Here we go, then.  Off to Rwanda for a year of VSO in Byumba.

I will be teaching in the Teacher Training College in Byumba and supporting students on teaching practice in surrounding schools.

We have said good bye to friends and family and sit waiting for the taxi to take us to Heathrow….

In February Vern and I had a wonderful week in Zanzibar.  We were there for the Sauti za Busara music festival.  This is a festival primarily of East African music (rather than the much more widely known music of Mali and Senegal).  We heard a fantastic succession of bands we had never heard of.  One highlight was Taarab music which is traditional to Zanzibar and consists of a great mixture of Arab influence, Indian rhythms and African drums.  The singers are usually women and we were treated to a performance by Bi Kidude.  Vern described her as about 94 with a face like a riverbed.  She had an amazingly powerful voice and great energy in her singing.  She really is believed to be over 90 though she is not really sure.  We also saw the first all women’s Taarab group.  Until now, the women were only allowed to sing, not play any of the instruments so this was a big step forward. Zanzibar is Muslim and women are certainly not equally visible in public life, but Zanzibar is a pretty laid back place and seems to be open to change.

The festival took place in the Old Fort in Stone Town, which is the main town on one of the two big islands of Zanzibar.  The fort was built by the Omanis when they first took control of the islands and ruled Zanzibar from the Sultanate in Oman.  Later the Sultan moved his residence to Zanzibar – mainly I think because it is such a nice place!  The fort has big round towers at each corner, high stone walls and a big clear space inside.  Perfect for music. At one end was a stage with the same huge backdrop, showing the name of the festival and major sponsors, for every band and at the other a raised platform with chairs for “VIPs” – we paid a little extra and sat up there with a good view and waiter service for drinks.  This was a bit erratic as they often forgot the order and had to come back or brought the wrong things – still the thought was there.

Music began about 5 each day so we went off being tourists in the day.  We took a ‘Safari Blue’ which was a day out on a boat, visiting a small uninhabited island for lunch, a coral reef for snorkelling and a mangrove swamp for extra swimming.  It was a magical day out and I have put the pictures on facebook.  Vern told the guide that he can’t swim and was told that would be fine as the guide would help, which he did.  He taught Vern how to use the snorkel and flippers, put a life vest on him and towed him out to deeper water.  I went off by myself and swam with others from our boat (we were 9 in all) and another guide decided to look after me.  We swam around hand in hand, while he found different fishes I would have missed.  Every now and then he popped his head up out of the water to tell me the names and look around for anyone else to show things to.  Entirely magical.

We had a couple of quiet days, walking around Stone Town, visiting museums and sitting about watching the world go by.  Stone Town is actually built of coral, since that is what the island consists of.  Ragged lumps are smoothed over with a very sandy mortar.  Buildings are tall and close together, making the streets narrow and very hot.  We could usually only manage about an hour before escaping again to the shore and a breeze. It is a bit touristy but so good-natured you don’t really mind.

27 March 2010

BUS JOURNEYS AND OTHER INCIDENTALS

I have done a lot of long bus journeys lately – which is one reason why I am at home this weekend – a great novelty.  I am not bored yet and hope tomorrow will go equally well.  I am actually catching up on some of the things I promised myself I would do.

Police have been rather edgy lately and there have been few journeys without at least one stop for gloomy officers to walk around the vehicle, looking in with grave suspicion at students clutching folders from UNATEK, mothers with babies and middle-aged traders with bundles of clothes for next day’s market.  Sometimes they open the doors and gaze under the seats, other times they stare at the driver’s licence documents, clearly regretful that there is nothing wrong with them.  Yesterday one officer went to greater lengths, demanding that everyone produce identity cards.  I solemnly waved my tatty green card, nowhere near as smart as the credit card style sported by Rwandans.  I was completely ignored.  Several people were asked their names and a few cards were taken for inspection.  He was so disappointed by nothing to find fault with that the last card was chucked contemptuously back towards its owner, who then had to scrabble on the floor for it.  Rwandans are generally polite, especially to one’s elders and the shock rippled through the bus.

