Pomp and Circumstance
7am and Janine’s calling my name from the courtyard. It’s time for our walk to the Karibu Hotel, one of the nicest hotels in the city. We’re a five minute walk from Lake Kivu, which looks like an ocean. Most people are sleeping as we walk to exit the university’s gate, where we greet Rose slipping in. “Where did you sleep last night?” Janine asks. Rose ignores the question and says good morning to me. “They’re young,” Janine says when Rose has gone. The quiet morning is cool and gorgeous, the lake is like a mirror and occasionally a lone man in a boat casts a line. As we walk the hotel complex, UN vehicles adorn each building. Karibu Hotel is one of the most expensive places to stay in Goma.
Today is graduation day, so we all go to the university, where the ceremony will take place in the school’s courtyard. We breakfast. The ceremony starts at 10, but as of 9 the podium floor has not been completed and the sound system gear is lying in a heap on the gravel. The students are taken away with their gowns to a room to wait. I’m guided to the tent where the dignitaries sit and I’m seated next to Vincent, the man who owns the Karibu Hotel. He’s slick and good-looking in a Middle-Eastern kind of way. Then the Rector rushes over and signals me and says in really bad English, “We together must,” so I stand and follow him to where the heads of each college have collected. They ask me to wear a gown, so I get one from the van and return. We go to the Rector’s office and wait to be called out, to enter the procession. The crowd is huge. All chairs are filled. Two white women sit under the dignitary tent.
The older woman, who looks to be 80 or so, is quite dignified with her white hair caught up in a bun atop her head and her 4-strand pearl necklace matching her earrings. She’s the benefactress for the university’s new Science and Technology wing. She looks every bit the part. Next to her is a woman, perhaps her daughter, in her 50s with wavy, free hair. Including me, there are three white people present.
They’ve placed TICH's group on the front row, center. The Minister of Higher Education is on hand to confer degrees and give a speech. The provincial governor is also present. His speech is all about gender equality and he speaks in very plain language (once Bavon has translated it from French, of course) about the dangers of valuing men over women, especially when the country/continent is working to develop. I loved his speech and grew to love the man, who had a powerful build and a thoughtful, but serious, face. So many people gave speeches. Even Lucas gave a speech written by Dan, TICH’s director, which Bavon had to translate into French. Two and a half hours into the ceremony and our butts are dead asleep and they finally start conferring degrees. Janine sits next to me and on her other side is Professor Karafuli, head of the theology college. Both are women. Of the 121 students who started the law program, only four made it through to their degree. All four are women. As they advance to the podium, Janine lets out the African yippee call. It’s hard to describe how women in Africa shout their approval. Something like a high-pitched “Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi” that goes on and on. She does this for every woman. Janine does this throughout the governor’s speech on the value of women. Every time she calls out, videographers spin around and zoom in on her. She is probably the most photographed and filmed woman of the day.
Students go on the stage, receive their diploma, accept the Minister placing their mortarboards on their head, and then they return to the area in front of the prodium. As a group, the Rector confers their degrees. While this is going on, security men stand across the aisles holding hands, keeping relatives from rushing toward the graduates before their degrees are conferred. Mostly women, the relatives push and shout and shov and try to bite the security guards. The women ignore the security guards and enter the center and make fools of themselves, embarrassing the graduates. Photographers also run wild, standing in the center of everything, blocking views, crowding the podium. Though they try, the university can not maintain decorum.
I am irritated with the photographers, who block picture-taking from the front row. The perfect spot from which to photograph and these guys are in the way. So Janine, shoos them with her hands while saying, “Si vu plais, Monsieur.” (or however "if you please" is spelled n French). Finally, the guards move the photographers from in front of us, but then the women rush through the barricades and are shouting and pushing and falling onto to us in the front row. One large woman steps on my toe and I immediately push her big ass off my foot and she doesn’t look around. The crowd is so large and rowdy, I begin to fear for our safety. Some people spray cans of a snow-like material all over the graduates and guards. Trying not to look disapproving, I sit, watch the crowd and very much disapprove of their behavior.
Our students are the next group to graduate. It goes smoothly, I took lots of photos and then Lucas says, once he returns from the podium, “Let’s go.” So before the ceremony is complete, at 3pm, our group walks out. The black robe baked by the sun has made us all very uncomfortable. When we reach our van, we rip off our robes and climb in. Folks in the back of the crowd watch, and they especially watch me since I'm getting into the driver’s seat. The university packed lunches for us, so we grab them and pull out right (but first we stop near the gate to take on 200 kilos of beans in sacks that crowd the van’s floor).
