I had the afternoon off, so I decided to go into town to do
some long needed errands. I spent a chunk of time waiting at the bank—which, if
you thought American banks were slow, try going to a bank on African time—and
practicing my broken Kinyarwanda to the delight of the other people waiting
with me. As I finished my errands, a steady rain had started. The motos don’t
run when it’s raining, so I thought I would just walk home. Sometimes the rain
in Rwanda lasts for just a few minutes. Sometimes it never ends. I took a
chance that it would be the former…which I’m sure you can guess was not the
case.
I decided to take the slightly longer walk home because that
hill out of town was less steep and, as my host Dad endearingly reminds me, “be
careful, you can slippery.” The problem was that I hadn’t taken that way home
since my first day in Cyangugu. A passing truck with a poorly-translated window
sign advised me there was “No Time to Loose” so I tightened my raincoat around
me and made my trek home.
The rain showed no signs of stopping and as I hummed ‘Let it
snow’ and wished I had some corn for popping, water came at me from all sides.
The thunder crashed above like a ten lane bowling alley and I watch jagged
lightning illuminate the jagged mountain peaks on the horizon. It didn’t take
long for my pants to be holding twice their weight in water.
When I had been preparing to go into town earlier today, I
slipped on my trusty rain boots, stylishly cuffed halfway too offset the sight
of me wearing boots when it was hot and sunny. I brought them along to be useful against
the potential mud that would maybe accrue on the off chance that it rained.
Unfortunately, it soon became clear that this style only served to funnel
rainwater directly onto my feet. I soon learned as well that my raincoat, which
I always considered to be one part style and two parts function, was actually
one part style and the mere idea of function. Needless to say, I was quickly
soaked.
The water rushed down the descending hills next to me as I
wove down the gentle slope hoping that I’d picked the correct turn to get home.
Every so often I would pass an outpouring of water from the town above, gushing
out of the mountain and flowing beneath precarious log bridges in turbulent
rapids. The water, muddy brown and aggressively fast, was both beautiful and
frightening in that way that powerful water can be.
After some slipping and sliding off the hill of Kamembe
Town, I was pleased to find that I had picked the correct turns home and made
it to Mont Cyangugu, where I live. I sloshed my way up the cobblestone road of
Mont Cyangugu, thinking that I would have made a terrible World War 1 soldier
and wondering how long it took for trenchfoot to set in. Thankful that my phone
case is waterproof, I set the soundtrack to my walk home (thanks One Direction,
for your jammin new album) and finished the short walk to my house. Just as I
reached home, the rain let up. One of my house girls emerged from her sanctuary
inside and saw me, dripping wet and pouring a good two inches of water from my boots.
She started laughing and then I started laughing, trying to explain in Kinyarwanda
that I got caught in a rainstorm.
Even though I was soaked to my skin, I had a hilariously
good time on my walk back. I wasn’t worried about being lost and it didn’t take
very long to be as wet as I was ever going to be, so I just decided to savor
the time walking alone in the pouring rain. There is beauty in a storm—from the
flooded fields to dark clouds over a lake framed by Congolese mountains. Plus, being
soaked by rainwater counts as washing my pants, right?
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| Rainwater coming through a sewer drain |
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| Where the many pouring rivers combine |
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| Enjoying the rain in my "suggestion" of a raincoat |
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| Pro tip: boots function best when worn as designed |
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| Muddy water cascading off the hill |
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