On one of many hills

Posted on May 16th, 2010 under Rwanda

Gahini, Rwanda

Every day I walk up and down the same hill three times, once for breakfast, once for lunch and another for dinner. I live at the top. My food is at the bottom. I have mentioned this hill in an earlier blog entry; it’s the one I like to walk at night. The hill is nothing too extraordinary at plain sight. It’s just a dark brown-red dirt road etched with footprints and tire tracks. Rain-worn trenches a couple feet deep run parallel on each side. Past those trenches are some slender trees, flowers and plots of farmland. Past the crops and through the trees you can make out an opposing hillside garnished with glimmering metal roofs and fuming kitchens. (I do mean fuming kitchens. Either Rwandans never thought of making chimneys or they do not care for them. I’m not sure which but no one has them. They cook over fires and just let the smoke rise and fill the kitchen ceiling until it climbs out the windows and door.)

One morning, an enormous rain had swept in from across the lake while I was eating my breakfast. Rains do not last too long here so I decided to wait it out with an extra cup of tea. (By the way, tea and coffee are Rwanda’s two main exports. I asked to have coffee in the mornings, thinking it should not be any problem. My mistake. My server brought a bag of ground coffee on a tray but with no way to filter. When I tried asking for a filter she did not understand. I asked the manager. He did not understand. Turns out Rwandans heeded Tony Montana’s advice; they do not to use their own stuff.) Anyhow, I had the extra cup of tea and worked on a tray of fruits. I only brought my journal and pen with me and since I would not be going anywhere for a while I decided to review some of my notes then doodle a few people I met the day before.

So picture it: Evan in a concrete, hut with nothing but a card table and plastic chair, some banana peels, crumpled passion fruits and papaya rinds; the rain is pouring on all sides knocking dirt up against walls; he along with everyone else in Gahini is hiding out from the rain.

About an hour passed. The rain eased to a drizzle and the sun just barely peeked from behind one of those ominous storm clouds. That was good enough for me so I set out for the hill. It was not until this morning I realized how strange this hill actually was. (Maybe it was the extra time at breakfast to reflect. I dunno.)

This hill does not seem like too much at plain sight. Like I said, the walk is mostly dirt, plants and the somewhat discernable adjacent hillside. It is not the sight of the hill that gives it its peculiarity, though; it’s the history. People have been giving me bits of its history for me to string together over these past couple weeks. In 1935, Gahini’s hill was the host of a Christian revival. Missionaries had come here in the early 1900s and made a place for themselves when it was still just a hill of brush, insects and wild animals. The 1935 Gahini Revival was one of their master plans and from what I hear, the birth-ground for Christianity in all of East Africa. Thousands came then and thousands more will be coming in a few weeks for a round-two, memorial revival/conference. I leave the day after the conference ends.

This hill was not just a nursery, though, cradling new believers for the future of Africa. In 1994 it was the graveyard for many murdered in the genocide. During the genocide, some of the military personnel and unofficial militia patrolled this same hill. They hacked people to death with machetes in the same fields I stroll along. Almost anyone who is my age or older could tell you a story about it, list off names of friends and family who were murdered. I have not heard too much about the genocide since I have arrived, though. How could I? I only know a few words in Kinyarwanda. I cannot have conversations with most of the people here but that makes things all the more strange: I know they know.

At the foot of the hill is Lake Muhazi. I can see it from my front porch at the top of the hill. Across the lake is President Kagame’s ranch. When the sun’s out, it’s where I bathe. It’s where I swim and watch the pied kingfishers dive for fish, the weaver’s weaving nests, the African Paradise Monarch flit its long tail in the reeds and occasionally, all this in the company of otters. (Fifteen years ago, I’d be swimming with hippos and crocodiles. Fortunately for me they were driven about 4km to the other end of the lake.) Yesterday, I was swimming while all the locals kept to the bay filling their barrels and jerry cans with water to haul back uphill in their truck beds and bicycles. I had been staring up at the hill thinking about its past when I was struck with another thought. I turned and asked the only friend who swims with me, “Why don’t I ever see anyone else swimming in this lake? I only see a few float in it with their boats.” He lowered his voice, “They are usually taught to stay away from water in schools for different reasons. Many of them just never learned to swim but I also have been told many people don’t want to come in because this is where the militia threw the bodies during the genocide.”

You can imagine ever since I have arrived here there has been much to take in. Walking this hill fifteen minutes up, fifteen minutes down gives me some time to think about the things I have seen and heard. Sometimes I can do this with my head upright, eyes darting across the horizon, ears pricked to cows’ slovenly hooves shuffling through the grass, nose whiffing every guava tree in range. Just as often, I’ll take this walk staring off only a few feet ahead, inattentive to smell and sound, caught up in thinking on yesterday or tomorrow.

