Morgan In Africa

France Screws Up...Again

2011-10-23T22:02:00.004-04:00

France has refused to allow the extradition of Agathe Habyarimana to Rwanda. It has been sheltering her since three days after the genocide began in 1994. The original article is below.

This sort of news really frustrates me, especially in a time when Franco-Rwandan relations appear to be improving, and when there is a real opportunity for justice to be served. France can be astonishingly myopic when it comes to decisions like this. What do they gain from sheltering a war criminal of the magnitude of Rwandan former First Lady Agathe Habyarimana, the architect of the interahamwe, and one of the most extreme of the génocidaires?

What it’s really about is saving face—French President Mitterrand was famously close to Juvénal Habyarimana, the Hutu president whose plane was shot down in April 1994, and husband to Agathe.

If France is hesitant to “do the right thing” and voluntarily allow the extradition of Agathe to Rwanda, perhaps they would respond differently if the International Criminal Court (ICC) weighed in with an indictment. After all, the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda is not likely to act—it has been notoriously sluggish in its efforts to indict and try Tier 1 génocidaires. ICC Prosecutor José Maria Ocampo is on a roll with indictments of President Bashir, Col. Qadhafi, Kenyan leaders (for pre-election violence), Joseph Kony, and others. It seems to me that Agathe, whose interahamwe youth militia arguably inspired Bashir to facilitate the formation of the Janjaweed in Darfur, belongs in the same notorious category.

***

France Will Not Extradite Former Rwandan Leader's Widow
CNN Wire Staff
updated 3:11 PM EST, Thu September 29, 2011

Paris (CNN) -- A French appeals court on Wednesday rejected a Rwandan request to extradite the widow of former Rwandan President Juvenal Habyarimana, whose assassination sparked the 1994 genocide.

Lawyer Philippe Meilhac said his client, former first lady Agathe Habyarimana, was "relieved" and "very satisfied" with the court's decision.

"This is a very delicate case, as it can also impact relations between France and Rwanda, so this decision is important and in many ways symbolic," Meilhac said.

Habyarimana still faces a civil suit dating from 2007, when a French Rwandan rights collective accused her of being involved in the genocide, Meilhac said. Habyarimana has asked to be heard by a judge but is still waiting to be summoned, he said.

She faces a Rwandan warrant on genocide charges that include crimes against humanity, specifically murder and extermination; creation of a criminal gang, namely the Hutu militias; and aiding and abetting the killings perpetrated by soldiers in violation of the Geneva Conventions, John Bosco Mutangana, the head of Rwanda's Genocide Fugitives Tracking Unit, said last year.
Habyarimana left Rwanda for France soon after the violence broke out. Meilhac said there have been roughly 10 extradition requests during her 15 years in France.

Her husband, the former president, was killed in April 1994 when his plane was shot down near the capital, Kigali. The mass killings began hours later, and by the time they ended 100 days later, 800,000 people had been killed.

Most were members of the country's Tutsi minority, killed by members of the Hutu majority.
The circumstances surrounding the former president's death remain a mystery. He was a Hutu, and speculation immediately fell on Tutsis -- but some have also speculated that Hutus themselves may have shot down the plane to provide cover for the ensuing genocide.

Top officials such as army generals and politicians who allegedly took part in the genocide have been tried in the Rwandan justice system and the International Criminal Tribunal, which is based in Tanzania.

Civilians who allegedly contributed either directly or indirectly are tried by local communities in "gacaca" courts, which allow survivors to confront their attackers. Some human rights organizations have criticized the gacaca courts for falling short on delivering justice.

Habyarimana has no residency permit, having been refused legal status by the French prefecture. She has appealed that decision and is awaiting a ruling from the Versailles administration court in the next few weeks, Meilhac said.

"The administration court should look to the appeals court as an example," he said. "The case against my client is empty, and she deserves to be granted a residency permit."

http://www.cnn.com/2011/09/28/world/europe/rwanda-widow-extradition/?iref=obnetwork

Where have I been?

2011-10-13T04:29:00.000-04:00

A quick update, as I haven’t been posting on the blog for a while. I spent the past year working on Africa—in particular, Darfur, Sudan—and often thought about posting my thoughts and stories from my travels here. After all, it is called Morgan in Africa.

What I recognized, though, is that I wanted to preserve this blog for what it became: a bit of a resource on Rwanda (with a splash of Burundi for good measure). As my heart lives in Rwanda, I know I will be back, and in the meantime, I will continue to post interesting news stories and, occasionally, analysis. Rwanda is developing at breakneck speed, and it will be interesting to watch what happens in President Kagame’s last term—and what will come after.

In the meantime, I have started a sister blog to this one, called The Global Gamine (http://theglobalgamine.blogspot.com), which is documenting my latest travel adventures. At the moment, I’m working in Indonesia, a major change for this Africanist. I invite you to follow along as I try to navigate my way through this fascinating language, country, and culture.

Murakoze cyane!
Morgan

The UN Report That Shook A Thousand Hills

2010-09-28T22:01:00.003-04:00

Rwanda is riled up right now, and with good reason. Last month, Le Monde, the leading French newspaper, leaked a draft of a United Nations report that allegedly accused the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF), President Kagame’s Tutsi rebel army that ended the 1994 genocide of itself committing genocide in 1996. At the time, the RPF was chasing génocidaires into the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), because they were regrouping in UNHCR camps and launching attacks from across the border. Since the UN was doing nothing to prevent this from happening, the RPF (now the Rwandan army) chased the génocidaires in the forests of the DRC.

According to the report, RPF soldiers themselves committed genocide when on these campaigns. While I have not read the report myself (it is slated to be officially released on October 1, 2010), friends who have seen the report have said that the evidence is incontrovertible: Hutu women and children were specifically targeted, and their bodies were buried in mass graves. I have not seen a precise total of the number killed (the report allegedly identifies sites with hundreds of bodies), but it certainly does not rival the 800,000 to 1 million estimated dead during the 1994 genocide. This, of course, does not make it less tragic, but I think it’s important to have a sense of the numbers, especially when some of Rwanda's critics will use the report to support their belief that there was a "double-genocide"--that is, genocide conducted on both sides.

President Kagame has called the report “ridiculous” and is furious for two reasons—that the United Nations undertook this exercise (which was to map human rights atrocities in the area from 1993 to 2003) without his knowledge, and that the report language calls Rwandan actions “genocide.” The Rwandan government has repeatedly threatened to kick the UN out of the country because they did nothing to end the genocide, they fed and gave health care to génocidaires who had fled to Congo, and they currently do little in Rwanda that the Rwandan government would miss. When I was working for UNHCR there, I was often told by fellow staff that our days were numbered, and that the Rwandan government would take over sole administration of the camps. Naturally, then, when I heard about this UN report, I immediately thought the UN would be summarily asked to leave, as the French government was in 2006.

This hasn’t happened yet, but the Rwandan government hit the UN where it hurts—it allegedly threatened to pull its 3,300 peacekeepers from the UN Mission in Darfur (UNAMID) and 300 peacekeepers from the UN Mission in Sudan (UNMIS). Rwanda had volunteered to send its peacekeepers to Sudan to demonstrate activism in ending genocide (and probably also to demonstrate what others should have done for their country). The United Nations has a difficult time recruiting peacekeepers, and an even more difficult time recruiting peacekeepers who are trained and qualified. The Rwandese are competent and disciplined.

It is no wonder, then, that UN Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon himself went to Rwanda to pay a personal visit to Paul Kagame—to congratulate him on his landslide re-election, and beg him to reconsider the possibility of pulling out of Sudan. The UN also decided to postpone the release of the report, presumably to re-examine the language used, and is allowing the countries implicated in the report to make comments and statements that will be released alongside the report text.

The impact of this report cannot be overstated. The entire narrative of Rwanda over the past decade and a half has been defined by its activism against genocide and the development miracle that has been made possible through the “new” Rwanda’s moral high ground and social/economic/environmental policies that donors love. In many ways, even if the term “genocide” is replaced by something slightly softer, such as “acts of genocide,” or “mass retributive killings,” or “ethnic pogrom,” the damage has already been done. No longer will donors be able to tout Rwanda without reservation as a development miracle. Now, all such statements will have to be qualified; Rwanda will no longer be the West’s golden child. It’s too early to tell whether this will have any real impact on development aid, but I suspect it will not. The international community gives money to countries with similar (or worse) human rights violations.

What could happen is a fueling of the Rwandan government’s critics (from exiled detractors to the French government). [As a side note, is it any real surprise that this story was initially made public by a French newspaper?] The Rwandan government has felt embattled since 1994, and felt that way during its days as a scorned rebel army. In a way, this latest development will contribute to their narrative of needing to be even more self-reliant and impervious to external criticism.

The Mucyo Commission (Findings on France's Role in the Rwandan Genocide)

2010-05-19T00:00:00.005-04:00

I had heard quite a bit about the Mucyo Commission that was established when I first moved to Rwanda in 2006. Much has been made of the findings, and I wanted to read it for myself to see exactly what it included. I found the French version tucked away on some obscure Rwandan government website (so well hidden that I can't find it again), but I did manage to read the entire thing. If someone knows where an English version may be found, please post. It's quite interesting (and incredibly sad) to read. Following is my (incomplete) synopsis. I pulled some of the most alarming things that I read, but there is much more included in the report.

The Mucyo Commission
The Mucyo (pronounced "Moo-cho") Commission was an independent commission, named for its head, the former Minister of Justice Jean de Dieu Mucyo. It was established by the Rwandan Government on April 16, 2006 to investigate France's role in the Rwandan genocide from April to July 1994. The 331-page final report was released in September 2008.

Methods of information collection: Public and private archives, investigations in the field, witness testimonies in public and private; meetings and archive consultations in Rwanda, Belgium, France, Germany, and Tanzania. Particular emphasis on including only those testimonies that could be corroborated. Translations found below are my own.

Key Findings/Accusations of the Mucyo Commission

• French soldiers were present in the Rwandan Army before and during the genocide; thus allegations that the French were unaware of who was killing whom are questionable, because top military officials were helping to plan Rwandan Army strategies

• French soldiers helped to train the youth militia, the Interahamwe, before the genocide.

One former Interahamwe member said,

“The French taught us how to shoot at targets. They drew a head at which we aimed…These were the French who gave us grades and prizes as a function of our results. They gave us alcohol. According to our grades, they promised a bottle of banana beer.”

• President Mitterand believed that the Tutsi, who were invading from the north, wanted to establish a Tutsi regime. Since they represented an ethnic minority, this was viewed as a challenge to democracy.

• The French army manned road blocks and encouraged Interahamwe to kill Tutsi when their identity cards were checked.

• The French helped to prepare lists of Tutsi suspected to be aligned with the RPF (Tutsi rebels) and Hutu sympathizers, and gave it to the government for investigation. These lists are believed to have been used in house-to-house targeting of victims.

• Several RPF prisoners-of-war that were held at the Kigali military base were tortured and assassinated in the presence of and with the participation of French soldiers.

• The genocidal leader who took over the government after the plane was shot down, Théoneste Bagosora, was encouraged to do so by the French government. The French military promised to provide ammunition and communication equipment.

• The French military provided an estimated five tons of arms and ammunition to the Rwandan military government two days after the genocide began, and flew additional arms to Goma for transport into Rwanda one month after the genocide began.

• Operation Turquoise, a French “safe zone” established in June 1994 permitted Hutu extremists to escape into Zaire with their light and heavy armaments. Tutsi who believed it was a safe zone for them were slaughtered.

• Tutsi captives were systematically thrown by the French from their helicopters over Nyungwe Forest.

“French soldiers tied my hands and legs. A little after that, they put me in a bag up to the neck and put me in their Jeep…Then they transported me in a helicopter above the Nyungwe Forest and threw me out, to a place called Kuwa Senkoko. I was injured by a branch that I fell on and I felt shaken by the shock.”

A local official substantiated these claims, saying:

"The French soldiers left early in the morning in their Jeeps. Sometimes I went with them, essentially as a translator. They were looking to arrest Tutsi. Among them, the French soldiers chose some, hit them, bound them, and put them in bags with only the head exposed. Then they put them in the helicopter. After, the French told me that they were thrown in the Nyungwe Forest. I asked them why they used these methods, and a French captain said the French did not want people to know that they had killed, and that finally, they threw people down into the forest because they didn’t have time to bury them.”

• French soldiers participated in the rape of Tutsi civilians.

“I arrived in Gikongoro around July 20…One night, 4 to 5 French soldiers,
accompanied by a Rwandan in military uniform, came and asked me to follow them,
telling me they were taking me to a safer place. At the same time, they took a
woman named Colette. They took us to SOS. We found that they were keeping other
girls and women there. I was raped all night by a Frenchman. He kept me between
5 and 10 days. They promised us they would help us leave Gikongoro to go to a
safer place. Every day, they lied to us like that, and at night, they continued
to sexually abuse us.”

• Thirteen French officials were named in relation to aiding and abetting genocide in Rwanda. These include former President Francois Mitterand, Alain Juppé, Hubert Védrine, and Dominique de Villepin.

I should mention that the French conducted their own independent assessment, called the Quilès Report, in 1998, which stated that “If France did not participate in battle, nevertheless on the ground it was extremely close to the Rwandan Armed Forces. It continuously participated in the working out of battle plans, provided advice to the general staff, and to commanders, proposing redeployments and new tactics. It sent advisers to instruct the Rwandan Armed Forces in the operation of advanced weapons.” The report said that Paris routinely disregarded warnings from French advisers in the field that their advice could be put to bad use, but the report stated that France “in no way incited, encouraged, or supported those who orchestrated the genocide.”

As a result of France’s role during the genocide, the RPF, which ended the genocide and established a new government in Rwanda, has had very strained diplomatic relations with France. In November 2006, after the Mucyo Commission was launched, French human rights judge Jean-Louis Bruguiere accused Rwandan President Paul Kagame and the RPF of shooting down the plane that sparked the genocide. Shortly thereafter, French diplomats were summarily kicked out of the country, and diplomatic relations were only restored in November 2009. (In that time, Rwanda also became an Anglophone, Commonwealth country.) French reactions to the Mucyo report have been, predictably, angry. French public officials have questioned the report’s integrity and have supported the findings of the Quilès report.

In case you're looking for more information:

Discussion of the Quilès Report: Craig Whitney, “Panel Finds French Errors in Judgment on Rwanda,” New York Times, December 20, 1998, http://www.nytimes.com/1998/12/20/world/panel-finds-french-errors-in-judgment-on-rwanda.html.

Rapport de la Commission Nationale Indépendante Chargée de Rassembler les Preuves Montrant l’Implication de l’Etat Français Dans le Génocide Perpétré au Rwanda en 1994, République du Rwanda, 15 Novembre 2007. (Final Draft)

For a response from the Génocidaires held at the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda: http://cirqueminime.blogcollective.com/_attachments/4067882/The%20Mucyo%20Commission%20Report.pdf

Rwanda=Africa Lite (For a reality check, visit Burundi)

2010-02-05T01:05:00.000-05:00

I’ve devoted a lot of thought to this, and I have come to the conclusion that Rwanda is wholly unlike any other country in Africa. I say this out of nothing but pure love for Rwanda, but I have to admit that I am ruffled when people go to Rwanda and marvel at how “everything in Africa works,” or “everything in Africa is clean,” or “everywhere in Africa is safe.” No. Things in Rwanda work, streets in Rwanda are clean, and Rwanda is safe enough that you could walk naked down the street at 4 a.m. without a problem (although I wouldn’t advise it). These are all great things, but they are Rwanda-specific. It’s a great strategy. When a country is safe and things work, you’re more likely to attract investors and tourists. And that’s what has happened. So many Americans (in particular) have flocked to Rwanda that I refer to it as “Little America.”

There is probably no better way to illustrate this than to describe my recent experience at Bourbon Coffee in Washington, D.C. I have spent hours at Bourbon Coffee in Kigali, enjoying their coffee while choking on their Starbucks-like prices. When I heard that the Rwandese-American owner had opened a store on L Street (where a Starbucks used to be…go figure), I had to see it for myself.

It looked exactly like a Bourbon Coffee in Kigali. My chin was on the floor. I cautiously approached the register and ordered a black coffee—from the Kivu Region. My region. It was almost too much to bear. I told the barista.

“Yeah, we get that a lot,” she responded dully.

Really? A lot? I was surprised for a moment, but then realized that a) aid workers, students, missionaries, and others have been flocking to Rwanda, and b) all those same people would probably go out of their way to come to this one coffeeshop.

To return to this idea of Rwanda being Africa Lite, or as my coworker in Burundi called it—“Disneyland Africa”—it became clear to me during my summer in Burundi just how different Rwanda is from its sister country to the south.

Burundi, on its surface, is the same as Rwanda. The ethnic make-up is the same. The terrain is basically the same (mostly hilly, but Burundi doesn’t have volcanoes). Burundi’s population is a little smaller (about 7 million to Rwanda’s estimated 10 million+) but still ranks as one of the most densely populated countries in Africa. Rwanda and Burundi even used to be the same country (Ruanda-Urundi), speak basically the same language, and have both known political turmoil since independence in 1962 (they share the same independence day from Belgium). In April 1994, both the Rwandan and Burundian presidents perished in a plane shot down over Kigali—the event viewed as the trigger for the Rwandan genocide.

There were massacres of Tutsi in Burundi in 1994, but not to the same degree. One critical difference was that the Burundian military was majority-Tutsi, which meant that the military could not be mobilized to kill Tutsi as it did in Rwanda. Another critical difference was that the Burundian population was more ethnically mixed. While there were certainly ethnic mixes in Rwanda, this occurred with greater frequency in Burundi. Divisive rhetoric is more effective when a population can be divided.

This is not to say that there was peace. Burundi’s short post-independence history is fraught with ethnic pogroms, coups d’etat, assassinations, rebel activity, and peace agreements. The rebel group Forces Nationales de Liberation (FNL) finally agreed to lay down arms and became a political party in 2009; the disarmament process continues. Violence in Burundi since independence has cost an estimated 200,000 lives, but there is now peace.

What is interesting is how Rwanda and Burundi diverged in development. In 2006, before I left for Rwanda, people asked me where it was. “East Africa,” I would say. Now, when people ask me where Burundi is, I say, “south of Rwanda.” The attention of the world community is very different toward these two countries. Burundi, in many ways, is Rwanda minus 20 years of development. The roads are pretty rough-and-tumble. Industries are not very developed. The health care system is weak. The UN has a huge civilian presence there in the form of BINUB, the UN Mission to Burundi. Policemen pull over expatriates, expecting a bribe.

It’s sad to think that Rwanda has received so much attention because of the extent of the tragedy it suffered. It says a lot about the international community, and (sadly) what it takes to get noticed. To its credit, Rwanda has managed the “guilt aid” (my term for the money that the international community has collectively given because it feels guilty for doing so little for Rwanda during the genocide) it has received very well. Anti-corruption measures are largely effective, and the Rwandan government demands accountability from all donors and organizations on the ground. This has created a dream environment in which donors can work.

Flip the coin, and you have Burundi. The 200,000 dead from years of violence did not grab headlines. Some NGOs work there (with small staffs), but certainly not the panoply that dominate Rwanda, planting their logo signs across the countryside. In comparison, it was hard not to think that the international community had forgotten Burundi.

This made me think about the possible ripple effects. Could aid-drenched Rwanda have positive spillover into Burundi? I think it can, but it must start with the infrastructure that exists. Burundi has real potential for growth, especially in the tourism industry, among regional aid workers. While it doesn’t have the starpower that Rwanda’s gorillas carry, Burundi does have a stunning lake so large that it has tides, waves, and real sand. Bujumbura has a number of nice hotels, and luxury resorts are popping up along the length of the lake shore. Food is inexpensive and there are great choices. The nightlife is bustling. And, perhaps more than anything else, it’s also nice to have a reality check. For someone who has spent a lot of time in Rwanda, experiencing a moderately more gritty and more real country was refreshing. Aid workers (and students, missionaries, and others) in Rwanda would benefit from spending some time in Burundi. Not only would they be providing needed investment in the local economy, but they would get a reality check. It is also close—any easy drive or a cheap flight. Over time, money and capital flowing into the country from increased interest in the tourism industry could fuel investor confidence (we’ll also have to wait to see what happens with the elections later this year) and lead to increased development. It’s a small starting point, but an important one nevertheless. Burundi may not land on the East Africa Tourism Circuit anytime soon, but it could certainly benefit from the ripple effects of aid in Rwanda.

Dinner with Dallaire

2009-11-13T17:30:00.005-05:00

One of the benefits of being in policy school is the opportunity to attend intimate dinners with luminaries, to be able to ask them questions in a small forum and exchange ideas. On Monday, I was able to join a small dinner with General Romeo Dallaire, the former head of the UN Assistance Mission in Rwanda (UNAMIR) during the 1994 genocide. General Dallaire, in 1994, was informed that a genocide was imminent, and informed Kofi Annan at the United Nations that action could and should be taken to prevent it from happening.

This warning fell on deaf ears. Once the genocide started, ten Belgian peacekeepers were killed, and the United Nations, for this reason as well as member nation reticence to become involved, reduced its troop levels there to a skeleton force. With few peacekeepers and a UN Chapter 6 force mandate (which permits force only in cases of peacekeepers’ self-defense), General Dallaire was essentially helpless as hundreds of thousands of people were slaughtered around him. In addition, as the UN Force Commander, he had the unenviable task of communicating and negotiating between the genocidal Rwandan government and the Rwandan Patriotic Front. His famous, meticulously detailed and heart-wrenching account of his time in Rwanda, Shake Hands with the Devil, documents this.

I had heard from others that for years, he couldn’t talk about the genocide in public without falling apart. He has attempted suicide multiple times, and over the past decade has become a major spokesperson on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) in Canada. When I was informed that he was going to speak at my graduate school, I was interested to hear what he would talk about and if it would be as emotional an experience as others had said.

The dinner was very conversational, and I was surprised to see that it seemed that he had dealt with his demons. There were about 15 of us around the table, and he chatted cheerfully about Canadian politics and peacekeeping. He is a strong believer that a human is a human, and that skin color and national interest should not influence whether the UN (or individual countries) should intervene to end a genocide. Some have argued that race was a factor in the decision of Western countries to intervene in Yugoslavia, but not in Rwanda. Sadly, there are more crises around the world than the international community can provide resources for, so it will always have to choose...and I suppose we can only hope that the lessons learned in Rwanda will prevent another such horrendous miscalculation on the part of the international community from happening again.

Dallaire also argued that middle countries (he named Canada, Germany, and Japan) should step up their commitments to peacekeeping, because they have the capabilities and don’t carry the same “baggage” that the U.S. does (and Britain, to a certain extent). In other words, Canada carries a reputation for neutrality that the U.S. does not.

In arguing that all humans are equal and deserving of protection, he referred to a story he told at the beginning of his book. His convoy was speeding through the no-fire zone when he spotted a child by the side of the road. Eyes glazed, belly distended, mucus running down his lip. The convoy slowed and stopped, and he went back to find the child, who had retreated into his house. There were bodies everywhere, had been there for weeks, half eaten, he said. And the child was just sitting among the bodies, as if to say: This is my house. I am at home. He picked the child up and looked him in the eyes. In them, he saw the eyes of his son. Dallaire spoke easily, and to my surprise, was not emotional in the least, even as he described the piles of corpses. He said it as if it were simply a fact. The numbness with which he spoke was the only clear indication to me during the course of the evening that he has been deeply traumatized.

What I was most curious about, of course, was what he thought about Rwanda today, 15 years on. I asked him about it, and he said that it was a real success story. Things work. There are services. The people feel safe. The country is strong. But then he said that while President Kagame is a good leader—the two have close ties—he believes that the time has come for Kagame to relinquish a bit of his stronghold. After all, the press is self-censored or intimidated. There is a strong intelligence system involving wiretaps and informants. There is, for all intents and purposes, one political party. These were all justified in the context of strengthening security and promoting post-war unity, he said, but now that 15 years have passed, it was time to allow more freedom in these areas. He also said that Kagame needs to begin thinking about a political successor. Next year, presidential elections will be held in Rwanda (which I, and everyone else, believe that Kagame will win by a large margin), and the two-term limit will mean that after six years, a new candidate must step to the plate. Who that will be is unclear.

He also commented that, until France permits the extradition of genocidaires that it continues to harbor (it airlifted many of the genocidal leaders out of Rwanda at the end of the war), the Rwandan government will continue to fear that it will be attacked again, and will continue to maintain a strong (benevolent) authoritarian control over the country.

Very interestingly, he discussed the idea that perhaps the current geographical borders of the Great Lakes countries were not necessarily permanent…that perhaps they could change. This wasn’t his idea—he attributed it to others—but he said that some had talked about the possibility that Rwanda and Uganda’s territories increase to be more reflective of population identities. In other words, colonizers carved up Africa without regard for tribes, ethnic groups, or languages. When Germany carved up Congo and Rwanda, they gave the Western side of Lake Kivu to Congo, despite the fact that the people there spoke Kinyarwanda. In light of all of the meddling by Rwanda and Uganda in Eastern Congo (which is rich in resources), I found it interesting that anyone had actually proposed that Rwanda could expand. I had heard this, only jokingly, from Rwandans, who said they thought that they could manage that area better than the Congolese could. I can’t imagine why the Congolese government would ever consent to that, though.

When it came to the ethnic question—that “Hutu” and “Tutsi” divisions no longer exist, and that everyone is simply Rwandese—he said only time will tell. For many, it is clear who is of which ethnicity, and he agreed that addressing the underlying causes of ethnic friction—which in the past has been the inequality of opportunity for Hutus—is the way to prevent another genocide from occurring. “Will another genocide occur?” he asked. “Maybe.” But then he said that, if real reconciliation between the ethnic groups was achieved, it didn’t have to be that way.

Dr. Livingstone, I presume?

2009-09-01T19:40:00.000-04:00

On a clear, sunny Sunday, my friends and I drove down to Saga Resha, a beautiful beach about an hour south of Bujumbura. The resort that is being constructed there was not yet complete, so we brought a big picnic of sausage, sandwiches, fruit, cookies, cheese, and other goodies that we managed to put together at the last minute. As it turned out, the restaurant had just opened, and the men who met us in the parking lot tried to charge us about $50 for bringing in our own food (“the corkage fee,” they explained). We had been informed otherwise, and we discussed this with the manager, who made a point of telling us that he was dropping the charge to $20 because he was such a reasonable fellow. We agreed to pay the $20, and descended to the lake shore, with its expanse of white sand and private huts.

We all splashed about, enjoying the warm water and fresh air. After getting our fill of the heat, sand, and occasional ogling by the Burundian staff (the whistles were NOT welcomed), we packed everything up and headed back to Bujumbura. On the way, we pulled over onto a tiny, unmarked dirt road which led to one of Burundi’s few tourist attractions: the rock where Henry Morton Stanley, journalist-turned-explorer and operative of King Leopold II, allegedly “found” Dr. David Livingstone, who had been traipsing about East Africa in search of the source of the Nile River—and famously said, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”

To be fair, this may or may not have actually happened at this site. We know it happened near Lake Tanganyika, and the rock that marks the famous meeting overlooks the lake. Most people say the meeting actually happened in Ujiji, Tanzania. Apparently, Stanley and Livingstone traveled together for a while after their meeting, leaving markers of where they had been, and this might be just one of those markers. The large stone is engraved with their names, like strange historical graffiti. Burundi doesn’t have much in the way of landmarks, so I hope and wish for the sake of the tourism industry that this was the real meeting spot.

Nothing much is around the site (it’s really just a vista over the lake), but as we were wandering about and taking photos, children began to run up from the nearby huts to welcome us. We gave them leftover fruit from our picnic, played with them a bit, and then packed up to head back to Bujumbura before the curfew set in.

Anything Goes

2009-08-26T07:47:00.002-04:00

So I finally got my visa. It took literally over a month to get a one-month renewal for my visa, and I think that only happened because our logistician seems to know everyone in Bujumbura. After losing my file for several weeks, it was found and I was issued a 70-day visa instead of a 30-day visa, which costs more than twice what I should have had to pay. Then, they demanded payment.

As a volunteer here for the past three months, I was pretty annoyed that the grand total for the visas alone was going to be $220. In the end, after having tried repeatedly to make an appointment with the always-absent top official at the PAFE (Police of the Air, Borders, and Foreigners) Office, we finally got in to see him. I tried to be as charming as possible without looking like a pushover, and used as much Kirundi as I could. Naturally, he asked me if I had a boyfriend, and where he was. In Kirundi. This was, luckily, among the questions that I know how to answer, because people ask all the time. (It’s a bit tiresome.) I also answered because I knew that he, and he alone, stood between me and the visa I wanted…and it was better than slipping him a $20 under the table.

After rustling through some papers, examining my file closely, making an exaggerated point of studying the calendar, and then my studying my file again, he said something in Kirundi to the logistician, who nodded and led me out. I asked him what happened.

“He’s giving you a 45-day visa for $90,” he said. Interesting. I’ve never heard of a 45-day visa, nor is it posted anywhere. It looks like something created for me because I created such a fuss, and for so long. It seems like rules here are flexible…in other words, anything goes.

Sadly, it appears that the visa delay issue (among many other visa dilemmas) is significant here. I was describing my situation to a friend who works for BINUB, the United Nations civilian mission in Burundi, and he explained that the PAFE “loses” muzungu visa applications on purpose. I didn’t believe him until I remembered that they had lost my boss’s visa application as well. At the PAFE, they drag their feet deliberately, until someone gives them the motivation to do something—that is to say, until someone gives them a bribe. Then…ta da! You have a visa, as if by magic. My friend said that it’s gotten so bad that he doesn’t work with them anymore—he works through higher officials to get UN visas processed.

The idea that corruption is rampant here is something to which I have not grown accustomed. My boss was pulled over by a policeman for talking on her phone while driving. After insisting that he see her identification, the policeman asked her to pay 5,000 Francs. She said that she would be happy to, if she received a receipt. The policeman shuffled his feet and looked down. “A receipt?” he repeated, as if he had never heard the word before. “Yes,” she said. “If you are pulling me over and are giving me an official ticket, then I want a receipt for the amount paid.”

The policeman looked uncomfortable. “It’s not a lot,” he insisted. My boss stood her ground. In the end, he returned her identification to her, and we drove off without paying any money.

That’s just a small example. For a big example, take malaria treatment. One of the best medicines you can get in this region for malaria treatment is called Coartem. It used to be available in Burundi, but an Indian company struck an under-the-table deal with people in the Ministry of Health, and now only their Indian-made malaria treatment drugs may be sold in the country. Coartem is no longer sold. If you want it, you’d better hope that a friend in Rwanda will send you some. In the meantime, the malaria treatment medication that is sold here is of questionable quality and may be expired. Great. A little extra mosquito repellent, please.

Then, you have the downright silly. The same friend from BINUB who told me how terrible the PAFE was recounted something that happened to him a couple of weeks ago. He and some friends ordered a container full of household goods, food, etc. Just to be clear about what I mean when I say container, it’s one of those massive metal boxes that 18-wheel tractor trailers transport. In other words, it’s big and heavy and hard to miss.

Well, his container arrived…and then disappeared into thin air. Since he’s at the UN, he knows the Burundian intelligence services, and called them up, asking them to conduct an investigation. Three days later, they found his container (much to his relief, as the container itself cost $1500), but it was completely empty. I find this absurd because we’re not talking petty theft, such as stealing a bag or wallet. To move a container, you need a crane and a tractor trailer. This was an operation.

I told an American friend who works in security about this, and he laughed. “Well, intelligence must have been in on it,” he insisted. “Containers don’t just vanish without someone noticing. And it took them three days? In a country this size? Are you kidding? That was just enough time for them to cover their tracks.”

It’s sad, of course. Signs around town proclaim that “Corruption enriches few people, and kills many,” but they probably have as much impact as the female condom advertisement, which just looks like a woman handing a plastic bag to a perplexed man. That is to say, these signs probably have little to no effect. In this environment of corruption and impunity, it feels like anything is possible, but not in the good way. Rules are simply guidelines; they are not strictly followed. It means that there is always room for negotiation here, for better or for worse. Right now, since I finally received my questionable visa, it’s for the better. In general, though, it’s certainly not the best.

A Small (But Charming) Welcoming Committee

2009-08-25T10:37:00.000-04:00

Couldn't resist sharing this photo from my recent visit to the rock on the hill overlooking Lake Tanganyika where Stanley and Livingstone met (and Stanley reportedly uttered the famous words, "Livingstone, I presume?"). These charming kids ran up to meet me and my friends, and they danced and played with us. Full post forthcoming!

Taking the Good with the Bad

2009-08-19T05:35:00.003-04:00

Every experience has its ups and downs, and I have compiled a list of some of the best—and worst—things I have experienced while I have been in Burundi. Here goes:

The Good

The beach. It really is paradise. (Just watch out for the crocodiles and hippos.)

Lake Tanganyika. I never imagined the water could be so aquamarine, and that a shoreline could be so picturesque. It’s like being in the Caribbean, in the middle of Africa.

People here are active. It’s amazing to see the groups and individuals of all ages running down the streets, doing push-ups by the side of the road, and playing soccer at all hours of the day. I have never seen anything like it anywhere else.

The monkeys. I love that they surprise you here. They are at work, at home, everywhere. It’s amazing how comfortably they live among people.

The Baguette Magique, the go-to bakery in town. Everyone loves this bakery, and while their cookies all taste the same to me (and leave a greasy residue on my hard palate), I love that the name, in English, is The Magic Stick. Like the 50 Cent song. And I can’t get it out of my head whenever I see their products.

My Burundian supervisor. Full of life and energy, he is a go-getter that actively disregards the red tape and bureaucracy that too often hamper progress. You have a problem? Go straight to him, and he’ll make a phone call to fix it. None of these month-long processes requiring formal letters with stamps and flourished signatures. If only more people were like him!

The Burundian drummers. My office is not far from the stadium, and every day around 4 pm, I hear the rhythmic beats of the drummers as they practice their craft.

Peas and lenga-lenga. This is my lunch every day, and I usually eat it with white rice. The peas here are excellent—really well seasoned—and seem to be more omnipresent than beans. Lenga lenga, a spinach-like vegetable, is also really good, and much better tasting than isombe, which is made of cassava leaves. (No one has been able to tell me what lenga lenga really is, though.)

The t-shirts. Really deserves its own section, because I’ve seen so many good ones. This is where shirts go to die, which is why I saw a guy wearing a shirt from my own hometown the other day. Other good ones:

Nothing Runs Like a Deere (Worn by a man running by the road)

Just because I’m up doesn’t mean I’m awake (Worn by an old woman at 7 am)

Big Johnson’s Weed Whackers (Illustrated with a flesh-colored appendage wearing a hat. Interpret at will)

And my personal favorite:
Worn by an elderly farmer on the side of the road to Makamba: Cheerleading is Life. The Rest is Just Details.

