Saturday, December 12, 2009

To all of you who have followed me on the first 3 months of my 6 month sabbatical - thank you from the bottom of my heart. Whether you were sending emails of encouragement, offering to help with various initiatives I was working on or sending me information on my busted hamstring – I appreciate each and every interaction between us. My trip to Africa was special – being able to share it with all my friends, family, colleagues and lurkers (yes, I know you’re out there) was incredible.

I’ve been through a lot and tried to write it all. I did a word count on my journal and it stands at 83,378 words – the average novel in the United States is 80,000 words. So if you’ve been reading along the entire time you’ve read a novels-worth of my journaling! I am humbled that I could retain your attention for such a prolonged period.

Living in Africa has been one of the greatest adventures of my life. Thanks for being a part of it.

The following was written in Amsterdam’s Schipol International Airport on Saturday, December 12^th and revised on Friday, December 18^th 2009.

Sitting in the Amsterdam airport at 8:14 AM (2:14 AM EST). I landed here at 5:14 AM and my flight to JFK doesn’t take off until 2:00 PM. The layover from hell. Rather than dither about the airport all day I thought I’d take the time to write another journal post. I haven’t slept in more than 24 hours so if it’s a bit off, well, now you know why.

Now to close out my first 3 months.

I flew into Kampala in the dark.

I flew out of Kampala in the dark.

I never once saw anything other than scattered lights and vast, empty patches of blackness outside the airplane window.

“And this also,' said Marlow suddenly, 'has been one of the dark places of the earth.”

- Heart of Darkness ; Joseph Conrad

Indeed.

And yet out of this darkness came a bright ray of understanding that has enlightened me beyond all comprehension and taught me things about myself and others that I never imagined.

My last day in Kampala was also the last day of our new Mentor orientation (we hired another 8 Mentors and are now going through the process of familiarizing them with the Educate! platform. For those of you who don’t know – Mentors = Ugandans that teach the Educate! curriculum to our students) and we played many games that were intended to break up the seriousness of the group and get them to know each other better.

Now, every time Angelica makes me play one of these games with the mentors I roll my eyes. I’m a 28-year-old guy. I don’t like to play games. BUT I will give her credit – each time I played a game I had a lot of fun, bonded with the mentors and learned a lot about myself and other people. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is Angelica is really good at her job and even the most hardened cynics (me) can appreciate what she does. One of the games we played is called “touch.” (I think that was the name, not sure and it doesn’t really matter).

Anyways, “touch” is played in the following way. Everyone has to stand in a circle with their eyes closed. Then Angelica calls a group of people into the center (i.e. “mzungus” or “old Mentor class” or “new Mentor class”). The groups that are called into the center are allowed to open their eyes. Angelica will then say outloud, so the whole group can hear, something like, “touch this person if you look up to them.” Then the people in the center walk around to the people standing in the outer circle (who still have their eyes closed) and touch those who possess that quality. (As Angelica explained – you touch their shoulder, but not just a tap, a touch is a powerful mechanism and you are supposed to put some feeling into it. Grab the person’s shoulder. Let them know what you think of them. Mean it.)

This cycle of groups with their eyes open and closed is repeated until everyone has given and received compliments.

Join with me. Don’t close your eyes (that would make this difficult), but imagine standing barefoot in the thick African crab grass with your eyes closed, the hot sun beating on your brow and holding hands with the people to your left and right. Your mind’s eye is closed. You hear Angelica speaking somewhere, not too far away.

“Touch this person if they have made you laugh.”

You feel people touching your shoulder. But not just touching. Grabbing, holding, letting you feel their energy and their appreciation through tactile means.

And your mind wanders. Back to all the funny things that have happened in Africa, all the times you’ve made people laugh. All the times other people made you laugh.

It didn’t take long for me to make my first stupid remark that got people laughing. When I had landed at Entebbe airport I hadn’t slept in about 30 hours. I was delirious. Emily and Angelica picked me up in their car and as we drove they explained how dangerous the roads in Uganda were. I watched as we careened through dark streets with motorcycles whipping past us, oncoming traffic coming into our lane, people walking alongside the road in the dark with us missing them by what seemed like inches - - and I remember watching in mute horror as Angelica, the woman who was driving us, had one foot on the dashboard and had been texting on her phone the entire time.

“You must be good at multi-tasking.” I said to Angelica.

“What do you mean?”

I thought it was quite obvious. She was lounging, texting and navigating the car through the treacherous Ugandan streets at night.

“I mean, you must be quite good at multi-tasking if you are able to drive while texting and relaxing.”

Both girls looked at me like I was insane.

“I’m driving.” Emily said.

And then I realized that the driver sits on the right side of the car in Uganda.

How mortifying. Good way to make a first impression Joe.

Someone else grabs your shoulder, firmly.

