Baptism and Confirmation

Sunday was a great day of celebration. My colleague Pastor Celestin and his wife Immaculee have three daughters and two young female dependents (not their biological children, but children for whom they have taken responsibility, for various reasons). On Sunday all five girls were baptized or confirmed in the church.

the 4 left to right for the celebration

The celebration began at the Butare Kinyarwanda parish, about a mile and a half from the PIASS campus. I walked there with some of my students and my colleague Pastor Juvenal and the new PC(USA) volunteer who had just arrived in Kigali on Thursday, after we finished the 8:30 a.m. English service at PIASS. We arrived a bit late, but that was not an issue. This is Africa. We were in time for the choirs, who sang and danced with great delight. There were five of them, so there was lots of music. The baptisms and confirmation came after the sermon, just as in many congregations in the States. The difference was that the events were divided and happened somewhat simultaneously. Three of those to be baptized were 12 or older, so they needed to answer the questions of faith for themselves. Here in the Kinyarwanda service, the Apostle’s Creed is not recited, but is sung, so the girls sang of their faith. It was delightful. The youngest to be baptized   is just 18 months old, so her parents and godmother stood and answered as parents would in the States. One of the girls had been baptized as an infant, so she was to be confirmed.

This is where the service split and the actual baptism and confirmation happened simultaneously. The Presbyterian Church here practices the phrase we use in the States – reformed and always reforming. To address the concerns of the youth who have been influenced by the Pentecostal movement in Africa, the Presbyterians of Rwanda now allows for baptism by immersion for those who wish it. (The church leaders rely on the practice of Jesus for their authority to change things in this way.) The older girls requested immersion baptism. They were the first to use the new “pool” outside the newly constructed church building. Water had to be brought in for the event. The baby was also immersed, but held by her mother. While about half of the congregation went outside to witness the baptisms, the other half remained in the sanctuary for the affirmation of faith and confirmation of the one who had been baptized as an infant. One pastor officiated at the baptism while another officiated for the confirmation. Because this was for a pastor’s children, there were many pastors attending. About15 of us watched from the congregation. The Presbyterian Church here is relatively small with fewer than 200 pastors, so it still has a “family” feel when there are celebrations for the family of the clergy. That was the case here. When the congregation split, so did the family, as Imaculee went with the girls to be baptized and Celestin stayed with the one to be confirmed. He stood with her as she answered her constitutional questions and sang of her faith. After the baptism and confirmation, the congregation was joined again and the cottage group to which the family belongs (the congregation is divided into small “cottage” groups for weekly prayers) sang for the entire congregation, to show their support of the girls. Again, it was a family event, the family of the church.

The tent for the reception

That “family feel” continued as we moved to the family’s home after the service for a reception. The entire congregation was invited. About half the congregation accepted. The family had set up a tent in the side yard, moving the living room furniture out to the tent to provide comfortable setting for some special guests and plastic chairs for others. This meant that the living room could be fitted with the buffet table to serve the over 200 who had come to the reception. After the welcoming speeches, we were entertained by the three choirs that had come with us, as we filled our plates and ate. After the generous meal came speeches and presentation of gifts to the honorees and then thank-you and farewell speeches. The celebration ended about 5 p.m., a full day of sharing joy with friends and the family of faith. There makes for a great celebration.

Sunday of Celebration

This past Sunday was a day of celebration for the English – speaking congregation in Butare. We held a triple celebration as we consecrated the new communion table, commissioned new leadership and welcomed guests from Kigali. To do all of this, the service took 3 hours. I felt as if I were back in Malawi. It was wonderful.

Worship did not begin on time, but that is to be expected. First there was the issue of not electricity and that was essential for the keyboard and the PA system that the visitors were bringing, so the solution was to hook up a generator, That took time. Then, of course we had to wait for our guests to arrive. It is a 2 hour trip from Kigali to Butare, if all goes well. That assumes that everyone was present and the bus could leave on time, but that is never the case. The group did well, in that they were only about 45 minutes later than estimated. But the time of waiting was not wasted. Those of us gathered sang and praised God. It was a joyful time.

New Communion Table

Once the service began, the first order of business was to consecrate the new communion table and pulpit. That was my responsibility. (This is the project for which I bought a goat, to help make the purchase possible.) I was honored to be the pastor to set this furniture apart for God’s glory. It is beautifully made and will serve the community for many years.

Guest Choir singing

Then the service could begin in earnest. One of the elements that made the service longer was that the guests from Kigali were French speaking, many from other countries. The pastor of this congregation had served in Butare when our congregation was French speaking, so this was a homecoming of sorts for here. What this meant was that both languages were used in the service, with translation of all parts of the service and the scriptures read in both languages. This adds time to a service. In addition, there were more choirs for the service than usual. In addition to our choir, the guests brought a choir and they had to be given time to present a number of songs and some of the young girls of our congregation had prepared songs for the visitors. One of the songs the guests sang in French was "How Great Thou Art." That spoke all gathered for worship, regardless of the language. Guests provide the opportunity for praising God, so there were a number of choruses as well. During the greetings everyone needed to be introduced so that we all knew one another and were able to worship together, so this took time as well, but was so necessary for good fellowship.

After the preaching, done in French and translated for non-French speakers, came the third element of the service, the commissioning of new leadership of the Presbyterian Students’ Organization. They needed to be introduced and prayed for. They will be the ones who will minister to all Presbyterian students in the area, on behalf of our congregation. This is a significant outreach ministry and needs God’s blessing. It was a delight to share this with our guests, as well.

In all of this, the spirit was one of joy. No one looked at a watch to check the time. No one rushed through any part of the service. Each element was enjoyed as true worship to God. No celebration is complete without food, so after the service, a meal was served to everyone present. We all filed out of the sanctuary, greeted one another outside while the tables were set and the room prepared for eating.  The meal gave a wonderful opportunity for more fellowship and time for the congregation and the visitors to chat. No one was in a hurry to leave after the final speeches, even though it was after 1 p.m. and some of us had been gathered since 8:30 a.m. and our visitors had left home at dawn to arrive in Butare in time It was a day of celebration. 

