Wanda in Rwanda

From the idea to the final story. Read about my adventure navigating Kigali with a link to the final article below.

It started, as all articles do, with a story idea and it ended with me not only learning more about a subject, but getting more geographically acquainted with Kigali as well.

Thursday morning – exactly one week into my internship. I have a few stories on the go, am waiting for contacts to call me back, and am setting up interviews for the following day and next week. But what about today? No one seems able to meet with me today thus far and I’m itching to get out and talk to people. One of the challenges of working in a new environment is being able to identify what is newsworthy in a place you’re just getting to know. Hence I’m sitting at my computer fishing for ideas. I have two press releases for different conferences open. I’ve called both and have yet to hear back. One meeting is taking place outside of Kigali, but the second one is at some hotel called the Sportsview…

One of the die-hard rules of j-school is that conference journalism is a huge negative. The event isn`t news, but that doesn’t mean you won’t find a good story. I call again. The Great Lakes Initiative on AIDS (GLIA) has organized the conference and representatives from six countries are meeting during the week in the last of a series of workshops spanning two years. During each conference one of the six countries hosts the delegates. Rwanda was the final stop.

Someone picks up. “Hi there, my name is Wanda and I’m working for the Rwanda News Agency.” The group is going on a field visit this afternoon to a truck stop. Sorry, a truck stop?

“Could I join?” No problem.

The field trip is in the afternoon and is leaving from a hotel in eastern Kigali. Around midday I get directions on which bus to take to the Remera area and then to tell a moto driver the hotel’s name, since I don’t know where it is.

I’m standing at the edge of a bus shelter. A woman who speaks limited English points at my face and the sun and gestures for me to come into the shade. “UV rays,” she tells me. I sit down beside her.

Shortly thereafter a bus pulls up and determining it’s going to Remera I clamber in, sans nice lady I was sitting beside. I’ve been on a bus in Kigali by myself before, but this is the first time since a fellow intern recently told a story that, although basically unheard of, made me a bit uneasy. She said she had a cut on her foot that became incredibly painful when she was on the bus. Due to the squished nature of the ride she couldn’t easily look down to see what had sparked the onset of pain. Unable to bear it anymore she shimmied and pulled her leg to her chest to discover she thought were three small cockroaches on her wound. I was wearing pants and hoped this would deter any potential threats, however unlikely.

I arrived in Remera without incident. There were several motos waiting at the bus stop. I walked straight past them. I can find this place myself, I reasoned, I’m tired of depending on moto drivers. I walk. I cross a street. I ask someone.

“Do you know where the Sportsview is? A hotel? Sportsview?”

I ask multiple someones. I cross another street. I cross back. “Sportsview?” I walk down a different street. “Hotel?”

A man hears my enquiry.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to go to the Sportview Hotel. Do you know which way?”

“I’ll get you a moto,” he says. At least I tried?

He kindly tells me to wait so he can fix the price with the moto driver as my presence entails an automatic barter session.

Price settled, the moto driver hands me my helmet and just before I put it on a group of giggling school girls pass behind me and one gently squeezes the bun at the back of my head. They giggle walking away. I laugh at their giggling and the fact that someone just honked my hair like a clown’s nose.

Seven moto minutes later I’m dropped off at the Sportsview. Thank my driver kindly. Made it. I walk in and go to the reception desk.

“Hi, I’m here for the GLIA conference, Great Lakes Initiative on Aids. Do you know where that is?”

A blank stare. Not the best sign. I explain who I’m looking to speak with and drop the name I was told.

“I’ll show you,” the receptionist tells me. We walk through a dining room, down stairs, past a pool. He points inside a room and leaves me. I enter.

Two men are sitting at a table. This does not look like a conference. I inquire if one of them is who I’m looking for. Both have no idea. But there’s some type of conference happening in the room on the other side of the pool. Did I try there?

Again, thank kindly, this time with apologizes for disturbing. Cross the courtyard. Enter said room. Many people. I see recorders. I see notepads. There are interviews going on all around me. Sigh of relief.

A man approaches me. “Can I help you?”

I tell the man who I’m looking for. Don’t I mean someone with the same last name, different first name? No, unless I’m mistaken. This is the Great Lakes Initiative conference, right?

