9 January 2006

Please check out the previous post (7 January 2006, posted on 9 January) before reading this. Otherwise most of what I write here will make no sense.

I learned a fabulous Kinyarwanda word this weekend: bundu.

The bundu is where you go after you’ve driven way past the boondocks. That’s where I was yesterday. Many of you are probably thinking, but Evan, you’re already out in the bundu living in Kigali. Ah, you have not seen the bundu until you go out to formerly-Umatara province, where it borders on the game park.

Shyaka, his uncle, The Guy With the Truck and I went on a search for The Man Who Would Be King yesterday. Who is this man who would run Rwanda? He’s just a pissed-off old guy who’s been forced to move his hut onto the border of the Akagera National Park because of the cattle quarantine in Umatara and other factors I didn’t really understand. This old man – we will call him Miguel Cairo because apparently The Man Who Would Be King’s name sounds much like the Yankee utility infielder’s, according to Red Sox fan Shyaka – has decided that he wants to take over the government.

He’ll have to find his way out of the bundu first.

The Guy With the Truck and Shyaka’s uncle picked us up at 9:30 in the morning, only a half hour late and a big improvement from Saturday. Plus, they didn’t bring the “Who the Hell is this Guy?” Guy – another great leap forward.

We stopped at an empty cattle-trading post so the uncle and the Guy With the Truck (my attempts to get their names were fruitless) could tell us what happened there usually, and how farmers were getting hit during the quarantine. I didn’t understand a word but got a summarized translation from Shyaka. Basically, cows wander down through a metal maze into a central viewing area surrounded by bleachers and are sold. While the explanation went on, I took pictures and maintained my perfect record of avoiding cow pies. Everyone’s got to be good at something.

It was time to head into the bundu.

Miguel Cairo, a friend of uncle and truck guy, had recently moved. So we were running on directions. But Miguel Cairo must have given them the wrong sorghum patch to turn at, or the wrong hut as a marker, because we got horribly lost. We stopped and asked people for directions – “Hey, do you know where we can find a pissed-off old guy who wants to overthrow the government?” – but no one really knew. So we just went off.

The Guy With the Truck was plowing over virgin grasses, up hills that were previously insurmountable and through small holes in the trees we were sure would take off the rear-view mirrors. But we made it. Periodically, the uncle would pop out of the truck and scout. Before he could return, The Guy With the Truck would hustle after him. And then we’d back out and beat a different, previously untouched, path.

The landscape was beautiful, straight out of the old West. “Man, I’ve never been this far out in the bundu,” Shyaka said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw some giraffes or antelope.” (We did see a couple of antelope who had strayed out of the game park, putting themselves in mortal danger.)

Finally, we stumbled upon an excited, dirty child who knew where we needed to go – until he noticed me, which totally confused him. His arms started to flail wildly and he almost spun himself into the ground. We went with his initial instructions, and those of an old guy pushing his bike along the grasses.

And then we got to The Man Who Would Be King’s hut. The uncle walked up and asked why he had moved into the game park. Miguel Cairo responded that he was angry about it, and he was especially angry that they had brought an umuzungu to see it, Shyaka said later.

We walked into the hut (who knew that traditional African huts were partitioned? I thought they were single rooms.) and Shyaka began the interview. I took pictures of Miguel Cairo, his grandchildren, daughter-in-law and the neighbors who wanted to see the umuzungu.

Since it was all in Kinyarwanda, I can only tell you what I saw of the hut. It was round with a thatched roof, although blue tarpaulin was visible among the sticks to keep the rain. The interior mud walls were painted yellow with black stripes and designs along the sides. Cloth doors hung from the ceiling, setting off the rooms. Flies buzzed everywhere. There were so many that people stopped swatting them. The hut was part of a small compound, complete with another small hut, chicken coop and covered cooking fire.

The interview was done in about an hour, and we headed out of the bundu. The Man Who Would Be King followed us to the truck and we were off to visit other members of Shyaka’s family who live nearby before returning to Kigali, which looks like New York compared to way out in the bundu.

By the way, I think the Rwandan government is safe.