WHAT AM I AFRAID OF?

MARRIAGE IS A NOBLE INSTITUTION, BUT WHO WANTS TO BE IN AN INSTITUTION?
There is a saying that your biggest desire and your biggest fear are the same thing; more precisely your fear of failing is the biggest fear. What if you get everything you want and fail to fulfil your destiny? Homer Simpson claimed that “trying is the first step towards failure, so the solution: don’t even try” just hang in limbo and you’ll be fine. Growing up in Africa, the ideal of marriage was always pumped into my head; even though most married couples I saw were miserable, or having affairs, or abusive, or estranged. That said the marriage institution was solid as a rock, there was hardly any divorce, no complaints, no nothing. It was as my favourite saying goes “It be what it be, it do what it do, it is what it is.” A motto for just sitting back and not taking things to heart but when I moved to the West, I saw the other side of matrimony. Western marriages are like short alliances, not meant for the long term but a practical solution to a momentary problem. You hear women saying “I must get married before the end of the fiscal year.” Couple used to say they’d been married since “The last quarter of 2001” for example. This was because some people married for tax purposes. Other marriages were doomed from day one, much like most celebrity weddings, the clock is ticking from “I do”. That said marriage in the West is more popular than ever. Mainly because people are getting married more often, I think the average person gets married 2.6 times in their lifetime.


I look at Rwanda and I see the social bonds of shame, ostracism and tradition are holding the institution intact for now, but for how long? Rwanda was never a perfect society; before Christianity men made up the rules as they went. In Tutsi culture marriage was a very open institution, for example it was customary for men to offer their wives to their best friend as a present. I saw this first hand in Uganda; my best friend was a Muhima who observed traditional culture more closely than I did. Upon hearing I still was a virgin (not unusual for 13) he was horrified and set about to remedy this situation. He came up with a novel solution “You should fuck my girlfriend, listen, she is kind and gentle, and I would be honoured.” I asked what if I impregnated her. “Then my first born is called Rama”. When a girl married, she married his age-group, if a man was passing by and fancied a quickie with your wife then he would simply plant his spear in the ground outside you door and you would have to wait patiently and watching the interloper exit with a grin and sigh in satisfaction, maybe he would compliment your choice of bride. When the missionaries came they introduced a new morality of chastity, fidelity, and self-restraint but it took a while for this new morality to take hold. What people thought was moral was now immoral, the norm became abnormal and there was a period when we didn’t know what to throw and what to keep.


The concept of monogamy was introduced but it was large misunderstood by men; it meant monogamy for women but freedom for men. I was laughing with my sister when I was paraphrasing what my friend had said “Now that I am married I can finally screw around.” Meaning that bachelors in Rwanda are chaste; when they should be sowing their oats as they say, they are trying hard to maintain a clean image to get a descent girl but after the wedding there is nothing to stop him from fooling around. That said I still maintain my faith in marriage, just because other are failing doesn’t mean I will, it spurs me on to get that perfect marriage especially as my parents weren’t married themselves. That can go either way; in the West I have seen that it the children that suffer from social breakdown, they desperately want to make a perfect family but they are doomed to make the same mistakes as their parents because they never saw a good example. So to modern Rwanda where changes are occurring by the minute, the higher cost of living means more women work, the luxury of having a housewife is so expensive and pointless. I remember calling my friends house from England and his wife picked up the phone; I wondered if he was a millionaire to have a housewife. He said that she was pregnant “As soon as she squirts it out, then she’s back to work, I’ve been doing two jobs to cover her.” That was when I knew of the social changes taking place, African men want educated women who can earn serious money and though they find it threatening for a wife to earn more than they do, they can’t cope on their own.


The concept of marriage is changing; whereas before all people wanted was children to carry on the name, now issues of quality of life, companionship, family alliances and such take priority. Before modern life came into Rwanda, people married because it was time, when girls reached about 16-18 they were married off as fathers sought to cash in. In Africa and Rwanda in particular, fathers rejoice when a daughter is born because she will bring in a dowry as opposed to India where the girl pays and fathers curse when a girl is born. So the father would marry her off in an elaborate ceremony, or even worse there was the “Terura” method – this entailed just lifting her of her feet and running, a dowry would be paid later as compensation. Another method which is my favourite was spitting milk in a girls face; it was like a curse meaning she had to marry you; fathers could only break this curse by killing the milk-spitter. Now most people are putting off marriage for as long as possible, having fewer kids, investing more in them, both financially and emotionally. When you invest more in your children you get more out, my parents came from families with 8-10 children; it really hurts when I hear my Mum talking about several brothers and sisters who died, this was when child-mortality was high and not something as painful as now.


