I've been putting off writing this blog for a while. How do I begin to write about a place with such a diverse and tragic history as Rwanda? How do I attempt to tackle my own small understandings of the place, of the sadness, of the incredible, albeit precarious, promise for the future? How do I pretend I know what the country is about when I spent just a little over two weeks there? Also, I admit, I'm having a difficult time writing about a place that I wasn't a huge fan of. So I suppose I will just start at the beginning and let it come as it does.
I got off the plane in Kigali and it was early afternoon. I quickly spotted Joey waiting for me past security but I did have to buy a little tote bag as a security guard spotted my plastic duty free bag, and plastic bags are banned in Rwanda. This was to be my first taste of how Rwanda differs from many other countries in Africa. Well, Joey and I caught a couple different shared taxi/vans to the bus station and quickly hopped on a bus to Kibuye, a lake town about four hours directly west of Kigali. Once we got on board, people started trying to sell us everything from boiled eggs to Sambusas (Indian influence?). Another weird anomaly of Rwanda is that it is very improper to eat on the street or in public--in fact, street food is actually banned. Exceptions are made when you're traveling on a bus, hence why everyone waited until we were on board to attempt selling us things.
The bus ride was beautiful. Rwanda certainly earns its nickname as the land of a thousand hills. I found it peculiar that every single hill was under cultivation. I could probably count on one hand the number of places I spotted that weren't tilled on that ride. Rwanda is such a dense, small country that there's really only just enough space for everyone, so there's very little open space for forests or jungle.
We got into Kibuye around dusk and met up with another Peace Corps Volunteer there named Brian. We quickly grabbed what would be the first of the many unfinished meals I had in Rwanda. I firmly believe that while traveling in developing areas, one should try to finish everything on the plate. Many people find it an insult and a waste if you don't finish the food but this time I lost my appetite about four bites in. The food looked incredibly appetizing and delicious: boiled plantains, beans, a tomato stew, some leafy green-sauce, rice. There was, however, almost no taste in it. I was flabbergasted that so many great ingredients could produce so little flavor, but it was a trend I saw repeated over and over in Rwanda. Sometimes, it was a struggle with the serving staff to even get some salt or, heaven forbid, some peppers or spice to accompany the dish.
We then found our guesthouse and dropped our bags off and the three of us ventured back into town to find some beers and amusement. We went to a bar called the Right Bar, and ordered a couple beers. Not long after we arrived a drunk man came up to us and started trying to talk to us. He seemed harmless but a little annoying and without us even asking the security guard for the bar came up and gently ushered the guy away. I was a little surprised by the civility of it, the drunk man didn't object and the guard wasn't overly forceful. I commented that maybe we should buy the guard a beer as a thank you, Joey and Brian nodded in agreement, but the guard never returned to our table and Joey and Brian also said that it's possible he would refuse it out of principle. Apparently in Rwanda, security guards don't work for kickbacks. That night turned into a bit of a dance party later and the guys at the bar not only recognized Joey but had copied the music from his thumb drive the previous time and soon enough we were dancing to "Party Rock Anthem," "Call Me Maybe," and P-Square, among other timeless gems. I was also introduced the initially off-putting practice of dancing with other men. Sure enough in Cameroon you can dance with other guys but everyone always keeps their distance. In Rwanda, guys held hands and not only danced, but grinded on each other. I would have thought it was a gay club had I been in the states but Joey and Brian assured me this was par for the course in Rwanda, a country where the majority of the population doesn't believe that homosexuality "affects" Rwandans. Maybe that stuff happens in Europe (a blanket term for the western world) but not in Rwanda. Or so they say.
The next day, the three of us had some omelets in town and then went down to Lake Kivu (pronounced Chee-voo) to see a man about a boat. Well, we found a fisherman who was willing to let us rent his boat for a few hours and we paddled out into this huge lake that forms the majority of the border between Rwanda and the Congo. We paddled out for an hour towards an island and about halfway there I realized my shoulders and neck were becoming incredibly pink. I looked up and it was still partly cloudy, but Joey was soon warned, "watch out for that equatorial sun." I'd forgotten that the closer you are to the equator, the easier it is to burn. So I draped my shirt over my shoulders and neck and tried to keep splashing water on my face to keep it cool. The island we went to was pretty small and uninhabited--though the perfect peaceful place for a picnic and some sandwiches.
Back in town we went to a hotel overlooking the little bay and had a couple beers. We contemplated having some dinner there but Brian eventually peeled off to hang out with some ex-pat friends he had in town and Joey and I decided to make some sandwiches back at the guesthouse. We stayed up late that night talking, playing cards, and listening to music.
The next day was Sunday and Joey and I left mid-morning to catch a bus north to the town of Gisenyi. Gisenyi is at the top of Lake Kivu and just across the border from the Congolese town of Goma, which has been making headlines lately as a hotly contested town between the Congolese government forces and M23, a rebel group located in the area. The ride was about 4.5 hours and all on an unpaved road, winding through tall hills, small mountains, and on the sides of cliffs. I dozed off at one point, only to wake not far outside of Gisenyi and Joey pointed out the window and said, "check it out, a volcano." I initially thought he was pulling my leg but he reiterated what it was and said, "Look at it. It's the shape of a volcano and smoke is coming out. It's a volcano." Sure enough, that was the famous Nyiragongo volcano outside of Goma.
