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February 17, 2008

Church & a Run

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new Rwanda for Jesus church

This morning we got up early to follow a student working on a story about a new evangelical church outside of Butare.

The service was held in a skeleton of a building with dirt floors and a holy tin roof (pun alert) at the top of a long hill. There were no crosses, no bibles or church programs, but there was a keyboard, amp and an old IBM computer from the mid-90s set up on a table with extension cords running through the banana trees to god knows where. Since the "church" has no doors to lock, the usher's job is to haul the equipment to the building every week.

It was a typical evangelical service -- complete with tongue talkers, praise & worship music, dancing and personal testimonies about being saved. It's a great story to follow since Evangelicalism is such a huge part of the culture here.

This afternoon my cameraman and I did an 1 hour 15 minute run through the countryside just outside of Butare. We ran past marshes where rice grows, through rural villages, up and down hills, racing against the impending darkness. We ran out for 30 minutes, then reached a village, hugged a couple of kids for good luck and then turned back. Children who had seen us run by earlier joined us for a portion of the return trip in what became a brief impromptu running club. At one point we had about 25 kids trailing us, many of them barefoot.

The run home offered a breathtaking view of the distant mountains. And if nothing else we can count the trip as a location scout for beauty shots. We'll definitely return to film the beautiful sunset and distant misty mountains.

February 16, 2008

Butare Rain

I am sitting in my Butare hotel room overlooking the garden courtyard. The rain is pinging loudly against the tin roof above me -- a sound I welcome today as I doze off for a lazy afternoon nap. However, earlier this week I was cursing the ubiquitious tin roofs of Rwanda and the music of the rainy season.

Finding a location to film interviews is a challenge anywhere you go. It requires a large quiet space that can be lit dramatically, has electricity and is more or less accessible to all parties involved.

Last Thursday, we went to a rural village outside of Nyamata to film some interviews. We managed to locate a large room at a conference center that was removed from the noisy road, had a multitude of working electrical outlets (fingers remained crossed that it would stay that way given the frequent power outages) and there was even a cafe nearby and a nice waitress who delivered chilled water on a platter.

When we "took a listen" to the room the sun was shining. But when the interview began, it wasn't long before we became aware of the roof above us. The rain started and was so loud against the corrugated tin that despite the sensitive microphones, we could barely hear the words of the person we were interviewing.

We waited for ten minutes until the rain subsided and had to pause again for the Muslim call to worship broadcast over a loudspeaker down the street. We got a few hours of clear interview sound, but as the sun began to set, the cicadas announced themselves. Any other day I would have welcomed their chirping. I think the location goes on record as being the noisiest I've ever experienced...and I usually shoot interviews in one of the noisiest cities in the world: NYC.

February 12, 2008

A Balancing Act


Throughout Rwanda it's quite common to see people, primarily women, carrying items on their heads. This leaves their hands free for other tasks. Yesterday, on our drive from Kigali to Butare on the Volcano bus there were storm clouds overhead, so it made perfect sense when we drove past a woman carrying her closed umbrella on her head. I've asked around to find out the most unusual or unexpected items that have been spotted on women's heads throughout this country. Here are the results:

Cornucopias of bananas and other fruit are quite common as are bundles of eucalyptus tree branches. Less common, and therefore quite exciting to spot on heads are 20' 2x4s, 20 kilogram jugs of water, a coke salesman carrying a crate of bottles; square of wood with a pile of fish; a pepper grinder; a backpack.

With many bags to carry, I decided that I needed some training so that I could carry extra luggage on my head. I gathered together a team of trained balancing professionals (read mockers) to guide me in my balancing training. They told me as a woman I should be a natural. As you will see in this video, I am not. Unfortunately, I don't think I'm going to be hands or back free for a while. I think I need some more practice before going public.

Butare Birthday Party

We’re back in Butare. Last night we got the rare opportunity to visit the home of one of the students we’ve been spending time with. It was her 20th birthday.

We drove a short distance out of downtown Butare to a suburb called Tumba. The sun had set and except for dimly lit storefronts the space around us was devoid of light. We bumped along an eroded road and pulled up at the birthday party house. We entered at a bamboo gate and walked down a short dirt path to the porch and into a concrete L-shaped room lined with benches and couches where party guests sat as if shy 7th graders at a dance – looking straight ahead and not talking. We were greeted at the door by a beautifully regal woman in a pink and white traditional dress and were ushered to available seats on a couch in a corner.

For a few minutes we sat quietly exchanging a few words in kinyarwanda with the other guests. A little boy came over and showed me that by folding his foldy-cube toy he could display a variety of bible scenes. A young man and woman came around with a wooden crate filled with glass bottles of Fanta and Coke for us.

Apparently, they were waiting for our arrival because shortly after we sat down, the birthday girl's mother stood up and welcomed everyone, taking time to introduce each group and asking them to stand. There were church friends, neighbors, family and members of Rwanda for Jesus. We were introduced as the Americans.

A student translated for me as the introduction led into an expressive recount of the day that her daughter was born 20 years ago. It was really moving and clear what pride and love this mother has for her daughter -- and so wonderful to have the stories told reflect what we were in fact there to celebrate: the story of a person's arrival in the world.

Then big plates heaped with food were brought out -- a real feast of cassava leaves (which tastes a lot like sag paneer), fried irish potatoes, buttery rice and stewy beef. Then cubes of birthday cake were passed around in a basket. It all tasted so good.

Singing, clapping, more stories followed and then guests paraded up to present their gifts. Her brother re-gifted a stuffed animal with a missing eye. A fellow student gave a bag of popcorn and a carton of milk. We gave her a bottle of perfume called Passion -- I think the imitation version of CK's Obsession.

It was a real treat of a night.

February 08, 2008

Poulet Froid

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view from Butare hotel balcony

I’m feeling exhilarated after spending two days with the students at the National University. And the Butare visit was fruitful in more ways than one. A teacher gave me some really beautiful music by a Rwandese musician called: Inyarwanda. It sad and beautiful – reminds me of an acoustic African Low – for those familiar with the band Low.

The day was long, but rewarding. By the time we had a chance to check our email at an internet café where the bandwidth was so small that it took a half an hour to load a three line email in my old yahoo account (my gmail wouldn’t even open) there were limited dining options.

We headed to Hotel Ibis, the only place where two people could get a hot meal at that hour of the night. But even Ibis was preparing to close. The grumbling in our stomachs overpowered politeness and we insisted we would eat anything: eggs for tomorrow’s petit dejeuner, bread, cold frites, anything. Our waiter went into the kitchen to see what could be done. Apparently the spaghetti and meatballs hadn’t been particularly popular with diners that night because he came back and offered us poulet (meatballs). Not spaghetti. Not sauce. Just the balls themselves. We ordered twenty warm meatballs to share.

When they arrived we devoured them. They were made with beef and fresh herbs and garlic and tasted so good. So good, in fact that we ordered another round. Because it was so late the waiter warned they would be brought out froid. And that my friends, was our mistake in judgment. Cold meatballs are a dangerous thing. We continued to be reminded of this mistake for several days.