Second Monday

Because of the diesel engines, congested roads, and thick, dry dust floating through the air, Kigali has helped me developed a healthy addiction to air pollution. My morning isn’t quite complete without a stiff cup of Rwandan coffee and a haul off an exhaust pipe. I may be gaining some wisdom from my experience, but it’s my lungs that are really aging quickly. And the dust – the red, dry season soil that gives every surface a light coating, also cloaks the rolling hills through the north of Rwanda with a dull haze. Though many of the small roads in the small communities are accessed via red dirt arteries, most of the major thoroughfares are perfectly paved and smooth. It’s a government initiative to outfit even the most remote regions of Rwanda with fiber optic technology that keeps workers armed with pick-axes and shovels in a cloud of dust. The entire road from my district, Nyamirambo, to the hospital in city center, is skirted by the deep crevasses of this project. The motor vehicles have quadrupled in Kigali since 2004. Office towers are unfurling like a fiddle head factory. Corrupt police officers are rewarded with a non-negotiable 5 yr prison term. In this week following “army week” and the 16^th anniversary of Rwanda’s darkest period, the country I see before me, and the country that I’ve read so much about, are like two different beasts. The latter, a true animal of destruction, lumbered into public consciousness carrying out the most efficient and cruel mass killings that this world has ever seen. The former, a being that acknowledges, and forgives, but never forgets. The gacaca courts are just about to wrap up, with the last of the genocidaires being tried, sentenced and ultimately released to live among those whose lives they’ve rendered unrecognizable. Rwanda does this because it has to, because there is no way to function without breaking the cycle of pain. It’s one of the most amazing things that I have ever seen, and could ever fathom. A nation with a Saint’s capacity to forgive. And now they thrive.

So, Ashley, Roger, Roger’s wife, and I employed the services of one Emmanuel the Driver this weekend. We left at 8am Saturday morning, headed to Gisenyi (on Lake Kivu) again, and back to Ruhengeri in the northern province, to sleep at a nice little hotel in Kinigi. On the way we stopped at a banana beer factory that also sells the popular brochette. The beer was a sweet, viscous concoction of 14% alcohol that tasted like old bananas and peanut butter, and left a quiet burn in the pit of your stomach. Ashley and I limited our intake to one, in fear of going blind. Interestingly, the owner employs poorer people from the region, and helps put their children through school. You can see pictures on the wall of him shaking hands with Tony Blair during a ceremony recognizing his contribution to his town. In Kinigi, we met a team of teenaged soccer players in need of a ball pump that evening and hopefully helped them to win their regional championship next weekend. It was really entertaining to talk to the guys, as they’ve clearly been taught a considerable amount of English in school. Enough to make sure that Ashley is not single.

In the AM, once the sun crested the volcanoes, and started to burn off the low lying clouds, teams of interested foreigners were divided to see various groups of mountain gorillas. We were off to see a group called Amaraho, which means peace in Kinyarwandan. This was a group of 17 nestled in the lower slopes of the adjacent mountain. We drove through small agricultural villages, and started to walk when even the most robust of 4x4s dared not pass. About a half kilometer into the jungle trails, we met trackers that found the group from where they were the previous day. We shed our packs, and took our cameras. There’s something strange and still very familiar when you look into the eyes of a wild gorilla…like in a moment they’ll take you by the hand and show you why their way of life is so great. Led by the 200kg silverback, the group plodded through the dense bamboo and eucalyptus stands, and followed for a full hour by 8 humans documenting their daily activities. We all found it incredible. Ashley and I often just exchanged glances, knowing that we were witnessing something amazing.

Following the gorillas, Emmy took us to a Rwandan cultural village – a sort of re-enactment site of a historical Rwandan town. If you’ve ever been to the Citadel, or crap like that, this is not even close. For just 20 dollars, with a personal tour guide, we had the undivided attention of 30 Rwandans giving us a snap shot of their history. The site employed former poachers and hunters, keeping them from having to kill the mountain gorilla to feed their family. Some of the participants were recognizable from tv programs we watched before we came. I became king for the day, Ashley, my queen, and we were treated to exuberant dancers, drummers, blacksmiths, medicine men, warriors, and millers. We gave a hefty tip…and I was not allowed many wives, like the real king.

And at last, we headed home to watch the world cup final in a local watering hole. On the way, we stopped at the same banana beer gathering place for brochettes. Ashley ate a few skewers, but rather suspiciously. Back into the truck, I was talking about tossing ones’ cookies, and Emmy told us that in Rwanda, it’s referred to “calling Higiro”. Like, when you’re about to barf, you make the sound ‘Hig…higg…’. After we found out that the brochettes were made of goat entrails, Ashley found herself getting ready to call ol’ Higgy himself. What a fun weekend. Oh, and Roger’s wife is named Uhlee (oo – lee).