Relaxing by Lake Kivu

July 6th

OK, so it was an interesting night. Farting, snoring virtually continuously (the other people in my dorm, but not me, you understand). People were getting up from about five o’clock onwards. Some were in pairs or threes; they woke each other up and then had conversations in normal speaking voices as if the rest of us, pretending to still be asleep under our blankets, didn’t exist. Then somebody turned the light on, and from then onwards it was a procession of doors banging or squeaking on their hinges as they swung open, and the loo being flushed all the time. Of course, the cistern had to whistle as it refilled…..

So you can understand why I finally gave in and got up myself at six o’clock – and on a Sunday – and I’m supposed to be on holiday. A nice cold shower to wake up, and then out in the early morning cool to go for a walk down to the beach. I’d arranged with Épi to give her a beep if I got up early, but Épi’s not a “mornings” girl and wisely stays in bed as late as possible. They’re obviously a far more refined and considerate bunch in the women’s room! And, of course, Épi gets woken every school day at 5.30 by the school bell, so when she’s got a chance to have a lie in undisturbed she really goes for it!

Even at just after seven o’clock the street outside our Guest House is jammed full of people making their way down to the Catholic Church for seven o’clock mass. Hundreds and hundreds of people. Also, by this time, the bands and choirs are starting to warm up in the Presbyterian Church next to our Guest House, ready for the nine o’clock service there. Central Gisenyi is not a place if you want a quiet Sunday morning!

I walk down to Lake Kivu because I’m hoping the air might be clearer this morning. When I get there, however, it’s just as thick and hazy as yesterday. There’s no chance of seeing the volcano, or the far shore of the lake, or almost anything further than a couple of miles away. The bats have come home to roost as it got light and are sleeping quietly. On the jetty a sports team is doing exercises and warm ups, and dozens of people are running or jogging under the palm trees along the prom. I just go for a fast walk and explored a few more streets – Gisenyi is divided into an upper (“native”) town and a lower (“European”) town like many places in Africa, and the lower part is really very pleasant. All the properties are well set back from the road and stand in mature gardens. There are flowers all over the place – more flowers in Gisenyi than anywhere else in the country, and well cared for. By contrast the “native” part is just like everywhere else in Rwanda – crowded, dirty, noisy, busy and smelly. But that’s the real Africa and it feels like home to me now!

By half past seven we’re just about the last people to get breakfasted and off, but we had planned for a nice lazy day today and we have all the time in the world to enjoy ourselves. We catch a matata to Rubona, which is the harbour for Gisenyi and lies about six kilometres away behind a headland. When Marisa and Stéphane came here in May they hired bikes and cycled to Rubona – not knowing there is a tremendous hill to negotiate. We are wiser and lazier and take the bus!

Like a fool I hadn’t thought to bring spare batteries for my camera, and to mark the event the batteries inside the thing are just about spent. However, it really is so murkey that anything except close-up shots are going to be a waste of time. Fortunately I have dozens of lovely pictures from Marisa’s visit, taken on a fresh, clear day, so I’m really lucky. I’ll make a selection to pass on to Épi, too. What tends to happen is that I spend the day wandering around and looking for the locations where Marisa and Stéphane have taken their pictures – it feels like déja vue and Épi keeps wondering why I get excited about this particular little kiosk or the view from this particular corner. Just wait till she sees the pictures!

Rubona is a little cove with a slipway; on some days there is a market by the waterside with small boats and canoes bringing people and produce from all around the lake side. But Sunday is church day rather than market day, and the only activity is a group of women loading what looks like charcoal onto a boat.

The harbour is dominated by the enormous brewery, the home of both Mutzig and Primus beer and surely one of the most profitable little corners in this entire country. Slotted in amongst the huts and banana groves, it looks really incongruous; a slice of Western capitalism in the middle of an agrarian landscape. The air smells of malt. Some of the effluent is pumped into the lake; the local fish are either the best fed in Rwanda or the tiddliest, depending on at what stage of the brewing process they’re fed! Everywhere there are wheelbarrows full of spent barley malt; some might even be used as the binder for making adobe semi-dur bricks for people’s houses. Just fancy that – your lounge built with the waste from the local brewery!

We walk along the waterside away from the shops and factory, and discover a truly delightful little corner. Most people are still in church; a sermon is getting fiercer and fiercer as we pass the building. Some boys have made kites out of old plastic bags and twine and they are flying well in the breeze from the lake. Two little girls have decorated their heads with garlands of flowers; they look absolutely angelic. An older girl is leading them in what looks like a wedding dance and they disappear into a patch of cow grass.

We pass some “European” buildings just left to decay – perhaps their owners did not survive 1994, or fled the country and have not decided whether it is safe enough to return. Dotted here and there is the new tourist face of Rubona with some beautiful hotels and restaurants just beginning to open up. Come now before it all gets spoilt!

So far the weather has held off, but there’s definitely rain in the air and we decide not to walk too much further in case we get caught in a storm. We stroll back to the centre of Rubona, then off in the opposite direction, through the brewery entrance, and up the opposite hill. More churches just turning out, and lots of pretty views back towards the harbour. Some children refer to us as “igiceri” – “rice grain”. Well, it makes a welcome change from the everlasting “muzungu”!

Back at the harbour we pile into a waiting matata – it had occurred to us that we might walk back to Gisenyi, but the hill’s too steep and we’re too hot and we’re getting pretty peckish, too. The road is very steep indeed, and the tarmac has been almost completely scuffed away by enormous brewery lorries as they scrabble for purchase on the slope.

As we enter Gisenyi we pass a small hydro station, generating flat out and throwing a plume of brown river water into the lake. The fish market and fish drying frames are empty, so there is also no odour of wilting fish! (I think this is the place from which most of the dried fish in our local markets originates).

While we’re eating lunch, in beautiful gardens in a very European style hotel and with ice cold beer (despite our vows of temperance after the Queen’s Birthday bash), it comes on to rain and we’re marooned in our little thatched hut until it finishes. Even this downpour fails to clear the air, though.

After lunch we are just mooching up a piece of road we haven’t yet explored, when Épi suddenly recognises an old, derelict hotel from a picture she has at home. She lived in Gisenyi until she was about six, and has vivid memories of some corners of the town. It’s quite eerie – she’ll suddenly say that she can remember a particular corner or that she knows she has been to this or that location before. We spend some time quartering the area around the old hotel to see if we can pinpoint where her house used to be. Most of the houses from that time are still standing. The problem, of course, is that she’s remembering with the eyes of a six year old, and a “big pile of rocks” in the garden – lumps of lava – is what would be a big pile to a six year old.
Try as we might, we can’t identify the exact house, but we must have walked past it because we’ve systematically explored every road and pathway within a couple of hundred yards of the hotel. Épi’s going to look at what few pictures she has left when she returns to Gishanda. It’s a very odd feeling for her – like exploring a past life – and for me it’s like a piece of detective work.

