Gorillas in the Mist

This past weekend, Simone and I made the trek to Volcanoes National Park to go gorilla trekking. We paid the big bucks (aka tourist prices) and rode the bus from Kigali to Ruhengere, in the northern part of Rwanda, very near the borders to both Uganda and DR Congo. There, we were able to stay with a friend of a friend – very much the way things work here – which was very nice indeed, allowing us to meet a whole new set of people. We also hired a 4x4 and driver through the friend of a friend. The night before, from the bus, we were treated to a display of one of the active volcanoes, which glowed red and seemed to be sending up sparks. Remarkable!

Monday was our day so we set off, picking up Steve, a friend from Kigali who was able to join us at the last minute. At 7 am, we met up with other visitors at the welcome centre for Volcanoes National Park. We were given a few instructions and split up into various groups, depending on how far you wanted to walk and which group of gorillas you wanted to see.

We were given a small lesson on gorillas – their life span, their social hierarchy, their habits, even the fact that the details of the nose of a gorilla are as unique as those of a human fingerprint. The “noseprint” is how each gorilla is differentiated. There are trackers who follow each gorilla troop daily so that it is easier for the guides to take groups of trekkers directly to them. There are also researchers who study their habits and care for them if sick, and all manner of local men and women who are implicated in the treks.

Simone had her heart set on a long trek so she chose the Amahoro group of gorillas. In all, there were just six trekkers in our group as well as two guides and several porters. The first stage involved half an hour in the 4x4 along a road, which, we were told, gave us a Rwandan massage. Very , very, very bumpy! At the foothills of the volcano (Mount Visoke I believe) we left our jeeps behind, hired porters for our backpacks (well I did) and headed overland, through fields and small villages, where everyone was working and all the children delighted in waving and saying ‘hello’ and getting a reply, and sometimes joining hands – very much the Rwandan way of greeting.

The fields were rich with crops, especially potatoes, corn, beans and acres and acres of pyrethrum, a plant of the chrysanthemum family (very like marguerites), the dried flowers of which are sent to the US and used to make mosquito repellant. People, especially women, work barefoot in the fields with deep hoes, cultivating the very fertile earth there and harvesting crops, their young children on their backs or playing nearby. They stop and wave their greetings.

Finally, we reached the edge of the park, marked by a rough stone wall constructed both to keep the animals in and to curb the encroachment of people, whose fields butt right up to the park periphery. We all clambered over into what was basically the jungle’s edge. We followed narrow paths through groves of bamboo, eucalyptus, bananas, and all manner of plants I can’t identify. There were many stinging nettles, and we were warned to keep our hands within the range of the narrow path. I got one good zap, which is still a noticeable tingle today. And on and up we went.

The morning was chilly but fine. However, it had rained heavily the day before so the paths were muddy and slippery. We picked our way up the rocky slopes, through the jungle and through clearings for about two hours. We arrived at a clearing where we met up with many trackers and guards, who keep the forests protected from predators and poachers. We left our backpacks behind, except for cameras, and moved forward quietly for a few hundred metres.

Just out of sight behind a grove of bushes, I could hear the rustling sounds of something large. The people in the lead had stopped in amazement, looks of wonder filling their faces. They seemed to be holding their breath. And in a few seconds, I saw why. Just a few metres away was a group of about a dozen gorillas, lying in the sun, making nests, grooming one another and themselves, cuddling, sleeping and eating bamboo shoots. It was quite a sight. It was very like a dream. Hard to believe that I was actually standing there in the jungle on a mountain watching these enormous, magnificent creatures, hearing them grunt and snuffle, seeing them interact, being regarded by them, smelling their scent, noticing their very human-looking ears.

We stayed in the area for an hour, taking photos, smiling, whispering, smiling some more, moving a bit for a better or different view, taking more photos and smiling some more. It felt like hallowed ground; such a privilege to be part of their natural habitat for this short while. The gorillas were mostly very calm. One young male walked right up to our group and passed between us, without a glance, as if to just give us all a thrill. He was maybe six inches from me!

I saw a young baby climb a vine and swing around the treetops. Later he came down with a flurry, having moved out to the end of a bushy branch until the branch dipped low enough for him to jump off. I saw baby gorillas tussling with one another, from time to time beating their chests to let us know who was in charge! But they were still so young that they would fall over as they beat their chests. You couldn’t help but laugh at their antics.

