A Ugandan star

Beatrice and I are heading to Serena Hotel, the top five-star hotel of Kigali. This evening, it is the venue of a concert we want to see. I think that we are too late as the concert is supposed to start at 7 pm and we arrive there half an hour later, but actually we are still too early. The big room is not even basically full. The audience is supposed to stand, but many are trying to get chairs. Some have been put up along the walls but more and more don’t want to wait standing and the organisers reluctantly hand over more and more chairs. Beatrice and I also manage to get two. The audience is very mixed. There are young adults and many men and women in Beatrice’s age, but also really young kids that came with their parents. I am surprised about that. The same concert was given the day before in the stadium and there the main star didn’t show up until 1 am. I hope we don’t have to wait that long because I didn’t eat since lunch and neither has Beatrice. Among the other guests, I feel extremely under-dressed. I expected to go home again to change before coming here, but now we came straight from the basketball match at the stadium. I hope that my skin and hair protects me.

At first, a DJ plays some songs to keep the audience awake, mainly songs that would be played in any mainstream German night club. Then, two young Rwandan artists come on stage to perform a few songs. They don’t really get any response from the audience, even when they try to encourage us to clap or wave our arms. Although I don’t particularly find them good and it sounds a lot like playback to me, I feel sorry for them. It is hard to perform in front of an audience that is so disinterested and not welcoming at all. The girl hurries down the stage before the last word is sung. The moderator doesn’t improve the atmosphere. ‘It is getting hot now’, he says when it is perfectly clear that that is not the case. He announces the next artists, but the stage stays empty and the DJ plays his songs. Now, more popular artists start singing and the audience warms up but still stays seated. At least they respond now with waving, clapping and cheering. A rasta guy with sun glasses is on stage and then performs with another guy. The sound is not really good, their voices sound like shouting rather than singing, but the audience likes it. They come down from the stage and go directly to the people seated there, singing to them. They look like puppets as they are constantly jumping. How can they still sing that way? The next artist is a real star, I think his name is Kitoko, and I even recognise a song. After him, it is time for reggae. The songs are cool but my problem is that the singer looks like a school boy with his short hair, not moving much, standing in front of the microphone almost as stiff as a board. He should swap places with the camera man, I can’t stop thinking. 

There is always somebody on stage who is not supposed to be there. Camera men, technicians, other guys whose functions I can’t tell. They are not even dressed in a discrete way.

Finally, a band in red jackets enters the stage. Two girls in black hotpants and white shirts with massive black frizzy manes start dancing. Now the moment has come for the one star to arrive who everybody is waiting for. Jose Chameleone from Uganda. He asks the audience to get up and come close to the stage and stays at the back of the stage until we do so. It doesn’t take too long. The audience is on their feet now. Arms with cameras and mobile phones are stretched into the air to get the closest shots of Chameleone. He poses for the pictures, showing off his matte black shirt and the sparkling silver necklace. He comes close to the audience, lets those in front touch him. It is impressive even though the sound of his songs is not very good. The trumpet and the saxophone sound jarring and distorted, his own voice sounds rough. In this light, his face has almost brutal features, he looks much older than in pictures, much older than in the poster announcing this valu valu live concert, that we pass every day on our way to work. I am quite fascinated and sometimes even forget to move with the music. Most of the time I don’t understand what he is singing or saying, but I understand how he says that he is not Ugandan but East African. He praises Rwanda despite the ‘mess of 1994’. At one point, Chameleone makes some people, mostly children, come on stage. A small boy sings one of his songs and everybody is cheering. I don’t feel my hunger anymore at all and lost track of time.

It is 12 o’clock when we leave the hotel. Only in the car, I realise how tired I am. I go to bed, Chameleone’s voice still in my head.

Basketball

This sunday, Emmanuel, Beatrice’s son who is home for vacation now, and I leave the house after lunch to watch a basketball match at the stadium. It is the match Richard told me about. On our way, we talk about music and movies - which he is interested in -, facebook - which he doesn’t like - and school. Emmanuel says he likes his school, even if they have to get up at 2am or 3am to study for exams if they want to be good. It is the best school he could go to. In the governmental schools, the food is not good. The stadium is not far from our area and we get there after a 45-minutes walk. Some guys are already queuing at the security check point. I am glad that the man there only checks my bag and doesn’t search me like the boys. 

The match has not started yet, but the players are warming up. The first team are the girls under 18, Rwanda versus Kenya. I can see Richard among the people next to the field and he recognises me as well. The game starts. Some guys close to where we sit support the Rwandan teams with a drum and vuvuzelas. The Rwandan trainer, a white man, shouts at his team, trying to be louder than the fans. The teams seem equal to me. Rwanda leads, then Kenya seems to gain the upper hand. After the first half, a group of even younger basketball players entertains the fans. Two boys compete in being the fastest in putting on giant clothes and scoring a goal in this troublesome outfit. Slowly, the stands are getting crowded. More and more people arrive, mostly students from secondary school who are now on vacation. The second half does not go well for the Rwandan team. Although they score a lot, the Kenyans are always some points ahead of them and in the end, they win. The Kenyans didn’t bring a lot of supporters with them and therefore, the cheering is not exactly exorbitant but the teams leave the field rather quietly.

The next match is between the boys under 18, also Rwanda versus Kenya, but at first, they have a break. The screen that shows the scores now sends music videos. I recognise Justin Bieber, but not the song. The lyrics cannot even be heard and I wonder if they are playing a different song altogether as there is much more rhythm and bass as I think there should be. A tall girl passes and Emmanuel tells me that she is a singer. There are so many artists here and they are known and apparently popular. Beatrice has told me that a singer from Senegal now is minister of culture there without ever having seen a university from inside. 

For the boys’ teams, their national anthems are played and everybody rises. Each name is called one by one to introduce the teams before the match starts. The stadium is now full to the bursting-point, especially our side. The security guys send the arriving spectators to the other stands. The boys play extremely fast, much faster than the girls. Goals are scored one after the other and mainly by the Rwandan team. They soon are way ahead of the Kenyans. Every score is acknowledged by massive cheering from the crowd and even louder noises from the vuvuzelas. The Rwandan team is clearly dominating. The Kenyan players try to score from time to time, but for some reason, the ball just doesn’t hit it right. In each break, the trainer calls his team together for additional fresh advice. I can see how he points on his chart, drawing out different moves for them. His voice is completely broken by now. At the end of the first half, the score is 15 : 45 for the Rwandan team. Emmanuel and I have to leave, but we are confident that the Rwandan team will win this cup. 

The volcanic region

It is Thursday, July 19, and I am going to go on my first real field trip. Admittedly, I am a bit nervous, but luckily, we actually manage to leave the house almost on time. When we arrive at the office, Richard is not there yet himself. He is part of the WASH team of SNV and going to Rubavu for evaluation of the activities there. This is a good opportunity for me and the other JADF intern Fernanda to go to that district as well to conduct interviews regarding JADF performance. On the way back we will pass Musanze, another district, where we can talk to even more people. 

While I wait at the office, Fernanda is waiting at the bus station where she arrives every morning from Byumba. Richard arrives, but before leaving Kigali we have to go to the bank to get money for this field mission. Sometimes there are problems with the acceptance of the check and indeed, we have to wait quite a long while. I am glad I am not in Fernanda’s position but in the car with Richard. We talk about coffee, language skills and basketball. He used to play basketball in the national team and is now in the committee which is organising a match this Sunday. Finally, much later than expected, we pick up Fernanda at the station. The car is full now. There is the driver, Richard, another WASH intern Josef, Fernanda and me. I sit in the middle and look out of the windscreen. 

