My experience in Rwanda and Burundi: Am I a Rasta?

I have had dread locks for about four years. I treat them well, keep them clean, and as the dreads have grown, I have grown to love them increasingly. People often ask me about my hair: How do I wash it? What statement am I trying to make? What is it like to travel Africa with dreads?

The truth is that I had no real reason to grow dreads. I often think that others deliberate about my hair style more than I do. Usually it's fun conversation or I shrug it off as a question no different to one about tattoos or scars or contact lenses.

Yet there is one question which I get asked a lot. And one which I have never properly confronted until I left Uganda and headed south towards Rwanda and Burundi, in search of nothing in particular. The question is simple: Am I a Rasta? The answer is more complex and lies in this little story...

It was early on a Wednesday morning when I packed up my tent and left the Wolf Pack (Yoni, Orchie, Stace and Brookies - you guys are like family; a perverted, loud, odd looking family. It was a privilege to travel together and I miss you all very much) on the island paradise of Lake Buyonyi in the south of Uganda. I got in a canoe 'taxi' and began my journey alone towards Rwanda. Rwanda is a tiny land locked East African country with rolling hills and beautiful lakes. In 1994 Rwanda saw a genocide in which over 1 000 000 people died in tribal conflict over a period of three months. Today Rwanda is fairly developed; Hutus and Tutsies live together in peace, and without prior knowledge, one would never know that the streets saw murder by machete, babies smashed against walls, and people bludgeoned to death by their neighbours.

The Lonely Planet travel guide mentioned a place called OneLove; a charity set up to provide prosthesis limbs to those who lost theirs during the war. They also had accommodation and a restaurant to help raise money for the cause. I knew nothing else about this place, but figured a Bob-Marley-referenced campsite would be more fun than a cold-stale-hotel-room alone. So I hopped on a boda-boda and was dropped outside OneLove. It was here where I met Immanuel Gatera King.

Immanuel Gatera King, or Gatera as he is known to his friends and everyone else, was the owner and founder of OneLove. Gatera is a tall black man of about 60 years old. He has long black dreads and big wise eyes in which you can almost see years of pain, love and life. Crippled in one leg, he walked, drove and played sport with a crutch. Gatera reeked of quite confidence and like a Rastafarian Master Splinter you have no choice but to respect him, and feel humbled in his presence.

Gatera had seen my dreads and whistled me over so that he could welcome me to his place. We got chatting and I told him that I was thinking of going to Burundi that week. By chance he was heading to Bunjumbura, the capital of Burundi, in the morning and offered me what I thought was a lift, but was actually an invitation to be his guest for a few days in Burundi, which I accepted immediately.

The next morning I packed my tent and waited for Gatera to be ready to leave. He was driving a few people back to Bujumbura. Amongst them was Kim, better known as 'Laughing Angel Kim', the crowned queen of the Western Australian trance scene. Kim had long dreads all wrapped in colourful materials with bells and buttons sewn in. Kim was in Rwanda to run healing workshops for orphaned kids. She had been sent a powerful message to leave safe Australia and go to Africa and help. Like a female Moses in a modern time. She downed her tools, raised the money and flew to Rwanda.

The others in the car were OneLove workers from Burundi who had been in Kigali for training to make the prosthesis legs. Whilst eating lunch I looked around a noticed that I was the only person in the group with all four limbs fully functioning. Everyone in Rwanda and Burundi is disabled. These countries saw years of civil war, land mines, machetes and fighting. Lots of people lots limbs. Yet while their bodies were are 'disabled', there was nothing disabled about any of them. It was as if no one told them that they were disabled. They just kept on going.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous about going to Burundi. It was a decision I had been grappling with for almost the whole trip - checking security warnings, reading blogs, contacting people who had been there. I knew Burundi was at war until recently, and most travelers don't go there as its still considered 'unsafe'. To be honest I think I was was expecting to step into a war zone; with fighting in the streets and a self-enforced curfew once it got dark. But like most expectations in life, it was shot down by reality. The world didn't end and dark clouds didn't cover the sky when we crossed the border. Quite the opposite actually.

Bujumbura is a city alive. The streets are littered with cafes and bars, sprawling with tables of people eating and drinking. Every meal lasts hours. It begins with coffee, then food, then beer and more beer until everyone is drunk and ready for the next meal. People talk and laugh and discuss. There is music and dancing and nightclubs and expensive alcohol and fancy restaurants. Kigali is the place for business while 'Buj' is the place for play.