Power

Power

No, I have not forgotten my “Blog Friends.” I have had intermittent power for the last week or so. Last week, the electricity went off on Thursday for a while and then again on Friday. It was off for about 2 hours each time. This is nothing unusual so I didn’t think much about it. Then on Friday evening it went off again about 10:30 p.m. It was not back on early Saturday morning.  Last Saturday was Umuganda (community service day) so everything was closed in the morning. I hoped that it would come back in the afternoon. I learned it was only our immediate area that was affected, not the whole of Butare, but that did not help our situation. My hope was futile. The power remained off all day. Sunday is not a working day, so there was no hope for the weekend. PIASS has a generator and it was in use on Sunday morning for weekend classes so after church, I went, found an empty room and a power outlet and was able to charge my laptop and my Nook. But my internet connection was not working. I use a modem that is connected to the local cell phone company. It seems that with the power outage, some of their towers were not functioning and therefore there was no power. I felt cutoff from the outside world. It became worse when I later realized that my cell phone should have been charged, too. That battery lasted until about 8 p.m. that evening and then I was totally cut off.

When I returned home from PIASS, I found water on the kitchen floor. The fridge had begun to defrost and was leaking on the floor. I cleaned it up, but there was nothing else I could do. I had no access to ice. And I had a commitment in the afternoon. I was to go to an engagement party, so I left the electricity problem behind and tried to enjoy myself. But the longer I sat at the party, the more I thought of the meat in the freezer. I worked out a plan. When I got home, I lit candles, (it was getting dark), pulled the meat from the freezer and cooked it all. Praise God for the propane stove that ignites with a match. I was able to save the meat. I shared it with my house staff on Monday, since there was no way I could eat it all myself. They were grateful for the power outage.

About 3:30 on Monday afternoon the power was restored. I sang the doxology and immediately began recharging all my electronic equipment. But the power went off again about 8 p.m. This time it was only off for about an hour. I breathed a sigh of relief. Tuesday the power went off for several hours in the afternoon, but came back on. It did the same thing in the evening. That was the pattern for Wednesday as well. On Thursday, we got word that the problem has been solved. I breathed a sigh of relief. On Friday, as an act of faith, I went to the market and bought some meat. I didn’t get a lot, but some to begin to replace what I had lost. On Friday evening, the power went out again.

Fridge as a large ice chest

By early Saturday morning, when the power had not returned, I began to worry about the meat in the freezer. I got up to find my gardener and send him to the market for ice. That is when the communication adventure began. He didn’t understand the word ice. This is reasonable, since most people here do not have freezers and there is no snow, so no frozen precipitation. I found the word in my Kinyarwandan dictionary and showed it to him. He nodded, took the money I offered him and left. He was back in 10 minutes with two bottles of cold water. I looked again at the translated word. It literally means very cold water. That is what he got for me. I got on the internet with the little power that remained in the laptop battery. and pulled up pictures of ice. He was baffled. I tried explaining, I let him read the Wikipedia explanation. He still did not understand. Then he called a friend of his who had traveled some and who knows English better than he does. The friend explained in Kinyarwanda what I could not in English. He took the money again and went off to the market. I cautiously waited. He returned about 20 minutes later to tell me that he needed more money to buy a bucket for the ice. That gave me a bit of hope. About 20 minutes after that he returned with a shiny new blue bucket filled with ice. We quickly went to work transferring the ice from the bucket to plastic zip-lock bag to pack in the freezer and the fridge. So my fridge is now serving as a giant ice chest, keeping the meat cold if not frozen.

This is Saturday late morning, and there is still no power. I am using the power of the generator at PIASS to recharge all my electronics. If the power remains off through the night, we will replenish the ice supply tomorrow. At least we have some communication and a game plan this week. Only God knows when we will have power again.

I Bought a Goat

I bought a goat today. I bought it at church, of all places. Today was a fundraising Sunday at the little English-speaking chapel that is adjacent to the PIASS campus. There are only about 50 congregants, the majority of whom are students. The English service has only been in existence for about a year. Prior to that, the service was in French. As a “new” congregation, we are operating with the barest of essentials for worship leadership. We have an electronic keyboard, which is a blessing. It was donated. Then we use two tables, one as a communion table and one to hold the keyboard. We have a wooden bench behind the one table. One of the ladies of the congregation donated table runners in the correct colors for the liturgical seasons of the year. These are the paraments. It is bare, but functional.

About a month ago, the pastor announced that the elders (mostly students) wanted to raise funds to buy a real communion table and pulpit for the chapel. After much discussion, it was decided that we should proceed, even though the students do not have much money. One of the other lecturers at PIASS offered to head the fundraising activities. Today was the designated Sunday. Two of us gave money to help subsidize the project, so there was a reasonable amount that they congregation needed to raise. People were invited to bring items to be auctioned to raise the funds. So after the sermon, everyone went outside and gathered the items they had brought and danced them down the aisle to present them for the auction. Some brought money and contributed that. That was my plan. The items for auction included a floor mat, bananas, green peppers, tomatoes, homemade biscuits and a goat. We started the bidding on the goat, to get him out of the building quickly. No one bid. In an attempt to get things going, I opened the bid. I had not intentions of buying the goat. I just wanted to get things started.  The truth is that the goat was a generous gift by one of the lecturers who raises them, but the students couldn’t afford to bid. One of the other lecturers made a bid after mine and I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought I was off the hook. But every country does auctions differently, I found out. Here, someone can add to a bid, to help the original bidder get the item. They contribute the money in addition to the original bid and the item goes to the original bidder, when it is sold. So students who could not afford to bid on the goat added bits to my bid and to the other lecturer’s bid and the price when up. In the end, my bid, with the additions of several students’ was the top bid. I go the goat.

