Rutarabana - a school deep in the wilds!

Feb 28th

Firstly off to the bank to draw out vast sums ready for the foray to Akagera. So queue for fifteen minutes while the cashier wanders off somewhere in the bowels of the bank to get more money. As if there weren’t another three people sitting at computers, quite obviously bored, who couldn’t have done that.

Then up to Electrogaz, the state monopoly, to put a large sum onto our new electricity meter. Their place is even more farcical, with just a tiny service counter and about twenty people all crushing in to pay their bills or complain about things. The woman behind the desk cruises her leisurely way through proceedings; everything is written out by hand, checked, stamped, stapled and taken across the room to a tray before dealing with the next person. Why, in these places, are there always loads of people hidden in back offices who wander in from time to time, look astonished at the number of people queuing for service, and then walk off and leave us to it. Verily, customer service has yet to hit Rwanda!

Eventually I’m done, then up to the Post Office. Hey Presto – there’s a letter from Dad and a parcel from Ruth, birthday stuff and some photos of Dylan. That more than makes up for all the queuing.

Spend the morning sorting out stuff with Cathie and presenting my report on Gatenzi.
After lunch we’re off to inspect Rutarabana primary. This trip turns into a hilarious farce before we’ve gone more than a hundred yards. Our motos are two of the low-powered jobs and even the little hill behind our house means we’re down to walking pace and the driver is walking us up the hill. We roar down the back streets of Gitarama, past the big stadium and down a track with huge rain gulleys through it and a slope so steep that I soon realise this bike’s brakes aren’t holding us. We beep at anything and everything to get out of the way. I curse that I haven’t done up my helmet tightly. As it is, I’m not wearing my glasses so I’m only seeing things hazily.

At the bottom of the hill Cathie’s driver manages the right turn; we can’t and fly straight on until we come to a halt just past a muddy puddle. As the driver shunts the bike back and forth to turn it, he manages to dump me off the rear seat onto my backside in the dust. A whole posse of children and adults yell with glee at the muzungu plonked into the road.

On we go, now through a valley bottom where dozens of people are digging clay for bricks. Kilns are smoking through the trees; it’s a little industrial quarter and I had no idea it existed. I must go back one morning and take some photos. This isn’t a proper road we’re following but a footpath. (The moto drivers’ idea of a short cut). Every so often there are plank bridges so flimsy we get off the bikes and wheel them gingerly across.

The next part of the journey is uphill. At every little steep part we grind to a halt and have to walk along beside the moto. Some ride, this! The drivers are desperately unsure if they’re going the right way; we’re in deep countryside and there’s no sign of a school anywhere. After a bit we nearly run down two Rwandan nuns as we try to cross another bridge; they confirm we’re going the right way. (If in doubt, ask a nun. There’s always a chance they’ll be prepared to admit if they don’t know where to send you)!

Now we’re deep in eucalyptus woods; it’s turning into a beautiful “balade en moto” but we’ve got to be at this damn school by two o’clock. We need to find it. We struggle unceremoniously into a small hamlet at walking pace and get disapproving stares from a Gacaca court in full session alongside the road. Talk about picking the wrong time to ride through their little place… The judges are wearing their sashes in the national colours and sitting beneath sunshades as a flag curls above them. A considerable crowd of villagers is sitting in the full sun in total silence. It looks serious and dignified and we’re definitely out of place. We beat it!

A couple of further miles and a million jolting bumps later we fly down the last hill to the school – this one’s in a valley bottom. The drivers switch off their engines and we coast into the school yard, trying to arrive discreetly. Then Cathie’s phone rings loudly and announces our arrival to the world. It’s the end of lunchtime, and within seconds we’re surrounded by – literally – several hundred children. We’re rescued by the Headmaster, Dieudonné (means God-given, a splendidly appropriate name for a Catholic school leader), who wades into the throng and sends them scattering like marbles. Good; he’s expecting us and all’s well.

We do the usual things so I won’t repeat myself. Save to say that the physical fabric of this place is the worst so far. One classroom has its roof in such a parlous state that they can’t use it. The class is being taught outside under a tree, with many children exposed to full sun. Most other rooms have holes in the ceiling where you can see daylight. What do they do during one of these tropical downpours? The Head’s office is full of new desks which for some reason are not usable. He has nowhere to work or receive us, so a second class is dumped outside under the trees while he talks to us. (Fortunately this school has a big site and has been planting eucalypts to increase the amount of shade). The floors of the rooms are cement, the walls are in “semi-dur” and the roofs…… the beams are tree branches with bark still on them. Across these are hundreds of bamboo stalks, tied in places with string to the beams. Above the beams are clay tiles, but these have shifted over the years or perhaps with earthquakes and there are massive gaps. Many roof beams are coming apart so that the struts which should be weight bearing have become purely decorative features. I’m so amazed I take some photos. I wouldn’t want to be in this place if there’s another big quake.

We observe the usual carefully prepared lesson which doesn’t really show us anything. Cathie tries a model lesson, but all the school staff want to come in and see it, so every other child except for this one class has been left unsupervised. So, of course, they all – 600 plus of them - crowd to the door and windows to see what the muzungus are doing. They chatter loudly and we find it really difficult to work.

Then, finally, we have another of these “pearls of wisdom” sessions where the Head assembles the entire staff formally to listen to our comments, and enable his people to ask questions. We’re given Fanta and lumps of fried bread dough (called “kek” in Kinya-rwanda – i.e. cake), and Dieudonné says a grace which lasts three minutes. You’d have thought I was the Bishop visiting.

To get back to Gitarama Cathie’s phoned Elson and arranged for our long-distance moto drivers with their big bikes to collect us. We sail back home but get charged three times the price for going out.

I cook supper for Tom and I, then write up my report. The photos from Rutarabana have come out better than I thought. Seven weeks into the job and I’ve found my first class permanently being taught in the open air!

Best thing about today – actually, the journey to Rutarabana. It was so chaotic it was enjoyable.
Worst thing – the queues in Gitarama; watching this teacher murder our English language while trying to teach the Past Perfect tense.