The Bad

The Immigration Office, which, after losing my file for a couple of weeks, continues to refuse to give me the visa I asked for, insisting I pay for one that is more than twice as expensive. They have now had my passport for a month.

The dust of the dry season, which has aged my laptop considerably…my advice: don’t bring a Dell or Mac—bring an IBM Thinkpad! Those computers are like tanks.

The mosquitoes. While not worse than other places I have been, every third person I know seems to contract malaria, making me think that the malarial rate here is quite high.

The traffic…and the accidents. New traffic lights were installed at one of the city’s worst intersections, but a car plowed into one of them, and now none of them work. The irony is overwhelming.

Isombe (cassava leaves). Never was a huge fan, but it makes the list of bad things because 1) it tends to be bitter, and 2) without fail, I always find a pebble in my isombe. I have no idea whether to attribute this to lack of cleanliness, or the mode of preparation, or what, but my teeth can’t handle it anymore.

The phone network. Maybe your friend will get your text message, maybe not…or maybe in three days. And when the network is down, an annoyed Burundian woman reprimands you for trying, because your call obviously cannot be completed, you jerk.

The ants. Even though their brains are Lilliputian, they seem to always outsmart—and outnumber—me. As soon as I put down my plate, they swarm it and try to carry it away. Now, after realizing that they live INSIDE the table where I prepare my food, I have been left with the dilemma of spraying them with poison--and in doing so, poisoning myself. As a result, I’ve resorted to pouring boiling water on the counter to wipe them out, or wiping down the counter with a thin layer of Rwandan pili-pili oil. In addition to adding a tasty flavor to my food, it repels pests! How versatile.

A Simian Visitor

2009-08-16T11:38:00.002-04:00

Saturday, I was still recovering from a light cold and severe migraine that had troubled me on Friday. I woke up at 8 and started working on my computer—it will be a miracle if my task here is complete before I leave—and took a break at noon to go for a run. Exhausted, I returned to my house, showered, and took a nap on the couch in the screen room. The cat at the house I am housesitting joined me, lazily outstretching herself and clawing at the cushions.

Something caught her attention, and I worried that she had seen the baby gecko that I had spotted the day before. She tends to massacre geckos, and I tend to protect them, since anything that eats mosquitoes is a friend of mine. She remained perked, jerking her head every now and then, but I couldn’t figure out what she was looking at.

I stretched and roused myself from my nap, and through the screen saw a lone monkey sitting on a branch of a tree in the garden, eating something orange. I looked at it for a while, puzzled that it was alone—monkeys travel in packs here—and when my curiosity was satisfied, I walked into the house.

The cat followed, but then froze. Standing in my dining room was a two-and-a-half foot tall monkey. He looked around, obviously confused, and then walked toward the cat, whose back was fully arched, and who immediately dashed out of sight, sliding on the floor as she went. On all fours, the brown monkey slowly meandered to the door through which I had come, looked around, and then turned around and walked back through the living room and into the dining room. He saw me, but seemed not to mind that I was there. It was more like a tacit acknowledgment.

As interesting—and humanlike—as this animal was, I was no fool. I wasn’t about to try to touch it, lest I catch Ebola or, God forbid, it attacks out of self-defense. Instead, I looked around my dining room to see what shiny objects it might take. My camera, my cell phone, and my laptop were all in plain sight. I moved slowly toward them, and the monkey turned and made its way into the kitchen. The kitchen door had been ajar, so this must have been how he had come in. He stood up on his hind legs and surveyed the scene, displaying how tall he was. Then he squeezed himself back through the door and rejoined his group, which by this point was jumping on the roof, pulling mangoes off the adjacent trees, and generally making a racket.

The guard was standing in the yard. “Did you see the monkey?” I asked. “He was in the house.”

He nodded, flabbergasted. “Ah, these monkeys, they just cause trouble!” the guard mustered. After I returned to the kitchen, he stood, staring openmouthed, at the roof.

Now, I have to go find that cat. The unexpected visit certainly redefines the idea of a house pest…or perhaps that of a house guest?

Local Eats

2009-08-11T04:16:00.002-04:00

Steamed goat meat. Doesn’t sound like the most appealing dish in the world, but it is Burundi’s specialty. They call it muchopo, and the best versions of it can be found in the Asian Quarter and in Bwiza, the Congolese/Senegalese Quarter of Bujumbura.

As a thank you for taking me to the tailor on the weekend to check on my dress order, I told my Burundian co-worker that I would treat him to muchopo—but he had to pick the place. I had wanted to experience Bwiza, which is widely considered to be the liveliest neighborhood in town, but he insisted on the Asian Quarter (“There are too many fights in Bwiza,” he said).

We ambled into the neighborhood, rolling over potholes and unpaved roads. This area looks vastly different from the rest of the city. There are compounds, square buildings, small empty porches that become bars at some point in the evening. Men loitered here and there, and minarets of green and white rose over the rooftops. There are many Muslims in this area.

It’s called the Asian Quarter because of the businessmen. There is a significant population of Indians here, and I’ve seen a few Arabs as well. Since it’s near the port, they set up shop here, with little warehouses and distribution centers. My friend tells me it’s possible to find whatever you need in this area—he walked into a crowded little shop and asked if they had Tahini sauce; after digging around a bit and brushing off a layer of dust, a jar of sauce was produced.

We pulled into a courtyard with straw huts and tables. The place was called Chez Terrence, and was well known for its muchopo. After greeting literally everyone in the cabaret (my coworker seems to know everyone), we sat down at a little wooden table and ordered some muchopo and Amstel.

While we were waiting, a huge SUV rolled into the parking lot. Music was blaring from the open windows, and everyone was looking at the people who had just arrived. They jumped down from the car, laughing and talking much louder than necessary. The men wore camouflage shorts and flip flops and the women were prancing about in strapless tops. They popped open the back, where they sat and tailgated, drinking massive beers and being obnoxious.

“Rwandans,” my coworker sighed. I nearly passed out laughing. In any other country, people would have thought they were American. Camouflage shorts? I have never seen a Rwandan man wearing shorts. Only schoolboys wear shorts. But apparently Rwandan men wear them when they come here. It was only too funny to see from this other perspective.

The muchopo emerged, on a wide plate, covered with thinly sliced and somewhat pickled onions, and served with a side of umurobe, which is a cassava-based starchy dough. It’s more dense than ugali, and I have been told that it keeps for a month on the counter (this is very questionable). Eating umurobe is like eating a brick—it just sits in your stomach, feeling heavy and unhealthy and with little nutritive value. I expected the steamed meat to be gray and soggy, but for some reason, its exterior was crispy and the interior was as tender as goat meat can be. It was chopped in finger-food sized pieces, and you had to pay attention as you were eating, as some of them still had a couple of goat hairs attached. Some of the chunks I picked up were stained dark blue, which makes me think they used blue twine in the cooking process…so I didn’t eat those bits, but beyond that, it was surprisingly delicious. Apparently it takes seven hours for muchopo to cook (when steaming meat like that, it doesn’t surprise me that it takes so long).

My coworker insisted that we also try their goat brochettes, since I still hadn’t had a particularly good one here in Burundi. He ordered me one, despite the fact that I was full of umurobe. As we sat in the dark, chatting with some of his friends that joined us at our table, I took several bites. The brochettes were…surprising. The first bite was tough. The second was too soft and tasted a bit weird—that turned out to be goat liver, and I couldn’t manage to spit it out without looking crass, so I just chewed it as much as I needed to before swallowing it in a big chunk. Blech. The next morsel was a huge chunk of fat, which was as soft as the liver, but was so chewy that I realized what I was eating and held it solemnly in my mouth until everyone turned to the server to order more beer. I then managed to throw it over my shoulder, and no one was the wiser.

The verdict: Burundi muchopo good, Burundi brochettes…not so much.

Monkeying at the Office

2009-08-06T09:06:00.004-04:00

It's hard to see his...ahem...bright anatomy in this photo, but I decided to allow him some privacy.

Today, as I was walking back to the office from the little hole-in-the-wall restaurant where I get peas and rice for lunch every day, I heard someone running up behind me. I turned to find a monkey had leapt up onto the wall next to me. With a brown body, black face and eyes ringed in white, its long tail curled down the wall. I was observing him from two feet away, when he turned, revealing bright, teal-blue testicles. Given the general dullness of his coat, it was certainly a surprise.

Soon, I found myself surrounded by a whole family of monkeys. They were swinging from the trees, running along the walls (which were topped with broken glass for security, but seemed to have no effect on the monkeys), and one that jumped down and walked next to me for a while before running off and jumping into a tree. I carry a camera for these moments, but of course, when I turned it on, the battery died. I managed to shake it a little and get it to turn on for a brief few seconds, during which I blindly snapped photos of one of the monkeys before it scampered off.

On another note, I have a visa update. The PAF finally found my file, and despite my having clearly stated that I wanted a one-month visa renewal, they gave me a 70-day visa. I had requested a multiple-entry visa, because I was thinking of popping into Rwanda one of these weekends, but have come to realize that I simply don’t have the time (partly because of work, partly because it took them so long to give me my visa). Now, they’re insisting that I pay a whopping $140 (this is in addition to the $80 I paid back in Washington), when I should be paying only $60. They’ve already written it in my passport, but I’m going to see if I can negotiate to have that cancelled and get the visa I wanted. (We’ll see how long that takes...and how successful I am.)

It seems rather strange to me that a country so starved for tourism and development aid charges unjustifiably high prices for visas. Rwanda, by comparison, allows free visas for three months to citizens of several countries, including the U.S., Canada, and the UK (but not France)—and it’s a real incentive for people who wish to volunteer or visit. I've been collecting my thoughts on the Burundi-Rwanda comparison, but those shall be reserved for a future post!

Alphabet Soup

2009-08-04T03:11:00.002-04:00

That is, perhaps, the best way to describe my brain right now. It is swimming with languages, and when I open my mouth, who knows what will come out.

I decided to come to Burundi for multiple reasons. The first—and most important—was that the job offer was the most challenging. The second was that I would be able to use my French full-time (Burundi is still Francophone, although it is moving toward English due to its recent membership in the East African Community), and continue to improve my Kinyarwanda. I had been told that Kirundi, the local language of Burundi, was very similar to Kinyarwanda (the language of Rwanda), and was curious to see how true that was.

As it turns out, they are very similar. With a couple of exceptions, the languages are almost the same, and Burundians always tell me that they understand Rwandans easily, the same way that Americans and Britons understand each other. I have only had problems with one word: beans. I ordered them in Kinyarwanda once, and was brought peas, which were still delicious, but weren’t exactly what I ordered. Another time, I tried it again, and the young boy taking my order looked at me like I had six heads. I switched to French. “Eh,” he acknowledged, and sure enough, I received my beans. (Note: In Kinyarwanda, it’s ibishyimbo. In Kirundi, it’s ibiharage.)

I’m also taking advantage of the opportunity to learn Swahili, and have hired a private Swahili tutor for about $6 an hour. Swahili, the lingua franca of East Africa, is fairly easy to learn. Its grammar is (mostly) logical, and many of its words are derived from Arabic (the language was born on the island of Zanzibar, which for years was an Omani sultanate) and English. I often laugh when my teacher teaches me new words—such as kampyuta (computer), shati (shirt), wiki (week), and the months of the year (which basically look like pidgin English, from Januari to Decemba).

I have been insistent with my tutor, telling him that I want to learn Tanzanian Swahili, which is the purest form. Kenyan and Congolese Swahili is different, and Tanzanians look down on these dialects as muddied. My tutor is very good about this, but since he is Congolese, I do catch him teaching me what he calls “Bantu Swahili” from time to time. And he, in turn, catches me mixing Kirundi and Kinyarwanda with Swahili during our lessons.

There is certainly a heavier Tanzanian influence here than in Rwanda, and as a result, Swahili is known as the language of the street. The director of my office once sniffed that Swahili wasn’t spoken in our office—only Kirundi or French, pure and simple. Of course, knowing the “language of the street” is very helpful when you are trying to tell a taxi driver who does not understand any French or English where you want to go, or when you are making conversation with the women who lay out their smelts to dry in the sun near my office.

The result has been that I have begun to speak in Kirundi and Swahili at the same time, dropping in words from both languages, with an occasional French word as well. Luckily for me, that’s how people speak here.

And what of my English? Any English speaker here will acknowledge the inevitability of “Franglais.” Our brains are so mixed up that most of my conversations with expats are bilingual. I do fear that some of my English is slipping—I recall my junior year of college, when I was studying abroad in the south of France. I had only spoken in French, so when I was being interviewed over the phone for a possible internship, I found it nearly impossible to put together a coherent sentence in English. When the interviewer asked me what my greatest weakness was, I knew that I had to come up with a strength disguised as a weakness. As I struggled to find the words in English, the silence on the phone grew deeper, and I ended up telling the woman that I am sometimes late to work. (Note to possible future employers: I am NEVER late to work. Er..) Needless to say, if there ever was a wrong answer, that was it, and I didn’t get the internship.

At the very least, my colleagues and friends understand me, and I’ve hopefully limited the faux pas. And while having this soup of languages in my head will probably make writing term papers in the fall an even more laborious process, I’m quite satisfied that I am able to communicate with Burundians here in the meantime.

I think I'm illegal.

2009-08-02T06:17:00.000-04:00

It's not my fault, though. I swear.

The Burundian Embassy in Washington only issues visas of one month, which I didn't realize until I arrived here and heard my boss's woes about visa issues. It expired in the middle of last month, but we brought it into the PAF (the Police d'Air et Frontieres)--the immigration office--which is a nightmare of disorganization and bureaucracy. They opened a file for me, and it was expected that, for another $60 (the original visa was $80), I would have my new visa in a week.

I know they were working on my file, because apparently it was laying out for everyone to see, and a friend who was passing through saw it. Privacy is a bit of a foreign concept.

Well, two-and-a-half weeks later, and with no end in sight, I still don't have a new visa. Why? Because the PAF lost my file. "Oh, it'll turn up," they have assured me. Looking at the chaotic mounds of dusty paper piled on every horizontal surface, I'm not so certain.

Feeding Guinea Pigs to Crocodiles (and other things that are not normally allowed in zoos)

2009-07-30T04:25:00.011-04:00

One of the greatest attractions in Bujumbura, I was told upon arrival, was the Musee Vivant, or the Living Museum. With a name like that, it seemed like an innocuous children’s park, with a couple of friendly goats, and perhaps some monkeys, that children could feed and pet.
Not so, my friend told me. There are crocodiles there, she said, and you can feed them. With live guinea pigs.

Obviously, I had to see this for myself.

I managed to convince two of my guy friends to come with me. If I was going to feed crocodiles, I preferred to do so in the company of people who would be entertained by the experience, not with people who were going to whine about it. It is, admittedly, an experience that doesn’t sit well with many muzungus. But where else can you see a crocodile on the hunt, other than on National Geographic?

After paying the 5,000 Franc (less than $5) entry fee, a guide walked up to escort us around the small park. It was more of a zoo, but with a real focus on crocodiles. The guide had worked there for twenty years, he said, and hasn’t lost a finger or appendage yet. He also told me that he simply doesn’t take chances, particularly with the big crocodiles.

The first two concrete pens separately held adolescent crocodiles, about three feet long. They were Nile crocodiles, he explained, and the younger they are, the more agile. He asked us if we wanted to feed them with guinea pigs (les cochons-dindes) or with rabbits. The guys, excited to see exactly how fast these crocodiles could move (since they were just languishing in the small pools of water), took the guide up on the offer, and for 4,000 Francs each, we had two guinea pigs ready for sacrifice.

One of my friends dropped the guinea pig into the pen, and the crocodile launched out of its resting place, whipping water violently on the walls of the pen, and darted for the prey. In one bite, it was gone. The second was dropped into the other pen, with the same effect. With a squeal, the guinea pig had disappeared. The only trace that remained was a smear of blood on the crocodile’s snout.

My friends asked how much it would cost to give the crocodile a goat, so there would at least be a fight. The guide said it was 50,000 Francs (about $50). We decided it wasn’t worth it. (Plus, you can buy a goat on the side of the road for $10, so asking $50 was way too much.)

Moving on, we came to the leopard cage. In the past, the leopard had been living in a 2 meter by 1 meter cage, but the Musee Vivant decided to build it a larger one, with a tall canopy and large branch so that the leopard could climb up and perch if it wanted to. There was a bucket of water in a corner surrounded by, inexplicably, tufts of fur.

The leopard had a full, thick, spotted coat. He rubbed against the cage, which was so close that we could reach out and touch its body (though we were told not to try to pet its face, because we would probably lose several fingers). The guide told us that we could also feed the leopard with a guinea pig. We took him up on the offer, and a couple of minutes later, he emerged with one in hand.

With a toss into the cage, the leopard pounced, grabbing the guinea pig by the head and carrying it around the cage. After settling on a place to eat, it walked around in circles before lying down and systematically eating, by carefully pulling off the fur and discarding it in tufts on the ground. The mystery of the piles of fur had been solved. Even big cats don’t like hairballs.

Next, we saw the large crocodiles, which occupied enormous pens. Each had its own, and was submerged in the shallow pool of water, with only their eyes and their slit ears above the surface. We were the prey; they followed our movements, slowly lumbering in our general direction as we walked around the pen. They were also Nile crocodiles, about seven or eight feet long, and wide in the middle. One looked ready to pounce, which it probably would have, if not for the tall concrete walls that surrounded it.

The next stop was the chimpanzee cage, and the guide warned us not to get too close with our cameras, because the chimps grab them—and getting them back in one piece would be difficult. They reached their black, hairy, humanlike hands through the cage, trying to snatch my camera and the beer that my friend was drinking. (Er…there’s another thing that’s not allowed in the United States.)

My friends may or may not have given beer to the chimps, and the chimps may or may not have shared it. The guide, who was very laissez-faire about everything, responded in a way that made it clear that this is a relatively frequent occurrence. The chimps went crazy.

We moved into the reptile house, where we saw a spitting cobra, a regular cobra, some other venom-spitting snakes, and some innocuous ones. We also held an enormous python, which began to wrap itself ominously around our arms, and defecated on both of my friends. They were nonplussed, to say the least, and tried to wash off the white mess.

The last attraction was the baby crocodile pen. The guide jumped in and, with swiftness and confidence, grabbed the baby crocodile, which was about a foot long, by the snout and tail, securing its jaws firmly shut. He passed it to us to hold, giving us careful directions about how to hold it so as to not lose a finger. We each took hold of it (it urinated on one of the guys…it wasn’t his lucky day) and felt its smooth underbelly and rough skin.

The guide then asked us if we wanted to feed it. We did, and he brought back a baby guinea pig (the regular ones were too big for him). This was my Achilles heel, and I should have known it. The baby he brought back was adorable, and fit in the palm of my hand. I made the mistake of holding it—of building rapport—and gave it a little kiss before passing it along. Unlike the others, I couldn’t watch this one.

Meanwhile, the boys were yelling at the crocodile, making it seem like a speedy end had not befallen this little guinea pig. I went back to the pen to see the crocodile snapping, but missing every time. He went for it no less than five times, and failed. Finally, the crocodile gave up, swimming away.

We decided that this little guinea pig had earned his stripes. We retrieved him from the water, and, cupping him in my hands, where he was trembling violently from cold and fear, we decided to keep him. The guide told us that he was injured, that he wouldn’t live—but in fact, he hadn't suffered so much as a scratch. And so we carried him out of the Musee Vivant, and he will live at the Marine House, with endless quantities of carrot shavings and lettuce. We named him Harry Potter—because he was the guinea pig who lived.

Things To Do In Bujumbura, Burundi

2009-07-27T10:32:00.012-04:00

(Also known as the Bujumbura Restaurant and Shopping Guide)

The following guide was originally (and mostly) compiled by several expatriates who lived in Bujumbura over a number of years. Many people who arrive in the country to work are sent a somewhat outdated version of this guide, and I thought it would be useful to share it with a wider audience, since it is extremely difficult to find up-to-date information on restaurants and activities in Bujumbura.

The credit for compiling it goes to the unnamed many (among whom were several CARE International staff), and in particular to my friend Ledio, who was the first to send it to me, and who was one of the original authors of the Guide. I have tried to update it a bit from its original version.

Anyone who has information to add to this guide is invited to do so!

General Information on Restaurants

Service is pretty slow. Don’t be impatient!
Wine is very expensive here, so if you have a limited budget, stick to water or beer.
You can drink the tap water in Bujumbura, so don’t worry if you are served tap water or ice.
The vast majority of restaurants understand French. A few understand English.
Tipping is welcomed, but not mandatory. While I have heard different perspectives on this, a tip of approximately 5% seems to be good.
At the time of writing (2009), the exchange rate is approximately 1200 Burundian Francs to $1 USD.

Key words:
Ikanye –cold
Ibitoke-plantains
Msososo: meat-instead of heart, intestines, liver, etc.

For other key words related to meals and eating, see the Kinyarwanda guide. Kinyarwanda and Kirundi are nearly the same language—most words are the same, and the two languages are mutually comprehensible.

Restaurants

Tanganika
Good for a nice meal out and one of the best restaurants in town. Near the port. Old colonial style building with excellent service and a breeze from the lake. Probably has the best chocolate mousse in town but also excellent fish carpaccio, other fish and meat dishes – such as sangala with blue cheese, grilled lamb chops, etc. Someone told me recently they have the best steak in town – order the “tournedos” with your choice of sauce. I recommend the spinach as a side dish – quite delicious. Be prepared to spend a bit ($30), especially if you have some wine.

Khana Khazana
This is the Bujumbura branch of the restaurants which you can find in Kigali and Kampala. People call this the best restaurant in town. In Kiriri, off of Avenue de Belvedere. Beautiful pavilion seating, luxuriously decorated. Great Indian food—have never been disappointed. Numerous vegetarian options. Can accommodate big groups. If you have a birthday, tell the staff, and they'll sing for you in 5 languages for 20 minutes. It's a little excessive but pretty hilarious. Closed on Mondays.

Belvedere
Situated up on a hill in Kiriri with a spectacular view of the town, lake and DRC. Great place to grab a sunset cocktail. There is a bar counter – where you can sip a cold beer, eat some potato curls and look at the beautiful view; just a shame they don’t do tapas! A wide range of European cuisine, rather expensive and fancy for the price but the view is great. Service is good here. Prices hover around 12,000-16,000 per main course.

Bora Bora
On the lake, about 10 minutes north of town, next to the Club du Lac Tanyanika. Fabulous atmosphere. Everyone orders their pizzas, because they are great and whatever you can’t finish, you can bring home with you. Pizzas run from 9,000-11,000 Francs. They also have salads and fish. The latter is unbelievably pricey! Good place for drinks on the weekend, while lounging next to the pool. There is also free wireless internet, so the place is often overrun with muzungus on their computers!

Chez Andre
On Rue Rwagasore, on the right as you go up the hill. Beautiful, beautiful restaurant. Greek-themed, usually empty, but is known for amazing food. A non-profit to train domestiques in cooking is run out of here. Prices are around 12,000-18,000, and they have various kinds of fish, steak, and pasta.

Kasuku
A very colorful and friendly restaurant, run by a female, Belgian/Rwandan rally car driver who has lots of friendly dogs. Also known as the town's gay bar, although homosexuality is forbidden here. Mostly a nightlife destination, not a restaurant destination. Friendly service but if there are more than two other tables full, be prepared to wait.

Botanika
A family-run boutique hotel/restaurant with wireless connection anywhere – so you can do e-mails while eating in the terrace or garden. Excellent salads, a great fish steamed with vegetables, hamburgers and other treats available. Food is served relatively quickly and is always good—since the quality of the food is always constant, there are no nasty surprises!

Aroma
Nice coffeeshop in town, very tranquil, with wireless internet and places where you can plug in. They serve real Burundian coffee (and fancy coffee drinks), not Nescafe, and offer some food items as well. (If you get the crepe with spinach, make sure you tell them you don’t want the ground beef in it. Unless you do. Not advisable.) They also have fruit smoothies and ice cream. Very sweet, attentive staff.

Ubuntu
On the lake with nice garden and pleasant atmosphere. Sometimes, you can see hippopotamuses while you eat. Service is not that bad, but check to see if they are using their generator before ordering a pizza. They have good pizzas – some say the best in town--and standard meat, fish and vegetable dishes. Pizzas are half price on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Expect to spend around $20 for food and a beer.

Novotel
Surprisingly for a large chain hotel, it has decent food at decent prices, you sit out on the terrace near the pool. Not exactly warm and cozy. You tend to get stared at a lot here. Seems like a place where dodgy deals take place! There are a lot of mosquitoes most of the day and in the evenings. Don’t forget to buy cakes at the little kiosk next to the bar. (As a side note, the hair salon is good for abazungu males. Seven thousand to get a haircut and the hairdresser actually owns scissors. Get your hair cut with loud Congolese music plays in a nearby boombox and look at the splendid hairstyles women around you having done!)

The Ethiopian Restaurant
I can’t remember what this is actually called. Incredibly hard to find….take the Avenue du Large going away from the city center, and take a left after the sign for Orphan Aid. Excellent Ethiopian food, with real injera. Garden seating. English is spoken here! Whenever I eat here, I spend about 10,000 Francs ($10), and leave stuffed to the brim.

Oasis
Greek food, good salads, best pizzas in town according to some. Try and get a table on the terrace as the main room can be quite dark. Be careful locking your car here; there are quite a few street kids and thieves around here.

Cercle nautique
The place to go and hang and have a cold beer watching the sun set over Lake Tanganyika. A favorite is to nibble on the small dried/fried fish, Ndagala or munch on samosas. Someone also told me that there pizzas are amazing, crisp with tasty sauces. They have some great drinks: an excellent ginger juice called “gingembre”, a thing called ice tea – which might have tea but has Sprite as well and is very refreshing. If you are lucky they will have fresh pineapple juice. A good place for sunset drinks and beautiful evenings. Occasionally a hippo or two can be spotted in the lake.

Shanghai
Thought to be the best Chinese restaurant in town. A nice family run restaurant, meals in the garden, decent variety. This restaurant was held up a gunpoint 4 times, but now that problem seems to have gone. My favorite is the dumplings called “ravioli” on the menu, the aubergines and even though I don’t like sweet and sour – the sweet and sour pork is great. Also the best place for take-out.

Beijing
A Chinese restaurant on Rue Rwagasore. Most of the tables are in an outdoor pavilion. Salty food, but what do you expect? You can also buy a kilo of tofu here for 4,000 francs, or a kilo of Chinese noodles for 4,000 francs. (Chinese noodles cost at least 9,000 elsewhere, and tofu cannot be found anywhere else.) If you place an advance order, you can also get dumpling/egg roll wrappers for 400 FrBu apiece.

Aosta
More of a fashionable lounge than a restaurant, though it does serve dinner (prices are expensive). On the second level, next door to Botanika, and has a beautiful porch with a great view of the Havana Club. Drinks are decently priced. This place has a lot of potential, but was empty when I went.

Barbeque
An up-market cabaret, with a variety of grilled meats. You can have a solid meal for 10 USD. The gigot d’agneau or the lamb leg is definitely the best dish. Surprisingly cheap and very good food. You have to eat the lamb with fried bananas and spinach. The best place in Bujumbura for their vegetables, including the bananas (the really long ones), spinach (absolutely delicious and not salty at all served on a hot tripod) and peas. The best value for money in all of Bujumbura. Does take out too.)

Tandoor
A newcomer to Bujumbura, Tandoor is an Indian restaurant that tends to be low on flavor and high on kitsch. The dal and the chicken korma were pretty flavorless, and not spicy, despite requests for extra heat. The food was served relatively quickly, although others have complained about how slow it was. From the Exorcist-esque German gnome in lederhosen with the revolving head that welcomes diners as they arrive to the concrete kudu in the garden, to the horse's head in the dining room, to the erratic fountain, this place offers endless topics of conversation. Open for lunch and on Mondays (when Khana Khazana is closed).

Eden du lac
On the lake with a nice garden and up-market cabaret food as well as some other choices such as soup. They have sandwiches but I would not recommend them. On weekends they have one of the liveliest “boites” or night clubs.

Le Petit Bruxelles
I'm a little obsessed with this restaurant. The best burgers in Buja. Just to make sure you read that correctly, yes, these are the best burgers in Buja. Try the garlic ones--they're amazing and will also keep the vampires away for days. Can hardly be called a hole-in-the-wall--it inhabits a hallway! Very charming and cheap, though, and there is Amstel on draft rather than in a bottle, which is a nice change. Near Botanika and the Tourism Office on the Boulevard de l'Uprona.

Isango
Upscale Burundian restaurant. Beautiful garden seating. The fish brochette was excellent, and the lengalenga was even better (tasted like perfectly seasoned spinach). A little pricey, but not too bad. On the Boulevard Mwezi Gisabo.

Maquis
Excellent music, but on a crowded street with poor parking. In the university area. A lively scene around the bar filled with journalists, lawyers, NGO staff and interesting people to meet and chat with. Nice vegetation, a wooden upstairs and once again excellent music. They have the standard meat and fish brochettes, salads and it is most famous for its chicken – you will need to share the chicken and have plenty of time.

La Fantasia
Near the main roundabout in town. The best place for pastas and Italian-style food. It is actually run by an Italian lady and serves mostly to abazungu from the UN. Was only open for lunch, but is now serving dinner as well. Order the penne carbonara, aux aubergines or aux courgettes. Some good sandwiches such as Prego (beef and caramelized onions) and also vegetarian sandwiches. The hamburgers are pretty good and juicy, and they have nice salads. A killer tiramisu is also served but can be pricey. Can order take out at lunchtime.

Le Petit Suisse
In the Quartier Asiatique, near Buja Day Spa and the Cameo Cinema. A lovely little restaurant with a nice view of the main mosque, and with the most amazing fish brochettes I've had in Bujumbura. Nice omelettes. Cheap, too.

Kassim’s
On the main road in the Quartier Asiatique, a red unmarked door next to a door with painted keys. Also known as the Chicken place. Serves grilled chickens cooked in a red sauce which are really tasty and different to the usual tastes of Buj. They serve chilled prune de Japon juice in small water bottles. No alcohol here, it is run by a Muslim family. Really good and cheap.

Café Au Petit Plateau
The local restaurant where I eat most days. Hole in the wall. Not a muzungu place, which I love. You can find all of the Burundian staples here: Ubugari, beef (which is very tender), fish, beans, lengalenga, isombe, peas, etc. I usually eat here for 1,000 Francs (less than $1 USD). They don’t put salt in the food—they let you add your own. Clean preparation. You can also get good milk and ikivuguto (yogurt milk) here. On Rue Rwagasore, across from the U.S. Embassy, near Dmitri’s.

Cafarc
Another restaurant where you can find good local food. Located near the Poissonerie on Rue Rwagasore. Look for the sign “Galerie Les Arcades,” go down a short passage, and it’s an airy little restaurant with some outdoor tables. It is a bit dusty. They serve all the staples: rice, beans, peas, lengalenga, plantains, meat, etc. The peas and rice are excellent. The meat isn't great--stick with the vegetarian options. A surprising amount of English is spoken here. I eat here for around 2,500 Francs (less than $2.50 USD).

Baobab
Senegalese restaurant across from Aroma (look for the alleyway) on Rue Uprona that serves local food for a bit of a higher price than elsewhere. Try the traditional fish dish and the peanut sauce. Great venue, with high thatched roof ceilings and decorative details that make it a fun place for lunch. Check the bill, though--they tend to overcharge!

Le Cayor
Offers the town's best coffee--absolutely delicious and puts Aroma to shame. Located in the middle of town, it proclaims "fast food," and it is pretty fast. For those in a rush, order directly from the buffet. Otherwise, you can also order sandwiches and hamburgers. Cheap and cheerful. Parking is horrid.

Hibiscus
Local food, cute little restaurant. For 1200 Francs, you can get the Plat du Jour, which comes with rice, lenga lenga, a chunk of beef, bananas in sauce, and beans. For a little more, you can get peas as well. Delicious and fast. Near the Greek Orthodox Church.

Cabarets
Bujumbura has a wide variety of local corner bars known as cabarets and I have listed a few here, there are many more. If there is a choice, choose goat meat as it is usually much more tender then beef. In some places, sausage brochettes are available. Cold beer and sodas are usually available.

For beer drinkers there are usually 4 varieties:

Amstel: usually only available in large bottles, locally brewed by the Dutch managed brewery but quite a high alcohol level –stronger than Tusker
Amstel Bock: comes in small bottles in most places, a dark, flavorful beer
Primus: a light beer in a large bottle with lower alcohol than Amstel, popular with ladies and daytime drinkers
Heineken:this is imported and very expensive. It is favored by the elite.

Sometimes, Tusker and Leffe are available—at a price.

Other drinks you will find:
Flat water
Sparkling water
Coca-Cola
Fanta Orange
Fanta Citron
Tonic
Pineapple juice
Passionfruit juice

Chez Gerard
A nice cabaret which, according to Burundians, has the best brochettes. I tried the beef ones and wasn't incredibly impressed, but the atmosphere is great. Cheap and cheerful, outdoor seating, pool tables. Lots of parking. In Kigobe, near the 28 Novembre.

Cocodi
On Rue Rwagasore, across from Chez Andre. It has a sign that says it rents DVDs...perhaps it does, but that's not why people go there. Great local cabaret that has karaoke from time to time. They have sweet fried bananas--delicious! And a wonderful atmosphere. The goat brochettes were a little tough, but the fish ones were very good.

Le Pont
A nicer cabaret with probably the best selection of brochettes and other meat dishes and salads in town. Nice relaxed atmosphere in the garden and good cold beers. Decently priced ; you will probably spend $10.

Picnic or Kolomboko
A lively cabaret that has excellent music, using old LP records. They serve roasted meat on most nights, otherwise standard brochettes and an interesting mixed clientele. The chicken is also pretty good. Dancing to the great old tunes can happen most any night of the week.

Escale du Bien (note this is not the real name)
A garden cabaret located adjacent to Tele 10. Standard cabaret fare but a delicious grilled goat leg is available – sufficient for about 3 people served with grilled bananas and onion.

Mutsuhinda
They serve an interesting snack of cheese and eggplant, good fish and beef brochettes, very simple.

Africana
A pool table, decent brochettes (beef, sausage, sometimes chicken and fish) and they usually have a choice of potato or banana frites. That is early at night, later it becomes a disco with lots of interesting young ladies.