As everywhere in Rwanda, the road consists of countless bends along the hills. We follow the road towards Musanze, which is a good tarmac road. Many people are walking at the side of the road, carrying things on their heads or pushing wheelbarrows. Bicycles are used to transport people as well as sacks of grain, bananas and water canisters. Sometimes they are pushed, if the slope is too steep. One cyclist holds on to a truck and lets himself be pulled. This might work well when the road is ascending, but for sloping parts it might be a bit dangerous, I think. If no bicycle is available, the yellow water canisters are carried on the head or the back. Women and kids queue at streams or pumps to collect water to bring to their sometimes far-away homes. Young girls use a long piece of cloth tied to the canister as a strap. They put it around their front, bend forward and walk like that, the canister resting on their back. In the rural areas, herds of goats are driven along the road or single ones, sometimes cows, are led on a leash. All the hills are being cultivated, from the top to the bottom. They use terracing here to prevent the rain of washing down the soil.

I recognise Buse, the junction where we turned right on our way to Burera, but this time we continue on the good road. As we continue, the morning clouds don’t disperse. The sky is white. In Musanze, the driver leaves us to do some own business and Richard takes his seat while I take his. I like sitting in the front. Now and then, Richard comments on some things we see or sometimes do not see. He points out volcanoes in the distance which are now unfortunately not visible at all. Behind the next row of hills, there is nothing but greyish whiteness. We are approaching the volcanic region on the border to the Democratic Republic of Congo. Apparently, one of those volcanoes is still active and when it is dark, you can see the orange glow around the top. Now of course, we don’t see anything. This, though, is typical for the region. We are currently crossing a district called Nyabihu, which means fog. The colour of the ground changes as well. It is now more grey then red, sometimes sparkling in the sun, due to the volcanic soil. More and more people walk in lines on the side of the road. This is the most densely populated area in Rwanda. We are close to the DRC. Old and new refugees have settled in the region, adding to the big population. We pass a transition camp, where refugees find shelter before being moved to different camps. I recognise the blue UNICEF logo on white tents and cars. 

A bus coming in the opposite direction flashes its light repeatedly. Richard gives signs with his hand. They are asking how far the next check point of the police is. The police is strict on speed limits here and the drivers help each other avoiding fines. They do the same in Italy, too, Fernanda says. However, as everyone seems to use different signs, I don’t see how effective this is. Now, did it mean the police is far or should we pay attention? We pass extensive fields where tea is grown. Here and there, buildings are being constructed. They are usually supported by unstable-looking wooden constructions, but most building sites are full with workers. At one point, the road is being covered with fresh tarmac as we pass. A big number of men using something like rakes is working simultaneously on distributing the hot asphalt evenly on the street, directly being shovelled from under a tarp on a truck. If that is how they usually do it, the result looks really good. 

We are so close to the DRC now, that we even receive their radio programme. Gysenyi in Rubavu is directly on the border to DRC. We arrive there and look across Lake Kivu to Goma, a town in the DRC. Richard also shows us the border. It is indicated by a small blue sign ‘border’ and two police men, but apart from that the houses just continue on both sides without any differences. Without the sign, it wouldn’t even be noticed as there are policemen stationed along the roads in towns quite frequently. Our hotel is just around a corner. It is a nice hotel, surrounded by many plants and flowers. Each of us has a small room with a bathroom. There are towels, mosquito nets and TV. We just leave our bags here and continue. While Josef is being introduced to someone, Fernanda and I walk along the beach of Lake Kivu. It is a public beach, boys are swimming in the water, some are washing, some are just playing. On the beach itself and under the trees sit more people, reading or just resting. Soon we are joined by the others again to get some lunch. The restaurant we go to is a quiet place. They have a buffet for their guests and here, for the first time in Rwanda, I eat plantain again. The banana they usually use for cooking is different, but this is real plantain as I know it from Ghana. I tastes exactly as I remember it. 

After lunch, we have an appointment with the JADF permanent secretary at the district office. He receives us, Richard introduces Fernanda and me and we have a long interview. He doesn’t speak much English, but Fernanda is fluent in French and Richard helps from time to time as well. We are a bit under time pressure. While Richard stays with the Permanent Secretary for evaluation activities, the two of us meet the Vice Mayor of Rubavu. He is even more busy and we focus on key questions only, but at least he takes some time for us and makes an effort to speak English. After that, we accompany the evaluation team to a project site. Off the main road, we follow a small path on foot, along a wall built with the volcanic rocks they have en masse. We pass a group of men chopping wood - only one is working with an axe, the rest is watching - and continue through the rests of a field of sugar cane until we arrive at bee hives. There we meet a woman dressed in protective clothing. Another man who came with us also changed to this clothing and explains something about the project here. He is talking in Kinyarwanda, but another member of the evaluation team translates for me that the traditional hives produce 5 kg whereas the modern ones produce 60 kg of honey - in what time span, I don’t know. One of the bees flies to the head of one of the men and has to be removed by the guy in protective clothes, but the bees are not the only concern. On the ground, I see really big ants with the known potential of painful biting. Luckily, they are not interested in our feet. From here, we can see across the green valley with some houses with silver corrugated iron reefs, reflecting the light of the slowly setting sun. After a while the talking about the bee hives is finished and with that, the evaluation is finished as well. We make our way back through the field to our cars. We pass a ruin of a stone wall and one man takes a picture of it. This was his family house before the genocide. 

At the moment it is just Richard, Fernanda and me because Josef is having his own appointments and Richard decides to show us a bit more of Gysenyi before it gets dark. Instead of heading towards the border, we take a left turn and drive along the shore of the lake. Outside in the water we can see a platform where methane is extracted from the lake. On the coast are the breweries for the local beers. Eventually, we arrive at a guesthouse and bar directly at the lake and stop for a drink. The buildings are perched on the hill, covered by flowers and bushes. On the lawn next to the water, between some palm trees, tables under sunshades invite guests to take a rest. For some minutes, before it gets really dark, we enjoy the view across the lake. There are some islands and a few fisher boats. We can hear their rhythmic songs supporting the coordination of the joint rowing. 

Back at the hotel, we meet Josef, the driver and another SNV colleague who has come to the district on other issues. Fernanda and I organise our notes of the meeting, bringing together what we wrote in English, French and Italian until it is time for dinner. The menu is a bit confusing and I don’t want to spend much time going through the list, so I rely on Richard’s suggestions. He is a regular guest here as he works closely with this district. They already know what he likes and I think he also has a special spot where he always sits. It is a place in one corner, with the back to the wall, not central, but with a view on the TV that is showing a French movie and later news. I eat chips and small breaded fish, Fernanda has a salad and ‘brochette de poisson’, while Richard is served a big, complete fish, a bowl of soup and something like Fufu. Both Fernanda and me try, but we don’t manage to eat it properly with our hands on the first go.

The next morning is an early start again. It looks as it if rained, but in fact it is only the humidity of the lake that made the soil become wet. For breakfast, we get toast, omelette and fruits and immediately when we are finished, we get into the car and drive off to Musanze for the next round of appointments. Again the sky is cloudy and we don’t see the rows of volcanoes. Musanze is one of the bigger towns in Rwanda and is spread wide across valleys, but we stay in the central area only, where the district office is. I see many land cruisers with the logo of international NGOs driving through the streets. At the district office, we meet another SNV car. It is Beatrice and other colleagues on a field trip to Burera. They took a detour through Musanze. 

This time, we are not that lucky for our interviews. Although the JADF permanent secretary here agreed to meet us, he is not around. He will return in the afternoon, but that is too late for us. Instead, we can meet the vice mayor who has his office in a dark corridor. Unfortunately, he is quite busy, too, but he offers to fill our questionnaire later and send it back to us electronically. He also promises to help us meet more people concerned with JADF when we come next time. This is not what we had hoped for, but better than nothing and we can’t change anything about it now. All that is left to do is therefore waiting for Josef, who again has discussions with another officer at a different office. Instead of waiting at that office the whole time, the driver and Richard take us to the market in Musanze, where they also buy vegetables and potatoes to take to Kigali. It is cheaper here because these things are grown mainly in this area. Fernanda and I use the opportunity to stroll through the market - isoko - ourselves. It is a big square surrounded by a wall. Some products are sold by vendors along the wall, but more crowded are the stalls in the shadows beneath the roof in the middle. Here they sell fruits, vegetables, rice and all other kinds of agricultural products. There also is a section where they sell plastic stuffs and cloth. I want to take pictures of everything. This organised jumble of colours is beautiful and I haven’t seen a market like this in Kigali. However, I know that some don’t like pictures and cameras, so I try to be discrete and take overview shots only. A pity. 

