Retreat

As I carried my now familiar bowl of cold water into a patch of sunlight for a strip wash I thought of The Hotel Inspector. What would she say about the place where I'd just spent the night? "Points to improve: first, build a road; then install electricity, and most importantly get the bathroom facilities sorted!"


I hesitated,  let's delete that last improvement. Standing naked surrounded by dancing swallowtail butterflies and turquoise and yellow birds in the early morning sun was...an experience to treasure, definitely a Unique Selling Point.  


The lake, which would eclipse any in the Lake District, was dotted with fisherman in paddle canoes, the light shimmered blue and the flora bright green. The Rwandan tourist industry had missed an opportunity. The Chinese road builders had not. It's pity they want to sell cheap goods, not great locations.


 Always helpful our Hotel Inspector might suggest this as a strapline for my lodging;


"Built in 1944, this charming missionary retreat house boasts bedroom views over Lake Kiva. Period furniture and fittings, a rich abundance of wildlife both inside and out add to the getting away from it feel, for this out of the ordinary location" 


This little gem was a precious discovery and its whereabouts, even if I knew them, remain secret. Hotel Inspector stay away.


After a pleasant interlude breakfasting by the lake, we retraced our steps, with all our luggage, to our abandoned and mechanic hungry car. The road to this delightful place, could at it's most favourable, be described as an unused bridleway, it was not an easy walk and impossible to drive. We'd left the Toyota on the edge of the Congo Nile Trail, an exotic and evocative name for a place that was even wilder than my imaginings.


We were to spend much of the day feeding our hungry car a variety of village mechanics, which it spit out in distaste. Held together by bits of wire and crank started by hand, the car  limped onward to Changugu. As the butterflies of the morning were replaced by flying mud, any notion of retreat was banished far from our minds. 


But to my surprise I was to have a retreat that night, a hotel had been booked for me.  Granted no running water, limited electricity, no flushing loo, but these seemed extravagances now.  A clean bed, on my own. Rest.

Road trip to Changugu

I was mistaken in thinking the long drive would allow time for chatting and snoozing. Our first stop was just a few metres away, in true African style we were collecting passengers. Two headmasters and a child (henceforth  known as "the children" ), squeezed into the back seat, along with their luggage.  It was never clear to me why they were joining us.


We stopped for lunch at a restaurant whose speciality was mushroom 'pottage'.  More importantly I was finally to get my first cup of Rwandan coffee.   "Drink Rwandan coffee for a better life"  is plastered on hoardings, but it is rarely offered in cafes and homes. In this region of coffee planations and paddy fields it finally gets to be a reality. Although delicious, it's flavour is tainted, as the coffee planations seem to bring poverty.  It was only a snapshot from a car window-  the sight of  a wooden bicycle,  children a little grubbier, the burdens balanced on  heads a little less nutritious - but I'm told it's true.


The only female amongst 4 males, 3 of whom were total strangers, was at times, a challenge.  I quickly learnt  what "short call" meant.  Peeing at the side of the road is commonplace, and I was to get used to it too.  Though I was a little less brazen than my fellow passengers. 


At Nyumgwe Forest, a National Park famed for its golden monkeys we entered the clouds. With no visibility and rock falls happening around us, the road suddenly gave way. Bouncing our way around the ravine edge was a white knuckle ride causing much hilarity.  "What do you call roads like this in England?" asked Emmanuel. I thought of the health and safety implications of keeping a road like this open and replied "We don"t", "we haven't anything like this in England".  It was, I have to add, thrilling; the cheating death, the rapid drop of the African night, the pouring rain. Thorpe Park could patent "The road through Nyumgwe Forest" as a new attraction. We didn't see any monkeys.


My amusement was soon to be quashed and instead of tolerating my travelling compainions I was only too thankful of their presence as we turned out of the Forest for the next leg of the journey.


At the checkpoint my rather weak French misinterpreted the policeman, I thought he was asking us to a party. His body language should have told me I was wrong. With a machine gun nuzzled against the car window he was demanding paperwork from Antoine, checking the lights - traffic patrol.  Nothing to be frightened of, but everyone was. Where were we going? What was I doing in Rwanda?  Where was I from?; the liturgy I was getting used to. 


With our already struggling Toyota jumping over rocks in the track and 35 km of Glastonburyeque mud, I began to wonder whether the better option might have been a party with our jolly policemen. At which point the car started to pour steam and refused to negotiate the knee deep sludge any longer. 


