My friend Nolbert

Nolbert is the same as Norbert. L's and R's are interchangeable here, which makes communication just that little bit more interesting than anywhere else I've been. Norbert talked about his 'petit fleur' the other night 'qui s'allonge bien' - it was his 'petit frere' who didn't extend himself but who arranged his life well these days.

When I helped Cloudine, my hairdresser friend, open an email for the first time, I initially couldn't understand why Yahoo didn't accept her details. But then I realised she spelt her name first with an 'l' and then with an 'r'. Computers don't see that it's all the same - anal almost.

I cherish and admire Nolbert. He's a student at the National University here in Butare, and he helped us immensely during the lead-up of the telecentre launch, translated the operational procedures, trained people who only speak Kinyarwanda.. this whole thing would not be flying now if it wasn't for people like him, who just show up to help each day, giving up their time for the community. Like a lot of other young folks, he's very community-oriented. I'm not used to this. Where I come from, everyone knows exactly what they can expect in return for their time and effort. It seems that in Nolbert's world, people accept they can't exist by themselves.

He told me about his parents who are both dead. By that time I was a bit more prepared; I'd been listening to other friends before who talked about the genocide. Lots of students we met lived with their cousins or other same-age family members; nobody thinks twice about that over here. At the National University, there is a club where kids without parents can team up with other kids to create new family units.

Nolbert now spends his weekends at his uncle's place in Kigali, and his sister has found a new home with an old neighbour. He's keen to finish his degree, so that he and his sister can re-create their own, proper, home. His two youngest siblings had been adopted by a Belgian family, and he hasn't seen them for the last 4 years. But he will see them again. His optimism, can-do-attitude, and hope for the future are striking. Humbling.

Recent pics uploaded

Have uploaded some more pics from the trip:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/35289529@N00/?saved=1

Our telecentre launch in Rwanda's New Times

Here's one of the newspaper articles covering our TC launch:

http://www.newtimes.co.rw/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=6120&Itemid=1

The kids

The kids here are my favourite in the world. The first night we got here, the 6-year old son of our local partner grabbed my hand and didn't let go till he had to say goodbye. And all that started it was my looking at him and taking notice.

At the place where we set up the telecentre, there were tons of kids in rags running around, shouting 'umuzungu' (person who has taken away the power, nice nickname indeed for a white person in East Africa) and 'bonbon'. They were genuinely happy when we gave them any attention whatsoever. Sure, they liked to get sweets from us, but just walking along with us, being seen holding our hands, was cool. I happily obliged. Communication happened, by teaching them to 'high 5' and to limbo-dance (another one of Kylan's good ideas of the day). Happy kids, all of them. I'm still working on smuggling one or two back with me in my suitcase.

The kids in the schools I visited were the same, even though they were older and could speak at least French. They liked to get close, and touch my skin - so most times I went to a place like that, the teachers had to create a wedge into the pie of kids surrounding me so that I could get out and talk business. And I had enjoyed myself so much.. They were polite and just incredibly interested, though we didn't always understand what the other one said.

And then my favourite kid-story happened; Ash and I went to Irene's place, one of our local co-workers. His 2-year old sister looked grumpy when we arrived, she'd just woken up. When I went up to her she streched out her arms, let me pick her up, and spent the rest of the time I was there on my lap. When we decided to leave, she burst into tears and didn't stop crying while we left. I've never made such a big impression in such a short while in my life!!

When I talk to Rwandans about how unafraid of strangers the kids are, then those who've lived in Europe or the US tell me the equivalent story, the other way round. They had been shocked at how little kids were handed round during a gathering, and how the kids stuck with their parents all the time. They also told me that kidnapping is non-existent in Rwanda, so there's no need to sensitise kids to the potential danger that a stranger represents.

I like it this way round. Maybe I'll buy myself a bigger bag.

Shower obsession

We're all obsessed with showers here. I mean the foreigners, not the locals. And I don't mean those foreigners either who were put in nice hotels by their companies or aid organisations, with hot showers and all.