We stop for fuel and to check the water and oil levels. When we pull into the station, I ask which pump is diesel. Bavon is telling me to just pull up this way and then back that way, etc., but I have no idea where he’s sending me. I ask, again, which pump has diesel. Then everyone in the car and two ladies under the shelter all begin to tell me how to turn the wheel this way and back up that way. It’s too much. I’ve reached my limit with them telling me how to get somewhere without telling me my final destination. So in a manner I do not like and am not proud of, a manner taken by many white people who become frustrated due to language barriers and cultural misunderstandings, I throw out my arms and tell everyone to shut. I repeat the command to the two women under the shelter.
I yell to them all, so everyone hears clearly that “I know now to drive! If you just tell me which pump has diesel, I’ll figure out how to get this van next to it!! I cannot drive according to your instructions when I do not understand where my final destination is!!!!” And they all said, “Yes, you can drive.” “Yes, Cindi, you’re a very good driver.” And this type of consoling has a way of making me laugh at my anger and feel ashamed for losing my temper. I never lost my temper in the U.S. (well, only very rarely). Bavon ever-so-gently asks the ladies which pump has diesel and they point without words and I’m able to get the gas tank next to the pump so that everyone is happy.
We munch our packed lunches while the fuel pumps. Chips (French fries), chunks of mystery meat dropped amongst the chips and, in a separate pouch of tinfoil, shredded cabbage (salad), which I eat hungrily with my fingers as men ride and walk past, staring. Some days I think I'm used to constantly being stared at and other days I wish for an invisible cloak.
We want to reach Kigali by night, about a four hour drive away. Skirting the police stops, we hit the border, where we are delayed with a baggage check and a wedding party made up of 30 vehicles honking and shouting across the border. I’m anxious to hit the open road, to be in control again.
We reach Kigali as night calls and when we pull up to the guest house, the brakes smoke so badly Maureen yells out, “Something is wrong with our tires.” I assure them it’s just the brakes overheating, but I worry about the black streaks radiating from the hub. Grease or brake fluid? No matter how much I tried to use low gears coming off the Rwandan mountains, the brakes were still necessary. Toward the end, the brakes felt fluid, which scared me. But the guest house is too expensive for us and Bavon and Lucas want to check out another one. I tell them I do not want to drive the van any more. That I don’t trust the brakes. They call a former TICH student who lives in Kigali, a man of about 55 years, and he leads us to another, more affordable, guest house. He climbs in between me and Bavon and to my chagrin he directs my driving just as Bavon does. Now there are two of them. He asks Bavon in French if I’m a good driver. I know he doubts my ability and know what he is asking because I hear him say “madam” and “chauffeur.” Bavon replies without hesitation, “Oui, Tre bien.” (or however "Yes, very good" is spelled).
They direct my driving so closely that as we’re riding down the road and it curves to the left they tell me to go left. Each of them has their hand up, pointing left and smashing into the windshield as they hit it again and again, making sure I understand we must go left. “Are you sure I can’t go straight?” I say just to be a smartass because clearly there’s no road straight ahead, just grass and rocks. “No, no,” they answer seriously. Sarcasm is not something commonly found or understood in African countries. “Go left, go left.” I take a deep breath and remind myself we’re almost there and soon they’ll both be out of my cockpit.
The guest house sits on a cliff overlooking Kigali. It looks as though all the stars have fallen into the city, into the crevices and round parts of the hills, smashing into millions of pieces and twinkling brilliantly where they lay. The van is parked on a slope with a 20 foot drop-off 20 feet behind. I make sure the emergency brake is set and push aside thoughts of the van rolling back. I’m tired. We’re tired. It’s now after 9 pm and it’s been a long, ceremony-filled day. I just want to crash on a bed. But the guest house doesn’t have food. They want to drive somewhere to get food and in my irritability I tell them I won’t drive, someone else can, because I don’t trust that 20-foot drop at night, don’t trust the brakes and don’t trust my judgment under such fatigue.
Julius is concerned about me and he’s insisting they get me a Coke and they get me a place to sit. “If our driver isn’t rested and cared for, then we simply won’t get home.” Someone steps outside the guest house compound and returns with a loaf of bread and drinks and we all stand under the moonlight and chew and drink as our energy slowly returns. They find us rooms and we drop our luggage. Maureen and I are placed in a room with five bunk beds and cold water. Once revived, I tell Lucas I will drive to get food, but they’ve already called Bavon’s daughter, Lily, who was waiting for us in Kigali. She’s been staying here with her cousin and his wife. These three beautiful souls bring us food. They arrive in an hour’s time with three plates, three pieces of fish (not three fish, three pieces of fish), rice and ugali. There are 11 of us. But we divide the plates and form in groups and pick at the fish and dip ugali chunks in the tomatoe (masala) fish sauce. Kelvin turns a pot lid upside down and fills it with rice and masala sauce. Amazingly, like the bible episode, these few pieces of fish satisfy our appetites.
