Rwanda: Short Trip, Long Post

OK, as a preemptive warning- I wrote this on my laptop. Usually, I just write my posts off the top of my head here at the internet cafe, but this time I felt like I would forget something important, so I wrote everything in advance. I got a little bit carried away, and you should know that this baby clocks in at over 9 pages in Word. Sorry..? Anyway, read on, and I hope its not mundane.

Last Saturday was my scheduled date to take the graduate record examination (GRE). I might’ve forgotten to mention where exactly I had been registered to sit for it- Kigali, Rwanda. The test is offered in the capital cities of most East African countries, and if I have to travel to take this test, I might as well go somewhere I’ve never been. Thus, I would be visiting Rwanda, a country whose very name elicits images of chaos and tragedy.

I left last Thursday, on a bus resembling a hand-me-down Greyhound at six in the morning. We stayed on main roads for a little while, and I was lulled into catching up on a little sleep. When I awoke, we were on a one lane dirt road, flanked by rolling hills covered in foliage. It made me think of some of Hemingway’s descriptions of the northern Serengeti. I was enjoying this thought and complacently staring out the window, until I noticed the sky was darkening. Within five minutes, we were caught in a torrential storm. The bus was obstinate though, and pressed on. This was slightly disconcerting. Due to the prolificacy of traffic on the winding road, the dirt had been worn into two distinct tracks, much like the passage of a num
ber of skiers along the same path forms the snow into grooves. The rain was being amassing in these parallel channels and forming two impromptu yet substantial streams. At one point we crested a hill, and I could see these tracks shining all the way across the short but deep valley to the apex of the next rise. Perhaps it was due to the bus’s weight, but we managed to cleave our way through the mire, one prominence after another, until we reached a junction with a paved trucking route. We continued in our generally south-western direction for a few more hours, before reaching a crossroads town called Lusahunga at around 11am. This was my end-of-the-line, and I disembarked into a crowd of taxi and dala-dala drivers, all eager to usher me into their vehicles, knowing that my mzungu ignorance might provide them with an extra dollar above the regular fare. Before leaving Bukoba, I had asked a British friend of mine the best way to reach Kigali, and so I was relying on this instruction when I chose one dala-dala (a minibus with seating for 14, but which usually carries about 30) out of the welter. I was the last one to board, and after considerable amounts of rearranging people so that my protrusive legs would fit, we headed off. My head was stuck in a nursing mother’s armpit, and my feet were inextricably locked with about 6 others; it was a good time. Somehow through the mass of Twister-esque riders, I had a small window out of which I could view the passing countryside. After riding in this assuredly comfortable fashion for an hour or so, we came upon the first of the refugee camps. At this point, we were roughly two hours from the border. The first camp set the standard, and the following ones didn’t deviate- a sprawling grid-shaped pattern of tents, all emblazoned with the logo of whichever aid organization donated them. These tents were the size of two phone booths stacked on one another, and each was supposed be enough room for an entire family to live (provided the refugees had managed to emigrate from Rwanda/Burundi/DRC with their families). The rows of tents ran parallel with the road, and from what I could see from my musky vantage point under the arm, the rows were six or seven deep going away from the road. Every kilometer or so, a larger communal shelter had been erected, and these were invariably jammed full of people, socializing as East Africans are wont to do. I asked how these people eat (a large portion, perhaps the majority, of East Africans are subsistence farmers) without having either money or crops. Apparently, they are given small portions of the staple agricultural products once per day, and somehow they take this maize or grain into their respective tents and it is magically transformed into a meal. They rely on these daily allotments of food to survive. It’s hard for me to imagine waiting, every day, for a bus to come and deliver what I will eat that day. I might be running with my imagination, but the only knowledge I have of the camps is what I saw and what I was told. All in all, I passed about 3 of these camps, the largest of which must have been comprised of at least 500 tents, but likely quite a few more. After changing vehicles one more time, I made it to the border. For some reason, the Rwandan government has decided not to make American or British citizens pay for visas (as far as I know), so in effect I waltzed right through the border. The guards began to give my passport perfunctory glances, but when I greeted them in passable Swahili they passed me right through. The emigration office for Tanzania and the immigration (honestly, why did they have to make those two words sound so similar?) office for Rwanda were about 500 meters apart, separated by a bridge. I posted a picture a guy named Rubera (more on him later) took of me on the bridge, over the raging waterfall the bridge straddled. Seeing a picturesque nature scene was not what I had expected at a border crossing. Live and learn. Rubera and I found a car to take us the rest of the way, from the border to Kigali. The roads in Kigali are wonderful, all paved and mostly new. This is one example of the developments engendered by the steroidal infusion of money pumped into Rwanda by Western nations. As we drove along these roads, heading towards the capital, I spent a lot of time looking out the window. Rwanda is a very scenic country, hills and vales covered in verdant hues, terraced mountain sides like you would see on a picture of Thailand/Vietnam on Scott’s blog.

