Kristen Shane

Motos – Use at your own risk. The advantage of these motorcycle taxis is their accessibility. From what I’ve found, in less than two minutes you can flag one down on any main road in the city. The (mostly young male) drivers constantly ride the streets with their green and yellow, or blue vests.

The key is to negotiate the price before you hitch a ride, or you might be in for an expensive surprise at your destination. Six hundred Rwandan francs (slightly more than $1 US) from our house to the city centre (mumugi), about a 10 minute’s drive, is standard.

It’s four times what you pay to bus the same distance, but you’re shelling out the extra cash for speedy service. These guys can really move. It can be a bit scary because safety gear is minimal. When you hop on, the driver hands you a helmet. Put it on, tighten the chin strap (if it is adjustable), grasp the handle on the bike’s back and off you go.

Make sure the driver knows where he’s going (and you do too!) before you hop on. A couple weeks ago, I asked a moto driver to go to an Indian restaurant, Ice and Spice. He seemed sure of himself, so I jumped on the seat. Two minutes later, he yelled above the motor’s din: “Serena Hotel?”

Ummm, no. “Ice – and – Spice,” I replied, trying to enunciate.

For the next 10 minutes, we drove aimlessly around downtown neighbourhoods stopping strangers on the side of the road to ask if they knew where this mirage of a restaurant was.

I felt embarrassed and considered just telling the driver to drop me off where we started.

Eventually, though, we puttered up to another spot I recognized, and, frustrated, I told him to stop. I handed him 200 francs, 100 less than I had negotiated. I explained to him in English (I have yet to progress past greetings in Kinyarwanda) that I wasn’t giving him the full fare because he didn’t take me where I wanted to go.

After wandering around for a few minutes, I laughed a little bit inside when I found the restaurant myself, a couple streets over.

Walking – Be prepared to sweat. If you want a wicked pair of calves by the time you leave Kigali, this is the way to go. They don’t call Rwanda the Land of a Thousand Hills for nothing.

But wear a sturdy pair of shoes. The side streets are often unpaved and can be treacherous: full of water-run ruts (some a foot deep), potholes and uneven terrain. I’ve slipped and almost wiped out on loose gravel more times than I can count.

Watch for deep gutters at the edge of the sidewalks along some main roads. Often, there are no curbs to stop you from falling a few feet into one.

A headlamp or flashlight is a must for night treks. There are no streetlights on most roads and it gets dark early (i.e. 6:30 p.m. every night). On one dark trip home from work, I jammed my toe on a large jagged rock and it started to bleed. Fun.

Bus – The cheapest option by far, unless you want to walk. I’ve been told there are both private and public buses in Kigali. But I haven’t been able to tell the difference.

The trip starts at the bus stop, which is usually a long covered metal bench. I’ve never seen a bus schedule or route map, but buses run quite frequently to at least six different Kigali neighbourhoods. I’ve never had to wait more than 10 minutes for a bus on weekdays during business hours. Buses usually run until about 9 p.m.

A few, headed mostly to the hip neighbourhood of Nyamirambo, are pimped out to the driver’s liking. I’ve seen T-Pain, Lil Wayne and T.I. buses; Obama and United States buses; Arsenal and Barcelona FC buses. They’re brightly painted and some even have black lights inside. Sometimes they pump reggae, rap or hip-hop music. But according to my coworkers who’ve lived in Kenya, Nairobi’s matatus are much cooler. Some have big screen TVs and expensive sound systems. A party on wheels.

Kigali buses are mini-buses that can hold about 20 passengers. When they pull up, an attendant steps off to yell out the destination to passersby and people waiting at the bus stop. The last stop is also usually written on the back of the bus.

Securing a seat is easy, except in downtown Kigali at rush hour. Then, it’s a free-for-all to see who will land a spot.

The city centre is the main bus depot. Buses going to different destinations gather at different points along one road (there are signs so you don’t get completely lost).

At busy times, when people see a bus pull in to pick up passengers, they crowd around the door and push to get a spot inside. All Canadian politeness goes out the window as I weasel myself into the throng. Bodies jam together, hands grasp the doorframe. I’ve even seen people climb in through windows to get a seat.

I’ve been told the best strategy to grab a place is by trying to get in the passenger side door, which can be on the right or left of the driver, depending on the car’s make. Two or three people can usually fit in beside the driver.

