SPEAK RWANDA

Ms. Hickey was a fine thin slip of a woman and, somehow,  responsible for my travel bug. During my secondary (high) school days, she managed to generate enough spittle on the wings of her slim lips to convey a genuine enthusiasm for her subject (Geography), garnering more than an occasional attentiveness from her difficult audience. In September, when she would return from her summer break, the combination of scuffed boots, tightly fitted knit jumpers and her orangey tan gave her a certain 'foreign-ised' aura, as though she were a character from some documentary like ‘Twiggy does Nepal’. Or something.

“Where was she?” I wondered one September afternoon as I prodded Michelle’s bum with a compass tied to my shoe.

“Colm Fahy!”
Ms. Hickey’s voice pounced on me like an unexpected clap of thunder on a summer’s day.

“Immediately, give me an example of a drumlin topography!” came a swift and onerous demand with all the humanity of a gun shot over the head of a limping duck.

“A Wha . . ?” I thought, struggling to unhitch the compass from my sinning shoe as the spittle on Ms. Hickey’s lips bubbled to a froth and her cheeks blistered to baby-rash red. A stinging silence was broken only by the sound of Michele clawing through her jeans at a mildly wounded buttock. Then,  a resolute yet scarily constrained Ms. Hickey - like an executioner who had suddenly discovered their blade was blunt, interjected the nothingness. 
“Clew Bay, Colm Fahy . . . Clew Bay!” she quipped through her pinched lips.

My compass dropped to the ground with an unmistakable leaden clank. I think I muttered a faint agreement; something bumbling like 'oh, yeah'. I might as well have quacked.  
My punishment was an essay on Drumlin topography.  (For more on Drumlins, (if you are mad), do pay a visit to  http://www.geography-site.co.uk/pages/physical/glaciers/drum.html).  ‘And what’, you may ask, ‘has all this got to do with Rwanda?’

Rwanda, as the Belgians christened it, is the ‘Land of a Thousand Hills’ (Le Pays des Milles Collines). The global capital, potentially, of drumlin landcapes. Now there is an right old basket of eggs for you! The first person that came into my mind, when Vibeke, (the Danish colleague with whom I was boarding later in my journey), told me this, was none other than Ms. Hickey. And, I thought about her boots too, dusted in red soil and wondered had she been here.  Hunting maybe for recalcitrant teenagers? 
Rwanda, set high in the east African heartlands, is a tiny bumpy country of rich green vegetation, innumerable hills and valleys (despite what the Belgians say) and a rich sienna red soil. Its people (without wanting to understate a serious and pervasive poverty) eat relatively well on a land that - though overpopulated - yields bountiful crops of almost everything. Rwanda stands on a crossroads between several states of former Anglo and Franco colonial Africa and between multitudes of east African cultures making for a country (and a capital city, Kigali) that is a unique, exciting and vibrant and one of the more accessible and fast developing places of the region. In fact, Rwanda is a bit of an economic jewel in east Africa. Despite a tortuous history of colonisation, suppression and conflict it is now in a period of (relative) peace and stability. It has a long way to go, but in an African landscape so often shrouded in the fogs of war and hopelessness, there is ample reason to be hopeful for a bright future.