That was never my intention. It’s not that I didn’t have the money. I did, or I wouldn’t have bid in the first place. The issue was I didn’t want the goat. I don’t know how to keep a goat and I certainly don’t want to slaughter a goat. If I won’t kill a chicken, why would I kill a goat? Now the question was what to do with the goat? As I listened to the bidding on other items, and knowing the students’ financial constraints, I hit on an idea – give the goat to the students who had “helped” me bid to get it. So at the end of the auction, I announced my plan. It was met with silence. I wondered if I had made yet another mistake. But then the pastor translated my offer into Kinyarwanda and there was a great cheer and applause. The offer was received, once it was understood. On the way out of church, at the end of the service, each of the students came up to me to thank me. They were thrilled to have the goat. I was pleased to have contributed to the fundraiser and thrilled to NOT be taking the goat home with me. Everyone came away satisfied, and we raised enough money to finish the project. Praise God.

Theogenie

Theogenie, Theo for short, was one of my students in English Level 1. She showed herself accomplished in English from the first. I questioned why she was in a beginner’s class, but that is the system here. There is no testing out of a class. So she, along with four international students who were also capable in English, became “teacher’s aides,” so to speak. When we divided the large classe in to small groups, these five led the work of the small groups. I got to know each of the aides a bit more the other 50 students because we conferred on the group work ahead of time. 

 

Theo was distinguished in a number of ways. She is tall for a Rwandan woman, and poised, in addition to being good in English. The other students gravitated to her and deferred to her in more than just English. They sought her out before and after class. I learned that she was a primary school teacher, at PIASS to earn her degree in education. Here in Rwanda, as is many other African countries, one can teach primary school with high grades from secondary school and an intensive training course, but not a degree. The goal of most primary teachers is to have the opportunity to go to college to get a degree. That is Theo’s goal.Theo is the seventh of eight children in the family of four girls and 4 boys. Only she and her younger brother have had the opportunity to study, and that is because of the support of their older brothers and sisters. She lives with and cares for her widowed mother, as the youngest girl in the family and the only unmarried girl. I knew that she also coached youth in Rwandan football (American soccer) on Saturdays, but it was only when she wrote her final paragraph for class that I understood her poise and appeal to her fellow students. She is a Rwandan celebrity, but a humble one, as her paragraph indicates. Read it and judge for yourself.

Football,

by Theogenie Mukamusoiyera

Football is very important in my life. In 2004, I played football on the school’s girls’ team and in the football club. That time I was a player in school championships, at the same time on a women’s National team. Because of football, the school fees were free for me. In 2008 and 2009, I was selected for the women’s National team. We went to Germany to play with Germany’s women’s teams; we prepared to play a women’s World Cup in 2011. As a Rwandan girl, I was very envied for playing on the National team. In 2011, I went back to Germany to study coaching. I got an international certificate of coaching from there and it was a splendid moment for me. Another important thing I got from football was many friends, from coaching and playing. Now I have many friends and I get much knowledge from them because of football. I will always like football, because I got many important things from it.

Rutonde Parish



One of my greatest delights is to worship in a village church, but that is not always easy to do in Rwanda. Language is the first obstacle. I must have a translator and that means a pastor who is comfortable with English. There are a few of them and while the number is growing, English is still relatively new here and even pastors are reluctant to speak it. Then there is the transportation issue. I do not have a car, so I can’t just drive to the village. I have to arrange with the pastor and we have to coordinate transportation. This means buses, mini buses, motorcycle taxis or, if possible, a car taxi. I was blessed that all the logistics came together last week to allow me to be with Pastor Immaculee Mukanmusoni, a gifted pastor who did her masters in Scotland. We have been talking about this since I shortly after I arrived and she translated for me at a pastor’s conference. She serves a parish about 15 kilometers outside of Kigali. She has invited me several times, but this time it finally worked.

Immaculaee with her "children"

Immaculee usually travels by motorcycle, but for our trip she arranged for a car taxi. This allowed us more comfort and enabled her husband to join us. It was a typical rough dirt road, and since we have not had much rain, it was dusty. She and I huddled in the back seat with a chitenje (cloth wrap) over our heads to protect against the dust that filtered in, even though the windows were closed. The road runs alongside a river and is bordered by sugarcane and rice fields. Even on a Sunday morning, there were workers in the fields. Then folks were walking along the road, some to the market and some on their way to church. Immaculaee waved to several as we passed them. She is a part of the community, even though she lives in Kigali.



One of 5 choirs

 The impetus for the trip was a gift I was bringing for the vulnerable children’s feeding program that Immaculee had begun at the central church of her parish. (She serves 3 congregations.) Five mornings a week, before school, the church provides fortified porridge for the most vulnerable school age children. Poverty and malnutrition are problems in Rwanda just as they are in most of sub-Saharan Africa. When we arrived at the church, the children were waiting to greet us, but especially Immaculee. She is like a second mother to them. They surrounded the car and pressed against her as she got out. They were all talking at once, telling her their latest news. She quietly walked with them to her office, nodding as she went. When we got to the office, she introduced me Edith, the young girl who first caught Immaculee’s eye because of her thin figure and reddish hair, a sign of malnutrition. This day she was bright-eyed and her hair is returning to its natural dark color. Edith clung to Immaculee, out of love for her, not fear of the muzungu (white person).

The worship service was a delight to my spirit. This little church with no electricity has a generator to power the electronic keyboard and electric guitars, but the music is pure Rwandan. The choirs and congregation danced to the drums that set the tempo for the instruments. The singing and dancing were spirited and filled the sanctuary. Five choirs sang during the service. My preaching seemed like a sidelight, but Immaculee’s translation was excellent.. During the offering, those who didn’t have money brought crops and those were offered for sale, the proceeds going to the offering. After the service, Immaculee and I proceeded out and the congregation followed to greet us. At that point, I was surrounded by the children, pressing to shake hands with me and touch the white skin. Several of the young girls more stroked my hand than shook it. The most touching, though, was an elderly, stooped, vision impaired gentleman who was led by his grandson through the crowd of children to greet me. In Rwandese fashion, he placed his hands on my upper arms and patted them, like a loose embrace, and in English said, “God bless you.” Then he gave a broad, toothless smile that spread to his clouded eyes. My heart melted. This is worship in the village.