In the middle of a Chinese road construction project, on the edge of a lake, in tropical rain, surrounded by increasing numbers of roadmen, here I was, a woman alone in a country known for it's volatility. There wasn't one person in the world knew where i was, I didn't know where I was.  In actual fact I thought I was in my own disaster movie. I felt sick.


But you know what, those 4 men and "the children" took off their shoes, rolled up their trousers, borrowed spades from the roadmen and dug us out.  Not quite the AA, but heros none the less.

Day 9 Kigali Central

On reflection it was a mistake to wear white to catch the bus into the centre. Within minutes a fine dusting of red covered my clothes and hair. 


Kigali is a clean and ordered city, no rubbish, or dogs or vermin, but you can't escape the red earth, it's everywhere. Only the main roads are tarmaced and even they are covered in a fine coating of mud from the daily rains.


Determined to make the most of my free day I'd planned a solo trip into town. I asked Sandrine what she recommended I visit. After a few moments hesitation, "the supermarket", she said "Simba supermarket".  Along with most other busy British women, Tescos is my second home.  I did not, therefore, thrill to this suggestion.


With no street numbers, names or road signs and the absence of my trusty iphone this adventure was, maybe, foolhardy.  All I had to rely on was my innate ability to get lost, anywhere.


It is a small city of a million people and with moments of stepping of the bus I met someone I'd interviewed the day before. "Muraho, Muraho" and the ubiquitous hand shake. The bustling city centre seemed a surprisingly easy place to negotiate.


On every street corner and shop doorway men who might once have traded bananas or rice now profferred airtime cards.  Often in competition with each other. The yellow MTN Tshirts "mobile on the go" jostled  Tigo's blue  "express yourself" tabards, vying for custom.  The posses of young men did not look friendly, but both groups were doing a lively trade.


The tiny privately owned shops selling 'phones and other electrical equipment seemed only to be outnumbered by hairdressers.  


Not wishing to purchase either a 'phone, second hand toaster or have my hair cut I gravitated to the main tourist attraction.  The most expensive supermarket in Rwanda.


To enter this hallowed hall required an airport security check.  The only thing I didn't have to remove were my shoes.  I was scanned and frisked going in, but noticeably not on the way out.  Shoplifting is obviously not the greatest worry.


Piles of plastic shoes lay on the floor next to the meat counter.  Gimcracks and soap higgledy piggledy on the five aisles of shelving. Sweets and clothes and tins and bottles, a pound store really.  Nothing second hand was on sale and there was a toilet,  cafe and cash registers, so yes it was remarkable, in Rwanda.  


Noone in the supermarket had seen a credit card, so all I bought was water. It will be a while before the tourist trade will flourish here. 

Carrots

It's the carrot harvest in Rubayu region, at least one of them. Bags of carrots, as tall as a man, are being pushed on the back of  bicycles along road edge to the carrot market. The warm, wet climate and fertile, black volcanic soil produce up to four carrot harvests a year.  

Food is abundant, but represents cash for the growers, it's their only source of income. 

Markets set up on random plots of land don't seem to generate much custom, but it's the way produce is sold.  Depending on the region and time of year, inpromptu, single variety, vegetable sellers gather together and race out with their wares to any passing car, shouting and thrusting food in at the window. All shopping Rwandan style takes place like this, haggled, seasonal.  You eat what's on offer.

Tea and Coffee plantations operate more orderly methods, as these crops are for the export market. The workers shelter from the frequent downpours under specially built brick canopies. They get paid a wage, it's a reliable income.

The only vegetable not sold in the markets is "muzumgo" - white man's bean.  I didn't eat any in Rwanda, but then I wouldn't, I don't like runner beans

  

Day 8 Walk for Life

The exquisite physical balance which allows Rwandans to effortlessly carry logs, bags and baskets long distances on their heads, would be the envy of any student of yoga here in the West. In the rush to modernise Rwanda I fear governments and NGOs will ignore the things we can learn from a way of life which is all but extinct in Europe.  It might save the NHS a fortune.


The fashion for Bare Foot Running in the US and in Britain is as a direct result of injuries caused by modern 'sprung' trainers. The 'technique' has been rediscovered in remote parts of Africa. It's not rocket science,  Africans go on foot, because its the best way of getting about difficult terrain, they eat plain, unprocessed food because that's what they have and they run in bare feet, because that's all they have.. and they are the fastest in the world. Our bodies have evolved to give us the optimum tools to live in a world without cars, computers or candy.


