6 August 2005 - A shorty

The funny thing about being a foreign correspondent is you want to live in a stable country, but you don’t necessarily want to cover it. Stability is bad for business. It puts the journalist in the uncomfortable position of looking for something to happen, and hoping that it’s not something terrible. But it’s easier to write about something terrible.

That was apropos of nothing, but it seemed like a good way to start. Since I haven’t been working on any stories yet, I’ve had a lot of time to think of the nature of what I’m doing here. I’m not calling it a job until I start to produce. I have set the ambitious goal of one story per week starting two weeks from now. That gives me three weeks to get myself set up. I can’t say enough for how patient and gentle Bec’s been as she listens to me alternately whine, moan, bitch and complain. But as things pick up and I get my feet under me, things will get better.

I really thought it would take me less time to get up and running. And I thought it would be much easier. I think I expected to get here, spend a day getting used to the time difference (it’s six hours ahead of New York) and get going. No such luck. It’s been frustrating and boring. There isn’t a whole hell of a lot to do in Kigali, which isn’t surprising considering how poor the country is. It’s not like there’s a great leisure or entertainment industry just bursting with excitement.

And there’s also no set press center like there is in other countries. So Eric, the fixer I wrote about in the last installment, introduced me to his friend Emma (a guy), who is the sports editor at the New Times, Rwanda’s biggest paper. He told me about some of the other ferners working here, and also how to get information from the government. He also gave me phone numbers, which probably more important. Now it’s time to put the contacts to work.

Living in the hotel is hard, too. I’m ready to unpack, and start cooking meals. I’m tired of restaurants. Rebecca and I have narrowed our choices down to a three-bedroom apartment and a three-bedroom townhouse. The apartment has a lot going for it: a generator, furnishings that we’ve seen, a balcony and it’s high enough for us to have beautiful views. It also has potentially noisy neighbors, so that’s a strike against. The townhouse isn’t furnished yet, although CRS will handle those negotiations, and there is no generator, so if the power grid goes out, we lose electricity. That usually happens a few times a day. But, it is our own space. We’ll have neighbors next door on both sides, but it’s our own house. It’s hard to discount how cool that is.

August 9, 2005 - I could use a muffin

I stopped that last entry short, and there’s actually been a fair amount of movement in the intervening days.

On the house front, Rebecca and I have seen several more. They’ve all been very nice, but have each had one or two small details that were a problem. One was very nice, in a new subdivision. It would not have been out of place in the United States, with a modern kitchen, good electrical connections and its own water pump. The furnishings were beautiful as well. Plus it was cheap. But it was way the hell out in the middle of nowhere, past a sprawling lumberyard and along an unbelievably dusty dirt road. The house’s owners said that we couldn’t keep the doors or windows open during the day because of the dust. It’s going to be a great neighborhood in a year or two, but not right for us now.

Another house was in the leafy section of Kigali that was the first Belgian outpost, near the German embassy. It was airy, with sliding doors at the front and back, and was just the right size: two bedrooms, an office space and a sitting room. The neighborhood has constant water and power because we would have lived about around the corner from the president. But it was even more expensive than the chateaux that CRS’s country representative (Bec’s boss) lives in. Ah well, it would have been nice to get to know the new neighbors, although you probably wouldn’t want to play the music too loud too late with the presidential guards around.

A third was beautiful, a bit big but manageable. The price was right, but the landlord lives outside of Rwanda. His brother, who is handling the business negotiations, said his brother was “overseas.” To me, that probably means he’s a war criminal awaiting trial or in hiding. That really doesn’t matter to me. What does matter is that it’s hard to get the leaky faucet fixed if your landlord’s in hiding.

So we’re going to take the townhouse, and CRS may give us a spare generator they have lying around. We are so well taken care of. I think the negotiations began today, and we’ll hopefully be out of Chez Lando within 10 days.

Things on the work front are starting to pick up as well. The New Times sports editor introduced me to one of his friends, a Rwandan guy who is the local correspondent for a Swiss news agency called Hirondell. Gabby showed me some of the tricks that will make my life a little easier. One of them is not telling the government that I’m here. If I do, they’ll try to get about $1,000 from me for the privilege of working here. If I don’t, just about everyone, including the government, will speak to me anyway.