We all drag to our rooms and wash in cold water by candlelight, for the electricity has gone out. It’s midnight and we’re meeting at 5am.
Today is graduation day, so we all go to the university, where the ceremony will take place in the school’s courtyard. We breakfast. The ceremony starts at 10, but as of 9 the podium floor has not been completed and the sound system gear is lying in a heap on the gravel. The students are taken away with their gowns to a room to wait. I’m guided to the tent where the dignitaries sit and I’m seated next to Vincent, the man who owns the Karibu Hotel. He’s slick and good-looking in a Middle-Eastern kind of way. Then the Rector rushes over and signals me and says in really bad English, “We together must,” so I stand and follow him to where the heads of each college have collected. They ask me to wear a gown, so I get one from the van and return. We go to the Rector’s office and wait to be called out, to enter the procession. The crowd is huge. All chairs are filled. Two white women sit under the dignitary tent.
The older woman, who looks to be 80 or so, is quite dignified with her white hair caught up in a bun atop her head and her 4-strand pearl necklace matching her earrings. She’s the benefactress for the university’s new Science and Technology wing. She looks every bit the part. Next to her is a woman, perhaps her daughter, in her 50s with wavy, free hair. Including me, there are three white people present.
They’ve placed TICH's group on the front row, center. The Minister of Higher Education is on hand to confer degrees and give a speech. The provincial governor is also present. His speech is all about gender equality and he speaks in very plain language (once Bavon has translated it from French, of course) about the dangers of valuing men over women, especially when the country/continent is working to develop. I loved his speech and grew to love the man, who had a powerful build and a thoughtful, but serious, face. So many people gave speeches. Even Lucas gave a speech written by Dan, TICH’s director, which Bavon had to translate into French. Two and a half hours into the ceremony and our butts are dead asleep and they finally start conferring degrees. Janine sits next to me and on her other side is Professor Karafuli, head of the theology college. Both are women. Of the 121 students who started the law program, only four made it through to their degree. All four are women. As they advance to the podium, Janine lets out the African yippee call. It’s hard to describe how women in Africa shout their approval. Something like a high-pitched “Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi” that goes on and on. She does this for every woman. Janine does this throughout the governor’s speech on the value of women. Every time she calls out, videographers spin around and zoom in on her. She is probably the most photographed and filmed woman of the day.
Students go on the stage, receive their diploma, accept the Minister placing their mortarboards on their head, and then they return to the area in front of the prodium. As a group, the Rector confers their degrees. While this is going on, security men stand across the aisles holding hands, keeping relatives from rushing toward the graduates before their degrees are conferred. Mostly women, the relatives push and shout and shov and try to bite the security guards. The women ignore the security guards and enter the center and make fools of themselves, embarrassing the graduates. Photographers also run wild, standing in the center of everything, blocking views, crowding the podium. Though they try, the university can not maintain decorum.
I am irritated with the photographers, who block picture-taking from the front row. The perfect spot from which to photograph and these guys are in the way. So Janine, shoos them with her hands while saying, “Si vu plais, Monsieur.” (or however "if you please" is spelled n French). Finally, the guards move the photographers from in front of us, but then the women rush through the barricades and are shouting and pushing and falling onto to us in the front row. One large woman steps on my toe and I immediately push her big ass off my foot and she doesn’t look around. The crowd is so large and rowdy, I begin to fear for our safety. Some people spray cans of a snow-like material all over the graduates and guards. Trying not to look disapproving, I sit, watch the crowd and very much disapprove of their behavior.
Our students are the next group to graduate. It goes smoothly, I took lots of photos and then Lucas says, once he returns from the podium, “Let’s go.” So before the ceremony is complete, at 3pm, our group walks out. The black robe baked by the sun has made us all very uncomfortable. When we reach our van, we rip off our robes and climb in. Folks in the back of the crowd watch, and they especially watch me since I'm getting into the driver’s seat. The university packed lunches for us, so we grab them and pull out right (but first we stop near the gate to take on 200 kilos of beans in sacks that crowd the van’s floor).
We stop for fuel and to check the water and oil levels. When we pull into the station, I ask which pump is diesel. Bavon is telling me to just pull up this way and then back that way, etc., but I have no idea where he’s sending me. I ask, again, which pump has diesel. Then everyone in the car and two ladies under the shelter all begin to tell me how to turn the wheel this way and back up that way. It’s too much. I’ve reached my limit with them telling me how to get somewhere without telling me my final destination. So in a manner I do not like and am not proud of, a manner taken by many white people who become frustrated due to language barriers and cultural misunderstandings, I throw out my arms and tell everyone to shut. I repeat the command to the two women under the shelter.
