I have a reputation of not being a light traveller. As I am considering what to pack, I keep thinking, "What if I need that?" and I add whatever "that" is to my list or to my bag.
This is my second trip to Rwanda. I suppose I have an advantage over other people because I have been there before, I know what to expect. Moreover, there is a very, very well stocked Nakumat store, which I mentioned in my other Rwanda blog
( http://mytriptorwanda.blogspot.ca/2010/08/feeding-cat.html) and which carries everything you could possibly need, including furniture, large and small household appliances, and exercise equipment (but no cat food). Still, I keep thinking, "What if I need that?" If I didn't need to bring a sheet sac, a fleece sleeping bag and a mosquito tent (it's a beauty!), and possibly a small folding three-legged stool, I would not need to bring too much at all. I will be leaving the fleece sleeping bag behind, and the stool, but not the sheet sac nor the mosquito net because I can use it at the cottage, and it is not a regular run-of-the-mill mosquito net.
So I will start with my carry on. Against the possibility that there will be a delay in having our bags reach Kigali when we do, I will pack a few things into my carry on that I would not normally take with me on the plane. The chance of arriving without my suitcase is not as far-fetched as you might think - on the last trip, my suitcase arrived two flights later in the day, one person's bag arrived the next day, and one unlucky person's bag arrived about five days later. I think it's because the plane from Nairobi to Kigali is not very large, and maybe it can't hold luggage for all the people it carries.
So here is my carry-on bag's contents:
1. All meds, including non-prescription meds
2. Chapeau and bandana and earphones
3. In a cube: three gidge, two socks, 1 polo, 1 tee, 1 tilley long sleeve, pj pants and tshirt
4. All power cords (i pad, i phone, camera, pulse)
5. In a baggie: Shampoo, facewash, hair goober, toothbrush, toothpaste
6. In a baggie: lip goober, mints
6. Blanket and pillow and lumbar pillow, sleep shades
7. my spork
8. Ipad
9. spare photo copy of all of my ID
On me will be my passport, vaccination certificate, visa (I'll take all three I think), photo copy of my ID and money, one credit card, one bank card, driver's license, and I will be wearing my red fleece jacket.
Sunday, September 2, 2018
There is a Packing Crisis
I packed my bags on Friday night, and except for a mild nagging worry that my carry on was too big because of my camera, I was all ready to go. I only needed to add my ipad to my carry-on and I would be ready to walk out the door. I had my vaccinations in March, I picked up my money on June 19th, and I've been ready for quite some time.
Then yesterday morning, I asked what I thought was a routine question (will be be storing our stuff at the hotel when we head to the west side of Rwanda five days before our departure date) and received an answer that was anything but routine. I was expecting our trip organizer to say "Yes we will be storing our bags" and instead was told that while we will be storing the bags when we head out on our first multi-night trip, we will not be storing them on our second multi-night trip. That means that we will be finishing whatever we are doing on the day that we depart, and then returning to Kigali only to go straight to the airport. That means we have to carry all of our stuff with us.
Regular readers may remember that I purchased a large LLBean rolling duffle. It's a good-sized bag. But I remember how small the busses in Rwanda are, and how we needed a pick-up truck to take our stuff from the airport to our guesthouse the last time we were in Rwanda. On the understanding that there would be no way that all of our large bags could fit comfortably in the bus, I had to start editing.
it was good to know i could fit things in my small duffle I bought in London four years ago, but the Fit was tight, and I had to leave many things behind. It also meant, even accounting for things that will be left behind for our hosts and things that will get consumed, like snacks, that there would be no room for souvenirs any larger than a gauzy scarf, and that didn't make me happy. I ended up opting for a medium wheeled duffle I also had in stock.
In fact thinking about that last trip with all of our stuff jammed in the bus makes me kind of worried. I don't like being squashed amid bags in a bus. What if I need to leave the bus quickly? What if there is an accident?
So our plan is to go to the airport with our newly packed small bags, but we will take our large bags along too. Dave will wait in the no pay parking for our signal. If our leader has a large bag, we will call Dave and meet him out front and then load our stuff into our larger bags.
We just might have to rent a room to store all of our things in. It won't cost much if it is divided by the twenty people who are on the trip.
Then yesterday morning, I asked what I thought was a routine question (will be be storing our stuff at the hotel when we head to the west side of Rwanda five days before our departure date) and received an answer that was anything but routine. I was expecting our trip organizer to say "Yes we will be storing our bags" and instead was told that while we will be storing the bags when we head out on our first multi-night trip, we will not be storing them on our second multi-night trip. That means that we will be finishing whatever we are doing on the day that we depart, and then returning to Kigali only to go straight to the airport. That means we have to carry all of our stuff with us.
Regular readers may remember that I purchased a large LLBean rolling duffle. It's a good-sized bag. But I remember how small the busses in Rwanda are, and how we needed a pick-up truck to take our stuff from the airport to our guesthouse the last time we were in Rwanda. On the understanding that there would be no way that all of our large bags could fit comfortably in the bus, I had to start editing.
it was good to know i could fit things in my small duffle I bought in London four years ago, but the Fit was tight, and I had to leave many things behind. It also meant, even accounting for things that will be left behind for our hosts and things that will get consumed, like snacks, that there would be no room for souvenirs any larger than a gauzy scarf, and that didn't make me happy. I ended up opting for a medium wheeled duffle I also had in stock.
In fact thinking about that last trip with all of our stuff jammed in the bus makes me kind of worried. I don't like being squashed amid bags in a bus. What if I need to leave the bus quickly? What if there is an accident?
So our plan is to go to the airport with our newly packed small bags, but we will take our large bags along too. Dave will wait in the no pay parking for our signal. If our leader has a large bag, we will call Dave and meet him out front and then load our stuff into our larger bags.
We just might have to rent a room to store all of our things in. It won't cost much if it is divided by the twenty people who are on the trip.
You Can Expect Some Turbulence
We are currently have a brief relax at the Yotel in Heathrow Airport. The room is pleasant and cool and very quiet. We have bunk beds, a double bed on the bottom for me, and a single on top for Linda. The bathroom is nice and modern-looking.
I have never had a flight so bumpy in my life, and it wasn't slightly bumpy, it was dreadfully bumpy. A Fanshaw student who is travelling with us had never flown before in his life - not a very good intro to flying. It was so bad at a number of times that the flight attendants had to stop serving dinner - and these were prepackaged dinners, not something that could spill.
I didn't sleep well on the trip at all. What I can say was that the landing was the smoothest landing I have ever had, no bump, no jarring brakes, just a nice glide to a stop.
I sat beside some nice people - a couple from Sarnia going to London for a vacation.
I have never had a flight so bumpy in my life, and it wasn't slightly bumpy, it was dreadfully bumpy. A Fanshaw student who is travelling with us had never flown before in his life - not a very good intro to flying. It was so bad at a number of times that the flight attendants had to stop serving dinner - and these were prepackaged dinners, not something that could spill.
I didn't sleep well on the trip at all. What I can say was that the landing was the smoothest landing I have ever had, no bump, no jarring brakes, just a nice glide to a stop.
I sat beside some nice people - a couple from Sarnia going to London for a vacation.
A Tough Day
I'm going to put a number of days' activities together in one blog entry.
I will start with the flights: in a word - terrible! The captain announced that there would be some turbulence, and there was, but "some" suggests a little. In effect he should have said there would be some periods of relative smooth flying. I have never been on a rougher flight in my life. There was turbulence from beginning to end, so much so that on several occasions, food service had to be interrupted and the flight attendants were directed to sit down and put their seat belts on. One member of our group, a young man from Fanshaw college, had never flown before and I was thinking of him from time to time as we bounced across the Atlantic Ocean. I was also thinking of myself and how much I'm not a fan of flying.
We landed at Heathrow, surprisingly after such a rough flight, the landing was the smoothest ever, and made our way over to the Yotel where we spent a quiet and refreshing 5 and a half hours. We had a nap, were able to stretch out on comfy beds and get our feet back down to size, and also have a shower.
We met up with another of our travel-mates, Heather (she was on the previous trip) and we made our way over to the security area and had really only just arrived through the check when we were called to board the plane. Unfortunately I had a middle seat, and although the person beside me was nice, it still feels awkward to ask a person to move every time I needed to use the washroom. Impossible to sleep.
The flight from Nairobi was rough but thankfully short. We spent about thirty minutes on the ground at Bujumbura picking up some people and Linda and I spent a moment or two standing on the landing outside the rear door of the plane looking around. We asked one of our seat mates to take a picture of us with the Bujumbura airport in the background.
When we arrived at Kigali we were met by our bus driver (Olivier again - we were very happy to see him again!) and our official guide from CNLG, Martin. We ditched our stuff in our hotel, and we were off and running. Our hotel, by the way, is fantastic and so far removed from the St. Paul - not in distance but in every other manner. We are sharing a room with Heather - it has three beds and a really nice ensuite washroom. It's a really nice refuge at the end of the day. The hotel has a terraced eating/sitting area, and it's where I am sitting as I write this blog. I have a lovely view down a valley and up the other side of the valley to one of Kigali's many huge hills.
After we stowed our stuff, we set off to the site of the memorial for the Belgian soldiers who were killed by the Presidential Guard on April 7, 1994. The men were guarding the Prime Minister, along with some Ghanian peace-keepers when the Presidential Guard arrived. They sent the Ghanaian peacekeepers away and captured the Belgians, took them to the school where the memorial is, where the Belgians made an attempt for freedom. There are bullet holes and grenade marks on the walls. The Belgians were eventually tortured and killed.
We walked from there to the Nakumat mall and found a foreign exchange office that was open. I exchanged $300US for 230,000 rwandan francs.
