Gisenyi

Then we were off to Gisenyi.  Where Chyngugu is the beach town of south Lake Kivu, Gisenyi is the beach town of the north.  It is also a fairly dominant stopping point for tourists (especially locals from Kigali) because it has beautiful sandy and palm treed beaches, of which we took full advantage. 

On reaching Gisenyi, we checked into a little hole in the wall dive known as The Auberge.  Yes, that’s French.  The French have a very large presence in Rwanda which only exacerbated some of my cultural confusion.  .  Its rooms and little kitchen surround a courtyard where locals regularly come to eat at all times of the day and night.  We arrived on a weekend day at lunch time.  Needless to say, the place was packed and went silent as all eyes turned to stare at me when I went with the manager to check out their rooms.  Andrew luckily stayed in the taxi with our bags. 

There is nothing worse than being a tired rabbit in dire need of some rest, only to find your hole is surrounded by foxes. So after getting our bags into our room, we evacuated the premises as quickly as possible.  Where to?  The beach of course!  Only a twenty-minute walk down the hill, the fine sands and warm water were a wonderful pleasure to have after such a long journey.  Though we were openly gawked at there too, I didn’t mind as much with my flip flops off and moist sand between my toes. 

Most of the swimming attire on the beach was either personal underwear or nothing and very rarely legitimate bathing suits.  I also realized very few females swimming, and by very few I mean maybe one or two along the entire beach we walked.  I started to get nervous about me swimming here being an issue.  That would really put a damper on things.

But no worries.  As Andrew and I were looking out across the lake, a young man sporting boxer briefs began walking towards us.  Maybe it’s the much smaller bubble of personal space in African countries, but he came so close I thought he was coming to talk to us and murmured a ‘hello’ like many people do to strangers.  And like many strangers respond, I got a hello back.  And much like many strangers I say hello to in Africa, this young man stopped, obviously enjoying that I opened the door for his curiosity. 

His name was Eddie.  He knew some English but his Swahili was much better and so we reverted to that.  I don’t know how to explain it, but I could understand Eddie very well.  Usually I can speak Swahili much better than I can listen to it- I know, just another horrible woman trait- but for some reason I could just understand what Eddie was saying a lot better than I could anyone else.  That should have been a good indicator that we were going to be friends from the start. 

After our brief conversation in which we established my vagabonding role in this world and his, we parted ways.  We covered that he was visiting his grandmother in Gisenyi but living in Kigali, to which he would return in a couple of days for Christmas; he was playing on the beach with younger cousins and siblings.  That was about it.  Andrew and I wandered off an found ourselves a beautiful Rwandan wedding with traditional dancing.

Later, however, as Andrew and I began to trace our way back up to our new digs, a friendly voice called my name from behind me.  You can imagine how startled I was.  I knew nobody in Gisenyi.  How on earth could someone know my name?  But I whipped around and there were Eddie and the youngsters he was looking after strolling up the road behind us.  And that was that.  They were going in the same direction as Andrew and I so we, as in Eddie and I because Andrew’s pretty antisocial towards the locals at first for some reason and the children Eddie was with were all pretty shy, continuously blabbered between us in Swahili.  We were joking and laughing and poking fun at each other like we’d been long time friends.  You can imagine the shocked looks we got as the people we passed realized that not only were a mzungu and an African having wonderful conversation, but in Swahili non the less!

When it was time for us to part Eddie and I agreed on meeting the next day to play on the beach in the afternoon.  However, after a very solid night of sleep, despite the bar antics right outside our window, Andrew and I headed down towards the beach in the morning and who do we run into?  You guessed it.  Eddie.  Well I had already been up for many hours and had no desire to run all the errands I already had done for myself while Andrew now completed them hours later because he slept so late (honestly, how can people sleep so much), so Andrew went off on his own and Eddie and I headed towards the water.

I must have asked him for confirmation five or six times that it was okay for me to swim on the beach, especially in my small western bikini.  ‘No problem’ was the answer I kept getting.  So, with all of the chocolate-colored eyes in the vicinity fixed on me, I skillfully exchanged wearing my underwear for my bathing suit, took off my outerwear and became the largest white beacon on the beach.  While I was overly aware of every move I made, none of it seemed to phase Eddie.  In fact, he was completely comfortable and I never even caught him even passing curious glance my way. 

