Last Day in Rwanda

Finally made it back to Nashville after a 48-hour day.  I'll get to that story next time.  In the meantime, here's the recap of our last day in Rwanda.

Ellen LOVES the Inside Afrika Boutique Hotel.

On Wednesday afternoon, we returned triumphantly to Kigali and the the Inside Afrika Boutique Hotel.  The hotel manager, who was also named Eric and also ridiculously helpful and friendly, saw us getting out of the car.  "You look knackered!" (Footnote 1) he said.  We were knackered, after having spent roughly 20 of the previous 36 hours in a car, and the other 16 at genocide memorials or sleeping on stoneish slabs.  After a couple hours of relaxing, we decided to spend our last night in Kigali at a place we knew we would love-- Heaven.

I think I explained once that Heaven is an American-owned restaurant that is, in the owner's words, "still a labor of love, not yet profit."  The idea behind it was not only to provide high-quality food (a rarity in Kigali--"you wouldn't believe how high people's tolerance for bad food is," Josh also said) but also jobs for Rwandese people (2) and a demonstration of high standards in food preparation and cleanliness.  All of the food served originates locally and thus helps support hundreds of small farmers.  Additionally, there is an art gallery inside and next to the restaurant featuring work from local artisans.  We'll get to that in a second.  

Ellen and I had just sat down and ordered our food when my phone rang.  It was Eric 1, our guide who just wanted to see if he could stop by and say goodbye to us.  I really can't get over how kind everyone we dealt with in Rwanda was.  They aren't overbearing or outwardly gregarious (except Benon), but simply kind.  Of course we invited him to join us, which he did for a few minutes.  It was good to get to give him a hug before we left.

Before dinner, Ellen and I had looked at the art gallery--we always like to look at art while we're on vacation--and we saw a piece that we both loved.  We decided after dinner that we were going to buy it.  We figured we'd have to ship it home, but instead Josh told us that they'd just take it off the frame, roll it up, and we could carry it.  That seemed a little worrisome, but okay.  So a team of two Heaven employees began the task of detaching this canvas from its wood frame, popping out tacks all over the floor.  Meanwhile, another one pulled me aside and said that the artist was a friend of his and had asked that, when the piece sold, he be allowed to talk to the buyer.  "Uh, sure," I said, totally confident that I could pawn this potentially awkward conversation off onto Ellen.

Ellen on the phone with artist Emmanuel Nkungwa.

I was right.  A few minutes later, the same waiter walked back over, cell phone in hand.  "It's him," he said.  "He should talk to my wife," I said, and pointed at Ellen.  "The artist wants to talk to you."  This particular painting, it seems, is very special to the artist (whose name is Emmanuel) though he didn't go into details why.  Though it is not by any means a depressing painting, its figures are somewhat reminiscent of some of the figures at the Kigali Genocide Memorial.  When Ellen mentioned that, Emmanuel seemed impressed at her connection.  I suppose he was satisfied that his piece is going to a good home.

By the time Ellen hung up, the other staff members had rolled up our piece.  So we walked home, feeling a little Renaissancey with our canvas in hand.

I woke up a little nervous on Thursday-- that was the day we were going to visit some Rwandese schools.  This, in itself, is not too nerve-wracking for me, but Benon had hinted that I might be asked to speak to the students, or even teach something.  He was vague and unsure, so I spent some time in the morning thinking about what I would tell the staff at the American Embassy should some sort of horrible international incident occur.  The first school we were going to was Benon's own alma mater, the Kagarama School, so there was a decent chance I would embarrass not only my country but also my new friend.  He said that we would be visiting a class of Senior 6 history students (seniors in high school).

When we arrived, we were greeted by the school's headmaster, who was soft-spoken (3) and pleasant.  The school itself, like all Rwandese schools we drove by, was a series of small barracks-looking buildings.  The headmaster walked us past several buildings until we reached one that was marked "HEG" for History-Economics-Geography.  By the time Rwandese students reach secondary school, they choose a curriculum that is centered around three subjects.  Based on the way the buildings were labeled at the two schools we visited, I would guess that about 80-90% of students choose a science or math route (4) such as BMC (Biology-Math-Chemistry) or PMC (Physics-Math-Chemistry), as encouraged by their president Paul Kagame. (5) 

We were greeted by Mr. Davis, the teacher of the history class we intended to observe, with a familiar mix of suspicion and annoyance.  As a teacher whose class often welcomes observers, I know the feeling.  He said that he was only going over tests, and not doing anything particularly noteworthy.  We pleaded with him that we only wanted to observe and nothing more, and he reluctantly agreed to allow us into his classroom, which was essentially a blank space-- a blackboard on the wall at either end, and 40-50 uniformed students crammed in between.  The students stared at us with the same suspinnoyance that Mr. Davis exuded, and we sat uncomfortably down in the three available chairs spread out among the students.

Mr. Davis's history class

Mr. Davis began going over the test, which was a stunningly analogous to one of my own Western Civ tests.  He talked about how to properly construct an essay-- with an introduction, examples, and a conclusion.  He talked about how the students needed to use their examples to prove an opinion, which could be different for each of them.  His speech was an echo of the refrains I harp on all year with my students.  I can't explain how I felt, exactly-- just... good.

The main question the students had been asked was "Discuss the contributions of East African Long Distance Trade to the people of East Africa."  The ensuing conversation could not have been more fascinating: as the students volunteered their answers, it brought up discussions of European colonialism and imperialism, of the mingling of cultures between Africa and the Middle East, of slavery and the slave trade, of how East African civilization developed in the last three centuries.  Somehow they even began discussing the genocide and what happens when people act without thinking.  I was glued--not only was it a clinic in Socratic teaching, but I got to sit and listen to the African perspective on some of the most difficult issues to deal with in World History. (6)  Plus, Mr. Davis was both intentionally and unintentionally funny-- in explaining the development of Swahili, which has both Bantu and Arabic origins, he noted that "if you give me and an Asian woman a week together, by the end of the week, you can believe that we'll be communicating."  He also had a unique accent in which he ended almost every plural word with a "zee" sound, so his sentences came out like "dey would trayeed de slavuhzee, de skinuhzee, the ive-oree..."  I enjoyed the class thoroughly.

Disappearance of "Matthew," appearance of "Mr. Haber"

As the 10:30 break approached, Benon leaned over to me and said "when it's time for the break, I'll introduce you, and you can answer some questions."  Yikes.  As usual, though, Benon eased any possible tension, introducing Ellen and me to the class with his usual charm and offering the students to ask about schools or life in the USA.  Unsurprisingly, once the ice was broken, they asked great questions-- how classes compare, what I think the value of history is, what students in the US learn about Africa.  One particularly sharp student named Monique targeted Ellen for her questions, asking how she became a primary school teacher.  Most impressive, I think, was that those students sat, engaged and respectful, through about fifteen minutes of their break without squirming or shuffling around.  Not sure my students could've pulled that off.