The silverback leader, about 35 years old, was in a sleepy mood, and clearly did not feel at all threatened by our presence. The second silverback, about 25 years old, had lost a hand in a trap when he was young. He is apparently a great fighter and protector of the group. As we were preparing to leave, an older female started to make some noises to which the leader responded. They were apparently signaling their desire to mate. Unfortunately, we were not around to see this event, but perhaps we would not have been welcome anyway.

Picking my way down the mountain was done mostly in silence, my heart and head trying to process what I had just been a part of. On our return journey across the fields, the skies opened and we were pelted with a cold, driving rain that drenched and chilled us all to the bone. Even so, my mood of quiet elation and wonder persisted.

Today, a day later, I have not fully grasped how I feel about the whole thing. Honoured. Blessed. Moved. And yet, for reasons I cannot fathom, some aspects of the experience remain surreal, dreamlike and unreachable in my conscious thoughts. And perhaps best left that way.

Daring to Dream

Today, Simone and I held an art class with the sewing students, their second art class. The object was to make three wishes, and to draw them or make them real in one way or another. Most chose to draw and colour in with coloured pencils and pastels. In advance of the class, Simone and Jeanne and I had all made our own three wishes and expressed them through drawing. It was an interesting exercise and reminded me how pleasurable it is to draw, even when there is absolutely no talent involved whatsoever (aka moi!).

My three wishes were as follows: one, that my children did not live so far away from me, but regardless, they are the recipients of my enormous and undying love; second, that someday I can play the piano again with some ability; and third, that I become a really excellent quilter, especially in design. I did a separate drawing because John was not in this picture, because my wish for him/us has already come true – we are together. But he wanted to be in the picture so I made one just for him, a wish we have long held together – that we grow old together and beautifully expressed by the sundial we have in our back yard: "grow old with me, the best is yet to come."


We introduced the topic to the class, showing our sample three wishes. I was the fairy godmother with my magic wand, granting each one of them three wishes. I was actually amazed at how quickly they all rushed out into the garden and porch to find a quiet spot to work. They beavered away for a good hour. Then it was time to gather up their things and go home. I have included a picture of some of them hard at work.


Judging by their enthusiasm at the start and their chatter at the finish, I think they found it really fun. I don’t know whether or not this exercise awakened any deep desires they might have held. But without a doubt, their modest dreams are lovingly, faithfully and sometimes childishly drawn onto paper. A home. A partner. A family. A car. Education. A sewing machine. Faith in God. A garden. As they left the centre, I could swear their sweet laughter came from hearts that were lighter for having expressed these desires openly.

Kigali Fashion

As most of you know, I am not a big stickler for fashion. Jeans or shorts or shpants (more recently) and a t-shirt have suited me very well for over forty years. But, like when we lived in France back in the 1980s, I feel that Kigali is the place to get a bit more style on. In France, I got right into it, having my colours “read” and going on shopping sprees. I had a closet full of wonderful clothes that I wore all the time there. It felt good to fit in better and it felt good to dress up in a society that dresses up. But these clothes languished in Canada and I rarely wear my few remaining pieces – in part because none of them fit…

In Kigali, I feel sheepishly underdressed a lot of the time. I brought a couple of skirts with me, but they are pretty utilitarian (read straight and khaki). People accept me as I am, as that weird foreigner who wears jeans, but when I put on something pretty, my one skirt that has some fullness and colour, or maybe just a pair of earrings, people notice and tell me how lovely I look. Thumbs up all around.

Almost all the women here wear dresses or skirts. At school, children are separated by the clothing they wear. Trousers or shorts for the boys and skirts for the girls, regardless of a child’s preferences. I am aware that the reasons for dressing differently have a lot to do with accentuating the differences between men and women. And I am not terribly comfortable with that. But, nonetheless, I do feel drawn to fit in better, at least from time to time.

Simone has been hunting for a pretty fancy dress, all long and shiny and laden with embroidery. I really can’t go that far, although I did try on a top of that style that comes with a wrap around skirt (called a pagne – pronounced just like it is spelled, using French pronunciation) as well as a head scarf. This fashion is very expensive. I have included a photo of that moment for your viewing pleasure – or perhaps astonished hilarity! I have spared you the photo of me in the whole outfit, complete with head scarf! Just in case you are wondering, all the fancy embroidered stuff has some kind of stiffening material in it like maybe starch? For some reason, this is a sign of an expensive piece of clothing and very desirable. Myself, I prefer to feel the actual fabric, like it would be after it is washed. Nice and soft. And I am suspicious if I can’t rub the product between my fingers to feel the quality.

