Chinese Hospitality

The first time I went to my village’s big Methodist church, it was long overdue. I had been busy or lazy every Sunday so far. When I arrived I was surprised to find an usher at the door. Without hesitation, he ushed me right to a special seating area to the right side of the altar. I was almost on display for the entire congregation, which was the biggest I had seen so far in Rwanda. Although it did not surprise me in the least, I was completely caught off guard when the pastor asked me to come up to the podium in front of the church and introduce myself. I wished I would have thought about this beforehand so I could have been thinking of what to tell them about myself and make a good impression. Instead, I left it to the bare essentials so as not to make any laughable mistakes in Kinyarwanda.

Somewhere in the middle of the service, between song and sermon, a woman in the congregation, who seemed to have been very touched by the music, erupted in prayer. She was praying loudly. The church was put on pause. After it went on for a few minutes, I listened closer, wondering if she was speaking in tongues or Kinyarwanda. I had heard people speaking in tongues in the Pentecostal churches, but didn’t know if the Methodists would do this too. It sounded barely recognizable as Kinyarwanda, but I still recognized some of it. Although people had remained respectful of the prayerful outburst, after ten minutes of her ever-intensifying prayers and screams and squeals, people started to rubberneck. At one point she seemed to lose steam. There was a pause, and the pastor stepped toward his podium. He was about to speak, and suddenly she let out another wail and went on for another five minutes. Somewhere along the way, she was joined by another old woman. After  a few minutes, the second woman had taken over and was praying and yelling alone. She continued for another ten minutes, and finally the pastor was able to proceed with his sermon. To be honest, the outburst, to me, only seemed to provide a sinister and almost creepy atmosphere to the service. It was interesting though.

When the service reached three hours, I saw all the students from my school (it seems that they are required to come to church) get up and leave. It looked like they had a schedule to keep. I lasted another thirty minutes. I felt bad, knowing that everyone could see me, but I had plans for my day.

Those plans were to go to Bugarama, the nearest small town. I was hoping to watch the first game of the African Cup of Nations. It costs over a dollar to get there, so I was hoping to get a ride. After an hour of walking, I got a ride with a real wild driver. He must have been Congolese or something, because he did not have the slow and cautious driving style of a Rwanda. I guess that’s what it’s like so close to the border. It was a fun ride, but nerve-wracking. We almost slid out of control or hit pedestrians and bikes several times. We careened over bumps and dips. At one point, though, the driver did the most absurd thing. He stopped suddenly, where there were a few big rocks in the middle of the road. They were nothing too serious. He could have rolled over them slowly or even gone around them. Instead, though, he called out to some nearby kids and paid them 100 francs (about 15 cents) to clear the rocks.

It wasn’t until I reached Bugarama that I found that the game didn’t start for two more hours. I spent my time exploring the border town. I walked all the way to the crossing for the Congo border. I met some friendly Congolese on the way and got to flex my weakening French muscles. It was weird to meet people that didn’t speak Kinyarwanda. Maybe it was because I was communicating in a language I am more comfortable in, but I found these few Congolese people to be very sociable and easier to talk with Rwandans. Congo, from what I could see, didn’t look so scary as it is made out to be. The only difference I could tell was that it wasn’t so densely populated and they had some open, un-cultivated land on the hillsides. Also, Bugarama must be one of the least sketchy border towns I have ever been to. It is not a major crossing, but the only thing that would tip you off that it bordered the Congo were the reckless Congolese buses, and the vehicles from the UNHCR and the UN Peace keeping mission that passed through. All these vehicles were going to Congo, from Congo, via a Rwandan road that was in much better condition than anything in Congo. I was surprised to see the peace keepers this far south, and wondered how big their range was. The men in the vehicles looked South Asian, which would have been expected.

When I went to watch the soccer game, which happened to be Congo vs. Ghana, I was disappointed to find them watching the British Premier League. I was actually shocked and angry. I know that the Premier League is the most popular soccer to watch, but really, I could see one of the country’s that was playing. They would occasionally flip to the game I wanted to see, but would always switch back. A few people protested, wanting to watch Ghana and Congo, but were not forceful enough.

I had noticed four of the Chinese workers from my village come into the bar at some point. They weren’t there to watch the game, but about the time it was winding down, they came and offered me a ride back to town. I had met one of them before, and I was glad to have the chance to get to know them better. Their driver was Rwandan, but spoke Chinese because he had studied in China in the 80s. They were as surprised to find that I could speak some Kinyarwanda as I was to find out about their Chinese-speaking driver.

Afterward, the Chinese guys invited me to their room for tea. It was a valuable opportunity to learn more about the greatest force in our town: the cement factory. I had assumed that the factory was Chinese-owned and operated. I learned, however, that it had never been Chinese-owned. A foreign company (European I believe), under a lease from the Rwandan government, had started it. Then the Rwandan government re-claimed ownership of the company. They still own a majority of the company, while, I believe, a South African company owns the other 49%. The Chinese in town are simply hired labor. This surprised me. The biggest surprise, however, was about the number of Chinese people in town. I would have guessed that there were ten or twenty at most. I usually see one every once in a while; a couple times a week, though. At this point, however, there are about 200, and more are coming. Apparently they have a Chinese chef and they all eat Chinese food. A lot of it is produced locally, and they fill in the gaps with imported goods. I was happy to hear that they were producing tofu locally. It made me wonder if Rwandans could possibly be interested in eating tofu. It would be a great source of cheap protein. There have been tofu development projects in West Africa that have met mixed results. It would be interesting to see if it could be possible here. I get the feeling, though, that it would not work well. I talked to the guys about the possibility of Rwandans producing foods that they would buy. The fact that they were getting local tofu was a sign that there was potential for using the Chinese workers as a source of income for low-income people in the area. The example I gave was jam. Lee, the guy who I knew the best, said he would definitely buy jam if people made it, and cost wouldn’t even matter. Something else I can look into.

During our conversation, I couldn’t help but get into the politics of China in Africa. Of course I have mixed feelings about it, and know there is a lot I could learn about it. I used the negative example, though, of Zimbabwe. China works with their unsavory government to extract all sorts of resources and does it benefit the people at all? Well, as luck would have it, Lee had worked in Zimbabwe the year before for a Chinese company. I felt a little awkward when I realized that, but he was open and very candid. Still, I could tell that our vantage points were very different and if we had differing opinions, they would not be easily reconciled. Either way, though, I enjoyed the company of Lee and his friends. They were as hospitable as any of the Rwandans I had met, which I did not expect. Before I left, they gave me some packages of their oolong tea for the road. That’s one of the ways to my heart.