Please go easy on me, Queen of Languages

Betsy has been gone to Uganda, and so the last few weekends I’ve gone off by myself to explore the exotic corners of the country.

The bus ride is fascinating. The beautiful Rwandan countryside flows by, with deep valleys on either side of the road that usually follows the ridges until we swoop into the valley floor for a time before climbing up the to ridge once more. My seat mates are excited to sit next to a Muzungu, a Whitey. They want to talk to me, are quickly disappointed upon the realization that I only speak English, and content themselves with borrowing whichever book I have brought on my lap.

Recently, my French has reached a level where I can attempt a conversation beyond “Bonjour,” especially if my seat companion is persistent. In the two hours it took to get to our destination, one lady (who spoke no English at all) elicited my name, my work, where I lived, my age, that I was single, (followed inevitably by “why?”, I don’t even need to know the word to know that is the next question – “What is wrong with you?”) and that I was an intern. She worked in insurance, was going with her husband to visit some relatives and lived close to my house; she would return to Kigali on the bus yet that night. We exchanged phone numbers with promises to meet up again in Kigali. (Unfortunately my French is considerably worse on the phone and we did not get past “Ça va?” when she called. )

I ended up in Ruhengeri, the town from which one bases excursions into Volcanoes National Park, home of the famed mountain gorillas, and of the best hiking in Rwanda. I dedicated the major part of a day exploring the town, in spite of the fact the guide book describes Ruhengeri as “an unremarkable town.”

There is the market, a place that sells second hand clothes that arrive by the container-full from America, and the ladies who mend and alter these clothes, as well as sewing up African clothes if you should ask.
There is also an impressive looking district hospital, bustling with mothers with sick babies on their backs.

But the best part is wandering up and down the road to town watching the people, trying to walk as slowly as the locals, taking in the colorful dresses, “Bonjour”ing a hundred times to young and old alike, using my entire Kinyarwanda vocabulary to wish people a good evening, ask if they are well and what is their name before shrugging helplessly at the onslaught of Kinyarwanda that ensues…”Um, sorry I don’t actually speak your language.”