We arrived in Kigali at around six in the evening, as the sun began its last stage of descent. In a wonderful display of hospitality, the driver of the car who had driven Rubera and me from the border offered to let me stay at his house. This worked well for me, for as it turned out the hostel I had been planning on staying no longer existed (one of the perils of using a 9-year old travel guide). Apparently this driver, Jean-Pierre, had been impressed with my Swahili and my short-term travel friendship with Rubera. After a short, American hesitation, I told him I would be honored to be his guest. Good move. His house was quite large, and I later learned that he isn’t a taxi driver at all, but was bringing that vehicle from Dar Es Salaam for his heavy goods business. Apparently, he travels all over East Africa and even takes regular trips to Dubai. That explained his fluent Swahili, especially when I compared it to the rest of his family. He was married with five children, the youngest a newly-born, and also had taken (adopted?) three young adults into his household. Only Jean-Pierre spoke Swahili, everyone else used Kinyarwanda (the unifying local language of all Rwandan tribes, similar to Swahili in Tanzania) or French. I did take a few years of French some time ago, and tried brushing up on it before going. Unfortunately, as soon as I would use the bit that I had rehearsed and memorized, the native French speaker would spout far too quickly for me to understand. My go-to phrases became “How do you say _____ in French?” and then, “Sorry, I don’t speak French” as soon as they would begin to give me a rapid, detailed answer for the previous question. One day I was eating lunch with Jean-Pierre’s wife, a woman I only knew as Mama Onalina, and we tried to talk. There we were, two polyglots, reduced to using masterfully inflected grunts and points to communicate. We ended up just shrugging and laughing after about ten minutes of this ridiculous effort.

The praise that I can give to Mama Onalina was that the food on her table was always delicious. It was basically the same types of food available here- rice, potatoes, ugali, meat and vegetables- but that meat was the most tender I’ve eaten in a year, and the ugali was made from cassava flour instead of corn flour, a delicious change. There was another guest staying with the family, a half-Rwandan half-German kid named Jacques. He was just starting university in Kigali, and when he was around, his English was strong enough that we could talk. In fact, he was so eager to learn about America and Americans and the world outside of Rwanda (I never got his story, just that he is half-German yet grew up in Rwanda) that after a few days of his nonstop sycophantic questioning, I started giving him fairly terse answers. “Is it true that black Americans are all rich like in this music video?” “No. Many are not rich.” “Oh. But look, now is N Sync! Is N Sync still a very popular group?” “No. This video is 7 years old.” “Oh. You Americans all hate Muslims yes?” “No. You are mistaking the actions of our country for the attitude of its peoples.” “Oh. Ok.” My only complaint, which I would never voice to Jean-Pierre, had to do with the sleeping arrangements. After getting dinner and a life-restoring shower that first night I arrived, I told him and Jacques that I was getting sleepy. Jacques hopped up and escorted me to my room, a clean room with a bed somewhere between a twin and a double in size. Sweet deal. I told Jacques thanks, then became perplexed when he didn’t leave. It turned out that this was also Jacques room. “Wait, you mean we’re sharing this bed?” “Yes. It is our bed.” “Oh. Ok.” Honestly, I don’t think I’ve shared a bed with another man since my last sleepover at a friend’s house some ten or fifteen years ago, and certainly not since I grew into this tall frame of mine. But I guess I didn’t really have a choice, to refuse the bed would be to refuse Jean-Pierre’s hospitality, and he’d been so kind I couldn’t do that. So I turned off that little comfort/discomfort switch in my head and got mentally prepared to try and sleep next to Jacques. Now why is it that, as soon as you accept an awkward situation as compulsory and therefore manageable, there is always a twist? I was talking with Steph, telling her about this little predicament, and she started laughing and asked me if Jacques slept “in the buff.” I think “the buff” would be the crossing the man-comfort line, but even as it was, Jacques was treading pretty darn close to that line. Jacques slept in only a pair of Speedo-esque briefs. When he first got ready for bed and removed his pants, his shirt covered the extent of his briefs, and I think I might’ve gotten a nervous tic while briefly considering the possibility that Jacques was “in the buff.” Still, sleeping next to a man in a man-thong is terrible, especially when considering that Jacques turned out to be a “mobile sleeper,” his legs gradually, nonchalantly exploring the expanse of our tragically small bed. I managed to curl myself into the minutest volume physically possible and positioned myself in the far corner, sleeping as much on the wall as on the bed, dreaded the inevitable contact from Jacques’ five-toed reconnaissance agents. Amazingly, I fell asleep quite quickly, all the while blessing the exhausting nature of overland travel in East Africa.

