Christians and Condoms, Hills Aplenty: Rwanda (a bit late) First impression of Rwanda: it’s beautiful. I never imagined it was possible for a landscape to contain so many hills. Hills everywhere, hills on top of hills, creating exaggerated shapes like a child’s drawing. Also: like the dumping ground of an insane experimental art collective, obsessed with creating every possible variation on the basic form. The product of their wild abandon litters the Rwandan countryside, but the project finally had to be abandoned when the tiny country couldn’t fit even one more specimen within its borders.

Of course all these hills make for a rather dramatic bus ride. We had more than our share of heart-in-the-throat close calls at hairpin turns, compensated by an ever-changing kaleidoscope of spectacular views. Everywhere, through this fantastical landscape, people are walking: bundles on heads, babies on backs, uphill and down, around and down and up again. I wonder if the see the beauty, or is it a luxury for tourists on plush-seated busses?

Second impression: Kigali is sort of like a mini Kampala. Even the taxi park is K’la in miniature. The difference is, Kampalas hills add contour and variation to the city, creating areas of vista and areas of valley. Kigali’s hills run roughshod through the city, slice it up at every turn. 100 meters down the road is likely to be totally obscured by a bend, while 200 m may be visible again having re emerged below before disappearing again into another valley. A grid system is completely out of the question.

Third impression: It’s a bit scary. Our first night at dinner we sit at an outdoor patio and eat tilapia masala, fajitas, spaghetti marinara. A small pebble sails in, hitting Annamartine on the back of the head. Streetkids outside, lurking in the shadows. A man with a stick (is he employed by the restaurant?) makes halfhearted, vaguely threatening motions in their direction. They scatter, but when he settles back against the wall they re-circle. More pebbles, periodically. No casualties. After dinner we walk out into the night and the kids swarm around, pleading with outstretched hands and big eyes. We set off walking, with vague ideas of finding a cab. We’re surprised to see the restaurant staff sprinting off in the other direction returning within minutes with a taxi for us. As we get in the begging intensifies: kids sticking their hands pleadingly through open windows. Then, suddenly, as the taxi begins to drive off, the strategy shifts. A hand shoots in fast as lightening and grabs for my purse. More hands grasp the door handle. We bang down the locks and fumble with window levers as the taxi driver slams on the gas. The kids continue running abreast with the taxi, first jogging and then sprinting, pulling the door handles, grabbing the bumper, climbing up on the back of the boot. The driver accelerates again, and the last few hangers-on give up and fall back to be reclaimed by the night. Rwanda has over a million orphans, mostly from the genocide. Though I’d read books, seen movies, etc., I’d still sort of thought of the events in abstract terms, as something very tragic that happened in the past, but people have moved on, right? I didn’t have the imagination to understand that the genocide is still very real and present in Rwanda today. The street kids are only one manifestation.

Other impressions: A plaque at the entrance to the genocide museum announcing the museum’s sponsorship by the William Clinton Foundation and the Government of Belgium. I wonder if their consciences are clean now. The museum itself, explaining the history of the ethnic strife, how the Hutu/Tutsi categories were created by the Belgians who placed the Tutsi (those who had a certain number of cows) over the Hutu to be able to control the country more effectively. Noticing in the museum, and even more blatantly in a newspaper article commemorating the national day of remembrance, the liberal use of the passive voice: Rwanda “was visited by genocide”, killings “happened” (no mention of who carried any of it out). Meanwhile the international community which (in the only use of the active voice in the whole article) “turned a blind eye.” I wonder how much of this pussyfooting around blame is necessitated by today’s political realities? It may behoove the current government, dominated by Tutsis, to portray the genocide as something that happened to Rwanda, caused by evil politicians spreading hatred and lies, and by callous international actors. It’s not that blame should not be assigned to the international community, but where are the individual Rwandans in all of this? Somebody raised all those machetes, and it wasn’t the Belgians, or Bill Clinton. Of corurse genocidaires have been prosecuted, some in widely-publicized trials. But by sacrificing a few scapegoats the government is also, symbolically, absolving the rest of blame. Maybe this is the kind of rhetoric necessary for reconciliation. Or perhaps it’s a cynical attempt by the government to maintain power by telling the mass of the people what they want to hear. Perhaps it’s a bit of both.

