If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it……

……does it make a sound? While we may ponder this philosophical enigma for the rest of eternity, one thing is for sure – the tree that was felled in front of my apartment got my full attention. All sixty or so feet of the thirty-five year old Eucalyptus came crashing down yesterday.

While Rwandans have made considerable progress in most areas that require some calculations and technical prowess, the crew who undertook the tree felling in Shyira have a ways to go. For one, it took them an unbelievably long time to cut the thing down – that’s how things go when you have two men with two very dull axes hacking away at a tree with wood that resembles lead in its density. Secondly, and perhaps most tellingly, the tree fell in the exact opposite direction it was supposed to. The crew even cut down a neighboring cypress in preparation for the Eucalyptus falling in a southerly direction. Of course, once the final blow was struck……..lo and behold the tree fell……….directly to the north. Luckily……and very luckily as there were around 100 of the local orphans packing the road for a good look at the action, no one was caught in the lumbering behemoth’s path. The only casualty was the avocado tree sitting outside of my front window. No more guacamole then.

A video of all the action will follow once I have some horsepower behind this anemic internet connection.

The Lake Como of Eastern Africa

……well, sort of, if you could picture Lake Como surrounded by mountains filled with banana and plantain trees (and revel in the absence of obnoxious British tourists clogging the surrounding, immaculately clean streets). So actually, Lac Kivu might be better than Lake Como.

If the tourism board in Rwanda isn’t promoting Lac Kivu as a luxurious destination, they ought to be. Everything is pristine and the numerous, though not omnipresent, hotels sitting beside the lake are European in their execution and attention to detail. The beaches had plenty of people, mostly local Rwandans, on them but were by no means crowded. And the ambient and water temperatures were perfect, about 70 and 60 degrees, respectively (here, the volcano is a welcome presence as the geothermal activity heats the lake to some extent).

So we lounged on the beach and swam for a couple of hours, relishing the clean air and pristine views. It was a pleasant, if not opulent end to the weekend. Ridiculous umuzungu shot to follow.

National Lampoons: Goma Vacation

After two hours worth of delays (only a little more than the African norm), we finally made it down the mountain and caught a bus headed to the border town of Gisenyi where we would cross over into Goma.

With $35 paid and our Congolese visa in hand, we crossed over and were barraged with salesmen (and saleschildren) peddling everything from knockoff Rolexes, to the newest pair of Air Jordans. We insisted, in the clearest French we could muster, that we were not only significantly underfunded for such merchandise, but also we were far too fashionably reserved and unstylish for such accoutrement. We haggled with some cabbies (really just a guy with a running car and some extra seats) and finally made our way into “downtown” Goma.

Goma….although it’s only across the border from Gisenyi, it might as well be a world away in terms of atmosphere. To really visualize the setting, you must first begin with a typical sub-Saharan African city (most thoroughfares are paved, all of the side streets are dirt [and in this case dirt with pot marked volcanic rock and dust]), then account for the refugee crises that the city absorbed during the genocide in Rwanda and more recently the first and second Congolese wars for independence, and finally take into account that looming volcano in the distance (still very active – a hazy sulfuric smoke can be seen during daylight with an eerie, almost Hellish orange glow dominating the view of the summit at nighttime). Add about 1 million people, all jockeying for position on those awful roads, mostly on motos, but many others in pimped-out Mitsubishi Pajeros or UN/Redcross liveried Toyota Land Cruisers (all, for that matter, right hand drive even though you drive on the, once again, French influenced right side of the road) and you will have a complete picture of Goma City. All in all, not a perfect (but not imperfect as we would learn) place to be.

