The day was not all virility; at one point we walked into town and visited the sewing center. The woman who runs the center, Theresa, helps make uniforms for students. The store is lined with colorful cloth and bags hanging on the walls. The six or so sewing machines in the room are antique and black, with rust colored foot mechanisms and wooden workplaces. Theresa is excited and bubbly, hugging us when we first come through the door. Her English is limited, but she tries to converse with me in broken French as her accent is difficult for me to understand (coupled with my limited knowledge of sewing terms). We invite her back to the house and give her all types of string, fabric, and lining for the center.
The rest of the day is spent getting exhausted; working on the hutch and chasing pigs until my clothes and skin are so dirty I’ve forgotten what I used to smell like back home. I bathe with the water jug, as the water is not running that day (or any other day afterwards it seems). We eat dinner and lunch with the kids, sets of them clamoring for me to sit at their table. Throughout the day some choice kids appear to watch us work or ask about my life back home. I soon find the kids who seek me out the most are too clever for their own good. They make me love them, despite the short time we have spent together and their attempts to find the most effective ways to annoy me.
That night I find out their worship practices are every night. The kids sing with vitality as they pantomime (sometimes chaotically) all the English and Kinyarwandan hymns they can remember. I clap along to the songs I know, but am mostly content to watch the kids move around, trying to catch my attention. After their gospel lesson, the kids went around the room and hugged everyone goodnight.
That night the sound of a flood against the roof wakes me up. I lay awake for hours afterwards; thinking at any moment the house would be swept away down the mountains.
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