Fighting

Fighting is a strange thing in Rwanda. Countless times I have seen conflict grow, expand, inflate to the point of explosion, only to suddenly fizzle anti-climatically at the moment that fisticuffs seemed inevitable. One person’s mood might change from anger and frustration to playfulness as an awkward smile breaks across their face and he gives a lighthearted kick to his foe and it looks like noogies are to follow. Or maybe just before one person realizes he is about to get punched, he will back down and walk away. I constantly overhear hear empty threats of “I’m gonna beat you” between all sorts of people. In the other African countries I’ve been to I saw a lot of fighting. Ghanaians seemed to love to fight and a friendly atmosphere could become a brawl at a moment’s notice, only to return to friendliness after a few punches had been thrown. In just a couple weeks in Senegal, a country with a remarkably friendly and peaceful atmosphere, I saw at least a couple serious fights. I even got punched in the face in Mali, a place that has a special place in my heart as one of the most hospitable countries on earth.

I don’t know if I can explain exactly why casual street violence seems suspiciously absent from Rwanda. It may seem strange in a country that has such a violent history, but then again, when living here, the violent history seems almost impossible to comprehend. We can hypothesize, for example, that people are tired of violence and reject it now out of principle. Or maybe it’s something completely different, I don’t know.

***

The bus station in Gisenyi is probably the most aggressive in Rwanda. The station in Kigali is a little bit chaotic, but mostly because it is the central transit point in the country. Nothing about it feels too intimidating. The station in Gisenyi, a town that borders the DRC, is not too busy. There are at least 3 or 4 bus companies, but all busses go to the same place. This creates fierce competition. Tourists and Rwandans alike get eaten alive by the occasionally drunk ticket hawkers if they are not firm about what bus they want to get on. I assume that the ticket sellers are Congolese since they only speak to me in English or French (as opposed to Kinyarwanda). The prices are all the same, so it’s best to get on the bus with the most people waiting, as it means you will leave sooner. The ticket sellers will lie about when the buses are leaving, but it’s best to just get on the fullest bus.

When Harley and I arrived at the station people fought over us a little. Arms were grabbed, little shoves and lies were dispensed freely and we eventually chose our bus. As we were starting to leave a large, middle-aged woman arrived. Our bus stopped to let her on. Then an argument ensued between two ticket sellers over her. Someone tried to grab her arm and lead her away. The dueling touts started to shove each other as the woman scurried onto our bus. As the fight started to get going, a man wearing a donated Foot Locker uniform came in to break it up. Considering his black and white striped shirt, I wondered if he was the designated referee of the bus lot.

***

My bus home had left far later than expected and by the time we arrived at the scene of the accident it was dark. I couldn’t really tell what was going on, but another bus was parked 50 meters in front of us near a taxi and behind us was parked private car. A small crowd of people had gathered in the middle of the road. It seemed that there had been a fender bender involving at least two of the present vehicles. I watched the unruliness in the middle of the road grow until there was shouting, wagging fingers and eventually shoving. Some of the people from my bus had gotten out and joined the fray. I was counting down the seconds until the mob devolved into an all-out brawl. Then, like an impending thunderhead that dissipates before cataclysm, the crowd and conflict just evaporated. People started to walk away and it got quieter. I assumed the cops had just shown up, but this wasn’t the case. I have no idea what happened.

Five minutes later, a smaller scuffle was developing between two men. The shorter, squat man was pushing his opponent and yelling. It was clear that the taller man didn’t want to fight, but he wasn’t going to just back down yet. They were yelling, and the one-sided shoving continued. Finally, the shorter man reached his hand back, swung toward the tall man’s face and struck him with a loud slap across his cheek. The slap shocked him, but did not provoke him to violence. He just turned around and walked away. I couldn’t believe it. Somehow that was the end of it. The police did indeed show up a little later, but order was somehow restored long before they arrived.

***

A lazy morning in Kamembe, I left Lise’s house to scavenge some food for breakfast. Chapatti if I was lucky, bread if not, maybe some avocado or eggs. As I reached the area where the women sell their vegetables on the side of the road, I noticed a small crowd of mostly women standing on a big dirt mound. Hunger and heat curbed my curiosity. I found a shop that had two dry and cracking chapattis from the day before. I bought them, an avocado, onions and garlic. Having finished my work for the day, I snooped around the crowd on the mound. I realized that they were all gathered to watch something else. We were on the edge of the dirt yard in front of a small shack with the door open. Two men in ragged red uniforms were in a standoff with a couple of young me. Things were clearly heated between the two parties. The men in red were part of the most local of police, which are really like local volunteer security with basic training and an even more basic uniform.