On entering through the sliding back door on smaller buses, I duck my head to avoid hitting it on the metal frame while I move to the nearest available seat. If it’s not a busy time of day, I sometimes have to wait until the driver is satisfied that his bus is full enough to leave.

Personal space is not an option. Elbows, upper arms and hips rub together. Four people to one bench seat is standard. Each row has a flip-down seat and the person sitting on it must move if someone at the back of the bus has to get off.

The process of getting off involves a series of signals. The attendant sometimes calls out the stops. If I want to get off, I catch his eye (it’s usually a man) and hand him the 150 Rwandan francs, or about 30 cents US, for a typical ride. If I’m too far from him, I knock on the metal frame and say “Ndasigara” (“I get off” in Kinyarwanda).

Taxi – The most expensive route. It makes sense if you’re going somewhere out of the way with a lot of people who can share the tab. But this isn’t my first choice in Kigali transportation.

There are a few private taxi companies, but I think most are run by private individuals. Few have lights on their roofs or stickers on their doors. Mostly, I’ve found drivers in parked cars just call out, “Taxi,” to passersby.

When I settle into the back seat, I instinctively go to put on my seatbelt and find it’s not there. Although the drivers I’ve had have been fairly strict about some safety measures (only four passengers to a car - no more), few drive cars equipped with seatbelts for all passengers.

Driving – In a country where more than half the population lives under the poverty line, cars are a luxury for the rich. I’ve never seen a traffic jam or a four-lane highway.

Unlike Canada, I sometimes see pickup trucks packed with men standing or sitting in the back bed (again, no seatbelts). Other big trucks pass by with groups of prisoners wearing orange or pink jumpsuits (t-shirts and shorts).

Speed limit signs and traffic lights are around, but there are fewer than in Canada. Also, roundabouts are common.

Kristen Shane

Three weeks into my stay in Kigali, I’ve had enough time to settle into my journalism internship. Here’s a slice of life from the land of a thousand hills:

4 a.m. – Groan. Roosters cackle loudly. Roll over and go back to sleep.

7:30 a.m. – Wake up. Tie up the mosquito net above my bed. I use it every night to prevent malaria. Luckily, mosquitoes haven’t bothered me much.

Tiptoe to the bathroom to shower with hot water. In a house of 10 people (student interns and working journalists acting as teachers) and three bathrooms, a warm shower is a luxury.

8 a.m. – Breakfast. In Canada, it would be a massive bowl of milk and cereal. But in Kigali, a regular-sized box of Frosted Flakes or Special K can cost up to $8 US.

I stick with toast, peanut butter and bananas.

Swallow my daily anti-malarial capsule and eat breakfast in between sips of water that has been boiled and filtered. Kigali water is treated, but we’re just extra cautious.

8:40 a.m. – Climb the red dirt hill outside our house. Sweat under the beating sun. Watch my feet so I don’t twist an ankle in ruts or potholes created by the heavy rains of the rainy season, which is just ending.

8:45 a.m. – Squeeze in the back of a 20-seater mini-bus. Four people to a bench seat is standard. Listen to the driver’s radio choice: usually reggae, gospel music or talk radio, as we speed along the pavement.

Pay 150 Rwandan francs (about 40 cents) for the trip.

Walk by a group of small cement shanties with metal roofs. The occasional goat or rooster saunters across the road. Kids play and sometimes call me “Muzungu,” which means foreigner/white/rich person (depending on who you ask). They don’t say it with malice. I think they’re curious because they don’t often see white people. Some of them wave or run up to hold my hand.

9 a.m. – Arrive at work. The editor and publisher of the Blink magazine live in one half of the house and use the other half for offices.

Spend the day researching on the Internet, contacting sources, and bussing 20 minutes downtown to do interviews.

Journalism in Rwanda is challenging. Companies and individuals have much less of an Internet presence than in Canada. There is apparently a phone book, but most people use cell phones. Luckily, if you don’t know someone’s number, chances are a friend or colleague does. Despite being a city one-million strong, the people are well connected.

2 p.m. – Lunch. Like many other middle-upper class Rwandans, the magazine’s editor and publisher employ a cook. He makes delicious meals of stewed beef, kale, cabbage or carrots. It’s always served on a large bed of rice, potatoes or ugali, a thick Kenyan porridge made of maize.

