But in Kigali the party never started. Even the standard home shebeen kind of thing was missing here. Well, maybe not missing, but it closed very early and at first I suspected that there might be a curfew. When I saw small groups of people who hung around after sunset to enjoy a beer I soon realised that they might not be the kind of drinking companions who would do my health any good – safe pass letter or not. I don’t think many of the local residents wanted to hang out with them either. The city was dead after sunset, because it was actually dangerous to be outside and people still lived in fear. Also, the police were not necessarily one’s friends.
For two nights I continued my search for the nightlife with a driver who did not share my sense of adventure and excitement. The hotel itself did not offer much in the way of action and the South African musicians were, well, musos. They were travel weary and weren’t interested in their surroundings. Then it hit me: in light of the lack of entertainment, I had to create my own. My grandmother always said that the devil finds work for idle hands and I’m a good example of this. Boredom always makes me get up to mischief.
One afternoon, as a result of overwhelming tedium, I took two street children to lunch at the grand Windsor Umubano Hotel. It was a most enlightening social experiment, which I undertook for purely academic reasons. The guard tried to prevent my guests from entering the hotel and the waiter refused to serve them, but I insisted, ignoring the icy atmosphere that ensued. I argued that other people were allowed to bring prostitutes to the hotel as guests and no one had a problem with that. I also demanded that we be seated at a table in the centre of the restaurant instead of one in the corner that the waiter recommended.
The restaurant wasn’t full, but my fellow diners, businessmen with their expensive watches and brand new cell phones who only returned from self-imposed exile in Belgium after the genocide, were clearly not impressed with the company in which they found themselves.
The waiter addressed the two boys in Kinyarwanda and from his tone of voice I gathered that his remarks weren’t complimentary. My guess was that the two boys were aged between eight and ten but they didn’t take much notice of him. Suddenly they were in a position of power and no one could take it away from them. They knew I would protect them and they gave the waiter hell.
After a veritable feast of hamburgers and many Fantas some of our musicians brought their djembes and started playing their drums in the restaurant while the street children taught them Rwandese folk songs. By this time even the waiter’s attitude began to change and when his manager had to leave for a few minutes he joined in the singing and showed us a few dance steps. For the first time there was a smile on his face, but it did not reach his eyes. They were still dead, hidden behind a wall around his memories.
Two hours later I accompanied the children to the hotel’s exit. In the few days I’d been there I had seen how disobedient children were hit with rubber sticks. It was the norm and I wanted to prevent my new friends’ day from ending badly. As we walked out the waiter breathlessly caught up with us and said something to the children in Kinyarwanda. This time there were smiles on their faces while he good-naturedly rubbed their heads.
The children walked around the block to the back of the hotel where the waiter gave each of them an enormous bag of food to take home. The image of the two boys walking down the dusty street kicking an empty sardine tin will remain with me forever, their loud and animated discussion of their afternoon adventure punctuated by carefree laughter.
It was at that point that it was decided that I was in need of a bodyguard. To this day I don’t know whether it was at the insistence of the hotel or the promoter. My errant behaviour beyond the safe confines of the hotel fence, as well as inside, started to freak people out. Whether the bodyguard was appointed to protect me from other people or them from me, is open for discussion.
The important people around me did not like all my political questions and the fact that I got along with everyone made them uneasy. The last straw was when I exchanged my dollars for francs on the street and not in the hotel. I got a much better deal outside and it was much more exciting to have a forty-minute negotiation in a backstreet alley. Yes, I was busy creating my own entertainment.
I immediately christened my bodyguard “Brick”. I don’t know what his real name was and frankly I couldn’t care. If Brick were a South African, he would have been a white rugby player who sold second-hand cars or insurance. On Saturday night after rugby games he would have hung out at escort clubs and perhaps dabbled in illegal diamonds now and then. But Brick was a much snappier dresser than his South African equivalent.
Brick
Brick always seemed to know when I’d got up in the morning and shortly after he would knock on my door. He couldn’t speak English and the only French sentence I knew wouldn’t have strengthened our relationship. I forbade him to eat or drink with me. He had to get his own table, but this did not dissuade him: he even stood guard when I went to the toilet. In short, he was a first-class nuisance. He had a good laugh at all the mosquito repellents I brought along and threw them on my bed with contempt, until I told him to put them back where he got them. I soon realised that he was a feared man in the community, because people suddenly gave me a wide berth. He tried hard to act like a tourist guide rather than a policeman but his speciality was not to be too likeable.
Basically I was under hotel arrest. This dawned on me when he made himself comfortable in my hotel room under the pretext that he wanted to be my friend. Brick settled into his new role as my friend and guide by offering me his fourteen-year-old sister as a sex partner. When I strongly declined, he offered his twelve-year-old brother. This was followed by an offer of heroin, a drug that for some reason was easily available and cheap in Kigali. Heroin is a drug that magically transforms the worst situation into something good. I could understand why it was so popular, but I still found it weird.
His final offer was dagga. Now that was the best offer of the entire week.
Before I continue, I have to make a quick remark about my feelings about dagga. Dagga has caused many problems in people’s lives. So have chocolate, alcohol and nicotine. Dagga is a natural plant and the only reason why it has been banned in so many places in the world is because the Americans insisted on this as part of their business agreements with several countries. Dagga is banned in America because nylon manufacturers had to get rid of the hemp plant to create a larger market for their new material.
Too much of anything is bad for you. The same applies to dagga. I look upon dagga like cognac. It’s something I indulge in every now and again and really enjoy it, but I’m not interested in making it a daily habit. I like living in the real world and don’t want to be removed from it constantly. One night, probably when I was stoned, I decided that because dagga comes from the soil of a country it reflects the soul of that country. I know it’s a real stoner philosophy, but that’s what dagga does to you.
It was time to taste the soul of Rwanda. The dagga was dark green, almost black. It left tar on your hands when you touched it. I was arrogant enough to think I was strong enough for it. Against Brick’s wishes I accompanied him when he went out to buy the dagga. Only rock stars allow other people to bring them drugs and I wasn’t a rock star. It also meant that I wasn’t ripped off too much when it came to the price.
The seller was a guy called Richard. He wore a Hawaiian shirt, a pair of fake Ray-Bans and a gold watch that gleamed against his pitch black skin in the afternoon sun. In typical African style it was so loose around his arm that it glided up and down between his wrist and elbow. He clearly enjoyed his own stock and didn’t have a problem smoking while he worked.
The fill was wrapped in a piece of newspaper. It cost 20 cents. Back in my hotel room I rolled a nice fat joint. With the first pull I already knew I was playing