I have been around gay men my whole life.  Specifically, gay black men.  The reason: my family was and is in the arts: e.g., dance, TV and film (my mother was respectively in things like Alvin Ailey, the Ed Sullivan Show as well as The Wiz) and music (my stepmother ran a record company or two). And, yes, in line with the stereotype, there is an abundance of gay males in general and gay black males in particular within the arts (luckily, in my opinion).  We all benefit from their light, talent and energy. 

Now, because of my upbringing, very early I developed what is referred to popularly as “Gaydar” -- the ability to detect a gay man.  I am not as gifted with detecting gay or bi-women, which would have been helpful while clubbing in New York City in my younger days but with a guy: give me about a minute and I'll tell you what the deal is (or not).

Now, I go into this because there are many brothers within Rwanda that are ummmmmm…. "closeted" (in the shade/shaded), in my opinion. These brothers are not "in the jungle" or "in the bush", to be clear - suggesting some crass primitivism. The logic of this position is straightforward: the continent is not the best place for homosexuals and, in my opinion, in Rwanda there is a whole country that's trying to keep the reality of gay Rwanda hidden.  Indeed, I have heard and seen denial before but the degree of resistance to even the possibility of homosexuality in Rwanda during my travels there was astounding.

When asked about the idea of a gay black man in Rwanda, I was told “no, we don't have THEM here” and “no, they’re are NONE in Rwanda.”  Yes, like it was the plague or something.  Direct quote.  Hand to the universe. On my travels, I constantly heard this.  Pushed to the edge of reason and thinking about what every gay, black, male friend of mine would have said to such an assertion, I pushed and finally had one person admit that there might be at least one or two homosexuals in the whole country but that was a major admission after some alcohol. Right after my colleague said this though he added: they had better not to get caught.  Seriously.  Truth be told, the conversation caused my colleague to get mad at me, like I was calling him a "barbarian" or "underdeveloped" or something because of how they (he and his country) were handling their homosexuality issue.  It was like he was Archie Bunker on crack with a side arm, walkie-talkie, explosive, machete (of course), a german shepherd and access to more of the same.

The evidence for the possibility of a few homosexuals in Rwanda was clear - at least to me.

First, men and women do not generally show affection to one another -- especially in the rural context. No hugging, holding of hands or kissing.  Men and women however can show affection within their respective groups.  Men, in particular, can and do walk hand-in-hand as well as arm in arm with each other down the road in the center of town without anyone caring. This practice was particularly problematic when Rwandans traveled abroad. For example, in America (where the last Tutsi king lives), I am told that he is often seen walking arm in arm with one of his “friends.”  Of course to those in the US, it was simply assumed that they were a couple.  Not that there's anything wrong with that but this is how it looked to neighbors. This was also problematic when someone I considered a friend, naturally swooped their hand to mine and started walking down the street.  Now, while I agree that we were friends and appreciated the Rwandan acknowledgment of such, I still was a bit uncomfortable about what it meant in my context and what it meant to the other mizungus.  This was not an issue of being homophobic (which because of my upbringing I am not).  Rather, it was an issue of being seen as having “gone native” – something especially frowned upon by non-anthropologists.  To have an air of legitimacy in the academia and as a researcher in the field, one had to have an air of empathy, sympathy but also a little distance.  But, I digress. 

My second piece of evidence for the gay Rwandan is that there was an observation of the occasional male prostitute hanging out with the female ones, eyeing the male mizungus. How did I know he was gay?  Well, I mentioned my Gaydar was pretty good but, aside from this, the mascara, swishing of the hips, slicked back hair, crotch-hugging jeans and glossy lips were a big hint.  Leaving with the gay white mizungu was another one.  The gay mizungu was even easier to identify.  Also, on this one particular occasion, there was a straight male prostitute standing right next to the gay one and the comparison was pretty simple to make.  Presumably, if there's at least one gay prostitute for mizungus, there must be at least one gay man in Rwanda.  Just saying.