He also didn’t appear to be self conscious when we started to swim.  Many people in East Africa don’t know how to swim, and if they do, many do not know very well because they are very limited in their access to recreational swimming.  Others who live near lakes are the anomaly.  Eddie, however, had been in a couple of pools in Kigali and could do little but doggie paddle.  As someone who was still taking swimming lessons at eighteen, I can sympathize.  Once he saw how I did it, he asked me to teach him.  I was wonderfully surprised to find him unphased by his inability to swim and his willingness to look goofy practicing in front of a beach full of onlookers.  However, his self-confidence waned when another young man, Kennedy, who is a very strong swimmer, began hanging around us. 

Kennedy informed me that he was 21 also, though he looked in his late twenties (I’ve learned that no one here is honest about their age, including Eddie) and Kennedy invited me several times to swim out far into the lake with him.  I obliged and during one of our treading-water-conversations several hundred meters out, I had mentioned to Kennedy how uncomfortable I was made by the people staring.  At this point there were males of all ages just standing right there on the beach next to our things with arms crossed or resting on their hips and leaning on one leg then the other watching us.  Young boys and one girl played around in the water, all of which were competing for my attention during our back and forth splashing contests, trick displays, and Frisbee tossing.  I thought the attention was bad on the beach in China, but this was something else.  Kennedy, however, put me at ease by remarking that everyone was just curious.  They weren’t doing it to make me uncomfortable, they just wanted to know what I, the mzungu, was doing, how I was doing it, why I was doing it, and they wanted to take part in whatever it was.  The adults had enough reserve and years of mzungus to keep their distance but the children wanted nothing more than to run home later that day and boast to their families that they played with, touched, and talked with a mzungu.  As much as I can understand the novelty behind us white people to them, it just reminds me how right I was to relinquish any opportunity I never had for a famous singing career. 

Back to Eddie.  With the increased level of attention I was getting and kennedy greatly showing up Eddie’s swimming skills stealing me away for far swims, Eddie was getting a little unnerved.  So we packed up our things and started to make our way to the Serena Lodge with its private beach and where we were supposed to reunite with Andrew.  On the way, we ran into an Argentinean Swede named Quena (pronounced Kena) that I had met only briefly our last minutes at the hostel in Kigali.  We both beamed and hugged each other like we’d known each other for years.  Honestly, I don’t know what it is about this place that throws so many great people in my path. 

She accompanied us to Serena and Andrew eventually found us.  Sitting there, Quena asked Eddie how old he was.  This time he said 17.  Well, that’s different from what he told me yesterday.  After Quena had moved on to a conversation with Andrew, I asked Eddie in Swahili why he told me a different age.  He gave me a real round-a-bout answer but in the end I just had to settle on the idea that he was seventeen.  Any romantic thoughts I had about this very dark-chocolated skinned young man with the beautiful smile and easy talking manner were quickly burning out.  Later, Quena reminded me that age isn’t such a big deal here and that they have to grow up a lot faster than we do, but still.  I’m no cradle robber. 

But that didn’t mean we had to stop hanging out since 

his company was something I found myself liking more than that of most people I’d been around in a long time.  The four of us climbed back up the hill into town, through a back alley market to buy some fruit and stave off our hunger pangs in the long hours until dinner would be available.  

It was obvious from the start that Eddie didn’t have much or any money on him, as he seemed to expect us to pay.  And we did, for a little while.  When it came time for dinner, I asked him in the least offensive way I could if he could pay his own way and he told me no problem.  Next thing I know, he’s vanished.  So we sat down and ate our dinner without him.  Moments after leaving the restaurant there was eddie again, back at my side.  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved to see him as I thought his vanishing meant 

he was hanging around me just for my affluence.

