Hidden Secrets

Kigali, for a quasi-tourist, is somewhat of an enigma. You can certainly tell that the culture has not had to tolerate people from different cultures, and also that a large number of people have never lived or travelled anywhere else. It is very much an oral culture, a place where you know all that you need to know by living here. Everyone knows where everything is and how everything works. Although, frankly, not everyone has the same information, so someone is actually wrong! Many assumptions are made about foreigners, but especially that strangers cannot comprehend the things that are so evident to Rwandans. As I have mentioned before, the buses have no sign on the front to indicate their destination. This remains a mystery to me and I have to ask every time. Another example is that streets have names, but rarely will you see a street sign. This is very frustrating for a visitor who wants to know how to get to x or y or z.

People are somewhat bemused when they are asked where you can buy this or that. They will tell you that that kind of store or business or product is everywhere. But if you don’t speak or read the language, if you don’t know one road from another, if you don’t know all the landmarks, if you weren’t born here, how can you tell? And the Rwanda guide books are filled with mistakes. Even the tourism office is not always able to help. The last time I was there, I needed more information about something. I got vague information at first and when he saw I still didn’t understand the details of what I had to do, he explained a bit more. And finally, after a third stab, I had enough details to actually be able to follow through. At the tourist bureau! And the sad part of that is, they think tourists are stupid to need so many details! Ethnocentric, do you think?


A couple of weeks ago, Simone and I had a plan to visit Nyungwe National Forest, where there are several species of monkey troops as well as chimpanzees. The forest is large and you have to have a vehicle to be able to appreciate all the various aspects of the park, especially to track the chimps. Also, we wanted to make a few short side trips, to a cheese factory and to a coffee roasting business. I wanted to rent a car; not a car and driver, just a car.

I saw a sign (in English!) that advertised a Rav 4 at $50/day. I thought that sounded affordable. When I went in to inquire, it turned out that that price was for long-term rentals of more than two weeks. Furthermore, to rent a car for two days to go out of town, I needed to have a driver as well. Why, I asked, when I have been driving for over forty years, accident free, including in Paris, including on the ‘wrong’ side of the road in England? Why? Well, this is Africa, she responded. People could just drive away with a car to Burundi or Tanzania. In other words, steal it! And this is pretty much the status quo everywhere. Car plus driver for two days, between $200 and $300US. Yikes! How on earth do we manage in other parts of the world to keep theft from happening?

I googled car rentals at Kigali international airport. It listed Avis, Alamo, Hertz and some other companies as having services there. But trying to actually connect with one of them was impossible. In fact, I am skeptical that there are actually any there at all because none of them show Kigali or Rwanda as a location.
I googled car rentals in Kigali and up popped a map with dozens of downtown locations and decent prices, but we are back again to street names and business signs! As far as I have noticed, there is nothing recognizable to see, like perhaps a fleet of cars out front that might indicate you could rent a car there.

We have tapped into our friends, acquaintances and even strangers to try to figure out a way to rent a car without a driver without costing an arm and a leg. We have even stooped so low as to ask to borrow. Probably totally inappropriate, like asking a neighbor in France to borrow his lawnmower. (He mowed our lawn himself rather than let us touch it.) I am completely stymied. But I have not given up. Somehow, we will find a way, figure something out.

But meanwhile, it is somewhat frustrating. And to be fair, this society, though perhaps insular at some level, really works very well. Plus everyone is very helpful, always. If I sound a bit frustrated, well I am, but only because I have not yet cracked the code to the information I need. And I may never, and I will just have to learn to live with that.

Lessons from Rwanda

There are a lot of things here in Rwanda that really are quite amazing. For a country that was so very recently leveled to the ground, without infrastructure, without services, without hope, without peace, Rwanda has achieved a great deal. The economy is booming, at least here in Kigali. The infrastructure is back in place – not perfect, but there is running water, electricity (with random interruptions), sewers and garbage collection. The schools are functioning and more are being built, even as I write. Health care is available for about two dollars per year per person.

The courts continue to be very busy with genocide cases, but they too are functioning well, albeit slowly. The government is stable, with severe penalties for anything that smacks of corruption. It seems Rwanda has gone from being the scourge of Africa, a blight oin the eyes of the world, to a model country that is the envy of most other African nations.

