Building Bridges - Part Two
Updated: Nov 29, 2020
Part Two: Sunrise
Aristide had warned me about the “paparazzi.” A sophomore mechanical engineer and one of the few Rwandan students at Duke, Aristide had offered to teach me about Rwanda’s culture. “First of all,” he said laughing, “everybody in the village will stare at you. They will follow you everywhere. Many have never seen a white person before.” We rocked back and forth on the swinging benches outside Pitchforks Café. “Second, be prepared for a lot of gossip. If there’s one thing Rwandans are good at, it’s gossiping behind your back.” He folded his arms against his chest. “And since you’re a guy, get ready to be swarmed by girls. It’s a bit weird, but in the village, it’s common for girls to hug you and hold your hands the whole time they talk to you. Just giving you a fair warning.”
Enthusiastically, Aristide explained key Kinyarwanda phrases for me to know by heart, especially “Si mbizi” – I’m confused, and “Iki bacyita mu Kinyarwanda” – What is this in Kinyarwanda?
I couldn’t go anywhere without a swarm at my heels, yet, strangely, nobody in the village knew who Adam was, where New Jersey was, what Duke University was - my past history meant nothing. I had lost all connections: roads, address-books, phone numbers, computers, the Internet. I floated isolated in the middle of a foreign continent, with only a thirty-six page Kinyarwanda to English dictionary for assistance. My transformation began with a ground-zero demolition. I became a formless ball of clay to be molded.
After my identity cleansing, I began the long process of adaptation. For Americans especially, adaptation is an ancient biological skill seldom required. Americans expect immigrants and newcomers to adapt to them.
“Don’t know English? Learn it.”
“Not used to city life? Get used to it.”
“Lost in the subway station? Get a map.”
As a newcomer, I dug deep into my human roots and began assimilating to my Rwandan environment. The first step was primarily physical…and painful.
Jagged edges dug into my neck as I hoisted the rocks from the drop-off to the bridge site. I felt the weight bearing down into my joints with every step, and I began to take breaks more frequently to catch my breath. Sometimes, I needed to switch the rock from right to left midway through to prevent my shoulder from falling off. Tossing the rocks into the pile left my skin reddened and scratched. By midday, intense sunlight shimmered on the tin-roofed homes that speckled the terraced mountainsides. Wiping beads of sweat from my brow, I headed back to carry more rocks…over and over and over again.
When I walked down the path hoisting a considerable rock, Mike, our media manager, would wink and note, “Nice one. I’d give that a seven out of ten.” From the start, Mike’s loud, outgoing, and - until you got to know him - somewhat obnoxious personality brought contagious energy to the worksite and house. While we worked, we joked that if Mike were an inanimate object, he would be Axe Body Spray. Eventually, rocks became a measurement of time. Halfway through the day, I would stop and ask our safety manager, Jocelyn, “Are we breaking for lunch yet?” Technically, Jocelyn had just completed her freshman year of college, but to us, she was “Grandma.” At any moment of the day, she could be found cross-legged on the ground or perched on a rock, sneaking open her book to read.
Squinting back the sun, she’d respond, “Not yet…after four more rocks.” Every time the dump truck sputtered and coughed down to the drop-off area, my teammates and I groaned in collective exasperation. The yellow lights flashed, the siren sounded, and a fresh new batch came thundering down in a cloud of dust. Some nights, I would wake up cold with sweat, panting under my mosquito net because I thought I heard the dump truck sputtering to make yet another delivery.
One morning, however, I woke up at 4:00 a.m. and hiked up the mountain overlooking the bridge site to see the sunrise. When I reached the peak, I looked down, exhilarated. Within the darkness below, impenetrable clouds buried all of Kiruli. Faintly, I could hear the engine of a single motorcycle humming in the distance and only guess at where the muddy soccer field might’ve been. Above, mountains watched over solemnly and unmoved, their peaks cloaked in mist. Inside their homes, villagers awakened to rooster calls and the groans of cows. Flint sparks ignited blue-hot flames beneath small stoves, beans swelled and boiled in saucepans, and the bottoms of rice pots began to sizzle.
Gently, I opened my journal. Pages tattered and browned, it archived my memory: the good, the bad – everything. Tuning my senses, I tried to describe the world stirring around me:
Sights...
White wildflowers are delicate snowflakes. String pea pods hang from wooden posts. Stone piles separate gardens. Low-lying ivy creeps over the stones. Stalks of brown wheat sway with the wind. Kernels drift away, carried like feathers. A house. Morning warms cobblestone roof shillings.
Sounds…
Inside the house, children begin speaking Kinyarwanda. Mother cracks eggs on a sizzling skillet. More birds chime in.
Smells…
ozone electrifies my focus. Fresh air revitalizes my mind. Ripe bananas, sweet nectar.
Textures…
Shadows melt away, revealing broad tree leaves. Terraces traverse and cut the mountainsides. Rectangular farm patches form a quilt pattern. Rough stone. Dew-covered grass.
I couldn’t write quickly enough. There were too many sights to take in, too many gears moving at once. I put down my pen. The pink sky intensified into orange. Orange softened into gold. As the sky warmed brighter, the mountains darkened. Sitting back, I let the sunrise take its course, and watched the glow cloak the clouded forest below. 1 Million Killed in 100 Days. While reading about the Genocide, I had learned hundreds of thousands of bodies still laid undiscovered in the marshes and forests. Hiking down through the quiet eucalyptus forest, I watched my footing, stepping carefully around branches and rubble – I shivered at the thought of uncovering bones, disturbing someone I wasn’t supposed to. Instead, sleepy morning light filtered through the leaves like stained glass and glistened in the mist as I returned home and prepared for another day of work.
To be continued next week!
About the Piece
Dedicated to the people of Base, Rwanda. In loving memory of the beautiful times we had. I can’t wait to see you again soon.
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