The Blue Sweater: Bridging the Gap Between Rich and Poor in an Interconnected World (18 page)

CHAPTER 7

TRAVELING WITHOUT A
ROAD MAP

You see, I want a lot / Perhaps I want everything: / the darkness that comes with every infinite fall and the shivering blaze of every step up.

-RAINER MARIA RILKE

ack in Kigali, I rented a two-bedroom house in Kiyovu, the city's most fashionable neighborhood, right behind one of its few skyscrapers, the National Bank of Rwanda, a tall, cream-colored edifice at the edge of a leafy residential block. Simply and starkly furnished, the house had concrete floors, a basic kitchen, a small living room, and two bathrooms. A pretty backyard garden filled with orange lilies, pink and purple cosmos, and yellow angels' trumpets made it feel like a castle to me.

After nearly 2 years of working in Rwanda, I'd finally found a rhythm, valuable friendships, and a sense of belonging. After a morning run, I would eat a quick breakfast of sliced mango and sweet little bananas, then either walk down the dirt road to UNICEF for meetings or wait for Boniface to pick me up and take me to Duterimbere or the bakery. I almost always worked late and would often have dinner with friends, usually at someone's home, or spend the night reading or writing letters.

Sometimes I'd go to a local restaurant, where you had to be prepared for a meal of tilapia, a white fish from Lake Kivu, regardless of what was on the menu. It always played out the same way: When we'd ask a waiter what was available, inevitably he'd say, "So many things. Tell me what you want."

And we would say, "Are you sure?"

And the waiter would nod.

Against all rationality, we'd ask for something like roast chicken or a club sandwich, and the waiter would tell us he was sorry, they were all out. Finally we'd give up and order grilled tilapia with rice. And the waiter would break into a wide grin for making us so happy.

In truth, tilapia is delicious, but too much of anything can be, well, too much.

After a while, other things in Rwanda also began to feel like too much. One day in the market, Boniface pointed to a middle-aged woman wearing a yellow dress and told me she was a spy. I nearly burst out laughing, but acknowledged to myself that we all talked in hushed voices about politics, even in our own homes. I just hadn't connected that habit to the fact that Rwanda had a sophisticated network of spies keeping tabs on people. Order and control trumped freedom every time.

"So, is she really a spy? You can swear by it?" I asked.

"I swear by it," Boniface answered. "I'm sorry it makes you sad, but it is just how life is here."

I looked at Boniface and thought about trust. Trust-it is such a simple word and so critical to the functioning of any good society. Where was trust in Rwanda? This was a country where there was almost no corruption, and I'd never once been asked for a bribe, but did they really trust one another? I knew the women in the market sold nearly everything on credit, so there was obviously trust within neighborhood circles; but it could easily have been shame or fear that led people to feel secure that eventually they'd be repaid. The lack of trust-and of personal freedomwas beginning to wear on me.

I didn't expect it to hit me at home, though. The house I'd rented came with a guard whose name was Innocent. A slight man, maybe 5 foot 8, he had a very boyish look-hair trimmed almost to his scalp, buttondown shirts usually hanging over a pair of cotton pants and sandals. He must have been in his late twenties or early thirties, for he already had two school-age children. He was a likable enough person and told me he would also do gardening on weekends. The setup seemed ideal.

His job was simple: Each night, Innocent would sit by the locked gate in front of the house and ensure that no one but friends entered. Sometimes, coming home late, I would find him fast asleep, sitting on a wooden stool, his head resting against the gate itself, but for the most part, he took his job seriously and showed up on time, giving me a feeling of security.

Though he'd only worked for me for several months, I gave him a bit of extra money-about $100-to help cover school fees for his children. His monthly wage was only about $60, and I knew how long it would take to save $100. Sometimes I'd invite him to share lunch or dinner with me if I was home.

One Saturday afternoon, I left innocent working in the garden while I went to play tennis with my friend Charles, who had helped paint the blue bakery. A graduate of Oxford and a diplomat's son, Charles wore tortoiseshell glasses, moved easily between French and English, and had the air of an intellectual. He also played mean games of tennis and squash and was constantly trying to convince me to join him, as there were few willing participants his age. I, on the other hand, was an atrocious player and had no interest in participating, especially not at the local country club.

The Cercle Sportif boasted not only well-kept tennis courts, but also a beautiful swimming pool and the country's only 17 horses. "I'll teach you," Charles insisted, "and the trainers at the club are fantastic."

"You know this will be a disaster," I laughed, but I finally agreed to join him for a lesson at least.

The day was perfect-a bright blue sky with white puffy clouds and neither the bite of heat nor the press of humidity in the air. We jumped into Charles's tan Renault and drove down the hill to the club.

The trainer was a handsome young Rwandan man who had learned to play tennis by working as a ball boy and then befriending one of the frequent players, who coached him to the point where few could beat him. As Charles ridiculed my feeble attempts at serving, I watched the trainer, impressed by the way he carried himself, his obvious discipline in learning the sport, his talk of starting his own business one day, his overall drive and ambition. I wondered what he would ultimately do with his life. Meanwhile, Charles watched, teasing me for being distracted.

"Okay, c'mon, one game together, then we'll go," Charles begged. After a so-called game, we decided to celebrate by going to the Mille Collines hotel for a "Four Seasons" pizza and beer, a typical Sunday afternoon activity for expatriates and Rwandan elites.

The Four Seasons pizza claimed to use four kinds of cheeses. "Charles," I said, "don't you find this rather dubious since there is only one kind of cheese in the marketplace?" It was a white cheese, not creamy, more like a Gouda, only sweeter. I always wondered why we couldn't find even more varieties-after all, Rwanda is famous for its cows.