How was this achieved? I am not an historian, but I have talked with many people and observed a great deal during my stay here. First of all, I would have to credit a deep faith as one of the primary factors in Rwanda’s recovery. Largely a Christian nation, the country’s despair has been replaced by hope, which many Rwandans see as the return of God to bless this country, having abandoned it for a long time. You cannot talk for long with a Rwandan before God is mentioned as a huge force in his or her life.


Second, it seems to me the government has taken some extraordinarily courageous steps in reconciling the past with the present. Gacacca courts are a primary example, where crimes by more minor players in the genocide are tried and sentenced. By minor, crimes are those of property as well as murder, but no more than some number of people, perhaps ten. The implication is that these criminals were mere pawns (and young pawns at that) in a much larger agenda of genocide. This community court process is due to end in November this year so there is a great deal of effort to complete the cases currently before the courts.

This is a particularly difficult process for those who were the victims in the genocide, because they have to accuse the perpetrators. The perpetrators have to admit their crimes to the accuser(s) and ask for pardon but very often their sentences are not severe. There simply is not enough room in the country’s prisons to jail everyone who participated in the genocide, even if they committed murder. What is expected is that the victims pardon the perpetrators of the crimes. This is the difficult part. But somehow it is working. Victims pardon the accused, at least in word. Their own private thoughts and feelings are set aside, at least in public. As one woman said to me, I have pardoned (him) because I have to.

I find this a very courageous journey towards reconciliation. If people are able to live together in harmony again, if their children are well-educated and not inculcated with divisive ideologies about ethnicity, if the economy continues to grow and everyone has opportunities to prosper, then people can look to the future rather than the past and there is real hope for long-term success.

In addition to this overarching system of reconciliation, there are other ways in which the Rwandan government has taken some remarkable steps. A small thing, but something that has grown much larger in recent years in the Western world as our sensibility about environmental issues has grown, here in Rwanda, plastic bags are forbidden. If you travel here and put your shoes in a plastic bag, that bag may be confiscated at the airport. People carry reusable bags of all kinds and paper bags are the norm in grocery stores and markets. Household garbage is stored in empty bags that once carried coal, or sorghum or grains. When garbage is collected, the bags are emptied into large trucks and the bags are returned to the owners. If Kigali was to start a household composting program, there would be very little garbage at all!

Another interesting feature that has been inserted into the lives of the Rwandan people is called umuganda, which translates as “community work.” During the morning of the last Saturday of every month, everyone is expected to participate in their community’s well-being, at least one person from each household. The buses stop running, the streets are closed and everyone remains in their own community. Roads are repaired, schools, churches and other public buildings are built, even young children participate in this process, carrying bricks and lumber and water.

To me, this half day per month of community work, while compulsory, is a reminder that we all have a responsibility to make our country better. That we are the state, as my friend Sandi never tired of saying. Can you imagine such a mandated day in your community?? Perhaps you are lucky and live somewhere where people actually do take that responsibility seriously and actively participate in their communities voluntarily. But I fear that all too many of us just expect someone else to take care of it, whatever “it” is.

So to me, with these few examples, I believe Rwanda has taken stock of the rest of the world, and learned something from the things we don’t do so well, and from the things we have done badly. And Rwanda has taken advantage of being able to build something from nothing, or something from a very broken something else, incorporating the best of the rest of the world, and inserting and inventing things that are entirely new. Go Rwanda! And God bless.

Turning Sixty in Kigali

On October 30, I turned the big six-oh. That is a pretty big number and I had some feelings about not wanting it to go unnoticed, even so far from home. And it was noticed, for sure!

When I got up, Simone prepared me a delicious omelet and toast for breakfast. Plus my morning latte! I was banished from pretty much everywhere in the centre for much of the day so I amused myself in my room, having occasional wafts of deliciousness intrude from time to time. I did know that Friday was the day for the students to reveal their secret friends, which they call ‘cacahuètes,’ a game of stealth present-giving that had been going on for over a week. Simone and I had agreed that this would also be a celebration with cake and ice cream. Thus, I had already laid in two tubs of chocolate ripple ice cream and the supplies for Simone to make cake. Simone and Valentin, Jeanne’s son, had also worked hard to finish a solar oven in the hopes of using it to bake the cake. But it rained all morning so toaster oven it was.

