The Real Deal

The longer I am here the more I realize that it is entirely possible to come to Rwanda and never get a true picture of what the country is really like. There is a fair sized ex-pat crowd, north American coffee shops, a large new (and totally overwhelming, but with cheap wine) super-duper market, and plenty of hotels and restaurants just like ones you would find anywhere else in the world. Over the last couple of years the government has done a good job of “cleaning up the streets” so that beggers are few and open stalls no longer line the roads downtown. One boy who sells postcards told me he could go to jail for 6 months during a “street clean up”. I often see tourists in their safari vests (which, by the way, you don’t really need to wear on a safari) touting around town, and I wonder how much they are really learning about Rwanda, whether they really get to know the beauty in the people here, and the every day struggles that they face, let alone a true understanding of the culture and history.

Which is why I moved houses. The KHI guesthouse was lovely and all, but in the same neighborhood as the presidential residence and traditional colonial homes. The road was paved, the electricity worked, and there were plenty of other foreigners around. But I didn’t travel all the way to Rwanda to live like I do at home, and besides, another intern needed a room mate and found a good price for a place in Kicyru.

Our new digs are quite nice, after some challenges with moving in. It’s an apartment that is part of a larger complex which is secure and run by a senator, who is an excellent and responsive landlady. We have running water and electricity, but we pay extra for them so we are being very stingy (cooking by a solar powered lamp and unplugging the fridge make our electricity credit move down a lot slower). I could use a firmer mattress, but it’s nice to have my own space, cook in my PJs, and not have to drag my shampoo in and out of the bathroom. Best of all though, is that it feels more real. As I walk up the dirt road the dust comes up in little clouds that coat my legs as I dodge around the chickens and pot holes. MUZUNGUUUUUUUU choruses follow me wherever I go, and I wonder whether the novelty of 2 white girls in the neighborhood will ever wear off. There are little shops and internet cafes and many saloons (a commonly mis-spelled word for barber shop) just up the street, and people are everywhere. I get to take the bus more often, which is a true adventure best done with elbows up. Music from the church, the voices on the radio, and children’s shouts mix with the smells of cooked food and dust to fill the streets. It feels more authentic, it feels like “Africa”, and I really am way out of my comfort zone. It’s certainly not anything like home. Perfect.