I yell to them all, so everyone hears clearly that “I know now to drive! If you just tell me which pump has diesel, I’ll figure out how to get this van next to it!! I cannot drive according to your instructions when I do not understand where my final destination is!!!!” And they all said, “Yes, you can drive.” “Yes, Cindi, you’re a very good driver.” And this type of consoling has a way of making me laugh at my anger and feel ashamed for losing my temper. I never lost my temper in the U.S. (well, only very rarely). Bavon ever-so-gently asks the ladies which pump has diesel and they point without words and I’m able to get the gas tank next to the pump so that everyone is happy.
We munch our packed lunches while the fuel pumps. Chips (French fries), chunks of mystery meat dropped amongst the chips and, in a separate pouch of tinfoil, shredded cabbage (salad), which I eat hungrily with my fingers as men ride and walk past, staring. Some days I think I'm used to constantly being stared at and other days I wish for an invisible cloak.
We want to reach Kigali by night, about a four hour drive away. Skirting the police stops, we hit the border, where we are delayed with a baggage check and a wedding party made up of 30 vehicles honking and shouting across the border. I’m anxious to hit the open road, to be in control again.
We reach Kigali as night calls and when we pull up to the guest house, the brakes smoke so badly Maureen yells out, “Something is wrong with our tires.” I assure them it’s just the brakes overheating, but I worry about the black streaks radiating from the hub. Grease or brake fluid? No matter how much I tried to use low gears coming off the Rwandan mountains, the brakes were still necessary. Toward the end, the brakes felt fluid, which scared me. But the guest house is too expensive for us and Bavon and Lucas want to check out another one. I tell them I do not want to drive the van any more. That I don’t trust the brakes. They call a former TICH student who lives in Kigali, a man of about 55 years, and he leads us to another, more affordable, guest house. He climbs in between me and Bavon and to my chagrin he directs my driving just as Bavon does. Now there are two of them. He asks Bavon in French if I’m a good driver. I know he doubts my ability and know what he is asking because I hear him say “madam” and “chauffeur.” Bavon replies without hesitation, “Oui, Tre bien.” (or however "Yes, very good" is spelled).
They direct my driving so closely that as we’re riding down the road and it curves to the left they tell me to go left. Each of them has their hand up, pointing left and smashing into the windshield as they hit it again and again, making sure I understand we must go left. “Are you sure I can’t go straight?” I say just to be a smartass because clearly there’s no road straight ahead, just grass and rocks. “No, no,” they answer seriously. Sarcasm is not something commonly found or understood in African countries. “Go left, go left.” I take a deep breath and remind myself we’re almost there and soon they’ll both be out of my cockpit.
The guest house sits on a cliff overlooking Kigali. It looks as though all the stars have fallen into the city, into the crevices and round parts of the hills, smashing into millions of pieces and twinkling brilliantly where they lay. The van is parked on a slope with a 20 foot drop-off 20 feet behind. I make sure the emergency brake is set and push aside thoughts of the van rolling back. I’m tired. We’re tired. It’s now after 9 pm and it’s been a long, ceremony-filled day. I just want to crash on a bed. But the guest house doesn’t have food. They want to drive somewhere to get food and in my irritability I tell them I won’t drive, someone else can, because I don’t trust that 20-foot drop at night, don’t trust the brakes and don’t trust my judgment under such fatigue.
Julius is concerned about me and he’s insisting they get me a Coke and they get me a place to sit. “If our driver isn’t rested and cared for, then we simply won’t get home.” Someone steps outside the guest house compound and returns with a loaf of bread and drinks and we all stand under the moonlight and chew and drink as our energy slowly returns. They find us rooms and we drop our luggage. Maureen and I are placed in a room with five bunk beds and cold water. Once revived, I tell Lucas I will drive to get food, but they’ve already called Bavon’s daughter, Lily, who was waiting for us in Kigali. She’s been staying here with her cousin and his wife. These three beautiful souls bring us food. They arrive in an hour’s time with three plates, three pieces of fish (not three fish, three pieces of fish), rice and ugali. There are 11 of us. But we divide the plates and form in groups and pick at the fish and dip ugali chunks in the tomatoe (masala) fish sauce. Kelvin turns a pot lid upside down and fills it with rice and masala sauce. Amazingly, like the bible episode, these few pieces of fish satisfy our appetites.
We all drag to our rooms and wash in cold water by candlelight, for the electricity has gone out. It’s midnight and we’re meeting at 5am.
posted by Cindi at 10:12 AM
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