Voices

The path is explained later. The photo of Antoine, Annunciata and their youngest, Gisele, was taken last weekend, with him in the hand-painted t-shirt made by Martin and her off to a conference.

Monday 12 October, 10 am

Outside the window, the excited chatter dies away as three groups of students set off, each with a laminated instruction sheet, to brew organic insecticides to different recipes. In the classroom I am left to my own devices for an hour and a half, till the break for Fanta and a bun at 11.30, when they're due to return.

Inside it's pleasantly ventilated. Along one side of the room are bins containing ingredients for making pottery. The potters have a board out at the roadside though the enterprise is inactive. There are four benches for the 15 students, and two chairs for me and my translator, with whom I communicate in a mixture of French and English, who is also one of the students. My netbook was fully charged this morning, so I can use it despite the absence of electricity supply. (This is the community centre at Shyorongi where I had such problems with a dance CD in February.)

Last time I worked with these students, Musafiri and I went walkabout and visited all the groups. Today he is not here, though he did accompany me on the taxi-buses. (I don't know what he's doing instead, but at the moment neither Jeannette nor he is being paid by the Canadian charity that sponsors their work, and he's job-hunting; J goes at the end of the month to join her husband in Dar es Salaam.) I've decided to stay put for this morning because I had a bout of vomiting last night, ate no breakfast for fear of a recurrence on the bus, and am now quite hungry. (There's no need for anybody to worry about the vomiting. I had two bouts in February, each after eating a local fruit called 'prune de Japon'. When I saw that the fruit salad at breakfast yesterday included some I decided to try again. Now I know to avoid it.)

I wasn't anticipating this exodus. After we'd discussed the pesticide recipes I suggested the students make a plan for systematic experimentation, recording methods and results. I symbolically moved my chair back from the group. I thought I had told them to make arrangements for after this two-day course is finished. 5 minutes later they presented the plan now being implemented. They will note any questions or observations and be back for refreshments.

6pm
In the event they were back before 11, having decided only one of the chosen locations was reasonably close. A far as I know they did OK, using one of the green plants recommended, pili-pili (chili) and onions. I hope they have good results. I have tried some of the recipes with moderate results – a significant diminution of blackfly but not complete extermination. We talked about the commonly obtainable pesticide, which they say causes skin, throat and breathing problems. One new participant – the woman whom I photographed last time 'avec sa vache' - tells of a new product on the market, very expensive but with no side effects. I wonder what that is.

The dance CDs are in my bag but not usable. I suggest a song before refreshments. Please will they sing me one of their songs. They begin with little discussion. Norbert, my translator, tells me it is a song on avoiding HIV/AIDS.

Songs are certainly used for education. On the bus this morning Musafiri met a colleague who works with youth groups on anti-corruption. I asked what such groups can achieve and M said that as well as being supported in denouncing perpetrators they perform anti-corruption songs.

Would I sing one of my songs, Norbert asks. I am taken aback, having forgotten this item of mental preparation. But it's OK – they wanted only a first line from me and are now performing 'Dear friends', a round I taught last time. The sing well in unison, and with a bit of sharing around of the confident voices and encouragement from me they manage a two part round. How have they remembered this song in a strange mode so well? Oh, every time they get together they remember me and sing my song. Wow!


Tuesday 13 October, 6am

Voices outside my window at 5.40 persuaded me of the uselessness of trying to get back to sleep. The alarm on the phone, used with A's computer for dial up connection, had gone off at 5. This has happened before and I feel very stupid in not being able to turn it off reliably. At 5.05 every day the muezzin starts in a nearby mosque but his voice alone doesn't wake me. (I have asked about change in day length at this distance from the equator and was told it's negligible and ignored for practical purposes.) Often between 5 and 6 Antoine goes out in his car, which is parked in the compound; on return he always hoots to have the gates opened; today he left close to 5, presumably to take his wife, Annunciata, to her bus to work in Ruhengeri.

The quiet voices belong to two young men making new steps and a path from the house to my door, in conversation with my immediate neighbour, mother of a child of about one and a former student at CGFK. She and her husband, off working in Djibouti, rent from Antoine, as do several young men who are my neighbours on the other side. Mid conversation one or another sings a line or two along with the radio on the porch of the main house. Gospel, as usual at this time of day - another kind of learning through song, I suppose.



I would like to be giving you more direct accounts of conversations than I do. Indeed, a staff member at The Friend, the UK Quaker weekly magazine, told me such pieces would be the most publishable. But I don't feel right exposing my personal contacts, many of whom speak very freely to me in private, to possible repercussions. I wonder how journalists handle this problem. Pseudonyms alone wouldn't work for me, even if I could bring myself to use them, because my circle is so small. Problems as wide ranging as housing and the French/English question are fascinating and I would love to recount them, but criticising government policy is unwise. For an example of pro-government defensiveness I recommend the leader in last Friday's New Times, the English language Rwandan newspaper that I buy occasionally at bus stations: www.newtimes.co.rw.