The noises I hear

PC: Kerong Kelly

The fewer people you have to talk to, the more you listen.

Rain is pitter pattering on the metal roof. Oh wait, now it is clamoring. It is banging and thrashing and pounding my roof. I was listening to music, or a liberal propaganda podcast, or watching the Americans. Maybe I’ll read a book, but it is so loud, I can’t think. All I can do is listen.

I wake up and it is still dark, I do everything in my power not to look at the time. As usual, I cave and flail around until I find my iPhone, tangled in my sheets and blankets. It is 10PM. Have I only been asleep for an hour? Another massive bug is flying through my room, banging from wall to wall, hitting the light, my armoire and now it is silent. I mutter a halfhearted, “fuck”, and turn on my flashlight. It must have landed on my bed net, which means it is time to kill the stupid being with my bare hands, half asleep and too tired to even consider emerging from my mosquito net.

With the bug dead, clapped between the net and my hands, I am lulled to sleep by the sound of semis driving through my truck stop town, drivers maybe stopping for a banana beer or eight before sleeping off their drunken stupor and getting back on the treacherous, winding road to the DRC or Kigali or wherever their final destination. There is the occasional chirp of crickets, and some nights the piercing noise of an unfamiliar bug, possible a cicada or an equally annoying relative.

Then there is the cow. My neighbor’s horrible, loud, persistent cow. It’s now 3:30AM and the cow will not even consider shutting up. Do cows sleep standing up? Who knows, all I know is this one never sleeps.

I wake up and it is silent. The sun still hasn’t risen but is making its first ascent into the day. My neighbors may be awake, but none of us are quite ready to emerge from our beds. I cannot remember the last time I slept late enough to hear my alarm clock ringing at me to wake up. It is supposed to go off every day at 6AM.

I slip on my Old Navy shower/bathroom/general house flip-flops, and flop flop flop my way to my half-filled jerry can. I lazily fill my hot water heater, water splashing on my floors. Whatever, I think, the floors are concrete and they somehow dry themselves. I putter around while the water boils, wrapping myself in igitenge and covering my shoulders with a towel, maybe listening a WhatsApp voice note or two, catching up on whatever gossip I could have possibly missed.

I now can hear the water boiling and bubbling, and I wait for the click to signal it is done. I add the scalding hot water to my bucket, make my way to my outdoor tap, and hope I don’t hear the gurgle, which signals that my tap isn’t running that day. Water splashes into the bucket, making my boiling bucket bath a pleasantly lukewarm one.

I listen to music while I get ready in the morning. Something upbeat, maybe The Killers, or Gabby’s “Country Music That Doesn’t Suck” playlist. When you have to be at work by 7:15AM, you need something to pump you up.

My favorite game to play is “how far from my house can I walk before I hear someone scream muzungu”. Have I ever made it all the way to work? Absolutely not. Somedays it is the children walking to school in packs with their friends. One yells, “Muzungu” and the others giggle when I remind them, “Si nitwa muzungu.” (My name is not foreigner).

On a good day, I hear “Grass-ay” before I hear “muzungu”. On a bad day, it is the adults calling me Muzungu, the men still drunk or hungover from the night before, or the kids who I am positive know my name. The worst is when it is the moms at the health center teaching their children to call me muzungu.

I am probably late to morning prayer. They are singing in Kinyarwanda, and it is truly beautiful, my favorite morning noise to hear. We greet one another with “amohoro ya Cristo.” Peace of Christ.

We sit in staff meeting, and everyone is talking quickly, maybe arguing or proving a point. Voices are getting louder. Maybe our Titulaire is giving them a talking to. She leaves the room and they all giggle like school children put on time out.

Some mornings we sing hymns. They want me to sing. I remind them that I don’t know the words and like to listen only. Every morning meeting should involve singing, I think to myself as I stare out the window, lost in a daydream. Okay, honestly I am probably lost scrolling through my Instagram feed or the promotions section of my email. Who in their right mind actually reads these emails? Peace Corps Volunteers, gripping for familiarity.

Most surfaces in Rwanda are concrete, so voices echo. There are screaming children, laughing children, and sick children. So many children, and every single one of them is making noise. It is another crowded morning at the health center.

If it is vaccination day, you can watch the needle inserted into the arm of an infant, and see their sudden realization and fear. There is the initial scream. The nurse pushes the contents of the needle into their arm, and the initial scream turns into a bloodcurdling, possibly never-ending scream. The moms are shh-ing their children, and the other babies, realizing what is coming for them start screaming before it is even their turn.

I leave the health center for lunch, and every person I see greets me, asking if I am going to rest. I say yes, “ngiye kuruhuka”. Sometimes the chatter, the constant hellos, how are yous, where are you goings, you dressed smart, seem redundant. I play my part and greet everyone I see.

The local bar is bumping at noon. Happy hour? The sound of that one popular song is blaring over the speakers. I find myself humming it for the next hour at least, but after hearing it for four months straight I still don’t know the lyrics.

I come back to the health center, and since it is after lunch, there is less of a sense or feeling of chaos. People are waiting quietly for their test results and the likely Coartem prescription to treat their malaria.

I go for a run – okay I don’t run very much – but on the off chance that I do, every single person I pass says “Komera” (be strong), “uri gukora siporo” (you’re doing sport) or “sprint sprint”. This week I actually saw somebody’s jaw drop when they saw me running. They must be the single person not to have heard that there is a muzungu in town.

I visit the women who sell vegetables. I make a joke in Kinyarwanda, and they all genuinely laugh. It may be with me, but most days I think it is at my expense. I walk home, past the bar folk and the tailors and the friends and children, all happily coexisting in the same small area. They greet me, they say good evening, and on good days, none of them scream at me.

My keys in the door and I feel a sense of calm rush over me. Peace Corps warned of us about spending too much time alone in our houses, instead striving for the ever just out of reach concepts of integration and friendship.

I kick off my chacos, throw on my flops, and am now finally at home, living in my little house alone. I hear the rain start to pitter patter on the roof. Thunder cracks, and I see a burst of lighting strike near Lake Kivu. Well shit, I know it is all beginning again.