The last time I went to Rwanda,I found a ­ruined and broken country. It was eight years after the monstrous genocide of 1994 in which more than 800,000 of the Tutsi tribe were slaughtered by the ruling Hutus over 100 days,giving it the ugly distinction of being one of the fastest genocides in
history. The international courts were working at a snail’s pace in Tanzania to get through the backlog,and local jails were choked with alleged Hutu killers dressed,for maximum humiliation,in bright pink pyjamas. If prosecutions were to continue at that rate,genocide trials would run on for more than a century. There seemed no clear way forward for this small,land-locked nation in the heart of Africa. So the country’s newish president,Tutsi Paul Kagame,changed the judicial game.

To the distaste of international jurists,Kagame ­reinstated anold community-based justice system known asgacaca. Essentially,they were village trials – gacaca means “grass” – giving local people a chance to speak of their grief,mourn their dead,and confront their ­killers face-to-face. No death penalty,no lawyers,no presumption of innocence;the focus was on ­reconciliation and speed.

I’d gone to Rwanda in 2002 for the ABC’sForeign Correspondent to report on this early model of gacaca,refined over the years to try more than 1.2 million cases in 12,000 “courts” around the country. I still remember the fury with which Kagame,in a one-on-one interview,dismissed my questions about whatever ­happened to due legal process in Rwanda;he drew himself up to his full height (he’s rake-thin and exceedingly tall) and all but spat:“And who areyou to come here from the West and talk to me of justice? Where wereyou during our slaughter?”

Which was,I thought even at the time,a pretty fair cop. The West knew what was happening,had been called on to help,and effectively did nothing – in fact,worse than nothing,because United Nations forces were on standby with a mandate to act but,for reasons too ancient to go into here,chose not to intervene. The commander of those forces,Canada’s General Dallaire,observed later that it was “the fear of Western world ­casualties in a country of no strategic or resource ­importance”. In short,he said,in the world of real­politik,“Rwanda didn’t count”.

I returned to Rwanda a couple of months ago,not as a journalist this time but on a two-week holiday to see its famous mountain gorillas and chimpanzees. I took no notebook;I had no plans to write this or indeed any article. But it’s rare to come back to a country so transformed within a few decades – it feels like a new,young country.

Kagame remains president,and in tight control,but his nation – one of the world’s poorest,with a soaring population of 14.2 million – has moved out of its ­disastrous tribal orbit. You still see the physical ­differences but no one talks about Tutsi or Hutu. “We are all Rwandans now,” they say,both because they are obliged to say it – it’s the law – and they mean it.

Our trip started in Kigali,the country’s capital,at the massive Genocide Memorial:both a beautiful and horrifying place. The remains of about 250,000 victims of the Hutu machetes are interred in its grand,flowering grounds;inside are ­images and news ­reports from the time,winding an inexorable path to the appalling conclusion we all know. Now and then,you’ll hear local visitors wail,or weep,as they confront their nightmares.

Our driver and guide Daniel* was waiting outside,and we asked him the inevitable:what happened to you during the genocide? He was five years old,he said. It was terrible. Then,with great ­dignity,he said he chose not to tell his story because it poisoned his mind to speak of it. I assumed,­because of his heavy build and dark skin,his family was among the many moderate Hutus who tried to protect their Tutsi neighbours,for which they had themselves been slaughtered.

I felt not a little finger but a vestigial lump of gnarled skin. ‘Machete,’ his ­colleague whispered.

By the end of our trip – long drives to the east,north and western border – all would become clear. There is no Rwandan without a story to tell from that time,and our driver,Daniel,would tell his when he was ready. Which wouldn’t be until our 14th,and last,day on the road together.

Rwanda is situated in a tricky neighbourhood,­sharing ­borders with Uganda,Tanzania,Burundi and the Democratic Republic of Congo,with which it is intermittently at war. Forget the “land of a thousand hills”,as the tourism brochures waftily describe it,Rwanda is in fact crazy-steep everywhere,and to reach the ­gorillas means climbing through violently green tropical rainforest country,­escorted by guides carrying machetes and first-aid kits,with rifles slung across their ­shoulders. Access to the chimp­anzees involves equally challenging climbs,plus mud. The animals are ­constantly on the move,so trackers go out each morning to locate the nearest troop – and we booked two visits for each,in case we struck out the first time.