After all this excitement we work our way back to the beach. The “African” beach is busy, but we know that if we make any move to go into the water we’ll become the centre of attention. So we swallow our principles and head to the “European” beach at the Kivu Sun Hotel. At the hotel they’re nice as pie; there’s absolutely no problem in letting us in as non-residents. We prop up the bar, drinking iced latté and watching the men’s final live from Wimbledon. Eventually we tear ourselves away from the bar and plant ourselves on a couple of loungers right next to the lake.

Here we have a problem. Me being a total pillock with a head like a sieve, I’ve come all the way to Lake Kivu and left my bathers behind in Gitarama. I could swim, but it’d have to be in my underpants. Épi is wearing her costume, but has forgotten to bring any knickers to change into when she comes out of the water. And she’s still wearing her braids, which would take hours and hours to dry if they got wet. So we’re stuck by the edge of a lake full of warm water, in perfect weather, and wondering if Africa is ready for my pants yet. On balance, we decide it isn’t. And a wedding party has just arrived in all their finery to take loads of photos with the lake as a backdrop. So if I flaunt my Calvin Cleins too prominently it definitely won’t be appreciated! So we have a very British paddle and hope the water and sharp, gritty sand will at least exfoliate our feet for us.

We’ve spent so long lounging and debating whether to swim or not that by now the sun is setting fast. We leave the hotel and stroll along past the fish market for a mile or so (we’re both happy to do a lot of walking today because we both need the exercise). On the way back we stop at the “Bikini Tam Tam” bar (where do they get these names from?) and order drinks and food, sitting at our own little table right at the water’s edge, with waves practically lapping at our feet and a DJ playing good music in the background. I go to order food, and cause no end of confusion by mixing up “sambozas” with “sambasas”. Sambasasa are the little lake fish. The manager comes to check if we really did intend to eat four whole plates of fish…. The sambasas are just like whitebait – cooked in batter and with the heads removed. With chips they’re really excellent, and fresh from the lake, too. Out across the lake there’s a thunderstorm brewing up; we get a free lightshow from the lightning and also the odd shooting star thrown in as a bonus. Honestly, Rwanda doesn’t come much better than this – good food in an absolutely perfect setting.

We just make it back home before the storm arrives and all conversation is ruled out by the noise of rain on tin roofs.

The Bradt guide refers to Gisenyi in terms of “faded colonial languor” and we know exactly what that means. It’s a place where you can’t hurry. It’s just the right place to spend a lazy day, and you really do need to spend an entire day here without the pressure of having to arrive or depart. Gisenyi is where Cathie got married, and on both evenings we’ve passed other wedding groups. I find it difficult to think of anywhere in Rwanda which would be a better place for your wedding reception!

It’s been a great day; we’re both relaxed and at ease with Rwanda.

Escape to Gisenyi

July 5th

Off to Kigali on an early bus, determined to make the best of this weekend and make it a little holiday. I don’t know why, but I feel I need a break from Gitarama. The trouble is, at the moment everything seems stacked against Épi and I. Our pay cheques haven’t gone through yet so we’ve got little money; because of the uncertainties as to whether we could go or not, we haven’t booked into any accommodation and we now discover that this is the Rwandan equivalent of a British Bank Holiday weekend, when all hotels are likely to be full.

So I travel hopefully rather than with any certainty!

The bus drops me at Nyabogogo rather than the town centre, so I transfer straight up to the VSO office. None of the VSO staff are in the office, and Marisa’s on the computer, so straight away I can’t do any of the admin things I need – all I can do is return a couple of library books and free up some room in my backpack. I’ll have to do the admin on Monday when I know that there will be office staff around.

Then Épi arrives and we have a council of war. She’s tried to go to the bank this morning, but on top of everything else this week – two public holidays, Presidential visit, endless umuganda closures – apparently today is voting day for local elections and therefore most non-food business are closed – especially the banks.

We try ringing the various budget accommodation in Gisenyi – I will change some Euros and provided we’re not extravagant we’ll manage on my money until our pay finally goes through. Some places are listed in the guide book in glowing terms, but without phone numbers (what’s the use of listing a place if you can’t contact it?). The best choice, the Presbyterian Guest House, is fully booked till July 12th except for the dormitories. Épi and I both pull a face at the thought of Youth Hostel type beds! We try and try to find phone numbers for the other cheaper places – using the internet, texting colleagues like Cathie who know the area well). Nothing works. We discuss “plan B” – abandoning Gisenyi this weekend and going to visit one of the other volunteers such as Hester in Rusumo or George in Nyagatare. But we both really want to go to the lakeside, not the dry East.

Finally we have to swallow our pride and book ourselves into the dormitories. We daren’t travel all the way (3 hours) to Gisenyi and risk not having anywhere to sleep but the beach! I’m too old and Épi’s not that sort of girl…..

By now it’s late morning but our luck changes for the better. Back in the town centre I go to my usual forex place in the base of Kigali’s main mosque, but we find everything’s still shut because of the elections. There are hundreds of men and a few women hanging around everywhere waiting for things to re-open, but nobody dare lift the shutters on their shops until the police have given them the O K. However, the forex office I use is on the quiet side of the mosque, next to Mr Ali’s computer repair shop, and away from the direct gaze of police on the main street. And the lure of getting cash from a muzungu is simply irresistible. So the man immediately opens up for us; we’re ushered inside and the door closed behind us. Within 20 seconds I’ve changed my 50 Euros and we’re solvent for the weekend! Yay; that’s money and accommodation done; now to fix transport!

Transport turns out to be the easiest thing of all to fix. We get straight onto a big new bus which is leaving for Gisenyi, and though we’re very squashed in the back seats it’s heaps better than going in one of the small matatas. (Moral – when travelling on the bigger buses it pays to get there and claim your seat half an hour in advance and find a seat with legroom. Everywhere else is 4 to a row except the back seat which is 5 to a row – and on this occasion that includes 2 very beamy men)!

I’ve described the journey to Ruhengeri in my April 6th blog entry. For Épi it’s her first time north of Kigali, though, and she’s glued to the window. I discover that on one high stretch soon after Kigali I can see the Nyaborongo river down below us, and realise that those hills on the far left hand side must be the same hills that I crossed with Els last week to go to Nyabinoni. For me the road to Ruhengeri is just as beautiful second time round. I discover two nice waterfalls that for some reason I missed last time.

