July 7, 2008
Just as I was drifting—finally, finally—to sleep last night, “nitwa” popped into my head.
I thought, “What?! Is that even Kinyarwandan?”
So this afternoon, I asked Julius if “nitwa” means anything. He smiled and said that I am learning Kinyarwandan. I asked what the word means, and it means “I am called.”
Combine that with my name here, Jeanníe: Nitwa Jeanníe (NEET wa zhen EE). I am called Jen.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
First big work day
July 7, 2008
Woke up early and went to work today at the Never Again office, my first full day completely focused on research. I arrived there about 9 a.m. and started in on emails, posting, and internet research. The wireless connection was up and down, especially in the afternoon, but was sufficient.
Web site designers who are sensitive to global audiences should keep in mind the speed of internet connection in places like Rwanda. The “standard” settings for Google Mail, for example, won’t load here. Luckily, there is a link to plain HTML for slower connections.
The office was quiet in the morning; two Dutch interns arrived about 9:30 and left in the early afternoon; two American interns were writing and editing their peace-building curriculum in the back room. The other American intern attended the workshop presentation with the Never Again staff.
At maybe 3:00 or 4:00, shortly after lunch, Julius returned to the office and we ended up in an hours-long meeting about how to shape my research next summer, how to locate other technical documents, and where all this research is headed. But mostly we talked about trauma, reconciliation, stigma, and healing.
This is the counterbalance that I needed for all the talk during the previous days about economic prospects and the positive forces in the country. Don’t get me wrong: Rwanda has done so much work, has come so far, and the prospects for the country are hopeful.
But that’s not why I came here.
I came to Rwanda, was drawn here, because of the very familiar patterns of human pain that are PTSD. And Rwandans continue to be traumatized and to suffer from PTSD. The Genocide provoked mass trauma on a scale perhaps not seen before in one culture. It’s like a volcano that continues to erupt; just when you think it’s done, another unctuous flow threatens every living thing in its path.
The children of perpetrators are now traumatized. Some have lost parents due to the war that ended the Genocide, some to prisons. There are no government programs for these children, no places reserved in schools as there are for Genocide orphans and children of survivors.
The children borne of Genocide rape are mostly street children. They are now 12 and 13 and some now have children of their own. The government has tried to put these children in orphanages, but the children escaped; now they are trying to settle and support the children in constructed communities that are composed of children only, but they need more support.
Survivors face social stigma because of their intrusive memories and sometimes-erratic behavior. Survivors who were raped have no chance of marriage or committed relationship.
Surviving mothers face the double burden of raising children on their own and managing their traumatic reactions (or not).
So why am I here? I am only one person, but I am one person who can listen to their stories, a few at a time, and say that yes, this happened to them. As a writing teacher, I listen to these stories on paper and help writers explore different aspects of the story in a structured, safe way.
As a new friend at Alverno said, these stories, called trauma narratives, “can let light and air into memory.”
I’m not trained in psychology, but my students at SPC have taught me how to help them write these types of narratives. Judith Herman’s Trauma and Recovery has been my guide about how to help these stories come into being without treading in potentially dangerous emotional territory. On an ethical note, I don’t assign trauma narratives as any part of any level of the writing curriculum. At the Freshman Composition level, though, I ask students to identify essential questions that will drive their writing for the semester. These questions must be something that the writer doesn’t know the answer to and something that is of vital importance to him or her.
Over the last twelve years, many students have chosen—needed—to write about terrible events in their lives that have changed their identity in important ways and because they are still on some type of journey to understand or at least make sense of their lives. After a couple of years, I thought I’d better learn more about this type of writing because it was evident to me that students needed to write these stories. I friend recommended Herman’s work, and now here I am.
Julius thinks that there will be many who would like to participate in my writing retreat next summer. His initial idea is for Never Again to develop sign-up sheets in each of the five sectors of the country, and then let three from each province attend. I wish I could do a larger workshop, but 15 really is the maximum number of writers I can attend to with the individual attention that each deserves. But perhaps I will be able to conduct two retreats next summer.
If Never Again and the participants like the outcome, I can repeat the retreats and/or train others to conduct them on an ongoing basis.
We also talked about how traumatized populations can develop online communities of support. Rwanda has made a strong commitment to ICT, or internet connection, for all its people; its people are Rwanda’s only natural resource.