So it isn’t about multiplying and filling the Earth but getting quality children that can make a difference, my father is one of only two educated children in his family. Because my father is educated that means that I am too; if I was to be born to any of his siblings then my life would be different indeed. In life a person’s life is dictated by his/her parents’ life path both physically and psychologically but it doesn’t mean that we are bound to our past; we can make choices that re-determine our future. We are now in the age of mass-customisation where we are faced with endless choice but not equipped to chose; maybe it was better before we had choice. My Grandparents probably met on their wedding day and yet they were together for 60 years, they didn’t have the compatibility tests they have in women’s magazines. They didn’t have “40 ways to improve your sex-life” or “100 ways to tell if he’s good for you” or “30 ways to tell if he’s cheating on you.” I used to read my ex-girlfriends magazines to prepare myself for the month ahead, I remember her asking me “Do you feel value me?” I remembered an article asking “Does your man really value you?” As society changes we are bound to follow the Western model of breakdown of the extended family, then breakdown of the nuclear family, and finally breakdown of the individual but this will happen in our own original way. And there won’t be a magazine test to anticipate it.


So marriage can be entered in after careful consideration or just do it as an impulse; either was the chances of survival are slim. What you need is stamina, emotional stamina; you need this in order to have the same argument everyday without killing them. You need stamina to love someone more each day as they grow older, balder, fatter, hairier in places, menopausal, teeth fall out, loose their mind and finally die. As individualism and self-reliance increase then the need for others diminishes, the need for contact dies, the need for companionship ebbs and suddenly you are alone with no means of communicating. As we develop differing needs in life, marriage changes, as gender roles change, as social norms change so does marriage, hence the Western situation where same-sex weddings are legal. The ideal of marriage will always prevail; it is one of the few things that all humans share. We are born to love, that love must bear fruit in the form of children and so on. Falling in love was a biologic trick that God used to make babies; no scientist can explain it, no artist can either. I would prefer to fall in love over time as I peel the layers off her; when the mystery is gone so is the thrill. I wish I was there in the times when my ancestors just played with their kids all day while they taught them. I idealise but it was true to an extent. Now we are stuck in this current cycle, with breakdown on the verge, but all it takes to break the cycle is to do it one at a time.

NRS

NRS: THE DISEASE AFFLICTING RWANDA

Doctors in Rwanda are having to deal with a new illness which seems to be affecting mainly middle-class individuals. It attacks suddenly without warning, the symptoms are sometimes hard to detect but they are deadly. It is caused by a virus that attacks the brain, rendering the victim senseless, tasteless, and numb. Its infection rate correlates to economic growth and prosperity much like gout or obesity. Scientists refer to it as Blingitis or NRS (Nouveau Riche Syndrome) it was first identified in France in the 18th century and has spread around the world, particularly in the 20th century. It takes an outsider to really notice the symptoms; my best friend came from England and was more observant than I would have been. We went to Serena Hotel for “happy hour” where drinks are just expensive as opposed to unaffordable. We didn’t order “the finest wines available to humanity” as Withnail said. We had just a couple of draught beers, a whiskey, Martini for the lady and were hit with a bill for $50. We were then informed that happy hour starts at 7pm. Ouch! We drank more just to drown our sorrows.


All around us were Rwandans who were totally unconcerned about the extortionate prices and merely basked in the expensive glow of Rwanda’s premier hotel; they even wished the prices were higher to increase the kudos they received. This was the first symptom of NRS; the inability to see when you being overcharged, the left part of the cerebral cortex that identifies scams is paralysed. The fact is that Serena is cheap by global standards, an English friend of mine thought he got the bargain of the century when he ate at a 5-star restaurant for $40 and ran away quickly before they could change their minds and bring the real bill. When I first arrived here I thought all things were cheap as I was counting in British Pounds, so 20p for a soda? 40p for a beer? 15p for a 5km bus ride? Everything was cheap but as you settle here you realise it is quite expensive and relative to the average wages, very expensive.