At a spot called Base we pull into a roadside café and everyone piles out. Now this also happened when I went to the volcanoes with Geert, and like fools we stayed in the bus, thinking that everyone else was alighting at this village. But now I’m wiser and I jump out with the rest, leaving Épi to guard our bags. With everyone else I pile into the shops, and get hot sambozas and cold mandazis for lunch. Other people have managed to buy brochettes and ibirayi which is quite impressive – I’ll have to try that when I come up with Teresa & co! So from Base to Ruhengeri, over the mountain pass and alongside the foaming rivers, we’re chomping our way through dinner with everyone else and scattering a layer of fatty crumbs on the floor of the bus.

I’ve been telling Épi that when we reach the summit of the pass we’ll have all the volcanoes lined up in front of us and that it’ll make a must-take photo. Oh dear, it turns out to be a mis-take photo. The air is so thick with dust and haze that you can’t see a single volcano. And it gets worse – even as we’re driving through Ruhengeri town and the volcanoes should be almost close enough to touch, they’re still lost in the haze. There’s just the faintest partial outline of lower slopes here and there. Épi’s so underwhelmed that she goes to sleep!

After Ruhengeri we’re both on new territory. The road is being rebuilt, and so varies from perfect new tarmac, as good as anything in England, to appallingly potholed old road which bangs and shakes the bus to pieces, and here and there the tarmac has been removed completely and we’re on earth. All along the side of the road there are hundreds of buildings daubed with big red crosses. There are buildings judged too close to the new road, or sub standard, and due for demolition. I have no idea whether their owners will be paid compensation; I suspect that many of these places were just thrown up illegally over the past years. Some look in quite good condition and are simply too close to the rebuilt road (twice as wide as its predecessor); others are awful dens and would probably fall down of their own accord in a year or two. Huge graders and rollers and tip up truck rattle past in clouds of choking dust. To keep the dust out everyone closes every single window in the bus. Then within a few minutes we’re all sweating in the heat and our legs are sticking to the plastic seat covers. Niiiiiice, I don’t think! Oh the joys of public transport in Africa!

The road crosses a massive lava field, with millions of lumps of clinkery lava dotted with potato patches. Every mile or so we climb up a little escarpment and then cross a basin. Each basin has its own settlement, getting poorer and less tropical looking as we climb. One basin is completely filled by a tea plantation which is really unexpected – the two main tea areas in Rwanda are in the south (Gasarenda) and the north (Byumba). This one in the north west is something I had no idea existed. And tea plantations are easy to spot – the leaves are such a vivid green: the kind of bright green you’d find in a child’s paint box. Here and there we pass huge, conical mountains with smooth, bare, very steep rock sides to them – I’m sure they’re old volcanic plugs where the ash and lava has been worn away. One in particular is bare for a couple of hundred feet and would make a really severe rock climbing challenge for a professional climber!

According to my guide book we pass a big remnant of virgin forest at Gishwati, but I looked for it and couldn’t identify it anywhere. Also, there’s the northern end of the “road to the end of the earth” from Gitarama which is supposed to join our main road midway between Ruhengeri and Gisenyi. If we passed it, then it most certainly wasn’t signposted! By this time we’re all travel weary and just want to arrive somewhere.

Eventually our road starts to drop down, and we realise that we’ve come over the edge of the western fault line and we’re descending into the rift valley. The road twists and turns and descends for mile after mile. At no point can you see Lake Kivu, or Nyiragongo volcano – visibility is limited by the haze to a couple of miles only.

At one place we pass a massive transit camp for returning refugees. It’s not on a hilltop like Gihembe and Kigeme, but it still manages to look squalid and unwelcoming. By contrast, there are also several orphanages dotted along the road. These are invariably run by religious groups with funding from overseas, and they always look tidy and efficient.

Eventually we roll into the town centre of Gisenyi. Now Gisenyi is the 5th largest town in Rwanda, but the middle of it is the dreariest, most soul-less place I’ve ever seen. I look at Épi and wonder what on earth I’ve brought her to. We’re barely off the bus before we’re accosted by beggars and moto drivers, hucksters and taxi-men.
It takes us quite a while to get our bearings from the map and find the Presbyterian Guest House, and by that time we’ve done virtually a circuit of the town centre, via the prison and hospital, and we’re hot and sticky. And it’s also not helped by the map in our guide book having transposed the Presbyterian Church with its guest house.

As we pass through the town we see the Gisenyi branch of BCR (Épi’s bank). The front is all screened off behind corrugated iron where it’s being rebuilt and it lookes completely shut. Our hearts sink to our boots. But no, there’s the obligatory guard with pump action shotgun who shows us down a side alley to where the bank is open for business in temporary rooms. And – joy of joys – during the day our pay checks have been processed. Épi’s solvent at last! You could power the town on her smile for the rest of the day! (She’s been so broke for the past week that she and Ghuidi have had to cut down on their food, and that’s not good for anyone).

When we do eventually find the Guest House and trudge through the gates we find it’s a cool, clean, leafy, shady, tidy place with a welcoming concierge who is fascinated with Épi. When Épi explains to her that she is half Rwandan and that the reason she has come is because she has family connections with this corner of the country, the concierge is chatting away nineteen to the dozen. As usual, she asks Épi if I’m her husband….. I suppose we do look an odd couple to everyone else, but we get along fine together and it makes travel more pleasant for both of us.

Our dorms are basic but clean – mine has around twelve bunk beds just like the old 1960s Youth Hostels, all squeaky springs and ex-army blankets. The African touch is provided by enormous mosquito nets, by a toilet which is working but missing its seat, and by a shower which runs cold water only and where both towel rail and clothes holder are perilously close to parting company with the walls! But they’ll do. We’ve both experienced far worse in our time, and it’s only for a couple of nights.

We mooch down to the lakeside. Kivu is calm as a millpond – there are no waves to speak of. Cormorants are drying their wings on rocks offshore. It’s far too hazy to see the far (Congolese) shore). Out in the middle of the bay is a structure which looks like a lighthouse. Épi reminds me that it’s the drilling rig where they are extracting methane gas from the lower parts of the lake.