English are PIASS

Yes, it has been over three weeks since I have written anything, but my time has been packed with teaching English and editing English, my former vocations of about 20 years ago. I am teaching an English class for first year students from all three faculties – theology, education and development. I have 50 students at various levels of knowledge and ability. All have had basic English but how much they have retained or used is another issue. Some have rudimentary knowledge; some have head knowledge but little speaking ability or willingness; a few are eager to speak and learn from doing so and four of them are quite good. These four have been educated in Congo or Burundi and are here for the Peacebuilding component of the Faculty of Development. This is a program that is gaining a solid reputation in the Great Lakes Region, as Rwanda and the neighboring countries are known. These four students have become my unofficial teaching assistants, since they must take the class, regardless of their level of proficiency and I need the help in working with the students in small groups. This has worked out well for everyone.

One of the redeeming graces of the class is the students’ eagerness to learn. While routinely several come to class late, this is not from lack of interest, but from lack of timely transportation from a great distance. These students are teachers in remote areas around Butare and must find public transportation after teaching all day. Most of the transportation at that time of day is heading away from the city, not into it, making finding a ride an even bigger challenge. The college has made arrangements with several local minibus drivers to come at 9 p.m. to gather riders for the trip home. That at least is a blessing.

In class, we focus pronunciation, reading, comprehension, grammar and writing, all in three hours a night, five nights a week. I was initially told that I had 3 weeks with the students. When I gently protested that that was not enough time to prepare them to learn and write in English, I was granted an extra week. Then last week, without my asking, I was granted another week.(We have a flexible program here.) So from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. every week night we are working on upgrading English skills so that the students can succeed in their academic studies. This is quite different from a Freshman English course in the States. These folks have only had four years of English, at most, and English is a third or fourth language for many of them. Comprehension and pronunciation are as fundamental as grammar for them. All my lectures are presented using power point, so the students can see as well as hear. This is also helpful since we do not have a textbook. So the power point becomes a text of sorts. Many of the students bring flash drives and download the lessons. This is possible since they are also taking a basic IT course and have access to the computer lab here at PIASS. Technology is our friend (when we have electricity).

In addition to this work with frist year students, I have been editing final dissertations for the senior theology students. The struggle there is that some of them are about as proficient in English as some of my Level 1 students. Uses of articles, pronouns, prepositions, and verb tenses are challenges. This doesn’t address spelling (English words do not sound as they are spelled) and specialized vocabulary for the various fields of study. All of these must be corrected. It is time consuming. I have done six such papers while I have been preparing and teaching, so there has been little time for my own writing. Thank you for understanding. Please understand. I am not complaining. I am delighted with what I am doing. It is so fulfilling to see God bring together my past degrees and experience and use them in a new environment, one that dearly needs them, to equip eager students to prepare to make a difference in their own lives and in their country. What a blessing!

Baskets

I have become fascinated with the baskets of Rwanda, and with the industrious women who make them. This is not a “cottage industry” that exists in Malawi, so it is all new to me. It is a staple of Rwandan culture and has been for centuries. But it has become a serious business for the women of Rwanda in the last decades.

The baskets are as varied as people. Some are made of delicate grasses and some of sturdy reeds. Some grasses are dyed to give color and style to the baskets. Some are for household use and some for decoration. Some are even whimsical, fitting inside of one another like Polish Nesting Dolls. The designs vary as well. Some are conical, some round, some oblong. Most have lids, and those add style to each of the designs, varying in shape as much as the baskets themselves. All are made of materials that are readily available for the gathering, at no expense, except for the time and energy and the talent that it takes.



Women's group at work

Of greater interest to me than the baskets are the creators of the baskets. These are the women of Rwanda. Many of them are poor women, some widowed, some struggling to support their families. Each week, at least twice a week, one or more women come to my gate to offer me their creations. I find it hard to turn them away (which, of course, is why there are so many who come – word spreads). When they stand among their creations, which they have carefully displayed for my viewing, looking both hungry and hopeful, I’m reluctant to decline. I now have a growing collection of baskets and the enterprising ladies are coming with different designed each visit. Some churches are cultivation these talents by forming associations of the women and finding markets for their baskets beyond the neighborhood. They have moved in to markets and shops in the cities and, in a few instances, have begun coops with some international partners. This saves the women traveling from gate to gate, looking for customers. The women in the associations work together, teaching each other new weaving techniques and sharing the profits of the group’s sales. In one church, each woman in the association now has had the resources to purchase mattresses for their beds, a great achievement in the villages, because of the combined effort of the basket making. In another, the women have formed a savings and loan operation with their profits and are helping each other finance school tuitions, goat purchases for beginning another small business, or for other enterprises. They have determined that there is strength in numbers. All of this is a testimony to the energy and the ingenuity of the women of Rwanda, putting ot use the common grasses and reeds of the region.

The Cookie Monster

Omega

This sweet face is the face of a cookie monster. He lives next door to me and is the youngest son of my colleague Faith Katarai, who teaches Systematic Theology at PIASS. The cookie monster’s name is Omega, as in the last letter of the Greek alphabet and the last of the Kataraia’s children. (Their first and only other is Alpha – the first letter of the Greek alphabet.) Omega is 4 ½ and, as you can see is as cute as a button, with a sweet tooth that does not quit.

My kitchen faces the Kataraia’s yard, where the children play. When I am baking, if the window is open and the children are our, they can smell the baking. I usually bake on Saturdays, so chances are great that the children are playing in the yard. I can usually estimate the time between taking the cookies out of the oven and a knock on my gate to be about 15 minutes. They have learned to give time for the cookies to cool. Omega never comes by himself. He is sharp enough to bring his older brother, who speaks English beautifully, to plea for him. He just stands with that angelic smile and waits for me to bag the cookies for them. They know they will get some. I think that they have easily figured out that I bake as much for them as I do for the other guests who drop in with great regularity on Saturdays or Sundays. He also knows that I make plenty of cookies, so I can expect a knock on the gate of Sunday afternoon, too. By then, he has devoured the cookies gathered on Saturday and comes to replenish his supply, while they last.

To be honest, this is all my fault. When Faith found out that the boys were coming for cookies, she tried to stop them, but I interceded. The truth is that their coming is the closest thing I have to my grandchildren coming to visit and I enjoy their visits because I so miss my grandchildren. A grandmother needs someone to spoil and if it can’t be her own grandchildren, it might as well be someone else’s. Thank heaven that Faith has understood that and lets them come. Since their grandparents are in Tanzania, I am a good substitute for them, too. It all works out.