"On the other hand," I told Charles, "too much choice is another problem altogether." He just shook his head, smiling.

"Wait till you go home and feel overwhelmed at the grocery store," I teased him. "You may miss our limited choices here."

As we sat in white plastic chairs under yellow umbrellas, watching children splash in the big blue pool after having just played tennis at the private club where we were coached by personal trainers, I reflected on the fact that I couldn't have afforded this lifestyle in my own country. It is said that three kinds of people come to Africa: missionaries, mercenaries, and misfits. Regardless of labels, there was something about being part of a tiny, privileged elite that ultimately wasn't good for anyone.

After finishing our beers, Charles reminded me that we'd been out for more than 3 hours and risked being late to an evening reception to which we'd both been invited. I gladly accepted his offer to drive me home and wait while I changed. At the house, I left Charles sitting on the standardissue Rwandan couch reading a book while I went to my bedroom.

It took only a minute to discover that most of my clothes and jewelrypretty much everything I had with me in Kigali at the time-were missing. I called out to Charles and showed him the nearly empty closet-no dresses, no skirts, no running shoes, and no watch.

"How did this happen?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Maybe Innocent decided to wash everything?" Charles suggested. But the bakery had just earned $100 from a bake sale, and I had hidden the money in a box and put it at the back of the closet. That was gone, too. This was an inside job.

"Let's ask Innocent," I said sadly, appreciating that Charles never gave me a look that said, "I told you so," though I knew he was thinking I'd brought some of this on myself by treating the guard in such a familiar way.

I called out to Innocent, who walked into the room sheepishly.

"Innocent," I said, suddenly not amused by the irony of his name, "who did this? And where were you when it happened?"

"I was out back, Mademoiselle Jacqueline," he whimpered, a tear running down his face. "Those men must have been too quiet and too fast. Maybe they saw you leave and me go into the garden." His skinny body was bent, and he held his hands together in a pose that made me feel sorry for him.

"How could they make no noise?" I asked more aggressively. "How could you not have heard a sound?" I knew he must be lying. The house and garden were too small and too close together for robbers to have come into the house in broad daylight, found my bedroom, and taken everything in it without Innocent hearing something. Even if he had been in the garden, we always kept the front door locked, so a robber would have had to break into the place before stealing anything.

Innocent's demeanor reinforced his sense of shame. I wanted to hand the situation over to someone rather than have it be his word against mine. I couldn't go to the police, who were likely to throw Innocent in jail-and who knew what might happen then? My options were to ignore the incident, call the police, or be my own judge and jury. Though I disliked all three, options one and two were untenable.

Feeling sick to my stomach, unsure of what to do, I tried calling Innocent's bluff.

"Charles," I said, "will you go to the UNICEF office and call the police? Innocent and I will wait here so that they can explore and decide who did it."

"No, mademoiselle," Innocent cried. "We don't need the police. They will think it is me."

When I asked Charles again to call the police, Innocent lay prostrate on the floor, telling me he hadn't done anything wrong but giving no clue as to who might have been responsible for robbing the place.

I'd believed that if I was good to Innocent, he would be good to me. But who was I to think that reciprocity worked as a principle between a foreigner and a poor local? He knew I wasn't staying long and might have seen me as a silly young woman, anyway. I wondered if he'd ever trusted me for a minute.

I felt I had no choice but to fire innocent. Charles agreed. It was likely that Innocent already had sold some things to people in the neighborhood, it would be dangerous to lose credibility, and I had lost my trust in him. I wanted to get my things back but knew the prospects were slim. Still, I told Innocent that I expected to see everything back in the house, regardless of whether he was working for me or not. He shed another tear and walked out the door. I never saw him again.

When I reported all this to Prudence at the office on Monday, she told me I had been right to fire innocent, but that I'd made a big mistake by not informing the police. People would say I was too soft. "Here, reputation is everything, and you will be taken for a fool," she said. "In Rwanda, it is more important to be respected than liked-maybe everywhere, in fact."

"But the justice system is unfair, and conditions in the prison are atrocious," I protested. "I worried that his punishment would have been much worse than his crime."

She just shook her head.

A week or so after the incident, I spied my sneakers on the feet of a guard who worked at a nearby house.

"Hey," I said, smiling, but with an assertive tone, "those are my shoes! Where did you get them?"

"They are mine," he answered softly but equally assertively.

"They were taken from me," I said. "Stolen. They can't be yours."

He stared at me, unblinking. It was a passive-aggressive kind of stare that let me know nothing was happening with this conversation unless I made a concrete move.

"How much did you pay for them?" I asked, not as assertively this time but still with a smile. When he said nothing, I asked again.

He looked at me, softening his gaze. "How much will you give me?" he asked.

I sighed and offered him $15 for my running shoes, which were impossible to find in Rwanda even if they were already nearly a year old.

"Give me $20," he countered.

"Fifteen or nothing," I said and started to walk.

"Okay, fine," he said.

When I turned around, he said, "Give me $17."

That's where we settled.

I couldn't stop thinking about the incident, the lack of a formal justice system that I could trust, whether I had been weak or strong (and according to whose values?), and whether or not Innocent was getting on with things. Certainly, he was a lot more financially stable with the additional $100 from the bake sale, and who knows what he gained from selling my things. But would he ever trust anyone fully? Would his children?

An incident in the following weeks convinced me, at least, that I'd made the right call by not going to the police. While walking to work in the morning, I came upon a group of people standing around a dying man lying flat on the ground, covered in dust and blood and feebly moving his head back and forth as if to protest, but saying not a word. The dozen people standing around, including three or four children, were kicking him and throwing rocks on his body in an almost resigned, passive manner.