Later we had dinner at the New Cactus restaurant, which is a western style resto in Kigali and didn't make it back to our hotel until about eleven o'clock. We were totally exhausted and we had to get our stuff ready for the next day before we went to bed.
Eventually, we made it to bed. I fell asleep immediately.
I will start with the flights: in a word - terrible! The captain announced that there would be some turbulence, and there was, but "some" suggests a little. In effect he should have said there would be some periods of relative smooth flying. I have never been on a rougher flight in my life. There was turbulence from beginning to end, so much so that on several occasions, food service had to be interrupted and the flight attendants were directed to sit down and put their seat belts on. One member of our group, a young man from Fanshaw college, had never flown before and I was thinking of him from time to time as we bounced across the Atlantic Ocean. I was also thinking of myself and how much I'm not a fan of flying.
We landed at Heathrow, surprisingly after such a rough flight, the landing was the smoothest ever, and made our way over to the Yotel where we spent a quiet and refreshing 5 and a half hours. We had a nap, were able to stretch out on comfy beds and get our feet back down to size, and also have a shower.
We met up with another of our travel-mates, Heather (she was on the previous trip) and we made our way over to the security area and had really only just arrived through the check when we were called to board the plane. Unfortunately I had a middle seat, and although the person beside me was nice, it still feels awkward to ask a person to move every time I needed to use the washroom. Impossible to sleep.
The flight from Nairobi was rough but thankfully short. We spent about thirty minutes on the ground at Bujumbura picking up some people and Linda and I spent a moment or two standing on the landing outside the rear door of the plane looking around. We asked one of our seat mates to take a picture of us with the Bujumbura airport in the background.
When we arrived at Kigali we were met by our bus driver (Olivier again - we were very happy to see him again!) and our official guide from CNLG, Martin. We ditched our stuff in our hotel, and we were off and running. Our hotel, by the way, is fantastic and so far removed from the St. Paul - not in distance but in every other manner. We are sharing a room with Heather - it has three beds and a really nice ensuite washroom. It's a really nice refuge at the end of the day. The hotel has a terraced eating/sitting area, and it's where I am sitting as I write this blog. I have a lovely view down a valley and up the other side of the valley to one of Kigali's many huge hills.
After we stowed our stuff, we set off to the site of the memorial for the Belgian soldiers who were killed by the Presidential Guard on April 7, 1994. The men were guarding the Prime Minister, along with some Ghanian peace-keepers when the Presidential Guard arrived. They sent the Ghanaian peacekeepers away and captured the Belgians, took them to the school where the memorial is, where the Belgians made an attempt for freedom. There are bullet holes and grenade marks on the walls. The Belgians were eventually tortured and killed.
We walked from there to the Nakumat mall and found a foreign exchange office that was open. I exchanged $300US for 230,000 rwandan francs.
Later we had dinner at the New Cactus restaurant, which is a western style resto in Kigali and didn't make it back to our hotel until about eleven o'clock. We were totally exhausted and we had to get our stuff ready for the next day before we went to bed.
Eventually, we made it to bed. I fell asleep immediately.
Three Genocide Memorials
On Wednesday we had an early start to the day, and we were happy that we had taken the time to get ready the night before.
We left the hotel and drove through Kigali to pick up a gentleman who was a survivor of the massacre at the Ecole Polytechniqe. He told us his story, which was desperately sad, and several times he had to stop talking because he was overwhelmed. He survived, and so did his wife and daughter and son, but they were all injured: he had an arm hacked off, his son was was shot in the head, and his daughter was clubbed in the head with a nail-studded club. She has residual brain damage. His oldest child was killed - he had sent her to stay with his mother, thinking they would both be safe, but they were both killed by being thrown into a latrine. Stories like this fill me with an unspeakable sadness, but also a barely controllable rage. Seeing this man tell his story, reduced to tears, was very, very moving.
Our second stop of the day was the church at Nyamata. At this church there were approximately 10,000 people killed in the first week of the genocide. The church has shrapnel damage in the ceiling, and dried blood on the walls and altar cloth. People's belongings are piled on the pews. Our guide, who is himself a genocide survivor, and who had sought, and received sanctuary at this same church during the mini-genocide in 1992, says that the clothes will be catalogued and preserved shortly, that the group that deals with these things was just waiting to have enough money to do this.
At the back of the church there are two huge mass memorial graves in the form of fairly deep crypts, and visitors can go down to pay their respects. In these graves are thousands of skulls and bones. and hundreds of coffins.
Our guide told us that approximately 72,000 people were killed in the area, but 10,000 were killed in and around the church.
Our next stop was the church at Ntarama. Again, this was a place were thousands of people gathered to find safety, as they had done in 1992. This time, there was no refuge. The church was blasted with grenades to get at the people inside, and then the people inside were killed, ruthlessly.
We left the hotel and drove through Kigali to pick up a gentleman who was a survivor of the massacre at the Ecole Polytechniqe. He told us his story, which was desperately sad, and several times he had to stop talking because he was overwhelmed. He survived, and so did his wife and daughter and son, but they were all injured: he had an arm hacked off, his son was was shot in the head, and his daughter was clubbed in the head with a nail-studded club. She has residual brain damage. His oldest child was killed - he had sent her to stay with his mother, thinking they would both be safe, but they were both killed by being thrown into a latrine. Stories like this fill me with an unspeakable sadness, but also a barely controllable rage. Seeing this man tell his story, reduced to tears, was very, very moving.
Our second stop of the day was the church at Nyamata. At this church there were approximately 10,000 people killed in the first week of the genocide. The church has shrapnel damage in the ceiling, and dried blood on the walls and altar cloth. People's belongings are piled on the pews. Our guide, who is himself a genocide survivor, and who had sought, and received sanctuary at this same church during the mini-genocide in 1992, says that the clothes will be catalogued and preserved shortly, that the group that deals with these things was just waiting to have enough money to do this.
At the back of the church there are two huge mass memorial graves in the form of fairly deep crypts, and visitors can go down to pay their respects. In these graves are thousands of skulls and bones. and hundreds of coffins.
Our guide told us that approximately 72,000 people were killed in the area, but 10,000 were killed in and around the church.
Our next stop was the church at Ntarama. Again, this was a place were thousands of people gathered to find safety, as they had done in 1992. This time, there was no refuge. The church was blasted with grenades to get at the people inside, and then the people inside were killed, ruthlessly.
Well I won’t do that again!
Friday morning saw us up at 5:00 a.m. in order to get our stuff organized for leaving the Step Town and getting to Amahoro stadium.
The night before we had spent two hours in a government office getting credentials to go to the 20th Anniversary Liberation Day Ceremonies. For security reasons we had to be at a central pick-up location by 6:30 am. We were on time for that and were sitting in our seats at Amahoro by 7:00 am. And there we sat, in full equatorial African sun, until 11:50 when the festivities began. I was wearing long pants, a light tee-shirt and over that, my tilley sunshade shirt (with roll-up sleeves), a hat and sunblock.
I did not get sunburned. Linda, dressed similarly to me, and did not get burned either. Most everyone else in our group was burned, some of them badly.
The spectacle ended at 3:00 pm, and we had moved to the shade for the last hour, but by then, most of us were feeling a bit rotten by then. We had arranged to have lunch at the Hotel Chez Lando, and having had no cell phones on us due to security restrictions, Rich had had to leave the stadium to go to the restaurant to tell them we would be late.
Finally we made it to Chez Lando. I only had a bit to eat because I was feeling off and we had a long bus trip to Akagera ahead of us.
After lunch we spent a bit of time at the National Heroes Mausoleum, took pictures and then headed off to Akagera.
On the way, we came across a child laying in the roadway, on a road like highway 2 in Ontario, with a child standing in front of her waving his arms to warn traffic, but with about a dozen adults standing around doing nothing. We stopped the bus, fearing the child had been his by a car because she was shaking all over, and gave her a check over. Turns out she was having a seizure and it struck while she was crossing the road, still no one made a effort to move her. We put her into the bus, found out where she lived and drove her home. We gave her a soccer shirt and soccer ball, and were on our way!
The night before we had spent two hours in a government office getting credentials to go to the 20th Anniversary Liberation Day Ceremonies. For security reasons we had to be at a central pick-up location by 6:30 am. We were on time for that and were sitting in our seats at Amahoro by 7:00 am. And there we sat, in full equatorial African sun, until 11:50 when the festivities began. I was wearing long pants, a light tee-shirt and over that, my tilley sunshade shirt (with roll-up sleeves), a hat and sunblock.
I did not get sunburned. Linda, dressed similarly to me, and did not get burned either. Most everyone else in our group was burned, some of them badly.
The spectacle ended at 3:00 pm, and we had moved to the shade for the last hour, but by then, most of us were feeling a bit rotten by then. We had arranged to have lunch at the Hotel Chez Lando, and having had no cell phones on us due to security restrictions, Rich had had to leave the stadium to go to the restaurant to tell them we would be late.
Finally we made it to Chez Lando. I only had a bit to eat because I was feeling off and we had a long bus trip to Akagera ahead of us.
After lunch we spent a bit of time at the National Heroes Mausoleum, took pictures and then headed off to Akagera.
On the way, we came across a child laying in the roadway, on a road like highway 2 in Ontario, with a child standing in front of her waving his arms to warn traffic, but with about a dozen adults standing around doing nothing. We stopped the bus, fearing the child had been his by a car because she was shaking all over, and gave her a check over. Turns out she was having a seizure and it struck while she was crossing the road, still no one made a effort to move her. We put her into the bus, found out where she lived and drove her home. We gave her a soccer shirt and soccer ball, and were on our way!
A Friendly Piece of Advice
If you are travelling to a rarely-visited site, and someone who goes there as infrequently as you do says he knows a shortcut, and if this rarely-visited site is located in an area where asphalt roads are the exception rather than the rule, don't take the shortcut. Take my advice and go the regular way.