Kibira Bar
At the very end of Avenue du Large: a rasta bar with nice gardens – great place for an afternoon. There is donkey and a monkey and old cars that provide lights and some camping vans that during the weekend can be rented by the hour! A fun, lively place to hang out. Food is not what you go there for!

Avenue 2 – Bwiza
This is the Congolese neighborhood and is full of ambience and very much the central African feel. There are a variety of restaurants but best to go with a national staff member who can help you choose which place has the best mshwi that day. You sit on the side of the road, practically in the road, and eat mswhi which is steamed and then grilled goat meat, served with grilled onions and “pate de manioc” or manioc ugali. You might not find a cold beer and you will definitely not find a toilet.

Supermarkets (Alimentations)

The town has a series of alimentations that have items such as wine, cheese, veggies, bread etc. These are for your basic household needs – and it is not an attempt to describe all shopping possibilities.

Escale du Bien Alimentation
The first on the left after Librarie St Paul as you climb up Ave Rwagasore. This is my favourite – the vegetables come in twice a week and are good and fresh – and the staff very friendly. Inside they have all the basics you need and that all the other shops have, with the difference being the staff are friendly. The local eggs are always good quality, they have the standard brown bread and cheese and sausages.

Belladone
Nice alimentation where Avenue Rwagasore meets the 28 Novembre. They have real eggs (with yellow yolks, not the alien white yolk eggs). They have vegetables, but not the same variety as Au Bon Prix. Sometimes, they carry Leffe beer. Open amazingly late—sometimes until 11 pm.

Fido Dido
On the left –as you go up the hill. Sometimes has a good deal on a nice white wine, has a bakery next door and is usually quite crowded. I have never really shopped here much as parking often gets hectic and there is not that much of excitement. Also their cigarettes are more expensive than elsewhere.

Dimitri
THE MOST EXPENSIVE SUPERMARKET IN TOWN. They can hardly justify their astronomical prices. Cannot really miss it – on the corner as you leave town from the market. Once you get past the blackmarket money changers and the beggars, you enter the large shop with all sorts of items, patés and cheese imported from Europe etc. However, sometimes it is necessary to venture in – there are some things like metal forks, household items, and decent wines.

Poissonnerie
Go up the road north from Dmitris (not toward Boucherie Nouvelle) and just at the next junction you will see a small shop that sells all types of local fish. I am told they have fresh fish but have only found frozen fish.

Bambino
Next to the Poissonerie, a packed little supermarket run by a very, very nice man. They have a small selection of good produce, and also sell souvenirs. Open every day, even Sunday.

Boucherie Nouvelle
Down the road near Dmitris but not the same as above. Basically the best place to buy meat, cheeses, homemade sausages, salami, prepared meats for barbecues, other imported and local items like chutneys and sauces. Sometimes, they have chicken. They also have frozen seafood, like crab and shrimp. I usually go early on a Saturday morning before the crowd arrives around 9:00 a.m. They also carry assorted other things, like yogurt, milk, juice, crackers, etc. I bought my olive oil here—the cheapest place in town to find it.

There are other branches of Boucherie Nouvelle all over town.

Au Bon Prix
On the 28 Novembre, easily recognized by all the UN and diplomatic cars outside. They do not have the best prices in town; in fact, it’s one of the most expensive, and the staff are not overly friendly. I do all my purchasing of beer and sodas here because the prices are the same as elsewhere. Other things that are here and not elsewhere- a good selection of hams and cheeses, a nice local goat cheese – that is soft, almost a chevre, as well as a large selection of vegetables geared towards Wazungu – such as grapes, and little orange mushrooms etc when they are in season. Very nice vegetables and fruit, as well. They also carry strawberries!

Shopping

Marche Central
Middle of town. Total chaos, but best prices you’ll find anywhere, if you negotiate hard. Great fabric! When you go, carry as few valuables as possible, and, if you’re carrying a purse, make sure it’s small and fits under your arm. Thieves abound, and they have been known to reach into bags or, worse, cut through them.

Craft Market
On Rue Rwagasore, near the U.S. Embassy. There’s several individual shops packed to the brim with local handicrafts and Congolese handicrafts (textiles, statues, and masks, in particular). There is also a place to buy vegetables, sauces, and local jams. Outside is a basket seller, as well as a plant and flower market. Bargain, bargain, bargain. Make sure that the plant roots are alive.

Congolese Market
Across from the Hotel Source du Nil, a small market with multiple Congolese vendors selling masks, statues, and other odds and ends from Congo. Some of their stuff may be truly old, but a lot of it was probably made two weeks ago and buried in the dirt to age it a bit, so just keep that in mind when they tell you something is an "antique."

Indian shop near Peace House and stadium
Here you will find all sorts of things for your house, from pillows, to food mixers, cutlery, etc. Decent prices. They also have some food items that come in from Nairobi such as some spices, sauces etc.

Mutoyi
There are two centers: one on the way out of town, and one in Kigobe (off the 28 Novembre), near where the new U.S. Embassy will be. Here is where you buy the local pottery as well as good chickens as well as basic household items for good prices. You can also buy all sorts of food items and school supplies and the prices are good. Their gelato is sought after.

Centre des Femmes Musaga
A women’s centre that makes great materials that they paint with all sorts of designs. Great for curtains, T-shirts, wall hangings etc. You can special order T-shirts and it is the best price in town and the quality is good.

T 2000 or the Chinese Shop
You can find anything here from electric cars to coffee mugs - a large store with electric gadgets, household items etc. It is not that cheap though.

Hotels

Botanika- Known as one of the best hotels in town. Downtown, on the Boulevard de l'Uprona, not far from the dilapidated Novotel. Bujumbura's boutique hotel, it is beautifully situated and appointed, and hosts one of the finest restaurants in town. Rooms have wireless internet, DSTV, and air conditioning, and they wash your laundry in proper washers and dryers. $90 includes breakfast; $110 includes all 3 meals per day. Phone: +257 22228873 or +257 22226792.

Club du Lac Tanganyika- The top hotel in Bujumbura, with prices to match. Located on the beach north of Bujumbura about 10 minutes, the hotel offers frequent shuttles to downtown, several restaurants, a couple of pools, evening entertainment on weekends, etc. I have heard that they even have a horse riding area. Some rooms have air conditioning, and others do not. Prices vary from $120 to $320 a night. Breakfast included (I hope so, at those rates). Phone: +257 22 250220 or +257 22 250 221. Email: info@clubdulac.com. Website: http://www.hotelclubdulac.com/.

Hotel Residence-Downtown, at 10 Blvd de l'Independance. Owned by a Burundian woman. Beautiful little hotel and restaurant, well appointed. Hot water, satellite TV, fan, wireless internet, and breakfast included. Some rooms have air conditioning. Restaurant has wonderful ambiance and food. Rooms are a bit steep in price. From $75-100 for a single room or suite; $112 to $150 for a double room or suite. +257 22255757 or +257 78862510. hotelresidence@yahoo.fr.

New Tourist Hotel-For the budget, backpacking traveler, this place is really bare bones. It looks quite nice from the outside, but in reality is very simple. A double room is less than $10. Rooms have their own bathroom, but no hot water...and when I asked if they bring you some in a bucket, they said that they don't do that. Phone: +257 79321586.

Ubuntu Residence-By the water, great long-term residences that tend to be cheaper than some of the other high-end options while still a nice place to stay. Suites are self-contained, and at either $80 or $120, you can get a room with a bathroom, hot water, air conditioning, wireless internet and a small kitchenette. Access to the pool and breakfast included. A great restaurant is also located here. Phone: +257 22244065.

Beauty

Buja Day Spa
In town, near the Muslim Quarter and the Cameo cinema. The best/only spa in town, it offers all services, from hair to nails, to facials, scrubs, and massages. Don't ask me to explain how or why, but there are two Thai women here who specialize in Thai massage, and they have special rooms for that. They also do the regular massage. Massages are an hour long and start at 40,000 Francs (a little less than $40 USD). Closed Mondays. Appointments should be made in advance: 22 22 70 00.

Top Beaute
In town, off of the Rue Rwagasore. Smaller, ambitious little place that tries very hard to be a spa. They, too, have facials and massages. They are known for their waxing, and they have massaging pedicure chairs. Call for an appointment: 79 99 80 50.

Racoon
This tends to be the main muzungu hair cutting place. Ask for the Congolese stylist--he's apparently very dependable and also has a good sense of style. On the 28 Novembre. Phone: 22 25 97 40.

Activities

Buy cloth at the Marche Central (but secure your bag!) and take it to the Avenue de la Mission to have it turned into whatever you want--whether a dress, a shirt, or pillows. They can do it all.

Go to the Musee Vivant, a zoo of sorts that would never be allowed in the United States. They have crocodiles, a leopard, chimpanzees, and several types of snakes (including a spitting cobra). You can feed the crocodiles and leopard with live guinea pigs (for 4,000 francs each), or rabbits (a bit more expensive). If you're really feeling sadistic, you can buy a goat for 50,000 francs and toss it to the big crocodiles. Visitors can also hold several snakes, a baby crocodile, and can interact with the chimps (be careful, they steal cameras!). 5,000 Francs entry.

Lounge by the pool at Bora Bora, the latest hotspot for expatriates and wealthy Burundians. It's a beautiful beach lounge and restaurant on the edge of the lake, about 10 minutes north of Bujumbura. Order a pizza and a beer and get some sun on their beautiful deck, or play a game of beach volleyball. Bring your computer and you can access the free wireless internet.

Play the Burundian drums and have a real Burundian beach experience by spending a day at Saga Plage, just next door to Bora Bora. Burundians of all ages come here to eat at one of the multiple restaurants and listen to "live" music (really, just people dancing on stage with microphones while lip synching). A couple of chimpanzees, a snake, and a baboon live here (none of which live in acceptable conditions, but the baboon has it the worst by far). On Sundays, a traditional Burundian drumming group plays, and for a couple of francs, you can take the batons and try your hand at the athletic music. There's also a restaurant on the actual lake shaped like a boat that has great grilled fish.

Travel ten minutes north of Bora Bora on the same road, cross a strange bridge, and take an immediate left down a small dirt path to get to Rusizi Park (which I call Hippo Park). The closest wildlife park to Bujumbura, its main attraction is its three hippopotamus families. You can also see crocodiles, many birds, and antelopes. You can go by car, but I recommend going by foot--it's much more interesting that way. Go between 11 am and 1 pm, and you are more likely to see the hippos out of the water. Public transportation goes there. Admission is 5,000 Francs, but be sure to tip your guide at the end!

Watch a movie in a real cinema! The Cameo, which is downtown, plays French movies (or movies dubbed in French) on most nights, but on Wednesday and Sunday night at 8:30 pm, they show relatively recent movies in their original English version. You can buy a Coke in a bottle at the front of the cinema and movie snacks--but definitely Burundian-style. They get big points for trying. Admission is 2,000 Francs.

Dance your feet off at Havana Club or Toxic, which are stumbling distance from each other. There are covers at both establishments; they tend to be around 5,000 Francs on Saturday nights. Guard your car and your pocketbook...there are thieves aplenty here. There are also many prostitutes. The best music and ambiance can be found at Gymnase, which is actually a gym during the day. They have relatively secret parties--only those in the know are informed about them--and sometimes charge a cover for those as well.

Excursions

Saga Resha- About an hour south of Bujumbura along a mostly good road (though there are some serious potholes), there is a small resort hotel along the beach frequented by wealthy Burundians and expats. The hotel is not complete as of writing, but the restaurant is open, and serves all the standards, such as brochettes and grilled fish. If you bring your own food, you will have to pay them for the right to eat it there. There are beautiful little huts on the water, and the beach and swimming are divine.

Saga Nyanza- About 2.5 hours south of Bujumbura, this is a relatively small stretch of nice beach. There is a nice and expensive restaurant here, but you can bring your own food and picnic on the public side of the beach. There is a hotel with a couple of rooms about a mile down the road. The hotel itself does not sit on a beach.

Travel Tips

Personal Safety

Burundi is not as safe as its northern neighbor, Rwanda. Petty crime is frequent, opportunistic crimes are common, and assaults, even on foreigners, have occurred. Guard your valuables, and when going into crowded areas, particularly the Market, carry a bag that fits snugly under your arm to prevent wandering hands. Some thieves try to cut through bags to grab your wallet or phone.

In some cases, people have broken into cars; be sure to lock your car and keep your valuables out of sight. Try to avoid conspicuously putting your valuables into your trunk, as this is an invitation to potential thieves.

When stopped or parked, avoid leaving windows rolled down so far that people can reach in and snatch your valuables. Boys have been known to approach one side of the car to distract the person, while reaching in the other window to take their phone, wallet, or bag.

Basically, be vigilant, but not fearful.

Vehicle Safety

Do not take motos. Just don't. Many, even most, motorcyclists do not have driver's licenses and do not have driver's training. (Unfortunately, many car drivers don't have driver's training, either.) They often don't carry helmets, and fatal accidents involving motorcycles are so common as to be borderline appalling. For a cheap lift, take a matatu; they go all over town for about 25 cents. Otherwise, stick to a taxi.

A caveat on taxis; try to use ones that have been recommended by others. Not all taxi drivers are honest, and there are many stories of taxi drivers driving drunk, demanding unreasonable fees and locking customers in until they agree to pay, and even intimidating passengers through threatened assault into paying high prices.

Drivers are quite bad here, so be careful walking along the road, as well.

Money

The exchange rate at the time of writing (August 2009) is approximately 1200 Francs to $1 USD. The largest bill is the 10,000 Franc bill. Most people can make change for it. Otherwise, there is a 5,000, 2,000, 1,000, 500 and 100 bill. Small change is, unfortunately, also given in micro-bills which closely resemble Monopoly money--they come in denominations of 50, 20 and 10.

Always bargain with taxis and in the market.

Escape to the Field

2009-07-22T12:42:00.000-04:00

Map by Lonely Planet. Indiana Jones-style path is mine.

I had been itching to get out of the capital, but with no transportation, the prospects had been dim. Finally, on a random Friday, I found that I was waiting on a colleague before my work could advance, and was not looking forward to a day of doing nothing in the office (putzing around on the internet loses its luster after a while). The driver was going down to Nyanza-Lac, one of the southernmost towns in Burundi, to pick up my roommate for the weekend (she lives in the field, doing hands-on training of health professionals during the week).

I hitched a ride.

The road south, crowded with people and palm trees.

The drive down to Nyanza Lac takes two and a half hours (it’s not possible to go any faster, because despite the long stretches of good road, there are deep potholes in areas, and in others, crowds of people creep into the streets). The road runs along the coast, and the long stretches are dotted with thick, green palms. The water is aquamarine, and extends out as far as the eye can see, and there were times when I forgot that I was in Central Africa, imagining instead that I was in the Dominican Republic (or Haiti, with trees).

The road wound around cliff edges, led through plains, and rumbled through villages large and small. Longhorned cows marched alongside, along with countless women carrying bundled sticks on their heads, men trotting tethered goats, and children playing in brightly colored plastic sandals. On our left rose rolling hills, reminiscent of Rwanda, but far less densely cultivated; a couple of farming plots could be spotted here or there, but in general, the hills looked largely untouched.

Prime real estate. Well, nice views, anyway...

We passed through what I correctly suspected to be palm plantations; the squat palms were planted in perfect rows, and covered acres of territory, contributing to the Caribbean ambiance of the drive. I asked about them, and was told that they were planted in 1967 to cultivate palm oil. Men walked slowly with bicycles carrying oversized loads of palm seeds to towering factories for processing into cooking oil and soap. Some of the plantations were entirely razed, which raised my suspicions about deforestation, but I was told that they were simply planting new palm trees where the old ones stood.

A truck carrying palm seeds to a local factory for processing.

I was awestruck by Lake Tanganyika, mesmerized during the entire drive by its crystal water, its foam-capped waves, and its sandy shore. It looked like the ocean, and I can see how it would inspire local stories and myths (one speaks of an immense crocodile, like the Loch Ness Monster, which locals and expats have claimed to have spotted), as well as the original name of mainland Tanzania, before it united with Zanzibar in 1972 and assumed its current name. The lake boasts many different types of fish—Mukeke, Sangala, Indagara, and Tilapia, among others—and when we arrived at Saga Nyanza, about 45 minutes away from our ultimate destination, we stopped at the restaurant (which is incredibly overpriced…most people actually bring food from Bujumbura to eat) and had grilled Mukeke, a sharp-nosed fish with small razor teeth that is meaty, like Mahi Mahi.

Beautiful Saga Nyanza

Saga Nyanza is, apart from the beautiful beaches north of Bujumbura, the vacation destination for expats and locals. I don’t really understand why—while the beach is beautiful, it’s tiny, and the only thing there is the overpriced restaurant (they charge $6 for a goat brochette, when the going rate is approximately $1) and, about 10 minutes down the road, a small hotel with about 12 rooms and a rocky coastline.

We finally arrived at our destination and picked up my roommate and colleague, who had just come down with malaria. Nyanza-Lac, a small, dusty area, is apparently one of the worst malarial areas in Burundi. She was happy to come back to Bujumbura and find some Coartem, which is the best over-the-counter treatment you can find. As we drove, I asked her about the state of health in Nyanza-Lac, and she told me about widespread malnutrition, as being near the lake causes most people to focus their energies on fishing, and not cultivating fruits and vegetables. This also means that the primary employment opportunities were related to fishing, so there is widespread unemployment among those who are not fishermen—and this has meant that many women are turning to prostitution so that they can eat. The HIV and AIDS rate is higher than the national average here as a result.

A bustling rural market

After spending a short time in Nyanza-Lac, we turned around and started the trek back to Bujumbura, only stopping to do a little on-the-road grocery shopping; along the side of the road were women with baskets and piles of fruits and vegetables, and we picked up some passionfruit, papaya, oranges, tomatoes, Japanese plums (tree tomatoes), peas, and some kind of solid manioc ugali that is wrapped in banana leaves and apparently stays good for weeks without refrigeration. The women jostled for space by the car window, each hollering over the other, while children stood to the side, asking for any spare water bottles. With our groceries rolling around at our feet, we continued on home, arriving in Bujumbura just as the sun was setting over Tanganyika.

Beware of Drivers

2009-07-21T04:08:00.000-04:00

I was inspired to write this morning because of unfortunate circumstances. The cousin of our driver/logistician was killed in a motorcycle accident. It is another in a series of accidents I have seen or have heard about, and I can’t sit on my thoughts anymore.

In all of my travels and work experiences overseas, I have never seen as many road accidents as I have seen here. I could not hope to count how many accidents I have passed—usually involving motorcycles. Among the most memorable were a mini-bus thrown on its side, with another car’s hood bashed in; in another, a car hit a motorcycle, whose passenger was thrown and cracked his head—blood spread across the pavement. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, but I'm frankly not sure that it could have helped him. He died on impact.

These are disturbing sights, to be sure, but what is more disturbing is the frequency with which they occur. Every day, going to and from work, and when traveling around town, I see small crowds of people, a couple of police officers, and, usually, a motorcycle on its side. Too many have died. And now, our logistician’s cousin, who came to Bujumbura from a rural area for her school vacation, is gone.

It doesn’t make me sad. It makes me angry. Furiously angry—because the fault lies with two parties: the government, and the people.

First, the government. Here, while drivers of cars should theoretically have a driver’s license (every now and then, a cop will pull over a car to check), motorcycle-taxis (“motos”) do not. Motorcycles are too expensive for many people to buy, so they are rented from people who tend to have many, purchased for this purpose. The renters, more often than not, do not have a driver’s license. Many have very little to no driving experience. They rent because it’s a quick way to make a few francs, and the result is that you have incredibly irresponsible moto drivers, who dash and dart in front of vehicles, who lose balance, who don’t know to yield at intersections. And who are these people renting the motorcycles out? Rich people. People with influence. Sometimes, they are people who work for the government. As long as the money keeps coming in, they will keep renting. Safety is not a concern for them.

The extent of government involvement with the motos is to set up roadblocks forbidding them to drive after 6 pm (which is good, because most of them do not have working headlights). But the government does not require them to have driver’s licenses, insurance, or even helmets. Compounding this is the fact that, since there are no traffic lights, police should be posted to direct traffic. (This happens so infrequently that I always notice when it DOES happen.) Since driving here is one massive game of Chicken, where everyone challenges everyone else to back down, people do not yield. They block roads. They speed up, even through blind intersections. They pull into the middle of the street before they turn, forcing their way through. And people die as a result.

I should also note that it is apparently relatively easy to buy a driver’s license here without driver’s training. Ah, corruption. Among its other undesirable consequences, it leads to the proliferation of irresponsible drivers.

Second, the people. Why? Because they continue to take moto-taxis—while people recognize that others have been killed taking them, they do not think that they, themselves, will be in an accident. (Burundians have told me this.) It’s one thing to understand that it’s Russian Roulette and take the risk anyway; it’s quite another to not recognize it at all. The argument that people who take moto-taxis do it because they can’t afford the car-taxis just isn’t credible—there are mini-buses that go everywhere in the city, and for a cheaper rate than the motos charge. They are also, comparatively, safer.

At the rate of accidents in this city, it’s hard to believe that there isn’t a critical mass of people who have been impacted. I would hope that, in this country, which has some degree of political freedom and opposition (however imperfect), such people would demand changes and increased accountability from their government. I have to grant that self-organizing for a cause may not be a frequent practice, though. That kind of political activism takes time to develop.

What’s the solution? Oh, let me count the ways. But the simplest would be to better use the Burundian police by having them direct traffic and issue fines to motos who drive poorly, who don’t have driver’s licenses, and who do not have helmets (for themselves and their passengers), and not just avail them once an accident has occurred.

There Goes The Neighborhood

2009-07-18T10:04:00.004-04:00

The view from my apartment balcony. In the distance, obscured by the dust of the dry season, is Lake Tanganyika.

I live on 7th Avenue, off of Cleanliness Street (near the intersection with Hygiene Street) and I love it. It’s a little out of the way, and is off the map of the city that I was given when I arrived (it’s dated 1984), but it’s quaint and self-contained, and 100 percent Burundian. Well, maybe 99.9%, since I moved here.

I am definitely the only muzungu, but I admit that I kind of like it. I work with Burundians, and I live in a thoroughly Burundian neighborhood. In that way, I feel like I’ve really jumped in.

It’s a gorgeous place, set on the hill, with a magnificent view over central Bujumbura and Lake Tanganyika. The streets are paved with cobblestones, the streets are wide, and children play on the street corners and kick balls down avenues. Most of the houses are one-story, but there are a surprising number that have two levels (including my own). Rising above the skyline, these two level houses are a sign that someone around here is making money. They’re impeccable, with fine details, columns, and scrolling balconies. The single-story houses aren’t shabby, either—they look freshly painted and their small gardens well-kept. (Since I live on the second floor, I can see over the walls of some of the neighboring houses.) Along the skyline, single papaya trees, whose long necks and tufted canopies look like they belong in a Dr. Seuss book, pop up over the rooftops.

7th Avenue. Almost as posh as Manhattan.

All of the houses in this neighborhood are a stone’s throw apart, interspersed with an occasional snack-bar (a bar where you can eat brochettes) or alimentation (a mini-market with fried donuts, cigarettes, candles, soap, and Magic Obama strawberry gum). The neighborhood has its own Catholic church (a massive, modern compound) and high school. The teacher training school, built by the Chinese and resembling a space colony, is across the main road.

The drainage and wilderness behind the houses in the neighborhood

I asked our driver if this was the neighborhood where all the rich people lived. “Oh, no,” he said. “But these are people of high standing.” By this, he meant that people who lived here were generally government workers, or were officers in the military. (Since many people here were officers in the military, it is known as a predominantly Tutsi neighborhood.) In effect, the middle class. The rich people lived in other places, he said. I suspect that most of the muzungus tend to live in those areas, too. In the neighborhood across the main road, Kigobe, massive three-level monstrosities are being constructed, whose gates are elaborate and impressive (and fairly tacky). The residents of Kigobe are thought of as the "new money" population--I have been told that they are mostly Hutu, and work for the government, although there are some businessmen who live there as well.

In the middle of the Kigobe neighborhood is a large, fenced in parcel of land that was purchased by the U.S. State Department and will be used to construct a new embassy. (I stopped by the current embassy to let them know that I am here, and with its concrete barriers and miles of razor wire, it’s pretty ugly.) Everyone I know currently pokes fun at me for living "in the middle of nowhere," but once the Embassy is constructed here, I imagine the area will develop very quickly!

Without realizing it, I’ve also acquired a pet. The owner’s dog, which lives downstairs and is theoretically to be used as an extra layer of security, is sweet and jumpy. Her name is Kiara, and I have no idea what her breed is. She’s black, with a long nose and legs that are a little too short for her body. I am starting to think that my bug spray has pheromones in it, because she likes to hump my leg and smell my toes. Every day, she welcomes me at the gate, accompanies me up the stairs to my apartment, and jumps all over me (and humps my leg) until I manage to squeeze my way into my front door. When I close the door (which she has managed to open a couple of times), she whines and sits on my front stoop until I emerge. Sometimes, she sleeps there. In the morning, she meets me at my door and accompanies me down the stairs, only advancing when I advance, and jumps on me before I leave, usually leaving dusty paw prints all over my pants. I’ve never given her any food, just a little affection, and now I have a new friend!

Attack on an American NGO

2009-07-14T07:12:00.004-04:00

*This has been updated*

While this probably won't make the news back home, I just learned that yesterday, a vehicle carrying NGO workers with the American organization Village Health Works (related to Partners in Health), was attacked in the south of the country, in Bururi Province. The vehicle was carrying medical supplies and equipment to the local hospital when it was ambushed. All of the supplies were stolen, as well as the personal effects of the people in the vehicle. After taking everything, the driver was fatally shot. Others in the vehicle managed to get out and run away. They were unharmed. It looks like the attack was planned, and was not random.

Little Drummer Girl

2009-07-13T04:46:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, while lounging at Bora Bora Beach Club, I heard the Burundian drums in the distance. Burundi is known for its drummers; with tall, waist-high drums and large stick mallets, they create driving rhythms to which they perform a warrior dance (very similar to Intore dances in Rwanda). I have heard that there are even bands of drummers and dancers that travel to other countries to perform.

I hadn’t seen the drummers yet, so an acquaintance convinced me to go check it out. We left Bora Bora and walked down the shore to the public beach, where they perform every Sunday. The audience was mostly Burundian. The drummers were dressed as warriors, in the Burundian colors of red, white and green. One drummer would dance at a time, and a young boy came out and danced, too (which was very cute, because he was trying to act like a tough warrior). The dancers jumped high off the ground, often landing in a lunge, arms outstretched, and rolled their heads.

While I was taking pictures, one of the drummers handed me two large mallets and invited me up to try the drums. So up I went, banging on that drum as hard as I could and trying to keep up with the professionals. (I gave myself a nasty blister in the process.)

After playing for a while, my arms were killing me, and I passed the mallets back to the drummer. We gave them a round of applause and some francs, and headed back to Bora Bora for a Primus beer and a bandage for my hand. It was quite an arm workout!

A Sporty Culture

2009-07-09T06:15:00.002-04:00

Of the different countries where I have visited and worked, I have never seen sport or fitness so hallowed as I have seen here. It’s not just a matter of fun here, which I’ve seen elsewhere (for example, kids or adults playing soccer). Burundians, however, also do it for good health and well-being. All day, every day, men and women run down the roads and do push-ups in the medians and on the sidewalks. I’ve even seen people doing push-ups in the dark of night, at 11 p.m. The army often jogs, chanting and blowing whistles, around my neighborhood and down the main roads (causing a lot of traffic, I might add).

Added to this is the fact that the government ministries have mandatory days of “sport,” another phenomenon I have not seen elsewhere. On Tuesday or Friday afternoons, entire ministries put on their tracksuits (they are very popular here—the markets are swarmed with them) and go for a jog, or play soccer, or do something active. President Nkurunziza has been known to play with his presidential staff. (I asked my driver if they always let him win. He just looked at me sidelong and shrugged.) The ministries even have a soccer tournament in which they play against each other.

I can’t speak to television or radio advertisements (because I don’t have a TV or radio), but I can say from the billboards around town that there is definitely an emphasis on sport. In the disarmament billboards, for example, a man is missing a leg. In the background, people are playing soccer. Poor thing. Because of your gun/grenade/other weapon, he can’t play sports anymore. The theme is omnipresent.

It’s so normal for people to run for fun/fitness here that most people don’t bat an eye at the muzungus who go for a jog. Anywhere else, and you get stared down (one, because you’re a muzungu; two, for wearing shorts; and three, because people don’t understand why you would want to run anywhere unless you are really, really late…and even that isn’t worth running for).

I witnessed the icing on the cake about a week ago when, out on Rwagasore Road in town, I passed a number of people selling things—mostly cassava roots and potatoes. A little further down, I noticed a man on the sidewalk, nothing in front of him but a weight scale. A man walked up, paid the vendor a few francs, and stepped on. He looked at his weight, sighed, thanked the vendor, and walked off. Guess he’s going for a run later.

A Few Snapshots from Buja

2009-07-07T08:11:00.004-04:00

The cheapest way to transport a living room set.

The main roundabout in Bujumbura, with 8 a.m. traffic.

There's always traffic on the 28 Novembre Road...This time, it was a mass group of bicyclists riding around the city wearing shirts against torture on the International Day of Support for Victims of Torture. Shirts generously provided by the UN.

Barbecues and Beer Pong. Happy Fourth.

2009-07-05T08:16:00.001-04:00

It was an eventful July Fourth in Bujumbura. In the morning, I left my house to buy a pineapple and some vegetables, my contribution to my boss’s patriotic barbecue. The grill was a traditional one, which is to say that it uses charcoal, and the grill grates are basically flush against the coals. That makes for a delicious brochette, but when it came to grilling vegetables, they were entirely blackened, and there was nothing I could do about it. I ate them anyway. The grilled pineapple turned out especially well, the sweet juices caramelizing beautifully!

The entire barbecue was as American as could be managed in central Africa. We had burgers with local cheese, there was a salad, macaroni and cheese, a potato salad, chocolate chip cookies, and one woman brought tofu in homemade barbecue sauce (which was delicious, and a justifiably American creation). One Senegalese guy complained to me, “But I thought American barbecues had lots of meat, and you only have burgers!” It was true—everything was vegetarian apart from the burgers. At first reviled by the thought of barbecue tofu, he tried it and agreed that it was delicious. (“Heh, if you didn’t know it, you would think this was meat!” he exclaimed.)

The fun lasted until well into the evening, when the group eventually migrated down the street to the U.S. Marine House (since the Embassy is old, the Marines live off the compound). Their house is palatial, with an enormous pool, wrap around outdoor balcony, and a generous living space. When we arrived, a couple of people were playing some kind of karaoke video game and others were playing (or watching) a game of beer pong (known to some as Beirut), the great American college tradition.

After a while of watching the Americans toss the ball back and forth into opposing teams’ cups (and watching them become increasingly inebriated), the non-Americans present wanted to learn how to play. On one side was a Frenchman and a Belgian; on the other, a Kenyan and an English-speaking Burundian. Few who knew the game were able to speak both French and English, and thus I was thrust into the role of teacher. (This probably comes as no surprise to my friends in grad school, who…er…know my affinity for this game. But I swear it wasn’t my idea.) The Kenyan and Burundian won the game handily.

By 11:30, I was exhausted and already had a hangover from the day’s drinking, but I was at the whim of others who had cars, as my own taxi driver had long since gone to bed. Somehow, someone received word that a club was reopening downtown that night, and there was a mass exodus in that direction. I was swept up in that wave, and ended up at Havana, a club that seemed promising until you actually entered it.

We parked the car on the median, and the car was promptly surrounded by six men. They asked for money to “protect” the car, which we basically ignored. I chose to leave my bag in the car (because petty theft would likely be a big problem at the club), and when we tried to lock the car, we found it wouldn’t because a door was ajar. As it turned out, one of the men on the other side of the car quietly opened a door so that he could easily break in after we left. I was very upset and couldn’t help but think about the safety of my handbag. My friend assured me, however, that crime here is generally limited to pickpocketing and petty theft, and not vehicular break-ins. I was still nervous.

The club, at whose entry lingered a number of prostitutes, charged a 5,000 Franc cover (a little less than $5). While it was called Havana, there was nothing Cuban about it; in the middle of the club was a pavilion with different-sized disco balls and colored lights. The walls are high, and the roof is elevated even higher, giving it a little fresh air, but not the sense of openness. It felt more like a converted warehouse. There was some seating around the edges, and a single bar in the back that was, predictably, overcrowded. That night, I saw Chinese men that were completely out of their element, a couple of older white women, a crowd of young aid-worker expats, and, overwhelmingly, countless 60 to 70 year old men (some of whom looked like preachers, bifocals perched on the edge of their pointed noses) groping young, lithe, scantily-clad Burundian women. I know it’s a reality, but I just can’t bear to see it. It absolutely disgusts me.

Finally, at about 2:30 am, I made my way home, even though the club was still jumping. We gave the six men “guarding the car” 1,000 Francs (which apparently was more than enough) and found while driving away that they had tried the “open door” technique again, but hadn’t been successful at grabbing anything. Given the bad experience, I don’t plan to return to Havana anytime soon!

Ah, Freedom.

2009-07-02T09:39:00.004-04:00

Yesterday marked the 47th anniversary of Burundi’s independence from the greedy clutches of Belgium. In advance of the celebration, major roads were blocked every morning so that the military could practice its march, making traffic so horrendous that pulling one’s own fingernails out would be more pleasant by comparison.

I had hoped to attend the events at the stadium, but since my taxi driver didn’t work that day and I had no other mode of transport, I ended up spending the day in my apartment. Most of the expats I had talked to were steering clear, some going out to Bora Bora for the day. Unfortunately, as I don’t have a television or radio, I couldn’t even follow the ceremony remotely.

All was not lost. I spent the day listening to audiobooks I downloaded for free and cleaning my apartment. By noon, my street was loud and bustling, as men congregated at the little bar across my street for brochettes and beer. While it usually only becomes crowded around 6 pm, the holiday meant that drunkenness could begin earlier. By the late afternoon, the aroma of goat brochettes wafted into my apartment, and a dinner of avocado didn’t seem very interesting. I had to have a brochette.

Spraying myself head–to-toe with bug spray, I put a little bit of money in my pocket and decided to brave the crowd of drunken men. I popped downstairs to see if any of the Burundian or Rwandese girls wanted to join me for a drink, and a couple of them did.

The outdoor bar, I discovered, is called “Where the Pretty Girls Are” in Kirundi, which is somewhat ironic because before we arrived, there was only one girl in the entire bar, and she worked there. The patrons were markedly male, from the boy that sat outside the front gate with a plastic tray of hard-boiled eggs, to the middle-aged businessmen who leered at the single waitress. I went straight to the back, to the small hut where the brochettes were grilled, to place my order.