Around three o’clock, I was told to get ready for the sewing class party, so I put on a skirt and blouse and walked into the main room, which was decorated with streamers and signs. To my astonishment, everyone stood and sang happy birthday in English, French and Kinyarwanda. Then I got to wear a birthday crown. Everyone was all dressed up and seemed just delighted with their surprise. There were gifts, cards, applause, tears (mine) and great joy all around.

Secret friends were all revealed as well, and there were many more hugs. After that, we enjoyed cake and ice cream, which was utterly delicious to the last lick! For our finale, we danced and sang Rwandan songs with great gusto. At 5:30, Simone declared that everyone had to go.

I was again banished to my room but invited out again when guests started to arrive for the next party. Another kind of surprise, as I had asked for a party but had no idea what it would be like. Lots of people came to wish me well, people I had met maybe once or twice before. Adrienne, from Oregon, and her husband and children, whom we had spent a few hours with one day, came. English Sarah came from Ruhengere as did Jeannette, our Rwandan host from last weekend. There was a feast of food. Then cake and ice cream. Again! Conversation, dancing. More cards and small gifts. The whole event was truly lovely.

I was truly blessed to be among all these people on my birthday. I felt truly loved, honoured and special. Who could ask for more?

Gorillas in the Mist

This past weekend, Simone and I made the trek to Volcanoes National Park to go gorilla trekking. We paid the big bucks (aka tourist prices) and rode the bus from Kigali to Ruhengere, in the northern part of Rwanda, very near the borders to both Uganda and DR Congo. There, we were able to stay with a friend of a friend – very much the way things work here – which was very nice indeed, allowing us to meet a whole new set of people. We also hired a 4x4 and driver through the friend of a friend. The night before, from the bus, we were treated to a display of one of the active volcanoes, which glowed red and seemed to be sending up sparks. Remarkable!

Monday was our day so we set off, picking up Steve, a friend from Kigali who was able to join us at the last minute. At 7 am, we met up with other visitors at the welcome centre for Volcanoes National Park. We were given a few instructions and split up into various groups, depending on how far you wanted to walk and which group of gorillas you wanted to see.

We were given a small lesson on gorillas – their life span, their social hierarchy, their habits, even the fact that the details of the nose of a gorilla are as unique as those of a human fingerprint. The “noseprint” is how each gorilla is differentiated. There are trackers who follow each gorilla troop daily so that it is easier for the guides to take groups of trekkers directly to them. There are also researchers who study their habits and care for them if sick, and all manner of local men and women who are implicated in the treks.

Simone had her heart set on a long trek so she chose the Amahoro group of gorillas. In all, there were just six trekkers in our group as well as two guides and several porters. The first stage involved half an hour in the 4x4 along a road, which, we were told, gave us a Rwandan massage. Very , very, very bumpy! At the foothills of the volcano (Mount Visoke I believe) we left our jeeps behind, hired porters for our backpacks (well I did) and headed overland, through fields and small villages, where everyone was working and all the children delighted in waving and saying ‘hello’ and getting a reply, and sometimes joining hands – very much the Rwandan way of greeting.

The fields were rich with crops, especially potatoes, corn, beans and acres and acres of pyrethrum, a plant of the chrysanthemum family (very like marguerites), the dried flowers of which are sent to the US and used to make mosquito repellant. People, especially women, work barefoot in the fields with deep hoes, cultivating the very fertile earth there and harvesting crops, their young children on their backs or playing nearby. They stop and wave their greetings.

Finally, we reached the edge of the park, marked by a rough stone wall constructed both to keep the animals in and to curb the encroachment of people, whose fields butt right up to the park periphery. We all clambered over into what was basically the jungle’s edge. We followed narrow paths through groves of bamboo, eucalyptus, bananas, and all manner of plants I can’t identify. There were many stinging nettles, and we were warned to keep our hands within the range of the narrow path. I got one good zap, which is still a noticeable tingle today. And on and up we went.

The morning was chilly but fine. However, it had rained heavily the day before so the paths were muddy and slippery. We picked our way up the rocky slopes, through the jungle and through clearings for about two hours. We arrived at a clearing where we met up with many trackers and guards, who keep the forests protected from predators and poachers. We left our backpacks behind, except for cameras, and moved forward quietly for a few hundred metres.

