Photo says it all.

I'm heading home in four days and i can't wait to be back on Canadian soil.

After shooting a wedding on the 4th of August, i will be back to begging editors to use me as for freelance unless one of the jobs i'm applying for comes through.

This could very well be my last blog post from this country. After three months, i'm all Rwanda-blogged out.

Now I'm heading back to the newsroom to finish up my last day of work here. Cheers.

The photo Rujugiro didn't want you to see

I'm posting this photo now because the next issue of Newsline will publish it soon anyway. I stole the title of this blog from Gary. Rujugiro is the multi-millionaire who is allegedly wanted in South Africa for charges that are yet unclear to me. We were supposed to get a press release about it. I haven't seen it yet. It takes weeks and weeks to get stuff done that would take just hours in Canada.

Oh yeah, and this is the photo that resulted in my camera being ripped out of my hands a week ago or so. Like i said in a previous post, the guy made us delete the images in the end, as opposed to making us leave the camera and memory card in his possession. A little help from EXIF untrasher freeware and the images magically reappear.

You have to wonder why he didn't want this photo published...eh.

Orphanage

Yesterday Gary and I went with a Newsline reporter to an orphanage in the eastern village of Rwamagana. The bus ride was about an hour. Upon arrival, our reporter friend, George, called a contact of his—a former street kid who now runs a group of childcare centres for kids with nowhere else to go.

The two centres we visited had some great images and sad stories. The kids seem to be happy for the most part; however, some will still say that life on the street is better than life in the shelter. The meals are basic, bland and rationed. The residences are basic as well, to say the least. I couldn't imagine growing up like this. I think there's a lesson (for those of us in Western World) in the fact that we found many smiles in a place like this.

Friends

If it wasn’t for these guys, I’d probably go insane here in Rwanda (either of boredom or homesickness). I think a new country is always best when you have friends you can rely on.

I will also miss this kind of chill-out spot: beside the road, plastic chairs, cold Guinness and Cokes, fresh samosas, great prices and no crowds.

Rwanda = Hollywood Africa

I’m sitting at Bourbon Coffee Shop to use the Internet on a Saturday morning when I turn to my left to see Obe Wan Kenobe himself doing an interview for a documentary. The basic idea of this doc, as far as i can tell, is that Mcgregor and his “best mate” drive across Africa on BMW dirt bikes with a camera crew. The doc is sponsored by the BBC, BMW undoubtedly, UNICEF and a few other orgs. The trip is called Long Way Down. They have a website that is easily googled.

The guy seems friendly. He talks to everyone who approaches him. He sits with them and finds out what they are all about. Actually, I must say that he seemed to enjoy flirting with the ladies more than talking with dudes, but who am I to judge.

I felt I should grab a frame for the newspaper so I approached him to steal a few shots. We walked to an open area in the coffee shop, on the balcony, and spent a minute (probably exactly a minute) shooting. We spoke for a little bit but it was mostly business and boring chitchat—we are far from best friends is what i mean!

In the last week I’ve photographed Natalie Portman and Ewen Mcgregor. I feel like I’m in a Star Wars episode. I guess I should keep my eye out for Samuel L Jackson.

Oh, also...later that night Mcgregor was at Cadillac till about 3 30 a.m. Many Muzungus recognized him and strategically danced near him, basically in line to partner up with him for a song or two. They all seemed to get their turn, as far as i could tell. The guy was a good dancer too.

Incident

I love working with Gary Dimmock. For anyone who doesn’t know who he is, he’s an investigative reporter for the Ottawa Citizen. He’s all about controversy and exposing societal injustices. What better place for him to find this type of work than Rwanda.

Freedom of the press is a huge issue here. For example, even a photo of an important person or politician taken from the wrong angle (yes, I know the word “wrong” is subjective) has resulted in editors being canned. It’s a heck of a challenge to overcome when working in the media, especially coming from Canada.

Last evening, Gary and I needed to go get a shot of a one of the wealthiest (if not the wealthiest) person in Rwanda. He owns over 600 properties apparently, a palace of a house and some money making businesses in town. I’m staying vague to keep the story quiet for now.

We needed a shot of the guy’s house within the context of the poverty that surrounds it. Driving up to the house, we passed some ladies with baskets on their heads walking up the road. We parked up the road, waited for the ladies to walk our way, and then I started shooting with a long lens.

Security guards start sprinting up the road with their nightsticks. They rip my $7,000 camera out of my hands and run back into the compound with it. I tell the driver to watch the stuff in the car while Gary follows the dude with the camera. He gets tough with the guard, asking him to return the gear.