More than anything, I hope that Rwandans come to understand that trauma and PTSD are not fatal, nor do they signify character flaws. People can recover from trauma, even the worst events imaginable.
Writing your story and having someone take it in, witness it, is one small step in that long, long process.
Woke up early and went to work today at the Never Again office, my first full day completely focused on research. I arrived there about 9 a.m. and started in on emails, posting, and internet research. The wireless connection was up and down, especially in the afternoon, but was sufficient.
Web site designers who are sensitive to global audiences should keep in mind the speed of internet connection in places like Rwanda. The “standard” settings for Google Mail, for example, won’t load here. Luckily, there is a link to plain HTML for slower connections.
The office was quiet in the morning; two Dutch interns arrived about 9:30 and left in the early afternoon; two American interns were writing and editing their peace-building curriculum in the back room. The other American intern attended the workshop presentation with the Never Again staff.
At maybe 3:00 or 4:00, shortly after lunch, Julius returned to the office and we ended up in an hours-long meeting about how to shape my research next summer, how to locate other technical documents, and where all this research is headed. But mostly we talked about trauma, reconciliation, stigma, and healing.
This is the counterbalance that I needed for all the talk during the previous days about economic prospects and the positive forces in the country. Don’t get me wrong: Rwanda has done so much work, has come so far, and the prospects for the country are hopeful.
But that’s not why I came here.
I came to Rwanda, was drawn here, because of the very familiar patterns of human pain that are PTSD. And Rwandans continue to be traumatized and to suffer from PTSD. The Genocide provoked mass trauma on a scale perhaps not seen before in one culture. It’s like a volcano that continues to erupt; just when you think it’s done, another unctuous flow threatens every living thing in its path.
The children of perpetrators are now traumatized. Some have lost parents due to the war that ended the Genocide, some to prisons. There are no government programs for these children, no places reserved in schools as there are for Genocide orphans and children of survivors.
The children borne of Genocide rape are mostly street children. They are now 12 and 13 and some now have children of their own. The government has tried to put these children in orphanages, but the children escaped; now they are trying to settle and support the children in constructed communities that are composed of children only, but they need more support.
Survivors face social stigma because of their intrusive memories and sometimes-erratic behavior. Survivors who were raped have no chance of marriage or committed relationship.
Surviving mothers face the double burden of raising children on their own and managing their traumatic reactions (or not).
So why am I here? I am only one person, but I am one person who can listen to their stories, a few at a time, and say that yes, this happened to them. As a writing teacher, I listen to these stories on paper and help writers explore different aspects of the story in a structured, safe way.
As a new friend at Alverno said, these stories, called trauma narratives, “can let light and air into memory.”
I’m not trained in psychology, but my students at SPC have taught me how to help them write these types of narratives. Judith Herman’s Trauma and Recovery has been my guide about how to help these stories come into being without treading in potentially dangerous emotional territory. On an ethical note, I don’t assign trauma narratives as any part of any level of the writing curriculum. At the Freshman Composition level, though, I ask students to identify essential questions that will drive their writing for the semester. These questions must be something that the writer doesn’t know the answer to and something that is of vital importance to him or her.
Over the last twelve years, many students have chosen—needed—to write about terrible events in their lives that have changed their identity in important ways and because they are still on some type of journey to understand or at least make sense of their lives. After a couple of years, I thought I’d better learn more about this type of writing because it was evident to me that students needed to write these stories. I friend recommended Herman’s work, and now here I am.
Julius thinks that there will be many who would like to participate in my writing retreat next summer. His initial idea is for Never Again to develop sign-up sheets in each of the five sectors of the country, and then let three from each province attend. I wish I could do a larger workshop, but 15 really is the maximum number of writers I can attend to with the individual attention that each deserves. But perhaps I will be able to conduct two retreats next summer.
If Never Again and the participants like the outcome, I can repeat the retreats and/or train others to conduct them on an ongoing basis.
We also talked about how traumatized populations can develop online communities of support. Rwanda has made a strong commitment to ICT, or internet connection, for all its people; its people are Rwanda’s only natural resource.
More than anything, I hope that Rwandans come to understand that trauma and PTSD are not fatal, nor do they signify character flaws. People can recover from trauma, even the worst events imaginable.
Writing your story and having someone take it in, witness it, is one small step in that long, long process.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Sign me up!