5 p.m. – Catch the bus home.

Ring the doorbell for the guard to unlock the gate. The house is guarded 24 hours a day. It is also surrounded by a high wall lined with broken glass (a practice now banned) and barbed wire in some areas. It’s a lot of protection in a city that is relatively safe. You often see the guard sweeping the porch or reading because threats are few.

6:30 p.m. – Eat dinner, cold. The cook made it a few hours earlier. Heating it up is a hassle because I have trouble lighting matches for the gas stove.

Darkness falls. Gold and silver lights dot the hillsides.

Don a sweater to hang out with other interns on the porch (it gets a bit chilly after dark).

11 p.m. – Bed.

Dan Robson

Note: This is not an insightful blog entry.

Jogging is not something I usually do. It’s something I “used to do, before my knees got bad, and I took up swimming—because there is less impact”.

(I don’t really swim either. I’m not a fan of the “public” part of public pools, and quite frankly it’s just too exhausting.)

But medium-length trips to new places tend to inspire people like me to embark on journeys of self-improvement. And, as I’m sure you’ve heard, Rwanda is an inspiring place.

Over the past year I’ve been watching the family jowls emerge under my chin, and the love handles on my sides have found a soft companion around my abdomen. While in Rwanda, I’ve decided to change all that, because, of course, that’s what people like me do in places like this.

So I go for a jog on a sunny Sunday morning.

Now, in Rwanda people don’t seem to run for leisure, like many do back in Canada. (Except for those on my basketball team, which as I whined in an earlier post, run far too much.)

The people I pass as I climb up the dirt road near our house just smile at me in amusement.

As I pause to “tie my shoe” at the top of the hill, a white guy on a bike—wearing a blue helmet and matching spandex riding shorts—nods at me, knowingly. I smile back. We are both muzungus traveling the same path to personal betterment.

(An aside: Rwanda does have a competitive cycling community. A colleague recently showed me this interesting story from the Guardian. Check it out. )

Huffing and puffing back on my treck, I decide to take a dirt road that I’ve been told offers a wonderful view of Kigali.

So I take the road less traveled. In fact, I take the road not traveled at all.

It’s the wrong road actually; more of a path, really. It leads to a narrow walkway between a stone wall and a line of grey boxed homes.

“Well, this isn’t very aesthetically pleasing,” I think to myself, as K’naan pumps through my headphones.

Then I hit a dead end, and slam into my mistake. I find a narrow path the left, and find myself in a maze of grey dwellings. A woman comes out of her house and looks at me like I’m a crazy person. With a face filled with confusion, I give her a look that suggests, indeed, I am.

Others come out of their doors to see the spectacle. I have no idea where to go. Every narrow path between the homes leads to a dead end.

A smiling young woman points me to the left.

“Murakoze,” I say.

She laughs.

I go left.

She laughs.

Dead end.

She laughs.

Finally a man points me down a path between the homes, which zigs and zags on a steep angle down a hill that I didn’t know I was on.

A red road relieves my embarrassment. This, of course, is the path I was supposed to take. So I pick up the pace and continue my jog of self-improvement, leaving the minor setback behind.

A group of young boys on the road stop their soccer game to wave at me; “Muraho,” I say, jogging past.

Then I hit a rock and fall flat on my chest. My iPod flies out of my hand, settling in the red dust, somewhere near my dignity.

One of the boys runs over. “Sorry, sorry. Are you okay?”

Getting up quickly, I say that I’m fine. And then rather ridiculously ask him: “Are you okay?”

Grabbing my iPod, I run up a steep hill that leads back home. I pause halfway up and turn, as if to ponder the experience. Really, I’m just out of breath—but I try to look introspective. The sting of my scraped hand tells me it’s time to get going.

I walk home, deciding that Rwanda is the perfect place to take up swimming.

Ashley Burke

Laura, a Rwandan mother of two, returns to Rwanda for the first time in over a decade. She left to study in Moscow four years after the genocide. Find out what she thinks of Kigali, her hometown that she once knew so well, in this webisode of Degrees of Separation.

Next Webisode

2nd Degree: Theogene A young houseboy turned motodriver hits a roadblock in his life. The death of someone he depends on is about to change everything.

