Notes From the Land of a Thousand Hills

Amy Dempsey

There is no such thing as a quick lunch in Kigali.

It usually goes something like this. You sit at a table. You wait a really long time for a menu. You ask for a menu. You wait again. A server brings a single menu for a table full of people, and then disappears for the next 20 minutes.

You hiss down the server. (Hissing is acceptable here). You order, finally. The drinks come a half hour later. The server then tells you that the meal you requested is unavailable. You order something else. Also unavailable. You order something you don’t really want. The server disappears.

You wait. And wait. You wonder if the cook has gone out to actually kill the goat to make your brochette, or plant the seed to grow the avocado tree to make your sandwich. The food comes, finally. You eat. You finish. You wait for the bill. You ask for the bill. You wait again. You get the bill. It’s written on seven different pieces of paper and it’s nearly impossible to understand.

The whole process can take 2 hours or more. Opting for a buffet restaurant is a safe way to avoid an all-day lunch, but it won’t let you escape the other elements of Rwanda’s notorious customer service.

On the days when service is particularly bad and I am particularly impatient, I zone out into an angry, crazed daze and daydream about picking up tables and chairs and throwing them across the room.

On the rare occasions when service is good or acceptable, I am tempted to leap out of my chair and kiss my waiter on the face.

I used to be a server. And I’m not too shy to say that I was a damn good one, so customer service is very important to me.

In Canada, I would without hesitation let the staff or management know that poor service is unacceptable. But here I feel uncomfortable complaining because I’m a foreigner.

I’m not the only one who is unimpressed by the customer service in Rwanda. The government has officially recognized it as a barrier to bolstering business and tourism in Rwanda, and made it a priority to promote better customer service practices in the country.

President Paul Kagame, addressing diplomats at Amahoro Stadium in February, had this comment on the service situation in his country: “We can no longer accept a culture of mediocrity either from Rwandan business and government institutions that give poor services, or Rwandan customers who quietly accept substandard customer care.”

In March the government formed a National Customer Care Task Force. Now there are a number of initiatives to improve customer service in Rwanda.

Which brings me to the radio piece I want to share with you.

The organizers of Rwanda’s 12th Annual International Trade Fair, which is taking place right now in Kigali, have made customer care improvement one of their objectives.

Find out how by listening to the story below, which I produced for Contact FM.

Entrance to the Trade Fair - Murakaza Neza means "you are welcome" in Kinyarwanda.

This seller came all the way from Egypt for the trade fair.

Aimabre Musaneza is one of the Rwandan sellers. His company, Socobico, sells paper products like tissue, serviettes and toilet paper.

[Please note: the vendors I interviewed for this story were kind enough to let me ask them questions even though they were concerned about their ability to communicate in English. I think it’s important to acknowledge that they could express themselves more effectively if I was able to interview them in Kinyarwanda or French.]

Amy Dempsey

Urunana is a popular Kinyarwanda radio soap opera that has been entertaining Rwandans and educating them about sexual and reproductive health for more than a decade.

It is also a development organization that does community outreach. About once a month the actors and staff get on a bus and bring their show to a chosen village for the day.

I spent last Saturday with the Urunana team in Nyabitare, a village in Rwanda’s eastern province. These are some of the photos I took, followed by a radio piece I produced for Contact FM.

Urunana actors perform their first skit, to the delight of hundreds of Nyabitare citizens.

In this skit, a child cuts her hand on a dirty needle and is taken to the hospital.

All eyes are on the wooden stage, but children tend to get distracted by cameras.

Claudine Mujawimana, 27, learned about family planning from listening to Urunana's radio program.

Sandra Mukantwari, 17, is studying to be a teacher. She says Urunana taught her that health and school should be her top priorities.

Amy Dempsey

“I’m looking for Dancing Pots.”

The woman’s face scrunched into confused wrinkles. She either had no idea what I was saying or no idea what I was looking for.

“It’s a pottery store.” I said. “A place that sells pottery? Dancing pots.”

She shook her head.

“You don’t know it? Okay, thank you. Uh, murakoze.”

I continued down the narrow road. I was on a mission to find – you guessed it – Dancing Pots. It’s a shop that sells traditional pottery made by the Batwa, Rwanda’s minority ethnic group. I wanted to find out more about the pottery cooperative for a potential freelance story.

My directions said the shop was near Le Cercle Sportif. But I was standing right in front of Le Cercle Sportif and saw no sign of it.

I asked a man sweeping the sidewalk, a woman fanning herself on a street corner, and a man balancing a small washing machine on his head. I asked everyone I saw. Some people raised their eyebrows, some smirked, others looked at me like I was crazy.

