me. I didn’t even get the sarcastic applause that you’d expect to get in South Africa if you tried the same trick.
After years of managing concerts I knew I was fighting a losing battle. So I discussed our dilemma with the promoter, but in a matter of milliseconds he lost his ability to understand English. I then went to the head of security who merely shrugged in a very French way, rolled his eyes skywards and continued the conversation he was having with someone else. I felt completely helpless. Was there no respect for white people in Africa anymore?
There are two kinds of policemen in Rwanda. One group looked like refugees in their badly fitted green uniforms and no one took them seriously – or at least not until they whacked you over the head for no apparent reason. The other group wore black uniforms, never took off their sunglasses and carried automatic weapons. People avoided them like the plague, nobody even looked at them. They were almost like the Johannesburg Metro Police, only worse. They even smelled like evil.
At first I did not consider approaching them even though they were responsible for security in the back stage area. But finally, at my wits end, I explained the situation to their commander.
He got onto the stage and spoke just two sentences. Within seconds there was a stampede to get out of the stadium. Problem solved. The concert could go ahead.
After less than a week in Rwanda I started to understand how things worked.
In fact, after surviving Rwandese dagga, Brick the Bodyguard and possible death by boredom, I could begin to imagine a future as a modern day Livingstone. I decided that it was not time to go home yet and that I should stay a while longer. I wanted to explore Africa’s most densely populated country. After all my hard work it was time for a holiday.
Upon my arrival in Rwanda I received a letter from the man who was appointed “security chief” for Lucky’s tour. The letter was a safe pass and clearly stated that anyone who even thought of messing with me would be held accountable by the forceful, albeit slightly overworked, Rwandese legal system. I had my own “get out of jail free” card and for once, I felt like a very powerful man.
When the security chief wanted it back a week or two later, I knew it was time to leave. With his dead eyes and face pockmarked by hand granade shrapnel he was no oil painting. He was a secretive ex-secret policeman who didn’t reveal much about his background. A few days later our once jovial relationship took a drastic turn for the worse when in a drunken stupor he almost sent me home in a wooden box …
Back in the good old days Gisenyi’s weather and its lake was a big draw card for rich colonialists and local businessmen who wanted to let off a little steam. Actually, if you were one of the chosen few, things have always been great in Rwanda. This small town in the northwestern part of Rwanda was also the entry point for missionaries, ransackers and other adventurers into the war-torn, anarchistic eastern part of the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). To Livingstone Maas it sounded like the ideal holiday spot.
Tourist brochures describe Rwanda as the land of a thousand hills. I wouldn’t know if there are exactly a thousand, but there were enough. Kigali itself is situated on a central highland. Any travelling inevitably entails incessant ups and downs and because there are no railway lines, all transport is by road. On top of that, only 9% of the 13 500 kilometres of road in Rwanda is tarred. Mercifully the road I was on was part of the 9%.
Bicycles and heavily laden trucks, unroadworthy buses and pedestrians all competed for a spot on the narrow road that wound its way through the jungle to Gisenyi. And the jungle was fighting a determined battle to take over the road. Most of the time two vehicles could scarcely pass each other. In a situation like this, most reasonable people would slow down to avoid metal scratching against metal, but Rwandese drivers didn’t get that. They drove as fast as possible, hooting at anything smaller than them, and making it the other driver’s problem to avoid carnage.
The range of interesting scratches along the side of the bus attested to the fact that our driver’s life’s mission was to knock down as many cyclists as he could. As the bus did not have a television set, he took it as his personal responsibility to entertain his passengers. He was supposed to, but never hooted when he was about to pass someone on a bicycle. Each time he scraped someone, a few ringleaders in the bus jeered excitedly. I could understand why life expectancy in Rwanda is only 48.
Would I shut my eyes to this irresponsible game or be the outsider who interferes? It didn’t take me long to take out my safe pass and shove it under the driver’s nose. I told him to stop his games. He was surprised, but decided to listen to me. The rest of the passengers didn’t speak to me again. Were they angry with me or afraid of me?
I knew there was only one real city in Rwanda, so I didn’t expect much from Gisenyi. What I found was a shanty town. Some of the streets were tarred and the few shops were all built in the Belgian colonial style of architecture with lean-tos and columns. Some were painted and it was clear that blue was the overwhelmingly favourite colour. Advertisements for Primus beer brightened the otherwise drab buildings. Hundreds of people braved the roads on Chinese motorcycles that swarmed through the streets like demented killer bees.
It was possible to hire someone with an umbrella who would walk with you, providing shade against the harsh sun. You could also rent bicycles with wooden wheels to carry your shopping home. It might have been illegal to exchange money on the streets in Kigali, but here it was done openly through wooden shutters. Tailors advertised their wares next to the road in true African style and colourful French adverts tried to entice would-be shoppers. Children had their fun by mixing up Muslims’ shoes outside the mosque.
Gisenyi was a thoroughfare into the Congo. My first feeling was one of a frontier town in the Wild West. I waited with bated breath for the sheriff to throw a troublemaker out of the bar. As we drove into the town, I involuntary started whistling the theme song of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. For the first time in hours my fellow passengers took notice of me again.
The Izuba Hotel was a big surprise. The lawn, which always looks greener and lusher in the tropics than anywhere else was neatly cut. The garden consisted of a variety of interesting plants, trees and flowers I had never seen before. The swimming pool was big and perfectly blue. From the swimming pool the lake shimmered in the distance like a gem. A layer of mist over the lake made the mountains, a good 100 kilometres away, look like a water-colour painting from a master’s hand.
The hotel, which was in good order, had to have another use than only housing holidaymakers. I discovered my fellow guests were indeed mercenaries, prostitutes and blood diamond traders. There were anti-aircraft guns on the roof, sandbags at the entrance and armed soldiers in all the public spaces of the hotel. They weren’t there for a rowdy party. The Wild West was closer than I thought.
I soon found out how explosive Gisenyi really was when I started a riot on my first visit to the local market. Before I set out on my journey I decided to take a series of photographs of children. I was spellbound by the eyes of the Rwandan children whose gaze was much older than befitted their young faces and bodies. Many of them had marks on their necks caused by blunt hacking-knives. As medical assistance was out of the question during the genocide, the skin grew over the open wound, taking on the appearance of a gutted prawn.
Everywhere I went in Rwanda I asked children whether I could take photographs of them. Now and then a child said no, but in general they granted my request. In Gisenyi it was another story; no one wanted their photo taken. A possible explanation could have been the fact that thousands of Hutus were housed in refugee camps just across the border.[1] Among the refugees were members of the Interahamwe, the Hutu militia who led
