As I sit on the steps outside my guesthouse, staring down the burnt orange road ahead of me, it’s hard not to think of the country’s past. It’s hard not to think of the approximate one-million men, women, and children that lost their lives. Look left, look right, and I find myself assessing one’s age, wondering what it must have been like for each and every one of them. Who’s side were they on, and where did they go. Who did they lose, and how do they feel now.
At first glance, the Rwanda I see seems strong, seems organized, maybe even united. The streets of Kigali are immaculate, and the faces are friendly. Here in the capital, everything seems to have a place and a purpose, and even plastic bags are illegal. From my position, it’s peaceful and quiet, and I could easily see myself staying for a while. And part of me wants to. Really wants to. But unfortunately, prearranged plans make flexibility limited this go-round. In a matter of minutes, I will make my way south, to a small town bordering Lake Kivu, some three hours away.
For this journey, I have opted to hire a taxi, due to feeling a bit weathered from my flights. I must admit that guilt set in, soon after shaking on my splurge. And the more I think about it, the worse I feel, even though I negotiated a fair rate, due to the help of a Congolese man I met over breakfast. I suppose the older I get, the more I’m willing to extend in exchange for temporary comfort. The extra $50 to not be drenched in another person’s sweat, or the $10 increase to avoid sharing a bathroom, seems worth it. Well worth it, most of the time. But still, I have moments where I second guess myself and wonder if getting older simply means more spoiled.