Last week, Jeanne brought in a dress that she thought would look good on me. Everyone approved but I feel I looked ridiculous – all bust and shoulders. Not flattering from my point of view. But you can be the judge! Apparently, this style makes me look like a “real Rwandan woman”. I have purchased some fabric that I like and feel I could actually wear, and I will have a dress and a suit made from two of these pieces in the near future.

But back to Kigali fashion. My observations tell me that whenever people go out, men or women, even if they have only one outfit for going out, they really try their best to look sharp. Everything is clean and ironed. You can tell that no one dashes out the door in their housework clothes to buy some milk. Ever. When women come to the centre, they almost always look quite elegant, regardless of their age or shape. One exception is for yoga class, but even then they cover up their sweat pants with a pagne. As well, when people receive us in their home, people wear their Sunday best.

The traditional dress in Rwanda is a matching skirt (or wrap), a top, which can sewn be in a variety of styles, and a head scarf, which is worn in a variety of ways depending on preferences. The head scarf denotes a married woman I am told. There are very particular styles of dress for weddings, and I also assume for other occasions like funerals and baptisms. Everyday wear ranges from the traditional to the very modern. Simone finds that young people wear incredibly stylish clothing and I agree. There is great attention to detail in both the clothing and the accessories. The western style clothes have way more flair here than they do in the west.

I will never give up my jeans and t-shirts, but for a few short months and maybe two or three times a year, on special ‘granny’ occasions, I will dress up in Rwandan style with all the attention to detail that entails.

Sorry

Last night, Simone and I went to see a Canadian play called “Goodness” at a restaurant called Heaven here in Kigali. Go figure! We had no idea what we were in for. It was a brilliant play sort of about the genocide but also about human nature. I do recommend the play. The troupe was from Toronto and I imagine it will continue to show there after this tour. But all that is beside the point.

Early on the play, one character is under assault from another character, who says to him disgustedly, “You Americans are all alike!” He replies, “Actually, I am Canadian.” And in a kind of soft-voiced afterthought, he says, “Sorry.” I laughed aloud at the joke.

Afterwards, one of the actors said to me that was so nice to hear people laughing at the Canadian jokes, like the one above. I said that actually, in Rwanda, people say sorry even more than we Canadians do. And they do but mostly for different reasons.
At first I was a bit bemused by it, but now I find it endearing. For example, I am walking along a sidewalk, not paying enough attention, and I stumble on an uneven bit of pavement. Several people rush to me saying, “Sorry!” and make sure I am okay. Or on the bus the other day, the long bar I (and several other people) was holding to keep steady fell out of its socket. Everyone was sorry, sorry, sorry! Or I drop something accidentally, and people are sorry.

Canadians are sorry (a lot) when we feel we ourselves have somehow done something wrong or disappointed someone. I like this about Canadians. And this is also true of Rwandans, but in addition, it seems that when something “bad” happens to someone else, people express their concern by saying sorry. I feel comforted by the outpouring of concern. It makes me feel I have a tiny relationship with every single person in my vicinity, wherever I go. I never feel alone.

Eating in Kigali

After one month here in Kigali, I have dropped several pounds (maybe 10???). None of my pants fit any more and I am no longer “busting” out of all my shirts (pun intended). People want to know my secret and I don’t have an answer. I only know I am okay with this! I have been trying to shed some pounds for ages. And, rest assured, I am totally healthy, which had been one of my main concerns about living here. But no longer, though I remain vigilant.

I have mostly adopted the Rwandan habit of not eating until noon. Thus, I usually just have a café au lait in the morning, using the little stovetop espresso pot I brought and boiled water, powdered milk and sugar. Sometimes I have a chapatti, made by Simon early in the morning, with melted cheese. He makes the best chapattis and I am trying to learn all the secrets from him. It helps to have invested in a non-stick pan to cook them in! For awhile we had fruity cornflakes, which was nice with fresh milk (cheap at 300 RWF/litre, but needs to be heated to almost boiling to ensure safety).