I thought of another funny incident. After I had just returned from one of my trips to Hoima, the girls told me they were going to a national park just an hour away from Kampala for two days. They invited me to come but I was exhausted from my trip and in no mood to get into another matatu.

“If you’re not going to come, can you take our laundry down for us?” Rachel asked.

“Sure thing.”

A few hours later I walked to the backyard and pulled down the girls dry clothes. BUT – there was an entire row of their underwear and I didn’t know if I was supposed to take that down. Is that weird? I didn’t know so I decided to text Rachel to ask her if I should take down her and Maggie’s underwear.

I texted the following message, “Hey should I pull down the underwear or would that just be creepy?”

Only one problem. I sent the text to ABRAMZ the founder of breakdance Uganda - an internationally acclaimed organization that teaches the youth about AIDS via dancing.

I almost died from embarrassment. I was expecting the Ugandan police to knock on the door within a half hour. Imagine getting a random text from someone you met once asking you if they should pull down the underwear, or would that be creepy?!?!

There are very few contexts where a text like that can NOT be creepy. As soon as I realized my error I sent Abramz another text message and explained the situation…but I’m not sure I can ever look him in the eyes again. Haha.

The girls and I laughed about this until we cried. One of the more embarrassing things to ever happen to me.

There were countless other incidents.

Maggie taking aside one of the mentors and showing her how to make cold calls to other non-profit organizations that we wanted to partner with.

“Here, I’ll do the first one, you’ll see how simple it is and we’ll go from there.” Maggie quipped to the mentor.

She got on the phone, started speaking with the man and suddenly broke out into a violent coughing fit that lasted for a few minutes.

When she recovered Maggie tried her best to resuscitate the conversation but the man on the other end had trouble understanding who this woman with a hacking cough was.

“Well, your call cant go any worse than that!” Maggie laughed as she handed the phone to the mentor. “Good luck!”

I don’t do the story much justice. Maggie really needs to tell it.

I laugh at other quips I made when I first arrived, like asking where the laundry machine was (Emma has to wash it by hand) or where the coffee machine was.

There are countless other funny anecdotes, but I cant even begin to try and capture them all.

The silence of bare feet padding over crab grass was broken by Angelica’s voice. “Touch this person if you think they’re brave.”

More touches on my shoulder. Wow. People think I’m brave?

On the surface, most people would say that I’m a bit of a worrier, that I’m the guy scared to kill the spider in the corner. I’ve always been an obsessive thinker / worrier and I always will be. But, to steal a quote from my blog, "Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear." People thought I was brave. Hmm.

My mind began to wander. I thought back to 3 months prior. I’m a bit of a believer in fate. I remember sitting in my basement the morning I was set to take off for Africa, thinking to myself, “There hasn’t been unrest in Uganda for a dozen years and now, 3 days before I’m supposed to take off there were riots and people died. Is God, or some divine cosmos tryin to tell me something? What are the chances of something like that happening?” I can admit it now – I legidamately considered not going to Africa the DAY I was supposed to take off. I remember my sister calling me, “Joe, nobody will look down on you if you don’t go. People just died in the riots for Christ sakes.”

“I know.” I said. “I wont endanger myself.”

The truth was that I didn’t really understand what dangers awaited. I had a ball in my gut the size of a watermelon, but this was a big deal. I’d walked away from my job. I had three bon-voyage parties. I’d already said goodbye to everyone.

Later that day my mother dropped me off at the airport. She was hysterical crying.

“Be careful.” She sobbed.

“You be careful!” I laughed back. “You’re the one crying and you need to drive home now.”

I made light of it, but I was choking up too.

Having travelled throughout eastern Africa I can laugh at my concern now, but I remember when I was an hour away from landing in Uganda, the plane still hovering over southern Sudan, walking into the airplane bathroom, looking in the mirror, praying and putting my passport and emergency money into a money belt. I didn’t know what to expect when I landed…but I imagined robbers, people trying to exploit me, road blocks, riots….the whole gamut.

I laugh now because Entebbe Airport is a perfectly safe place, and a cakewalk compared with some of the other places I visited, but I didn’t know that then and I was scared. I don’t give myself credit for many things in life, but I give myself credit for that. Landing in Africa at night, 3 days after riots shocked the entire city was absolutely nerve wracking, but I went ahead with it…courage is not the absence of fear.

Indeed.

I was absolutely terrified going to Africa. I wasn’t brave or courageous or anything Hemingwayesque – but I was firmly resolved to the fact that I wouldn’t let fear dissuade me from pursuing a dream.

“Touch this person if they mean something to you.”

The sun is beating hot on your brow. You’ve been standing completely still for a couple of minutes. There is a veneer of sweat on your face and the hands you are holding are sweaty and damp.

More people grab your shoulder.