Just out of sight behind a grove of bushes, I could hear the rustling sounds of something large. The people in the lead had stopped in amazement, looks of wonder filling their faces. They seemed to be holding their breath. And in a few seconds, I saw why. Just a few metres away was a group of about a dozen gorillas, lying in the sun, making nests, grooming one another and themselves, cuddling, sleeping and eating bamboo shoots. It was quite a sight. It was very like a dream. Hard to believe that I was actually standing there in the jungle on a mountain watching these enormous, magnificent creatures, hearing them grunt and snuffle, seeing them interact, being regarded by them, smelling their scent, noticing their very human-looking ears.

We stayed in the area for an hour, taking photos, smiling, whispering, smiling some more, moving a bit for a better or different view, taking more photos and smiling some more. It felt like hallowed ground; such a privilege to be part of their natural habitat for this short while. The gorillas were mostly very calm. One young male walked right up to our group and passed between us, without a glance, as if to just give us all a thrill. He was maybe six inches from me!

I saw a young baby climb a vine and swing around the treetops. Later he came down with a flurry, having moved out to the end of a bushy branch until the branch dipped low enough for him to jump off. I saw baby gorillas tussling with one another, from time to time beating their chests to let us know who was in charge! But they were still so young that they would fall over as they beat their chests. You couldn’t help but laugh at their antics.

The silverback leader, about 35 years old, was in a sleepy mood, and clearly did not feel at all threatened by our presence. The second silverback, about 25 years old, had lost a hand in a trap when he was young. He is apparently a great fighter and protector of the group. As we were preparing to leave, an older female started to make some noises to which the leader responded. They were apparently signaling their desire to mate. Unfortunately, we were not around to see this event, but perhaps we would not have been welcome anyway.

Picking my way down the mountain was done mostly in silence, my heart and head trying to process what I had just been a part of. On our return journey across the fields, the skies opened and we were pelted with a cold, driving rain that drenched and chilled us all to the bone. Even so, my mood of quiet elation and wonder persisted.

Today, a day later, I have not fully grasped how I feel about the whole thing. Honoured. Blessed. Moved. And yet, for reasons I cannot fathom, some aspects of the experience remain surreal, dreamlike and unreachable in my conscious thoughts. And perhaps best left that way.

Daring to Dream

Today, Simone and I held an art class with the sewing students, their second art class. The object was to make three wishes, and to draw them or make them real in one way or another. Most chose to draw and colour in with coloured pencils and pastels. In advance of the class, Simone and Jeanne and I had all made our own three wishes and expressed them through drawing. It was an interesting exercise and reminded me how pleasurable it is to draw, even when there is absolutely no talent involved whatsoever (aka moi!).

My three wishes were as follows: one, that my children did not live so far away from me, but regardless, they are the recipients of my enormous and undying love; second, that someday I can play the piano again with some ability; and third, that I become a really excellent quilter, especially in design. I did a separate drawing because John was not in this picture, because my wish for him/us has already come true – we are together. But he wanted to be in the picture so I made one just for him, a wish we have long held together – that we grow old together and beautifully expressed by the sundial we have in our back yard: "grow old with me, the best is yet to come."


We introduced the topic to the class, showing our sample three wishes. I was the fairy godmother with my magic wand, granting each one of them three wishes. I was actually amazed at how quickly they all rushed out into the garden and porch to find a quiet spot to work. They beavered away for a good hour. Then it was time to gather up their things and go home. I have included a picture of some of them hard at work.


Judging by their enthusiasm at the start and their chatter at the finish, I think they found it really fun. I don’t know whether or not this exercise awakened any deep desires they might have held. But without a doubt, their modest dreams are lovingly, faithfully and sometimes childishly drawn onto paper. A home. A partner. A family. A car. Education. A sewing machine. Faith in God. A garden. As they left the centre, I could swear their sweet laughter came from hearts that were lighter for having expressed these desires openly.

Kigali Fashion

As most of you know, I am not a big stickler for fashion. Jeans or shorts or shpants (more recently) and a t-shirt have suited me very well for over forty years. But, like when we lived in France back in the 1980s, I feel that Kigali is the place to get a bit more style on. In France, I got right into it, having my colours “read” and going on shopping sprees. I had a closet full of wonderful clothes that I wore all the time there. It felt good to fit in better and it felt good to dress up in a society that dresses up. But these clothes languished in Canada and I rarely wear my few remaining pieces – in part because none of them fit…

In Kigali, I feel sheepishly underdressed a lot of the time. I brought a couple of skirts with me, but they are pretty utilitarian (read straight and khaki). People accept me as I am, as that weird foreigner who wears jeans, but when I put on something pretty, my one skirt that has some fullness and colour, or maybe just a pair of earrings, people notice and tell me how lovely I look. Thumbs up all around.