As it turned out, they have three kinds of brochettes (!): Goat, beef, and sausage. I had never heard of a sausage brochette, so I naturally ordered one of those, along with a goat brochette. About ten minutes later, the brochettes emerged, with a side of grilled plantains (I can't eat another banana, so I passed them along to my friends) and some pili-pili. Unfortunately, for some reason, the pili pili sauce I have tried here just isn’t hot enough for me…it has a bit too much vinegar and doesn’t have the same flavor as the kind I am used to in Rwanda. I joked with the girls from downstairs that I was going to go to my apartment and bring down the pili-pili sauce I made the other day, which is much better (and spicier!).

While I was enjoying my brochettes, a couple of fights broke out in the street. Men were pulling off their shirts and throwing punches, rocks, and anything else they could find. Apparently one guy had poured a beer on another guy’s head, and all hell broke loose. I would say this was a product of their having been drunk all day, but it’s actually a pretty regular occurrence on my street. I finished up, settled my check ($1 per brochette, and 70 cents for my Amstel Bock) and headed back to the apartment, happy that I had finally satisfied my craving.

In case anyone is interested in making pili-pili sauce, here’s the recipe:

Pili-Pili Sauce (Rwandan style)
2-3 tomatoes
2 pili-pili peppers*
½ onion
3 tablespoons oil (more or less, depending on how thick you want the sauce to be)

Directions:
Mince the onion and add it to a pan, frying lightly. Dice the tomatoes and add them to the pot when the onions are transparent. Mince the pili-pili (being sure not to touch the seeds!) and add to the pot. Let simmer until it becomes a thick sauce. Add salt to taste. Store in the refrigerator for a month or more!

*Pili-pili refers a small pepper that resembles a Scotch Bonnet pepper. I’ve tasted the Scotch Bonnet, and it’s not the same, though! Pili pili tastes vaguely tropical, as if it had a touch of mango. The actual name of the pepper is Akabanga (pili pili is just a general term for “chili” in Swahili). Bon Appétit!

My Guilty Pleasure

2009-06-30T10:44:00.005-04:00

This is a hardship post. Really. Um...

One of the best things about Bujumbura is that it is situated on the edge of Lake Tanganyika, a lake so large that it produces waves (not particularly large ones, but waves nonetheless), has tides, and has produced sand.

…which means there’s a beach. And it’s a nice one, too.

The line that Burundi often touts is that it has “some of the best inland beaches in Africa.” Having lived in Gisenyi, Rwanda, which is known for its beautiful beach on Lake Kivu, I admit that I had my doubts. Once I saw it, though, I realized that Burundi was right to boast.

While there is a beach in town near the massive port that welcomes ships from Tanzania and Congo, most expatriates and Burundians head north on the weekends. To get there, go around the Nissan roundabout where Burundians like to take wedding photos (that’s a mystery to me), pass the large cube with photos of past Burundian leaders, most of whom have been assassinated, roll slowly over the enormous (and numerous) potholes that have pockmarked the road, drive past the enormous United Nations compound on the left and its bunkered warehouses on the right, and turn left into the Bora Bora Beach Club.

The Bora Bora Beach Club (called Bora Bora, really, but I rather like the “Beach Club” part) is the top destination for expats and wealthy Burundians. Since it opened a couple of months ago, it has taken the business of its neighbor further down the road, the Club Du Lac Tanganyika, which is known as the best hotel in Bujumbura (though it’s not technically in town).

Owned by a Francophone expat and designed to resemble something someone might find in French Polynesia, the restaurant/bar/lounge is simple and breezy. There’s a sizable pool and an elevated deck around which guests can read, sun, and use the free wireless internet. It is just steps from the lake, whose water is warm. Locals play water volleyball or just splash about. It’s a very relaxing scene, and a welcomed reprieve from the hustle-and-bustle of Bujumbura traffic.

At night, it becomes a throbbing bar and lounge; the pool is lit and techno or pop is blared from the speakers, and well-dressed people sip their colorful cocktails. At times like that, you wonder if you’re in Burundi at all. While life may not be overwhelmingly comfortable during the week, at least I have this one guilty pleasure.

Mourning Michael Jackson (with Karaoke)

2009-06-29T02:43:00.000-04:00

By far, the chief topic of conversation over the past couple of days has been the loss of “Son Majeste, le roi du Pop.” The radio had a Michael Jackson-a-thon, where they played his songs, interspersed with phone calls from listeners in mourning. They talked and sobbed about how much Michael meant to them over the course of their lives.

That night, the Bora Bora Beach Club, the favored destination of expats and wealthy Burundians, had a Michael Jackson party. I didn’t go to that, but I did go the next night, when the first secretaries of various embassies held a fundraiser for a couple of orphanages. The catch was that it was all centered around karaoke: pay to sing, pay for someone else to sing, or pay to make someone stop singing. (The latter was a wonderfully merciful idea.)

Of course, in the wake of Michael Jackson’s death, the evening was dominated by his songs—and it was priceless to see diplomats and NGO bigwigs sing such classics as “We Are the World” and “Bad”…or, at least, try to. (As for me, I was somehow coerced into joining a rendition of Prince’s “Purple Rain,” and thankfully, someone paid for us to stop.) I have to say—listening to Michael Jackson on the radio is a welcomed change from Celine Dion!

Please, No Porn or Celine Dion

2009-06-26T07:36:00.000-04:00

My work is going really well here. The job is challenging, I’m using my brain, and I feel like what I’m doing is sustainable, which, in development, is very important.

I have two offices, one at which I spend most of my time, and one at which I spend maybe an hour at the end of every day. As a result, there’s not much to say about my second office, except that the bathroom is swarmed by kamikaze mosquitoes, and the sink is not connected to a pipe, so the water just falls through into a bucket, splashing water all over your legs. That is, when there’s water.

The real fun happens at my first office, where I’m blessed with great, responsive Burundian colleagues. They all stop by my office in the morning to say hello, and my supervisor checks on me three times a day to make sure I’m surviving. She’s a sweet woman who laughs easily, and is always very concerned about how I’m doing and if my office is too dusty. When I first arrived, she was anxious because she wanted to have an air conditioning unit installed in my office, but it hadn’t happened. Later, when she walked me around the office, introducing me to everyone, and brought me into what she called the “Experts Room.” “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You’re an expert! You should sit in here! If you want, of course. They have air conditioning!” I laughed at the thought of being considered an “expert,” and told her that I really, really didn’t need air conditioning. An open window was good enough for me. Last year, I was temporarily working out of a U.S. Embassy, and literally freaked out because I couldn’t open the windows to let in some fresh air.

The building has wireless internet, which works most of the time (this is pretty miraculous). Everyone has fairly nice computers with stickers on them proclaiming that they were a gift of this-or-that NGO, but I’m not totally convinced that computer skills are advanced, on the whole. One of my colleagues became flustered when I asked her if she could send me a document by email (to avoid viruses that could be transmitted through key drives). She told me that she didn’t know how, so I sat down with her and we went through it together. She was happy that she had a new skill, and I was happy that I didn’t get a virus.

Anyone walking by my office tends to pop their head in—it’s a very friendly place—and one fellow who had heard that I was American came to introduce himself. He was teaching English classes to some of my colleagues, as he had just been certified (I’m not really sure what this means, but his English is admittedly better than most Burundians I’ve met). I was happy to chat in English for a couple of minutes, but I was quite busy, with papers strewn about, and was trying to drop hints that I had some things that I needed to do. Subtlety was unfortunately lost on him, and he instead sat down and talked for 20 minutes. I supposed that he was just overjoyed to talk to a native speaker, but I tried to take longer glances at my computer screen.

Finally, he got up, and as he walked out, he said, “By the way, are you single, or married? I mean, are you a bachelor?” I couldn’t help laughing at being called a bachelor, so I corrected him. Then he insisted that I hadn’t answered his question. Sigh. I hate this question. Sometimes, it’s just to make pleasant conversation, but more often than not, people just want to know if you’re available—but just because I’m not married doesn’t mean I’m available! He still comes by every day, despite the fact that he works in the next building.

Later that day, sitting at my desk, I heard strange sounds from the window. It sounded like a radio—below my office window is the parking lot where all the drivers sit in the shade and listen to the radio until someone emerges asking for a ride. I ignored it for a while, because it was soft, but it became louder, until I could ignore it no longer. It was a woman moaning. I thought that while it sounded…ahem…strange, it might be a public service announcement about an illness, and she was actually moaning in pain. That is, until the men started laughing, stopping it, and playing it again, and I realized that it was, in fact, some kind of taped pornography.

I thought of closing my windows, but it was too hot.

Eventually, the moaning subsided, and the quiet of the office was replaced by what I’m fairly sure was a Celine Dion Greatest Hits CD, complete with that song from Titanic. What is it about people around here and Celine Dion? As I sit in the coffeeshop and type, the music is alternating between Celine Dion and Kenny G. (Sigh.)

After another round of Celine’s CD today, everyone filed out of the office at noon, planning to reconvene in the afternoon for sports. Yes, sports. Every week, the staff of the entire building plays soccer together, or goes for a walk, or does some sort of physical activity. Some people even come to work in their tracksuits!

(Mis)Adventures in the kitchen and other food-related episodes

2009-06-25T08:28:00.004-04:00

While it could be argued that it’s just because I have nothing better to do in my house, I have decided to battle the ants. They’re just plain annoying. I was sitting in the living room, which in ant measurements is about 200 miles from the kitchen, and found one swimming in the yogurt I left on the coffee table while reading.

Let me be clear about these ants—they are cunning. They’re nearly transparent and are the size of the tip of a pen, which makes them hard to see running around, until you realize that the counter looks like it’s moving because it’s swarmed. The thing is, I can’t just exterminate them with my ant spray, because—well, it’s poison, and I don’t need to be spraying poison all over my counters and dishes. I sprayed some toilet paper with ant spray, and ran it along the sides of my cupboards, where they tend to run (and jump!), and waited to see them keel over in droves. No such luck. It looked like I hadn’t even treated the area; they just keep on running like normal.

As a result, the only safe space in my kitchen is the refrigerator (for the moment). My roommate laughed, “Ici, il faut partager avec les fourmis!" (Here, you have to share [your meal] with the ants!) I wish I had a Raid Ant Motel right now. The battle is on.

Otherwise, I have been eating odd things here and there. Plain yogurt with honey is my typical breakfast, along with an extra-strong cup of Nescafe. Yesterday, my supervisor at my second office (I have two offices) took me out to lunch for my first day of work. We went to a tiny café where you could order a plate of food a la carte. In Burundi, there are few lunch buffets; in Rwanda, they are omnipresent. (This is because the government limited the amount of time government workers are allowed to take lunch, and buffets were the fastest solution). In Burundi, government workers have a 2-hour “pause” for lunch, from 12 to 2. (The work day is from 7:30 am to 3:30 pm, although technically, if you take a 2 hour lunch, you should stay until 5:30.)

So today at the little local restaurant, I ordered some white rice, fresh beans (not the rehydrated ones) and some lingalinga, which is a spinach-looking vegetable dish that I ordered purely because I wanted to say the word. They also had ubugari, which is Kirundi for ugali, the starchy accompaniment to many meals in East Africa. (In West Africa, they call it fufu.) The ubugari here is made either with cassava, which comes out in a gray, glutinous domed mass, or with wheat. The little hole-in-the-wall was so popular that we shared our table with two strangers, one of whom literally slept on the table while waiting for his wheat ubugari to come. It was grainy, and looked like wheat dough. He pulled at it with his hand, squeezed it deep into his fist, and alternated eating it with spooning peas into his mouth.

Otherwise, I’m eating lots of fresh tropical fruit, which is fabulous. My pineapple sweetened in the fridge, and both mangoes I have eaten were so pulpy that when you cut through them, they sounded like they were frozen. I’ve already grown tired of bananas, and can barely bring myself to eat the ones I bought. Not even the ants want them.

Yesterday, when I lost my water (it also disappeared tonight—let’s hope for the sake of my colleagues that there’s water for my morning shower), the Rwandese girls who live downstairs invited me to watch Burundi’s version of MTV and share peas and rice with them, even though there was barely enough to feed two people. It was really generous, and serves as one more example of how the Rwandese do invite muzungus to their homes, contrary to popular belief!

A Call to Disarm

2009-06-24T05:44:00.003-04:00

Driving around Bujumbura, it's impossible not to see these massive billboards urging Burundians to voluntarily disarm. I was recently told that everyone is armed--while Bujumbura seems perfectly safe with the exception of the petty theft and muggings typical of most cities--areas outside Bujumbura are not always safe.

Posters such as these are hard to ignore

Hand grenades are available in the black market for just over $1 each, and are used for revenge, or in arguments. They're apparently so omnipresent that there are many accidents, as well. Earlier this month, I heard that one accidentally went off in Bujumbura--a man carried a grenade for security, and accidentally let it slip, killing him and injuring 9 others. There is a disarmament program in full swing, and I believe it's in coordination with the United Nations. Occasionally, they'll blow up weapons caches here. It's when you hear things like that that you realize that Burundi really is a post-conflict society.

Thievery!

2009-06-21T12:08:00.002-04:00

It’s only natural that you keep your wits about you at all times. Knock on wood, I’ve always been cautious, so I’ve never been pickpocketed or mugged (or worse). In the past couple of days, expatriates have told me to zip up everything, keep valuables out of sight, and roll up car windows and lock the doors when driving around.

I get the “out of sight, out of mind” principle, but it’s a bit harder for me to get used to the idea of rolling up my windows. Apparently, some muzungus have had items stolen through open windows, and people have even tried to open their car doors.

I finally met my roommate, who is absolutely wonderful. Always cheery and earnest, I feel like I could talk with her for hours. She is Rwandese, and wants to practice her English. I told her we could alternate between English and Kinyarwanda, which would be good for both of us! (Out of ease, though, we both readily switch to French.) On Friday, during a marathon conversation, she gave me some advice. “Always lock up your things,” she said. “There are some people you cannot trust.” She told me how, a couple of months ago, she came home from the field to find that all of her money and her camera had disappeared from her room. In his haste, the thief had forgotten to take the camera charger, so the camera was of little use. The only person who had a copy of the key was the house cleaner, so she went to the house cleaner’s wife to ask about the camera. The police eventually became involved, and the house cleaner finally returned the camera.

There is a new house cleaner now, but my roommate still religiously locks her armoire and her bedroom door, and advised me to do the same. He is not allowed to clean the bedrooms (because he might steal something) and only comes on the weekend, when we can supervise him directly.

Today, the danger of theft was again a reality. We are the only people on the second floor of the two-story building, and the bottom floor is occupied by two Rwandese girls and the building’s owner. The building is also protected by a wall and a (very cheery) dog, so strangers cannot enter.

No one comes up except to visit us, so we routinely leave the front door of our apartment open to draw in fresh air. I am cautious about what I leave unsupervised in the common spaces, but today, as I was washing the dishes, I left my computer in the dining room, by the front door, playing music (I figured that since I could hear it, I was keeping tabs on it). One of the Rwandese girls from downstairs came in, asking for my roommate, who was asleep. She said she would come back later. I didn’t think much of this, but when I decided to take a shower, I brought my computer into my room.

When I finished my shower, I went into the dining room to find that several of the cupboards, which are difficult to open, were ajar. My roommate emerged from her room, and I asked her if she opened them. The look on her face was enough of an answer—someone had clearly come in and tried to steal something, likely my computer. My roommate clicked her tongue and shook her head in disapproval. “People know there is a muzungu here, so they think you have good things they can take.” Luckily, my precautions weren’t in vain, but I’m not going to risk it again. I’m locking everything.

Settling In

2009-06-20T11:32:00.000-04:00

I’m living in a nice neighborhood with cobblestone streets northeast of the center of Bujumbura. It’s a bit far from the center of town ($3 by taxi, or $.25 by matatu), but it’s fairly close to the office. The apartment is on the second floor. From the living room, you can see Lake Tanganyika, which is blue like the Caribbean.

I have a roommate that I have yet to meet. A colleague at my organization, she’s out in the field during the week, and returns to Bujumbura on the weekends. I should meet her for the first time today, and am looking forward to it!

I’ve started to settle into the apartment. There isn’t a television or radio (I stopped by the Chinese store to find the only radio they sold featured a built-in “disco light,” and decided against), so it’s quiet in the apartment. There is, however, considerable noise and music from the people downstairs, who seem to be having a perpetual dance party. Across the street is a bustling little outdoor bar where Burundians drink beer late into the night.

Otherwise, the apartment is comfortable and well-appointed. My bed is large (a welcomed reprieve from my twin at grad school) and I have my own bathroom, with hot water and a toilet that is inexplicably covered with ants. Speaking of ants, they are everywhere. It seems that they’re so ravenous that they’ll go after anything. They’re not confined to the kitchen. They’re in the bathroom sink. They’re on the shower curtain. They’re on my bedside table. They’re on the walls. I have to clean all of my dishes and put food away immediately after cooking, because if not, the food is literally overrun with them. I’ve purchased some ant spray and am in the process of spraying every corner of the apartment. I’m sure my mother would disapprove.

As for food, I went to a small market today to begin to stock the kitchen. I’d like to save money by cooking for myself instead of going out. Even so, my boss tells me she eats out most nights, and still only had $300 in expenses every month. When I lived in rural Rwanda, I ate in my house most of the time and still managed to spend much more than that. We’ll see if this holds true! So far, it does seem like most things, with the exception of wine and cereal (such as the $21 Honey Smacks) are fairly inexpensive here. I’m okay with not eating cereal this summer—I’m going to stick to the local yogurt and honey.

Now, I have cabbage, mangoes, papaya, pineapple, avocado, tomatoes, mini-garlic, mini-onions, and mini-bananas in my kitchen. The market selection puts Rwanda to shame! They also had beets, radishes, curly endive, grapefruit, broccoli rabe, coconuts, and strawberries! Ah, the possibilities.

Bienvenue au Burundi

2009-06-18T19:17:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, I did something brave. I drank the water. Repeatedly.

Apparently, you can do that in Bujumbura. That makes my life wonderfully simpler. No boiling, cooling, and bottling. (We’ll see how I feel in a couple of days.)

I’m back to Africa this summer, this time working for an NGO in Burundi. Due to confidentiality restrictions, I won’t be able to provide too many details about what I’m doing, but I will share some of my experiences living in this new place. It seems to me that there isn’t much information available about Burundi, both based on the lowly 13 pages of the Lonely Planet’s guide to East Africa and the response of the doctor in DC who gave me my tetanus shot (“Burundi? Is that a city or a country?”).

Burundi and Rwanda used to be one country, Ruanda-Urundi, under the German administration. The two were split in July 1962, when they gained independence. In many ways, they are sister countries—with a similar ethnic makeup, hilly geography, and basically the same language. Kirundi and Kinyarwanda are mutually comprehensible. It’s wonderful that I’m able to use my Kinyarwanda here, but I’m trying to remain sensitive to the fact that there are some differences, and that I should learn and use the locally-appropriate terms.

The two countries differ in their development. Driving around Bujumbura, you get the sense that it is at least a decade behind Rwanda. The buildings are shorter, the streets are dustier, there are plastic bags by the side of the road, there are no stoplights (that I have seen), and internet cafes do not seem to be as omnipresent here as they are in Kigali—or even in secondary towns like Gisenyi. This is all attributable, in part, to the fact that Burundi emerged from a civil war only three years ago. The evidence is everywhere; signs across the city show doves with olive branches, and there are provocative billboards reading, “Debarrassons-nous des armes, pour eviter les drames!” (Let’s get rid of arms, to avoid drama!”) It is a reference to general disarmament (I have heard that almost everyone here has arms at home) but in particular the disarmament of the Hutu rebel group, the FNL, which is reintegrating into society. While a Burundian has told me that the civil war is considered history at this point (“No one is particularly interested in talking about it,” he said), I have heard otherwise—that ramifications of the recent civil war and ethnic tensions persist.

Oh, and while it’s not development-related, I should note that while Rwanda has become Anglophone in the last couple of years, Burundi remains strongly Francophone. The Belgian and French presence is significant here, despite Burundi's membership in the (Anglophone) East African Community. My French feels a little rusty, and my comprehension is slow at the moment (particularly with all of the jargon that has been tossed around the office since my arrival), but I should be ready to go by the end of next week.

In the meantime, I’m just trying to gain my footing and start to make a life here, if only temporarily!

Insights from a MONUC Peacekeeper

2009-06-14T17:43:00.003-04:00

On my way out of Rwanda, I was waiting in line at the airport (after grabbing a kivuguto from the brand- new Bourbon Coffeeshop) with a group of MONUC (la Mission de l’Organisation des Nations Unies au Congo) peacekeepers. One of the officers, a major, was in line behind me and made small talk. He was headed back to New Delhi for vacation after having served a year in Eastern Congo. Realizing that the line wasn’t moving and that I had a unique opportunity to ask someone fresh from the field questions about what was happening on the ground, I engaged him in conversation.

What he told me was astonishing. In the past several months, the Rwandan and Congolese governments have reconciled. As proof of their new cooperation to stop the violence in Eastern Congo, they launched a several-week joint sortie in the Kivu forests to drive out Hutu extremists who had escaped there after the Rwandan genocide. Meanwhile, the Congolese government (with Rwandan strongarming, no doubt) convinced Laurent Nkunda’s Congolese Tutsi forces to join the Congolese Army.

I asked the major how that was working. “Not at all,” he said. Nkunda’s forces had been paid $120 a month; now, as part of the Congolese Army, they earn $10 a month. Worse, the Congolese Army hasn’t been paid in four months. Such an arrangement is hardly sustainable. Further, since the Congolese Army has arms but no food, they have resorted to pillaging.

It seemed to me that Nkunda must have a lot of money. I asked the major where it came from. “The mines,” he said. Different groups have seized different Congolese mines, extracting resources and shipping them out via Goma Airport. “The FAR are out there, too,” he said, referencing the genocidal Rwandan Armed Forces. He told me that they had taken over several lucrative mines, and the funds earned from extraction went toward lining their pockets and purchasing arms—arms used both to protect their strongholds and potentially launch a sortie into Rwanda, to throw out the current government. This is the unfortunate consequence of the lack of rule of law in the Kivu Region of Congo—state capacity is so low that such activities continue unabated.

I had heard from colleagues and friends in Rwanda that Eastern Congo had settled down since Presidents Kabila and Kagame (of Congo and Rwanda, respectively) had begun to cooperate. “Maybe they’re talking,” he said, “but the real change must happen on the ground. And it’s as bad as ever,” he said, looking at the floor and shaking his head.

I asked him about how everything was working on the ground, particularly in light of the newly-integrated Congolese Army. “We are confused as to who belongs to which group, and who can be trusted. We don’t know who we’re fighting against,” he said. I couldn’t believe how unguarded he was. “In the field, it’s impossible to know.” He also talked about working for the UN. This was his first UN deployment. In India, he was a senior officer in the army. “I have been here for one year, and they asked me to extend,” he said, “but I’ll never do it [work for the UN] again.” He explained that MONUC is comprised of peacekeepers from India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Uruguay, and Paraguay, and only at the top levels were they able to communicate effectively. The lower-level peacekeepers could not communicate with each other in a common language, and he said it was frustrating. “It’s disorganized, and orders aren’t always understood.”

With so much confusion among peacekeepers added to all of the chaos in the field, I wonder how MONUC will be able to bring peace, let alone keep the peace, in Eastern Congo.

President Kagame on Peace Corps

2009-06-10T09:21:00.000-04:00

Peace Corps is an organization very, very close to me, and President Kagame's statement about Peace Corps' re-establishment of operations there means much more than I could ever fully express on this blog. I've decided to post his statement here, but the original can be found on the Huffington Post.

A Different Discussion About Aid
President Paul Kagame
President of the Republic of Rwanda

The United States of America has just sent a small number of its sons and daughters as Peace Corps volunteers to serve as teachers and advisors in Rwanda. They have arrived to assist, and we appreciate that. We are aware that this comes against the backdrop of increasingly scarce resources, of budget discussions and campaign promises, and of tradeoffs between defense and domestic priorities like health care and infrastructure investments. All that said, I believe we need to have a different discussion concerning the potential for bilateral aid.

The Peace Corps have returned to our country after 15 years. They were evacuated in 1994 just a short time before Rwanda collapsed into a genocide that killed over one million people in three months. Things have improved a lot in recent years. There is peace and stability throughout the nation. We have a progressive constitution that is consensus-driven, provides for power sharing, embraces diversity, and promotes the participation of women, who now represent the majority in our parliament. Our economy grew by more than 11% last year, even as the world entered a recession. We have chosen high-end segments of the coffee and tea markets in which to compete, and attract the most demanding world travelers to our tourism experiences. This has enabled us to increase wages by over 20% each year over the last eight years -- sustained by, among other things, investment in education, health and ICT.

We view the return of the Peace Corps as a significant event in Rwanda's recovery. These young men and women represent what is good about America; I have met former volunteers who have run major aid programs here, invested in our businesses, and I even count them among my friends and close advisors.

Peace Corps volunteers are well educated, optimistic, and keen to assist us as we continue to rebuild, but one must also recognize that we have much to offer them as well.

We will, for instance, show them our system of community justice, called Gacaca, where we integrated our need for nationwide reconciliation with our ancient tradition of clemency, and where violators are allowed to reassume their lives by proclaiming their crimes to their neighbors, and asking for forgiveness. We will present to them Rwanda's unique form of absolution, where the individuals who once exacted such harm on their neighbors and ran across national borders to hide from justice are being invited back to resume their farms and homes to live peacefully with those same families.

We will show your sons and daughters our civic tradition of Umuganda, where one day a month, citizens, including myself, congregate in the fields to weed, clean our streets, and build homes for the needy.

We will teach your children to prepare and enjoy our foods and speak our language. We will invite them to our weddings and funerals, and out into the communities to observe our traditions. We will teach them that in Africa, family is a broad and all-encompassing concept, and that an entire generation treats the next as its own children.

And we will have discussions in the restaurants, and debates in our staff rooms and classrooms where we will learn from one another: What is the nature of prosperity? Is it subsoil assets, location and sunshine, or is it based on human initiative, the productivity of our firms, the foresight of our entrepreneurs? What is a cohesive society, and how can we strengthen it? How can we improve tolerance and build a common vision between people who perceive differences in one another, increase civic engagement, interpersonal trust, and self-esteem? How does a nation recognize and develop the leaders of future generations? What is the relationship between humans and the earth? And how are we to meet our needs while revering the earth as the womb of humankind? These are the questions of our time.

While some consider development mostly in terms of infusion of capital, budgets and head counts, we in Rwanda place equal importance to relationships between peoples who have a passion to learn from one another, preparing the next generation of teachers, administrators and CEOs to see the exchange of values and ideas as the way to build the competencies of our people, and to create a prosperous nation.

We will do this because we see that the only investment with the possibility of infinite returns is in our children, and because after a couple of years in Rwanda, working and learning with our people, these Peace Corps volunteers will be our sons and daughters, too.

Thoughts on Genocide Memorial Week

2009-05-30T16:42:00.001-04:00

It's a little delayed, I know, but finishing the school year has kept me from taking the time to post about my last visit. It was definitely hectic--and stressful, since I technically skipped a week of school to come out to Rwanda for Genocide Memorial Week. (Doing economics problem sets with sketchy internet is no fun.)

I'm glad I went to the conference. It was very academic, and I was left feeling like it could have attracted many important attendees. It wasn't particularly well publicized. Some of the panels were a bit dry, and others a bit obvious, but some were very, very interesting. One made my mouth drop, and another nearly made me cry.

Two French academics presented on what some French people have been saying about the Rwandan genocide. It was the last panel on the second day, and while everyone was tired, as soon as they began to speak, everyone's mouth fell open. Some of the most outlandish things they said included:

"It was a double-genocide" (meaning that both Hutu and Tutsi were massacred at alarming rates)
"It was a product of the Anglo-Israeli coalition to meddle in French Africa"
"It was only a genocide of Hutu. 4 million Hutu were killed by Paul Kagame's RPF"
"All the killings during the genocide were committed by the Tutsi rebels, who infiltrated the Hutu army, killed Tutsi civilians, and threw them into the road when international reporters came by in order to mislead them into thinking that Hutu were committing genocide" (This one really doesn't pass the laugh test, since it's pretty easy to distinguish between the two groups...among other things)

I should note that the French academics delivering this talk didn't subscribe to these points of view (or else they wouldn't have been allowed into the country).

The other interesting talk was by a Rwandan academic who presented on a unique coping mechanism among Rwandan genocide survivors. I have talked with others about this because I was so deeply moved, and they have said that similar coping techniques have emerged after conflict situations in other countries.

The man spoke of two youth survivor associations. I only caught the name of one, the GAERG (Groupe d'Anciens Etudiants Rescapés du Genocide des Tutsi). Groups of youth survivors, having no family left, band together into an association, creating an artificial family. The family can be large. They choose a new surname, one they all share (in Rwanda, this is less common). These surnames have meaning; translated, they mean "resilient," "brave," etc. Regardless of age, one association member assumes the role of "father," and another of "mother," and they fulfill these roles faithfully. When report cards for the "children" must be signed, the father and mother sign them. When a "child" is given away in marriage, they do this as well. When children are born to members, they become part of the family. In other words, the family functions as a normal family would, only the family members could all be the same age.

I find this model particularly interesting (and touching) because these survivors are trying to piece together a new life, to start over. In forming a new family, they are also modeling good family behavior, which is important not only for the "family members" to deal with their grief, but are also providing support to the next generation, to lessen any pain and suffering they may inherit.

Following the conference, two friends and I attended the official ceremony at Amahoro National Stadium in Remera. It was packed--by my estimation, 10,000 or more people attended, including President Kagame. We didn't stick to the official schedule (rare is the occasion when one does), as the ceremony seemed heavy on music and light on speeches. (Usually, I would argue that this is better than the reverse, but the musicians kept repeating the same songs.) The Rwandan government had flown in top musicians from the countries of East Africa, one from each. Representing Rwanda was my friend Faycal Ngeruka. They sang a song called "Never Again," and showed the music video they produced, which I've just found on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7eu1gdF4TTA.

The ceremony was sponsored by Aegis Trust, a UK NGO that educates about genocide and has funded the construction of genocide memorials in Rwanda and elsewhere. After showing a touching video featuring Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Tony Blair, Scarlett Johansson and Ben Affleck. (The last two are head scratchers, but whatever.) Several individual videos of that were used in the compilation can be found here: http://www.candlesforrwanda.org/view/10/the-candles.html.

The main event of the ceremony was a beautiful candle-lighting in the center of the field that read "hope" in French, English, and Kinyarwanda. The ambient music was punctuated by occasional shrieks from the audience, usually survivors who suffered from flashbacks. The Rwandan Red Cross was on standby in every section to escort them out; one person's screams can incite others to scream, creating mass hysteria.

The event concluded with a screening of a Rwandan film about a Hutu man and a Tutsi woman who come to be very good friends (with a hint of flirtation...) and eventually find out that the man's father killed the woman's father. It was short but effective, and the people around me seemed to be very engaged in the plot's twists and turns.

The people around me were the best part of the event, I think. You could tell by the way people were dressed that they weren't just Kigali's businesspeople, yuppies, and other professionals. There weren't many abazungu there, either. Many of the people around me were workers and farmers (there are still farms in urban Kigali; they tend to farm in the valleys, where it floods and wealthier people choose not to live. More valuable land is higher on the hills). It was nice to know that, despite significant international funding and some ostentation, the event wasn't entirely catered to the higher socio-economic classes.

International Symposium on the Genocide Against Tutsi 2009 (Day 3)

2009-04-22T15:48:00.003-04:00

Informal Conference Notes

Kigali Serena Hotel

April 6, 2009

International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda vis a vis the 1994 genocide in Rwanda

ICTR was established 15 years ago. Soon to be closed down. UNSC already established that the tribunal has seen its days and must be completed soon.
Any assessment of transitional justice systems must be seen in the time when you are assessing them. Nuremberg as example: 1945, there were very different views of the process (people saw it as victor’s justice, unfair to Germans).
What a great precedent (?) Clarifications on the law of genocide.
1. Significant contribution to fighting impunity—some of the top planners of the genocide. Been able to do so after these people were extradited and handed over. This issue of surrender is a big challenge to prosecuting main leaders of genocide. Many from the Holocaust never had to face a judge. Less pressure on states to do something.
2. ICTR has been able to keep the Rwandan genocide on the agenda of the UN. They have to report to the UNSC. Recent judgment of Bagosora case even got press in Europe.
3. Can help on the fight against denial. International community has no way to escape the fact that we are discussing genocide.

Shortcomings: too slow, too costly, too far away, mismanagement. But relationship between victims and ICTR is a big shortcoming too. For the creators of the ICTR, victims were only witnesses. It becomes clear from all of the establishing documents. Member states of UN said to ICTR that main purpose is to prosecute and punish, not to get engaged in dialogue with victims.

Victims of international criminal justice… ICTR has heard the complaints, and ICC is trying to incorporate them. New relationship between victims and international criminal justice going to develop in ICC. In ICC preamble, it mentions the victims.

Participation of victims. ICC: want victims to participate in proceedings. Raises questions (like DRC, Darfur) how do you involve hundreds of thousands of victims?

Reparation: Responsabilites nationale et international/ Reparation: National and International Responsibilities

Need restorative justice that requires punishment and reconciliation. So every person responsible for his acts must be responsible for reparations. So we must establish personal responsibility. 1996 there was a law saying that victims are indemnified. The first responsible was the state. So the government should pay. In 2001, with installation of gacaca until now, the indemnification …those who stole need to pay back what they stole. A fund should collect in the place of victims. Resolution of UNSC for ICTR. Didn’t mention the disposition and restitution for victims . Socially, when there are reparations, the victims are socially and financially rehabilitated.

Gacaca, which is about to end, has urged restitution of things stolen. Most people are poor, however. Therefore, they can’t really force the restitution.

International responsibility: UN, AU have passively assisted the genocide, so they must make reparations. 2007, there was an initiative in UN promoted by the civil society to make reparations, but there are some countries, like France, who stand in the way of successfully pleading this case.

