Arrival: Part 1
Two weeks in, all the necessary adjustment and excitement of moving to a new city
In early December, a professor, well-versed in international travel, told me, “You don’t even know what you don’t know yet.” Then, as if recognizing the daunting nature of that statement, she added, “That’s the fun part.”
Since arriving in Kigali two weeks ago, I have thought of her advice near daily. In their simple truths, her words, and that deliberate pause, ground me. Here, there is an overwhelming magnitude of heterogeneity: different cultures and perspectives, new histories and foods, foreign landscapes and languages. Yes, it is terrifying; yes, it is thrilling. So much to learn, so much to experience. And as a result, in this unfamiliar terrain with few precedents, I have often felt like I’m navigating with a broken compass; I should know where I’m going, but, again and again, I wind up lost.
The fun part, right
My literal and figurative disorientation have uncovered beauty otherwise overlooked or avoided. Kilometers (in the local parlance) from my house, I wander into a store full of hand-carved statues and vibrant sisal-woven bowls. With few other options, I ride on a mototaxi – in essence, the back of a motorcycle driven by a stranger (every parent’s dream)! I eat pink pitaya and avocados larger than my hands, mistakenly thought to be dragon fruit and exotic melons, respectively. I meet diehard St. Louis Rams fans born and bred in Scotland, British teachers on their twelfth country in as many years, and French Swiss women deeply passionate about rural Rwandan circular waste management systems.
Naturally, it's all a bit complicated and contradictory. When I left the U.S., I could only offer a vague articulation of my desire to fling myself headfirst into (and across) an ocean of change. I wanted to dive in, deep, and see what and who emerged. I trusted in the nobility of such a baptism; two weeks in, I still do.
