The hills are alive with the sounds of music

Sitting on my veranda with a string of underwear drying on the fence in front of me, the sounds of the pentacostal church celebrations fill the house and the valley below. The voice of god comes across loud and clear through a distorted amplifier and an over enthusiastic sound system. The bank of grass in front of the church next to our house has become a sea of rainbow coloured umbrellas where people have gathered in their absolute finery to celebrate the Pentacoste. Benches have been put out, speakers are strategically placed to send the voices directly into our front garden, a choir in mint green and white dance with unreserved energy and a woman tirelessly screeches her songs into a microphone. The whole valley reverberates and echoes bounce like a call and answer from one side to the other. Every once in a while the sound system fails and the beauty of the natural voice can be heard, but it seems as a rule voices must be loud in order for God to hear. At the end of each bluesy, steel band like songs where Jamaica meets New Orleans meets 80’s synthesised pop songs meets Mariah Carey there is the ubiquitous chorus of hallelujahs and Amens. It’s lovely, heart  warming, uplifting, annoying, loud, long and slightly painful all in the same breath. I’d love to go watch, sit amongst the crowd for a bit, but I fear that instead of watching I’ll be the watched! Muzungu trumps God every time. Not the desired effect!

So this weekend has been one of song. It started with song and now it’s ending with song.



 We had visitors on Saturday. The great thing about visitors is that it gives you the chance to show off where you live, and to re-see your home through other’s eyes. For me it brings renewed appreciation, and, on this particular occasion, a serious case of wonderment. Since arriving in Kirambo, Catherine and I have been trying to walk to the lake with our guard as our guide, but every attempt has been foiled due to the rain. However, this weekend all looked promising. The walk itself was beautiful, for most of it we were within sight of the lake which stretched so much further than I’d imagined, with inlets, and islands and shores flanked steeply with terraced fields or long stretches of banana plantations. We must have been quite a sights, two Rwandan men leading five assorted white women up and down steep hills and along narrow mud paths. For the first part of the walk we gathered an inoffensive, totally manageable following of about seven who just fell into step with us on thei r way to wherever they were going. When we stopped, they stopped, but their journey with us seemed to be purposeful. At one point we reached the brow of a long arduous hill and unwittingly collected at least another twenty children. They scampered happily along side us for miles, one pushing a wooden bike, some in school uniform, others in ragged scraps of ancient party dresses, all kicking up clouds of dust with their florescent plastic shoes and eager trotting. As we passed through each hamlet our entourage swelled until at one point I turned round to see what must have been at least 70 children engulfing our small muzungu melange. We started off all piped piper-ish walking in single file down narrow dust tracks clinging to the edge of the hill sides over-looking the lake, but piped piper gave way to Jesus and disciple-like crowds as the roads widened and the homesteads became more frequent.



Pied Piper of Kirambo - the kids behind



The kids in front

I normally find my frustration levels rise when I’m followed by children, the scuffling feet behind and the lack of space gets me tense, but this was different. The children were sharing the walk with us, not following meekly behind, many ran ahead, lots walked along side us, smiles and giggles were offered up. It was really quite lovely, despite the element of claustrophobia and the dust in the eyes.

All along gusts of wind threatened rain but our guard insisted that it there would be no ‘invura’. We teased but took his word for it. The sun burst out at one point and made beautiful late after noon shadows on the lake and bounced off the water in silver sparkles, the smell of mint filled the air at unexpected moments and we were all filled with energy. And that was when the first rumble of thunder filled the skies. We were going to get wet. Very wet we surmised by the colour of the sky and the clouds scuttling towards us. But this didn’t dampen our buoyant moods, in fact it took the whole experience up a notch as Christine, an Aussie volunteer, and I initiated a round of ‘I hear thunder’. The kids soon picked up the call and answer element, and despite some serious flexibility in the words being sung, soon we had a choir of at least 70 children singing in unison with us. When the song finished the crowd burst into a huge round of applause. And that was the beginning of the singing. We must have only been twenty minutes into the return journey before the heavens opened. We rushed to take cover under a tree but there was no possible way it could offer shelter to all so our guard asked in a local house, and we all filtered in, muzungus, children, guard. The whole motley crew! It took a few minutes for our eyes to adjust to the dark interior. The only light came from the door which quickly diminished as children filled each available space. The house was one simple room barely three meters by three meters. We sat on benches whilst the children and various adults crossed round. A young family stared saucer-eyed at the new comers and squeezed through gaps in the crowds to get a glimpse of the action. So we sat the dark, damp, bemused, surrounded by half a small village; what else is one supposed to do other than break into song? And so we did. The acoustics were quite incredible. Seventy little voices rose into the darkness, lead by five damp volunteers. The words I hear thunder, hark don’t you, pitter patter rain drops, I’m wet through, so are you, never held such meaning nor such beauty.

So we sang on repeat, and then another song was demanded. Catherine suggested London’s Burning, and to our amazement, the children took the song and flew with it; they’d already learnt it in school with some little variations in accent and rhythm, African style. They knew Frere Jacques too, but If you’re Happy and you know it, clap your hands through them. They loved the actions which got huge rounds of applause each time, but the words were left to us. Then it was the children’s turn, lead by a tuneless large limbed grinning man the children broke into the most beautiful Rwandan song. The voices filled every corner of that little homestead and then filled up my heart, and then in true over-emotional Rachel style, filled up my eyes too. The rhythm then caught our domestique who couldn’t help himself and got up and started dancing which was contagious, for me at least. Soon everybody was clapping and stomping and grinning inanely as the rain fell heavily outside. It was so amazing to be reminded how song brings people together, how it is another one of those universal languages that people the world over share. And I don’t think there was anybody there who didn’t realise they were experiencing something truly special and impossible to recapture. A shared, snap shot moment that we will all take away with us and indelibly mark in our memories as one of those perfect moments.

Lake Burera

Our entourage!

Sing I here thunder and celebrating the completion of the first round

Clouds brew, thunder rumbles, we gather and start singin

Wooden contraption for ferrying cabbages and other weighty vegetables. Also doubles as a child's scooter.

When the rain stopped we all emerged blinking into the daylight, and with many thanks and much hand shaking, continued on our journey home. From this point until we returned to the brow of the hill, song accompanied us. Small groups of girls, walking hand in hand, or arms around shoulders would initiate a song, tentative at first until they were secure in the knowledge that the rest of the group had decided to join them and they were no longer alone. The scampering stopped, something had changed, we now had a shared experience and the children had relaxed, we weren’t this exotic thing to stare at, we were their friends. We even managed Kumbaya up hill! It seemed fitting.

We walked for four hours that day, and all returned aching but as much from the smiling as from the many hills we’d climbed.