Ellen and Monique

After we walked out, Ellen struck up a conversation with Monique.  We had brought some small gifts in case we were able to get to a school-- pens and pencils, mainly-- but we weren't sure how to distribute them or to whom.  Ellen offered them to Monique, who immediately told her that she ran an organization to help underprivileged students at the school, and would be glad to give them out.  Karma strikes again.

While Ellen spoke with Monique, I chatted with Mr. Davis.  Our conversation reminded me that teachers around the world all speak the same language-- underpaid, conflicts with colleagues, administrations or curricula, problem students.  The difference, as always, is the scale; Mr. Davis said that many teachers in Rwanda are literally starving because their pay is so low. 

After meeting with the headmaster one more time to exchange contact information, we left to have lunch.  Benon took us to a pizza place where I once again failed at my weeklong quest to clean my plate.  You know that old cliche about how there are starving people in Africa who would LOVE to have that leftover pizza?  Well, it's true, and it's really hard to get out of your mind when you actually see them.  Thankfully, Benon got us off the guilt hook and took our leftovers home. 

The FAWE computer lab

A few hundred souvenirs later, and we were on our way to our second school, the FAWE School for Girls.  FAWE is an organization focused on girls' education in Africa, and the FAWE school is generally considered one of, if not the, best school in Kigali. (7) We were greeted there also by the headmaster, a woman named Jolly who at first seemed a little underwhelmed by our visit.  We sat in her office for a few minutes while she gave forced answers to our increasingly forced questions; she must be the only headmaster in the world who doesn't particularly enjoy talking about her school.  Finally we asked if she wouldn't mind giving us a tour, and she began to open up.  She showed us the school's computer lab, an impressive facility, and the school's chemistry lab.  She also showed us the school's library, which is filled with what appear to be donated American textbooks.  Ellen noted, and Jolly confirmed, their sad paucity of reading-for-pleasure books that would appeal to teenage girls.  The novels they did have tended to be of the Tom Clancy variety-- not the type I see a lot of high school girls toting around at USN. (8) 

FAWE girls have their own lab coats! USN kids would be so jealous.

As the tour ended, Jolly transformed into a totally different person, to the point that she was essentially inviting Ellen and me to bring our students to visit FAWE, and to stay in their dorms there.  We may have to take her up on that someday.

After FAWE, Ellen went ahead and bought the last few souvenirs left in Rwanda, and we went back to the Inside Afrika Boutique Hotel to get our things together.  The hotel's owner, Gisele, brought us some fresh mango juice for the road.  Eric 1 had offered to arrange for our transportation to the airport, which we were glad to accept.  What we didn't realize until right before we left was that he had one of his colleagues, Lucien, give us a FREE ride to the airport.  Then Lucien returned to the airport twenty minutes after dropping us off to give us our precious painting that we had unknowingly left in his car. (9)  Then Benon met us at the airport, just to say goodbye. (10)  It was like every person we encountered was trying to fit in just one more act of kindness before we left.

It's hard to describe the ambiguous feelings I had leaving Rwanda-- the closest analogy I can come up with was the feeling I used to have as a kid on the last day of camp.  Some fluid combination of incredible satisfaction at what I had just experienced and incredible wistfulness about the people and places I was leaving.  Ellen and I almost always leave foreign countries feeling like we want to come back, but usually it's because of some museum that was closed or a sight that was lessened by bad weather.  Mostly, though, I just want to go back to Rwanda to be with the people there again.  That feels like a better reason.

Notes:
(1) Eric 2 spent seven years in London, so he speaks "English."  Knackered means "like you got hit by a lorry."
(2) We've learned that, for some reason, an effort is being made to use the word "Rwandese" instead of "Rwandan."  No explanation yet.
(3) Even more than most, which means that you basically had to be slow dancing cheek-to-cheek to hear him. 
(4) Two schools, maybe 20 buildings, only one with an H on it.
(5) If you've ever watched the State of the Union address, you've probably heard an American president say that we need to devote more educational resources to science and technology.  As a history teacher, this always makes me cringe a little.  But the Rwandese are seriously pursuing what their president asks of them, and they talk about it with great pride.  Incidentally, almost anything you read about Rwanda describes it as a dynamic place progressing rapidly toward prosperity.  Based on what we saw, this is absolutely true-- to call Rwanda a "developing" country is not a euphemism, and it seems to be developing according to a well-thought out plan based on promoting education, infrastructure and foreign investment.  Basically, everywhere we went--but especially in Kigali--there was a visible effort underway toward improving roads and schools.  I'm not a venture capitalist or a diplomat, but I would think that the right way to become a player in world affairs would be to construct better roads and better schools.  Everything else follows from them.
(6) The discussion was, by the way, not at all biased or resentful.  Mr. Davis's students had an admirably nuanced (and totally accurate, based on what I know) understanding of the roles played by Africans, Europeans, and Asians in the development of East Africa.
(7) FAWE is totally devoted to science and technology; no history classes to see there. 
(8) We've already poisoned Rwanda's children with Silly Bands; could Twilight be next?
(9) Karma strikes yet again-- we happened to be waiting in the lobby for Benon, otherwise Lucien never would have found us.  
(10) I have no idea how he got there; he doesn't have a car.

Baboons and Giraffes and Habers. Oh my.

Due to my insightful planning (Footnote 1), our genocide experiences are nicely bookended by some fun, uplifting African adventures.  So almost immediately after returning from Murambi (roughly 5 hours of driving), we tearfully left our home at the Inside Afrika Boutique Hotel in another car headed east toward the Akagera National Park (roughly another 3 hours driving).  We tried to procure Eric's services, but alas, while we were dithering about our plans he booked a sure thing instead.  So he sent a colleague, Alois, instead, and even came over with Alois to ensure that introductions went smoothly.  We love Eric.

I was surprised to see Alois pull up in another Land Cruiser-- Eric had mentioned that for doing a game drive in Akagera, it might be better to use a Safari Jeep.  The only problems with the Safari Jeep, he said, were the heat and the swarming horseflies.  When he and Alois arrived, he explained that he thought Ellen might be happier with a car with horsefly-prevention-closing-windows and air conditioning.  Ellen's subsequent gaze at Eric burned with a love that I will likely never know.

