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A weekend in Kigali
Entry 16 of 38 | show all | print this entry |
The morning I packed up and left my luxury "tent" in Lake Bunyoni it was pouring rain, and I was dreading having to walk and find transport. There were three Germans, with a huge minivan, who were going the same way as me, but they told me they had no room when I asked them for a lift part of the way. Charming.
I think my grandmother must have been looking down on me, because just as I plucked up the courage to put on my bags and make a run for it, the rain suddenly stopped. So I skidded and slipped down the dirt track to where I could get a taxi from (luckily it was Friday, market day, so there were taxis - a motorbike ride on the wet road would have been suicide), and the moment I got inside the taxi the heavens opened again. I got dropped to Kabale, from where I got another taxi to the border. Crossing over wasn't too complicated - the money exchangers were though. There are roughly three Ugandan Shillings to one Rwandan Franc, so the rate was 0.31, officially. Whenever I managed to bargain it above 0.33 they started dividing instead of multiplying, as this effectively brought it down to below 0.33. Trying to figure out who was scamming me and who wasn't was difficult, as there were about ten guys jostling around me, waving fistfuls of cash and calculators in my face. Eventually I left them with my Francs, a little puzzled, but I believe I got a good rate.
Rwanda is a francophone country, and upon crossing the border I presented myself at the customs desk, offering my bag for a search, addressing the man at the desk in French. It was a little surreal to have him understand me perfectly, and I was delighted to be able to chat away to him in this language for a while. He turned out to be a lovely chap, and ended up helping me find a shared taxi to Kigali, about an hour and a half away. Unfortunately, during this journey, due to heavy mist, I couldn't admire the lovely green hills of Rwanda, or the land of a thousand hills, as it is often called. Any glimpses that may have revealed themselves would have been missed anyhow, as I slept soundly, sandwiched between an enormous, loud woman and a rather smelly old man. Once in Kigali I got dropped to the cheapest hotel I could find in my guidebook, so cheap, in fact, that the good authors at Lonely Planet motheringly advise you not to stay there, unless you absolutely have to. My room, another filthy cell, wasn't all that bad, I was pleased to see there was a tap in the corner, a handy mod-con to have. There were holes in the windows and walls, so mosquitoes were a bit of a problem for my three nights here.
Despite this self-inflicted state of squalor I chose to live in, the city of Kigali is wonderfully clean and prosperous. As much of it was destroyed in 1994, it has a very new, shiny, feel to it that I have never encountered before in Africa on such a large scale. Of Addis, Nairobi, Kampala and here, Kigali is definitely the most "European-feeling" of the cities, almost alarmingly so. There is a large population of street-boys, who will shout hello at you, and ask for money, but never harass you. In fact, I grew quite fond of the boys on my street, stopping to say hello to them as I passed, and often entertained as they danced on the footpaths, high on the glue they sniff. A little more poignant is the many colourfully dressed women with babies and young children who beg, a lot more aggressively, on many of the streets. If it weren't for those beggars and boys, however, I daresay one could easily mistake Kigali for a European city. To top all this off it is set upon a series of hills, which adds to its character, with broad, leafy boulevards rising, falling and curving over the land, with a background of gently rolling green hills, shrouded in thin mist.
The last Saturday of the month is a day where everything shuts down in Rwanda, as I learned the next morning. Having gone to bed early I set my alarm for soon after dawn, having hoped to fill my day with as much activity as possible. The Kigali I encountered while looking for breakfast was a ghost-town, the streets were deserted, there was no traffic, and everywhere was closed. Very eerie indeed. I spent nearly two hours looking for a restaurant, before finally finding a little place where there seemed to be some activity. I stuck my nose in the door, and saw they weren't open, but just cleaning the place up. I explained my hungry predicament to one of the staff there, he took pity on me, and a few minutes later I was eating buttered bread and drinking hot tea. The waiter was a friendly young student of twenty-two years, named Espoir. We chatted while I ate, and agreed to continue talking once he had finished up, in about fifteen minutes time.