I remembered a previous incident, complete with suspicious looks, lack of conversation and general attempt to make everyone miserable.  Some people had got off the bus and suddenly a few young men sitting near me called out to the policeman, pointing excitedly at a building set a little way back.  They were clearly saying that someone had run off behind the building.  Three officers launched themselves into the chase, to return with an elderly farmer who had nipped out for a pee.  Most people on the bus laughed in delight.

A few days ago an old woman was next to me on the bus.  She was clearly a cultivator and not well used to travelling on a bus.  She smiled shyly at me and we exchanged greetings, as far as my Kinyarwanda would take me.  In a quiet patch she pulled out a box of matches and took a long time opening it and selecting a match, while I wondered if this was some form of rural terrorism.  She then popped the unlit match into her mouth!  I had some food with me and after a decent interval I happened to pull it out.  It is bad manners here to eat without sharing so I offered her a boiled egg – she seemed to like it.

When there is a flat tyre or a breakdown everyone piles out of the bus to stand around on the edge of the road.  For some reason this always happens when I have taken the late bus home and it is at least half dark.  Sometimes I am struck by the difference from a similar event in England.  Usually no one smokes, no one gets out anything to eat though some drink water.  People introduce themselves to each other and shake hands and start conversations.  There is always an interested crowd to watch the tyre being changed or whatever and of course the obligatory flurry of mobile phones.  Often people living nearby come out to watch the passengers waiting.  Children often shout ‘Muzungu!’ and sometimes their parents tell them not to be rude.  They all stare though.  I discovered yesterday that I am not just a muzungu but muzungazi – the female form of the word.  Not used very often I think.

It is hard to know where to begin describing my amazing week in Tanzania.  I had never done a safari before and had no idea what to expect.  Msafiri told me that the word just means travel, as his name means Traveller, so when we set off we were all Wasafiri – travellers.  Here ends the brief lesson in Kiswahili.

We had a day shopping in Arusha as the only plane from Kigali landed at 10 am.  The town is bigger and more bustling than Kigali, more international too and we didn’t feel quite so stared at as we do in Rwanda.  We wandered towards the town centre with the help of a little photocopy map.  It was Easter Monday and a Bank Holiday so not much was open.  Tanzania is very English in many ways; they even drive on the left and seem to keep many of the same holidays as the UK.

We were adopted by a couple of wide boys who offered to take us to a craft market.  Stephen gave up before we got there, saying that shopping was not his favourite and, when accompanied by constant hassling to buy things, was his idea of hell.  Melissa and I carried on and it was worth it.  You have to be very firm about not buying things you don’t want and getting a sensible price for the things you do want.  It was good that we could back each other up occasionally.  I bought some lovely batik material which I hope a tailor will make up for me into beautiful clothes.  After the washing my clothes get in Nyakarambi I am starting to need something new.  When we went back after the national parks trip we bought more things.  There are about a hundred little shops, all carrying variations on much the same things but some traders were more fun than others and some seemed to have better quality.  You learn to look with eyes not fingers, since the traders pounce if you touch anything, assuming you want at least 20 of the item!  They are also good at watching where you are looking.  At one stall I was interested in some sandals and kept my hands in my pockets.  4 stalls down an enthusiastic man showed me almost every sandal in the shop.

When we were sure of the way back to the hotel, we lost the wide boys by giving them 2,000 shillings (about £1) for their guiding services.  They were fun and very helpful.

First stop next morning was Lake Manyara.  We were surrounded by giraffe and zebra before we even got into the park.  The approach was over quite dull flat land, with the mountains looming ahead.  There were Maasai everywhere, leading or driving herds of cattle and goats.  In some places along the sides of the road there is a border of sisal trees.  They look so odd, with a big aloe-like base of fat leaves and a single stem rising up to 5 metres with sparse, thin green branches with ridiculous little bunches of curled up flowers on the ends.

This is a wetland park, with thick jungle, small damp clearings and a fantastic array of wildlife.  I saw lions resting in a tree for the first time.  Apparently they often do it, but especially in Lake Manyara Park, perhaps because the ground is usually so wet.  As you will have noticed from the photographs, (on Facebook) there were lots of elephants; large and small, old and young, even babies, generally quite unconcerned by our presence, though taking care to surround the babies when they came near to the car.  I later found I had taken 63 photos of elephants – not excessive in my view.

