It was June of 2000, Rwanda, Africa. I was seven years old and I wanted to see the sunrise. I rose anxiously and looked out my window expecting to see the beautiful pink clouds peeking out from under the avocado tree....But there I encountered a problem: as a seven year old, I naturally thought the sun rose at 4:00 a.m., the earliest time I could think of. The world was still dark but it didn't phase me and I quickly formulated a plan: I would walk to the market while I waited for the sun to come up. Brilliant. I'd never actually been that far from home by myself before, and I wasn't entirely certain I knew the way, but once I had the idea there was no going back!
I scrambled out of bed and pulled on my favorite dress, the cotton flower print with a missing button right in the middle. It was still dark, and a little scary I admitted. I needed company. I quietly crept into my brothers room down the hall. "Sam...Sam, wake up. Lets walk to the market." He had just turned six. He was my best friend and worst enemy and everyday was a new adventure with him. This morning, though, he was not lucid enough to understand my request. He mumbled something I couldn't understand before being pulled back into his dream. My adventure would have to go on without him.
I normally would not wear shoes, but I felt a journey like the one I was embarking on warranted this extra measure. So by the time I found my red flip-flops and made a small breakfast, the landscape outside my window was turning a dark shade of grey and the birds were just beginning to warm up their voices.
Rwanda; that was my home. She was the land of rolling green hills, lakes, flowers, coffee, rain-forests and heartache. She was a beautiful land full of beautiful, broken people; people well acquainted with sorrow and loss... but I didn't know that at the time.
I tip-toed down the hall and quietly... slowly... shut the white-barred glass door to the mudroom. A trek up the hill, past the other houses, out the compound gate and I was free on the other side. I breathed deep of the morning air, the smell Africa surrounding me. The scent of flowers, banana trees, eucalyptus leaves and the wet of the dew mingled together in that perfect aroma that is unmistakably Africa. Color began to reveal itself in the green branches and the red earth as rooster crow joined with the sounds of the birds and insects. I padded along in my red rubber flip-flops on the dirt road. A thin line of light was beginning to appear on the horizon behind me but I cared less about the new day than I did the trip I was making. It crossed my mind as I walked that perhaps my parents wouldn't want me making the trip to the crowded, public marketplace on my own without their knowledge, but I quickly dismissed the idea and pressed on.
I waved a greeting to the man opening the blue tin customer window on his duka. His wife was attempting to light a fire in the tall mud oven beside the shop that would soon produce loaves of fresh, steaming bread. "Muraho," good morning, I said, and walked on, passing several more shops like that one.
Every person I passed stopped and stared as I walked by. I could never get used to the way they stared. Often they would laugh and point at my family. They would yell "Muzungu, muzungu," white person, white person! Sometimes the children would follow us in packs, always laughing and pointing, touching my hair, staring. I hated it. When our car would break down--which happened often on the potholed, dirt roads--people would flock from out of nowhere to watch the Muzungu's replace a tire. They would press against the windows, making faces on the glass, always laughing and pointing. The thought that I was the odd one, the spectacle, never crossed my mind. This morning was better though, not many people were out yet, my heart was light with my adventure and so I extended my grace to the few gawkers.
How blind I was to the culture around me. To the events that had halted and changed the existence of an entire country only six years earlier. If only I had understood the hurting, I might have looked at these people and really seen them. They stared at my white face and straight hair, if only I could have had one peek into their hearts.
Over the cattle trap bridges, past my friend Gloria's house, around the bend, down the hill and I was finally there. The market! The walk had seemed like an eternity.
Women were spreading the men's catch of fish from the night before on long, grass mats on the ground. I looked at them and remembered the time our yellow Labrador, Sebastian, had come home grey and stinking of fish from rolling in these displays. A teenager lazily clicked his tongue and prodded his herd of cattle past me. The cows moved lazily too, their sprawling horns swaying back and forth as they plodded between the row of stores. I ventured only a little further, pleased that I had made it this far, but not all together eager to face the gradually growing crowd of people on my own. I turned and went back the way I came.
After walking another eternity back home, slowly and quietly sneaking back in the metal barred door and tip-toeing down the grey concrete hall to my room, I kicked off the unnecessary shoes and crawled back into bed, tired and satisfied. There I slept until my mom came to wake me for breakfast.
Since that June morning I have lived a full, wonderful life; I have had too many adventures to count! But the one that stands out in my mind was this first little trip into the world. That first little adventure, that first step into something that was a little scary and a little lonely, marks the start of something in my heart. It marks the beginning of an unfading love for the worlds across oceans that has come to define me, and it also marks the the time my Dad began to slowly pry my eyes open to see the world as He sees it. Looking back, I can see Our Dad moving, guiding and smiling on even a seven year old on her first "real" adventure.
But it turns out that little girls don't wake up at 4:00 am, they don't sneak out of the house and they most certainly do not think up the great adventure of walking alone in the dark to the marketplace...
So nobody even believed she had gone.
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