My kingdom for a decent map

Feb 18th

Didn’t do a blog yesterday because nothing really happened. Used the day to catch up on sleep, write blog, and do one of my school reports. One funny thing did happen – writing up the Gahogo school inspection and couldn’t for the life of me remember what the state of the buildings and grounds was. There’s been so much happened over the weekend it just escaped me. Fortunately the school’s within walking distance, so set off on foot and checked again. While I’m there, it’s just getting dark – 5.30ish – on Sunday evening. The school’s not fenced off, so there’s all and sundry walking through the site and lots of weenies playing there. Saw one of the classrooms open, so went to investigate. Inside there’s one girl, about 9 or 10, sitting at a desk working, and in her blue school uniform. Why? Why wear uniform on a Sunday? Why be in school at that time?….. Talk about putting herself in a vulnerable situation! I could have been anyone, and in the classroom she wouldn’t have been able to escape. Just illustrates how there’s a naivety that runs through the fabric of this country as well as the cruelty and goodness. It’s a funny old place.

Decided today (Monday) that Claude wouldn’t be in the office and after last week’s débacle where we inspected the wrong school, I simply had to get a map. So off at 7.00 on the matata to Butare. They put me in the front passenger seat, so I had a perfect view of the countryside. Morning mist in the valleys, low sun lighting everything golden. It was heaven. Loads of children going to school; every time the matata stopped to pick up people there were hordes of kids saw me and started the “muzungu, muzungu” chant, followed by “bonjour”, then “comment ça va” and finally “comment tu t’appelles?”. All the others on the bus were laughing at my expense, so I turned round and said to them that these three phrases are all the children seem to know, and I bet them that next time we saw children they would ask the same three things. And they did. The whole bus erupted again, this time laughing with me rather than at me.

At Butare went to the G I S office and ordered a big poster size map of the District. It’ll cost £10, but then it’s a luxury for me, and I can bring it home with me if Claude won’t fork out for it! I’ve specified I want secteurs, schools, roads, rivers and place names, but even at this professional level (GIS is a department of the National University of Rwanda at Butare) they can’t identify any individual school with its name – all they’ll do is mark an S where the school is. So we’re still going to have to rely on local knowledge, but at least we’ll know whether there are two schools close to each other. And I’ll gradually compile my own key to all the schools over the course of the year. That’s my personal challenge sorted!

I’d assumed they would print the map by the end of the day so I could take it home (after all, the data’s already on their computers; it’s just a question of telling the machine what to print), but no such luck. I’ve got to come back on Friday (or Monday), and I’ve got to pay for the thing at a bank and bring the bank paying in slip as proof that I’ve paid. One more triumph of customer service in Rwanda.

So having finished my day’s official business by half past nine, I wandered across the road to the National Museum of Rwanda and spent a couple of hours engrossed in the exhibits. Loads of agricultural implements, ancient clothing and musical instruments (drums of course, also flutes, primitive fiddles and whistles). But what Rwanda has long been good at is woven basketwork, whether for storing things or as waterproof clothing, or for housing. Centrepiece is a chief’s hut, rescued from decay and recreated down to the last detail by some of the few remaining craftsmen capable of such a big project. It is quite something. Everything – walls, roof, carpeting, bedding – is woven.

During the bus ride down I’d arranged to see Antonia, a vol based in Butare who works with deaf children as part of VSO’s big project on disability in Rwanda. (She’s the VSO who has lived in Netherbury). Had lunch with her and a good natter and put the world to rights. She has a house on a school site and it’s the first time I’ve been to one of these. (Tiga, Soraya and Épi all live on school sites, too). Antonia’s place is nothing from the outside – looks like a barrack block – but she’s made it really homely inside. She’s also blessed with a Domestique who’s a cracking cook! Rabbit casserole, anyone? And fresh fruit salad….. but nothing beats our Gitarama fruit salad to Janine’s recipe! Feels very funny, though, walking into and through a girl’s school, especially when they’re all out in their P E kit. Nobody challenged me; once again there’s this Rwandan naivety which assumes that all muzungus must be there for benign reasons.

By afternoon it was sweltering hot. I dived into the COPABA shop. This is a co-operative of artisans who produce the most tremendous artefacts. Baskets, wooden carvings, woven fabrics, batik – I could have bought half the shop. Instead I bought a couple of the lovely banana leaf greetings cards, one of a drummer which is perfect for Catherine, and the other with an African scene which will do for the next person I need to write to!

Mooched around the bits of Butare I hadn’t seen before – the University quarter, surprisingly utilitarian in appearance, and the market quarter, by far the liveliest part of the town. Butare is funny; it does have a huge number of students but feels very different from any English university town I’ve ever been to. I think it’s because so many of the students are older than ours – by the time you’ve fought your way through the school system here you’re likely to be in your early to mid twenties rather than eighteen. There’s also a far smaller proportion of women students than men; it’s one of the lingering effects of the submissive position of women in traditional Rwandan society. The government is making a determined go to increase the number of women at university, but it has way to go to reform the school system before anything dramatic happens!

By this time I was hot and bothered and tired. I nipped into the Lebanese supermarket and bought jam, honey, tea and ketchup (my staples) and treated myself to the expensive luxury of an express bus back to Gitarama.

Cooked our evening meal by torch and candle light; another damned power cut because another damned thunderstorm. Christi had given Tom a wodge of tortillas, so we fried up onions, garlic, potato, Rwandan celery (not like ours), and I cooked French beans, carrots and marrow. A dollop of grated cheese on top and we had a feast. Finished off with fruit salad (twice in one day!), and a slice of Pecan cake I’d bought in Kigali on Saturday.

Intended to write another Inspection report but after this lot we were too stuffed, so flaked out and early to bed.

Best thing about today – the bus ride to Butare. I wish I’d had a video camera mounted in the bus and could have filmed the whole run. All of you back at home would have been mesmerised by the views, the endless gardens, the people at the roadsides. And the chief’s hut in the museum was fab.
Worst thing about today – I stubbed a toe badly during the drunken orgy on Friday night and it’s been giving me hell today. Can barely walk. Thought it was broken at one stage, but it isn’t. I suppose several hours dancing on Friday after the injury can’t have done it much good, either!