The rest of the evening was much more relaxed but a little more awkward.  Eddie stuck around while Andrew and I took some rest in our room.  By ‘took some rest,’ I mean we sat and watched eddie blaze through the R&B and rap music he knew on Andrew’s iPod.  All of it was accompanied by a very embarrassing whining noise because he didn’t know nor couldn’t pronounce the words but also some very good dance moves.  Again, not in the least embarrassed and actually thoroughly impressed with himself.  We later went to sit with Quena whom had returned with her friend Olivier and Patrick, and 

Aussie we also met at the hostel in Kigali.  Patrick’s a whole ‘nother can of worms.  When I first met him I thought he was a pessimistic, down trodden, Australian sap that didn’t seem to take much pleasure in life except for the escape found in intoxication.  He’s risen so high in my book since that I’m planning and actually looking forward to seeing him in three weeks when he returns to Australia. 

It was getting quite late and much of our group conversation was in English.  Though I felt a slight pang of guilt at trying less and less to include Eddie in on the conversation, for a lot of what was being said I had to translate for him, we were planning on going out and having a seventeen year old at my side just didn’t seem overly appealing.  He eventually tired of this too and, like every other person I’ve befriended, eventually asked me for money.  At the time my blood grew hot and my heart pained at being befriended just for my wealth.  He had only asked for 300 franks to take a moto home at such a late hour, but to me it could have been fifty cents or a thousand US dollars; it made no difference.  I asked him twice over why he wanted it, why he didn’t have his own money to spend, and making it obvious by my demeanor how hurt I was.  Of course my hurt was obvious but he persisted, and so I caved.  I went to my room and returned to our table, pressing three 100 frank coins into his hand and completely convinced at the time he befriended me only for money, only for the tale of having spent time with a mzungu and not because he sincerely enjoyed my company.  All words we had exchanged earlier about having a great day and being grateful for having met one another echoed in my ears and fluttered away only to leave a sour taste in my mouth.

Oh how I regret feeling that way.  Eddie stood up.  Apologized once, said goodbye to everyone, asked if I was okay to which I gave a curt nod, then apologized to me twice.  He left without me giving him a hug or exchanging any contact information.  I didn’t even think about this.  He knew the next morning what our plans would be and I knew he was probably to board a bus to Kigali.  I expect he did return to the city because I didn’t see him again.  In the morning during our descent towards the beach I searched for him.  In the shallows as Quena and I ventured out of Serena’s beach and into the waters filled with black squealing bodies, I searched for him.  Even while having my first inappropriate exchange with locals as a group of young men swam around us like dolphins, coming too close and some even risking a handful of boob or butt flesh, I scanned the tree line for him but with no success. 

Later, frying under the sun like a mesmerized moth in a flame, I recounted to Quena my narrow-minded account of what had happed with Eddie.  She opened my field of vision, as if turning off that incessantly calling bulb to let me choose a hundred different paths by highlighting an idea that had been playing at the back of my mind, but made me feel only worse for having let Eddie go as I did.  Asking for money was a part of their culture just as darkness is the natural state of night.  It didn’t matter if you were family, a friend, or a mzungu, everyone asked everyone for money and thinking I was the only target was like placing an unnatural bulb in the middle of an open field.  The minute she showed me this reality, I knew it was true.  Goodbye Eddie.  Oh how sorry I am. 

Despite my personal turmoil, Andrew and I were still quite enjoying Gisenyi.  We decided to remain another night and leave the following day for Rugengeri and our forest hike.  We spent the afternoon watching Michael, a friend of mine from The Auberge, and his students put on a spectacular acrobatic performance.  Michael his mentor and seven other young men were actually in Sweden for two months improving their skills on scholarship.  They now provide free after school programs for students of all ages and genders in the hopes of preventing subjugation, intercultural turmoil, kids taking to the streets, and increasing genocide awareness.  The best way to describe their act was that it was better than Cirque de Soleil, and I’ve seen three of these famous performances.  I’m not joking.  They were that good!  I have video and wish I could post it but pictures will have to do for now.  I am just amazed htat they do all of this outside on dirt, in a field, and practice their flips onto a pile of hay.  There is so much that separates my childhood from those of the children here.

Yah, I guess you could say Michael's flexible.

Later that evening, we sat with Quena, Patrick, and Olivier for Olivier’s birthday.  All Olivier wanted to do was hang out and eventually continue his annual tradition of giving a speech on his name day.  Birthdays aren’t commonly celebrated in Africa and in fact, most people don’t actually know the date of their birth or even their exact age.  But Olivier did- his father had traveled abroad and brought back the idea of at least recognizing one’s special day. 