Sitting here on my veranda in one of the few quiet areas in Kigali, Kacyiru (this is because the Senate and the Presidents office are nearby) I look across at the most sublime views in Rwanda. Nyarutarama straight ahead, with its golf course, Gaculiro 20-20 Estate to the left and Kibagabaga to the right are impressive signs of development and planning. A number of skilled people have taken advantage of this growth spurt and live lives comparable to Western standards but this has given them NRS. The symptoms are as follows;

· Feeling the need to buy a 4x4, this gives you the advantage of looking down on everybody while avoiding the occasional pothole.
· Feeling the need to talk on your cellphone all the time to show you are important.
· Paying more than is necessary for everything.
· Never spending time with your children and letting servants do the parenting
· Having as many servants as possible, preferably doing nothing, like having a servant whose only job is polishing your shoes.
· Spending more than you earn to keep up with others.
· Feeling the need to see and be seen at certain hotspots like Bourbon, MTN, UTC, Serena etc
· Feeling the need to cut yourself off from your less well off friends.
· General arrogance and looking down at everybody.


These symptoms are some of the signs of NRS; the disparity between rich and poor seriously highlights the signs of this disease. The opposite of this is PBS (Poor beggars Syndrome) which mostly affects the poor or the just plain lazy. People with PBS seek out people with NRS to solve their problems. I was on the bus to Gisenyi waiting to depart; I was sat there in my sunglasses, leaned back in relaxation when a half-rotten hand grazed my nose. This beggar with leprosy had just shoved it in my face for maximum effect. I told him to “piss off” in a rare burst of profanity cursed by a fear of leprosy, all the way to Gisenyi I panicked as I thought my nose had leprosy. I wondered if it would fall off like the fingers of the man who infected me, when I got back on Monday I was furiously googling leprosy and its symptoms, so if my nose ever falls off then you know why. The other day I was outside Novotel at the petrol station when this girl asked me “wa’ mfunguriye?” meaning she hadn’t eaten all day and she wanted me to give her the first meal of the day. I callously laughed and laughed some more, before you think I am a bastard I must mention she was fat, very fat and in need of a serious diet. It is really hard to feel sorry for a person who is starving but has three months of fat reserves, maybe I am getting NRS, the headaches, nausea, cynicism are a giveaway.


Every society goes through NRS, when there is a sudden burst of economic growth and sudden social elevation; those recently elevated people feel the need to announce their arrival on the scene. Much like Rappers with their bling-bling or Russian oligarchs buying football clubs, the need to show off is irresistible. The totemic symbols of wealth soon come to replace the wealth itself, so the 4x4, the designer labels, the house in the suburbs, the socialising; become the wealth itself. It is called commodity fetishism. When I first arrived here my cousin came around to take me for a celebratory drink; he pulled up in a brand new 4x4 Prado and we went out and had a blast, when the bill came he looked the other way and refused to acknowledge or recognise it; like he was Iran and the bill was Israel. As I paid it I looked out at his $50,000 car asked where he got the money for it. He said it was a loan; he is paying 22% on a $50,000 car that is depreciating at 20% a year. I asked him if this was wise, he said “If I don’t have that car then nobody will do business with me.” It is like in Czarist Russia when the St Petersburg courtiers looked lavish and had splendid Palaces which were empty inside with beds of straw.


In Rwanda you have to look the part before you people take you seriously; I went to a bank to try to open a company bank account and they treated me a vagabond, when I told them that my company would have a healthy turnover of foreign currency they just laughed. This was because I was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, they told me to come back when I grow up. The fact is that even if Bill Gates walked in there without a suit he would be kicked out; in Rwanda the Rich look rich and Poor look poor. It is very different in Europe where the rich are desperate to look like normal regular people. The Earl of Macclesfield lived near my house in Oxfordshire; this man owned land as far as the eye could see, with his own forest, several farms, even a town belonged to him but if you ever saw him you’d be amazed, he wore dirty jeans, gum boots, and a worn out sweater. He avoided flouting his wealth because the taxman would tax him more.