So we were off.  Alois, it turns out, is an awesome (2) youngish mid-20s guy and we enjoyed riding with him. We asked him where we were staying (3) and he said there's only one lodge at the park, so you have to stay there.  This is never a good sign.  Oh well.  As we neared the park, it was getting dark.  Eric had wanted to make sure that we left Kigali around 4 to avoid driving in the dark, and now I understand why.  Driving in Rwanda, in general, is kind of like a game of real life MarioKart-- you drive as fast as you can, weaving in between the 1982 Daihatsu trucks spewing fumes and the goats on leashes, and try not to hit any women carrying 40 pounds of sugar cane on their heads.  This is scary enough in full daylight, but on the winding "dust roads" (as they are called here) at night, it's simply terrifying.  But Alois was a pro, and we arrived at the Akagera Game Lodge no problem.

It turns out that Ellen's fears and mine about the quality of the lodge were totally founded.  It was crap.  Tiny room, bathroom of questionable cleanliness, bed that was hard as a rock, etc; but they mitigated the first impression with a serious-looking document placed cleverly on the desk:

HOW TO BEHAVE AROUND BABOONS

Now they had our attention.  Ellen laughingly read every word, including the last paragraph, which was entitled 

REMAIN CALM

This section was mostly about what to do if a baboon tries to take food from you.  But it did offer one critical piece of advice:

IF YOU DO GET APPROACHED BY A BABOON WHILE CARRYING FOOD, IT IS BETTER TO LET THE BABOON HAVE THE FOOD IF IT TRIES TO TAKE IT FROM YOU, DO NOT TRY TO FIGHT THE BABOON, THIS IS LIKELY TO CAUSE AGGRESSION.

Point taken.  Fighting a baboon is likely to induce baboon aggression.  Check.  While I am now an experienced gorilla tracker, and will willfully violate the 7-meter rule, I will refrain from baboon fighting for the duration of my stay at Akagera Game Lodge.  

 

I thought sunrises like this only happened in cartoons, but it's real.

One mediocre spaghetti dinner later, it was time for bed.  After the worst night of sleep (4) of my life, I beat my 5am wake up call by about 20 minutes, showered (5), got my stuff together, left the room so my wife could get her stuff together without me staring and asking her if there's anything I can do to help every ten seconds, and went to check out breakfast.  On the way, I discovered the real appeal of the Akagera Game Lodge-- its stunning sunrise view.  Worth every toss and turn.

With this sunrise as a backdrop, I asked the waiter if it would be alright if Ellen and I had breakfast on the balcony outside the restaurant.  Since no one in Rwanda has turned down a single request yet, I began to get settled on one of the outdoor tables.  "Ac-tooally," the waiter whisper-said, "it would be bettah if you et insyeed bee coss thee baboons will come tayeek dee food."  Okay then.

Ellen arrived and we sat down to a lovely breakfast of toast with Nutella and peanut butter and fresh fruit.  We chose a table with a view of the sunrise.  As I gently spread my Nutella and Ellen sipped her coffee, our  quiet breakfast was interrupted when a short man in a hotel polo and a jacket went sprinting by the window clutching a wooden club over his head like Elmer Fudd.  Apparently his job was to fight baboons, something I had been expressly warned against.  He almost got one, but the target quickly jumped on the roof and scampered across to a nearby powerline.  I was unimpressed by this baboon's "aggression"-- honestly I think I could've taken him. 

He was totally scared.

Alois arrived, and we were off again to see some wildlife.  We picked up a park ranger named Deyo, whose job it was to point at different paths in the park to direct us to the nearest zebras.  He was good-- we saw some zebras within about 10 minutes.  The drive was going well-- we saw impalas, topi (large antelopes), waterbucks, bushbucks, even warthogs.  I noticed after a while, though, that Ellen looked troubled.  She had to go to the bathroom.  Uh oh.  It was only about 8:30, and the drive was scheduled to go on for at least 5 more hours.  This will become an important theme later.

Eric was so right about the horseflies; they're really awful.  They swarm the car, fly into the car whenever possible, and generally do their best to homestead in my ears.  Approximately forty percent of the wildlife experience in Akagera National Park is cajoling horseflies out of the car by swatting at them until they land on the window then quickly unrolling the window enough to let one horsefly out and no horseflies in.  It's quite an art, and I must say I became pretty adept rather quickly.

It was right after the hippos that Ellen's bladder reached critical mass, and I finally asked her, "at what point does the discomfort in there (pointing at her bladder) outweigh the discomfort out there (indicating the possibility of her peeing outside)?"  "We're close," she said.  

Finally, it got to be too much.  Ellen grabbed the toilet paper we had brought from home (6).  I gave her a quick tutorial on the "Orangutan Hang" method (7) of peeing in the woods, and she jumped out of the car.  At that moment, Ellen overcame a significant life obstacle and peed outside for the first time.  As the poet once said about this great continent, "It's gonna take some time to do the things we never have..."

  

Ellen was thrilled to have this momentous occasion captured for posterity.

After that, the day went swimmingly, highlighted by our time with about 12 giraffes, including 2 babies.  We have a million pictures; here are a few:

Zebra attack!

Alois made it seem like this was normal.  I disagreed.

Ellen hearts giraffes.

Two happy couples.

After the game drive, we happily returned to Kigali and the Inside Afrika Boutique Hotel.  Dinner at Heaven (again) was followed by a good chat with some other American kids doing work on genocide.  

Tomorrow, we plan to visit some schools, do some shopping, and then head to the airport, so this will be our last post from Rwanda.  Ellen just said "I can't believe it, but I don't want to go back yet."  Agreed.  I'll add an epilogue from Nashville in a couple days, but in the meantime, thanks for following along-- it's added so much to our trip to know so many others were sharing it with us.  Until then...

Muramukeho. 

Notes:
(1) Blind luck.
(2) Everyone in Rwanda is awesome.
(3) We have put total blind faith in Eric, and just go, unquestioning, wherever he says.  I'm not kidding when I say that we had no idea where we were staying until we asked Alois. 
(4) Not much of what was done was "sleeping."  Mainly it was "not sleeping due to the enduring dull pain of mattress/stone."
(5) Used one of those handheld shower heads to spray water all over the bathroom, and sometimes my body.
(6) By home, I mean Nashville.  Yes, we brought our own toilet paper.
(7) Just grab a branch and lean back!

Why We're Here: Mayingye, Nyamata, Murambi

FYI: there are some very disturbing images discussed, but not shown.

We chose to come to Rwanda because I wanted to "experience" the genocide; to be able to tell my students that I've been there, that I've seen the sites, smelled the smells, walked on the grass where evil existed.  This journey began at the Kigali Genocide Memorial, a place Ellen explained with more depth and emotion that I could possibly muster.
 

