Holiday in Rubavu - Sightseeing tour

On Sunday, we have to check-out at 9 pm. Tired as we are, we don’t get up much earlier than that and take our breakfast afterwards. This morning we finally meet the priest, a comfortable-looking man how greets us as we are sitting at the breakfast table. They had a  special course at university the day before and that is why he didn’t return until late. 

I have pancakes filled with banana for breakfast. Four halves, nicely arranged on my plate. Beatrice wants to taste and takes one of the halves, but I get some of their fruits and bread in return. 

Beatrice decides to arrange a taxi for us, that can take us to different places in the area, to avoid problems of transport. At first, we buy return tickets at the station in town. From there, we continue to the border posts. Approaching a barrier blocking the tarmac road, I assume that this is the only indication that we are leaving Rwanda, but I am wrong. We can pass the barrier and enter the actual border zone, with a big parking place for trucks and a building for immigration. A second barrier blocks the actual entrance to Congo. Just on the other side, stretching out behind the line, is Goma, corrugated iron roofs as far as I can see, the silver sheets closely packed one next to the other. Gysenyi in Rwanda on this side is much less dense. The smaller border post I have seen already, but we pass there nevertheless. This is really just one barrier with two soldiers posted on each side. The immigration process is done by one officer, not even in a uniform, standing between two small huts, who looks at the passports of those queuing to enter Rwanda. 

We leave the border and continue to Serena hotel. I have seen it from outside, but Beatrice wants to go inside. It is the most expensive hotel here. We pass the late breakfast  tables of guests, staffed with croissants and other fine food. There is a pool and of course direct access to the beach. While Beatrice and Emmanuel take their Rwandan pictures, I stand there and watch the people. It is chilly. No sun lights up the day. 

From here we drive along the coast, leave the town Gysenyi behind and pass through the Bralirwa area. That is the local brewery, those who produce Primus beer, and their area is so big that the public road goes right through it. Advertisements and the logo are visible and the smell is unmistakable. Much nicer is Kigufi, further down the lake’s shore. It is a place of Catholics, where people can come to rest and pray, a peaceful garden, directly on the lake, inviting to stay and not do anything at all. We stay here for some time, taking pictures of course, but we are a bit under pressure. The bus we bought tickets for returns to Kigali at 3.30 pm and we need to have lunch before that which usually takes quite some time. I suggest going to a place where we went with Richard as well. Not knowing the name, I just show the picture to the driver and he recognises the place, La Palm. As I remembered, it is on the way from here back to Gysenyi. However, we are not going to eat there. We just stop there to have a look. It is as nice as I remember, but as it is weekend, there are more people than last time. I am a bit tense now, because time is running. It drives me crazy how Emmanuel and Beatrice take more and more of these Rwandan pictures. I don’t understand what they like about them. They are boring and all look the same. Nothing is happening in these pictures. I stopped smiling at pictures myself and imitate their serious faces.

Before the driver leaves us to go to another job, he drops us at Tam Tam again, where we take our lunch. Although the menu says otherwise, I can’t get plantain and order chips with these small fish instead. The waiter needs some time until he understands our order and it takes too long for the food to come. I am getting really impatient. The fish is not totally covered with bread crumbs this time and for the first time I see that it really is the whole fish. Only the heads have been cut. This time, because I can see it and it is tickling the throat a bit, I also cut the tail fin. 

After all, we are still on time and walk back to the hotel where we left our bags. From there, we want to take motorbikes to the bus station. Instead of walking to a more busy road, where many motorbikes pass, however, Beatrice and Emmanuel want to wait in front of the hotel. I am too tense to agree with that and eventually, we start walking. That way, we indeed quickly find motorbikes to take us to the bus station. Not all three at once, but I suggest that we can go one by one instead of waiting to find three drivers at the same time. Emmanuel leaves first after a moment of reluctance, then Beatrice and I follow together. We are on time, but the bus is already there and we enter to get good seats. A guy in a white shirt and black trousers sits down next to me. If there are any doubts about his face, because obviously it was quite dark the night before, I do recognise his scent. ‘Do you remember me?’ - ‘Yes, I do.’ - ‘Lisa, right?’ I don’t remember his name because I didn’t even catch it when he had told me, but I have decided to call him Joe. What strange coincidence is that? It is quite a change, but it is him. Joe opens a MacBook Pro. The screen is cracked, but his Nokia Smartphone is still whole. He works only for some minutes and then I open the conversation. ‘So what do you do in real life, apart from dancing?’ I understand something about administration. He actually lives in Kigali, but came to Gysenyi for vacation, just like us. The way he talks sounds educated to me. He says he speaks five languages and counts English, Kinyarwanda, French, Swahili (he went to primary school in Kenya) and what they speak in the DRC. I believe him. He likes dancing. Obviously, I already know that. Wherever he goes for holidays, he wants to dance, he says. He tells me about a trip to Dubai, where the nightclub was not a nightclub at all and those who danced were foreigners. All in all, he makes an impression of being a good guy. I tell him that I am leaving soon and he suggests going out on Friday to dance in Kigali, but I was told that we are having visitors on Friday, so it is not possible. A pity. The music in the car relaxes me. Religious songs are being played, a women’s choir is singing. Some of the female passengers sing along with soft voices. I watch the landscape pass as the sun slowly sets. 

When we arrive at Nyabugogo station after three hours, we have to find a bus to Kacyirru again. I am disheartened when I see a very long queue and hear that they all want to go the same way as we do. When we have just decided to take a taxi instead, a voice next to us shouts ‘Kacyirru’. I follow Beatrice as we hurriedly climb into the bus. Somehow, we have been lucky regarding transport this whole weekend. Soon we arrive at SNV office, get into Beatrice’s own car and drive home. 

Holiday in Rubavu - Fantastic Saturday

Beatrice had the idea of going to Rubavu for the weekend. I think it is a good idea. I have been in that area before for a field trip with Richard and I liked it.

Beatrice, Emmanuel and I leave the house at 8 am, drive to the office with the car and take a bus from there to Nyabugogo, a big bus station. Looking for a bus to Gysenyi, we are approached by two young guys trying to get us to join a small car. At first Beatrice refuses, but after a discussion, she decides to have a look. I don’t know what they are saying exactly, but as far as I can tell this is a private car. The man and the woman are going to Gysenyi anyway and want to make use of the empty seats in the car. We agree to go with them. I am a bit suspicious when I hear the disturbing noise the clutch makes, but somehow it improves with time. The driver is even faster than Jane. In each bend, I am pressed either against Beatrice to my right or Emmanuel to my left. At one point, the driver overtakes another car, when suddenly a truck comes towards us. In my mind, I turn myself into a thin sheet of paper and miraculously, the three vehicles pass each other without crashing. On our way, I already recognise many places, certain villages, the refugee transition camp, the tea fields.

