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.
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