16 November 2005

So my meal ticket is still here. The Rwandan government, despite signing the agreement to extradite the priest, a court ordering them to do it expeditiously and the only outstanding matter being the signature of the justice minister, has decided to make Father Theunis sweat. The latest delay is that the entire Cabinet needs to discuss it, and that won’t happen until at least Friday. The next flight out to Brussels isn’t until Saturday. My secret hope is that they hold him until he’s on my flight to Brussels on Nov. 29. Then I just sidle up next to him and interview him over the course of the night.

It’s understandable why the Rwandans are doing this. They don’t want to look like they’re bowing down to a Western country, especially a really minor and pointless one like Belgium. It’s a power question. Also, there’s huge baggage since the Belgians colonized Rwanda, and institutionalized the Hutu-Tutsi divide in a way it hadn’t existed before.

And then there’s the matter of the thrill they’re probably getting out of holding this guy in prison. A white guy, a priest and someone they think helped arrange the genocide: what could be better than showing him that they can keep him locked up as long as they want?

Ah, pettiness. Where would journalism be without pettiness?

This seems as good a time as any to describe some of our recent adventures with Rwandan law enforcement.

The Rwandan traffic police are stationed around the city, usually unarmed except at night. They wear blue uniforms topped with a jaunty beret and usually have a neon yellow reflective jacket that says “TRAFFIC POLICE” in English on the back. You can’t miss them.

And apparently they can’t miss us.

Rebecca was wrongly pulled over because another driver performed a staggering maneuver around the traffic circle she takes to get to the office. She wasn’t assessed a fine or anything like that, not even a terribly stern talking to. It was just a little annoying.

Anyway, days later, she got pulled over again. As she fumbled around for her drivers’ license and registration (the insurance information is on a sticker on one of the car’s windows), the traffic cop walked to the window. “Bonjour, Rebecca. Ca va?”

Bec says she continued to look for the license and tentatively said, “Bonjour. Ca va.”

The cop continued, “Are you going to the office?” (This all happened in French. Bec’s getting quite good. I’m translating for your benefit and to prevent a revolt by my spell checker.)

“Yes.”

“Okay, have a nice day,” the officer replied and let Rebecca drive off.

A few days after that, we were driving home one of Bec’s co-workers who recently arrived in Kigali. She is still living at Chez Lando. The traffic police have set up checkpoints near Chez Lando because people are often drunk when they come out of there and it’s a fairly high traffic area.

The roadblock is a small, ground level, triangular stop sign that is almost impossible to see if not placed directly under the streetlights, when they are working. Rebecca almost blew right past it.

So we got pulled over. Again. After a few rounds of apologies and questions of what happened, the somewhat exasperated policeman said, “Vous avez violee le panneau!” Literally translated, that means, “You have violated the sign!”

We have no idea why the idea of violating the sign is so funny, but it is.

Anyway, that’s about all from here for now. So far only Mark, Mo and Rebecca (who took the chance to make fun of my intestinal tract’s sensitivity) have replied to my questions about biogas. Here they are again:

1) What is your first reaction to powering your home using biogas, or, in other words, to powering your home using the methane from your own poop?
2) Would you do it if you had the chance?

This is a serious scientific inquiry here people. So let’s get some responses.

Happy birthday Pookie and Ali.