The car was a Toyota Land Cruiser with a big lift-up roof so we could travel along standing up (only in the parks, not allowed on the tarmac road).  It had seats for 5 passengers but we were the only 3 in it.  We saw others stuffed full of people and were glad we had so much room.  Our driver Hassan was quiet, knowledgeable and always calm, even when the roads got really bad.  We were so lucky!  When originally booking we thought we would go camping as the cheapest option (this is camping African park style, with tents set up for you and a cook who travels with you), but since it was low season we were told that the lodge would be the same price and there would be no supplement for me as a single person.  We worried slightly about how the lodges would be – having experienced some of the cheap guest houses in Rwanda, we know just how basic accommodation can be.   We arrived at Lake Manyara Hotel to swift friendly service, good food and palatial bedrooms.  Not basic at all!

Hassan’s car radio crackled away a lot of the time as the drivers exchanged information on what they had seen.  We learned to recognise a change in driving style when something interesting came through.  One little burst was followed by a definite increase in speed and we asked what was going on.  “You will see,” was all we got, then as we got nearer, “There is something in a tree.”  It was a big male leopard, basking quietly, gazing rather condescendingly at the tourists.

The Serengeti is an endless plain – that is what it means in Maasai.  No exaggeration – it is 14,400km², more than half the area of Rwanda (or Wales for that matter).  It is grassy savannah – very grassy at the moment as it is rainy season – with peculiar outcrops of rock, called kopjes; they are bright green and covered in trees – always worth careful examination as a favourite haunt of cheetah and snakes.

We saw lions killing and eating a buffalo calf – I was so excited I forgot about taking pictures in the middle of it all.  We also saw lions making babies, very business like operation with lots of time for snoozing between bouts.  Even the pictures don’t really do it justice, never mind trying to describe it all.  It was a wonderful adventure and I loved it.

COMMEMORATION 14^th April 2010

This is a difficult notion.

Today was the last day of the week of national mourning for the victims of the 1994 genocide.  Another Rwandan classic in many ways.  Yesterday Jean Marie told me at 1.30 that they were closing the education office for everyone to go to Nyarubuye (scene of the worst atrocity in this area in 1994 and site of a big memorial) for commemorative events. I had taken VSO advice and made myself scarce for most of the memorial week as we were told that this is a Rwandan concern and they are not keen on foreigners watching.  So, I just said, See you tomorrow? To which he replied, yes, but at Nyarubuye, and we went on to discuss him picking me up at seven at the petrol station opposite my house. I went home to find Dignite in her best clothes, waiting for me to tell her to take the rest of the day off and go to Nyarubuye.

Seven in the morning came and went, moto drivers stopped to offer a ride and three buses went by, wondering what they had done wrong.  At seven-thirty I rang Jean Marie to be told he was working but Awunick would come and collect me.  About eight-thirty Awunick arrived with Jean-Paul and Jean-Pierre to say that there was no transport available so we would not be going.  We chatted and I used the time to organise some meetings for after the holiday.

Nine o’clock Awunick’s phone rang.  I heard the usual ‘eunh’ noise Rwandans make when listening, then “Kwa Dorothy.   Kwa Joe.  Kwa muzungu.  Kwa Jonathan.”  We don’t have addresses here so directing anyone to a house depends on them knowing where you are, which somehow they usually do.  This time the driver didn’t know my house, that Joe lived here before me, that I am the only muzungu woman in town and that my landlord is Jonathan.  We went out onto the main street and found the minibus, already nearly full of people we know.  They must have been highly amused by the driver’s confusion but in usual Rwandan style preferred to enjoy the joke instead of helping him out.  They knew we would get there.

It was quite a jolly ride down to Nyarubuye.  Viateur was in paroxysms of embarrassment when I asked if the young lady he had his arm round was Diane, his famous girlfriend we have never seen.  It was not Diane.  Most of the bus enjoyed the joke.  Viateur earnestly explained that he may joke around but he is serious about Diane.  Everyone else laughed a bit more.  A bit later, there were wolf whistles and other sounds of appreciation from the young men in the back.  A beautiful girl?  A smart car?  No, a small herd of healthy cows.  Only in Rwanda.