But instead of receiving, Olivier, ever the philosopher, wanted to give back.  He had made it an annual tradition to give a speech, enriching the minds of those around him and sharing ideas.  He spent every day, sometimes double shifts, sitting in the reception desk of a hostel thinking.  I guess if I was faced with perpetual boredom or letting my mind run wild for entertainment, I’d choose the latter too.  However, Olivier formulated much more important thoughts than I think I could. 

He began his speech with the challenges he faced during the genocide.  We sat in rapt attention. I’ll try to summarize it for you.  He was six when the genocide happened.  He was separated from his parents and lived on his own for a 1.5 years!  At six!  He survived by hiding for several weeks in the reeds of a lake and eating scraps of fish that fishermen would leave him.  These people were killed one day as he hid and from there he had to find his own means by moving into the biggest rainforest left in East Africa.  He survived people who wanted to kill him by running away, he got stuck between two sides of the war at one point and took a bullet in the buttock (yes, just like Forrest Gump), he stole potatoes from fields that were overlooked by farmers during their harvest and sold them in the streets, he lived in the streets, did random jobs to make money.  

Then, one day, a man recognized him as the son of one of his own friends and took him on a bus all the way across the country back to Gisenyi, his original home before the war.  There, he found his family’s house destroyed.  He continued to work on the streets to survive.  Then one day he found his grandfather trying to pitch a tent where their home had been and there was much rejoicing for their reunion.  Then, months later, his mother and youngest sister returned and there was again much rejoicing.  But his mother and grandfather were old and uneducated and couldn't make a large living.  It was hard to feed everybody and so he continued to work on the streets.  He worked his way up and today he has a relatively good but, more importantly, stable job.  He wears nice clothes, has a nice phone, and is one of the nicest, most philosophical people I've ever met.

I tell you this story because as he told it, I thought how his story was told to us as a gift.  I wondered how many times it had been told before, since speaking of the genocide is usually very hard for people, and I marveled at how amazing it was.  What is even more amazing is that it is not unique.  The entire country shares a similar story. 

As he told it, I also thought of my youngest brother.  When I see the street kids, I think of Garrett.  He is older than many, younger than few, and smaller than most.  He has the same go get 'em attitude, spunk, rowdiness, but appreciation for life that they have.  Seeing the street kids at first bothered me.  I didn't like it when they asked me for money or begged.  I knew it wasn't because they annoyed me, but I couldn't put my finger on why.  Now I know.  They remind me so much of my little Garrett and it's hard to acknowledge it.  After that realization, every time I have been asked by a child for something, I ask their name, take them in hand and find the nearest duka selling fruit, bread, and meat.  I buy them a meal of the healthiest and most satiating foods.  Even though they're all punks, these boys light up, say so many thank you's, some give me hugs, and wave at me until we're out of sight of one another.  

Today, I put many things I didn't need anymore into a bag, found a group of young boys on the street and sat them down.  I asked them how their work for the day was going.  They told me that no one would hire them today.  I told them that was okay because today they could have this bag and use its contents to sell or for their personal use.  In the bag were clothes, a headlamp, some jewelry and bandanas, but they lit up at the mention of playing cards and the minute I mentioned them they went about finding them among the other stuff, their old deck of only about thirty-or-so cards lay forgotten on the pavement next to us.  I am glad to know that they can keep something for themselves that they will enjoy.  They were so grateful that they were singing 'thank you!' in as many languages as they could think of, which is quite a few.

Even though my youngest brother has it so good, he is also a wonderful boy and has so much life and wherewithal and spunk and enough drive to survive, but just like these boys, I know he has a wonderful heart.  That's why when I look at them I him.  I love talking with them and playing with them and teaching them new things because it reminds me of Garrett.

I also just love spending time with them for them.  I didn’t think I liked children when I left the united states.  In fact, there’s not much to like about a bunch of spoiled brats, but I fell in love with the children of east Africa.  If anything, I came to realize something new about myself there.  I want to return one day and teach children about the importance of nature, the environment, and the pleasure and rewards found in conserving it.  One day, one day, one day.

The fruit bats of Gisenyi roost in palm trees and chatter and scream at one another so loudly that they scare passersby.  Eddie told me that you have to be careful during dusk because they are known to fly into people's faces.