Hot sticky air clings to my face and arms as I squint through the tarmac’s hazy early afternoon glare. The heat feels good, washing over me, reheating my dry, tired limbs stiffened by holiday chills. Striding to the tiny terminal as the plane disgorges its human cargo, I momentarily reach down, gently brushing the tips of my anxious fingertips to the hot shimmering asphalt, giddy with the promise and trepidation of returning to Rwanda. It’s been almost two months, and I have been secretly dreaming of this moment since departing in a fog of uncertainty and melancholy in November. These first tentative steps onto familiar foreign ground seem right.
Overhead clouds gather in anticipation of releasing their burdens by the sweltering afternoon’s end. The sun, intense as ever, pours through in sultry streams. In the distance, sounds of traffic, honking, the scuffle of a million bodies going about business on an early January Saturday afternoon. I glide through customs, making small talk in Kinyarwanda with the border guards. They seem amused, or bemused, but show only cursory interest in my well-pronounced but shallow Kinyarwanda. I retreat down the steps to baggage claim before I am exposed.
Outside we are greeted by cordial taxi drivers who, in my opinion, are some of the toughest buggers to bargain with in all of Rwanda. A fellow former volunteer, Meghan, and her visitor friend split the cab fare with me into the city. We speed through (more) new road rehabilitation and lumbering buses spewing choking diesel fumes, climbing the hill into town. After a brief detour to St. Paul’s, where Meghan has booked a room, I awkwardly sling my oversize duffel onto my back and hike towards the main road. A motorcycle taxi driver navigates the annoying traffic congregating in the city roundabout, accelerating past UTC and Simba, up the hill to Bank de Kigali, along Ecole Belge de Kigali, then finally down to Sky Hotel. The smells of Kigali bloom under the cheap plastic helmet shield, invading my senses – thick smog, earthy dust, the sharp scent of half-burnt petrol, the faintest hint of sweaty musk from the driver, wafting cooking grease from Blues Café. I feel exhilarated and exhausted, satisfied with the smooth trip, eager to explore and discover and learn and teach and live. It feels like...home.
The next morning, I roll over and stretch for my phone. Damn, 11:00am. I slept like the dead and the midday sun is coursing through my curtains. Dehydration and time change have imparted a sharp headache and stuffy nose. The taste of stale recycled airplane air lingers on my tongue and in my nostrils. By the end of the day it will be a full-blown head cold. I wobble slightly out of bed, stumble to the bathroom, and go in search of water. There is humid warmth emanating from outside, but the house remains cool and comfortable, the smooth concrete floors refreshing to my bare feet.
The house keeper has cleaned and is moving on to church. I catch a glimpse of her shuffling up the drive to the gate in her Sunday best as I walk to the kitchen. I’m glad she’s around because cleaning a house this size ourselves would be really tiresome, a real chore. The kitchen is neat and boiled water sits by the gas stove. Laundry hangs dripping on the line out back. The stoop is swept clear and garbage has been dumped in the pit out back. A couple heads of fresh lettuce heads sit next to the sink, gifts from the guard from the garden. Before long I collect myself and go out to run a few errands, lightened by the fact that I will not constantly have to contend with work and keeping order at home. I hop a bus to Kimironko for a bit of shopping at the market, relishing the opportunity to get out for a bit and clear my head of its cobwebs.
*After trying to construct a blog to my liking to replace this space, I have, for the time being, decided to continue to use this blog to record my observations and anecdotes from Kigali and elsewhere. I hope friends and family continue to read and enjoy my posts. Feel free to share with anyone you might think would be interested.
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