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Caroline Sloan '07 is assisting in the development of Rwanda's HIV/AIDS-related virtual library at the National University of Rwanda School of Public Health in Kigali, Rwanda. June 3 | June 24 | June 30 | July 7 | July 24 | August 9 | September 20 Most Recent Entry September 20 The day I left Kigali was a typical “African time” day. African time means slow motion. I had planned—bad idea, I know—to spend all day in Nairobi that day, because I was supposed to arrive there in the morning and then take an overnight flight to Amsterdam. So I got to the airport two hours early, even though everyone kept telling me one hour was really plenty. I arrived at 8 am or so, but the entrance to the terminal hadn't even opened. And after waiting over an hour, we found out that the flight was being delayed and would now depart at 5 pm. Bummer! All those cool Kenyan kikoy (kind of like scarves) and jewelry would have to wait till the next time I jet-setted to Africa. I ended up having a lot of fun that day, reacting to the unexpected as I had learned to over the past two months—by walking around the city, eating a last meal at my favorite lunch place and buying a few souvenirs that I now would not be able to find in Nairobi . When I look back to that day, two weeks ago, it stands in stark contrast to my time spent in France and Belgium since then. The morning of my arrival, even, was full of European, or “Western,” experiences: straight roads, cleanliness, schedules to keep, gas stations stocked with food, and people who looked at me as just one more random passerby. Of course, I was in the Netherlands, which is known among Europeans to be very orderly, almost rigid. And yes, it was my mother who was intent on my prompt arrival, so that I could arrive in time to join the family for dinner. And finally, I must admit that the reason I no longer stood out was that a white girl among a bunch of other white people doesn't seem so special. That night, at a dinner party at our neighbors' house, I had to talk to people I know I have met but who never seem to stick in my mind—the second cousin of so-and-so, the sister of the woman who went to elementary school with my mother, and so on. I couldn't keep up. I couldn't even carry on a conversation for more than five minutes. Someone (don't ask me who) asked me how Rwanda was. What was I going to say? There was too much to say. So instead of boring this man with a long diatribe on the plight of Rwanda, I vaguely mentioned a few differences—“well, there was a lot of dust; the roads weren't nearly as straight.” He seemed to be satisfied, and after an awkward silence he moved over to another group of more interesting people. I wasn't offended. After overhearing someone mentioning how “exotic” my scarf (bought in Rwanda) was, I realized that there was no way for me to connect to people who hadn't shared my experiences. How could I expect them to? The first week with my family in France was difficult. I missed Rwanda, but didn't want to talk about it too much, for fear of boring my own mother, who is supposed to at least pretend to be interested in everything I say. After failing to entertain my mother and brother with my stories about Africa, I felt so constrained and alone in the aftermath of my return to “normality.” Two weeks later, I continue to restrain myself from blabbering about my trip, but I've gotten used to it and it's no longer such a bad feeling. I realize that most of my experiences will have to be kept for myself and that I will have to make a conscious effort to recall them, so as not to completely erase them from my memory.
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