What kind of conference is this? Really?
Title: End of Academic Year Conference for University Professors & Scholars.
Date: 2009-06-01
Description: Abstracts wanted for a rejuvenating conference at an Alpine resort in Bad Hofgastein in the province of Salzburg. Open to various academic disciplines. Four-day conference includes free hikes and guided mountain walks. Spas and free swimming facilities available. A European gift after a strenuous ac ...
Contact: bonnicij@ccsu.edu URL: www.internationaljournal.org/austriaconf.html Announcement ID: 162990 http://www.h-net.org/announce/show.cgi?ID=162990
Title: End of Academic Year Conference for University Professors & Scholars.
Date: 2009-06-01
Description: Abstracts wanted for a rejuvenating conference at an Alpine resort in Bad Hofgastein in the province of Salzburg. Open to various academic disciplines. Four-day conference includes free hikes and guided mountain walks. Spas and free swimming facilities available. A European gift after a strenuous ac ...
Contact: bonnicij@ccsu.edu URL: www.internationaljournal.org/austriaconf.html Announcement ID: 162990 http://www.h-net.org/announce/show.cgi?ID=162990
Falling in love with Rwanda
July 6, 2008
I’ve been here almost a week. Technically, I arrived on Wednesday the 2nd, around 1 a.m. Those first few days were so hard. I started right in with NAR and met with the Executive Director, Dr. Joseph, and he took me out to the offices. I came back to the inn with one of the interns; we had dinner and a couple of beers in the dining room, and then I came back to my room and tried to gather myself.
Here are a few notes from my handwritten journal written during those first few days:
…yesterday, which unexpectedly became a work day, I felt diaphanous, like someone could pull a needle and thread right through me and stitch me to anything or anyone—or everyone….
…when I was walking back to the hotel with Wilma [an intern], I stumbled off a curb, almost falling, but nothing drastic. But some young men—maybe teenagers—who were passing by in a car started saying, “Sorry! Sorry!” I smiled and called out that I was okay—all in the space of a second or two. It was nice in a way, to feel so connected, something like belonging, but of course I don’t belong here. But I also felt like I didn’t belong to myself, probably because of the lack of sleep….
Please, brain, forget Spanish for awhile. Remember French. Please.
Blogging here, again: It is hard to describe how overwhelming those first few days were. I was totally on sensory overload: there were too many smells (people, the smoke-filled air), too many sounds (I’m guessing that when a person doesn’t know a language, immersion in that language sounds like noise, at least for me) and too many people and signs and buildings and and and ….
I’m beginning to understand how difficult life is with Asperger’s Syndrome.
Luckily, I’ve been able to adjust my sensibilities, although I still get overwhelmed occasionally; I want to stay open to everything going on around me, but need to be able to function, too.
The other thing that I’m really struggling with is understanding African English. It is basically British English, but with the most beautiful accent. I don’t know whether the accent throws me, or whether I’m getting hard of hearing, or maybe just hard of understanding. Surely, though, it will become easier. Right now, “Excuse me?” and “I’m sorry?” are the phrases I seem to say most often. Most everyone has been very patient with me.
Now, Sunday evening, I’ve seen a few of the districts of Kigali, been able to negotiate getting to places on my own, and have begun to feel more like myself. And I’m falling hard and fast for this place.
It is so much fun to walk the few blocks up the hill to the “rond-poin,” the center of the center city and to pass children on the sidewalk. Often their mothers will say “------- ------ ------- muzungu ------!” which I think means something like “there’s a white person; say ‘hi!’” and the child puts out a hand in greeting. If older children are alone, they will often say, “good morning” in crisp English or, more often, “bon jour!” and I can’t help but smile at them. Sometimes they will take gentle hold of my arm, or thunk the water bottle I carry around with me. The gentleness is very apparent, though.
I’m happy to say that touching babies seems okay here. There was one in particular in the Kimironko Market sitting with his mother or grandmother and I couldn’t help but cradle his head in my hand for a moment. Apparently cooing is universal, because I have yet to get the phrase “beautiful baby” in my limited Kinyarwandan repertoire.
It’s the people, then, that draw me in.