No, no it’s not. Back to the drawing board, or rather diving board, as I pass the pool again, retracing my steps by the room with the two men. I peer in, now there are three. So sorry, I say, but that wasn’t the conference I was looking for. No idea where the GLIA one is?

No idea.

Right, thanks.

I hang around. Rock on my toes. Decide to explore the hotel. Up stairs. Down a hallway. A meeting room with voices. The door is open. I peer through the doorway. Is that creepy?

There are hand-written posters on the wall. A few dozen people are standing in a crowded circle and seem to be sorting out ideas. I hear what I think is Swahili, and Kinyirwanda, and English and French. I walk in. I stand, hands behind my back, backpack on, smiling awkwardly, looking for a person not involved in the circle. Ah, someone sees me.

“Is this the GLIA conference?”

“Yes.”

I’m told what the discussion is about. I learn about what is happening that day, what’s been happening all week, and what’s been going on for the past two years.

And it’s “no problem” for me to join the field trip to the truck centre. Off to another sector of Kigali.

A boy staring out at the truck yard from inside the truck stop.

Countering HIV/Aids using those most at risk

By Wanda O’Brien
Friday, 17 July 2009
Kigali: A truck stop in Gikondo-MAGERWA, suburb of Kigali, was transformed into a discussion forum on HIV/AIDS this week. Truck drivers, sex workers, and members from the community exchanged ideas with HIV/AIDS representatives from across the great lakes region.

To read the rest of the story click on the headline above.

Crickets serenaded me on my walk home from work the other day. Their chirping acutely distinguishably from the background noise – the hum of cars driving out of the city centre, the roar of a moto coming towards me or hushed conversations held on door steps.

I was immediately reminded of dusk in Canada – how the sound of crickets always manages to seep through my window or keep in step with me as I stroll down a sidewalk, which made me think about how life can be so different here, yet so similar.

“Love is relative.”

I was sitting in a mini-van bus on my way home from a sun-filled day in Kibuye, a region about 100km on the road west of Kigali, visiting Lake Kivu. My backpack was sitting on my lap, my right hand held the bar in front of me to steady my movements over the two and a half hour ride on curved roads, the left side of me was pressed against a fellow intern, and my head was turned over my right shoulder as I conversed with the passenger sitting immediately behind me. We started chatting as we pulled out of the pick-up stop, covering the basics of why we were both in Kibuye, what I was doing in Rwanda, how I was liking it, what he does in Rwanda, etc., etc., whether I am married?

A common question to be asked by a stranger here, I unabashedly told him I was not.

Why not?

Well, I explained, I’m not at a point in my life where I want to be married and I don’t know anyone I want to marry.
(Frank questions draw frank answers.)
Are you married? I inquired back.

No, he wasn’t. But back to me. Did I enjoy journalism?

Yes I really enjoy it – a relieving revelation after four years of j-school.

So you have lots of things you still want to do?

Yes….

But what if you met a Rwandan man and poof! (he snaps his fingers)?

“Poof” what? I ask.

You know, “poof.”

As in to living my life? I think.
I would still be a journalist and have a career if I was married, I say.

Hmm… he says.

(I’m still learning the art of language without words.)

Well, I guess it’s different for you, he tells me. You have more time, you’re not in a rush, you have so much still to do.

But I’ll always have much to do, whether I’m married or not, but when I’m married I’ll just be doing those things with someone I love, my attempt at explaining my view of matrimony.

Some people, he says, don’t have the same options I have. If a man with a good job and an education wanted to marry a young woman, and the woman wanted to get married to better her situation, then they would marry. Because it makes sense.

I understand that, I say, but can’t help adding, they should also be in love.

Love is relative, he tells me.

Love is relative, I repeat… sometimes.

But crickets?

Crickets, I contend, are a constant.

By Wanda O’Brien
Monday, 13 July 2009

Kigali: Breast Cancer is the most frequently diagnosed cancer among women in the world and yet a neglected disease in East Africa, but that is bound to change. A new initiative is fighting to get women better access to be screened for the disease in this region.