In less than three hours, we arrive in Gysenyi. We are supposed to meet a priest here, a former student of Beatrice, but he is at university. Therefore, we leave our bags at the reception of the hotel and move on. Next to the hotel is a catholic church. People are gathered around it. They are having a ceremony here, maybe a communion, and it looks as if they are too many people to fit in the church. Here, we meet Emmanuel Senzoga, the JADF Permanent Secretary, who I interviewed on my earlier field trip to Rubavu. He knows Beatrice as well and accompanies us on a walk. 

We walk along Kivu beach. It is windy today and the waves make the lake look like the ocean, but the sun is shining. It is a bit strange to walk there with the PS. However, I am feeling good. I am enjoying myself. Now the picture-taking starts. Both Beatrice and Emmanuel take pictures of each other, in the usual poses, standing in front of a tree or the water, making serious faces. I call them Rwandan pictures. The PS comments on some things we pass. There are two pieces of free land, for example. Do I want to buy one of them? They are close to the water. We end up at Tam Tam, a restaurant/bar/beach/music-place. The sun is hiding behind clouds now, but the wind has weakened. I sit on the stones, my feet in the water, watch how others swim and play in the lake and listen to the music until we have food. It is fish and chips. Real fish, clearly identifiable without doubts, with head and fins. It tastes good. The PS has another appointment, but we stay a bit longer.

From Tam Tam, we go to town. Beatrice needs to go to a bank for money, but it is closed. That means we have to manage with what I have brought with me. Before going anywhere else, we decide to check at the hotel, if the priest is there, as he did not respond to Beatrice’s call and text message. He is not there. After a short rest in our rooms, we continue. It is dark now. We follow the road along the bank. Lights are reflected on the water and I hear the sound of the small waves brushing against the stones. Even now, or maybe especially now, the lake looks very inviting to me. In other circumstances, I would go there and swim. We are approaching the border to the DRC now. I recognise the giant tree that is actually a number of intertwined trees, where a couple of motorbikes are waiting for passengers, and know that we are close to the hotel we were staying at during our field trip. 

For dinner, I want to go somewhere where they serve plantain. It is my favourite dish and I know they have it here in Rubavu. We walk along a stone road now, covered with black volcanic rocks. It is not really easy to walk here as the ground is very uneven and the rocks make you trip and there is almost no light except for the moon. Sometimes a car comes along the road, blinding us. The light makes other people walking along the road look like beautiful ghostly shadows. After a while, we end up at the same place where we had lunch with Richard and Josef, La Corniche. Emmanuel takes food from the buffet, but Beatrice and I order brochette and plantain. Instead of the usual soda, I ask for juice. They are out of pineapple juice, but the waiter offers me ‘a drink from Kenya’. I agree and then find out that what he brings me is Alvaro, a drink I used to take in Ghana. There I am, a plate full with plantain in front of me, Alvaro with pineapple taste in my hand. Sometimes, food can make me happy. Indeed, I am in a fantastic mood right now. I can hardly stop smiling. All is good. We are even planning to go out to dance tonight. Richard mentioned the place to me and after dinner, we walk there. Of course, we are way too early. Music is playing, but nobody is there. We wait at a restaurant above the club, sitting on the balcony overlooking the lake. Now, however, there is not much to see, obviously. The sky is black, the water is black, the trees are black. Some lights from Goma are shining through the darkness. I am tired. Blinking becomes risky as my eyes are likely to stay closed. At 10:30 pm, we decide to check if somebody else is an early dancer. In fact, another small group has arrived, two boys and a girl, who are already dancing. One of the boys in a blue and white polo shirt is a really good dancer. We sit down on a couch and watch them, until we get too cold and move to the dance floor ourselves. Emmanuel told me that he likes dancing, but he doesn’t really dance after all. One side of the room is covered by a mirror and some dancers watch themselves, check in their reflection how their moves look. The guy in the blue and white shirt, let’s call him Joe, approaches me. I dance with him a little bit. Joe was dancing with another girl before, but now he calls her ‘sister’ and wants me to meet her. He doesn’t accept a ‘no’, so I greet her. Now and then, we sit down at the side. I am not sure if Beatrice and especially Emmanuel enjoy themselves. Their faces don’t indicate great joy, but when I ask when they want to go, Beatrice says we should stay a bit more and we dance again. She also dances with a guy for a while and Emmanuel joins us from time to time as well. More people have come now. There are other good dancers, especially another group of two guys and a girl. One of the guys stays at the side most of the time, but the other two dance together. The guy is good-looking, with great eyes and a great smile. Other friends join them. Sometimes, they swap partners between the pairs, but they always find back to the original constellation. This is just how it fits best. I dance again. Joe comes back and dances with me. He says I am a good dancer and wants to follow me, imitating my moves, but I would prefer that he doesn’t. He dances much better if he does it his own way. At some point, I say goodbye and retreat to Beatrice and Emmanuel. I have danced enough and we decide to leave. The party is just really starting now and the room is getting full, but we are tired. At least, we did go out. I did dance.

In town

On Fridays, the office closes early. I think today is a good opportunity to finally go to town to look for souvenirs and call Beatrice if she accompanies me. Although she is still tired from her trip to Uganda, she agrees to meet me at the office. However, it takes some time until she arrives, because at that moment the census officer comes to the house. I know from the news on TV that they don’t just count the persons living in each household, but ask a whole set of questions. Even in my absence, they count me, as a visitor, too. I have now been officially counted. 

With a taxi, we go to Kigali’s town centre. Fernanda told me about handcraft shops in front of a supermarket called Nakumatt, but Beatrice guides me to other places. These shops all sell the same things anyway. The only variation is the mix of objects and their arrangement. I am in the right mood for shopping. Instead of hovering between buying or not-buying, I just take and buy what I like. Beatrice also wants to go to a library. Reading for leisure is not common for Rwandans at all and the library is not well equipped. The majority of books are for studying, on accounting, English grammar or biology for example, dictionaries and religious works. Another big part is reserved for journals. 

The town centre is a crowded place. Cars, motorbikes and people mix on the road and sidewalk. I am glad that I don’t have to pass here every day. Shops line the road. They are all overflowing of whatever they sell, be it phones and other electronic devices, clothes, plastic toys from China, building material or carpets. Even here, in this mess, Beatrice greets many people she knows. Kigali is big and growing, but still one always meets familiar people wherever one goes. 

