31 July 2014

20 July 2014: Horses

This post, which I am writing on a transatlantic airplane flight, will be the first in awhile that deals with one day only (though some recent days could have had their own posts, whether by amount of possible material or amount that I actually wrote).

Awhile ago, I mentioned that A. and V. wanted to take me to see these horses, but that I didn’t really get what we were supposed to do with them. As it turns out, neither had they: we went there after church on Sunday the 20th, and only at that point did I understand that none of us had actually ever been there before.

The horses live on the other side of Mount Kigali, which is a big, forested mountain that I believe peaks at the highest point in the city. Nyamirambo and Nyakabanda are built on its slopes—and, as such, I see it every day when I walk outside. The dwellings stop at a certain height, and give way to what I believe is a eucalyptus forest. (Eucalyptus trees are not endemic to Rwanda, but I have heard they were introduced in large numbers after massive deforestation for fuel in the wake of the Genocide.) Somewhere up there, there is also a military base, for which reason it may not be a good idea to just wander around in the forest alone.

The walk to find the horses was a lot of fun, actually—at least for me. We never left the “City of Kigali” (Umujyi wá Kigali), but we definitely did leave the city of Kigali. Walking up the slopes of the mountain, we first reached the end of the bus line, then the pavement turned to cobblestone, then the cobblestone changed to dirt, which got rougher and steeper as we kept climbing. Similarly, the dwellings got smaller and more informal, and the views progressively more dramatic.

We probably didn’t get to the highest point, but we did actually end up starting down the other side of the mountain. At that point, the vistas we saw probably did extend into the Western Province, and we saw banana plantations, farmland and winding rivers stretching off into the mist.

I thought this was great, though the others started to complain about all the walking. It was a bit of a relief when we arrived at this place, which from the signs appeared to be a stable where you could ride horses around.

I guess we didn’t actually see most of it, but what we did was kind of underwhelming. There was a small stable with four horses in it, and they were available to ride, but at ludicrous prices. If I remember correctly, it was Fr. 20,000 (about $29) for an hour, which does not sound like it would be cheap for such a service in the U.S., and probably works out to the average monthly income of a Kigali resident.

They kindly offered to let us ride for Fr. 10,000 for a half-hour, or pay just 5,000 ($7.19) to sit on the horse while it didn’t move for a few minutes. This was all kind of laughable, so we contented ourselves just petting them and feeding them hay.

Again, I thought this was fun, and though some of the animals were a little feisty they all responded to patience and caution. The others were a little less cautious, and a little less patient, and more than once almost got bitten. A. remarked that she would “ride them in heaven, because there they won’t bite!”

An interesting footnote to the story is that we also saw a donkey on the same property. Only one of the three of them really knew the difference between a horse and a donkey, and she only to the extent that Jesus rode a donkey, not a horse. Now, that little passage from the Bible has a lot of spiritual significance: the donkey as a symbol of humility, as opposed to the prestige of the horse. Neither horses nor donkeys are native to Rwanda, though; it’s just funny to think that that cultural reference is completely lost on the millions of devout Christians in this country. I am sure it is explained to them, and I do think that V. got the gist, but still.

On our way back, we took a bit of a detour through the woods. I thought this was a pretty risky thing to do, having heard there was a military base around there and also having noticed that the sun was going down soon. I followed, though, because it looked like they knew where they were going. They did, and as it happened we were actually going to a place that people generally knew about (though it really didn’t look like it).

It was kind of just a slope in the woods, with a solid, nicely spaced stand of eucalyptus trees (if that is what they were). And a bunch of other people had gotten there ahead of us to take photographs of each other using the trees as a backdrop. I had my camera, of course, and one of the others had a smart phone, and we proceeded to do exactly that. (These were mostly kind of cutesy, posed pictures from all different angles; I don’t much care for them, and as such I don’t appear in many, but I—or at least my camera—was pressed into service dozens of times.)

It was a nice, scenic place, and I am glad we went. Generally, I was glad that, even though I wasn’t getting “out” of Kigali, at least I got to see a break from my normal, day-to-day work of researching and bussing my way around the city. And hey, I thought the horses were kind of nice!

25 July 2014

18–19 July 2014: A Walk and a Concert

Friday, 18 July 2014

I occupied myself with various projects during the day. I had said I would meet A. and V. and family for church, and I remembered the starting time as 5:30 p.m. I got there right on time, only to find that it had in fact started at 5:00 p.m., and their houseworker (J.) said they would be back at 7:30 p.m. So I wandered around for a long time, walking the length of Nyamirambo and even into Gitega, then back. It still wasn’t 7:30, so I walked around the bend toward Nyabugogo, and then back. And then they were late coming back from church, of course. They got there, though, and because they got in after 8:00 they felt like they had to give me dinner, which was fine, of course.

The long walk was a good opportunity to just think about a lot of stuff; my head had been filled for the whole day with thoughts about upcoming fellowship applications, and how to handle those, and that got me thinking about the future and life after graduation, which was stressful. But I find that walks are a great way to tackle problems like that: think them through rationally and in depth, and then move on to other things. I think it worked.

Granted, I wasn’t outside much before the evening, but I only remembered as I was going to bed that 18 July was the twentieth anniversary of the end of genocide in Rwanda. I’m sure there was something on television, but maybe all of people’s energy had been directed toward the April commemorations and then Liberation Day earlier this month, so as far as I could tell it sorta just came and went.


Saturday, 19 July 2014

In the evening I went out to Amahoro Stadium in Remera-ish, to see the so-called “Rwandan music festival,” Kigali Up. I knew a guy from Harvard who was going to be there, and I remembered the food being good, so I went. Also, it was a sort of conventional thing to do in Kigali, which there are not all that many of!

Upon arrival, it became clear that most Rwandans did not feel like Kigali needed such a thing to do. The turnout bordered on decent at 6:00-ish when I got there, and improved over the next couple of hours, but what struck me was the demographics: almost all under the age of 30, and at least half obviously foreign. I started brainstorming other places in the world where you might see this balance of ages and ethnicities at a concert, and I didn’t come up with very many; then again, maybe expat communities in other developing countries behave similarly to the one here.

Another interesting observation was that, though the turnout was not all that bad, the audience was pretty unenthusiastic. Part of this was language barrier: musicians often introduced themselves and tried to buzz the crowd in Kinyarwanda, which didn’t work too well on the rest of us. Additionally, I have a theory that because so many expats in Kigali are here to do research, nonprofit or public health work, they’re all nerds who are far more comfortable at the weekly Sol e Luna trivia nights than live concerts. First, I totally fall into this category; second, it’s probably not true, merely one explanation for the lack of enthusiasm I saw at Kigali Up!

The music was fine, if kind of uneven. One or two performers were very good, but there was a lot of time between songs and it was easy to let one’s mind wander. My friend, who is interning in an emergency room at CHUK (a hospital in town), compared the level of engagement to watching surgery videos on YouTube. He qualified this by adding that watching surgery videos is something he does frequently, and they’re actually kind of interesting, but point taken.

I had gone last year, and this was approximately my memory of the way things were. Admittedly, a major reason I wanted to come back was the food: a number of local restaurants cater the concert, and I liked the idea of eating something different from my hosts’ food. (My hosts’ food is really good, by the way, and I ate that too after I got home, but variety is nice.) Also, it’s fun to spend not that much money and get a lot of food. I spent a locally egregious amount—Fr. 5,400 ($7.77)—and, despite a rather expensive (Fr. 2,500/$3.60) smoothie in there, still came away with a pretty nice haul: in addition to the smoothie, I had four goat brochettes, a big cookie and a seasoned meatball.

(In retrospect, I probably should’ve even done better.)

16–17 July 2014: Construction, and Music

16 July 2014

Today I spent about half an hour walking around the City Center taking photographs of things that have noticeably changed since last year. I will post some of them below. When I get the chance, I want to try to line them up with others I took last year, just to illustrate the difference—the problem, of course, is that it’s kind of hard to know what is going to change before it does!

Actually, that’s not quite true: construction projects post big signs as required by law giving descriptions of the building being built, who’s building it, etc. Just last year, I wasn’t thinking so much on my feet as to take pictures of those sites. (I should really do that this year, now that I think about it.)

Afterward, I met up with a family friend who runs a sewing cooperative in Rulindo, outside of Kigali. She came with an intern (a college student), and we had a nice conversation before I accompanied them to buy cloth in town.

Last year, this was a big pile of dirt: not just the parking garage, but also the feeder road in the foreground.