I don’t know how it happened but suddenly the two pairs were locked in battle. The taller man in red was waving his nightstick around as the wrestling ensued. The market women were whooping and screaming. He connected on one of the young men’s head a couple times before the man getting beaten managed to grab the club. The security officers were not poor fighters initially and now that they had lost their club they were in worse shape. As the club was waved around on the other end, the officers started to retreat a little. One of the civilians had a bloody wound on his head from the club.

As the two sides separated and the shouting and finger-pointed started again, some of the women grabbed rocks. This already was, by far, the most aggression and violence I’d seen displayed in my year in Rwanda. Now I was about to see the most impressive display of Rwandan women being assertive and forceful I’d ever seen. As the four men went at each other again, the women hurled their rocks at the security officers. These weren’t pebbles either. They ranged in size from baseball to seedless watermelon. A couple of smaller rocks connected, but not hard enough to inflict serious damage.

I asked people what was going on, but people simply told me they were fighting. I was never able to find out what was going on. It was fascinating, though. I’d never seen anyone in this country stand up so forcefully to any sort of authority figure.

The brawl went on and off again for another 15 minutes. I kept waiting for military or police to arrive. Military and police have a huge presence all over Rwanda and their absence here was shocking. In fact, just 50 feet away there was almost always a soldier posted at the intersection.

Eventually the officers managed to subdue one of the young men. He struggled for a few moments, but then submitted. One of the market mamas ran up and started screaming at the officer and grabbing the boys arm, telling him not to go with him. There was a moment of confusion, and the young man broke free, kicked one of the officers and scampered off. Some more rocks were thrown and the officers started to leave.

Then it all started again, and within a few minutes the officers finally had the man with the bloody head under control and they led him down the road. The mob followed them. The women yelled at the officers as they marched away.

 I couldn’t explain what I had seen. Nothing like that had ever happened before. I was happy, though. It was the most passionate and emotional I had seen Rwandans. It was the most confidence I had seen the women show. It was the most rebellious I’d seen in Rwanda. I’m not saying I think people should be violent or unruly, but I was glad to see people stand up to an authority figure that was clearly in the wrong.

***

During the pickup games of basketball I often play in the village, I am always shocked at the lack of emotion when playing. When someone stuffs someone, or scores an acrobatic point, seemingly embarrassing the defender, I never see any taunting or showboating. In fact, I think I was the only one who I know of who has discussed taking someone to school, or kindly informing them that their shot will not be welcome in my house. It’s certainly not like street ball in America. Arguments occasionally break out over disagreements of fouls, but they never get too serious. This is not a fight story. This is a story about how I’ve seen countless fights break out in basketball games, especially at three-on-three tournaments, in America, but have never seen one here. I think I’m the only one who has ever come close to hitting someone out of emotion competitive spirit.

***

I was with my parents on a bus to my village. Twenty minutes outside of the main town a tall man got on. He was being a little loud and friendly with everyone. I thought I caught a whiff of alcohol on him from a few feet away, but thought nothing else of the man until it was time for him to get off.

As he tried to depart the bus, the ticket-taker asked for his fare. He just ignored him and tried to walk past him out the door. The ticket-taker stood his ground and refused to let him out. They began to argue as the man tried to push his way out. The ticket-taker started to reach for something under a seat. It was a long piece of rebar. The man started to relent, then suddenly pushed his way out the door. The ticket-taker grabbed the rebar and rushed out of the bus amidst a few shouts from other passengers. What happened next was unclear to me. I could not really see what happened, but it seemed a minor scuffle ensued as the ticket-taker raised the piece of rebar threateningly. It seemed that nothing really happened in the end. The ticket-taker went into the nearby bar, and I don’t know what happened to the man. When my mom asked what they were doing, I said that the bar was going to pay the fare and the man would have to work there to pay it off. I was joking, because I really had no idea what was going on. Ten minutes later, the ticket-taker returned with a small bandage under his left eye and another small bleeding cut on his cheek. He seemed surprisingly calm. And that’s all that I know about that.

***

I was on a local minibus in Kigali heading into the Nyamirambo neighborhood. As usual I was sitting in the least desirable seat in the far back left corner. This meant that when I got off, about 6 other people would have to get out to let me off. I was getting off at the first stop so I was not looking forward to the minor annoyance I would cause everyone. When we stopped, I saw that something was going on. Kids and a few adults were rushing across the street and there was some yelling. I assumed something interesting and unexpected was going on nearby, and the looky-loo that I am, I wanted to see. I started to climb out the back window, which I thought would be a move appreciated by my fellow passengers. I was stopped, however, by the uptight, rule-following young men next to me. Also, as it turned out, everyone in my way was also getting out at that stop.