So how are such glaring imperfections (by western standards, to be fair), to be overlooked? Simply put, the people. The Congolese, in contrast to the more reserved, stoic Rwandans they share their border with, are a personable, rowdy, bunch. We were lucky enough to be traveling with a Congolese (and native Goman) doctor working in Shyira who showed us a fabulous time. His aunt and uncle and cousins were nice enough to open up their home to us and provided a jam-packed itinerary that kept us on the move. Some of the highlights included visiting the Goma Nord Hospital, the Heal Africa Hospital (where we were entertained for two hours by a group of local artists and children who were patients in a behavioral rehabilitation program specializing in childhood mental and emotional trauma), hooping it up in the mornings with some of Dr. Barnabe’s old basketball teammates, and a trip out to the countryside. And after two days of nonstop action, we even made it out Friday night for some World Cup action and dancing (both enhanced by THE Congolese dark beer, Turbo King). So all in all, Goma was worth the trip. It was a cultural learning experience for sure – and really made everyone appreciate just how orderly (and ordered, for that matter) Rwanda really is. The real treat, however, would come Sunday, on our way back, with a stop and swim in the beautiful Lac Kivu.

Football Fever

You can’t really say you’ve watched World Cup soccer until you’ve watched World Cup soccer in an African country. Actually, to be more precise, you haven’t watched World Cup soccer until you’ve watched it in a small African (Rwandan in this case) village on top of a mountain with three-hundred others, all crammed into a small school hall.

We showed up 20 minutes into the U.S. – England game. As soon as everyone saw 4 umuzungus walk in, they quickly started applauding and cleared out a space right in front of the T.V. for us (the T.V., by the way, was a 30 inch unit hooked up to the generator – just picture the scene for a moment – over 300 people crammed into a room watching a 30 inch T.V. Such a scene makes our obsession with big screen televisions seem ridiculous). It was 1 – nill England when we arrived. After a fluke on the part of England’s goalie, the U.S. tied the game and we, along with the crowd, went into a frenzy. U.S.A. chants rang out through the crowded, sweaty school hall. There wasn’t another place I’d have rather been then. This is how football is supposed to be watched.

Pictures to come. Until then, this article is worth digesting (I've only seen two patients in the past 3 weeks without the mutuelle):

www.nytimes.com/2010/06/15/health/policy/15rwanda.html?emc=eta1

4 A.M. Comes Early….

….but was worth all the effort to see the gorillas at Virunga National Park. As we sat sipping coffee before departing, everyone sort of sizing each other up to gauge what group would be the best to join, it sort of started to sink in what the morning ahead of me would hold.

First and foremost it would entail hiking for an hour up a volcano. No complaints here though as the previous day’s hike had me prepared (at least mentally). Once we reached the edge of the park (it was nice to see the surrounding countryside filled with terraced plots [hillside erosion is a huge problem here] of sweet potatoes and beets), the group stopped for a break and had our last chance for a food and bathroom break. It’s interesting, we were told to keep a 4 meter distance between ourselves and the gorillas, though, not only for our safety but for theirs as well (they’re susceptible, probably more so, to all the common human ailments and, should one contract something like a cold, it could devastate the entire group in a matter of days). After a short hike through some jungle (three weeks in Africa and I finally discovered what that was like), we finally came upon one of the mother gorillas with a child on her back. So the fun began.

We were allowed an hour with the group of gorillas – three male silverbacks (the patrons of the families, if you will), around ten females and males, and five or six adolescents. Thirty gorillas is a lot….especially when bombarded by a group of ten curious, and at times, idiotic, members of the higher mammalian order. But there were only a few close calls. One of the silverbacks leapt out of the bamboo brush and sideswiped a few of us. Such encounters were enough to convince me that the one hour was plenty.

Oh, and speaking of Virunga National Park, Rwanda has done, and is doing, an incredible job with their conservation efforts. Friedman’s recent article reminded me why we should follow their lead:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/13/opinion/13friedman.html?src=me&ref=homepage

I’m Out of Shape

I was pumped for the afternoon hike. At the last minute I decided to join Joseph and Logan for the hike to Epimaque’s house. We were to meet his parents and some of his extended family. Oh yeah, and I thought I was in shape. Ha.

The first signs of trouble came when I took note of Epimaque’s pace. The kid was running up the mountain, leaping from one rutted out side of the goat path to the other. He makes this hike home at least twice a month. This one would be my first and last.