The cheese here is very good though too expensive for most people. The most common cheese is medium soft and encased in rind. It tastes like a mild cheddar/brick combination. We eat a lot of cheese (3000 rwf for a 6”x 2” round). We also eat lots of eggs (100 RWF/egg) in omelet form. The other thing we try to eat a lot of is fish, which is also expensive but worth it (4000/kilo). The two main fishes are Tilapia and Capitaine, both a firm white fish. The struggle is always to dream up ways to cook them that don’t involve frying in tons of oil, which is the usual way of cooking things here – fry everything up in oil, which, sadly, is mostly palm oil. Simone found a can of coconut milk at one point and made the most amazing dish, but we haven’t been able to locate another can. Almost everything here is cooked from scratch. There is very little processed food, and what there is, you pay for dearly. Like a can of coconut milk…

Thus, the diet is somewhat bland. The blandness of the diet is mainly because the use of spices, except salt (which is laid on in abundance), is not part of the culture. Indeed, although some spices are available (for a price), no one knows what to do with them. I brought a bag of spices with me: basil, oregano, curry, chili powder, cumin, dill. For me, the basics. So we are able to make some pretty tasty things. Also, tomatoes here are a staple. They are small tomatoes, rather like Romas but not. They are full of flavour and can be found in abundance. Onions and garlic are also easy to find. It takes some doing, but fresh ginger is also available and can really make a dish quite amazing.

Food prices have tripled since the economic meltdown last year. Some people are really struggling to get by. I struggle with paying some amounts, but only because everything is cash. There is just one place in town that takes Visa. So it feels as though I am bleeding money sometimes. Everything is pay as you go, from telephones, to internet to electricity to gas. And of course the numbers feel so big. When I actually stop to think about it, I am okay. But when something as simple as coffee says 4,500 RWF on it, I balk! I mean, the coffee is made here, man! But that is only $9 CDN, and I would pay that much at home too. And more.

The staple foods for Rwandans are beans, rice, potatoes, bananas, a weird kind of eggplant, sorghum and plantains. And fruit! There are many varieties of flour here made from vegetables and grains I don’t know. Manioc flour, peanut flour (!), sorghum flour. I have been served these things, but, like Rwandans faced with spices, I don’t know what to do with them myself. So I seek out the familiar, like flour and pasta for my starches, though always white. We have found a source of whole grain bread though, though it is $3 per loaf. But it’s worth it. I think here it is a bit like America at the time of Wonder Bread; everyone thought it was the most awesome thing. But it turned out to be not that good for us after all. Here all bread is made from white flour. So actually the people with the least money probably eat the best since oil is expensive, as are meat and fish and eggs. So they tend to fry less and cook more sauces.

Last weekend, I went shopping with Simon at a big market about 2 km from the centre. He doesn’t get out very often, because he is supposed to be guarding the house. So this was a real outing for him. He showered and changed his clothes several times before he was ready! We walked there in blazing heat (undoing the effects of our showers!), stopping halfway for a Fanta and to mop our faces. (Oh yes, soda pop is “in”! But not diet, unless you are willing to pay double the price.) Very refreshing.

At the market, Simon and I went with my list and my cloth shopping bags to find what we needed. The market was enormous and so overwhelming. Mountains of beans in all directions, piled on tables. Big bags of flour and sugar and salt. Stallls filled with all manner of fruits and vegetables. Meat and fish stalls. And people everywhere. Women peeling garlic. People selling, people buying, people haggling. The smells, sounds and sights were really something.

Simon was so helpful because we kind of understand each other and he can bargain in Kinyarwanda. Lots of people were very eager for my money, ready to gouge the muzunga. But he got us good prices. We came away with tomatoes, avaocadoes (the best!), pineapples, papayas, cilantro (for salsa) and basil (for pesto), all at good prices. I had wanted to find black beans, my favourite, and they had everything but. Also at the market, we looked for some tools for the house: a hammer, a pitchfork (for the new garden), a wrench, a file (to sharpen the hoes and spade (you would be proud John)). Simon haggled good prices for everything. We took moto-taxis home, Simon with a massive smile on his face, worth a million dollars1

Simone and I have been out for several moderately priced restaurant meals in various contexts. I have not dared to go into the many local (and cheap) restaurants, because I would feel unsure of the food safety measures in place. But we have eaten Italian (pasta dishes at Sole Luna), Indian (Kameer), American (a very good hamburger at Bourbon Cafe), North African (couscous dishes at Shocola), and Rwandan (grilled meat and fish kebabs at Baobab). All equally good in their distinctive ways. But especially, set in the loveliest locations! Very romantic, very magical. Well except Bourbon Café, which is in a mall, although it is lovely too, especially on the terrace.