While the men have their purchases carried to the car, Fernanda talks to a man with a shop just outside the market. Natural medicine is sold here. Richard says that he is suspicious of these guys and I must agree with him. 

When we don’t want to wait anymore, Richard goes to get Josef and postpone the rest of his discussion to a later date. It is almost noon now, the time when Richard had planned to be back already because he has other appointments in the afternoon. At a junction not far from Musanze we stop and the driver gets off to buy something. When we hear that it is cheese, we join him. The lady in the tiny shop doesn’t have enough for all of us, but goes to get some more. At the junction there also is a bus station which is very crowded at the moment. They are all students going home for vacation. 

Back on the road, the time passes slowly and I look outside without really seeing the scenery we pass. The only thing I notice are the blue trucks coming in the opposite direction, leaving behind them a stinky black cloud of exhaust gases. Halfway between Musanze and Kigali is a spot where private cars and buses often stop. They sell the local fastfood, maybe the only one available. It is grilled brochettes, giant grilled potatoes, grilled corncobs and eggs. We get our lunch here, but eat it in the car, not willing to stop for a long time. When everyone has finished, the driver stops at the side of the road and throws the paper bags and plastic bottles into the bush. That really surprises me, although of course I don’t say anything but only exchange a look with Fernanda. Is this not a car full of educated people, with at least one person who has worked on topics concerning water and hygiene for many years?

In the afternoon, we arrive back in Kigali. The office is almost empty as on fridays, everyone leaves early, but I wait for Beatrice who has not come back from her field trip, to go home together. 

At the church

Today, I am planning to go to church with Beatrice. The church is near the house, so we go there on foot. The service is supposed to start at 9:30 am, as I was told, but we arrive there past 10 am. It doesn’t matter. A choir is singing a song as we arrive and we just take our seats on an empty bench at the right side. The church looks nice inside and actually reminds me of our church at home except for here, they have a balcony inside. It is a big room with rows of benches arranged in a u-form. In the middle of this semicircle a few steps lead to a simple altar and pulpit. Two big bouquets of flowers decorate this elevated part of the room. The walls are painted in a soft beige that makes the room bright. On the wall behind the altar is a plain, small wooden cross, flanked by two pieces of blue cloth with the symbol of the white dove holding the green branch in its beak. The window glasses are coloured in the Rwandan colours green, yellow and blue. All in all, the room radiates a very friendly atmosphere. 

The choir has stopped singing. It is youth week at the moment, so the service was organised by them and not the usual church leaders who now just sit in the front row. Different choirs perform, even a children’s choir and the attendant parishioners sing as well. Of course, a sermon is delivered as well, but it is not too long. Beatrice explains what it is about. You should pray regularly and be serious about the prayers. Instead of showing off and be loud about it, find a quiet room to be alone with your God. Also, if you ask God repeatedly and don’t stop asking, he will respond to your wish. Offerings are given and then it is time for ‘thanksgiving’. Several attendants tell a story of how God helped them with something, thanking him. One girl for example tells how her sister was pregnant for over nine months and they prayed for her and the baby to survive the birth and they did. Even when nobody is singing, background music is played on a piano and a guitar. It didn’t feel like a very long time when the service ends. Outside we shake hands with various persons, the pastor and friends of Beatrice. Beatrice points out a smaller simple building next to the church and explains that this was the former church, before they built the new bigger one. 

At the saloon

It is weekend and I want to spend some time outside. The sun - izuba - is shining and the weather is very pleasant. It is a pity to spend the whole day inside, sitting in the office. 

Today, I want to get my hair done. Yesterday, Beatrice and I asked for an appointment at a saloon near the office, but the price they requested was too high. It is because they rent a big place. Now we are looking for smaller places. On our way along the street in Kabeza, Beatrice stops at a shop that sells beds. It is a small room only with two bed frames next to each other and another one leaning against a wall in separated parts. The walls are decorated with pictures of more furniture. It smells like fresh paint. Along the road, there are carpenters and also men working on iron gates, cutting pieces and painting. It must be extremely dangerous to work like this, with so little protection. There are many saloons. We stop at some to ask for an appointment, but usually they have other customers already. Beatrice actually arranged one for me at 2 pm, but we would prefer to start right now, which is why we are looking for other opportunities. The saloons are small rooms with mirrors and couches, usually crowded with women getting their hair braided or just sitting there, waiting or watching. Eventually, we find one - Belle dame - where they can start with me immediately. It is a slightly bigger saloon. Three ladies are getting their hair done, two getting braids and the other one, a pregnant lady, having hers removed. There are two chairs facing mirrors, couches along the walls and three of these old-looking machines where you put your head to get curls, I don’t know what they are called. In one corner there is a shelf with beauty products and in another corner a fridge with drinks. 

When Beatrice has finished explaining what I want my hair to be like, they tell me to sit down on the mat in front of one of the couches and one of the ladies starts tying my hair together. They are going to use four packages of dark chocolate brown hair. I doubt they will manage to find space for all that hair on my head. 

My head bend down, my view is very limited now and I see feet only. A girl called Lisa takes care of another customer’s feet. She removes old nail polish, cuts the nails, washes the feet, scrubs them with a brush, puts cream on them, colours them with new nail polish. I have nothing to do but watch. Sometimes I glimpse on what is done with the other ladies’ hair. They braid it in such a way, that it is all attached flat to the head and nothing sticks up. Then, with black thread and a needle, thick strands of straight fake hair is sewn to the real hear. The pregnant lady has removed all the fake hair by now and she is brushing her own black frizzy mane. They look so different with other hairdos. I am getting uncomfortable on the floor and shift my position. I also feel a bit hungry and wonder how long my hairdo will take. The women are chatting, music is playing. Now and then, men come to sell shoes or shirt. Customers come and go. I find it funny how they always take off their flipflops before stepping on the mat although it is covered with hair and paper anyway. A man takes care of the few male customers and shaves them. 

Two women are now working on my head. One is tying the brown hair to my own, the other one finishing the braiding. I lean against their legs which is comfortable. It is a touch I can focus on while I feel the pulling on my scalp. I forgot how painful it is in parts. The feeling of hunger is gone by now. Glancing out of the window, I see that the sun is not shining straight from above anymore. The pregnant women is now braiding another pregnant woman’s hair, tying straight reddish brown strands into it. It looks complicated, but she is fast. She braids only one half of the strands and then makes a knot. Later, she uses a candle to burn off the un-braided part. The floor beneath the chair is slowly being covered with a layer of short strands. An interesting technique, but the result looks really good. I sit in a position facing the fridge and should be able to see reflections, but I can’t make out how I look now. I am tempted to touch the finished braids, but restrain myself. It is not the time yet. I notice that the middle toe of the right foot of the lady working on me is as short as the last toe. The sun is low now, as I can see by the orange coloured light shining on a wall next to the window. The room is more quiet and the music has stopped as well. I talked only once when they asked me if I came from America or Canada. ‘I come from Germany.’ - ‘Ah, is that in the west of America?’ - ‘That is in Europe.’ - ‘Ah.’ The four packages of hair are gone, but they are not finished. A bit more, then finally, the last braid. I stand up, the legs surprisingly steady, and follow the lady to the back room. There is another chair in front of another mirror and a barrel with water. I look into the mirror and see my face framed by a chaotic mess of long, brown braids. I turn away. The lady shows me how to sit and lean back my head. It is almost impossible. The hair is too heavy for my neck to support. The lady soaks the braids in steaming hot water and then uses a towel, also soaked with the hot water, to press it against my head. A very relieving, soothing sensation. I wish she would continue. Now, she puts the braids in order, arranging them to fall in the same directions. Some other ladies make the first remarks and advice her to tie it together. Black thread is used to function like a hairband to keep the braids in place. When I dare look into the mirror again, I am impressed by the change. The hair is really long and reaches down to my breast. The colour looks almost black and the braids are not too big, covering everything. ‘Murakoze cyane’ - Thank you. It looks really nice. 