I also learned that unlike every other developing country, introducing local officials to my friends Abraham Lincoln, Andrew Jackson and Benjamin Franklin are more likely to get me in trouble than get me access to the people I need to talk to and sites I need to see. Stupid effective government anti-corruption efforts.

Gabby and I hit it off well. The same goes for my initial meetings with Emma and Eric. The locals mix much more with foreigners here than in Cambodia. I think part of that is there are fewer foreigners here than in Cambodia. Part of it is that there are just very few places for people to go, so everyone, locals and expats, end up in the same restaurants, bars, cafes and shops.

I’ve also finally met the local Catholic clergy. I spent the afternoon yesterday at the College of Catholic Bishops, and met several priests and church officials. I know whom to talk to when I need comment from the church. Abbe Emmanuel, the priest who is the assistant secretary general of the College, was very helpful, even through his broken English. The head of Catholic education spoke to me in French, and I picked up about 75% of what he said. And the office manager for the Episcopal Conference for Peace and Justice, a tall drink of water that the CRS country rep Sean calls Michael Jordan and is actually named Jean Claude, talked to me about going out to see the resettlement process of refugees returning from Congo.

There was one unfortunate incident. Abbe Emmanuel took me to a small chapel as he was showing me around the campus. When we got there, he crossed himself and stood for a few seconds waiting for something. So in the silence, I figured that I would do it myself, even though I am not Catholic and I have no intention of becoming one. What else was I supposed to do?

So I did it wrong. I used the wrong fingers and went the wrong way. Does that mean I pledged allegiance to the anti-Christ? Could I have brought about the end times? My sincere apologies if anyone sees four guys on horses wreaking havoc in the next few weeks.

That unfortunate incident aside, all of my meetings bring me to the biggest development. I’ve now officially got several stories I’m working here in Rwanda and in Arusha, Tanzania, where the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, which prosecutes crimes from the 1994 genocide. I’ll keep them to myself until I’ve got buyers. And then it’s time for the merchandising, where the real money from the movie is made.

So things are moving here. It took me a week to get my feet underneath me. I hope to have my first story out by a week from Friday, but hopefully it’ll come out before then. It’s a start, and I feel much more comfortable. It’s still not easy, and there are times where I find my head swimming from everything going on around me. I’m not feeling quite as anxious as I was when I wrote last week, but occasionally an uneasy feeling comes over me when I’m walking around at night. I think it will take time for it to fully disappear, because it’s a feeling I really don’t like.

The French is coming along, although I am going to take the tutor that Rebecca’s getting through CRS. I’ll also try to learn some Kinya-rwanda, the local language. But I’ve gotten over the first two hurdles. I no longer feel weird with foreign words coming out of my mouth, and I feel less self-conscious when I make a fool out of myself talking.

Anyway, time to go post this. I also need to go pick up some water, which means I need to bring the ragamuffins. There aren’t nearly as many people begging on the street here as there were in Cambodia, but there are a few kids out in front of food stores, restaurants and Internet cafes, wherever people with money assemble. They’re usually little boys, and they’re usually off the streets before the sun goes down. I have no idea where they go (although it could be a story. See how the mind of a hustling reporter works). Anyway, rather than just stare straight ahead or give them money that will be turned into glue – and no, they’re not putting together model airplanes – Sean taught us to try to carry around little rolls or pieces of bread, or to pick some up when shopping. Often times the best thing to give are little muffins that are sold in packs of five – ragamuffins for the ragamuffins.

It’s a small thing, and something that makes me feel better about myself. It puts a little something in their tummies, and allows me to bask in the glow of my own self-satisfaction. Of course, Rebecca points out, it frees up some money for glue. But at least there’s a little something providing sustenance rather than a high.

So, off I go. Speak to everyone soon, and I will provide links to whatever stories end up online. Rebecca passed her driving test. Yay! Fewer taxis. Wish her luck on her first drive home.