I expected Rwandans to be more downtrodden, I suppose, maybe more grim, especially in these last few weeks of the anniversary of those horrific hundred days. But the Rwandans here are pretty normal, maybe even more animated than Americans. There is so much laughing, so much calling out to others and smiling. The street vendors smile, of course, but I think the mental pictures of my expectations were based on Ciudad Juárez in the 1970s, just across the río from my home town. There are some similarities that the barrios have to the lowest housing here, but the people in that time and in that border city were grim. I can’t remember much smiling at all. Not at the city market, not in the barrios where we dropped off our live-in maid for her weekends at home.
What I’m not sensing here in Rwanda and that was very apparent in Juárez was desperation. This very evident desperation in Mexico shaped my sense of what it means to be American, and to be human, for the first twenty years of my life. I suppose there’s a sort of guilt about relative affluence and opportunity, but it’s too easy to forget that being born one of the 300 million in America is entirely by chance. Odds are greater that we could have been born elsewhere, with less opportunity, and more danger. It’s so easy to forget, to take it all for granted.
So, before I get off my soap box, I think American do have a responsibility to not forget, to not hog up resources, and to be good world citizens.
Okay, I’m off the box.
I do want to travel to other parts of Rwanda, other cities, and a few villages. I especially want to be able to learn more about women in Rwanda; I haven’t interacted with women here yet, at least in direct and structured ways.
I have so many questions, especially about how Rwandans see the future of their country. The Rwanda doctor, Dan, I sat with at Dr. Joseph’s civil ceremony reception, talked about how genocide could not possibly happen here again. He said that with “Ingango,” the social enculturation that almost all Rwandan youth must go through, with the increasing economic opportunities for Rwandans, and with the Genocide planners either in prison or in exile/hiding, genocide won’t happen again.
This hope is also what really gets me. Not only are Rwandans not desperate, but they are hopeful.
I’ve been here almost a week. Technically, I arrived on Wednesday the 2nd, around 1 a.m. Those first few days were so hard. I started right in with NAR and met with the Executive Director, Dr. Joseph, and he took me out to the offices. I came back to the inn with one of the interns; we had dinner and a couple of beers in the dining room, and then I came back to my room and tried to gather myself.
Here are a few notes from my handwritten journal written during those first few days:
…yesterday, which unexpectedly became a work day, I felt diaphanous, like someone could pull a needle and thread right through me and stitch me to anything or anyone—or everyone….
…when I was walking back to the hotel with Wilma [an intern], I stumbled off a curb, almost falling, but nothing drastic. But some young men—maybe teenagers—who were passing by in a car started saying, “Sorry! Sorry!” I smiled and called out that I was okay—all in the space of a second or two. It was nice in a way, to feel so connected, something like belonging, but of course I don’t belong here. But I also felt like I didn’t belong to myself, probably because of the lack of sleep….
Please, brain, forget Spanish for awhile. Remember French. Please.
Blogging here, again: It is hard to describe how overwhelming those first few days were. I was totally on sensory overload: there were too many smells (people, the smoke-filled air), too many sounds (I’m guessing that when a person doesn’t know a language, immersion in that language sounds like noise, at least for me) and too many people and signs and buildings and and and ….
I’m beginning to understand how difficult life is with Asperger’s Syndrome.
Luckily, I’ve been able to adjust my sensibilities, although I still get overwhelmed occasionally; I want to stay open to everything going on around me, but need to be able to function, too.
The other thing that I’m really struggling with is understanding African English. It is basically British English, but with the most beautiful accent. I don’t know whether the accent throws me, or whether I’m getting hard of hearing, or maybe just hard of understanding. Surely, though, it will become easier. Right now, “Excuse me?” and “I’m sorry?” are the phrases I seem to say most often. Most everyone has been very patient with me.
Now, Sunday evening, I’ve seen a few of the districts of Kigali, been able to negotiate getting to places on my own, and have begun to feel more like myself. And I’m falling hard and fast for this place.
It is so much fun to walk the few blocks up the hill to the “rond-poin,” the center of the center city and to pass children on the sidewalk. Often their mothers will say “------- ------ ------- muzungu ------!” which I think means something like “there’s a white person; say ‘hi!’” and the child puts out a hand in greeting. If older children are alone, they will often say, “good morning” in crisp English or, more often, “bon jour!” and I can’t help but smile at them. Sometimes they will take gentle hold of my arm, or thunk the water bottle I carry around with me. The gentleness is very apparent, though.
