Walking home

Walking home after work may be my favorite part of the day. Not because it means that I’m finished with work until the next morning or that it’s time for dinner or anything like that, but because of the walk itself.

I leave the office each afternoon and walk up the dirt road toward the paved one. On my way, I greet and am greeted by nurses, counselors, general workers and other project staff who, by this point, have started to recognize me. (I don’t exactly blend in in a crowd here!) Just before I get to the main road, I pass a bench where the three or four security guards sit, listening to an ancient, static-y, portable radio. Watching them sit on this bench always amazes me – the bench is made of two two-by-two’s sticking out of the ground with a worn board about the size of a one-by-six laid across the top. In the middle, a plastic chair (with legs removed, of course) is screwed into the bench to create a nicer place to sit.

As I turn left onto the paved road, it’s a beautiful sight. I am walking west and have an incredible view of the sunset over the hills of Kigali. After taking in the sunset, I usually watch the soccer game on the opposite side of the road. Ten to thirty children play soccer on a small grass bank every single afternoon. It’s an intense game, but I still manage to steal at least some of their attention. Most days, three or four point at me and talk amongst themselves about the muzungu across the street, but one day my presence brought the entire game to a halt as everyone stopped to point and yell “Muzungu!” I just smiled and waved back at them. As I continue walking, I pass children, old women, mothers with babies strapped to their backs, men selling shoes/fruit/purses/phonecards/pants and everyone else. People here are friendly, so many of them speak to me or I to them. Usually the conversations are short – “Bonjour.” “Comment ça va?” “Ça va bien.” or “Maramutze.” “Amakoro?” “Nimeza.” – not so much because I don’t want to talk or am in a hurry, but because my French and Kinyarwanda are so limited. Thankfully very little conversation is expected when you pass someone on the street! I love passing the children as I walk. The older ones always want to speak, and the brave ones will dare to shake my hand. The tiny ones seem so intrigued by me. Most of them just stare, but one day a tiny little boy walked up to me and stuck both arms high in the air, like a child who wants to be picked up or hugged. I knelt down and played and spoke for a couple minutes while his mother encouraged and smiled. As I walked away, she convinced him to say "bye bye."

As I approach the main road, I pass an open sewer, the one unpleasant aspect of my walk. I always try to cross the road as quickly as possible to escape the stink, but sometimes it is difficult since the road is a main one and therefore full of cars, taxis, minibuses and motos.

Soon after crossing the road though, I turn down a “short cut” to my house, which is little more than a path for water to run off the street. Walking down this little alley, I pass several buildings surrounded by a “fence” of some spiny, green plant on my left and a house enclosed by a bamboo fence on my right. There are several chickens in the yard on the right, and I think this might be the home of the rooster that wakes me every morning. I always wonder if I could trade them another chicken for their rooster to gain a couple extra hours of sleep each morning. I doubt it.

At the end of the short cut, I turn onto my dirt road and greet the men on the corner selling sunglasses and vegetables. The road is rough and bumpy and I’m always amazed when I see a car driving up or down it. There are always many more people than cars, so I join them, trying not to trip over rocks and corncobs in the road. Even though it is only a few yards from the corner to my house, there are always many more people to greet, especially young teenagers who want to practice their English or French. I’m sure I disappoint them with the latter.

Soon I see the gray and yellow gate on the left, and I know I’m home.