A Day In The Park
We were out very early today to get a good start on our safari at Akagera National Park. Our first stop was the park's visitor centre where we were introduced to our guide, Innocent (it's a common name in Rwanda). He explained a little bit about the park, talked about its size (substantial for a country as small and as populated at Rwanda) and about its animals (no lions, but will be getting some from Kenya soon), and then we were off. Innocent joined our bus, and sat in the jump seat beside me. He was very knowledgeable about the park, and used my camera the whole time to get some amazing pictures. It did not bother me to let him use it because he has a better eye than I do.
We had originally wanted to be out only for six hours but we were bouncing around for nine hours (I had to reload the gravol at 1:30 in the afternoon, just in case) in the park. Our driver, the intrepid Olivier, is fantastic.
During our time there we saw countless birds, Cape buffalo, giraffes, zebras, water buck, antelopes, a large snake, wart hogs, vervet monkeys and baboons. I am having trouble loading pictures, and that really bothers me, but I will try to load them again, nonetheless.
After the safari, we returned to the game lodge where we had lunch then climbed back aboard the bus with our stuff for our trip back to Kigali, where we arrived at about 7:30 pm, which means we were in the bus for about 12 hours, if we subtract the time we spent having lunch.
Nyarubuye: A Tragedy Beyond Measure
Nyarubuye: the name is synonymous with everything that is horrible and tragic about genocide. Nyarubuye is a town, with a church of the same name, where over twenty thousand people were killed for no other reason than that they were Tutsi.
We were honoured to speak with a survivor, a woman who had fled to the church with her baby on her back, looking for sanctuary. She didn't find it. She ended up by being one of only a handful of survivors among some 22,000 people who were killed. Her baby was killed when she fell down in a crush of people and people fell on top of her. She was slashed across the head with a machete but was not killed and was also slashed in the thighs. During the night she managed to escape and ran down the valley to the home of her parents, but when she got there she found that everyone in the home had been killed. She then went to the house of a former neighbour and looked for help there even though she knew that the man and one of the sons in the house were members of the militia. She knocked on the door and a different son answered. This son was in the seminary, training to be a priest and so he took her in and hid her and rescued her, and managed to smuggle her into Tanzania, where she spent the rest of the genocide.
Her husband survived the genocide because he had taken their cows into the valley to hide them, but neither of them ever expected that she would be in danger in at the church.
She looked desperately sad, and who could blame her? I watched her as she was talking and I wondered how she could possibly continue in her day to day life, having experienced what she did.
We were honoured to speak with a survivor, a woman who had fled to the church with her baby on her back, looking for sanctuary. She didn't find it. She ended up by being one of only a handful of survivors among some 22,000 people who were killed. Her baby was killed when she fell down in a crush of people and people fell on top of her. She was slashed across the head with a machete but was not killed and was also slashed in the thighs. During the night she managed to escape and ran down the valley to the home of her parents, but when she got there she found that everyone in the home had been killed. She then went to the house of a former neighbour and looked for help there even though she knew that the man and one of the sons in the house were members of the militia. She knocked on the door and a different son answered. This son was in the seminary, training to be a priest and so he took her in and hid her and rescued her, and managed to smuggle her into Tanzania, where she spent the rest of the genocide.
Her husband survived the genocide because he had taken their cows into the valley to hide them, but neither of them ever expected that she would be in danger in at the church.
She looked desperately sad, and who could blame her? I watched her as she was talking and I wondered how she could possibly continue in her day to day life, having experienced what she did.
Eh, eh?
Canadians are known for their use of the grammatical interjection "eh". As most people know, eh can be used to gain agreement, "It's hot out, eh?" or can be used, sometimes, in the middle of a sentence to ensure that the listener is still listening and invite an indication of support - "My cat is not well, eh, so I had to take him to see the vet."
Canadians like to think that their use of eh is unequalled in the world, and I counted myself among those smug people, that was, until I visited Rwanda.
Rwandans also have an "eh" but the Rwandan "eh" encompasses all of the meanings of the Canadian "eh" and then some. Indeed, in Rwanda, people can carry on all manner of conversations by using this one word alone, just depending on the tone, degree of emphasis, and the body language displayed while saying the word. There is the simple "eh" like Canadians say, there is a slightly Fonzie-ish "eh" and the full-Fonzie "eh".
For example, a simple greeting between two people might sound like this:
John: Eh!
Michel: Eh!
This translates as:
John: Good Morning Michel!
Michel: Good Morning John!
People who haven't seen each other for a while might have a conversation like this:
John: (Full-Fonzie) Eh!
Michel: (Full-Fonzie) Eh!
This translates as:
John: Michel! How are you! I haven't seen you in ages!
Michel: Great to see you! It's been a long time!
In the Nakumat store one afternoon, we turned down an aisle and a chap was cleaning the floor after a spill. He looked at us, raised his hand in the universal signal for stop and said “Eh!” This clearly meant “if you step on this wet floor that I’ve just washed after some idiot dropped a jar of pickles, you’ll be sorry!”
Here is another example I have personally heard:
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh.
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh.
Martin: Eh, eh?
Olivier: Eh
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh
This translates as:
Martin: So we're off to Nyarubuye today.
Olivier: Yes. It's a bit of a drive.
Martin: I know a short-cut to get us there quicker.
Olivier: I like a good short cut.
Martin: Me too.
Olivier: So what's the short cut?
Martin: I will give you directions.
Olivier: Fantastic!
Martin: It's a bit of an unusual short-cut in that we will have to stop every adult we see to ask directions.
Olivier: No problem - people are friendly here and like to help.
Martin: Boy this road is pretty rocky, eh? (This is a rare use of the double eh)
Olivier: Man is it ever!
Martin: You're a good driver so it will be ok.
Olivier: And this is a good bus.
Martin: I hope these guys brought gravol!
Olivier: Me too! I have to clean the bus if they didn't!
Canadians like to think that their use of eh is unequalled in the world, and I counted myself among those smug people, that was, until I visited Rwanda.
Rwandans also have an "eh" but the Rwandan "eh" encompasses all of the meanings of the Canadian "eh" and then some. Indeed, in Rwanda, people can carry on all manner of conversations by using this one word alone, just depending on the tone, degree of emphasis, and the body language displayed while saying the word. There is the simple "eh" like Canadians say, there is a slightly Fonzie-ish "eh" and the full-Fonzie "eh".
For example, a simple greeting between two people might sound like this:
John: Eh!
Michel: Eh!
This translates as:
John: Good Morning Michel!
Michel: Good Morning John!
People who haven't seen each other for a while might have a conversation like this:
John: (Full-Fonzie) Eh!
Michel: (Full-Fonzie) Eh!
This translates as:
John: Michel! How are you! I haven't seen you in ages!
Michel: Great to see you! It's been a long time!
In the Nakumat store one afternoon, we turned down an aisle and a chap was cleaning the floor after a spill. He looked at us, raised his hand in the universal signal for stop and said “Eh!” This clearly meant “if you step on this wet floor that I’ve just washed after some idiot dropped a jar of pickles, you’ll be sorry!”
Here is another example I have personally heard:
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh.
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh.
Martin: Eh, eh?
Olivier: Eh
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh
Martin: Eh.
Olivier: Eh
This translates as:
Martin: So we're off to Nyarubuye today.
Olivier: Yes. It's a bit of a drive.
Martin: I know a short-cut to get us there quicker.
Olivier: I like a good short cut.
Martin: Me too.
Olivier: So what's the short cut?
Martin: I will give you directions.
Olivier: Fantastic!
Martin: It's a bit of an unusual short-cut in that we will have to stop every adult we see to ask directions.
Olivier: No problem - people are friendly here and like to help.
Martin: Boy this road is pretty rocky, eh? (This is a rare use of the double eh)
Olivier: Man is it ever!
Martin: You're a good driver so it will be ok.
Olivier: And this is a good bus.
Martin: I hope these guys brought gravol!
Olivier: Me too! I have to clean the bus if they didn't!
An Afternoon at a Federal Prison
I was feeling a little hors de combat this morning, so I opted out of the morning trip. Linda tells me that the group went to see Habyarimana's crashed plane (no photos, please) and the former presidential residence. The residence is fairly close, too close really, all things considered, to the airport. It was situated just beyond the end of the runway, and indeed, the part of the plane in which the president was found was actually within the grounds of the residence, right beside the pool. Linda says the house was creepy in a Graceland sort of way.
After lunch Heather and I took a taxi to the prison to meet the group. Linda had sent me a text during the day to tell me that's where they were headed in the afternoon, and I told Heather, who was resting because she has a terrible cough and cold. We got ready, had John the hotel manager call us a taxi, and off we went.
It was visitor's day at the prison so we waited out front with a group of women who were waiting to go in to meet their family members who were in the prison. I guess we didn't really fit in with the crowd if you get my meaning, but we found a spot to sit in the shade and only had to wait about ten minutes for the bus to show up. We got on the bus, and in we went.
The set up was about the same as it was the last time, except there were only four genocidaires that were there to talk to us. We had met two of them before: the woman who helped at the barricades, and Valerie (I was a journalist) Bemeriki. We listened to their stories.
I think the two men and the woman were honest when they said they felt real remorse. The woman (whose name escapes me, I think she said Munyama, but I'll have to verify that) actually made a few of us cry (not me, but I can see how her words were effective) and I believe she feels shame and guilt. I don't believe Valerie feels anything but anger at being in jail, even though she acknowledges that her radio broadcasts caused the death of many poeple. I have read some of the transcripts of her radio shows, and there is no doubt that she is was the cause of people being killed, from the families whose whereabouts she broadcast over the air, to the teacher that she said had to be "warned". She exhorted the killers to get to "work" and at one point reminded people that when it comes to killing cockroaches, it's important to kill them all, lest the young grow up to create more cockroaches. She will be in jail for life.