I’m happy to say that touching babies seems okay here. There was one in particular in the Kimironko Market sitting with his mother or grandmother and I couldn’t help but cradle his head in my hand for a moment. Apparently cooing is universal, because I have yet to get the phrase “beautiful baby” in my limited Kinyarwandan repertoire.
It’s the people, then, that draw me in.
I expected Rwandans to be more downtrodden, I suppose, maybe more grim, especially in these last few weeks of the anniversary of those horrific hundred days. But the Rwandans here are pretty normal, maybe even more animated than Americans. There is so much laughing, so much calling out to others and smiling. The street vendors smile, of course, but I think the mental pictures of my expectations were based on Ciudad Juárez in the 1970s, just across the río from my home town. There are some similarities that the barrios have to the lowest housing here, but the people in that time and in that border city were grim. I can’t remember much smiling at all. Not at the city market, not in the barrios where we dropped off our live-in maid for her weekends at home.
What I’m not sensing here in Rwanda and that was very apparent in Juárez was desperation. This very evident desperation in Mexico shaped my sense of what it means to be American, and to be human, for the first twenty years of my life. I suppose there’s a sort of guilt about relative affluence and opportunity, but it’s too easy to forget that being born one of the 300 million in America is entirely by chance. Odds are greater that we could have been born elsewhere, with less opportunity, and more danger. It’s so easy to forget, to take it all for granted.
So, before I get off my soap box, I think American do have a responsibility to not forget, to not hog up resources, and to be good world citizens.
Okay, I’m off the box.
I do want to travel to other parts of Rwanda, other cities, and a few villages. I especially want to be able to learn more about women in Rwanda; I haven’t interacted with women here yet, at least in direct and structured ways.
I have so many questions, especially about how Rwandans see the future of their country. The Rwanda doctor, Dan, I sat with at Dr. Joseph’s civil ceremony reception, talked about how genocide could not possibly happen here again. He said that with “Ingango,” the social enculturation that almost all Rwandan youth must go through, with the increasing economic opportunities for Rwandans, and with the Genocide planners either in prison or in exile/hiding, genocide won’t happen again.
This hope is also what really gets me. Not only are Rwandans not desperate, but they are hopeful.
Public mini-buses
Public transportation for Rwandans mostly means mini-buses. These are the size of American mini-vans, but have four rows of seats that seat four across, no matter what size person. On the front two rows, the fourth seat back folds down, and then the seat bottom folds to the left so that people can get in and out more easily, “easy” being a relative term. At least two more people sit in the driver’s row.
The fares for the buses are the lowest (motos are next, and then taxi cabs). To the NAR offices, a ride costs 120 RWF—not much at all. All the way back from the Kimironko Market, which is way past Amahoro Stadium, was 500 RWF. I took a moto on the way out, and paid 1000 RWF by comparison. BTW, gas here is posted as 892, which I’m guessing is for one liter. At about 530-560 RWF to the dollar and roughly 4 liters to the gallon.
There is a driver, and the steering wheel can be on either the left or right, depending on the origin of the bus (despite the great number of European cars here, Rwandans drive on the right side of the road). The driver’s job is just to drive. There is another guy (I’ve seen only men in this capacity) who calls out the bus route as the vehicle approaches a stop, adds gasoline at the stations, knocks on the side of the bus when someone wants to get off, and manages the money. This last task posed a problem for the guy on my bus this afternoon.
There was a fairly affluent-looking guy (slacks, ironed button-up shirt, nice shoes and glasses, and the ubiquitous cell phone) who got on and then got off a few stops later. It is common to pay at the end of the ride, so this guy handed the money guy a little bit of money, but apparently not enough. The money guy yelled at him and said what I guess was something like “You have to pay!” The other tried to quickly walk away, but the thing was was that he was basically making fun of the money guy. The smart-alec had a huge grin on his face, maybe like he was too good to pay. (All this was in Kinyarwandan, so I was reading body language and reading into it what I could.) There was a lot of shirt-pulling (the jerk pulling the money guy’s shirt), lots of shoving, and yelling like crazy. There were children watching, too close to the fight for my comfort, as well as a few others who gathered around. The driver got out and tried to intervene, but it was no use. After about five minutes, the money guy and he driver got back in the bus. The money guy was sitting next to me, and I asked him, “Ça va?” He shook his head and said, “Non.” I touched his arm and said, “I’m sorry.” The Rwandans riding the bus I think told him what a jerk the other guy was and generally made noise in the money guy’s support.