Problematique de l’indemnisation des victims du genocide des Tutsi sur le plan international/ Debate on the indemnification of Tutsi genocide victims on the international level

Must be a fault, and must be able to be regulated via law. The international community made a mistake. The UN should have acted, violated the following:
1. Convention on genocide
2. International texts on human rights
3. Founding text: UN Charter
The UN should have predicted it. Convention calls for international cooperation before genocide happens and to end it when it does.
The human rights texts, while not binding, should be honored. Effective and universal respect of human rights—this was not honored.
UN Charter—to resolve humanitarian conflicts. Human rights, etc. without regard for nationality, race, etc.
The Rwandan state takes the place of the victims and goes before the UN and international court of justice demanding reparations.
Associations make an appeal to the fund for victims of torture. There are only 2 such associations.

Reconstitution des Ressources Humaines et du tissu social comme composante essentielle de la base du developpement durable / Reconstitution of Human Resources and Social Fabric as an essential component of the base of sustainable development

All productive resources. The underdevelopment of the economy and human resources. Without these, Rwanda cannot develop.

Immigration. Identity crisis of Rwandans. Creation of commission for reconciliation, CNLG. Politics of decentralization helps promote the multiplication of civil society.

Improving access to justice to secure women’s reproductive rights
Tutsi women were used as weapons against Hutu men. Propaganda was used to say that Tutsi women were superior to Hutu women. Women against women: ubuzungerezi. Hutu women then hated Tutsi women.
Sexual violence in front of ICTR. Rape and sexual violence was recognized as genocide for the first time. Legal precedent. Definition: “physical invasion of a sexual nature, committed on a person under circumstances which are coercive.”
A woman was tried for sexual violence by using her son. Now we see that rape is not just a weapon of men against women. But there are no reparations. A judge laughed at a woman who was reliving her experience at the ICTR. Judge it by its objectives: accountability, deterrence, and national reconciliation and peace.
After the genocide, specialized national courts were established. 1996 sexual violence began to be tried as a Category 1 offense. It’s the only act among them that is not a “planning” act, even if we know now that it rape was part of the genocide plan.
Gacaca: since the regular courts were slow, 2000 gacaca was introduced. Organic Law no. 13/2008, Gacaca tried 1st category offenses including rape. There were innovations of the process that protected the victim and community: there was a camera trial, and professional secrecy was protected. National courts did not preserve privacy. There are no public confessions for perpetrators of rape. In criminal matters, it is the state against the offender. For these cases, the victim can choose not to have their case tried today; when they are ready, they can go to justice. There are also trauma counselors allowed at trial. There are no reparations.
IBUKA, AVEGA, SOLACE ministries provide trauma counseling for rape in Rwanda.
At Nuremberg, rape was seen as too atrocious to prosecute.
There is a draft law on reproductive health, human trafficking, gender based violence, anti-discrimination.
Edmund Burke: “all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

La reconstruction identitaire a travers les familles artificielles de l’association des eleves et etudiants rescapes du genocide/ The Identity Reconstruction of Artificial Families Among Student Associations of Genocide Survivors

Young people grow up in associations of orphan survivors. Artificial families are very valuable to people; provide familial protection and comfort. Youth have created these families through associations. The youth then find their own solutions to problems. One such association is the GAERG. They refuse to be restrained by their handicap—they continue to live with dignity.

They also have an artificial family surname. They have a mother, a father, uncles, aunts, children. The family names they take show compassion, solidarity, and strength. The different people play the different roles; the “parents” give away their “children” in marriage, for example. This combats negationism. Members value the group they belong to. They try to be strong, but they are still psychologically weak. “Fathers” can have the same age as “children.” They participate in parent-teacher conferences. They sign report cards. The family splits the responsibilities evenly. They are enterprising. The families develop an identity and a non-violent and pro-justice ethnic.

Before being killed, the real parents of these children were humiliated, and other adults, particularly killers, have been bad models of behavior. The survivors want to help lead the reconstruction of their country through better behavior and active participation.

When real kids are born, they participate in the artificial family. This auto-affirmation shows a desire to live and survive and thrive.

L’innomable du genocide ou les violences d’un passé qui ne passé pas: Mecanismes psychologiques de la fabrique des bourreaux et clinique de la survivance chez les victimes / The unspeakable aspect of the genocide, where the violence of the past does not pass : Psychological mechanisms of the fabric of execution and its vestiges among victims

The past has not passed. People are condemned to live with the results of the tragedy. How to live with the unliveable?
I learned to live with it. Nous nous pensons immortels, mais il y a la mort. Need a new identity : familiale, sociale. After trauma, the mechanism to defend yourself is weakened.
Understanding the words of the survivors. One woman said she wasn’t crazy like this before. When you see a person die, you live like a survivor, somewhere between living and dead. They are tortured inside.
You need to name the acts to deal with them. The words of the genocidaires are printed in their minds forever. If words can damage, words can heal. They say they are not the same as they were before; they wish they were with those who were lost. “My soul is with them,” said one woman.
People now have begun to forget that these people have lost so much.

Using narrative writing to facilitate the healing process among survivors of the genocide of Tutsi in Rwanda

Dr. Laura Apol, Dr. Tatyana Sigal, Ken Bialek, Dr. Yakov Sigal, Glorieuse Uwizeye, Ernest Mutwarasibo

Low cost intervention that can effectively lessen the effects of genocide-induced trauma among survivors.

Traumatic memories: disorganized, fragmented, incomplete, vague, over-general, little to no narrative content. As a result, memories cannot be integrated into personal awareness.
Does writing help to heal? Clinicians have been trying to find alternative therapies to express themselves. Document decrease in medical visits, depression, somatic symptoms, and enhances immune system.

Like any psychotherapy, it converts images and emotions into words. It organizes traumatic memories. Gives the writer a sense of control. Gives sense of security and safety.
Writing uses therapeutic techniques. Labels feelings, which reduces emotional response. Desensitization because of the editing process, working with the same story over a period of time. Flooding (exposing the person to painful memories, which then abate, with the goal of integrating emotions and awareness.)

Project: designed the workshop, worked with facilitators, and then conducted the workshops.
Working with the facilitators. Was at the genocide memorial in Kigali. Used 2 step format. Step 1: writers would have a free-writing, brainstorming exercise. They would respond to prompts provided by the project leaders. Step 2: Wrote narrative in a linear way.
3 rounds of writing- write about time before, during, and after the genocide.
Before Genocide: Write as much as possible about experience beforehand. Explain things in ways they may not have done before. Details about life: their furniture, favorite foods, activities. They discovered after this stage that the experience of genocide didn’t begin on April 7, 1994. Many felt return of pre-genocide happiness, memories of being with families, family celebrations, being secure with their parents. For some, time before the genocide wasn’t necessarily good. Sometimes, remembering the past made them sad, and for many, it was the first time they had shared their memories.

During the genocide: One woman said “I didn’t feel anything when I heard someone had died during genocide. I couldn’t allow myself to express emotion. That’s why the emotions come up not at other times.” A man, Emery, said he fell into a dream in 1994, and didn’t awake until 1999. He saw dead people everywhere, and only came to realize in 1999 that a genocide had occurred. Some were angry about expressing their stories in written form instead of orally.
Some finally have confronted the questions they never asked. No one shared their personal memories of Genocide; they all talked about the process of writing.

After genocide: Write about the good things that are happening in their lives now, and what their hopes and dreams for themselves and their countries are. They focused on positive things, focused on a sense of hope, made clear the distinction between hope and fantasy—that hope required action. They asked the question—what if there isn’t anything positive afterward?

Discoveries: They found it was easier to write the story in 3 stages. It was easier to separate. It was easier to write in Kinyarwanda than in English. Free writing helped them to remember the details of their stories.

The facilitators all wanted to keep writing and wanted to make their stories public.

A year later, they followed up; people liked that they had the opportunity to talk about life before genocide. Some said they also said they had written material they didn’t wish to share. Rwanda is primarily an oral culture. Writing is challenging and requires new skills and training. Oral telling, however, are created selectively. When you write, you write more slowly and there are more gaps that must be filled in.

They included a psychological component. What they wish: Narrative Therapeutic writing, then low cost scalable mental health care, and then positive economic outcomes.

Who: orphans, women, college aged survivors, high school survivors. Partners: Association Mwana Ukundwa, Kigali Genocide Museum.

Temoigner pour reapprendre a vivre chez les enfants survivants du genocide des Tutsi a Mugina/ Witnessing to learn how to live again ; child survivors of the Tutsi genocide in Mugina
Ernest Mutwarasibo

Children can give us information that is indispensable to the global understanding of the genocide. Most work is interested in written sources, particularly with the planning and execution of genocide. But this work is interested in testimonies of survivors. These studies were led by psychotherapists. Children, to this day, are not considered a dignified source of information about the genocide. Some say that children cannot explain exactly what happened over the course of the genocide, including what happened to their parents. The testimonies of the children are integral, though. More precisely, some children recognized what happened to their parents and families, whether torture or killing. Children hid under the cadavers of their parents and observed everything going on around them. Some remember the persecution of members of their family from 1990-1993. These children live in extreme poverty, they lack familial love, they are sometimes handicapped, they are lonely. The children don’t just see genocide as a systematic act, but the continued attack on their survival.
Before the genocide: the time of persecution against the family
Genocide: systematic destruction of family
After genocide: They face their problems that continue as a result of the genocide.
The children have adopted a collective identity of pardoning.

Psychosocial Care of Youth Survivors of the 1994 Tutsi Genocide in Rwanda. A Case Study of Youth at APACE High school.
Gloriose Uwizeye

Far too often the psychosocial care of orphan survivors of genocide is overshadowed by other immediate needs such as shelter and food, or is overlooked as children are reinserted into the educational system. The lack of this care negatively affects efforts to reconstruct the lives of survivors and get them on the road to a stable and productive citizenship.

Efforts have been made to meet these needs. Different institutions, such as universities, took the initiative of training mental health service providers. At the end of 2007, 273 trauma counselors did a 1 yr training, 3,812 psychosocial assistants trained in active listening, 152 trained as psychiatric nurses and 12 as clinical psychologists.

Researcher wanted to know what the survivors were dealing with. Qualitative approach. Open ended semi-structured interviews with 8 people (4 boys and 4 girls) 18-24 yrs old. There are 20 total at this school. They had all been in foster families but they left because they all had conflicts with the foster families. No psychosocial services or support networks were provided to these students. 15 yrs later, the study participants still suffer emotional reactions related to survival, such as fear, anger, deep sadness, week-long bouts of insomnia, emotional instability, lack of appetite, suicidal impulses, lack of concentration in class, flashbacks, low-self esteem, and hopelessness.

Most emotional reactions triggered by lack of a proper home. They are traumatized by the fact that they don’t have a place to go during vacations—it makes them very aware of the fact that they have no one. Some said it’s because no one visited them, or advised them on decisions that affect their future. They said that it impacts their school performance. They said it’s hard to attain the required marks to qualify for government university scholarships or those offered by FARG (the genocide survivor association).

Their primary source of support was sharing their problems and experiences with other youth survivors. They want to be a part of an extended family network.

This raises questions about availability/access to psychosocial care services by survivors. Quality of services is undermined by attitudes that counselors must be trained for weeks to be able to deal with this.

La memoire du genocide du Rwanda et la reconfiguration identitaire/The memory of the Rwandan genocide and the reconfiguration of identity
Dr. Dominique Payette

Ethnic identity is very strong; in the HCR camps in Goma, the youth reconfirmed their loyalty and pride in their Hutu ethnicity.
For one woman who lives overseas, she is very proud of being Tutsi because it now signifies everything her people have suffered. Many survivors who live overseas feel like their experiences are not appreciated because there is so little understanding in Canada of the Rwandan genocide. It’s very frustrating for them to have to answer questions in Canada like, “What is the difference between Hutu and Tutsi? “ or “Why do people in Africa kill each other?”
What the survivors have said is that they want to tell everything to their children. Rwandese in Canada have no desire to marry other expat Rwandese.

Can forgetting actually help healing? WE cannot forget what cannot be punished. It will take at least a generation.

Litterature, ethique et memoire d’un genocide/ Literature, ethics, and memory of genocide
Prof. Josias Semujanga

What can we do to understand what happens after genocide? Rumor was used in negationism. In Africa, in the West, we look at the texts. After, there are many texts that were published on Rwanda that were “scientific.” There were paintings, cartoons, music. How do we use these to talk about the post-genocide period? Literature allows us to freely discuss the problems in society—it’s a debate about society.

Through literature, you can force students to think about society. Novel called Murambi. It ends with, “There are survivors, even after the devil has passed.” How to think about this? Lessons can be carried. La Reine de Colline. The protagonist recalls being raped by a soldier.

Effacement des traces du genocide des Tutsi/Erasing traces of the Tutsi genocide

How much evidence is being destroyed. Speeches by traitors. People we met told us that after the death of Habyarimana, killings did not immediately begin. Kibeho was known for the appearances of the Virgin Mary. Some argue that she predicted the genocide. There was a commission to look at the churches which would become memorials of the genocide. Gacaca: some people were using their testimonies to destroy evidence. One woman says witnesses are contributing to the destruction of evidence. “We killed, we stole, but without mentioning the individual role.” There is no way to know what part that person actually played. Now, you look at the Kibeho church, it has been reconstructed since the genocide, so you can’t tell that anything happened here. Children won’t believe you when you tell them.

Testimony, Law, and Literature
Aimable Twagirimana

In 1959, Tutsis were taken to Bugesera. Geography of genocide. The end is not just to kill, but to humiliate before killing. Africans who went to the US redefined themselves after liberation, and reconstructed an identity. Survivors are very confused about their identities. Massacres happened in a culture of impunity. Definition of the “other”—Jews as lice, Tutsis as snakes and cockroaches. We need faith in the imaginative possibilities of literature, so it can create an infinite space in which to confront difficult issues.

Du Viol a la loi GBV et après. L’importance des etudes feminines et du genre au sein des institutions academiques rwandaises/ From rape, to gender-based violence, and after. The importance of women’s studies at Rwandese academic institutions

Prof. Bea Rangira Gallimore

2006-2007. 35 murders of women by husbands in 2006. 22 murders of women by husbands in 2007.

There is a general rise of GBV. Adultery, concubinage, polygamy are against Rwandan law.

We often think in terms of gender and sex—and we have stereotypes. If both members of a couple are doctors, we are more inclined to believe that the male must be the doctor. The problem with violence against women is post traumatic stress disorder. Kigali Health Institute said that more focus must be devoted to counseling.

National and Personal Reconciliation: The challenges for survivors
Prof. Alexandre Dauge-Roth

Based on testimonies of orphans. Gacaca has become the dominant forum for discussing what happened in 1994. Survivors must live alongside perpetrators and acknowledge requests for forgiveness. While perpetrators are allowed some degree of amnesty, the survivors’ experiences are relegated to memorials and commemorations. Bearing witness is an exercise that involves not just survivors but Rwanda as a whole. Their success in contemporary Rwanda depends on their economic success, among other factors. Testimony is one avenue through which the victim can voice their suffering, seek to inscribe their story within their community, and call for communities of listeners. By refusing to remain silent, survivors keep the memory of those who died alive, and gain social legitimacy. Their testimony represents the past, but also a social performance of the survivor’s agency within their community in the area of reconciliation. It documents how the genocide was planned, fighting negationist ideology. It fights a culture of impunity. They achieve social recognition. And survivors find a way to escape the grip of their memories. Personal history can then be inscribed within a larger History.

Memorialization and rememberance: judicial paradigms prevail. The very act of testifying puts one’s suffering at a more tolerable distance. How can survivors negotiate their feeling of belonging to a community? To bear witness to one’s own estrangement shows a desire for connectedness. They create a social space and reclaim on their own terms the meaning of their survival. If voices of survival are repressed, it is because of cultural trauma. Bearing witness calls for remembrance and mourning.

One of the obstacles resides in the disbelief and negation of survivors’ stories. Francois Ngarambe is trying to collect 15,000 testimonies from survivors. Most survivors celebrate gacaca as a way to find out from perpetrators where their loved ones are, so they may give them a dignified burial.

Vice-President of the National Commission for the Fight Against Genocide
Thank you for your active participation and resourceful presentations. The Commission is committed to concretize the conclusions of this symposium. We invite you to the Genocide Commemoration tomorrow and which will go until April 15, 2009.

Closing Remarks: Minister of Sport and Culture
Thank you for those who have come from every corner of the world to discuss this issue. We have talked about things that happened over 100 days in just 2 days. The truth resides with the people. The people of the rural areas who don’t speak French, but who speak Kinyarwanda. They need to express what they saw, what they lived. For all the survivors and other Rwandans, we will remember until July. 10,000 people died per day. 10,000 families will remember each day. We must combat genocide denial, but so must you. Help us to transmit the message about what has happened here. Because you have come here to try to understand the genocide, you have the baggage. We need to give hope. This is how we will commemorate tomorrow.

International Symposium on the Genocide Against Tutsi 2009 (Day 2)

2009-04-05T21:12:00.000-04:00

International Symposium on the Genocide Against Tutsi: “15 Years after the Genocide against Tutsi in Rwanda. Stakes, Challenges, and Future Prospects.”

Informal Conference Notes

Kigali Serena Hotel, 4th-6th April, 2009

April 5

Le role de l’ideologie dans la preparation et l’execution du genocide des Tutsi au Rwanda/ The Role of Ideology in the Preparation and the Execution of the Tutsi Genocide in Rwanda

There was a time when we overemphasized the importance of ideology. Local level: study in 2006. What were the causes of the genocide? 3 categories: ideological, political, economic
Racist ideology. End of independence movement. Tutsi were menaced when the Belgians left.
Typology of the ideology : another challenge. Classic definition: collectivity of value. Ideology changes over the different stages of Rwandan history. Work of the first ethnologues: Tutsi were viewed as a distinct ethnic group, and it was impossible to have national unity because of Tutsi superiority.
1959 : first pogrom. Tutsi didn’t have legitimate citizenship. Genocide ideology : Tutsis were the enemy, worked against the interests of the Hutu community. It was necessary to completely rid the country of the Tutsi.
2006: 85% pp in village thought that genocide was linked to belief that Tutsi better than Hutu, etc.
Small study: questions 3 groups of killers. What were their motivations?
4 main motivations:
1. The Tutsi threat
2. The administration told them to
3. There was no consequence to killing Tutsi
4. Hate because of anti-Tutsi propaganda

Irony of Morality : Constructing Evil to Overcome Enemies and Vice Versa

The speaker only represents the perspective of the US. The US carries the burden of national apathy. We Americans only think of ourselves.
There is something to learn from Rwanda, and there are lessons to prevent it from happening again. Yet, unless there is direct economic consequence for inaction, we can expect no action. Should we assume the worst and act swiftly to quash threat? These suspicions can be corrosive and self-fulfilling prophecies.
We were too slow to call the Rwandan genocide a “genocide.” There has been a high level of support from the US for Rwanda, which is the product of our collective guilt. Curious phenomenon about word “genocide” –does it have magical powers? When we call it genocide, we think it will make it stop…which is why we use it in Sudan also.
July 22, 2004, Congress called Darfur genocide. Bush Administration was asked to lead international intervention effort. Then Colin Powell said it. Should have led to counter-genocidal action in Darfur. Only the US used the word “genocide” to describe Darfur. No one else calls it genocide other than NGOs. Not even AU, Amnesty, MSF, UN have rejected use of term “genocide.” The U.S. shouldn’t use it, either, because it is counterproductive. The use of word “genocide” is now preventing us from doing the right thing in Rwanda because of the real world of international politics.
Even so, we’re not backing off the use of the term. But ICC didn’t say that Bashir committed genocide.
Crux: Extreme moralism, which is the heart of US religious ethos and foreign policy. Clear and unambiguous division between good and evil. While this seems appealing, it is not good for complex situations. Can create enemies and evil, though. Creates an “other.” Dehumanizes the perceived enemies. Psychology: people need to dehumanize others before they can commit violence against them. Evil isn’t a subjective idea; sometimes it exists, and sometimes we must meet violence with violence. Deciding when that action is required can be problematic. Extreme morality limits our political options.
What is natural? If we can do it, it’s natural. If it’s good or bad is subjective. We can’t see things in black and white, Axis of Evil, if you’re not with us, you’re against us. We were good, they were bad. Tendency to create enemies has made us blind to the complexities of our actions.
Morality of good and evil—Hutu thought that Tutsi were evil. Needed to exterminate them. We in the west have a long way to go before we understand Africa and its colonial legacy.
Answering extremism with extremism isn’t the answer. We must be proactive and preventative.
Apocalypse Now: Civil Society, Weapons, and Fear in Modern Genocide
Genocide and public health: 1999 death rates in Rwanda. 40,000 pp died of HIV .6% of susceptible population died. 1,200 died/yr. Genocide: 10.2% of entire population. Couldn’t calculate susceptible population. Mortality rate: 12,750/100,000/yr. Leading cause of death in Africa in 1994 was the Rwandan genocide.
9,500/100,000 2004 in Darfur death rate.
Long term health effects: PTSD, depression, intergenerational transmission of psychological disorders
Violence prevention. It’s low cost, high efficiency. Rebuilding is high cost, low efficiency. After genocide, everyone rushes in after the event and start looking at the victims. Shift the trend back and look before the event at potential perpetrators, we don’t look at leaders or those developing the paradigm ;we look at average people who are susceptible to bad influences. Based on research done in the past. 144 adolescents who were very violent. Interviewed to find out why violence was useful. 12-step program on generating alternatives to violence. Afterward, they had fewer resort to hostility. Those kids had fewer parole violations later.
While genocide is planned by kingpins, it is committed by average people. Social change comes from the top, but can also come from below. Work with individuals and communities directly.

Research:
Phase 1: retrospective analysis in Rwanda
Phase 2: prospective analysis in high-risk jurisdictions
Phase 3: development/implementation of programming
Phase 4: program testing and refinement
We focus on the perpetrators instead of the survivors because to protect the survivors, we must prevent people from acting again.

Context:
Autocratic government
History of ethnic hatred: taught in schools churches, administrative areas
Economic crisis: structural adjustment late 80s early 90s, coffee collapse.
War: one army, two aims
Idle threats of intervention from internationals
Youth bulge: major population growth was 15-25. Unemployed.
Men:
Hatred of Tutsis. Taught before independence but stressed after independence. Evil people, cruel and hypocritical. Believed they deserved to be killed.
Became like monsters with no remorse.
**Rwanda was suffering from an intensely militarized civil society who were told they would be killed enslaved by people invading the country. Had to protect themselves, defend, with no rules of engagement. “Our leaders were telling us that if the Tutsis took control, they would put us into slavery and we would be killed.”
People were also afraid of the Interahamwe and ruling authorities. People would have considered them an enemy of the nation.
“Tsunami Effect” people were completely overwhelmed by what was happening. They were recruited. “Government didn’t control anything and we believed we were all going to die.” People felt socially overwhelmed.
3 of 40 male respondents said they didn’t believe what was happening…it was like judgment day. Thought it was the Biblical apocalypse.
Youth: defiance of parents, acting impulsively, defending “manhood,” trying to achieve enough material security to get married and have a family.

The Perfect Storm of genocide: pressures: militarized civil society, self-community defense; fear of ruling authorities; hatred; greed; youth bulge; tsunami effect. Youth are very susceptible to messaging.

Recommendations:
Rwanda is at a crossroad. Model security and prosperity. Now in a position to move forward on how to discuss, teach , move beyond genocide. Emphasize victims, give hope and identity to all Rwandans—to bystanders, etc. but certainly people born after the genocide. Engage opinion leaders; Include the social sciences as well as politics and law.
One national blueprint for what the organizational vision is for recovering from genocide. Should be taught in schools and churches. Must be targeted messaging for different age groups. Don’t guess. Talk to people and use data. Can’t change behavior unless you know what people think. Involve the media, be provocative. Coordinate NGO messaging under a national agenda. One governmental message where everyone is working together. Rwanda has shown us a path to success.

Exacerbations ethniques dans les discours du President Gregoire Kayibanda/ Ethnic Exacerbations in the Speeches of President Gregoire Kayibanda

Twa was supposed to be Twa, Hutu was to be worker, Tutsi was to be the leader. In 1963, July 1, anniversary of independence, speech was not partisan, but he said at the end of the speech, “I will finish by speaking to Tutsis. Tutsi hegemony has come to an end. Tutsi should stop creating groups of proud people who are trying to step on the Hutu people. Living on the sweat of others without working themselves. We have to work for ourselves, and those who are educated among you.” At the highest level of the government, it was clear that the government was perpetuating genocidal and ethnic ideology.
28 Jan of 1963. Kayibanda talked to Rwanda refugees. Genocide speech. Genocide has the same roots as fratricide, homicide, etc. Tutsi were spies and sought to change the bright future of other Rwandans. Showed as not contributing to good future of Rwanda. “PARMEHUTU is the party that has come to liberate and save the Hutu.” Never any peaceful ideology, always controversial. He said this in Nyakizu, which did not know ethnic division. In 1966 he said PARMEHUTU had to fight against the hypocrisy of the Tutsi, that the Tutsi had torpedoed the development of Rwanda. Same kinds of speeches made in 1994. On May 1, Labor Day 1967, he said these are the days of Hutus, and you have been bound by ubuhake (feudal hegemony) saying that “it is the day of our ethnic group.” We are liberating ourselves from the undemocratic former rules. Labor Day liberates you from situations like the Great Depression in Rwanda (famine) across the country.
An international Labor Day became now a national party. Ruling Party day. These speeches that were made between 1971 and 1973, he came back to the issue of getting rid of external influences on the culture, namely the influence of Tutsi. He was saying the Tutsi was a foreigner, an external force, not a Rwanda. He used a lot of German words in the speech. Saying culture was that of nobles, using it ironically, saying that Tutsis were considered nobles. The Hutu will no longer be considered as the lower class. Used curse words in his speech to show that the Tutsi would have no more place in Rwanda.
Hypocritical Tutsis are not necessarily the smartest of the people. What you seem to be joking with is a serious issue. You are incompetent, or you act with us to move forward. These are some of the root causes of what happened in 1994, unfortunately no one rose their hand to speak against it.

Negationism in Rwanda
Next to South Africa, Rwanda is the best known country in Africa, but not necessarily for all the right reasons. Rwanda is the case study everyone points to as an international failure. Lots of exhibitions, books, etc. have come out about Rwanda in the past year. And there are many people who deny that some people have tried to pretend that the genocide never happened. Where there is genocide, there is denial.
3 senior bishops in Catholic church have said the Holocaust never happened. Genocide of the Armenians by the Turks. Turkish government punishes any state that recognizes that as a genocide.

5 sources of denial:
1. Hutu Power. Extremists. Deny what happened. Want to do it all over again.
2. There are strong political and religious forces in Europe who continue to perpetuate genocide denial, working with genocidaires.
3. Rwandans who are not exactly genocide deniers, but who are so hateful of the present government that they trivialize the genocide. Greatest example of this is Paul Rusesabagina, who alleged that Kigali today is the same as Kigali in 1994. Patently untrue.
4. French establishment. Enemy of the RPF since it was created, and has done its best to discredit the RPF. French allowed the genocidaires to escape into Congo. Now their denial is manifest (Mitterand said : Le genocide? Ou les genocides? ) in the airplane crash in 1994 which the French want to pin on the RPF to show that the genocide was not preplanned by Hutu power. No one has any real evidence on who shot the plane down. Serious followers of Africa will not say they believe Bruguiere, even though there is no evidence.
5. Rwanda’s own axis of evil. Small group of thugs driven by an extreme paranoid anti-Americanism that leads them to believe that everything that has happened is a big American conspiracy. Only 12 people, but because of the internet, they create a ton of damage.
Bubu, Ellender, Black, Robin Philpot said Romeo Dallaire is a stooge of the USG.

If you listen to Christopher Black, an international criminal lawyer, would believe: genocide is a myth. There was no French involvement in Rwanda. There was no ethnic problem in Rwanda prior to 1990. Before 1994, Rwanda was a semi-socialist country, a model of Africa. The plane was shot down by the Belgians, Americans, the RPF, and with the help of Romeo Dallaire.

Negationnisme au Rwanda post genocide/ Negationism in post-genocide Rwanda

It was a system thought through. Everyone saw it happen in plain daylight. We don’t tell the stories of what we saw. The RPF prevented the genocide from going all the way to the end. Even the Rwandans from the exterior saw that, understood that, and fought. It was the French who supported the Hutu. The genocide was ending and the Zone Turquoise was established; and that’s when the negationism began. Some believe there were interethnic massacres.; not just a massacre of one side.

The Congolese refugees were shown on the media as the refugees of the genocide, when they were actually the killers. Those who disagreed were killed so they didn’t impede the genocide of the Tutsi.

[Then Janet Kagame, First Lady of Rwanda, walked in.]

The genocide is recent history, only 15 years ago. Today we can talk to the whole world, but there is a sense that no one will ever understand what happened here. The world was sympathetic, but the world is not tender with innocent victims. During the genocide, we were killed for reasons for which we were not responsible. When you are killed for something you can’t help, you are an innocent victim.

After Congo became the center of media attention, Rwanda started to ask why no one understood that the refugees there were being seen as the victims.

Le Negationnisme a l’heure de la surinformation/ Negationism at a time of a surfeit of information

Different forms by which the genocide took place. Interethnic conflict, double genocide, spontaneous genocide? Why do people still think it didn’t happen?

Shedding light on the issue: we have to have a lot of information on something to see it clearly. This clarification was provided by the media, with perspectives, images, etc. We question the witnesses. We collect the responses and we reflect.

For some, it was impossible for people to believe that French soldiers threw Tutsis from their helicopters in a humanitarian mission. Cecil Grenier was on the Mucyo commission. He pre-rejected some witness accounts.

We were inundated with information. Information can kill. Reporters without Borders. Journalists die telling us what is true. According to Guy Tenisse, a journalist here at the time, reported the massacres in Kigali. He never figured out who the target was, and who was targeting. He said that observers wouldn’t have been able to tell—which was not true.

L’Etat Major Francais during the expat evacuation knew the difference between who was killing and who was being killed, but said he didn’t. He knew, and he didn’t prevent the government from undertaking their genocide. He didn’t want the media to know that the French soldiers hadn’t prevented the government from doing what they were doing.

Banalisation et negation du genocide des Tutsi quinze ans après/ Normalization and Negation of the Tutsi Genocide 15 Years Later

Some arguments:
The genocide of Tutsis was pragmatic because the succession of events predicted the genocide
Tutsi genocide was committed by Hutus to prevent a genocide by Tutsis.

Modification of motives and circumstances. Mix up of real and fake, generalization. Creates fake realities. Need to cover up certain things. Manipulation of memories.

Simplification. “What happened in Rwanda was very human. When you are attacked, your first reaction is to defend yourself. You forget you are a Christian.” Former official in Ruhengeri.

Some Hutu say that the airplane being shot down was a signal that they had to defend themselves.

Double genocide. Crimes committed in Rwanda in 1994 against the Hutu in Byumba, Umutara, Bugesera, etc. counts as genocide against innocent Hutu victims by the Tutsi. So the massacres are equivalent in responsibility.

Manipulation of memory. Suppression of witnesses. Murder of witnesses, destruction of victim property to intimidate them.

The stakes are political. It’s at the heart of Rwandan politics. Despite the wealth of information the genocide, negationism continues. It’s fundamentally linked to politics, here and elsewhere.

De la reconciliation face au negationnisme et au revisionnisme du Genocide contre les Tutsi/ Reconciliation in the face of negationism and revisionism during the Tutsi Genocide

During the genocide, as promoted through Kangura, the anti-Tutsi paper, there was an emphasis on purity in all domains. Murder was politically motivated. Tutsis are proud, hypocritical, etc. It was also economically motivated. Started by foreigners, continued by the Rwandans themselves. Fictional history become collective memory. Official speeches, intellectual speakers, politics, cultural influences, media. You can construct a society as a result of negativity.

Les Juridictions Gacaca en lutte contre le genocide et ses derives/ Gacaca jurisdictions in the fight against genocide and related crimes

Reconstruct man to then reconstruct Rwanda. He is persecuted and anguished by the acts of the genocidaires. Reconcile killers and victims to get the nation going again.
Why ?
To know the truth about what happened during the genocide
To speed up the trials of the genocide
To eradicate the culture of impunity: this was really prevalent since 1959, with the first pogrom. Killing, stealing, raping, etc….it was fine, it wasn’t punished.
To reinforce unity and reconciliation among Rwandans

In gacaca, people swear culpability without extortion. There are denunciations, punishment.
What is the solution for the future? Then they swore that they were culpable. And then the reconciliation began. Others refuse to avow culpability. Some commit to leagues of silence. In Butare, some even denounce the witnesses.
There are attempts at corruption. This is very current. Some denounced in the past, but now they say they made a mistake, but in fact they have received something in order to contradict themselves.
There is still a genocide ideology among many genocidaires.
Why Hope?
-Massive mobilization: People are now starting to say what they have been meaning to say for a long time.Then they tell their story and they are immediately more relaxed. The Gacaca councils have helped us to better understand how the genocide functioned. It’s a decisive step. At the end, we find ourselves in front of people, who declare themselves innocent or guilty. Now we have an idea. Not totally precise, but a better understanding, anyway.
The problem is those people who corrupt the process by paying people off, etc.

Le Negationnisme en France: Modes d’Expression et d’operation/ Negationism in France : Modes of Expression and Operation

Institutional lines, legal lines, media. How did it operate? By mobilizing internal actors. Recruitment of vectors, Rwandan people, in order to perpetuate the perverse idea of negationism.
French beliefs:
-The French say that there was only a Hutu genocide, that 4 million Hutus died at the hands of the FPR, Kagame’s rebel army.
-Kagame’s rebel army infiltrated the Hutu military and committed the most killings, leaving them in the road so the media would see.
-Hutus are passive, could never kill. The Tutsi rebel army, however, was called the Khmer Noir.
-The FPR was responsible for all killings from 1990-1993.
-The current system is being influenced by the Anglo-Israeli coalition, who wants to take over the Francophone areas in particular.

International Symposium on the Genocide Against Tutsi (Day 1)

2009-04-04T21:05:00.000-04:00

One of my main reasons for returning to Rwanda when I did was to attend the International Symposium on the Genocide Against Tutsi. Since I was there (and was relatively attentive), I decided to take informal conference notes. It occurred to me that someone might be interested in what was said, so I have decided to post them here. Days 2 and 3 are long.

My usual string of caveats: I recorded what I heard as faithfully as possible. I listened to the translator when presentations were made in Kinyarwanda, but not for presentations in French; those I took notes from directly. My notes can be kind of messy, but I tried to make them as logical as possible. :)

I am posting them by day of the conference!

International Symposium on the Genocide Against Tutsi: “15 Years after the Genocide against Tutsi in Rwanda. Stakes, Challenges, and Future Prospects.”

April 4, 2009

Aegis Trust showed a documentary on the genocide called “Hoping for a Home.”