Homes in Mayingye

It continued and peaked on Monday, when Benon arranged for us to visit the village of Mayingye, a so-called imidugudu, or "reconciliation village."  These villages have become symbolic of the entire reconciliation effort since 1994.  In Mayingye, survivors of the genocide live and work alongside perpetrators of the genocide--often the very people who murdered their families--in apparent harmony.  Thanks to Benon and a man named Guma, who works with a Christian Fellowship program to help facilitate the processes of forgiveness among the people, Ellen and I were able to sit down with 4 individuals-- two perpetrators (or should I use the word murderers?) and two survivors.

Me, Janet, her baby Natasha, and Benon

We "interviewed" (that is to say, listened to) Matthias, Innocent, Janet and Frederick individually for about two hours, as they discussed their lives before, during and after the genocide.  We listened to them share with us their fears-- Innocent, who feared for years that perpetrators would come "finish their work" and drank heavily to help himself sleep; Matthias, who feared that he would never be forgiven by God, his victims, or himself.  They shared their incredible stories of reconciliation and how a pastor named Gahigi facilitates meetings between victims and perpetrators.  They shared their common belief that giving and receiving forgiveness has allowed them to move on with their lives, and the jaw-dropping revelation that Janet has no compunction about leaving her baby Natasha alone with the man who murdered her parents, just has he has no compunction about leaving his children with her.  They shared their impassioned concern about the future--mentioned specifically by three of them--that people are denying or could deny that a genocide happened in Rwanda.  And they shared their suggestions for what we should bring back to our students in America: in Innocent's words: "teach love."

I'm fascinated, but generally pretty intellectual about religion; I see its value and, as a history teacher, I've seen the many ways its teachings and implementation can go horribly awry.  But I walked away from that tiny house in Mayingye thinking one thing: if "God's work" exists, then this is it.

Conflict renewed in Rwanda: introducing Silly Bands.

Ellen and I did our best to offer small tokens of appreciation to those with whom we had spoken-- t-shirts and cds for the adults, Silly Bands and candy for the children.  We left Mayingye on a spiritual high, something that I don't know that I had felt before.

The feeling was short-lived.  Just down the road, we were pulled over by the police, who were manning a routine roadblock (these are all over Rwanda).  A large uniformed man with an AK-47 inspected the outside of our car, while another asked us to see our passports.  "This is no problem," Benon said as he handed over his passport.  Thankfully, I happened to have ours on me that day (and every day since) and I handed them over.  The officer smiled at Ellen's distinctly unsmiling terrorist picture, gave me a thumbs up, and handed them back.  It all felt incredibly wrong to have just driven away from the embodiment of post-genocide reconciliation and right into a hallmark of a police state.  My stomach churned.    

We proceeded to a nearby memorial site, Nyamata, which is a converted church.  This is typical: one of the more horrifying realities of this genocide is that hundreds of thousands of Tutsis who sought refuge in Catholic churches (something they had successfully done during conflicts in generations past) were then murdered in the churches, often with the assistance of Catholic clergymen.  This particular memorial at Nyamata is brutal: there are mass graves outside, much like the ones in Kigali, which house over four hundred thousand remains, but inside are thousands and thousands of pieces of victims' clothing, stacked up on the church pews as a stark reminder of the humanity and individuality of those who died.  Even though the memorial was technically closed, a young docent whose entire family was murdered at Nyamata allowed me to walk down the steps into one of the mass graves to see the hundreds of coffins, draped with purple shrouds.  Inside these catacombs, there are also simple wooden shelves holding thousands of skulls and bones, many broken or damaged from the murders.

When we came back up, Benon, whose cheerfulness is generally unflappable, began to speak sorrowfully and angrily about how God could allow something like this to happen and how justice had not been done.  After what we had been through at Mayingye, it was heartbreaking.  We were silent for a while on the ride home.

Ellen and I decided to go to a restaurant called Heaven for dinner-- it is run by some American expats and is pretty much a magnet for white tourists-- we needed to spend some time somewhere that felt a little familiar.  The food was pretty good, and the owner, Josh, talked with us for a while about living in Rwanda.

We got out early on Tuesday because Benon was adamant that we visit another memorial site in Murambi.  "If you want to understand the genocide, you have to visit Murambi" he pleaded.  So we agreed to make the three-hour trek out there.  Along for the ride was a college student introduced to both Benon and us by Dr. Pasick named Jean d'Amour.  He's studying Biology at the University of Butare, which is on the way to Murambi.  His father, a lawyer, was an active resistor during the genocide, but Jean had never been able to speak about that with him until Dr. Pasick interviewed them for Stories for Hope.  It's made a tremendous, palpable impact on his life and his relationship with his father.  Plus, he's just a sweet kid.

Murambi might be the most difficult genocide memorial there is in Rwanda (or anywhere, for that matter).  It used to be a technical school situated on an improperly beautiful hill, which was in the process of being rebuilt when the genocide happened.  When it began, Tutsis were encouraged by the government to assemble there so that they would be safe, and then over fifty thousand of them were murdered with grenades, machine guns, and handheld weapons like machetes.  Now the old buildings of the school house 848 bodies, on display in 24 rooms, treated with lime to keep them from totally decomposing.  Many are still in the positions in which they died: arms up to protect themselves, screaming.  There is one room full of the corpses of dozens of babies and children.  This is the ultimate evidence that what happened in Rwanda was not a civil war, or an evenly-matched ethnic conflict, but a genocide.

Mass graves at Murambi

As someone who studies memorials, I'm still not sure about displays like the ones we saw at Murambi and Nyamata.  While I understand the stated purpose of showing the world the bodies of dead children, I often wonder if it achieves that purpose.  Regardless, I will never, ever forget the smell of those rooms in Murambi.  Benon was right about that-- I have a different understanding of genocide now.  It was particularly moving to be there with Jean, who had never been before and was very emotional.

After Murambi, we had seen enough.  Between those sites and our unforgettable experience at Mayingye, my goal has been achieved.  Thankfully, the rest of our time here has been and will be spent on happier things.  On the ride home, we shared some of our snacks with Benon and Jean.  They both accepted a Nuts n Honey snack bar, which they both ate a piece at a time, and described as "very...sweet."  We're pretty sure they hated them, but courageously finished them anyway.  Everyone in the world, it turns out, likes Goldfish.      

Safari here we come!

Hello from Akagera National Park! Today, we visited the last of the genocide site we will see this trip. We are still taking time to reflect before we post about it here, but you can catch a post on goymeetsboy.blogspot.com to see the beginnings of this process. More to come after seeing zebras and giraffes!

Liberation Day

Happy 4th of July to all of you in the US (and even to those of you viewing this blog from Canadia or Eastern Europe or India-- I've seen your hits!  Take it international!).  Today is Liberation Day in Rwanda, and we were able to observe it in a pretty amazing way.