After lunch Heather and I took a taxi to the prison to meet the group. Linda had sent me a text during the day to tell me that's where they were headed in the afternoon, and I told Heather, who was resting because she has a terrible cough and cold. We got ready, had John the hotel manager call us a taxi, and off we went.
It was visitor's day at the prison so we waited out front with a group of women who were waiting to go in to meet their family members who were in the prison. I guess we didn't really fit in with the crowd if you get my meaning, but we found a spot to sit in the shade and only had to wait about ten minutes for the bus to show up. We got on the bus, and in we went.
The set up was about the same as it was the last time, except there were only four genocidaires that were there to talk to us. We had met two of them before: the woman who helped at the barricades, and Valerie (I was a journalist) Bemeriki. We listened to their stories.
I think the two men and the woman were honest when they said they felt real remorse. The woman (whose name escapes me, I think she said Munyama, but I'll have to verify that) actually made a few of us cry (not me, but I can see how her words were effective) and I believe she feels shame and guilt. I don't believe Valerie feels anything but anger at being in jail, even though she acknowledges that her radio broadcasts caused the death of many poeple. I have read some of the transcripts of her radio shows, and there is no doubt that she is was the cause of people being killed, from the families whose whereabouts she broadcast over the air, to the teacher that she said had to be "warned". She exhorted the killers to get to "work" and at one point reminded people that when it comes to killing cockroaches, it's important to kill them all, lest the young grow up to create more cockroaches. She will be in jail for life.
This and That on a Busy Day
What a busy day we had today! It involved being out of bed at the crack of dawn, visiting three government offices, lunch at a thoroughly horrid lunch buffet (I had missed this buffet, luckily, on the day that I had begged off the morning activities before we went to the prison in the afternoon), and then headed out of town for a five day trip.
We started the day at the Ministry of Justice where we had a very interesting conversation with the Attorney General of Rwanda, a pleasant chap with a wonderful sense of humour. We talked about how justice is achieved in a situation like Rwanda's and how the gacaca courts worked. He said if everyone who was involved in the genocide was to be put in jail, then the president of the country would really be a president of jails. He pointed out that in some localities, up to 70% of the population was involved in the genocide. How can the area move forward when only 30% are left to work and pay taxes. How would the infrastructure be improved? He raised a very interesting point indeed.
After we left his office, we went to the Ministry of Education and talked to the Deputy minister of Ed. We talked about Rwandan schools, how there were no longer any restrictions on who could go to school (there had been, pre-genocide, a cap on the number of Tutsis who could go to school). The washrooms in the ministry of ed were dreadful - lights not working, toilets barely flushing. It was a lucky thing I had my toilet paper holder with me - no toilet paper in the washrooms - in the ministry of ed!!!
Then we went to the business development office to talk to the guy in charge, an affable chap who was very eager to show how much he wants businesses to put branch plants in Rwanda, and how eager he was to help set this up. He didn't seem to be the least bit worried about the growing Chinese interest in this country. He just wants development.
He should consider developing the rural areas - people on the hill tops still live in houses made of mud and cow manure, and have no running water, no toilets and no electricity. A pall of smoke hangs over the whole country because people still cook outside on wood-fired grills. Still, it makes for picturesque scenery.
We started the day at the Ministry of Justice where we had a very interesting conversation with the Attorney General of Rwanda, a pleasant chap with a wonderful sense of humour. We talked about how justice is achieved in a situation like Rwanda's and how the gacaca courts worked. He said if everyone who was involved in the genocide was to be put in jail, then the president of the country would really be a president of jails. He pointed out that in some localities, up to 70% of the population was involved in the genocide. How can the area move forward when only 30% are left to work and pay taxes. How would the infrastructure be improved? He raised a very interesting point indeed.
After we left his office, we went to the Ministry of Education and talked to the Deputy minister of Ed. We talked about Rwandan schools, how there were no longer any restrictions on who could go to school (there had been, pre-genocide, a cap on the number of Tutsis who could go to school). The washrooms in the ministry of ed were dreadful - lights not working, toilets barely flushing. It was a lucky thing I had my toilet paper holder with me - no toilet paper in the washrooms - in the ministry of ed!!!
Then we went to the business development office to talk to the guy in charge, an affable chap who was very eager to show how much he wants businesses to put branch plants in Rwanda, and how eager he was to help set this up. He didn't seem to be the least bit worried about the growing Chinese interest in this country. He just wants development.
He should consider developing the rural areas - people on the hill tops still live in houses made of mud and cow manure, and have no running water, no toilets and no electricity. A pall of smoke hangs over the whole country because people still cook outside on wood-fired grills. Still, it makes for picturesque scenery.
A Friendly
We had been invited to participate in a friendly soccer game by a team of girls in a hill-top town, to whom we would be giving some soccer equipment.
The town was at the top of a hill (naturally) on our way to Huye. When we arrived, the girls were practicing on the field. They had all of the trophies they had won, placed on a table right at the edge of the field - and there were many, many trophies.
Did I mention that the entire town came out to see us, including every child for miles around? The game was great fun - there were goats on the sidelines (I said they were doing Father Dougal's job: guarding the corner flags), we had four of us and about thirty local children standing in our goal defending our side, and in the end, we won the match 2 to 1.
The local kids were absolutely thrilled with Heather and Jolene, and I was able to use my Kinyarwanda lessons, specifically "How to Talk to Children" to great effect, and quickly earned the reputation of being the Muzungu who could speak Kinyarwanda. Unfortunately, my repertoire was depleted in fairly quick order, and I had no need for the "Going to Church" words, or the "Medical Emergency" words, or the "Ordering Food in the Restaurant" chapter either for that matter. The kids who had attached themselves to me took it upon themselves to enlarge my vocabulary and improve my pronounciation, so I did my best not to disappoint.
It was a great way to let off some steam after having seen a number of dreadful genocide sites.
My Anniversary and Murambi
When I woke up this morning there was a Happy Anniversary message from my husband, and I was thrilled to receive it. I knew we would be having a fairly stressful day with our trip to Murambi later in the morning, and I wanted to connect with Dave before I went. That was a nice surprise.
Murambi is a peculiar place, even among Rwandan genocide memorials. At most memorials here, there are piles of stacked clothes (now getting ready to be cleaned, preserved and stored) and displays of thousands of skulls and other bones of victims, also getting ready to be cleaned and preserved.
Murambi is a genocide site in southern Rwanda. At this location, as with others in this genocide, the victims all went to their local church in Murambi in search of sanctuary. It was a large church, so people came from all around. This time, the priest at the church would not allow large numbers of refugees to come to the church and sent them further up the hill to the newly built technical school in the neighbourhood, right at the top of a hill. The Tutsis were gathered at the top of hill and had no food or water. A Catholic aid worker came to find out how many people needed food, and she counted fifty thousand adults plus children. The Hutus in the area were told to leave so that they could not pass on info to the Tutsis.
The people at Murambi were killed in one night, and only about a dozen people survived. Some were shot, some were hacked to death, but when it was all over, about 52,000 people were dead.
Two things make Murambi unique: one is the shameful actions of the French Army that was in the area doing their Operation Turquoise genocide cover-up, and the other were the actions of a survivor, Emmanuel. The French came and dug mass graves and put the dead into them to hid evidence of the genocide. They even set up a volley ball court on top of one of the mass graves to make it look like nothing was amiss there.
Emmanuel, enraged by the actions of the French, and looking for his wife who had not survived the massacre, started to dig up all of the bodies. He managed to dig up about a thousand people, and he covered them with lime powder to preserve them, and he put them in the individual classrooms at the technical school, where they remain to this day, twenty years after their murders. The only thing that has been added to Emmanuel's work is that slatted tables have been added, and the bodies are resting on them. The bodies have been rearranged since we were here in 2010. There are now a rooms of men, and rooms of women, rooms of children. The rooms stink, and badly, but I think this is the smell of the lime, not the smell of the bodies. After twenty years, there isn't much left of a body to stink.
Our guide Martin showed us a new laboratory that has been erected at Murambi. The ambitious plan is to X-ray the bodies to determine the exact cause of death (it's hard to tell with these twenty-year dessicated bodies, unless their head is clearly smashed in), clean them and treat them with a preservative, and put them in air-tight coffins for perpetuity. We saw the first shipment of of these airtight coffins - they are very high-tech.
Back at our hotel, I could still smell Murambi on my skin.
Murambi is a peculiar place, even among Rwandan genocide memorials. At most memorials here, there are piles of stacked clothes (now getting ready to be cleaned, preserved and stored) and displays of thousands of skulls and other bones of victims, also getting ready to be cleaned and preserved.
Murambi is a genocide site in southern Rwanda. At this location, as with others in this genocide, the victims all went to their local church in Murambi in search of sanctuary. It was a large church, so people came from all around. This time, the priest at the church would not allow large numbers of refugees to come to the church and sent them further up the hill to the newly built technical school in the neighbourhood, right at the top of a hill. The Tutsis were gathered at the top of hill and had no food or water. A Catholic aid worker came to find out how many people needed food, and she counted fifty thousand adults plus children. The Hutus in the area were told to leave so that they could not pass on info to the Tutsis.
The people at Murambi were killed in one night, and only about a dozen people survived. Some were shot, some were hacked to death, but when it was all over, about 52,000 people were dead.
Two things make Murambi unique: one is the shameful actions of the French Army that was in the area doing their Operation Turquoise genocide cover-up, and the other were the actions of a survivor, Emmanuel. The French came and dug mass graves and put the dead into them to hid evidence of the genocide. They even set up a volley ball court on top of one of the mass graves to make it look like nothing was amiss there.