So Espoir and I walked back to my hotel, where we spent a fascinating few hours talking. He is a student of African history and politics, and so was a great source of information on the controversial history of the Great Lakes region (Congo, Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda and Tanzania) of Africa. Born in the Congo, he is a Tutsi, who moved here after the genocide. He is an orphan; his father was killed by Laurent Kabila's troops in the Congo post-genocide. In our conversations he was alarmingly pro-Tutsi, to the point of racism. He seemed to completely buy into the stereotypical descriptions of Hutu and Tutsi features - often flattening his nose with a finger when speaking of Hutus, or aligning a finger parallel to the bridge of his nose when talking of Tutsis. He wrote out notes of our conversation on a piece of paper, not for later study, but for discretion. He wrote the words "Hutu" and "Tutsi" on the page, never uttering them aloud, and from then on in whenever he wished to speak of one tribe he pointed at that word. This was done as there were a few other Rwandans walking around the lobby. I had realized that discretion was necessary when talking about the genocide, if one was lucky enough to find someone to talk to about it, but I hadn't realized that discretion to this point was needed.
He told me two things of particular interest. Firstly, he put forward the theory that it was in fact the French who shot down Habyarimana's plane just before the genocide began, in April 1994 (see the last entry for details). Hutu extremists are popularly believed to have done this, and they were trained, armed, and financially backed by the French government, so I presumed he meant this connection. When I questioned him further, he said that no, he is sure that it was actually a French soldier who pulled the trigger. He seemed quite convinced of this fact, although I remain skeptical, as there were (at least officially) no French soldiers in the country at that time, and even if there were, it would have made no sense for a Frenchman to be seen shooting at a plane that contained two regional heads of state. More believable would be that the French backed the Hutu extremists in doing this.
The second point of interest in our discussions was his comparison of Rwandan Tutsis to Jews, something I had never heard of before, but thought was quite apt. Both groups have faced great levels of discrimination because of their societal and economic status, which eventually led to genocide. Both groups have traditionally had large worldwide refugee populations, and in many ways the new Rwanda (post 1994) is like Israel, a powerful military state (with much foreign financial support) to which these refugees have returned in their droves. Both "new Rwanda" and Israel have significantly shaped the political climate of their geographical region - Rwanda effectively created the conditions in which Zaire's long term dictator, Mobutu, was overthrown, and placed a Rwanda-friendly dictator (Laurent Kabila) in his place.
Espoir hopes to be a man of great influence when he is older. He wants to be a politician, and asked me extensively about Ireland's history, and how it came to be so economically successful, always taking notes. He said that he believes that Rwanda and Ireland have a lot in common, being small countries, which have risen from colonialism and have hopes of great futures. He certainly has the intelligence to be a man of some power, although he has a sense of great self-importance, and an attitude which bordered on egotism at times. He is a Born-Again Christian (the Church of Pentecost), and although I have no problem with another man's religion, I do strongly object to people looking down on me because I have none, something which Espoir often did. His inflated notions of himself started to annoy me later in the day, and I didn't intend to meet up with him again. On departure, he asked if I would like to attend Church with him in the morning, in the hope that I might be "saved". As offended as I was, I actually decided to take him up on this offer; I have yet to attend an African Church service, let alone one of his religion.
That evening I decided to try to sample some of Rwanda's nightlife, and asked at my hotel where I might find a good bar. One of the guys I asked, Denis, a Kenyan, said he was going out that night and that I should join him. So out we went, and a while later I found myself in a little bar on the edge of town, where we started our night. Denis is a costume designer for film, and is working on the set of a new French film, "Operation Turquoise", here in Kigali. He said, in fact, that they were looking for ex-pat actors, and that I could easily get a role in the film if I wanted, as I speak French and English. Unfortunately I have to move on from Rwanda soon, so I had to turn him down, perhaps in doing so I have thrown away a big Hollywood career!
