THE ROAD TO BUGESERA
I was sat in Kigali with nothing to do, apart from shoot the breeze and eat meat while drinking beer, which is a major pastime here. A friend of my uncle then invited me to see his farm in Bugesera, a rather dry and desolate dust-bowl in the South of Rwanda. To mention Bugesera to a Rwandan is to talk of famine and hunger, while the rest of Rwanda is a food-basket overflowing with abundance; a place like Bugesera was seemingly godforsaken. Not anymore, the man who was my host had seen the good sense to buy land in this area which was cheap, hoping to irrigate the hell out of it but he was blessed with rain. All of a sudden Bugesera has become a veritable Garden of Eden compared to its past and is now a parable for development. The government has taken Bugesera to be a metaphor for the development of Rwanda; meaning that if Bugesera can develop, then Rwanda finest moment is just a step away.
Firstly we had to acquaint ourselves with the finer rules of driving if we had to get to Bugesera. Rwandan driving is refined and not a lot of people understand its rules, here are a few pointers
Never stick to one lane, always weave between two lanes. Be sure to confuse the driver behind.
Always drive 2 cm behind the driver in front of you. Do not drive 1cm behind, as this is dangerous.
When pulling out, always wait till a driver is just near before you pull out. To wait until it is clear is unsafe and will mean you be late for your appointment.
When lights go red it means that the next 5 cars can go through.
Do not take any notice of Moto’s, they are expendable.
On Zebra crossings, zebras have priority, people do not. You get 10 points for an ordinary pedestrian, 5 for a child, 2 for a dog or wild animal.
Overtaking should be done only in the most hazardous of circumstances.
Always stare at the man driving next to you, do not pay attention to the road, size up the guy in the next lane, wonder how much he earns, whether he is Nani’s cousin and various other gossip.
When turning left pull right and vice versa, always anger the drivers behind you.
Always drive slowly in the fast lane and fast in the slow lane.
Armed with this information we set out on the road to Bugesera, the first landmark was the bridge, which was freshly completed and beautiful. It was like we drove cautiously, as if we did not want to leave any marks on it and leave it a perfect as it was. The tarmac was so fresh it was still wet and with the scorching sun, it glimmered like a black mamba that stretched into the distance. The locals were still amazed with their new road as they were inspecting it like a cricket pitch. Pedestrians walked in the cycle lane, cyclists rode in the road and paid little heed to the monster 4x4s behind them.
The town of Nyamata was our last big town before our destination, Kigali is going to extend to here, it is frightening to see how they are just going to keep extending, till they get to Burundi and then Intersec is going take over till Kigali is going to reach Bujumbura. The airport is going to reach here so logically the City should extend here. But why not leave a gap of green between? It is like the canon of development has to destroy any patch of green, because green represents under-development. Nyamata could thrive as a town in its own right, not as an appendage of Kigali, which is a sprawling mess. It is like a mushroom ring that is just parasitically consuming virgin lands around. It desperately needs a greenbelt, which will help it go back over neglected inner city areas, the slums that shamelessly stand defiant in our fine capital. It would revalue land and those slum dwellers could get a handsome reward for leaving.
So Nyamata is just outside Kigali, a perfect industrial zone, duty-free zone whatever you want it to be but the beast of Kigali needs to cannibalise it, we bid farewell to it in its current state and sunk into the horizon. The usual hooting match ensued, before we set off, we had made sure the horn was working, after all it is the most important part of the car. Without it we would kill dozens of idle-minded idiots walking along the road. This girl made me laugh; she was laughing with abandon at a joke her friend said and was just about to step into the road when we hooted. DM, our driver saved the lives of dozens as he beeped just before they step to their deaths. It made me wonder how funny it would be to die laughing. That girl would be laughing her head off and St. Peter would appear in front of her and all her friends would have disappeared.
As we got further down the road we saw the road-building in progress and a quirky sight. A tanker truck was spraying water over road for the rollers to come in and compact the ground but some resourceful locals were using the water-truck to fetch free water and hardly a drop was touching a road. We turned onto a dirt road to see the farms, along this way I heard a familiar sound “Irifuti! rifuti! rifuti!” I wondered what this new craze was? I wanted to try this Irufuti thing out. “It means LIFT.” DM to me.
Alex showed me his farm; he is a former soldier that got a piece of land with his demobilisation package. It was modest but earnest little beauty if ever there was one, local materials, rustic, mystic and all a simple man wants. He had an orchard, mixed-culture gardens with various crops. His land extended into the middle-distance and he told me of his plans to buy more land but the prices have sky-rocketed. This little secret was now out; Bugesera was now the hot cake.