Third, men hang out with one another all the time and are quite comfortable with one another, everywhere and at occasionally high levels of intimacy.  It does make sense as far as I'm concerned that relationships would emerge.  For example, men chill in saunas buck naked and real close.  Men constantly rubbed oil on each other at the pool and dancing with each other at nightclubs where women would never go unless they were prostitutes. Now, I do not believe that every woman is a prostitute but mizungus are a constant draw for this type of woman and they always appeared to be wherever they congregated.  In addition to that, single women never seemed to go to such places, leaving the environment all male, all the time.  Now, I am also not saying that every man dancing together in a Rwandan nightclub is gay.  Heck, by that category everyone dancing at Danceteria, Area and the Paladium back in New York when I grew up would be gay - which actually might be possible (except for me as well as my club buddy at the time - Parnell) and thus that is a bad example but hopefully you get my point. 

The epitome of the comfort/familiarity/intimacy phenomenon of which I speak is observable by watching men occasionally sit on each others laps in a bar.  Again, this in and of itself does not suggest homosexuality but the response to such familiarity and comfort did suggest homophobia, which I took as an indication that homosexuality was possible. How can you be homophobic is there is no homosexuality? See what hoops one has to go through in order to address the topic.  For example, one evening I pointed out to my Rwandan host two men at some bar and asked him if sitting like that was common.  To this question, it was first denied that the man was sitting on his associate’s lap - at all.  This, however, was clear to everybody. There was no other place that would be as proximate to the individual's chest and groin that did not involve the lap. Now, you say: "of course, non-gay men could be sitting on each other's laps and hanging out".  Well, as I mentioned, my gaydar works pretty well and I could just tell: those brothers were GAY and fabulously so!  Upon acknowledging that my observation was legitimate, and this one guy was indeed sitting on his friend’s lap in a slightly gay-like manner, my Rwandan associate stood up, walked over to the host and complained. Several minutes later, there was no more lap sitting.  Shortly after the initial complaint, the two gentlemen were approached by the host (who whispered something to them) and they left the bar entirely.  After they left and my associate seemed to beam with a little tyrannical, homophobic pride, I wondered about whether or not and how badly I'd put the two guys at risk with my little observation. I had merely attempted to learn a bit more about Rwandan society, but quickly realized that there were just certain things that Rwandans did not want to know themselves or have visitors probe. At that point, I realized that "outing" in Africa was both possible as well as potentially dangerous. 

To be honest, I found all of this completely fascinating except for the two guys being asked to leave, which I found a bit horrifying.  (Note: I actually looked for them over the course of the next month to make sure that they were ok but never saw them again). The identification of Rwandan gayness as well as the denial was in large part interesting because it revealed important differences to the United States. The image of old-school, hyper-masculine aggressive youth with weapons, military fatigues, attempting to mount every female in sight still existed in the US but it is also countered by an equally open, flamboyant, bold, triumphant gayness which no one (at least not openly) would label as anything but male. One sees this in the amazing celebrations during gay pride celebrations in New York and San Francisco - perhaps some of the best parades and parties offered in America.  In Rwanda, however, gay men were not even allowed as an idea, let alone reality. There are no parades there but only charades. On this dimension (and perhaps a few others), the country wears the mask that grins and lies. Indeed, the strength with which they were denied their existence was perhaps as indicative of the tenuousness of control over the society as the openly, hyper masculine aggressive young men with weapons and military fatigues attempting to mount every female in sight which was not only clearly observable in Rwanda but largely celebrated.  Just as I could not imagine an America without its fabulous gayness, I could not imagine a Rwanda with one. 

Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.
 
Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of traveling around Rwanda is the ghost of the genocide.  One might not know the particulars of what took place in a particular place back in 1990-1994 but one quickly gets a sense.  Before going to the country, I read all the books, articles and memoirs I could find.  I also saw a tremendous number of pictures of dead bodies – partially buried or floating.  I even saw the brief video made by Belgians traveling with the Rwandan Patriotic Front or RPF (the Tutsi rebel organization invading from Uganda) which showed the chaotic, sporadic and highly communicative behavior of those involved in the violence.Individuals came out of the jungle, would say something to one another (likely chiding each other on), a person would hack on a body for a while, walk off, have another screaming match and someone else would hack.  They would then walk away and you could see that the body was still alive.  What the hell were they saying?  Why didn’t they just kill the person?  Why did they do it at all?  What kind of sick f@%er hacks someone?  Who films it, and why didn’t the RPF have some snipers?  How can you hack someone? [Note:  Like so many artifacts, this video now appears to be lost.  If you know where it is posted, please let me know.]  