Click on the link to read the rest of the story:
http://www.rnanews.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=1555&Itemid=1

July 6 - Laces double knotted, hair tied in a ponytail and calves stretched it’s my third day in Kigali and I set out on my first run. I guess “run” is rather an ambitious term to describe my trot/ walk over the hills that make up the Rwandan landscape and surround the Initiative’s house in Kimihurura (the name of the district I live in). I start running north/west out of the driveway, my white sneakers a stark contrast against the red dirt road. By the time I’ve gone 200 meters (steadily inclining) I’m out of breath and smiling broadly. There is a school at the first intersection I get to and a few of the students are outside. “Muraho,” I call out and they smile and say hello back. I’m travelling downhill now and increasing my pace as I pass Papyrus (the restaurant I had dinner on the first night), picking my way along the cobblestoned side-walked, weaving around people walking in front of me, calling out greetings constantly, each one becoming breathier and breathier.

The sun is shining on my face, beads of sweat are forming on my forehead, and I am embracing the wind rushing towards me as I fly down the hill, that much closer to an actual running pace. Then, halfway through my descent it dawns on me: just as what goes up must go down, what goes down must come up if she wants to have lunch today. I toss that thought to the sidewalk as I’m nearing an intersection and decide to veer to the right. Motos (motorcycle taxis), mini-van buses and cars zoom past as in a practised dance, veering around each other, calling out their location through beeps, then passing where there is room. I’m running on a paved sidewalk now, and there is a median in the road dividing the traffic. Up ahead there is a bus-stop and over a handful of people are waiting to board a mini-van bus. I always feel nervous when people watch me running, and I remain nervous in Rwanda. I’m nearing the people. I don’t look to see whether they’re looking at me or not. I’m looking at the view of houses lining the valley across the street. I’m about five paces away now. I look up, I smile, I make eye-contact with some people. I call out my greeting, “Muraho,” and those I make eye-contact with greet me back. Ok, I think to myself, these people are much friendlier to me than people in Toronto. I feel like I’m in cottage country where every person you pass acknowledges your presence with a wave or a smile. Thus far, I’m usually the first one to call out the greeting, but I’m starring at a person just as much as they’re starring at me.

The salt drops are dancing around my pores and my sweatpants, frizzy hair and constant panting make me feel like an anomaly beside Rwandans going about their business on a Monday morning. The sidewalk I’m running on is uphill once again and my calves and thighs are really feeling the burn. I wonder if Richard Simmons ever went running in Rwanda. My trot has become a jog/walk and within minutes I succumb to the appeal of my body and give in: I walk, to what would be the shame of my high school cross country coach.

I soon cross to the other side of the street and turn back. I think it will be midday shortly (my watch broke in London where I transferred) and the Rwanda sun is quite powerful in the afternoon. On my descent towards the traffic intersection I pass two young boys playing in grass beside the road. I’ve started jogging again. “Chocolat?” the younger (or shorter) of the two asks.
“Oya,” (no) I reply as I approach, “sorry.” A pause. “Ça va?” I ask, calling up my most basic French. They both break out into smiles.
“Ça va,” the one who asked for the chocolate replied. “Et tu?”
“Bien,” I answer as I’m passing, “Bonne journée.”
“Bonne journée!” he exclaims as he gives me the thumbs up.
“Bonne journée!” I repeat, turning my head around to smile and giving my own thumbs up.

I continue running, and smiling, and turn my head once again to see that the boys have resumed their game in the grass. I feel energized and think I can tackle the upcoming hill and run the whole way home.

But then I’m actually on the hill that leads to my name-less street. I’m pumping my arms. Left foot, right food, left foot, right foot. I pass a group of teenage boys in school uniforms. “Muraho,” I pant out, confident in my greeting ability. They burst into laughter. I draw comfort in the fact that teenage boys are teenage boys regardless of country, and their laughter has spurred me to quicken my pace. I round the corner. I see Papyrus. Just reach Papyrus, I tell myself. You’re almost there. So close. Why is this hill so difficult? Just keep moving. But really, I think my legs are going to collapse. Fifteen more feet. Ten more feet. Final stretch…

I stop. I walk. I pass the restaurant’s sign. I’m gasping and utterly unattractive. But I’m smiling from the endorphins.

