One Month In!

In the best possible way, these past weeks have been among the longest and most turbulent of my life. There are hours drenched in loneliness and days bursting with joy. In each case, caught in those moments, I am certain of that circumstance’s eternity. I will never feel anything but this, I tell myself whether stuck in the pits of isolation or intoxicated by the exploration. A real rollercoaster of emotional volatility that I’m learning to manage. For me, a primary source of stability involves a playlist mixing together old-school French jazz musicians, German New Wave synth-bands from the 1970s, and Tom Petty (naturally) — a combination, yes, so confusing I assume there must be some logic lurking underneath? C’est la vie or Das Leben ist kein Ponyhof, if you prefer.

I can freely admit to varnishing my journey with a romantic polish. In the narrative imposed upon my year, I fashion myself into the idealistic ingenue, armed with little more than a notebook and an appetite for adventure. This persona is partially an invention of necessity, a survival instinct. When I nearly cry in a public market over my phone (how embarrassingly Gen Z of me) or get lost navigating bus lines in a rural town, she is my companion offering reassurance. See, she is who I can become when I fear I may drown in this landlocked country. I can borrow some of her invincibility to convince myself that, no, in fact, I am floating. More than floating, I am conquering the water. A helpful delusion when reality treads somewhere in the middle.

Over the last week or so, I feel that roots are beginning to set in, tentative but probing for fertile soils. I’m learning to counter whiplash with equanimity and familiarity with novelty as I discover the rhythms, contradictions, and realities of life in Kigali. I admire the vibrant colors and cleanliness of its streets, qualities often muted by excess exhaust from diesel engines and charcoal stoves. I safely walk alone on the streets deep at night, past silhouettes of “security men” who primarily function to welcome visitors and residents alike. I am reminded of the visibility of my identity (tall, white, foreign) by each passing herd of children, but I mourn the aspects that must remain hidden. I laugh when I learn the pronunciation of America sounds unchanged in Kinyarwanda, unlike the other countries humble enough to assume a different shape; yet, each morning, I scroll through American news sources. I long for the stability of home and hunger for the transience and worldliness afforded to expats. I delight in the mangos and passion fruits sweet enough to make my teeth ache, but I miss microwave popcorn and Parmesan cheese terribly

One month in, I know so refreshingly little about the context and content of the upcoming weeks, months, and year. Time will go on, as its tendency. I’m certain I will discover new dreams, desires, and yearnings in some form or, perhaps, another. I hope to carve out a sense of community, irregardless of fragility, and I trust that people in Kigali will continue to smile back at strangers on the street – a constant comfort. Beyond that, who knows? Maybe, one day, I’ll even run into the man who so kindly rescued me from my meltdown by setting up my phone, and, if I do, I will properly thank him this time.