Umushyitsi Arandika ku Rwanda

Muraho friends; family; strangers,

I feel compelled to warn you that I, the author of this particular post, am writing only as a guest. Matthew has commissioned me (at the high cost of one banana beer) to reveal my thoughts on my family's recent experience in Rwanda. That said "I" is me, Matthew's brother Derek.

Our time in Rwanda was too short for my taste. I left feeling that I had more to experience, though I think that will always be the case with anywhere I go – when there are no more strange boundaries to explore the world will likely hold little intrigue. Obviously my insights will be limited, though I feel that in the time we were given, we were able to experience the country and its people in a way that many visitors will never have the chance to, thanks to Matthew's hosting.

My first and most obvious reaction was to the landscape itself. The moniker "land of a thousand hills" is apt, but the verdant beauty of the hills was something that I hadn't expected. It is a lush, green landscape that would seem wild and untamed if not for the unceasing evidence of dense population. To drive from one town to another without passing inches from at least twenty people would be a rarity indeed. The hills have eyes in a way; the people and the hills seem constant companions in the palette that paints the countryside – it is impossible to imagine one without the other. The land is covered in crops, even tiered where a limited steepness allows for a pyramid-like structure of further cultivation and it was on our drive out of Kigali that we were able to first glimpse some sense of the agrarian lifestyle that seems to concern a large portion of the population.

Though this trip wasn't my first foray on the dark continent, (having spent a semester in South Africa) I found the general Western notion of a homogenous African culture to be largely unfounded. While I still believe that people living in rural areas will naturally fall into similar social patterns, I never expected to discover such a proudly pervasive sense of national culture. It seemed to me as if Rwandans, whether openly or not, embrace their country as a beloved grandfather, one who sets the standards for social interaction. The strict pattern of interaction between host and guest reminded me of something almost Victorian, with respect between the two parties being leveled in a game of give and take. Here, in the States I would never feel awkward refusing a drink or food from a host and even sometimes feel awkward accepting one (though as the host I will admit to feeling awkward when rejected). In Rwanda, however, I could never bring myself to say no to either food or drink when it was offered, not wishing to offend my hosts. Plus, as we were sometimes reminded (reprimanded in one case, it seemed) by our hosts themselves, it was a cultural nicety to accept some sort of edible gift, one that we "must" obey. This idea stems mainly from our several visits with those who knew Matthew, each of which was familiarly patterned with drinks (always Fanta and Coke, with the occasional beer) and some sort of meal. We eventually ended our one day of many visits with several large bags of peanuts in tow, which we gladly allowed Matthew to take with him, though they were delicious.

Food is something that I always look forward to exploring as part of a new country, but I can't say that I was particularly taken with Rwandan cuisine, and I know I wasn't the only one. After getting quite sick on the second day (something I attribute to the food) I'm not sure that my stomach was quite right for the rest of the time. I felt as if I was consistently full for one thing, which could be explained by the fact that, as guests, we were treated with feasts that are not common meals according to Matthew. There were a lot of starches in the diet, including cassava, which I found I enjoyed most when it was roasted (something we found at a roadside eatery) or in it's doughy form (one that not everyone enjoyed, but I liked the consistency). Most of the meat was quite tasty, but I found the goat meat to be somewhat gritty, and believe it to be the likely culprit of my indigestion along with some red sauce of which I don't know the name. I couldn't see myself subsisting on the starchy, somewhat bland food for a long time without longing for a juicy burger, and the gorgeous Indian restaurant Matthew took us to for our final African dinner was a shining diamond in the rough and the avocado wine he brought along was one of my favorite libations of the trip.

I will take a little time now to describe some of the other odd drinks I just had to try from Rwanda. Sour milk I found to not be as terrible as you might expect it to be, though it tastes like it smells. Sorghum beer I greatly enjoyed visually because of its black graininess and found it pretty enjoyable (slightly sour, but with enough sweetness) though it weighed heavily on my then-tender stomach. Mushroom beer (very low alcohol content) surprisingly tasted like raspberry tea and no, it wasn't hallucinogenic. Banana beer was certainly the strongest of beers (at 14%) and had a fortuitous sweet, nutty taste. It wasn't something I would want to drink quickly (no banana beer pong for this guy), but definitely one of the most interesting drinks I've had both in concept and flavor and I would love to try and make it myself.

Despite the many astonishing reactions I encountered when telling people I would be traveling to Rwanda, there was no time at which I felt unsafe. I admit that before I went, after having read a fictional account of the Rwandan genocide, I too had some hesitations despite knowing that Matthew had been there quite peacefully for well over a year and that, in most cases, the uneducated fear of something is much stronger than the fear of the same thing once known. Still, it was hard for me to shake the thoughts of such a recently violent history. It has been 18 years since the genocide, but evidence of it can still be seen and felt: at the school for the deaf we visited, where many of the students were victims of the genocide or AIDS; in the closing of Kirisimbi, the volcano we had hoped to hike because (we speculated) the new threat of civil war spilling over from the DRC has created refugee camps near the trail; in the people old enough to remember, who don't want to talk about it (or I was too timid to bring it up to). That's without delving into the genocide museum in the capital. It was hard to imagine the friendly people we encountered being part of such a tragedy, but the reality is that we shook hands with, or bought bread from, or at the very least drove past both victims and perpetrators of the genocide living together in the same small country. That violent event is one that I would credit with helping to create the overwhelming communal sense in the country. While there are still many problems, the people in Rwanda all went through an event so dramatic that they can't help but be connected by it.

One of the strangest aspects of our time in the country was the pseudo-celebrity status that we attained by virtue of the oddity of white skin. Scores of children often followed us around and people (young men) were especially eager to talk to Mom and Hana. Hana especially seemed to have a great time saying hi to the kids, who seemed surprised when she would cross the imaginary 20 yard no-man's land they constantly created between us and them. We were always watched, but (I felt) rarely bothered. Our visits were always well-received and, it seemed, often eagerly anticipated. It was hard to comprehend the genuine happiness with which we were greeted by Matthew's host family, his roommates, or by the priest who leads a local congregation. As I mentioned, we were always fed well and drank plenty of Fantas. Though I felt we were afforded special recognition in the streets because of our inherent whiteness (something we obviously did nothing to earn), I felt that the great respect we were shown on these visits can be attributed to the genuine affection felt for Matthew, something I was proud and unsurprised to see that he seemed to have earned enough of for all of us.

Obviously the highlight of the trip for all of us was getting to see and spend time with Matthew, but we were extremely lucky to have him along as a tour guide for our adventure as well. I've already rambled now for a while and feel like I may have robbed those of you patient enough to read all this (or discerning enough to skip to the end) of at least a few moments of breath without the reward of further insight. One thing I've been slowly discovering on my travels that was further solidified on this trip was that traveling is like being a kid inside a cardboard box (I imagine it like an episode of Rugrats for those of you who get the reference) . You understand the things that are in the box with you, but then you get curious and cut a hole. Through that hole you see another world, but the viewpoint is limited; you can only look at it from the box you already know. Sometimes, people on the outside also get to see a little into the box (what they can glimpse past your fat head) and in that way we share worlds for a time. I feel the breeze already flowing through my box and hope one day to have more holes than cardboard. Until then, I've been happy to share with you, Matthew's loyal blog readers, a bit of my streak through the land of a thousand hills. Come back next month to read more from the man himself.

Happy Birthday this month: Matthew

Next month's post: TBD