My test was slated to take place Saturday morning, so I had all of Friday to explore greater Kigali. I awoke, got served tea instantly by Mama Onalina, and headed out. The plan was basically to give myself a walking tour of the city. Unfortunately, I had no map (except for one consisting of only 5 major roads that was a decade old; useless) and was given cursory instructions of how to reach the American embassy, and from there, downtown Kigali. The previous day had been balmy, so when I wore a long sleeve shirt and jeans, I was assuming that overcast, clement weather was the Rwandan standard. After about halfway into the 45-minute walk from Jean-Pierre’s house to the embassy row, I realized that I’d erred; the sun was railing down with fury, and this was at eight in the morning. My reason for going to the American embassy was that the GRE would supposedly be conducted there the following day, and I wanted confirmation I’d come to the right place. Arriving drenched in sweat after losing my bearings twice, I was glad to see a massive air conditioner unit outside the embassy. My ticket stub said I’d be taking the test in the “American Cultural Center” section of the embassy, but this turned out to be a small meeting room adjacent to the library. Lingering in the cool air, I eventually found the man who would supervise the test- fortuitously, for he told me the starting time had been moved forward by half an hour. After departing the embassy, I commenced to wander around the “downtown” area of Kigali until lunch time.

What can I say about Kigali..? The first thing that comes to mind is the serious amount of development taking place. Likely this is standard for many large cities, but every corner I rounded, I found another building/road/infrastructural object under construction. It was common to see a ramshackle, decrepit old structure juxtaposed with a shining, towering office building which was plainly raised quite recently. Rwanda is one of the most densely populated countries in the world, due to its small size, and this was evident in the sheer number of people and buildings I passed in my meanderings. If I stood on the crest of any of the hills comprising Kigali, I would see almost nothing but closely-packed houses in every direction. The houses were never quite destitute enough to be called a “slum,” but they were far from palatial. In fact, the city planning board must have been asleep when most of these houses went up; narrow alleyways bend and jump between the irregularly spaced homes, disappearing and reappearing according to the builders’ whimsy. One guess is that, after the genocide, people sought the theoretical security of the city in such quantities that it simply wasn’t possible to accommodate them all in any organized fashion. While I enjoyed my aimless journey through the city, there was a pervasive and slightly discomforting factor which followed me- the mendicants. From the other East African countries I’ve seen, the sheer number of beggars that are present in Kigali simply is unmatchable. Every street, every stop sign, every roundabout held a handful of people who would walk alongside me, so close I could feel their breath as they solicited my help. It was a bit overwhelming, especially considering their tenacity; some followed me for two or three blocks, asking for help first in French, then English, Kinyarwanda, and so on. I tried to sympathize, as many of these people were younger, likely orphans. Most of you are probably familiar with the sign “Homeless Vietnam vet, need help, God bless” or its similar alternatives. While a large number of veterans did incur problems as a result of the war, problems which might result in being unable to take a job, many times that sign is just used to educe pity, to engender greater earnings. Eventually, one begins to distrust anyone who invokes the words “Vietnam vet” as a possible charlatan. As heartless as this may make me sound, after being continually overwhelmed by people repeatedly saying “genocide,” I began to doubt. First off, the street children under the age of ten or so weren’t even alive during that time, and they couldn’t be orphans from the genocide, as they were born sometime after it. Additionally, while there is no job market or simple, reliable way to find employment here, one has to remember that the genocide took place over 12 years ago. Many, most, Rwandans have started new lives, and I wonder if some of those needy people who gravitated towards me in the streets aren’t using the memory of the genocide as a sort of crutch, a way to keep from feeling socially responsible. Will they be saying “genocide” 12 years from now, as well? Yes, this is an overly basic analysis of something extremely complex. Yes, I’m a terrible, evil person for thinking these things.

