Rwanda 2010
Tracing
Rwanda; A Series of Joys & Sorrows

" Among Christians and other
students of the New Testament, Cana is best known as the place where, according
to the Fourth Gospel, Jesus performed his first public miracle, the turning of a large quantity of water into wine
at a wedding feast when the wine provided by the bridegroom had run out (John 2:1-11. Although none
of the synoptic gospels records the event, mainstream Christian tradition
holds that this is the first public miracle of Jesus; however in John's gospel
it has considerable symbolic importance: it is the first of the seven
miraculous "signs" by
which Jesus' divine status is attested, and around which the gospel is
structured."
~ Wikipedia [i
know . . wiki! lame, right? but it works!]

Arriving
at the Cana Center in Kibeho, I'm impressed and surprised by the sturdy
workmanship and delicate craftsmanship of the facility. After the dusty, bouncy
trek lined by dwellings built from sticks and corn stalks, mud bricks and
occasionally a regal adobe hut, just the idea of this oasis of Cana welcomed us
to our new home. Our temporary home,
someone is quick to point out with a laugh, as we have quickly learned that
every jest or comment takes on more meaning than we could ever intentionally provide
even at our most spiritual, and that we're traveling with a bunch of
wisecrackers who can't let any opportunity pass to make wise.
Tucked,
not perched at the crest of the hill, we first approach walls feet deep with
stacked mortar and rock smoothly polished; a detail of pride in any Rwandan
dwelling from ceilings to walls to floors. Like the exquisite wood carvings in
the hotel, the chapel, the museum, walls of quality are sanded and smoothed
until they are as soft as a water worn pebble from a Colorado river or
Connemara marble. It's understandable, this desire to smooth away the sharp
edges after only one or two excursions on the dusty trails studded with
spear-head sharp shards camouflaged and lying in wait to impale the
unsuspecting foot. At least an Umuzungu's
foot that hasn't been bare toes in the grass since infancy. The feet of every
person we've met in Kibeho make us realize why the gesture of washing the feet
of a traveler portrayed such great
humility and love. Toe nails like hooves, heels like leather, tanned leather.
My gaze is caught by feet several sizes too big slapping the dirt past the worn
rubber rims of the orange shower sandals and dust-covered feet too tiny for the
prized cast off tennis shoes worn safely around the neck until the owners grows
large enough to fill them. I wonder about these feet that tried to scale these
walls during the genocide and if they were escaping or assaulting.
Wooden
gates swing out to let our tour bus enter. Timbers six inches thick only
missing the requisite iron spikes to complete the medieval fortress facade. Ahead
of us, Father Lesek's Range Rover bounces over the last washed out ruts, and we
wonder aloud how many sets of shocks, axels or transmissions he goes through in
a year. The tourists from Philadelphia and Rhode Island question aloud what we
Nebraskans have for a life back in the states. This is, after all, the end of a
three hour trip around the edges of the mountains of Rwanda where winding roads
and hairpin curves, like the Needles Highway in South Dakota, have turned us
back on ourselves to reach our destination. Where, hanging out of tour bus windows,
and choking on red dust thick as silage, we identified crops and trees and
pointed out flowing wells; our agricultural senses attuned to this new place.
We pilgrims trying to name the unfamiliar. We try to make the new our own. We
want so badly to be participating after months and months of anticipating.
The
impressive walls end at the edges of the center end, and iron fencing takes up where
the stone leaves off. Black wrought iron with spiked pickets encloses the
center, and we watch as a small gaggle of children flock to the fence in the
corner of the compound. They could easily scale this barrier, or slip between
the spikes, but hang back respectfully or fearfully, it's too early to tell.
Faces are as smudged and dusty as our own, but the shorn heads and motley
clothing makes it impossible to distinguish genders, and malnourishment makes
us doubt our ability to assess ages. They are small, medium and large like the blue
and white tie-died t-shirts we have brought from the States that proudly
proclaim "Club World Aide" with Gandhi misspelled on the back. They
do not reach through the fence to beg, they simply stare. A simple, unblinking
gaze that watches us closely for signs of weakness or signs of love; as if one
is separate from the other.
"Go
straight! Go straight!" Father shouts to our driver in heavily accented
Polish, but as we have already learned, Jean Baptiste does not always
accurately translate verbal directions and instead we go around the gates of
Cana and enter in through the back entrance; the service vehicle entrance,
Father explains with a smile and a shake of his head. We have already become
comfortable with this contemplative shrug of Father's when Rwandan time plays
havoc with schedules and plans. His resignation formed in good humor makes us
all more patient and by what better place to enter Cana, we muse, than through
the servants' entrance.


Author's note: Every single portion of
the trip was an experience of great sorrow followed by great joy. At every joke
we'd laugh and then grow silent with guilt or sadness. I couldn't shake off the
genocide specter for more than a few moments. It was an eerie, difficult
journey; I fervently wished that I didn't know as much as I did. I hope to capture that throughout the pieces I
write about Rwanda. That said, I don't want it to get annoying or melodramatic.
It always happened, this melancholy. ~ J