Rwanda nziza

Although I still have another year to go I do sometimes wonder how much of this experience I will remember when it ends.  Returned volunteers have spoken of the reverse culture shock upon return home, but by all accounts, this does not last long and soon it is possible to be absorbed back into a society of mass consumerism.  So, with that in mind I often think about the things I will miss about Rwanda, in the hope that I can appreciate them all the more whilst I am here.

Things I will miss include; the smell of a freshly cut eucalyptus tree as I pass along the road, the rustle of the wind in the frilled banana tree leaves; beautiful night scented blossoms and frangipani flowers.  The incredible frog chorus that takes place all night at the local swamp following heavy rain.  The jaw dropping looks I still receive each morning as I travel to school and the excited shout of “Muzungu!” and waves of delight from children as they react to me like a child at home may react to seeing a celebrity.

The way that fog can descend in minutes and obscure the surrounding area so completely.  The stars that sparkle so brightly in the sky at night.  The friendly people of this country.  How people here manage to be happy and pleasant despite what little they have.  If only this happiness existed back home.  Here, I greet most people I pass as I walk along the street (and in Africa’s most densely populated country, this equates to a lot of people!) and if I know them, we embrace and shake hands and have a conversation.  There is always time for a conversation with a friend, and if you are late for your next meeting, then so be it. 

I love watching children laugh and play, but they also have responsibilities that children at home would be outraged by – they fetch water and fire wood – hard, manual labour.  Children don’t worry about getting dirty or damaging their clothes.  They run through mud and swing from trees and make skipping ropes and balls from banana leaves.  They run barefoot across uneven ground.  They hold hands as they walk and run the journeys between home and school.  They sit with their arms draped about each others shoulders.

I will miss lying in bed and listening to the rain hammering on my tin roof.  And how lessons have to stop when the rain gets too heavy because no one can hear a word above the noise of the relentless rain.  Also, the way this rain can dry up and disappear in no time at all and suddenly a hot, hot sun is blazing in the sky and I find myself searching for sunglasses, where only moments before I was covered head to foot in waterproof clothing.  I will miss the delicate pitter-patter of rain drops dancing across the smooth, fresh banana leaves.

In the mornings I will wonder where the sound of radios in neighbouring yards has gone and the swiping sound of a brush being swept across an already spotless yard.  I will listen out for the shouting and calling and laughter that passes up and down the street beyond my gate as people go about their daily business.  I will strain to hear the sounds of birds which no longer populate my garden.  I will wonder why I am able to hear my tv programme so well and wonder what has happened to the church goers behind my house, who have fallen so silent.

I will miss getting squashed into a bus and being pressed into conversation with those around me as I try to practise my language skills.  And the warm laughter and smiles that accompany this conversation and the delight that I am at least trying to speak the local language.  I will be sad to get off a bus without it being appropriate to say goodbye to everyone on it and will miss watching the bus pull away from the roadside without smiling faces and waves seeing me off.  It will be a disappointment to go shopping for food and not have to haggle over the price with some friendly banter, and to not have the staff in the supermarket greet me by name and ask after my friends and family.  I will miss the roadside conversations I have with these same people as I pass them as we move about town.

I will miss my incredible moto commutes.  Where I get to see a hundred shades of green spread out across the hillsides and valleys we pass through.  Or the deep valleys that are obscured below by a thick covering of fluffy cloud, of which I am above.  No more will I have to anticipate the route ahead and be prepared to hold on tight as we traverse bumpy roads and I won’t watch the road change shape as the weeks pass and the combined efforts of torrential rain, harsh sunlight and heavy vehicles press and shape the soil to re-shape the road so it is sometimes smooth and sometimes rutted and almost impassable.  There will be no opportunity to exchange pleasantries with the one who will take me on my journey to work that day and I will probably wind up in a crowded carriage full of people who won’t make eye contact and certainly won’t want to talk to a stranger.

I will long for the possibility of walking out to my garden and grazing.  Picking beautiful fresh green beans off the plant and eating a tomato before moving on to the passion fruit vine to collect some fruit.  I will miss my bananas and herbs and peppers and avocadoes, rocket and lettuce and mint and spring onions.  I will miss watching the shadow of the banana trees dance across my walls in the afternoon sun.

No more will I spend time passing time.  Waiting for a meeting, or a lesson to begin, or a bus to arrive, or a bus to depart, or the rain to stop.  Life will be put back on a timetable and will be frantic and stressful and things will matter so much more.  But this will make no sense as the water still runs, the electricity still magically appears, health care is free, school is orderly and well resourced, someone will look after you if you cannot work and people can shop at anytime of the day.  Yet here, time is less important but life hangs on more of a knife edge.  There may be little food, the water and electricity are often off (but many houses are still not connected to a supply anyway).  Daily activities here are more vital to life than anything we do back home, so how will any of it seem to matter?  And despite the difficulties and what we perceive to be hardships, people still smile and get on with it and days pass and life moves on.