It is dark as I leave the saloon. The watch confirms my estimate. 6:26 pm. I was here for over seven hours. 

TV

We often watch TV and it is running most of the time, even if we are not watching. The channel is a mixture of news, reports and documentations and music, mostly in Kinyarwanda, but also with parts in French and English. In contrast to what they were watching in Ghana, there are no soaps here, but almost everything is educative and informative. They advertise not for particular products, but for companies, universities and private school programmes. There is even something, maybe not advertisement but awareness rising programmes, about the ID card, ministries and hygiene. And of course, repeated countless times, advertisement for tigo, mtn and airtel. After the first second, I know which one of those it is. Many adverts are in fact songs. The programme is therefore full of music. I especially like the coca-cola song. Adding to that, there are the music videos. Mostly religious songs, but also other songs that praise the country or promote reconciliation. Of course, most of the time I don’t know what they are singing about, but from time to time there are subtitles or Beatrice tells me what it is about. Once there was a documentation or a report or an advert - I am not sure - about the national police. They, too, had their own song. Interesting are the news. First, they are shown in Kinyarwanda - Amakuru - then in French - Le journal ce soir - and lastly in English. In the bottom right corner, a woman translates everything in sign language. It is the same studio, the speakers read from the same iPad, the same stories are told with the same pictures. In some reports, when they are talking in Kinyarwanda, you can still hear the French explanations in the background. The weather forecast is much less interesting. It is always the same. But for some reason, they always show the temperature in other cities in Africa like Nairobi, Dar es Salaam and Kampala and in the rest of the world, in Asia, Europe and South America, sometimes Australia. Good to see that it is raining in some other parts of the world.

Moments of a working week

These ants might have a chance of driving me crazy. They are small and mostly appear in big numbers and at any place they want. They are hard to kill. Instead of trying to squeeze them to death one by one, I found that hairspray is a good means to get rid of them - at least for a while. I had biscuits in my suitcase and the ants found them, much to my disapproval. They also found our morning bread in the cupboard which has been relocated to a secret place now that they 

will hopefully not find, although I have my doubts about it. As soon as a bit a food drops from the table to the floor, they come with an army to conquer it. Even if that crumb is removed immediately, they will still come for invisible leftovers. 

This week, I went to the office for the first time on my own. Instead of taking a bus and changing the bus at a station of which I don’t know the name, I decide to take a motorbike. Once on the main road, the first problem is the lack of motorbikes. Usually there are a couple waiting for passengers at the junction, but not on that particular morning. The second problem is the language barrier. English is not commonly spoken among those drivers, French is better but best is of course Kinyarwanda which I am not fluent in yet. Asking for a ride to Kacyiru does not require a long conversation though and my wish is soon understood. However, the first two drivers don’t want to take me there for the normal prize. They want more. Beatrice has told me the usual fare and I am not willing to pay a special prize. So I wait. Eventually, just before driving off again, the third driver agrees. He is also the only one comfortable with English. 

I am learning Kinyarwanda - some words. There is still a long way to go to make me appear like a Rwandan woman, though. 

There are a lot of hotels in Kigali. I have been to two through work, because of meetings that we had there and now I went to one with Beatrice for shopping purposes. To enter the hotel, we have to pass a security check. Inside, we find a bakery, or better: a boulangerie, that has very french bread and croissants, sandwiches and nounous (minicakes). The bread tastes indeed really good. At the hotel, there is also a fitness centre, a saloon, a florist and a cramped souvenir shop. The parking place is guarded by a security man. I bet it is a rather expensive place to stay.

Another impressive hotel I went to this Wednesday is La Palisse. We have a meeting there to discuss the JADF strategic plan in a small group of people from different organisations, implementing partners like SNV and coordinators. It is a very extensive complex. Driving to the reception with the car, I see signs pointing out the direction to the sports area and the swimming pool. There are a number of conference halls, big ones and smaller ones and of course a restaurant. The hotel and its adjoined services are extended on a slope and we are only at the bottom of it. I am not sure how big it is all in all. A man is painting the kerb around the flowerbeds with fresh white paint. The conference hall we are in looks empty and cold with just four tables in the middle, the floor polished and the walls bare of any decoration. On a side table, there is tea, coffee and some small cakes. The windows are dark, allowing us to look outside but keeping people from outside look inside. The meeting itself is pleasant and quite interesting. At least in the first part, before they grow tired of it, the other eight attendants speak English for my benefit. I can even contribute with a comment to a chart about the organisational structure they are drafting and later in the working groups I can also add some things. Afterwards, I am invited to also come to those other organisations who work together with SNV on JADF. 

It is always dark when I drive back home with Beatrice because she is usually one of the last to leave the office. While we are driving, we are discussing topics related with work or other issues like driving lessons and traffic regulations or just listen to the radio. It is in Kinyarwanda, but Beatrice tells me what is being discussed. I see many people jogging through the streets and some of them I recognise by now. They are always the same we see. 

I find it interesting just to see what is happening on the streets. Every morning, the streets are swept by mostly women as far as I can see. Usually, there is a lot of traffic and you have to take care of the motorbikes that use the narrow space between cars waiting in a line to skip the queues. The traffic lights count down on how long it takes until the light changes from green to red or red to green, but often, you have to pay attention to the police officers instead of the traffic lights. It took me some time to realise that and I often wondered why they started driving when it was still 20 seconds before the lights would turn green. The police men are not easily detected if you don’t look out for them. Sometimes they just stand there and watch, but from time to time they also give directions, blowing their whistle and waving their arms to regulate the flow of cars. 

Friday evening, I decide to walk home from the office. Basically, I just have to go straight and I rely on my memory of the buildings and signs to find the way. I enjoy the exercise, although the air is a bit dusty next to the big road. I see a motorbike where the driver and passenger have almost no space between the chicken tied together between them, dangling down on the left and right sight of the vehicle. Also interesting are the police cars. They have an open loading space with two upholstered benches where the policemen sit. I also see big trucks that look like transporters for cattle but that actually transport people - again policemen in this case. They wave to me. Apart from them, only young school boys make comments when I pass. ‘Good afternoon’ from the shyer ones, ‘Hi, how are you?’ and a winking eye from the more courageous. The sidewalk is partly shaded by trees - avocado trees. As I leave the big road and turn to a smaller one with more shops, entering Kabeza, I notice women selling mango. It is the first time I see mangoes here. 

As I make my way down the road leading to the house, I notice the increasing pain in my feet. These sandals were probably not the best choice for a walk like this. Anyway, it was a good walk.

Women's council in Burera

It is Sunday, but Beatrice is going to a women’s council in the Northern Province as a representative of SNV and I accompany her. The district is called Burera and directly on the border to Uganda.

A SNV driver, Jane, picks us up early in the morning. She is supposed to come at 7 am, but we have to wait for her until 8 am. She was at the wedding the day before as well. The road to Musanze, another northern district west of Burera, is good. It climbs up the hills in many curves and there is enough space for two cars to pass without problems. Jane drives fast and overtakes the few other cars we encounter. Either left or right, there is always one open side of the road where I have a good view across the valley to the surrounding hills. Sometimes, I even look down on both sides at once. That is when we are exactly on the ridge. The hills in the distance are not clearly visible, but rather weak in colours, as if a whitish, milky veil covers everything. 

