission lay ahead of us: brave the worsening weather and unforgivin' terrain to scout two areas for future shipmates - at any cost.

The first territory proved to be a challenge with the surveyor riggings' suddenly snappin' from overuse. With no proper fixin' tools in our sacks, we made do what we could - squeaking the damned thing into place and smartly making 'er level 'gainst the sharp changes of the land.

Aye, the scouting at the first landing was swell, but t'wasn't without the need for beastmastery. While I was charged with navigatin' the sharp rocks and prickly plants, Quartermaster Swartz thrice faced down a pig layin' claim to the land; the Quartermaster hoisted a fierce courage I've only witnessed in distant seafarers told in folk tales of old. Yet, our deftness wasn't enough to protect the riggin' from the beast's filthy bilge. With hands a'dirtied with a stink akin to the new mold growin' in the brig, we moved onward with the mission - refinin' our scouting craft and puttin' our heads together as a good crew does. The scoutin' data was recorded in the log by Captin' Transit and First Mate Jessica before we made way for the second landing.

Swartz combats the mighty beast

Even though the clouds were fast clearin', t'was the bushes that now gave us small pecks 'a trouble. Quartermaster Swartz became familiar with some stingin' pine before we made it out of the volcanic gorge, but t'wasn't nothing compared with the discontent beast in the mornin' - nor the beasts to come. The second landing was firstly clear, though now the sun beat down a merciless heat. We made break for water and trail mixin's while talkin' stratagem for the immediate scoutin' need.

First Mate Jessica took to the field this time 'round - measurin' out data amidst rock and forest debris. T'was a good spell 'til a half dozen ferocious cackling creatures crossed the field and tripped up our riggin's with their jumpin' and howlin' - nearly kickin' First Mate Jessica to the ground, much to the surprise of the captain. The critters and mighty heat made the scoutin' troublesome, but rest assured t'wasn't no challenge for the crew. We made the proper markin's and got er'selves back to our haven - not without stoppin' for a brief brew on the border, o' course.

The next morn', the crew set forth for the High Mountains to face the Mud Monsters of the Northern Reach. A strange morning mist was sure to ill-fate our expedition and help was scarce to be had in the wee hours of the morn'. Soon enough, we joined crew with a few fair maidens from the south willin' to put forward a share of the loot in exchange for their much-needed knowledge of the area. Our motley bunch bantered and shared old tales of plunder and adventure, distractin' 'erselves from the wretched mud hives impedin' 'er way to the treasure laying atop the mist. Falls and scrapes from the mean terrain were met with cuss words a-plenty and futile cries against whatever powers that be. Alongside the sun breakin' the clouds, we made it soundly to the summit, though. Alas, no gold chest was found dug below the volcanic soil as t'was thought before. After a much-needed respite, our crew made our way back through the treacherous misted trails of slippery rock and vile shrubs. On the final descent, we all realized the true treasure to be had on this day: people hailing from worlds' apart can be made fast friends, even in the face of frustratin' mother nature.

The crew and our fellow adventurers

With aching limbs and a certain sickness for a warm bed and meal growin', we'll push forward on our primary mission as this month comes to its inevitable close.

Gasebeya progress entering the final week of implementation

Nyruntosho progress entering the final week of implementation

Tally ho, mateys, and be sure to keep eyein' this place for more entries followin' in tow.

Boatswain Mitch, East Afrika