Monique Muise

You wouldn’t expect a morning news meeting to turn into an intense and involved debate about press freedom.
But that’s exactly what happened in the small newsroom at Contact FM here in Kigali earlier this week.

The vast majority of news meetings I’ve sat in on (in my admittedly short journalistic career) have been brisk and to-the-point affairs, normally lasting less than 30 minutes. Meetings here can drag on twice as long, and this particular one lasted almost 90 minutes.

It should be noted that Contact FM is a bit different than other newsrooms in this country. We have a mixture of Rwandans, Ugandans, and Kenyans (and now two very disoriented Canadians) all working together to produce a daily news bulletin in three different languages in less than 8 hours. It can get dicey on the best of days.

So it came as no surprise when, first thing on a Monday morning, someone thought we should have a ‘chat’ about the media bill currently making its way through the Rwandan Parliamentary system.

“What’s going on with this bill now?” asked my friend and colleague Eugene Anangwe.

What indeed. Even someone following the legislation’s laborious progress through the Rwandan parliament might be finding themselves a bit lost.

The bill deals exclusively with the press in this country, and has been contentious from the start. Many media outlets and individual journalists were upset over several articles contained within the proposed legislation, saying they would repress press freedom in the country. Eventually, the Rwandan Parliament gave the bill its blessing, but President Paul Kagame refused to give it his final stamp of approval. Instead, he sent it back to Parliament for further debate – where it now sits waiting to be re-examined. All the bureaucracy has meant the average Rwandan has begun to tune out to the whole affair. The media, however, remains riveted.

“This is very important!” exclaimed one of our news editors. “This affects the very heart of everything we do!”

That certainly got ball rolling. Why have we not asked the Minister of Information (who tabled the bill) about the contentious items the bill contains? Should we even have this legislation? How far has Rwanda really come in the past decade in terms of media freedom?

It was bedlam.

I sat and listened to the ideas and opinions whizzing past me from very direction. What exactly was I witnessing here? The result of too many cups of java and a slow news day? Or a small part of the slow process that gives birth to a free press?

I remembered the words of the Minister of Information, Louise Mushikiwabo, who I interviewed with a colleague last week.

“It’s important for reporters to know that when they need important information and they don’t have access, they can appeal to the government,” she said. “What is clear is that this government wants to be able to account for what we do. And we want to be challenged.”

Her words were the right ones, but the fact remained that her bill was drawing a lot of criticism.
Later in the afternoon, I found myself sitting across from Gaspard Safari, the president of Rwanda’s Press Association. I asked him about specific problems he had with the legislation.

“Well, It doesn’t mention anything about defamation and libel,” he said. “What that means is that, by extension, if a journalist is guilty of defamation or libel, what is going to apply is the criminal court (likely a jail term) which we think is not a very good thing.

“For me, in the last couple of years, yes there’s been some progress. But I think…we need to do a lot in terms of putting in place the mechanisms that allow us to have a free media. You cannot have freedom without a freedom-friendly media law.”

This first attempt at drawing up a set of rules surrounding press freedom and media coverage in Rwanda has obviously met with mixed reactions. But the fact that journalists around the country, including those sitting around me in the morning news meeting at Contact FM, feel comfortable standing up and expressing their views on this topic is a positive sign.

What must come next, according to Safari, is access to basic training for all journalists working here, so that they can develop the skill set that he says “goes hand in hand with professionalism.”

And there’s also a desperate need for something that we Canadians take for granted: legislation pertaining to access to information. This would that everyone, from the farmer working in the fields near Butare to the journalist sitting behind the desk in Kigali, could get their hands on government records and declassified files.

The road stretching out in front of the media here is long, and probably fraught with challenges. After just two weeks here, I’m in no position to say if those challenges can or will be overcome. But in a country where private radio stations and newspapers were unheard of only a few years ago, people are talking, challenging, questioning, and debating.

And that’s as good a first step as any.

Dan Robson & Pawan Deol

This is a mini-doc that Pawan and I made about our trip to the eastern province of Rwanda. We traveled with in a convoy of UN trucks with the World Food Program and met local students and teachers who are participating in the school feeding program.

The clip is from our first radio show, Iwacu Heza- “our beautiful home”, which aired live on Saturday, May 23. We will post the entire show, with all its gaffs and blunders, shortly. So come back and check that out soon.