In any case, after a few more hours of wandering these chaotic streets, I found a great place for lunch. It was situated in the “Kigali Business Center,” which is an odd name for a small two-level strip mall featuring travel agencies, a restaurant, and a discotheque. Lunch was a buffet of the gamut of East African foods, and I ate too much, especially of the cilantro salsa and fish. With a dangerously full belly, I waddled my way to one of the highlights (if I can call it a “highlight”) of my entire trip- the Genocide Memorial.

For me, and for most Westerners, thinking of Rwanda inherently means considering the horrible genocide which took place in 1994. To honor those who were killed or those who lost family and friends, the Rwandan government built the Genocide Memorial center, on the tenth anniversary of the genocide. The site was chosen due to its fitting locale- the memorial building abuts the mass graves of many people slaughtered in the Kigali area. It was hard, if not impossible, not to be overwhelmed by the solemnity of the memorial and the travesty of the history it portrayed. Beginning with a pre-history of Rwanda and its tribes, we learned the divisive effect that missionaries and colonists had upon a previously concordant people. The in-depth presentation gradually unveiled the events which exacerbated tribal jealousies, culminating in warfare in the 1970’s, and then again in the 1990’s. If you have any particular questions about what were the main causes of the genocide, email me or read wikipedia. The first display case in the “During the Genocide” section was full of bones, and on the top on them, chains and a lock were placed. Apparently, a Hutu man had married a Tutsi woman, and during the wholesale slaughter, marauding Hutu warriors paid them both for their inter-tribal marriage by chaining them together and burying them alive. The bones were theirs. The rest of the exhibit was more examples of the atrocities conducted during the genocide, all awe striking and unbelievable, but one of the hardest things to observe was the multi-part interviews which unfolded on a number of televisions as one progressed. Watching these people talk about what they went through, or what they saw done to their loved ones, was devastating. I mean, really… To top it all off, I think the last two rooms might have been the most overpowering of all. In the penultimate room was a tribute to the children who were murdered, entitled “Lost Future.” It consisted of rows and rows of pictures that families had contributed, of the children they’d lost. Adjacent to this haunting memorial were plaques and pictures dedicated to just a few of the children, detailing their names, ages at the time, favorite things, and lastly, their cause of death. The final plaque contained the most disturbing thing I would read all day: “Cause of death- machete wielded by her own mother”… Ok, sorry to lay that on you all, but it’s unthinkable, isn’t it? Apparently, many Tutsi were offered life if only they killed their loved ones first, and this woman…well…she took the deal (the other end was never held up, of course). And finally, the last room was a general room of loss- notes and pictures covered the walls, people writing to the family and friends they’ll never see again. Glancing at some of the words on these letters, written to people who were gone, who would never read their words, I just about lost it, and had to go outside and breathe for awhile. About a year and a half ago, I went with some good friends to Europe, and while in Budapest we stopped at what was aptly named the “Terror Museum,” a museum dedicated to the horrors inflicted upon Hungarians first by the Nazi Arrow Cross, then by Communists. The whole time I was at the Genocide Memorial, I was reminded of this Terror Museum, and of the malevolence that humans have wrought upon one another, all over the globe. I bought a bracelet whose proceeds go to the upkeep of the Memorial (it is free to enter; they want everyone to know, to see) on which is written “Genocide: Never Again.” Let’s hope so, but somehow, I doubt it…

Leaving this scene and its sorrows behind me as best I could, I made my way home. The rest of my day was spent chatting with Mama Onalina and Jean-Pierre, drinking tea (they served it four times per day, every day), and studying for the GRE. Jacques called to say he was out of town and wouldn’t be back until the following day, and I rejoiced. After dinner, I was telling Jean-Pierre about my day, and especially how overwhelmed I was by the Genocide Memorial. He nodded, and cautiously told me that his entire family- two parents and six children- was murdered, except for him and his youngest brother. At the time, he was my age, twenty-four. What do you say to that? I almost lost it again. He told me not to worry, that I didn’t have to say anything. God had provided a new life for him, he told me, and for Mama Onalina, whose parents were also killed. In fact, all the people in his household except for his own five children lost some or all of their families during the genocide. Staying with this family, who had all lived through so much grief and loss and yet were so open and friendly…yeah it made me feel small. It put a lot of what I was worrying about (traveling, the GRE, teaching, life in general) into perspective, you know?