I hustled across the street and up the side street next to the mosque to where the crowd was forming. In the center of the crowd, right in the middle of the street was a very distressed-looking naked man. He was completely naked. It quickly became clear that this man, who had started crying, was an “umusazi”, as it’s known in Rwanda, or a “madman” as he would be known as in Anglophone Africa. Basically someone with some sort of unclassified mental condition which leaves him as something of an outcast, left to walk the streets and usually fend for himself. There was another umusazi or two that seemed like they were trying to provoke him and pick a fight with him. That he was naked made me originally think that he was a thief, and had been disrobed to find his loot and to shame him. It was clear that this was not the case as the Muslim men tried desperately to wrap him up with cloth and then a filthy jacket. The umusazi refused them outright. He ripped the jacket from around his waste and tossed it aside. All the spectators were laughing at the man. I was curious, of course, but felt seriously bad for this man who just wanted to be naked.

After shaking himself loose from the other umusazi, and the would-be dressers, he pushed his way through the crowd and walked down the street. I thought this was the end of it, but before I knew, he had gotten himself into a scrap with shoe vendor, (a shoemucuruzi, if you will). I don’t know what provoked it. It could have simply been the shoe vendor not wanting to be around a naked umusazi, but it seems that the umusazi had done something to initiate it, perhaps by messing with the guy’s shoes.  They were shoving and punching for a few moments as the crowd ran toward them to watch. A gasp went up in the crowd as the umusazi picked up a volleyball sized rock. He lifted it over his head as the shoe vendor started to back up. The umusazi jumped and threw the rock in mid-air. It landed about two feet in front of him. So he picked it up again and threw it pitifully again. By this point, some of the young guys who seemed to have social authority in this neighborhood had grabbed him and forced him to the ground. They quickly got some cloth and bungee cords from somewhere and someone and tied his arms and feet. The man started to cry again, while the crowd laughed. I don’t want to judge too hard for the Rwandans’ laughter, but I’m not the only one who has noticed the people here laughing most heartily at other people’s misfortunes, although it is technically illegal (yes.).

The Muslim men returned to drape clothing over the man. It was a kind gesture, but it clearly upset the man even more. Maybe it was not for the sake of the umusazi, anyway, but to protect the gawking crowd from the indecency. As he tried to struggle out of his makeshift shackles, some of the men subdued him, forcing him to sit or lay down, as the shoved their feet into his chest and face. He seemed to understand and accept that he was being detained after a while, but he really wanted to stand up. The others did not want him to and it caused a continuous struggle. The umusazi continued to cry.

After a few minutes I walked across the street to get to my hotel room. I just needed to go there to charge my phone. So a few minutes later I returned to the crowd. All of a sudden the man broke free of his wrist straps. Surprisingly nobody tried to re-tie his hands together. I had been hearing murmurs about whether the police were coming. This was another situation that I was surprised not to see the police. Frequently I would see soldiers marching around the neighborhood, but maybe they are just for show. Nyamirambo is not like any other place in Kigali, and they seem to play by their own rules, and it seems that the police do not matter as much there. I had told Harley to visit the neighborhood because I like it so much. When he returned he said, “I didn’t see what was so special about it. It jut seems like any other African neighborhood.” Exactly. It is the kind of neighborhood where these chaotic events still seem to happen. Plus, it is in a city that has more order and cleanliness than almost any other I’ve seen in the world.

After the umusazi broke his hands free, he tore off the lashing from around his ankle. Again, nobody did anything. He stood up and just confidently walked through the crowd to the middle of the street and started to walk. He continued down the middle of the street, buses and cars calmly going around him. A column of spectators followed him, laughing and wondering what would happen next. He was marching with confidence; leading a parade, really. I followed for a short way, and was happy that people were leaving him alone. I stopped following after a few minutes, but continued to watch him strut down Nyamirambo’s main artery for a few hundred meters. I couldn’t help but wonder where he was going, and what adventures he would get into. Unfortunately I knew that wherever his day ended, it probably wouldn’t be a very good place.