Launch of the "One Dollar Campaign" that will run for 100 days and will help to build homes for genocide orphans. Build a hostel for them during the holidays because they are embarrassed when their friends and other students leave for the holidays but they have to stay at school because they don’t have family. One girl at university described how her fellow students packed and left, and she also packed and walked around as if she, too, was leaving, because she was too embarrassed by the thought that she had nowhere to go.

Idea was generated because many young women survivors were found to have prostituted themselves in order to earn money, and their school marks had been suffering so they couldn’t get into university. So hostels were created for them so they had a place to go and they also had tutoring. From that, people thought to create a hostel for the genocide youth.

Chose one dollar because every Rwandan can give one dollar.

Run by the Rwandese diaspora. Also called “Agaseke” after the Rwandan baskets. www.1dollarcampaign.org.

Murisanga! Feel at home.

2009-04-03T13:49:00.001-04:00

It’s good to be back. It was hard to explain to my colleagues at school that I wasn’t excited to go to Rwanda. Excited wasn’t exactly the word I would use to describe the feeling of returning—as my fifth time in Rwanda, it felt more like I was just going home. There’s a strange comfort in the sights, smells, and sounds of this place. Landing at Kayibanda airport, I felt like I was a full human again.

I don’t have much time here, but have a lot to do. The conference on the genocide lasts for three days, and this Tuesday, April 7, is the official day of mourning. While I’m here, I also have to see my friend Faycal (the pop singer) and my Rwandan family in Kigali. Today, I stopped by the newly-opened Peace Corps office to say hello to the staff and drop off some magazines for the Volunteers, including the latest Vanity Fair. When I was living in the north, I made a pilgrimage to Kigali’s Librarie Ikirezi, where I spent 7,500 FRw ($15--ouch) on a Vanity Fair and read it cover to cover by candlelight, memorizing every word and studying every photo.

After visiting the office, I took shelter from the torrential April rain at the MTN Center and had a Rwandan buffet for lunch. Such buffets are typically comprised of salad, a long series of starches (rice, fries, fried bananas, fried plantains, sweet potatoes, and pasta) and then isombe, beans, some meat (usually beef) and tomato-based sauce. I regrettably took a large portion of isombe, and was reminded that it is an acquired taste. Bitter, green, and a bit pasty, isombe is prepared with cassava leaves. It looks vaguely like spinach, but that’s where the comparison ends. After I forced it down, I nearly broke a tooth on a rock I found in my beans. Eh, well.

Before leaving, I popped by Café Bourbon for an ikawaccino (their answer to the Starbucks Frappuccino). While making small talk with the woman behind the counter, I discovered that they have opened a Bourbon Café selling Rwandan coffee in Boston, and soon they will be opening one in Washington, D.C. Let me just repeat that, if only for my own benefit: there will be Bourbon Coffeeshops in Boston and in D.C. Now I don’t have to go all the way to Rwanda to restock my coffee supply! Score!

Now I’m relaxing at my friend Victoria’s house in the middle of a thunderstorm. The rain is pounding so loudly that we can barely hear, and it’s glazing the windows as if we were in a car wash. It’s nice to be home.

Quick Visit!

2009-03-18T12:54:00.002-04:00

I've been talking about returning to Rwanda for the 15th Commemoration of the Genocide for years. It is this year, and despite my student poverty, I decided to skip school for a week and go to Rwanda to attend an international conference on the Rwandan Genocide (which, as of last year, has been renamed the "Genocide Against Tutsis").

The website for the conference is pretty hard to find, so I'm posting it here in case anyone else is also interested: http://www.cnlg.gov.rw/15th_sympos.htm

I'm looking forward to getting back to my brochettes and Mutzig!

The Greatest Myth

2008-12-23T12:37:00.001-05:00

One of the first things that I was told upon arriving in Rwanda in 2006 was that Rwandans just weren’t as friendly as other people in Africa. The metric by which these expatriates (some of whom were African) measured this was whether you were invited to eat at a Rwandan’s home.

My field supervisor noted this. “I just don’t understand it. I’m new in this community. How come no one has invited me to dinner?” she complained.

Expat colleagues in Kigali said the same. “I’ve worked with these colleagues for a full year and they haven’t asked me to come over.”

At a dinner with Embassy employees, more recently, I heard the same. “Rwandans will never invite you over to dinner.”

The problem is that it’s simply not true. I find that there is a double-standard when it comes to inviting people over for a meal; why do we expect Rwandans to do something that we do not? As an example: Imagine you are in a regular, suburban community in the U.S. A single person moves in somewhere on your street. This person is from another country. Pick one that you’re not familiar with. Laos, for example. Even if you see this person on the street several times, what is the likelihood that you will walk up to that person and invite them over for dinner?

Others may be more kindhearted than I, but I’d say most people probably wouldn’t. (On the East Coast, anyway.) This is a cultural thing. As an American, I am very open to meeting people, but I am only going to invite someone over if I have gotten to know them pretty well. This is the same as in Rwanda.

Chalk it up to history, perhaps, but it takes a while for Rwandans to fully trust people they meet. I don’t think this is abnormal, and it is unfair to judge them by this. Inviting someone over for dinner, to a Rwandan, is a very intimate request.

That said, Rwandans do invite people over to share meals. In Gisenyi, I ate at Faycal’s grandmother’s house twice a week. The night before my dinner with the Embassy employees, I was invited by my cleaning woman to go to her house for dinner. She had the entire extended family over, including her mother, and her beautiful son was pottering about, playing with a spoon. She served rice and beans, my favorite meal, and I spoke with the family in Kinyarwanda. Similarly, shortly before my field supervisor had complained about the lack of meal invites, I had been invited by a mutual colleague to his house for lunch.

Why was I invited, while she wasn’t?

The difference is effort. I have discussed the importance of learning local languages with anyone who will listen because it is this effort that shows the people of the country that you are open to learning about them. It is a great sign of respect. Plus, Rwandans are the first to concede that Kinyarwanda is difficult to learn—so even just knowing the greetings opens doors. But more broadly, knowing how to communicate in the local language is really the only way to learn about a culture beyond the obvious. Many people come to Rwanda for a week or less, and undoubtedly learn something. But Rwandan culture is incredibly complex, and to really explore the culture in a meaningful way, language (and time) is simply essential.

Quick update

2008-08-28T17:42:00.002-04:00

I've admittedly been silent for a while, because I have sadly returned to the States again for my next adventure--grad school. (I've been delaying it long enough!) While exciting for me, others probably wouldn't find reading posts about statistics and how creepily preppy my university town is as interesting as reading about Rwanda.

That said, I have a couple more things I plan to share, as soon as I find the time to write them. I'm also updating the "Things to Do in Rwanda" page as well as the Kinyarwanda-English Dictionary!

Will write soon!

Playing by the rules

2008-08-11T17:42:00.004-04:00

Don't even think about throwing that bottle

The Rwandan government is known to be responsible and responsive—if they see a problem, they try to fix it. And the best way to do this, of course, is to set down new laws. Some of the laws, perhaps most of them, would never be accepted in the United States. But Rwanda is very different—rules are rules, and people follow them. And when you hear about a new law, it's almost never surprising.

Here are some that I am aware of:

Umuganda. Essentially, it’s mandatory volunteerism. The last Saturday of every month, all Rwandans must volunteer in their communities, cleaning up shared spaces, picking up trash, fixing a road, etc.

No plastic bags. Since plastic bags have been identified by other countries as a litter problem (and was becoming a problem in Rwanda as well), plastic bags have been banned. Now, when you go to the store, your groceries are placed in narrow paper bags. The no-plastic bag rule goes for expatriates as well—if the police at the airport see you come in with a plastic bag, they will take it from you.

No cutting down trees for firewood. Erosion has become a big problem in Rwanda, because of its numerous hills, almost all of which are cultivated. With the population size as it is, people have been cutting down trees for firewood; in other places, they will burn the wood and make charcoal from it. The deforestation was so severe that the government has banned cutting trees for firewood, and people now use dead brush or charcoal to cook their meals. (This has been a problem for many.)

If you have a paved road in front of your house, you must grow a garden with flowers. Whether you’re a little boutique selling matches and water, a humble residence, or a large mansion, if you have a paved road in front of your building, Rwandan law now states that you must grow a garden with flowers to beautify the road.

No marriage until 21 years of age. This one not always followed, especially in the rural areas, but I’m assuming this rule was instituted as a family planning initiative. None of my Rwandan friends were married before 21 (the ones who did get married were about 25 or 26) and told me that they thought it would be crazy to get married earlier than 21. Quite different from most developing countries I have seen.

No razor wire or broken bottles cemented on the tops of walls in Kigali. This is the newest rule of all of them—apparently someone in the government decided that these security measures were ugly and unnecessary, so now it’s unlawful, and people are being asked to get rid of this stuff.

Motorcycle taxis must be registered and carry an extra helmet. Across Kigali, moto-taxis (also called “ipikipiki”) wear green and yellow vests and green helmets. They also carry an extra helmet for passengers. Failure to wear a helmet, I have heard, is 20,000 FRw (about $40).

No bottle throwing from cars. Around the country, children often beg for water bottles by the side of the road, which they use to carry water to school, to store oil, or to resell in the market. Matatu passengers used to throw these from the van windows to the kids, but this was outlawed when the government realized that kids were running into the roads to get them, endangering themselves and drivers.

No goats by the road. Same justification as above. The part about endangering drivers, of course.

And then, of course, there’s the biggest rule—No discussing ethnicity. I’ve talked about this rule a bit on this blog. Essentially, the government has instituted a policy that ethnicity doesn’t exist anymore—that everyone is Rwandan. Discussion of the different groups is unlawful and you can stand trial for it. They call it “genocide ideology.” Every expatriate has an opinion on this rule—some say that it’s bad, because you’re ignoring the problem (and therefore, it could get worse, and history could repeat itself), and others say it’s good, because the country was so divided that this is a way to bring some semblance of unity. I do believe it’s a good rule, at least for the immediate term of post-conflict reconstruction, with the caveat that some of the underlying differences must be addressed, such as access to secondary and higher education, as well as to the health care system (Mutuelle de Sante). If the Rwandan government is interested in really moving forward beyond the ethnic divide, I believe an affirmative action system based on socio-economic status would be an improvement (which would disproportionately aid Hutus, and yet would be a way around the ethnic labels).

Scenes from around Rwanda

2008-08-04T06:27:00.000-04:00

The beach in Gisenyi, at the Serena Kivu.

Fabric at the market in Kimironko (a neighborhood in Kigali)

Tea plantation by the side of the road on the way to Gisenyi

A neighborhood in Kimihurura...Is this California or Rwanda?

Not what you'd expect to see on the back of a truck in Rwanda...

The center of Ruhengeri town

The amazing view from the Belvedere Hotel in Gisenyi

Sunset over Goma, DRC

Mushanana At The Wedding

2008-08-01T11:57:00.003-04:00

When I arrived here in June, I found out that Fred, one of my closest friends in Rwanda, was getting married on the last weekend of July. I couldn’t believe my luck—I would actually be able to attend! He was excited, as well.

To make the event extra-special, I decided to wear a traditional Rwandese dress, called a mushanana. Other than “umudugudu,” this is probably the best word in Kinyarwanda. I have made a goal of saying “mushanana” as much as possible.

I wasn’t sure where to get one—it seemed to be the kind of thing you could buy off the rack. It’s just an elastic-banded long skirt, a colored tank top (usually--but not always--white) and a length of material tied over a shoulder. Women can technically wear it whenever they want, but it’s typically omnipresent during big occasions like weddings, funerals, baptisms, and church services.

After talking with several people about where to get a mushanana, I found that 1) it’s not cheap, and 2) you have to have it made. (You can rent them, but I figured I may as well have one for future occasions.) Apparently they cost between $70-100. Youch. The price really depends on the quality of the fabric.

As for where to have it made, Laetitia, the housekeeper, offered to go with me downtown to help me through the process. We went to the middle of town, where people hustled and bustled and cars jostled for parking and loud music blared from every shop. We went from store to store, about 8 in total, to look at their fabric.

If there’s one thing I can say with certainty, it’s that mushanana fabric is generally hideous.

It’s a gossamer polyester, generally—a chiffon weight. And it comes in all kinds of undesirable colors, like sea green, puke brown, and magenta. The patterns are really what make these stand out, though! Some fabric had a gold embroidered scalloped edge (think grandma’s tablecloth), most had flowers, others had planets, and one—I kid you not—was pink with strawberries, hearts, umbrellas, and sickles. Yes, sickles. Who knows.

I was a little worn out (and worried that I couldn’t find anything—even the pink strawberry-sickle fabric was $50, and I couldn’t justify paying so much for something so hideous) when we wandered into a larger fabric store. One of the mannequins was wearing a zebra-esque mushanana. I tried it on and decided it looked pretty good, certainly compared to the alternatives. I negotiated and bought it for 20,000 FRw (roughly $40) along with enough white fabric for a slip (about $3) and Laetitia and I headed toward her tailor.

What a sight! There were about 20 tailors in a shop so narrow that you could barely move between the sewing machines. The tailor, obviously tickled (as was everyone else) that a muzungu was having a mushanana made, took some quick measurements and told me to come back the next day. I held my breath when I asked how much it would cost for labor.

“Ibihumbi bibiri,” she said, which means “2,000 Francs.” About four dollars. Awesome.

The next day, I had my dress and tried it on. Laetitia had to show me how to tie the top part. (There is an art to it.)

I looked like a fat zebra. Mushananas are not intended to be flattering. All in all, I liked it, although I must admit that it makes me look like the stereotypical muzungu that goes to Africa and has a dress made. Meh. It couldn’t be helped.

So this past Saturday, I wore it to Fred’s wedding in Gisenyi. I brought my friend Victoria with me. Walking down the road to the church, strangers smiled and told me in Kinyarwanda that I looked nice. It was all very sweet.

The church service was conventionally Catholic, with a chaotic communion. It was also surprisingly short. Fred, dressed in a white suit that drowned his tall, skinny frame, led Vivian down the aisle and out to a Mercedes that he had rented for the occasion. The bridesmaids all wore matching green dresses (very J.Crew-esque, actually) and hopped into another car. Both cars were decorated with ribbons and bows.

As a side note, one of the interesting things about Rwandan weddings is that the groom is expected to pay for everything, from a cow (in Fred’s case, two) down to his bride’s wedding dress. And as an orphan, Fred has had to do it on his own, without any support from his nuclear family. It’s remarkable.

After the wedding, the wedding party went to a studio for photos, and met the guests at a reception held at the ULK, the private university in Gisenyi.

At one end of the hall was a stage, where there was a table for the bride and groom, and chairs for the bridesmaids and groomsmen behind them. There was a big dance floor (not for guests’ dancing, as in the U.S.) and on the left and right sides were chairs for the groom’s family and the bride’s family. (I’m still not quite sure who was representing Fred’s family—his uncles, maybe?) All the guests were seated classroom-style—the reception is not the dinner. The dinner is just for the wedding party and the family.

When Fred and Vivian entered the hall, they walked down the aisle between the guests, under white arches. The first had a ribbon across it, which they cut together before proceeding. Traditional Intore dancers jumped and sang behind them, and performed several times during the ceremony. Neither Fred nor Vivian spoke, because the ceremony was more about their families than it was about them—the purpose was for each family to tell the other family how happy they were about the union. They did that for about two hours, interspersed with dancing and a distribution of Fantas. To solidify the union of the two families, they had to drink together! They also cut some banana cake and shared it with everyone.

After the speeches, the newlyweds came down to the floor to accept wedding gifts from the attendees, which they did while the deejay played one of Faycal’s songs. The Intore dancers then dragged the newlyweds to the floor to participate in a traditional dance. Fred, having grown up in Uganda, obviously had no idea what he was doing, in a very charming way.

Seeing Victoria and I, the Intore came to us next, pulling the two muzungus onto the floor. I danced my heart out! I kicked off my shoes, mad cow horns with my outstretched arms, and stomped my feet, all the while trying not to trip on my mushanana. When we finished, I was exhausted. You need to be in perfect shape to be an Intore.

The ceremony closed with another Fanta for everyone (they call it “agashingurachumu,” or “one for the road”) and then some people went out to Fred and Vivian’s house to give them housewarming gifts. Victoria and I had made plans with friends for dinner since we wasn’t part of the dinner group, so we headed back to the hotel. Later that evening, many of the guests went to the Jungle Party, the monthly all-night beach party at the Serena Kivu. But that’s another story.

Octopus Risotto

2008-07-27T07:28:00.000-04:00

I went to the Restaurant Hellenique (aka “the Greek restaurant”) the other day in my never-ending quest to try different restaurants in Kigali (apart from the brochette and buffet places, the restaurants are pretty finite). It’s a beautiful setting, on the side of the hill in Kimihurura. It’s also a guest house, with a few rooms and an inviting pool.

My friend swore by this restaurant, so I decided to take a leap of faith and try the octopus risotto. I mean—octopus? In Kigali? But I crossed my fingers and ordered it anyway. When I did, the waiter said, “Would you like a side of rice?”

I looked at my friend and then back at the waiter, and couldn’t help but laugh—“risotto” is an Italian dish made with rice, I explained. So why would I want risotto with a side of rice? I didn’t need carbs on top of carbs, so I declined.

Twenty-five minutes later, our food emerged. My friend’s grilled meat looked and smelled great. The waiter then presented me with my dish: a plate of octopus in sauce on lettuce. There was no risotto in my risotto. My friend and I cracked up at the measly, brown, Atkins-worthy pile on my plate, and I asked the waiter, “But where is the risotto?”

“That is risotto,” he said, obviously confused.

I ordered that side of rice after all.

Ndwaye inzoka—or, I have amoebas.

2008-07-22T12:58:00.004-04:00

A Fish Brochette. And a salad that I happily ate.

Ndwaye inzoka. (Pronounced “NDwahYeenZohKah.”) Yes, this is a helpful phrase. And just because it’s interesting, it also means “I have snakes.”

Most people who have spent any time living in countries with questionable water quality have at some point suffered from what some refer to euphemistically as “having amoebas.” Basically, this means that you ate or drank something you shouldn’t have, causing bacteria to multiply in your stomach and do unfortunate things to your digestive system. I’m pretty cavalier about what I eat (the UN has a rule that I used to follow: Boil It, Cook It, Peel It, or Leave It), so I take the good with the bad. Frankly, sometimes you just need a fresh salad. Kigali’s municipal water supply is treated, so the chances of getting sick are not as great as, say, drinking a glass of water in Gisenyi. I brush my teeth with tap water, and so do most people I know.

So yes, I reluctantly admit that I have amoebas. It’s mild, at least—cramps, more than anything—but it can obviously be pretty nasty. Because I have incredible foresight, I managed to leave all my good American medicine at home, and the house where I am staying is curiously medicine-free. I have been boiling ginger in water for some relief. I’ve also picked up some yogurt, which does wonders as well. One of my friends swears by plain bread, and another believes that Sprite works wonders.

One of the funniest things about living here is how frequently people talk about their stomach issues—because it’s a natural part of living here. It’s like everyone compares their war wounds. When I was working for the UN in Gisenyi, it was totally normal for someone to simply get up suddenly and scurry out in the middle of a meeting on a bathroom visit...because, well, one of us was probably going to go next.

The Funeral

2008-07-21T20:14:00.000-04:00

The Thursday after Leonard Musonerwa died, his family held a beautiful traditional funeral for him. I was at work, so I missed the morning viewing. The family transported the body from King Faisal Hospital to their home in the Gatsata neighborhood of Kigali, where he lay for viewing by family and friends.

At noon, I attended the funeral at the St. Matthews Cathedral in Kiyovu. It was all in Kinyarwanda, and I struggled to catch a word here or there. There was singing through the entire service, interspersed with sermons and remembrances from friends and family. Since it was a Catholic service, there was a beautiful if somewhat chaotic Communion. The entire service was filmed by a couple of people with camcorders, and unfortunately, as the only muzungu in the crowd, I felt that the camera was a little too focused on me and my emotion. It was an intensely personal time for me, and I didn’t particularly want it on tape.

About an hour and a half later, the service ended and Leonard’s family gathered around the coffin, carrying it out to the ambulance they rented. It was the only vehicle big enough to carry it. Mrs. Musonerwa sat in the front of the car, quietly mourning, as people came to her, whispering “Wihangane,” an expression of sympathy.

Several buses had been rented for close family and older guests. I didn’t have a ride, but a stranger took my hand and led me to a car full of more strangers. We drove with our hazard lights on all the way to Remera, to a graveyard known in Kinyarwanda as the Home for Everyone. We ambled down a dirt lane, beside some elaborate tiled graves, and some simpler plain concrete ones. There were thousands of graves, all on a hillside overlooking a pastoral hill. After parking, we stumbled around the graves until we caught up with the crowd that had formed.

Leonard’s daughters were wearing matching mushananas, the traditional dress that Rwandan women wear for special occasions. His sons were all in pressed wool suits, shoes shined. Mrs. Musonerwa watched as the coffin was lifted onto planks over a deep, concrete-walled grave.

More songs followed, and the priest said a couple more words before using a brush to sprinkle some holy water on and around the casket. Each of the immediate family members took a turn sprinkling some water before Mrs. Musonerwa made her final, loving remarks. Then the cemetery workers came with rope and lowered the casket into the grave. The covered the top with planks of wood, then a tarp, and then mixed water with a pile of dirt at the side of the grave to make a thick mud. It was scooped on top of the tarp and a wooden cross with Leonard’s name was planted at the top of the grave.

After that, families were called to lay their wreaths and flowers on top, and the ceremony concluded with a prayer.

The wake followed the funeral, and everyone went to an outdoor bar in Kicukiro. As people filed in, they performed a Rwandan tradition of washing one’s hands after a funeral. The same happens after the closing ceremonies of Genocide Memorial Week in April.

Fantas and water were supplied by the family. It’s supposed to be the happy part of a funeral—family members and friends are able to catch up, especially those who live far away. It wasn’t as joyous as I (or, probably, Leonard) would have hoped, but there was a wonderful turnout. I was surprised how many people I recognized from Gisenyi. (Even the town drunk was there—and she was surprisingly sober!)

In the Rwandan tradition, the family builds a fire in front of the house, and a family member must stay awake to tend to the fire. It is just a family affair, so I did not participate. And a week after the death, the family holds another small ceremony to conclude the period of mourning.

I felt blessed to have been a part of the funeral, because it was wonderful to celebrate him (even though I couldn’t quite understand what people were saying). Hundreds of people came to remember him, and it’s such a tribute to the wonderful and giving person he was.

Keeping busy!

2008-07-17T09:31:00.001-04:00

I haven't had a moment's rest since I got here. My organization is seriously understaffed (just the Country Director and myself at the moment) and I have been running around getting various and sundry things done.

Of course, because I've been running around and operating on generally little sleep, I've now come down with a case of the sniffles. While I bought some $2 sandpaper tissues, I recently discovered that the woman whose house I'm staying at has stockpiled lotion-infused Kleenex, which is probably the best thing ever invented.

So yesterday, I did what I hate to do...I stayed home. Well, not really. I went into the office in the morning and tried to work for about 2 hours before I essentially fell over. So I went home at 10 am, and passed out for four hours. When I woke up and dragged my sorry self into the kitchen for some water, I found that Laetitia, the angelic housekeeper, had prepared lunch for me without my asking. She knew I was sleeping in my room and brought me some leftovers of what she had prepared for her family--matoke (cooked plantain) with peas in tomato sauce. She then boiled me some water with ginger, which soothed my throat and is a trick I'm taking back with me to the States. I was so touched that she took care of me!

I ate until I was stuffed (plantains are like potatoes in that way) and went back to bed, where I slept for several more hours before one of my friends came over and offered me company despite the fact that I should have been quarantined. He happened to have a stock of Campbell's soup, and offered me a can. I am getting better, Rwandan and American-style.

* * *

For the past several weeks, I've been taking Kinyarwanda lessons from a guy named Patrick, who used to run the Kinyarwanda language training center at the Franco-Rwandan Cultural Center (now closed since the French have left). The classes haven't been cheap ($20 an hour...quite a muzungu price!) but since I'm here for such a short period of time, I have justified the expense to myself. It has been good, though--I have been able to bounce my Kinyarwanda questions off of someone, and my language skills have been improving very quickly. We meet for four hours a week, and it is pretty intensive.

I had a major breakthrough today! After massive struggles with the numbers (it's addition on steroids, really, the way the numbers work here), I was at a Forex today haggling for a better exchange rate. The Forex guy noted that I was speaking Kinyarwanda with him, and challenged me--he said that if I could say "551" in Kinyarwanda, he would give me that rate per dollar.

So....I thought about it, and I came up with "Magana atanu na mirongo itanu na rimwe." That is, literally, 500 and 50 and 1. (Told you it was math.)

He was stunned, and forked over the money at the higher rate. Patrick would be so proud.

The Gentrification of Kigali

2008-07-16T11:54:00.000-04:00

Lower Kiyovu, from a distance....mid-destruction.

A close-up of some of the destroyed homes...the flat area is where a house used to be. Sorry for the fuzzy picture. So it goes when you're in a moving car.

Kigali is changing, and fast. This could be (and eventually probably will be) a longer post, but it strikes everyone, expats and Rwandese alike, that Rwanda is developing at lightning speed. Roads are being built and existing roads are being widened. There's a methane gas platform out on Lake Kivu. Building construction is everywhere. Hotels are popping up on every corner--they just can't meet the demand.

And when that happens, the inevitable happens. Land that was once undesirable has now become invaluable. The simple brick homes of Lower Kiyovu, just below the city center where the big rotunda is located, are being demolished in favor of larger homes and office buildings. The landowners have been compensated enough to move somewhere else (probably nowhere near the city center, given the property prices these days), and massive bulldozers are tearing everything down.

The big rotunda in Kiyovu

It's sad, I guess, to see the ruins and think about all the people that now have to move to the outskirts of town. But, of course, it means that the country is moving forward. Businesses want that land, and that means investment. I just hope the prior owners are being adequately compensated.

Why Muzungu?

2008-07-15T05:53:00.002-04:00

Ask ten people why foreigners in Rwanda are called abazungu (muzungu is the singular form), and you will get ten different answers. Some have told me that it means “white person.” Others say “person with light skin.” Still others say it means “rich person.”

I think, though, that I’ve finally heard the right explanation.

The Rwandans didn’t always call white people abazungu. Back when the Germans were the colonizers, they were called German. The French were the French. Et cetera.

But after World War I, when the Belgians came to take over the territory from the Germans, they were called Abazungu, not Belgians.

...Because the verb that Muzungu and Abazungu come from is “kuzungura,” which means “to replace, to take over.”

Hm.

* * *
As a quick side note, the Kinyarwanda word for muzungu comes from the Swahili “mzungu.” Back in the days of Jomo Kenyatta, Kenya’s first president, there was a rebel movement called the “Mau Mau,” which was actually an acronym:

Mzungu Aende Ulaya
Mweusi Apate Uluru

Which means: “Conquerors return to Europe, black men recover independence.”

* * *
Of course, the Belgian presence here in Rwanda was so significant that the term muzungu stuck—and now everyone who is a foreigner, including those of African descent, is called a muzungu. I’m glad it doesn’t mean people are shouting “white girl!” to me everywhere, but somehow I don’t feel any better knowing that they’re calling me a conqueror, either.

Losing a friend.

2008-07-11T05:08:00.000-04:00

It is the dry season, yet it poured rain. They say that when it rains, God blesses the occasion.

Leonard Musonerwa passed on Sunday morning. His wife was with him at the time. At least he is not suffering anymore. I will miss him.

"It is time."

2008-07-06T05:36:00.001-04:00

My friend Aime flew back to town on Thursday. His father is very sick, and was at the King Faycal Hospital, the private hospital in town. I had become very close with his father, and wanted to visit him. Visiting hours are 3-5 daily, and since I had work and professional obligations, I couldn’t get there until Saturday.

According to Aime, he was not doing very well. I didn’t know what to bring to the hospital that would be culturally appropriate. Were flowers just for funerals? Could I bring food?

The hospital wouldn’t allow food to be brought in. In fact, it is one of two hospitals in the country to feed its patients. In most hospitals, families must bring food for the sick.

I couldn’t go emptyhanded, so on Saturday morning, I made brownies. I figured that someone would eat them eventually.

Aime came to take me to the hospital. He has always been the responsible son, taking care of everyone in his family, but I could tell that he just wasn’t as composed as he usually was. We drove to the hospital and made our way to the third floor. I had no idea what to expect.

The hospital is set up somewhat like a motel, with external staircases that access balconies. All of the visiting rooms are accessible from the outside. Outside the room where Aime’s father lay sick were about 25 people, all relatives and friends.

I solemnly greeted everyone individually in Kinyarwanda. It was not polite to simply walk in the room. And when we finally did, I immediately crumbled.

The long room had 10 beds, each with its own locker for personal effects and a side table for medicine and water. Each had a green privacy curtain. In the back, there were three patients; two who were little more than skeletons, and one who never moved. And in the front of the room was Aime’s father, Leonard Musonerwa, his arm connected to a slow drip of fluid, with a feeding tube through his nose.

He was in obvious pain, with eyes that strained to focus. He was so different from the last time I saw him.

* * *

This past March, I had been in Rwanda again. I was scheduled to return to the States on Easter, in the afternoon. Aime wasn’t here, but his brother Faustin was, and Faustin invited me to spend Easter morning with the family.

While I had feared that I was imposing, I realized when I arrived that I was just another member of the family. Three of Aime’s sisters and brothers were there, and I greeted them all in Kinyarwanda. Mrs. Musonerwa welcomed me in with a bear hug (she is a very tall woman), and Mr. Musonerwa (Leonard) slowly got up from his chair to clasp both of my hands and welcome me warmly. I had brought Snickers and Oreos with me—I explained to them that eating sweets on Easter was an American tradition—and Leonard insisted we share some over a bottle of Mutzig beer.

“But it’s the morning! And it’s Easter!” I said in French, laughing.

“God’s in a forgiving mood today. He won’t mind,” Leonard replied, with a broad smile and a hearty laugh.

Leonard loved his beer. Every time I came over, he insisted on sharing a Mutzig, which was his favorite (and mine, too). No one else in the family would drink (or, at least, around him), and so it was always just us sharing a large bottle or two.

The conversations were always fascinating. It was like an informal lecture. He would tell me about the history of the Banyarwanda in Congo, about what his family did there, and about the gorillas that came down the mountain onto their land to graze from time to time. He was a very well-educated man, the principal of a secondary school, and was therefore deeply respected.

This time, while we were talking, Mrs. Musonerwa brought out a plate of red beans topped with fried eggs, with a side of pili-pili. Usually, when they bring out a plate of food, they bring out several forks, and everyone takes from the same plate. This one, though, was just for me—they remembered how much I loved red beans and pili-pili.

Leonard was trying to eat an Oreo with his beer, so I told him how Americans like to dip their Oreos in milk. He looked surprised, then called something out to the back. Out of nowhere came several cups of ikivuguto, or drinkable yogurt. Not exactly the same, but...sort of close enough. Everyone, even Mrs. Musonerwa, took an Oreo and dipped it in the yogurt before taking a bite. It looked like a commercial, really—they were all looked at each other, pleasantly surprised by how it tasted. In doing so, it was clear that they thought that it was a bizarre American practice. I guess you never realize these things until you try to explain them to someone else.

Leonard was always animated, and always had an opinion. And he would often ask me, “Tu vas revenir quand?” When are you returning? And I would always reply that I wasn’t sure, but that I would definitely be back.

* * *

And I was back, as promised. This time, Leonard was not as I remembered him. He was in extreme pain, suffering from a multitude of ailments that all culminated at once. He had liver failure and kidney failure. There were more problems that the doctors could not identify. He was still recovering from a stroke he suffered in 1996. Only about a week ago, these ailments overcame him.

I stood at the foot of his bed for literally hours. People came in and out, all touching his arm. For a while, he slept. His mouth was open, and he had bitten his tongue so hard that it was partially black and ragged. Every now and then, his arm shook weakly. When he awoke, he would move his head back and forth, in obvious pain, and would speak in muffled, forced Kinyarwanda because he could not move his mouth other than to yawn. Relatives would move forward to listen to him, catching a couple of words, and would adjust his feet. Several times, he called, “Ma cherie,” my dear, asking for his wife, who was never more than a couple of feet away. She had stayed with him in the hospital since Monday, feeding him drops of water from the cap of the water bottle. He hadn’t eaten since Monday; they had tried to feed him soup on Friday through his feeding tube, but he couldn't keep it down.

Sometimes, he could focus his eyes, recognizing who was standing next to him. He would call for this brother, or that sister, or for one of his nine children. They cycled through, all sitting in the corridor. It was like everyone was waiting, but they weren’t. They were just there to be supportive. They went there to sit and mourn for hours. No one ate, and no one drank. They just sat.

It was in the middle of this that I felt sick. The brownies I had brought were so completely and utterly inadequate, inappropriate, insignificant. I didn’t know. I still don’t know. There was nothing I could have brought but myself, I suppose. No one brought flowers. They just brought themselves, and gave the gifts of time and love.

I went to Leonard a couple of times, holding his arm. He turned his head to see, and his eyes sparkled—just a touch. He said something I couldn’t make out, and then laughed a guttural laugh. I whispered in his ear that under normal circumstances, I would share a Mutzig with him, and smiled. I had to leave the room to cry. I was an inconsolable wreck. It was hard to see him like that, without the same life and vigor that I remembered. My heart was in my stomach. Esperance, one of Leonard’s daughters, came over to me. “You know,” she said in French, “It is time. It is time. When you accept life, you must accept all that comes with it.”

Later in the day, when the sun went down, he made a request to his brother, which I could barely make out, but that I still understood. His brother responded, “Fanta ikonje?” (“Cold Fanta?”), but I knew what Leonard wanted.

I said, “I think he wants a Mutzig.”

“No,” he responded. “He asked for a Fanta.”

Leonard repeated himself, calling out something. He was clearly asking for a Mutzig.

Aime was visibly upset. “He’s so sick that he can’t even have a drink.” He had been spending hours talking to the hospital administration because he wanted his father to be transferred to the Centre Hospitalier de Kigali (CHK), the public hospital. Apparently, there was no doctor at King Faycal. “I think he’s on vacation,” Aime said.

But the CHK was full. We had been informed that there was one bed free, but it was in the wrong ward, so Leonard couldn’t be transferred. And when a bed was finally found, the administration had gone home, so it was too late to transfer him. And frankly, in his state, he simply was too fragile to be transferred. But the CHK said they could take him the next morning.