As a Quaker, as a woman, and especially as a mom, I don’t want to see people fighting. Let me put that another way: I don’t want people to solve their problems by fighting. A thousand thoughts ran through my head in those few tense minutes. I was probably the oldest person on that bus (yes, 42 is old by Rwandan standards; if I were born here, I might have only a few more years to live—if I’d survived this long—more on age in another post). I thought that maybe I could pay for the thief’s ride, which I would have offered to do if he was apologetic about not having the money. And I do think that he really didn’t have the fare, but was too proud to say so. But what kind of message would that send—a muzungu woman paying for someone who appears to be able to afford the fare? If I were me but Rwandan, I might have gotten out and lectured the jerk and told him to either borrow the money from someone or to trade something of value, but I am an American me, so all they might get is some muzungu lady yacking at them in an unknown language. Not good. I wanted to ask someone if we should call the police; they have a strong presence in the city center, but were not apparent in the suburbs. In the end, I did what the Rwandans (I almost wrote “other Rwandans”) did: I watched.
Rwanda is almost famous now for being a peaceful, safe African nation. Each of the young men displayed the best and worst of not only Rwandans, but people in general: one cheated and mocked the other for being cheated; the other walked away.
Which one holds the promise of this country?
The fares for the buses are the lowest (motos are next, and then taxi cabs). To the NAR offices, a ride costs 120 RWF—not much at all. All the way back from the Kimironko Market, which is way past Amahoro Stadium, was 500 RWF. I took a moto on the way out, and paid 1000 RWF by comparison. BTW, gas here is posted as 892, which I’m guessing is for one liter. At about 530-560 RWF to the dollar and roughly 4 liters to the gallon.
There is a driver, and the steering wheel can be on either the left or right, depending on the origin of the bus (despite the great number of European cars here, Rwandans drive on the right side of the road). The driver’s job is just to drive. There is another guy (I’ve seen only men in this capacity) who calls out the bus route as the vehicle approaches a stop, adds gasoline at the stations, knocks on the side of the bus when someone wants to get off, and manages the money. This last task posed a problem for the guy on my bus this afternoon.
There was a fairly affluent-looking guy (slacks, ironed button-up shirt, nice shoes and glasses, and the ubiquitous cell phone) who got on and then got off a few stops later. It is common to pay at the end of the ride, so this guy handed the money guy a little bit of money, but apparently not enough. The money guy yelled at him and said what I guess was something like “You have to pay!” The other tried to quickly walk away, but the thing was was that he was basically making fun of the money guy. The smart-alec had a huge grin on his face, maybe like he was too good to pay. (All this was in Kinyarwandan, so I was reading body language and reading into it what I could.) There was a lot of shirt-pulling (the jerk pulling the money guy’s shirt), lots of shoving, and yelling like crazy. There were children watching, too close to the fight for my comfort, as well as a few others who gathered around. The driver got out and tried to intervene, but it was no use. After about five minutes, the money guy and he driver got back in the bus. The money guy was sitting next to me, and I asked him, “Ça va?” He shook his head and said, “Non.” I touched his arm and said, “I’m sorry.” The Rwandans riding the bus I think told him what a jerk the other guy was and generally made noise in the money guy’s support.
As a Quaker, as a woman, and especially as a mom, I don’t want to see people fighting. Let me put that another way: I don’t want people to solve their problems by fighting. A thousand thoughts ran through my head in those few tense minutes. I was probably the oldest person on that bus (yes, 42 is old by Rwandan standards; if I were born here, I might have only a few more years to live—if I’d survived this long—more on age in another post). I thought that maybe I could pay for the thief’s ride, which I would have offered to do if he was apologetic about not having the money. And I do think that he really didn’t have the fare, but was too proud to say so. But what kind of message would that send—a muzungu woman paying for someone who appears to be able to afford the fare? If I were me but Rwandan, I might have gotten out and lectured the jerk and told him to either borrow the money from someone or to trade something of value, but I am an American me, so all they might get is some muzungu lady yacking at them in an unknown language. Not good. I wanted to ask someone if we should call the police; they have a strong presence in the city center, but were not apparent in the suburbs. In the end, I did what the Rwandans (I almost wrote “other Rwandans”) did: I watched.
