On the razzle with head teachers

Feb 6th

Absolute stonker of a day today; brilliant and good fun. Sorry it’s a long entry!

Arrived at the D O knowing we had a sector meeting but not sure whether it was at Gitarama or up country. Faffed about for an hour while the place filled with primary heads; they all know who I am now and most of them greet me. Cathy’s preoccupied with getting her training weekends on the road, so we decide to work independently today.

Turns out the sector meeting is up country – only a few miles short of Ntungamo where we had the epic moto ride last week. Claude isn’t coming; he’s only just got back to the office after most of a week spent in Kigali sorting out placements at secondary schools, and he’s up to his eyeballs in paperwork and the queue of people waiting to see him is up to the front door by 8.00. So Innocent is sent in Claude’s place. This turns out to be a really inspired chance and helps make the day such a success. (While the cat’s away…..)

So nine of us pack into a matata and set off on the 2 hour run up the “great north road” in all its ruts, mud, puddles, bands of bumpy rock, dodgy bridges, stray goats, hordes of children who should all be in school but aren’t, endless men on bikes with outsize loads and women carrying ridiculously heavy things on their heads. In other words, Rwanda as usual.

In case I haven’t already said this, Rwanda as a country doesn’t seem to have discovered the use of beasts of burden. You see no horses, mules, donkeys. Everything is carried by people. I suppose it’s because beasts of burden would need feeding, and they’d rather use the ground to grow food for the people they’re so good at creating!

The atmosphere inside the bus is just like kids on a school trip; jokes, ribald teasing – except these people are the most senior primary heads in the district. I get included for as much of the time as they can be bothered to speak French.

After two hours of having my head hammered into the ceiling or bashed against a window we reach Ndago school, another one of these amazingly isolated places at the end of the road (literally). The last mile or so after the hamlet of Ndago is through a forest of eucalyptus, fragrant and appealing, but the track hasn’t seen a wheeled vehicle for a long time and is decidedly hairy in places with steep drops. Definitely not to be used after dark or in the rain….

The school is the usual mix of tired, scruffy buildings and dishevelled kids. Some are shoeless; nobody has anything better than the cheapest plastic sandals. This is a poor parish. A lot of the children look strained and gaunt; I wonder if they’re underfed.

We headteachers split into pairs and each pair goes into one particular lesson to inspect/review it. I’m paired with Etienne, the head at Ntungamo whose school I saw last week, and we make a good team! We go into a 6ième class. The teacher decides at the very last minute to switch from civics to teaching R E. It’s a bad move. He proceeds to deliver one of the worst lessons I’ve ever sat through. Didactic, boring, lists from the blackboard of the different kinds of book in the bible (historical, prophets etc). The children duly write it all down. The man can’t produce his R E scheme of work, or lesson plan, or any evidence of preparation. The class register is not up to date and only 38 of the 42 children’s names appear on the register. It’s patently clear he is struggling. There’s been no evidence of homework all term, and the only marking in any of the children’s books seems to have been done by themselves. I have to give him a grade “E” – “faible” – the lowest of all.

We all gather in a room and each pair of heads gives their verdict to the assembled teachers (by this time the children are off on their lunch break, except for the hundred or so who want to gather round the door and stare at all the visitors, especially the muzungu, and have to be shooed away at intervals). I explain my grade to the school, talk about the need for planning, for education to be more than lists, for classroom practise where the children are actively involved rather than passive recipients. It all gets nods from the other heads, so I know they’re getting into this and I’m not being unreasonable. I keep losing my technical French vocab and have to search around for paraphrases, but I get there in the end. After we finish Etienne takes the man aside and softens what I’ve said a bit, but I know he agrees with my decision. Peer inspection is a powerful tool for school improvement. This is the first time it has been tried in Muhanga district, and I’m sure it’s the way forward. (If for no other reason than it allows inspections to continue when the VSOs have gone).