At Base, one of the very few junctions, we turn right and leave the tarmac road, turning towards Burera. Now the big car proves to be of good use as Jane speeds along the red, dusty road. She doesn’t slow down noticeably. The air itself carries the smell of dust now and the plants next to the road are all covered with a red layer. Looking out of the back window of the car, I see nothing but a reddish cloud. People walking along the road carry immense bundles of branches on their heads and I see a couple with a young cow on the leash. Old ladies supporting themselves with long sticks stop and watch the car pass. Instead of climbing the hills, the road now leads through the valleys more often. I can see the land better and the people working on their fields. The patches are separated by grooves in the ground which makes it look like cushions. There are not many working on the fields, however. We come across many more people every time we pass through houses grouped around the street directly. They seem just to stand there in small groups, doing nothing. It is Sunday, of course, I remind myself. In one village, a small stream follows the street. It smells bad. 

After two hours, we arrive at the district mayor’s office. The ride was shorter than I expected, especially compared to our trip to Nyanza in the Southern Province on Monday, but that must probably be mainly attributed to the good car and driving. The venue of the council itself is not the office though but a different building on the top of a hill with one big hall. Women are already gathered inside, singing songs and more are walking towards the hall. Most are dressed in the traditional way with a long skirt and a piece of cloth in the same thin material draped around the torso like a toga. The women’s council’s president and the moderators are wearing this outfit completely in white which somehow reminds me of Roman priests. In front of the entrance, women present handicraft on two tables. Knitting work, baskets and jewellery fashioned from the horns of cows. I meet the district’s mayor, the council’s president and two members of parliament on district level who will participate in the meeting. 

At first, the mayor looks at the handicrafts presented by the women and talks to them and then I follow the group inside. While they take their seats behind the table on the stage, I find a place among the attendants and watch the meeting from there. There is not much more I can do apart from watching because the meeting is held entirely in Kinyarwanda and all I understand is ‘Murakoze’ (thank you) and occasionally ‘amazi’ (water). I am therefore a bit surprised when I hear my name and realise that the mayor wants me to come to the front. I hesitate, but then go on the stage as well. Beatrice hands over the microphone to me. ‘Just greet them.’ I say ‘Muraho’, nod once and hope that it is enough. During the first part of the meeting, a number of dances are performed. Sometimes, when one of the speaker says something, the attendants respond all together with certain phrases. The atmosphere is good. Occasionally, the attendants laugh about remarks of the speakers and when they applaud, they make a high noise like ‘wheeeeea’. Nobody seems to be disturbed by the whining of small babies that were brought to the meeting with their mothers. It is a women’s council. I think the mayor here is popular. At least, he makes a good impression on me while he is speaking. During one speech, the women are asked to participate as well and many hands are risen to ask questions or give statements. All the women know how to express themselves. Of course, I don’t understand what they are saying, but they talk without stammering or pausing. Later, Beatrice explains to me that they have all been elected and many of them are teachers, business persons or other public persons. I notice that most of them have nice leather bags. They take notes during the speeches. 

Apparently, there is a lot to discuss and a lot of information to give. The meeting takes long. Once, I see a woman sleeping. Now and then, one or two of the participants on stage leave their seats to make phone calls and at times, the table is rather empty. It is about 3 pm when they are finished and everybody gets lunch and drinks. 

Once we have said goodbye to the mayor, Beatrice and I go back to Jane and the car and make our way back to Kigali. This time, I also try to take pictures while we are driving. On one slope in a wooded part, I see a group of men chopping wood. As it gets darker, only the outline of the hills in the distance is visible. I know see how men, women and even kids water their land by scooping water from the ditches between the patches and directly squirting it onto the field. We are back on the tarmac road, when suddenly I notice high, modern buildings on the opposite hill and recognise that it must be Kigali, the only city like this here. I think that we are almost there and am surprised how fast the time went by, until I realise that we have to go along this hill first to reach the valley, go back through the valley and then up the other hill to reach Kigali. However, it doesn’t take too long and soon the usual motorbikes crowd the street and I recognise certain buildings and signs. 

A big wedding

Saturday, July 7th. Today is the wedding of one of the SNV colleagues, Elvine. In the afternoon, Bernard drives us to the place which is still in Kigali, but in a different part. As we are driving, I see many groups of people that look like a wedding party, but it is not the one we want to go to. The road we are climbing now is only red dust and the slope is so steep that I cross my fingers that the car makes it. Bernard and Beatrice don’t know where the wedding’s location is exactly and ask for the way. Luckily, the directions we are given are good and we find it directly. In the middle of something like a forest, there is a restaurant with a big garden-like space around it. The entrance to the car park is decorated with two big white ribbons. When we arrive, the church service has just finished and some guests are already leaving, but in fact, the best part is yet to come. We follow a gravel path through some trees and bushes and more bunches of flowers to a lawn with rows of chairs. In the middle of the rows is a white carpet strewed with yellow petals. This is where the bride and the groom must have walked. Apparently, they went somewhere else to take their wedding pictures. We meet other SNV colleagues and move on to the area with tall tables where drinks are served. I hear that the prime minister is here and the former prime minister. The groom’s parents are high politicians. I don’t see them, but I wouldn’t be able to recognise them anyway. There are so many guests that they crowd even this extensive location. This is not a normal wedding, Beatrice assures me, but a very big and expensive one. The female guests are dressed in long dresses, some younger women in cocktail dresses, many seem to have their hair freshly done. Here and there I see elegant hats in the crowd. The men all wear suits, even the youngest boys. After a while, an announcement is made to follow the protocol persons to the dining area. The protocol persons are those with a white sign ‘protocole’ that show the guests the way. Rounding the building in the middle, we all follow another gravel path lined with flowers to a wide area where tables covered with white tablecloths have been put up. The chairs are also covered and decorated with yellow ribbons. Each table is loaded with drinks. Lighting the area are chains of lights and white balloons. In the middle, there is a floor for dancing, maybe. This really is a perfect venue for a big wedding such as this. 

Not long after we have taken our seats, the bride and the groom come as well, she in a long white dress with a veil and he in a black suit. It looks beautiful as they walk along the path and beam all over their faces for the pictures. We are lucky with the table we have chosen as they take their seats directly next to us. Professional looking photographers bring their spotlight to take their pictures and I realise that we will also appear on many of those pictures. Representatives of the families address the wedding couple, but they are talking Kinyarwanda. Later, they will change to English and French which shows that these families are well-off and well educated, I think. Considering this whole venue, however, the languages are not really necessary to make that out. As the programs lying out on the tables indicate, it is now time for dinner. Small bread, soup and salad with smoked salmon is served by waiters dressed in black trousers and white shirts. The bride and the groom make their round and greet all their guests. Soon afterwards, we are asked to go to the buffet on one side of the area. There is more salad, eggplant, smoked salmon, fish, rice, cooked banana, meat, chicken, local vegetables. The guests carry heavy plates back to their seats. 

While some guests are still occupied with their food and others are already leaning back with a full stomach, more speeches are given. One man is reading out a long french poem full of love and the bride’s siblings and her mother present their presents. Someone prepared a presentation with old pictures of the celebrated couple. At some point in time the wedding cake is cut. Bride and groom hold the knife together to cut two pieces out of the enormous white cake and then feed each other one bite each. A bottle of champaign is opened with a loud bang. The cake is also shared with the guests. It is made of a vanilla cream and biscuit and actually tastes really nice. 

Everybody else on our table has already left and it is getting cold. Beatrice and I are also getting ready to leave when the music for dancing starts. Bride and groom open the dance floor with ‘The one and only’ and a lot of cheering from the guests. For the next song, relatives join them, first as couples and then the dancing gets more relaxed. It is a pity we have to get up early tomorrow, I think, as we leave the party. 

Meeting with the LCBs

Friday, at the office, I work on the questionnaire about JADF performance for M&E (monitoring and evaluation) until a big meeting is taking place that I can also attend to. With Antoinette I have a one-minute-ride to a hotel down the road where we are going to meet with LCBs, local capacity builders. They do work for SNV on the ground and implement what SNV advises. For today, an orientation day has been organised. Tables covered with green cloth are put up in a u-form, facing the wall on which the beamer projects the presentations. Most seats are already occupied, but we are not the last ones to arrive. Everyone receives a bottle of water and a map with information material about SNV.