We got to Nyarubuye after all getting out to allow the bus to climb the last hill in the mud.  Luckily it was not raining.  There were thousands of people there, many walking slowly up and down the paths between the flowerbeds.  Behind us stood the Anglican church and cloister buildings.  The huge, rather grim-looking church is still in use but the rest of the buildings serve only as memorial now, with grisly displays and information boards inside.  Awunick took hold of my hand and made sure we stayed together.  Almost everyone was wearing something purple, some with a triangular cloth around the neck, others with folded ribbons pinned on, others with purple shirts.  Seeing I had nothing suitable, Awunick stopped someone passing, removed one of his two ribbons and pinned one on me. Some marquees stood on the field beyond the formal gardens and we were steered towards one where we were able to sit on plastic chairs out of the sun, with other head teachers and people from the District office.  Local people sat on benches under tarpaulins stretched between the trees and children sat on the grass in front of them, many putting jackets and shirts over their heads to protect from the sun.  There was a smaller marquee in the centre for the Mayor and other dignitaries, draped with white and purple swags.  It was quiet and the emotion hung heavy in the air.  Faces were mostly quite blank, not glazed, just inexpressive, but the mixture of anger, bewilderment and sorrow was unmistakeable.

Proceedings began with the National Anthem, which I found quite moving in the circumstances.  It was sung gently, with no bravado, but no heavy solemnity either.  There were a couple of short speeches, but no one was in much mood to translate so I just picked up what I could.  Someone led some prayers and then a man emerged from the crowd to take the microphone.  Awunick whispered “Temoignage” (bearing witness).  He told his story simply and with great dignity.  With his use of simple words, short sentences and plenty of gestures, I was able to follow quite easily.  A few women, one by one, cried uncontrollably and were helped out by hospital staff strategically placed around the area.  It seems emotion must be completely bottled up until it forces its way out.

The speech went on.  And on.  The language became more complicated and I was just aware that he was moving into a more general lecture and losing his audience.  Maybe this was a good thing.  The emotional pitch of the opening could not be sustained.  Commemorative songs have been written and recorded and some were played loudly over the sound system while a singer with a microphone tried to make himself heard.   Given the quality of a capella singing I have heard, I found this an odd choice.  More eyewitnesses came and went, including a young man who must have been a child in 1994.  He was a professional singer and, I think, a stand up comedian.  It was odd to see the instantly recognisable mannerisms of a performer, coupled with language far too difficult for me.  The self-deprecating look down, half smile and slightly lowered voice as he glanced up again signalled the punchlines and got him his laughs.  These were pretty muted in the circumstances and he was careful to remain soft-spoken and respectful throughout.  The crowd liked it.

Near the end, students from the local secondary school performed ‘sketches’.  These were short scenes with a moral message.  They covered different groups and their ways of coping with Rwanda’s history.  A mother sought counselling which healed the potential rift with her husband.  Children learned the story and treated each other with respect.  Young men who had given up in despair and turned to crime or anti-social behaviour as a result of what they had witnessed as small children discussed their problems with their peers and learned to get on with their lives.  It was refreshing that while the audience appreciated the messages, they laughed (quite kindly) at the neat endings.  It all helped to restore the tone to something like normality.

Eventually Awunick whispered that the time had come to make contributions.  Money is collected for the upkeep of the memorial sites and promotion of unity and reconciliation activities.  Representatives of different organisations announced the amounts given by their groups.  No monster cheques, but it was eerily reminiscent of Children in Need.  Then more music was played while we all trooped up to the table in the centre and put money in a ‘peace basket’.  These are the emblematic Rwandan baskets with pointy lids traditionally used for gifts on formal occasions.  They are sold in all the tourist outlets.

Naturally there had to be a couple of speeches after the collection of money, not only to tell us how much they had raised (7,000,000Rwf!!), but lots more besides.  It is a dangerous thing to give a Rwandan a microphone; they don’t seem to have much notion of stopping.

