Hotel Castel. Relatively clean room overlooking the valleys in Kigali. It was actually a treat as it had hot water and a television - although we didn't really watch it - it was nice to hear the familiar background noise.
View from the hotel room, looking into the sprawl of Kigali. The city center is the opposite direction of our view. Saturday night we were invited to a friend’s home for a traditional dinner of fufu (no idea on the spelling) cooked by his sister-in-law, brother, and an orphaned boy who recently moved into their home. The home was very simple, consisting of a bedroom and a sitting area with the food preparation area just outside the front door. Fufu is made from root vegetables and is served as a white, pasty, cold ball of what resembles dough. It does not have much flavour but is ripped off into small pieces and used with your hands to sop the sauces of the main dishes. We also had fish, cooked in a very nice, almost sweet, tomato sauce. Our friend’s siblings do not speak English and very little French so the communication between us was mostly smiles and laughs at one of the brothers who had come home slightly inebriated. The boy who had been taken in by our friend’s older brother was an absolutely beautiful twelve-year old with a smile that melted you heart. He was extremely shy as he had ever been in close proximity to a white person. Each time I looked over at him he would be caught staring and immediately look away. I desperately wanted to communicate with this boy but with my level of Kinyarwanda being less than sub par – it was difficult. However, we did manage to share some smiles by the end of the evening.
Our friend’s history has become somewhat of a mystery. I understand he was raised in the Congo as a Rwandase refugee. In a previous conversation he had mentioned that his secondary schooling had not been attended in consecutive years and that perhaps someday he would tell me about it. Last night, while he proudly displayed the pictures of his life we saw pictures of his mandatory ‘political training’; required of all Rwandese attending University. During this training, the students learn politics (my understanding is that they learn about the genocide during this time) and military skills. He bragged that he could magazine his gun (no idea what the correct terminology is here) in 16 seconds. I asked him if that had been the first time he had used a gun and he got very quiet, said no, and quickly changed the subject. During the course of the evening a cockroach appeared on the make-shift chess board being played by some people in the room. As Claudine reacted and pushed the board away, our friend said to us, “We cannot kill this creature because they are our grandfathers.” Prior to, and during the genocide, the Hutu’s labeled the Tutsi’s cockroaches (inyenzi), calling for their termination through radio and print propaganda. Our friend seems to have witnessed and experienced so much in his life, yet his laugh is one that comes from the soul. Before we even met him, I had heard him laugh as he sat at a table behind us, and I said to Claudine, that is an infectious and fabulous laugh.
Our friend’s history has become somewhat of a mystery. I understand he was raised in the Congo as a Rwandase refugee. In a previous conversation he had mentioned that his secondary schooling had not been attended in consecutive years and that perhaps someday he would tell me about it. Last night, while he proudly displayed the pictures of his life we saw pictures of his mandatory ‘political training’; required of all Rwandese attending University. During this training, the students learn politics (my understanding is that they learn about the genocide during this time) and military skills. He bragged that he could magazine his gun (no idea what the correct terminology is here) in 16 seconds. I asked him if that had been the first time he had used a gun and he got very quiet, said no, and quickly changed the subject. During the course of the evening a cockroach appeared on the make-shift chess board being played by some people in the room. As Claudine reacted and pushed the board away, our friend said to us, “We cannot kill this creature because they are our grandfathers.” Prior to, and during the genocide, the Hutu’s labeled the Tutsi’s cockroaches (inyenzi), calling for their termination through radio and print propaganda. Our friend seems to have witnessed and experienced so much in his life, yet his laugh is one that comes from the soul. Before we even met him, I had heard him laugh as he sat at a table behind us, and I said to Claudine, that is an infectious and fabulous laugh.
We decided to treat ourselves to a nice meal on Sunday and after unsuccessfully navigating our way through the winding and hilly streets of Kigali with our map, which seemed to be wrong ;) (our theme has become "how many grad students does it take to..." - apparently it takes more than two to follow a map - ) ended up hopping in a cab to drive us the last four blocks. The restaurant was absolutely incredible - an open setting with a wooden shingled roof and beautiful Indian art. The food and service was better than anything I have experienced at home or when I was in India. I meant to take a picture of the restaurant, but only got as far as the food - we were ecstatic to not be eating rice, brochette, or cabbage. The Indian owners have what looks to be a very successful chain in Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, and soon Sidney, Australia.
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