Many would call this time in Rwanda an exciting experience. They are right. Many would say it is a valuable and precious time in my life. It is. All the same, I have been away from home for over four months now and by the time I get home, I will have missed five months of the lives of each family and friend. They will have missed five months of mine and once when I do get home we will only be able to recount so much to one another. All there was to be known in the casual, day-to-day company will be far gone and I don’t like that. I don’t like that I do not have my brothers walking this hill with me, talking about all that is inevitably forming me. I don’t like that when I reach the bottom there are no familiar friends greeting me at the table; we cannot tell one another about the day. Any words I have from those friends come through letters and when I read those letters they beat a great joy into me. Still, the words seem to only retain half the meaning by the time they reach my eyes from their hands. The words do not come with facial expressions, with tone or pace; they do not come with any of those subtleties that change a word’s meaning. I don’t like that either. So while the time here is good in many ways, I must say, having been away for four months, it is getting a bit lonely. I am beginning to feel strained.

So the hill has a past. It’s a place I consider the present and at times the future. Sometimes I walk it alone and to go eat alone but other times I do walk it with a few new friends and eat in good company. It is what it is. Can you see why I might find it a strange one to walk every day? Would you call it exciting? Eerie? Charming? Grim? Beautiful? I mean what do you call a place that has been both a cradle and a grave? Imagine a mother was pregnant with twins and when she delivered, the first came shaking with life but the other slid into the midwife’s hands motionless and silent. What would you say to that mother? What would you call her?

For whoever’s interested, plug in these coordinates into Google maps. Click on the satellite option and you can see the area I am staying. The coordinates mark the road on the hill:

-1.841856, 30.476010

Gitchyerganderon

Posted on May 10th, 2010 under Rwanda

Gahini, Rwimbogo and Akagera National Park, Rwanda

These are just a few photos I thought were worth sharing.

Runner’s Delight

Posted on May 5th, 2010 under Rwanda

Gahini, Rwanda

Six o’clock in the morning, the sun just began coming up. Sky was in between the blues of night and day. I walked over to the schoolroom behind the guesthouse and met a group of about twelve Rwandans training to be missionaries in Tanzania. They had been reading their bibles for the past hour (somewhat reluctant and distracted from what I am told). The day before I had asked if I could join them in part of their daily routine. They liked the idea, which was why I was there to jump in for this next part of their morning.

“Madamutze. [Good morning.] ”  We greet each other. Some speak English others do not. I feel somewhat ridiculous not being able to speak their language as usual but the circle of smiles before me puts me more at ease. Stepping outside onto the main road (go ahead and assume it is dirt, making it good and soft for running). I had walked this same road the night before: no streetlights, only the stars and the occasional motorcycle headlight cruising by. On either side I could make out the contours of banana palms and a faint scent of evergreens was on the breeze. (Strange but yes, there are evergreens growing along the equator. There must be an explanation but I don’t know it). In night walks I can hear people coming up the road but cannot see them. I blend in better at day; Rwandans blend in better at night. Even some new local friends have begun teasing me as one of the most disadvantaged people at night since I am the only one to be seen on the road but I just tell them it is true only with robbers; with cars and motorcycles I have the greatest advantage: Mr. Whitey is one giant reflector. (If this humor seems offensive to anyone, I am sorry to offend but just know you stand alone in your offense. We are all laughing together over here.) I am impressed how well everyone navigates in the dark, though. People plummet down the main hill on their bicycles at night with no lights. It is sort of common knowledge I suppose: bikes and vehicles in the middle of the road, people on the side.

But coming back to the road this morning: we form ranks of three in four rows. They place me at the front. Shake the legs. Roll the head. We start running up towards the local hospital and church started by the Anglican diocese. One minute in I discover there is one more detail for running, we recite the books of the bible in Kinya-rwanda. One calls, the rest respond. “Itan-jiri-o! Ku-va!” Upward and onward into the countryside, shoes patting that steady runner’s rhythm. The words come out on exhale, making them louder and breathier. Every once in a while I need to look at the guy next to me and see his mouth shape the words. He notices, then exaggerate his pronunciation for me to see. I nod. He laughs. We all laugh but keep pace.

All the things there are to see on a run. Ask any runner and they will have some memory of a gorgeous place they once ran or a favorite route to run. Usually the reasons are simple: one likes to run past the baker and smell the bread; another likes to pass under that one grove of trees near the train tracks; this guy knows that girl runs the same route; it is always something. Rwanda has its own subtle splendors for runner’s to delight in. Again, no streetlights, telephone poles or paved roads. The homes along the street are mostly made of concrete, stained all shades of yellow, brown, gray and red, each with its own plot of land. Some yards are filled with banana trees, others with guava trees. Maybe some bean plants growing here and a few aisles of maize there along with a whole bunch of other plants I don’t recognize. (A majority of the country lives by subsistent agriculture.) The land is sectioned with a fence of reeds. The reeds are planted in the ground, growing with a subtle zig-zag, held in line with one or two planks and kept short with a machete. That nutritive, Rwandan red-dirt as front yards and roads; baby goats scurrying away into the grass; cattle grazing on the side of the road; chickens pecking through the fences; the ever-changing drama of clouds rolling in and out of sight over these stubby hills by the hour; it’s runner’s delight.