Rebirth

The aftermath of the flea wars is taking some getting used to. I am adjusting to the sunlight that now streams into my living room, study and bed room with the bamboo stand gone. My view is the burned, scarred remains of the bamboo stand, surrounded by a jagged-toothed bamboo fence and leftover spikes of bamboo, but no green foliage. I should not complain since with the fence I have privacy and security, just no green.

The spikes were aptly moved to the back yard to make a fence there. What existed was hedge row that divided my yard from an adjoining field behind me. One of the neighbors had claimed the field for a garden, so there was freshly plowed ground, waiting for the rains and planting time. I despaired when the four diligent fence builders returned to chop away the hedge row and construct a bamboo divider between my yard and the field. Again, the green was gone.

The clean-up

The fence building took about 3 days,, during which I was again entertained by their measuring and chopping. The last day of their construction, a young woman came to my gate to tell me that the HR Director had said that she could gather up the remains for the bamboo as firewood, if she wanted it. This served two purposes. It gave her fire wood and it cleaned up my yard. I certainly couldn’t complain. But once again, I missed the green of the back yard.

New bamboo growth among the ruins

Thursday, it began to rain again. We had had about two weeks of sunny, dry weather, great for fence building. But this is the beginning of the rainy season and the rains are hoped for. There was rejoicing when they came, soft and steady for about 24 hours. But from my heart, there was even greater rejoicing when they stopped and I went out to enjoy the freshly washed air. There along the fence line, near where the bamboo once stood, were several small shoots of bamboo, poking their heads about the charred remains. I was elated by the rebirth of the green and of my hope. I had hoped that the bamboo would grow back, but I wasn’t certain how long that might take. With just a day of rains, the growth had begun. I now have hope for the grass and the plants that were seared as well and maybe even for the hedge row in the back, since it was only cut down, not dug out. I am hoping for the rebirth of more and more green around my house

Mututu

Nancy watching women weaving

Five women sat weaving baskets as they waited for us to arrive. The pastor had called twice to check on our progress and get an estimated time of arrival. We were running late but were on our way. Nancy Collins, the regional liaison for south central Africa for PC(USA), Célestin Nsengimana, the regional president for EPR, the regional accountant, the driver and I moved carefully over the narrow, rutted dirt path that served as a road to Mututu parish, the furthest point of the Huye region of EPR. This remote parish, about 2 hours from Butare, on the Burundi border serves subsistence farm families struggling to make a living. We were on our way to see the development they had been engaged in. Nancy and I were their first abazungu (white people) to visit the parish. 

The elders with Pastor Samuel

Despite our late arrival, we were greeted with singing and laughter. It was just an hour until darkness, but all who initially gathered had waited to greet us. We were ushered to the church building for introductions of the elders, deacons and women’s coordinator. The women followed with their baskets for us to see. The church has a metal roof since grass roofs are outlawed in Rwanda, but the floor is only partially cemented. It is a work in progress, like much of the work of the parish. We all sat on handmade wooden benches. After greetings and introductions, the pastor explained the activities of the parish that we were doing to see. Pastor Samuel has served the parish for two years, coming directly from PIASS. What we heard and saw amazed me. Young Samuel has accomplished much in a short time.

The women have formed a cooperative organization for their basket making and from the sales of their baskets have provided each woman in the coop with goats for raising and breeding. The men have begun breeding pigs, a more labor intensive livestock, but one that yields a higher profit. We visited the pigs of one of the families just a short walk from the church. In an area with no electricity, the pastor had negotiated with EPRfor solar power for the parish, so in addition to the manse having electricity, so does the church and a small out building between the church and the manse that is used to recharge phone batteries and to give haircuts with an electric razor. These are income generating activities for the parish. They also have bee hives and sell the honey in the local market area. All of these activities have increased the financial security of a generally insecure area, providing economic development. It has also built up church attendance. Samuel is leading Bible studies on a weekly basis to nurture the spiritual development of the congregation.

Nancy and I bought basket, to support the women. Unfortunately for us, all the honey had been sold that week at the market. What a blessing for the church. Samuel shared his family’s jar with us so we could taste it. We heard repeatedly that this is just the beginning. There is so much more that needs to be done in developing the physical and spiritual lives of the people in this area. I was deeply touched by how much they had accomplished thus far and promised to return to see the further development.

Basket, including the gifts

True to Rwandan hospitality, they presented gifts to Nancy and me before we left. We were each given a gift-wrapped basket. Nancy’s held a beautiful pineapple and mine overflowed with tomatoes. Their generosity touched me deeply. It was so encouraging to see the efforts of self-reliance that the parish has demonstrated. The people of Mututu captured my heart with their energy and innovative spirits.

The Fence

The cutting of the bamboo has turned into a major production, involving much more than just the eradication of the fleas. Once the bamboo was cut and burned to deal with the problem of the fleas, other problems arose, like privacy and protection. With the bamboo gone, about 20 feet of my yard was open to the road outside. The bamboo had provided a physical and a visual barrier that gave me privacy and security. No one could get in or even see in the yard. Not so once the grove was cut down. I was exposed to everyone walking past the house. From the road my bedroom and study windows were open for view. The situation was laughable. I had a locked metal gate, then a hedge fence and then a wide open space. We went in and out of the gate, carefully unlocking and locking it, when we could have just walked 30 feet from the gate and gone out the opening where the bamboo had been. I needed a fence.

Cutting the bamboo

My watchman made the case to the administration and the workers returned to build a fence. They began by chopping down the rest of the bamboo stumps to use them for the fence. They were left in the yard just as they were felled for several days while the workers got the rest of the supplies for the fence – the wire to hold it together. When they returned, they resumed their cutting by chopping away the hedge that had served as a fence. What little green that had not been burned was removed. All the green that had surrounded the house was gone. They then cut the bamboo logs to the appropriate size. They cut one to the desired length and  placed two small pieces of bamboo the correct distance from one another and those became the measuring tape for the cutting. They placed a long bamboo rod on the two small pieces, marked the length, and then cut the bamboo shoot to the right size. Placing the cut long in a pile, they began the process again until they had enough logs for the fence. All of this was done with machetes. Passersby came to the edge of the property and looked in at the fence construction. My yard was a center of entertainment once again.