Gorilla trecking (the preliminatires): It took a Herculean effort to get ahold of the permits. Only about 20 are available per day, so our choice of weekend was based on when permits were available. After paying broker fees, bank transfer fees, currency exchange fees… we ended up spending over $400/pop. Getting to Rhungeri took an absolutely harrowing ride: screaming around curves on two wheels, the little matatu straining to break the bonds of gravity and take flight over the edge of every cliff [I may be exaggerating slightly]. Finally we arrived as dusk was settling in. Our hotel was also some sort of religious institution and was packed with young chruchgroups. Blonde shaggy curls, hemp necklaces, and bad teenage moustaches on the boys; long conair-straightened hair, awkward fleeting beauty and ridiculously short shorts on the girls. Hormones in the air, inappropriate urges channeled into religious fervor. Approximately point two guitars per capita, and frequent kumbaya circles breaking out like pimples on adolecent skin. We also had several amusing moments when the hotel staff kept appearing in Tammy and Cara’s room to enquire whether were *quite sure* they didn’t need their double bed separated into two twins. God forbid (literally) any homoerotic sleeping should take place under their roof. This was actually a welcome change to the hotel in Kigali where each room was equipped with a jumbo-sized foot pedal trashcan labeled “CONDOMS” across the top with masking tape. Kristen and I came to the firm conclusion that no further investigations would be conducted: the lid would not be opened even the tiniest crack. The bins were huge, I’d estimate five gallon capacity. They were probably completely empty, but the alternative was something we preferred not to think about. Finally, trying to pay at the Rhungeri hotel and being told that, despite “We Take Visa” signs plastered absolutely everywhere, the hotel can not, in fact, accept our credit card. Why? Various reasons are given at different times including “we only take Rwandese Visa cards” (do these even exist in a country whose only consumer products appear to be one brand of biscuits and two kinds of beer? Highly doubtful.), “We can’t get through on the phone,” and “The papers for the machine are all locked in a cupboard,” (The Man with the Key Has Gone).

The gorillas themselves: Incredible. We woke at the crack of dawn to assemble at the base camp. Racing other cars because we were told first come first served. Thanks to some tricky driving and Tammy’s take-charge attitude, we manage to secure a dream group of gorillas to visit: the one furthest away, with over forty members including about ten babies, three silverbacks, and a pair of twins. The hike itself took us through mysterious bamboo forests, led us clambering straight uphill at times, squeezing though narrow gaps in the groaning and creaking stalks. Mosquitoes, like good and bad angels, buzzing in both ears and around the soft belly and lower back areas for good measure. Then, after a patch of stinging nettles with sharp pharmaceutically-laced teeth, suddenly we came out of the forest and saw… a gorilla, just sitting there in a patch of spongy vegetation, blinking in the sun. We stopped and stared and whispered furiously, “Is he real?” “He looks kind of animatronic.” “I can’t believe we’re this close!” Then he scratched his arm and turned his head a few degrees to the left. The paparazzi went nuts. After the first gorilla was saw about 20 more members of the troupe, as they lolled about in the sun and munched juicy stalks of what I can only say approximates marsh reeds. We also followed some of them into the deep shade of some jungle trees where we watched them climb, groom each other, and eat eat eat. It was, to quote Lonely Planet, a “humbling, awe-inspiring, life-altering experience”. Well, life-altering in the sense that now I can say “I’ve seen the gorillas,” whereas in my previous, what I like to call my “before” life, I could not. But seriously, it was amazing to see them and definitely worth the effort.

Conclusions on Rwanda: hard to come by. There were too many contrasts, too many highs and lows, too many moments of tragedy and comedy to allow me to say anything more coherent than “Rwanda is a nation of paradoxes.” Wow, profound. Too bad it’s already been said by every other travel writer who has ever set foot in the country. I put off writing this for almost a month because I wanted more time for my thoughts to crystalize. But, as that has failed to happen, these disconnected ramblings will have to do.

  ¶ 9:54 AM 3 Comments

  my final English class

I finished teaching the class on Wednesday with extremely mixed feeling. They are so grateful. But I’m getting on a plane and off I got back to the US; what’s next for them? Even if they get more English classes, can they get a job? Can they continue studying? Will RLP really follow through on helping them find scholarships? Or will they find out that all the things they dream of are totally impossible? Have I only succeeded in getting their hopes up needlessly?

My speech (practice at countless goodbye ceremoines in Japan has finally come in handy...):

"When I came to Kampala, I had no idea what it would be like. They said “maybe you can start an English class for some refugees.” So I knew I’d be teaching you. But when I tried to picture in my head what my students would be like, I couldn't. Looking at all of you now, even in my wildest dreams I couldn’t have imagined such an amazing group of people. You are all so intelligent, so kind, and so courageous. Not many people realize that just speaking English is itself an act of courage. It’s hard to be in a foreign land, where every time you open your mouth people look down on you and dismiss you. You become invisible. But I see you all, three times a week, having conversations about complex topics, debates, discussing fine points of grammar, all in English. It’s not always perfect, you don’t always know exactly how to say what you want to say. But you keep trying, you struggle through, and in the end you get your point across. Communication happens. It is no small thing that you make this effort, that you are willing to become children again, to have your thoughts reduced in subtlety and nuance by a clumsy foreign tongue. But thanks to your courage we’ve been able to discuss politics, war, relationships, family, love, the most important things in our lives. Thank you so much for being willing to share your thoughts, your opinions and your hearts with me. I have learned so much from you. They say teachers always get more out of teaching than their students. If I’ve managed to give you back one tenth – one one-hundredth – of what you’ve given me, I’ll be happy."