We go back to the matata, parked on the rutted hillside which passes for playground at Ndago. No level ground; no water standpipe visible. The bus is surrounded by children as if it were a spaceship which had descended, and of course I’m the centre of attention. Most children and stand and stare, goggle eyed. They don’t dare speak. I try some English on them, but they don’t seem to understand. We do better in French. Eventually one bold soul reaches out and strokes the hairs on my arm, then I’m mobbed by others all wanting the same. Africans don’t have as much body hair as we do, and western men’s hairy arms are an endless source of fascination to Rwandans. I’d been warned about this in advance, but it still feels odd, as if I had suddenly turned into an orang outan.

I’m rescued by the headmistress who wades into the assembled kids (now around a hundred strong) and clears a safe space for us to leave. Ndago, like Ntungamo, is perched on a hilltop with fabulous views, but the clear and dewy morning air has gone and it is thick and thundery. It’s impossible to take any long range photos. By now it’s after two in the afternoon and everyone’s hungry. I’m starving; I’ve been up since half past five and haven’t had anything to eat since six. We bounce back through the eucalyptus to Ndago hamlet where there’s a bar. But the bar hasn’t got any meat, so the Heads give a snort of derision and tell the matata driver to go on. At one particular little log bridge the bus becomes jammed between logs and boulders. We all get out, get the ladies to sit where we need traction, and we men rock and push the bus to free it. We descend down to the local town of Nyabikenke with thunder crashing and rolling round the hills, and lightning erupting as we enter. The mayor is out in the main street, he greets us, and we pile out into the local bar.

I get through too many fanta tonics while most of the others – men and women alike – are downing the huge bottles of Primus beer. We wait for an hour, by which time the storm has well and truly reached us and its hammering down. I’m thinking “why the hell aren’t we getting out of here before the mud roads turn to skating rinks and we’re all marooned overnight?” I’m studying the raindrops dripping from the “bead curtain” at the edge of the bar. The ‘beads’ are actually beer bottle tops hammered round on themselves along lengths of wire. Etienne explains that nobody’s going anywhere until they’ve had their dinners. INSET in Rwanda hinges around the two concepts of a day’s pay and a free lunch. Nothing else – thunder, approaching darkness, English guests - matters.

I know my hands are filthy from dozens of dubious handshakes, so I get out my bottle of disinfectant gel. This causes great amusement and they all have to try it. Just when we’re all hygienic the waitress comes with a jug of hot water and we all carefully wash the disinfectant off our hands with (probably) tainted water…

Then the waitress comes in with three colossal plates of food – red hot, and with enough peppers in to remove your palate. There’s a few forks for the ladies and for wimps like me, but everyone piles into the food, mostly with hands. No question of individual plates; you attack the big dish from the spot nearest to you and work towards the centre. The goat is chewy, but the sauce with potatoes, green bananas and all manner of spices is wonderful. Meat bones pile up on the table and floor.

When we’ve finished, there’s more hot water and soap to clean our hands, then the usual ritual with toothpicks. Twelve Heads flicking bits of goat all over the table while chattering away like mad.

It’s turning into a great bonding session. They’re all happy because they like this idea of peer inspection and the fact that they’ve been trusted with some autonomy to get on with it. They like me because I can speak French with them. I get asked about my family, my school, about what things are like in England. How can I answer the latter? I’ve just been with these good people to a school at the end of the earth, with absolutely no facilities, yet which is trying to do all the same sorts of things we take for granted in our English schools.

Eventually the storm passes and we set off for Gitarama. Driving now is quite a challenge. We slide and slip downhill; we have trouble getting up some of the hills and seem to get very close to the steep drop. The air is washed clean, visibility is pin-sharp and I’m trying to take pictures of rice fields and coffee plantations against the constant jolting of the bus.

By the time we get back to Gitarama it’s pitch dark and we’re all tired out. Some of the heads are definitely sozzled, and at least one is immediately off to the Catholic University at Gitarama to attend her evening class. I stumble home, eternally grateful that Tom is home already and has got dinner made.

High point – everything; especially feeling “one of the gang” with the heads
Low point – Nothing, absolutely nothing. Today is absolutely everything I dreamed my time in Rwanda might be. Rock on!