Gatera took us out for a dinner of fresh fish and huge beers (almost full liter bottles). At 12:30am I was quite ready to go home and sleep after a long day of traveling. But the 'old man' had different plans. See, there is one other thing I did not know about Gatera when I jumped in his car. Gatera was not just another Rasta in Rwanda and Burundi. He was also a celebrity.

In a country of people withuot limbs, the man providing prostheses is king. And so, Immanuel Gatera King is like Burundian royalty. You walk the streets and people stop him to introduce themselves. When parking bays are full, he gets escorted to park on the pavement.We arrived at Havana night club and the main table in the front is suddenly free for us to sit. At a concert of local music, every single singer gave a shout-out to Gatera sitting in the crowd. At 60 years old, Gatera can drink till the sun rises, holds the company of the richest and poorest in society, and never lets you pay for anything when he is around. I had landed up in Burundi with Burundian royalty, and suddenly my eyes and ears were wide open.

At about 4:30am after too many conversations, laughter and whiskeys I fell asleep at the table in Havana, and finally it was time to head home. Yet it was the next day in which things really started to get interesting. I woke up with a headache to the sound of workers banging and drilling prosthesis legs. Maurice, one of the Rastas in the OneLove family, was going to show Kim and myself around Buj.

Maurice was Gatera's right hand man. His own personal Eric Murphy. Maurice was tall and skinny and always wore a big hat covering his dreads. He had an honest smile and one could only describe Maurice as a peaceful and kind man. He drove us down to Lake Tanganyika. I felt alive as I stood on the shore of one of Africa's great lakes - a moment which I have dreamed about for a long time. That day we ate, walked and watched 'Buj' life work. The people are free, the police are assholes, the place is busy and bustling.

As we drove through the town, Maurice spotted Olivie, another Rasta in the OneLove family. Olivie jumped in the car and took up almost two seats. Olivie was a big guy with a big presence, long thick black dreads and one arm. He worked as a money changer on the black market and lived between Bujumbura and Kigali - moving back and forth for work and family.

The sun was coming down, so the four of us headed to the lake-beach to catch the sunset over a beer. We sat on the sand watching the waves crashing like four old friends. I will admit that I was a little taken-a-back when I discovered that both Olivie, Maurice and most of the other Rastas at OneLove were RPF (Rwandan Patriotic Fund) soldiers during the war. The RPF was the army of rebels led by Paul Kagame which fought against the Rwandan government, without international help, and freed Rwanda from the Hutu Power ending the genocide and bringing democracy and peace. Without the RPF, there would be no Tutsies left in Rwanda today, and pretty much everyone I had met would have been slaughtered. Burundi may have been a dangerous country, but I was hanging out with the exact people I had been warned about, and it felt really safe.

Maurice took a long drag of his cigarette and leaned over to me. "This is not my first time on this beach. You see those lights across the water? That is Congo." Maurice began. Both Maurice and Olivie had at some point been stationed on this beach while the RPF advanced on Kigali. They had hid in the water, waiting for boats to approach to shore. Then bam. An ambush. They would kill everyone they saw. Their faces lit up as they began to recount stories of killing and fighting, hiding in trees in the freezing cold, keeping their trigger fingers in their mouths for warmth and agility, waiting for the right moment to start shooting. They were both commanders of battalions in the bush. They had both killed many men, had limbs shot off, and had a free country to show for it.

Olivie stopped and shook his head with a deep frown. "I hate to talk about these things while I drink". Then he continued to talk. There was a history in this land which these men hated to recount, but could not help from reliving. They were proud of their achievements, yet there was an anger which one could almost physically see them trying to subdue. There was peace in Rwanda, but victory had not brought the spoils they had hoped. Olivie had lost an arm in an ambush in which all the other 35 soldiers in his battalion had been killed. He was the only survivor. It was these young soldiers who lost limbs and held their friends as they died in the mud. And it was the other men who left the country and stayed in the safety of schools who became ministers and wealthy businessmen. That was reality, it was unlikely to change, and I could see the effort it took for Olivie to accept that fact gracefully.

I was beginning to understand the context of Rwanda and Burundi. I used to think South Africa was the miracle of Africa in that there was peace after Apartheid. But peace in Rwanda after the genocide is a real miracle. Men see their family's killers and rapists in the streets, driving taxis, serving them in restaurants. Soldiers lost their youth, limbs and friends to war, and their adult years to poverty in the streets and corruption in government. A million people died and millions of others became displaced across East Africa, away from their families, too afraid to return home to face what had happened, or what they had done.