I tried different enunciations. I tried a poorly constructed French sentence. I tried gestures – hands in the air to demonstrate “dancing” and one hand removing the imaginary cover of an imaginary pot to demonstrate “pots.” It was silly but I was getting desperate.

Finally I found two young teenage boys who spoke English. Sweet relief.

“Dancing Pots?” I asked hopefully. They laughed.

“It’s a pottery store,” I explained for what felt like the hundredth time.

The boys spoke to each other in Kinyarwanda and repeated what I said over and over. They looked around, giggled, looked at me, giggled, and shrugged.

“Dancing pots?” I repeated. I felt like a parrot. A dumb parrot.

The boys looked at each other and laughed harder. Finally one of them asked, “Party?”

“No, no,” I said. “POT-TER-Y. Like… plates and bowls and…mugs?”

“Pottery! Yes, okay!” said the second boy. “We thought you said party.”

Dancing party. Oh.

It was 2 o’clock on a Monday afternoon and I made a street full of Rwandans believe I was looking for a dance party.

The boys led me down the road to Dancing Pots and as we walked I passed all the people I had asked for directions. They grinned at me and I smiled sheepishly.

Amy Dempsey

It was my third night in Kigali and my first night living in Kimihurura, the neighbourhood I’ll call home for the next two months.

I was on my way to a salsa club with my friend and fellow intern Ashley Burke. In the dark, we navigated potholes and rocks in our flimsy sandals and trekked down our hill in search for a pair of motorcycle taxis – the quickest means of transport in Kigali.

As we struggled to keep our footing on the dusty hills, I peppered Ashley with questions about the past two months she’s spent in Rwanda.

How are the house meals?

Really, really good.

How much should it cost to get to the city centre from here?

About 500 francs.

Have any interns fallen off motos?

No.

I’ll be the first, I predicted. I’m clumsy to begin with and I find myself in bizarre situations with startling frequency.

We saw a single headlight in the distance and hailed the approaching moto.

We need one more, Ashley told the driver. “Deux.”

He zipped down the road and was back in minutes with a second two-wheeled taxi.

I covered my head in a scarf to protect my hair, strapped on the green helmet and swung my right leg over the side of the small motorcycle. I settled into position behind the driver and gripped the metal handle on the back of the seat, one hand on either side.

Ready.

The driver revved the engine and we lurched forward.

But mid-lurch I felt a deliberate, vicious yank on my purse. My first scream was startled. The rest poured out in an even stream of angry bursts. The purse strap had been resting on my shoulder but the first yank brought it down to the inside of my elbow and the thief kept pulling. Enraged, I gripped the handle on the back of the moto tightly and waited for the strap – or my arm – to break.

Within seconds, the force of the purse tug-of-war pulled the whole moto to the ground and the driver and I with it. The thief fled. The driver held the bike up to keep it from crushing me and leapt – literally sprung – from the ground into a run.

A few metres ahead, Ashley’s driver skidded to a halt, jumped off his bike and joined the foot chase. Still wearing their matching green helmets and vests with yellow reflector stripes, our moto drivers looked like a pair of superheroes.

The commotion roused the neighbourhood and people came out of their houses to investigate. Some poured into the street and chatted animatedly in groups, others shouted at the thief as he tore out of sight.

Back at the scene of the crime I was still sprawled on the ground, helmet crooked, covered in dirt. I was genuinely shocked. My legs were jelly and my heart thumped in my chest. But the purse was safe in my arms.

Ashley helped me up and dusted me off. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. How could this happen?

In the distance we heard a pained scream. We decided not to wait around.

I kept a firm grip on my purse as we skipped quickly down the nearest hill and made our way toward the main road, re-telling parts of the incident the whole way, laughing and exclaiming.

In a few minutes we heard the sound of an engine, looked up and saw two lights bouncing toward us. The moto drivers had come to retrieve us. Maybe they were superheroes.

So on my third day in Kigali I fell – nay, was yanked – off a moto. But what’s more ironic, I think, is the fact that I was mugged.

Despite its history, and arguably because of it, people say Rwanda is one of the safest countries in Africa, and Kigali one of the safest cities. From what I’ve heard, the worst kind of crime that happens to foreigners is pick pocketing.

A friend asked me if I’m scared of Kigali now. My answer is no. It was an unlikely enough event in the first place, and I blame it on my own strange luck. I’d say the odds of getting yanked off a moto again are pretty low.

But I’ll hold on tight anyway, just in case.