The Beauty and The Boys

It’s Sunday morning, the first day I’ve been able to sleep in while here. OK, so I was up at 5am to finish my Dan Brown novel and to listen to the deafening torrents of rain that slammed the house’s tin roof. An hour later I poked my head outside to see the most vibrant rainbow just to the north. And then I went back to sleep.

It had been raining all night in waves ranging from soft patters on the roof to the latest deluge that had awoken me. The odd clap of thunder and accompanying flashes of light had also snapped me awake several times.

Now as I sit out on the front porch drinking my Maraba espresso, listening to the birds and the sounds of singing churchgoers drifting from the Eglise Ste. Therese down the street I’m struck by the peacefulness and the incredible beauty. Thanks to all the rain, the flowers are in bloom in every color from palest of yellow roses to the loudest fuchsia bougainvillea. Yellow, red and blue birds flitter from one bush to the next chittering happily.

Yesterday on my way to Nyanza I was again awestruck by the stunning beauty of this tiny country. The sun was still coming up and the clouds were still down in the valleys, fingers of mist slowly withdrawing from the hills. The hills and vales are a million shades of green velvet and silk with the ever-changing African light doing a masterful job of lighting that I seriously doubt could ever be captured on film. Maybe that’s why I don’t take pictures here.

But perhaps what amazes me most is how much the beauty and serenity of this country belie it’s horrific past. It never ceases to amaze me how Rwanda’s beauty just kind of lures you in -- it’s just so incredibly stunning. But then you see the flash of a machete as it assists in the chopping down of a tree, or watch the film “100 Days” (as I did last night while the rain pounded) or drive by one of the dozens of genocide sites scattered around the country and it all comes back. Sometimes I wonder if I just have an overactive imagination -- like when I’m in this house wondering if it was around in 1994 and if so whether any people were killed here. But no, I don’t think it’s just that. I think this country just gets under your skin (well, at least mine). On one hand it’s got this horrendous history but at the same its beauty makes it seems nearly impossible for the two aspects to be reconciled.

And maybe that’s why this country freaks me out just a bit each time I come. It’s like you just can’t escape this country’s history despite the efforts to beautify and to put the past behind. And then this year I’ve managed to time my visit here (unintentionally) at the precise time the Genocide is being commemorated. And I find myself asking myself if I can’t push the genocide out of my mind, then how can the eight million Rwandans do so on a daily basis? I don’t know.

But then I think maybe it’s just that I spent the past 24 hours with some genocide orphans – Alphonsina’s family. I have “followed” these kids since I was first introduced to them in 2003 by a photojournalist friend when I met Alphonsina and three of her four younger brothers, the youngest was HIV positive. He died last year. He was only 11 or 12.

The last time I saw the boys was last November when I went with my friend Leopold to Gikongoro to track them down. When we found them they told us that Alphonsina had moved to Nyanza, gotten married and had a third child. And that Ariwanda had died.

Coincidentally, a woman in the UK had tracked me down as she wanted to help the boys any way she could. The November trip with Leopold was to visit the boys to see what we could do.

When I saw Leopold last week he told me he had been in touch with the boys and would arrange for the boys to take the bus to Butare from Gikongoro for a visit Friday afternoon. Of course as luck would have it, I got stuck in meeting after meeting each seeming to last forever. I finally got home after 6pm just as dusk began to set in. I had managed to snarf a bite of pizza down my gullet when I heard “Allo?”

I swallowed the first bite of food I’d eaten that day and went to see Leopold. I was sure he had the boys with him and sure enough he told me he’d brought the boys to see me. I went outside. There they were. I hugged them both and had them come inside. I can’t describe the immense joy I feel every time I see these boys.

It only became clear later that they’d probably never been in such luxurious surroundings for later Bariwanda, 14, asked to use the toilet. I showed him where it was. I realized there was a problem when a few minutes later the 21-year-old Alphonse went to assist his younger brother with something. I quickly followed suit. They were both hovering over the toilet and finally with hand motions asked me how to get rid of what they had deposited. I showed them how to flush the toilet. They were amazed!

A little while later I told them they could take showers if they wanted. They were thrilled. They loved the bar of soap I gave them and Bariwanda was still clutching the soap after he had showered and continued to rub it into his skin. Apparently he had only found the cold water as I later heard Alphonse exclaiming after his shower “amazi ashooshi” (warm water). And he had the biggest grin on his face.

These boys never cease to amaze me. They can find happiness in the most simple of things like Bariwanda’s small plastic, mud-covered toy cow that splits in two. They love magazines and newspapers even if they’re in English. Bariwanda impressed me that evening by counting to twenty in English. But he’s also got a bit of an attitude and that concerns me as we move them to Kigali (with the third brother who is living with Alphonsina) and try to get Bariwanda back into primary school and the two older brothers technical training of some sort. I just keep telling myself he’ll be fine.

I’m thrilled that the boys seem to understand the implications of what we’re offering and that they’ll be together again. I’m particularly excited that these boys may finally have some sort of future and I’m especially grateful to my friend Leopold who is taking all of this on even with the demands of his own family and a full-time job here in Butare.

And I just hope that the next time I get to Rwanda the boys will be in school.