Tourist brochures describe Rwanda as the land of a thousand hills. I wouldn’t know if there are exactly a thousand, but there were enough. Kigali itself is situated on a central highland. Any travelling inevitably entails incessant ups and downs and because there are no railway lines, all transport is by road. On top of that, only 9% of the 13 500 kilometres of road in Rwanda is tarred. Mercifully the road I was on was part of the 9%.
Bicycles and heavily laden trucks, unroadworthy buses and pedestrians all competed for a spot on the narrow road that wound its way through the jungle to Gisenyi. And the jungle was fighting a determined battle to take over the road. Most of the time two vehicles could scarcely pass each other. In a situation like this, most reasonable people would slow down to avoid metal scratching against metal, but Rwandese drivers didn’t get that. They drove as fast as possible, hooting at anything smaller than them, and making it the other driver’s problem to avoid carnage.
The range of interesting scratches along the side of the bus attested to the fact that our driver’s life’s mission was to knock down as many cyclists as he could. As the bus did not have a television set, he took it as his personal responsibility to entertain his passengers. He was supposed to, but never hooted when he was about to pass someone on a bicycle. Each time he scraped someone, a few ringleaders in the bus jeered excitedly. I could understand why life expectancy in Rwanda is only 48.
Would I shut my eyes to this irresponsible game or be the outsider who interferes? It didn’t take me long to take out my safe pass and shove it under the driver’s nose. I told him to stop his games. He was surprised, but decided to listen to me. The rest of the passengers didn’t speak to me again. Were they angry with me or afraid of me?
I knew there was only one real city in Rwanda, so I didn’t expect much from Gisenyi. What I found was a shanty town. Some of the streets were tarred and the few shops were all built in the Belgian colonial style of architecture with lean-tos and columns. Some were painted and it was clear that blue was the overwhelmingly favourite colour. Advertisements for Primus beer brightened the otherwise drab buildings. Hundreds of people braved the roads on Chinese motorcycles that swarmed through the streets like demented killer bees.
It was possible to hire someone with an umbrella who would walk with you, providing shade against the harsh sun. You could also rent bicycles with wooden wheels to carry your shopping home. It might have been illegal to exchange money on the streets in Kigali, but here it was done openly through wooden shutters. Tailors advertised their wares next to the road in true African style and colourful French adverts tried to entice would-be shoppers. Children had their fun by mixing up Muslims’ shoes outside the mosque.
Gisenyi was a thoroughfare into the Congo. My first feeling was one of a frontier town in the Wild West. I waited with bated breath for the sheriff to throw a troublemaker out of the bar. As we drove into the town, I involuntary started whistling the theme song of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. For the first time in hours my fellow passengers took notice of me again.
The Izuba Hotel was a big surprise. The lawn, which always looks greener and lusher in the tropics than anywhere else was neatly cut. The garden consisted of a variety of interesting plants, trees and flowers I had never seen before. The swimming pool was big and perfectly blue. From the swimming pool the lake shimmered in the distance like a gem. A layer of mist over the lake made the mountains, a good 100 kilometres away, look like a water-colour painting from a master’s hand.
The hotel, which was in good order, had to have another use than only housing holidaymakers. I discovered my fellow guests were indeed mercenaries, prostitutes and blood diamond traders. There were anti-aircraft guns on the roof, sandbags at the entrance and armed soldiers in all the public spaces of the hotel. They weren’t there for a rowdy party. The Wild West was closer than I thought.
I soon found out how explosive Gisenyi really was when I started a riot on my first visit to the local market. Before I set out on my journey I decided to take a series of photographs of children. I was spellbound by the eyes of the Rwandan children whose gaze was much older than befitted their young faces and bodies. Many of them had marks on their necks caused by blunt hacking-knives. As medical assistance was out of the question during the genocide, the skin grew over the open wound, taking on the appearance of a gutted prawn.
Everywhere I went in Rwanda I asked children whether I could take photographs of them. Now and then a child said no, but in general they granted my request. In Gisenyi it was another story; no one wanted their photo taken. A possible explanation could have been the fact that thousands of Hutus were housed in refugee camps just across the border.[1] Among the refugees were members of the Interahamwe, the Hutu militia who led the genocide. They weren’t refugees in the true sense of the word and were busy regrouping. People feared what might still happen in the near future – and a photograph could be used to identify you.
The rubbish-littered market reflected the town’s economic status. The products were aimed at the impoverished masses and the stalls specialised in cheap Chinese flip-flops and second-hand clothes from Europe. The market was held on a large open piece of ground without any protection against the sun. Pieces of raw meat were covered by a thick crust of flies. It was only after a day or so that someone took me to a storage place where thousands of local art works, carved bone, fetish dolls, witch-doctor goodies, elephant tusks, hippopotamus teeth, leopard skins and gorilla hands were on sale.
At the market I asked a few children whether I could take their photograph, but without success. Then a bashful teenage boy with a wooden bicycle approached me and asked whether I wanted to take his photograph. He was older than the other children I had photographed so far, but it would have been rude to say no. After I took the photo I gave him the equivalent of R2. Within moments another boy was next to him, trying to grab his R2. I was dumbfounded. All of a sudden I was a spectator at a fist fight that quickly escalated into a full-blown wrestling match. Everyone around me began shouting hysterically.
The market, which had been quiet and fairly empty up until then, suddenly swarmed with people. It was as if some animal instinct took over. Nobody knew what the fighting was about, but everyone wanted to be part of it. And I’m not talking about four or five people – from nowhere a group of about 60 people appeared and gathered around us.
The fighting was relentless and as the accidental instigator I felt I had to do something about it, but there was no way that I could try to break up the fight. Then I saw a knife glistening in the sunlight. The situation had become too hardcore for me. Seconds later I heard automatic gunfire as a lorry with soldiers rounded the corner at breakneck speed.
I noticed a movement to my left. A taxi driver opened his door: “Time for you to go,” he said. I did not argue and never returned to the market. The trip to the hotel, which was shorter than a kilometre, cost me 50 dollars.
The hotel was a nice enough place, but as in Kigali there was not much to do there. After the first day the prostitutes realised that I wasn’t a potential client and left me alone. I relaxed next to the swimming pool and paddled about in the glistening lake, accompanied by an armed guard. I initiated conversations with mercenaries and diamond smugglers in the bar.
One night, after a few stiff drinks, one of the diamond dealers showed me the contents of his reinforced Adidas sports bag. It was half-filled with diamonds. The next day I saw him boarding a smoking aircraft in dire need of a service on an untarred runway just outside town. The same night he returned with more diamonds. Several days later I recognised him when he walked through customs and immigration at OR Tambo with the same bag. No one investigated its contents.
For some reason the security chief who issued me the safe pass took