CHAPTER 7

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RUANDA
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Rwaza — A Missionary Bridge — A Blind Priest —Native Nuns — Mineral Waters
Kigali — A Brother's Dinner —Kapgaye—-Am I A Hero ? — So Young Yet So Worn
Twenty Thousand Communions — A Stricken Lamb — "Poor" Missionaries
Few Missionaries —A Dispensary — "They Just Died"
Wasted Women's Hearts — We Are Mobbed — White But Dirty — A Scramble
Skins And Frocks—Winking Tots — Girls At Work — Mud Pies — Does The Superior Ever Eat ?
Good Advice Not Followed — Native Brothers — A Pigmy's Crucifix — Cannibals
Junior Seminary — A Royal Salute—- Methods Of Study — Good-Bye

Note: Ruanda is a country about the size of Wales adjoining the British Protectorate of Uganda, to the South of Rwenzori. Formerly under German domination, it is now in Belgian hands under the Mandate of the League of Nations.

We left for Rwaza (Ruanda) after lunch—and what a good lunch. More mountains and more big drops if . . . We reached some delicious foaming water-falls crossed by a fine bridge which was built, as well as thirty miles of road, by the Fathers of Rwaza Mission. The Government paid. The river has been dammed to save the bridge. One bridge was washed away two years ago. I do not think this one can ever be washed away. Reflection: When one joins the White Fathers one knows not what one will do.

Vast Mission. There are four Fathers, but one is very old and quite blind; one native priest who charmed us all by his quiet courtesy and good manners; seven White Sisters; nine Native Sisters; six Native Brothers; 2,300 children in the schools. The blind Father carries on, teaching, confessing, advising all day long.

The Native Sisters are smart, courteous, well-mannered and efficient in the schools. They cost the Mission nothing, cultivating their own ground for food.

The Superior of the Mission is a huge genius. A grand Missionary with colossal energy and courage. He is building a new mission twenty miles off. When it is ready, furnished up to the last knife and fork, the native Clergy will take it over.
There is an excellent farm here and splendid mineral water taken from a source a few miles away. There was a deficiency when we left!

I0th August, I938
I said Mass at the Native Sisters' Convent; a Sister answered the prayers. Then on our way. More mountains and more precipices. Miles and miles of beauty, causing us to catch our breath. We reached Kigale Mission (Ruanda) at 12:20 p.m. Dinner began at midday. We found one brother at table. We shared his dinner. Father Jean, a delightful native priest came in after us. He also shared the brother's dinner. Only two Fathers on this Mission, both called out on duty.

A grand church, almost finished. The brother has built five like this since 1931. The decorations are in native style, very pleasing indeed. The Sanctuary furniture has been made by a native Brother in native style of inlaid wood. A Father also called later. He looked at the table and said he had had lunch. Reflection: Three minds with a single thought-again. "Hope to reach the next Mission early for Tea."

Reflection: Are we popular with the Brother?

En route for Kapgaye. More mountains but smaller ones. I like small mountains, but not as much as I like valleys. As we breasted a high hill, a town suddenly appeared before our amazed eyes. This is Kapgaye, the Central Mission of Ruanda, and the seat of the Vicar-Apostolic. It is only four o'clock. We are in time—for coffee and other good things.

Kapgaye, 10th August, I938
Dead of night; stifling heat; no air to breathe—the ten million insects which are hissing, cooing, squeaking and humming outside my window are using it all up. I wish I were in bed at the North Pole. Reflection: Why are people who go to the North Pole heroes? Am I a hero to sit up every night to write this Diary ? Father Prentice says I am merely a . . . .But I need not have that published.

