July 27, 2008
After a much-needed nap, I and five others from NAR headed to FESPAR, an international cultural dance festival that lasts a week long. Patrick, a traditional Intore dancer with the national troupe, would be performing, and rather than crash a wedding where he was hired, I would see him dance for first time.
After worrying about getting there for the supposed 3:00 start, we arrived and stood on looooong queues. There were many people jumping line and we sent several people up to the front to scope out what was holding us up.
It seemed like there were two lines because each person needed to be patted down before entering. There was a huge metal gate and lots of military police. The first surge felt a bit like a concert at the Warped Tour, an experience provided to me by one of my nieces on her 16th birthday. People from behind pushed and the queues dissolved into a single mass. It was now 4:30.
A couple of people tried to body-surf over the gate but didn’t succeed. At some point, the gate was closed and people started getting really…annoyed. They were waving their tickets overhead and yelling and we all agreed that things could get really interesting.
And they did.
Whatever tension was building erupted into the MPs beating back people with batons. There was no blood, and it didn’t look like a mob scene from CNN, but seeing people getting hit was disturbing.
Little did we know that we would experience this part of the culture.
After a few more rushes at the gate and more baton incidents, the crowd finally pushed through. I was holding onto A, my young Rwandan friend for whom I felt responsible, and I lost track of the others. A and I ended up on the edge of the crowd next to the MPs, and although the baton went up, it didn’t rain down on us. A and I got through and waited a few yards away. The other muzungus made it through eventually, but one girl, whose toes were injured on her descent from Mt. Kilimanjaro, was shaken up and her foot was stepped on. She and another girl were pinned against the gate, which upset the MPs greatly. They didn’t want the girls to get hurt.
We were in—or so we thought.
We walked through the campus of the ULK (Université LIbre Kigali) toward the stadium and the dance. It is a lovely new campus; one of the interns hopes to attend school here in January. We neared the stadium and encountered another MP checkpoint. When we saw that this would very likely take time and possibly result in more mob-like roughness, we decided to sit on a wall and find drinking water.
We saw the various delegations arrive: Namibia, Burundi, DRC, Congo, Japan, and others. When I saw the Chinese contingent, I asked the others what they would think if I went into the crowd and started yelling “Free Tibet!” I thought I could get lots of Rwandans to join me. My friends then figured out the probable reason why the current American president’s administration didn’t allow me (at first) to tour the White House with my students a few years ago.
Instead, I suggested that we do whatever the MPs told us to do.
The MPs chased everyone else into the now-orderly lines as they admitted about 20 people at a time for the pat-down. When the lines were nearing the end, we walked down and stood at the end of the queue.
As soon as we got to the end of the queue, I looked up and saw an MP 25 meters away pointing to me. My herd instinct is strong here, but I looked around anyway to make sure he meant me. I had a flash of anxiety that I had done something unintentionally wrong, but he wanted me to move to the front of the line. I grabbed onto A and told the others to come with. When I got to the front of the line, the MP grabbed my arm and inserted me between two people. I heard the Rwandans behind me grumbling, but I figured that the MP was working on the combination of age and visitor status rather than simply race.
A few seconds later, I was through and proceeded through security. When I was done, I looked back and noticed that A still hadn’t made it past the final through-point. I was headed to the MP to tell him, “Elle est avec moi,” and he let her through.
It was close to 6:00.
The first group of seats we found were okay, but I couldn’t see the stage well, so A and l left the others and found seating almost directly center stage, although we were about 50 feet up. The stage was incredibly beautiful—blonde wood poles constructed as an abstract traditional Rwandan dwelling. There was a large center structure—the top of which was as high as I was sitting—and two smaller structures to each side.
Before the sun set, I could see a familiar curve of a hill across from Gisozi. When I asked A, she verified it is the hill on the west side of Nyamirambo. It is the hill I gazed at on the bus ride to the offices.
At this point, bands were playing. The National Choir performed beautifully. The sun went down and the lights of the city started to come on, appearing like fires in the darkening sky.
One of the singers had two young dancers come on stage to dance. Though they were very far away, I pointed out to A that one of the dancers was Patrick’s age. (The next morning when Patrick came for breakfast, he asked, “Did you see me up on stage with [----]?”)
Later, when it was a bit darker, I saw a familiar curve illuminated with street lights on the hill beyond the stadium and a little to the right. I knew from my visits to the Kigali Memorial Centre (called locally the Gisozi Centre) that this hill is Muhima, where I have lived these few weeks. From my vantage point tonight, that familiar curve looked like an upside down question mark. I pointed it out to A, and together, we identified landmarks: there was the rond poin; there was the UTC and the bank. In my mind’s eye, I could visualize the inn on the curve that began the round part of the question mark.
Pretty soon the First Lady entered the stadium, as well as the Prime Minister, although President Kagame did not attend. This explained the security issues getting into the stadium.
In the dark night, the lights in the stadium were low, and the boy sitting to my left struck up a conversation with me. His name was Emmanuel. He mistook me for a young woman and told me he was sure he was in love with me. After I assured him that I am old enough to be his mother, he was quiet for a moment, and then said, “You can be my father. I want to come to the US.” He explained that he is an orphan and that his parents were killed in the Genocide. I gave him my condolences but tell him I have enough children.
At 7, A left. My fellow muzungus also left, but I stayed to watch Patrick dance. Soon his troupe came out and danced for twenty or thirty minutes. It was amazingly beautiful. And Patrick? I recognized his smile, as bright 50 metres away as it is 5 feet away. I also recognized his joy and flair as he danced.
There was so much music, and in the stands, everyone danced. The young men in the row in front of me were teaching each other different steps as they danced on the benches.
But the music was just getting started. A famous Rwandan Reggae singer took the stage and within moments, the floor in front of the stage was filled with exuberant dancing. Emmanuel, who had been persistently trying to woo me as an adoptive parent, gave it up and excused himself to dance.
After some time, a limo winded its way in back of the stage and the crowd started to get really excited. I asked the boys around me, and they said it was the arrival of the headline group, Brick and Lace.
I can tell you, when those beautiful Jamaican girls took the stage in MTV-style costumes, everyone—male and female alike—went wild. A hundred blue lights of cameras taking video lit up near the front of the stage. Parts of their concert were unintentionally humorous. At one point, one of the singers yelled out, “Where are the sexy men?” and there was a sort of collective “ummm…” even from the attractive youth that surrounded me. Then the performer yelled, “Where are the sexy women?” This time, there was a collective silence. Rwandans are a modest people, but you can’t always know your audience.
After a dance contest of young Rwandan women, the cultural festival was over. I walked out with at least several hundred Rwandans, and I figured they knew where they were going, so I followed. Finding a moto under these circumstances seemed foolhardy, and I didn’t want to climb into the jam-packed buses. It was a beautiful night, and I walked.
Pretty soon, a young man joined me and commented that I walked "like a Rwandan.” I didn’t ask what he meant exactly, but it was a compliment. His name was Oliver, and he wanted to marry an American girl. We walked and walked and he extolled the virtues of American women. I asked how he knew American women, and he said, “TV.” I finally asked him if the reason he wanted to marry American is because of “this,” and I held out my arm and pulled up my sleeve to expose my white skin. He laughed, knowing that I knew. I told him that was a really, really bad reason to want to marry someone. I advised him to come up with alternative plans, and to find one of the many beautiful women in his country.
Oliver and I both live on Muhima, but he eventually took a road and I kept walking. Nothing looked exactly familiar, but I came to a road that took an angle that looked just about right. This was the right street, and it was close to midnight. I headed uphill, walking the question mark.
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