Lost in Translation

“Good morning!”

“Good morning!”
“What is my name?”

“My name is Oh-ka, what is your name?”

“My name is Jacqeumbemilamumblemumblemumble.”

I have had this exact conversation at least thirty times in the past two days. Occasionally it is followed by a brief exchange of ages, but more often the discussion simply ends with the Coloradan hoping that he will never have to recite his partner’s name: the final quick and quiet syllables are inaudible behind a wall of unceasing giggles and smiles. 

In a community where English is taught only to the very young, it is not surprising that we are in desperate need of a translator. Our project dictates constant communication with the community and boasts little room for error. Mezack, our Morgan-Freeman-esque companion, has thus been an invaluable resource as we grapple with the difficulties in constructing complex structures in a land where rocks are more common than pennies.

With his help and supervision, progress is not only possible but steady. Makeshift scaffolding has been erected with lightning speed around each site. Trusses have been expertly manufactured and delivered to a yard rarely accessible by car. Roofs, pipes and gutters rest in organized fashion between cows and pig pens. Purlins stacked against sugar cane lay waiting to be assembled.

In all, our communication with the community has been miraculous. I am not worried that we will be able to convey our thoughts and expectations, receive constructive feedback and local advice, and debate to adjust our plans accordingly. Instead I find it more challenging to convey the experience to you.

We are living in a dream. It has only been a week since we landed at the Kigali International Airport, but enough has happened to fill a novel cover to cover. But such a book is nearly impossible to write. How can I explain to you the vividness of the past week? How can I share with you the taste of fresh marakuja? The feel of volcanic soil between toes and fingers? The sound of fifty beaming kids?

I have never been so amazed by a place – by a people. It seems that the entire community is one welcoming entity intent on doing everything possible to help us complete our tasks. Willing to share a burden and a gift alike, everyone nearby will jump into action if they see an opportunity (within five minutes of starting a modest collection of small rocks for use in drainage, a mob of children joined in to turn the collection into a mountain.) The warmth of every interaction would be enough to melt even Scrooge. Smiles and cheerful greetings are required at every corner.

At the end of the day, a game of Frisbee-volleyball-peekaboo-soccer-pattycake-tag-gymnastics breaks out in a nearby field. While pig bladders wrapped in cloth and string are tossed around in the shadow of a volcano and the Frisbee runs off out of sight with fifteen sunny faces, the kids realize that I will chase after my hat if it happens to run away. Game after game of keep-away-from-the-Mzungu ensues. We are saved from this endless energy and joy when we are forced to leave and catch our bus.  Promising to come back tomorrow, we head off down the road and around the bend. “Mister! Mister!” Here comes a young girl chasing after us. We had forgotten the Frisbee!

In all reality, my chances as an exhausted engineer of conveying the brilliance of this culture to my friends back home thousands of miles away are slim to say the least. If I had the strength to keep my eyes open I would start on that novel, but alas – sleep calls, and we still have a lot of work to do. Maybe when I close my eyes I will find that this has been just one fantastic dream all along. I would not be surprised.