A wonderful welcome from the Fathers here. Everything good was brought out regardless of tomorrow. An URN of coffee, "planted, plucked, dried, roasted and ground here, Father." A picturesque "boy" in a white shirt and a white skirt, too, with big "O.K.'s" in red on it, brought fresh white bread, from Ruanda-grown wheat, butter from "our own cows, Father," and cheese most delicious from the same source. Somebody's arm went through the window and came back with mangoes and bananas. I put my arm through the window, but the mission dog took it for a bone. Being a Christian he merely licked it. There was also some kind of home-made sausage. After a long time the Father in charge of food enquired: "But do you have nothing to eat in Uganda?" That reminded me of "manners ?" Father Prentice said: "Why did not Divine Providence send me as a missionary to Ruanda instead of to Uganda?" But I was looking at Father O., the Superior of the mission, and wondering why this priest, whom I had known at Carthage ten years ago, so young and fresh, should look so old and worn. We went outside and I began to learn the answer.

We stood on a hill and took a general view of the immense mission station. There are several groups of buildings, each having its special work, Superior and staff. In the centre is the mission itself, with boys' school, church, men's catechumenate, and workshops . On the left is the residence of some Native Brothers and the novitiate, a technical school and printing press. On the right is the White Sisters' convent, women's catechumenate, girls' schools and workshops, a large dispensary and a hospital. There is also a convent of native nuns, and half a mile down the hill is the Junior Seminary and a farm with cows, goats, pigs, hens and, I suppose, cocks. There are also mountains all around. To-morrow we shall be crawling along their flanks. Horrible thought.

We began by visiting the church. I am willing to bet a goat-skin to a mosquito that my travelling companion, while he prayed, thought of precipices.

The church is very long and very wide. I am told that there are larger churches than this in Ruanda, but I imagine that the people who clean this one believe it to be the biggest in the world. It needs to be. There are 35,000 Christians around this place. On solemn feast-days 20,000 Holy Communions are distributed. I saw a tabernacle a yard square. It cannot be used because the carpenter made it too small to hold a ciborium, which is a sort of mother that feeds eight little ones, from which Holy Communion is distributed from four sets of Communion rails; one near the altar, one in the middle of the church, one nearer the door and one outside where Mass is also said for the many thousands who cannot enter the church on these great days of prayer.

How long would it take the mission staff (five priests) to distribute twenty thousand Communions ? They could not do it in a morning, so the Junior Seminary staff come to their assistance. How long to hear twenty thousand confessions ? Three weeks are spent over it anyhow.

First week come the children; second week the adults who live fairly near to the mission, and during the third week come those who live in the outlying villages. Thus very many adults make their confession a fortnight before the feast day on which they receive Holy Communion. That is matter for reflection.

An army of catechists, each having his bush-school chapel, keep the people in touch with the priests, and for those who cannot come to the mission, hold services on Sundays. Morning and evening prayers are also said in public every day, in every village.

On leaving the church I saw a woman being taken to hospital. Her head and face were covered with blood. I enquired if she had been knocked down by a car, but was told, "No, her husband has not been pleased with her !"

"Is she one of your flock ?" I asked Father Superior.
"Yes, the poor lamb."
"And is her husband also one of your lambs ?" I insisted.
"!!!!!!" said Father Superior.

When we reached the convent, the White Sisters were going into the chapel for a spiritual conference, but Mother Superior called them out to meet the Fathers from Uganda and to hear the story of Sister X., who was killed on coming out of retreat at Kisubi. There was no spiritual conference !

The Vicar-Apostolic is away. Supper was a merry meal. (I do not think I intended that as a consequence, when I made the entry in my diary). We were regaled on more farm and garden produce, and Father Prentice laughingly remarked: "Poor missionaries!"

Note: Mr. Negley Farson, in his book "Behind God's Back," writes as follows of the meal he had at the Mission of Kapgaye: "Dinner, in a plain whitewashed room with nothing in it but the long table and chairs, was eaten in the subdued light of an old-fasbioned oil lamp, though I wished that these White Fathers had fulfilled the reputation of the early monks by doing themselves well. There was sausage of a sort, and some sweet potatoes; but it was obvious that the Fathers had long since lost their taste for decent food, knowing they couldn't get any." My! What a good thing it is that Mr. Farson did not eat at some of the other missions.