Every man-made object in this frame, except for the sign and the blue fence, was not there a year ago.

The building in the background was all covered with green scaffolding a year ago. The sewer in the foreground was open. The sidewalk on the right was not yet paved, and since this picture was taken the fencing has been removed and it is open to pedestrians.


17 July 2014

Today I met the minister of education. He is a very nice man, and apparently a family friend of my hosts. (They grew up as neighbors north of the city.) We had lunch together with some others, and he was at least politely interested in the research work I was doing. His house is very nice, and—predictably and understandably for a government minister, he appears to live the life of a wealthy American (though the comparison is not perfect). He asked whether my research permit (granted by his ministry) was taking too long to come back; at the time it was not, so I didn’t say anything.

In retrospect, after interacting with someone obviously more important than me (or otherwise somehow intimidating), I am interested to think about how my behavior changed in the moment. First, I was rather shy about speaking Kinyarwanda: nervous that I might say something ungrammatical, conscious that I wouldn’t understand half of what he said, maybe wanting to preserve the possibility in his mind that I was actually fluent and just choosing not to show it! Second, I do have a number of questions and opinions about education in Rwanda, to which I would have been curious to hear his responses. I had all sorts of reasons at the time for not asking about them, and I was just about to when he had to get back to work. Oh well.

The other noteworthy event of the day was that, in wandering around the Nyabugogo taxi park/bus terminal before lunch, I happened upon a couple of people selling religious books, which included a hymnal! I had been hoping to find one of these (and I think my parents were interested too), but Kinyarwanda-language books are not easy to track down, even in the capital of Rwanda! (I know of just two dedicated bookstores in Kigali, plus a third that sells only schoolbooks and a fourth attached to a church.)

They were selling it for Fr. 1,500 ($2.16), so of course I bought it. It is a trade paperback, printed in Rwanda by the local Pentacostal Church:

Association des Églises de Pentecôte du Rwanda. Indirimbo zo Gushimisha Imana: Indirimbo z’Agakiza. Kigali: Éditions CELTA, n.d.

The hymns are all in Kinyarwanda (lovely) and all untitled (why?). They are taken from a wide variety of other hymnals (listed at the beginning), and mostly translated from French and English. The most interesting part at first glance, though, is the musical notation, which is all typed with no staff. This makes perfect sense given the machinery likely available to the printers. Here is how they print the melody of one song, which—from the section heading (Kuvuka kwa Yesu “Birth of Christ”) and the refrain pattern—I noticed is a translation of “O Come, All Ye Faithful”:

la(235)
:d |d :— |s, :d |r :— |s, :— |m :r |m :f |m :— |r ||
:d |d :— |t, :l, |t, :d |r :m |t, :— |l, :–.s, |s, :— |— ||
: |s :— |f :m |f :— |m :— |r :m |d :r |t, :–.l, |s, ||
:d |d :t, |d :r |d :— |s, ||m |m :r |m :f |m :— |r ||
:m |f :m |r :d |t, :— |d ||f |m :— |r :–.d |d :— |— ||

It’s a pretty smart solution, I think, to the problem at hand, as it finds a way of adequately notating melodies with no need for specialized software. Vertical bars are beats, colons half-beats, periods quarter-beats. The letters are notes: do (d), re (r), mi (m), etc. The key is in the upper-left, and notes that are down the octave are marked by a small vertical bar that looks close enough to a comma. (I may be misinterpreting something.) I would be curious to know whether this is an accepted alternate system, or something the Pentecostals made up for this book.

The major issue with it is that, for someone who is used to the normal staff notation, it is very difficult to read! I like being able to see that one note is above another, and though, granted, it’s my first time, I have a lot of trouble associating those letters with even relative pitches.

A final note: I respect whoever did these translations (uncredited), because they wrote lyrics that acknowledge the ellision of final vowels in most Kinyarwanda words. The Jehovah’s Witnesses’ hymnal does not do this, thus giving full syllables’s emphasis to sounds that are usually unpronounced, thus making generally awkward-sounding songs.

Both, however, ignore the importance of vowel length in the language. Taking this into account would make translating lyrics an even harder task than it already is, but having longer and shorter notes that do not correspond to longer and shorter vowels must make the song flow less nicely. (I think it would be fantastically cool if the songs also aligned their tunes to the tone melodies of their lyrics, but no one ever does this—I think—and it would have made good translations pretty near impossible!)

21 July 2014

12–15 July 2014: Research, Research, Mass Transit

More catching up. At some point, you’ll notice that the things I did on individual days become a little less interesting, because I started getting actually busy with research. I like to divide up the days for my own purposes, though: in addition to the various other objectives of a travel blog—sharing my experiences, keeping friends and family abreast of what I do, telling anyone who is interested about life as a foreign student in Kigali—this serves as a record for me. I would like to be able to, in the future, refer to what I have written here to remember the things I did, whether interesting or comparatively mundane.


Saturday, 12 July 2014

The dissertations I had been lent the day before totaled 893 pages in length, which was clearly too much to read thoroughly in the time I had left. In thinking what the best strategy would be, I decided my first priority should be to make digital copies of all of these, so that I would still be able to refer to them at home. So I started photographing every page (and I have an iPad app that will turn pictures of pages into something resembling a black-and-white PDF file).

There is an additional motive here, that perhaps I could find a way to get these PDFs on the Internet, or into some American libraries, at some point. The goal of scholarship is to build on past work—to “stand on the shoulders of giants”—but this is not generally possible, especially for foreigners but even for a lot of Rwandans, because the sources they would need to find are so often unpublished dissertations! I want to talk to someone about this, and figure out how it would be possible/feasible, both technically and copyright-wise.

In the evening, I went to have brochettes with a friend (whose brother’s wedding I attended a year ago). It was fun. I think it’s interesting how brochettes—pieces of meat on a skewer with a flavorful seasoning—are just about the universal food that people eat here when they go out for drinks after work, have parties or want to have a nicer-than-average meal. I really can’t fault them, as brochettes are really good when done right, and I think a contributing factor is the relative scarcity of meat in the average person’s diet. It’s just funny that the food is such a strong indicator of a kind of social event.


Sunday, 13 July 2014

I went to church this day; the guy giving the discourse (the self-prepared monologue on a specific topic) really didn’t enunciate, as I confirmed later, to my great relief. (I barely understood a word he said.) The topic of discussion for the week was actually quite awkward: how to reason with potential converts on points of religious contention, and sympathize with their point of view in order to more effectively persuade them.

As the only non-Witness in attendance, I was a little bit concerned. On the way back, A. did ask me about whether I believed in eternal hellfire; luckily, neither I nor the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society of Pennsylvania acknowledge such a thing. But she didn’t go any further, and I was impressed that the congregation broadly recognized and respected that I was a guest: interested in a new experience but not a new religion.

In any case, interestingly, most of the proposed arguments presupposed that the target would accept proof from the Bible in order to change his religious views (for instance, citing Philippians 2:9 to prove that God and Jesus are separate entities). Many of the people they try to convert may not already be Christian, though, right? Or, especially in the West, they may be agnostics, atheists or lapsed Christians. I have no doubt that they deal with such cases elsewhere, though!

My own objections to the Witnesses’ faith in particular would be about biblical literalism (and resulting social conservatism) and the missionary culture, which the study session did not address. You may read the article that served as the basis for the discussion here.

With the rest of my day, I did some more research work.


Monday, 14 July 2014

In addition to photographing the books I have been lent, I have been trying to think of how putting them online might work. In its ideal form, there would be a website that served as a source for Rwandan scholarship of all kinds, that would include original PDFs of the documents as well as text versions in the original language, and translated to English where relevant.

This is a pie-in-the-sky hope. I mean, maybe it will happen, but it is way beyond the scope of what I would be able to accomplish. Thinking more conservatively (though still fairly ambitiously), I would upload PDFs of the files I have now, and then not convert them to text but provide English-language summaries so that people could access the important information from a search-engine.

The tentative model would be to reproduce in full the table of contents and bibliography of the work, as well as any tables, images, examples and citations. There would then be summaries of each section (and subsection, etc.) that included relevant information in addition to the above, and all would reference pages of the original document (accessible as a PDF, remember).

So I started (and would continue over the next few days) to test this out with one of the documents, by Mudeénge on Kiréera. It naturally took longer than I expected, but in addition to making a useful result it ensures that I understand the material I am reading, which is a pretty good thing.


Tuesday, 15 July 2014

Tuesday morning was actually my third trip to the Rwanda Utilities Regulatory Agency (RURA), though I did not blog about the first two because I wanted the whole story to appear together.

