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.