Moment in Between

July 9th 2012

As my time starts to wind down, I’ve started to panic. I have three weeks left and what have I seen? What have I done? I haven’t been to Lake Kivu yet, I haven’t been in the presence of any zebras, rhinos or giraffes and I haven’t even climbed any crazy mountains. I’ve been here for over a month and I really haven’t seen too much outside of Kigali. ‘Bad traveller! Bad!’ I thought to myself, mimicking the voice I use to discipline my best friend’s purse-sized dog.

Then today happened.

This week at work has been a bit boring, between an office move and the launch of a new radio program my bosses have been very busy. Unfortunately, this has left me a bit out in the cold in terms of covering stories. Instead I’ve been editing everything in site and generally organizing office work or being charming with clients whenever I get to tag along. My colleague Robert saw my frustration yesterday afternoon and what ensued was a great chat. He essentially told me to get off my laurels and make something happen if I wasn’t pleased with my current work. Knowing my interest in women and family issues, he kindly invited me along to a Bralirwa event that would see the beer company and subsidiary of Coca Cola give a large chunk of money to orphans in the Rubavu District.

Smiles and CEOs

Honestly, it sounded like what I would typically cover for Hope Magazine, and really what most media houses here would preoccupy themselves with, but I was nonetheless happy for an invite to escape the office. Despite this, Robert, who will tell you off the bat that he neverattends press conferences, was adamant that it wasn’t just another piece of fluff. While all the typical components would be present – press conference, CEO, an oversized cheque – the opportunity to make the story about more than a large sum of cash was also present. Along with a half dozen other journalists, Robert and I chatted while waiting for the Minister of Gender and Family to arrive.

To my great surprise, I discovered Robert has a daughter who lives in France. I found out other intimate details about Robert’s life that I never knew about. We talked about journalism, age, marriage, and we even trash talked a particularly rude person we both find irritating. I started to see a part of this middle-aged journalist I didn’t previously know existed. He was funny, kind and full of information, accompanied by a very strong opinion on how you should use that information. Very much a journalist in his way. I appreciated his advice and openness, he was willing to answer questions others wouldn’t always discuss with me.

For all intensive purposes, it was a successful journalistic morning. The Minister never showed (not really a surprise), but regardless the event was interesting, I met some great women, and I now have a date with Unity Club to travel to an orphanage in the Rubavu district for a feature story. Despite all of these wonderful things, what really thrilled me wasn’t the event, the oversized cheque, or the date to visit orphans in what I’m sure will be a beautiful village.

It was that moment in between.

Sure I chatted with the MD of Bralirwa, joked with other journalists, made contact with members of Unity Club, and possibly got a new and important account for my magazine, but honestly, and as cheesy as it may sound, getting to know Robert better was the best part of my day. Even our mutual, and I’ll admit base, dislike of the same person was enough to make me feel a bond (which I recognize is kinda mean, but honestly the person in question is not nice!) And then I realized that the things I’ve come to treasure here most are not the tourist attractions or hippo spottings, its those moments where you unassumingly get to know this part of the world and it’s people a little better.

Waragi happy hour at home

It’s those moments when I would share chapati and coke with a colleague on a lazy and sweltering Friday afternoon. It’s the five minute walk home at the end of the day when I’m suddenly surrounded by a gang of school children who try out their English lessons on me, laughing and smiling in their smart blue uniforms. It’s when heated discussions about the state of journalism in Rwanda break out in the middle of the office, or when colleagues do impersonations of wealthy Kenyan professors who are considerably proud they have two “BlAAAckbEEAAaries.” It’s Ugandan gin and goat ribs. It’s when the corner store dude calls me auntie whenever I pass by because I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m old. It’s when your colleagues ask you to explain the phrase “bad hair day” which according to them whites always use. It’s when they ask you if you’re having a bad hair day after you’ve explained what it means. It’s listening to a full-out yelling match over a three hour car ride about why journalists must drink to be great. It’s drinking a beer-mug of cold milk on a hot day with a room full of policemen who appreciate that you’re just as intensely watching the football match on TV as they are. It’s being in a full car of colleagues in the middle of the afternoon-heat taking pictures of the one guy who fell asleep in the backseat.

Talking politics and meat at an event

Cat nap on the way to cover a story

Chapati and Coke at the office

It’s all of these minor moments that pass you by without realizing they’re important, they show you how people here joke, why the laugh, what makes them angry, when they’re serious and even when they’re naïve. Those moments not only bring you closer to the people around you, they make you apart of a community, even if it’s a small one; you now somehow belong to Rwanda. There will be a place you once filled at the office, a bed you once slept in at home, even a corner at the dreaded press conferences where you stood and cracked jokes with other journalists about how that CEO is too chatty. Those moments when you’re waiting, wanting or stuck have given me some of the best insights into this place. And for that I am truly grateful.

