My Rwandan routine (so far)

After nine days of geographical, social, cultural, emotional, and physical immersion in the heart of Kigali, I’ve only begun to scratch the surface of East African life. Even in a place as foreign to me as Rwanda––routine has already found its way.

My day begins at 6 a.m. (a real shocker for someone who hasn’t had an 8 a.m. class since freshmen year) with a simple phone alarm and 10 seconds of groggy eye-rubbing. From there I saunter off to the bathroom which is conveniently adjacent to my room (both a blessing and curse as I tend to value my sense of smell over proximity). I then brush my teeth with water from a bottle I’ve filled at school the day before––a little trick I’ve learned to avoid wasting clean water from home.

Getting dressed is typically painless as outfits are decisions I plan out the night before. Rwandans are known for their smart attire and despite the heat, somehow manage to dress conservatively at the same time. I usually opt for somewhere in between practical and business-casual: a knee-length skirt and a tank top or a pair of khakis with a plain tee. Regardless of my clothing choice, I end up sweating considerably more than everyone else around me and lack any stylish patterns to make up for it.

“You are tired, I can tell,” Rolande usually tells me when I arrive home, panting from the heat.

After performing my various morning rituals that allow me to look presentable in public: hair-brushing, deodorant application, perfume-spraying, moisturizer etc. I collect my backpack, lock my bedroom door and head to the living room for breakfast with the homestay rents.

Breakfast with my family has been consistently filling thus far. We eat all of our meals on the coffee table in the living room––so there's usually food and other breakfast dishes waiting for me as I arrive. From our mugs, we slurp up some traditional porridge, which is similar to porridge in the U.S. only with more of a drinkable, liquid consistency, hence the mugs. Sugar is added to the otherwise bland concoction to give it a sweet (and I suspect, quite unhealthy) kick.

“If you have this everyday, you will be fat,” Daddy warned me whilst attempting to refill my mug with seconds. I’m 90% sure that it's every Rwandan’s mission to make me gain 20 pounds before leaving. Served alongside the porridge is usually some form of white carbs: a loaf of white bread or baked goods that resemble hot dog buns. This is sometimes topped with jam, but more often than not, eaten plain.

After scarfing down breakfast, my host parents and I bid Yael and Roland “wirirwe” and head out for our days. Daddy takes the bus to work and Rolande is employed at a bank along the way to the station, meaning the walk is long but seldom lonely as they always insist on escorting me. On the long stroll to Kimironko Bus Park, my host parents fill me in on different aspects of Rwandan life: single-use plastic, the dangers of motorcycles, surface-level politics, past SIT students––the usual host parent/host child interactions.

Once we reach the buses, Daddy says goodbye with a high five and an “umunsi mwiza,” or “have a nice day,” and I climb aboard the 305 from Kimironko to Nyabugogo.

The bus ride is a breeze in the morning. It isn’t yet sweltering and I always have a seat; it’s the ride back that has a different story. In the grand scheme of public transportation, the buses in Rwanda are similar to any other city: usually running late, always crowded, but ultimately getting you where you need to go.

I depart the bus at Kacyiru and walk a short five minutes to the SIT building where among other things, classes are held. Class technically begins at 9 a.m. but on Rwandan time, this usually means we don’t actually get started until 9:20. Perhaps I’ll get into it in another blog post, but being here has made me realize how overvalued time is in the U.S.

The SIT building itself resembles a house more than a traditional education building. There’s a painted cement wall surrounding the perimeter and a white entry gate large enough to fit a car for parent pick-ups and class excursions. A peaceful set of chairs, covered patio, and mini courtyard make up the outside of the front, while a large open room with chairs (no desks), a projector, and a single white board make up the classroom. A small library filled with a case of books on the Rwanda Genocide sits in the back. Two bathrooms and a kitchen are tended to by a couple house helpers who keep things tidy and students hydrated.

Classes so far include Kinyarwanda, Pre-Genocide Politics, Reading Discussions, and general orientation sessions, though they will change throughout the semester. After about an hour or so of failed attempts at Kinyarwanda pronunciations and other language exercises, we break for tea and coffee––which should most definitely be instituted in schools worldwide in my opinion. The next class session is followed by a substantial lunch hour during which we’re free to roam and graze the neighboring eateries. In Kacyiru there are several options: traditional restos serve buffet meals of rice, vegetables, beans, potatoes and meat for around $1.50 and nearby cafes boast free wifi and strong coffee. After lunch, we return for a few more hours of class with a couple bathroom breaks (and perhaps a tea) scheduled in between. On most days, we finish up around 5 p.m. depending on the closing discussion.

While some students get picked up from school by their host parents, others (like myself) then head to Kacyiru Bus Park to fight for a spot on the next ride home. Rush hour as I have learned, is unfortunately not exclusive to the states. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that traffic here is on-par with Boston’s I-93 at 6 p.m. Once the bus finally maneuvers the reckless motorcycles, taxis and pedestrians of Kigali, we pull back into Kimironko Bus Park and I begin the walk home.

To my surprise, the sun sets here around 6:20 p.m. Not exactly sure why it’s a surprise to me, I guess I just always think of warm places as following Maine summer daylight-norms year-round and expect a late sunset. Long story short, it’s always dark when I get back. Aside from the occasional “mzungu,” meaning “white person,” it’s a relatively undisturbed trek towards home.

Once off the main drag, our place is a little ways down an uneven dirt road. Since our home (as most are) is surrounded by a barrier––an aggressive knocking of the gate door is the only way to alert someone to let you inside. Once Rolande or one of the house helpers hears me hammering on the door outside, they come to the rescue. My entrance is usually met with hugs from my brothers and a “welcome home” from Rolande. Daddy doesn’t get home from work until around 9:30 p.m. when dinner is served. Until then, I play with the boys, ask my host mom about her day and attempt to catch up with friends and family via social media.

Dinner is normally a combination of two or three hot dishes made by our house helpers in the pantry outside. This could be rice, beans, Irish potatoes, sometimes pasta, and on rare occasions––beef. Last night we ate ugali which is a sort of dough-like mound that resembles a pile of mashed potatoes, only denser. Ugali is made by grinding cassava into a powder and combining it with water to create a stretchy consistency. After washing our hands, Daddy piled on a hefty plop of ugali, beans, and stewed beef onto my plate. He then instructed me to pull off small pieces of the ugali and roll it between my fingers before dipping it into the sauce from the beans and meat. Best meal I’ve eaten yet. Ugali has been the only dish I’ve even come close to finishing, which is not to say that all the foods I've been served aren't delicious––they're just massive portions.

After dinner, it’s time to wash. Our bathroom has all of the normal amenities one might find in an average washroom: a sink, a toilet, the porcelain floor of a shower. All it’s missing is water which can be found in large plastic basins on the floor. Water-basin-showering is about as glamorous as it sounds. I stand in the corner over the shower floor in my flip-flops and using either a plastic pitcher or a smaller basin, begin to rinse myself with a splashing/dumping mechanism that I’m sure you have a graceful picture of in your mind. Once I’ve fully soaped up and watered down, I dry off and get ready for bed.

Sleep has been shockingly easy for me since the day I arrived in this new home. I thought for sure I’d be tossing and turning with the unfamiliar sounds, smells and shadows of my bedroom, but the heat and walking-induced fatigue has proved quite the opposite. I often find myself in bed by 10:30 p.m. and snooze like a log until morning.