While the genocidal and non-genocidal violence is yet to be explained, part of the explanation needs to be that Rwandans practiced all the time: machetes were everywhere.  They were used to hack fruit from trees, to hack limbs for firewood, to hack meat (no butcher, just a blood-red wooden stub); they were used on the side of the road, on the side of a building, in markets, at restaurants, in bars (for lemons – for real), in hospitals, in schools.  In fact, I cannot think of one place where I went and did not see a machete. 

This reality made one feel surrounded by 8 million potential axe murderers.  Sorry to say it but that's the deal.  Now, I knew that I did not know who specifically had hacked anyone: even if someone was in jail, had confessed to the crime and sat there in a pink prison outfit (given to those involved in the genocide to embarrass and emasculate), you never quite knew which end was up. People were just arrested because their neighbor wanted their property, because they owed someone money, because someone wanted their spouse or because they had challenged the government.  You never knew.

Why confess?  You seen Law and Order.  Well add machetes.  I’m surprised they didn’t have more confessions just to escape the random machete carrier.  I suppose there were plenty of shivs in the prison but still.

As a result of this situation, it just seemed easier to me to assume that everyone was guilty – to err on the side of safety.  Now, this is no way to interact with folks, thinking everyone is a murderer.  In some strange way, however, growing up in New York was good preparation for Rwanda.  In the city (well, the one I knew in the 1970s and 1980s, not the new Disney thing on 42nd Street), you thought everyone was trying to "jack you up" – I wasn’t even in a bad neighborhood and this was the opinion.

Still, it is different navigating Rwanda because every time you hear a distant chop or thump, you shudder and wonder.  Every hand you shake, you reflect on how hard the callouses are, how strong the grip is.  Chop.  Then, you wonder if they could have done it.  Every pair of eyes you look into, you wonder what they see; what they saw.  Chop.  Every chicken or goat you see beheaded, you reflect.  Chop.  Every child you saw, old woman, young man, old man, young woman, you wonder.  Chop.  How can you have peace when the mechanism of piece creation is around you constantly?  People do not seem to check their machetes when they go places, like a hat.  They carry them like Handbags, or is it Teabags?  Casually, matter-a-factly, constantly, urgently. 

In this context, your eyes move constantly.  Checking out the most proximate hackers, machine guns, bands of children.  You do this at the same time you try not to move your head and body, which would communicate far too much uneasiness, marking one for the taking.

The result: you get physically and psychologically exhausted after being in Rwanda for a while and resolve yourself to your fate and/or faith.  Yet another thunderous hack is heard in the distance. 

Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.


The Mille Collines (of Hotel Rwanda fame) was a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, African fabric, a three piece suit and a white mask.

When you come in, you are greeted by a doorman and an armed guard – different people.

Look over your shoulder, you can see other armed guards – who survey you with a combination of curiosity, indifference and outright hatred (note the casual manner in which they hold their machine guns).

To the right, the concierge welcomes you and the attendees to either side do the same (wearing a shirt and a tie) – note the guard against the wall looking at your shoes.

To the left are the elevators, the stairs leading to the offices and the rooms on the first floor (never could figure out who stayed there).

In front of you are some chairs – a lounge (of sorts), so that you could sit and watch the show. 

This area was always a source of education and amusement because I could watch the Rwandans greet each other.  Greetings were extremely interactive and nuanced; I never figured it out.  For example, as one family of three greeted another of four, I saw approximately eight different interactions, (I blinked at one point and might have missed one).  Women greeted each other differently – differentiated by age and perhaps marital status.  Men greeted each other differently – varying by age, level of familiarity and time of day.

Around the corner from the lounge is a curiosity shop, which is funny as the whole place was curious.

There is the back entrance to a beauty salon, which was entered from outside (grooming is fundamental in Rwanda). There was also a drug store and one or two vendors – make sure not to make eye contact too consistently for this either brings a sales pitch or a potential bride.

Down the winding stairs and you are in the bar, an outdoor café-like area with tables, chairs, umbrellas (to protect you from the heat), a pool, the generally empty tennis court, immaculately attended lawn, a fence and an occasional armed guard (yes, again).

The guests downstairs are the same people but they rotate:

There are suits for chilling – mostly whites but a few blacks (the people not the clothing). These are there for business – check the papers, the seriousness, the lack of gesticulation. Nobody move – fast, nobody get hurt – slow.