Emmanuel, enraged by the actions of the French, and looking for his wife who had not survived the massacre, started to dig up all of the bodies. He managed to dig up about a thousand people, and he covered them with lime powder to preserve them, and he put them in the individual classrooms at the technical school, where they remain to this day, twenty years after their murders. The only thing that has been added to Emmanuel's work is that slatted tables have been added, and the bodies are resting on them. The bodies have been rearranged since we were here in 2010. There are now a rooms of men, and rooms of women, rooms of children. The rooms stink, and badly, but I think this is the smell of the lime, not the smell of the bodies. After twenty years, there isn't much left of a body to stink.
Our guide Martin showed us a new laboratory that has been erected at Murambi. The ambitious plan is to X-ray the bodies to determine the exact cause of death (it's hard to tell with these twenty-year dessicated bodies, unless their head is clearly smashed in), clean them and treat them with a preservative, and put them in air-tight coffins for perpetuity. We saw the first shipment of of these airtight coffins - they are very high-tech.
Back at our hotel, I could still smell Murambi on my skin.
Meet Olivier Ndizeye, child survivor of genocide
Our driver, Olivier, is a child survivor of the genocide in Rwanda.
He was ten years old when the genocide was over, and all that was left of his family was his four year old sister Olive, and an eight year old cousin: no parents, no grandparents, no aunts and no uncles. These three children had no adults in their life, and as far as I can determine, lived in their parents' house, in the same neighbourhood as the people who tried to kill them, and raised themselves alone after the genocide.
Olivier has devoted his life to his sister, driving a bus to put her through university, which she has just finished.
He does not talk about the genocide and does not enter any of the genocide memorials that we visit, prefering instead to wait outside.
He was ten years old when the genocide was over, and all that was left of his family was his four year old sister Olive, and an eight year old cousin: no parents, no grandparents, no aunts and no uncles. These three children had no adults in their life, and as far as I can determine, lived in their parents' house, in the same neighbourhood as the people who tried to kill them, and raised themselves alone after the genocide.
Olivier has devoted his life to his sister, driving a bus to put her through university, which she has just finished.
He does not talk about the genocide and does not enter any of the genocide memorials that we visit, prefering instead to wait outside.
Guardrails?
I love Rwanda. The scenery is beautiful, the people are friendly, and there is a concerted effort to raise the country out of the ashes of its genocide into a thriving, vibrant nation.
I am sad to say that the one place that I can say that the country is falling short is in the guardrails department. There has been no improvement in this area since my last trip here four years ago. They appear to be resolute in their refusal to install guardrails where any reasonable person would say, "You know, we really need to put a guardrail here."
Meet Martin Muhoza, child survivor of genocide
Martin Muhoza was our official guide from CNLG (The National Centre for the Fight Against Genocide) while we were in Rwanda. He is a child survivor of genocide.
In 1992, when Martin was twelve years old, there was a small genocide against the Tutsis in Rwanda. Martin and his family fled to the church at Nyamata (for further info you can see my Nyamata blog entry or google "Lisa Turner Rwanda" to find my other, more-detailed blog about Rwanda) where they sought refuge. In 1992, Tutsis were safe when they fled to churches. Martin, his parents and his five brothers sheltered there in the church until the danger had passed and it was safe to come out.
In 1994 Martin was accepted into school in Kigali, and arrived at his school on April 2. The genocide started on the evening of April 6, with Martin separated from his family by distance. He managed to make his way to the Centre St. Paul (where we stayed in 2010 - you can read about it on my other blog), where he sheltered until that area of the city was secured by the RPF. Martin's family, however, did not survive. Martin assumes that they again sought refuge in the church at Nyamata. This time however, all of the people sheltering in the church, some 10,000 individuals, both within the church and in the churchyard, were killed.
When the genocide was over, Martin made a huge effort to locate his family. He registered with the Red Cross, and he travelled to every orphanage in the country to locate his five brothers. When that was not successful, he travelled to every Rwandan refugee camp, both inside Rwanda, and in Congo, Burundi, Tanzania and Uganda, to try to find them, again without success.
Martin has devoted his life to the memory of Rwanda's genocide victims. He works at CNLG, and heads many programs designed to preserve the physical evidence of what happened there in 1994. He is also involved with recording verbal and written testimonies of victims and witnesses. He travels the country as part of his job, going from site to site. We were astonished at how many people knew him, and how many doors would open for us, just because he was there. When he described us as "friends of CNLG" people would nod knowingly, but I think they were less impressed with us as just us, than they were by the fact that we appeared to be on good terms with Martin.
In 1992, when Martin was twelve years old, there was a small genocide against the Tutsis in Rwanda. Martin and his family fled to the church at Nyamata (for further info you can see my Nyamata blog entry or google "Lisa Turner Rwanda" to find my other, more-detailed blog about Rwanda) where they sought refuge. In 1992, Tutsis were safe when they fled to churches. Martin, his parents and his five brothers sheltered there in the church until the danger had passed and it was safe to come out.
In 1994 Martin was accepted into school in Kigali, and arrived at his school on April 2. The genocide started on the evening of April 6, with Martin separated from his family by distance. He managed to make his way to the Centre St. Paul (where we stayed in 2010 - you can read about it on my other blog), where he sheltered until that area of the city was secured by the RPF. Martin's family, however, did not survive. Martin assumes that they again sought refuge in the church at Nyamata. This time however, all of the people sheltering in the church, some 10,000 individuals, both within the church and in the churchyard, were killed.
When the genocide was over, Martin made a huge effort to locate his family. He registered with the Red Cross, and he travelled to every orphanage in the country to locate his five brothers. When that was not successful, he travelled to every Rwandan refugee camp, both inside Rwanda, and in Congo, Burundi, Tanzania and Uganda, to try to find them, again without success.
Martin has devoted his life to the memory of Rwanda's genocide victims. He works at CNLG, and heads many programs designed to preserve the physical evidence of what happened there in 1994. He is also involved with recording verbal and written testimonies of victims and witnesses. He travels the country as part of his job, going from site to site. We were astonished at how many people knew him, and how many doors would open for us, just because he was there. When he described us as "friends of CNLG" people would nod knowingly, but I think they were less impressed with us as just us, than they were by the fact that we appeared to be on good terms with Martin.
Good Fences make Good Neighbours
I went out for a walk early one morning while we were in Huye, and I noticed this fence. To be honest, this was not the first such fencetop I had seen in Rwanda, I noticed them as soon as we arrived four years ago.
In urban areas, most people have fences like this around their homes, no matter how modest the home. They have huge gates that they must open to get into their compound. The gates are wide enough to admit a car, and most gates also have a person-sized door installed in one of the sides of the gate.
Considering the history of this country, I can understand why a person might think such a fencetop would be necessary.
In urban areas, most people have fences like this around their homes, no matter how modest the home. They have huge gates that they must open to get into their compound. The gates are wide enough to admit a car, and most gates also have a person-sized door installed in one of the sides of the gate.
Considering the history of this country, I can understand why a person might think such a fencetop would be necessary.
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
And I thought I had no sense of direction!
We started the morning with a trip to the CNLG (National Centre for the Fight Against Genocide).
We listened to two chaps from CNLG as they talked about the work that this organization does. They talked about reconciliation efforts and how the government was helping perpetrators and victims live and work in close proximity. They also explained about plans for new projects to itemize and catalogue items left behind by victims at some of the massacre sites. Listening to these two fellow was at times fascinating, sad, and enraging, but ultimately, I felt a sense of hope for Rwanda..
We left CNLG and went to the National Genocide Memorial in Kigali. There a buffet lunch was waiting for us. As you know, Linda and I are vegans, and sometimes it's hard to find food that we care to eat. Luckily the buffet had a mix of beans and veg and we had that on rice, so everything was grand.
Our room-mate Heather fosters a child (the girl is an orphan -both of her parents are dead) in Kigali and had arranged to meet up with the child, her house mother and the priest who directs the foster child program in the country. They came to the museum. Heather was very happy to meet them. I offered my services as a translator. Heather had brought along some gifts for her child, as well as 1,000 dehydrated dinners donated by the farmers of Alberta. These dinners were in the form of a mix of dehydrated veggies, beans, lentils etc. The family would just have to take a scoop of the mix, put it in water over night, and then next day they would mix it with rice and there you go, a dinner high in protein and fibre. Also, Heather's students put together packages of colouring books, pencils, pencils sharpeners, toys etc for the other 50 children that this program serves in Rwanda.
The priest, Father Faustin, said they had arrived by taxi, and we told him we would pay for him to take a taxi back to the village where the girl (Latifa was her name) lived. Plus Linda and I had donated a soccer ball. When Linda went to tell our program leader that we would be leaving in a taxi, he suggested that we take the team bus, considering that Father Faustin insisted that Latifa lived in Kigali, and that her house was very close by.
Well! I was becoming increasingly worried as we got farther and farther from town, since we had to have the bus back by a certain time. We were on rutted dirt roads, and kept going farther and farther up the hills - so far in fact, that my ears were popping with the pressure changes. Finally we came to the girl's home - a mud hut on the top of a hill in a grove of banana trees. No electricity, no running water, no nothing. They cook, eat and socialize outside. People tend to stay outside all day except for sleeping, except, of course during the two rainy seasons of the year.
Despite the little that they had, these kind people, who spoke no English, welcomed us to their home and offered us food and banana beer. My Kinyarwanda lessons took me no farther than greetings and food that I did and didn't like, but was adequate for the purposes of this visit. A baby was given to me to hold, a tradition apparently, to make a person feel like part of a family.