Bugesera

A mini-doc about a trip to eastern Rwanda with the World Food Program. (Note: the images do not sync up with the doc, but flip through them for added visuals as it plays.)

If the doc doesn’t appear in this window, click here Trip to Bugesera

Dan Robson

It was nice just to be invited a wedding here in Rwanda—but being asked to join the party, in traditional dress, was a huge honour.

So when our boss asked Pawan and I to join his wedding on Saturday morning, we immediately agreed. It was a great opportunity to learn more about Rwandan heritage and culture first hand.

The only problem is that I left my journalism skills at home that day, so I’m not exactly sure what went on.

I was dressed in a brown sarong, a cream dress shirt, and matching brown sash, with leather sandals. The beads around my neck indicated that I was an older man, and my walking stick told of my significance in the wedding party.

After getting decked out in traditional wear, we followed the party into the ceremony, where two families were sitting across from each other. Drums pounded, while traditional dancers yelled and jumped up and down, announcing our arrival (I think).

Regardless, I felt very welcomed.

The outdoor setting was beautiful, the drinks were flowing, and the ceremony seemed like it was both entertaining and endearing.  So it had all the makings for a great wedding, in any culture.

However I was seated between two Chinese businessmen, both named Edward. So I was without a translation for the entire service.

Now, the Edwards were very friendly and highly entertaining. We made several comments about not knowing Kinyarwanda, and smiled about having no idea what was going on in the ceremony.

Edward-on-the-left asked me where I’m from. I said “around Toronto”, and the Edward-on-the-right nodded agreeably. I asked where he was from, and he said the name of a city that I’d never heard of, which is apparently home to over 20 million people.

I told him that I have a friend who lives in Beijing. Evidently, neither Edward knows him.

So the wedding went on, as I sat there confused in a brown sarong with matching sash. There was lots of laughter as people from both sides made speeches and shared ceremonial drinks in the middle area between the two sides.

There was lots of dancing from the traditional Rwandan dancers, who moved to the beat of pounding drums.

There was something rich and historical happening—of this I was certain. But we had our first radio show on the same day, so I wasn’t able to stick around long enough to find out what, exactly, that unique tradition is all about (Poor reporting—I know, I know).

But I plan to get a complete description at work tomorrow, so I’ll post an insightful explanation then.

Stephanie Smith

For many in the Afro-Caribbean Diaspora, there is a stark cognitive disconnect between their realities and those of Africans who live on the continent. While in Rwanda, I’d like to explore the linkages between life here and life in black communities of the West. My blog is a record of things I’ve seen and people I’ve spoken to (or overheard) and my thoughts on these.

“I like the music even though I can’t understand what they’re saying” - Mike

I’m sitting under the stars, sipping a lukewarm Fanta soda my first night in Kigali. I’m at a send off get-together for a friend of  friends I just met. It’s been a long flight from Toronto but I’m too excited to go to bed. I’m finally in Africa and I want to take it all in.

The waitress brings our order outside to us, balancing the plates before she slides them unto the patio tables.  For the most part, it’s the Africa I expected. The night air is brisk but there’s no need for a jacket. Rolling hills stagger the lights coming from places in the distance. The concrete walls of the bar/eatery are decorated outside with vibrant hand-painted colours, and slightly stained at the base by sienna-coloured dirt.

Just when I think my imaginations of Africa have been validated, I hear the bass of reggae music blaring from the speakers inside. People congregate to watch a TV screen suspended above the bar counter playing reggae music videos.  Some jig a little to the rhythm and sing the lyrics of a Sean Paul tune, missing words here and there.

It continued like that for the remainder of the night. Daville, Richie Spice - even some Canadian Cardinal Offishal. I wasn’t expecting that at all. Where was the Rwandan music?  The ‘culture’? The real spirit of Africa?!!

The reggae influence is really strong here. So is hip-hop and R & B but, seemingly, to a lesser degree. It’s surprising how much the local and regional artists with their distinctive styles resemble black music of the West (– or rather perhaps the Western music resembles African styles).