Again I looked at Father O., who looks so worn out at 35. A mission with a radius of 80 miles; 35,000 Christians; thousands of catechumens; 20,000 confessions and Communions; sick calls; funerals; weddings; baptisms; schools; buildings; and "sheep" who bash his "lambs" heads in . . . In God's name, "Pray ye the Lord of the harvest to send workers ..." Yes, indeed, "Poor missionaries !"

I think I shall say my prayers and go to bed.

Kapgaye, still. 11th August
I was up at five and thought it was two. Others, however, were up before me to get little hours and the Rosary said before meditation, which is at five o'clock. . . ."To save time during the day, Father." I said Mass at six. The church was half full of people, although it is an ordinary week-day.

Father Superior was not at breakfast—a sick call.

A very hot morning visiting places. Dispensary. A young Belgian doctor ("A real missionary, Father," said Mother Superior, bandaging a girl's arm). Hundreds of patients were waiting, and more were coming along every minute. Dozens were lying on mats or in long baskets in which their friends had carried them for miles.

There was perfect calm as, one by one, the patients were examined, given a ticket, and sent off to the hospital or the dressing room or the medicine room, each of which is staffed by native nurses, men for the men and women for the women.

A memory: A field-dressing station on the Western Front.

I put a question to the doctor. "What do you think these people did before you and the Sisters came here?"
"Did? Just died."

The new hospital of red brick is full, and new wards are being built. A smiling White Sister was attending to a girl with a dreadful leg-sore. The Sister looked very tired.

"But you must be always tired out, Sister?" I suggested.

She smiled an extra big smile. "No time to worry about trifles, Father. It's nice to know one is useful." Then as an afterthought she added, "But we do get a rest, you know. We always have time for our spiritual exercises."

Our spiritual exercises ! If the beauty of the mountains causes one to catch one's breath, what happens when one catches a glimpse of a missionary Sister's soul ?

A memory: Four years ago. A wet Sunday evening. I was crossing London and passed several cinemas. Hundreds of girls (and men) standing in the rain waiting for the doors to open. Wasted endurance; wasted feet; wasted hands; wasted women's hearts. ... and here "they just die."

Perhaps in England I may find some who will come to find it "Nice to know one is useful."

We walked towards the girls' school and were mobbed. All the African children from all the bush must have swarmed over us. Kiddies who but a short time ago would have fled in terror at the sight of a white man. We are priests and that is sufficient passport to children's hearts. I cannot say that these children were clean. They were not as black as they ought to have been. Lots of white patches where dust from the road had stuck, and as for their goat-skins - even the least particular of goats would turn its nose up at the offer of one of these.

We threw oranges in the air, and thousands of skinny arms flew up to catch them. Screams of delight and hoo-hoos of hope. Then a mighty, savage scramble. A drum beat. Complete silence. The children were all on their knees for a blessing. I had an impression of holy amazement. "Benedictio Dei Omnipotentis. .." A huge, shrill "Amina," and thousands of skinny legs scampered off to school.

In the school I rubbed my eyes. There were clean, black, little maidens, in smart frocks, all diligently writing at benches.

"But," I asked, "where are the little savages we saw outside ?"

A native Sister took command. "Josephina, come here." Josephina came. "Josephina, take off your frock." And there stood one of our savages in her goat skin and a deliciously malicious smile.

"When they put the frock on, they feel good," explained the Sister.

The children sang for us. A lovely native song about what happened when "Rosina went to the Well." One little thing sang while the others, beating time with their hands and their feet, continuously kept the refrain going. "When Rosina went to the Well." They did sums on the blackboard, and some of the sums were wrong; and I will swear that one of the tots winked at me when I pointed it out to her. They were delicious tots. They read out of printed books for us, and they told us what there is to know about God in the catechism. It was a good show.

We then saw hundreds of Christian mothers assisting at their weekly "after-baptism" instruction. They had their babies with them; miraculously quiet except for hundreds of gurgles.