By now, I have totally lost my orientation, but I want to know where Kigali City Tower is, because that is the name I was told to go to. Beatrice brings me there. It is one of the modern, high buildings. Here, the expensive shops are to be found. We enter one shop where they sell high-quality watches, but there is no need for me to see more. As already mentioned, Kigali is growing and becoming big. Beatrice’s problem with the high buildings is, that you can’t look across them to see where you are. But there also is another problem. Everything sold in the shops there is much more expensive than somewhere else, because the owners have to pay expensive rent. Those who can’t afford these rents, loose the place of their former shops to these new constructions. 

It is getting dark and we are getting tired. Before returning home, we make one last stop at a German supermarket. They also have a German butchery here and a great scent of fresh bread is hanging in the air. Here, too, some prices are higher than elsewhere for the same products. 

Unfortunately, returning to Kabeza is not very easy. There are no signs at the bus stops that tell what bus is stopping here. You have to know where you need to go or guess and be lucky. We have to walk a long distance to find the right bus station. Walking along the road, we pass a long queue. We are lucky we are not going in that direction. When we finally arrive at our bus, we can immediately enter and just have to wait a short moment until it is full and departs. 

Back to blond

It is Sunday again, August 12. As usual, I wash my clothes in the morning. It is quite hot today. I help Gabi, the housekeeper, cook lunch, peel potatoes and prepare beans. Beatrice has made an appointment for me at the saloon where I had the braids made. Of course, I get there too late, because lunch was not finished early enough, but it doesn’t really matter. Today, the saloon is not crowded. Apart from the lady who is going to remove my braids, there is only one other woman, the pregnant one, and some men. I sit down on the floor and the lady, let’s call her Auntie, immediately starts working on me. She cuts half of the braid and then opens the other half before pulling out the fake hair. Twice, another girl helps, but those two disappear quickly and Auntie works alone. As the time passes, she becomes less gentle with me and my scalp hurts. Another big woman is getting braids now, in black and brown. She talks a lot. After about three hours, the job is done and the last brown strand is removed. I am told to sit down in a chair in front of a mirror. It looks as if I am having a perm now. My hair is combed and even they are a bit concerned about how much hair I loose. For some reason, I am not as shocked as I expected. Of course, I feel uneasy, but it surely helps that I knew what to expect. 

I feel a bit awkward walking home with hair like this. However, why should anybody think I normally don’t look like this? One guy even calls me beautiful lady. If he knew. Gabi also says I look nice. Anyway, I know this is not going to stay for long. Nothing more than water will do the trick and everything will be back to normal - almost. Gabi helps me with the washing. We take a basin and fill it with water. A blanket wrapped around me, I kneel down next to it and Gabi pours the water over my head and gives my hair a good soapy scrub. Instead of shocking, this whole situation is quite funny. Most of my hair has already been removed at the saloon, so I only have to do a small part of this sad task and in my current mood, I am not too concerned. Gabi enjoys brushing even the little hair that is left and by the time Beatrice returns to the house from her own trip to the saloon to reattach her dreadlocks, I look almost normal.

We have been invited to our neighbours. They are giving a small party, because their children, twins, have had their confirmation. The kids sit outside, the adults occupy the living room. Although regarding age, I probably fit better to the group outside, of course I get a place with the adults. We have food and drinks and the father of the children introduces them to the guests. I sit next to a man who speaks English and it is interesting for me and Beatrice to talk to him. He also works in something like a NGO, in the education sector and has spent three years in Malawi. He has also been to Asia, for example Thailand and Bangladesh. Although he can’t explain why Rwandans don’t smile on pictures, he agrees that in other countries, especially weddings are much more cheerful occasions. On the other hand, Rwandans are much more open than people from Asia. Here they hug each other, men and women, while Asians are rather reserved. The man tells us about a project he is working on and catches the interest of another guest, who works for World Vision. This is how networking works. 

Another wedding

This weekend, I want to remove my hair. I only have two weeks left and my hair needs some time to recover from the strain. Moreover, as my hair has grown since the braiding, the braids are not tight to the head anymore. I know that I will miss that long hair, but the other side of it is dominating. Beatrice tells me that she asked a lady to come to the house and do it there for me. However, after breakfast, the plan changes. There is not enough time because we also want to go to the wedding of Evelyne’s sister. To make it to the ceremony at the church, we have to leave before 1 pm. So I get to keep my hair for one more day. 

Bernard drives us to the wedding’s venue. As we arrive at the church, we don’t see anybody familiar. I am not sure if this is the right place, until eventually Evelyne arrives with the wedding couple. Now I also see Jane and Egidia from SNV. So we are not too late after all. A choir sings, a pastor prays and delivers a sermon. I dislike how she shouts into the microphone. Bride and groom swear oaths and exchange rings. I can’t see much of this as a crowd of men with cameras surround the two, thus blocking the view for everybody else. In addition, the rings are exchanged behind the pulpit. This is not well thought through. What I can see, however, is that neither bride nor groom look particularly happy. 

From the church, which is not an actual building but a roofed place between other buildings, we move on to where the wedding pictures are taken. Egidia gives Beatrice and me a lift in her car, as Bernard has already left. Aster, one of Evelyne’s daughters, also comes with us. She is supposed to translate for me. The location for the wedding pictures is the former president’s residence, which is now a museum. That president died in a plane crash. His plane, with him and the then-president of Burundi, was shot and crashed down in his very own garden, just a short distance from the airport. The aircraft is still there. I can see its top jutting out from behind a wall. Despite the sad history of this place, it is a popular place for taking wedding pictures. We are not the only party here on this Saturday. It is understandable, because the spacious, beautiful garden surrounding the house makes a very nice background. Actually, it resembles a park. There are fountains, which are dry at the moment, flower beds, gravel paths and a giant tree. 

The first pictures are taken of the wedding couple and their entourage. The wedding’s colours are white and pink. The men are wearing white suits with pink ties, the girls, except for the bride completely wrapped in white, are wearing short pink dresses, pink Alice bands, pink necklaces, pink shoes and big white earrings. Even for these pictures, hardly anyone smiles. I don’t understand why everybody makes this serious face and nobody can explain it to me. No smile. Not by the wedding couple, not by the guests, not by the parents and siblings. 