The meeting starts with introductory words about the purpose of the day and a presentation by the SNV Rwanda Country Director. What is SNV, what is their mission and their vision and how are the LCBs as partners involved in this? Luckily, English is used as it is the official language of SNV. This is a good induction for me as well. A presentation about M&E (Monitoring and Evaluation) and reporting follows. M&E is one of the things I am going to work on so it is extremely useful for me to see the reporting formats and know their backgrounds. The LCBs are not happy about the additional reporting that has to be done now, but it is emphasised repeatedly, that it is most important for the organisations to be accountable. The presentations take longer than expected and our moderator would rather cancel the break for coffee and tea, but the resistance from the participants is too strong. Therefore we agree on a five-minutes break. There is tea, juice, some cake and fish. Tiny fish or parts of fish breaded with something so that only a shimmer of silver is visible. This snack tastes quite interesting. After the short interruption, two more presentations are given on the code of conduct and then contract management. What requirements need to be met by the various contracts is not that interesting for me. 

Next, the participants are separated into two workgroups. In these smaller groups, we are supposed to identify challenges and find possible solutions to them. I am in the smaller group and the discussions are going well. LCB representatives and the SNV advisors themselves see challenges in reporting outcome and impact of activities, the time required for the reporting, the writing of case studies. There is much more and the discussion would go on, but we are on a tight schedule and already delayed. 

The other group’s presentation is much different to ours. Instead of identifying challenges together with the respective solution, they listed a long list of problems like low rates for transport and then a shorter list of solutions like raising the rates for transport. The impression I get is that some LCB representatives came to the meeting to ask for more money. However, the issues are discussed and the questions answered. I can see, however, that some SNV members are getting a little bit impatient with their partners. 

The meeting is slowly coming to an end, when one interesting remark about child labour is made. Someone wants it to be clarified, why exactly there is a problem, as it is the tradition, that all family members contribute to the family’s earnings. While some participants chuckle, it is explained to him, that one should differentiate between child labour and other forms of child work, that do not hamper the child’s growth and education. Material will be forwarded to him to further clarify this issue.

Looking around at the table, some of the attendants seem to be elsewhere with their minds, their faces bored. It is time for this meeting to end. The country director closes the day with last summarising and encouraging words. This meeting should be a start of further improved communication and collaboration between SNV and the LCBs. She thanks everyone for coming and finds a good story to assure the participants that this was not wasted time although they might have lots of other work to do: Two men are chopping wood in the forest. One of them works continuously without break, but the other one still has a bigger pile of wood next to him. That one took his time to sharpen his axe now and then.

SNV Rwanda

Tuesday, my first workday at SNV Rwanda. The traffic is really bad and I have enough time to get a little bit nervous about what I am going to do. We have passed the office the day before, I recognise the big blue letters. Beatrice parks the car in front of the entrance. It is a tall building with several storeys. The SNV office is at the second and third floor. Beatrice brings me to Antoinette, the advisor I am going to work for. After we have introduced ourselves, she shows me the room, where I can set up my workplace. Usually, it is occupied by another colleague and the interns’ room is one storey below, but at the moment, that colleague is on leave and the room is free. Antoinette guides me through both storeys and introduces me to all present SNV colleagues. I can’t remember all the names, but most doors have a sign indicating who is working here. Everybody knows that Germany lost against Italy in that soccer match the week before. It usually is the second thing mentioned after the names. They are more informed than I am myself although it is a competition between European countries only. I didn’t expect them to be so interested in that. Yes, Germany lost, but well, it happens.  

The rooms are spacious and bright. Papers are piled on the tables, each room is equipped with one or two small shelves or cupboards. There is a tearoom with a big table and drinking water on the corridor. After the tour, Antoinette gives me background material to read on the project I am going to work on. 

The project is called JADF, Joint Action Development Forum, a platform for representatives from the private sector, public sector and civil society to exchange ideas and develop plans on improving service delivery and development strategies. It is part of the government’s decentralisation plan being implemented since 2000. The more I read about it, the more I understand and the more I like the general idea behind it, but I also learn about the challenges still hampering good implementation of the mechanisms. However, it will need some time, until it becomes clear to me, how exactly all these things are managed in practice and moreover, what I can do in that process. 

The atmosphere in the office is one of concentration and work. There is a one hour break for lunch that we take all together in the tea room. On a side table, bowls full of rice, sweet potato, sauce, cooked banana and meat wait to be emptied and two plates of pineapple are shared around the table. The conversation is mainly held in Kinyarwanda. One other woman, however, the country director, does not speak the language as she is from Zimbabwe and so the rest switches to English now and then which is also good for me. The conversation is lively and rather merry. Antoinette explains to the Zimbabwean lady the difference between July 1st and July 4th. The former is the celebration of the independence of the colonialists, the latter is related to the more recent history. I am still surprised on how almost nonchalant people here mention the genocide. It is not a taboo at all. I remember how, on the way from the airport, I was asked what I know about Rwanda and I was careful not to mention that most recent cruel piece of Rwanda’s history, although I felt that the question was aiming at exactly that. It would not have been necessary. 

Beatrice is on a field trip today so I wait until she is back in the office. They went to the Northern province with a professional photographer from Ethiopia to take pictures of project sites in the sector Musanze. At about 5pm, most of the colleagues leave the office. The sun sets with a orange glow behind the hill opposite my window. 

Visiting relatives

Monday, another day off thanks to the independence day on July 1st. Beatrice is planning to use this free day to visit a sick relative in the southern province of Rwanda and I can accompany her. Alex is coming with us as well and Bennet is driving. The road is good and we soon leave the town centre behind. Our surroundings change. The buildings are simpler and more spread apart. Roofs made of corrugated iron are more frequent and the people walking on the side of the streets are less well-dressed. I see more and more children in dusty clothes, motorbikes are scarce and replaced by bicycles, often loaded with bananas or grain sacks. Occasionally, I see a cow but more often goats tied to trees or led on the leash. While the other three are talking in Kinyarwanda, I watch the green hills. We cross a river and enter the southern province. Men and women work on their patches of land to our right and to our left. Again I must realise the great efficacy of the prohibition of plastic bags. The streets are all very clean. Women with babies tied on their back use umbrellas to protect their child from the sun. Some just cover its head with cloth so that nothing can be seen of the baby anymore.

Bennet slows down the car and parks at the side of the road. Something is wrong with the radiator. At once, some men from the bus and taxi stop nearby approach the car and help to fix the problem. I watch from a little distance. They are using glue and sawdust to close a crack in a cable. Alex assures me, that it is just a simple problem, but after continuing for some time with this improvised repair, Bennet stops again. It is better if we continue from here with a bus and don’t risk something worse happening when there is no village close by. So, while the driver returns to Kigali with the car, the three of us get into a bus. It is how I know it from Ghana. A minivan with every seat occupied, knees pressed into the seat in front. The driver’s mate signals the driver with a knock on the door when to stop and collects the coins. I continue watching the landscape until we arrive at a big bus station in a small town. From here, we have to take a taxi, but someone is going to meet us and show us the way. When he comes, Jean-Paul negotiates with a taxi driver to take us all the way to our destination and back again. We continue on the tarmac road for a while before taking a left turn. The road is worse now, the car makes me jump when it jolts across planks covering wholes in the road. The further we get, the more heads turn when the car approaches, following it with their eyes. I have no idea how long we are driving, but it is a long while. All the time, I look out of the window. 

Eventually, we arrive at a market place, crowded with people. Out of all places, we alight here. I follow the others through the displayed goods, aware of the eyes that are now turned towards me and not the car. Jean-Paul leads us down a slope that would be difficult to pass when it is raining, towards a small house next to some banana trees. We enter.