I met another one of 'us' on Sunday, and she identified herself straight away when the conversation topic moved to personal hygiene (as it so often does over here.. ?). She's an ex-VSO (Volunteers Services Overseas, a European organisation not too dissimilar to the US Peacecorps) teacher in rural northern Rwanda, came down to Kigali for the weekend for some fun and showering at the Mille Collines pool. After 3 or 4 minutes of talking about her *need* for hot showers in her future life, she admitted having aquired a problem with the showers she takes where she lives now.

Up till last Saturday, we lived in a place with cold showers. Cold, but nonetheless running. When I could be bothered, I asked for a bucket full of hot water from the kitchen and stood in it, effectively mixing the cold sensation of my upper body with the warmth of my feet. It did work. Whenever we had the chance though, we'd bum a shower off one of our expat-type friends, and invaded their hotel room where that ever-elusive hot shower was to be had.

Since then I've moved on, and I now have a shower that takes about 5 minutes to decide if it wants to run at all. This morning, to my delight and surely to the continuing happiness of those around me today, it did decide to spew some water down on me. It stopped after a wee while - but my horror only lasted for a minute or so, when it started again.

My VSO friend from up north doesn't have that. She showers by sloshing water from a bucket at different parts of her body. The result: next time she moves, she'll go to a country with hot showers. Some changes are just too difficult to get used to.

Hand in hand

Today I saw two blokes again, holding hands and walking down the street. Not only are people here much more comfortable with touch when greeting people, they simply hold on to each other so much more often - and for longer - than people where I come from. There's nothing to it over here, when someone gets off a truck, another strikes out their hand to help. When you're riding on the back of a truck (which is one of the things I love almost as much as riding a motorbike taxi), grabbing on to arms or shoulders is encouraged if you want to stay up. The strange thing is it never got seedy when i was in such a situation. In the Metro in Paris or in the London Underground did I feel a wandering hand somewhere on my body more often than here (which was never). So it's not sexual.

My pink-skinned friends and I have adopted this custom with gusto; we're now practising the various handshakes with enthusiasm (and fail miserably in producing the same cool smack with each other's fingers that our Rwandan friends pull off so nonchalantly), and show each other what new greeting technique we've learnt.

But the strangest thing remains the two guys holding hands and walking down the street. Happens all the time, that 2 blokes delicately intertwine their hands and walk on like lovers. I don't think they are (they still shout out the same unconditional marriage proposals when they know they have our attention, though I would flatter myself too much by thinking that this is actually out of genuine interest in my soul), but I don't think my male travel companions will adopt that incarnation of Rwandan warmth.

Gacaca 2nd phase

On Saturday we went to our 2nd Gacaca hearing. It was the start of the 2nd phase of genuine Gacacas. What a system, and what a task. Rwanda re-suscitated an old justice system they had used before independence, whereby village seniors or 'integruous people' in communities resolved property disputs "on the grass/village green". At the end of the 1990s, the country decided that the 120,000 detainees that were by then locked up in prisons needed to be dealt with more swiftly. So they started to classify suspects into 3 (first 4) groups, with the goal of trying those "lower-class" criminals classified in this way in the communities themselves, where their crimes were committed. With the exception of the ringleaders of the genocide, those participating in killings (class 2) are now being tried at the sector level (a local authority unit that comprises some 10,000 people) and those people who committed non-homicidal crimes (class 3) are being tried at the cell level (where generally a couple of 1000 people live).

The pilot of Gacacas started in 2002, and then in 2005 the hearings began in earnest. During the 1st phase of hearings, judges were merely collecting information. More suspects were identified, and Rwanda is now to deal with some 700,000 suspects during the next 2 years (the plan is to finish this whole process by the end of 2007).

What a task. We went along to a sector-level Gacaca on Sat, as became apparent when we started to understand what was being said. Initially, we merely watched as this guy in plain clothing stood up, took a mic, and started talking in a monotonous voice, listing lots of names in the process. We didn't quite know if he was just setting the scene, explaining who was going to be tried, or what. Nobody in the audience showed any emotion.