Civil war and genocide sent this part of the world into chaos. How was it possible that life carried on? How was it possible to live in peace? How was it possible to forgive and return to normal life?

"How do you do it?" I asked. "How do you live a life of peace here? I don't think i could do it..."

Olivie shook his heavy head and answered for both men: "We are Rastas now, we are not soldiers anymore."

Sometimes there is no other answer in life than peace. In 1994, the RPF finally took control of Kigali, ending the genocide and civil war. Maurice, Olivie and thousands of others fought a terrible battle for peace, and had won. Sometimes violence is the only way, and good men had to do bad things to survive. That is why we call them heroes. Their work and victory would be meaningless if they used it to punish the enemy. They would still be living with violence. They fought for peace, and even if it seemed impossible in the aftermath, they were determined to live in peace.

No one wanted to become a solider. However the choice was; fight with guns or die by machete. So, once the war was over, they threw down their guns, grew their hair and began to live the life they had fought so hard to achieve - a normal life. A life of love, choices and long meals on busy peaceful streets. They weren't religious, but they became Rastas.

It is not always easy having dreadlocks. I have been turned down from work opportunities because of my hair. I get harassed daily by people selling marijuana or wanting to buy marijuana. On this trip it has been especially trying, as many people see me as an easy target for a quick buck. Peaceful days have been spoilt by constant badgering for money and insults when I refuse - "what kind of a Rasta are you?" Police checks and airports are a whole different story altogether.

I don't believe in Jah. I am not friendly to everyone. I won't give you money. I do not want to buy or sell you marijuana. I do eat meat and drink alcohol. I do believe in a regular society and equality of sexes. The sad reality is that the stereotypes of Rastafarians, both positive and negative, have made me want to disassociate myself from being a Rasta.

But maybe I too was judging too quickly. I do have dreads, and people will continue to think of me as a Rasta. And, as I started off this story, up until my trip to Burundi I had never really thought about what it meant to be a 'Rasta'. The time had come to consider it. So here it is...

To me; Rastafarian is not my religion. Rasta does not mean marijuana. Rasta does not mean being friendly to everyone. Rasta certainly does not mean having dreadlocks. Rasta means having a heart of love, compassion, forgiveness and peace. It means treating others the way you would like to be treated. It means helping others when you are in a position to help. It means forgiving others when you are in a position to forgive. It means repenting when you do wrong. It means setting a good example when you can, and following good examples when you need guidance. It means being an individual, knowing that if you follow your heart it will lead to good decisions.

The Rastas I had met in Burundi had been through hell and back. Their friends were killed, families raped, countries destroyed. They had lived a life they did not want to live, yet despite it all, they had come out the other side with a hearts full of love and heads full of forgiveness. Forget the Ganja stereotypes. I have met a lot of different people in my life and most could not overcome such a challenge. If I am going to be associated to people like this, then lucky me. I will take that association proudly.

Two days later I returned to Kigali and set up my tent back at OneLove. The trip to Burundi was fulled with incredible coincidence, a fortune of laughter, music, food, dancing till 5am and endless memories. This time, instead of being alone, I now felt like part of the OneLove family in Kigali., all of whom had lived through the war and had come out the other side alive and at peace.

The next morning I went to the Genocide Memorial Museum. The memorial documents the genocide with rigid certainty and presents the story to visitors to learn about the human horror that is genocide. I spent many hours walking through the exhibits, imagining my new friends hiding for their lives, forgetting their dreams and ambitions, and fighting the war which finally led to peace.

The final room in the museum was the childrens' memorial in which the stories of a few Rwandan children are displayed. Each display shows a photo of the child, their best food, favourite game, and the way in which they were violently killed. All of a sudden I began to cry. I did not expect it. I just stood in that room alone and cried.

Rwanda saw a genocide seventeen years ago. Families were thrown down long-drop toilet to trample each other to death. Wives were raped with machetes. Babies were tortured in front of their mothers. Mothers were killed in front of their children. Men had limbs cut off. The whole world knew and no one did anything. I was in sixth grade. I was learning mathematics and playing soccer at the time. Rwandans should hate each other, and hate foreigners for allowing it to happen. But they do not. Each person found it in themselves to forgive and move on. And in that room it suddenly hit me what a massive, massive feet that really was.

For my friends it meant becoming Rasta. For others it may have been Christ, human morality or democracy. Everyone had their own way of finding peace. Each person had to do it themselves. No way was less hard.

So it was here in Rwanda in which i finally asked myself the question. Am I a Rasta? Well, no. I am a Jewish kid from Vredehoek. But am I Rasta? Yes. I am Rasta.