After the photo shoot, the final event is the reception. This is a long day for everybody, because they already had the dowry in the morning. The reception takes place inside, this time. A big room has been prepared with numerous rows of chairs and a stage at the front, kept in white and pink of course. When the room is full, the wedding couple enters. They cut the pink ribbon between the arch erected at the start of the long carpet spread out through the length of the room, and take their seats at the front. A group of traditional dancers performs. Aster has joined me again and explains what is going on. She is a student, starting her second year of general medicine in Huye this September. Drinks are served for all guests, the wedding cake is cut and shared. The best part is when two small girls recite a short poem, even though I don’t understand a word of it. However, it is obviously packed with jokes and for a short moment, laughter fills the otherwise rather calm room.

An unintended adventure

Suzan wants to see something of Kigali and Jane, Michiel, Beatrice and I accompany her to the Expo as it is near to the hotel where we had the writeshop. This time, I know what to expect and don’t want to miss the opportunity to buy some souvenirs to bring home. As we arrive at the Expo grounds, we soon split because it is late and extremely crowded.  Beatrice helps me to buy shoes, necklaces and a bag. However, when we call the others to meet again, we learn that they have already left without us. Beatrice is a bit irritated. Now we have to find another way to go home and our computers are in Jane’s car. And Beatrice is wearing uncomfortable shoes. At least that can be helped with as I have just bought new sandals. We have no choice and leave the expo to get motorbikes. They should bring us to a place where we can sit down, have a drink and wait for Jane to pick us. The traffic is bad and my driver decides to use the sidewalk to overtake the queuing cars. I am getting nervous when my driver speeds up and the others are not keeping up with us. I can’t see them anymore and want the driver to wait, but he doesn’t understand. ‘Kisimenti’, he says. I know that junction, so I assume that it is alright. However, as we arrive there, Beatrice is not there. We were quite fast, so we wait. They don’t come. After some time, the driver is too impatient to wait longer and asks me to pay so that he can leave. I am lucky enough to have some money on me, because I gave my purse and my phone to Beatrice, who, unlike me, had taken her bag with her. I stay at the spot and wait on my own. They still don’t come. This is not good. I walk a short distance to a place where we have taken dinner before, but Beatrice is not there either. I have no idea where she is and I can’t call her as she has my phone. I can’t even ask a passing person to help and call her, because I don’t know my number by heart. I don’t even know what time it is and for how long I have been waiting, when I decide that the only option is to go home. There, Emmanuel has a phone and can call Beatrice on my phone. Another motorbike brings me to the house. I wait impatiently for the guard to open the gate and then rush inside to Emmanuel, who is watching TV. I tell him what happened and he says that Beatrice has already called him to ask if I am at the house. It makes me edgy when he doesn’t call Beatrice straightaway, but only rings once to make her call back. He doesn’t even ask her where she is, but at least she knows now that I am alright now. 

I have already gone to bed, when she arrives at the house. She had waited for me, close to where I was waiting, but on the other side of the roundabout. As I did not come, she called Jane and waited for her to pick her and look for me. They looked at the office, which is not too far from that place, but of course didn’t find me there. They expected me to have no money at all with me, but there was nothing they could do and therefore joined the small reception for Suzan with some other SNV colleagues.

We learned something from it. Always tell the drivers to stay close together and clearly specify where you want to go.

Writeshop

Tuesday to Friday, we have a writeshop to improve our case studies. Many SNV advisors take part because every team has to produce at least one case study. A SNV woman from Kenya, Suzan, is the facilitator. She is an energetic woman, full of words and positiveness. We start with a game to get to know each other. Everyone has to introduce him- or herself with his or her name and a colour, explaining why he or she picked that colour. Most of us pick blue, as a colour representing life, but also freedom. The rest of the day, we learn about the purpose of case studies, the structure and writing style. It is not too demanding and not everything is new to me, but it is still good to hear. I contribute with an answer when nobody else is answering Suzan’s question and give the presentation after a short group work.

The next two days, we all work on our respective case studies. On Wednesday, our team, consisting of Antoinette, Egidia, Fernanda and me, works collectively to refine the text. We make slow but steady progress, but in the end we are all getting tired and Antoinette and Egidia give their okay to what Fernanda and I have written much more easily than at the beginning. The key feedback to our case is, that it is too general. Of course, that was to be expected as we are presenting a big project, JADF, with key words as transparency, accountability and participation. This is just not a very good topic for a case study. We need to explain a whole complex process to give readers the chance to understand the outcomes and that makes the story quite long. Suzan is not happy with it and on Thursday, Antoinette is working on cutting the story short. Now, there is not much Fernanda and I can do. Antoinette is working on her own. We work on our own things and spend the time waiting for the next round of food. It really feels as if we eat the whole day. There is tea break at 10.30 am, lunch at 12.30 pm and another tea break at 3.30 pm. 

It gets better on Friday, when each group presents their work on the case study. Today, I feel really interested in these stories and I don’t mind that it takes longer than expected. We even vote for the best presentation which turns out to be much more complicated than they thought. How should we vote, how many votes for each, by hand sign or anonymous? Eventually, we get there and surprisingly, our JADF story is voted on first place.

On our own

We are not early this morning, although both Beatrice and I are going on field. I am nervous, because I still don’t know who is coming with Fernanda and me, and the permanent secretary in Kirehe, Ignatiana, told us that she is only available in the morning. I sit at the breakfast table, waiting for us to leave, when my phone rings. It is Ignatiana, saying that she can meet us in the afternoon. That is much better. 

At the office, we find out that Fernanda and I are going alone with Jane as driver, but now that doesn’t disturb me much anymore. Ignatiana expects us and she is arranging who else we can talk to. Jane says it will take us three hours to reach Kirehe, on the border to Tanzania. Richard joked the other day, that if we continue until we reach a waterfall, we have gone too far and reached the border. In the end it is little more than two hours and we don’t see the waterfall. According to Fernanda, this area is more developed than the other areas we have been to, but actually, I don’t see a big difference. It is not very hilly, similar to the south, but the houses look the same as everywhere else to me. As we arrive at the district office, Ignatiana is not there yet, but it is time for lunch anyway. We don’t have to choose between restaurants, as there is only one option. When someone from SNV comes to the district, they always go there, Jane tells us.

We have the interviews in Ignatiana’s office and the other officers there leave the room for us. Our first interviewee is Ignatiana herself. She doesn’t give us any new information and by now, we know the answers already. She mixes French and English, which is not a problem, but sometimes she says the same thing twice, once for me and once for Fernanda, which is unnecessary and slows down the conversation even more. Well, it is good to get confirmation from different districts so that we can claim that what we write applies to all areas. The next two interviews are more interesting in a way. The two JADF members we talk to know Kinyarwanda only and we get one of the officers as translator. He speaks French with Fernanda and Kinyarwanda with the interviewee. He seems to shorten their answers, though. Now and then, I interrupt with additional questions in English which Fernanda translates to French for our translator. It becomes a bit ridiculous, as he understands and speaks English as well and we decide to speak directly to each other, with a mix of French and English instead of taking the detour with this language-chain. The second of these interviews is rather short. Now even the translator knows already what we are going to ask and we just give him a key word and he then repeats the complete question to the interviewee. We are offered to talk to a third person, but we refuse. That is really not necessary and we have stopped everyone in the office from working long enough. We thank them for taking this time for us and make our leave. 