We had a pleasant evening drinking, for which I didn't pay a penny, at Denis' insistence. I met a friend of his, Jean-Yves Masengo, an artist, with whom I chatted for much of the night. Yves, as he preferred to be called, is something of an international artist, it seems, having gone to Amsterdam and Paris recently to showcase his work. He has been commissioned to do paintings for a hotel in Gisenyi, on the border with the Congo, by Goma (on the Congolese side). The two of us got on royally, and when I told him that I had hoped to cross into the Congo for a few days to see Goma and maybe climb the Nyiragongo volcano, he said he'd love to accompany me. I was delighted by this offer, as I had been quite apprehensive about crossing that border. The Congo is quite unstable at the moment, particularly in the Kivu (Goma) region. With a Rwandan companion, who knows people on the Goma side, I would feel much, much safer.
We went on to a nightclub later, and danced away until late in the night. The nightclub played a mixture of Western and Congolese music, and was packed with men mainly, who were good-natured and delighted to see a mzungu dancing with them. The inevitable prostitutes were fewer than in Kenyan clubs, and for the most part left me alone
The next morning I went to the church service with Espoir, which was held in the suburbs of Kigali, in a Church that resembled more a gymnasium than a church. The interior was a big hall with a stage at the front, and balconies around the sides and back. It was packed full when we arrived, I reckon there must have been about a thousand people in there. On the stage was a choir of about fifty people, dressed in black, singing gospel songs, and dancing. Much of the crowd were singing along, and some were standing, dancing, others praying, and others standing, with their eyes closed, and hands up with their palms facing upwards. I was seated away from Espoir, so that I would have an "interpreter", who translated the service and the meanings of the songs for me, whispering in my ear. This bizarre service was great, as it gave me a much better understanding of the whole occasion.
The atmosphere in the church was electric, the singing continuing for more than an hour more, getting increasingly upbeat all the time, with more and more of the crowd participating. At times the band would stop, and the lead singer would ask why a certain section of the crowd weren't singing - were they afraid of entering the kingdom of God? At the end of many of the songs a few women at the back shrilly ululated, adding further to the atmosphere. I couldn't help but be taken in by the excitement and joy of the occasion, and was struck by the sharp contrast between this and a sober, solemn Catholic service (although I haven't yet been to a Catholic service in Africa, so it is unfair to judge).
The preacher took the stage, and sung one last song before the service began. Having never seen a service like this before I didn't know what to expect, but did think there would be readings, prayer and communion like in a Catholic service, but there was none of this. The service was essentially a ninety-minute sermon delivered by this preacher, a huge man, in physique, presence and voice. He paced back and forth, telling stories and talking of God's love for us, sometimes speaking softly, often raising his voice to a thunderous roar. I won't comment on what I thought of the actual content of his sermon, as that would have to be in the context of my own feelings towards religion, and in particular Christianity, which is a long story in itself.
After finishing preaching the congregation sang one more song before leaving, after about three hours in total within the Church. Although I was very tired from the night before, the whole thing was a wonderful cultural experience, and gave me a better understanding of how this religion works.
That evening I failed once again to find somewhere to eat, as everywhere seemed to be closed, so I went to Hotel des Milles Collines for an overpriced meal. This hotel is that upon which the film Hotel Rwanda (well worth watching for an understanding of the genocide) was shot. It was interesting to be in this place which played such a central role in the genocide, and where so many Tutsis managed to survive, thanks to the hotel manager, Paul Rusesabagina, who protected them from the interahamwe. Interestingly, Denis had told me that the reason Hotel Rwanda was filmed in South Africa was because the Rwandan government had considered it to be an untruthful story. Rusesabagina is glorified in it, as a protector of any Tutsi who came to the gates of his hotel. Apparently the truth is that he only accepted wealthy Tutsis who were willing to pay him handsomely for their protection. Denis said he had spoken to several survivors of the genocide who verified this for him. Again, I am cautious to believe that which contradicts what I have read in several reliable books, but it is hard to know what is truth and what is fiction in such a recent and controversial history.
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