Two weeks ago, Rwanda held its fourth annual Kwita Izina, or naming ceremony for baby gorillas. For three or four days before, baby gorillas were everywhere: huge billboards showed them playing with their mouths open, which I’m guessing we’re supposed to think is them smiling. Buses were dressed up in that colorform-like stuff that makes it possible to turn any ordinary moving vehicle into a giant advertisement. The tourism bureau held little lead up events, including the unveiling of a gorilla monument in a roundabout in Kigali, so the press covered Kwita Izina for days before it even happened.
All of this is by way of saying that Rwandans are becoming slick marketers. They know this gorilla thing is their best (only?) tourism cash cow, so they are, indeed, milking it. Kwita Izina itself actually, originally, a ceremony held in the village when a baby is born and needs naming—which is no light thing here. Names mean things: I have met people whose names mean “one who forgives” or “one who is loved.” (But I also really like
I think Kwita Izina–gorilla style–reaches the apex of marketing. What could be more perfectly conceived than a plan to co-opt some traditional cultural and apply it to animals in a bid to get tourists? It’s the same kind of thing that’s behind the billion-dollar yoga market back home. (Really, with that $45 mat, you’re connecting.)
And also, it works! See?
There’s one problem: no gorillas at the gorilla naming ceremony. Then again, of course not: these are endangered species who live in forest and for whom contact with humans can be really destructive.
So what do you do, then, at a Kwita Izina where the guest of honor will be perpetually absent? You dress up kids in gorilla costumes and ask them to ramble about in the most gorilla-like way possible. Which, after a few hours in the sun, is surprisingly persuasive.
The actual naming part of the ceremony sucks, as I should probably have anticipated. The gorillas are named by donors, or representatives of donors, who’ve dropped a lot of cash on conservation; most of them are also dropping a lot of capital into the country, so there’s an element of good-corporate-citizen-ness to it all. I think 18 of the 20 donors were white, and they talked at increasing length and said very little. Their name choices were, by and large, uninspired (I feel particularly bad for the poor gorilla who’s stuck being known as “Vision.”).
But the cultural elements of the ceremony were beautiful. A young girl recited a poem with all the panache of the old oral traditions, and though I couldn’t understand it, it was a joy to listen to. There were plays and skits, and, of course, dancing. I’ve never seen so much traditional dancing, with such a variety of music—fast numbers with thumping drums, slower lyrical pieces whose 6/8 rhythm (for those of you that means anything to) make you feel rocked and cozy. I like these dances best. Everything moves in dream-time—the women push their arms from the core of their bodies outward, in a gesture that looks like the start of what would be a wrap-around hug, with such grace and control. They’re moving their feet, meanwhile, half-spinning around the stage, and the effect makes it seem as if the dancers are living in a different world you can peer into but never enter. It’s amazing I don’t resent them for it.
Speaking of worlds you can peer into but never enter: Kwita Izina was also the site of some serious segregation. There was a big tent to shade the important people, who arrived with fancy invitations in hand; there was free coffee made from the local beans; and after an hour or two, there were pastries to nibble on. The stage faced the tent, and for most of the morning, the performers kept their backs to what constituted the vast majority of the audience—the thousands of Rwandans seated behind the stage, looking on at this display of extravagance.
The two groups were divided by a makeshift fence, rope strung between sticks. This is where me and a few friends from Kigali, not important enough for invitations, went to sit. Our butts didn’t even touch the ground before someone noticed us and led us through the throng, between the ropes, and to the VIP tent. This little trip sparked a near-riot; people packed tightly into each other near that rope, and as we moved through, they started pushing forward. We wound up stepping on people seated in front of us, and nearly crushed by those behind.
Why’d we get led this way? Cuz we’re white.
Seriously. That’s it.
We looked for other white people in that crowd, and saw one, once. (Met him at the bus station later; he was in fact as cool as you would hope a guy who insisted on staying away from the expat pomp would be.)
At some point, things got a little less ridiculous. No one offered the Rwandans any of the banana bread the VIPs got to nibble on, but some dancers did finally turn around and perform to the crowd behind the rope. The huge crowd was quiet, docile even, all day, and didn’t dwindle, so they must’ve gotten something out of it, if only a bit of novelty.
But the tourism bureau might need to adjust its expectations. “You came to Rwanda for this ceremony?” I was asked so hopefully several times.
Um…no.