It happens to be children’s delight too. People are always walking along the road, kids included, so before too long we gain a mini-entourage. One little girl looks back over her shoulder as we come with our noise. Having noticed us (or maybe just me) she begins to run and recite with us for some hundred yards. She’s little. She gets tired. But by then two more kids are running alongside, then five. Two fade off but two more join. Some of the kids are bashful at first, daring to only look out the corner of their eyes with a straight face but most of the time if I shoot them a funny-face or simply smile this would be enough to put them at ease and break into their own natural smiles. Still, some kept a straight face (usually the older ones). The smallest ones, five maybe six years old, giggled and flailed their legs to the side as they ran. The slightly older seven or eight year olds ran straighter but did not look ahead down the road as we did; they kept looking at us. The older they are, the less interested they are. We passing strangers become less exciting as they get older. Later in the day I will see teenagers running in their own groups, looking down the road as we do. Such is life.

Muzungu Goes to Church

Posted on May 3rd, 2010 under Rwanda

Gahini, Rwanda

My timing for coming to Rwanda has been good for some and bad for others. Yesterday, my timing could not have been better for the Anglican Students Union. Some students of the Rukara College of Education organized a dual church service, one in Kinya-rwanda, and the other in English. I was invited along with some other mezungus to attend this first service. We accepted gladly and were gladly accepted.

Sunday morning, John (a US missionary) and I walked up the hill to the archdeacon’s home to wait for a ride. The archdeacon, a stocky dark-black man with a smooth shaved head and rasp voice was talking on his cell phone as we came through his gate. He was trying to buy gasoline from a friend down the road for the van. A morning rain came the moment we set foot on his porch, then stopped moments before stepping off.

Eighteen of us filled a van with makeshift seating and drove to the college. Before going on, I should say, this college would not fit the image of an American college. It is a series of red-orange brick and black mortar buildings, each one story, some with only one room, all-sitting around a red-dirt courtyard. A few other buildings laid further back but all-in-all that was it and the students were obviously proud of it, despite the fact that it is not even a credited college. This was the place for church.

Banana trees marked the doorway to one of the one-room buildings where the service was held. Someone told me banana trees are planted as signs of welcoming, marking the way to go. When students graduate they are strapped along roads, or on weddings they make way for the newlyweds. As a foreigner who stands out in every way and speaks no Kinya-rwanda I can say it is good to know I am welcomed.

Bit by bit the classroom filled. School desks for seating, benches for the four different choirs, and 6’ 3” ceiling, it is easy to imagine it felt somewhat crowded. It was great. Eventually the room filled so Rwandans began crowding the windows from outside. (The window behind me filled with children. They were a cute silly mob of gigglers. I could feel their eyes for the four hours I was there.) Now, even though I was a guest and had only heard of this place yesterday, I found myself being ushered to the front. We whiteys were recognized guests. We speak English, after all.

The beginning of the service: my favorite part. Some 5’ 6” man with a subtle goatee wearing a fly-fishing vest over a polo-shirt walked into the open space between the choirs and the congregation. He lifted up a microphone and sung out a one-liner of worship. The congregation sang back. Again he calls. Again they respond. Two keyboardists jump right into that bright African beat you would expect and this worship leader wasted no more time. He was bouncing up and down the instant he was given a beat. Men and women broke from their seats and filled the floor. He calls. We respond. We clap. He dances. More come to dance their own jovial dance. More start to jump. I saw no reservations. This is how it is done. The adults hopped from foot to foot and raised their arms. Kids did the same. Grownups dance like kids. Kids dance like Grownups. The man cried, “Hallelujah!” and we’d cry it back. This is how worship is done. The congregation was mixed with the leader and those who were still at their seats clapped and waved hands.

At some moment during this I the worship leader popped out near the edge of the mix. Arms jutting to and from his shoulders, I saw two stark spots of white on this man: round gladdened eyes and his teeth spread in a smile wider than his eyes. This struck me in an odd way but it was when I noticed drops of sweat covering his baldhead dripping over these eyes and this smile, my eyes were gladdened and filled with tears. Where did that come from? I was shocked. I was sabotaged. I was excited.

The archdeacon was no different. He used every inch of the floor to give his sermon. I did not understand any of it. (Apparently, this was the initiation and announcement of an English service; bits of it were in English today but not many. Next week was the real thing. No matter.) His deep raspy voice and dark black body covered in a bleached white robe strode across the floor. His finger poking the air. The congregation laughs at something all of a sudden. (Sure, I don’t know at what but I laugh anyway.) About an hour into the sermon I notice the archdeacon is mentioning us in his sermon. “Something something something [then pointing at us] meh-zoon-goos…” Now this was something to laugh at: even the archdeacon is calling us whiteys in his sermon. One of the few times he paused to let us know what he was talking about to the rest of the congregation, he let us know he mentioned our kinship to everyone else. In Christ there is neither Jew nor Gentile, Mezungus nor Rwandans.

After some more songs, testimonies and announcements the service was over. Four hours. It was two o’clock and I still had not eaten since yesterday. Lo and behold, their hospitality had not failed. We were sat at the front of the classroom at a long table and served lunch. The pastors and deacon sat at another long table and some others from the congregation sat at the desks. I ate lunch while talking to the principal and the president of the Anglican Students Union. Friendliness and kindness ensued. A mini-photo shoot with them, the pastors and archdeacon, then back into the van.