First, RURA is a pretty cool organization: it takes responsibility for regulating Rwanda’s telecommunications, transportation, electricity and other utilities; it does a lot in this capacity, I am sure, but as far as I am concerned one of the most useful things it does is compile statistics about each of these sectors. For instance, it publishes reports about mobile phone usage in Rwanda, comparing subscriptions, costs and other measures between the different service providers, several times a year. (I have been meaning to do a post comparing the three providers, using that as a source.)

What I am curious about, though, is the data that I know RURA collects about the Kigali public transit system. (“Public transit” is a bit of a misnomer, as the minibuses and buses that carry people around this city are privately owned, albeit heavily regulated.) I have mentioned that I am trying to make a map of it, as no map exists and the only way to figure out where you are going is to ask around until you find the right bus.

I got a nice draft of a map done, but was not able to finish it because there is no publicly available list of bus stops in the city. My reference was a list of routes specified by certain landmarks they would pass, but between those points I did not know either what the stops were called or how many there were.

Before going on, I should mention that the reference I used—posted at many of the city’s bus stops—exists because of a complete reorganization of mass transit (a better characterization than “public transit”) that took place shortly after I left Rwanda last year. At that time, minibus taxis were run by a variety of operators, some larger organizations and a number of individuals. They operated on a generally accepted set of routes, but those routes and the prices of traveling on them were regulated solely by the invisible hand of capitalism.

The transit reform that, thanks to RURA and the municipal government, went into effect on 31 August 2013 split the city into five zones: each of four companies (which won some kind of bidding or application process) would be responsible for serving one of the first four zones, and connecting it with the fifth zone (the city center, a common space). They would operate on routes that were similar to those that existed before, but were now fixed (and numbered) and charged fixed prices.

The experience for the commuter is only subtly different: you now (usually) get a small, paper ticket when you get onto the bus, which does not seem to serve much purpose except to tell you the price of your ride. (Maybe they try to track ridership by the number of tickets they distribute.) There is also the element of knowing which bus is going where and how much it will cost you, which I think should not be undervalued.

Before these reforms, making a map of bus routes in Kigali would have been all but impossible; now it is possible, though it still has not been done. This is where I hope I can help, because I like this city and would love to give something back for all it has given me—and also because I think the theory behind mapping public transit is just really cool (see this fantastic TED Talk about remapping the Dublin bus system).

So I went to RURA on Friday, hoping to ask them straight up for a list of bus stops in Kigali. They were closed, and a security guard explained they had all left, I think because of some office soccer game or something. I came back on Monday, and reception redirected me to the Transport Department, which informed me that I could write a formal letter to the Director General of RURA asking for the information I wanted. If he gave the go-ahead, I could have it, no problem. (Bureaucracy, remember?)

Luckily, I had a template for a formal letter from a few days earlier. I wrote it out in English and Kinyarwanda, and printed both copies along with a draft of the map on big A3 paper. (The guys at the print shop were very interested!) I then put them in a nice formal envelope, which I addressed to the director general.

The receptionist, when I presented this to her, promptly opened the sealed envelope and examined the contents. She read both letters, then stapled the Kinyarwanda version to the map to give to the director-general. She then stamped the English version of the letter “for reception”—another interesting, unfamiliar formality—and gave it back to me. Apparently this is standard and expected practice, which made me really glad I had for completely unrelated reasons brought two letters!

So that was exciting. (On the day of writing, I have a meeting scheduled tomorrow morning to talk to someone about this, which I will be sure to tell you all about!)

10–11 July 2014: Flash Drives, Motos, Acronyms and Bureaucracy (Fladrimacrobu)

Hey there. Today (like actually today, 20 July 2014) was actually a day worth blogging about in full, and I will when I get the chance. (I went on a really long, memorable walk, and saw horses!) For now, though, I’ll continue catching up as I did yesterday:


Thursday, 10 July 2014

Having said I would get my research permit application in the very next day, I endeavored to do just that: I got all the materials together, brought my flash drive to a print shop and then scooted over to Mineduc to hand it in, with the promise that I would have the letter from my affiliating organization the next morning. Some notes about that:

  1. This was a U.S.B. flash drive I brought from home. I have actually bought two from street salespeople since my arrival, because they made me feel guilty and were willing to be talked down to very low prices. On both occasions, I soon found out why they could be sold so cheaply: all of my files were corrupted as soon as I copied them over! Maybe it’s just because I have a Mac, but I have my doubts… This led to multiple awkward situations at print shops before, and I am glad I thought to bring my own.
  2. I have taken 14 motos so far, so an average of about one every other day. This is a lot more than I want to be taking them, but it’s fairly often that I have to come home either at rush hour (when mass transit is swamped) or late at night (when it has stopped running). In this case, I just needed to get to Kacyiru before the ministry closed, and I was cutting it close. For comparison, I have taken 68 rides in minibuses.
    • Now that we are on the topic, it is interesting to note that, though I have taken almost five times as many minibuses as motos, I have paid roughly the same total amount of money: Fr. 11,400 ($16.38) for 68 minibus rides, with an average fare of Fr. 168 (24¢) per ride; and Fr. 10,500 ($15.09) for 14 motos, with an average fare of Fr. 750 ($1.08) per ride.
    • I have been keeping meticulous track of my expenditures here; if I have the time, I’ll try to post some analysis once I am home.
  3. I have mentioned before that Rwandans seem to love long acronyms (Bralirwa, Sonarwa, Cottamohu), but their names for government ministries stand out. Hearing “Mineduc” (Ministry of Education) “Minijust” (Ministry of Justice) and “Minispoc” (Ministry of Sport and Culture) is kind of reminiscent of 1984 (where dystopian Oceania is administered by Minitrue, Miniluv, Minipax and Miniplenty). It’s interesting because I would assume that meant there was some European model for it, but I can find none. Some Googling shows that some Latin American countries, including Guatemala and Chile, have adopted a similar practice, but not many others! I would be curious to know more about this.

Friday, 11 July 2014

Rwandan bureaucracy is interesting. It is really intense, requiring formalities and hierarchies that go beyond anything you would find in a developed country. The meticulous administrative division of the country—into provinces, districts, sectors, cells and villages, with subordinate governments at each level—is a good example. Another is the simple fact that one must get a permit to do research. My experience with just one part of that process on this Friday is what prompts the topic.

For my permit renewal, I needed a letter from my in-country affiliating organization (a requirement for initially obtaining the permit) saying why the extension was necessary. The guy I needed to sign it said I could write a draft and bring it to him to sign the next morning, which I did. Upon looking at it, though, he said it just wasn’t right, and that I should go see his secretary at the organization’s headquarters (about 1.2 miles away) and have her write it. I did so; she wrote something up, basically taking my content and making it incredibly formal—including titles after everyone’s name, including my own, and saying things like “It’s against the above that I am glad to request…”

So I brought it back and got it signed, but I wasn’t done! No, I had to go back to headquarters so the secretary could fill in a reference number, make a copy and put an official stamp over the signature (on both copies)! I did so, and finally submitted the letter at Mineduc about five hours after I had left the house (though admittedly I did one or two other things in there also).

It was explained to me that, as Rwanda is just building its infrastructure now, all of the formality is pretty fresh, and no one is willing to let up on it just yet. I think early bureaucracies in the West were similar, but all ultimately loosened up at least somewhat once they figured out what was necessary and what wasn’t. Rwanda is still at an early stage, and though the red tape can be quite bothersome there is good reason to believe that this country’s government operates more efficiently than almost any other on the continent.

While I was at the university, I met that other professor again, who filled my shoulder-bag with six big, decades-old, typewritten dissertations on Rwandan dialects. It was pretty exciting, and also extremely generous of him to just lend them to me. All of them are in French, and I looked forward to the opportunity to get better at reading that language. As much for the public record as for your own interest, here are the titles:

  • Mudeénge Guide. “Phonétique, Phonologie et Morphosyntaxe du Kiréera, Dialecte Du Kinyarwanda.” B.A. Thesis, Université Nationale du Rwanda, 1985. Print.
  • Mukeshimana Joseph. “Les Tons Dans la Dialectologie Rwandaise: Le Cas du Kigoyi.” B.A. Thesis, Université Nationale du Rwanda, 1993. Print.
  • Musabyimaana Constantin. “Etude Sociolinguistique et Linguistique du Kiyaaka, Variete du Nord-Ouest du Rwaanda.” B.A. Thesis, Université Nationale du Rwanda, 1993. Print.
  • Nkusi Laurent. “En Quoi le Kinyarwanda et le Kirundi Sont-Ils Differents?” Linguistique et Sémiologie des Langues au Rwanda. Ed. GERLA. 2 Vol. Ruhengeri: Université Nationale du Rwanda, 1982. 43–59. Print.
  • Nsanzabiga Eugène. “Étude Phonologique et Morphotonologique du Rushobyo, Dialecte du Kinyarwanda.” M.A. Thesis, Université de Nice, 1985. Print.
  • ―. “Phonétique, Phonologie et Morphosyntaxe du Rushobyo: Contribution à la Dialectologie Rwandaise.” B.A. Thesis, Université Nationale du Rwanda, 1984. Print.
  • ―. “Prosodologie Contrastive du Rushobyo et du Kinyarwanda Standard.” Diss. Université de Nice, 1988. Print. Saarbrücken: Éditions Universitaires Européennes, 2013.