Like every time we are on the field somewhere, there is some food in the area which is particularly good. This time, Jane buys banana, the sweet small ones and the ones for cooking, and papaya. The ride back is less quiet than the way there. We talk, listen to the radio and Jane answers our questions about things we pass. That makes the ride appear even shorter.

Jane drops me directly at the house, as Beatrice will return late from her field trip. I read sitting on the tiles in front of the house when Emmanuel’s cousin approaches me. He had already announced that he wanted to have a conversation with me, but he had not let me know what it was that he wanted to talk about. It is very much what I expected. He belongs to the poor people. We are on different levels. He mentions that with regard to education, but I don’t want to accept even that statement. Of course, he didn’t start university yet, but that doesn’t mean we are on different levels. He says I am like an old woman, which is not meant as a bad thing, I assume. He wants to take me as a sister. That is unexpected. Not as a friend, but as a sister. It doesn’t take me long, however, to understand the implications. Brothers and sisters support each other financially. In this case, of course, I should support him. Even if it is not possible now, because I am a student, we simply have to keep that relationship and after my studies, when I have a job, I can support him. Finally, a last question. Can he have my iPod? Sorry, that is not possible. I have lent it to Emmanuel, but I will take it back home.

A fresh priest

I know we are going somewhere. Beatrice said something about something in Gitarama, but I am not sure, if we are really going there. If not, we will go to church. Just to be sure, I get ready and dress nicely. Bernard comes, which tells me we are not just going to church. The three of us even eat some potatoes and sauce although we just had breakfast. Apparently, Beatrice is expecting it to be a long time before we get something else.

We are going to Gitarama. I am not sure where that is but it is in the same direction as Huye. One of the drivers at SNV, Felin, has a son who is becoming a priest today. I remember how some days ago at lunch, he had mentioned that (in Kinyarwanda, but it was translated for me). I checked it and Gitarama is a city in Muhanga district, in the Southern province, but not too far from Kigali. The venue for the ceremony is in a church, of course. It is a really tall, but beautiful church. Looking at this, you can indeed see that the Catholics here have a lot of money. 

As Beatrice and I enter, the ceremony itself is already in process and the benches are full. We find a spot at the back, in the last row. The main body of the church, the nave, is long, but bright due to the windows at both sides. The high ceiling produces an impression of even more space. Pictures on the walls depict Jesus’ way of the Cross, but are not glooming or intimidating at all. The biggest picture is at the head of the hall, behind the altar. Cords with triangles made of cloth decorate the whole room. Beatrice and I stand beneath the balcony and look across the other attendants’ heads, trying to glimpse at what is going on at the front. I think the ceremony itself has already finished. A choir is singing, prayers are spoken and the newly appointed priest delivers a short speech. Of course, I don’t understand what he is saying, but the songs are nice to listen to. It takes a long time until everybody who wants to has received Communion. They only give bread, but no wine. Beatrice explains that they only give wine on few occasions, although they have a lot of money. The wafers are imported from Europe. 

With a last song, the attendants file out of the church. We wait until most of them have left and then join the stream. Outside, just in front of the main gate between two big statues of Maria and Jesus, we are stopped by a crowd gathered there and participate in the general hand shaking. At least I know the father of today’s focal point, Felin, and he knows me, so I am not totally out of place.

From here, everyone walks to another long building. The door there is guarded by a man in a black suit and a congestion is created. I think they are not letting everybody in. I ask what is inside. ‘Oh, we are sharing drinks.’ Beatrice and I join the queue. She passes the guard. ‘I belong to her.’ I pass as well and we are inside. Another hall with benches facing a stage at the front, where the important men are taking their seats. It is not only sharing of drinks. More people give speeches. One man seems to be really funny, he is even telling jokes, as I am told. Suddenly, a door at the front opens and a group of young people enter, dressed in a traditional way. Some boys beat the drums, the whole group sings and girls with golden ribbons around their heads dance. This is repeated a couple of times during the event. The air is not very good in this room. There are too many people. It is hot, sticky, and the smell of sweat is everywhere. The small girl next to me smells like horses, I wonder why. She watches me for a while and then relaxes, putting her hand on my leg. Like in a wedding, the fresh priest cuts a cake. The two nuns have problems lighting all the candles on it and then the priest has problems to blow them out in one breath which leads to much laughter from the spectators. The atmosphere is much more relaxed than I expected for an event like this. Felin’s wife, the mother of the young priest and a group of women perform a dance for him like the group before them. They then present presents to him and some of the others seated on the stage. I am quite sure these gifts have meanings, as the other spectators laugh when they see it. Unfortunately, I don’t get the jokes. Now, other friends and family members and church members give presents. I see that some are posters with pictures of Jesus. When the long queue finally comes to an end, drinks are served as well as food. However, they probably didn’t expect that many people, because there is not enough food. It is finished two rows before they reach Beatrice and me. After some time, they begin to bring food on plates. It is not possible to let some people go without food. Then, from somewhere, they bring more of these aluminium boxes. An old man in the row in front of us makes sure that I get my share. Actually, I suspect that many come for the food. Especially some of the children. Not those who come with their parents, dressed in shiny dresses and little suits, but those in the dusty clothes with faded colours, for example the girls next to me. When lunch has finished, I see how they look out for the leftovers in the boxes laying everywhere on the ground now. This is something I don’t understand. Everyone just throws their rubbish on the ground. Whatever it is, it is just dropped. Now, the ground is covered by these aluminium boxes, some not completely empty, the paper covers of the straws, some empty bottles that have not been collected yet and the plastic forks. A boy standing next to us hurriedly scratches the last bits of rice off a plate. At first, he uses the fork, but a woman collecting the plates takes the fork away and he then uses his hand. The woman waits for him to finish. The room is more empty now, since food has been served, but the event is not finished. The women’s group dances again and this time some of the men on stage join them, even the old granddad of the young priest. Beatrice and I go outside. The difference in the air is palpable and we wait there until more and more leave the building. When the event is officially over, a big photo shooting with the young priest starts. Everyone wants a picture with him. We even take a SNV-picture where there want me to join as well. ‘Hi.’ I realise only with an embarrassing delay, that the young priest is greeting me. His eyes are red and he looks a bit tired. Another picture and another one - and one more - and one more. Eventually, everyone is satisfied and the group disperses. 