Rwanda is almost famous now for being a peaceful, safe African nation. Each of the young men displayed the best and worst of not only Rwandans, but people in general: one cheated and mocked the other for being cheated; the other walked away.
Which one holds the promise of this country?
Kimironko Market
Kimironko (pronounced chi mi RON go; the opening “k” is pronounced as “ch”, so chi GA li for Kigali, cha GA me for Kagame; all the vowels are like Spanish vowels) is a bustling suburb of Kigali, about a 15 minute moto ride (at 1000 RWF) from city center, which I’ve now learned is “mumuji.” The market there is one of the biggest in Kigali, with perhaps the exception of Nyabugogo, the Islamic area of town (I think).
Anna met me at the Kimironko Market to introduce me to some English-speaking cloth merchants and seamstresses. It was Sunday afternoon, so not all the vendors were there, which is okay with me; the first few minutes were slightly overwhelming. But then I got my feet under me, so to speak, and I had a great time.
First we went to Anna’s seamstress so she could try on a dress she was having made. There was a small piece of cloth strung across one corner of the little room for her to change clothes. I’m not sure how she managed to put it on in that small space, but she did, and but the dress looked good. Just a few adjustments and it will be done in a few days.
Next, we went to shop for a shared obsession: textiles. There were so many beautiful fabrics: all possible colors and color combinations; all types of patterns from abstract to realistic representation. Most of the fabrics were colored and patterned using what I think is called ikat, where wax is put onto cloth in various patterns, the cloth is dyed, and then the wax is removed to reveal the first color underneath. I bought a green tie-dye kind of wraparound skirt, and fabric to make two outfits in blue and dark red.
But here’s the real find: I bought some Rwandan baskets that rival the quality of the thousand-dollar Navaho baskets from the American Southwest. The sweet smell of grasses and reeds fills my room. I also bought some souvenir-size traditional Rwandan baskets. They have round bottoms, with the bottom slightly smaller than the top, and the lids kind of look like one of the traditional hats in China, with the top narrowing quickly to a fine point. That’s probably not the best description; google Rwandan basket in images to see what I mean.
I also bought a couple of artworks yesterday on the Kigali streets from a teenager named Ѐmile. He made them himself. They are banana leaf on drawing paper. He first puts down adhesive and then lays down different colored banana leaves to make incredibly exacting designs. I’m not sure if he cuts the leaves first or how exactly he does it, but the artwork is unique. When I asked him to sign the pieces, he thought I was crazy and really didn’t want to. A passing gentleman who was born in Rwanda, grew up in Uganda, and now is a citizen of England, stopped to translate. He explained that Ѐmile is illiterate but Ѐmile added that if he had wanted to sign his pieces, he would have done so in banana leaf. A purist.
I can only suspect that as the world continues to be curious about Rwanda, these arts and crafts will not only increase in value but in price as well.
And for those of you who have asked for carvings or jewelry, don’t worry—there’s more time to shop.
Anna met me at the Kimironko Market to introduce me to some English-speaking cloth merchants and seamstresses. It was Sunday afternoon, so not all the vendors were there, which is okay with me; the first few minutes were slightly overwhelming. But then I got my feet under me, so to speak, and I had a great time.
First we went to Anna’s seamstress so she could try on a dress she was having made. There was a small piece of cloth strung across one corner of the little room for her to change clothes. I’m not sure how she managed to put it on in that small space, but she did, and but the dress looked good. Just a few adjustments and it will be done in a few days.
Next, we went to shop for a shared obsession: textiles. There were so many beautiful fabrics: all possible colors and color combinations; all types of patterns from abstract to realistic representation. Most of the fabrics were colored and patterned using what I think is called ikat, where wax is put onto cloth in various patterns, the cloth is dyed, and then the wax is removed to reveal the first color underneath. I bought a green tie-dye kind of wraparound skirt, and fabric to make two outfits in blue and dark red.
But here’s the real find: I bought some Rwandan baskets that rival the quality of the thousand-dollar Navaho baskets from the American Southwest. The sweet smell of grasses and reeds fills my room. I also bought some souvenir-size traditional Rwandan baskets. They have round bottoms, with the bottom slightly smaller than the top, and the lids kind of look like one of the traditional hats in China, with the top narrowing quickly to a fine point. That’s probably not the best description; google Rwandan basket in images to see what I mean.