My, it’s gotten late again! Making progress, though—more tomorrow!

19 July 2014

6–10 July 2014: Catching Up, Part 1

There was a time when I characterized this as a daily blog. Clearly, that was over-optimistic! I am going to make a sincere effort to keep up for my remaining ten days in Rwanda, but for now I want to catch myself up. Generally, what I have been doing is research work, as well as projects back home (at The Crimson and working on scholarship applications). For the rest of this post, I’ll try to summarize what I did on each day since my last about… oh dear, two weeks ago!


Sunday, 6 July 2014

Went to church—the theme was how God watches over us, but is not like a security camera because of his deep care for our well-being. Had some very good capati afterward—two nice big loaves at Fr. 100 (14¢) each! Did some photo-editing in the afternoon.

In the evening, my host-father and his mother (who was staying over after the wedding for a couple of days) turned on the TV. Whether by choice or chance, they ended up watching a French dub of the recently remade “Lone Ranger,” which was a truly bizarre scene to observe. He had to explain to her what a horse was, because those are not native to sub-Saharan Africa, and she kept asking whether he was sure they weren’t dogs. Both were pretty confused by Tonto, though—as were many Americans, actually, by Johnny Depp’s performance.


Monday, 7 July 2014

Had a meeting with a professor whose contact information I had been given in relation to dialect research. He was extremely helpful and qualified, having taught courses about Kinyarwanda dialects in the past. He offered to prepare me a list of sources, with a note about where I could find them; he sent it to me later that night, and it was just about what I was looking for. Also, it turned out he had a lot of the material in question and would be willing to lend them to me… which was pretty great.

On the way back from that meeting, I happened to see a store selling ice cream. This was kind of a big thing, because it’s really not easy to find ice cream in this country! I caved pretty quickly—avocados and mangos are great, but only sustain me for so long—and consumed a fairly large container of it on the bus ride home.

Later, I went over to the Ministry of Education to see about renewing my research permit, but the person I needed to see wasn’t there. Oh well.


Tuesday, 8 July 2014

Didn’t leave the house much, just for a short walk. I spent a lot of time very carefully reading one paper that the professor had given me a copy of before:

Nkusi Laurent, “Une Problème de Glossonymie : Les Appellations du Kinyarwanda.” Etudes Rwandaises 1.2 (1987).

It is apparently a very important article in the field, so I read it, typed it all into the computer (to make sure I understood it all) and even took the trouble to translate it to English. The problem Nkusi addresses is the numerous names that exist for different varieties of Kinyarwanda, which very often do not equate to actually different dialects. (For example, two neighboring regions might speak the same dialect but call it different things.) He reviews past work and assesses evidence for the existence of different dialects that vary regionally, ethnically and socially, and ends up with a framework that shaped the field for the following decades.


Wednesday, 9 July 2014

Again went to the Ministry of Education; I did find the guy I needed, who was very nice, and kindly informed me that I needed to apply to renew my research permit at least a month before its expiration date (tomorrow). I told him I could bring an application the next day, and he said that was fine.

I could have, and probably should have, made my application earlier, like as soon as I got into the country. I didn’t do so because I did not think I would need a research permit for what I was doing. Either way, the system is well designed for people staying in the country for a long period of time, but not really for those leaving and then coming back: there are no online instructions for how to renew a research permit, and it must be submitted in person. I was not in Rwanda a month before my permit expired… anyway, it seemed like it was working out.

For the record, renewing a research permit is pretty much the same as applying in the first place, except the cover letter and the letter from the affiliating institution have to give a reason for the renewal.


O.K., now I am going to go to bed, but I will continue my catching up tomorrow. (Maybe if I make a public statement like this, I will feel more pressure to actually do it!)

15 July 2014

5 July 2014: Another Thing

I just remembered something I wanted to work into the previous post, and I can’t find a place for it, so I will put it in a separate post here.

It is about language. The basic principle is that, in Kinyarwanda, almost everything is a verb: like, even nouns are verbs, at least in that most of them are derived in verbs. This reflects a basic and really interesting characteristic of the language: that there seems to be a pretty small number of actual words that are indivisible and not derived from anything else. A full range of meanings is attained by modifying that small number of basic roots.

Thus, the root -gur- gives us kugura “buy,” kuguriisha “sell,” kuguza “collect on a loan” and ikiguzi “price,” among others. Notice how those concepts are expressed with unrelated words in English, but in Kinyarwanda are all related. This pattern recurs constantly, and every couple of days a new connection occurs to me that I hadn’t thought of before.

The one I want to share here is not only one of the most dramatic, but relevant to the situation. So there is a verb gukwá, which means “to pay a bride-price.” The root of this verb is -kó-, but in the full word /ku-kó-a/ the sounds transform a little bit such that the o becomes a w and the high tone moves to the remaining vowel.

The first derivation I want to highlight is fairly straightforward, and it’s a word I learned very recently; inkwáano, which means “bride-price.” Now we parse this word as /in-kó-an-o/, where -an- extends the verb to make it reciprocal—i.e. “to pay each other bride-prices,” sort of—and the first and last segments are what make it a noun. So this word means “things that are given as bride-prices,” sort of. It’s worth emphasizing that in Kinyarwanda the verb is the base, whereas in English the noun is.

The second derivation is ubukwé. Before I tell you what it means, there are no extensions on the verb, just different prefixes and suffixes to make it a noun: /ubu-kó-é/. The prefix ubu- implies a time or place, so this would be understood to mean “a time when bride-prices are exchanged.” This is the Kinyarwanda word for “wedding.” I literally knew this word for two years, and only figured this out last week (at the wedding, as it happened).

Finally, and craziest of all, is what happens when you passivize that verb before nominalizing it. /ku-kó-w-a/ comes out as gukóobwa “to be given a bride-price,” where -w- is the passive marker. If we make this verb into a noun, /umu-kó-w-a/, we get umukoóbwa “someone who is given a bride-price.” This is the Kinyarwanda word for “girl.”

Think about that for a minute: The same verb, transformed into a noun by common, accepted rules, gives us the words for “bride-price,” “wedding” and “girl.” Is that not crazy?

5 July 2014: Wedding

Saturday, 5 July, was the culmination of a fairly long period of days when I did things that are worth blogging about. The week or so since has largely been occupied by research work and other non-exploring projects. I could write a post for every one of those days—there are actually a number of non-time-pegged topics I have been wanting to talk about. Given that I am nine days behind, though, I will probably catch myself up with a summary post.

Anyway, I have not yet posted about that last day, 5 July. It was the wedding of my host-mother’s younger brother. This was not my first Rwandan wedding—a Rwandan-American friend got married while I was here last year (and I wrote about it here and here). I was interested to see another one, though, and see what, if anything, was different.


I had been noticing over the previous few days that my host-mother was in the house a lot less, and on the phone a lot more, in what she explained was a fit of organizing. The amount of work that goes into planning a wedding is mind-boggling to anyone who hasn’t done it (including me), and I think the general scale is similar between Rwandan weddings and the ones I am used to back home.¹

A traditional Rwandan wedding takes place in a number of stages, with a number of different ceremonies. The first few are rather public, at least in the sense that a lot of people are expected to attend, whereas the others are smaller-scale and take place afterward. The previous wedding I went to split the crowd-pleasing events between two Saturdays, both of which were pretty involved affairs. This one was operating on a tighter budget, and therefore fit both into one day (which was actually fine).