I slept well, and left early the next morning to take my test. Arriving early at the embassy, they told me to scram for twenty minutes until they opened. I had spotted a restaurant called “Chez Robert” on the walk over, so I went back to take a picture of it to waste some time (no point in cramming for the GRE), and it was at this point that my camera stopped working. Hence, there are unfortunately few pictures of my trip. I headed back to the embassy and found a crowd outside- my fellow test takers. We were about twenty in all, three Americans and the rest Rwandan. An over excitable man named Charles was proctoring the exam, and he was so fastidious in making sure everything was in order and that all the instructions were read and understood that we were quite late in starting. I’m under written oath not to give out any details of the test, but it was pretty rigorous. Generally, the GRE consists of two essays, two verbal sections, and two quantitative sections. Towards the end of each section, when Charles would tell us “five minutes”, this one tubby Rwandan guy would always look up with a shocked, wide-eyed Rodney Dangerfield face and say “Five minutes!? It can’t be!” It happened every on every single section. Awesome. By the time we reached the final section, we’d been testing for over 3 hours, and my brain was running on empty. I think I did pretty well, but I’ll let you all know the exact results in a couple months when I get them. Honestly, that test is not designed for people who use English as a second or third language, and I had to pity some of the Rwandans whose grasp of this era’s lingua franca was a bit tenuous.

After finishing the exam, I found a good local place to get lunch and hunkered down with a plateful of starches and a massive, ice cold beer. It was called “Müstzig” or some similar Germanic name, and came in a 650ml bottle (Davis- about 22 ounces of glory). I tooled around town on my post-test, post-huge beer high for a few hours, eventually coming back to Jean-Pierre’s to take a much welcomed nap. Even during my nap, the family served me tea. I woke up and it was on my bed stand, still piping hot and delicious. By the time I roused myself, Jacques was back in action. He had borrowed some pirated music video DVDs, and demanded that I watch them with him. Mostly they consisted of boy bands, Celine Dion, and soft hip-hop or R-n-B (think Usher). In other words, my musical heaven. For most of the evening, I watched these with Jacques and gave him lyrics and details about the bands. I became moderately annoyed when he played Shakira “Hips Don’t Lie” for about the fifth time, wanting to make sure he had the chorus right. I could write the words now, but I’ll spare you.

Sunday was my final day, and it was all booked up. Rubera, the friendly guy from my trip, had politely insisted that I come meet his family. He promised to arrive at ten in the morning, to escort me. At one in the afternoon (recall: we are on African time) Rubera showed up, and off we went. After a short dala-dala ride, we’d reached his father’s house, which turned out to be a church compound. He introduced me to his father, who is a church leader for the Adventists in the greater Kigali region (apparently, he presides over a church council affecting some 100 churches). I really enjoyed talking with Rubera’s father (the Deacon); he spoke immaculate English and had a degree in theology. While we discussed, Rubera ran all over the place helping his mom prepare a meal. He served us juice to whet our appetites, juice made from pineapples and red beets. It took me a while to figure out exactly what it was, and the Deacon couldn’t remember the English name for “beet”. That has to be one of the strangest tasting juices ever made, but it didn’t prepare me for the meal they made. It was strictly vegetarian (this is unusual), and included a cilantro-beet salad, some sort of soy-ball soup, and something else that tasted like paper but looked like stew. Having been here for awhile now, I’ve grown accustomed to the standard meals- rice, ugali, potatoes, beef. This, while not being the most delicious meal I’ve encountered, certainly was the most original. Right before it was served, Jean-Pierre showed up. We had planned to go around the city in his company’s car, so he could show me some sights. I kept looking at his face while he ate, hoping for some sign of either shock or approval. All I got was that he didn’t take seconds. When we were ready to go, the Deacon made everyone come stand around me while they prayed for me. Jean-Pierre, while not presiding over a large number of churches, is highly pious. As the Deacon began praying on one side of the circle, so did Jean-Pierre on the other side. I felt a little awkward, like two ladies were asking me to dance at the same time. They battle-prayed for about five minutes, if you can believe that, gradually getting louder as they struggled to be heard. It was flattering that they both cared so much.