We spent the afternoon in the small village known as Imidugudo ("Reconciliation Village") where survivors and perpetrators of the genocide live together (sometimes in the same house), work together, and generally just ARE together all the time.  We were able to interview four people-- two survivors, two perpetrators-- for about two hours.  It was mind-blowing, and I need to sort some things out before I write about it.

Anyway, we're celebrating freedom from government tyranny today over here too.  But it feels a little different.

PS- Yes, I know that I'm basically paraphrasing Bill Pullman's speech from Independence Day.  It was a really good speech, and totally applicable here. 

PPS- Ellen and I never have to really share that much (2 bathrooms, 2 TVs, 2 TiVos, etc) and she's been very patient with my hogging  the only computer we have up to this point.  So I'm going to let her blog now.

Ups and Downs

Yesterday was full of both emotional and topographical ups and downs.  We were nervous early on, since it would be our first day without Eric and with our new guide, Benon (rhymes with Lennon).  "You'll love Benon.  Everybody love Benon," Dr. Pasick had told me.  We'll see.  We got up, had our first quick breakfast--thank you Inside Afrika Boutique Hotel for your knowledge of Western Continental Breakfast  Buffets (Footnote 1)--and walked up the street to meet Benon.  We had no idea what he looked like, but assumed that he would recognize us.  We're pretty recognizable around here.

As we walked up the street, we heard a comically Muppetish voice (2) yell, "HABERRRRRRRRRRRRR!" from across the road.  We assumed this was Benon.  I walked over to greet him with my hand extended, which he promptly ignored.  "First we hug, then I shake your hand," he said, and proceeded to fulfill that statement without waiting for my approval.  Then he did the same with Ellen.  We love Benon.  Benon is in his mid-twenties, just finished his undergraduate degree in Business Administration, and  is about to begin his MBA.  He also has lots of American friends (3), seems to really enjoy his work, and is cheaper than I am.  Like I said, we love Benon.

Ellen and her new BFF Chantel

Benon suggested that we walk to the bus stop, then take a bus to Gisozi, the part of town where the Genocide Memorial is.  Sounds good.  About a fifteen minute walk later, we see a large white van.  Benon said something in Kinyarwanda to the driver, who nodded, and we got on the bus.  It was very old and the seats were torn and patched.  Ellen looked terrified.  Since we were the only ones on the bus, though, I figured it wouldn't be that bad.  What I soon found out is that the buses don't leave until they are full (4).  As I took my last gasps of air, and thought "at least I got to see the gorillas before I died" the bus began moving and air began to circulate again.  Not too bad after all.  Ellen even made a friend-- a pretty, well-dressed woman sitting beside her named Chantel who practiced her English.

The bus ride was pretty short--about ten minutes or so-- and we got off at the Museum.  It would be a relatively unassuming place by American standards, but is a large and ornate complex by Rwandan ones, with a small pool and sculpture out front, and lots of green space.  We got wanded by a large security officer with a large gun, whom Benon told I was a teacher.  He smiled-- teachers are well-respected (but underpaid) here.  Sounds sort of familiarish.

The museum is broken up into three main parts: gardens and mass graves outside, a museum floor devoted to the 1994 Tutsi Genocide (5) inside downstairs, and, interestingly, almost an entire floor upstairs devoted to other genocides of the twentieth century-- more on that in a minute.

A mass grave, still with room left.

We retrieved our Audio Guides and began in the outside portion, which consists of three levels of mass graves and several small gardens.  There are Two Hundred and Fifty-Nine Thousand people buried on this site (6), in huge, concrete-covered mass graves.  They are in coffins, but there are typically 8-10 people in each coffin.  All were killed in or around Kigali.  Most are unidentified, though an effort is underway to identify as many as possible, and put their names on a nearby wall.  One of the graves is still "open;" that is to say, they are still finding remains and burying them here.  The opening is covered with glass, so we could see the coffins inside.  It is almost full.  I don't know what happens after that.

Since this is a holiday week (July 1 was Independence Day, in remembrance of the day the Belgians left, and July 4 is Liberation Day, marking the end of the Genocide) there were numerous large bouquets of flowers (7) on the graves, many displaying the words "Never Again" or "Always Remember" in English, French, and Kinyarwanda.  It was incredibly moving.  Ellen asked Benon if he thought it would be okay if we placed some small stones on the graves, and he said he thought it wouldn't be a problem.

We went upstairs first, since there was a large group downstairs.  I was totally surprised and impressed by the amount of floor space (which is in high demand) and energy that has been given to educating the public not just about the events here, but also the genocides in Namibia, Armenia, Germany, Cambodia, and Bosnia.  The museum is truly devoted to educating people about the commonalities among all genocides, which is a relatively new and important approach.  The museum also did an incredible job with a totally trilingual approach-- every exhibit and explanation is in Kinyarwanda first, but with flawless English and French subheadings.

Downstairs is all about Rwanda; early on there is significant blame placed on the German and Belgian occupiers, who implemented their race science and hierarchical cultural system on a people that was seemingly without either beforehand.  Then the next sequence of exhibits was, more or less, informational-- preparations, how the genocide began, the events, etc.  The truly haunting portions came at the end, when we entered several consecutive rooms filled with disturbing artifacts: the first with lighted boxes filled with skulls and bones of victims, the second with victims' clothing on display, the third with photographs of several thousand victims before they were killed.  Even though the first two rooms were more gruesome, they were almost artistic, so they didn't affect me too much.  The photographs were very difficult.

One of the most moving and disturbing memorials I've ever seen was back upstairs-- a room devoted to children who were murdered.  Huge pictures of the children when they were alive were backlit on the wall, and underneath each one was a small glass podium with inscriptions of the child's name, age, favorite foods, best friend's names, last words, etc.  It was gut wrenching.

Ellen and Benon at Starbucks Bourbon Street Cafe.

We walked out of the museum in a sort of daze, and I think it's because of that that we ended up walking all the way back into the center of Kigali to find lunch.  It was about an hour long walk, mostly uphill, and it was pretty brutal, but it felt good to get the fresh air and decompress.  We ate at a coffee shop that is, essentially, the African Starbucks, but we were happy to have something a little comfortable after being uncomfortable all morning.

After lunch we walked around Kigali in search of souvenirs, but a lot of places were closed on Sunday.  So we were happy to head back to hotel to relax before getting some Indian food for dinner. (8)  Then we pretty well crashed.  I'll explain what happened today in the next post.  