Kivu is one of the highly dangerous African lakes which are vulnerable to limnic eruptions. Methane and carbon dioxide gas are seeping from volcanic rocks into the dense lower layers of its water. Because there are few currents in this lake, the water isn’t churned up very much. So the lowest layers of water are supercharged with millions of tons of these poisonous gases, prevented from rising to the surface and dispersing harmlessly by the weight of layers of water above them. If, however, something really disturbs and mixes the water layers – like a big volcanic eruption or a major earthquake – then there is a serious risk that all these billions of tons of gas will be released into the atmosphere. If that happens, the CO2 will float on the surface of the water and smother all life in all the towns around its shores. Unless we can pump out and use commercially a hell of a lot of methane! At present the methane being extracted is all being used by the Bralirwa brewery. So by drinking lots of beer we are making Rwanda a safer place to live………. Yeah, right!

Over to the left we can see the Gisenyi swimming beach, so we go to investigate. There is no promenade as such, but a shady road lined with hundreds of palm trees. It’s very relaxed and we immediately like the feel of this part of Gisenyi. Up in the tops of the palm trees we hear thousands of birds chirping. When we look up to try to identify the birds, however, we discover that they are bats not birds. Loads and loads of roosting bats. I suppose they’re not vampire bats….

The bathing beach is quite small and is divided into two sections. One is the public beach complete with smelly toilets, and foul looking swimming pool and a small jetty. Then there is a fence and hedge, patrolled by security guards. We are the only white people on this side. On the other side is the private beach with its sun loungers, showers, and the exclusive Kivu Sun hotel – probably the best hotel in Rwanda outside Kigali. On the private beach there is barely a black face except for the guards and waiters. Both Épi and I make the same comment – it’s just like pictures we’ve seen of 1960s Apartheid South Africa. And here it is in an independent African country….

We walk back the way we’ve come. In the distance we can see the outskirts of Goma, which means we’re within a mile of the border with Congo. We walk all the way to the border gate. Nobody challenges us; it’s, like, laid back to the nth degree. There’s a steady flow of cars and lorries across the border. Planes take off regularly from Goma airport; their flight path takes them right down the middle of the lake. Some of these Congolese jets are so badly maintained that they’re banned from Western airports, and only last month one crashed on the runway at Goma. I don’t think we’ll take a fun flight this afternoon!

This part of Goma is all new buildings; it looks far more up-market than Rwanda. This seems odd to me considering the degree of violence and unrest in Congo, but I suppose these opulent houses with their terraces and pools must be owned by the tiny number of super rich Congolese, and that being on the border is part of their security plans: if things get rough in the Congo they can be safely inside Rwanda in about 10 minutes!

On our stroll we’ve identified the “La Bella Motel”; it’s got a very good review in the Bradt guide and one of my motives for this weekend trip has been to reconnoitre a hotel for Teresa when she comes at the end of the month. We walk up and ask to see the rooms, and they look beautiful – huge rooms with lake view. And the restaurant comes highly recommended, too. So I make a provisional booking on the spot for August and we both know that if we have guests to take to Gisenyi, this is where we’ll take them. We decide to try the restaurant that evening (well, why not?), and dine on fresh tilapia from the lake.

There’s a gentle breeze from the lake but it’s neither too cold nor too windy to spoil a really lovely tropical evening. It feels a bit odd walking home from the posh hotel to spend the night in our cheap dormitories, but then we’re only paying just over £1 a night for our accommodation so we shouldn’t grumble, should we?

And so to bed, swapping my beautiful travel partner for a roomful of sweaty, snoring Africans………..

Best thing about today – well, more or less everything after we got lucky with booking the room. The day just got better and better. When we first arrived at Gisenyi I thought it was an awful dump and felt embarrassed for Épi. But the bit down by Lake Kivu is super.

Liberation Day in Gitarama

July 4th

Today is a Bank Holiday and the climax of a couple of weeks of frenzied preparations in Gitarama. Every tree in the town has had its trunk whitewashed. Every square inch of road has been swept. All tress have had their lower branches lopped lest a potential assassin lurk behind the foliage and take a suicidal pot shot at the Pres. All buses to and from Gitarama have been suspended for the duration – the whole town is under lockdown.

Last night we had thunder and some rain, but not really enough to lay the dust. The distant hills are still just as hazy as earlier in the week. What we need is a whole day’s steady rain. But it ain’t gonna happen ‘cos we’re well into the long dry season now!

From half past six there are pick up trucks with loudspeakers touring the streets exhorting us to do, well, we don’t know what because it’s all in rapid fire Kinyarwanda and so distorted as to be unintelligible. One of the pick-up trucks is the District vehicle and I can see Alphonse driving and some of my District colleagues smirking as they wake up the entire town.

By half past six the streets are full of people converging on the stadium. This is a far, far, bigger event than the Heroes’ Day parade in January. The whole country is coming to Gitarama. Tom’s FHI people were told they had to march, and to dress for the occasion (white shirt, tie, black trousers), have now been bumped off the parade because there are too many groups wanting to take part and FHI isn’t deemed important enough. (VSO never even got asked, but we expect to be ignored).

By seven o’clock we are off to collect Christi and Tu Chi. Ah, but the police have instigated a one-way system for traffic in the town (really good idea), and totally closed the road past Christi’s house to all pedestrians. We have to wait for half an hour before she arrives, and Tu Chi too. By this time the crowds are ridiculously long and we know it’s going to take for ever to get into the stadium. We wait, and wait, and wait. It’s well after nine o’clock before they even open the gates of the stadium. There is only one entrance for spectators, and everyone has to be frisked, especially those like us who have bags. In true Rwandan style, people form orderly queues, and then after a while decide to abandon the queues and just surge in the general direction of the stadium. Some police send them packing; others just stand and look on.

Several of our friends and VSOs from outside Gitarama arrive, some because they have partners who are involved in the parades and therefore have official invitations. After two hours the queue starts to move. By now it’s very hot and I’m wilting fast. For the next hour a steady stream of buses, army and police vehicle and private cars streams past our queue as the VIPs arrive. Many cars have CD plates, and we recognise the British Ambassador amongst others. The queue grinds to a total halt. It gets hotter and hotter, and I’m beginning to seriously wilt. My back is hurting after yesterday’s long journey. After more than three hours, during the last thirty minutes of which the queue hasn’t moved at all, I decide to give up. Several times we have been invited to jump the queue as muzungus and be ushered into the stadium, but Tom and Christi have Rwandan colleagues with them and are adamant they won’t be treated more favourably than the Rwandans. I can’t leave them to suffer and take advantage of my colour, so I’ve stayed too. But at one point I worry that I might actually pass out, and I’m certainly not going to give the Rwandans the spectacle of a muzungu falling into the dust. That would make me a talking point for ever.

So I go home. After all, I’ve seen the President already at close quarters, in January. And a military parade is a military parade wherever you are.

