Notes from an observer

Here are some notes from my observations of living in a new world. No photos necessary.

Dancing


The first club we went to was in Gisenyi. We showed up at 11 p.m. No one else was there. In Rwanda, clubs don't get feisty until midnight or 12:30. But at the time, we didn't know this, and we were impatient. Is there somewhere else we could go? We asked Emmanuel. We just wanna dance (every woman's mantra). No, this is the only club in Gisenyi. So we went inside. What ensued for the rest of the night until about 4 a.m. was magical.

Disclaimer: You should know something about me. I love to dance (every woman's mantra). But no, I actually love it. (Blame my parents. Gretch gets saucy to blues. Jacek gets sassy to Afrobeat). It's how I bond with new friends. Over a great, groovy dance. I love to throw my head back and circle my arms and dip my hips. I can dance for hours (see above). Keep this in mind as you read my commentary about dancing. For example, when I describe a night of dancing as "magical," it's because I legitimately thought it was magical; for someone else, it may have been just "really fun." For me -- spellbinding, sensational, staggering and every other gilded synonym.

We ordered drinks and embraced the awkwardness of being the only folks inside the pumping, flashing room, except for a couple shifty characters who were silently sipping on various kinds of liquors at the bar (these shifty characters are universal). I was actually nervous. Or perhaps just anxious. I wanted the locals to show up and show me how they dance. Dancing is communication to me, so really, I was "nervous" for our first meeting.

So we got groovy.

People flooded inside and of course we were the strange ones, dancing strange moves in the center of the floor. Little did we know, Emmanuel had been approached by a few men who had asked how he'd "gotten so many girls." Ha! He explained that he was our body guard and that we were all ambassadors' daughters. Had we known this, perhaps we would have danced a little more conservatively (but probably not). But the vibes in the room were infectious. We integrated into a circle of dancers -- us and the Rwandans -- and each took a turn in the center. We were wild.

The international language of dance.

Except this: I'd noticed this sweet and genuine behavior pre-Gisenyi club, but here it was apt and accentuated by strobe lights. Rwandans are affectionate. Bea had told us, before we'd jetted off, that there would be a lot of hand-shaking. And she was right. But she'd said nothing about the affection between friends, just the affection between strangers.

And here's the truth: In the United States, hand-holding between friends is marketed as feminine -- two women can hold hands without necessarily being labeled gay, but two men cannot. In Rwanda, I see the same methods of affection in both genders. Men will pull each other close and keep their arms wrapped around each other if they are discussing something intimate. Men will hold hands walking down the street if they are deep in conversation. Men will pull other men onto the dance floor for a particularly groovy song. And men will dance with other men to that particularly groovy song.

It's this culture of proximity. In such a small country, Rwandans live close together, work close together, discuss close together, play close together and dance close together.

Talking

(From my journal of observations at Avenir).

Counseling session.

Sitting in the room with the women who are widows of the genocide. Listening to them, not understanding what they're saying because this is a conversation among women (my translator is male). It doesn't matter.

One woman jumps out of her seat with glee to greet me, and they all hug me tightly and burst into giggles when I say "Amakuru...Ni meza." We each hug cheek-to-cheek three times each and then I sit down. They have removed their shoes and they are barefoot, exposed to each other. I do the same.

Emmeliene begins with what I interpret as a story because the other women hum and click in response. Her voice is soft. They listen. And then, out of cadence, they each speak.

They each tell their stories and lean in on their bare feet to listen to each other, sucking their cheeks in and smacking when they hear an injustice. Emmeliene sits forward as well, allowing the women to control the discourse, but they are aware that she is there; she is their anchor.

There's something about the Rwandan people I've noticed. The women in the room at Avenir would hum, click and hiss, hum, click and hiss, listening. When someone -- any Rwandan -- speaks, the listener is vocal and active as he or she listens, showing that the speaker's words matter.

I have found myself doing it, too. When someone speaks to me, I hmmm when I agree and euhm when I need clarification. Listening. Digesting.

I am Rwandan when I speak. And I am Rwandan when I dance.

Yanna