After two days of cutting, there were enough logs to construct the fence. The workers then stood the longs upright and fitted them one next to the other, pushing them into the ground and then stringing the wire to hold them in place. On Friday, two weeks after the project of cutting down the bamboo had begun, the fence was completed. When the Human Resource Director heard that I was having an international guest for the weekend, he came immediately to instruct the workers to clean up the yard so it was presentable for guests. This began a frantic effort to toss the longer pieces into my neighbors year for use on her fence and to toss the smaller pieces over the newly constructed fence, to the outside for the workers to gather up later. When my guest arrives, they were busily sweeping the up the wood chips and perfecting the cleanup. All was ready for company in time. We had privacy and protection with the completion of the fence.

The Fence

The fleas are gone, but so is the green oasis of my yard. In its place stands a stark 6 foot high bamboo fence that extended from my gate thought my neighbors yard to her gate, about 50 yards long. When I looked at the new fence, I am amazed at all the time, money, energy and redesign that was expended on eliminating a few fleas. My consolation is that the resilient bamboo will grow back in time, as will the grass in my yard. Green will return, in time.

The German Delegation

My colleague Pastor Celestin served in the eastern region of Rwanda before coming to PIASS. That church region has had a 22 year partnership with the Presbyterian Church in Germany where they exchange visits every two hears. This year was the German church’s turn to come to Rwanda and the group wanted to see their friend Celestin, even though he was no longer in that district. Friendships transcend geographic boundaries. So they made arrangements with the partnership committee of the district to make the trip to Butare. Celestin prepared a welcome for them that included some of his colleagues from PIASS, me included.

We were invited to Celestin’s home for lunch on Tuesday. In addition to Celestin and his family and me, the welcoming group included our colleague Juvenal and Andre, the accountant from the Presbytery. The delegation was a bit late in arriving, but this is Africa, so that is not an issue. They came in two vehicles, since there were 8 of them – the four German guests and four members of the partnership committee. We were all welcomed to Celestin’s living room and then the linguistic fun began. We were to do self introductions. The challenge was what language to use. Two of the guests speak only German. One speaks German and French and the other German and a little English. The Partnership committee speaks Kinyarwanda and some French. I speak English and a little French. The saviors were Celestin and Juvenal who speak Kinyarwanda, French and English. So translation abounded. The German speakers introduced themselves and then Elaine, the one who speaks French and who was the official interpreter for the group, translated. Juvenal whispered the English translation for me, to be certain that I understood. When it was my turn, I spoke in English, Celestin translated into French and Elaine, translated the French into German. Everyone else used French, which Elaine translated.  When I asked a question of the Partnership committee, the translation moved to Kinyarwanda, but then the response was translated into French and German, to not exclude anyone from the conversation. As you might imagine all of this took time. By the time we got to lunch, we ate in silence. Good food does not need to be translated. After lunch was time for formal speeches. Again the translations began, from Kinyarwanda to French to German, with a whisper of English in my ear, then from German to French with a bit of English for my benefit. Then it was English to French to German.

After photos, we proceeded to tour PIASS. There the vice rector spoke in French and Elaine translated into German. I know the tour well enough and follow French enough that I did not need translation. We moved in small groups and worked at communication as we walked, trying to find at least words in one another’s languages to convey some information. From PIASS we went to the Rwanda Museum, here in Butare. It is a wonderful presentation of early life and history of Rwanda. The guides spoke French and English. Again Elaine translated. We could move at our own pace and I could read the display information given in Kinyarwanda, French and English. It was a pleasant time for small groups to comment and enjoy one another.

After the tour, we parted. The farewell was multilingual as well, as each one tried to say goodbye in the other’s language. Au Voir, Auf Wiedersehen, Murabeho, Goodbye.

 

A Chicken Dinner

A chicken dinner is a simple enough thing, or at least it should be. But it has proven to be more difficult than I imagined. There is not grocery store that carries prepared chickens (killed and “undressed”). One butcher shop in town advertizes them but every time I have gone there, they been sold out. The last time I was there, they assured me they would have more this week. I carefully explained to Josephine, my house help, what I wanted when I sent her to the market on Thursday. I emphasized that I DID NOT want a live chicken. Whether it was her poor English or my poor Kinyarwanda or her great desire to please, I don’t know. She returned with a live rooster, legs tied together, wings flapping as he squawked his objection. I have an aversion to live chickens. When I was in Malawi, my house staff and my sons knew that and handled any gifts of chickens for me. They know better than to buy one. When I saw Josephine’s purchase, I let out a shriek of my own. She immediately called Jean Baptist and made arrangements for him to handle the rooster when he came for the evening. In the meantime, she put it in the laundry room and it periodically voiced its objection with loud squawks.

The escaped rooster

When Jean Baptist arrived, the squawking increased. The cleaver rooster had freed his legs from the ties and when Jean Baptist opened the laundry room door, the rooster shot past him, escaping into the yard. He led Jean Baptist on a loud chase around the yard. At one point, he darted under the new fence, escaping the yard. He crowed boldly, as if celebrating his victory. Jean Baptist had to find his keys for the gate, since he could not squeeze under the fence. Just as John Baptist got out the gate, the rooster ran back through the fence and into the yard. The chase continued until I heard a loud squawk and a thud. Jean Baptist came to the kitchen door and asked for a knife and a pan of hot water. The rooster had lost the battle. About an hour later, Jean Baptist presented me with chicken parts prepped for the pot. Dinner could be cooked. Jean Baptist feasted on the head and feet, as a snack that evening, well earned from all chasing. I am more convinced than ever to avoid live chickens. This dinner was not worth the hassle to all involved.