Rwandan hills: 1
Wanda: 0

Rwanda News Agency (RNA) is the online copy service where I’m interning. This is the first article I wrote published on the website:

Kigali: Survivors of violence in Rwanda will be able to access medical, legal, and psycho-social services all in a one-stop center and at no cost, courtesy of the UN and local Police, it was announced Friday.

Click on the link to read the rest:
http://www.rnanews.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=1547&Itemid=1

A conversation un-had
A question left lingering on my lips as I stumbled through my answer because
because
because I don’t know the rules of engagement
And I’m so used to following the rules.

“Weren’t you afraid?”
To come here. To Rwanda. This is what I was asked. But this time
By a Rwandan.

My first thought the same as when I was first asked that question back in Canada – Why would I be afraid?
But in this moment, if I answered with that question, would that be insulting?

Was she referring to the genocide? She must be referring to the genocide. Do I refer without referring?

I responded with a short “no” and a rambling explanation (with the brackets left unsaid)
I’ve always wanted to come here (since I researched the genocide for a grade 11 law project)
I’m more excited to see what people do and how they live (how do survivors and perpetrators and ex-refugees rebound)
I want to experience what life is like here because I want to know what life is like for people in different regions around the world (full stop)

I’m not afraid because the fact that genocide occurred here frightens my humanity but not my want to be in this country.

OR

Was she referring to Africa in general? Because Africa is foreign to a Canadian? Thus, reasoning I could feel scared to visit an unknown culture. And did I place the question in the context of a post-genocide country because the only reason why Rwanda has stood out for me over other small African countries is because of what happened in the spring of 1994?

She smiles and nods at my answer – a polite listener as I respond in repetitious sentences and confuse my words trying to say something that is honest and also an explanation. And I’m speaking in my native tongue.

I am curious as to why she asked me if I was afraid, but I did not want to ask. Maybe in the future I will find out what she meant. If anything at all.

Toronto, London, Nairobi, Kigali – Two nights, three plane rides and a four-hour plane delay later I’m waiting in line to get my passport checked at Kigali International Airport. Although I was in a line-up before half of my fellow passengers had finished filling out their immigration cards, I chose the slowest of the three security lines and am about to be the last person to step up to the customs officer.  The middle station has become free and I dart over. I hand over my passport and card. The officer inquires about my journalism internship – I’ve written Rwanda Initiative as the reason for my stay. Then, he raises the stamp and in one swift movement allows me access into the country I’ve wanted to visit since high school and will now be working in for two months. “Ms. O’Brien,” he says, “welcome to Rwanda.”

* * *

I arrived in Kigali on Rwanda’s Liberation Day – July 4. I had always associated that date with the United States. But now, after arriving in Rwanda’s capital on their national holiday, when future Fourth of July’s cross the calendar this land-locked country in Africa will come to mind.

Fifteen years ago to the day the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) seized control of Rwanda’s capital. Two weeks later, the RPF announced the end of the war and an interim government was put in place. The current president, Paul Kagame, was the Major General of the RPF. He was appointed as the Defence Minister and Vice-President at the time and became president in 2000.

I’m not sure what I expected when I arrived in the “land of a thousand hills.” When the customs officer welcomed me into his country, I smiled my thanks. My jet-lagged legs carried me down stairs to pick up my two suitcases, which were both in my hands within minutes. I walked out of the baggage claim into a throng of Rwandans greeting loved ones, taking pictures, holding flowers. I searched the crowd for a sign with my name on it. Andrea, the on-site coordinator of the internship, or one of her assistants was going to pick me up. After I scanned the crowd for five minutes, I inquired at the airport coffee shop whether there was somewhere I could get internet access. “There’s wireless,” the woman behind the counter told me. “That I can use?” I asked, incredulously. “Yes,” she answered. “It’s free.” I didn’t expect that.

Ten minutes later when I was looking for a phone to use I saw a group of people who looked awfully familiar.  I went over to where they were sitting. “Are you Wanda?” an intern here since May asked. “I am.”

Soon I was in a cab zooming around the main streets of Kigali. Everywhere I looked, a landscape of houses on hills met my gaze and I wondered which one I would be living in and how my un-expectations would come true. 

I arrived in a country on its Liberation Day. Over my time here, I hope to catch a glimpse of what that means.