The sun in Rwanda begins its slow sink in the sky around quarter to six, finishing its dip past the horizon just around half past the hour. From the courtyard of our guest house, we watch blue turn to purple turn to darkest black, pierced only by the far-away light of a million stars and one red planet. Outside the walls here, crickets carry the chirping beat of the chorus, punctuated by the soft “ahhhhhhs!” of those watching the World Cup somewhere inside the hospital compound down the road from us. Inside the walls, where we spend our evenings, the noise is–perhaps predictably–louder but more intimate: the clanging of silver as the forks and spoons are sloshed into the dinner bin for washing; cries of “I have first rinse!” as students on that day’s dish crew claim their responsibilities; shrieks of laughter as someone shuffles out a hand of cards for yet another round.
The first time I came to Rwanda, I carried a picture of me and my brother along with me in the back of my journal; it had been an accident, really. A photo I slipped into the pocket months before and had forgotten about. I discovered it, to my delight, when I needed it the most. When I found it, I was reminded that along with our sleeping bags and sweatshirts and novels, we carry our family and friends with us when we travel. At no time is this more apparent here than in the evenings, when bits of stories slip out during dinner or over a game of cards or travel Scrabble. It’s my favorite time of day here for that reason. The last pieces of laundry are hung up on the line, ready to greet the morning sun when it returns again around four or five. The dinner dishes are dried and stacked for breakfast. Taps run for bucket baths and the cool breeze surprises us again, even though it returns night after night.
In the evening, we hear about siblings and swim teams, sweet tea from home and the accomplishments of grandparents; tales from school and of the travels and jobs of parents and sisters and brothers. Added to the mix are snippets about learning how to drive; getting wisdom teeth removed; making the honor roll; where to go for the best mussels in the city; going to orchestra or ballet school; summer camp; family trips; campfires with friends; watching a movie with mom on the couch on a Sunday. That funny story of what happened that one time with friends and that teacher who made a difference. Friends at school and what we do for fun and what we want to be when we grow up.
These sorts of conversations are, for me, the part of traveling with others that I cherish the most. We come to know each other by the stories we share about all the people we carry with us. We are learning about Kigali and Nyamata and Ntarama, but we are also learning about Texas and Oregon and Massachusetts and Brussels and Singapore. And we are learning about you, friends and family, at the same time that you are learning about our adventures. We have carried you with us to this place far from home, some of us in pictures posted on the wall above our beds or in the photo gallery on our phones, and some of us just in the stories that we tell. Either way, you are here with us. You are here, walking alongside us to the market in Nyamata, where the rice and sugar is heaped up in great big sacks and the onions spill across tarps on the floor. You are here, overlooking the arid hills with us when we’re at the project site, moving bricks into a pile at the far edge of the field. You are here, during dinner, when something someone else says reminds us that, yes, we do the same thing in our family, too. You are here, watching the night hour I love so much give way to morning sunlight dripping through the lacey leaves of thin trees as the goats, speckled black and white, trumpet in another day. You are here, in this once-unfamiliar place that has become a new home-away-from home.
And so even though we’re away from you, you’re never really far from us; thanks for being here and for letting us carry you along.
-Kayla C.