The Flea War

 

The flea infested bamboo saga continues. The cutters came back Saturday. Saturday and Sunday they continued to chop at the stand of bamboo until every stalk but one was felled. For some reason, they left one bare stalk stand. All around it was the litter of its companions, in disarray just where the stacks had fallen when chopped down. My yard and the ground outside the fence was a massive jumble of branches and stalks, some 30 feet long. I had to step over the foliage to get to my gate. Monday morning, the workers retuned to begin to clear the debris. The idea was to salvage the bamboo wood. That meant stripping the foliage from the stalks.  With machetes in hand, the four of them set to work hacking off the green shoots, stalk by stalk, until each was bare, then stacking the wood spears outside the fence or in my yard. It was tedious work, but then so had been the chopping down for the small bamboo forest. I was amazed at the strength and stamina of these four slender men. They worked steadily for eight hours a day for four days, only taking a break at lunch time. The harvested bamboo will be used for fencing by the Presbytery, since the house and the bamboo are part of the Presbytery’s property. Hopefully that will include my yard, since the bamboo fence is gone.

The burning

On Wednesday, I was greeted by new sounds and smells. While for four days I had listened to consistent machete slashes and inhaled the aroma of cut greens, now I was greeted by the crackle of a fire and the smoky air to ingest. Ash residue floated over the house and against the windows. They had begun the burning of the foliage. The idea was to not only get rid of the foliage, but also of the fleas by burning their nesting spot. That presumes that they stayed put during the chopping. I’m not convinced of that but time will tell. The fire was built around the roots of the cut stalks and was fed from inside and outside the fence area. Flames lapped at the stumps as it ate the greens. The wind dispersed the plume of smoke throughout the neighborhood. And as with the cutting, the new activity quickly gathered a crowd of observers. Children on their way to school stopped to watch the inferno and then had to be prompted to move on to classes. The security guards from PIASS, across the street, leaned over the metal fence around the campus to watch the feeding of the flames. The only creatures absent were the birds. For four days, they had hovered, swooping in to feast on the bugs that were stirred by the chopping, but the birds fled when the fire began. There was no morning chorus.

I have a love-fear relationship with fire. I love to watch one in a fireplace or other controlled area, but I fear the sight of untamed flames – too many years around California wildfires. I spent Wednesday in the house, with the windows closed against the smoke and ash as fires blazed, at one point one in the front of the house, one at the side, in my neighbor’s yard and one in my back yard. I could feel the heat through the closed windows. .No one was concerned but me. A few of the PIASS staff members came to watch for a while and thought I should be thrilled that the burning was going so quickly. I tried to smile. I didn’t say anything. This burning is a common practice in many places in Africa but it makes me nervous. I remember one night driving down the Zomba road in Malawi, being seized with panic at the sight of fires along the side of the road. Those with me laughed at me. I had that same feeling all day Wednesday. I tried to stay away from the windows and keep myself busy, but the fires were always there, crackling and smoking.

On Thursday, the workers returned to finish the job, raking the yard and burning the last of the foliage. Every plant in my front yard has been crushed, burned or both. The area was a war zone. The war against imbaragasa (fleas) was fought in 7 days. Now we wait to see if the battle was successful and wait for the rains to replenish the crushed, charred ground.

The Oven

I was thrilled to get a stove with an oven. I had to go to Kigali last Tuesday to get the things I needed to be able to bake. I couldn’t wait to begin. I set to work on Wednesday. That is when I discovered that the oven does not have a thermostat. It has a timer, but no temperature regulator. It has to be lit with a long match since the electric ignition does not extend to the oven. That wasn’t a problem, but there is no way to set the temperature. The only options are high flame or lower flame, with no idea of the actual heat level. I feel like I have stepped back into the pioneer days of the oven in the fireplace. Yes, I know that generations of women have successfully baked like that, but until last week, I never had. This was a new adventure.

To tell the truth, I felt a little like Goldilocks – too hard, too soft, just right. That describes my cookie experiments. The first were too hard. They were actually burned. The fire was too high and even at 7 minutes, they had charred bottoms. But the ingredients are expensive and hard to come by, so I cut off the bottoms and ate them myself and shared them with my house help, but I wasn’t about to expose my experiment beyond the house. I made some adjustments to the height of the baking racks and the setting on the flame and tried again when the burned ones were finally eaten. I over compensated. It took 40 minutes for the cookies to bake. They were still a bit “chewy” in the center, but at least they were not burned. I could share them beyond the house help. So on Sunday when I had a few visitors, I was able to serve chewy oatmeal cookies with the tea. Today, I made a few more adjustments and tried again. They worked! The cookies were perfect and in a reasonable amount of time. Now, if I can just replicate the conditions, I can bake cookies.

The next step will be to move to roasting meat – Mom’s Sunday roast and potatoes with carrots. That will not be as exacting as the cookies, I hope. If I keep this up, by the time I have house guests in September, I may be ready for them, or at least I will have conquered the oven temperature challenge.

The Fleas Win

On Wednesday when I returned from English Tea, my conversational English class with staff, I found three of my colleagues in my yard discussing the bamboo stands on either side of my yard. The three, the Human Resource Director, the Dean of Students and the Academic Dean, who is also the Presbytery clerk, were investigating the source of an infestation of fleas at my next door neighbors. The pests were so severe that she moved out of her house after suffering multiple bites. Ironically, I have had no problems. Celestin, the Presbytery Clerk, was brushing the bugs off his clothing. He had gotten too close to the bamboo stand. They speculated that the dogs that had taken up residence in the bamboo earlier in the year had brought the fleas. The question was how to get rid of them. After much discussion, their conclusion was to cut down the offending bamboo and treat the ground. They figured they could use the bamboo wood for fencing, so it would not be a total loss. The bamboo is resilient and will grow back. Since I am just a renter, I have no say in what happens to the property. I can only watch and hope that their decision is correct.



 Bamboo Cutters

Early this morning, I heard the distinct sound of machetes in front of my house. Four men were outside my fence, busily chopping at the bamboo. All during the morning, people stopped by to see what was happening, and offer their opinions of the activity. At English Tea, the fleas was all anyone wanted to talk about. Several of the staff had come to see the progress.  Each expressed his own opinion about whether or not the cutting of the bamboo would stop the flea infestation. Just talking about it caused some to begin to scratch, sure they had been bitten when they got near the shrubs. One of the staff insisted that I could not walk past the cutting to get to my house. I needed to take a detour through the rector’s yard and enter my house from the left, to avoid walking past the cutting. I didn’t argue, but smiled to myself because some of the cut branches had fallen into my yard. The fleas were in the yard already. There was no escaping them, but I took the detour and thanked him for escorting me. It made him feel better.