The truly rich in Rwanda are the same; when I first saw Rujugiro (our mogul) I was struck by how humble and simply dressed he was, he wasn’t trying to show off. Keeping up with the Jones’ is a problem all humans have faced ever since the stone-age. I sometimes imagine a stone-age housewife nagging her husband “Those guys next door have bronze-age tools while we’ve got these old stone-age ones. We need to get into the bronze-age!” One-upmanship is what has driven the human race to where it is now, from; the stone-age, to the Bronze-age, iron-age, industrial age, to the current information age. This said we shouldn’t live beyond our means especially for mindless material goods. Every time I see a monster 4x4 I see a medium-sized business that could have been. We need to identify the ends from the means, the fruit from the tree; we need to see if these goods are going to help us to get where we want to go or whether these goods are the vindication of our character.

NORTH FACE

THE NORTH FACE

I have travelled extensively around Rwanda but I hadn’t seen its defining face; my best friend Alex was in the country so we decided to attend a wedding in Gisenyi and enjoy the Northern side of the country. Northern Rwanda defines the identity of the country; it is the bread basket, it is the most populated and all of Rwanda’s problems have sprung from its Northern side. I had planned to go on Friday but I was invited to lunch around 1pm but didn’t return till 8pm; which is typical in Rwanda, you can never plan anything, you are subject to the whims of the gods, as well as local hosts. My host was an old man of war; he is related to my Dad and had slaughtered a bull for heroes’ day. We arrived at his farm with a convoy of cars, the road was barely there so we had to really look for it, and it was basically looking for the less bushy area. We were at Kabuga and the smell of cow dung was a clue to where we were bound. The cows were majestically big Friesians, nearly as tall as a man at the shoulder and with huge udders that milked like champions producing 20 litres of milk.


The “Muzungu” cows meaning “white mans cows” underlined the problem facing our cattle culture. We as a race were defined by our cattle; we called them “inka izo’ kureba gusa” meaning cows to look at, in that they had no practical value except visual beauty. They produce barely 4 litres day, are spoilt to the extreme and left to their whims. The great horns are a symbol of our culture; when we dance our intore dance we are imitating the glorious horns of our cattle, our days were defined by cattle-keeping activity. My grandfather often spoke in riddles or cattle-related allegories; his time was not the 24-hr clock but; time to graze, time to water, time to lick salt, time to go home, time to milk, time to sleep and the same thing tomorrow. Cattle were not just a part of our culture but our culture itself; their welfare was a reflection of our own, the death of a cow was like a death in the family. One of my favourite anecdotes told to me recently was of the father of my friend; a European arrogantly pointed out his superiority by showing him a radio made by a White man. The father who was a keen herdsman simply called over one of the cows and ordered it to dance and it did with aplomb.


The East of Rwanda was cattle country, with its rolling hills of savannah that weren’t any good for farming, water was a problem but life was manageable. In Rwanda’s history great herds ruled the plains; once a year the king would inspect the finest cattle at Nyanza, the royal seat of power. These herds would make such a cloud of dust that it could be seen from a hundred miles away rising into the horizon; as many as a million cattle would be inspected. Some of Rwanda’s historical problems go back to this competition for land and whether it was to be used for grazing or farming. The farmers always had the advantage of being tied to the land and could eventually claim it, while nomadic grazers are doomed to wonder rootlessly. The farmers expand in population at a higher rate as they slash and burn land, producing more food, therefore more people, therefore more food and so on. The herdsman has to divide his cattle among his sons for dowries and inheritance so accumulation of wealth was hard.


I sat at the barbeque; the bulls head was staring at me plaintively, asking what he had done to deserve this. This was not enough to make me vegetarian; I remember my grandfather looking in horror as I ate a hamburger “my children are cannibals” he said. He was usually warned of the impending death of one of his herd when the local pygmies would start dancing and start a fire to roast the sick cow. Every death was a step closer to ruin and the local farmers would look with glee and taunt him “If things go on like this I might just marry one of your daughters for a sack of potatoes”. Then they would laugh; they in hope, him in horror. When the first genocide happened the farmers went to kill the cattle first, thus destroying what defined the cattle herdsman. He escaped Rwanda with just a bull; a majestic beast descended from one given to his father by the King, this bull sired his future fortune as he offered it to stud in return for a heifer.


