camera_rwanda
Chapati
Wheat flour
A drop of USA-issue vegetable oil
Water ("amaze" in Kinyarwanda)
White flour to prevent sticking
Anestes, our beloved house worker, rolls a dozen whole wheat chapati every night.
He's getting married October 7, so he's really happy. His bride-to-be is a tall, lithe seamstress down the hill from us, about a 10 minute drive away though they rarely see each other. Outside the small kitchen is a sink ledge on which sits a little black radio tuned to gospel music in Kinyarwanda. Anestes' humility can be seen in every little thing he does, especially in his graceful rolling out of each single chapati. He does so as if it is the first of the night's dozen.
When I first arrived in Kigali and met Anastes, I asked him about his family. In his unmeasured steady way, he gestured with a balletic sweep of his thin hands, "Genocide...all gone..."
Every night as I trudge down the steep hill to our house, I can see the silhoeuttes of
boys such as Anestes, steadily and skillfully working beneath the flouresent flicker in small kitchens. I imagine them each to be like Anestes, quiet, controlled, working endlessly, putting food on other people;s tables, washing other people's clothes, making other people's beds. And in their hearts lives a recent past that has stripped them of land and family--but not of humanity. Anestes' humility is a part of a larger Rwandese humanity that I swear I can taste in every little, perfectly round chapati.
At home in our kitchen.
Kigali, Rwanda. Afrika.
August 4, 2006.
Chapati
Wheat flour
A drop of USA-issue vegetable oil
Water ("amaze" in Kinyarwanda)
White flour to prevent sticking
Anestes, our beloved house worker, rolls a dozen whole wheat chapati every night.
He's getting married October 7, so he's really happy. His bride-to-be is a tall, lithe seamstress down the hill from us, about a 10 minute drive away though they rarely see each other. Outside the small kitchen is a sink ledge on which sits a little black radio tuned to gospel music in Kinyarwanda. Anestes' humility can be seen in every little thing he does, especially in his graceful rolling out of each single chapati. He does so as if it is the first of the night's dozen.
When I first arrived in Kigali and met Anastes, I asked him about his family. In his unmeasured steady way, he gestured with a balletic sweep of his thin hands, "Genocide...all gone..."
Every night as I trudge down the steep hill to our house, I can see the silhoeuttes of
boys such as Anestes, steadily and skillfully working beneath the flouresent flicker in small kitchens. I imagine them each to be like Anestes, quiet, controlled, working endlessly, putting food on other people;s tables, washing other people's clothes, making other people's beds. And in their hearts lives a recent past that has stripped them of land and family--but not of humanity. Anestes' humility is a part of a larger Rwandese humanity that I swear I can taste in every little, perfectly round chapati.
At home in our kitchen.
Kigali, Rwanda. Afrika.
August 4, 2006.