The gift of one thousand meals was met with wonder and wide smiles all around. Father Faustin explained how the dried meals worked and the mother of the house ventured the opinion that the food would last for much longer than one thousand meals. That's more than a year and a half of nutritious, high protein meals. By the time we left, some of the children were playing with soccer ball among the banana trees.
I felt a little weepy as we were leaving - sad for Latifa who had no parents, and sad for this family who lived in a hut made of mud and cow manure and sad for this nation that is trying so hard to move forward.
We made it back to the museum by 3:20, in time to pick up the gang and then wait for two hours for our Liberation day credentials.
We listened to two chaps from CNLG as they talked about the work that this organization does. They talked about reconciliation efforts and how the government was helping perpetrators and victims live and work in close proximity. They also explained about plans for new projects to itemize and catalogue items left behind by victims at some of the massacre sites. Listening to these two fellow was at times fascinating, sad, and enraging, but ultimately, I felt a sense of hope for Rwanda..
We left CNLG and went to the National Genocide Memorial in Kigali. There a buffet lunch was waiting for us. As you know, Linda and I are vegans, and sometimes it's hard to find food that we care to eat. Luckily the buffet had a mix of beans and veg and we had that on rice, so everything was grand.
Our room-mate Heather fosters a child (the girl is an orphan -both of her parents are dead) in Kigali and had arranged to meet up with the child, her house mother and the priest who directs the foster child program in the country. They came to the museum. Heather was very happy to meet them. I offered my services as a translator. Heather had brought along some gifts for her child, as well as 1,000 dehydrated dinners donated by the farmers of Alberta. These dinners were in the form of a mix of dehydrated veggies, beans, lentils etc. The family would just have to take a scoop of the mix, put it in water over night, and then next day they would mix it with rice and there you go, a dinner high in protein and fibre. Also, Heather's students put together packages of colouring books, pencils, pencils sharpeners, toys etc for the other 50 children that this program serves in Rwanda.
The priest, Father Faustin, said they had arrived by taxi, and we told him we would pay for him to take a taxi back to the village where the girl (Latifa was her name) lived. Plus Linda and I had donated a soccer ball. When Linda went to tell our program leader that we would be leaving in a taxi, he suggested that we take the team bus, considering that Father Faustin insisted that Latifa lived in Kigali, and that her house was very close by.
Well! I was becoming increasingly worried as we got farther and farther from town, since we had to have the bus back by a certain time. We were on rutted dirt roads, and kept going farther and farther up the hills - so far in fact, that my ears were popping with the pressure changes. Finally we came to the girl's home - a mud hut on the top of a hill in a grove of banana trees. No electricity, no running water, no nothing. They cook, eat and socialize outside. People tend to stay outside all day except for sleeping, except, of course during the two rainy seasons of the year.
Despite the little that they had, these kind people, who spoke no English, welcomed us to their home and offered us food and banana beer. My Kinyarwanda lessons took me no farther than greetings and food that I did and didn't like, but was adequate for the purposes of this visit. A baby was given to me to hold, a tradition apparently, to make a person feel like part of a family.
The gift of one thousand meals was met with wonder and wide smiles all around. Father Faustin explained how the dried meals worked and the mother of the house ventured the opinion that the food would last for much longer than one thousand meals. That's more than a year and a half of nutritious, high protein meals. By the time we left, some of the children were playing with soccer ball among the banana trees.
I felt a little weepy as we were leaving - sad for Latifa who had no parents, and sad for this family who lived in a hut made of mud and cow manure and sad for this nation that is trying so hard to move forward.
We made it back to the museum by 3:20, in time to pick up the gang and then wait for two hours for our Liberation day credentials.
Kigali Genocide Memorial and Memorials at Nyamata and Ntarama
On Wednesday we had an early start to the day, and we were happy that we had taken the time to get ready the night before.
We left the hotel and drove through Kigali to pick up a gentleman who was a survivor of the massacre at the Ecole Polytechniqe. He told us his story, which was desperately sad, and several times he had to stop talking because he was overwhelmed. He survived, and so did his wife and daughter and son, but they were all injured: he had an arm hacked off, his son was was shot in the head, and his daughter was clubbed in the head with a nail-studded club. She has residual brain damage. His oldest child was killed - he had sent her to stay with his mother, thinking they would both be safe, but they were both killed by being thrown into a latrine. Stories like this fill me with an unspeakable sadness, but also a barely controllable rage. Seeing this man tell his story, reduced to tears, was very, very moving.
Our second stop of the day was the church at Nyamata. At this church there were approximately 10,000 people killed in the first week of the genocide. The church has shrapnel damage in the ceiling, and dried blood on the walls and altar cloth. People's belongings are piled on the pews. Our guide, who is himself a genocide survivor, and who had sought, and received sanctuary at this same church during the mini-genocide in 1992, says that the clothes will be catalogued and preserved shortly, that the group that deals with these things was just waiting to have enough money to do this.
At the back of the church there are two huge mass memorial graves in the form of fairly deep crypts, and visitors can go down to pay their respects. In these graves are thousands of skulls and bones. and hundreds of coffins.
Our guide told us that approximately 72,000 people were killed in the area, but 10,000 were killed in and around the church.
Our next stop was the church at Ntarama. Again, this was a place were thousands of people gathered to find safety, as they had done in 1992. This time, there was no refuge. The church was blasted with grenades to get at the people inside, and then the people inside were killed, ruthlessly. There were children in the church school - they were killed by being smashed against the back wall of the room where the church school was held. The wall where this was done is stained black with the blood of these children. How does this happen? Who sees the murder of children as right and necessary? These are questions that are very difficult to answer, but answer them we must if we are to prevent such a thing from happening again.
We left the hotel and drove through Kigali to pick up a gentleman who was a survivor of the massacre at the Ecole Polytechniqe. He told us his story, which was desperately sad, and several times he had to stop talking because he was overwhelmed. He survived, and so did his wife and daughter and son, but they were all injured: he had an arm hacked off, his son was was shot in the head, and his daughter was clubbed in the head with a nail-studded club. She has residual brain damage. His oldest child was killed - he had sent her to stay with his mother, thinking they would both be safe, but they were both killed by being thrown into a latrine. Stories like this fill me with an unspeakable sadness, but also a barely controllable rage. Seeing this man tell his story, reduced to tears, was very, very moving.
Our second stop of the day was the church at Nyamata. At this church there were approximately 10,000 people killed in the first week of the genocide. The church has shrapnel damage in the ceiling, and dried blood on the walls and altar cloth. People's belongings are piled on the pews. Our guide, who is himself a genocide survivor, and who had sought, and received sanctuary at this same church during the mini-genocide in 1992, says that the clothes will be catalogued and preserved shortly, that the group that deals with these things was just waiting to have enough money to do this.
At the back of the church there are two huge mass memorial graves in the form of fairly deep crypts, and visitors can go down to pay their respects. In these graves are thousands of skulls and bones. and hundreds of coffins.
Our guide told us that approximately 72,000 people were killed in the area, but 10,000 were killed in and around the church.
Our next stop was the church at Ntarama. Again, this was a place were thousands of people gathered to find safety, as they had done in 1992. This time, there was no refuge. The church was blasted with grenades to get at the people inside, and then the people inside were killed, ruthlessly. There were children in the church school - they were killed by being smashed against the back wall of the room where the church school was held. The wall where this was done is stained black with the blood of these children. How does this happen? Who sees the murder of children as right and necessary? These are questions that are very difficult to answer, but answer them we must if we are to prevent such a thing from happening again.
A Busy Day
I'm going to put a number of days' activities together in one blog entry.
I will start with the flights: in a word - terrible! The captain announced that there would be some turbulence, and there was, but "some" suggests a little. In effect he should have said there would be some periods of relative smooth flying. I have never been on a rougher flight in my life. There was turbulence from beginning to end, so much so that on several occasions, food service had to be interrupted and the flight attendants were directed to sit down and put their seat belts on. One member of our group, a young man from Fanshaw college, had never flown before and I was thinking of him from time to time as we bounced across the Atlantic Ocean. I was also thinking of myself and how much I'm not a fan of flying.
We landed at Heathrow, surprisingly after such a rough flight, the landing was the smoothest ever, and made our way over to the Yotel where we spent a quiet and refreshing 5 and a half hours. We had a nap, were able to stretch out on comfy beds and get our feet back down to size, and also have a shower.
We met up with another of our travel-mates, Heather (she was on the previous trip) and we made our way over to the security area and had really only just arrived through the check when we were called to board the plane. Unfortunately I had a middle seat, and although the person beside me was nice, it still feels awkward to ask a person to move every time I needed to use the washroom. Impossible to sleep.
The flight from Nairobi was rough but thankfully short. We spent about thirty minutes on the ground at Bujumbura picking up some people and Linda and I spent a moment or two standing on the landing outside the rear door of the plane looking around. We asked one of our seat mates to take a picture of us with the Bujumbura airport in the background.
When we arrived at Kigali we were met by our bus driver (Olivier again - we were very happy to see him again!) and our official guide from CNLG, Martin. We ditched our stuff in our hotel, and we were off and running. Our hotel, by the way, is fantastic and so far removed from the St. Paul - not in distance but in every other manner. We are sharing a room with Heather - it has three beds and a really nice ensuite washroom. It's a really nice refuge at the end of the day. The hotel has a terraced eating/sitting area, and it's where I am sitting as I write this blog. I have a lovely view down a valley and up the other side of the valley to one of Kigali's many huge hills.
After we stowed our stuff, we set off to the site of the memorial for the Belgian soldiers who were killed by the Presidential Guard on April 7, 1994. The men were guarding the Prime Minister, along with some Ghanian peace-keepers when the Presidential Guard arrived. They sent the Ghanaian peacekeepers away and captured the Belgians, took them to the school where the memorial is, where the Belgians made an attempt for freedom. There are bullet holes and grenade marks on the walls. The Belgians were eventually tortured and killed.