There are certain sounds and smell that instinctively delight the heart, even for a city-dweller, it can be liberating. At DM’s farm we saw this first-hand. The smell of cow-dung was this first, emerging mysteriously from a distant field. The sound of banana leaves rustling around was so soothing; sugar-cane flittered away in another field. We entered his banana field and saw a make-shift barrier that protected it from thieves. “I put barbed wire up, but they stole it within 2 hours. They love charity here. They usually picked the full-moon to steal bananas.”
The beans he planted were called Coltan, a homage to the most valuable metal mined in neighbouring Congo. These fetched a dollar a kilo at market and even more on export. He was able to plant just a day before it rained; he watched meteorological reports and consulted local wise men. “If I had given them the seeds a week before planting, they would have cooked them with Ugali. I told them to plant that day in order to save the seeds and boom! It rained.”
In Rwanda if you buy land, you effectively buy the people who live on it, because they cannot go anywhere, you are stuck with them. If you want to use the land for residential purposes then you expel them but if you want to use it for agriculture then you are bound to employ the locals. The buzzword among the locals was “koperatif” a recent government policy that had been adopted whole-heartedly by the locals but had expanded to a wider philosophy. DM had asked to plant these Coltan beans but the “Koperatif” had decided to plant a less profitable variety that suited their tastes. This was democracy or stupidity, he explained that they had cost him $20,000 but how do you explain to them that they could have all bought radios and bicycles as well as their favourite beans.
The Koperatif had extended to building services and had relieved his house of most of the corrugated iron sheets. All the locals came by one by one claiming innocence, each claiming to have witnessed the robbery, but none got a proper look at the perpetrators faces. The ones who had brand new iron sheets on their mud huts were particularly vehement in their denials. The village had all agreed their alibis and held their nerve amid some serious interrogation.
It made you realise that in some ways Rwanda has not changed much in centuries. When you have rural peasants tied to land and urban land-owners, it is inevitable that a feudal hierarchy will exist. The locals were tied to the whims of the land-owners and had to strike a balance between his needs and theirs. The farmers thought they had done the right thing by planting the beans they usually eat, it made sense to them to think about their tastes but the price they would have got for the other type of beans would have been a windfall. Subsistence is living for the day, no plan can change that, they are stuck in their mindset.
A lake sprawled before us, this lake was not even on any maps, but it was enormous and full of fish as fishermen dotted the surface. I started to walk down towards that lake, which had an apron of green papyrus marshes around it. I instantly attracted weird looks from the locals as they could smell the “City” in me. But they let me be in their own way after they got an eyeful. Coffee groves were the next level down as they needed more water. More bananas; then a coffee nursery by the water, the fishermen had already left to collect their nets and would not be back till after dark. Meanwhile I had to get back on the trail before it was dark as I would be lost to the elements. So we were leaving and on our way to Ririma, the road to Bugesera is long and winding but we’ll get there.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
BON MARCHE
BON MARCHE: THINK GLOBAL ACT LOCO
Rwanda is a nation of acronyms, it is confusing when you encounter abbreviations longer than the words they are trying to abbreviate. Asking for directions is cumbersome “go to SAKIRWA, past BRALIRWA, turn left at SOPETRAD, then turn right at SONARWA, straight ahead to TEXRWA then left at SOPURWA. The last one is fictional, an in-joke meaning Societe de Putaine de Rwanda, if there ever was an society of prostitutes that the first thing they would need is an acronym. It is very important in Rwanda, these acronyms can be the difference between being a major corporation and being just another failed experiment. SONATUBE is a major landmark and reference point in Kigali, as are dozens of other acronyms, it is free advertising, branding, marketing and all the things a company needs.
Rwanda is a nation of imitators, which bodes well for the future, all you need is to get them on the right track and they will all copy to their hearts content. All the hardware stores are on the same road, most businesses are situated in on the same line, I said to one of the hardware shop owners, “why can't someone put up a store somewhere else?” He looked at me as if I had proposed something outrageous like wearing a steak for a hat. A Brazilian man I was talking to said his country had the same problem, as do most developing countries, when a pharmacy opens in a certain part of town and has a roaring trade, then an imitation store opens next door, then another, then another and soon it is the pharmaceutical district. As if there is something superstitious about that particular spot that makes it profitable. Then a genius has a eureka moment “People on the other side of town need pharmaceutical products too!” and with a splash of water a millionaire is made.