Back at the flat I wash out my fleece, clean some sticky pineapple juice off the floor, clean out my water filter, listen to music, read and generally take life easy. It’s deathly quiet all around; the hairdresser, like all shops, is firmly shut and without his music blaring, I can listen in peace to my laptop.

After the parade Tom and all the FHI people have been invited to a party, so I know he won’t be back till late afternoon. When he eventually arrives, I discover that the parade was nothing too special – lots of karate demonstrations (seen it, yawn, yawn), but no things which make me kick myself for having missed them.

Janine arrives late afternoon to clean the flat; once again she looks as if she’s just stepped out of a modelling catalogue. I retreat to my room and do my ironing while she cleans the lounge.

In the evening neither Tom nor I feel like cooking, and the fridge is virtually empty. Tom’ still full of tilapia and other goodies from the FHI party, so I go down to Tranquillité for a meal. While I’m there it rains again, but still not enough to really do anything but lay the top layer of dust and make it into a slippery paste under my feet.

So all in all it’s been a funny old day. The only good part has been watching the Rwandans as they cope (or don’t) with queues, officious officials, and interminable waits. In the queues, the worst offenders for barging in are the elderly women and young women with babies on their backs. The men are relatively orderly.

Next time there’s one of these compulsory events I’m either going to miss it completely (like Karen), or else I’m going to take full advantage of my muzungu status. I’m getting too old to be herded around like animals!

To the end of the earth (well, to Nyabinoni secteur)

July 3rd

Why do I always worry so much about things? I’ve slept badly, on the mattress on the lounge floor so that Els can use my bed. I’ve not been bothered my mozzies – it’s too dry for many of them to be around – but I feel as though I haven’t slept at all. Getting up at a quarter to five means I’m waking with the call to prayer from Gitarama mosque, so at least I’ve presumably got Allah rooting for me today!

Wellars and Damascène are ready bang on time at 6, and we set off on the Grand Adventure. Els’s boss has only just relented and let her and Marisa use motos to get around Bugasera district, and Els has no idea what’s facing her today in terms of terrain, or length of journey. Bugasera is much flatter than Muhanga, and we’ve got a minimum 3 hour journey ahead.

We’ve been going 40 minutes before the sun rises; it’s cool, the roads are clear and it’s that time when riding on a moto is the absolute best thing in all Rwanda. We have a minor panic just as we clear Gitarama. Workmen are replacing a culvert under the road. In England they’d do half the road at a time and use traffic lights to keep circulation flowing. Here in Muhanga they dig up the entire road, and all traffic has to find its way past the obstruction by using the verge, or through the roadside trees. It’s a hairy moment, and I feel sorry for a bunch of lorry drivers who are stuck for the foreseeable future until the works are done. Off the top of my head I can’t think of an alternate route either.

Now I’m expecting Wellars to go up the Nyaborongo valley, because on my map that seems the most reliable and likely route. However, Wellars has other ideas. We pass the Mushushiro turning, and then jump up onto the mountaintop road, the same one we used to go to Kibangu. This is very bumpy but I’m now sure is the most exciting drive in my entire District. We’re up at 7000 feet with morning mist in the valleys and the sun glowing red as it rises from endless rows of serrated hills. The air is far too dust filled for photography which is a pity. I’ve now travelled this route through dense fog, through heavy rain, and through thick dust haze. And it’s still absolutely amazingly beautiful. One day I must come up to Nyabinoni again, at the tail end of a rainy season when the air is washed clear. The road really does traverse the narrowest mountain crest. Every so often you find yourself at the edges of enormous drops down into valleys, the bases of which must be at least a thousand feet down. We pass the mine entrance I remember from last time. The road surface is totally different from then as well. Back in early June it was wet and slippery; today it is so dusty that our backs and rucksacks are covered in brown powder within minutes. Wellars has real trouble trying to get his bike up the steepest slopes, and from time to time Els and I have to get off the bikes and walk – that’s previously unheard of with these powerful machines!

A mile or so after the mine we get attacked by a wild dog. The damned thing won’t leave us, and we’re afraid it’ll bite our legs. Wild dogs in Rwanda are a very real rabies risk, and Wellars is definitely worried. We stop, on a slope so steep that he loses control of his bike and I get dumped onto my backside off the rear of it. Wellars takes out his embarrassment at dumping his passenger by slinging rocks and boulders at the dog which gets the message and slinks off. From time to time it turns and tries to creep up on us again, but we’re expecting that and hail the cur with stones until it gives up. Sorry, all you dog lovers, but if little poochie is a potential rabies carrier, then it kind of changes your attitudes to dogs!

Off we go along the ridge for mile after mile, past the charcoal makers and their huts; past endless old wheat sacks filled with charcoal, their ends plugged with wads of grass and bracken and tied with bracken stems as a string substitute. Past the neat stacks of sawn timber waiting collection and the makeshift sawyers’ frames alongside the track. Past potato fields (a sure sign in Rwanda that you’re up really high), and past fields of barley – the first I’ve seen here. There are pine plantations beside the track as well as the ubiquitous eucalypts, and the air is fragrant with resin from both types of tree. From time to time we have to dodge cattle along the track; their horns are extremely long and razor sharp and Wellars gives them a wide berth.

Despite this track being so high up, and with minimal habitation along it, we’re never out of sight of people walking along it. This man is a sawyer, balancing a huge saw on his head fore-and-aft, the vicious jagged teeth only just clearing his sandaled feet. Here are bunches of women clearly on the way to a market in one of the valleys; they face a descent of at least 500 feet on mountain tracks, all the while balancing huge tubs of tomatoes or manioc on their heads. Here’s a woman looking elegant in her robe, with baby on her back, a rucksack on her head, and holding an umbrella as sunshade, all the while walking with such nonchalance it takes your breath away.

Here’s a gang of men and women filling in ruts along our road; Els and I later find that just walking uphill with a rucksack is hard work at this altitude; these labourers are doing heavy manual work all day for about 60p. No wonder they lean on their shovels and stare as we pass!

Here are barefoot school children on their way to a school somewhere in one of the valleys below; despite the sharp stones on the track many are barefoot and they try to race us to keep up with us. Some of them, especially the girls, are carrying their shoes – they want to prevent them getting road dust all over them and will finally put shoes on when they get to school. Now just you try to find any logic in that!

We make a policy of waving to or greeting as many of the people we pass as we can; every single one acknowledges us and waves back.

