Shop4rwanda’s very first satisfied customer photo! Keep em’ coming folks
It doesn’t take much…some sweet-tasting sugary drinks, crisps, a juicy pineapple and check out the results!
I threw an impromtu party today for the boys and girls at the 2 Umugongo House projects to say goodbye. After an eventful month volunteering at Centre Marembo it’s time to pack my bags and head back to Blighty… in the hope of getting a tan!
It was just the best to hang out with the boys today. Such a great bunch: funny, gentle, respectful, polite and bright. I asked a couple of them what they want to be when they grow up and top answer was President; explained to the best of my abilities the scientific principles of space travel, did some kung fu, kicked a ball and cut a pineapple with the bluntest knife known to (wo)man.
Mwirirwe Rwanda Amahoro!
Teaching English each afternoon to students at Centre Marembo has been rewarding if not exhausting. As always there are some students that are keen to learn and some who joke around. Like when I showed the class a picture of the Queen and asked: “ Does anyone know who this is?” “Your girlfriend?” came the response! But one question from Andoline sticks with me: “What’s the opposite to happy?” “Sad” I replied. After a pause she says: “We are sad because of the genocide.” My heart sank. I’ve been reading about the slaughter in the hills of Bisesero and was planning a visit to the Bisesero genocide memorial this coming weekend. In the steep hills of Bisesero, nearly 50 000 people were hunted like animals, mutilated and murdered in the 100 day genocide of 1994.
But I want to go. Out of respect to the people and in rememberance to those who resisted and fought the genocidaires’ grenades and bullets with their stones and spears.
Arriving in Kibuye I strike a deal for the hour and a half motor taxi ride to the memorial. Danny is my rider and we head off at speed on the steep, winding treacherous mountain paths. The hills are peppered with small clusters of mud stone houses. There is no electricity or running water here and life is harsh for the families who inhabit the mountains. Every inch of steep mountain side is terraced and cultivated and the areas that aren’t, hold shimmering, silver eucalyptus and pine trees.
Rag covered children gawp at the white man on the back of the motor taxi and finally we arrive at the memorial high in the hills of Bisesero. The curator, Jean Domestine Ntogonira shows the only visitor in two weeks, first to a shed that houses thousands of human skulls laid-out on four massive tables. Many bear the scars of heavy blows or machetes. It’s distressing. Being shown around by Jean Domestine, one of only 1000 survivors out of around 50 000 people in this area, is heartbreaking. I’ve read first hand accounts from the survivors and its a harrowing read, so the fact we can’t communicate makes it hard for both of us.
Then, after reaching the summit I see the mass graves, we stand in silence in this serene, panoramic wilderness for what seems an eternity. After descending the stone path, Jean Domestine offers me the visitors’ comments book…”Never again.”
The rain beats a heavy din on the corrugated, metal roof of my room in Kigali, 5141 feet above sea level. The weather here in September is very familiar to me, reminiscent to that in England for this time of year; heavy rain and slightly chilly.
This morning i visited the new Umugongo house for boys with Esdras from Centre Marembo. The boys are playing football with a massive ball of elastic bands but break to politely greet me. Fourteen year old Gakuru shows me around the house after which we all sit down at the table on the veranda and I amuse them with my limited Kinyarwanda and Mr Beanesque gesticulations. It seems nothing arouses more attention than the hair on my arms – a constant source of bewildered amusement for the children here.
Umugongo House is a modest dwelling filled with a mix of smiling faces and inquisitive stares. There are 17 boys living here at the moment in sparse but tidy rooms filled with nothing much else than bunk beds and clothing. They had to move here recently as the previous landlord evicted them with hardly any notice. More boys that Centre Marembo rescued from living on the streets are in various boarding schools in and around Kigali.
We all sit around the table laughing and joking and I ask them to write their names and ages down on a sheet of paper so i can remember who’s who. I leave vowing to myself to throw a little party for them next week. A dvd in their native Kinyarwanda, some party food and yahtzee I reckon.
Meanwhile, uptown, the sewing project is off the ground at Centre Marembo. And the first three skirts were excitedly finished here yesterday, thanks to Get Cutie , Anna Pugh in England and everyone here in rainy old Kigali.
Jean Pie who made the skirt Agnus is modelling at Centre Marembo
5 a.m and my alarm rings at Centre Christus, a Christian hostel in the heart of Kigali, Rwanda. This morning I’m catching a bus to the Gisagara district in the south of Rwanda with Nicolette Nsabimana of the Centre Marembo Association.
Gisagara, near the boarder with Burundi, is a rural agricultural region and home to many villages all governed by local residents through a cooperative. Nicolette is giving a presentation to around 80 members of the cooperative today about family planning and the birth control necklace which she promotes throughout Rwanda and in areas of the Democratic Republic Congo. I’ve been invited along to film the proceedings.
It’s a preventative programme educating young and old, male and female about the menstrual cycle, which in turn helps reduce unwanted pregnancies and the spread of HIV.
At Butare, where we change buses before arriving at Gisagara, Nicolette and I take a quick break at a cafe near the station. She orders in Kinyarwanda for the both of us and i’m amazed when what seems like 3 chapatis and chai arrives at our table. ”What are these?” I asked Nicolette. ”Chapatis!” she says.
Stupid question I guess. Confused, I ask: “And what do you call tea?” ”Chai,” she says. One week into my trip to Africa and i still haven’t seen an Indian. They sure do get around though.
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