Bob Marley is a big deal. His image is everywhere. Posters line storefronts, stickers spruce up motorcycle taxis, and flags hang proudly from the rear view mirrors. Word ( or myth) has it that Natty Dred, Rwanda’s only major solo reggae artist, grew up with the Marleys. And in spite of having his own original songs, Natty Dred mainly performs Bob’s songs at his concerts.

Mike, the technician at work, is one of my new best buddies.  We have lunch together almost every day. My other colleagues say he likes hanging with me because I’m Jamaican and he’s in love with reggae culture.  It’s true that he loves his reggae. It’s the subject of most of the conversations we have together. He even wears a necklace with the Rastafarian colours to identify with reggae music.

Mike says he started liking reggae in the mid-1990s when he first heard African reggae giant Lucky Doobay. He says a few years later he linked with some Rastafarians in Rwanda and one Nigerian in particular who introduced him to other artists through a video tape of Jamaica’s annual Reggae Sun Splash concert.

There are a lot of reggae fans in Rwanda. And it isn’t necessarily Jamaica or Rastafarianism they love; it’s reggae culture. For Mike, there are two key parts to the culture: the music and the message. At the heart of the rhythm and rhyme, it’s all about respect — and that’s a message that’s universal.

Pawan Deol

I get off the plane and step out into the open air.
Pitch black sky.
The bottom half of the yellow moon hangs low.
A sea of stars blends with streetlights.
The night air is warm, welcoming.

Kigali.
So much I have been told about this city.
Late night conversations with friends yearning to return to their home.
Rwanda.
A place where life is lived.
Where days burst with possibility.
The only place they feel alive.
And yet, all that remains hidden.
In the dark of night.

To vaccinate or not to vaccinate?
The question ran through my head two days before my flight out of Toronto.
I wait for my suitcases by one of the two baggage carousels.
I wonder why I ever said yes.
No one even checked to see that I had my yellow fever vaccination.

Warm faces in unfamiliar places.
Nothing feels better.
I never eat right before I go to bed.
Mother says it is unhealthy.
But I am hungry.
We go to a rooftop restaurant overlooking Kigali.
All cities look the same at night.

I am sharing a room, an entire house, with colleagues.
A large, one level house full of journalists.
It makes me nervous.
I have major personal space issues.

The bed is tiny and I can’t sleep.
I could’ve talked all night . . .
I stare up at the ceiling through the mosquito net.
I can’t help but feel caught.
Caught up in more than I can handle.

The rain suddenly crashes down.
The air cools.
The chill brings back memories of what once was.
Feeling warm on cold Ottawa nights.
It already feels like home.

I am so afraid of falling in love with this country.

Monique Muise

It’s Monday afternoon, and I’m finally heading home after a long day at work in Kigail. A polite but aggressive young man ushers me onto the nearest bus, which is rapidly filling up with people on their way to God knows where. Predictably, the interior is comparable to the inside of a pottery kiln. Incredibly hot, dry and full of various odours, both recognizable and totally unfamiliar. People pile in and out, pushing and pulling as they squeeze themselves into whatever space they can find. Then the bus lurches forward into traffic. After a few moments, I turn away from the window and am confronted by the tiny face of a small girl.

About 13 months old, she’s propped up on her mother’s lap in the seat in front of me, and like most people I encounter throughout my days here, she’s staring intently and unabashedly at me. She seems to recognize that I look a bit different than the other people on the bus, and she reaches out one tiny hand over the back of the chair and grabs my index finger - then bursts out laughing. For the next ten minutes, I scrunch up my face, wave, laugh and poke the end of her nose as she emits little screeches of delight.

And then she and her mother are gone, back into the throng of people on the street.

I’m left wondering about this child, and others like her who are growing up in Rwanda today. They are born into a community that still bears deep scars left by the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi, but they have no living memory of the event that changed their nation forever - and that still defines Rwanda, for better or worse, around the world. Anyone under the age of about 18 was either too young to recall the events of 1994, or had not been born when the genocide occurred.

These young people are now creating a new identity for their country, based on their own experience. They are musicians, moto drivers, cashiers at the local supermarket, university students, children playing in the park, or babies laughing on the bus. They line Rwanda’s path toward the future, but some remain very much aware of the past, working to educate others about the genocide so that it is never repeated.

I hope to use this blog to introduce you to some of these young people - to tell their stories and to provide some insight into their lives, both individually and collectively.

Stay tuned.