I also want to share two poems written by John, one of the students in my English class. He performed the second poem at our farewell party. It was fabulous: he stalked up and down the floor, delivering the lines like a poetry slammer extraorinarie. I was often frustrated at RLP: lack of substantive work, terrible facilities, power trips and pettiness, little use of my legal skills. But but but... I got to teach. Was it worth it? A million times over.

I. This poem is about the misery of the poet John B., a refugee in Uganda since 18/7/2005 beginning after his father’s assassination by rebels during the war in North Kivu province in Goma district on the 30^th of June 2005 during the independence celebration day of the DRC.

I SHALL EXPLAIN TO YOU SOME THINGS

You’ll ask what happened today?
And the orphans dreamy with poppies?
And the bad guns which kept beating out
The dreams of prophets uncompleted
With Nyiragongo – specks and stones?
I am going to tell you everything that happened to me
I lived near Rwanda in Goma town.
Quarter of good trees and paths
From there you could see
Christians: Protestants and Catholics
But, now like a volcano eruption
Our house was exploded
It was among the beautiful houses in Goma
Where all were Christians and students.

John, do you know?
Are you still getting ready?
Come back home and see
Mother, Sister and Brother’s death

Sergius, do you remember?
Mgwati, do you still remember in Virunga park?
My father assassinated
Do you remember how our house was?

Brother! Brother!
Loud voices weep
The town is smoking
My quarter is exploding

RCD/PM and MaiMai are fighting
Unfortunately for my family:
Killing people. And for my misery:
It was all of them.

Then tomorrow flames
Came out of my quarter
Dissolving human beings
From then on fire
Gunpowder from then on,
From then on blood.

Bandits and soldiers in convoy
Bandits all over the province
Came across the border to kill people
And through the roads all over the streets
The blood of people
Ran simply, like my family’s did.

Now, I am in exile
With strangers
My country and university I left
And I am destitute because of….

How many are refugees today?
How many orphans in this world?
See what they are going through
Why this tribalism and ethnic conflicts?

General Aamsi TF
Colonel Bindu
Look at our dead home
Look at broken Mabanga
Houses were burned
From every street in N-K
Congo will rise
From every dead child a rifle with eyes will rise
From every crime bullets will be born
Which will one day find a place in your hearts.

You ask why my poetry
Speaks to you of dreams and safety
Of the great life.

Come
See the death and blood along the quarters
Come see
The blood along the town
Come see
The death along the roads
See the blood
Come see the blood
Along the street…

- John B, Kampala Uganda

II This poem relates the joy of refugees, clients of RLP in Kampala Uganda, students in Sarah’s English class, second level. This poet writes this remembering the desperation of his situation here in Uganda when he approached RLP asking defense of his rights coming from Arua/Madiokollo, the third camp of his exile.

He thanks RLP for their defense, advice, research, legal assistance, and their offer of education because without education refugees will become nothing in the future.

I dedicate, he says, this to:

- Sarah his beloved teacher and to Genevieve, English first level teacher

- To RLP

- To the Education Ministry of RLP, and

- To his beloved lawyer PETER.

I SHALL SHOW YOU MY JOY

Longtime ago refugees asked themselves
How will they know English
Where will they go to learn from
What direction to take
And by the end
Who will be that volunteer?

Fortunately, in April 2006
Meeting volunteers at RLP
Sarah and Genevieve American ladies

My friend,
Do you know?
I know what? I do not
Oh! We have found!...
Yes, the milk of our eternal sciences lives
English course, and after: computer class.

Possible?
It is also for us our right here?
Perhaps!
But, I don’t think so!

Exactly, they already told me about RLP
We go there not only for rights
But, also to learn for our knowledge and futures
For us in exile.

Go there everybody you will see
You will meet them…
Sure, we can now speak English

But class! What do we say?
May God bless them
SARAH may God bless you
RLP may God bless all of you.

Do never abandon this career
Do never forget refugees in need
We also never forget you!

Teacher, go back to the USA in peace
Volunteers wherever you go
Back in peace
But, never forget us…

For all those who defend refugees
And human rights
I say –

Thank you! Thank you, thank you so much
Merci, merci, merci beaucoup
Pluros, multos, pluros mercis
Koko, koko, koko bwenene
Mwebale, mwebale, mwebalire dala
Aksanti, aksanti, aksanti sana

May live RLP and RLP’s staff
May live Sarah’s family
May live USA’s volunteers and Ugandan volunteers at RLP and others all over the world
May live Uganda human rights defenders
May live Education Ministry at RLP
May live, may live, may live!....

I thank you!

From John B.
At RLP
8/2/2006

  ¶ 6:13 AM 0 Comments