The Adventures of a Muzungo in Kigali

It is hard to believe that is has been 5 days since I last wrote. On the one hand, it feels like much longer because I have done so much and met so many interesting people, but, on the other hand, it feels much shorter because I can't believe I managed to put off writing an entry for 5 days!

First, let me explain the title of the post. A Muzungo is the term used by Rwandans to refer to white visitors. Walking down the street, or walking through a primary school playground at recess, kids call out, hey everybody, come look, a Muzumgo is coming. In case you haven't figured it out, I am the said Muzungo.

In hindsight, I should have probably read the muzungo handbook before arriving in Kigali - it might have saved me a few bruises. I learned my first lesson on one of my first evenings, as I was walking on the sidewalk towards downtown. That afternoon, I had noticed that, for better or worse, parts of the sidewalk were missing. Separating one part of the sidewalk from the other was a one metre gap and a four foot drop, leading to - for a lack of a better word - the drainage system.

So, that evening, I made the mistake of forgetting my flashlight at Daniel's house. No big deal, I thought. Well, half way downtown, in the middle of an interesting conversation with my friend about how well I had been adapting thus far, I didn't "mind the gap" (and if you've ever been to London you'll get that reference) and I fell through the sidewalk. Luckily, I wasn't seriously hurt. I walked away with a few bruises and scratches, but my ego hurt for a few hours.

On a more serious note, after only five days in Kigali, I have to come to realize very quicly that this is a country with many layers. On the one hand, you can walk down the street in Kigali and have an ice coffee in a trendy cafe and then take a motor taxi to Hotel Mille Collines for a concert and a drink, but, on the other hand, hidden just below the surface - far enough that you can avoid it if you want, but close enough that it can be easily found - is a country that remains deeply hurt, trying desperately to recover. Twice, in as many days, we left the main streets and found ourselves in Kigali's less travelled areas. Each time, without prompting, a genocide survivor sought us out and began telling his/her story. Truth be told, the stories were both told in Kinyarwanda (the local language) and my friend Daniel, who is from the region, translated them for me.

In short, thanks to some films and recent publications, many Canadians know bits and pieces about what happened in Rwanda, I would consider myself to be one of these people. However, Daniel has helped me realize that lots has been lost in translation. I have a feeling these were not isolated incidents and that more people will seek us out and tell us there stories.

Yours,

Raffi