A smaller group will now go to Felin’s house. Beatrice and I follow with Bernard and the car. The house is simple but rather big, with many rooms as far as I can see. We sit down in the living room. Pictures of Jesus and Maria line the wall and one of the young guys turns on a small TV in a corner. More and more guests arrive until there is no space left. They talk and laugh. Apparently, somebody requested a lot of cows for me. I don’t understand what they are saying, but join the laughing. I shake hands and repeat the Kinyarwanda words Beatrice tells me as the answer to what they are saying. There is a young guy who speaks English and helps me as well. He studies in India and we have a conversation, but Beatrice does not want to stay long as it is getting late. We finish our drinks and then say goodbye. When I shake the old granddad’s hand, he wishes me a good journey and asks if I will come back. At least that is what the young guy translates for me. I am fascinated by this old man. Usually, when I see an old black man with white hair and wrinkled skin, they immediately strike me as wise. This one makes an especially strong impression to me. He is wearing a hat and a cloth above his shirt like a toga and supports himself with a walking stick. It must be a proud day for him. Felin accompanies us outside. The courtyard we cross is occupied by another dancing group and spectators. I didn’t hear them inside, but obviously, the party is still continuing. Not for us, though. It is time to go home.

Guma Guma superstars special

Today is the final of the music competition organised by the local brewery. Primus Guma Guma Superstar. I want to go there and Emmanuel will accompany me. The venue is the stadium, or more precisely, a fenced area in front of the stadium. Security is tight, I heard, because there will also be an American star. There are already many people gathered around the stadium. I give Emmanuel the money to get tickets. He wants us to get VIP tickets, because the normal area will be too crowded, he says. We pass the security and enter the VIP area, just in front of the stage. Well, at least now it really isn’t crowded, while the area behind us is already fully packed with bodies. We wait. We wait for a long time. A band enters the stage to do a soundcheck and we are moving closer to secure good positions. It is getting dark. Officially, the event was supposed to start at 4pm. We arrived at 5 pm. It is now past 6 pm. ‘For African time, you add three hours’, Emmanuel says. Even at 7 pm they don’t start the show. I understood that they wanted to wait until it is dark, but now my impatience starts to gain the upper hand. Vouchers for free drinks are distributed among the VIP audience. The first group of people have left the stage and others are now coming with new cables, connecting microphones and monitors. Didn’t they just check all that? A moderator shouts at the crowd that has become bigger and bigger: ‘Are you ready for the show?’ The response is massive cheering, but the show doesn’t start. With each announcement, I get more impatient. A DJ entertains the audience and everybody is enjoying the music and dancing. Another band comes and does another soundcheck. Finally, the singing starts. Two guys and a girl, who are the background singers, each sing one song on their own. I don’t know who they are, maybe they were also contestants in the show who were thrown out earlier. A guy in a white jacket jumps on stage accompanied by cries among the spectators. It is now so crowded that there is no space to move and I stretch my neck to see something although we are close to the stage. Two girls next to me are crazy dancers and don’t mind punching those around them. I think that this is now the first finalist, but I am wrong. I notice that when I hear him mentioning the names of the finalists. He is actually the winner of the last Guma Guma Superstar episode, the very first one. At least it is the show now. It has started. I don’t know what time it is when the first finalists finally appears. King James. Massive cheering. The girl behind me screams as if the world is ending. Then the second finalist, Jay Polly. More screaming from a girl to my right. We are directly at the fence on the right side of the area and she is hanging her arm over the fence, trying to see as much as possible. A security guy knocks his truncheon against the fence to make her back away, but she is not impressed by that and after a while, the security guy stops coming back every few minutes. I don’t like Jay Polly’s music. He is rapping and not even performing on his own but has three other guys with him. I am getting tired and uncomfortable, the girl’s dancing bottom in front of me constantly pushing me back where there is no space for me to retreat to. It is too loud for me to say or understand anything, so I use my phone to communicate with Emmanuel. ‘How long do you want to stay?’ He says something. ‘Until the end?’ Yes. I don’t really see that he is enjoying himself very much. Only some songs stimulate him to raise his arms like the others and sing along. It is the DJ’s turn again. Especially popular songs I know from Germany, from the radio and parties, lead to outcries from the audience, but also African songs I have heard on the radio myself. Another break while another soundcheck is done on the stage. The same guys as the first group at the beginning of the day. ‘Are you ready for Jason....?’ I don’t get the name. That must be the American singer who is supposed to perform tonight. ‘Make some noooooise!’ The crowd gives that noise, but the announced star doesn’t appear. Instead, it is the DJ again. Finally, a guy jumps on stage and the spectators respond with deafening shouting. I don’t recognise him, but I recognise his songs. Jason Derulo. So he is a real star. I wonder how he ends up in Kigali, performing at the Guma Guma superstar final. It has always been his dream to come to Africa, he says. I stretch my neck to see what he is doing on stage and use my camera to get a closer look. I love my zoom. The negative feeling from earlier has vanished, and I dance with the others around me. Jason Derulo takes of his shirt and dances now in his black vest. He has a good body. He gets girls from the audience on stage to let them dance there during one of his songs. Is that common among these performances, I wonder, thinking back to Chameleone. He is now singing topless. His last song, then he is gone although I didn’t see how he actually left the stage. The DJ takes over again until the moderator from earlier comes back to announce the winner of the competition. He plays ‘I love my life’ and I am happy. I am in a good mood now anyway and this song puts me in a positive mood every time I hear it. What more do I want right now? A white man, probably a guy from the brewery company, opens the envelope and announces the winner of Guma Guma superstar, season 2 with a rather bored voice. King James. He is immediately drowned out by the moderator and the crowd. The girl next to me buries her face in her hands. However, it doesn’t take long for her to recover and she seems to accept Jay Polly’s defeat as she dances again when King James sings one of his songs. Fireworks. Slowly, people are leaving and some space opens up around us. Emmanuel and I leave, too. We want to avoid being washed out with the main crowd. There is no way of getting a motorbike right outside the fenced area, so we follow the stream of people walking down the road. There are so many people. The first drivers we talk to demand a very high price, of course. There are too many customers around. The second couple suddenly drive away. The police is coming. A bit further away, we finally find two drivers to take us home. The price is still high, but I don’t really mind right now. It is 11pm when we arrive at the house. Beatrice is still awake, she probably waited for us. The TV sends the repetition of the show. We have food and then go to bed. I can feel in my legs that I was standing in pretty much the same spot for many hours, but still - it was a good night. 

