This is a copy of an article I wrote for a VSO publication trying to attract new volunteers by showing what type of Christmas they could be enjoying next year...



I am not Rwandan. I have no Rwandan relatives. I had not a single Rwandan friend to speak of prior to my September shipment courtesy of Flight VSO-YfD. But I know exactly how Christmas day will unfold on every slope of this thousand-hilled country and what ingredients will go towards making it the most Rwandan of celebrations. A few thousand years ago Mary may have ridden a donkey to Bethlehem, shepherds may have watched over their flocks by night, but every Rwandan knows that wise men keep cattle not camels.

On passing each other in the muddy quagmires, sometimes known as roads, that wind around the hills from village to banana tree grove to town all over Rwanda, little old men in tattered pinstripe blazers or bent-backed old ladies break into toothless grins. They grab each others’ elbows, touch foreheads three times and say “Amashyo!”- “have herds of cows” to which the other replies “Amashyongore!” -“have herds of female cows!”

And in the market place, never before has buying a bunch of carrots been so exciting for the crowd of thirty spectators watching an umuzungu (a trouser-wearing female no less) giving Kinyarwanda bartering her best shot. But on being given yet another vastly inflated price, the popular exclamation which will guarantee gasps and giggles - as well as a reduction of at least 5p is “Yampaye inka!” – the very ironic ‘He has given me a cow!”.

Christmas day will necessarily involve the cow dance. The cow dance is the traditional dance of Rwanda and Burundi, and as such is technically reserved for special occasions. But any occasion can be judged special enough if it means a green light for public cow worship and so it is practically a staple of any community gathering. Girls have the serene job of swaying from side to side, arms held up in a V shape mimicking the horns of the cow. The guys have slightly more fun - protecting their hypothetical cows they stomp and jump, jangling - and breaking the bells strapped to their ankles. They creep and shriek, wielding spears and shields and flick their necks from side to side, to which are attached billowing blonde wigs. All this is performed to the thumping and pounding of an array of drums made from hollowed tree trunks and goat hide. Every so often screams and hollers of praise for their herd sound out followed by threats to steal the cows of their adversaries. These shrieks serve as a war cry which triggers stomping which is twice as animated.

Now, the second most cherished activity in Rwanda is going to church. Sunday masses last at least three hours– but if that does not satisfy, there are nightly prayer sessions, daily choir practice to attend, and there are more religious denominations than you can shake a cow bell at. Here, a little Rwandan artistic licence is taken as regards general Christian worship. The drums are out and people sing and clap – as is usual in many parts of the world, but then, just after the consecration of the Christ, Rwandan hands stretch above heads and the congregation instinctively and communally starts swaying from side to side, arms waving in a graceful V shape which is suspiciously reminiscent of the horns of the cows wandering outside.

Cows are not just milk and meat. Cows are dowries, gifts, tokens of persuasion or blackmail, status symbols and even markers of ethnicity as ill-judged by the Belgians early this century in what was to have dire consequences. Ten cows or more and you’re a Tutsi. Less than ten and you are obviously Hutu. Cows are not ushered away from local football pitches – they become the third team, an extra obstacle in case the dust ridges, gaping holes, ditches and clumps of stone are not enough of an impediment to scoring that winner. Cows, Christmas and Christianity complement each other and all will be necessarily involved come the big day. But just as in the market place, screams of pleasure not that different to the dancers’ threatening wails, will sound out on Christmas day when the umuzungu is naturally pulled up in front of the crowd to replicate the homage being paid to the cows. Funny though, my arms as graceful horns may not translate too easily and look more like electricity pylons, but I have stumbling around on hooves rather than feet just about down to a tee. Merry Christmas.