around Rwanda

After Kigali, I was on my own. George had to go back to Nairobi to move into a new place. I took the opportunity to indulge in my nerdy side and do more of what I love to do -- visit museums. I set out to the town of Butare, a tiny place which is home to the University of Rwanda. It also boasts the National Museum of Rwanda, which I had come to see. It's an anthropological museum, which explores the geography and people of Rwanda from prehistoric times to about 1950. It was really neat to learn about the social structure back in the day, and to see the rather complicated forms of dress, and instruments of divination. But what really fascinated me about the museum was that there was absolutely zero mention of either "Hutu" or "Tutsi" culture -- only Rwandan. I couldn't help but wonder whether this was an intentional effort at conflating two cultures to encourage a unified identity, or whether Hutu and Tutsi were really so similar as to be completely interchangeable. Either way, it's very interesting.

The following day, I set out into the countryside to visit one of the many memorials. The trip itself was stunning -- I would never tire of those rolling hills, the little red houses and great fields of green. I was a curiosity in the matatu, first drawing stares and whispers, then the bold "We would like to know which country you come from," followed by all manner of hilarious inquiries in three different languages. The memorial was on the outskirts of a small town called Gikongoro. I took a motorbike out, and was dropped off in such a beautiful place, it was hard to believe that anything painful had ever happened here. But then I entered the memorial. This was a technical school where Tutsi families had taken refuge during the genocide. Many had died of dehydration and starvation; those who didn't were slaughtered en masse. I was the only visitor that day, and the woman who took me around had actually hidden at the school with her family during the genocide. She and her youngest child, only a month old at the time, survived (I didn't have the heart to ask how). Her husband and her two other children, aged seven and three, were murdered.

The school was a horrifying place. The bodies of those who were killed there, those that remained whole, had been preserved with lime powder, and were still in the positions of their death. These bodies lay on simple white wooden platforms. And that was it. There were just rooms and rooms of bodies, looking something like mummies with no muscle or fat to them, but contorted and with broken skulls or limbs. They gave off the sickly sweet scent of ancient decay. Some of the rooms were filled almost completely with children and infants. That's where I cried, while my guide simply said, "Oui, ils ont tués beaucoup d'enfants." I can't imagine how it must feel for her to work there, having lost children herself.

Some of the bodies were found in mass graves, all jumbled together, and the bones of those were put together in other rooms. Rooms and rooms of skulls, some with deep slashes from machetes. They looked vulnerable somehow. There was a room full of clothing, too -- the clothing that the "génocidaires" had not taken for themselves. The only time I heard my guide speak with bitterness was when she took me to a spot with a sign that read, "French soldiers played volley here." While the killers were massacring innocent people, she said, the French soldiers were only about ten feet away, playing a game as if nothing was happening. After fifteen years, she still sounded incredulous.

The memorial was very difficult to take. Over 4,800 people had died there; I'd seen only a fraction of those, and it was still deeply disturbing and overwhelming. I don't know what it must have been like to live through; what it must be like to still live with the memories. That's the thing I find most amazing about Rwanda. The genocide only happened 15 years ago, and it was a widespread phenomenon. Everyone in the country was affected. That means that almost every adult in Rwanda today lived through the genocide, one way or another. They all have memories of that time. They all have stories to tell. A good number probably suffered, and maybe even still suffer, from post-traumatic stress disorder. It's impossible to forget what happened -- there are too many Rwandans missing arms or legs, too many still bearing the scars of that time. There are too many memorials and too much public remembrance to forget. And yet, the country moves forward. It not only functions, it progresses. Now those who took part in the genocide are being tried, either in the international tribunal on Rwanda in Arusha, or in community hearings. That probably helps, for healing and for forgiveness. But it must still be so difficult, and I really admire the strength of a country that can move on like Rwanda seems to have done. I can only hope it will continue on this path.

After visiting the memorial, I was feeling a bit traumatized myself, and decided to take the long walk back to town, on a dusty red road with a forest on one side and a valley full of farms on the other. There must have been a break for lunch at school, because I was met by hordes of children, who would run screaming towards me, then grab my hand and cry "Bonjour, mzungu!" or "Donne moi un bonbon!" After shaking hands all around and assuring them that I didn't have any bonbons, they would run off laughing. Some of the adults I passed, especially the old women lugging hoes or carrying goods on their heads, would shake my hand as well, murmuring shy greetings and grinning widely.

When I returned to town, I decided to take a bus ride. I had originally planned to visit Nungwe National Park, home of the Nungwe rain forest, and monkeys and birds galore. But it was impossible to arrange transportation directly there. That's the problem with National Parks: unless you have your own car, they're very inaccessible. Instead, I hopped on a bus heading to Cyangugu, a town near the DR Congo border, which drove through the park itself. It was well worth the trip. The forest was just as deep and dark and mysterious-looking as I had imagined. It looked ancient, as if dinosaurs could still be living in there somewhere. The forest was packed tight with lush green ferns, trees and vines, like something out of a Tarzan movie. In some parts, mist was rising up from the trees. It appeared impenetrable and, spreading across many mountains, seemed to go on forever. I can see why rebel groups like to hide out in forests like this; it would just swallow you up, you'd be impossible to find. I did manage to see some colobus monkeys as we passed through, so I was happy. Though it may seem imprudent to build a road through a national park (though I think the road may have been built before it became a park), the forest seems to be more of an imposition on the road than the other way around. Someday, when I'm rich and can afford private transportation, I'll go back there and explore Nungwe properly.

Cyangugu was a beautiful place as well. On the shore of Lake Kivu, the town has spectacular views of DRC across the lake. I was only there for one night, but the people were extremely welcoming -- I already received several invitations for home visits for next time. Rwanda was full of places to come back to, and I just barely scratched the surface. I didn't even make it to the famed Parc National des Volcans, which I'd desperately wanted to see. One week wasn't nearly enough time in this fascinating and beautiful country.

Next time, next time.