Kigali, 12 Years Later

Greetings from Goma, in the eastern portion of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. This is a bit surreal: I'm sitting on the peaceful shores of Lake Kivu listening to David Gray on my iPod and sending this post while only a few kilometers away the country is locked in a civil war and the complex humanitarian emergency that begot it. We're here to help in whatever small ways we can, so my posts will be a bit irregular because internet access is even more spotty out here than it is in Kinshasa.

As a result of the trip I will take a diversion from my series on the contrasts inherent in life in Kinshasa and describe a trip to Kigali, Rwanda and Goma, in the eastern portion of the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). One of the many compensations of my current lifestyle is the opportunity to travel and meet people from all walks of life in a wide variety of circumstances. In this particular case I was escorting a group of visitors to the region, which adds an interesting, and often frustrating, dimension to travel.

The trip began, as most of them in the DRC do owing to the lack of useable roads or navigable waterways, with a trip to the airport. By now the sights, sounds, and smells of the 20 kilometer journey have become commonplace, but with a dozen boisterous and inquisitive visitors along I have the opportunity to view the city anew and comment on the goings-on in Kinshasa on a Saturday morning. As with every morning, the city is full of people on the move and on the make. Markets are full of gesticulating customers and merchants haggling over their wares, the roads are choked with pedestrians and cars and vans crammed with passengers, and police convoys careen through the crowded streets escorting Big Men. Strangely for a city of 8 million where few can afford a car, there are not many bicycles or mopeds, perhaps due to the pervasive rain and poor drainage on the roads. Some communes (neighborhoods) are cleaning house this day, and women (invariably) are hard at work sweeping the streets with hand brooms made of reeds tied together in a bundle and shoveling the ubiquitous garbage into piles for collection, one hopes, later.

Upon arrival at the airport an embassy employee takes our passports and deals with the customs and immigration formalities while we cool our heels in the VIP lounge. To enter, we must first go through some security theater: our carry-on baggage is x-rayed and we must pass through the metal detector. My fellow passengers fret because they have pocketknives, bottled water, and other contraband on their persons owing to our use of a U.S. Air Force C-130 Hercules rather than commercial air. Not to worry, the guards let it all through without a shrug but must still go through the process. Form trumps substance at airports all over the world, so in this the Congo is not unique.

After the “security” check we move to the tarmac and weave through a jumble of cargo and passenger aircraft parked randomly on the ramp, some of which move without warning or ground guides. After a few minutes’ wait we board the aircraft to head east and sit on nylon benches in the forward portion of the aircraft. After having spent seven years of my Army career as a paratrooper, it is odd to board the aircraft via the front door instead of the ramp, and to do so without a parachute and 100 pounds of gear dangling from the harness. The C130 has a unique smell, and this triggers a host of memories of past experiences that have been softened by the passage of time. The scene is as familiar to me as my kitchen, except for the prevalence of iPod’s (to include mine) among the crew and my fellow travelers. A certain mixture of nonchalance and attention as the engines rev for takeoff, followed by immediate movement to sleeping, reading, and feeding stations in various corners of the aircraft ensues.

The flight is uneventful and the aircraft flies over a sea of trees the size of Western Europe, dotted by the occasional village evident by the red clay and shiny metal roofs of its residents. As one flies east the terrain is increasing hilly until the volcanoes that give the region its unique topography and fertile soil are evident. The sea of trees gives way to a sea of terraced farming plots as we cross over into Rwanda, the most densely populated country in Africa and a microcosm of the continent’s dreams and nightmares.

Arrival at Kigali’s sleepy airport is a stark contrast to our chaotic departure from Kinshasa’s and is only the beginning of a series of stark contrasts with the giant country to the west today, or even Rwanda itself twelve years ago. I was last in Rwanda in 1996, when approximately one million refugees returned to the country from then-Zaire in the space of two weeks. At that time the ramp was chockablock with aircraft supporting UN and nongovernmental organizations that were assisting; now the ramp was empty save for our aircraft and one cargo aircraft discharging its goods. A landlocked country with mountainous terrain and no riverine or rail network, Rwanda must import a large proportion of its goods via air, causing transportation costs to account for approximately 45% of any imported good.

The Kigali Airport’s terminal is the same one through which I processed in 1996, but the differences are striking this time. The customs and immigration authorities now speak English rather than French, and work with a quiet, polite professionalism that was unseen previously, only two years after the Rwandan genocide claimed over 800,000 victims. Gone was the bullet-shattered glass and pock-marked facade of the building; all was now in order, clean, and functioning properly. Shiny taxis with registration numbers awaited arriving passengers rather than the motley collection of vehicles normally found at airports on the continent.

Most striking, perhaps, was the utter lack of garbage evident as we departed the airport and moved to our hotel. Particularly noteworthy was the absence of plastic bags floating in the breeze and getting snagged in trees, which we called the “national bird of Rwanda” in 1996 and are the bane of African cities across the continent. The Government of Rwanda has abolished plastic bags and is persuading its citizens and international visitors to use canvas or traditional tote bags woven from reeds or grass in lieu of the unsightly, expensive, and environmentally damaging plastic ones.

Even in these moments of first (re)impressions I note change and continuity at work. During my last visit I was impressed by the discipline, focus, and hard work exhibited by the Rwandan people of all levels as they were in the process of rebuilding their shattered country. This continuity has brought about a striking change in Kigali’s appearance only fourteen years after genocide and civil war ripped the city apart. What remains unknown, and is perhaps unknowable, is whether or not the fundamental ontological change necessary to remove the root causes of genocide and internecine conflict in the hearts and minds of Rwanda’s citizenry is progressing as rapidly as the physical changes in Kigali. More to follow from Rwanda and Goma.

Pax,
Scott Womack