At the Expo

It is saturday and Beatrice and I want to go to the Expo, so we leave before lunch. As we pass a house of one of her friends, Beatrice decides to stop for a visit. The young daughter opens and we wait in the living room with the other daughter, watching TV, while the friend is taking her bath. I don’t really understand why we insist on waiting. It is not really the appropriate moment for a visit. Still, we stay and I partly follow the soap. It is just Beatrice who doesn’t watch these soaps. Everyone else does. And now, since Emmanuel is back, our TV doesn’t show only news anymore either. When the friend has finished, she joins us in the living room and they have a short conversation, before we continue our way. 

As we wait at the bus stop, Richard drives past us. He takes us with him for a short distance. He is wearing sports clothes and his dad is with him. They are going somewhere else, so they drop us at another bus station from where we take a car to the part of Kigali, where the Expo ground is. However, arriving at the station there, we still have a long walk before we arrive at the ground itself. A steady stream of people is going the same way. Before entering the grounds, we are searched and our bags are checked, but the queues are not long yet. Banners everywhere. There are banks and other big companies whose names I recognise from driving through Kigali. Some stalls are still empty, the big screens which will later probably show advertisements are guarded by security personnel. This is a big trade fair. It gets more interesting when we reach the area where handicraft is displayed. There are many Kenyan vendors. One woman wants to sell us leather sandals with colourful beads and she describes how she makes them. Soon we realise, that almost every stall has these shoes and I doubt it is really her that makes them. They look nice, though, but I don’t buy any. In some stalls, the functionality of cutting utensils or special sweepers is demonstrated. I prefer those selling cloth and jewellery, but not the Pakistani ones. Apart from the way they talk and how they negotiate the price, why should I buy Pakistani cloth when I am in Rwanda? There is a lot of jewellery stalls, but some sell Rwandan sugar, honey, maize flour and coffee and there are huge piles of plastic toys, probably from China. It is getting more and more crowded and I get more and more uncomfortable. I don’t even feel like taking pictures. And I don’t feel like buying anything. It is more expensive here anyway. In the end, I buy earrings and a small Rwandan container and Beatrice gets honey, shoes and cloth. Just at the end we find the area with the Rwandan stalls. These are the ones I am interested in, but we are getting too hungry. Making our way back to the entrance is difficult as the stream of arriving people is dense now. I am glad we came, but this Expo is not the right surrounding for me to buy my souvenirs. It is too much. 

With motorbikes we go back to the area of Kigali that I know. On our way, suddenly my driver overtakes Beatrice and we loose them. They don’t follow us and I start to worry when my driver takes a shortcut to another road and I can see Beatrice again. We stop at a restaurant to have lunch. It is the same restaurant we came to one my first Sunday with Alexis. This time, we are not ordering goat meat but the vegetarian plate which is chips, rice and peas and three bits of meat in a red sauce. As usual, football is shown on TV. It is the final of the peace cup, but the team of the Rwandan army is not among them. They are on fourth place.

Talk about Jesus

Friday, July 27. Today is a meeting for the validation of the JADF strategic plan and as the last one, it is at the hotel complex La Palisse. Richard takes us there with his car. The basketball team is staying at that hotel and I think I even recognise some of men, as Richard greets them. Unlike Richard guessed, we are not the first participants to arrive. It is a good feeling to recognise even a few among the others and be recognised by them. Some I know from the last meeting we had on this topic and there also is one of the permanent secretaries we have interviewed. It is the one from Rubavu, who promised to send us documents, which he didn’t do so far. A good opportunity to remind him and again, he promises to send it to us very soon. He was too busy until now. The meeting starts in English, but the discussion later is in Kinyarwanda. They seem to discuss small issues, details in the plan. I contribute through Richard, suggesting another way to phrase a certain discussed expression and asking about a missing chart. This chart was discussed and drafted in a new way during the last meeting, but now it is not included. The answer on that is not satisfactory, but I don’t press on it. Surprisingly, the meeting finishes at 12 am and we have lunch there. Fernanda and I also meet the Permanent Secretary of Kirehe, where we are supposed to go on Monday. She is informed and expects us. 

After work, Beatrice and I go to the bank together, where I wait outside while she gets money with a check. I am watching the passing pedestrians, when two white girls approach me. They ask me what I am doing there and how I am and say that they are from America. I have already noticed that. ‘Have you heard of Jesus?’ Oh no, not that one. Anyway, ‘Yes, I have heard of that name.’ They want to know if I want to meet him, but I don’t want to talk about Jesus with them. They say I have beautiful eyes, piercing, the colour of the turquoise shirt of one of them. I keep my reserve, not saying much although I would actually like to know what church they belong to. However, I don’t want to give them an opening to deepen the conversation. They want to invite me to a coffee, but I apologise, explaining that I am waiting for someone. The one girl promises to pray for me, because ‘I have nothing else to do with my life.’ (actual quote). I reply that that is really sad. ‘Amen.’ They promise that this very week, I will encounter Jesus. ‘Amen.’ I doubt it. They have gone to get their coffee, when one of the girls come back, saying that they really want to buy me a coffee. I could also bring my friend who I am waiting for. ‘Sorry, we are busy.’ - ‘Well, maybe next time.’ Or maybe not. 

Beatrice laughs when I tell her about the incident. She assumes that they are part of the Jehova group. However, she has never met any white people doing that, approaching people on the streets. If you have time, you can talk to them, she thinks. If not, say so. We have a drink at a small restaurant down the road. A fire burns in an oven, creating a homely atmosphere. Apparently, they have pizza. We should come one day and eat here. 

Sole Luna

Thursday. I stay at the office until 7pm and walk from here to an Italian restaurant called Sole Luna. Fernanda told me about a concert two Italian girls are organising there. I know the road to the restaurant, but I am not sure, how far it is. I am getting more and more uncertain when again, a Rwandan guy catches up with me. He doesn’t know where that place is, either. However, as we continue along the street introducing ourselves, we eventually arrive at the restaurant and I enter. It is full, but I find a small empty table in the part of the restaurant, where a band of young Rwandan men is preparing for the concert. I greet the waitress with ‘Muraho’, which seems to please her as her surprised smile indicates, and order something to drink. It feels a bit strange to sit there all alone. On a long table behind me, a group of young white adults is gathered, maybe volunteers. On another small one, two Rwandan girls are eating, curiously glancing at me. I am glad when Fernanda arrives with other guys from the organisation where she stays. I waited for them to order food so that we can eat together, but it takes a while, until we do so.

