After four days, four countries, four plane rides and all day on a bus, I finally made it safely to the middle of nowhere, Africa. My team and I will be spending two months in this remote Rwandan village; that means Christmas, my birthday, and a whole lot of time to invest in this place.
Yesterday was my first day in Africa. It was dark when we arrived, but the morning revealed a vast expanse of deep green hillsides, and the height we have from living on top of one. From all angles you can see the pastures, mud huts, and farmland. And at the highest peak of the hill, a mountain range comes into view, and a volcano rises up over that. Longhorns, cows and goats roam free, shepherded sometimes by 10 year old farm boys. And it’s here that we get to call home. Our house is one of the nicer ones in the village. But it’s simple, still. We take bucket showers, wash our clothes by hand and have a squatty. But we are blessed with beds, mosquito nets, homemade meals and neighbors who stand at their doorstep just to wave when we walk by. Here life is nice and simple.
Our first day in the village, my teammate Clara and I took a walk. We found the local well. It’s quite a sight, seeing thin, malnourished children carrying full jugs in each hand, or balancing one half their size on their head. The older ones strap 3 larger jugs to their bikes and push those home. The well falls in the lower part of the valley, so going home is a drawn out walk uphill. Clara and I walked up a ways, watching these kids, all around 4 years old, and asking if we could help. They didn’t understand, so we thought it best to take the jugs and ask them to show us the way. They were hesitant; I am willing to bet they’ve never been offered help, and rarely if ever seen a white person before. This is not a place a backpacker would trip up on, and certainly nowhere a tourist that came for a safari would see. I would guess that only missionaries have ever seen this place, and only we ever will. And I love that.
Struggling up the hill, we could hear them laughing, quiet, as to not offend their weak new friends. After what felt like forever, a mud hut appeared from the thicket and we followed a frail wooden “fence” to a house belonging to their friends. We set the jugs down and the family greeted us. The kids’ mother, not hiding her excitement, brought us out two shaky wooden chairs. Then we met Teta. She speaks impressive English for a 12 year old village girl. She brought out her school books and Clara and I traded a bit of English for some Kinyarwanda lessons. Along with Teta, we met her sister Mutessi and their brother Manzi. Before we knew it, word had gotten out that the Americans were there, and we were making lots of friends. One boy brought his cow, and even offered it to Clara for her hand in marriage. We stayed for hours, and having no way to tell time, assumed we’d better head back for lunch. “You like hen? We give you hen.” They had been offering since we arrived. We took the hen, and walked back home trading off who held the chicken and who held the hands of our new friends.
And that is Africa for you; simple living, kind people, happy days. Today we couldn’t wait to go back. This time, we were welcomed inside their home, and sat on a wooden mat on the dirt ground of their living room. We brought a notebook this time, and learned more Kinyarwanda. People kept coming in and out to see us, and when I got my camera out for a quick photo, everybody left to change their clothes. They were so excited they fought over who got their picture taken first. And when we finally left, the whole family walked us home.
So for those of you wondering where on earth I’ve been, it’s here. I live in a small Rwandan village on the border of Uganda and Tanzania. It is cultural and colorful and untainted by any custom outside of its own. Present times don’t concern this place; the people wear exactly the kind of tribal garments you’d think to find at an African market. The same clothes their grandparents grandparents probably wore. The village is hidden in the hills, but also on display when you climb up them. I couldn’t tell you where I am. I can’t write or speak the name of this village. It doesn’t have an address. But right now, there’s no place I’d rather call home.