We walked from there to the Nakumat mall and found a foreign exchange office that was open. I exchanged $300US for 230,000 rwandan francs.
Later we had dinner at the New Cactus restaurant, which is a western style resto in Kigali and didn't make it back to our hotel until about eleven o'clock. We were totally exhausted and we had to get our stuff ready for the next day before we went to bed.
Eventually, we made it to bed. I fell asleep immediately.
I will start with the flights: in a word - terrible! The captain announced that there would be some turbulence, and there was, but "some" suggests a little. In effect he should have said there would be some periods of relative smooth flying. I have never been on a rougher flight in my life. There was turbulence from beginning to end, so much so that on several occasions, food service had to be interrupted and the flight attendants were directed to sit down and put their seat belts on. One member of our group, a young man from Fanshaw college, had never flown before and I was thinking of him from time to time as we bounced across the Atlantic Ocean. I was also thinking of myself and how much I'm not a fan of flying.
We landed at Heathrow, surprisingly after such a rough flight, the landing was the smoothest ever, and made our way over to the Yotel where we spent a quiet and refreshing 5 and a half hours. We had a nap, were able to stretch out on comfy beds and get our feet back down to size, and also have a shower.
We met up with another of our travel-mates, Heather (she was on the previous trip) and we made our way over to the security area and had really only just arrived through the check when we were called to board the plane. Unfortunately I had a middle seat, and although the person beside me was nice, it still feels awkward to ask a person to move every time I needed to use the washroom. Impossible to sleep.
The flight from Nairobi was rough but thankfully short. We spent about thirty minutes on the ground at Bujumbura picking up some people and Linda and I spent a moment or two standing on the landing outside the rear door of the plane looking around. We asked one of our seat mates to take a picture of us with the Bujumbura airport in the background.
When we arrived at Kigali we were met by our bus driver (Olivier again - we were very happy to see him again!) and our official guide from CNLG, Martin. We ditched our stuff in our hotel, and we were off and running. Our hotel, by the way, is fantastic and so far removed from the St. Paul - not in distance but in every other manner. We are sharing a room with Heather - it has three beds and a really nice ensuite washroom. It's a really nice refuge at the end of the day. The hotel has a terraced eating/sitting area, and it's where I am sitting as I write this blog. I have a lovely view down a valley and up the other side of the valley to one of Kigali's many huge hills.
After we stowed our stuff, we set off to the site of the memorial for the Belgian soldiers who were killed by the Presidential Guard on April 7, 1994. The men were guarding the Prime Minister, along with some Ghanian peace-keepers when the Presidential Guard arrived. They sent the Ghanaian peacekeepers away and captured the Belgians, took them to the school where the memorial is, where the Belgians made an attempt for freedom. There are bullet holes and grenade marks on the walls. The Belgians were eventually tortured and killed.
We walked from there to the Nakumat mall and found a foreign exchange office that was open. I exchanged $300US for 230,000 rwandan francs.
Later we had dinner at the New Cactus restaurant, which is a western style resto in Kigali and didn't make it back to our hotel until about eleven o'clock. We were totally exhausted and we had to get our stuff ready for the next day before we went to bed.
Eventually, we made it to bed. I fell asleep immediately.
There Might Be Some Turbulence
We are currently have a brief relax at the Yotel in Heathrow Airport. The room is pleasant and cool and very quiet. We have bunk beds, a double bed on the bottom for me, and a single on top for Linda. The bathroom is nice and modern-looking.
I have never had a flight so bumpy in my life, and it wasn't slightly bumpy, it was dreadfully bumpy. A Fanshaw student who is travelling with us had never flown before in his life - not a very good intro to flying. It was so bad at a number of times that the flight attendants had to stop serving dinner - and these were prepackaged dinners, not something that could spill.
I didn't sleep well on the trip at all. What I can say was that the landing was the smoothest landing I have ever had, no bump, no jarring brakes, just a nice glide to a stop.
I sat beside some nice people - a couple from Sarnia going to London for a vacation.
I have never had a flight so bumpy in my life, and it wasn't slightly bumpy, it was dreadfully bumpy. A Fanshaw student who is travelling with us had never flown before in his life - not a very good intro to flying. It was so bad at a number of times that the flight attendants had to stop serving dinner - and these were prepackaged dinners, not something that could spill.
I didn't sleep well on the trip at all. What I can say was that the landing was the smoothest landing I have ever had, no bump, no jarring brakes, just a nice glide to a stop.
I sat beside some nice people - a couple from Sarnia going to London for a vacation.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Some of the Things I Hate about Air Travel, Part II
It has been four years and five days since I wrote Some of the Things I Hate about Air Travel, Part I.
Here is Part II.
I always have a time, shortly before I leave on any vacation, whether it's to the family cottage, or to visit cousins in Rochester, or going to Buffalo with my sisters, or overseas, that I wish I had never agreed to go on a vacation in the first place. I guess I'm a bona fide homebody. I like to stay home. I like to be in my house or garden. I am not an agoraphobic person - I just prefer to be home and to avoid the hustle and bustle of travel.
For overseas trips, the hustle and bustle of travel starts way before I even put my bags in my car for the drive across town (that I will save for another post!) to make my way to the airport. There is hidden H&B (hustle and bustle) in a number of pre-trip activities: getting new shoes, finding clothes that fit, decisions that must be made about packing (how many shirts, sox, gidgies, etc), decisions about where to sit on the airplane, letting the airlines know that I am a vegan, etc.
My sister is taking care of most of this for me, and I am grateful, but it still occupies a significant amount of headspace, this H&B.
Then when we get to the airport, there is the H&B of getting the bags out at the departure stop - Dave will drop us off - going in to the departures level, finding our flight, hooking up with our gang (hope to have dinner with Heather, and friend from the previous trip), and then redistributing everyones soccer stuff among each other's bags.
The capper has to be the part where we must pass through security. Off come the shoes, the belt if wearing one, the jewellery, the money belt, etc. Then the metal detector, then the pat down (last time I got felt up pretty thoroughly right in front of everyone), then standing and waiting as the security person swabs the handles of my bag looking for gun powder residue. I am certain that airport security could be more efficient if they engaged in some serious profiling. A sixty year old nearly-retired school teacher - not much of a security risk. Then there is the H&B of putting your shoes on while your stuff is coming through the x-ray machine, and you fear you are holding others up.
This year I will be taking my travel cane through, and now that I have a healed-but-still-awkward-to-walk-on-formerly-broken foot, I will be limping and slow. And I won't give a rat's ass if I hold up the line!
Here is Part II.
I always have a time, shortly before I leave on any vacation, whether it's to the family cottage, or to visit cousins in Rochester, or going to Buffalo with my sisters, or overseas, that I wish I had never agreed to go on a vacation in the first place. I guess I'm a bona fide homebody. I like to stay home. I like to be in my house or garden. I am not an agoraphobic person - I just prefer to be home and to avoid the hustle and bustle of travel.
For overseas trips, the hustle and bustle of travel starts way before I even put my bags in my car for the drive across town (that I will save for another post!) to make my way to the airport. There is hidden H&B (hustle and bustle) in a number of pre-trip activities: getting new shoes, finding clothes that fit, decisions that must be made about packing (how many shirts, sox, gidgies, etc), decisions about where to sit on the airplane, letting the airlines know that I am a vegan, etc.
My sister is taking care of most of this for me, and I am grateful, but it still occupies a significant amount of headspace, this H&B.
Then when we get to the airport, there is the H&B of getting the bags out at the departure stop - Dave will drop us off - going in to the departures level, finding our flight, hooking up with our gang (hope to have dinner with Heather, and friend from the previous trip), and then redistributing everyones soccer stuff among each other's bags.
The capper has to be the part where we must pass through security. Off come the shoes, the belt if wearing one, the jewellery, the money belt, etc. Then the metal detector, then the pat down (last time I got felt up pretty thoroughly right in front of everyone), then standing and waiting as the security person swabs the handles of my bag looking for gun powder residue. I am certain that airport security could be more efficient if they engaged in some serious profiling. A sixty year old nearly-retired school teacher - not much of a security risk. Then there is the H&B of putting your shoes on while your stuff is coming through the x-ray machine, and you fear you are holding others up.
This year I will be taking my travel cane through, and now that I have a healed-but-still-awkward-to-walk-on-formerly-broken foot, I will be limping and slow. And I won't give a rat's ass if I hold up the line!
The Generosity of Scarborough Blizzard
Long-time readers of my blog will know that before my previous trip to Rwanda I wrote to several local soccer clubs asking for donations of used soccer equipment and used balls etc. Of all of the clubs I wrote to, only the Scarborough Blizzard club replied. The generosity of the head of that club, Michelle Cole-Kennedy, was utterly overwhelming. She gave me uniforms and balls and shin-guards to give away to children in Rwanda. We gave the equipment to a local priest, who gave it to his sister who runs an orphanage. I have posted pictures of two soccer teams wearing the uniforms on an earlier post.
Well, Michelle came through again! Last night I went to meet her at the Blizzard's club headquarters. Again, such generosity from Michelle! She gave me uniforms( jerseys, shorts, socks and goal keeper shirt), balls, shin guards, adult-size polo-shirts (great for gifts for our hosts and for soccer coaches), and some extra child-sized shirts. I was, again, totally overwhelmed.
I might add that I wrote to Nike as well, to see if they had any soccer balls they could donate to the cause, even used equipment. I didn't hear back from Nike, not even a note to say that they could not help.
Well, Michelle came through again! Last night I went to meet her at the Blizzard's club headquarters. Again, such generosity from Michelle! She gave me uniforms( jerseys, shorts, socks and goal keeper shirt), balls, shin guards, adult-size polo-shirts (great for gifts for our hosts and for soccer coaches), and some extra child-sized shirts. I was, again, totally overwhelmed.