***

So what do all these stories say about Rwanda? I don’t really know. I started by writing about how rarely I see people fight, and then proceeded to right several anecdotes about people fighting here. I hope, though, that it’s clear how rare these instances are and that they are mostly mild incidents for what I know of Africa. To me, it is most interesting to think about what this culture of mild manners says about its violent past. Has everything changed, or was it always like this? I can’t really know, but I hope that by the time I leave I have a better understanding of this and many other things that I find so confusing about Rwanda.

Man, For The Love Of George Washington Carver's War Island

My birthday party, well, that was far more fulfilling than I could have imagined. I invited everyone from my training group to come down to my regional town for a party. I didn’t expect many people to come down, since I live in the farthest, hardest to get to corner of Rwanda. Even though it’s a tiny country, and I don’t’ think I live too far away, everyone always makes it seem like they’ve crossed the Amazon to get to my region.

Somehow, stars aligned for my birthday though. We celebrated it a little late, in a time that made sense. It was during a break, it was just after memorial week, a large group of volunteers had returned from Zanzibar and it was right before our “In Service Training”.

Some 10 or 15 volunteers made it to the party. I probably wouldn’t have bothered mentioning it if it wasn’t for a crazy coincidence. We were all staying at a cheap Catholic guesthouse a few meters from the Congo border. There was a hotel bar nearby where we started the night having a few beers. We were sitting at a big table outside on a balcony overlooking the border and Lake Kivu as it dumped into the Rusizi River. During the day you can see a wide array of white land cruisers from all sorts of NGOs going to and from Congo. At some point I tried to make an NGO bingo game (biNGO) where every space on the board was a different NGO and every time you saw that NGO’s vehicle you could mark that one off. I ran out of NGOs after 18, though, so we never played the game.

As we were making a loud Peace Corps ruckus, one of my friends came and asked me if I knew a girl in Kenya named Christina. I did, and they said that somebody in the bar was chatting with her on his smart phone. I went into the bar to talk to the gentleman. He introduced himself as James. He said he knew my friend and PCV in Kenya, Christina Gusa. He had heard that we were PC Volunteers and told Christina that he was in the midst of a Peace Corps party in Rwanda. Christina, being a good friend, new that it was my birthday and told him the party probably belonged to someone named Joey.

James was an interesting character, as most people of his breed tend to be. He was an Australian-born and South African raised pilot. He had bee working and living in East Africa for a couple decades. His home base is in Mombasa, Kenya and he absolutely loves it. I invited him to join us. As a good Aussie, he quickly became the life of the party. He had plenty of wild stories. In fact, he was currently in the midst of one, and I’m not talking about the coincidence of our mutual friend. He was on a job for a couple mining executives. He had flown them out to Rwanda (his first time in the country) so they could cross the border into Congo. They were going to get some money that was owed to them at the mine they owned. $9 million kind of money. He said he had arrived that day and would be leaving in two days. The trip into the Congo sounded kind of sketchy and he said he wouldn’t be surprised if those guys came tearing across the border with a briefcase in a hail of gunfire.

At one point, he was telling us stories of famous people he had flown. He mentioned that he had been the personal pilot for the campaign of Kenyatta, Kenya’s new president. Then he mentioned that he had also flown Jude Law. A bunch of people jumped at that information. “Jude Law?! What was he like?!” I was shocked that he was of more interest than the president of Kenya. I’m sorry, but when Jude Law is a head of state, OR wanted by the International Criminal Court, I might find him of interest for discussion.

We moved on to the next bar, my favorite one in Kamembe, right on Lake Kivu. During the weekend the bar is full of dancing, however this was a Wednesday. We had to really push the party. I thought my flash drive full of dance music would get our small party started, but James had different ideas. He went to the bartender to ask for a bottle of Johnny Walker. I was watching the difficult communication take place. She told him it was 500, but she meant 50,000 (Rwandan francs). He thought she meant 500 dollars. He only had dollars. 500 dollars was only slightly shocking to him, and I think he would have paid it. Instead, I intervened and told him it was closer to $80 for the bottle. He seemed surprised at what a great deal it was. I couldn’t help being shocked. He got a bunch of tumblers and put me in charge of distributing drinks of a liquor that had been out of our price range for 6 months (longer for me). He seemed fairly uninterested in taking shots with us, he just wanted to see us have a good time. When the bottle was gone, he bought what was left of the bar’s bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label and J and B Whiskey. I estimated that he dropped about $250 on liquor for, basically, strangers. I was shocked and grateful, but he simply said, “Well, when I’m making $14,000 for this trip, it’s not a big deal”. It shouldn’t have been much of a shock, though. I mean, this seemed typical behavior of most Australians I’ve met. They just want to have a good time, and seeing others have a good time is just as good. He was somewhere between Danny Archer, from Blood Diamond, and my Aussie buddy Jordan. He had a bit of the “T.I.A.” ruthless streak, but was still personable, fun and charismatic. When I asked him about Mozambique, where he had been recently, he said, “It’s awesome. There’s a lot of money to be made there!” I had been hoping for a little insight into the culture, but it was an interesting response nonetheless.

