Waiting...

I am not sure exactly what the word cacophony means, but it is the first word that comes to mind as I sit in the Kigali airport waiting for Flight 465 to arrive. After being in the village, this place of technology, these swarming masses of humanity, and the variety of language seems foreign. I feel like a country bumpkin, out of place and slightly overwhelmed. People from all over the world are here and I find myself falling into my old habit of people watching. I try to imagine where they are from, where they are going, who they are leaving behind, who they are joining.

Despite how out of place I feel, I take comfort in the one thing that does not change; a small girl is half laying on my lap, watching the same people I am. Some things don’t change. Children feel comfortable around me. I don’t speak her language, there has been no formal or even informal introduction, she just confidently leans on me as she takes a break from exploring with her older sisters.

The variety of garb is astounding. I see three different groups of nuns in their unique habits. Women in traditional clothing mingle through the crowds, patterns and wrap style different than what I am accustomed to. French girls in shorts (and I have to catch myself as I stare almost open mouthed- how my standards have changed after months of knees being taboo!) kiss their new friends goodbye. Time and fashion trends collide head on as I see grandmothers in tie-dye, young girls in jellie shoes (I remember them from my girlhood), bright colors, fall colors, boys in pink sweaters.

One line in and around the corner some doors I can only assume open for arrivals. I sit on the bench facing the line of departures. Rebekah and I arrived early thanks to the skilled driving of Musafiri. We budgeted time for public (bus) transport, but deciding to pick our friends with a taxi instead, we now wait. She goes off walking, ever walking. Minutes later Musa goes off on his own adventure, passing by every few minutes to check on me. Patrick knew him and arranged for him to bring us to the airport. Musa is a pro, having driven this trip many times, I get all turned around in my head just thinking about it. In Uganda they drive on one side of the road, in Rwanda the other…

There is a conspicuous absence of clocks. Time truly does move at a different pace here. Heaps more touching; in Uganda there is constant touch, gender segregated. I lose count of the cheek kiss greetings and the phrase “enchante” (or however that French word is spelled…). Sounds cliché, I know, but I watch with eyes wide open.

Perhaps this is ignorance, so feel free to judge if the next statement is too “USA-centric” and shallow. I am wondering if the touch factor has to do with the history of Rwanda, verses the history of Uganda. Rwanda had lots of French influence, which may have played a shaping role in the touch culture I am currently witness to. Uganda was a British protectorate, which may have played a shaping role in their touch culture. I can’t be sure though.

Amiable, the information help desk guy, has taken a shine to me. He keeps calling (who I don’t know) to check on the status of the flight I am waiting for. He tells Musa he is a lucky guy to travel with me and Rebekah. Musa laughs. My people watching is disrupted by Amiable now motioning me over. I stand, walk the three steps to the desk, and he tells me quietly that the expected arrival time is now three minutes earlier that the previous time he told me. He then breaks into discussion about culture. “In my culture, it is appropriate for me to tell you that I love you and you are a beautiful person” he opens with. “Even though I have known you for only five minutes I can tell you this, because in my culture it is fine.” Hmm. “In my culture, not only is it inappropriate, but it is also offensive and shows bad manners” I tell him as Rebekah walks up. She catches the end statement, and nods in affirmation “very bad manners” she chimes in. {we back each other up at all times, regardless of her lack of knowledge about the subject matter, she is bound to agree with me when I am lecturing about manners, as am I when the time comes for her to lecture} Amiable is not to be deterred. Rebekah again wanders off and I am left to hear all about his life goals, his charity work, and his offer to put me on Rwandan television, because I am beautiful. “Oh my, look at the time…” he is confused, as there are no clocks in sight, and I use the confusion to excuse myself and head to the gate where I think my lovely family will be arriving from.

African airports are something else. Lines are suggestions, and the rope dividers are obviously placed there so you can duck under them and run to greet your loved ones. My strict western upbringing inhibits my disregard for lines and order, so I wait patiently. Rebekah spots Dylan first; the tall one with the camouflaged hat. It has been a long wait but finally they come through the doors, down the line, and outside to my waiting arms. Great big hugs and we are off to find Musa at the car and head to Uganda, ready to begin our adventures.