Then the girl standing next to me took pity on me, and started translating from Kinyarwanda into French. I realised this was a village leader talking, accused of killing several dozens of people. By that time, the guy was cut off by the jury, and I understood he was reprimanded for simply talking about the genocide in general, without explaining his relationship with the Interahamwe and the soldiers he was apparently in charge of at the time. He then said he'd explain all if he'd only be given the time to tell the whole story from the beginning. First series of laughter from the audience, or first sign of indignation i should say.

Then a lady stood up, and we found out she was the wife of someone he was accused of killing. She told the story of how the man and his soldiers had entered her house, smashed the windows, and how she and her children tried to hide under the beds. She said she recognised him clearly. The audience was more involved now. She told the audience that it was him who had killed her husband. She stood 3 meters away from him. Both her and the man stood in front of the jury, in front of some 500 people.

He was then allowed to speak again. He called her a liar. The audience laughed in contempt. He said he knew the men who had entered her house, but he had nothing to do with it. Then things moved faster; another man took the mic and asked the accused of explaining just how he could have been a village leader but not in control of the soldiers/militias then. Our protagonist uttered some excuse and repeated that the woman was a liar, this time because she got the date (or time, or location, I didn't catch that) wrong. The audience just laughed. At that point, another man from the audience asked why he had killed, to protect the Bahutu or to kill the Batutsi. The man then said he'll explain everything, tell the audience the names of additional killers present if they only let him speak uninterrupted. The hearing went on, with more interactions we didn't understand.

We were told the verdict would be reached by 2pm. The guy had been on trial for 2 hours when we left at noon. The court was packed. People are strongly encouraged to attend all hearings, all shops are closed, taxis are not running during hearings. We were told that from now on, there would be Gacacas every week. There are about 12,000 Gacaca courts, and each of them has to deal with around 70 suspects per year. Judging from the hearing we attended, trying 2 suspects in one day is a challenge.

Did I already say, what a task?

The deed is done

We launched 'our' telecentre last Friday. Huge excitement. Everything fell into place at the last second, according to classic project management theory. They know how to celebrate here; with great food, fantastic traditional dancing, tons of visitors in fancy suits and big-ass cars (driving down those bumpy country lanes, getting their tires all dirty), TV crews, reporters. Apparently, the launch made a 10-min slot on the national news (which we sadly didn't see).

The minister for ICT made us chuckle a couple of times; in his speech to the people at the ceremony. He first promised to have us 3 students back, coz we had done such a good job. Fine by me. Then he addressed the US-AID representative Ryan directly, asking for more money next time, "to make the place look nicer". That was when Tim, our project sponsor, turned around to us, smirked, and said "but we like it that way"... I'm still not used to the fact that people don't believe in euphemisms as much as we seem to have become dependent on. Our Rwandan friends cheerfully explained why another student was called 'sweet potato'; because she was so big. She didn't seem to mind at all. People just call a spade a spade.

I got very emotional when the 3 of us handed over the certificates to the girls, or I should say, the ladies who will be working in the telecentre (TC) every day. It's apparently a big thing to receive a training certificate, with signatures from all of us (yeah, those names will ring bells with the big guys..) and from the project sponsors. The girls looked intimidated, as they had so often during our 5 weeks together. But very proud, and very very happy. And we had established a connection with them, which is all that matters. 5 weeks ago, they didn't know what email was. They now send all of us emails pretty much every day. It's when they ask questions from us (are you married, do you want children, how do you like Rwandans..), and when they tell us they're happy. It's huge - they're going through this crazy roller-coaster of basic computer training, more training on how to run a TC, yet more training on how to behave like a businesswoman, then skills assessment and selection of the final 2 who made it as staff members.

It's over for now. All of us, Kylan, Ashley and I, are worried, like parents whose kid is going to school for the first time. The TC is our baby, from beginning to the end. Everything here is relationship-based. No wonder we got so attached. It's going to be tough, turning it into a sustainable bizniz, shreeking high infrastructure cost and little understanding of French, let alone English, let alone computers and all. Have tried to enrol all human and institutional support for the TC managers we could get our grubby hands on (often by shamelessly exploiting our status as young inviting buzungus). Will see what happens.

I'm at the National University now, at NUR, trying to organise research contacts, to make sure it's not the last time I'm here. That would be aweful.