The first ceremony is a ceremonial negotiation of dowry and bride-price between the families of the bride and groom. Similar to what I remember from last year, it was a fascinating mixture of intense tradition and unashamed modernity. The fathers of the betrothed engaged in a witty, ad-libbed back-and-forth in which they used all sorts of archaic vocabulary referring to the marriage and the exchange of gifts, which in olden days would often have included cows; what they actually exchanged, at least on the spot, were nice bottles of whiskey, and when they made reference to cows they were backed up by a pre-recorded moo-ing sound played from a speaker.

At one point, the groom and his siblings (or some group that was kind of equivalent to best men) came in, wearing wonderful traditional robes over their button-down shirts, and holding some pretty cool canes (pictured). These quite traditional canes were presented to a few people who might have been uncles of the betrothed—I kind of didn’t know what was going on—along with some very non-traditional-looking plastic cowboy hats! I don’t know what was going on with those, as they looked kind of silly, but I think I remember them from last year too.

These rituals and conversations were interspersed with dance performances, songs and recitations, and food. (It was pretty good food.) Then, the event shifted to a church, for the actual marriage to happen, and then to a small auditorium-like venue, where the couple processed in and then sat on a big platform while friends and family sang their praises and presented them with gifts. (I would have been miserable after about five minutes of it, and even these two looked like they were getting worn down toward the end.) Then there was more discussion between the fathers, this time not negotiation but rather giving advice to the newlyweds and promising continuing friendship between the two families.

Then we went to another place—the home of the groom, maybe—where there was more discussion between the fathers while a dwindling but still substantial group looked on. (They started with a bit more than 200 guests, and by 9:00 p.m. they were down to about 60 or 70.) I didn’t at all get the point of this portion of it, because as far as I could understand, they were saying the same things they had said already, if in slightly different words. (I felt like I could understand about two-thirds of what was happening.)

I should also add at this juncture that we were fed a very fulfilling meal at about 12:30 or 1:00 p.m., and everyone a little muffin at about 5:00 p.m., but that was it as far as food. The ceremonies continued on late into the night, and no one seemed to be complaining, which leads me to the inevitable conclusion that Rwandans have stomachs made of iron.

We had to hang around because my host-mother was so involved in everything, but by popular demand we did skip out at about 10:30 p.m., with the ceremonies still going strong! (I usually don’t like to express an opinion about these things, but I was bored and tired and hungry enough by that point that I was O.K. if they at least knew I was hungry! Also, I didn’t have to do any convincing of my host-mother to leave, as her mother-in-law conveniently stepped in to cover that part.)


A discussion I had a week later with my host-mother shed some light on a few things. First, as she put it, “Rwandan weddings never end.” Those ceremonies were the crowd-pleasers, but there is a laundry-list of subsequent rituals that everyone is invited to but almost know one attends. For example, each set of parents makes a customary visit to the home of the newlyweds, and I think there are visits in the other direction too, and then other things—the consequence of which is that the wedding is still going a month later.

Maybe there’s a nice parallel here, actually: just as the wedding never ends, so you hope that the marriage never will either.

I was also interested to hear about poor people’s weddings: the two I have seen were both quite expensive affairs, with live food, big venues, lots of decorations, lots of food and lots of guests. Though neither of the families at this wedding was really rich, they did have resources by Kigali standards. And economic growth notwithstanding, there are a lot of Rwandans who, by any standards, do not have resources—but nevertheless do get married!

The answer was pretty sensible: They would find ways of cutting costs, by having ceremonies in living rooms or backyards instead of renting venues; making decorations rather than buying; providing cheaper food, if any; not hiring dancers or M.C.’s. What was interesting to know was that the core parts of the ceremonies, that is the really important parts that any wedding really should have, are not that expensive. So even a poor couple would go through the full roster of ceremonies, though the setting would certainly be very different.

The conversation shifted to how weddings had changed in recent years, and how certain traditions were weakening. It’s a familiar narrative of modernization infringing on tradition, and positive development having some unintended, questionable side-effects. The topic got pretty broad pretty quickly and I can’t do it justice here, but I was kind of struck by how similar this story sounded to what Americans say about globalization and modern times loosening our hold on tradition and taking away the magic of childhood and all that. After a day of seeing a completely foreign culture put magnificently on display, it is really interesting to hear that its traditions seem to face many of the same challenges that ours do.


¹ It’s actually kind of funny to say “the ones I am used to,” because I can only think of three weddings I have been to in the U.S.—as compared to two in Rwanda!

12 July 2014

4 July 2013: A Liberating Feeling

Today was the first time I really got out of the city: to visit my host-father’s (and A.’s and V.’s) mother in Jabana, which is administratively part of Kigali City but very much a rural place. I went last year, and wrote about it in several posts including this one. My basic impression was that it was idyllic, beautiful and peaceful, though mostly not served by any infrastructure. (As such, it was a lovely place to visit for a few days, but I am not sure I could have lived there for any substantial amount of time.)

Upon returning, I was very happy to see the mother again: she is ebullient and extremely sweet, seems to radiate wisdom beyond her years (she’s only about 65) and, for reasons I won’t go into here, is actually really inspirational. J., the daughter who lives out there with her, is also quite something: she earned a graduate degree in something-or-other in France, then came home—admirable right there, as many Africans don’t—and then decided to live with her mother, build a chicken coop and sell eggs. This was motivated by her religious beliefs and a desire to improve her community. (The two motives are intimately related.) I know that she sells the eggs at very low prices to people who live nearby; she may or may not be trying to make a profit.

I got to see the chickens, which was exciting. The family compound, which consists of two single-story buildings with several rooms each and a sizable garden around them, had been transformed by the project: new walls erected, crops entirely replanted and, of course, a really big chicken coop constructed in the middle.

It had a lot of chickens in it. (There were actually two chambers this size.) She said there were 500 of them, and that they produced 200 eggs every day. They were quite pushy, and crowded the doorway once we opened the door; I tried to push them back with my bare hands, but did so kind of gingerly for fear of getting pecked… luckily a worker came along with big boots and kind of just kicked them out of the way.

On either side of the chicken coop were dozens of big white bags full of some soft substance—“fertilizer,” I was told, “They don’t only produce eggs!”


The afternoon was mostly spent relaxing: A. and V. see Jabana as a fun place to come on weekends and not do anything, and I can totally understand.

The two most interesting events of the day happened in coming and going. First, on our way there, V. got into an argument with our moto drivers. (“Moto” is the accepted name for the motorcycle taxis that serve as analogues to taxis in the U.S.; they’re expensive, by local standards, and rather unsafe, but very fast and often the only way of covering ground in places not served by mass transit.) Apparently they wanted Fr. 1000 ($1.44) per person for the trip from Karuruma Center, where we got out of the minibus, to Jabana, but V. knew that the usual price was Fr. 800 ($1.15). And maybe they misunderstood each other when we started going, so we ended up stopping in the middle of the road at one point so they could work it out.

I couldn’t really follow what they were talking about, but I knew I figured prominently in the foundations of the argument: the drivers had probably assumed they could get a higher price from a white person, but also V. used me as leverage because I wouldn’t have known where to go if they didn’t finish the trip, and there weren’t many motos covering that long stretch of rural road.

The truth is, I would happily have paid the Fr. 600 (86¢) differential that they wanted, to cover the three of us, if only to get them to stop arguing—if that makes me Rich Uncle Pennybags, well, so be it. I had a feeling that would have gone against the principle of what V. was arguing, though… Also, it’s worth noting that I wasn’t disoriented and did actually remember the way from last year; again, though, I didn’t think she would react well if I volunteered that information.

In the end, they did drive us the rest of the way, and V. recruited her mother to confirm what the normal price is. The drivers kept complaining, but what were they going to do?

The moral of this story, as far as I’m concerned, has nothing to do with principled stands against enterprising cabbies, but is rather to just make really sure that you both agree on the price of the service before that service has been partially or completely provided!


The other interesting thing happened as we were heading back home. The mother came with us, as she was going to a wedding in Kigali the next day. (I was too—stay tuned!) A neighbor came out to say hello, and was, in retrospect, a little too happy to see me. He kept saying as much, and when I said it was good to meet him too, he said no, no, but we’re so happy that someone like you is coming to visit us! (This was a grown man.)

Awkward, and probably uncalled-for, though I was going to let it go. J., on the other hand, was not, and gave him a very stern talking to, something to the effect of, “Look at yourself! You’re praising him and thanking him, but not even asking his name, or telling him yours? He’s a person, just like you and me, and we don’t revere people just because of their ancestry. Not here, not anymore. Feudalism is over—over! His name is Jake…”

There was nothing to disagree with in what she said, and I actually admired the way she worded it (to which I can’t do justice a week later and in translation). I had never heard anyone say it so forcefully or confrontationally, though, and I found myself thinking back on it a lot over the next few days.


