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November 9, 2000

Mangos, Cadillac and clanking iron

BHS North graduate finds his way through big-city Kigali, Rwanda

By Steve Feldstein,
Special to The Herald-Times

Steve Feldstein in the Rwandan countryside. Courtesy photo

Steve Feldstein, a Bloomington High School North graduate, is working for the International Rescue Committee, a humanitarian aid organization, in Kigali, Rwanda. He will be contributing articles to The Herald-Times describing his experiences. He can be reached at feldsten@hotmail.com.

KIGALI, RWANDA — "Category please?"

"I'll take The Long and Winding (Dusty) Road for 600, Alex."

"$208 average yearly income, 50 percent illiteracy rate and a government committed to change."

"What is Rwanda?"

"That's correct!"

Another question: You live in the 10th poorest country, deep in the heart of Sub-Saharan Africa:Can you make a life for yourself? Answer: Much easier than you'd expect.

I've now been in Rwanda for three months. It's unbelievable how quickly time passes here — everything takes on a blurry quality. (Of course, this has nothing to do with the weekly dose of anti-malarial drugs I'm required to take.)

Adaptation has been quick and unexpectedly easy. If I were to mix a drink and name it Rwanda Steve, it would contain five parts Work, three parts Sports, three parts Food and two parts Nightlife.

Work

I usually arrive at the International Rescue Committee (a humanitarian aid organization based in Kigali) office/base around 8 in the morning.

I have two options of getting there. Option A: drive — the IRC employs a driver (for safety reasons) who will pick me up at my house and take me to the base. This is the dependable and unexciting choice. Option B: walk the 2 1/2 miles from house; a much more exhilarating alternative.

The first leg is fairly routine — down a hill on a worn dirt road, past gated mansions and makeshift cigarette stands. Halfway there, the road merges with Kigali's main thoroughfare, a sleek paved quasi-freeway. I follow this tarmacked road for a quarter of a mile — over a bridge, up a hill, around a bend and then to a gas station.

Now things get fun. I cut behind the station onto a narrow dirt path, passing through several banana plantations and grazing patches. I make a sharp right turn and follow a drainage ditch up a steep jungle-covered incline. All of a sudden the path levels out, the bushes clear, and I emerge from the wilderness to find myself in front of the office gates.

I divide my time equally between IRC's unaccompanied children's reunification program and youth development project. When I'm lucky, IRC sends me out into the field. In one two-week period I visited five orphanages around the country to assess their record-keeping capabilities. The trip gave me a first-hand glimpse of the centers' living conditions.

The orphanages vary tremendously — some are utterly poor and bereft of material benefits. I helped one center fetch water from a nearby ravine so its children would be able to wash themselves. Others are much better off. One center in the country's northwest just moved into new facilities near the shores of Lake Kivu, one of the region's six "great lakes."

Most recently, though, I've been consigned to the office and relegated to writing donor reports and proposals (somebody's got to do it; that's how IRC programs obtain and continue to receive funding).

Sports

Having grown up in Hoosierland, I take my sports activities very seriously. My second day in the country, I met Kassim who mysteriously muttered something about "Thursday" and "basketball." It sounded encouraging; two days later he picked me up in his off-duty taxi, and we sped into the center of town and parked in front of a non-descript building fronted by an oversized painted blue "L'ecole Belgique" sign.

It was just after 7 p.m.; the sun had set moments before. We walked through the gates bathed in a faded purple twilight. In front of us stood a small fluorescent-lit gymnasium. It had a full-length basketball court with two iron hoops tacked onto Sprite-sponsored backboards, a relatively smooth sandstone floor and bleachers on either side.

A Rwandan orphan, wearing Steve Feldstein's sunglasses, stops with his friends for a quick photo. photo by Steve Feldstein

Approximately 20 people (mostly Rwandans) were shooting jump shots, showcasing fancy dribbling maneuvers or just milling around. With HPER flashbacks coursing through my veins, I lined up at the free throw line to shoot the ball — the first 10 people to sink a free throw play in the initial game. I dribbled a couple times, bent my knees and let it fly. Clank!

Must be the altitude. I eventually ended up on the second team and huffed and puffed my way through 2 1/2 hours of fast breaks, lay-ups and jumpers. I was impressed by the Rwandans' basketball skills. While their games lack the sophistication of American pickup games (there were no cuts or picks and only rudimentary passing) the players more than made up for it with exuberance and enthusiasm.

Exhausted but content, I collapsed into a waiting car and made it home.

Food

Before leaving the United States, I talked to several doctors and read a couple of guidebooks about what and how I should eat in Africa. By the time I was through, I had developed a mild case of paranoia.

The list of "don'ts" was daunting and comprehensive. No raw veggies or fruits that you can't peel, stay away from tap water at all cost, no ice or ice cream unless you can verify the source, avoid public restrooms (they're hepatitis factories), cover all bare skin at night (against mosquitoes) and no swimming (crocs, parasites and raw sewage).

Slowly, I've loosened up. Fruit represented my first victory. I like fruit, and Rwanda has mangos, papayas, passion fruit, and pineapples in tasty abundance.

The first time I was offered a slice of mango, I froze with sudden indecision. What about diarrhea, my mind cautioned? Who knows where this fruit has been or what sort of water it has been washed in?

I pondered this for a moment, but in the end temptation won out. I took a large bite and was not disappointed, the mango was breathtakingly sweet like Bruce Springsteen's tan and wet muse in "The River."

Nightlife

Coming to Rwanda, I was prepared to live a solitary monastic existence. Work, sports and sleep would be my only occupations.

Fortunately, this has not proven to be the case. There is a healthy, albeit sleep-depriving, nightlife that goes on at most hours and days of the week. Generally, my weekend nights rest on three pillars: Mützig, Maximes and Cadillac.

Mützig is the beer of Rwanda. It's like Budweiser, Miller and Coors rolled into one (with a hint of formaldehyde). It comes in two sizes: petit (12 oz. bottle) and grand (24 oz.). Ostensibly it's a Belgian beer brewed under license in Rwanda, but I don't buy that story for a second.

Cadillac, meanwhile, is Kigali's big dance club. Split into two levels, it houses a two pool tables, four televisions (including one big screen), two bars and a deafening sound system that booms the latest Congolese and American R&B hits, five nights a week.

A massive black-light portrait of Che Guevara sits above the front door and peers down at all revelers with a mixture of disdain and revolutionary contempt. A complete cross-section of Rwandan society can be found dancing inside: students and businessmen jostle with expat NGO workers, oil prospectors and the ubiquitous prostitutes (who can be quite aggressive).

Cadillac peaks around 2 a.m. on a Saturday, where it's body-to-body and everyone for him or herself.

Maximes is Kigali's other disco. It draws more of an expat crowd, and its music tends towards the Euro-pop variety. It's small, dark and pretentiously self-aware — a Crazy Horse antidote to Cadillac's populist Kilroy's Sports Bar atmosphere.

In general

Life can be surprisingly normal in Kigali. When the NGO's across town aren't trying to save the country, and when Rwandans are done reconstructing from conflict and war for the day, Kigali lets loose, grabs a few Mützigs and dances the night away.

At any given moment you can spot people jogging, kicking around a soccer ball or even playing the odd game of tennis.

Development is not necessarily synonymous with single-mindedness; people take their play here as seriously as their work.



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