You know how some old-timers used to claim they had to walk to school every morning and it was uphill both ways? Well, I was always skeptical…and always thought it didn’t sound that bad. Karma caught up with me the other day and unleashed her fury. Yeah, it’s bad. It’s bad on your knees, shins, quads, and self-esteem. It’s no wonder heart disease is all but unheard of in this country. Women abound carry 20 gallon used cooking oil containers full of water on their heads twice a day….up the sheer side of a cliff….and then eat around 1000 calories worth of beans and rice. I will never complain again.

We (I) did make it though. And there was a hot lunch of beans and cassava bread awaiting us. It was heaven….beautiful views and kind, hospitable people eager to cater to our blisters and aching lungs. And it was completely worth it. Much like everything has been lately….it may not easy, but in the end I wouldn’t think twice.

Vunga Market (6/2/2010)

Today began with a treck down Shyira Hill to Vunga where the bi-weekly market day is held. Along with a list of groceries to purchase, Will and I, with the help of Epimaque, had our sights set on having a shirt made.

After picking up a few avocados, tree tomatoes, and pineapples, we browsed the crowded Vunga market, followed closely by a hoard of children, and made our way over to the textile section. The selection couldn’t have been more varied – both Will and I settled on decidedly colorful and loud patterns for our shirts. 5000 Rwandan Francs later, and pattern in hand, Epimaque lead us about a mile out of town to the seamstresses’ house.

All the while we were followed by the ever-growing crowd of curious children…That’s the one thing that’s taken some getting used to – children everywhere. As they trail you, you can’t help but feel special for a moment. Then it sets in that you’re just another crazy umuzungu out of his element. Oh well, we got some stylish threads. The final product is pictured above.

A Morning with President Kagame

We almost decided against the hour-and-a-half moto ride down to the Kwita Izina festival this morning (baby gorillas receive their names at Kwita Izina every year). Luckily, our sense of adventure got the better of us.

Only in Rwanda can an outsider, a foreigner - a umuzungu - shake hands with the president. So that’s exactly what I did. Oh, and I took a picture as well.

Humans Have Eye Lashes for a Reason…

…the principle function of which is to shield the eyes from dirt, debris, and, well, bugs zooming by at 40 miles per hour. Ask me how I know this – a long moto ride from Ruhengeri back up the mountain to Shyira. So here are a few rules to moto rides in Rwanda.

1. For those who don’t know, motos are the Rwandan equivalent of a taxi. Except they’re more like Vespas with a three speed transmission and a long-travel suspension. Pick your driver carefully. Your life is in his hands.
2. Umuzungu prices run around 1000 Rwandan Francs more. Shop around. You’ll likely get a discount the moment you threaten to seek another ride.
3. Make sure you get a helmet with the clear plastic face shield. Otherwise you’ll learn what eyelashes are for the hard way…like I did…and you’ll have your day’s worth of protein while you’re at it.
4. Motos have two speeds – full throttle and stall. You’re likely to encounter both.
5. Be ready to leap off the back at a moment’s notice. The aforementioned “stall” speed requires the passenger (you), to leap frog off the back and help push the moto and its demented driver out of the muddy rut (of which you will encounter many).

On the Mountain

Shyira, Day 1

I awoke this morning to one of the most beautiful sights I have ever laid eyes on. As I ate my breakfast of fruit salad – bananas, passion fruit, and pineapple – and sipped from a cup of strong Rwandan coffee, the scene out of my front window was in constant motion. The mist rolled through the valleys as the sun occasionally penetrated the deep purple clouds that hung above. Sleeping the morning away here is an impossible feat – not only because of the views to be had but also because of the crowing roosters and songs from passing school children. What a start to my first day on Shyira hill.