There are some foods that are part of my normal diet or Simone’s that we simply can’t find here. Raisins, fresh nuts, prunes, high fibre cereal, whole grain flour, brown rice, potable tap water, fresh juicy apples, good (trustworthy) yogurt and Smarties! Things that are available but super expensive are ice cream ($20/tub), butter ($6/½ pound), wine ($12/bottle), flour ($8/2 kg), honey ($5/jar but worth every franc), peanut butter ($3 for one cup, but ground from fresh peanuts – yum!), olive oil ($8/litre but a staple for us, used rather sparingly), chocolate ($22/big Toblerone bar). And so on. So we do splurge on these things every once in a while, just to feel rich and lucky and indulgent. But not the Toblerone so far… ; ) Not even a small one… : (

One of the things I found at the market last weekend was a small can of yeast. Tonight, I hope to make us little individual pizzas, baked in the toaster oven. I may splurge on a bottle of red wine to go with. Preparation will be a production for sure, taking much of the afternoon and early evening! But then the food will be ready, and Simone, Simon and I will sit down to a meal together, giving thanks for all we have, and enjoying every mouthful.

The Tubahumurize Sewing Project

So many people were involved with fundraising through Give Meaning.com for the sewing project here at Tubahumurize. It is now into its second month and is a complete success from every angle. There were twenty students at the start, but several had to drop out for various reasons, though certainly not because they wanted to. There are currently 18 students – 16 girls and 2 boys – and we are in the process of bringing two more young women aboard, one of whom began the program but had to drop out.

Most of the students are 15-20 years old. Very nearly all of them are orphans whose families were killed during the genocide. They live in a variety of situations. Perhaps with a relative, like an aunt. Some have been taken in by women who are members of Tubahumurize. A few live on their own and a few are heads of households. Two or more girls live in households where they are basically servants and only with great difficulty have they gained permission to do their housework and attend our school. One girl gets up at 4 am so she can get here for 8 am. Three women have young children. Most students had to leave school early on. Only one or two have finished primary school and have attended some secondary school.


Their teacher is a woman named Epiphanie and she is really something. Very calm and patient, and obviously very talented, since the young people are learning by leaps and bounds. It was clearly not intellect that held them back in school! They are still working with used clothing, which they take apart and turn into something new. I am amazed at what they can do in such a short time and also at what they produce from sometimes pretty dowdy fabric. They make some pretty neat outfits! They are not quite ready to cut into new fabric but I would be willing to let any one of them make me something, as long as Epiphanie supervised the process!

The class is not just getting an education in sewing. They are also receiving a variety of other kinds of activities that will help them develop into more rounded individuals. For example, they attend workshops in health, nutrition, life-skills and English, and we offer them art classes, English choir, and soon yoga. As well, they attend trauma counselling, which right now is on an individual basis. They do not yet feel comfortable talking about their troubled young lives in front of one another. It is too new, even to them. They have perhaps never talked about what has happened to them. It is buried deep and is very painful.

The students also take turns preparing their midday meal. There is a large three “burner” coal burning brick stove, on which they cook their meals. The usual fare is beans and rice, which perhaps would grow repetitive for me, but for them is likely their main meal of the day, and by Rwandan standards, is pretty healthy. We have plans to put in a small garden, which the students can help plan and tend, and to raise chickens for eggs, again with the students in charge of building shelter from the rain and a fence. The fruits of the garden and of the chickens will also help to supplement their diets.


The lot on which the centre is located is perhaps 100’ wide by 75’ deep. The main house is quite spacious by Rwandan standards, with a large living area, where all the counselling and workshops take place, a small functional kitchen, an office, a bathroom, and two bedrooms, one with a private bathroom.

The students’ sewing area is behind the centre. The ten treadle machines are nestled into a small room. All of the cutting and patterning and hand sewing take place in the courtyard, paved with smooth, painted cement, between the main house and the sewing room. The students take turns at the machines, with half sewing and the other half working on other stages of their work. They learn from a blackboard, which is literally that – a board painted black – but it works! – and from listening to and watching their teacher. At the end of each day, the students work together to clean the courtyard, and at the end of every week, they clean all the cement areas as well as the courtyard kitchen area and the bathroom.

