No Means No

One of the projects that I volunteer with is a teacher mentoring program.  As a volunteer, I am paired up with one or two teachers and we arrange to meet one on one at least once a week.  The goals for the mentoring is to build friendship, help improve English conversation and pronunciation, and for me to learn more about Rwandan culture.  

I got paired with one of the most experienced teachers at the school.  Esparanza (or Hope) has been teaching since the early 70’s.  You’d never guess it by looking at her, but she has three grandchildren.  I can’t believe that she has been teaching for over 40 years.  

For our first meeting, I invited her over for tea.  She unexpectedly brought one of her daughters - but I had guessed she might bring someone and had prepared extra tea and biscuits.  We spent the hour getting to know each other and sharing our expectations for our meetings.  As our time came to a close, we planned our next meeting for the following Sunday at 6pm.  She had invited me to her home. 

A week went by and the weekend predictably followed.  I had planned my whole Sunday around meeting Esparanza that evening.  That same day, both the Crowson’s and Miller’s had left for Kenya leaving behind their kids in my care.  Meredith agreed to stay with the Miller kids during my meeting and we agreed that I would stop in and check on the Crowson kids on my way home after the meeting since it was close by.  

I perfectly timed my walk and arrived at 6:00 on the dot at our designated meeting spot.  I wasn’t at all surprised that Esparanza wasn’t there to meet me and show me the way to her home.  Being on time isn’t a Rwandan characteristic. So, I called her to let her know that I was there and to see how long I would have to wait.  “Hello, Juliette.  I will leave here in a few minutes to come and meet you.”  

(A side note, I go by “Juliette” here as it is more familiar and easier to pronounce than Julie.)

So I take a deep breath and set my mind to waiting. Hoping rather than expecting that it will actually be just a few minutes.  I am standing on a corner of an intersection several streets off the main road.  A couple walks by with their two young kids who giggle when they see me.  With a little push from their mom, the kids run up and give me a hug, still giggling.  I greet them, hug them, then wave and greet their parents.  After a while a young guy on a bicycle stops by to greet me in English.  He wants to know exactly which house I live in and when he can come by to visit.  I give a general wave in the air and explain that I live close by and he can greet me whenever he see me walking on the road or in town.  Then he asks for my phone number, which I politely decline to give.  He understands, says goodbye and rides on.

Several groups of teenagers walk by in whispers and muffled laughs.  I’m glad that I can’t understand what they are saying.  

Four older women have been walking my direction and finally stop close to me. Traditionally dressed, they are small with backs and shoulders rounded from a lifetime of carrying heavy loads.  Two of the women clutch walking sticks as they peer up at me.  “Muraho!” I greet each one with a hand shake while my left hand touches my right arm just below the elbow as a sign of respect.  They all nod, return the greeting and keep peering up.  The youngest one boldly demands in English. “What is your name?”   In Kinyarwanda, I reply that my name is Juliette, then I ask each one for their name.  After repeating my name several times followed by other kinyarwanda words beyond my limited vocabulary, they each introduce themselves.   

Having exhausted my kinyarwanda language skills, I stand and smile expecting them to say goodbye and move on their way.  But they keep standing and peering and rapidly talking in Kinyarwanda.  They start to close in on me and pat me on the hip and thighs.  While surprising and totally inappropriate by western standards, this has happened many times.  I only assume that the women are discussing how easy it must be for me to have babies with hips as wide as mine.  But their touching doesn’t stop and suddenly one of the women pats me in my “no-no area”.  I grab her hand and strongly say “Oya” (No).  She laughs as another lady begins to pat my chest.  I grab her hands and again say “Oya”.  Unsure of what the women intended, I break away, smile and say goodbye as I quickly walk to the Crowson’s.  The women seem disappointed, but my departure doesn’t interrupt what has become a lively conversation.  

It is about 6:45 when I arrive at the Crowson’s still shaken up by what just happened.  I don’t think the women intended harm, but it is still very, very strange.  Esparanza calls around 6:50 wondering where I am waiting.  With apologies, I explain that I had to leave and reschedule our meeting.  Pretending like nothing happened, I join the Crowson boys in an episode of Hogan’s Heroes.  Thus ends the day that I had planned around meeting Esparanza.