Any tranquility that characterized the beginning of the morning soon came to an abrupt halt as I made my way down the hill to Le Hospital Shyira. It would be sink or swim today. After the morning staff meeting – a mélange of languages, Kinyarwanda, French, very little English – I worked with my roommate Logan Mauney and our irreplaceable translator and friend, Epimaque, in triage. After taking and recording the vitals of the newest patients in the clinic, I accompanied Louise on her morning rounds. We saw cases ranging from the more common maladies of malaria and kwashiorkor among infants, to an interesting case of Pott’s Disease in a middle aged woman.

Kigali, Day 2

This morning I met up with my new friends John and Tristan Miller to go see the Genocide Memorial. We all three hopped on motos and headed through the hills across Kigali as the memorial is somewhat removed from the random hustle and bustle that characterizes Kigali City Center in general.

Nothing I had heard or read about the 1994’s genocide had prepared me for what I would see this morning. The two-hour experience at the memorial and museum was the most moving and thought provoking experience I have ever had. As all three of us sat in the shade after walking amongst a burial ground containing over a quarter of a million Rwandan victims, three women staggered out of the museum’s building, eyes filled with tears, utterly inconsolable. There wasn’t a dry eye between us – the three umuzungu still there. I think it was at this moment that we all realized the legacy this unspeakable act had left – even sixteen years later, many Rwandans still struggle to understand and cope with the killings – neighbor against neighbor, priest against congregation. The country and its people have made a remarkable recovery, but there is still much work to be done.

Speaking of work, Tristan, the aforementioned Aussie from the earlier post, is currently embarking on a project to raise money for charity. Check out the marathoning madman here:

http://runlikecrazy.com/

Kigali Morning

Barbed Beauty

The view from James' porch.

Just a few pictures from an early morning stroll.

Dispatch from Kigali - Day 1

Sam's garden and the surrounding hills.

They say honesty is the best policy. Well, I'm a firm believer in that axiom. So, honestly, I could not have asked or imagined for a better introduction to Rwanda. Simply put, the last 24 hours have been amazing, beyond my wildest dreams, and surreal.

My flight from Brussels, though delayed due to a few individuals who had to be forcibly removed from the plane, eventually made it to Kigali (I've been told an hour delay is lucky these days). I was greeted at the gate by a billboard that proclaimed, "August 9 an important date to put in your dairy!" Semantics and spelling aside, a pretty welcome reminder of Rwanda's second free election this coming August. I shared a chuckle with the Dutch nationalist waiting beside me in line. Little did I know what the coming evening held in store for me.

Thus far, I owe all of my stories to the brothers Dargan, James and Sam. They have been gracious hosts and, for some country fellas from my hometown of Florence, South Carolina, I'll say they're doing pretty well for themselves. After James picked me up from the airport we went straight to Sam's for what I was told would be a little cocktail party. Little it wasn't. Cocktails there were...

...cocktails and a wonderful dinner and beautiful, interesting people. What an introduction! As the evening turned into the early morning and the conversation strayed from casual introductions to intimate stories, the mood was poised for perfection. But I'll leave it there for the evening. Anticipation is the best part of the story after all. My last Primus (THE Rwandan beer, fyi) of the evening calls and tomorrow's a full day. Tomorrow, more to come from Kigali and the stories of a globe-trotting, marathon running Aussie. Cheers.

Still here....

Alas, my journey to Rwanda didn't quite begin as originally planned. It's amazing how an hour's delay can throw your trip off by a whole day - though in all fairness that's only partly true in my case. So instead of multiple connections in London, Ethiopia, and Uganda, I find myself with two simple connections in D.C. and Brussels, my ultimate arrival delayed by only a few hours. So not all bad then.

My new, more leisurely schedule has allowed some down time (5 hours to be precise) in the greater D.C. metro (suburban) area (Dulles Airport to be precise). Without such a change I wouldn't have had the opportunity to indulge in one last lunch that offered a taste from home. So, packed to the proverbial gills with fried Cod and and riding a carbohydrate high (and slight morning buzz thanks to a pint of Old Dominon pale ale - good, not great - ), I find myself in an altogether deserted section of Dulles' Terminal D. I'll leave it at this for now and enjoy what solace I can, while I can.