The band starts playing. They are young, but good. I like their music. The two Italian artists organised this small concert with them. One of them sings, the other one does the percussion for some songs. Three Rwandan guys dance in a corner and I watch them until my food arrives. The restaurant is now crowded with Italians and Rwandans. During a short break for the band, a group of clowns from Italy performs some sketches. I don’t find them particularly funny and am glad, when the band starts playing again. Another guy has joined the dancers and the dancing becomes much wilder. The atmosphere is good. The artists seem to enjoy their performance themselves as do the spectators. The cameras record the dancing men. One of the Italian organisers joins them for a bit and the clowns try to imitate the Rwandan dancing. I stand next to a pillar, when one of the Rwandan guys says I should also dance, not just stand there like that. So I do so, but not much. The band finishes and the organisers give thanks to each other, the guests to the hosts and in reverse. I am wondering how to get home, when a rather old man starts singing, only accompanied by a rasta man on the drums. I am told that he is the brother of the president’s wife, but I am not sure if I should believe that. It is past ten now, so I leave before the event is over, as I don’t want to arrive at the house too late. I take a motorbike to our junction and walk from there. In the dark, I am not so sure where to turn left and where to turn right, so it is easier to go on foot. 

From one interview to the next

We are on our way to Gisagara, a district in the southern province of Rwanda. Jane is our driver and Egidia from the LCB Cadea accompanies us to help Fernanda and me to meet the persons we want to interview today. She is a pastor and speaks a short prayer at the beginning of the ride. The only thing I understand is Imana - God. We left the office at 7:40 am and Jane is a fast driver. I have already taken this road to the south on my first sunday when visiting Beatrice’s relative in Nyanza and I recognise the spot where Bernard stopped the car to check the radiator. We pass three scenes of accidents. One truck has fallen to its side when climbing a slope leaving the main road. Ropes stop the load, mattresses on top, from spreading out on the road. The second accident includes more cars but again it is a truck laying twisted on the edge of the road. The third truck apparently made a complete roll and is now laying on its roof, wheels stretched into the air. Heads are turned each time we pass a site like this, but I don’t understand what the two women are saying.

The south is less hilly than any other region I have seen so far. The hills are less high and the valleys are wider. Some look as if a big river has carved the land, which has dried for some reasons, making room for fields. I see where the clay bricks, that are used to build simple houses, come from. They are simply cut out of the wet soil. 

After two hours, we already arrive in Save, a sector in Gisagara, where we are supposed to meet our first interviewee, the JADF permanent secretary of Gisagara. He is at a teachers’ training at a secondary school and we use his short break for our questions. At first he seems to think we could do it in the car, but luckily we go to a classroom instead. Posters hang on the wall, showing illustrations of the digestive system, the nervous system, the structure of skin and others. It is a bit irritating that people come and go and the door is constantly opened and closed, but the interview is more fruitful than expected. Augustin speaks English so both Fernanda and I ask questions and from time to time Egidia helps with translations in Kinyarwanda. 

From here, we continue to Huye, which used to be called Butare, for the next interview. On our way, we pass a church where two nuns are having a conversation and Egidia recognises the one lady as a friend. It turns out that this lady has spent five years in Italy and she has a short conversation in Italian with Fernanda. She seems to be really happy to use that language.

In Huye we go to the office of Care International, an NGO that is a member of JADF. After having written our names and contact details into a book and a short waiting time, we meet Assumpta. She is the first JADF member we talk to and her input is really interesting. The interview is in French, but I understand enough to realise that her answers are different from the ones we got so far which is very useful for our case study. She gives examples and critical feedback. 

It is past noon now and time for lunch. Jane and Egidia choose a small restaurant and there they have the usual buffet. Jane bought some special flat bread and samosas and takes a big glass of milk with it, while we eat the usual mix of rice, potato, banana and sauce with vegetables. For dessert, there is banana and maracuja for each of us. When we go back to the car, we are approached by street vendors selling strawberries and handicraft and a beggar. The woman is an albino and covers her head and distorted face with cloth. 

The next interviewee is the Executive Secretary of the district, also member of JADF but of course part of the public sector. On every door in the office and on the walls I see stickers: Stop corruption. Again, the interview is in French. We can only ask a few questions, but more wouldn’t have got us further information anyway. His answers are extremely general and vague and he doesn’t even manage to give us one single concrete example of an implemented activity in the district. After every question he nods, shuffles the papers in front of him and then slowly gives an unspecific answer that doesn’t help at all. Not a very fruitful interview. 

We planned to meet one more person, the president of JADF in Gisagara, but she is far from Huye, on a field trip herself maybe. We would have to wait for over an hour for her and therefore decide to skip this interview. Instead, we ask our questions to Egidia while we are on the road. She has heard our questions before and knows what we are looking for, so her inputs are structured and informative despite the rather unusual conditions of the conversation. 

I know that there is a memorial site close to Huye and as we are heading back to Kigali early, I ask Jane to pass there. However, she understands something different from what I have in mind and just points out a spot where a number of graves and a small house in white and violet are fenced in next to the road. Maybe it is not so important to visit what I meant. We see the progress Rwanda is making and look forward, as H.E. the President Paul Kagame says. Of course we keep Rwanda’s history in mind and learn from it, but why torture us with something that can’t be changed anymore.

Jane leaves the main road to stop at a group of houses on a small road. She wants to buy cassava flour here and Egidia uses the opportunity to buy beans. Again, these products are better and cheaper here. Jane also stops to buy a couple of pineapples as the ones from here are supposed to have a nicer taste. The cassava flour has a strong smell that fills the car now. We cross the wide valleys, green fields to our left and to our right. I want to take pictures, but on the other hand don’t want to ask Jane to stop for a moment. We listen to the radio which is sending a programme in English at the moment. A christian NGO interviews a woman who has been raped during the war in the DRC. It is horrible to listen to that voice and I am about to ask them to change the channel. She describes how men took her and others from the village to a forest, how her husband and children had to watch, how she later saw photographs of her family, dead, with their hearts cut out. I don’t want to, but I can’t stop listening to it. The picture-taking is forgotten and I don’t even really pay attention to our surroundings. It is much better when the next programme is French and about learning English expressions for printing and print options. 

We are soon back in Kigali, but it takes long to drive through the city. In order to drop Fernanda close to where she stays, we pass through an area that I have not seen so far. The road is very bad and an extensive part looks like a cemetery for trucks. Only just before arriving at the office, I recognise where we are.