After four and half hours the plastic chair had lost its appeal and I was glad when we were finally free to move.  People moved very slowly towards the exit with no impatience and little conversation.  When we reached the car park, we found lots more people we knew, including Dignite (who wanted to come back to my house to finish the day’s work.  I explained that I didn’t need her!).  She looked shattered.  I knew that her story was a bad one though I have never learned the details, except that she no longer has parents or brothers and sisters.

Getting out was pretty slow too.  Getting into the minibus seemed to loosen tongues a bit so every time we started to move there were more people to greet through the windows, hands to shake and so on.  I was glad of leaving slowly.  The atmosphere at Nyarubuye is oppressive at the best of times and a gradual removal meant I could feel almost normal by the time I got home.  I had shared something with my Rwandan friends, for the first time almost hearing the voices of the people butchered there.  Until then, it had been shocking and moving but hard to imagine as real people.  I still don’t understand what happened but I have a better idea of the weight so many people carry around with them, not only of grief and anger but also a kind of shame that this should have happened in their country and not been stopped.  I think the feeling of being judged by outsiders who can never understand must contribute to the reserved nature of so many people here.  It takes time to make friends and forever to be allowed to know much about them.

7^th June 2010

I have not had time to write much lately, but the messages I receive every now and then saying “We do like to hear from you” have finally jogged my conscience.

Today I was writing up my record of work for the past few weeks and could see why I have not done much writing!  I am still slogging away at the partnership programme and am very proud to report that all my eight schools have set up partnerships with schools in the UK.  Now we move on to the next stage which is to apply for a grant to arrange a reciprocal visit.  There is great excitement at the prospect but many look at me as if to say “That is all very well but it won’t apply to us, will it?”  The workshop is on Friday and the form is 20 pages long so we will have our work cut out.

I have just had a visit from Awunick and Eric, sorting out the details of the workshop and my upcoming visit to Awunick’s school with my merry band from Mushikiri sector.  I have been working with 5 schools out in the far beyond for a couple of months, using the lure of being designated a model school to work at management and teaching improvement in their schools.  It is so encouraging to go into a school and see the improvements we discussed last week already starting to happen.  They asked me for a checklist to guide them through the visit, so I had to pass that with Awunick.  She promptly claimed a copy for a meeting she has to go to tomorrow and told me about 5 other people who should see all the paperwork on the project so now I find myself promising to get to the office by 7 to print extra copies of everything.  Awunick does tend to have that effect on people.  It was lovely to have the two of them here.  Awunick had not got around to eating today (and arrived here after 6 pm) so I plied her with milky tea and biscuits.  We sat here discussing work, but giggling and telling stories along the way.  Off she went to visit a friend who is not well, before getting home.

Had a good weekend, meeting up with many other volunteers at “Gitfest”, Rwanda’s answer to the British summer festival season.  We dressed up in silly clothes, played loud music, had singalongs and drank quite a lot.  Leonie’s domestique came over and made piles of brochettes and ibirayi and the host volunteers had made lovely salads and hummous and things like that, so it was quite a feast.  I had not been to a gathering of volunteers for quite a long time so there were many I had not seen to talk to in ages.  There was an almighty thunderstorm that night.  We were told, this means the season is changing and now we are going into the dry season.  You know it makes sense.  It was good to catch up on what they are all up to.  Leonie and I treated ourselves to a taxi back to her house and sat up drinking tea and chatting till after midnight!  Don’t stay up that late very often – I usually get up at 5.30 when the birds start, so when on my own, I am usually tucked up by ten.  Gitarama (hence Gitfest) has a big volunteer community, with about 10 VSO in the area and a load of people working for other organisations.  Made me feel like quite the country bumpkin.

Nyakarambi has 2 volunteers – me, and Kyle who teaches for World Teach at Rusumo High School about 5km from here.  There is also a doctor at Kirehe hospital about 3km away and Christine, also VSO, in Nyamugali, about 10km away.  I am the white woman in the town.  This has its compensations – it is easier to think of myself as part of the community cos I just have to get out and meet people or sit and fester in my little house.  Gitarama has amazing things like a shop that sells brown bread and cheese and a variety of restaurants.  Nyakarambi has quite a few restaurants but I wouldn’t go into some of them!  Still Msafiri does us proud at Kirehe Modern.  He is opening a new venture out at a new village, built by the Red Cross for returned refugees and just recently handed over as private property to the residents.