The guided tour of Kigali that Jean-Pierre and I had planned unfortunately didn’t work out so well. Rubera had been so late on escorting me to the Deacon’s that we were only left with an hour of nominal sunlight when we departed. What I got to see that my own wanderings hadn’t encompassed- Kigali International Airport, a very 70’s looking structure; the national football stadium, where there was a game and a throng of people; the Rwandan Parliament building, which still bears marks from the fire it took during the genocide (but which I barely made out due to the waning light); and a huge roundabout that doubles as a peace park. When we got home, we socialized, shared our last dinner together, and then I gave them a token of my appreciation. Before my camera stopped working, I’d had a picture taken of Jean-Pierre and me, and of Mama Onalina and me. They had many loose photos lying around, so I bought a photo album and put those two pictures in it. They seemed happy, but I felt like it was a pretty small gesture considering how much they’d helped me out and taken care of me.

After one last night sleeping next to a mostly-in-the-buff Jacques, I was driven to the bus stand by Jean-Pierre. We said our goodbyes and I hopped the six-am bus to Tanzania. Three hours and a nap later, I arrived at the border, sped through, and caught a cab share to the local outdoor bus stand. Upon reaching this place, called Benaco, I noticed there were precious few vehicles waiting for passengers. I had just missed the departures of almost all buses leaving Benaco. Great. After waiting an excruciating four hours, a Land Rover from some religious organization pulls up; the driver had extra space and wanted to make a buck. This is a common occurrence in East Africa. Hitchhiking is rare, but it is well known that almost any driver will pick you up if he has room and you are willing to pay. Well, I wasn’t the only one that had been waiting at Benaco who was willing to pay. We fit five people (included me) in the backseat, and about eight in the luggage area. The passenger seat was saved for the armed guard. Any public transit vehicle moving around that region has to travel with an official guard carrying some sort of semi-automatic. I was told that the reason is that over the last few months, several buses have been robbed, and several cab drivers have been murdered. I’m not sure if this is hearsay, but it was slightly comforting having the guy along. I needed all the comfort I could get, considering how this guy drove. First off, I took a different, shorter route back, but the roads were terrible. This man didn’t seem to notice, and drove generally around 100km per hour down the potholed, dirt roads. The scariest part of it was that he was a fairly lecherous fellow, and made sure this young woman had the seat right next to him. While he drove, he would chat with this lady incessantly, and most of the time would look at her instead of the road. Thus, he wouldn’t see enormous holes or mounds coming up, and we actually left the ground at least five times. I’m not kidding, and I thought “this is how people die” over and over. But we were in the middle of nowhere, really, and it was this riding with a crazy man or sleeping in the middle of nowhere. As we got closer to civilization and the roads improved, he drove faster. At one point, he put on a tape of religious songs. Initially, I thought he was just playing it for us, but at one point he slowed down and I realized that he had megaphones mounted on his Rover, blaring his music for the world to hear. Imagine being some Tanzanian kid, playing by the road, when you hear this awful (it was awful), deafening music. You look to see where it’s coming from, and a Land Rover filled with people like sardines (including one white one) hurtles past you at relativistic speeds. The ensuing dust cloud which followed the vehicle looked more like thick brown fog coating the world.

Miraculously, we made it to Bukoba none the worse for wear, and in record time. When I paid the guy, I told him that he definitely showed me the way to find God on that trip. He didn’t get it. I immediately went to the new restaurant in Bukoba, which opened about two weeks ago and has a soft-serve ice cream machine, and ate three ice cream cones. Somehow that seemed like a fitting way to end such a ridiculous journey. I took a cab home, and when I got back, I saw that I looked like a coal miner thanks to the massive dust cloud, and began to heat up some water for a much-needed bath. Within five minutes of me getting in, the power went out. Are you kidding me, what is that?

Now my break is over, I’m back to teaching, and things are good. For a (more or less) weekend trip to Rwanda, I had a pretty unforgettable time. If you actually read all of this, I am very impressed.