Charlotte

June 23rd, 2012

Before I came to Rwanda, I thought I would be working at an arts and culture magazine based in Kigali. When I revealed this to someone who had formerly traveled Rwanda, he scoffed. ‘What arts and culture? It doesn’t exist in Kigali, at least I couldn’t find it.’ I was disappointed and bit annoyed by his answer, but nonetheless determined.

When I arrived in Kigali I discovered that I would not in fact be working for an arts and culture magazine but rather a business magazine. A bit of a far cry from my original plan but I made it work, and so far I’ve loved it. Strangely enough that same business magazine would help me stumble into the mythic arts scene of Kigali.

This past Saturday I got the call, I tried to ignore it and sleep through my ringtone, but finally I just admitted defeat and accepted my fate. My editor asked me to cover an exhibit with him. He said he would be by to pick me up with another colleague soon.

“What’s this exhibit about?” I asked as we pulled into the parking lot of the famous Milles Collines Hotel. They both shrugged, no idea, something to do with art. This is a fact about Rwanda I have come to accept. Most of the time I will walk into a press conference, event, exhibit or general news story not knowing a thing about what I’m about to cover. It could be anything from the effects of standardization on market products in Rwanda to flying ponies for all I knew.

And Saturday was no different. What I walked into was not at all what I expected. The art exhibit, which I later found out was a permanent art gallery being opened at Milles Collines, was centered to the left of a large and inviting bar and stunningly blue pool.

Weaved through green grass and terrace stones were paintings from various Congolese artists, some were of black women, with one fallen dress strap, others were unidentifiable images of color and shape. Overall, it looked like someone had canvas bombed the left side of the outdoor seating area. Guests strolled through the paintings, dressed in light sundresses and casual linen pants. Women wore heels, which I found entertaining to watch when their stems slipped into the earth, making the woman her actual height again.

I had to admit I admired the event, there was live music, delicious wine, paintings being sold. It was a small gathering but people were buzzing, artists chatted with guests and strangers mingled. It was the first time in Kigali where my love of talking to strangers really came out in full force. I met a financial analyst with the most hilarious stories about living in South Africa for the past 10 years, and an official translator at the Gacaca Genocide trials, who of all places had lived in New Brunswick for 30 years after leaving Rwanda in the 70s (I’m from Nova Scotia, we basically share a backyard).

Later, I chatted with the owner of the gallery, Charlotte. She had married a Swiss man and opened up a gallery in Switzerland that featured primarily African art. The event was to celebrate the opening of her gallery’s Kigali location. “My goal is to create a hub in Kigali where the best African artists will converge. We will do everything to create exposure for them. We want to show people from here and from all over the world, what African art really has to offer,” she told me in an interview.

Her English was a bit shaky so we decided to do the interview in French, this obviously just added to the glamour of the whole event. But what really captivated me about this woman was that she had a seemingly successful business in Europe, where she promoted and supported something she was passionate about, African artistry, and yet her dream was to make something of herself on her home turf. She explained to me that Kigali’s art scene did exist but that it needed help, support and development. Virtually unknown artists were creating wonderful work and no one was there to showcase their incredible talent.

For me arts and culture reporting is where it’s at, I would basically die a happy journalist if I was assigned such a beat. While doing primarily business reporting here, all I’ve really heard is how Rwanda is a booming economy that is developing at a ridiculously fast pace. What struck me at this event was that Charlotte wanted to create something that didn’t yet exist in Kigali, she saw the opportunity to support a community that could be great. I almost didn’t realize that strong economic growth would not only attract foreign investment and local entrepreneurship but would also affect the likes of art and culture.

Of course it would also attract art lovers and music producers, dance companies and sculpting schools. Why not? I suppose I had just been to too many press conferences on government budgets and corporate social responsibility to realize how economics works (not that I really get economics still).

Loving this style

It fascinated me that here was this very fashionable and business savvy woman who saw an opportunity in Rwanda’s growth and went for it. My inner feminist and flimsy business sense told me she was A) cool as beans and B) representative of a huge trend that most who know Rwanda’s private sector are familiar with; a ‘homecomer’. Someone who left, whether willingly or not, but who has returned to reinvest in their mother country, Rwanda. Many emigrated regionally, and it seems people came back because they wanted a piece of the action, the chance to make something great, a share of the new Rwanda, this growing star economy.

