Stop Making Sense

A common expression that passes through the lips of the volunteers in our group while we are together is “stop making sense!” Somehow, Rwandans seem to have this sixth sense where they just know things without anybody communicating to them what so ever. For example, a few weeks ago, a change was made to the teaching schedule and Katy’s classes were moved around. No announcement of the changes was made and Katy had no clue of it until she walked into the wrong class one day. But somehow, all of the other teachers whom it affected knew about the change. For some reason, Rwandans don’t need to communicate verbally in the same way that Americans do. In this respect, sometimes communicating in a “sensible” way is no good here.

While the volunteers are sitting around swapping stories, usually someone will tell one that warrants a “stop making sense” quip. Someone said this during training once and the phrase stuck. A few weeks ago I had a “stop making sense” moment. Katy had decided to take an emergency day trip to Kigali to buy a plane ticket to South Africa for the April break. She had tried to do this the weekend before but credit card issues had made it a bust, so she begrudgingly was going back two days later. I had a large package waiting for me at the post office, and decided to go with her so I could pick it up and avoid having to haul it around with me will on a pleasure trip.

So, Katy and I got up early on Wednesday and started the hour long walk down to Mukinga, the town with a bus stop on the main road. As we started walking, the good karma that was owed Katy after her awful time the weekend before caught up with her. Father Bonadventure, a priest from down the road, was driving back home after saying the 6:30 mass for the students. He stopped to say hello and in typical Rwandan fashion, asked where we were going. (After “hello” and “how are you” the next question is always “where are you going?” or “where are you coming from?”). When we told him we were walking to Mukinga, he shook his head with a Rwandan “oah, oah, oah.” “That is very far, I will drive you there.” So we hopped in and after a 10 minute, rocky car ride, which included a conversation about the Detroit airport and Father Bonadventure’s first experience with snow (he had just returned from a trip to Nashville), we were waiting for our bus.

When we arrived in Kigali, Katy and I split up as I headed to La Posita (the post office). I had been told by three different people from our group that I had two packages waiting for me there. Our Field Director had gone to see if she could pick them up since they were send c/o her. However, she only managed to get the smaller one out for me. When I arrived at the package pick-up area, I told the man at the counter that I was there to pick up a package. He asked if I had a package pick-up slip. I had been warned about these. “They always ask for a package pick-up slip, but no one has ever actually received one.” So I told him no, and he brought out a large book of names, which I was also warned about. You are supposed to find your name in the book and provide identification proving that you are that person, and then they go retrieve the package for you. While I’m sure the names are entered in the order that the packages are received, there are no dates stating when the package arrived and having no idea of the volume of package traffic they had, I had no clue where to start looking. After 15 minutes of searching name by name and passing several names of people I knew, I started getting a little frustrated. I knew my name had to be in there (someone from our group had sent me a text message a few days before saying that she had seen my name in “the book.” ) So I asked the man at the counter if this was the only book they had. “yes, there’s no other,” he said. So, I continued looking.

Finally I spotted my name, but it had been signed off by my field director, so I knew that this was the smaller package. I showed it to the man and asked if it was possible if there were two packages under this same entry. “No,” he said. “And this one has already been picked up. If there is another package, this person would have picked it up too. But probably it has not arrived yet.”

“This is impossible,” I told him, “I was told that there were two packages here under my name.”

“If it is not in the book, then it has not arrived,” he answered firmly.

So I continued looking with no luck. Now I was getting really frustrated. “Can you just look in the back and see if there is a package by this name?” I asked. “ No, if it is not in the book, then it has not arrived yet,” he replied. “No,” I countered, explaining again, “When, this person came to pick up the other package, there were two packages.”

“That is impossible. Because then she would have taken that one as well.” He was getting visibly impatient with me.

I was getting equally impatient with him. Even though he spoke English very well, I knew that there was some invisible communication black hole between us in which lay the meaning of my words and the unspoken, commonly understood workings of the Rwandan parcels office. And probably my package. I didn’t know how I could be anymore clear that there was another package for me and that it had arrived. And he didn’t know how he could make me understand that my package was not there. I took a deep breath and told him, “No, they told her that she was not allowed to take it. She tried to get both, but they would only let her take the smaller one.”

“…oh… your package is not small?”

“No.”

“Then, it is in this book,” he said, his voice immediately calm, as he pulled out another book.

In my head I rolled my eyes and thought to myself, “Meghan, you just need to stop making sense!”

This new book was much neater, and after about 5 seconds, I found my name three pages back.

If a Rwandan had come to pick up a package, never having set foot there before and never having discussed the procedures of package pick-up, I’m fairly certain that with a glance or two and maybe some eyebrow motions they would have had their package in their hands in under 5 minutes. No wonder my students have such a hard time with critical thinking skills and rationalized communication…who needs those when you’re born with an innate sense of knowing what’s up.