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.