Sorry.  This is getting very rambly!

I saw a lovely lesson last week.  I have been working with a teacher at Kirehe Primary School as he asked me to help him improve his teaching of English to P6.  Jean Claude loves teaching grammar and does it quite effectively, but the kids never get a chance to really practise using it, so it remains very theoretical.  When I arrived on Thursday, he told me that his colleague, who teaches the other two P6 English classes, wanted me to see his lesson.  He was revising comparative adjectives and presented a well-planned lesson using group work and home made materials, just like I had been going on about for weeks.  It is so rare to see someone take things on board so thoroughly and with such good result – the children had a lovely time and really succeeded at what they were doing – so often they don’t really understand and repeat things hopefully, only to get smacked down because they repeated the wrong thing.  When I told Peter how pleased I was, he looked at me and said, “No negative points?” as though he wanted me to give him something to work on.  I then had to see him repeat the lesson with his other class, “in case I noticed something else”.  I did – he improved on the earlier performance and explained afterwards that this was because the second class were higher ability, which they were.  There is no setting or streaming here – kids simply sink or swim – so it is pure chance.

Life here goes on its own special chaotic way.  Today is Umuganda, which roughly means ‘service’.  The entire population is expected to take part in community activity, sweeping the streets, renovating derelict sites, working on new construction of school buildings, rebuilding houses for the very poor (and often widowed) members of the community and so on.  This lasts from 6 – 12 every last Saturday of the month.  Anyone caught driving a car or wandering about not doing anything can be stopped by the police and directed to a suitable activity.  I am staying with a friend in Byumba in the north of Rwanda, near the border with Uganda for the weekend.  We are planning a workshop we are going to deliver back in my district, so we are confined to the house till 12, listening to Jimi Hendrix and dreaming up fun activities for teachers to include in their often very file:///Users/dorothynelson/Pictures/iPhoto%20Library/Originals/2010/View%20from%20Shala’s%20house%20in%20Byumba%20April%202010/P1010606.JPGdreary lessons.

There is a system here of ‘model schools’ which are supposed to have reached a standard where they can invite others to come and see how a school should be run.  It is fraught with difficulty as there is no set definition of what makes a model school, things change as people move schools and so on.  However, it is a handy peg to hang recommendations on.  I have set up a competition between the five schools of Mushikiri sector to see which of them will be given the title of model school.  This involves meetings at each school as we discuss different aspects of school management and teaching.  Last week I went to Bisagara school and saw the wall displays I had recommended 5 days before already on the wall!  Occasionally you can think you are doing something here.  We encourage a system of class ‘families’.  These are groups of about 8 children within a class, usually living close to one another.  Each family has a mother and father and brothers and sisters.  If one member of the family is absent from school or has any kind of problem, it is discussed within the group, then if necessary taken to an older student – there are ‘grandparents’ in the top classes and as a last resort to the class teacher.  This was set up in the wake of the genocide, when there were a great many orphans and otherwise bereaved children.    Anyway, Faustin had put family lists on the wall and was explaining the system to me as it didn’t seem to make too much sense to me.  The other Head teachers crowded round to hear the explanation and put in their twopennorth.  They explained to him how it should be done while I stepped smugly back to watch.

The groups are also used for group work in lessons, practical work in the gardens and cleaning rotas.  No cleaners are employed here – the kids do it all.  Some schools (with several acres of garden and farmland) may employ one gardener to oversee the children’s work, but many don’t even have that.  They grow a range of crops and trees which are sometimes used to feed the staff or children and sometimes sold to augment school funds.  One school uses all the profit on school outings.  They also have a solar panel to provide mobile phone charging at 100RWF a hit – that goes for school prizes.  Oops, I am rambling.  What I was trying to talk about is why I am doing this workshop.  My five schools in Mushikiri are doing well on improving school management and last week we looked at teacher observation so I thought the teachers could do with some help on their teaching methodology.  Many teachers use a piece of chalk as their sole teaching aid.  There are textbooks, of varying quality, but not much else.  These teachers start at 7 am and finish at 5 pm with 1 hour for lunch and a maximum of 1 hour a day out of the 8 available when they are not teaching, so telling them to make lots of jazzy fancy resources is not really practicable.  So we have to dream up things they can do really easily.  Enter VSO with magic wand.  We are making games with bottle tops, durable charts that can be carried from room to room or nailed to the wall.