I’m now remembering that, of course, Friday was also Liberation Day, the 20th anniversary of the R.P.F.’s capture of Kigali from the genocidal goverment. (The killings continued, in more and more constricted zones, until the last remnants of the army and militias were driven into then-Zaïre on 18 July 1994.) Schools were closed, which was why we chose this date to go to Jabana.

There was a big event at Amahoro Stadium, attended by thousands of Rwandans and a host of dignitaries; I saw some of it on TV (relaxing, remember?), but looking back I actually kind of wish I could have been closer to the action: not in attendance, necessarily, but in the city to see people’s reactions. It’s O.K., though; people made plenty of references to it over the next few days, and I think I got a feel for it.

Interestingly, signs commemorating liberation have largely supplanted signs about remembering the Genocide. Those are still around, sure, but I was surprised to see that there seem to be fewer this year than last year, even though 20 years is a pretty big deal. I think I know why, though: the Genocide is something that Rwandans remember all the time, and especially during that 100-day period of each year. And roundly numbered anniversaries are times to celebrate, right? You don’t celebrate the memory of Genocide—but you do celebrate the end of it.

It’s a pretty cool strategy, then, if I am interpreting it right, to shift the common attitude away from solemn remembrance and toward celebration. Moreover, all of the rhetoric surrounding Liberation has emphasized it as a collective effort of Rwandans to pull themselves out of a dark period. One could cynically interpret this as a psychological ploy to make people feel attached to the establishment, but I actually think it play nicely into the overall policy of emphasizing self-worth and patriotism in a country whose citizens have questioned those qualities many times in recent years.

3 July 2014: Oops

Well, it turns out I unwittingly combined two days’ posts into one yesterday: in straining my memory (and looking at old text messages), I remember now that after my morning meeting last Wednesday I actually went home and rested/worked/caught up on projects for the rest of the day, because I felt like I needed it after having done so much over the previous few days. I went to the library the next day, which was Thursday, 3 July. I’ll update my previous post to reflect that, and then work on the one for Friday!

11 July 2014

2–3 July 2014: Of Research and Libraries

Today, I actually had my meeting with that professor who canceled the meeting on Monday. (Tuesday was a holiday, so he wasn’t in his office then.)

It’s hard to know how specifically I should talk about the things I do here and the people I talk to; especially since, when I talk to people like university professors, the readership could deduce exactly who they are—and they themselves may well find this blog and read it—I think I should stick to general terms about individual events.

My research topic is my own, though; it is a major reason I am in Rwanda, and my blog is about what I do with my time in Rwanda. Also, I think it’s interesting, so in my posts about it I will try to walk the line between overly revealing and unnecessarily vague.


Last year, I wrote a grant proposal for fieldwork to examine dialectal variation in Kinyarwanda, on the assumption that this had not been done. Indeed, in my proposal, I wrote that “little academic work has been done on Kinyarwanda. […] [S]tudies of its dialects and history are, to my knowledge, absent.”

Now, this was not an unfounded claim: after discussing dialects of Kinyarwanda with my teacher in class, I scoured the Harvard library—the largest academic library in the world—and the Internet for information about these dialects, and found only passing references. I assumed that this was another case of an African language being ignored by the academic community, and I determined that I would try to ameliorate that problem.

However, after arriving and talking to a linguist or two in the process of getting my research permit, I learned that there was, in fact, a large body of research on Kinyarwanda dialectology, and Kinyarwanda linguistics in general. A scholarly article that I have since found opens by saying that “Ikinyarwanda … is certainly one of the most richly documented Bantu languages”!¹

I had not been able to find any of this research, though, because almost none of it is available outside of Rwanda! These journal articles and dissertations are stored in the Archive Nationale and in academic libraries at various universities in Kigali, Butare and elsewhere, but have completely gone under the radar of the international linguistic establishment.

What this meant, as I understood it then, was that the project I had proposed would not be very useful, as it would be rehashing previous work. Additionally, by the time my research permit came through, I only had two weeks to do my fieldwork (my first fieldwork ever, by the way). Under different circumstances, I probably would have abandoned the project and changed my focus, but I knew that I was required by the Ministry of Education—which had granted me the research permit—to submit a report on what I did.

So I bumbled my way through six interviews (though I should have gotten a lot more, even in the short time I had). Then I went home, and kind of forgot about the report. I wrote it shortly after returning to Rwanda, and sent it to the organization supervising my research.


The meeting I had this morning was to talk about the report, and also to ask some questions I had. Without going into much detail, I think Rwandan academics—and perhaps African academics in general—get quite understandably worked up about foreigners who come into their countries without adequate understanding of the language or culture, do some research with no supervision to make sure it is valid, and then publish it back home to obtain prestigious degrees and appointments, while the actually high-quality work is done by locals who go largely unrecognized.

I think I made clear that I had only even written that report because I was required to, and would never dream of trying to publish it; nevertheless, it bore many of the hallmarks of that type of project: shaky, questionable conclusions; inadequate and misdirected fieldwork that rehashed existing scholarship.

The conclusion we came to was that I should, before trying to do any other independent research, take some time to read the scholarship that exists. This was convenient, because it happened to line up exactly with what I had wanted to do anyway! My personal angle is a bit different: to learn about dialectal variation as a way of reconstructing the history of the language; functionally it is the same, though, as in I’ll be reading the same sorts of things that I would if I were interested in the dialects for their own sake.

So I got an idea of where this research was located and accessible, and the names of a couple of professors who could help me track it down. I felt like that was a good outcome.


The next day, I decided to try to start working: I had noticed that my time in Rwanda was already half over, and yet the project that I came here to do was only just getting underway! There was some question about whether I would be able to get into the Archive Nationale without a research permit—mine was at home, and about to expire—so I didn’t go there just yet. I did, however, think of a place that probably wouldn’t turn me away.

I visited the Kigali public library last year; this is what I wrote on the blog:

Much more inviting was the recently opened National Library of Rwanda. It was only about two blocks away, so I went over and looked in. It is a very nice building, all shiny and glassy and modern, and it looks like a library. The shelves were kind of spare: most of its books, I think, come as donations, and in general they were a little bit old. Still and all, it’s pretty cool that Rwanda even has a public library, right? People were using it, too: many were using the free Wi-Fi, and some were reading. I hope it will continue to grow.
Those observations largely still hold. I think the shelves are quite a bit fuller than they were a year ago, though they are still populated in a large part by older books that are often bordering on irrelevant. (The section with books about computers, for example, doesn’t have much that is less than a decade old.) I noticed, walking around, a few places with a lot of shiny new books, though; for example, someone must have donated about 200 thesauruses. (I assume they were donated, because why would a library ever need 200 thesauruses?)

I took a guess, though, that regardless of the quality of its general collections, the library might have really interesting material about Rwanda in particular. And I was right! It took awhile to find, but there were a solid three aisles worth of Rwandan material. Much of it was about the Genocide, and thus usually foreign, but a lot was locally published work that you probably can’t find many other places.

Included in the local publications were Rwandan academic journals, and theses and dissertations that numbered in the hundreds. Most of these were not professionally published—i.e. either typewritten or printed from Microsoft Word, and then informally bound. Most of these did not have labels on their spines.

This made navigating the collection very difficult, but at the same time just great fun. I could pull out a book and have no idea what it was until I opened it, and then having invested that much effort already I would read a little, learn something interesting, then put it back and move on.

I could have done that for hours, and I did do it for a couple of hours, though I ultimately left because the sun had set. In my searching, I found a number of interesting things, a couple of which were actually useful. The library had an incomplete collection of issues of Études Rwandaises, the research journal of the former National University of Rwanda, and there were a few language-related articles that aligned with what I was interested in.

I also found an awe-inspiring, almost 3,000-page-long bilingual Kinyarwanda-French dictionary. It occurred to me that this was a reference that I could really use: not only was it comprehensive, and with reliable marking of tones (unlike most other dictionaries I have found), it contained French translations of everything. Now, Kinyarwanda-English would have been ideal, but translating French to English is no difficult task, and this bridges the gap better than anything else I have found.

With some searching, I found that it is actually available for purchase online through the co-publisher, the Belgian Royal Museum for Central Africa—and, moreover, there is a C.D. version that makes 2,895 pages substantially lighter! The price is steep (€75, plus shipping from Belgium), but I do have a research grant, and this seemed like a good use of some of that money.