To truly understand a nation, you have to see its markets; in downtown Mogadishu you have AK-47's next to tomatoes and onions, that sums up Somalia. In the UK, a walk around Camden market, Smithfield market, Brixton market or even Tesco can make you understand the UK as a whole. I always love walking round markets, Nakasero in Kampala, City market in Nairobi, Bazaars and Souks in the Arab world are a pleasure I await impatiently. So when my uncle asked “Do you wanna come to the market?” I leapt at the chance. At last I could experience the true Rwanda, tourists jump at the chance and so I did too. It was pure theatre, and I forgotten the exuberance of the whole show.
We pulled up in a mighty 4x4, that was our first mistake as we were instantly attacked by what looked like a bloodthirsty mob. Dozens of dirty hands forcing their way into the car, pulling and pushing their way, all screaming at us. This angry mob was now turning violent, shouting and manhandling us but there was no need to call the police. These thugs for hire were there to carry our shopping, a human shopping trolley if you will. These men were like they were pumped up on steroids and aggression, they barked and yelled with the hunger that drove them to such madness. When we got out of the car it was worse, twenty thugs were now thirty, all claiming to be the most honest, trustworthy, as well being strong as an ox. They pulled and pushed us to prove their strength. It is very strange to be assaulted by someone calling you “Boss!”. It was the biggest contradiction I have seen “Hey Boss, come here, I'll show you!”. I shouted to him that as his boss I ordered him to stop beating me up, but my powers didn't extend that far.
We were pushed and pulled around, these thugs are part-trolley, part-salesman as they showed us to some shop which supposedly had the best rice you ever tasted, apparently. They begged and pleaded with us to buy this particular brand of rice, that particular brand of this and the benefits of buying more, it was easy to think that they were paid by the shop to trawl the streets for custom. When we finally bought the rice, ten of these thugs started fighting to carry the sack almost ripping it to shreds. Before we could turn, the thugs pushed us to the beans. “Hey Boss, come here. I'll show you” as the assault continued. Stacks of beans in sacks, as far as the eye could see, in all colours and sizes like a United Nations of beans. Now the problem was which type of beans to have, one of the thugs ended the debate. “These are the best, so delicious you can eat them raw.” and then he proceeded to eat a handful of beans to prove his point, there was the crunching of breaking jaw as his mandibles devoured the raw beans. We were sold after that, we ordered the beans before he could finish the sack. The angry mob walked with us to the car, kicking innocent bystanders who got in the way as if to please me, I walked along apologising for the excesses of my mob. “Sorry, Pardone !”
When we got to the car it was even worse, vendors were throwing all kinds of vegetables into the car, we were inundated with onions, tomatoes, coriander, garlic, peas, and all manner of greens. They were all demanding payment, even when we didn't know who had given what, so we started throwing money in the opposite way and more goods rained on our car. The thugs were all demanding payment for their thuggery, I don't know what the going rate is for thugs but they were rewarded handsomely. I was so irate and was angry at my Uncle for rewarding bullies but he just laughed, it was like a militia attack. He told me that it never used to be like that, so many boys are coming to town from the rural areas and loitering around town, for now they are seeking casual employment but soon they could be robbing and stealing.
As we went to Nyubugogo market I was struck by an unforgettable sight, a child was playing ball and his ball crossed the road, as he chased after it, it rolled and rolled. It struck the foot of this man, he didn't flinch. The boy picked his ball and carried on regardless as he passed a hundred men dressed in pink. These men were prisoners convicted of mass-killings in the genocide, what was amazing about them was how ordinary they looked, if they weren't dressed in pink they would have melted into the mass of humanity. The child played near them like they were not there, these men were guilty of the utmost evil and cruelty, they killed children as beautiful and innocent as this child. It was like a child playing in front of Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, Jack the ripper, the Boston strangler and a hundred other such psychos while nobody batted an eyelid. Above them was the most beautiful ornate French balcony that would look at home in the Versailles or the Elysée, “they made that!” my uncle said. How could a killers hand make something so wonderful? Rwanda keeps surprising me. The same hand that kills, can make beauty.
Rwanda is a nation of acronyms, it is confusing when you encounter abbreviations longer than the words they are trying to abbreviate. Asking for directions is cumbersome “go to SAKIRWA, past BRALIRWA, turn left at SOPETRAD, then turn right at SONARWA, straight ahead to TEXRWA then left at SOPURWA. The last one is fictional, an in-joke meaning Societe de Putaine de Rwanda, if there ever was an society of prostitutes that the first thing they would need is an acronym. It is very important in Rwanda, these acronyms can be the difference between being a major corporation and being just another failed experiment. SONATUBE is a major landmark and reference point in Kigali, as are dozens of other acronyms, it is free advertising, branding, marketing and all the things a company needs.
