Through the kaleidoscope darkly

In waking, I find myself dreaming, in dreaming, awake, for an eternity of muted visions straining my definition of providence. The sky is brilliant blue to the north. Sunlight, golden in the afternoon, bathes the muddy paths in glorious light. To the south, dark clouds are crawling fast. The effect is striking. A sky divided. Ominous darkness on one side rapidly eating up the blue. The tree where the black-headed herons live is swaying violently back and forth. The mothers hunker down on top of babies inside their unsteady nests. The wind pushes me back from the balcony. A warning. Time to go inside and close all of the windows. But I am reluctant. I move closer to the edge and look down at the street. The rain is starting to pour down. I don’t want to go inside. I want to be alive for a moment, in the rain, in the wind, watching the last vestiges of sunlight as they are devoured by the dark clouds.

Increasingly it seems that time is racing past me, beyond everything that used to serve as milestones. I don’t own a vehicle, a house, a pet, the list could go on. I am freer than I was 2 years ago. I’ve learned to travel lighter. Lately I move between three countries per month. Rwanda to DRC to Burundi and back last month. Rwanda to Kenya to Uganda and back this month. What is the purpose of all this movement? Crashing into other cultures, trying to with hold judgment on everything. Sleeping in one hotel room after another. Guessing at the truth behind polite conversations. What are you not saying to me? What do I not say to you? What sand traps lie in the middle of what we don’t say to each other? Hugging, kissing, touching foreheads with strangers. Welcome to the rabbit hole. A beautiful, delicious, fevered, exhausting collision into humanity. There are days when I am ready to exchange this brown olive skin for something that will allow me to blend in better, something that will keep me from the weight of a hundred of eyes that follow every move. The anonymity that I crave is not found here. I need to move to Peru where I will be myself again and not the strangest of beasts, a circus freak, the creature with pockets full of cash. If an ATM machine sprouted legs and walked down the street, it would be treated exactly the same as I am every time I walk to the store. I want to find the words to explain in Kinyarwanda, Swahili, Kirundi: I am not white and I don’t have loads of cash. Even if I was white, that still doesn’t mean that I would have money. Stop stereotyping me based on the color of my skin – which really isn’t all that much lighter than yours anyway.

But these thoughts are poisonous and circular. If I feel this way, why stay? That’s what they would ask me. That’s what I ask myself. But I’ve made up my mind by now and the reasons are carved in stone. I will not leave until it is time. I stare at the ground a lot when I walk now. So that I can ignore the spectacle that I make as I carry my groceries home in a bag on my shoulder. I pretend to myself that the stares are friendly curiosity but on some days it’s just intrusive and abrasive. For a while I would have staring contests with people to see who would blink first. But I would always win because I would end up glaring and the other person would look away in confusion and then I would feel like shit. I’m tired. After 6 months without time off I will be ready for R&R in July. One week off. I’m planning to go to Kampala where I still might be stared at but probably not as much and at least I will be able to communicate with people and that makes all the difference in the world.