About 4 p.m. the work stopped and the workers went home. About 1/2 of the stand of bamboo has been cut. There are piles of brush between the fence and the roadway and some in both my yard and my neighbor’s We’ll see if the workers return tomorrow or, since it is Friday, the job will wait until Monday, and we’ll see how long before the offending bugs are gone, or if they just find new homes, if the bamboo was their home in the first place..

All for a Cake

I have the stove with an oven, but I had no baking pans or cake flour or white sugar. They are not available in Butare. I’ve looked. So I needed to make a trip to Kigali. That proved to be easier said than done.

I waited until 8, when the business travelers had gone, before I walked to the bus depot. But I discovered travel was heavy. The next available seat was not until 10. I purchased a ticket, found a bench and read until it was time to leave. I try to always have a book with me for just such situations. Once on the bus, I texted the taxi driver in Kigali to meet me at the bus depot there. The last time I phoned, there was  confusion about where I was arriving and it took us over an hour to get it straightened out. His limited English and my limited Kinyarwandan makes texted a more reliable means of communication. He was there to greet me and take me to the mall I wanted. I asked him to pick me up at 3, sure that would give me enough time.

I exchanged money and went to an American style café, complete with lattes and milk shakes. I treated myself to a hamburger and a milk shake. I say treat because that little taste of the West cost me $16.50 with tip, but it was worth it, since it was my first in 4 months. Then it was off to shop. If you know me at all, you know that I hate shopping, but I plunged in, with my trusty list in hand. I was at a mall that hosts a Nakumart, a Kenyan style Wal-Mart. I wanted a hand mixer. There was only one in stock, so there was no choice, but it promised to be a good buy, since it included as chopper, something I had not counted on. I planned to pick it up later, to save carrying it through the store. Then I went to look for a cookie sheet and cake pan. The cookie sheet was no problem, but the only cake pan was a round spring-form pan, not what I was looking for. I decided to look in another store in the next building, so off I trotted, out of the mall and to the next complex. It was a futile trip because the smaller store had less of what I wanted, so I resolved to accept whatever I could find at Nakumart. They obviously had the best selection, even if it wasn’t exactly what I wanted. Then, I had to remember that whatever I got, I had to carry back to Butare on the bus, so I considered size and weight. I settled the medium sized cake round, for 5 kgs for cake flour instead of 10 and for 2 kgs of white sugar. With that and the mixer and the other items, I still needed another bag beside the tote I had brought. I bought one. After checking out, I went in to the mall area to repack my purchases. As I stood shifting things from the cart to the bags, I looked like an old bag-lady. I felt like one, too.

My taxi driver arrived just as I left the mall and took me to the bus depot. Again, I had to wait to get a seat, this time only an hour. Once on the bus, I tucked the one bag between the seat and my legs and held the second one on my lap. I was not the only one juggling cargo. The bus was crowded with people and packages. The young man sitting next to me had 3 large duffels. Once everyone and everything was situated, we rode in stillness. There was no room to move. The trip took 2 ½ hours because the roads were congested with large trucks with heavy cargo, too.

When we arrived at Butare, it was dark. As I stepped from the bus, with my two heavy bags and my purse, a motorcycle taxi driver grabbed for my bags. I didn’t resist. Riding in a skirt, on the back of a motorcycle with a heavy helmet on me head was preferable to lugging everything for a mile. In 5 minutes, I was home and had the joy of the wind blowing around me. It was my first motorcycle ride. Not bad at the end of a long day. It had taken me 11 hours of waiting, shopping, toting and bouncing in a bus– all of this for a cake.

Confirmation

We, my three Protestant pastor friends and I, sat about two thirds of the way back in the large Roman Catholic sanctuary in Muhanga, which could comfortably seat 3,000. Counting all those standing and pushing in to see, there were close to 3,500 to participate in the confirmation service. We were there to support our friend Jeremy, an accountant at PIASS, as his eldest son was confirmed. He found us seats and then went to join the parents of the 300 some confirmands who were seated in the center section of the sanctuary. I could have felt out of place for a number of reasons. We were Protestant clergy – two Presbyterians, one Lutheran and an Episcopalian – in a sea of Catholics, immersed in a liturgy with which we were not familiar, in a language that neither my Lutheran colleague nor I fully understand, since she is from Tanzania. She got more of it than I did because there is some similarity between the Kinyarwanda and Swahili. Then, I was the only umuzungu (white person) in the congregation.

Oddly enough, I did not feel displaced. First, the music, traditionally Rwandan, with drums and clapping, drew me in, Even if I didn’t know the words, there was a repetition that allowed me to join in and the clapping was inviting. Even more than that was the acceptance of the little girl who sat in front of me. When we started to sing, she was fascinated with the umuzungu seated behind her. She did not shy away. When we sat down, she turned to get a good look. When I smiled at her, she quietly reached out her hand to touch mine. She left it there, running her fingers over the white skin, then she slowly wrapper her tiny hand in my very white one and just comfortably held my hand, a sign of friendship in Rwanda. When the next song began, rather than releasing my hand so she could clap along, she patted the rhythm into my hand. We clapped together, her left into my right, just as naturally as could be. She only released my hand when the service moved to the Eucharist and it was time for her to go forward with her mother to take communion. She was dressed in a lovely new, white dressing, indicating, as I learned later, that she had just taken her first communion on Sunday. We, of course, out of respect for the catholic theology, did not participate. When my young friend returned, she took my hand again and I was once again invited into the fellowship. My clergy friends just smiled at us. I, the one who was the greatest outsider, had been welcomed into the fold – and a little child shall lead them. I never even learned her name.  When the service was over, she disappeared into the crowd, but her penetrating brown eyes will remain with me, confirming fellowship.