Most of my colleagues were themselves Rwandan but had grown up in Uganda, Kenya or Tanzania. Indeed my Canadian roommates who worked at other media houses agreed; it was almost rare to find journalists who were both born and raised in Rwanda. Most had fled before, during or after the Genocide.

One of my coworkers said it best, he had left Rwanda during the war when he was young, but had decided to return from Uganda as a teenager because he wanted to be apart of ‘what was happening in Rwanda.’ My colleague and friend had at a young age recognized the economic potential and ultimately life changing ability moving back to Rwanda could provide. It would change your future completely. It was no secret to anyone in the EAC that Rwanda was an economic force to be reckoned with.

Chatting with some guests

But something was different about Charlotte, she didn’t seem like the typical homecomer. She was obviously successful, connected, established and it appeared like she didn’t really need to come home to do better or for an opportunity. And yet she explained that it had always been her dream to do this thing she loved, sell African art, ‘chez moi.’

It made me realize that the opportunities this small land-enclaved country offered were not just an economically viable future, a rising middle class, or more million dollar households than Singapore. It also offered its citizens the ability to be proud again, to walk away from the word genocide and to heal an old wound. Rwandans have worked towards developing a greater Kigali so that the words “I’m Rwandan” no longer equate to genocide, but to something better and brighter. In the case of Charlotte, she hoped those words would make you think of a wonderfully inspired and innovative art scene.

In the end, business reporting has become so much more than just business. I never really imagined you could mix economics and art, but I’ve come to realize the old saying was wrong. It is best to mix business with pleasure, especially when it comes to my pleasure.

Slow!

June 20^th 2012

I think I pulled a muscle I was gripping the back handle so hard. My hand is shaking, probably because I’ve torn some ligament, but more likely because I was scared out of my pants tonight. I would assume most foreigners to Kigali would write about their first experience on a motto, the small motorcycles that carry passengers around town for a cheap price. Sometimes there are so many of them on a particular street that they look like a biker gang, one with the somewhat odd gang colors of yellow and green.

Many residents will tell you mottos aren’t safe and others will tell you they’re perfectly fine. Because they’re cheap and very easy to direct, I’ve been hopping on them with pretty much no hesitation. Although, I must admit that while I’m on a bike I often pray to whatever higher being exists that I make it alive. But I somehow manage to forget that silent prayer every time I get off, most of the time I think ‘that wasn’t bad’ and a few times I’ve even considered the ride fun.

But tonight was different, I had met up with my friend Nick for some ice cream and the night was warm. I had just finished having such a lovely day, I wasn’t expecting anything less than a stellar evening.

I don’t mean to put out a false myth of dangerous roads and reckless drivers in Rwanda but I think I’ve come to discover the real reason people say mottos are dangerous; rush hour traffic. I have never in my life experienced something like this before, I mean I’ve seen bad traffic and I’ve seen bad drivers. Hell, my parents are from Greece, trust, I know what crazy people with keys look like. But experiencing bad driving in a congested area from the back of a motto, with a helmet that is 3 times too big for your head and whose strap keeps bouncing uncomfortably off your throat, makes you stop and think.

It seems like people here can’t stand waiting in line, everyone wants to butt in front of someone else. Whether it’s in line to get through security at the UTC Centre or to turn right at the intersection, people cannot wait. Which is ironic considering that most events I attend for Hope Magazine start at least an hour late, the infamous African Time strikes almost every day. But rush hour traffic was a whole new world to me. Neat little squares of white and yellow do not show, staying within the lines does not exist. Cars would try to pass each other on single lane streets, swerve around busses and mottos, even take the lane meant for oncoming traffic to get past other vehicles. I’m not saying cars would sneak by the traffic to make a turn 2 meters away, I’m talking full on lanes of traffic overtook the opposite side of the street. A lineup of cars formed, honking furiously, waiting to re-stake their side of the road. It was like three dozen tiny metal balls were bouncing their way through a pinball machine, something moving at every corner and in every which direction. Your eye would always follow but never quite catch a full glimpse of what exactly you were heading straight for.

I felt a bit dizzy from the black car fumes, thick and interspersed with blinking red break-lights and a bit blinded by the bright yellow of oncoming traffic. With one hand grasping the back handle and one firmly on my driver, my palms started to sweat and I squeezed his shoulder every time I felt uncomfortable. A wordless communication that I’m sure he understood meant “SLOW THE EF DOWN.”

