I used to be a writer

I used to think of myself as a writer, in the sense that enjoyed writing and I practiced it regularly. As a child, I would write short stories on rainy afternoons. When I went to college, I liked writing so much that I majored in it and then continued writing to document my experiences as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Kyrgyzstan, an English teacher in Japan, and beyond. Writing never felt like work – it felt like an emotional release.

Somewhere along the way, I lost my flow and my voice. Now, I struggle to write. My blogs are afterthoughts, an item to check off a list. My posts are lifeless lists, not an exploration of life experiences. Behind each of those lists is a story that involves real loneliness, joy, love, and fear, but it's a story that I can no longer seem to tell.

What's more, I fear my readers and their impressions of my posts. I can no longer write with biting honesty.

My creativity has been quashed.

This is not a plea for emotional support, but a plea for a return of creative energy. How can I relocate the source of something that used to give me such joy? And is it even worth pursuing or do joys and talents shift and change with age, just like everything else?

Life is great! And then it's not.

I wrote this post during a restful, child- and husband-free weekend. Then came a week of culture shock lows,* including dark rage at terrible drivers and total exhaustion. I didn’t have the energy to finish writing this positive piece. That said, I’m going on vacation tonight and that feels great! Thinks are looking up again, so I feel like less of an impostor sharing the things I like about living in Kigali.

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Everyone who has lived in Kigali will tell you that it is a great place to live, especially with small children (older children are another story). It is safe, clean, and not too oppressively hot. For the most part, I agree with those who came before me – Kigali is a great place to live. Here are some reasons why.

Sunshine. Coming from Seattle, sunny is a big deal. Sunny in December is an even bigger deal. Every winter at home, after interminable months of damp, waking up to darkness and arriving home from work in darkness, I’d start researching jobs in hot, dry locations. At some point, winter just becomes too oppressive. Not in Kigali! It’s December 13 and it’s still 80 degrees!

Here's the 5-day weather forecast for Seattle:

While I haven’t had to look up jobs in sunny locales this winter, I will admit to yearning for a ski vacation.

Outdoor time. This is related to the above, but I get to spend a lot of time in the outdoors. Because it’s almost always warm and sunny, I spend Saturday and Sunday mornings drinking coffee in the backyard while Lark runs around in her diaper. When I walk the dog, I don’t usually need to wear a raincoat and waterproof pants. It is glorious.

My commute is nonexistent. Not to brag, but I can walk to work and be there in 15 minutes or I can drive and arrive in three minutes. In my previous life, I spent hours in traffic every day, often squeezed next to disgruntled strangers on the bus. I traveled to and from home and work, to and from work and daycare, and on and on. Here, I’ve become so spoiled that a trip to downtown Kigali now seems like a huge chore, though it takes no more than 15 minutes.

Housekeepers. I know that the idea of having a housekeeper is distasteful for some – power dynamics and all that – but I’m just going to come right out and say this: Having a housekeeper is awesome. Everything is clean! All the time! Our clothes are actually ironed! It is so calming. I keep reminding myself that this will not continue in my life. Someday, Ritchie and I will move back to the US and once again be stuck folding piles of laundry on Sundays and arguing about who is going to unload the dishwasher. For now, however, I am breathing in the serenity of a spotless kitchen and perfectly rolled socks in my dresser.

Slow pace of life. Life here just is not that busy. In part, it’s because we have about five friends (you know who you are), so there are limited demands on our time. Also, see above about having a nonexistent commute and a housekeeper to iron our clothes. There’s just not a ton going on here. This means a lot of slow dinners at restaurants (because service is slow), time spent playing with Lark in the evenings, and hanging out in the garden on weekends.

Family time. This is one of the primary reasons why I wanted to move here and we have a lot of it. Because we don’t commute, because we have someone to help us around the house, and because life is quieter, Ritchie and I have more time to spend on each other – both as partners and as parents.

*Check-in again in two weeks, when I’ll probably be riding a culture shock high. 

House, Part II: New house happiness

We moved in! So far, we love hanging out on the screened veranda and playing in the garden. The security guard hung our new swing (Is it safe? I guess we'll find out.). I'm particularly enamored of our satellite television. It feels good to start settling-in.

