27 january 2010

Last night my friend Katy and I went out to dinner at a restaurant in Kigali. The cafe was called "Shokola" pronounced as a French "chocolat".

It was an outdoor restaurant, lounge couches with throw pillows and flickering candles all about.

"Nda shonge" (I'm hungry) I tell the man who greets us.

He asks where we'd like to sit. With so much warmth around us, we stood overwhelmed. Sensing our hesitation, our waiter suggested: "as you're hungry, you should sit at a table".

A table it was.

We took a small one, square, 4 chairs, and sat across from one another.

Lost in the twinkling of the candles and caught somewhere between Rwanda and Espresso Royal at home, Katy and I were quickly snapped out of our minds as the twang of an American voice shattered the ambiance.

In filed a parade of white, middle aged Americans. These adults were not alone though, on their hips or at their finger tips were little Rwandan children dressed in brand new, Western clothes... speaking to one another in Kinyarwanda as their new parents gave commands like "sit next to papa" or "come with mama" in English.

One woman wore her baby strapped in on her front, another sat down at the table and pulled out a bottle of white formula.

Something about village life made me feel that everything about this situation was unnatural.

Why was the baby on the woman's front when he belonged bundled up in wax print on her back? And a bottle of white formula at the dinner table where normally a woman's black breast was meant to be.

To me, it felt wrong. But is there really a right or a wrong if these women are only acting on the culture that they grew up in and know?

Not right or wrong, I guess. Just different.

Katy and I fought back the urge to converse with the little ones as their parents made awkward motions to ask if they were thirsty while discussing whether or not one or another's had had an "accident" that day.

The father's were friendly enough. Having chosen three tables (about 9 families in total?) surrounding us, they were just as curious about the presence of 2 young ladies - one sporting a Nebraska tshirt, the other looking like a dirty hippy after a long, hot day of climbing the mountains of the city - in a country like Rwanda, as we were about this Midwestern/African clash of a sight.

"We're in the Peace Corps" we tell them.

And the exchange of questions and answers began.

"We came over in a big group to adopt"

"Arrived here at the beginning of the week"

"We got here in October"

"Are you going to learn Kinyarwanda?"

"They'll learn English soon enough"

"How are your language skills?"

"We're learning, buhoro buhoro"

"What does muzungu mean?"

"Where are you folks from?"

"I thought adoption wasn't available in Rwanda"

"Only if there is absolutely no living relative in the country"

and on and on it went, this conversation back and forth with the fathers, while the women, I'm guessing some mothers for the very first time, sat looking just as uncomfortable and uptight as can be. The expressions upon their faces would be like those of a woman seeing her husband flirting with a hot little number at a bar... except the only eyes being made were those between Katy, the children and I.. and the only flirting was with the language "Bite?" (what's up?) we asked the little girls not too shy to look at us. They respond in their mother tongue while their white mama's come to snatch them up, perhaps upset over their own inability to communicate with their new children.

Some American kids are along for the trip too, there to gather up their new siblings. Two daughters sit - both looking as unpleasant as their mother, and then a little boy, interested in nothing but his comic book, raises his eyes only when his fruit kabob arrives. Not more than 7 years old, his high little voice irritates our ears as he asks "was this washed with a water bottle?!" holding up his dinner.

Do you remember the baby elephant in Tarzan?

"does this water look sanitary to you? .. it's pretty questionable to me"

Immediately Katy and I meet eyes as we ponder the future encounters with bullies this kid is sure to have.

I try to take as many mental notes as possible but quickly find the pages far too full.

Too many thoughts,

too many emotions.

I've considered adoption for if/when I some day want to have a family - lord knows there's already loads of children in this world in need of a good home, and the thought of adopting African babies has crossed my mind.

Seeing this, seeing the daydreams manifested before my eyes, I realized that if I do end up pursuing adoption, I wish to adopt children from a country, a language, a culture that I have at least spent some time learning about first hand. I imagine that these children will go on to have really wonderful lives in America.. that they will quickly learn English and that they will have so many opportunities made available to them there that their peers here in Rwanda will only dream of. I wish these things for them, at the same time however, I cannot help but to believe that they will feel some unexplainable connection with a mysterious culture lost on them. Then again, what do I know? Maybe these children, are young enough that Rwanda will not even touch their memory banks. It has to be in their hearts though, just as when I find myself homesick, I feel it there in my own.

As the mother's and father's pack up their dipper bags, exhausted after what I am sure has been and will continue to be a whirlwind tour of emotions and Rwanda, I pass on another Kinyarwandan word.

Komera.

What does that mean?

Be strong.

What do you use it for?

For anything.

If you fall or drop something, komera.

If you look exhausted, komera.

If you have just brought two brand new children into your family, komera.

They understand and with that we wish one another the best of luck,

and I really do.

I sat there watching these couples.

Seeing the lack of sleep, the feelings of doubt washed over their faces,

adoption.

that takes a major kind of love.

Komera.