I also bought a couple of artworks yesterday on the Kigali streets from a teenager named Ѐmile. He made them himself. They are banana leaf on drawing paper. He first puts down adhesive and then lays down different colored banana leaves to make incredibly exacting designs. I’m not sure if he cuts the leaves first or how exactly he does it, but the artwork is unique. When I asked him to sign the pieces, he thought I was crazy and really didn’t want to. A passing gentleman who was born in Rwanda, grew up in Uganda, and now is a citizen of England, stopped to translate. He explained that Ѐmile is illiterate but Ѐmile added that if he had wanted to sign his pieces, he would have done so in banana leaf. A purist.
I can only suspect that as the world continues to be curious about Rwanda, these arts and crafts will not only increase in value but in price as well.
And for those of you who have asked for carvings or jewelry, don’t worry—there’s more time to shop.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Cafe Bourbon
This may be one of my favorite places on earth. I know I said that I’d stay away from Western-style places, but after one interestingly muddy cup of coffee at my hotel, I came up the hill to the café, which is inside the Union Trade Center. There is a bank there, too, as well as several fast-food type places. There are tables and chairs in the center of the floor, and the shops are all around the border on two floors. This is also where I bought my Rwandan cell phone for 14900 RWf. I can also get pay-go cards to add minutes to the phone at all hours, which I needed to the other night when I called back to the states and got cut off mid-call.
Kigali seems like NYC to me. There is so much going on at all hours; maybe the city takes a nap between 4:30 and daybreak (just before 6) which seems the case on the weekend when the clubs blare out dance music.
Café Bourbon never seems to close, although I’m sure it must. It is a magnet for muzungus (White people). I always sit alone and it’s just like being home in that muzungus pretty much ignore each other. I’ve bumped into NAR interns here a few times, which has been useful.
The coffee here is astoundingly good. Rich, but not bitter. The milk I get with my café au lait is frothy, thick, and hot. The food is really good, too. European-style cheeses, ripened like Camembert. I haven't had a hamburger here, but the club sandwich is terrific. My teenager would love it: the first layer is a fried egg, bacon, and cheese; the second layer is grilled chicken, more bacon, and another type of delicious cheese. I couldn’t finish it. Today I had a croque monsieur, which is a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. Everything is served with fried potatoes—at least one large potato-sized servings. All this is great, because often this is my only big meal of the day. I bought some rolls so that I could take anti-malarial meds with food at night, but these calories serve me well throughout the day.
The best thing about Café Bourbon is the free internet. A whole hour free as long as you order food or drink!!! After that, it’s 3000 RWF for each hour. I’ve never had to pay for the internet; I pre-type as much as I can think of, eat my food when it comes, and while I’m finishing my coffee, I get online to blog and check email.
Yes, I’ll bring some Rwandan coffee home—if I don’t drink it all first.
Kigali seems like NYC to me. There is so much going on at all hours; maybe the city takes a nap between 4:30 and daybreak (just before 6) which seems the case on the weekend when the clubs blare out dance music.
Café Bourbon never seems to close, although I’m sure it must. It is a magnet for muzungus (White people). I always sit alone and it’s just like being home in that muzungus pretty much ignore each other. I’ve bumped into NAR interns here a few times, which has been useful.
The coffee here is astoundingly good. Rich, but not bitter. The milk I get with my café au lait is frothy, thick, and hot. The food is really good, too. European-style cheeses, ripened like Camembert. I haven't had a hamburger here, but the club sandwich is terrific. My teenager would love it: the first layer is a fried egg, bacon, and cheese; the second layer is grilled chicken, more bacon, and another type of delicious cheese. I couldn’t finish it. Today I had a croque monsieur, which is a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. Everything is served with fried potatoes—at least one large potato-sized servings. All this is great, because often this is my only big meal of the day. I bought some rolls so that I could take anti-malarial meds with food at night, but these calories serve me well throughout the day.
The best thing about Café Bourbon is the free internet. A whole hour free as long as you order food or drink!!! After that, it’s 3000 RWF for each hour. I’ve never had to pay for the internet; I pre-type as much as I can think of, eat my food when it comes, and while I’m finishing my coffee, I get online to blog and check email.
Yes, I’ll bring some Rwandan coffee home—if I don’t drink it all first.
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