We checked into a guesthouse and then ran off to one of the beaches on the lake to grab some brochettes and fries and relax. After we had some meat at the first bar/restaurant, we wandered down the beach a little bit, mostly to avoid some sketchy people from the first bar who were eyeing us and trying to make light but suspect conversation. We found an outdoor garden bar and had a couple drinks there while they played Jason Derulo, Pitbull, and LMFAO--we were in heaven. That place closed around 10 so we decided to walk into town and see what was going on. I was getting tired but sometimes you just gotta go with the flow. We ended up finding a bar near the town center and after a little while there we started talking to this big group of Rwandan men, some were students from Kigali, others were local politicians. They were much more fun and outgoing than the stereotypically shy Rwandan I came to know better. They were making jokes, speaking in a mixture of English, French, and Kinyirwanda, and even singing songs at some point. As it was Cinco de Mayo, Joey and I had a little tequila with us which we shared with the big group of guys. Well, they absolutely loved this, especially the one guy who'd been to the US. For the rest of the night, they kept ordering beer after beer for us, to the point where I had to start sneaking/giving them to some of the other people at the table because I was just too tired to keep going.
We got up in the morning and found a place to try to get some breakfast. We found a place and Joey ordered an omelet, while I saw something that looked like the Cameroonian dish Corn Chof, which is corn mixed with beans and was one of my favorite dishes in Cameroon. Well, it was pretty terrible in comparison and I again didn't finish it. We also had to keep asking for salt from the workers there as they'd bring us salt, we'd put some on our food and then they'd quickly take it away again. But there was never enough salt for that food, never enough.
Joey and I had contemplated leaving Gisenyi and attempting a hike on the way to Kigali but decided against it. Instead, I picked up a sim card for my old Cameroonian phone and we relaxed on the beach again, this time taking a couple quick swims. We made it back to the guesthouse in the afternoon, after picking up some more sandwich supplies, and relaxed there for a couple hours while it rained outside. Eventually the rain let up and Joey and I started heading towards the center of town around dusk.
Once we got to the main street and started making our way down it, I felt a little something in my back pocket. I swung around immediately to see a 15 year old kid scampering away--he'd been trying to pickpocket me. Luckily, I only keep my wallet in my front pocket when I'm traveling. I started yelling "Voleur! Voleur!" which means Thief, Thief! It was a busy street and the kid just ran down the middle of the road, nobody stopping him. A couple guys nearby me asked if I was alright and then with an upset yet dismissive glance at the boy running down the street, they just let him go. I was astounded by this. In Cameroon (and from what I hear, many other countries on the continent) if somebody is caught stealing or attempting to steal, Street Justice usually comes into play. I've heard stories of people getting killed, beaten, or at least apprehended for stealing something. Instead, here in Rwanda, the kid just scampered off and nobody did anything. I found it very bizarre, and another way that Rwanda is an anomaly for Africa.
Well, we found a bar on the second floor of a building that had a nice balcony on the back. During moments when the clouds cleared up a little bit, we could see an orange glow suspended in the distance. It was the glow from the lava lake on Nyiragongo. Unfortunately it was still a bit too cloudy to see if for long stretches of time but I periodically looked in that direction to see if I could see the volcano.
Joey and I ordered a couple beers and then started playing some cards. In the middle of our second game we heard somebody ask us from a table behind us, "So where are you guys from?" I couldn't quite place the accent at first but we started talking with this man who's name was John. John, as he kept saying, had quite a story and we got bits and pieces of it throughout the night. He was born in Rwanda in the 60's and then when he was nine, he was adopted along with his younger sister by a family in Redding, California. He lived in the US for thirty years and had returned ten years beforehand and now worked at a coffee and furniture making factory in Gisenyi. Joey and I later made tons of conjectures about him and tried to fill in the blanks a bit more. For example, he was very clearly from the Tutsi ethnic group and probably fled Rwanda in the 60's during one of the earlier, smaller genocides that predated the big one in '94. He returned about ten years after the genocide, and that seemed like perfect timing for somebody looking to return to his home country and start some business. It did seem a little too convenient, though. And after all, he did say he had quite a story, so Joey and I both wondered if he got into some trouble in the US or if he was fleeing somewhere when he returned to Rwanda. Well, regardless, he did say that he had been unable to find any of his family members from before when he fled. I didn't ask about his parents but he did seem to think that maybe some uncles or aunts or cousins would still be alive. He'd attempted to track them down but as he had a hard time remembering their names he encountered quite a few roadblocks. He was also even having a hard time trying to look through old records, most officials simply told him that all records were lost during the genocide but who knows if they don't want to bother with him or are hiding something.
Anyway, we had an interesting time talking with him and his two friends who were with him, a guy named Safari who worked with John and another guy named Habyarimana, which Joey notified me was the Hutu president whose death started the genocide and civil war in 1994. I decided to call Habyarimana by his nickname "Mr. Cool." He spoke next to no English and zero French, so I was mostly left to chat with John and Safari. Well, they kept getting more and more drunk and eventually we moved inside because it started raining again. Some guys at a different table got mad at John for smoking and asked him to stop, which really pissed Safari off. Safari, who I'd found to be a nice and easy going guy before this, was loudly cursing in English and Kinyirwanda and gesturing towards the table of people he was pissed at. Joey and I had to calm Safari and Mr. Cool down as we really didn't want to have a bar fight over somebody else simply smoking. Eventually Joey and I split the bill with them as they'd just lumped us all together and we bounced, promising to try to come to their office/factory in the morning before heading back to Kigali.