Weddings Part one

There has been a lot of talk of weddings lately.  Most of the people I know seem to be related (though the concept of family is different here) and they all together got into a lovely tizz over the wedding of Aline to her doctor from Kigali called Jean-Marie Vianney (that is just his first name – he has a Kinyarwanda one too which I don’t know).  Awunick was asking for weeks whether we would be there and announced she wanted to put us in Rwandan costume, in ‘mishananas’.  When she seemed overworked and tired in the days before the wedding we thought we might have got away with it being forgotten.  We were told that the civil ceremony was at 10 at the Sector office, followed by the traditional dowry ceremony at Aline’s family home.  About 9.30 we rang Awunick for instructions and she promised to come and get us.  In she rushes about 10.30 with a big carrier bag.  Mishananas!  I had to promise Sonya that I would not put the pictures on Facebook, but I may all the same.  We were tied into the clothes (no elastic just very tight tying) and off we went.  There was a pause while we collected the bride’s mother from her house, where lots of young men were rushing around looking important with bits of cable.  Why is it that the sound guys always look the same, wherever you are in the world?

The ceremony at the sector eventually started, involving lots of signing, waiting and then more signing.  The couple made their declarations and we all poured out into the sunshine.

The ceremony at the house was much more fun.  There was a long wait while the two families got into traditional clothing.  We were seated with the bride’s party, all under marquees.  There was a special small one for the couple and a large empty one for the groom’s family.  At last they arrived, saying they had come to claim a girl.  There was much joking about no girl being available, then a succession of very pretty young girls were brought forward, the first about 10 and the last about 16.  Each was made a great fuss of as the father kindly explained that they would not do.  Lots of speeches of course – this is Rwanda after all – and at last Aline emerged looking gorgeous.  Representatives of her family went off to inspect the cow brought as a symbol of the dowry to be paid and returned saying it was acceptable.  There was much exchanging of gifts and drinks, some traditional dancing and singing from a group from a local secondary school and at last the party could begin!  The sound guys morphed into very fast efficient waiters, bringing the inevitable Fanta, Mutzig beer and unusually for Rwandan ceremony, food!  It was a lovely day, full of affection and good humour.

More musings on weddings.

Hope you are all well

Love Dorothy

Weddings part two

I have been a bit baffled lately by attitudes to marriage here.  There seems to be a bizarre mixture of apparently cynical calculation and romantic dreaming.

Education is seen as the passport to riches happiness and all good things in future life.  There is a private university in Kibungo, where hordes of young teachers go every weekend to study a wide range of courses, often concentrating on economics and business management.  It is expensive; many of these guys literally go without food to pay the fees.  They feel it is worth it in view of the rewards they feel sure await them when they qualify.  I have no idea of the statistics for graduate employment and income.  In an attempt to keep people in teaching, the government has just ‘recognised’ INATEK.  This is vitally important to its students since teachers (and many others) are paid according to qualifications, rather than experience or responsibilities.  So at a stroke, thousands received a pay rise.  However, payment is often late and seems even more delayed than usual at the moment.

A few teachers I know have talked about their hopes of getting married sometime a few years down the line.  They cannot afford both a family and study, so they resolve to complete these long part-time courses first.  It is quite common to hear one say that he can’t afford to continue studying so he may as well get married!  The general opinion is that this was Emmanuel’s choice.  He has been rushing about for the past few weeks like a puppy with two tails planning his wedding.  There is a lot to do, and being Emmanuel, he is convinced he has to do it all himself.  Getting married here is more of a process than an event.  There are formal announcements in church, with celebration afterwards, the dowry ceremony, the church service and the civil ceremony.  These seem to be arranged in any order that suits.  Some start with the civil ceremony, some with the dowry and some seem to lump them all together.  Then a month after the wedding the bride returns home with gifts for her family.  Maybe that is also her chance to change her mind, I don’t know!  It is possible I have missed out some steps of the process since many questions are met with the Rwandan ‘Yes’, which means anything from ‘I don’t understand’, through ‘I agree’ to simply ‘I am not listening’.  To get back to Emmanuel, few Rwandan friends seem to have noticed that he and Eugenie are hugely in love!  Eric said scornfully that he would not expect Emmanuel to continue studying when he has a home of his own, a wife and probably children.  Probably has a point too!