We’d been in Rwanda almost a week by then,staying three nights at each lodge,all owned by a company called Wilderness Safaris,which was founded by bush guides some 40 years ago;it has since been sold to an international philanthropic consortium backed by,among others,Richard Branson and George Lucas. Company policy is to train up and employ local ­people to become guides,trackers and ­ultimately managers. It is also – the bit that surprised me – company practice.

True,it’s still mainly white South Africans behind the manager’s desk at most of the lodges. But pretty much everyone else is Rwandan:the greeters,the gardeners and guards,the waiters and cooks. Work is their way out of poverty,and young people make up three-quarters of the population.

The history is always there,however. Delighted with the food at one lodge,I asked if I could personally congratulate the chef. He came out of the kitchen but ­hesitated when I held out my hand,then reached forward to shake it;I felt not a little finger but a vestigial lump of gnarled skin. “Machete,” his colleague whispered.

It was this constant see-sawing between the sense of the upbeat now and the ugliness and despair I remembered,that kept striking me. The country we moved through is closely farmed and not just clean,it’s cared-for and rubbish-free.Plastic bags were banned in 2008,and are removed if discovered in visitors’ luggage. The first and third Sunday of every month are car-free days,when everyone from the president and cabinet ministers down must participate in monthly community service.

The country also ranks in the top 10 – not in Africa,in the world –on gender equity. You see it,you feel it. I imagine it’s partly because so many men were killed during the genocide;the women had the room and will to step up. Though I didn’t actually connect the dots until my second visit to the gorillas,and got talking to a pair of sparky young women guides in khaki fatigues,their hands gripped around the stock of their rifles. I looked more closely. Their nails were acrylic and immaculately,­intricately manicured;one set bright blue,the other pink with perfect ­diagonals of orange. A trivial detail – they giggled when I jokingly complimented them. But it pointed to their confidence:they knew such a ­display of femininity would not be misjudged. Yes,their nails were magnificent and yes,they would use those guns if needed to ­protect you.

It points to a truth beyond the trivial.Women hold 61 per cent of positions in the Rwandan ­parliament’s lower house and fill half the president’s cabinet;Australian figures are lower on both counts. Though in truth,it is still Kagame who rules Rwanda:a ruthless pragmatist who can be lethal for his political opponents,he was guaranteed the right to remainin the job until 2034 after a referendum to ­extend his term won with a 98 per cent majority.
So which is it,a reformed nation or a well-dressed dictatorship? While the economy stays healthy,people seem prepared to fudge the matter,though human rights groups regularly report serious violations under Kagame,including unlawful detention and arbitrary killings. I wouldn’t doubt that,having witnessed both his charm and ferocity. But I went with a ­traveller’s curious eyes,not a reporter’s mindset this time,so what I saw as we tooled around this tiny,proud country came without agenda.

The roads are bedlam. Giant trucks roar up and down the freeways,honking horns while Rwandans meander along the sides of those roads – farmers heading to market with their animals,children filing into school,women in their best walking to church. It was impossible not to be moved by the sight of this once-broken country so restored since my last visit 20 years ago. All citizens get healthcare cover for $2 a year;we had reason to make an emergency trip to the hospital at the end of our visit and the instant response and care we got was hugely heartening.

We met good people determined to leave their nightmare behind – and the extraordinary thing is how many have. On the last day of our trip,Daniel told us his experience of the genocide. He was five years old – they came for his parents,too – and he pointed to where he had been beaten on his back and scarred by machetes. This burly man furiously wiped away tears as he described months of starvation,­digging through rubbish bins,scavenging desperately for food. His life is very different now,he said;now,it is pretty good.

Rwanda is not a democracy story,it’s a survival story,and its people are among the continent’s great survivors. This is why I wanted to write this article,in salute to the courage and optimism of pretty much everyone we met who’d experienced horror and ­madness and worked hard – still are working hard – through to the other side.

* Name has been changed.

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