We pass the track down to Kibangu, then a track to Nyabikenke. None of them are labelled, but Wellars knows I’m trying to get the hang of the landscape and points them out to me. From here on I’m on new ground. The ride isn’t as jolting as the valley road to Rongi, and the scenery is just so amazing it makes it worth any amount of pain. It’s so unfortunate that this particular ride is so long and expensive that I can only do it occasionally, and there’s no way any of my visitors from England would be able to cope with this amount of pillion travel. I quickly learn that on steep uphills I have to move my weight forward and snuggle against Wellars’ back, while on steep downhills I need to move as far back on the pillion as possible. Both of these are “unnatural” moves, and uncomfortable. The downhills are particularly hard on your spine, and where we cross rock ledges you feel every single bump and dent in the road, and get lifted airborne from the saddle. Its not travel for the faint hearted.

We come up to a primary school on a mountainside in the middle of nowhere, and I suddenly realise it looks familiar. Can’t be – I’m on new ground! But it IS familiar – it’s E P Burerabana, and we’re on the road to E P Kadehero. We’ve joined the route I came to by car on a recent head teachers’ “jolly”. I start to panic – has Wellars got it wrong after all, and is he taking me to Rongi instead of Nyabinoni? But no, we see the turning for Kadehero and go in the opposite direction. Phew! On the mountainside opposite I recognise the big swathe of virgin forest I saw here last time; it’s a pity I can’t point it out to Els. She looks uncomfortable on her bike, despite being lighter than me and so not getting so many heavy bumps!

Eventually we plunge down a ridiculous track – manically steep, strewn with razor sharp stones, and with tree roots corrugating the surface and throwing us up and down and left and right so we have to concentrate really hard to stay in the saddle.

And without any warning we come to a brand new – BRAND NEW – primary school. Brick walls, tin roof, concrete floors, glass in the windows, water cisterns (3 of them); new furniture, inside walls plastered and painted yellow, portable loos all in a line. My God, this can’t be right – we‘ve travelled to the ends of the earth and arrived at civilisation! The mood at the school is too subdued and confused, though – there’s an atmosphere. We soon discover that one of the staff died a few days ago and today is his funeral. They hadn’t wanted to cancel the training.

So Els and I get set up in a lovely classroom, one of the very best we’ve had. All it needs is a few power points and electric light and it would give some of your English primaries a run for their money!

The training goes very well. (Once again, why do I worry so much about things?!) We have a small group of only a dozen or so teachers. Nyabinoni has the least population of all my secteurs, and is actually losing population as people move from the hardships of mountain life to the cushy climes of Kigali and Gitarama. In the heat haze we can see the brown Nyaborongo river snaking down in the valley (although we’ve come a long way down the mountain, there’s a good thousand feet or so left to the floor). The weather is perfect – sunny but not burning hot; breezy without being windy. The teachers are young, several of the girls are extraordinarily pretty and I’m on to a good thing! They’re a happy, willing crowd, and it ends up one of the best trainings we’ve done. Isn’t it nice to end up 12 training sessions on a high! At the end I give them my usual little pep talk, telling them that as teachers they are some of the most important people in all Rwanda, and that they are working just as hard as their counterparts in England but coping with all sorts of extra pressures – huge classes, low pay, lack of resources, little training etc. I apologise for not having fought my way up to Nyabinoni before now, and say how much I sympathise with their isolation. It clearly is the right thing to say, and I know I’ve made some friends.

One thing I’ve definitely decided. Whatever the cost or hardships, I really am going to get up here for a block of time and make these little schools in Nyabinoni feel wanted and loved. There are three problems – getting there in the first place, finding somewhere to stay, and getting from school to school once I’m there. It suddenly occurs to me that the secondary schools here have boarders; I bet if I ask the right people I can scrounge accommodation and food in one of the schools. There must be somebody local with a moto who I can hire to get from one school to another, and if I’m staying locally then they are bound to be able to help me out with that. And as for getting up north in the first place, I’m sure there must either be a weekly taxibus (matata) or a vehicle from another NGO which makes the run. If only Claude and the District staff were more forthcoming I could get a week’s visit sorted inside a day! And so much cheaper than a day trip by moto!

Having finished our training Els and I begin the three hour trek home. The slope up the mountain out of Nyabinoni is so steep that we have to walk some of it, much to the amusement of local farmers and a policeman who are making the same trek. They’re nice, pleasant people; they are genuinely astonished to see muzungus on foot. But just walking a few hundred yards up the mountainside, with rucksack, bag of materials, helmet and fleece leaves us both panting!

Back at Gitarama we realise we are plastered from head to toe in brown dust from the road. Els grabs a quick shower while I beat some of the dust out of her clothes on the balcony. Then I have a scrub – the drainwater is chocolate coloured. My fleece is unusable until it can be washed; my rucksack has changed colour completely!

When we surface, we discover that there has been a last minute umuganda in Gitarama to prepare for the Presidential visit tomorrow. All shops are shut, and, worse, the bus station is completely closed with nothing running at all. This is disastrous. Els is supposed to be hot footing it to Gikongoro, to Tiga’s. It’s three hours to Gikongoro, and by now (5 o’clock) it’s crucial that she gets a through bus. If she tries to change at Butare, she’ll find the last connection has already left. We wait a while, but it becomes clear we’ve been beaten by this blasted last-minute umuganda. Els decides to go back to Kigali and sleep on someone’s spare bed there; she’ll not be able to get her hair done but will be able to travel to Kibuye for the girlie weekend without getting caught up in the complete shut down of traffic which will happen tomorrow morning here in Gitarama. I see her off on the bus, and then phone Épi. My own travel arrangements are also in chaos.

It gets worse. Épi hasn’t had her pay cheque; she’s arrived in Kigali expecting to get her money and stay in a guest house. Without any money she’ll be unable to go to Gisenyi with me. We decide that I’ll bow to the inevitable and stay in Gitarama until the Presidential visit is over. I’ll come up to Kigali early on Saturday morning and change my last big Euro note at a Forex to give us cash until the banks finally get their fingers out. Épi announces that she’s not required in school on Monday (why on earth didn’t she tell me before), so we can go to Gisenyi on Saturday and come back Monday. I ask her to try to book us in somewhere – she is Francophone after all, and it’ll be more reliable if she makes the bookings instead of me.

Finally, Tom and I cobble up something to eat, but by half past eight I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open. What sort of wuss goes to be at half past eight?

Best thing about today – everything about the trip to Nyabinoni.

Worst things – umuganda, inefficient banks, lack of matatas when you want them.

But hey, I’ve been to the farthest north of my secteurs, led a training session, and made new friends. Cool, or what?