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It is difficult to escape mentioning Rwanda and genocide in the one sentence. Yet, despite the devastating failure of the international community to prevent a wholly avoidable catastrophe in April to July 1994, in which almost one million people were brutally slaughtered, Rwanda is recovering and the bright, friendly, inquisitive and welcoming nature of its peoples and tribes (for whom wholesale murder is an aberration and not a national characteristic) is once again beginning to shine through.
In 2003, I met a lady called Sandra who had survived the genocide. A tall elegant woman with slim facial features said to be characteristic of the Tutsi people. She invited me and my travelling colleague to her house for maracuja juice and conversation. She was only too delighted to engage with us, interested in our world and news of life, politics and culture from Europe; an opportunity to exchange ideas and debate development issues. She talked to us frankly and philosophically about her life, work and experiences while her niece and nephew, two shy teenagers with timid engaging smiles dressed in their Sunday best, sat politely; living evidence of the unthinkable depravity that had befallen them and which Sandra went on to recount.  Though their father (Sandra’s brother) had married a Hutu woman, rather than the fact affording a possibility of refuge during the 1994 blood-letting, the entire family was victimised. When the genocide began there was no escape. Both parents and nine of their eleven beautiful children perished. 
The older child, a girl of 18 by 2003, smiled shyly, her head bowed over her glass of juice, as Sandra went on to explain to us how her niece and her baby brother had survived. The eight year old girl strapped the infant boy to her back and ran into the corn fields as the rest of her family was being butchered.
‘It was a miracle escape’ Sandra proclaimed clasping her hands in a prayerful gesture at which point she then blessed herself.  The teenagers followed suit. For a moment there was silence. A small lamp flickered under a familiar picture of the Scared Heart of Jesus, reminding me of the tranquillity of my grandmother’s kitchen; another place of refuge for agonies of a world far removed from this kind of anguish.
The boy took the brunt of the machete blows to the back of his head as the little girl trundled forward into the undergrowth for safety. The thick long scars were evident along the nape of his neck. He survived five months in the forests. They both did.  A Miracle indeed as all that remained of the entire extended family, some thirty people, was this tightly knit group of three survivors.
With the help of UNICEF, Sandra found the surviving orphans in 1996 and had reared them since in her small homestead on the outskirts of Kigali.
“They are strong and beautiful” she beamed confidently, to which they lifted their heads slightly and smiled as only children who are loved can.
“And to talk is to heal”, she continued, striking her long slender fingers through the girl’s hair.
Sandra eventually snapped her glass on the table. She had to grab her bicycle to finish her afternoon duties as a  community nurse; cycling up to fifty kilometres every day except Sundays. As we went to leave, she lamented the lack of resources and facilities, but hoped that things would get better; there was so much to be done. We exchanged warm embraces.
“Things can only ever get better” Sandra said to us, holding both our hands tightly and walking us to her garden gate. I left humbled and wondered how we in the 'North' can ever be forgiven.
As in all post conflict societies, hurt is never far from the surface. The circumstances of my being in Rwanda were somewhat particular and enabled me to get in close contact with many local people.  Generally, though I would avoid talking politics unless you know what you are talking about and to whom you are talking. There also remain deep institutional suspicions in the security forces in Rwanda (this is not just a hangover from the 1994 conflict, but also stems from Rwanda's extended military interventions in neighbouring Congo and elsewhere) so, while the police are disciplined, keeping a low profile is advisable and this includes being discreet with taking photographs. 

A very fine portrayal of the 1994 Rwandan conflict is Terry George’s gripping film Hotel Rwanda (2004). A deeper insight and a very rewarding read into both the history of Rwanda and the genesis of the genocide is French-Canadian journalist Gil Courtemanche’s brilliant A Sunday by the Pool in Kigali (2000).
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Rwanda is not all war of course and, while the healing goes on, the genocide is now already nearly twenty years past. Kigali is now one of the safest cities in Africa and in the countryside crime is virtually unheard of. Except for regular mild earthquakes and more significant road traffic issues, Rwanda is especially attractive to foreign tourism for those who want to get into the sub-tropical heart of Africa and it is a great little country to start in. The first port of call will be the main entry point - Kigali. Here, highlights must be the covered Kimironko market on the eastern side of the city or the extraordinarily packed Nyabugogo Market where you can haggle for everything from a plastic bucket to a tractor tyre to an avocado and then some. And the locals love a good old chat. They tend to be tactile, so do not be shocked if they give you a good solid old pat on the shoulder or you find yourself stuck in a five minute hand shake. The women traders are great also for a good old bear hugs and, no, it is not a distraction to get at your wallet - that is done the traditional way - by driving  a hard bargain.  You will also be able to browse plenty of stalls selling excellent quality traditional masks, musicals instruments or even the very Rwandan Imigongo (cowpat art), (which to my mind gives Mark Rothko a run for his money).  One of my biggest regrets is that I did not have enough space to come away with a sample of this brilliant art work. Alas, another time perhaps.