Notes:
(1) Our buffet experience in Africa has been that you walk up to the buffet and look at the food in front of you but do not take anything yourself.  Instead, you point at what you want and then the Uniformed Teenage Girl/ Buffet Sentry gets it for you and puts it on your plate.  "Thank you," I say every time, to which UTG/BS replies, every time, "Thank you too."
(2) Half Bert from Sesame Street, half Kermit, African accent.
(3) I know this because he named them all for me.
(4) By "full" I mean "Cirque-du-Soleil full."
(5) That's what Rwandans call the Rwandan Genocide.  They also spell genocide "Jenocide."
(6) That number deserves to be written out.
(7) Interestingly, all the bouquets were covered with netting, which I thought was purely decorative until I saw one off of which the netting had fallen.  It was being harvested by bees.
(8) It's worth noting that we were given fair warning that coming to Rwanda would not be a memorable culinary experience.  We've asked a few people if there is a place to get good Rwandan food, and received the same bewildered "what's wrong with you?" look from all of them.  I'd draw a parallel to England-- just as there's no English cuisine, so to speak--quintessentially English food is the food of the poor--there doesn't seem to be a Rwandan cuisine either.  Or if there were, it would basically be corn, potatos, peas, and bananas in some combination or another.  Not something to really seek out. 

Gorillas II: Ellen's Version

 I admit, I was skeptical about traipsing around an African forest looking for primates. When Matthew proposed the expedition, I was borderline dismissive, but I am now a true convert.  Being face to face with the mountain gorillas was humbling, euphoric, terrifying and hilarious all at the same time.  It was everything Matthew described plus the following crucial details. 

1) The bumpy road. 

And miles to go...

Maybe it was because I was sitting in the back seat, but I kept thinking of a line from Harry Potter when Harry boards the Knight Bus, "It's going to be a bumpy ride!"  said the creepy, little shrunken head.  Bumpy doesn't even come close. We were maybe going between 3 and 10 mph up a steep incline dodging craters and ravines in a cobblestone-esque road.  All along the way were children running up to the car with outstretched hands or hocking crayon pictures of gorillas (we found out were actually drawn by adults) shouting "mzungu!" We were strongly discouraged by Eric to give them anything.  He explained that it encourages the children to drop out of school if they think they can make more money by begging. While the scenery was stunning, bouncing around the cabin like we were popcorn in a microwave made it difficult at times to enjoy it.  My insides felt like a milkshake.  The benefit was that by the time we made it to the beginning of the trail, I was so excited to be out of the car, I didn't have a chance to start dreading the climb straight up the mountain. 

2) Stinging nettles really sting.

ouch!

No joke. Those little buggers hurt!  But it was also a sort of badge of honor to get stuck.  When gazing into the caramel-colored eyes of a gorilla baby, you stop feeling the sting or maybe the sight is even enhanced by it.  You know what you're seeing is real because you are constantly being pinched.  I asked if the gorillas are bothered by them and Francis chuckled, "No, because they eat them!  It's crazy!"  Indeed.








3) 7 Meters

This is me standing exactly 7 meters away from Matthew

This is me about 7 meters from a gorilla

This is one of our group members NOT standing 7 meters from a gorilla

We were so close we could have leaned forward and been on top of them. They appeared so gentle and easy going and fluffy.  When we first saw them, Matthew said, "I just want to hug them!"  It was adorable. 

Do you want to know what is not adorable? Cockroaches. While writing this blog, a GIANT cockroach was running around our hotel room! That is a kind of African wildlife I can certainly live without. Luckily, my hero, Matthew, disposed of it.

Today, we met Benon and toured the Genocide Memorial and Museum.  Benon is a wonderful guide and has a remarkable talent for talking about heavy subjects without getting bogged down in them.  He has a beautiful laugh and a kind smile.  We also finally had a chance to walk around the city and be tourists.  I'm starting to get my bearings here. 

Tomorrow is a holiday.  It is the commemoration of the end of the genocide.  Unfortunately, we will not get to attend the major speeches given at the stadium, but we will go to the Reconciliation Village.  It is poignant timing to go tomorrow and it will be humbling to hear people's stories.  We have a lot to digest from today and will report more in the morning. 

Habers in the Mist!

It's not often that something truly lives up to and exceeds every expectation I could've had, but today was one of those days.  Let's start from the beginning...

We woke up at 5 this morning, which (despite all real world time changes) is WAY earlier in Africa than it is in the US.  It hurt.  But we dragged ourselves out of bed and got into our hiking gear-- boots, non-cotton clothes, etc., right down to the gardening gloves we brought from home for reasons we still didn't quite understand.  We went to breakfast, and again Kamalisa (spelled right this time) was there to greet us.  It turns out she is an orphan, and lives at a nearby orphanage when she isn't working at the Home Inn in Musanze.  She served us omelettes, toast, coffee, fruit, and hot chocolate.  We feel better now.

Eric arrived promptly at 6:30, and we rode off to the Parc office.  This, it turns out, is the staging ground, where all gorilla trekking tourists and their guides meet up.  The tourists are lured away with free coffee, tea and incredible photo ops of the volcanoes while the guides use some sort of secret bartering process to divvy up their tourists into small groups of no more than eight, which is the maximum number allowed by the park to visit any gorilla group at a time.  (There are eight groups of Mountain gorillas that are available to be visited by tourists, and the park trackers keep tabs on them daily.)  Our group consisted of 4 couples: ourselves, another American couple about our age from NY named Alene and Jonathan (woot Aileen and John!), a Spanish couple in their 40s, I would guess, and a worrisome Austrian couple that appeared to be in their late 60s or early 70s.  Now, I try to avoid ageism, but these people with whom we were literally about to climb a mountain looked well older than our parents, and my mother nearly died on every family vacation we ever took.  But Ellen and I tried to remain positive, acknowledging that they were from Austria, where the Hills continue to be Alive, even while the people near their demise.

At this small group pow wow we also met our guide, Francis, a soft-spoken (everyone in Rwanda is soft-spoken, btw) and matter-of-fact man in an all-green uniform who explained the family lineage and organization of the gorilla group we would be visiting (literally).  Our group was called Umubano, and it consists of twelve gorillas--one Silverback named Charles (they all have names), several mature females, a few blackbacks (immature males) and two babies.  Francis also explained that we were to do our best to maintain a distance of at least 7 meters from the gorillas at all time.  This is for our safety.

After the meeting broke, we got back in the car and Eric drove us up the bumpiest road ever constructed to the base of the volcano.  It's hard to maintain your Prince William poise while waving to running/screaming children as you simultaneously try to avoid both hitting your head on the ceiling of your Land Cruiser and vomiting.  But, like a stoic Royal, I held both my nose up and my breakfast down.  Those Brits don't get enough credit.