Almost all the women here wear dresses or skirts. At school, children are separated by the clothing they wear. Trousers or shorts for the boys and skirts for the girls, regardless of a child’s preferences. I am aware that the reasons for dressing differently have a lot to do with accentuating the differences between men and women. And I am not terribly comfortable with that. But, nonetheless, I do feel drawn to fit in better, at least from time to time.

Simone has been hunting for a pretty fancy dress, all long and shiny and laden with embroidery. I really can’t go that far, although I did try on a top of that style that comes with a wrap around skirt (called a pagne – pronounced just like it is spelled, using French pronunciation) as well as a head scarf. This fashion is very expensive. I have included a photo of that moment for your viewing pleasure – or perhaps astonished hilarity! I have spared you the photo of me in the whole outfit, complete with head scarf! Just in case you are wondering, all the fancy embroidered stuff has some kind of stiffening material in it like maybe starch? For some reason, this is a sign of an expensive piece of clothing and very desirable. Myself, I prefer to feel the actual fabric, like it would be after it is washed. Nice and soft. And I am suspicious if I can’t rub the product between my fingers to feel the quality.

Last week, Jeanne brought in a dress that she thought would look good on me. Everyone approved but I feel I looked ridiculous – all bust and shoulders. Not flattering from my point of view. But you can be the judge! Apparently, this style makes me look like a “real Rwandan woman”. I have purchased some fabric that I like and feel I could actually wear, and I will have a dress and a suit made from two of these pieces in the near future.

But back to Kigali fashion. My observations tell me that whenever people go out, men or women, even if they have only one outfit for going out, they really try their best to look sharp. Everything is clean and ironed. You can tell that no one dashes out the door in their housework clothes to buy some milk. Ever. When women come to the centre, they almost always look quite elegant, regardless of their age or shape. One exception is for yoga class, but even then they cover up their sweat pants with a pagne. As well, when people receive us in their home, people wear their Sunday best.

The traditional dress in Rwanda is a matching skirt (or wrap), a top, which can sewn be in a variety of styles, and a head scarf, which is worn in a variety of ways depending on preferences. The head scarf denotes a married woman I am told. There are very particular styles of dress for weddings, and I also assume for other occasions like funerals and baptisms. Everyday wear ranges from the traditional to the very modern. Simone finds that young people wear incredibly stylish clothing and I agree. There is great attention to detail in both the clothing and the accessories. The western style clothes have way more flair here than they do in the west.

I will never give up my jeans and t-shirts, but for a few short months and maybe two or three times a year, on special ‘granny’ occasions, I will dress up in Rwandan style with all the attention to detail that entails.

Sorry

Last night, Simone and I went to see a Canadian play called “Goodness” at a restaurant called Heaven here in Kigali. Go figure! We had no idea what we were in for. It was a brilliant play sort of about the genocide but also about human nature. I do recommend the play. The troupe was from Toronto and I imagine it will continue to show there after this tour. But all that is beside the point.

Early on the play, one character is under assault from another character, who says to him disgustedly, “You Americans are all alike!” He replies, “Actually, I am Canadian.” And in a kind of soft-voiced afterthought, he says, “Sorry.” I laughed aloud at the joke.

Afterwards, one of the actors said to me that was so nice to hear people laughing at the Canadian jokes, like the one above. I said that actually, in Rwanda, people say sorry even more than we Canadians do. And they do but mostly for different reasons.
At first I was a bit bemused by it, but now I find it endearing. For example, I am walking along a sidewalk, not paying enough attention, and I stumble on an uneven bit of pavement. Several people rush to me saying, “Sorry!” and make sure I am okay. Or on the bus the other day, the long bar I (and several other people) was holding to keep steady fell out of its socket. Everyone was sorry, sorry, sorry! Or I drop something accidentally, and people are sorry.

Canadians are sorry (a lot) when we feel we ourselves have somehow done something wrong or disappointed someone. I like this about Canadians. And this is also true of Rwandans, but in addition, it seems that when something “bad” happens to someone else, people express their concern by saying sorry. I feel comforted by the outpouring of concern. It makes me feel I have a tiny relationship with every single person in my vicinity, wherever I go. I never feel alone.