A birthday in Kigali, Rwanda.
Yvonne meets me just outside the airport. She’s right in the center of a crowd of people, each carrying a white sheet of paper with a name written on it. Mine is written in all-caps as if she’s shouting out to me: EUGENE!
It’s my first time in Rwanda, and it feels great to be met at the airport. When I first started backpacking I tended towards a hard landing, often arriving with no hotel booked and with the determination to find the cheapest, most local transportation into the city. Times have changed. Now, whenever I can I ask my hosts to recommend a driver. There’s really nothing like being picked up at the airport.
I almost didn’t make it. Our incoming flight to Newark was delayed and then we were delayed due to weather. Our wait in the airport became a wait on board the aircraft as thunderstorms kept people from loading our baggage onto the plane. Eventually, the forecast cleared and our bags were loaded and we were cleared for takeoff.
We were two hours delayed; my layover was two and a half hours.
Magically, the pilot found a route that shaved 30 minute off of our 7 hour flight and we arrived with an hour between flights. Almost everyone on the flight seemed to have a connection; others weren’t so lucky and were directed towards staff at the gate to help them rebook. I sprinted towards my connecting gate.
The passengers aboard the flight from Brussels was almost 98% white. Many seemed to be coming to town for a scientific conference, as I overheard while in line for immigration. When it was my turn, I handed over my passport and a copy of my East African visa approval. A few perfunctory questions and stamps later, I was welcomed to Rwanda.
Yvonne tells me the car is electric as we leave the airport. It’s why it makes no noise. She’s a part of a company sponsored by Volkswagen that runs an Uber-like service. All of the cars are very nice. I’ve tried to create an account on the Move app without luck. I can see how it would make life in Kigali a lot easier. Uber doesn’t exist.
A full moon greets me as I stand on the terrace of the Airbnb. When I arrived, Benjamin was there to greet me. He explained the apartment, showed me how to use the induction stove, and told me to ring him for anything I needed. He lives in a small building at the top of the hill and told me he was always available.
I ask him if there are any lizards or geckos. Are you afraid of them? No, I think they’re cool. No, he says. They don’t have any.
I thank him for his help and wish him a good night before unpacking my bags. It’s late and I am tired and so I take a shower and go to bed.
I wake up during the night to find the terrace bathed in moonlight. The clouds have cleared and moonlight lights the surrounding hills. I am bleary-eyed from lack of sleep but I can’t help but step out to admire the view before climbing back into bed.
I wake again just as dawn is about to break. I go out again to look but I am too tired to wait for the sunrise. I go back to bed to sleep.
When I finally get up, the day is clear and the sun is bright. I had originally intended to go directly to the Kigali Genocide Memorial, but I was tired and jet-lagged and decided on a more relaxing morning. On Google, I had found Soy Asian Table, a Southeast Asian restaurant near me and had decided to have my traditional birthday noodles there. They weren’t open until 11; I spend the time reading on the couch.
I walk the half hour to the restaurant to get more of a flavor of the city. Benjamin told me Kigali is a safe city and that I can walk around by myself at three in the morning without fear. On Sunday morning there were a few people walking up and down the hillsides along with me. At one point I pass a little boy, saying “hi” to him as he smiles at me. Later, he passes me on another hill, following his sister. They turn into a driveway and when I look back I see him at the door of a complex smiling and waving to me.
After lunch I flag down a moto taxi for the 8 minute ride to the museum. I had thought about walking, but an hour in the sun without sunscreen didn’t sound like the best idea and I was excited to take my first moto taxi ride. The driver hands me a helmet, I climb on behind him, and we are off.
The memorial itself houses a museum, gardens, and the mass graves of over 250,000 Rwandans killed during the genocide of 1994. Films, an audio-tour, and exhibit text trace the history of Rwanda leading up to the killings, exposing its roots in colonialism. Boxes of tissues were placed around the museum.
Throughout the day, groups of Rwandas large and small came bearing flowers to place on the graves. In one video, a man spoke about how he visits the memorial often as his family is buried there. It brings him some joy to be able to be near them, but at the end of the day he goes home alone.
I had read about the genocide, most notably in Philip Gourevitch’s book We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families, but nothing prepared me for the rooms in which family photos of those who had been murdered hung in row upon row along the walls. It reminded me of the portraits of the victims at the Tuol Seng Genocide Museum in Phnom Penh.
The final room shows portraits of children. Text provides their names, their likes, and a sentence remembering their personalities. The last line describes how they were killed.
Outside, a series of gardens had been planted and arranged as remembrances. In one, an elephant holds a cell phone, prepared to alert the world to future dangers.
From the museum I walk a bit to a major intersection before flagging down another moto taxi. He wasn’t sure where I lived and so I found a nearby landmark to direct him to. He didn’t know that either and had to ask a friend who gave him instructions. From there it’s a short walk past the residence of the United States ambassador to my new home.
The sun began to set as I prepared for dinner. I take photos from the terrace and along my walk to the restaurant. I had chosen the Repub Lounge for my birthday; it came recommended by my host as well as a number of sources on the internet. It’s my first taste of Rwandan food and I am excited to try some local specialties, ordering Sambaza (small fried fish indigenous to Lake Kivu), Pondu ya Capitaine (fish steamed in Isombe (cassava leaves)), and a side of Ugali (a large dough-ball of cassava used as a starch to dip into and pick up the sauce from the main dish. The food is tasty, the main almost like an Indian dish. For dinner, I order the crepes flambé; I need something to blow out.
Leaving the restaurant a group of taxi drivers ask if I wanted a ride. I had thought to walk but decided to make better use of my time. I ask how much and am quoted an outrageous price. How much was I expecting? I gave a number. He says ok. I definitely didn’t go low enough. The driver tells me I always have to negotiate; everything is a negotiation. Do you not negotiate? he asks. I can and now I know.
He’s from Uganda, though he’s been in Kigali for 15 years. He still has family there and takes the bus back and forth 28 hours each way to visit them now that the borders are again open. Not like America, he says. There, fly. Or drive.
I ask him if he is married and if he has kids. Two, he tells me. A teenager and an eleven-year old. Unfortunately, he’s separated. His eldest lives with him; the youngest with her.
I introduce myself and he tells me his name; it sounds like “Washington.” He ask how long I am to be in Kigali and I tell him. He welcomes me to Uganda. I tell him I had hoped to visit on this trip but I hadn’t the time. It’s very busy there, he says. Busy busy busy.
He lets me out on the corner between the US ambassador’s residence and my loft. He says he hopes to see me again; I tell him I hope for the same. 🇷🇼