The next day we spent the day just lounging by the lake, sipping my jerry can of homemade pineapple passion fruit wine. I brought my inflatable raft and enjoyed the sun. It’s days like this that I regret complaining as much as I do about Rwanda.

The next morning we all got up early and took the boat to Kibuye, where our week long In Service Training would take place. We left at 7 in the morning and arrived at 1. Our fellow PCV, Brian, was already in Kibuye and busy arranging an adventures.

Yes. We had an adventure! A brief, semi-rugged adventure, but an adventurous DIY style travel I love all the same!

Brian had been negotiating with a fisherman to rent his boat for a couple of days so we could go camping on one of Kibuye’s many islands. There is an island that was privately owned and had been developed for tourism. Apparently, however, it was no longer running. The fisherman said that we could camp there, but there was nobody there, so we would need to be self-sufficient. No problem. We had tents, sleeping bags and everything.

We bought jugs of water, loaves of bread some sausages, cheese and a can of hot dogs at a shop in town then headed down to the lake to meet Brian and the fisherman. Just before we left, the fisherman got in the boat with us. We were confused. Apparently Brian had agreed for the fisherman to take us out to the island, then come get us in a couple days. Brian thought he had agreed to pay 8000 francs to use the boat for two days, but apparently there was some miscommunication. After some discussion it was agreed that we would go alone and the fisherman would come out to where we were (somehow) and take our boat for a few hours to go fishing. This was a reasonable compromise, as we figured we could do without the boat for a few hours.

Paddling out to the island. Photo Credit: Brian Lee

We paddled out towards “Amahoro Island” (Peace Island), a place that could only have gotten its name with the intention of attracting tourists. After an hour and a half we arrived at the small island. It was actually two islands, connected by a dilapidated footbridge and a shallow, rocky sandbar. The island had a couple of shacks, a sandy volleyball court. As we prepared to dock, a portly middle-aged man appeared. He didn’t seem to take much interest in us and went about his business until we landed. He told us that we should take our boat around to the other side of the island where there were places to camp.

Arriving at so-called Amahoro Island. Photo Credit: Brian Lee

The places to camp were annoyingly well set up. Clean little grassy patches and a couple even had white pavilions for picnics or to cover tents. When we were nearly finished unloading our stuff, the man arrived and said that we were required to pay 5,000 francs per person per night to camp. We were utterly shocked. We could have paid half the price for a dorm bed in town, and 6,000 francs for a two-person room. Sure, we like camping, and would prefer it to staying in a dormitory, but there is something wrong with paying more for camping than for a hotel. We argued for a while, expecting him to lower the price. He said it wasn’t up to him. He said the Rwandan Development Board set the price and he couldn’t change it. He even told us to look it up on the website. Later I found out that the island had been bought by the Rwandan government with the intention of developing it as a tourist attraction, but I couldn’t find any sort of prices on their website. We told him that we would leave and go camp on one of the other many islands nearby. He said we couldn’t. It was illegal. The soldiers would come for us. Yeah, yeah, whatever. We loaded the boat again and considered our next move. We only had about an hour and a half of daylight left, so we couldn’t take too big of a risk on where we decided to go.

We landed on an island halfway between “Amahoro Island” and the mainland. We struggled to find a good place to access the island, but we eventually moved all our stuff on land, and found a mediocre place to camp. The grass was tall and stiff, and the ground was full of holes and rocks. Still, we managed to find places to set up our tents. There were five of us. It appeared that there were

Arriving on the island, in search of a real camp spot. Photo Credit: Brian Lee

 

We scavenged the island for firewood. Of course there was little to be found. Surely the fishermen had picked it clean long ago. There was a small fire pit that did not look like it had been used much. I assume that the fishermen occasionally use the island to rest on. We managed to find a few branches, lots of twigs and grass. Just before dark we had a our camp set up and a decent fire going. We roasted our hot dogs (which were more like Vienna sausages) and made sandwiches. We were camping at the base of the island and were well-concealed by bushes. We did have a little worry about whether it was legal to camp on this island. After dinner, we hiked to the top of the island, which took all of five minutes. We could see the lights of fishing boats speckling the lake and in the distance we could see the faint red glow of Nyiragongo, the active volcano outside of Goma, DRC. It was one of the rare moments of feeling free. Free from the constraints of being a Peace Corps volunteer, yes, but more importantly free from Rwanda. There isn’t much open space. It is almost impossible to have solitude unless locked in your own house. It can often be a struggle to fit into the culture while also trying to be yourself. This feeling of freedom would not last long, however. We were indeed camping illegally, as we would later find out.