Night fell, and the mosquitoes came out swarming. I took a break, and walked up and down the exterior corridor. As I was walking, I heard a hint of a whisper: “Muzungu.” I turned to find a little girl in a green cloth gown, her head stitched and a plastic tube inserted into her windpipe. She was so beautiful. Her skin was clear and smooth, she had a wide smile, and her eyes shone.

“Witwa nde?” I asked her, and she told me her name, but I could barely hear it. “Nitwa Morgani,” I replied, smiling. I asked her how she was. “Ni meza,” she said, the standard answer. I’m good. Perhaps she really was good—perhaps she was recovering. I wanted to hug her, but she was so fragile. “Komera,” I said, lightly rubbing her shoulder. Be strong.

I heard some stirring from inside the room, and saw that I was outside the pediatric ward. I waved to the children and said hello, and then walked back to Leonard’s room. Mrs. Musonerwa was singing softly to him, rearranging his pillows, comforting him.

She accompanied us out as we left, at about 8:30 p.m., perhaps later. She was to stay behind, as usual. She held my shoulder and said with a weak smile, “Il est fatigué.” He is tired.

I do not know if he will survive the night, but I plan to go to the hospital again tomorrow morning. I have never seen anyone on their deathbed. I am an emotional wreck.

A Shared Holiday

2008-07-04T22:22:00.002-04:00

The Fourth of July is a national holiday for both the Rwandans and the Americans. For the Rwandans, July 4 marks Liberation Day, the day that the RPF took over Kigali and effectively ended the genocide in 1994.

The Embassy had its official celebratory event on July 3 as a result of the shared holiday. All of the U.S. Government agency partners (Rwandan and non-Rwandan), as well as Rwandan officials, were invited. Held just inside the security gate on the side lawn of the Embassy, the grounds were decorated red, white, and blue, and 51 flags (including the District of Columbia) were planted in the ground. (The Embassy interns and diplomats’ kids had been working on the decorations for days.) Two tents were set up for an open bar with beer and wine, and waiters meandered through the crowd, carrying trays of stale bread squares topped with whipped salmon cream cheese, mini beef and fish brochettes, mini pizzas, and an inexplicably unpalatable hors d’oeuvre of a cheese, pickle, and pineapple skewer. (Someone was a little too creative.)

The event formally opened with a presentation of the colors by the Marines (there are five plus a staff sergeant posted here), and the singing of the U.S. and Rwandese national anthems.

Ambassador Arietti, who is about to complete his tour here later this month, gave a wonderful state-of-relations speech, and Rosemary Museminari, the relatively new Rwandan Foreign Minister, gave a speech from the Rwandan perspective, urging increased investment in infrastructure, methane gas extraction from Lake Kivu, and information technology. I didn’t catch everything because some American kid was standing next to me, moaning and groaning about how boring everything was. I was going to throttle him. But apart from that, it was a lovely ceremony.

After that, people just mingled for a while. I was on my third glass of wine and a relatively empty stomach when I accidentally wandered near an acquaintance of mine who was talking to a Rwandan man.

“Morgan,” he said. “Have you met...”

I looked up at the fellow and realized it was the immediate past Foreign Minister, who served for nearly six years. Over the past two years, I had tried to get an appointment with him on behalf of my organization several times, but it never worked out.

“...Charles Murigande.”

My acquaintance was trying to make a graceful exit, and soon, I had the full attention of the former Foreign Minister and current Chief of Staff.

...While semi-drunk. Thank GOD I knew his bio.

I probably talked to him for 20 minutes. Talked at him, really. Apart from discussing his time as a professor at Howard University and that I met his wife the other day while researching one of Kigali’s finest private schools, I really have no idea what I said. All I know is that I was doing most of the talking. I’m sure he thought I was neurotic.

I made my exit by asking if he wanted to get something else to drink. (I obviously didn’t need one.)

At 8:30, the bar closed, which had the intended effect of driving everyone out.

* * *

The next day, the Embassy had its celebration for the American community.

Holy muzungu invasion.

My friends and I looked at all the Americans, and were baffled by where they came from. There were hordes of thickly made-up teenagers who looked more fit for Daytona Beach than Kigali. A bus full of tourists showed up. There were backpackers who were just in the country for a couple of days, missionaries on two-week stints, NGO workers, Embassy personnel, and everyone in between. Most of them hadn’t RSVPed (and many people took more food than they could eat—it’s the American way, after all), so the food ran out rather quickly. As a result, I starved, picking the errant French fry off the food table while shooting nasty looks at the family at the nearby table with four half-eaten burgers. Apparently, they had pasta salad and hot dogs at some point, but I didn’t see them.

The festivities included a volleyball tournament, face painting, and a DJ. Eventually, the drinks stopped pouring, and most of the tourists left. The others headed over to the Marine House, where there was a cash bar. My friends and I headed out.

Of course, since it was a Friday night, it was a night to go out...and a big group of expats went out to Planet Club, the nightclub at KBC, for drinks and dancing. It was renovated recently, and one half is techno-loungy, and the other side is all dancing. Clubs in Kigali, with the possible exception of the prohibitively expensive B-Club, are crawling with creepy white men looking for hot, young Rwandan women, some of whom are available for a price. I will never get used to that.

Nor will I get used to the guys who dance with their reflections in the mirror. It is genuinely hilarious—probably mostly because they take themselves so seriously.

At about 2:30 a.m., we decided to head out. Some of us (myself included) were starving, and the only place we could think of that had food was a “snack bar” next to the Cadillac Club. (If you go there, stick to the samosas. It took a half an hour to get a ham sandwich.) By the time I had my sandwich, everyone deflated—and we headed home.

While there weren’t any fireworks, it was a pretty great July 4th.

I should note what I saw of the Rwandan celebration—because, as I noted, it is a shared holiday. Unfortunately, I didn’t see much. I saw the remnants of a parade—everyone was wearing white shirts and waving Rwandan flags. I am certain that there was an event at the stadium, but it was on the other side of town from where I was. Every time I got on a taxi-moto, I wished the driver a “Happy Liberation Day!” to which each replied, “You, too!” It was very sweet. I regret having seen so little of the Rwandan celebrations—and I realized that it’s because my time in Kigali, as I discussed in a prior post, is more of a traditional expatriate experience. And again, I missed being with the Rwandan people. Perhaps next time.

Nyarutarama Pictures

2008-07-03T16:09:00.000-04:00

There were some requests for pictures from the different neighborhoods, so I am going to post them when I take them. Here are some from Nyarutarama. As I mentioned, wealthy expats and Rwandans live here.

This isn't the clearest picture, but this is a more modest neighborhood in Nyarutarama. (Most other houses have 2-3 floors, with marble and columns, etc. This particular neighborhood is structured like an American subdivision, which street names and everything.

This is the MTN Center, the landmark of Nyarutarama. With a German Butchery (a supermarket that caters chiefly to expatriates), a Bourbon Coffeeshop and some clothing shops (including a lingerie boutique!), this is a weekend favorite.

This is Bourbon Coffee, one of two in the city. It's fancier than a Starbucks, and the coffee is delicious...But be aware that the prices are like Starbucks, too!

Kigali’s Neighborhoods

2008-07-02T05:55:00.000-04:00

Many people have written to me, asking about different neighborhoods in Kigali. I wanted to do a quick summary of the ones I have seen or spent time in (especially for people who are moving here and are thinking about where to rent/buy a home). For travelers wondering where all the action is, this could also give you an idea. I don’t know all the neighborhoods, and welcome input on the ones below, as well as others!

Kiyovu- The center of town. It’s the place where you can find all the different knick-knacks you want and need, including office supplies, automotive supplies, etc. There’s a street peppered with foreign exchange bureaus, and the rate is one of the best you can find (better than the bank rates). Express matatus to the other big towns in Rwanda leave from here (as well as Nyabugogo...but leaving from Kiyovu is generally more convenient). The Belgian School is located here. The supermarkets are here as well: BCK, Patel’s, La Bonne Source, and La Galette (also known as the German Butchery). Union Trade Center (which will soon have a Nakumatt Supermarket—a Kenyan chain) has a Bourbon Coffeeshop. Two of the big hotels are located here—the Serena and the Mille Collines. Most of the houses in this neighborhood are quaint and pre-war. The boulevards are wide and flowery. The President currently lives here (though he has plans to move soon). There are many NGO offices here. Most of the favored restaurants among expatriates are in this neighborhood. Many NGO workers live here.

Kacyiru- The ministry area. This is where the President’s office is located, as well as most of the ministries (the Ministry of Health is in Kiyovu). They line one long road called the Avenue de la Gendarmerie. Generally speaking, water and power are dependable here, because of the proximity to the ministries. A lot of NGOs have offices here. The homes vary widely, from pre-war to brand-new mega-mansions. Novotel is located here, as are some temporary executive furnished apartments. The U.S. Embassy is located at the end of the Avenue de la Gendarmerie.

Kimihurura- The place where the ministers live. In fact, the central road in Kimihurura is called Minister’s Road, or la Rue des Ministres, which is a wide boulevard. There is a beautiful stone paved road in Kimihurura, and several NGOs have offices there. Papyrus, La Fiesta, Comme Chez Moi, and the Restaurant Hellenique are located here. The homes here vary as well; along Minister’s Road, the houses are large and stunning. Off the road, the houses are not as flamboyant but are generally post-war and are still quite spacious. Some of the roads are unpaved. Many NGO workers live here.

Nyarutarama- The ritzy neighborhood. Everything here reeks of new wealth. The houses are unbelievably large (though frankly, their interior layouts are sometimes a bit awkward and illogical) with columns, marble, and the works. Some even have swimming pools. There was a building boom in this area that has petered off...as a result, many houses are unfinished until someone wants to take them. A lot of wealthy expatriates live here (i.e. not the poor ones who work for small NGOs). The MTN center is located here, which is a growing mall (most of its space is still vacant). There are several restaurants on the top floor, as well as a Bourbon Coffee, and the ground floor boasts another branch of the German Butchery (also known as La Galette). This area looks like California, with tall white houses, sparkling windows, red tiled roofs, and perfectly manicured gardens.

Kagugu- Ritzy neighborhood, rather empty. Most of the McMansions are vacant. There are subdivisions here that eerily resemble the U.S. It’s located past Nyarutarama.

Nyabugogo- The main bus station. The most chaotic area of Kigali! Services such as power and water are largely undependable. Houses tend to be off the beaten path, and are much simpler here. There is a large market in this area, and the international bus services leave from here. The domestic ones do, as well, but I have always found it easier to navigate the bus area in Kiyovu instead.

Remera- Near the stadium. There are a couple little supermarkets here, like Ndoli’s. Chez Lando and the Auberge Beausejour are here, as is the O Sole Luna restaurant. The houses here are nice but not extravagant—many will have 3 bedrooms, a sitting room, and an outdoor kitchen, or a kitchen housed separately, a more traditional setup. There is a buzzing nightlife here—lots of little buvettes. And it’s chaos when the Rwandan team plays!

Safety
Safety and security are really outstanding in Kigali. The police and army take their jobs seriously, and are trustworthy. In terms of walking at night, there are generally few dangers. The most common I have heard is of people whose cell phones have been stolen because they were walking and talking on them at night...and even that isn’t common.

Houses and office compounds usually have a guard—otherwise, there is usually razor wire or broken glass cemented onto the tops of the walls.

I feel perfectly safe walking around by myself at night. Nyarutarama, Kimihurura, Kiyovu, and Kagugu are particularly safe; keep your wits about you in Nyabugogo and Remera (at night). It’s not to say that anything will happen, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry.

Rents
Generally, rent in Kiyovu and Remera (not sure about Nyabugogo) range from $500-1500 a month. For the wealthy neighborhoods of Kimihurura, Nyarutarama, and Kagugu, the range tends to be from $1500-2000. When realtors propose a price, always negotiate.

Input on these and other neighborhoods is welcomed!

An Expat’s Life

2008-06-29T08:29:00.002-04:00

Something doesn’t feel right. I have it pretty good.

This time in Rwanda, I’m working for a big organization. This means I’m based in Kigali, and, unlike the last time I was here for an extended period of time, I’m actually paid. So my life is quite a bit...different. It’s a little difficult to reconcile.

When I first arrived, I tried to stay at the Auberge Beausejour, my favorite hotel in Kigali. Apparently my little secret is no longer, because it was fully booked...for the entire week. So I stayed at Chez Lando for $80, which was just too expensive for what it was. It’s a fine hotel, of course, but at four times what the Beausejour charges, I couldn’t bear it. So I moved out the next day and stayed with two American friends at their house for the next several days. It was more the style of life I was used to. It was a typical Rwandan house, and had just what you needed—hot water, electricity, screens on the windows, mosquito nets. They even had high speed internet. They hung their clothes out to dry behind their house, and the house always smelled fresh from the cross-breeze of their open doors and the freshly-baked rosemary bagels that my friend made.

Then the unexpected happened. An American woman needed to go to the U.S. for personal reasons, for an undetermined period of time. She asked me to housesit for her in her absence, which just might be for the entire time that I am here. She said I could stay for free, so I moved in on Monday.

I’m sitting in front of a television with digital satellite TV, with my feet on a Persian rug. There is a full kitchen with two refrigerators. The cupboards are full of taco shells, there was a pack of Oreos on the counter, and there is red wine in the fridge. Perhaps this means nothing to those who are in the States, but when you know the price of each of those (red wine...at least $13 for something worth $2; Oreos cost $8 a pack; and taco shells? I think these are the only ones in Rwanda. Therefore...priceless), it is almost too much to bear. Not to mention the cold water distiller which provides fresh, cool water without the hassle of boiling and filtering.

There are two sitting rooms, an expansive garden, a washer and dryer, a formal dining room with cherry furniture, and—a housemaid that lives on the compound with her family, cleans the house every day, and prepares dinner. And I don’t have to pay her, either, just the ingredients for the food that she prepares.

I’m very lucky, so I can't really complain.

Most of my workday is spent in an air-conditioned office, in an ergonomic chair, in front of a computer with a flat-screen monitor, an enormous window, and an expansive view. Quite a change from sitting in the dining room of a small rural house, with a prehistoric computer that roared like a lawnmower.

Yesterday, I literally had cabin fever and had to leave the office for a bit. I felt too boxed in, too constrained, too far from the people who benefit from the work of our organization. I couldn’t go back to my desk for a while, which ended up working just fine, since we have half-days on Fridays.

I guess what strikes me most in all of this is how possible it is, working and living in these environs, to never feel like you are in Kigali, let alone in Africa. This may sound strange, but I’m here, and yet, I miss Rwanda.

I miss walking around. I miss going to the market and bargaining over the tomatoes. I miss sitting in the little buvettes, the small shops that sell beer and brochettes, and talking for hours about God-knows-what and jotting down new Kinyarwanda words. I miss working and living with Rwandans.

So yesterday, I asked my driver to drop me off at the top of my road. He thought I was crazy, but I told him I just wanted to walk a bit. So I did. I stopped by my local kiosk to introduce myself and to buy a phone card. We chatted a bit in Kinyarwanda. I checked out the buvette near my house. I said hello to people I passed.

And that night, I received a call from Faycal asking if I would come see him sing at the Serena or the Mille Collines. All the presidents of the East African countries are in town, and he was asked to perform for them at the Serena. My friends and I weren’t sure we’d be able to get in, so we went to the Mille Collines later on to see him perform there.

On the top floor, at Stan’s Bar, he was singing to a packed crowd, mostly Rwandan with the occasional muzungu. And as the music changed from Top 40 covers to Congolese rhythms, everyone started dancing and laughing. In some ways, I felt like I had found what I was missing.

From Francophone to Anglophone

2008-06-28T10:45:00.001-04:00

The Rwandese speak English. Sure, they were a Belgian colony. Sure, the secondary language used to be French. But there has been a major turnaround, even since 2006.

I used to be entirely reliant on my French. My work was in French. Conversations at the buvettes over beers were in French (with some Kinyarwanda). Hotel reservations were in French. Meetings with officials were in French. I ordered food and drinks in French.

But that was in 2006.

Since then, there has been a major push to make Rwanda a trilingual country: Kinyarwanda, English, and French. From primary school, students can opt to learn English or French, and most, it would seem, are choosing English. Rural Rwandese officials, many of whom speak very little English and fluent French, will often opt to conduct meetings in English. The service industry outside Kigali is also ramping up its English skills.

As a result, in restaurants, bars, hotels, and the like, it is generally English that is spoken, not French. And when I choose to be obstinate, and greet people with a “Bonjour,” I almost always receive a “Hello” in reply. In one case, I greeted a female police officer with “Bonjour,” and she responded, snippily, “I don’t speak French.” She was clearly offended. I switched to my American English to show her that I meant well.

How did this happen—and how did it happen so fast?

My theory is that it’s largely due to culture. The Rwandese, in general, respect authority. President Paul Kagame is beloved by the vast majority of the population, and—surprise, surprise—speaks English. I have heard that he doesn’t speak a word of French (though this may also be for political reasons, which I will discuss). President Kagame is incredibly sharp—he recognizes that English is the language of commerce and technology, which essentially means that it’s the language the country needs to advance its development. One of my friends, who is Francophone but is taking English classes, said to me the other day (in French, no less): “What have the French and the Belgians done for us? Phoot. Nothing. Why do you think Kigali is growing so fast and Rwanda is developing these last years? Because we realized that the British and the Americans help us so much more.”

Hence, the push for English. And the people, who understand Kagame’s intention, have taken up the task.

There’s a lot of history behind the question of language in Rwanda. Many attribute a large part of it to the genocide. Before the war, Rwanda was a Francophone country. It was the language of the educated, and the diplomatic language of the government. The government had strong ties to France, who provided financial as well as military support. But in the 1980s and early 1990s, the strength of the Uganda-exiled Tutsi population’s rebel forces grew, and as they made small and large sorties across Rwanda’s northern border, the French came to the aid of the weak Rwandan military, fending off the Tutsi rebel forces. The French, it is said, viewed Rwanda as a battleground for the survival of the French language in East Africa, and the victory of the Tutsi forces would mean a victory for English, since the populations in Uganda learned English.

Of course, after a lot of bloodshed and continued intervention by the French, the 1994 victors were the Tutsi rebel forces (Rwandan Patriotic Forces, or RPF). A new government was installed, and the French nightmare came true—the evolution to English began.

In the past couple of years, the language question has continued to be a prominent one. In 2006, the Rwandan government launched a commission to investigate France's role in the genocide. Shortly thereafter, Jean-Louis Bruguière, a French human rights judge, declared that President Habyarimana’s plane was shot down under orders from Paul Kagame and the RPF, which essentially meant that the RPF was responsible for starting the genocide. Following his controversial declaration, the French diplomatic mission was ordered to leave Rwanda. They now operate out of neighboring Burundi. The French school was closed, as was the French-Rwandan cultural center.

The President has taken this one step further, by officially requesting that Rwanda join the British Commonwealth. Apparently this has never been requested by a country that was not a British colony. I suspect it’s more symbolic than anything else—it’s like Rwanda is officially throwing a little extra salt on France's wounds. And given France’s role in the war, you can’t really blame them.

Of course, there are controversial undercurrents from anti-government elements. Some believe that English is the language of a Tutsi government—a government regarded as Tutsi primarily because of its head. My sense is that this is a small minority. Otherwise, some French speakers have told me that they feel left behind—the country has moved so quickly that they have not felt able to catch up. Whereas linguistically, they had been the elite, this is now no longer the case.

My language advice? Bring your French dictionary if you would like. But I’ve learned the hard way that unless you can speak Kinyarwanda, start every conversation in English. If they tell you that they don’t understand, then use your French. Because you’re much less likely to offend.

Pop Idol

2008-06-19T21:36:00.001-04:00

My best friend in Rwanda, Faycal Ngeruka, is now officially a regional pop idol. I’m still pinching myself. How was it that my friend, to whom I once served clumpy macaroni and cheese (Rwandan cheese does not work so well) in my Gisenyi apartment, is now all over East African television?

As I write this, I’m sitting on my bed in Nairobi. The last time I was in Rwanda, I remember Faycal saying that he had saved up money to travel to the Idols auditions. Idols is the East African version of “American Idol”—with all the same music, etc.

Flipping through the channels, I somehow found Idols. The host was about to announce the voting results. And he prefaced it with, “Who knows who will go home today? The judges never thought Faycal would go home last week.”

Faycal had made it. He had made it to international television, and was officially a pop star.

***

I met Faycal at what was then the Kivu Sun, the fancy hotel in Gisenyi. He was a law student at the Universite Libre de Kigali (Gisenyi campus), and sang on weekends to help to pay the bills. I was new to town, and only had the company of my journal when he paused between songs to introduce himself.

“Francais? English?” he asked.

“Both,” I responded.

That was the beginning of a close friendship. He guided me through Gisenyi life. We spent hours together, just hanging out at the video store next to the Texas restaurant in the city center. I met his family—his cousins, his aunts, and most remarkably, his grandmother, with whom I could barely converse, but who was incredibly generous with her smiles and her homemade ikivuguto (drinkable yogurt).

Every weekend, I would go to the hotel to listen to him sing. When my expatriate friends were in town, I would drag them there, too. He had audiences with President Kagame, Don Cheadle, and Daryl Hannah.

And when I stayed at the hotel too long and it was too dark for me to walk home by myself, Faycal would walk me there, and we would sing together. Most often, it was Boyz II Men’s “Water Runs Dry” song. I would take the melody and he the harmony. I was often self-conscious because he was so much more talented than I (the pinnacle of my public performance was a middle-school talent show, during which I sang Aladdin’s “A Whole New World.”). I later taught him new songs, by Craig David. We spent hours trying to get the pronunciation perfect.

He would call me “his Lucy Liu,” or “Morgan Freewoman,” after one of his favorite actors. And while his girlfriends and female friends perhaps initially suspected that I was a threat, they soon realized that he was really just a very good friend. So good that he invited me over to his little apartment to listen to music and eat beans and rice (his favorite meal) and I visited him at the clinic when he was sick with malaria (again).

In June of 2006, he managed to secure a singing contract at the Intercontinental in Kigali. That proved so lucrative that he moved there, and secured a singing contract at the Mille Collines, as well. He has now switched over entirely to the Mille Collines, singing by the pool. It’s one of the hottest spots in town, and he became very well-known. His somewhat grainy music videos play on television, and his songs play on the radio. He has already won several competitions, which help to pay the bills, which are much higher now that he has added a new baby to his family. The last time I was in Kigali, I went to hear him sing, for old times’ sake. From the Mille Collines, we took a long taxi-moto ride a couple of miles to his new house. It’s fully furnished, with a baby room decorated with Pooh wall hangings. And just like old times, we had a delicious dinner of beans and rice, and drank boiled water.

He was, and continues to be, my closest friend in Rwanda. So imagine my surprise when I sat in my room in Kenya and heard Faycal’s name on television. He didn’t make it—he was voted off—but at the same time, he has made it. Knowing Faycal, this won’t be the last time we hear from him. It’s just the beginning.

Want to hear Faycal? He's online:
http://www.kigali-show.com/video.php?file=nshuti&category=music
http://www.kigali-show.com/video.php?file=comeback&category=music

Heading Back Out!

2008-06-13T15:28:00.000-04:00

I'm going back to Rwanda in the next couple of days, this time for a couple-month stint. This experience should be pretty different from my time with the UN, since I'll actually be paid and will be living in the capital. I haven't really ever experienced the life of an expatriate (and confess a certain disdain for those who have only ever experienced that, and haven't lived in the field), so I imagine it should be pretty eye-opening.

At the moment, I'm packing out my apartment while simultaneously packing my bag for Rwanda. I'm not really sure how to dress...I got away with Gap clothes and Doc Martens when I was living in Gisenyi, but now I'm going to have to dress "respectably." When I think of the word "respectably," I think "uncomfortably." But we'll see what I can rummage up from my messy closet.

Otherwise, I'm bringing my bug spray. And maybe some cereal. It's wicked expensive out there! One expatriate had about 200 boxes of SmartStart cereal shipped into Rwanda with his household effects because it was so overpriced. (Apparently, it is very tasty.) When he left, he sold off the rest of the boxes to the other expatriates. Pretty ingenious, but I think the Rwandan government caught on to this (as they always do).

My three goals this round: To take real Kinyarwanda lessons (since they are available in Kigali), to join the Kigali Hash House Harriers (the one aspect of expatriate life that I confess is pretty cool), and to exercise so that I don't go back to being a brochette-and-potato blimp.I'll keep you posted!

Intore Dancing

2008-04-06T23:05:00.003-04:00

One of the most marvelous aspects of Rwandan culture is the dancing. They are some of the most athletic dancers I have seen!

The Intore dancers (pronounced een-or-ay) often perform during parades, national holidays, and weddings. The men's dancing is said to symbolize the ancient warrior culture of Rwandans, while the women's dancing is said to symbolize the grace of cows, which are hallowed in the culture. When the women raise their arms and push their palms outward, they are representing the horns of the cows (which have some very unique horns, and can most likely be seen out east).

Other than the jumping, I love how the dancers are always smiling.

Here is a video of Intore dancers! This was taken at the Lake Kivu Serena, where on Friday nights (I think) they have "African Night," and feature these dancers.

Kibuye, the land of a thousand islands

2008-03-26T10:14:00.006-04:00

When I was in Rwanda last July, I took some time for myself after my work was complete to spend some time with friends. My friend Aimé took time off from his new job in the Middle East to travel around Rwanda with me. The goal of our agenda was getting to Kibuye, the lakeside town that all of my friends had said was almost too beautiful to believe.

Indeed, it is beautiful (but I still think Gisenyi is more beautiful. I’m a little partial).

The two-hour drive from Kigali was stunning. On the way, Aimé pulled over by the side of a cliff to show me a waterfall, and two boys eagerly ran up to us. Aimé spoke to them in Kinyarwanda, and one of the boys began singing and dancing. He told the story of a man who was asked by the Mwami (Rwandan king) to fetch honey from the bottom of the mountain. He went down to get it, and found it to be so good that he ate it all. When he came back to the top of the mountain emptyhanded, the Mwami was so angry that he threw the man down the mountain, and the cliff was named after him. We gave the boys ample applause, 200 francs, and a couple of water bottles before continuing to Kibuye.

The road is windy, only offering occasional glimpses of the grassy peninsulas and islands as you approach the town. We arrived at sunset, pulling into our small hotel after dark. We chose to stay at the Centre Bethanie, a Presbyterian hotel built on the side of a steep hill that rolls down into the lake.

The Centre Bethanie had been recommended by my friend Lucy, who stayed there last year, after I had left. While at dinner at her house just before my return to Rwanda, she sheepishly gave me a key with a large wooden carving attached to it. She confessed that she had accidentally left with the key (despite the enormous thing attached to it). “Can you return it for me?” she asked—and then advised me to ask for that room, since it opened up right on the water.

So there we were, walking up the steep hill to the reception. (A couple days at that hotel and you’ll have killer quads.) I addressed myself to the woman behind the desk, who barely acknowledged my presence. When I finally caught her attention, I said, “Hello, there. My friend in America stayed here last year, and she accidentally took the key. I am returning it to you.”

It took a long second before the woman understood what I was saying. She looked up at me incredulously. “Mais c’etait longtemps!!” she exclaimed. But that was so long ago! I’m sure she now believes that all Americans know each other.

With a smile, I asked if I could keep the key and stay in Room 25.

In the morning, I woke up to an amazing view of the many islands of Kibuye and the sound of water slapping the rocks outside my room. The green hills rise from the water as far as you can see, and along the coast, there are hundreds of picturesque inlets.

After breakfast, Aimé and I hired a boat (they’re parked at the hotel) to take us down the coast. We both went for a swim (really, I went for a quick paddle before getting back in the boat...I’m still a little concerned about the methane gas in the lake). We arrived at a hotel that was mostly built, a new place that looks rather palatial, where we had tea with the fishermen who came with us. Strangely, there’s nothing else around the hotel besides a methane gas extraction plant.

Returning to Kibuye, we rinsed off and were getting ready to return to Kigali when Aimé received a call. His face changed.

His sister was going into labor and needed to go to the hospital. And we had the car.

We sped back to Kigali, and Aimé’s phone was ringing every ten minutes. I really have no idea how we weren’t pulled over by the Rwandan police for reckless driving. They are unforgiving about that. We wove between tractor trailers and matatus, with narrow almosts-and-nearlies with oncoming traffic.

Arriving in Kigali, we wove up the dirt road to Aimé's parents’ house, where his sister was having contractions. I darted out of the car as they led her and several other people into the small 4WD. They went off to the hospital, and I was left to stay with his father and siblings at the house. In the meantime, we were receiving play-by-play accounts of the birth.

Later that night, he returned, exhausted, but with the news that his sister had a healthy baby boy. I helped his siblings prepare beans and plantains for dinner, and we ate family-style on the couches in the living room. I talked for hours with Aimé’s father. He is quite a character—a highly educated man from the northern Kivu area of the Democratic Republic of Congo. My Rwandese uncle, Boniface, knows him and his family because they are from the same area. More proof that the world is small. He told me all about the history of the area, from the division of Rwanda down the middle of Lake Kivu to the current fighting in Eastern Congo. He’s one of those older men who knows everything about everything, and we shared Mutzig beers long into the night.

Before heading to bed, Aimé’s father told me to go to the bathroom, because it wouldn’t be a good idea in the middle of the night. The bathroom was a latrine around back. I didn’t question his judgment. I guessed he meant it was unsafe to go outside at night, since people could easily hop their compound wall.

It wasn’t a safety issue at all. It was a cockroach issue. I have lived in Texas, and while they have some mean bugs, they are nothing compared to Kigali Cockroaches. These suckers are as long as your index finger. Yes. Your index finger. They were on the walls, in the corners, scampering around the hole of the latrine. Suddenly, I lost the urge to pee. It could wait until morning. It had to wait until morning.

Early the next day, I found the courage to try again. This time, I took my Off! spray with me.

The following day proved just as eventful as the last. Aimé and I spent a lazy morning with Faustin and Roger, two of his older brothers, across town when we received word that Faustin’s wife was in labor and needed to go to the hospital. Round 2 began.

At the end of the day, Faustin and his wife also had a baby boy. We visited them at Faustin’s home. His wife, discovering that I was American, asked me if I would help them to pick an American name for their child. (The new fad in Rwanda right now is to give children American names.) I generated a list of names (and their nicknames), and they chose Harry. My guess is that they may have been influenced by J.K. Rowling.

* * *

Finally, as a capstone to my vacation, I made my way up to the Nkamira transit camp, where I had spent so much time. We had been speeding past on our way to Gisenyi, and I hadn’t intended to stop, since it was raining. When it rains, the refugees are reluctant to leave their tents, and the camp looked empty anyway.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stop?” Aimé asked, as we drove by.

I decided he was right and that we should go back. He turned around, and we drove through the camp gates as I had so many times before.

Out of nowhere, the refugees materialized. “Morgani!!” the kids shrieked. I was touched that they remembered not to call me a muzungu. Behind the crowd of dancing children and clapping adults was Emmanuel, my partner at the camp, the Anglophone refugee who worked tirelessly with me to implement the youth and HIV/AIDS programs.

“Welcome back,” he said, smiling. He was married now, he told me, with a child on the way. Then he brought up the soccer team.

“They said you were bringing shoes,” he said. I asked him who told him. “Someone at UNHCR,” he replied.

I shook my head. “I couldn’t fit 2,000 pairs of shoes in my luggage,” I laughed. “I’m sorry—I don’t have any shoes.”

“Not to worry,” he said. “It is good. We have many footballs, and we have new shirts.” A year after I had left, they still had everything they needed.

Emmanuel paused, grinning. “And we are still undefeated.”

"Homosexuality in Rwanda? Yes, it lives"

2008-03-16T04:26:00.003-04:00

That's the title of an article in the NewTimes this week. Thought you all may enjoy a couple of excerpts that I found pretty hilarious.

"It is true that homosexual culture is not Rwandan and is therefore susceptible
to challenges. Rwanda has not spoken much about homosexuality, but certainly it
is against the practice. If homosexuality is not African then it cannot
certainly be Rwandan!

It is against this background that a mini survey was done to know if there are gays in Rwanda or not. [...]Like any other form of prostitution, it is denied, and practiced indoors--a thing that has made it remain in obscurity.

There is a community of gays in Rwanda, even though one will be hard put to produce evidence to clearly prove it. One gentleman, who did not want to be mentioned, caused laughter in public when he complained thus: 'I was surprised when a man of my age approached me to be his boy friend. He was serious and promised to offer me some good money. This is horrible! Suppose I was a young man with problems of money; the amount he offered would have really seduced me into the nasty demands of the son of devil.'

[...]

It takes a lot to recognise a gay person; but sometimes young men go around with
treated hair, tinted, walking like a woman, or forcing the voice to soften like
that of a woman and speaking with abnormal gestures, etc. They cannot go out in
the open and shout it out because they would be ridiculed.

[...]

There are in fact very many reasons that call us to worry about homosexuality. These reasons go beyond the fact that homosexuality goes against the Rwandan cultural norms and morals. Homosexuality is harmful for society since it does not engender reproduction, thus threatens the survival of society. It poses a great threat to children, and leads to depressing and miserable lifestyles. Generally, homosexuals are obsessed with a sexual lifestyle that is unnatural, and so the society should stand warned well in advance."

My return to Rwanda

2008-03-12T06:32:00.001-04:00

I’m sitting in a hotel in Johannesburg waiting to return for the third time to Rwanda. This update is long overdue, and I apologize—all I can say is that I have been working on Rwanda in the meantime, and this work has begun to bear some marvelous fruit.

Since leaving UNHCR, I joined a new organization. This organization, serendipitously, was contemplating reestablishing operations in Rwanda, and decided to send me on the mission to assess this possibility in July of last year. It was wonderful—the team I was with decided quickly that the question was not if to go into Rwanda; it was how to do so. It was certainly time. We had left in April of 1994.

During this visit, we had the chance to meet one of the three or four genocide survivors from our original staff of 40. She is now a parliamentarian, which is interesting, given that Rwanda has the highest proportion of females in their parliament in the world. This woman is an astonishing pillar of strength.

We met with ministers, and I had the chance to find out more about the National Commission for Unity and Reconciliation, the Rwandan government body responsible for encouraging healing and dialogue. This commission is implementing incredible initiatives, including mandatory summer camps for students to discuss unity (I have a friend who did this, and was lamenting that he had to live in a cabin for a while!) and manages a volunteer corps that works throughout the country, leading initiatives for dialogue and healing. It’s a very interesting approach.

