Adventure down the Rhugezi Wetland

“Whoa!” escaped from my mouth as my dad barreled our red four wheel drive Land Cruiser down the potholed dirt “road.” Next to my dad sat my mother who was anxious for our arrival. The women on my left initiated our trip; she loved to show people the places she loved. Meg Gilbouw is her name, a women who’s years of experience in Rwanda are forgot by the youthful expression of expedition on her face. “Hold your breath,” she instructed us. 

Our red truck made one last lurch, and we were there, at the Rhugezi Wetland.  This marshland appeared suddenly as if it rose out of the ground and decided to nestle itself between the hills. The glistening lake lay before us and behind her sat miles of reeds and streams, and above her stood mountains. 

“Wow, how can someone see this and not believe in a higher power?” said Doreen who sat on my right. She had come a long way from the atheist I had known two years before. Doreen and I share many commonalities: we are both seniors, interested in East African politics, we both love to sing along with Glee show tunes and we are both pursuing our relationships with Jesus Christ. We share many similarities that I sometimes forget the differences: that Doreen is rwandan; tall, her dark, strong features contrast with my freckled complexion and small frame. Her father fought in the RPF, while my dad is a pastor. Her family has known the brutality of war and experienced the painful aftermath of the 1994 genocide that I cannot even began to comprehend.

 “I now understand the Rwanda that my dad was fighting for... this makes you appreciate being able to come home and how the RPF felt coming home.” Doreen’s family had lived for several years as refugees in neighboring Uganda. Her words stunned me and left me with a deep impression of hope for the future of Rwanda. 

Meg had arranged for us to take a wooden canoe out on to the lake. We decided to take the boat further into the marshland. I felt a little sorry for the one man padleing us through the reeds. “I never saw so many water fowl,” my father continued to repeat as he went into this youthful trance duck hunting in the Minnesota swamps as a boy. And he was right, never had I seen such a variety of birds; pelicans, ducks, storks, and cranes.  

Several hours later, we climbed out of the canoe and went to have lunch that had been prepared by the local church leaders. We climbed the hill and entered the mud brick, tin roofed, humble church building. As the door closed behind us, I needed a few moments to adjust my eyes. 

The room was very dark. A couple bricks had been left out for windows; however, the majority of the light came from the holes in the tin roof, leaving spots and dots of light all along the dirt floor. When I looked up it was almost magical, each hole like a star  mapping constellations across the ceiling. At the end of the room was a table with four chairs. Along the left side of the hall were about seven or so rickety benches. On the other side, benches were made by setting a plank of wood on a large rocks. The simplicity stunned me.

We took our seats, and my dad began an insightful conversation with the pastors, while Meg translated. The pastor answered my dad’s questions of how many kids in the sub-parish attended primary school, secondary shool, and university. The numbers shocked me: 500 kids were in primary (elementary), 34 were in secondary (middle and high school), and only 3 were at university or trade schools. During this discourse, the wife of the pastor washed our hands, with a pitcher of water and a basin.  Then she left and returned with pots of food. She gave me a fork and a plate, while most of the pastors ate with their hands. The lunch was simple but good. Consisting of greens and beans, rice, potatoes, a more-water-than-flavor sauce, and a unique catfish/eel that they catch out of the swamp. To be polite I took everything, while choosing the smallest fish. When I had emptied my plate, one of the pastors picked up our dishes but gave my fork to one of the pastors who had been eating with his hands. He stuck it in his rice and took a big bite. I let out a hushed giggle. 

After dinner, the wife came back out with two big thermoses of hot milk and tea. It was the best cup of chai I had had in a long time. As we sipped our tea, my father asked the lead pastor if there were three requests he could pray for them about. The pastor took a few minutes to ponder, then related through Meg the three requests:

That the leaders of his sub parish may have unity to lead and work hard to teach the gospel

That the people in his sub-parish would understand what it means to be a Christian, that as a result they will turn away from witchcraft, ancestral worship, and sacrifices. 

That the church would be able to care for the most vulnerable in their community: the orphans, widows, and the most destitute in poverty.

His request stunned and humbled me. I felt amazed at his concern and compassion for his people. I left with a variety of emotions pulsing through me: wonder for the beauty I had seen, sorrow for the desperate poverty these people faced, and excitement for what God was doing and will continue to do through the leaders of the community. I held Doreen’s hand as we walked back down the hill into our car. She had been silent for a long time. I knew this experience had deeply impacted her as it did me. I am grateful that I was able to share the experience with her; that I am able to share Rwanda with her.