On the way, Eric explained that there are porters waiting at the bottom of the trail to help us with our packs if we want.  I listened skeptically.  We had done a good job bringing only the necessities-- thanks to my experience on 5 consecutive USN sophomore retreats, I'm pretty much a hiking expert now-- so my pack was light and I didn't anticipate needing any hired help.  Eric explained that many of the porters are actually people who formerly made their living poaching, and so the government encourages tourists to help these men earn an honest day's wage.  "Yeah, but I've hiked Cold Mountain like 3 times" I told myself.  I was pretty sure I could do this without a porter.  "They also help with the hiking," Eric said.  Whatever.

When we arrived at the base of the mountain, we got out of the car and Eric asked if we wanted one porter or two.  Classic alternate close!  Salesmanship at its best.  I succumbed, and we hired one porter-- a young, toothy short guy named Bonzo.  Seriously.  I handed my North Face backpack to Bonzo, and we were off.  The trail to the base of the mountain was about half a mile through flat farmland, and Aging Austrian Husband was already panting.  Uh oh.  Das is no gutt.


We reached the base of the volcano, and Francis introduced some of the other trackers, including a man whom he probably introduced but I couldn't hear because I was staring at the assault rifle he was carrying.  The assault rifle, he explained, was to scare away any animals that might want to charge us-- it turns out that there are also mountain elephants and mountain buffalo that are particularly dangerous.  Wow.  Francis also mentioned that the trail is lined with Stinging Nettles.  "You will probably get to experience them," he finished.

And we were off.  The hike in was no joke-- essentially straight up the mountain.  Almost immediately, Bonzo's true value became apparent.  His job was not just to carry my North Face backpack (along with a machete, btw, which provides a simultaneously humorous and haunting visual), but also to literally DRAG my wife up a volcano.  WORTH EVERY PENNY of that roughly ten bucks I paid him.  In fact, I've hired Bonzo to return to Nashville with us, and will gladly pay him 5000 Rwandan Francs daily to push, pull, and yank Ellen in whatever direction is necessary.  We made great time, despite "experiencing" the stinging nettles often. 

About an hour into the uphill climb, we ran into other official trackers.  This meant that gorillas were nearby!  We left our pack with Bonzo and began to walk quietly up the trail.  As we turned a corner, I heard some brush rattle and looked up.  There, sitting on a ridge about 10 feet away, was the back of a huge gorilla.  "Ellen," I whispered.  "There's a gorilla right there."

Now Ellen and I are both direction-followers.  So we immediately moved away in obedient attempts to maintain the official 7 meters.  That's when one of the trackers-- a smiley man named Anton-- basically grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me down the trail.  There were two more just in front of us.  Just like that, our whole group was essentially surrounded by three gorillas.  I heard a terrifying low, rumbly growl.  I turned around and realized that it was the trackers, making gorilla-esque noises that supposedly let the real gorillas know that everything was okay.

It's hard to describe the next hour-- we just, sort of, hung out with gorillas.  We would move around a few feet here and there, and the gorillas would occasionally get up and move around (or, more often, roll around).  Then the trackers would hack their way with machetes to another spot where there were other gorillas, and then we would move over there.  We watched them lay around, scratch their stomachs, groom themselves and each other, play with their babies (I'm not prone to hyperbole, but it was the cutest thing ever), eat leaves, and just generally gorilla about.  It was magical, and I don't believe there was a single time when I was more than seven meters from a gorilla.  Most of the time we were about 8-10 feet away, encouraged by the trackers when it was okay, and pulled aside when it wasn't.  It was alternately serene, magical, terrifying, funny, and invigorating.  The only noises were the growls of the trackers, the occasional growls and squeals of the gorillas themselves, and the clicks of cameras.  Everyone in the group was totally high.          

This lasted, as I said, for about an hour, and was amazing.  The only small disappointment was that we hadn't yet seen the Silverback, the leader of the group and the largest male.  Francis began the process of letting us down gently, saying that the Silverback was nearby under some bushes, and probably wouldn't come out for us to see. We would try to find a way around, he said, but we may have to turn back if we can't get near enough to him.  Anton seemed determined, though, and began hacking away at some brush with his machete.  Francis was visibly annoyed and nervous, but Anton kept hacking away, and began growling and shaking the bushes.  Then the Silverback emerged-- he was astonishingly large, easily twice the size of some of the other gorillas (Francis said that he weighed about 200 kg-- 400+ lbs.).  He came out, sat on his haunches about 10 feet away, looked around at us for a minute or so, and then went back to his hangout.  It was exhilarating. 

At that point we turned back.  The descent was significantly easier and faster than the ascent, especially since we basically skied down in the slick soil.  I slipped about 8 times.  Thanks to Bonzo, I don't think Ellen fell at all, and thanks to their porters, Aging Austrian Couple did just fine.  Remarkable.

After we left, we cleaned up at the Home Inn, checked out and made the 2 hour drive back to Kigali.  Eric found us a new hotel-- a fabulous, brand new (just opened 2 weeks ago) B&B called the Inside Afrika Boutique Hotel.  So, no more Gorillas Hotel for us-- we've moved up in the world.

It was an incredible day.  Ellen and I started thinking about the "coolest things we've ever done" list, and this is right at the top.  I know you've probably only read this far in the hope of seeing some pictures, so a few are below.  Don't worry, we have about 9000 more (it's incredibly hard to stop taking pictures of gorillas-- imagine standing next to the Grand Canyon and then multiply it by the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty) and a few dozen Animal Planet flip videos too.  Here are some pictures that will hopefully give you a sense of how close we were. 

Tomorrow we begin our genocide tour-- should be a slightly different tone.
 

Yeah-- that gorilla is RIGHT THERE.

Turns out gorillas scratch themselves a lot.

Below us is a mother, her juvenile, and her baby.

Charles, the Silverback.

Umuzungu!

That is what we are.  Umuzungus. (I think that's how you spell it.)  More on that in a minute.

Last night was pretty rough, sleepwise.  We were both totally exhausted from 20+ hours of travel--that is, until we went to bed.  Ellen drugged herself into a coma while I stared at the ceiling waiting for that 20+ hours of travel to catch up with me, which it finally did at about 3:30am (right before Steven texted me-- thanks dude).  So when our 7am alarm went off, we decided to make it an 8am day.  That helped a little bit. 

Just a small part of an "American" Breakfast

We were scheduled to meet Eric at 10am, and we got downstairs around 9.  Today, it turns out, is Rwandan Independence Day, so many businesses and restaurants are closed.  So we went to the restaurant at the Gorillas Hotel and enjoyed an "American Breakfast" consisting of croissants, porridge, omelettes, fresh fruit, tea, juice and hot chocolate. We will have to get used to the pace of meals here-- we've eaten two, and combined, they've taken about 7 hours.  Luckily, I'm genetically predisposed to this style of eating--thank you, Kolker side--but it's an unexpected part of life here.

