Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
stared into the falls, I was reminded suddenly that this was one of the Rwandan genocide's
most memorable images. It had been at Rusumo Falls that the genocide had come to the
attention of the world, when thousands of dead bodies that had been cast into the river fur-
ther upstream floated under the bridge into Tanzania while, on the bridge above, thousands
of people tried to flee the slaughter for sanctuary across the border. Many of those who fled
were Hutu, fearing revenge killings as the RPF swept south in response to the genocide.
I looked at Boston, and Boston was looking at Vianey, and I knew we were both thinking
the same thing: had Vianey been responsible for any of that? The idea of living among
people who had systematically turned on their neighbours and friends was still difficult to
comprehend, and I was finding that the longer we remained in Rwanda the more admira-
tion I had for Amani.
The Rusumo border heralded an entry into an Africa more familiar than the Rwanda I had
passed through. Between Rwanda and Tanzania there is a kilometre-long no-man's-land;
Boston and I walked it together, and crossed the bridge that would forever be associated
with the genocide. As we ate fried grasshoppers and
ugali
- a staple dish of the African
Great Lakes, maize flour cooked with water to form a kind of thick porridge - on the oth-
er side, I had to admit I was not unhappy to leave the country behind. I had come into
Rwanda with a preconception of the people built on stories of the genocide. Those precon-
ceptions had not been shattered. Rwanda was a haunted place and I was eager to leave it
for a country less consumed with guilt and barely concealed scars.
'You hear that, Lev?' Boston began as we returned to the river. At Rusumo the river
banked north-east. It would lead us across the border into Uganda before it finally joined
Lake Victoria, but that was still three or four days' walk away.
'What?' I replied.
'It is Swahili,' he said, and nodded sharply as if I would instinctively understand.
'So?'
'You know what kills Africa?' Boston began. I could sense another tirade coming and,
without Amani here to bear the brunt of it, knew I would have to listen. 'It is all these dirty,
dirty languages Africans speak. If there's one thing good about Tanzania, it's Swahili.
They should impose it on everybody, like they do here and in the Congo - but your liberals
would say it was destroying indigenous cultures. Well, I'll tell you what destroys indigen-
ous cultures - war and division and starvation. On my life, it's these ridiculous languages,
ones only a few hundred or thousand people even understand, that cause all of this. How
can a country work when people can't even talk to each other?'
Three strides ahead of him, I stopped. 'You have a point, Boston.'
Boston beamed. 'I know it.'