See, this is why libraries are great. Even apart from having what you need for free when you need it, you can just browse around and find awesome things. And even this library, still in its infancy and still largely donor-supported, has the ability to do that. Kigali is lucky to have it!


¹ Nkusi Laurent, “Un Problème de Glossonymie : Les Appellations du Kinyarwanda.” Études Rwandaises 1.2 (1987), p. 153–168.

09 July 2014

1 July 2014: Ghost Town

I told A. and V. I would be ready to go at noon on Tuesday; we would all have to eat lunch early because the place they wanted to take me was pretty far away. A couple of times now, I have heard about this place with horses where you can go and, I don’t know, ride them, or maybe just look at them. It is highly unlikely that anywhere in urban Kigali has suitable (i.e. flat) terrain for horses to live, or enough open space for them to actually move, so it made sense to me that it would be far away.

I kind of thought that was where we were going. So when they didn’t come by at noon, or 1:00 p.m., I figured they had realized that this place must be closed for Independence Day. (1 July is Rwanda’s independence day; see my post from a year ago for an explanation of why that is interesting.) So I ate lunch and went back to working on my Kigali transit map (which is coming along quite nicely, though I can’t show you just yet).

It turns out I had misunderstood two key points. (Not fluent yet!) First, I was supposed to come find them when I was ready—which I did, but only after they called my hosts to ask where I was. Second, we were not going to see the horses, but rather to meet some more family members. Because of the limits on my language ability, my shyness about trying to say sentences that might be ungrammatical and also my general shyness, I didn’t figure this last bit out until we were sitting in a living room with no horses in sight!

The people we were visiting were cousins of A. and V.—in English, that is. In Kinyarwanda, these in particular are referred to as siblings: Kinyarwanda has a lot of really unusual ways of expressing family relations, which I won’t go into much here except to say that there is no direct translation of “brother,” “sister,” “aunt,” “uncle,” “niece,” “nephew” or “cousin.” Because the mother’s sisters and the father’s brothers have special linguistic or cultural significance, children of those people are referred to as though they were siblings. (The word that most generally means “cousin” refers to children of the father’s sisters and the mother“s brothers.) These were the daughter and two sons of A. and V.’s mother’s sister.


What we did there isn’t especially worth blogging about: talked in the living room for awhile, went to see these cousins’ mother, who was sick in bed but still way too happy to see a white person. (She hugged me a lot and said a prayer for me.)

What was interesting, though, was where they lived. They are in Gisozi, which is a big hill pretty directly north of the plateau on which the city center is built. (The word igisozi, by the way, means “big hill.”) The Kigali Genocide Memorial is on the near side of Gisozi; the Université Libre de Kigali is on the back left (northwest) side. We were going to the back right side, where there isn’t anything of great significance, so the minibus stop is referred to by the name of a nearby girls’ elementary school (FAWE, which must be an acronym for something).

Gisozi, viewed from near the city center (last year).

I was excited to be there because, first, the only time I had been to Gisozi was to visit the memorial last year, and second, relatedly, it meant taking a new minibus route. The place we got off actually does have some significance, though only from a transit perspective: there are minibus routes that go both directions around Gisozi hill, starting from Kinamba on the other side, and FAWE is the place where they meet before continuing on to Kagugu.

Anyway, it’s a rather barren-looking bus stop; as we walked northward, down the hill, toward our destination, it didn’t get much less barren, but it did get quite a bit stranger. The road was unpaved, as are almost all roads aside from main thoroughfares; it was lined with large, modern, multi-storey houses with big walls and stylish gates outside of them. The strange part was that the place was deserted!

Those houses that were finished were brand-new, and had not yet been purchased; the rest, a majority, were still under construction, though their outsides looked pretty well complete.

This was the frontier: the next stage of the master plan for Kigali’s development. Redeveloping areas that are already populated would be difficult—even installing running water where there isn’t any will be quite a task—but the expansion of the city presents the opportunity to start from scratch. In many areas that are as yet uninhabited, plans are well underway to produce large, orderly, modern neighborhoods with big houses that will be fully served by paved roads and consistent facilities by the time they go on the market.

Some of these projects are very visible, like the big outline of a neighborhood in Gaculiro that can be seen looking north from pretty much anywhere in Kacyiru. I suspect there are many more, though, on the outlying hills like the one I visited here.

Lots of houses were still visibly under construction.


If they go unsold, it won’t be for a lack of people. Kigali’s population has rapidly grown in the last 20 years, from about 350,000 in 1996 to almost 1.2 million in 2012, and it is projected to reach 2 million by 2020.

The gamble, I suppose, is that economic growth will continue to produce residents who can afford to live on such properties. It’s not wholly unreasonable, though it is easy to forget that Kigali is still a city with a lot of poverty, where jobs are hard to come by and many people have trouble putting food on the table.

The last contradiction on that walk was our arrival at the bottom: at a decently nice house in a walled compound, yes, but nowhere near as nice as the ones we had passed. The house was small, and it shared an outhouse (no flush) with a few other houses in the same compound. I don’t think this family had been living there for a really long time, but the property they live on is certainly not a part of the recent construction boom, and I can imagine their uncertainty about what effect this lightning-paced gentrification will have on them.

An interesting side-effect of such rapid expansion, combined with a push to give names to all of Kigali’s streets! If I ever go back, I’ll tell them to just meet me the intersection of 836th and 854th; I’m sure they’ll know what I mean.

08 July 2014

30 June 2014: No Such Thing as a Free Tie?

The annoying thing about keeping a blog… well, back-track a bit. Blogging is a lot of fun, and I am glad I am doing it. It is annoying, though, that the more interesting things I do, the less time I have to blog about them! I have been fairly busy for the past week, going on excursions, starting my research and also working on some side-projects. It has all been great fun, but I value the writing of these blog posts as a way to synthesize my thoughts about them, and now here I am a week behind!

Anyhow, Monday, 30 June, I started my day very early to get up for a meeting with a professor at the Kigali Institute of Education (KIE) in Kimironko. As I mentioned in a previous post, I was O.K. telling the woman at the market that I would come back on Monday because I had to go out for this meeting anyway. As I mentioned in a previous post, Kimironko is about an hour-long commute from where I am living, and my meeting was at 9:00 a.m.

This meant waking up at 7:00 a.m. to leave at 8:00, which is totally normal—even a little lethargic—by the circadian rhythms of an average Rwandan (at least the ones I have talked to about it), but kind of uncomfortable for me! As it happened, I woke up to an e-mail saying I should come at 2:30 p.m. instead.

So, after closing my computer and going to eat lunch at 1:04 p.m., I headed out around 1:30 and headed toward KIE. Now, I know that I closed my computer at 1:04 p.m., because when I opened the computer again, I saw that it had received an e-mail with that timestamp—but had not had time to download it. The body of the message, which I read after I got back home at 5:00 p.m., began “Posponement [sic] of our meeting.”

Ah well. The only consequence was that I got really nervous when the minibus hit traffic and I arrived ten minutes late, and then hung around waiting outside the guy’s office for awhile, worrying that he had decided he had more important things to do during that interval. But as I said, I had to be in Kimironko anyway, so I put those thoughts out of my mind and set off for the market.


I have a pretty good memory for places, I think, but I need to work on remembering faces of people I meet only once. What this means is that I remembered pretty much exactly where the woman who said she would make me a tie had been sitting, but did not remember what she looked like—aside from being dark-skinned with short hair, which described almost everyone within a 100-yard radius.

So the best I could do was go to where she had been and ask the nearest person whether anyone had made me a tie. The result of this was that said nearest person got up and loudly asked whether anyone had made a tie, with no responses. This was perplexing. I was about to have to make a decision about whether to pursue it or let it go, when that same woman said, well, this lady here could make you one. Upon asking how much it would be, she said Fr. 3000 ($4.31), the same price the other woman was going to charge, and she had her own cloth that she offered to use. Moreover, she said she would be done in a half-hour, not some other day.

My split-second thought process led me to the conclusion that, as I had not actually paid for the first tie, this would give me exactly the same result as tracking it down, i.e. a tie, and no additional money down the drain. The only difference was that I wouldn’t get the leftover cloth from the big piece I had bought, but that was fine. It seemed at the time as though the first woman had run off with the cloth, but I didn’t want conflict.

And anyway, they told me I could just sit and watch the tie be made, which sounded like a lot of fun. So I did, chatting with the seamstresses as it came together. I don’t have the vocabulary to describe the process of making it, but it was pretty interesting, and the tie came out looking just about how I was hoping it would look! It’s not a fancy tie, largely because of the material, but it’s symmetrical and the right length, and moreover I watched it being made! I thought it was pretty cool.