The veranda is a nice spot for morning coffee and playtime. It also works well for drinking wine in the evenings.

This is where the wine happens.

It's my babe in a box! Seriously, who needs toys when you can play in a discarded box?

Penna and Redy break for tea on the back patio.

House, Part I

Our first house fell through, but all is not lost. I have signed a lease on a different (better?) house! It's a three bedroom bungalow with an office in a gated community. It's not huge (a feature which appeals to me in this land of super-sized expatriate housing) and it has a pleasant, private garden and it's in a very secure, conveniently located neighborhood. I'll be able to walk to work. Because there isn't a lot of traffic in the neighborhood, I'll even be able to ride my bike around with Lark in the child seat.

All of this is to say, you should come visit me. The spare bedroom is waiting for you.

Screened sun porch - perfect for morning coffee and evening wine

Living/dining room

Kitchen, with a guest appearance by my boss

This is where the magic (of sleep) will happen, far away from Lark and her snoring.

This garden totally needs a trampoline, am I right?

Hammock goes *here*

Stay tuned for Part II, in which our furniture arrives and we make this house our own.

P.S. Sorry, Mom, there's no AC. 

“Rich, out-of-touch expatriates” or The Problem with Garden Toys

Who is a rich, out-of-touch expatriate? Me, apparently, for wanting to buy Lark a trampoline.

Before we moved to Rwanda, a friend sent me a list of recommended items to bring. The list included a swing set, a trampoline, and other large garden toys. At the time, I thought, “This doesn’t apply to me.” Lark wasn’t walking yet and I didn’t realize that I would actually really, really want to have a place for her to burn energy outside. Foolish me; I’d thought she’d always be happy to crawl around looking at blades of grass.

As it turns out, Lark loves jumping and climbing on things. She jumps on the bed yelling JUMP and she jumps while standing on her stool. She even climbs on top of stacked boxes and practices jumping. A trampoline seems like a relatively safe place for her to pursue her passions.

Cue me two months later sending an email to a local listserv asking where I could buy one. This kicked off a flurry of activity from other parents who also wanted trampolines. It was sort of ridiculous, but you have to understand – there is no public space for kids to play here. Everything happens in restaurants gardens or home gardens. Since its inconvenient (and expensive) to go to a restaurant every day to play, it is nice to have a well-equipped home.

These kids are looking pretty damn pleased about being on a trampoline.

Earlier this week, I met friends and friends-of-friends for dinner. One woman and I were chatting and had barely moved beyond pleasantries when she said, “Did you see that email thread about the trampolines? I was shaking with fury! I mean, it’s so typical. These people are just rich, out-of-touch expatriates.”

This is a trampoline. It is used by out-of touch-people the world over for jumping and other fun-related activities.

I was taken aback by her judgement. I didn’t know how to tell her that, actually, I’d sent the first email and, actually, I’d really like a trampoline.

Let me lay myself bare: I am a rich expatriate, at least by local standards (as is the woman in question). I’m not obscenely rich, but I can afford to buy moderately priced toys. I am not, however, out of touch. I have spent a decent amount of time outside of Kigali and I know the constraints that people face every day. I know that many people only eat meat once a year, at Christmas, because it’s too expensive for daily consumption. I also know that many Rwandan kids suffer from food insecurity and malnutrition. I can see the absurdity in spending money on recreational things while others can’t afford to pay their annual health insurance (less than $10).

Rural Rwanda looking beautiful. This garden would look good with a trampoline in it.

All of that said, forbearing from buying things will not magically resolve the income inequality and power asymmetry prevalent in our world. Even if I were to use my money – all of my money – to address inequality, it would be not be effective. At best, I could help a few people in a very short-term, unsustainable way. Instead, I focus my professional energy on fomenting systemic, structural changes with long-term impacts. But, I’ll also buy garden toys for my kid and will forgive myself for wanting such things.

I’ll even let the judgmental woman’s kid have a go on the trampoline.

This is me looking out-of-touch in Spain, but admittedly pretty chic. Would I jump on a trampoline with that dress on? You bet! I would set the wine down somewhere safe, though.

Lessons for my daughter (on sex)

I’ve been following the debates around funding for Planned Parenthood, abortion rights, and access to family planning. These have me pondering how we think about sex and sexuality in the US. Particularly, I’ve been thinking about how I want my own daughter to think about sex and sexuality when she’s old enough.