The camera is behind the brick wall of the property by the time I get down to the gate. Gary is trying to work out a deal with the guards but they only speak French. Therefore, Gary asks me to translate for him while I’m trying to have my own say. Meanwhile, the guards are yelling and getting upset about Gary’s seeming attempt to intimidate them, and about 30 Rwandan civilians have gathered at the end of the driveway to watch the whole ordeal.

It’s the good cop bad cop routine…guess who I was playing? The guards start getting really upset about Gary’s aggressiveness. On one hand, I’m on Gary’s side and I know that we have to stand up for our rights here. As Gary reminded me on many occasions, taking the camera was theft. I passed this message onto the guards, who weren’t exactly warming up to us yet.

They proceeded to tell us we needed permission to take photos of the house. We countered by saying we were taking photos of the women with baskets—not a lie by any stretch of the imagination. We also noted the fact that the house was not a government building and was therefore photographable. They responded to us with lies: “this is a government building…(the guards) are police.” This statement changed a few minutes later to, “this is private property…(the guards) are like police.”

Initially, they wanted to keep my camera. Then they wanted just to keep the memory card. Then they wanted to keep the camera and the memory card. Then it was just the memory card again. Also, initially, the patron of the house was said not to be home. But after asking many times and waiting for 45 minutes, the patron came to the door.

Gary managed to speak to him a bit (I love to watch this guy work) and I managed to reassure him that I could simply delete the images to solve both of our current dilemmas. To be continued…

At the end of the day, I got my camera back with memory card and we drove home with yet another ridiculous Rwanda story.

Milk Powder

Instead of wasting time thinking about how ridiculous, limiting and controlled the media are in Rwanda, I’ve decided to simply start shooting everywhere and anywhere all the time.

Now that I’m at Newsline, I have more room to do my own work and pitch my own ideas. We are not a government owned and controlled paper here, as opposed to New Times.

I went downtown yesterday in depressed mood. Instead of heading home after leaving the newsroom, I walked around downtown with camera in hand. It’s been two months now and I feel perfectly comfortable around town, even with gear on me.

I spoke to locals for a couple hours. Got some great ideas for photo features and managed to grab some great frames.

All the signs in town are hand painted—the store signs, moto decals and billboards. I met some of the guys who paint for a living. The work on the tire flap (for the back of the moto) costs 2,000 Francs. For the huge NIDO billboard the artist made 150,000 Francs. On average, they make about 3,000 Francs/6 US dollars a day.

Cyndi's last story

Five hours later I got the shot. I woke up at 7 30 to get a photo with Cynthia for her story on prostitution in Kigali. We took a cab to a basket making shop where former prostitutes work for a decent wage. The baskets are then exported to the US for crazy high prices! Good on them.

Of course we couldn’t get a photo or interview with any of the girls there since the owner of the business had to leave quickly to see the president or something.

We decided to try Plan B: to visit an NGO that finds prostitutes real jobs. Many of them end up working on the farm (where my photos here were taken). Others find jobs as street cleaners…service level jobs, for the most part.

The portraits I took are of such workers, former sex workers who have been given new beginnings, and will tell heart wrenching stories of their past.

The biggest challenge in taking these was the time constraint and language barrier. It wasn’t exactly a rushed photo, but the location wasn’t as intimate as it could have been. In fact, the location was a bit random for the stories they told. Nonetheless, I tried make the photos revealing, but also somewhat abstract or ambiguous. As for the language barrier, the shoot felt like a game of charades (as to many of my shoots actually).

TV Rwanda interview

Television Rwanda did a small news item on the Rwanda Initiative when Allan was visiting. He was interviewed and so were three of us at The New Times. Personally, I hate being on the other side of the lens, but I did my best.

I actually never watched the interview when it went to air. Oh well, I know what I said.

Demobilization Camp

Emilie sniffs out some of the best stories in Rwanda. Lucky for me that she drags me along to shoot for her.

We went to a demobilization camp for Rwandans who fled to the DRC to escape punishment for genocide related crimes. The camp rehabilitates rebels from the DRC (Rwandans who participated in the 1994 Genocide) who wish to turn themselves in peacefully.

Interestingly enough, the program claims to rehabilitate these rebels in just two months. Put in another way, two months is all it takes before the government deems them to be fit to return to society.