I stayed at the Kigali Serena, formerly the Intercontinental. I must admit that it felt very strange to stay at a hotel that was so wildly out of my price range when I was volunteering in Rwanda—I could only occasionally manage to afford a pizza at the poolside café. My friend Aime had been the deputy general manager there, but had left after the Serena hotel group purchased the hotel, and moved to Dubai, where he’s now managing a chain of Western hotels. So I didn’t know anyone there, except Faycal, the singer from Gisenyi who became my best friend.

I checked into my beautiful room and was sorting through my things when there was a knock on the door. It was the turndown service. Opening the door, the woman stared at me, and I stared back. “I know you!” I said. “And I know you!” she responded. She had worked at the Kivu Sun (now the Serena Kivu) in Gisenyi, and had been transferred to Kigali.

“I’m so glad that you didn’t lose any weight!” was the next thing she said. Sigh. I had almost forgotten that in Rwanda, it’s good to have meat on your bones. I laughed and told her that I had been working to lose some of the beans-and-rice weight I had put on, but she shook her head and smiled. Before she left, she gave me the phone number for my friend Fabrice, who had begun to teach me kung fu in Gisenyi, before he tried to steal millions of Rwandan francs from the Kivu Sun and was sent to jail. I decided it was probably best not to contact him.

After the assessment was complete, I took some personal time for vacation. I wanted to surprise Faycal, who I knew was singing at the Serena Kigali every weekend evening. He didn’t know I was in town, and I wanted to just appear one night when he was singing.

He beat me to the surprise. Faycal was in the lobby of the hotel one day when I walked in. Covering his mouth, he just looked at me in disbelief, laughed and we hugged for the first time in a year. Just before he ran off, he said, “You’re going to be an Auntie!”

In the end, he had surprised me.

Faycal reconnected with an ex-girlfriend, a beautiful girl who was a genocide orphan. After losing both her parents, she was taken in by an aunt and uncle in Belgium, and over time, acquired Belgian citizenship. She recently returned to Rwanda, where she met Faycal again and they fell in love. At the time I met her last July, she was visibly pregnant and the two were beautiful together. They were engaged to be married in November. I am delighted for them—while both are young, they are both orphans, and are ready to start their own family. Faycal told me that he is ready to be a real father to his child, the father that he never had.

He is doing very well financially, though I chastised him for putting a hold on law school. He decided it was more important to make money right now, with the baby coming, which I can definitely understand—but I warned him that he was going to have to finish school someday. Faycal now has two singing contracts, at the Kigali Serena and the Mille Collines (the “Hotel Rwanda” hotel) for basically every night of the week. His songs are also played on the radio. He is finally famous! And he’s enjoying every moment of it. He’s an incredible extrovert, and is appreciating the fame.

I also managed to see Boniface and spend some time with the Munyamashara family. Boniface is doing as well as ever, chipper and optimistic. We shared a couple of beers for old times’ sake at the Seminari, the little shop where we used to have drinks and talk for hours. He would teach me Kinyarwanda, and I would teach him English. We also had brochettes with pili-pili. He ordered them just the way I like them—without tendon, just the soft parts, grilled with onions and brushed with sauce. It was wonderfully mundane to spend time with him. It was what I longed for: a little reminder of what was a daily experience for me when I lived there.

I took some time to walk through the Gisenyi market. As I wove my way through the clothing section, a little boy came up, took my hand, and started chatting. I looked down at him, and he looked up at me, still talking. It was Abubakr, the charming little street child I had befriended a year ago. “Morgani, where have you been?” he asked me in Kinyarwanda. “Where is mom?” My mother had come to visit, and had fallen in love with this boy. Then he told me where all of his friends were. One was at the mosque. Another was at church. Abubakr didn’t ask for money. He hadn’t asked me for money since the first time I met him. It wasn’t about that. It was about fondness and friendship. I was profoundly touched.

Later, I was with Boniface again, and we were driving (slowly) through the center of town. As we passed a line of prisoners dressed in pink shirts and shorts, I caught the eye of one of them, whose face transformed with a bright smile, and who jogged over to the car.

“Morgan!” he said. “Good to see you!” It was Jean-Michel, the head of the Boy and Girl Scouts, with whom I had worked to start a Scout troop at the refugee camp. He had been jailed last year for failing to pay his debts. “I’ll be out soon, and will try to start up with the Scouts again!” he managed to tell me before the heavily armed gendarme came over to investigate the situation. He jogged back to the line and waved. Boniface, meanwhile, was astonished that I knew someone in prison.

“You really do know everyone here,” Boniface laughed.

Ghosts of Murambi

2007-08-09T18:46:00.000-04:00

In southern Rwanda, about 30 kilometers outside of the bustling town of Butare, is Murambi, a beautiful area with a gruesome past.

I had heard about Murambi, and I saw pictures that made bile rise in my throat. Here, unlike at the other genocide memorials, the victims' bones are not piled or organized into rows; here, they are fully preserved in lime. White and chalky, many frozen with expressions of excruciating pain and overwhelming terror, these people are truly the ghosts of Rwanda.

As violence spread across the country in April 1994, so too did word of a benevolent mayor in the southern province of Butare, an area that traditionally served as the home of the Mwami, the spiritual leader of Rwanda, the Tutsi king. Tutsis flocked, by the thousands, to Butare, and in particular, to a technical school perched on a hill in Murambi.

Word got out among the Interahamwe and the Rwandan Army that Tutsis were being harbored in Murambi in great numbers, and they mobilized their forces. Tutsis huddled in each room of the school, hoping not to be found.

They were.

50,000 individuals were massacred, of which there were only three survivors. One of them still works there, leading visitors back to the rows of classrooms. He speaks a little French, but no words are needed to understand what he experienced; he bore a deep, round depression on his head, an indication of a bullet wound.

The killers dug mass graves to dispose of the bodies. Later, when the French set up their Zone Turquoise (a protected area which, controversially, resulted in the protection of Hutus and not Tutsis, allowing many génocidaires to escape to the Democratic Republic of Congo with their heavy artillery), they set up camp at Murambi. They set up a volleyball pitch over a mass grave.

The bodies are now preserved in lime, their mummified expressions both terrifying and haunting. I had heard that the lime was added to keep the smell down; the guide at Murambi said the new authorities wanted to preserve the bodies via this method. "There must be a better way," he sighed, referring to the gruesome way that some human faces had been melted away.

Our driver had never been to Murambi, either, and it was almost harder for me to see his face contort and the tears quietly roll down his cheeks. The silence was punctuated by his occasional cough, somewhere between a throat-clearing and a wail. We walked together, room by room, to see the 1,700-some bodies that had been exhumed and put on display. The rest have been enterred in a tomb in from of the visitor's center, which also serves as a research facility.

It is always eerily quiet at the genocide memorials, but I heard some stirring down the hill. Peering through, I saw that our visit coincided with the village's gacaca hearings, the Rwandan justice and reconciliation process. There, standing before a group of villagers, stood several accused génocidaires who, more than likely, were participants in the massacre. There was something tremendously symbolic about that; villages were trying these killers on the very hill where they committed the atrocities. Justice was being done. Gacaca was bringing closure.

Coming Soon...

2007-06-22T19:31:00.001-04:00

I may have some things to add in the very near future :)

In the meantime, I've updated the "Things To Do" and the Dictionary!

I'm not sure if I've shared these photos yet:

Readjusting

2006-10-24T21:47:00.002-04:00

One of my friends who had spent considerable time abroad remarked, when I told her that I anticipated having difficulty readjusting, that people always expect that. In truth, she said, they reacclimate easily, reassuming all of their former habits. I wasn’t so sure. Perhaps more so for the expatriate who lives in a capital during their time overseas—but as someone who lived in the field and couldn’t, for example, buy any meat (because there has been an outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease and avian flu is suspected), I thought it might be more difficult.

My first test was when I arrived at Heathrow. I figured that I had spent enough time in airports that it wouldn’t be exotic. I was wrong.

I wandered the terminal like a vagabond. Wide-eyed, I nearly pressed my face to the glass windows of Gucci and Hermès to get a better view of their brightly-colored, sparkling treasures. Inside each boutique, shopgirls sneered at my clothes—dirty, torn jeans, scratched Doc Martens and a pink Rwandan snowboarding shirt—not to mention my North Face backpack, which I guessed was not this season’s fashion accessory. I wasn’t used to being sneered at. I also wasn’t used to one, seeing so many abazungu, and two, not being stared at constantly. I admit to liking number two. Finally, I was anonymous, just another traveler en route to somewhere else.

The bookshops, with their rows and rows of glossy magazines, drew me in, and I found my eyes darting from one to another because I couldn’t decide which one I wanted to look through first. In the end, I didn’t buy any because I reminded myself how much a pound was worth, not just in dollars, but in Rwandan francs. A Vanity Fair was a week’s salary for Angélique. I couldn’t bear to spend my money so frivolously.

There is always one exception to that rule, in my mind, and in an effort to launch the readjustment period, I followed my nose to the only Starbucks in the terminal. I looked for the bags of Rwandan coffee that they now sell “in select stores,” but this was not one of them. So I soon found myself standing in line, ordering a vanilla skim latte, perhaps my favorite beverage of all time. Certainly it was my favorite beverage when I left the U.S. The thing was, I had forgotten what it tasted like.

While I was contemplating my latte, the woman behind me wondered aloud (and obnoxiously) to her friend, “Now, do I want foam on my coffee or not? Hmm.” She debated it at length with herself, and I looked at her, perplexed. But it doesn’t matter, I thought. Then I realized that her stupid blubberings bothered me. They bothered me because I had gained a sense of which things mattered and which didn’t. Finding shoes so that you don’t have to walk barefoot on sharp rocks every day matters. Being able to get HIV/AIDS treatment matters. Whether or not to get foam on your coffee doesn’t. I shook my head, held my tongue, and retrieved my coffee, eagerly taking my first sip. It was delicious. I remembered suddenly why it had been my drink of choice.

Now that I’m back in DC, I’ve noticed other little things—primarily, the suffocating humidity and oven-like temperatures of August. I lived in Equatorial Africa and it wasn’t this hot! But at least we have air conditioning here.

Then there are the mosquitoes. There haven’t been many coming around me (in Rwanda, you’d have thought they were magnetic) but whenever they do, I easily kill them. This is very different from Rwanda, where the mosquitoes are cunning little bastards who hide once they figure out that you’re aware of them and only come out at 1 a.m. to bite you when you’re passed out. They also somehow manage to survive being smacked ten times. Every night in Rwanda, I slept with a mosquito buzzing like an electric drill. Here, mosquitoes don’t make that annoying sound, but I somehow still hear it in my ears. Often it’s the soft hum of the air conditioning or a streetlight. Yet, when I hear that vibration, I am immediately on guard, a Pavlovian reaction. Oh, and of course, I don’t have to sleep with a stupid net anymore. I love that.

And the food. I think I’m losing weight because I’m no longer forced to eat bananas, plantains, rice, potatoes, or ugali every day. I’m also diversifying—I’ve been eating sushi regularly, just because it was impossible to find in Rwanda (and if you did find it, it probably wouldn’t be safe to eat). I’m still queasy about drinking beverages with ice, and tap water in general still gives me pause; I wipe all of the handwashed dishes until they are completely dry, and it feels strange brushing my teeth with water from the sink. I’m not used to using the microwave, but I’m getting back into it, and remembering how beautifully convenient it is! Especially when you want to boil water for tea.

I’m driving again. It’s weird being so close to the ground—I had been riding high above the road in a Land Cruiser almost every day. I filled up my car with gas and nearly suffered a cardiac arrest when it cost $32 to fill up my little Honda. When I was in college (mind you, this is just three years ago), it cost $19. Ouch. It’s nice to have paved roads, and—amazing!—traffic lights that work, and pedestrians actually use sidewalks instead of walking in the road.

Being back is nice. It’s comfortable. Everything anyone could ever want is available (for a price). But for whatever reason, to supplant the simplicity of this aspect of life, we purposefully make our lives more complicated. In Rwanda, while the people may be complicated, life is simple. People deal with adversity but don’t dwell on it. So you don’t have water in your house for two weeks? Go pump some from a well. No meat at the market? Eat potatoes instead. Your shirt doesn’t match your skirt? You haven’t washed your clothes in days? Wear them anyway. It’s not like anyone would care.

Living there (and I’m sure this goes for anyone who has lived in a developing country) makes you realize that Americans make mountains out of molehills. We’re so concerned about this drug or that treatment, organic produce, tuna with high mercury levels, UV rays, artificially colored salmon, alpha-hydroxy, carbohydrate intake…but how much of it really matters? Being in Rwanda helped me adjust my focus. And now that I’m back, while I’m still going to drink my vanilla lattes, I’m not going to make a fuss about the foam.

A smattering of photos

2006-10-21T21:34:00.000-04:00

With Boniface, his wife, and most of his kids.

Beautiful downtown Gisenyi, by the bus station

The Gisenyi market, where you can find fabric, vegetables, ghee, and various odds and ends made in China or Kenya.

Gahonda, the silverback of the Sabyinyo Group of gorillas, contemplates a deep thought. Gahonda apparently means "to crush" in Kinyarwanda. At 400 pounds, I don't doubt his ability.

I, Spy? And all the other things I couldn't say.

2006-09-11T16:30:00.000-04:00

I waited until my return to the States before sharing this, partially to collect my thoughts, and partially for fear of potential consequences.

As I’ve mentioned before, Rwanda is a tremendously stable country with excellent security. I’m convinced that Kigali is the safest capital in Africa (Kampala as a close second) because it’s safe to walk around basically anywhere at any time. In the provinces, army police, and local security patrol the villages looking for suspicious activity. The borders are heavily guarded, with frequent helicopter flyovers. Police pull over cars along the road to check for identification. Security is assured, and it’s trustworthy—the military is well-trained and equipped (by the U.S.), and corruption is minimal.

In this environment, Rwanda has flourished. The government has implemented progressive economic changes at breakneck speed. Tall, shiny buildings are going up. The transportation infrastructure is impressive; all primary and most secondary roads are paved. A cell phone network covers the country. Everyone, even those in the most remote villages, has access to clean water. Electricity is available in all of the cities and most of the towns. The government has dramatically altered administrative divisions and the administrative structure to streamline and reduce the bureaucracy. Surprisingly progressive environmental policies have been put in place—plastic bags are no longer allowed, and it’s forbidden to cut trees for firewood (there has been an increasing erosion problem). If countries are climbing the development ladder, Rwanda is a mountaineer.

One notable exception to these successes is the lack of attention paid to the psychological trauma of the Rwandan people. I often half-joke that an army of psychiatrists needs to parachute into the country. The depression is real.

The government has been able to accomplish much during the past 12 years. But at what cost? Free speech and diversity of political opinion. There was only one real newspaper, the New Times, until a couple of months ago, when a second, Focus, emerged on the scene. Both are in English, and so are inaccessible to the vast majority of Rwandans. The New Times is widely understood to represent the opinions of the government, so dissenting opinions are rare at best. When Focus began, its inaugural issue featured an article critical of the government. In subsequent issues, the tone inexplicably became more positive, at times effusive. Makes you wonder aloud what really happened.

Political opposition doesn’t exist. Kagame won the last presidential election by a veritable landslide. I have only heard of one political party. (I have recently received word that a nascent political party formed by genocide survivors has been shut down.) And no one, no one questions the actions of the government. Good thing they’re not malevolent.

I refer to Rwanda’s political system as a benevolent authoritarian democracy. There were elections, and they were accepted as free and fair. But after electing their leaders, it seems like Rwandans take a more hands-off approach, as if now that they have supported the lawmaker, they have total trust in the government. I also get the impression that the Rwandan government believes that political opposition could cause fissures in a society that needs to remain united in the post-war years in order to move forward. I can understand this perspective. Luckily, the Rwandan people have elected Paul Kagame, a heralded war hero with a sharp intellect and a keen understanding of what the country needs to develop. If it weren’t Kagame, I would probably have a more pessimistic opinion of the government. It makes me question whether the country would be as successful if Kagame weren’t the president…and what the country would do without him.

Kagame is a man of strong opinions, which isn’t great if you 1) are French, or 2) work for UNHCR. For reasons stemming from actions (and inaction) during and after the genocide, Kagame harbors some resentment. There is no shortage of reminders of the low regard he holds for people who fall into either of these two groups.

Which is why, a couple of months into my time there, I started to be more prudent about the opinions I was sharing on my blog. What I said always represented how I felt, but I saved my criticism for later. For now.

My caution initially stemmed from a conversation I had with a friend who used to work for the South African secret service. He told me that it would be wise not to discuss how I felt about the government with any Rwandans, because there were spies everywhere. Perhaps “spies” is a strong word—as I understood it, the government has employed a significant number of people to keep tabs on expatriates, to figure out, according to my friend, “why you’re here, what you think about the government, and if you’re racist.” He told me he actually called a guy out on it one day. The guy, who initially denied it, later confessed in confidence. “We’re good friends now,” he said. The same friend told me how a friend of his had received a phone call when they were at dinner. He returned to the table with the news that the government had given him 24 hours to leave the country. Apparently he hadn’t said the right things to the right people.

But when accounts are secondhand, they’re more difficult to believe. Similarly, I took the information and filed it away in my head. So maybe there were intelligence agents. I thought the government was pretty good, so I didn’t really have to watch what I said. And I only half-believed the expulsion story.

Until I found myself invited to a mysterious party in Kigali. It was a house party, and I assumed it was to celebrate the birthday of one of my friend’s housemates. When I arrived, wine in hand, I was ready to congratulate someone. “Oh, no, it’s not a birthday,” my friend urgently whispered to me in the kitchen. “My housemate has been expelled.”

That evening, my naïveté went out the window as I absorbed the discussion. The roommate was a French journalist who had been in Rwanda for a year and a half. She was waiting for her visa to be renewed when she received a call that afternoon. It was a government official, who told her that her visa application had been denied and that she had 24 hours to leave the country.

Outraged, and in true investigative fashion, she went to the French Embassy to uncover the truth. She had apparently been labeled a spy by the Rwandan government—which is their way of justifying expulsions for other reasons. She wasn’t a spy at all—she said she hadn’t even broadcast any news items that were particularly critical of the government.

As the night went on, the stories flowed like the liquor. That was when I discovered that our cell phones were tapped, and that Rwandan monitors were planted everywhere, trying to figure out what we were doing and who our friends were. Friends had hidden their marijuana in their chimney in case of a surprise government raid. Others had received anonymous calls from unavailable numbers—men who said, “We know who you are and who you work for. We’re watching you.” I became very fearful about my blog. The government was obsessed with technology, and I suddenly realized that there was no possible way that they couldn’t know about it.

I started watching what I was saying.

My friend’s experience caused me to analyze how I might look to a foreign government. I had three years of experience on post-conflict issues, including a stint in Afghanistan, before I decided to move to Rwanda to work in the field for free for six months. Strange. Also strange was why I chose to work for UNHCR, Enemy Number One in the eyes of many Rwandan officials. In the field, I was actively learning Kinyarwanda, all of my friends were Rwandan, and I ventured out into the villages to speak with returnees (some of whom were former combatants) on a regular basis. To a novice, I looked like prime spy material, and some of my acquaintances even suggested as much.

Soon after my return, I called a Rwandan friend of mine for a favor. He was very influential, making frequent business trips to Europe, the U.S., and the Middle East. “Morgan,” he said, “You must be so excited that your friend is coming to visit from the States. You’re going to Uganda, right?”

I was about to agree when I realized that something was fishy. “But…I didn’t tell you any of that. How did you know?” I asked. He laughed uneasily and changed the topic.

In fact, I hadn’t told anyone by that point—I’d only discussed it on the phone. That’s when I started to clam up during phone conversations.

In other words, I felt, rightly or wrongly, like I was walking on eggshells. I didn’t think that I would really be expelled, but I didn’t want to invite any threatening phone calls, as some of my friends had received. My saving grace, I’m surprised to say, was probably my citizenship.

“You’re an American? We love Americans!” was usually the refrain when I told people where I was from. (I did get the occasional “How can you be American? You look like a Chinese!) I said it as often as I could, fully capitalizing on the strength of the Rwando-American relationship. How nice it is to be loved, not hated.

Unlike the French. I often wonder if the journalist was expelled for a story she wrote, for something she said in confidence to another, because she became friends with some important people, or if it was just to keep the French government on its toes. They know how they are regarded by Rwandan officials. During the World Cup finals, the French Embassy set up roadblocks in case of riots. (There weren’t any, probably because they lost.)

In the end, I was fine. But I had never before felt as though I couldn’t express all the things I wanted to say, and I had never before been monitored. We’re lucky in the United States—we have freedom of speech, of assembly, of movement, and the right to privacy—but we’re also at a different place developmentally. Maybe, in the eyes of outsiders, Rwanda’s controlling current approach isn’t the best one…but, until they’ve healed their wounds, bridged the ethnic divide, and advanced their own development, maybe it is.

Welcome to Nairobbery. Please fasten your wallets.

2006-09-02T16:19:00.000-04:00

“They call Nairobi “Nairobbery”? Well, it’s better than “Nai-rape-y, I suppose,” mused my friend John before I left the States. I didn’t plan to spend more than two nights in the notoriously dangerous city—one on the way into Rwanda, and one on the way out. Advice from fellow travelers and friends had made me very cautious.

“Money belts are no good. Thieves know exactly where they are and if you’re wearing one.”

“If someone puts a gun in your face, give them everything you have.”

“Someone took my cell phone when I was in the bus by holding a knife to my side.”

“When you go out into town, don’t carry your bag. Put some money in your pocket like the Kenyans do.”

“Walk with purpose. Thieves won’t bother white people who look like they live here.”

“Don’t walk around after dark.”

I decided that my evening in Nairobi would be spent confined to my hotel. When I arrived at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, I went to Kenya Airways, where I bought a ticket to Rwanda for the following morning. Then I got into my hotel’s shuttle, which brought me to the Hilton Nairobi, where I ate dinner in my room at 10 pm. In the morning, I left for the airport.

Phew, I had thought, I survived one night in Nairobi without being robbed.

Wrong. I wouldn’t find this out until two weeks later, when my parents sent me an email telling me that my credit card information had been stolen. American Express said that I took a roundtrip flight on KLM between Nairobi and Amsterdam five days after my arrival in Rwanda. And that I shipped $1000 of cargo on a flight. And that I had purchased two Test of English as a Foreign Language (TOEFL) test registrations. Initially they didn’t believe me when I denied these charges, because I had forgotten to tell them that I would be in Africa—but I don’t know why the TOEFL tests weren’t a dead giveaway. The card was canceled.

And just like that, I only had one credit card left. I am of the sentiment that credit cards are like insurance. If something goes wrong, it’s a parachute. But now, I only had one—which meant that, theoretically, if the card information were stolen, I would lose my last parachute. I guarded my Visa with my life. I would add one more cautionary rule to the above list: “Pay for everything with cash.”

I only used my credit card twice in Nairobi—once at the Kenya Airways desk, and once at the Hilton. Given the charges, I am convinced that it was the woman behind the counter at Kenya Airways.

I eventually went to Zanzibar, which, while I had to pass through Nairobi, had not required my leaving the airport. Until our Kenya Airways connection refused to wait for us and forced us to stay the night. At least Kenya Airways puts you up in the hotel of your choice (and gives you a meal voucher). This happens surprisingly frequently, which can’t be good business practice. Word to the wise—if you get screwed this way by Kenya Airways, pick the nicest hotel you can.

On my way back from Zanzibar, Kenya Airways was so kind as to lose two of my three bags, leaving me with nice paintings and no underwear for an undetermined number of days. Sometimes bags showed up on the next flight, and sometimes they just disappeared into the ether. Just to make things easier, they don’t ship the bags to your house, and the Kigali airport doesn’t have a record of which bags have arrived. Therefore, if you want to see if your bag has arrived, you have to go to the airport. I was lucky that I was in Kigali for several days after my return.

My bags arrived three days later.

***
“I love Nairobi,” my friend Shafi defended. Shafi was half-Rwandan and half-Belgian who was raised in Nairobi, where he had attended the American school (and acquired an American accent and a New York attitude). He would rave about March Madness and we would butt heads about baseball (he loved the Yankees, I loved the Red Sox), and I considered him the only other American in Gisenyi. (He was also called a muzungu, and hated it even more than I did, because he was actually part Rwandan.) “Nairobi has clubs, and restaurants, and music….” He would go on and on and on about Nairobi’s virtues. When I asked about the crime, he said, “People have stolen stuff from me, sure. But Nairobi’s not that bad. You just need to know where to go, and be with someone who knows the city.”

That would imply that it’s not great for the average tourist.

Shafi did concede that carjackings were frequent. He recounted a time when he was sitting in his car at a stoplight and a gun was shoved in his face through the window. Looking up, he found that the would-be carjacker was a friend of his from elementary school. “Baba, it’s me, Shafi,” he said. The robber, surprised, smiled. “Oh, hey, Shafi, what’s going on?” He put his gun down.

“I’m not gonna steal your car,” he said. “But help me find one I can steal.” The guy got into the passenger seat.

They drove around for a while, until Shafi decided he wanted this guy and his gun out of his car. “How about that one over there?” he asked, indicating a nice SUV. The guy agreed, jumped out, and pulled the same stunt on the SUV’s driver, an older woman.

The woman was left standing on the road as her car sped off. Shafi picked her up and took her to the police station.

“That’s Nairobi,” he said.

* * *

I did end up spending a day as a tourist in Nairobi, on my way out of Africa. It wasn’t bad, but I did follow all the rules—I didn’t carry a bag, just some cash in my pocket. I took a taxi out to the Giraffe Center, a sanctuary for Rothschild giraffes. For the price of entry, you can feed the giraffes with food pellets, either at ground level (it’s amusing when they bend over), or at their head level, a second-story observatory. They extended their long, black tongues and expertly retrieved the pellets from the hands of giggling visitors, young and old. The truly brave could put a pellet between their lips and get a giraffe “French kiss.” I was not among them.

They weren’t too keen on being petted, and one of them had the tendency to head-butt if you were standing in front of them without any food to offer. I named her Zidane.

No first visit to Nairobi is complete without dinner at Carnivore, one of the top 20 restaurants in the world. Happily, it’s only $30 for dinner, which I find very reasonable. Their specialty is (you guessed it) meat, and they have lots of it, regular and exotic. Over an enormous round red grill, they cook tens of different kinds of meat on long metal skewers. When the meat is ready, they bring the long skewer around to the tables, carving off pieces of meat for those who want to try it.

That night, they featured lamb chops, roast beef, ostrich meatballs, ostrich patties, pork sausages, chicken, crocodile, pork loin, camel, and more. They have a vegetarian option, but I don’t know why anyone on earth would order it. (I think you get a salad or something.) I was stuffed as I headed to the airport.

Finally, during my last time in Nairobi, I had enjoyed myself.

Thoughts on refugee work

2006-08-28T13:43:00.000-04:00

Working with refugees isn’t easy. There are touching, inspirational moments that bring tears to your eyes and remind you why you chose this work—and there are moments that make you want to jump up and down and scream.

Most of the refugees at our camp left their homes with little more than the shirts on their backs. At home, they had jobs, they had land, they had dreams. But then their houses were torched, their land was stolen, and the violence that surrounded them—and pursued them—forced them to flee. Now, most of the adults sit idly in the camp. Others venture into the neighboring village in search of employment, which, if found, generally means farming work for that day only. The pay hovers around 200 Francs a day, or $0.40. They are desperate for money. Some girls, who wish to acquire new skirts, consider prostituting themselves. Families sell their two-week World Food Programme-allocated ration to make a profit and diversify their meals. It’s a sad situation, one that no one should ever have to experience.

It was in this context that I worked. I wanted to initiate and implement programs on a budget—literally—of $0. I was a volunteer, so I wasn’t paid, and, in fact, was draining my life savings during my stay. If I needed money to implement a program, it had to be my own. (I am very grateful for the generous contributions of my friends in June and July, which were an enormous help.) I didn’t wallow in self-pity—after all, it was my choice to go to Rwanda in the first place—but I did want just a smidgin of recognition from the refugees that I was doing the most I could with the few resources I had.

Being a muzungu, however, this recognition was hard to come by. The term “muzungu” really means “light-skinned,” but has become synonymous with “rich person.” To the refugees, I was rich, and many believed that they were entitled to whatever I could give them—and more—because I could afford it. By American standards, I was not—but that was not something they could understand. So when I had my first meeting with the Refugee Youth Committee and made the announcement that I had purchased two soccer balls for them, they began by thanking me profusely—and finished by asking me for volleyballs, too. I was devastated—I had spent $60 (I was overcharged, of course, because I was a “rich person”) for the balls, an expense I had never budgeted for, and where I had expected gratitude, I received a request for more. I told them that I didn’t have the money to buy them more balls—and that if they wanted to play volleyball, they needed a net, too, which I couldn’t provide, either. I was crushed. When I gave as much as I could, they asked for more.

The episode was repeated the next time I met with the youth. “Thanks for the balls,” they said. “They’re almost broken. Next time, can you get leather ones? They last longer.” It seemed a fair request, though I was in no financial position to buy them any more. I discussed the issue with Boniface. “They’re crazy,” he said. “Leather balls cost $100 each. They’ve never played with a leather ball in their lives.” They had again seen me as having deep pockets, which I found very upsetting. After all, if I hadn’t come to Rwanda, they wouldn’t have had any soccer balls at all, because playing soccer wasn’t a basic human need, and the UN is only in the business of providing basic human needs. I had decided to start a soccer league because the adolescents weren’t in school and needed something to do. It was a privilege, not a right. I couldn’t explain this to them, but it was something that I hoped they would understand.

I frequently told them that there was no pot of money anywhere, that these were my resources. So when one refugee subsequently asked, “Why? After all, you’re a ‘bailleur de fonds’” (a funder), I became visibly upset. Only one among them, the de facto leader, understood me, and it was he that endeavored to explain that I was not the wealthy donor everyone took me to be.

This episode was not the only one—the AIDS-awareness theatre group that I formed wanted to be paid for every performance, saying that at the other camps, NGOs paid the actors. We didn’t have any NGO partners in our camp, and I didn’t think that they should be paid for what should be a public service. When I organized a 3-day training workshop on AIDS for the refugees, the session was supposed to start at 9 am. By noon the room was still empty, and the CARE International trainer sat alone with his materials waiting for people to show. The refugees had wanted some kind of compensation for attending the workshop; they didn’t understand that the knowledge itself was valuable. A malaria problem developed as a result of the presence of pools of standing water. We brought bags of sand to fill the holes, and asked the refugees to help us. They refused, saying that at other camps, NGOs took care of that—and that if we wanted them to help, we had to pay them. It was as if they didn’t understand that it was in their own interest. We gave them a choice between paying them for filling the holes or buying school uniforms for their kids so they wouldn’t stand out as refugees in class. They wisely (though grudgingly) chose the latter.

The thing is, I couldn’t entirely blame them for having the attitude of always wanting to be compensated, always asking for more. Many of my colleagues and acquaintances were deeply annoyed, complaining that they acted helpless, that many people have the twisted idea that when they become refugees, they should receive a paycheck from UNHCR. In many ways, that’s true—if someone is doing something for you (especially when it’s the UN, universally understood to have deep pockets), why do something yourself? “The refugees know that when they return home, they won’t be given kilos and kilos of food every two weeks, and they won’t receive free medical services. They will be compelled to work because they won’t have anyone else to rely on, and will be much more resourceful,” one colleague said. “Right now, they act like they can’t do anything for themselves.” But I think that this is due in part to humanitarian aid. There are no sensitization programs for refugees on what their rights—and responsibilities—are. Some NGOs are less responsible than others, providing compensation for things that should be voluntary. Above all, humanitarian aid should really be humanitarian assistance, in the sense that the former is a donation, and the latter implies a partnership. Because that’s how the international community should view refugees—not uniquely as victims, but also as partners.

For every disappointing encounter with the refugees, however, there were many wonderful ones. Everyone at the camp knew my name, because I told them in broken Kinyarwanda, “Nitwa Morgani. Oya Muzungu,” which means: “My name is Morgan. No[t] Muzungu.” I could always tell who the new refugees were because they called me “muzungu” and would stare at me, mouths agape. The kids would correct the newcomers. The kids were simply charming—they would see the UN car rumble into the camp, up to the front office, and as they watched my arrival, they would wave and say, “Bye!” because they didn’t know the difference between “Hi” and “Bye.” When I descended from the car, they would crowd around and call, “Morgani!” and then make a fist (sometimes with a thumbs-up) and clamor to touch fists with me, exclaiming, “Chance!” (I’m pretty sure they meant “cheers” but my efforts to correct them failed.)

The children would dance around, doing fake martial arts to make me laugh—they would do anything to make me laugh. I often chased them around, tickling them and twirling them around. A few among them became my favorites: one, a shy little girl (who’s holding the UNICEF sign in my post about sending the kids to school); a couple of mischievous little boys; a handicapped girl who, I believe, has Parkinson’s disease; and a 27 year-old guy named Emmanuel, the de facto leader of the youth, and the only Anglophone among the refugees.

I also remember how I nearly began to cry after I found out that the refugee team didn’t just win the game on World Refugee Day—the day they received new balls and jerseys, and finally had proper goals—they had won spectacularly, 4-1. (I had posted 3-1 before, but I was later informed that that was a mistake.) It was everything I had hoped for—I wanted to show them that they could do a lot with very little, and with just the basics, our soccer team rose to become one of the best (if not the best, because to date, they’re undefeated) in the area.

The AIDS-awareness theatre group did the same, on World Refugee Day. They put on a spectacular 40-minute performance. And the Scouts would regularly greet each other with a secret handshake—the youth were excited to be a part of something bigger than the camp, an organization that provided them with inspiration, a rare commodity.

The other thing that struck me about the refugees was their love of writing thank-you letters. They always managed to procure paper, a pen, and air-mail envelopes, and what they wrote was always charming. The morning of my departure, I stopped briefly by the camp for a last goodbye. Emmanuel translated a letter that the youth had collectively written for me. As he read, tears began to well in my eyes, and with a complete lack of composure, I broke down sobbing.

From the youth of Nkamira:

We are hereby saying goodbye and thanking Our Morgan.

We are thanking her for all she brought to us.

You introduced the [Boy/Girl] Scouts to Nkamira for the first time;

You brought the youth together by giving them soccer balls;

You developed and supported the anti-AIDS theatre club;

You were an openhearted girl throughout your stay at Nkamira.

Even though you are leaving, we hope you will always support us and will never forget us.

Notez Bien (Please Note):

We thank everyone who has helped us, and we hope that someone who feels they can be a friend to us they way you have will continue your achievements after you leave.

Thank You

I hugged Emmanuel and thanked the youth, getting back into the car. We had to leave. And as we went, the children waved a ran next to the car, crying, “Bye! Bye!” They had gotten it right this time.