So that ancient breed of man died in 2001 and his cattle are joining him; in Rwanda meat is relatively cheap as we are eating our heritage, everyday you see these majestic herds going to slaughter. The government wants to preserve these breeds for future generations in special breeding programmes and sperm banks. I ate my own weight in meat thus exacerbating the problem and had indigestion the next day on my way to Gisenyi. Kigali is hilly but nothing compared to the hills around it; it is quite low-lying as it sits between the river valleys of Nyabugogo and Nyabarongo as they wind into the Akagera. As you leave the city you climb great hulking giants that guard the city; these hills are carved of granite and iron as their red/grey hue shows. Roads in Rwanda had to be carved out of pure rock and are a wonder of engineering. The bus strains in first gear as you climb mile after mile of steep edges that stare down at crevasses as low as Hades. You speed round these corners that drivers know like the back of their hands, though this never reassures you. I chose to concentrate on the views, which were spectacular.


Rwanda is a lot bigger than it looks; it may be just 26,000 KMsq but imagine taking a shirt and scrunching in to a crumpled ball, it is the same area but in a denser space. That is the Rwanda paradox; if it was laid out flat it would be twice the size. The signs of erosion are there to see, terraces cling to hills so steep even the trees are falling off, every hill and valley is farmed. The rivers that are left are like chocolate mush, filled with sediment and choking. They often turn to swamp or are ideal for farming when drained. The neat terraces fail to hide the environmental catastrophe that resulted from overpopulation, from river deep to mountain high; peasants worked the fields with mostly women doing the work. Women with babies tied to their back and firewood on their heads or water cans or produce. Men were sitting idle with their radios blasting as they nursed Gerry cans of banana wine. But they weren’t the villains of this disaster; they were tall, lanky and dwarfed the local.


They were so conspicuous yet stood in apparently innocent stances, far away from their native Australia yet quite at home. They are called Ntusi or more commonly known as eucalyptus; I didn’t see any other type of tree along the whole stretch of road. They have destroyed the habitat of birds, small animals and the great scenery. Once Rwanda was a forest with thousands of species of trees, now one dominates all others; it was introduced by the Belgians at a time when the population was exploding. It had the advantage of; growing quickly, producing oily wood and charcoal, and it also looked more European or Temperate. Soon this tree wiped out all others because it grew tall fast and blocked out other slower species. It was heartbreaking to see mile after mile of a monoculture that is nearly impossible to get rid of.


I was soon in the mountainous reaches of the north, into Musanze; here you see that Rwanda was formed from violent geological and political activity. Every hill you see was once a volcano, the earth spewed its guts out in molten lava and flowing magma. The rift valley is what fashioned this heart-shaped country out of the core of the Earth and it still reshapes it from time to time. The boulders that line the sides of the road are testament to the power of geo-physics as they are tossed like pebbles by a giant. This has a double-edged sword effect; the ground is fertile no other place, no need for fertilizers or additives. It hurts to see land that is volcanic soil being used for subsistence; if this was Europe it would be vineyards producing rich red wines that would rival those of the slopes of Vesuvius or refined dry whites of Chile. Instead there are sweet potatoes, yams, millet, maize, cassava and occasionally wheat. In future this land will be used to grow more profitable things.


These northern lands have shaped the political history of Rwanda for two main reasons. The two main driving forces of the character of the North are; the volcanic instability and population overload. The volcanoes could explode at any time making life tenuous, the volcanoes also make the land fertile which leads to overpopulation. There is barely room to breath in Ruhegeri; people stand on the roads because there is no place else to go, every inch is cultivated, if you see a lake then people cultivate to within a millimetre of the water. Sheer cliff faces are terraced, whole rivers are diverted to irrigate, the land is totally artificial. Parcels of land like grids form patchwork quilts or multi-coloured patterned as different crops are grown on them. The word population time-bomb springs to mind. The ringleaders of the genocide all came from here; the Hutu population used to divide into the Bakiga (from the North) and Nyaduga (from the south) their enmity was legendary. When Kayibanda (a Southerner) was elected as President in 1963 he excluded Bakiga; he was starved to death by coup leader Habyarimana (Northerner) in 1973.