The walls are painted in a bright green, some pale ribbons decorate the ceiling. Around a low table covered with white cloth are a couch and armchairs with worn-out cushions. A man is sitting on the couch, a crutch leaning against the wall next to him. Music is playing from a radio that I can’t see. Behind the couch are three sacks filled with grain. We are welcomed and take our seats around the table. I sit there quietly as the rest exchange news in Kinyarwanda. One after the other, young women come to greet us. We take each others arms in a half hug, murmuring ‘Muraho’. One gives me the more hearty cheek-to-cheek exchange and a quick kiss on the right cheek. I can hear the other girls laugh outside. An older woman, Jean-Paul’s mother, as I understand, serves food and drinks. Before we start, a prayer is spoken. I try not to eat faster or slower as the rest and not to finish my drink faster or slower than the rest. 

The man in the corner is sick. He can’t move his right side properly and holds is right hand with the left. A small boy enters and sits down next to Jean-Paul’s mother. Other small kids peak through the door and laugh when they catch a glimpse of me. I smile at them, but stay quiet. At some point, I can’t avoid it and ask for the toilet. I shouldn’t have drunk that bottle of water but refusing it would have been impolite. The woman shows me the way and I follow her through the back part of the building, a tiny open court with more rooms, where I can see the girls in the shadows, smiling and waving. The toilet is a mud hut over a whole covered almost entirely by planks. The entrance is insufficiently shielded by a piece of cloth. I did not expect more than that. 

When we leave, I take a picture from the top of the hill. Immediately, I am surrounded by children. As Alex asks me to, I also take a picture down the road. However, one of the guys that inevitable get also snapped approaches me, as I am still circled by children. ‘Qu’est-ce que tu fait?’ - ‘Oh, I was just taking a picture of those houses.’ - ‘I am understand you. The problem is me.’ He wants me to delete the picture and I do so. A hand pulls me out of the crowd and we get back into the car. 

Same story as before. I watch the the scenery we pass and listen to the others’ voices. They are more quiet now. Outside as well, there are fewer people on the road and working on their fields. Instead, I see groups of people sitting together in the long shadows. It is just one road, no left turn, no right turn. I can see its course on the hills before us and behind us. It is getting dark, when we arrive at the bus station again and change from the taxi to one of the minivans going to Kigali. Alex wants to know how I found the place. ‘The difference to Kigali is really really big‘ I try to avoid a difficult answer. ‘They live a bad life. Look at the food they served.’ In fact, I quite liked the food. Maybe the problem is that there was no meat with it. Again in the car. Some passengers have a nap, it is quiet. I heard that we have one more hour to go, but I lost track of time. Before we reach Kigali, we have to change the car again because the main station has been relocated to a place outside the town centre. Alex leaves us here so it is just Beatrice and me, looking for the right car. I ask her, how one can tell which car goes where, but apparently you just have to know. However, there are enough drivers and mates around to ask if one is fluent in Kinyarwanda. Beatrice admits that it is not well organised, as we make our way through the crowd, hurrying to get seats in one of the buses that is immediately full and departs. It is almost full moon, I notice. From the station in the town centre, we have two motorbikes take us to the house. This time, the ride is no problem at all. 

Independence day

While Beatrice is at the church, I spend the morning watching the show for the independence day on TV. Most of the time they are talking in Kinyarwanda which, of course, I don’t understand, but I can watch the performances. The celebration is held here in Kigali, in the stadium. On our walk through Kigali the day before, I have seen it from outside. Now on TV, I follow how groups of soldiers march in orderly lines past all these very important persons present at the ceremony and perform something like a dance, displaying their strength. After more speeches, the camera focuses on a small group of men, dressed in ordinary clothes, walking across the grass in the middle of the stadium. I wonder if something is going wrong, but it is all part of the show. Three women, or maybe three other men dressed as women, enter from a different side and are attacked by one of the men. The fight they begin is of an almost artistic nature and the three women leave the battle triumphant, supported by the laughs and cheers of the audience. Another group of women and men perform a traditional dance and sing. More speeches follow. I understand the greetings of ministers, presidents and other persons of high rank from surrounding countries that are repeated at the beginning of seemingly each speech. 

A young girl in a blue dress stands up and says something, changing the microphone from the right to the left and back to the right hand in order to underline each sentence with the respective free hand. She looks satisfied when she takes her seat again. I would really like to know what she was saying. 

The president is just leaving the stadium with a convoy of cars, followed by the beat of drums, when Beatrice comes back home and we have lunch. 

In the afternoon, we want to visit Emmanuel, her son, at his boarding school. It is the first Sunday of the month, so it is visiting day. Beatrice has a small car that we take to go there. A driver, Bennet, meets us at the next junction and we also pick up a friend of Beatrice, Alex, who wants to accompany us. Before we leave the main part of Kigali, Beatrice buys some chocolate, two small green apples and two exercise books for Emmanuel. The visitors are not allowed to bring any food from outside to the school, but she is going to try anyway. The ride is not long and soon we arrive at Nu Vision school. Cars are already queuing in front of the gate, guarded by two men in uniform. The style of the cars is the first indicator that this is not a school for everybody, but for families willing and able to pay a decent amount of money for a good education. Passing the guards, Beatrice shows her visitor’s card and receives a piece of paper. It reminds the visitor that no food is allowed to be brought from outside. Children found with food that is not from within the school will be suspended immediately and their parents are requested to take their children home in that case. The apples are well packed in Beatrice’s bag. 

We walk up a grassy hill and look out for Emmanuel. The school’s buildings look tidy. The classrooms have doors and the windows are glazed. Families sit together on benches in the shadow of bushes and trees. Looking down from the hill I can see across the valley to the flank of the next hill. Beatrice finds Emmanuel who brings another bench for us and something to drink. He is tall and slim and laughs when he sees the apples that Beatrice sneaks into his hands. I can’t follow most of their conversation, but Beatrice switches to English when they are talking about his exams. She wants me to tell Emmanuel, how important French is and that he should not neglect it. He asks me if I can read a French novel. I would rather stay out of this conversation, but can’t deny that actually I can read a French novel. However, the conversation is mostly cheerful and I am content looking around and watching other students with their families. They definitely belong to the well-off people. I even see one young man playing with an iPad. 

Before it is even getting dark, we have to leave. Visiting time is over. We stay as long as possible. Most of the benches are already empty when we say goodbye. 

Apart from independence day, it is also the day of the final between Italy and Spain. Bennet drops Beatrice, Alex and me at a bar in Kigali where we want to watch the match. The table behind us is occupied by a group of white men. One looks at me as if I should recognise him or acknowledge that we share the same skin colour. I think they are Italian. First, we have something to drink and eat. Both of my companions want me to try a beer, discussing whether it is really local or from Europe. As food, a plate of grilled goat meat and banana is ordered. I am glad that it is already dark, when the food is served. I am glad I can’t see exactly how the meat looks and I am glad the others can’t really see how I eat. I bet the fat is more visible on my skin then on theirs. Still, it tastes good and as it is dark, I don’t mind eating with my hands, trying to rip the meat from the bones with my teeth. While eating, we talk about music and crops. Embarrassing, that I don’t know enough to answer Alex’s questions better and it doesn’t help that it is kind of hard for me to understand what he says. ‘Germany is better in producing cars’, I say and that answer is readily accepted. 

For the match, we move from our table to a group of chairs facing a screen where a number of men are already sitting. I want Spain to win, Alex supports the Italians and Beatrice moans at every missed chance for a goal. After the first half, Beatrice and I decide to watch the rest at home, because we are both too tired and cold to stay longer. As the driver has already taken the car home, we catch two motorbikes. Usually, I like riding the motorbike, but for some reason, this is not the case today. Probably not only because of the cold wind, I am shaking, one hand clutching the back of the bike, the other one pressing my bag to my side. I clench my teeth without meaning to and my neck is tense. I hope that they drop us before leaving the big tarmac road, but in vain. Somehow, we reach the house, I get down from that disastrous vehicle and knock the gate.