Mending fences

July 2nd

This morning I race around like a madman. Up to the Post Office, but no mail or newspaper for either Tom or me. Into the Office to drop off one lot of school papers and collect another – if I’ve got any time to do academic work today I’m going to do it at home. To the bank to get some extra money changed for the weekend. Once again, an enormous queue and no extra cashiers. It’s too bad that – they know full well that in a week with two bank holidays, the remaining days are going to be manic. It’s poor customer service, and even the Rwandans, so patient and docile in any official situation, are getting fed up. One worrying thing is that my next pay cheque still hasn’t come through – and we’re already into July and it was supposed to have been transferred on June 26th. That’s a whole week to make a simple computer transfer of funds. Does electricity flow more slowly in this country? Or is the cashier responsible on his annual leave and nobody has been delegated to fill his place during his absence. Grrrrrrrh!

I stop in at the internet café to send an email to Teresa and check mail. But the latest virus on my laptop is preventing me from getting online. (Thank you, Védaste!). Even though I try two internet places I get the same lack of result. Curses – I’ll not be able to blog or do any sense with emails until I can get my laptop fixed, and that will have to wait until next week. I have to descend to the last resort solution – use my flash disk and plug it into an internet café computer. With so many viruses around I suppose another one won’t do much extra harm. And because I’m having difficulties, Jean-Baptiste in the café – I’ve used it so much we’re on Christian name terms now – lets me use the master machine with its own built in virus checker. Emails duly checked, but I can’t post my blog diary. I’ve been contacted by a potential VSO at Nyamasheke. Nyamasheke’s in the Western province – he’ll be the first VSO in the West, and very isolated. Tiga was offered this post but turned it down because there was no allowance for transport in a primary liaison role which requires the volunteer to travel from school to school. So this potential volunteer is asking all the wrong but predictable questions, and I’ll send him a reply in due course. But what can I say about transport – don’t even think of going there because VSO won’t give you the means to get around, or do go there but make loud noises about how you’re supposed to do your job?

A quick flick through the market to buy veg, and to the bakery to get hot sambozas, cold mandazis and loads of bread rolls. Athanasie looks at me very odd in the bakery – why this big order? – so I explain I’m having a reunion of muzungus and I want them to try her nice bread. Flattery, flattery….

And what reunion indeed? - a District Education Officer’s meeting (VSO) at my flat, and I’m trying to mend some bridges after the debacle surrounding the Nyanza training day. Mans decided that I’m the midway point between Kersti in the far north and him in the far south, hence the decision to meet chez moi. I don’t mind, it’ll be nice to host people like Mans and Ken who have been very kind to me but have never been to the Gitarama Hilton!

As it happens, there are only five of us able to make it, and most of them are delayed by transport problems. I lay on a good lunch – hot sambozas, and our latest tomato base which, I have to admit, tastes pretty good, and lashings of hot bread. Nobody is expecting to be fed, and everyone ends up in a good mood.

The chaos over the cancelled training is finally explained when it turns out that the crucial text I acted on - from “K”, saying that K was on holiday and who was doing the training - turns out to have come from Kersti rather than Ken. So my reply, to K, went also to Kersti, and not Ken as I thought, and that became the basis of the whole confusion.

Everyone can laugh about it now, but there’s a small financial loss which we’ll bury in our accounting. All the materials which had been bought will be used at future events.

Marisa is at the meeting; she’s really seriously short of money, and because she finishes at the end of August she is going to be tight for the rest of her time here.

And Kersti drops a bombshell – she is leaving VSO at the end of the summer and going to work for the American School in Kigali. The pay is several times better than with VSO, and she will have already worked a couple of years here, so she’s done her time. And, of course, it’s an open ended contract with the American School so she’ll be able to stay permanently in Kigali with her boyfriend instead of weekend commuting to and from Byumba. Unfortunately the car which they’re buying is still stuck in Dar es Salaam waiting for someone to collect it and sort out all the paperwork. And somehow it has collected a big dent in it during transit from Dubai. Nick and Kersti aren’t too chuffed about that!

Her other exciting news is that they have been successful in their offer for the house which Nick is renting. So they’ve bought a crummy bungalow, but on a big plot in one of the most prime locations in Kigali – close to the government and diplomatic quarter, and also with fast access to the town centre and entertainment district. Good for Kersti; she’s a nice girl and I’m glad things are working out so well for her. All they need now is a legacy so they can demolish the bungalow and build a nice western-style place on the same site!

By mid afternoon we’ve caught up on each others’ gossip, and rearranged our training dates. A good job done, and I’m feeling very relieved.

I’ve barely got time to do the washing up before my evening guests arrive. First Els, coming down from Nyamata to help me with my final primary training day tomorrow. There’s a girlie weekend at Kibuye coming up, and helping me is no hardship for her because she’s on her way down to Gikongoro to see Tiga and get her hair braided in the refugee camp ready for the weekend. Unfortunately Tiga’s ill again, and we think it may be a recurrence of malaria. Not good news for the girls.

I’ve just got Els installed when Tu Chi arrives with a loaf of bread, a pineapple, and her laptop. I’ve arranged for her to come and copy as much of my music as she wants because she’s leaving Gitarama for Butare at the weekend, and we won’t necessarily see her again before she leaves Rwanda and flies back to Harvard. Tu Chi enjoys cooking, so we use my final batch of tomato base but completely transform it by adding fresh pineapple, and a liberal splash of marmite. It changes the whole concoction from a Mediterranean into a sweet-and-sour sauce, and goes very well with our remaining veg. And fresh pineapple for pud comes in handy, too! Both Tu Chi and Els are fed up with eating mélange time and time again in guest houses or on training courses, so the Gitarama Hilton becomes the Gitarama restaurant and everyone’s happy.

During the day I’ve managed to text and get a reply from Wellars the moto man – no mean feat because his French is almost as bad as my Kinyarwanda and I’m never 100% sure he’s understood what I’ve asked him or vice versa. But Wellars confirms there’s 2 motos ready to take us up north on our grand adventure to Nyabinoni tomorrow, and the price is agreed even tough it’s extortionate – to transport the two of us for one day will use up an entire month’s transport allowance for me. Even better, he reckons we needn’t set off till 6 in the morning, which gives Els and I an extra half hour’s sleep.

While Tu Chi’s copying music and talking shop with Tom, Els and I spend an hour going over exactly what we’re doing at tomorrow’s training. I’m quite nervous because it’s the first time I’ve done training without Cathie holding my hand; it’s the first time I’ll have been in charge, and it’s the first time I’ve worked with Els, who will not know exactly how to finesse these things! So no pressure then…..

Early to bed tonight because even with a six o’clock start, I’ll need to be up at a quarter to five to get all my bits and pieces together.