The North bore the burden of feeding the country as a whole, the abundance of food meant the population exploded, all this while living under the shadow of pyroclastic apocalypse. This “frogs in a bucket” mentality extended to the rest of the country; for example in Kigali people live on top and under each other when there is a lot of empty land around and there isn’t a concept of personal space. The volcanic rocks dot the landscape like a lunar rock garden; these rocks are used for housing, patios, walls and making roads. Quarries mine the wrath of ancient volcanoes for gravel and aggregate. Ruhengeri has the Virunga’s laying siege to it, huge dormant guards at sentry posts to the North. The most beautiful has a jagged top like a humongous knuckle; this is the last refuge of the former king here, the mountain gorilla who has retreated to the higher tips of Virunga’s. Snow is often visible on the mountain tops though they are usually shrouded in mist and clouds but when the haze clears they reveal their white domes.


You then descend to Gisenyi on the shores of Lake Kivu; it is set in the most scenic surroundings with a seaside ambience. It is twinned with Goma in the Congo, a continuous conurbation that unites the biggest city in Eastern Congo with this Spa town. It is a playground for the rich from Congo to splash ill-gotten gains and the overworked of Kigali to get a break. The roads are strewn with mini-boulders launched from craters miles away in Nyiragongo. The cities where nearly destroyed when Nyiragongo exploded just after the genocide; as if God was punishing them. The rocks pepper the paths of the traveller everywhere you go. The Presbyterian Guest House is austere but all you want in a motel, good clean bed, clean bathroom, quiet surroundings and good charm. The cross-eyed guard was not reassuring but he was nice enough. We went out for a wedding of a beautiful Banyamulenge couple; I drank more soda that is healthy.


The night out was great, especially since I hadn’t seen Alex for so long and it was like a night in Oxford but warmer. There was a slight smell of gas-leakage at Tamu-tamu beach maybe this was ominous; we went to a club and had a good night and I wanted to round the night off with a swim but the guards stopped my antics. We slept quite well till about 9am when the ground started shaking, it must have shook for 30 seconds as I was awoken when I realised it was an earthquake. The church next door was rocking in the Holy Spirit and thought it was a sign from God so they went on till 4pm. This town being as sleazy as it is must have meant that there was someone making love at the time who thought his prowess was extraordinary. It wasn’t till I got home that I was told that 35 people died in Cyangugu. I was glad I saw the Northern face of the country as it helped me understand my nation better.

HOTEL RWANDA

HOTEL RWANDA


One of the best people I met in Rwanda left last week; Noel was an intellectual sparring partner who as VOA correspondent kept me informed on the Nkunda scenario, we occasionally disagreed but on the whole she brightened up the Kigali circuit. Her leaving was rather sudden, after some three years in Darfur and a recent robbery in Kigali she felt she had enough of Africa. I went to see her off on Tuesday and was invited to Hotel Rwanda for a goodbye drink; by Hotel Rwanda I off course mean Hotel Milles Collines, the most famous or infamous place in Rwanda. The movie has given it a certain cache; Ben Affleck came over a few weeks ago and couldn’t resist staying at the hotel, forsaking better hotels such as Novotel and Serena. I have been to the hotel twice before; once for a conference on tourism and for an editorial meeting. Both times I didn’t recognise the significance of the Hotel in the worlds conscious but on Tuesday I did. It has a morbid reputation when ironically it is the only place in Rwanda where there were no massacres.


It is strange to think that this was the best hotel in Rwanda, it has hardly improved since its heyday but sits defiant in a changing world. It was an eye-opener; a brief glimpse into the expat world that I have studiously avoided since I got here. Its design is plagiarised from the most awful soviet style architecture, a staccato block that screams utilitarianism and function, the car park is full of hassling taxi-drivers that ask for your custom as you arrive instead of when you leave. The lobby is as unwelcoming as a slap in the face, the deco was designed by Stalin’s hairdresser, the staff are idle-minded monuments to the worst service you can imagine. Tuesday night is Karaoke night; except members of the public aren’t invited, only a professional band is allowed to massacre a catalogue of hits. I stated that this is the only place massacres didn’t take place, I spoke too hastily.