First walk through Kigali

I wake up in the morning when sunlight shines through the window. It is still early, but I hear music from somewhere and other noises. Beatrice is around after a few minutes and I have breakfast and take a shower. The tap is not working properly, so it is a bucket shower, but I don‘t mind and it is warm enough for cold water only. I brought some souvenirs from Germany that I present to Beatrice and the housekeeper. The niece is not at the house but in town, at her shop. The morning is quiet. I read a lot, sit in the sun on the stairs in front of the entrance door and talk with Beatrice. On TV, the upcoming  independence day is discussed, followed by international news about, among other issues, the Euro crisis. Angela Merkel in Rwandan TV. I must agree with Beatrice when she says that she is a strong lady. Three languages are spoken in Rwanda. Kinyarwanda, English and French. Once, I think it is a conference that is shown in TV, the language actually used is English, the subtitles are French and the translator uses the local language.

After lunch, pasta and potatoes and soup with vegetables and meat, Beatrice and I walk into town. I need to change money and get a local simcard. The cars on the road are almost all in good shape as well as the street itself. Motorcycles wind their way through the cars, the drivers all wearing yellow vests with tigo advertisements and helmets. They also carry a second helmet for passengers. The sidewalk is lined with tidy shops. Some are painted in blue, yellow or red, displaying the logo of the networks tigo, mtn, airtel. Handmade signs indicate whether you can get a new hairstyle here or buy shoes. Most of the people I see are dressed nicely, all men in shirts, the women with nice skirts or elegant trousers. I am looked at, but not approached in any way. No hands try to touch, no one says anything. The sun shines, but it is not too hot. Here and there, a young armed soldier stands on the sidewalk, watching the road. 

Beatrice shows me some shops. One sells beauty products and looks not too different from the perfumery where I bought the perfume for Beatrice, just in a smaller size. Another one sells German products and has a counter displaying meat and sausages. We see a lot of churches. One immense site is surrounded by a wall that is too high to look across. It is the church of ,les temoins du Jehova‘. I know those. The buildings on the side of the road are mostly tall and modern. A man is painting the kerb with yellow paint. 

Kigali is situated on hills. From some points, I have a great view to the other side, across nice houses and trees between them. Beatrice and I sit down for a drink under a sunshade of a spacious bar. She greets a man sitting on one of the other tables and I try to respond the greeting in Kinyarwanda. ‘Mahura’. Unfortunately, I got it wrong. ‘Murahu’ is the word. There is something like a small garden in front of the building with a thatched roof and a man is watering the plants. It looks nice. Next to the bar is a big official building with guards posted in front, the Rwanda Governance Board, I think.  

The sky already looses its bright blue, when we start walking back home. We walk slowly and I look around, trying to take in as much as I can. Just when we turn right leaving the big tarmac road, a small group of kids runs towards us and one of the youngest hugs my legs. They laugh and are gone again. We are making our way down the slope and another small boy runs towards us. He, too, runs into me, but I get the impression, that it was not on purpose, as he immediately continues running up the road. It is getting dark, when we reach the blue and white gate.

The power is off and as it gets too dark to see anything, candles are lit and Beatrice and I sit in the big room with couches and table, where we usually eat, and talk about education and gender perception. 

It is not late yet, but the warm light of the two candles makes me tired. After all, without electricity there is not much we can do anyway. Before dinner is ready, I use my laptop to show Beatrice pictures from Germany and my stay in Ghana, but after dinner, we soon retreat to our rooms. The candlelight creates beautiful shadows on the walls. 

From Korntal to Kigali in one day

Friday, June 29th. The alarm clock rings at 3:15 am. Soon afterwards I am in the car, being driven to the airport. Rain is pouring down on the streets, thunder shakes the air above us and lightning brightens the sky every now and then. I hope the plane will leave in this weather. Suddenly I see a truck on the side of the road. The driver‘s cab is ablaze, the frame black against the bright orange flames that flicker into the air. We are already past the site of the accident when I realise what I saw. What kind of start is this for my trip to Rwanda? 

When we arrive at the airport in Stuttgart, the rain has almost stopped. The airport is much more crowded than I expected. People excited to start their vacation queue in front of the check-in-desks. To avoid long queues at the security check and unnecessary stress, I immediately say goodbye to my parents, pass the security and go to my gate. I have to fly to Amsterdam first where I will board the plane to Kigali, Rwanda‘s capital. The flight is short, but I am tired enough to fall asleep nevertheless. With a start I wake up. I am not sure, whether I also made a noise, but the woman in the seat next to me laughs nervously. 

At the airport in Amsterdam, I have some hours before the next plane departs. I sit down at the gate and watch people walking past. A lot of Americans are waiting for the same flight. I can tell their nationality from the way they talk. However, they are mostly going to Uganda, the second stop on this flight. We have to pass another security check. Here, they have machines for a complete body scan. I have never seen this before. One has to step into the cabin, arms raised above the head. Something rotates around the body and the security persons receive a picture on their screen. I would also like to see that picture, but I don‘t catch a glimpse of it. 

With a short delay, the plane finally departs. I watch the landscape below us. It is a beautiful day, no clouds block the view. In Germany the ground is tiled with fields and spotted with small woods and towns. The landscape starts to change, hills become mountains. Some peaks are covered with small patches of snow. We are crossing the Alps now and enter Italy. Italy seems pretty similar to Germany from above. Now and then, I fall asleep. A coastline appears and beneath us is nothing but blue water. Later, small islands become visible in the distance and thicker clouds announce more land. Sicily. It is mountainous and less green than Italy and Germany. Again above the open sea, I fall asleep. I wake up in time to see another coastline. Soon, the desert spreads out beneath the plane. The structure of the ground changes, but the colour stays very much the same. Rarely any streets cut through the light brown, no towns are to be found. The ground is very bright. Looking back inside the plane, I hardly see anything. When my eyes adjust again to the relative darkness, I look at the map shown on the screens. It is mostly yellow and in some parts green, but I can‘t make out on the ground what is meant to be green. 

Suddenly, the plane enters clouds and everything is a greyish white. The plane starts to shake and wobble. The seatbelt signs above the passengers’ heads blink and the captain states the obvious. ,We are experiencing turbulences - possibly because of the clouds.‘ A moment later: ,Cabin crew, take you seats.‘ Even when the turbulences stop, the clouds stay and I can‘t enjoy the landscape anymore. It is desert anyway. After a long time, the clouds break at some places and I make out a grey surface beneath us without being able to tell what it is that I see. To grey to be forest, but not smooth either. It looks as if we were flying much higher now than we were before but maybe it was the endless desert that made it look as if the plane was flying lower than it actually was. We are approaching our destination and it gets dark. Nothing for me to do except for waiting and eating the served food. 

We didn‘t manage to make up time, but arrive with an even greater delay at Kigali. ,Please be reminded that you are not allowed to take any plastic bags into Rwanda‘, one of the flight attendants announces. 

I leave the aircraft and immediately, I realise this familiar smell. With that smell, the excitement hits me. I have arrived. Leaving the aircraft behind, I follow the other passengers towards a big modern building. Kigali International airport is written in big letters across one side of it. I am not the only white person disembarking here. The passport control lets me pass after just a few question and after some nervous waiting, I also find my bag. People are waiting outside for the arriving travellers, but I can‘t see Beatrice, my host, anywhere. A cheerful atmosphere surrounds me. Hugs, laughing, welcome flowers. Luckily, my mobile phone works and Beatrice and I manage to meet in the crowd. She welcomes me with a big smile and a hug. A colleague from work drives us to her house. The road is perfectly covered with tarmac. One thing confuses me, though. Some cars have the steering wheel on the right side, some on the left. ,Yes, we are mixed.‘ is the response on my enquiry. Although it is dark already, there is still life in the streets, a lot of cars and many people. At some point we leave the big road and turn right into a smaller, sloping, bumpy road. The houses lining the road are surrounded by walls. We stop in front of a blue and white gate. This is where I am staying for the duration of my internship in Kigali. I follow Beatrice into the house and meet her niece and the housekeeper. Food is prepared on the table and on the TV, news are running. Beatrice and I eat together, but we are both tired so after a short conversation, we go to bed.