I've been missing Rwanda a lot lately. It may be the weather, these lovely, sunny 80 degree F days like every day was in Rwanda, or it may be the concept of staying in one place for a while, the panic that I have to tamp back at the idea that this, here, is it, is home. I miss the turquoise waters of Lake Kivu stretching in front of me every morning, and the walks down the little path where tiny boys herding huge cows greeted me shyly. "Amakuru?"
I miss the road through the mountains from Kigali to Kibuye, on which I knew - I still know - every curve. I knew which curves required slowing down and which you could take at full speed. I knew where the trucks were likely to pull out on the other side of blind corners, straining and groaning to get up to speed on the hills. I knew where I had to turn off my a/c in order to keep power in my own baby Land Cruiser. I knew where I had space enough to pass even though I couldn't see around the next curve. I knew how the buses and trucks would take the inside of the curve, even if that meant driving in the wrong lane. If you don't think you are going to die at least once on the drive to Kigali, I used to tell people, then watch out for the way back, because your brush with death is still coming. I can close my eyes and drive that road: up the long hill out of Kigali, through the streets of Gitarama filled with pink-suited prisoners, over the bridge into Ntara ya Kibuye, past the waterfall, next to gleaming inlets of the lake, and finally around one last blind curve to the roundabout in Kibuye. I am aching to drive it again.
In the park where I sit most evenings, a group of African men from all over the continent play football (by which I mean soccer, oh US Americans). If I ignore the perfect green grass and the white guys playing frisbee in the background, if I close my eyes and listen only to their voices, I could be back, somewhere in Africa. When I walk home afterwards, though an apparent utopia of grass and flowers, swingsets and bikes left tumbled on the front walk, I feel a bit of a jolt to be in this place instead of that.
A week or two ago, I was reading through my posts from Southern Sudan last fall. I realized that a year ago, I was getting ready to go to Southern Sudan, where I was miserable. To be fair, it was not all the fault of Southern Sudan (despite the HOT, which I have discussed in unending detail). I didn't really give it a chance, because I was so tired of leavings and arrivings. I wanted to be and to belong. So here I am, attempting to be and belong. Africa doesn't come up here unless I bring it up, usually, and entire days and weeks can go by with the people I meet never knowing that I am anything but a new lawyer who recently moved to Gone West. I have to accept, I suppose, that this place, this country, will forever be only part of me.
It seems lately that the authors of every international blog I read have up and moved to Southern Sudan. When they write about how difficult the place is, I can only grimace and nod my head in agreement. And yet, as they point out, there are people and beauty and joy there, too. I miss even that Tiny Little Town in Southern Sudan, even the mornings where I was sweating before I even got lotion on my face (lotion+ sweat = disgusting).
One of these bloggers posted a photo that I saw this morning: my favorite little bird in Southern Sudan (see this post). It's from the back, but you can see the little red blush-spot on its cheek. I smiled and, for a moment, I could be both parts of me.
I miss the road through the mountains from Kigali to Kibuye, on which I knew - I still know - every curve. I knew which curves required slowing down and which you could take at full speed. I knew where the trucks were likely to pull out on the other side of blind corners, straining and groaning to get up to speed on the hills. I knew where I had to turn off my a/c in order to keep power in my own baby Land Cruiser. I knew where I had space enough to pass even though I couldn't see around the next curve. I knew how the buses and trucks would take the inside of the curve, even if that meant driving in the wrong lane. If you don't think you are going to die at least once on the drive to Kigali, I used to tell people, then watch out for the way back, because your brush with death is still coming. I can close my eyes and drive that road: up the long hill out of Kigali, through the streets of Gitarama filled with pink-suited prisoners, over the bridge into Ntara ya Kibuye, past the waterfall, next to gleaming inlets of the lake, and finally around one last blind curve to the roundabout in Kibuye. I am aching to drive it again.
In the park where I sit most evenings, a group of African men from all over the continent play football (by which I mean soccer, oh US Americans). If I ignore the perfect green grass and the white guys playing frisbee in the background, if I close my eyes and listen only to their voices, I could be back, somewhere in Africa. When I walk home afterwards, though an apparent utopia of grass and flowers, swingsets and bikes left tumbled on the front walk, I feel a bit of a jolt to be in this place instead of that.
A week or two ago, I was reading through my posts from Southern Sudan last fall. I realized that a year ago, I was getting ready to go to Southern Sudan, where I was miserable. To be fair, it was not all the fault of Southern Sudan (despite the HOT, which I have discussed in unending detail). I didn't really give it a chance, because I was so tired of leavings and arrivings. I wanted to be and to belong. So here I am, attempting to be and belong. Africa doesn't come up here unless I bring it up, usually, and entire days and weeks can go by with the people I meet never knowing that I am anything but a new lawyer who recently moved to Gone West. I have to accept, I suppose, that this place, this country, will forever be only part of me.
It seems lately that the authors of every international blog I read have up and moved to Southern Sudan. When they write about how difficult the place is, I can only grimace and nod my head in agreement. And yet, as they point out, there are people and beauty and joy there, too. I miss even that Tiny Little Town in Southern Sudan, even the mornings where I was sweating before I even got lotion on my face (lotion+ sweat = disgusting).
One of these bloggers posted a photo that I saw this morning: my favorite little bird in Southern Sudan (see this post). It's from the back, but you can see the little red blush-spot on its cheek. I smiled and, for a moment, I could be both parts of me.
1 comment:
sitting in a cold conference room, waiting for dinner time to come round... still slightly amazed that I am in Brasil... I read this post and suddenly I was weeping.
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