This hotel embodies all I hate about Africa; it shows why Whites and Blacks should be kept from each other, the presence of Whites brings a certain gaggle of miscreants. These included prostitutes, gold-diggers, gigolos, drug-dealers and people trying to be what they are not. I was the only Black guy sat at a table of white people and it was as if I didn’t exist, when I ordered a drink the waiter didn’t even bother and after waiting half an hour I asked one of the white boys I was with to order for me. The bar downstairs was like the who’s who of losers in Kigali; prostitutes so haggard they must have serviced Henry Morton Stanley on his adventures. The band was so loud we had to take a seat outside to hear each other, we sat by the pool; this is when I remembered the movie as someone was having an evening swim. I remembered the people drinking the chlorinated water for months to survive.


No song was safe; Dr. Claude (the biggest Rwandan hit) Justin Timberlake, Britney, Madonna, Kenny Rogers, and just about any random hit you could imagine. We managed to block it out and have great conversions amid the madness; Kitty, Eric, Noel, Tom and a host of other cameo actors all made the night pass so quick. We covered all topics; Kitty and I talked mostly of our memories of England, we played a game where we got points for identifying the songs, which bore no resemblance to the originals. I occasionally checked on the score of Ivory Coast and Mali and this was when I had to encounter the misfits in the bar. They white guests enjoyed the notorious surroundings as the hookers flirted with any foreigner who passed bye. I was stood with Eric when the Gayest man in Africa walked past; he minced his butt so hard that we were worried that the friction would cause a fire; he went over to his fellow prostitutes and crossed his legs more effeminately than any woman could.


I spoke to the manager called Paul as he sat with us, the service improved. I remembered the movie had a protagonist called Paul; a man who elicits real anger in Rwanda. I remember when the movie came out, I was happy; because of all the worthless drivel that Hollywood produces perhaps it was time the produced worthwhile drivel. Check this storyline; a cop with 3 days to go to retirement has to solve ONE LAST CASE! How many times have you heard that? So when they chose to handle a more serious matter, a grave matter, a million dead. They didn’t have the vision or budget to handle such an epic saga; so they made it about one mans struggle in an insane world. Time has showed that Paul Rusesabagina was not the one-dimensional hero he claimed to be but I commended the film for opening global dialogue on the genocide and since then there has been a slew of movies.


The film is shot like a Zombie flick; the intricacies of the causes and effects of the genocide were skimmed over and ignored and it became a movie about genocidal zombies trying to enter the hotel. Don Cheadle and Sophie Okenedo used their best Nigerian accents for the movie but nonetheless had emotional intensity that carried the film and made up for deficiencies in the films structure. Rusesabagina was highly connected to the genocidal government; he used the hotel as his personal profit-making machine. Each survivor had to pay him handsomely; even one of the top Hutu Generals had hidden his Tutsi mother there. So very much like the real hotel Rwanda all is not what it seems; in movies we need heroes and villains and Rusesabagina wrote in himself as a hero. There are better films on the genocide such as “Sometimes in April” which conveys the true terror and ambiguity that existed at the time.


I know people who were in the real Hotel Rwanda; it was terror, a thin fence is all that kept the maniacs out. The theme of the movie was “the show must go on” and it still does at Milles Collines; a Rwandan mogul had bought it in order to change it but sadly died before he had the chance. It is stuck in a time warp, the staff are just droning along like the zombies we mentioned. It is too valuable as a memory to destroy and rebuild. It has a morbid fascination that it engenders and maybe that is the problem, there is little competition and tourists always want to say they stayed on a film set. Rwanda is so modern and dynamic now, it wants a new image based on unity and progress and not the usual genocide, genocide, genocide. I remember one time in 1999 when I was coming back from Kent and was stuck in a car with the driver making fun of Rwanda and the genocide for 3 hours. It was 4 in the morning and I had no money to take a bus so I was stuck; I don’t hate many people but he is up there on my list, Johnnie Oquaye – Ass-hole. Eventually Rwanda will mean something else but it is for us to define ourselves and forget what the world thinks about us. The first step is to shut down Hotel Rwanda. The last song they sang was Hotel California “You can check out anytime you like but you can never leave.” Indeed.