Then there was the wax-candle factory, run by girls; the carpet-making shop and the sewing room where the clothes for all the missionaries of the Vicariate are made, as well as those of the Seminarists. These were swarming with young girls as busy and as clever as bees.

From there we landed in the kindergarten. Tiny tots like ants all over the floor.

"But what can such little children learn?" I asked.

"They keep out of harm and enjoy themselves while their mothers are busy," answered the Sister.

I quite believe that they enjoy themselves. A babies' paradise; for the floor was made of loose earth. Believe it or not they were making mud-pies just as I used to do. Mud-pies reminded Father Prentice of dinner, and I was reluctantly dragged away from my favourite infant sport.

Father Superior was not at dinner; a sick-call. Does he ever eat ?

Still at Kapgaye. I2th August, I938
When I was leaving England for Africa, a friend at the War Office gave me some good advice. He said: "Don't stay up late at night; don't get up too early in the morning; don't ever walk about in the sun; don't miss your siesta for anything; don't do anything but sleep after a meal; don't go out after sunset or the mosquitos will bite you, and don't ever get overtired." I have done all these don'ts to-day; besides, that is not what they taught me at the Novitiate.

What a day it has been. If anyone wants to know why I am in such a hurry, let them know that I have borrowed the car of the Vicar-Apostolic of Rwenzori and he wants it back on a certain date. Nor am I on a holiday trip.

After dinner we went to the Native Brothers' Novitiate. There are already fifty professed brothers, each armed with a diploma, teaching in the Primary Schools of the Vicariate. After a five years' course at school, they spend three years in the Teachers' Training School as postulants before going into the Novitiate. They take annual vows.

In the chapel I admired a very remarkable crucifix over the High Altar. It is cut out of wood and the body of Our Lord is that of a pigmy. "It was made by a brother, himself a pigmy from Bwamba," explained Father Superior.

The Baamba, who are really semi-pigmies, live in Bwamba, near the Rwenzori mountains. They are famous in Africa for their work in wood and for their vices. They were cannibals, and, according to an old White Sister, "surely still are if ever they get the chance; a dreadful people, Father." She ought to know; she has worked amongst them. Well, here is one of them who has taken the three vows.

JUNIOR SEMINARY
We were expected and we were received with a Royal Salute. Nothing less than "God Save the King," if you please. We are, remember, in Belgian territory, and this is a compliment to my nationality. It was played by the Seminary Band, which is splendid. I snapped one of the trumpeters (below, right) , so that I need not write a description of them. We sat under a palm tree, listened to the music and pretended that we were cool.

The interior of the chapel is remarkable. I need not describe that either, for I have another snap (below, left). It was designed like many churches in this Vicariate by the Vicar-Apostolic.

All the studies here are done in French. In Uganda the students learn English as a second language, but the vehicle of study is Luganda. Which method is the better ?

The Vicar-Apostolic of Urundi began with the Uganda method at his Junior Seminary, but changed over to the Ruanda way. He told me that the results are incomparably superior. This is chiefly, I gathered, because of the facility with which the students can read European books and so enlarge their horizon. There are so few books in any native African tongue.

I questioned students of every form in French, and was delighted with their comprehension of my French—it is nice to be understood—and with the clear expression of their answers.

I spent the afternoon seeing places, examining books and copy-books, and firing off questions by the hundred. Seminaries are my speciality. How kind and patient and informative were the good fathers. It was for me, an invaluable afternoon. Father Martindale has written that one feels rather than sees things in a school. He is right. The feeling at this Seminary anyhow was grand. One could feel the throb of good life in the place.

The refectory also made a good impression on us and we on what it provided. At five we were still talking seminaries, and the brother was hooting his hooter desperately outside. For we have to sleep at another mission and there are more mountains to cross.

Good-bye, good-bye. How many times have I said good-bye since I was appointed to return to England ? Always a real pain in the heart to leave these missionaries, so kind and so admirable.

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