Arrival

I finally arrived in Kigali at about 1:30 p.m. local time.  The airport at Kigali was much nicer than the one in Addis Ababa, which surprised me because Addis is a major hub.  We waited in line to gain entry, and I noticed that everyone stood far back from the booth to maintain privacy as each person was helped.  The attendant verified that I would be staying about 70 days and that I came to teach, and otherwise there was no holdup—I went right through.  I followed the stairs down to the baggage claim waited for my bags to arrive, fearing the worst, but there they were.  Sister Juvenal waved to me from the other side of the gate.  She met me along with Sr. Constance (the school bursar), Laura (the American teacher), and Raphael and Alfonse, fathers of two Maranyundo students who work at the airport.

They each shook my hand, and then the women hugged me, pressing my cheek to theirs on the right, left, and right again.  We stopped in a store to change money.  I received a poorer exchange rate because I had 20 dollar bills, not fifties or hundreds, but I was told the rate was good, 585 francs to the dollar.  The ride back to Nyamata seemed to fly by, as I watched the trees, huts and houses, scenic vistas of green valleys and rivers.  Some squarish little buildings with roofs slanting down in back were right up against the road, some made of earth, some with cloth or plastic hanging doors, many of them decorated with brightly colored signs reading "Tigo" and "Primus" which I later learned are a cellphone and a beer company, respectively.   We passed what looked like banana trees, corn, and other crops in small plots around the homes, and were some shops with those bright colors?  We passed a bustling and colorful outdoor market, many motorbikes, and an ongoing stream of foot traffic.  We saw two men bicycling up a hill balancing enormous packs on the back, (presumably filled with their wares?) that were easily large enough to hold ten men.  In my memory the trip took about 25 minutes, but I am told the drive is about 40.  I had a million questions about plants and poverty and people that hadn’t quite formed words, but mostly was quiet, talking a little with Laura. 

We passed the sign for the town of Nyamata, and then some of the town itself, including the market.  We turned left into a compound with an orange-colored wrought fence, passed the guard at the gate, and continued down the pebbled drive to new brick buildings.  Someone carried my luggage into the long one-story faculty house, down a long cement corridor and into my simple room, furnished with ample closet space, a desk, a bed including mosquito net(/princess canopy), and a simple nightstand.  Windows cover most of the wall, all screened and barred with orange lattices, and above them are decorative vents cut through the outside wall and screened.  Then the four of us proceeded into the sisters’ residence, where we sat at a small table and several sisters brought out fried fish (I chose the headless, boneless ones for this time), potatoes cooked soft and slightly friend with a little orangey seasoning, macaroni, simple beans, and a tomato cucumber salad not very different from what my friends at the Paraclete served me just last night.  (Wait, what night??) 

I was greeted by a couple of sisters, including Sr. Yvonne, who, I learned, lives in the dorms along with another nun.  Teresa does our cooking.  Providence is the school secretary, a smiling young woman of 25 who shares the house with Laura and me and doted on me all evening, giving me tea, juice, cheese, sitting near me, and asking many questions.  Most of the ten or so teachers live in town or elsewhere and do not share the residence. 

Sister Juvenal encouraged me to rest, which I did after unpacking, testing out the clean pjs I brought and the princess canopy.  As I began to drift off, I heard a funny squeaking noise like a water spigot being turned back and forth on the outside of my wall.  I thought maybe someone was filling a bucket.  Then there was the flapping.  With my glasses off, I could just see a large bird land on the window sill.  It turned out there was a flock of maybe twenty pied crows outside, black with white breasts and shoulders, as though they were wearing wife-beater tee-shirts.  Several of them were very intent on getting into my room.  The squeaking noise was bird feet scratching against the glass, and they tapped with their beaks as well.  They didn’t seem to see me behind the sheer, and my face was about a foot from one of them!  A very weird welcome.

Laura says there will be cute lizards living in the house, that the mosquitos are not bad here, but that she uses the net just in case, and because sometimes there are awkwardly-flying cockroaches.  Waking up to a cockroach in the face would be traumatizing.

And now, after many hours of uncertain sleep and geographic upheaval, I go to bed at 11:30 p.m. hoping to feel somewhat rested for meeting teachers and students tomorrow morning.  Muraho, Rwanda!   Murekoze, God!