Day One - First Impressions

It has never really been easy for me to express exactly how I feel when it comes to matters that really hurt - inside. Especially when what I wish to talk about also wishes to remain painfully stuck in my throat. As a return to my 'cyber home' seems inevitable, the next few posts are possibly not the best to ease myself back into the blogging world. My trip to Rwanda challenged many of the principles I thought I had, the way in which I look at what I perceive I do, particularly working for so called human rights organisations or at least ones with a supposedly solid human rights foundation, so essentially Rwanda brought to the forefront various questions and in particular, ones that I really did not want to answer.

Last week, I took it upon myself - or rather my very eccentric boss felt it would be a good (rather bizarrely!) idea for me to accompany him as light entertainment to a gender sensitivity course - no minds should proceed to the gutter with that revelation! That includes you Milo! He felt that the way I treat genders other than my own needed to be addressed! Do not ask! Hee hee!

Anyway, my day began at 5am. Flight was at 8am, so the 3 hours to acquaint myself with the world were necessary. The day began in true Wambui style. I frantically packed after having learnt never to drop the soap in a shower that does not have much grip on its floor. After cursing everything and everyone I knew, I was jolted out of my brief journey down the self pity road by managing to burn **both** arms with the kettle. As a finale to what was already a perfect morning so far, I had to vault over my gate for the "askari" (security guard) could not be found (do not ask!) and had rather conveniently locked the gate with a padlock for which I did not have a key. The look on the taxi driver's face was priceless as I threw one bag over, followed by a leopard skin suitcase (thanks to Ms Bibbings!) and slowly eased my big black a#@* over the over 6 ft solid metal gate. For those who know what gates tend to be like in Africa, then you will understand my trepidation as I slowly manoeuvred my mass, avoiding any possibility of being shafted by the spikes on the top. Needless to say, the driver laughed the whole way to the airport! Only now, looking at matters from what must have been his angle, do I appreciate the humorous side. Hee hee!

First impression: after having gone over Lake Victoria, Rwanda is a series of green rolling hills with shiny blue roofs intermittedly dotted all over the place. I realised I had become such an urbanite, when the first thought that came to mind was "Hey, Rwanda has shit loads of swimming pools!" By the time they were opening the doors, woman practically catapulted herself out of that plane. I panicked once I got inside the airport terminal. My experience with immigration officials not always pleasant. However, here, immigration was such a pleasant experience; I was ready to do it all over again.

I was met at the airport by eccentric boss, whom we shall call "Bob" and have since decided is a total sweetie! I was so excited, I talked AT HIM at about 50 miles an hour, bringing back memories of the first time I ever visited Nairobi in 1978 for President Kenyatta's funeral. Different story and as usual I digress. Looking back, I am slightly uncomfortable with the memory of the bubbling childish excitement for my purpose for this particular visit was, if I am honest, a perverse 'road accident' tourist package - to view the rotting remnants of genocide.

For those unaware, in about 100 days in 1994, government soldiers, organized bands of young men known as Interahamwe, and ordinary citizens brutally claimed the lives of more than a million Rwandese and Burundians, and mutilated hundreds of thousands more, between April and July 1994. That is the short version; the long version is a lot more complicated, possibly to be addressed at another juncture.

Anyway, "Bob" decided I needed feeding and whisked me off to a Chinese restaurant on top of what is possibly the highest building in Kigali. Food great. But what strikes you more than anything else, is the beauty of this tiny, tiny country. Honestly the hills roll! I now truly appreciate the phrase. There are little houses climbing up the hills, and even with the rain that welcomed me to Kigali, I could not get over the green beauty of this place. And yes I was still talking, but now at about 100 miles an hour, while Bob humbuged the whole time. He is not grumpy really but sometimes feels he has to be to fit in with the persona he has created for himself here, and every now and then make some disparaging remark about someone. ;-)

We are then joined by "Ali", a huge bear of a man, lovely, lovely, lovely and full of Arabic charm, plus dessert, small banana fritters that melt in your mouth with vanilla ice-cream! Ali was our driver to the "Gorilla’s Nest" out in a place called Ruhengeri. As we drove round and up the mountains, we passed the cutest villages. And everything was so incredibly clean. This country is spotless. Even the villages. And there are no paper bags, women supporting colourful plastic baskets on their heads full of groceries and other agricultural goodies. But the poverty strikes too. Too many children running round with next to nothing on, not easy considering how cold it is the higher up you go. All seemed dressed in an identical uniform of brown dirty torn attires and nothing on their feet. Rwanda is also a very young country, demographically. Or at least that is what I observed in 5 days. Almost every village or town I visited was bursting at the seams with children under the age of 12. In some places, it seemed like the entire population WAS just children under 12. The result being that instead of playing, most children tend to be the economic backbone of what was a broken country - tilling the fields, carrying the firewood, fetching the wood, selling produce on the roadside, many of the girls with their younger siblings on their backs.

The buildings are amazing. Perfectly square, there was not a round structure in sight in the two hour drive. Even the mud huts, if you call them that, for they were put together with such precision, many with verandas (porches to the Americans) and columns! Yes - you read that right! Columns. Can you imagine a manyatta with a veranda and Greek columns? I smiled.

(To be continued....)