Last week I went to Emmanuel’s church for the formal announcement.  This is the Pentecostal church about 50 yards from my house.  First he told me I was expected at about 2 (I planned for 4).  I was unwell with cough and cold, so when there was a knock at the door at 6 am, I ignored it and told myself it was probably the crows on the roof.  At 8.30, Emmanuel phoned wanting to know why I was ‘not at home’.  He rushed round wanting to borrow my camera.  I said I was happy to take pictures and let someone else use the camera when I was there, but not to just lend it, especially as he was the main character in the event and would not be taking pictures himself.  So would I go straight away?  No, I had only just got up and was coughing furiously.  We agreed I would go at 11.  I arrived to find the church jam-packed with lots of people standing around outside enjoying a good stare at the foreigner and no sign of a solitary soul I knew.  I had practised saying “I am looking for Ruzindana Emmanuel” in Kinyarwanda and tried it out.  This was obviously wrong.  Not only was I taking an interest in the church, which white people generally don’t, but I was trying to speak their language.  People were not hostile, just a bit bewildered.  And I have been here for 8 months!  I was eventually rescued by Emmanuel’s brother and seated in the church next to Emmanuel.  The church is huge, a very simple comparatively low building with a platform at one end and rows of benches facing it.  There are tables on the platform and a very good sound system, complete with high quality radio mics.  The preachers have good voices but they go on for a long time and would exhaust the vocal cords without amplification.  The service was obviously in full swing when I arrived.  Emmanuel translated bits for me and otherwise I just listened.  It was not really to my taste, with lots of hallelujahs, amens, and rather frantic preaching and prayer.  They singing was lovely, mostly unaccompanied, led by the choir.  I got a shock when I found myself singing along to the Kinyarwanda version of ‘Bread of Heaven’!!  School assemblies in North Wales suddenly came back to me.  There was something very sincere and straightforward about the service which I quite liked.  The preaching was very positive – no hellfire and damnation.  Perhaps I am missing Quaker Meeting more than I thought – this carries on after the pictures.

After a couple of hours, we got to Emmanuel’s bit.  He stood at the front of the church while the pastor made jokes on the lines that there was no girl here for him today so he had better go back to his place in the choir.  Eventually Eugenie was allowed to step forward and they stood like a couple of frightened children while the pastor read the announcement and blessed them.  It was all very sweet and I was glad I had gone.

When we came out, I met Barnabe who asked why I had come so late!  He thought I should have been there from about 8.  You need stamina in a Rwandan church.  We went off to take some outdoor pictures.  Emmanuel said he knew a nice place and wandered into the garden at the home of a local Catholic priest. No permission was asked.  No one seemed to think this odd. Later we had melange and fanta in the Church hall and lots more photos were taken.

An odd sidelight on the whole marriage thing came when I was chatting with Barnabe and the subject of the school kitchen came up.  Last year there was a kitchen in a small building in the school grounds.  Meals were prepared for staff at very low cost – something like 3,000rwf a month.  It was simple fare – mainly bananas, beans and rice but they could eat every day.  Then two teachers were apparently homeless and took over the building to live in.  (Sounds bizarre but such things are apparently common).  Teachers are in school from 7 am till 5 with only an hour for lunch.  If they go to the nearest village for food, they cannot get back in time.  It is also too expensive for most of them.  So a few teachers approached me asking me to talk to the Head about the problem.  I suggested Barnabe could do it.  He is articulate and quite confident so why not.  “I can’t do that,” raising left hand, “I am married.”  And?  “I cannot say I need someone to cook for me when I have a wife at home.  I can’t insult her like that.”  So he takes a 3 mile bike ride home up and down considerable hills, shovels in the food and rides back again!

It is only when you spend a reasonable amount of time in a strange place that you realise how long it would take to understand how it works.