Hanging around the camp fire. Photo Credit: Brian Lee

The next morning Brian and I got in the boat and tried our hand at fishing. The fishermen had left a couple of rods in the boat. They consisted of thin sticks of bamboo with a fishing line attached to the end. We attached little bits of sausage to the hooks, paddled out a ways and sat. We weren’t expecting to catch anything. There is little life in Lake Kivu, due to the methane gas that seeps into it from the land underneath. There are only six species of fish and the large majority of what is caught are tiny little two-inch fish called sambaza. Still, it was enjoyable to relax and “fish”. We saw one of the fishing boats heading back in after a night on the lake. The fishing boats consist of three ten-meter canoes bound together by large, curved, wooden poles. We paddled out to them and started to greet them. They asked if we wanted to buy fish. We said no, so they moved on and resumed their rowing and chanting.

Then we paddled out to another island where we hoped to find some more firewood for that night. We trampled around for a while, finding a couple of decent branches, but mostly came away with long, thin, prickly branches that don’t burn well and give off too much smoke.

When we arrived back at the island, with a boat brimming with sub-par firewood, we found our fisherman friend, Elias, the owner of the boat, waiting for us. He was in some sort of inflatable toy raft. The bottom of his raft was inflated, but the rest was not. I was surprised that he was even able to stay afloat in this vessel. Apparently there was a problem. He was confused because he thought we were going to Amahoro Island. We said he could take his boat to go fishing, but we were staying on the island, as per our agreement of using his boat for two nights. He refused and said we needed to leave the island now. It took a long time to figure it out, since he knew no English or French, but he was worried about the police or the military. He said that we had camped illegally and if we had been caught, the boat would be impounded and it would cost nearly a hundred dollars to get back. I was against packing up so easily, but in the end it seemed like the only option. I was annoyed with the fisherman, since he didn’t want to give us some of our money back, but I was mostly annoyed with the restrictive Rwandan laws.

It took a matter of 24 hours for most of us to devolve into this. My caption: Zach Wiberg, right, the famed 21st century explorer is paddled across Lake Kivu by his primitive, native guides, after discovering the long-mythologized

"Man, for the love of George Washington Carver's War Island".Photo Credit: Brian Lee

 

We paddled back to the mainland, gave Elias his boat back and trudged up the hill to a guesthouse. When we arrived at the guesthouse I found that Elias has hustled to catch up with us and was speaking rapidly in Kinyarwanda with his hand out. He was claiming that we had lost or stolen a life jacket and we needed to pay him for it. The claim seemed absurd. We hadn’t used the life jackets, nor had we counted them before or after. They had just sat in the bottom of the boat the whole time. I felt certain he was trying to con us. I also don’t think the con was his idea. He never seemed money hungry, but we left him among some of the young and savvy guys who sell boat tours to tourists. I felt like it was their idea to claim we had lost a life jacket. The others wanted to pay him, but I was certain we hadn’t lost any life jackets. The price he was asking also seemed outrageous, however, I really don’t know the going price for a life jacket in Rwanda. In the end Luke gave him some cash and he left. He’s a better persons than me.

Since our interaction with Elias the fisherman, I have gone to Kibuye a few times and seen him. Every time he seems less like a fisherman and more like the other guys that sell boat tours. The next time I tried to rent his boat he wanted more than the cost of a motorized boat tour. We bartered him down to something reasonable, but still high. The next time he wouldn’t go even close to a reasonable price. Still, during those visits, I had seen him out fishing, making it his primary profession. The last time I went to Kibuye, however, he wasn’t even fishing. He and another guy were paddling around a bay where most tourists are based and was actively trying to sell boat rides. It feels almost like we corrupted this fisherman. It makes me think of a quote by Jean Mistier, “Le tourisme est l’industrie qui consiste a transporter des gens qui seraient mieux chez eux, dans des endroits qui seraient mieux sans eux” Tourism is the industry that consists of transporting people that would be better at home and puts them among those who would be better without them.