Old Habits Die Hard

Everyday as I walk to work, I encounter a good number of children on their way to school, many of whom use their latest lesson in English to engage in a simple conversation with me. “Good morning”, “How are you?”, “Give me my pen”, “Give me my book”, these are the daily questions and commands I get from children as I walk around Shyria. Regardless of what time it is, I am always greeted in English by, “Good morning, how are you?” When I answer this question to a group of little girls or boys, they often smile and run away talking quickly amongst themselves. I was told that many of the teachers’ first lessons in English instruct the kids how to ask for school supplies or money from foreigners. This is no surprise, because some kid demanding I give him his pen usually confronts me as I walk to the hospital. I always slowly inform them that I do not have their pen and that I’m sorry, I don’t have an extra. The policy here in Shyira is that none of the volunteers can give money, food, or any other items away because it would cause problems and perpetuate an image that the doctors are really trying to shake. Although it would be nice to occasionally had out a couple sheets of paper or give a pen to one of the children, the fact is that there is no way that we can meet the demand of the entire school, and thus a simple act of kindness sparks an onslaught of jealousy and begging.
Mazongo is a term used by the Rwandans to indicate a person of wealth. I initially misinterpreted this as a racial phrase, but was clued-up to now know that it is given to any Rwandan or non-Rwandan that has a lot of material goods. The people here openly refer to all white people in Shyira as Mazongos, both to our face and in conversation between each other. I have had a hard time dealing with this even though I know it is not derogatory. As I walk with the doctors or alone, I hear Mazongo said between friends as they approach, and both parties smile and wave as we pass. I have tried to use some Kinyawandan, saying “Oya, Mazongo” (No, Mazongo), but this does nothing. It is a name I will learn to live with and I am now sure that I will never be able to shed the stereotype of being a white person in a lab coat, which is fine.
There are some customs that would be very difficult to pick up on, and I am sure that I have many more to learn. My latest humbling moment was when I realized that it is very rude not to walk your guest down the road when they leave your house. In the States it is good manners to see your guest to the door, wish them a nice evening, and that’s that. Here it is proper form to walk some of the journey home with your guest. When my French teacher hangs around my door for a moment after my next lesson, I now know to accompany him part way on his walk home.
One example of a deeply rooted practice is the fact that many people will take their sick ones to a traditional healer before coming to the hospital. The cause of all death and disease is poisoning by your enemies, a belief still held my many in our community. Older people stare at me as I walk from one house to the next carrying food for an evening potluck, because the potential of the food getting poisoned from those who want me dead is very likely. Today at the hospital I encountered the first death due to this mindset. A man with acute meningitis was admitted only 3 days ago. As his eyes danced wildly around the room and his shrunken body hardly resembled a man in his late 20’s, his loved ones told us that the healer had determined he was poisoned because he threw up after given the testing concoction. Immediately taking some spinal fluid to confirm the meningitis and giving him strong antibiotics, we thought we had a chance to combat this late stage infection. Yet this morning I was informed that this man had died last night, alone in isolation, because he did not receive care soon enough. As I sat in on the consultation with his family, the doctor informed them that whenever they thought someone was “poisoned”, they should bring them to the hospital. Although it was hard for me to see a family that had just lost a loved one who was in the prime of his life, I hope that they will tell other families to come get true medical attention when a family member is sick.
I love Shyira and the people so far, but there are some difficult aspects of this change that I am still adapting to.