Apparently, my public of three (to my favorite Mississippians: holla!) eagerly awaits the next chapter of "An American in Africa: Volume One of a Hoped-For Twenty-Seven Part Series." I'll start off at the most general of levels and then build on specific events for those following along at home. I guarantee that I will miss something. Feel free to edit, add, subtract, divide, and hypothesize as needed.
Wednesday evening:Depart from JFK Int'l. The world's worst game of hackeysack continues for far longer than it should. Patty surreptitiously videotapes a man she's convinced is Mike Bard. The first "Andy question" gets thrown out and rejected by the group at large. We're not ready for anything other than our Ambien and Tylenol PM.
Thursday morning:Arrive in London. After some haggling with international phone lines, yours truly safely navigates Team Mizungu through the Underground to meet BFB, the artist formerly known as James Van Der Beek, in Piccadilly Circus. Or Leicester Square. That was all so long ago. True to their adventuring nature, half of the team gets Subway for lunch. Then it's off to Trafalgar to slide down some giant lions, observe men in spandex, travel down to St. James's Park, eat some Belgian chocolates under a tree, and ask myself: "Is the fact that BFB shook my hand hello indicative of the kind of awkwardness that will be present throughout the rest of this trip?"
Thursday evening:
Settle in next to a professor of theology from a private university in Kenya. Discuss the current state of East African public policy and get an African's outlook on Kagame's leadership and goals for my new favored nation. Be awed by the man's snapshot viewof the gacaca courts: "Forgiveness lets the doer of a deed walk tall once again." Hoping against hope that they can pull it off.
Friday morning:Fall asleep on the floor of the Nairobi airport, where security is perpetually breached. Chinese tourists do their morning exercises in the halls. Everything's in French, English, and Swahili. The air smells like Africa. Take one more flight to Kigali, Rwanda, step off the plane, and think, "Home." Meet the World Relief staff, instantly falling for Sunita. Fidel sits across from me and doesn't speak a word. Settle into Hotel Gorillas and sleep while JFeay, JK, BFB, Racheli and Bill get taken on the World's Longest Walk Ever.
Friday night:Learn that BFB is no slouch when it comes to the guitar. Impromptu praise and worship session; apparently, you're denied entry to Rwanda unless you can sing and dance ("Oh, I feel like dancing..."). The lights go out, as lights tend to do, in Kigali. And the shower has no curtain. Racheli floods the entire room. Andyman is less than impressed with my attempts to bring "Holla!" to the good people of East Africa but gives in anyway.
Saturday:On the road again, heading out to Kibogora. We meet Kayijuka (or, as Bill calls him, "Bazooka Emmanuel"). We stop for gas and get the first taste of what it means to be white in Rwanda: "Mizungu! Mizungu!" Footage shows it takes five seconds for Lara and I to be completely swarmed by people, completely engulfed by bodies. This was definitely the most uncomfortable moment in my stay. As we leave Kigali, I start looking at road signs for places I know from watching too many movies and reading too many books about the genocide. One by one, we pass them all. Gitarama. Butare. Finally, Murambi. A place so beautiful that, if one could choose these things, I would close my eyes for the last time in the shadow of these hills. Beauty made horrific by knowing that 50,000 did so here against their will, a trap sprung in the mountains by evil unleashed. Bones laid out, clothes laid out, still caked in blood. I wonder how the grass grows. The guardian of Murambi survived a shot to the head. He breaks down as he tells his story: "My wife and children are somewhere in these rooms, but I cannot recognize their bodies. I do this to be near them, to do this service for my country, to make sure that this never happens again." I am overcome. I leave the group; I don't know them well enough yet to let them see me cry. Which is more respectful, I wonder -- to weep as I want to, as if I've lost my own, or to walk away with a somber face recognizing the nothing that I or my own beloved country did to intervene? Fifty feet away lies a series of occupied huts. A woman my age comes out of one with her eight-month-old daughter, Isabelli. Whom I hold. She touches my face, and I wonder what it will be like for her, growing up in the shadow of a mountain of broken bone. I wonder how her mother can stand it. Later I will realize that she could move anywhere and not escape it; everyone died somewhere. Every inch of ground cries out for mercy. Every heart here is burdened. We haven't spoken in two months, but the only person I can stand to be near is Bryan. We climb into the back seat of Fidel's Land Rover and leave Murambi. It does not leave us.
Saturday evening:
Leaving paved roads behind, we enter the mountains of Cyangugu and promptly lose our wheel. In darkness, flashlights are retrieved, a guitar case is cracked open, and Andy dubs himself "Worst Leader Ever." Six hours after schedule, we arrive at the Free Methodist complex in Kibogora where we'll be staying. Things happen. Hearts break. Bonds form.
Sunday:Waking up, we are shocked to find that we are situated on the edge of a giant lake, Lake Kivu. The lights we'd seen the night before were fishermen traveling to a small island closer to the Congo. We split up into groups and visit three separate churches. I speak to 1500 people; JFeay will claim later that there were 3,000 in the room. I've never seen such dancing. We are whisked away to meet the pastor and share the typical Rwandan snack: Fanta and crackers.
Monday and Tuesday:Quite possibly my favorite days in Kibogora because we got to know the villagers of Kirambo. After a 7:30 meeting with the hospital staff, we eat a breakfast of fresh papaya and plantain. The coffee in Rwanda is strong and simple. The tea is even better and homegrown. Our cook, Ancionetta, thinks it's funny that I try to speak Kinyarwanda. A twenty-minute drive takes us as far as it is prudent for a car to go, and we walk another 20 minutes along a cliff to our village. Abahezi Caregiver Group is already there, as is Friends Church. Village children who have been running alongside our cars for the last two miles still outpace us as we wheeze our way down the mountain. They do not wear shoes. Everything we do is funny to them. After some confusion, Racheli and I are motioned further down the mountain. Our task? Making clay bricks to build up one of the many widows' houses. JFeay gets some decent footage of the hoe telling me who's boss. The boys do very little other than flirt with the women (apparently). We get the first taste of Lambert in action; armed with nothing but a jerrycan, he gets the masses going. I am in awe at how these people who have so little can give so much. Pie and Jacqueline make my acquaintance, and between French, English, and Kinyarwanda, we have a conversation.
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Okay, that's technically only up to Monday afternoon, but I'm too tired to finish this tonight. Actually, that's not it; I'm too tired, AND I really want to do this trip justice, AND it did confirm that I belong in Rwanda at some point in my young life, AND....
Tomorrow on Dateline JLC: flopping onto fishing docks, spiders whose leg span matches mine, stargazing below the equator, eating potpourri by mistake, more Andy questions, and -- oh, yes -- I suppose someone should mention a certain plane ride, in which our heroine numbly listened as the
object of her affection, long suspected to be dead to all human emotion (sorry, but that's what you get), completely changed his tune.