My room at Jambo Beach, half a day’s drive north of Kigali, had a sample of Imigongo on the wall; just one of the many delights in this haven of tranquility on the banks of glorious Lake Muhazi.  There is in fact no beach, but that is no skin of the back of manager, Michael John (who opts for the anglicised name rather than Michel Jean (he is a local Franco-phone by birth). M.J., (which he also finds appealing), wants Jambo to have all the airs of a quality  Zanzibar style beach resort so, as he says, if that is what you are aspiring to, then why hold back (and who are we to argue with such a  notion in a land locked mountain state?).

This might be a perfect place to pitch your surfboard, were it not for the trifling issue of the absence of the sea.  However, the open air bar is a perfect spot to don your Rip Curl gear anyway and watch the blazing sun sink in a crimson sky. The bar gets lively in the evenings with a blend of dated euro pop and contemporary African rhythms and the locals are not shy to get down and gyrate with you either ('the locals' including several giant Crested Cranes which are the hotel’s mascots and free roaming pets (and the national bird, as it so happens). All that should be good enough for any beach bum! So, after a long day doing the beach thing Rwanda style, what a pleasure it is to retire to the individual traditional thatched hut with its completely modernised interior! Plastered painted walls, sparkling tiled floors, crisp white linen on comfy bed, tea and coffee facilities and hot shower and the whole delight is topped off with that special touch; M. J. himself personally delivering brekkie on a tray, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, like the ever so nosey Crested Crane who has followed him into the room! But then, this is a "beach resort" so why would that be an issue?

To cut matters short and spare you my ramblings here are my top tips for Rwanda.

1) Mountain Gorillas. . . please, if you must, only visit with legitimate tour operators. But are they not better left alone???

2) Public Transport . . . er, make a Will if you must. I strongly recommend car and driver hire rather that using public transport which is a very serious health hazard for travel in Rwanda.

3) Do not come to sub-tropical Africa looking for Mandarin Oriental style accommodation! Accommodation is mostly basic except for the three top-tier hotels in Kigali which will burst your bank account. But they are not real Rwanda anyway and put you at a distance from the unique experience of travelling in Africa. Smaller hotels and convents (often running B& B style inns around the country) provide perfectly adequate bases to stay, which are clean, secure and will give you a bed with a net, and a 'Bidon' of water to wash (showers tend to be a luxury in many places.  Do bring 'fresh wipes' if you bring nothing else, they are great for freshening up when water supply is limited).

4) Save your attitude. Try working all day in 100% humidity and 35 Celsius if you think Rwandans move too slowly. Many restaurants and eateries around the country (except pizzerias and tourist hot spots (like Kigali and Kivu) require a day's notice for dinner orders!

5) Look out for - groups of people chatting on the road in the pitch dark, astonishing lightening, traditional dancing, views across the Akegera plains, Imigongo Art, Mount Kivu volcano and lake, Crested Cranes eating off your plate, fresh charcoal grilled tilapia with boiled "Irish" potatoes (a real treat!).

6) Lose the perfume if you are unhappy being called 'Muzungo' (chemical man).

7) Bring a Torch and batteries.

8) Learn about Gacaca (prn; Ga-cha-cha) (the sometimes controversial traditional tribunals which have played a key part in Rwanda's recovery from the Genocide.

9) Do not eat in public.

10) If you can afford an extra €30 a day, hire a student translator from Kigali University. It will make your experience far richer. 

11) Recommended in Kigali: Hotel Umubano (Pricey european 4 star quality but a but out of town) or Alpha Palace (2 star level and perfectly adequate if you are not a princess). Outside Kigali: Jambo Beach (Lake Muhazi east of Kigali).  You can also get good basic and cheap accommodation  through many religious orders who run B&B style inns (with good home cooking!) around Rwanda and you will also be assisting income to orphanages and schools run by them if you choose this option!

If east Africa is a region you have thought of visiting, then Rwanda, for history, culture, art, music, food, but most of all its wonderfully friendly welcoming people, is I think, all told, the place you need to to start.