Everything I Never Thought

Retreat Centre

Retreat Centre

That time I was white (at the
Apartheid Museum)

The highest recognition

So I should explain that Johannesburg is beautiful.  The retreat centre was peaceful, clean, and picturesque, and recent changes by the area directors made it a welcoming, modern space.  In general, though, the most I feel at large cities is interest in their histories.  It is a city that allowed me to be white and knows more about Gandhi than I do (in retrospect, this is not a great feat).

Rwanda caught my heart and kept it.

It was drizzling lightly by the time I escaped Immigration officials who seemed utterly certain that I was going to set up shop in a forest beside a surprised gorilla.  Despite providing a transit visa, paying the fee, and being a Canadian, I had to provide more information about my plans in Kigali, and when I got to the carousel, my bags were kindly stacked for me off the belt because the next flight had already come in – this saved some time, and I met our organization's Country Representatives of Rwanda at the door in fairly short order.

They are a very kind, very tired family with lively children and a busy life, and I just wanted them to set me on one of the moto taxis that ran the city and send me off – hopefully not to my death, but I was starting to doubt that whole stereotype with the natural beauty of Kigali laid out before me. 

In Johannesburg, I’d had this conversation whilst in a café waiting for lunch with my co-facilitator:

“Is there anything like this where we’re going?”
“Haha.”

“Haha.”

“Haha.”

“Haha I don’t know why we’re laughing.”

In Kigali, I had the pleasure of hearing this comment in a mall containing a Nakamatt (a Kenyan equivalent of Wal-mart with everything from housewares to baby clothes to books):  “Yeah, I’m a bit sheepish at how comfortable it is.”

This is the ‘land of a thousand hills,’ where plastic bags are confiscated at the border, the streets are clean and safe, and for three hours on the last Saturday of every month, one member of each family is required to help with community service in their area and cars are not allowed on the roads without a special permit.  Moto taxis are cheap and… well, relatively safe in that police actively patrol for helmets.  Also, there are men with large rifles in the clean, idyllic streets.

View from Country Reps' home

View of Kigali from Mt. Jali

We drove up Mt. Jali to get a beautiful view of the city in the setting sun, with people wishing us a good morning and children chasing after us and making me shudder at every thump on the car.  On the way down, I was kindly put on a moto taxi, given a helmet (which I only put on under duress), and sent home, where I was given a new SIM card which gave me 10 chances to guess some sort of password – after which I probably would have been deported. 

Our adventure to get three seats for the bus (for my dear luggage and me) involved the careful speech, actions, and hiccups of a slightly drunk person, but our more forgiving Country Rep assured me that I was being a racist twit to someone who did not speak my language. 

Fair enough.

After that, I was alternately excited for the bumpy 6-hr bus ride and fearful that I would be killed at or before the border.