There are suits for bathing – again, mostly white with an occasional African and no African Americans. Indeed, I only saw three American blacks from the U.S. in all my years going:

            - A brother from Brooklyn who constantly complained about the country
            - A brother from Detroit who had strayed far from home
            - And, the U.S. Ambassador to Rwanda at the time.

There are prostitutes - all African, all the time.  Specifically, they would be strewn about the lower-level as singles or occasionally a “haggle” (a gaggle with which the interested would have to negotiate). The girls would be in nice clothes but somewhat overdone.  They generally wore too much at once (makeup as well as individual garments) as if to reveal that this was their best shot but that if you did not like that one there would be another soon on the way. 

There are also dignitaries – see the gold, check the Gucci.


Now, I had problems with all of these people. 

The suits did not know how to act.  They were used to people deferring, being served by the dark-skinned person. They had no comprehension or time for the American black who was not quite ready to hold the door for them (despite being there first).

The suits that swam were cool until they joined the dry suits and this just brought back the problem noted above.

The dignitaries we don’t discuss without some alcoholic beverages and a couple of hours.   

The prostitutes were odd.  Now, having grown up in New York during the 1980s, I was very familiar with prostitutes. Before you go there, 42nd Street before the Disneyfication and destruction was a virtual parade of these professionals of the pavement and pick the wrong avenue in the lower east side at the wee hours of the morning and you will find out more than you wanted to know about the world's oldest profession.  But I digress, the Rwandan prostitute was something of a different cut from what I had earlier observed. The ones in New York seemed to be equal opportunity oriented. If you had cash, might have had cash or perhaps could spell cash, then they would talk to you. Basically, they would talk to anyone. The Rwandan variant was kind of racist. Like one of the African American brothers said, they looked the American blacks over and just couldn’t quite place him. You were not from Rwanda which made you “mizungu” (white person, outsider, money) but you also weren’t white.  As jungle fever was literally the lay of the land (pun intended), this was very confusing for them.  In their perplexed state, they generally tended to be kind of rude as if you were in their way. 

"The girls" also left me alone because I once checked the wrong box upon check in and we kind of had an altercation. That night at all hours of the evening, I heard scratching and whispering at my door.  Evidently it was some kind of code.  Check a box or don't check a box and company comes a callin'.  Scratch, scratch, scratch; whisper, whisper, whisper.  It was like something out of a scary movie (remember the Wicker Man) except instead of someone whispering “kill, kill, kill” it was someone whispering “blow, blow, blow”.  Actually, the scratching situation kind of freaked me out because I didn’t know what the hell it was at first (it woke me out of one my malaria induced psychological thriller dreamares). Awakened, I sat there for what seemed like hours, wondering when they would take a hint and go away.  I was going to tell them to beat it (not like MJ but more like DMX or KRS) but I didn't know about the politics of prostitution in Rwanda.  Is there a pimp in the hallway?  If I call down, will I get spit in my food?  Who knew.  

After a while though, I just couldn't take it anymore. I swung the door open and there was three prostitutes standing there.  One was closer to the door than the others. I told them that I was not interested, would never be interested and they should just quit it.  They kind of looked me over as if surprised that I was in the room, looking over my shoulder for the whiter person or just checking my luggage. Not losing a beat and haggle in full swing, there was this kind of exchange that was basically like, “come on Mizungu, be upset but we still got rent to pay.” Remembering growing up in New York, I was sympathetic for a second and might have even laughed but nevertheless I cussed ‘em out for waking me up and told them that I would not be so nice the next day if they came back. At this point, my tone was somewhere between Big Daddy Kane or 50 (pronounced fiddy) Cent. (Note: They did not return. I spoke to the guy at the front desk and told him that the solicitations had to stop). 

Later still, back state-side, I went to rent the Wicker man. This was the story of the cop who went to some remote locale to investigate a crime but who was actually there on some locale ruse.  Recalling his denial of temptation and his being brutally killed for his purity, I was happy I did not think of this at the time. Now, I say this because Rwanda freaked me out enough already.  I did not need to be thinking of different ways that I could get whacked when in country. Indeed, one of the ways that one passes time in Rwanda was trying to think of what it reminded them of.  While there, I generally thought I was somewhere between Alien, the Wizard of Oz, Night of the Living Dead, Apocalypse Now, the Blair Witch Project and the Hills Have Eyes, set against the marvelous backdrop of the Diane Lane movie when she was hanging out in Italy. Did I mention that Rwanda was beautiful?