Best thing about today – getting the District Officers back on track and acting as one

Worst thing – bloody computer viruses! And where’s my pay cheque? I’m beginning to think Tiga had the right idea when she insisted on only putting the barest minimum of her first three month’s money into the bank to keep the account open, and kept all the rest of her money hidden in her house. Smart girl, that one!

Bruceyv the exam detective....

June 30th

I decide to get busy and spend the entire day looking at Tronc Commun (key stage 3) results in my District schools last year. This rapidly becomes a detective exercise. It just shows how arcane the Rwandan education system is. Children do public exams at the end of Tronc Commun, in Maths, French, Kinya-rwanda, English, Physics, Chemistry, Geography, History and Biology. These are all marked with letter grades such as D+ or B-. But the overall grade is a numerical one, ranging from 9.9 for genius level (only 1 of these in the District) to 0.4 for someone who doesn’t know what day of the week it is. However, there is some complicated weighting system in use, and try as I might I can’t work out how they’ve transferred marks from letter to numbers. I know that Chemistry has been weighted heavier than Maths (OK, but why Chemistry?), but even the weighting system doesn’t seem consistent. Neither Claude, nor anyone else in the office, nor any of the secteur reps who breeze in from time to time during the day can explain it to me. Eventually I decide to make up my own scoring system – you can’t cope with letter grades if you’re doing statistical analysis. As long as I’m consistent within my own work then I’ll be able to compare subjects within a school, and between schools.

What all this is trying to do (apart from keep me busy during a long period of down time) is to see how effective the secondaries are at teaching both as complete schools and as subjects within schools.

And I straight away find that at Rongi secondary school, out in the wilds, the most successful subject at Tronc Commun is English. Yet at primary school level you find that English is almost invariably the worst taught subject and with the poorest results. I feel as though I’m opening a Pandora’s Box here, and that all sorts of murky issues are bubbling up to the surface. Something’s awry with Kinyarwanda teaching at Rongi because the marks are all a grade or so lower than for other subjects.

And the pass rate at my secondary schools ranges from 80% (private, Catholic, boys only) to about 8% (private, girls only).

Eventually I’ll be able to produce charts and graphs for every one of these schools to show their strengths and weaknesses. Nobody has time to do this at the moment, and in particular while secondary schools presumably do some sort of analysis of their own strengths and weaknesses, they don’t have the means to compare themselves with others locally, especially at subject level. In other words, it may well be that one of the differences I can make as a volunteer is to let, say, a Chemistry teacher in a weak school know where the strong chemistry departments are, and facilitate some visits or mentoring between the two places.

Tom and I both work a long day today; we both get back home tired and neither of us has been to the market to buy food. We ransack the fridge and food cupboard and get to work on a tin of pilchards, a small tin of baked beans and a tin of tomato paste. Mix these up and add curry powder and you get a surprisingly effective fish curry. Add turmeric rice and a mixture of cabbage and celery and we end up with a really pleasant meal. As we seem to be on a roll we even have pudding (rare for us) – a stale mandazi, sliced in hot custard and served with lashings of jam. Fab!

Live Music in Gitarama - or not!

June 28-29th

A slow weekend in Gitarama. I’m pleased I’m not travelling anywhere, and for once it’s rather nice to slob around Gitarama all the time. In fact, it turns out I rarely go out of the flat all weekend except to eat in the evenings.

The bands which were supposed to be playing on Friday night didn’t – apparently there was some trouble over work permits and the local police refused them permission to perform. So they postponed a day to Saturday. And on Saturday night a whole gang of us, plus some of the young Americans building the orphanage, all turn up to see them.

Bands – what bands? It turns out to be dire. Just a few wannabees lip-synching to records, played at such deafening volume that I was sticking tissues in my ears to reduce the damage. The Gitarama “nightclub” is a concrete and brick box within which the sounds just echoes and reverberates. It’s like sitting inside a large amplifier. The best thing about the whole evening is when some of the Rwandans gate crash the stage and do their own dancing – some of the men are far, far better than the “acts”. And it isn’t cheap either – RwF1500 is half a week’s wages for most people here.

On Saturday afternoon I try my hand at making flapjack in our makeshift oven. I haven’t got the quantities quite right – too much oats and too little honey, but it’s certainly edible and we’ll be back for more.

Tom’s got another young FHI intern with him, a stunningly beautiful Vietnamese-American. She’s bright as a button, educated at Harvard, and fun to be around. She comes to the usual Sunday night muzungu supper with us; and there’s a couple who were here as FHI workers seven years ago, but are back for he girl to do her Master’s Degree research. They’re working in Cyeza secteur, so are interested in what’s happening in the Cyeza schools at the moment.

Not much else to report. I’ve done some work on last year’s primary results to justify my idleness this week, and will try to get to grips with the arcane maze that is the Tronc Commun scoring system next week. Otherwise I’ve got a long spell of “down time” in front of me. I’m doing a lot of reading and getting caught up on some of the videos waiting in my bedroom. “Fawlty Towers” seems even more surreal when there’s the whole Africa walking past our window while I watch it…

The momentum is really building up for the President’s visit next Friday fro Liberation day. Each morning there’s about ten lorry-loads of soldiers clattering past our flat on their way to the stadium to rehearse. There’s also a big police presence. Both police and army have their marching bands, playing that martial music in ridiculously fast double-time that’s almost impossible to march to except for one goose-stepping circuit of an area. Outside the big stadium (where, as usual, it’s all going to happen) they’ve put up lots of army tents. The soldiers sprawl in the dust and leer at all the women walking past, but they’re pleasant and respectful by and large to the muzungus.

Poor old Tom – he was taking somebody to the flat area behind the stadium where everyone goes to learn how to ride a moped. Unfortunately there were so many police present that it wasn’t exactly the best place in Rwanda to be cavorting around with learner drivers on mopeds, so he had to cancel rather hurriedly!

All the buildings under construction are shielded behind corrugated iron or canvas, and the iron is plastered with banners celebrating everything from savings banks to boy scouts. (I’ve never seen a single boy scout here in 6 months. I only know they exist in Rwanda because a couple of the catholic schools list them in their clubs and societies).

It’s getting very hot now around mid day. The sky is that intense pale blue which indicates real heat. The ground is parched, and we desperately need a good storm to dampen down all the dust. Everything is turning browny-orange as it gets covered with a layer of dust as fine as talc. The plant leaves are going brown; so are the buildings, the cars, and especially our feet when we walk up the earth roads. Even the hills just behind Gitarama and half hidden in a dust haze by mid-day, and I can’t remember when I last saw any of the distant horizons.

Best this about this weekend – just resting and not feeling under pressure