Rwanda is an agrarian culture, the people work and live off the land.   Thomas Hardy's Wessex springs to mind, even the mud is reminiscent of Tess of the D'urbervilles.  It's a life of hard physical extremes, for sure, but chronic back, hip or knee pain is practically non existent. Without exception Rwandans look younger than their age, move fluidly and with an effortlessness that is more associated with catwalk than roadside. Their feet mould themselves over the mud, while we bounce and jump in the car giving making our spines sore.


Our 'comfortable' existence is tempered by pain of one sort or another, caused by our poor diet and lifestyles.  Of course not all Rwandans eat well, there is poor education about the nutritional benefits various food bring and there is hunger in some of the less fertile regions.  But the food was, until recently pesticide free, it still is all grown or reared in Rwanda and has very little added to it during the cooking process. The only fat is in unpasteurized milk and a little vegetable oil. I have never felt healthier, my body is in detox.


The obesity epidemic sweeping like a tidal wave through developed countries has left Rwandan untouched. Let's imagine a snapshot of some average Londoners and average Rwandans, which look healthier? No question, the Rwandans. 

School

The walls of the biology classroom had some charts hung on them, but there was very little else to indicate it was a science laboratory.  But I was the one about to have the education, and it didn't require teaching aids. 


Overhead a broken ceiling, smashed by soldiers searching for children hiding in the roof, remained unmended 18 years after the Genocide. Empty wooden desks and a blackboard reminded me it was the school holidays, despite the swarm of teenagers outside. I was on a tour of a school  with the Headmaster to learn about facilities and curriculum, when we were accosted by a soldier. 


My answers to the second interrogation of the day were getting better,  I remembered to use the word 'misssionary' and to hide my camera. The Headmaster was visible frightened and kept repeating "Missionary, missionary" "London, London" two words which have currency here. With 95% of the population active church goers, there is still much mission work going on. A concept I thought had all but died out, is alive and flourishing and accepted as normal.  It was easier to stomach the word than the gun, so I played along.


Three weeks previously, long after my visit had been arranged, the school had been requisitioned by the government for a compulsory 'citizenship' programme for teenagers. Under heavily armed guard these youngsters learned to be Rwandans rather than Hutus or tutsi, about the community work for the good of the country and implicitly that power comes through the gun. 


It doesn't matter how much biology, mathematics or chemistry you learn, if an enquiring mind is stamped out by the authorities, how can anyone become a good citizen?

Deepest Darkest Africa

It's hard to get anyone to say a bad word about the government.  A trip to the border with The Congo explains why.  The wooden shacks in The Congo shanty town clustered around the border post are in sharp contrast to the Rwandan tarmac , which ends abruptly at the barrier, turning into a sea of mud rather than a road on the other side. 


Keen to get a photograph of this stark contrast I hopped out of the car. "Is it OK to take a photo?" I asked my colleagues, their answer did not accord with that of the heavily armed soldiers, who quickly surrounded me.  I was interrogated by a well spoken and smartly dressed 'civilian', who with charm in his voice, forcibly grabbed my camera and deleted photographs. His eyes were as steely as the gun of his body guard, cocked towards me.  It was the beginning of a day that was to open my eyes to the darker side of Rwandan life.


Why, when the Democratic Republic of Congo is so rich with its abundant wealth of minerals, did it seem so much poorer, I asked Antoine.  "It's badly managed, it's corrupted" he replied.
I looked anew at the regular brick structures I was becoming familiar with, painted in the same earthen palette, the neat tea plantations and the blue and bright shiny corrugated iron roofs of the Rwandan landscape.  Here the government is in control, from the colour of the paint, to the planning regs. Dissent is not tolerated. It leads to a well regulated and ordered society, which I imagine, is preferable to the horrors of Genocide. 


The remains of the Hutu army are harboured by the Congo.  Living in dense tropical forests, they make insurgencies into Rwanda disturbing the fragile peace with continuing violence.  In Britain we prize individual freedoms, freedom of the press and free speech as rights to fight for.  Here violence breeds violence and the  'peace' is defended at all costs. What are a few photographs when your family has been hacked to death?


The darling of western governments Rwanda's regime is reluctant treat a white woman badly, I was lucky.  Others have been less fortunate, but then they are Rwandans. I imagine if I'd been imprisoned for asking too many questions and taking too many photographs you'd probably hear about it. Would the world's press even bother to report the story if the same happened to a Rwandan? No, they.., you.., you're not interested, its just another Banana Republic and not one you can buy nice clothes in.