My parents did an admirable job teaching me about sex. I remember having “the talk” in my bedroom (I was horrified). As I aged, my Mom talked openly and candidly about her unplanned pregnancy as a high school student and the impacts that it had on her and my Dad’s lives. She also frequently asked me outright if I was sexually active and said that, if I was, she would help me get birth control.

I was so lucky. While getting birth control challenged my immature sense of decorum, I never doubted that I could or should have it. I never had a problem getting the morning after pill on the few occasions that it was necessary. I’m grateful that my parents gave me the confidence and sense of entitlement to take control of my own body, and that my State supported my choices with the necessary resources.

I want my daughter to have the same confidence and sense of entitlement, and the same access to resources. Yet, I want her to have more.

I want her to know that she has power over her own body and that she has choices. I never want her to feel desperate and alone.

With that in mind, these are the lessons I will teach my daughter:

• You are valuable and beloved and no one should ever, ever, ever make you feel otherwise.
• Your body belongs to you and no one else.
• Sex is not disgusting.
• Wanting to have sex is a natural feeling and there is no shame in it.
• Having consensual sex in a safe environment is natural and there is no shame in it.
• If you make a mistake, my heart will break for you, but I will be there for you. Without fail.
• You do not need to be married or even committed to have healthy, enjoyable sex.
• You can say “no”. Say it loudly. Scream it, if necessary.
• You only have one life and one body – enjoy it, but protect it.
• You might want to have sex with men or you might want to have sex with women. Either way, I support and love you.
• You have choices that can help you protect yourself and manage your future. Maybe you will want or need to have an abortion. I will help you navigate those choices without judgement.
• I will fight tirelessly to ensure that you – and even your daughters – always have those choices.
• Please come to me. The situation is not that desperate. You are not alone.

-From a loving (and proudly feminist) mother. 

P.S. Have I missed any crucial lessons? 

Bringing Gus to Rwanda

Last night I received a panicked email from Ritchie with a link to a pet import form, saying “Can you fill this out and submit it to the Ministry of Agriculture ASAP?! It will be best if you can get the approval tomorrow.” He’d waited until the last minute to look at the requirements for shipping Gus the Dog to Rwanda, bless his heart. I suspected that it’s impossible to get same-day processing and approval for pet imports here, but I promised to try.  

If only it were this easy (and inexspensive)

I was feeling very capable and urbane as I drove to the Ministry of Agriculture, got myself scanned at the security checkpoint, and waited while the guard looked over the paperwork before vaguely gesturing down the hall toward the left. Luckily for me, there were only two doors on the left and only one of those was open. I went in and handed over my paperwork. The clerks looked at the forms and chatted with each other animatedly for about ten minutes. Finally, one said, “You know the Rwanda Agriculture Board? You have to go there.”

I took my forms and got back in the car, still feeling capable, then drove across town to the RAB. At the RAB, the clerk examined my forms. “You have to go next door to the secretariat,” he said.

Feeling less capable and slightly deflated, I went next door to the secretariat. It was a single room crowded with desks and stacks of papers, which did not make me feel hopeful, but the clerk greeted me with a nice smile. I handed her my paperwork. She looked them over and said, “You need to take these next door to RAB.” And gestured back the way I’d come.

“I just came from next door!” I objected. The futility of my efforts was just starting to dawn on me. “They told me to come here.”

She glanced at my paperwork once more. “Okay, you can leave them here.” Then she put the papers on top of a messy pile and nodded toward the door. My cue to leave. I didn’t feel satisfied with this outcome.

“What happens next?” I asked. “How will I know when he’s approved? Will you contact me?”

“Come back in a few days. Then we’ll see.”  And she smiled at me nicely once more.

I left feeling entirely unsure of the outcome. Would they even look at my paperwork? Will Gus languish endlessly in customs or wherever it is that they store un-cleared pets until it’s time to ship him back home? Luckily, these worries don’t translate into dog and he is blissfully unaware of his own vulnerability.  Ritchie, on the other hand, might be sending more panicked emails.

Is anyone interested in adopting a charmingly stupid and partially trained mutt? You know, just in case.