Machete Madness

February 16, 2011

From a moral standpoint, I think walking through the street holding a machete is a bad idea. In Rwanda, given its history, this is an especially bad idea. However, it is exactly what I did today. We reported to the work site at 7:30 this morning and by 8:15, Ciprier, the head construction worker, handed me and two of the other volunteers (there were five girls building today… imagine this picture) machetes the size of my arm. We waited as several of the porters (about twenty of them) gathered near us so we could head toward the gate. Ido, who is an Israeli long-term volunteer and is in charge of all construction projects in the village, told us we would be walking for about fifteen minutes down the road to a local forest where we would be chopping down trees. Just like that, huh? Wrong. First of all, we ended up walking for about an hour, uphill, to a forest that for the last twenty minutes of our trek I was almost positive did not exist. As we walked, children approached us in the street, screaming, surprise surprise, “Muzungu!” Normally, this wouldn’t bother me, but the fact that we were walking through their town carrying giant machetes made me feel more than a little uncomfortable. These were more than gardening tools at one time in Rwanda; they were weapons. They were, and still are, a symbol of destruction. And I was holding one as children no taller than my knees came up to me, clapping and waving and trying their best to stammer out, “Good morning!” Maybe it’s because they’re simply too young to understand that a machete was once more than a gardening tool, but them flocking to me as I held what I always considered a weapon, really bothered me. In present-day Rwanda, machetes being carried down a public road are usually wrapped in banana leaves to signify they are not weapons. Our banana leaves, however, were being used for other purposes (I will explain this soon) so we couldn’t use them to wrap around the blades of our machetes. Instead, we walked (well, hiked, really) up the road, machetes in hand, blades turned away, as children continued to point, scream and huddle around us.

Eventually, we reached the province line of Rubona (yes, we had walked out of the province where the village is located and into the neighboring one) and Ciprier instructed us to turn left. At this point, the forest proprietor (he owns all the land where the trees were that we were chopping down. Apparently, the deal is chop 17 trees, get the 18th free. That’s exactly what we ended up doing) indicated where we should start chopping. We followed Ciprier, machetes in hand, down the side of the cliff. No, I am not joking. Rwanda being the land of a thousand hills is not just to sell postcards; we are up at a very, very high altitude here, and we walked up more hills to get to the forest. Then, we literally tiptoed (I had visions of taking a nosedive off the side of the mountain. That would have been less than fun, I would guess) down the mountain to where large groupings of trees were. We watched the porters chop down the first one, hacking away at the bottom of the tree. Then, they pointed at the branches, and then at us. We were to cut the leaves and branches off the tree so it could be transported back to the village. I have never swung a knife the size of one of my own limbs in my life, but today, that changed. The workers showed us how to angle the machete to the tree in order to get the branches off in the fewest number of strikes. I must say, I got the hang of it eventually, and soon, the guys were asking me to help them carry trees up to the road. This would have worked if they hadn’t all been taller than me and weren’t balancing the trees on their heads. They tied up the banana leaves in knots to make cushions for between the tops of their heads and the trees; I didn’t have such an advantage, and as soon as they put the tree trunk on their heads, I was unable to reach, let alone balance it on my shoulder. So, I made a few attempts, but eventually they realized they should leave branch chopping to me and the tree carrying to them.

By about 10:15, we had chopped our eighteen trees (not forgetting our one free, obviously) and the porters started carrying the trees back, balancing them on their heads as we walked behind them (it was decided that we would be too slow to actually be useful). During the walk back to the village, Ciprier was explaining Rwandan primary school to me, in French. What he told me is that there is “avant-midi” and “après-midi” class; some kids go to school in the mornings, others in the afternoons. The schools are too overcrowded for all of the kids to be in school for a full day. When they aren’t in school, the kids are generally working on their families’ land or farm, or they are walking along the streets, pointing and screaming at passing Muzungu. Ciprier also told me that he lives in the valley into which we were looking while we were chopping wood; it takes him an hour and a half to walk to work every morning (he arrives at the village at 6:30 every day, so he leaves at 5) and he has three small children. Learning about Rwandan life from people who have been living here forever, raising their families and going to work, leading what I consider to be difficult lives, has been a huge part of my experience here. Most of what has changed me most is learning about Rwanda and its history from its people; there is something very genuine about talking to the kids and the workers, having them tell us about their lives and hardships, triumphs and dreams, which makes this experience even more important to me.

We returned to the village and went right to moving bricks and cement. This lasted for about an hour before I felt my arms turn to jelly; I was carrying a jerry can full of cement and I dropped it. I knew it was time to throw in the towel and go to lunch; I couldn’t feel my legs (or anything else).

After lunch (which was SPAGHETTI… Woohoo!!) I had yoga with Senior 4 girls. They would clearly rather talk to each other than stretch, which I was fine with given that I had no control over my limbs and only wanted to crawl into my bed. It’s now about 7 PM and my pillow (and my bottle of Aleve) is looking fantastic; I may have a can of tuna (and perhaps some crackers, if I’m feeling gastronomically adventurous) and then crash.

Lilah tov from Rwanda, too sore to continue typing,
Elana