I might add that I wrote to Nike as well, to see if they had any soccer balls they could donate to the cause, even used equipment. I didn't hear back from Nike, not even a note to say that they could not help.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Another Genocidaire is Convicted
There was an article in the Toronto Star on March 18, 2014, regarding the conviction yesterday of Pascal Simbikangwa for his role in the genocide in Rwanda. He was tried in France but Rwanda wants him to serve his sentence in Rwanda.
Perhaps of particular interest to those who have read my earlier posts about my trip to Rwada in 2010, one of the witnesses against him was Valerie Bemeriki, whom we met when we spent an afternoon at the federal prison in Kigali. Bemeriki worked for Radio Mille Collines, and although she was eager to point out to us that she was a journalist and hadn't actually killed anyone, I found out later from a book that Kate W-E had, that her job at Radio Milles Collines was to broadcast the location of Tutsis wherever they were hiding, and to exhort killers to step up their efforts.
The other thing that was interesting about Bemeriki was her assertion that most of the genocidaires who were in prison were farmers and regular folks, while the real criminals had managed to get away to France or Belgium. I recall that she had a sense of outrage at this, while at the same time, I felt she was minimizing her participation. I am not surprised then, given her anger at those who managed to get away with it, that she testified against him at his trial.
Lisa Turner
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
There's A New Twist in Our Travel Plans
It turns out that Rwanda now requires entrance visas from Canadians, and considering that Canada requires visas from Rwandans, I imagine this is a tit for tat visa situation.
We must now apply for a visa. They aren't expensive, just another thing to do.
We must now apply for a visa. They aren't expensive, just another thing to do.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
We've had our trip to the travel clinic
Linda and I went to the travel clinic today after work. The Albany clinic is a model of efficiency: we were in and out in forty-five minutes. We had to have a typhoid vaccination, because they only last for three years, and we have a prescription for a booster of the cholera vaccine and the malaria meds, and some antibiotics in case we become unwell while we were away.
So that's one more thing out of the way.
So that's one more thing out of the way.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Next Step: The Travel Medicine Clinic
Linda has made our appointment at the medical clinic that deals with travel issues.
Our appointment is for next Wednesday at 3:00 pm at the Albany Clinic, which by the way, has no parking, and I will have my car, having come from school. I will have to ask the VP if I can leave school a little early that day - I have an prep period at that time, so it should be ok, and I have had only one absence all year so far.
We will need malaria meds, the cholera vaccine and likely a typhoid fever vaccine. We had the typhoid vaccine the last time we went to Rwanda, but I've read that it only lasts four years. The doctor will know for sure of course, but definitely we will want to be covered. Our yellow fever vaccinations are good for a few more years. I will keep these shots up to date because you never know when you are going to get the chance to travel some place where they are needed.
Linda says she wants to ask the doctor for exactly the same type of malaria meds that we had before - we know that we won't have a reaction to them like some people did. I did not experience bad dreams (a potential side effect) nor nausea, and that's a huge plus for me: I have a sensitive stomach, and it doesn't seem to take much to make me feel queasy. Don't want that at all.
.
Our appointment is for next Wednesday at 3:00 pm at the Albany Clinic, which by the way, has no parking, and I will have my car, having come from school. I will have to ask the VP if I can leave school a little early that day - I have an prep period at that time, so it should be ok, and I have had only one absence all year so far.
We will need malaria meds, the cholera vaccine and likely a typhoid fever vaccine. We had the typhoid vaccine the last time we went to Rwanda, but I've read that it only lasts four years. The doctor will know for sure of course, but definitely we will want to be covered. Our yellow fever vaccinations are good for a few more years. I will keep these shots up to date because you never know when you are going to get the chance to travel some place where they are needed.
Linda says she wants to ask the doctor for exactly the same type of malaria meds that we had before - we know that we won't have a reaction to them like some people did. I did not experience bad dreams (a potential side effect) nor nausea, and that's a huge plus for me: I have a sensitive stomach, and it doesn't seem to take much to make me feel queasy. Don't want that at all.
.
Monday, March 10, 2014
I'm going back!
I will be returning to Rwanda this summer!
I paid my deposit today, and now I have to start the other preparations (visit the travel doctor, worry about shoes, what to pack, etc) for the trip.
I'm very excited!
I paid my deposit today, and now I have to start the other preparations (visit the travel doctor, worry about shoes, what to pack, etc) for the trip.
I'm very excited!
Friday, September 17, 2010
Don't Turn Away
Some people who have read my blog have said they couldn’t read every post because some of the posts were too sad, or the photos were too graphic, and they couldn’t bear it.
This is true: Rwanda’s story is a desperately sad one, and the photos that illustrate it are very graphic and shocking. That is perhaps the most compelling reason why we should not turn away. Hundreds of thousands of Rwandans struggled to survive this horror, and ultimately, very few Tutsis escaped with their lives. Over eight hundred thousand didn't survive.
It is to these people, both the survivors and the victims, that we owe the duty of looking at the photos and reading the stories. We ignored them while the genocide was happening. The least we can do is look at the aftermath.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Call Me Red
In Rwanda, the dry season is really, really dry. Everything is utterly dried out, and parched. The only plants that survive without being regularly watered are hardy species that can withstand months of not receiving any water at all. Purple hearts like we have in the greenhouse at school grow everywhere. I know from experience just how stubbornly they cling to life in the face of neglect and prolonged drought.
During the dry season soil on the ground dries up too, and then gets picked up on the slightest breeze and coats everything in a reddish dusty coating.
There was never such a thing as a clear day in Kigali: the air pollution is quite pronounced. Some of this air pollution is caused by smoke from cooking fires, some from cars (with 007-like smoke screens pouring out of their exhausts) and quite a bit of it is from the soil blowing through the air.
Even the simple action of walking, or driving, created enough of an air current to lift the dust from the ground into the air, where it would be breathed in, where it would cling to your skin, your hair and your clothes.
I noticed on the morning of the second day in Kigali, as I was making my bed, that my pillow had a reddish, suspiciously head-sized mark right in the middle of it. Hmm I thought. The next morning, the mark was more pronounced. I realized that my hair must have had enough dust in it to leave a mark on my pillow. When I washed my face in the evening, my facecloth came away all orangey-red. When I was washing my shirts (ok, Linda did the washing) the water turned reddish-orange after just one shirt. One of my white Lands’ End polo shirts still has a definite orange-y tinge to it.
Arial photographs of Kigali (the capital city) on Google reveal very little variation in colour: everything in the city is covered with this dust. As we were driving along in the country-side, past banana plantations I remarked to Linda that I did not see how the trees closest to the road could survive, coated, as they were, with a significant blanket of red dust.
My socks were covered in the red dust by the end of each day, my hat had red dust stains around the sweat band, and my shoes still have red dust stains on them. You step outside for five minutes, and you have red dust on your clothes.
The lucky thing was that the country was so dry and cat-free, I had zero symptoms of asthma the whole time I was there.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, World - Redux
We spent July 20, 21 and 22 (Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday) driving around Kigali. The roads were good, and even though we were up and down the mountains, we were still clearly in a city. On Friday, July 23, we left Kigali to drive east to the Akagera Lodge for two days. I hate being a passenger in any motorized vehicle that I am not driving, and that includes cars, TTC buses, trains, airplanes and tour buses.
I especially hate being a passenger when the roads are clinging to the sides of mountains. Our driver, Olivier, skillfully guided us up and down the roads, whether they were paved or just dirt tracks. I began to be seized with the horror that our bus would careen right over the edge of the mountain. It didn’t help that one of the women on our trip had been in a very bad bus accident in Guatemala: her bus had gone off a mountain road, so my fears actually were rooted in some semblance of probability. If it happened to her bus, it could happen to my bus!
Suddenly the memory of It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, World flew, unbidden, into my head. All I could think of was the scene when Jimmy Durante’s car flies off the cliff, and everyone keeps repeating “It just flew right out there!” while making a motion of one hand slapping the other and imitating a car flying off a cliff. I believe I started to laugh. Linda asked me what was so funny and I told her, and then she was laughing as well. I could barely speak for laughing so hard. I texted Leslie because I couldn’t remember the exact words about going over the cliff. She texted back saying she really didn’t want to know why I was wondering about flying off a cliff. She knew Rwanda was mountainous.
We made it to Akagera in one piece, thanks to Olivier. And he safely conveyed us to all of our other locations as well. I was thinking about Olivier the other day. I miss him and his quiet good humour.
I especially hate being a passenger when the roads are clinging to the sides of mountains. Our driver, Olivier, skillfully guided us up and down the roads, whether they were paved or just dirt tracks. I began to be seized with the horror that our bus would careen right over the edge of the mountain. It didn’t help that one of the women on our trip had been in a very bad bus accident in Guatemala: her bus had gone off a mountain road, so my fears actually were rooted in some semblance of probability. If it happened to her bus, it could happen to my bus!
Suddenly the memory of It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, World flew, unbidden, into my head. All I could think of was the scene when Jimmy Durante’s car flies off the cliff, and everyone keeps repeating “It just flew right out there!” while making a motion of one hand slapping the other and imitating a car flying off a cliff. I believe I started to laugh. Linda asked me what was so funny and I told her, and then she was laughing as well. I could barely speak for laughing so hard. I texted Leslie because I couldn’t remember the exact words about going over the cliff. She texted back saying she really didn’t want to know why I was wondering about flying off a cliff. She knew Rwanda was mountainous.
We made it to Akagera in one piece, thanks to Olivier. And he safely conveyed us to all of our other locations as well. I was thinking about Olivier the other day. I miss him and his quiet good humour.
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