I have grown very fond of these young women and men. They are perhaps the most industrious young people I have ever met. Not one of them is looking for an easy way out. They all seem to take this opportunity very seriously and responsibly. In their lives, opportunities like this will likely be few and far between.


I love their names: Pascaline (2), Claudine, Ephipanie, Immacule, Clementine, Madina, Elvani, Osette, Jeanette, Soulange, Antoinette, Jacqueline, and Erique (2). Clearly I am missing a couple but I am working from memory here. I love their response to new things. I had brought a few skipping ropes, and one day I took one out for them to use. To see the joy on their faces, to hear their laughter – it was almost too, too good. They are so painfully beautiful, still children really. And probably never had much of a childhood, considering that most of them were three or four at the time of the genocide. To have lived through that, at no matter what age, was most certainly traumatic.

Every weekday morning, when class is just starting, the class sings a hymn and offers a prayer. They sound like angels to me, with their high, clear voices. So last week, I started a choir with those who wished to participate. They seem to love it and want to sing more than once a week. I am teaching them some pretty easy stuff, like This Little Light of Mine, Kumbaya, Summertime, Swing Low, and We Shall Overcome. They hardly know what they are singing but I do my best to explain in French and someone translates into Kinyarwanda at minimum, what the song is about. Basically, so far, it works. They love to sing, and they seem to enjoy learning and watching me as they rarely take their eyes off me while we are singing, and they copy me, even if I scratch my nose or something. My own choir instructor should be so lucky! It’s like they don’t want to miss a beat! (No pun intended… )


Just today, Simone and I offered the first art class. We introduced the concept of art – What is it? What kinds of things are art? Who can make art? They were engaged and interested but a bit mystified. I think very few of them had ever had an opportunity to do much that requires just imagination. The exercises we did today were very simple. One was with the class sitting in a circle, eyes closed, one behind the other. One person chose a shape and drew it on the person in front’s back. The shape transmitted was sent around the circle to the last person who then wrote the shape they received on a piece of paper. They had a lot of fun with that.
The second exercise was to draw someone else in the class without looking at the paper. You could see who had never drawn before, who was intimidated by the exercise and who really got it. It was pretty impressive really.

Next week, we asked them to think about what they might do if they were granted three wishes: what those granted wishes might look like. We will offer all kinds of materials for them to work with, from drawing to collage. I hope they will be able to share their wishes with everyone. We are also planning a large mural sewing project as well.

So these are the kind of things the sewing class is up to. Every day, they amaze me. They give me the most wonderful hugs and always smile and want to chat. They are somewhat shy but curious about everything. They think I am nuts because I have asked them to keep their cuttings scraps for me, with which I hope to piece into some kind of quilt, but which to them are garbage. Hopefully, I can show them such scraps’ usefulness. I try my best to be a kind of mother figure to them. Indeed, they call me Elaine but they also call me Mami, which is like older woman I think. I went out today with a bolt of fabric I had bought to show them. They approved enthusiastically.

They adore poring through the little album of photos I brought with pics of all my family and friends. For young people with little or no family, indeed from any woman with whom I have shared my family pictures, I have never felt one twinge of jealousy that I should be so rich in family and they so poor. Indeed, they seem genuinely delighted. One group of women actually applauded when I said I had a wonderful and kind husband. Most of them are either widows or living in abusive situations.

At the moment, there is a possibility that this project will receive money for an electric sewing machine that does embroidery as well as money for a serger. This will bring the students’ abilities to a much higher level. In fact, even the instructor would have to be taught how to use the embroidery aspects of the machine. But that is very much a fashion here, to put some gorgeous finishes on women’s clothing in ways I have never seen but certainly recognize as a form of embroidery. So we are all hopeful about that as that kind of skill will bring in more money for sure.

Simone and I are trying to come up with ways that the students can make some money, once their skills reach a certain level. This will be soon, as we are going with the teacher next week to purchase fabric for the first time. So we are planning and scheming on their behalf so they can begin to earn a bit. It may involve banking anything they make so that when they graduate, they will be able to purchase cloth or a sewing machine. This plan is in its infancy.

So thank you to all of you who helped to make this project become a reality. It is really amazing what is happening here, thanks to you. It is also amazing what is happening to me, because these kids just rock my world.