Rwanda is a nation of imitators, which bodes well for the future, all you need is to get them on the right track and they will all copy to their hearts content. All the hardware stores are on the same road, most businesses are situated in on the same line, I said to one of the hardware shop owners, “why can't someone put up a store somewhere else?” He looked at me as if I had proposed something outrageous like wearing a steak for a hat. A Brazilian man I was talking to said his country had the same problem, as do most developing countries, when a pharmacy opens in a certain part of town and has a roaring trade, then an imitation store opens next door, then another, then another and soon it is the pharmaceutical district. As if there is something superstitious about that particular spot that makes it profitable. Then a genius has a eureka moment “People on the other side of town need pharmaceutical products too!” and with a splash of water a millionaire is made.
To truly understand a nation, you have to see its markets; in downtown Mogadishu you have AK-47's next to tomatoes and onions, that sums up Somalia. In the UK, a walk around Camden market, Smithfield market, Brixton market or even Tesco can make you understand the UK as a whole. I always love walking round markets, Nakasero in Kampala, City market in Nairobi, Bazaars and Souks in the Arab world are a pleasure I await impatiently. So when my uncle asked “Do you wanna come to the market?” I leapt at the chance. At last I could experience the true Rwanda, tourists jump at the chance and so I did too. It was pure theatre, and I forgotten the exuberance of the whole show.
We pulled up in a mighty 4x4, that was our first mistake as we were instantly attacked by what looked like a bloodthirsty mob. Dozens of dirty hands forcing their way into the car, pulling and pushing their way, all screaming at us. This angry mob was now turning violent, shouting and manhandling us but there was no need to call the police. These thugs for hire were there to carry our shopping, a human shopping trolley if you will. These men were like they were pumped up on steroids and aggression, they barked and yelled with the hunger that drove them to such madness. When we got out of the car it was worse, twenty thugs were now thirty, all claiming to be the most honest, trustworthy, as well being strong as an ox. They pulled and pushed us to prove their strength. It is very strange to be assaulted by someone calling you “Boss!”. It was the biggest contradiction I have seen “Hey Boss, come here, I'll show you!”. I shouted to him that as his boss I ordered him to stop beating me up, but my powers didn't extend that far.
We were pushed and pulled around, these thugs are part-trolley, part-salesman as they showed us to some shop which supposedly had the best rice you ever tasted, apparently. They begged and pleaded with us to buy this particular brand of rice, that particular brand of this and the benefits of buying more, it was easy to think that they were paid by the shop to trawl the streets for custom. When we finally bought the rice, ten of these thugs started fighting to carry the sack almost ripping it to shreds. Before we could turn, the thugs pushed us to the beans. “Hey Boss, come here. I'll show you” as the assault continued. Stacks of beans in sacks, as far as the eye could see, in all colours and sizes like a United Nations of beans. Now the problem was which type of beans to have, one of the thugs ended the debate. “These are the best, so delicious you can eat them raw.” and then he proceeded to eat a handful of beans to prove his point, there was the crunching of breaking jaw as his mandibles devoured the raw beans. We were sold after that, we ordered the beans before he could finish the sack. The angry mob walked with us to the car, kicking innocent bystanders who got in the way as if to please me, I walked along apologising for the excesses of my mob. “Sorry, Pardone !”
When we got to the car it was even worse, vendors were throwing all kinds of vegetables into the car, we were inundated with onions, tomatoes, coriander, garlic, peas, and all manner of greens. They were all demanding payment, even when we didn't know who had given what, so we started throwing money in the opposite way and more goods rained on our car. The thugs were all demanding payment for their thuggery, I don't know what the going rate is for thugs but they were rewarded handsomely. I was so irate and was angry at my Uncle for rewarding bullies but he just laughed, it was like a militia attack. He told me that it never used to be like that, so many boys are coming to town from the rural areas and loitering around town, for now they are seeking casual employment but soon they could be robbing and stealing.
As we went to Nyubugogo market I was struck by an unforgettable sight, a child was playing ball and his ball crossed the road, as he chased after it, it rolled and rolled. It struck the foot of this man, he didn't flinch. The boy picked his ball and carried on regardless as he passed a hundred men dressed in pink. These men were prisoners convicted of mass-killings in the genocide, what was amazing about them was how ordinary they looked, if they weren't dressed in pink they would have melted into the mass of humanity. The child played near them like they were not there, these men were guilty of the utmost evil and cruelty, they killed children as beautiful and innocent as this child. It was like a child playing in front of Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, Jack the ripper, the Boston strangler and a hundred other such psychos while nobody batted an eyelid. Above them was the most beautiful ornate French balcony that would look at home in the Versailles or the Elysée, “they made that!” my uncle said. How could a killers hand make something so wonderful? Rwanda keeps surprising me. The same hand that kills, can make beauty.
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