Sight

How to express this multifaceted and full sense, I do not know; but I will try to highlight a few things which have been especially meaningful or noticeable to me. There are three colors which are especially vivid in Rwanda: green, blue, and orange-brown. In fact, if I had to eliminate one of those, I would take away blue, though its contrast to the others highlights them beautifully. But everything seems to make use of one of these colors. The manicured lawns are not limited to wealthy estates, but each home and place of business large enough to have a yard, even the medians in the road, are occupied by perfectly cut, vividly green grass and trees. The hills (this is the land of a thousand hills) are similarly vivid. Each hill appears fresh and alive; most are filled not only with wild greens, but are cultivated and full of crops of corn, cassava, pumpkin, banana trees, and I’m sure a variety of other things that I cannot yet identify. Then, in contrast to the green, is this orange-brown. It is so similar to both colors, I cannot call it either, neither can it be distinguished from one or the other. It is the color of bricks, or rust, similar in tone to the dirt of Eastern Montana, if you are familiar with said dirt, yet it is brighter. The children here are painted in orange, especially those who live in villages; it is as though their wash is done in orange-brown dye, though I think it is more correct to think they simply gather their colors as they play, since their parents do not display the same color palette. Even as I look past my yard into the valley of the city beyond, I am struck again by these same colors. And a cream color, that appears to be the paint of choice by those fortunate enough to color their homes.
Besides the colors, I find it hard to describe Kigali. It is surprisingly clean, though ramshackle houses fill in the gaps between the larger, more dignified homes. Anyone can afford to has a wall around their property, often topped by bits of glass, barbed wire, or other spiky objects, intended to keep out those that might somehow manage to scale the large imposing walls and huge metal gates. The people in the streets are well dressed, men typically dress very western, though their source of western wear might be limited to a closet fresh from the 80’s or 90’s, men are also occasionally spotted in more traditional dress, long shirts with pants to match in brightly colored and patterned fabric. Women, similarly, choose a combination of western dress and traditional, though I have not noticed the women here to have a style nearly so out-of-date as their male counterparts. Many women choose traditional fabrics, and look stunning as they do. They have an ability to combine colors and patterns that would make any fashion conscious westerner cringe, yet they wear it well. Their fabrics are a variety of patterns; some are simply shapes, while others display envelopes, beverages, even political figures (Obama is a very popular choice). I am at a loss as how to describe this place beyond what I have already. I feel as though what I’ve said is such a small spectrum of what I see (though you may feel differently, as you have been reading my lengthy descriptions), but perhaps if I were better able to describe this place, you might be less inclined to see it for yourself, and that would be a pity for sure.

Touch and Taste

Touch:
Much as the smells of Rwanda were very quickly noticeable, I was also quickly aware of the differences of touch here. The best way I could describe it, especially initially, was always touched but never felt. As I would suppose would be the tendency of most over-crowded situations, people here are frequently jammed together in small spaces (especially in regards to transport-both finding it and using it) but it is as though they do not feel you there with them. Coming from a place where people value and even demand their personal space, and where touching another person is typically a noticed and intentional act, I was initially unsure quite how to process this new way of life. Another aspect of touch that quite fascinated me was that not only was unintentional touch quite unnoticed, but intentional is also much more frequent than I am accustomed to. With each greeting, it is expected that you will at least shake the hand of your companion, whether well known or a new acquaintance-though the form of ‘handshake’ can vary considerably from someone offering you their wrist to and extended hand-hold to the triple-cheek-touch of a close friend. I do believe I have offended my colleagues on occasion as I forgot to extend a hand in my morning greetings, and quickly breezed by them with words and a smile. I am learning. The third surprise for my reserved sense of space that I have encountered here is that of hand-holding. Although I had been informed before arriving that men might often be seen holding hands, I still marveled to see it for myself. In fact, I am still somewhat fascinated by this practice, though it does not surprise me nearly as much as it did initially. Much less commonly will two women be seen holding hands, and only on occasion have I seen a man and woman walk hand-in-hand—and even then, I could not tell you whether the two were friends or lovers, the act of holding hands is not reserved here for acts of intimacy, at least not in my traditional American standard. But it is intimacy, I suppose; it is sharing yourself with another person, displaying care or affection without having to express your appreciation with words. That actually sounds a lot like something men would prefer (in general, of course), doesn’t it? Either way, I think it will be some time before seeing two teenage boys, dressed to impress and walking hand in hand not give me pause.
Taste:
This sense has not been especially impressed nor indulged since my arrival. The common food here is rather simple, containing vegetables, French fries, sometimes rice, and often some form of red sauce, content of which unknown by me, which often contains beef, to be poured over the rest of the contents of the plate. Cheese is uncommon, and not especially enjoyable when found, meat is often tough, and its flavor mediocre, spices are not indulged in, and sweets are typically less sweet than I am accustomed to. There are some foods here which I especially appreciate though; fruit (though variety is limited) is fresh and delicious, avocado (is that a fruit?) is terrific and very easy to find, and I recently had a cup of what is called “African tea” that tasted just like what an American would call a Chai Latte…delicious. Not to worry, I have not gone hungry even once, and there are a variety of restaurants around Kigali that attempt (and are successful to various degrees) to please the Western palette, but learning to eat (and cook) in Rwanda are undeniably a time for change-and at times a challenge as well.

Indulging the Senses

Indulging the Senses

I think anytime you are dropped into a place and culture far from your own, your senses are bound to go a little crazy trying to absorb all of the differences and new sensations. Rwanda has been no exception, though I think as time passes I am less and less aware of my initial sensory absorption. Before they are fully absorbed and can no longer be recognized and therefore expressed, I will do what I can to share them with you.

Smell:

As I first stepped off the plane in Africa, I was pleased to be greeted by the fresh smells of the morning. I had anticipated humidity that would hold in the smells of city, but it was not to be. Kigali is surprisingly fresh and clean, especially for a city of a million people, many of whom live in obvious poverty. But as I journeyed a little farther, I became quickly aware of another smell, less fragrant and pleasurable than the last. It is the smell of people-though the scent is quite distinct from the people-smells I have previously encountered. I have yet to identify whether it is an unclean smell, that of sweat and grime, or if it is an intentional one, that of creams or oils. Perhaps it is some combination of the two, though the scent grows much stronger in small, confined spaces like mini-buses, always filled to the brim with those of us not fortunate enough to own our own cars. This people-smell, as with all others, is quickly fading, though I think if I were to encounter it away from Africa, I might recognize it immediately and know the association without much thought. The majority of the time now, my nose is filled with smells of cooking over small coal fires, fruit trees which seem continually in bloom, rain, and as I have recently moved into a freshly painted-and-repaired house, the smells of glue, paint, and what I imagine to be some sort of cleaning supplies. In sum, my nose is not unhappy here.