Unfortunately, the best shirts I have for wearing ties with are polo shirts! (Hmm… now how could I solve that?)

It is also a much longer tie than others I have, which makes it much easier to make outrageous knots like this one.


Afterward, naturally, I went over to buy some fruit.

This time, I was told the avocados were Fr. 200 (29¢) each, which was an improvement, and I didn’t feel like I needed to heckle, so I just bought two of them. The salesperson was very nice, and picked one out for me that would be good to eat today, and another that would be good to eat tomorrow. (In retrospect, by the way, she chose very well.) I also got a mango, for Fr. 500 (72¢—ooh, expensive!). My bag got to be quite heavy, but it was heavy with fruit so it was all O.K.

I actually saw my guide from the previous visit—apparently a white guy speaking Kinyarwanda to a group of fruit vendors is something of an attention-grabber—and he asked whether I had gotten my tie. I considered telling him I hadn’t, but I realized that would mean paying for another tie. So I lied and said I had found it just fine.

In retrospect, maybe the original seamstress eloped with the cloth I had bought, but I have a feeling she was just off doing something else. I kind of doubt that her income would allow her to just skip out on work for that period of time (though I really don’t know). I do plan to go back, as my parents now want me to get them clothes, and if someone comes up to me and tries to make me buy that tie, I wouldn’t refuse: I did ask her to make it for me, and anyway it’s not that much money. I won’t pursue it much in either direction, though.

The upshot of all of this was that I got a tie, two avocados and a mango for Fr. 2,900 ($4.17). Now, at an average American supermarket, the latest data says that I could get two avocados and a mango for $4.08. So, from one perspective… I got a free tie!

03 July 2014

29 June 2014: Lots of B-words

The main thing that happened on Sunday was a conversation with A. (who I have mentioned several times before). We met up too late in the afternoon to go anywhere really interesting, so we walked around Nyamirambo—near both of our homes, which I usually ride minibuses past on my way elsewhere. I do remember just about walking the length of the district, once—from the Regional Stadium, where I saw a Jehovah’s Witnesses Convention, to the Onatracom (Office Nationale de Transport et de Communication) office, practically in town—but I had done that on my own, and it was nice to get some explanations of what I was seeing.

Most of the interesting information that came out of the conversation had to do with the Biryogo neighborhood, which has a big market-type thing that isn’t quite the same kind of market, but rather just a major commercial area with lots of shops. I’ve written before about the really attractively painted, brightly colored storefronts.

I had known that Nyamirambo broadly, and Biryogo especially, were majority-Muslim; it is fully Rwandan, but it sounds like the Muslim population (predictably) has foreign roots. A. says that Muslims have a reputation for making really good food—sounds familiar, actually! People in Biryogo can often be seen cooking outdoors, by the road, and the food is very good and very cheap.

Extraordinarily cheap, actually. A sizable loaf of chapati for Fr. 100, and for another 100 a hefty portion of cooked beans to go on top—big enough for a meal, and only Fr. 200 (28¢). I kind of want to try it.

Biryogo is also a place where one can hear Swahili spoken alongside Kinyarwanda, which really isn’t common. Swahili is spoken natively by a few hundred thousand people in Tanzania, and as a second language by about 15 million more in Kenya and Tanzania. It is a regional trade language, with speakers extending far west into the Congo,¹ but hearing it fluidly around here is rare (at least from my experience).

What all of this suggests is that Biryogo experienced a very strong cultural influence from the East African coast, as Swahili-speaking Muslim merchants came in to do business and occasionally settled. Without a source I couldn’t say when, but as much as they have blended themselves into Rwanda, they have retained distinct aspects of their cultural heritage: the Indian-influenced food, the language, the religion.

It is a really fun place to be. I should also mention that we were walking there well after dusk, and the streets were downright bustling in a way that I don’t think would apply to many othe parts of this city.


The other notable thing about that conversation was the conversation itself, which extended across a variety of topics and generally made me feel pretty good about my ability to communicate myself. (I am feeling more and more comfortable saying on my résumé that I speak “conversational Kinyarwanda,” not that anyone would check.) Some things I was able to explain:

  • The unusual dichotomy in the United States great success among recent African immigrants and persistent poverty in the Black community as a whole²
  • The lack of absolute poverty in the U.S., and the relative comfort of the American poor despite inequality and hardship
  • Why I like the look of the signs on all of the stores in Nyamirambo
  • How supermarkets in the U.S. are so common, and why they are able to offer lower prices than smaller establishments (which, for interesting reasons, is the opposite of the case in Kigali)³
  • Why I so often chuckle when I see the names of shops in Rwanda

That last one launched into a couple of fun threads. First, the reason I so often chuckle is that, due to some combination of catering to foreigners, appearing professional or cool, adhering to national standards and who knows what else, most stores in Kigali have English or French names. Generally, the older ones are French and the newer ones English (though designations like quincaillerie, papeterie, bijouterie and imprimerie seem to have just entered the local vocabulary, and therefore persist).

Anyway, as English was very recently made the language of government and business in Rwanda, most people—and especially the subset of the population that would consider opening a small shop—do not speak it very well. But they try their best at the English names anyway, often with fantastic results.

For example, there is a restaurant in town, across from the Kigali City Tower, called Fantastic Restaurant. I went there a year ago, and it was indeed fantastic.

But you see what I mean, right? I think it’s a great name, but no native speaker of English would have thought it up! I guess it’s just my cultural understanding of how things are named.

Another example: the God Is Able Forex Bureau, where I have changed money at least once. There’s just something so hilariously incongrous about invoking divine power over the entrance to an establishment that stays afloat by taking people’s money and turning it into different kinds of money.

And on a completely non-cultural note, my favorite so far might be Chip Chop Restaurant, also in town. I can totally see how someone thought that would be a cool name for a business: it rolls off the tongue really nicely, and it sounds fun and inviting. It’s hard to put my finger on why it’s so funny… maybe the onomatopoeia lulls me into thinking that “chip chop” is empty of meaning, but then I remember that, wait a minute, those are two perfectly usable words!

I feel like I should make a Twitter feed of these, along with the hilarious second-hand T-shirts I see people wearing in Kigali.

Anyway, A. thought this was all very funny. She had a question afterward, which was about certain English words that people her age used very often at school, kind of to pad sentences, whose meaning wasn’t all that important in context. But she wanted to know what they meant.

The first one was bastard. She actually already knew that one. But she recounted her surprise when she found out that she had been unconsciously telling her friends that they were illegitimate, all the funnier because in Rwanda—as in pre-Hollywood America—that is a pretty serious insult, and the word is not one to be thrown around lightly.

The second was one she did not know, and let me tell you, it is really funny to hear someone with a strong accent and limited knowledge of English say the word bool-sheet when you don’t see it coming. I was happy that I happened to know the Kinyarwanda word for cow-pies (amasé). She thought it was hilarious, and said she would tell all her friends.

It occurs to me that this is what happens when people get their English vocabulary from watching American films. Very often, movies show us characters who use those and many other similar words as comedic tools bordering on verbal crutches. Native speakers have a full knowledge of those words’ meanings, and the many ways they can be used, and in that context it can be really funny—but to, say, a Rwandan, there is no indication at all of what they actually mean!


There are a couple of reasons I have fallen behind on blogging in the past few days. One is that I have legitimately been doing stuff. Another is that I have been trying to make a map of public transit routes in Kigali, which I believe does not exist. I think public transit mapping is really fascinating, and I was able to find a couple of good sources of information on which routes run where—and I will blog about that another time!


¹ Swahili is by its nature a language with a large number of cultural influences, and the way it varies geographically is actually fascinating. The cultural descendents of early Swahili immigrants to the Congo, for example, speak something that is recognizably Swahili but has drastically diverged due to isolation in recent centuries.

² Did you know that the ethnic group with the highest average educational attainment in the U.S. is Nigerians? It’s really interesting, and satisfyingly confounds some perceived racial hierarchies.

³ The norm in Rwanda is the small retailer, and supermarkets are big, shiny and reminiscent of their shiny American analogues. They cater to people who have the desire and the means to live like Americans, and as such they have higher prices. In America, on the other hand, supermarkets have such purchasing power that they can buy everything in bulk and thereby have lower prices than their competitors.

⁴ We actually had a whole lesson on the different words used for “feces,” “urine,” “defecate” and “urinate.” Kinyarwanda vocabulary is wonderfully rich in this area, often having animal-specific words for each of those, in addition to different levels of politeness when talking about humans.