Who knows, perhaps two months IS enough time. It’s really hard to think otherwise after seeing the genuine kindness of the people in this country.

Now many of them, most in their 20s, will wait to see if they get called to trial for Genocide crimes (Gacaca). On the day Emilie and I went, they were releasing about 50 former rebels. Some had family in attendance to meet them. Others will go back to their villages.

How will they be received in their villages, you might ask?

You’d think the community would look down on people suspected of killing their own people, but the simple fact is that the majority (84 per cent) of the population in Rwanda is still of the ethnic background that incited Genocide. As it was explained to me, there is much sympathy among and within this ethnic group.

In the end the story and photos were canned. I really don't understand why. Something to do with a previous story in the paper that misquoted someone. Too bad, i guess.

Kampala, Uganda

I’m not in much of a mood to write lately. Rwandan media and politics have got me very down about what I’m actually doing here…I digress. I’m also writing this blog two weeks after I went to Kampala. For these reasons, I’m hoping the photos make up what may end up being uninspired writing.

Kate, Melodie, Christine and I took a weekend trip to Kampala, Uganda. What a great city. Upon arrival, it’s overwhelming. My eyes were glued looking out the bus window. I was intimidated even. If Kigali was Ottawa, Kampala would be Toronto. It’s a big city and you can find anything you need for very cheap. A good car for 3000US, an apple computer, a handmade leather wallet, shoes, fake Rolex watches, awesome Indian food—the list goes on.

Perhaps if I’m lucky I will live there one day.

We stayed at a hostel with a bunch of backpackers, most of whom seemed to stay on the hostel property all day and night, ordering expensive beers and food (compared to stuff you find in the city) on their parents’ bank accounts.

I didn’t keep my camera on me for the entire trip, and I’m glad for it. Sometimes I like to experience a new city without 20 pounds of equipment in my bag totaling over 15 grand.

The streets were packed and very wide compared to Kigali. Rush hour is a horrible jam anywhere you drive near the city. We walked around at night and had no problems. We even had fun bargaining with street vendors downtown. Christine didn’t expect to pick up a handful of items on her first night, but like I said, the deals were THAT good. Kate warned us all about pickpockets and thieves in Kampala (her friend was recently there). They say to keep backpacks in front of you and your hands in your pockets as a precaution. I, however, found it to be quite safe as long as you keep your wits about you. I kept my wallet in my cargo pocket, my backpack on my back and my hands were rarely in my pockets and I was fine. Even the street kids weren’t as bad or persistent as advertised. As far as feeling safe in the city, I find that a smile goes a long way. People will smile back and give you the thumbs up.

We were typical tourists. We consumed, consumed and consumed. We went to two recommended clubs and danced till morning. We took a bus to the Lake Victoria source of the Nile river. Christine and I ate anything and everything we could purchase form street vendors. If you were wondering, no, I didn’t get sick because of it. However, Christine got very sick to the point of needing hospital treatment, but this was a few days later in Rwanda, and it’s unclear whether it was from Kigali or Kampala.

Melodie fell into an open sewer on the way to a club Friday night. Well, to be fair, she only fell halfway into it. I passed it a few metres ahead of her, thinking it was easy enough to see and avoid. All of a sudden, I heard Melodie grunt and Christine yell “MELODIE!” I was in shock and confused about what was happening, as it was quite dark. The dude walking with us, a local guy showing us the way to the club, sprints back to her yelling “SORRY, SORRY, SORRY!!!” and attempts to pull Melodie out. Melodie yells back at him insisting she is ok and doesn’t need help, despite being stuck in the push-up position over a sewer. The guy doesn’t seem to understand and wraps his arms around her and attempts to lift her up. She screams back at him, asking him to stop. They look like two turtles inventing the most awkward dance I’ve ever seen. For me, it’s extremely difficult not to find the entire ordeal hilarious, even as it was happening in front of me.

The following gets a bit graphic and is a depressing change of pace, be warned.

On the way to Jinja, the Lake Victoria source of the Nile, our bus (like the little Toyota van buses in Kigali) drove past a crime scene. We looked out the window where a man lay dead and uncovered on the road, blood pooling out of his head. A few metres up the road from cars were smashed up and blocking traffic. George, a friend from New Times, later informed us of what happened, as he had seen the story on BBC. Basically, he said the man stole a moto, was chased by police, caused an accident and was shot in the head by police when they caught up to him. I’m starting to notice a lack of tolerance for challenges to authority in African cities.

Anyhow, I’ll just let the photos pick up where I left off.