Ellen and Eric

Eric was right on time, of course, so we began the day with a drive through Kigali, which was absolutely swarming with people.  The majority of people here do not have cars or motorcycles, so they walk everywhere.  Rwanda is the "Land of a Thousand Hills" though, so walking here is a more daunting prospect than in most American cities.  Imagine San Francisco without streetcars and with people carrying huge baskets on their heads.  I've already been shamed (in my mind, anyway) by the dozens of eight year olds I've seen traipsing effortlessly around with packages that must weigh 30-40 lbs balanced perfectly on their noggins.  It's remarkable.

After the short tour (we'll have more time to explore Kigali later) we began the drive to Musanze, which is about 90km away.  The scenery is stunningly green, brown and orange; much of it reminds me of the mountains and canyons outside LA, but every inch of it is cultivated, with terraces where necessary.  Even outside the city, there are people everywhere walking alongside ("alongside" is a relative term-- "in the middle of" is probably more accurate) the road to the markets.  Most noticeable are the children; Rwandans, it seems, give their children significantly more freedom than we do, and they love waving to our jeep as we drive by or running up to it when we stop. My arm is tired from waving back--I feel a bit like a combination of Prince William and Justin Bieber, except with a disappointing lack of Pippa and swooping gorgeous bangs to my name.  "Umuzungu!  Umuzungu!" they yell at us, which Eric tells us is equivalent to them yelling "White people!  White people!"  This is not derogatory, he assures us-- umuzungu is associated with wealth and prestige.  So just owning a car or finishing a degree might make you umuzungu.  Regardless, it's a little weird to hear.  As if we needed reminding of our privilege here.

At least it stayed hot.

We arrived in Musanze and had lunch at our hotel, which was relatively uneventful except for two things: (1) when Ellen got served tea in a giant thermos and (2) when Ellen was trying to talk her way out of eating some incredibly overcooked chicken by saying that it was difficult to eat with a knife and fork, and our incredibly helpful waitress, Kamalisa, suggested that she simply wash her hands at the conveniently located sink and go to town.  By "conveniently located," I mean right next to the table.

Soooo convenient.

Eric then suggested that we go take a look at a place called Twin Lakes, which are right next to the Volcanoes National Park (where we'll be gorilla tracking tomorrow morning).  Having no other urgent plans in Musanze, this sounded good to us, so off we went.  He drove us to a place called the Virungas Lodge, which apparently goes for about $800-$1000/night, but since he's friendly with the staff there, we got to walk around.  It  was a very cool place with spectacular views-- on one side you can see the Twin Lakes, Bulera and Ruhondo, which are only separated by a small strip of land, while on the other side you can see several of the Volcanoes that give the PNV its name.  He wanted to get us there right at about 4pm, because that's when some of the local schoolchildren show up to sing for the tourists.  As teachers ourselves with no compunction about the humiliation of schoolchildren for our amusement, we enjoyed this immensely.  The kids did a rendition of the Rwandan national anthem, and then were eager to test their English on us.  "Hello.  My name is Janni.  What is your name?  It is nice to meet you."  It was, in a word, adorable.  Ellen even met a kindred spirit named Jacquelyn who was--I kid you not--knitting a tiny scarf on two little twigs while she sang.

If you look carefully, you can see the tiny scarf taking shape in the hand of the second girl to the left of Ellen.  Oh, and the Twin Lakes are back there too.

See!  Urn.

The highlight of our stroll around the Virungas Lodge was not the spectacular views or the singing children (ok, maybe it was the spectacular views and the singing children, but hear me out) but rather the most interesting Port-o-Potty I've ever been privy to, because it required both skill and strength to use properly. It came with posted instructions.  You see, the toilet "bowl" had TWO HOLES at the bottom-- one for number 1, one for number 2.  I was specifically requested not to get any of my number 1 in hole number 2, or any of my number 2 in hole number 1.  That would compromise the system.  After properly dispensing my numbers 1 and 2 in their corresponding depositories, I was asked (this was step 5 on the instructions, I believe) to take several small shovels full of volcanic ash from the giant urn (did I mention that, right next to the toilet seat, there was a giant urn of volanic ash?) and bury my number 2, while delivering its last rites.  I made up the part about last rites, but everything else was true.  I would say this poop interment ceremony was the most mentally and physically challenging part of the trip thus far.  But we don't track gorillas until tomorrow... 

Arrival

Greetings from Kigali!  After approximately 900 hours on a plane, Ellen and I arrived safely at Kigali International Airport, which is more like downtown self-pay parking lot for planes.  I hope flight crew remembered to leave the ticket on the dash.  Things I know now that I did not know before flying to Rwanda:

• On Brussels Airlines, they give you an ice cream bar in between meals.  For real. Vanilla and caramel ice cream dipped in chocolate and coated in peanuts.   
• People on their way to Africa shop the crap out of the duty free cart.  Every other time I've seen flight attendants roll down the aisle with the duty free cart, the passengers shift their eyes guiltily/annoyedly downward as if she were a panhandling gypsy.  Not the case on Brussels Airlines-- people were lined up in the aisle (literally) to buy chocolate bars, liquor, and perfume like you wouldn't believe.  It's as if everyone on the plane simultaneously realized they forgot to bring something back for their boss that they don't really like all that much.
• The absolute very last thing you want to do after you get off an eight-hour flight is run to board a plane for another eight-hour flight. 

I think Ellen would enjoy jungle life.

All things considered, though, the trip went very smoothly.  It did take almost an hour for our bags to come off the plane, but no one else seemed too concerned, so we weren't either.  Our first strange occurrence came when we grabbed one of Ellen's bags off the conveyor belt, and she noticed that it had been marked with the number 30 in white chalk on top.  I will now open the floor for submissions as to what this means.  I hope it's not Kinyarwanda for "the bearer of this bag is now marked for gorilla sacrifice."  That would seem like a stretch, but just in case, I would like to put it on the internet record that the bag is filled with ELLEN'S STUFF.

Our room in the Gorillas Hotel.

Happily, one of our guides, Eric, was waiting for us when we emerged from the airport.  Also happily, he drives a white Land Cruiser, so we will be traveling around Rwanda in style while we're with him.  He's extremely smiley and friendly, and we like him already.  He helped us get settled in the Gorillas Hotel (not the kind Ellen will be living in after she's handed over to the gorillas, but a real hotel in Kigali) which is perfectly adequate for our needs.  Not "nice," per se, but neat and clean and, most importantly, Wi-Fi capable.

Tonight we're just going to crash and try to get acclimated to GMT+2 and the altitude of the Land of a Thousand Hills.  Tomorrow, Eric will pick us up at 10 and we'll head to Musanze, the closest town to the Parc National des Volcans, where Ellen's future adoptive family lives.  Until then...