At the climax of certain traffic jams I would even say something aloud to him along the lines of ‘please don’t kill me.’ My driver did not speak much English but I’m pretty sure he got the gist of what I was muttering. At one point we almost hit another motto…for the second time. I made a high-pitched peep and the driver of the other motto started yelling at my driver. His young female passenger had her arms crossed in front of her, holding a cellphone in one hand and a purse in the other. She was a veteran moto-rider, I could tell, her expression was simple; calm, cool, collected. When someone rides with a look of sheer boredom on their face it’s the sign of a high seniority passenger on the road. She gave me a look of pity, with eyes that I’m pretty sure communicated, ‘oh you poor foreign child.’

By this point I was panicked. I’ve been in Kigali for 2 weeks and had never had a problem with these bikes. But I clutched on to that man and started muttering pathetic prayers, ‘get me out of this and I’ll be good, I’ll never smoke a cigarette again! I’ll volunteer for blind dogs! I’ll have babies!’ I thought. Then it occurred to me how strange it was that I thought being a good human being equates to procreating, my inner feminist started to shift. But before I could really start to assess my strange inner musings and mindless digression, a huge wave of relief hit me as I spotted the turn for my street. I patted the driver’s shoulder, a sign to stop, gave him my 600 Rwf and pretty much ran in the opposite direction.

The funny thing about the whole experience was that as afraid as I was, it was thrilling. How often do you get to see the insides of such a mess and from such a free and easily mobile seat? I was just in the belly of chaos; a bit drunk, a bit blind and with no control over my surroundings or my place in them. No one was hurt, no one crashed, and I think the traffic is probably just as bad if not worse in some European countries, but to have a taste of the traffic jam culture in Rwanda was hilariously nail biting, mildly traumatic and overall fantastic.

The story so far

Mwaramutse from Rwanda!

The first phrase I learned in Kinyarwanda, the local language here in Rwanda, was ‘Good Morning’. One of my favourite parts of exploring the culture, people and places of Kigali is learning bits and pieces of this long-winded and at times tongue twisting language.

Daily drive around town to find stories

I came to Kigali to intern at a local business publication called Hope Magazine, at least that’s the official reason. I’m a Master of Journalism student from Canada and my program is essentially awesome enough to offer its students a chance to fulfill their 4 months of required work experience in an African newsroom. I jumped at the chance to do some more travelling, as I’ve been lucky enough to see some parts of the world in the past few years. But I had not yet cracked the African continent, and I thought, when else in my life will I be offered a free plane ticket to a foreign country that is suppose to be astoundingly beautiful?

The Centre for Media and Transitional Societies, (CMTS) in partnership with the School of Journalism at Carleton University, is the lovely organization that has offered me this ticket to paradise. This blog is primarily here so I can share my experiences with friends, family and the CMTS community.

I have to say this upfront, I’m a novice blogger and I try not to take life too seriously (I think it’s serious enough on its own). For me, this blog is about describing my thoughts, perceptions and opinions on living in Rwanda. It is my first time living or traveling in Africa, and I’ve been here for about two weeks. So far, I must say, it’s been amazing, nerve racking, thrilling and a bit lonely all at once.

The office

Hope Magazine has become my second home here in Kigali, due both to its location and the people that work there. I live in a house right around the corner from work, which is great for sleeping in but not for my laziness.

Hope is a PR publication that works primarily with businesses in and around Kigali. So far it’s definitely been a workout for my business-writing skills, which let’s be honest, were a bit rusty in the first place. Although it’s not my strength, learning about the business community in Rwanda has been fascinating. I’ve heard Rwandan government officials describe the country’s current economic state as an industrial revolution. The country is undergoing massive and rapid economic development, with increasing business, manufacturing and trade operating within Rwanda and across regional and international borders. As I travel from event to press conference to celebration while reporting, I’ve discovered Rwanda’s private sector is young and ambitious, and I’m thoroughly enjoying learning its ins and outs.

 Millennium bar from my work window

My office is in Kacyiru, a neighbourhood about five minutes from town. Directions in Rwanda are a funny thing, no one describes a place by street and house number. It’s all about explaining what monument, popular bar or government building you live near. I work near the Police Headquarters and the American Embassy, more specifically across from Millennium Bar. Interestingly enough, the news last week was the fact that the municipal government will be installing street signs and assigning names to all streets in Kigali. They’re even partnering with Google Maps, to develop a more detailed online map of Kigali, complete with featured tourist attractions.

I can’t decide what I think about this. On the one hand I couldn’t tell you how many time Google Maps has saved my butt when trying to figure out where I am or where I’m going. On the other hand, getting lost in a new city is the best way, in my humble experience, of getting to know it.

I digress though, there are too many things and thoughts I want to share, but for today this will do. Murakoze Chane (Thank you very much!)