I think of all the people that meant something to me. I suppose I should start with Maggie and Rachel. If it wasn’t for Maggie I might have starved to death in my first two weeks of Africa. Lets just put it like this – there was no orientation once I arrived in Kampala. For whatever reason certain people didn’t feel it was necessary to show a guy who’d never been to the third world the basics of living – things like where I could shop, whether the chapati stand on the corner would make me sick, where I could buy water…ya know basic stuff (but I’m not bitter, I swear).

When people ask me, “What is the most important thing you brought to Uganda.” I’m sure they expect me to say: Malaria medication, or a knife, or a flashlight or a backpack. My answer: Nutrigrain bars (thanks Kerin!). It’s all I ate for a week until Maggie took me under her wing.

Maggie who’s travelled so much she had to have pages added to her Passport, showed me everything I needed to know to live in the developing world. She helped me when I needed help and for that I will always be grateful. I’ve told Maggie many-a-times, but I’ll repeat it again – she will always have a devout friend in me. I will never forget her kindness.

Rachel too, Rachel came to Africa on October 26^th (Maggie’s birthday) and instantly connected with Maggie and I. Rachel had travelled all over the African continent – she’s tremendously intelligent, passionate, talented and perseverant. If something bad went down, Rachel’s the type of person you want around.

The three of us formed a core while I was there and its hard to imagine I only knew Maggie and Rachel for three months and one-and-a-half months respectively. As long as I’m alive Maggie will be my travelling companion in Africa. We’ve promised to travel together in Nepal and India and I know we’ll both make good on that promise. Our adventures have only begun.

Mercy AKA my Momma from Uganda AKA my girlfriend AKA the Yogurt Lady of Buziga – I cant help but chuckle when I think back to my first meeting with Mercy. She was rude, short and overcharged me for everything I bought. I never thought I’d see a smile on her face. Now, short of Maggie and Rachel I’m probably closer with her than any other Ugandan. She has vowed to travel to the United States for my wedding (if I ever get married) and I cant wait for that day. She is as tough as a rattle snake, as smart a businesswoman as anyone at NYU MBA school and as kind as a mother. A true pearl.

Moshin – The founder of the People’s Concerned about Children’s Development – who taught me that you cant rely on anyone but yourself to make a positive impact in the world. To quote him exactly, “Everyone thinks that it’s the responsibility of the government to take care of children. But the government is made up of people. So if you think the government should do something really what you’re saying is the people should do something. But I realized nobody is doing anything, and I am one of the people, so I had to do something.” This wasn’t Mahatma Ghandi. This was Moshin, a simple former construction worker transformed into a community activist. This is the type of guy that makes the world a better place.

Morgan – one of the most strong-minded, adventurous, fearless people I’ve ever met. He takes risks unlike anyone I’ve ever met and I’m sure someday those risks will pay off for him.

The mentors – I wont single out specific mentors, but suffice to say they are some of the most passionate and skilled teachers I’ve ever come across. Each and everyone one of them made an impression on me and I hope I’ll always remain in contact with them.

The students – again, I wont single out any of the students…but their resolve in the face of adversity, their indomitable strength of spirit and optimism is something that will always remain with me.

There are too many other people that impacted me to list them all. The man on the side of the road crawling on his hands and knees, eating chicken food off the dirt floor. The deranged lunatic chewing a mouthful of marijuana, his lips stained green, refusing to let go of the matatu until we gave him money, the mothers in the cancer ward whispering gently in their childrens ears – giving their children comfort when there was no comfort to be given. Sylvester – the boda boda driver that crashed into a wall with me and Evan on the back seat. The matatu driver I shared headphones with.

Angelica’s voice rang out again. “Touch this person if you think they’re destined for greatness.”

More touches. Your eyes are closed. You don’t know who thinks you are destined for greatness. But some people do. I was affected by this. Sometimes we aren’t able to see the greatness in ourselves because we conflate our skills with our insecurities and start feeling average. An amalgamation of talents and vices that leave us back at square one. But I truly believe all humans are capable of wonderful things and the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.

“Few will have the greatness to bend history itself: but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of all those acts will be written the history of this generation.”

- Robert F. Kennedy

Thank you for following. I am blessed to be surrounded by people I love and who love me.

Now I encourage each of you to throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. Find your Africa, whatever that is, and make sure to let me know so I can wish you luck on the way out.

God speed and good luck.

Joe

Scolded again...

So I have been scolded again for my delay in writing my summation blog post.

I'm working on it! A lot to digest. But I will write it.

In the meantime its been great talking to or seeing all my friends, families and colleagues back home. I am truly flattered with the number of people that were following my blog and really happy that so many were able to share these experiences with me.

On my jog this morning an oncoming car honked at me and pulled over. It was the Mr. & Mrs. Chalmers - parents to two of my best friends Steve and Joe Chalmers. They told me they had been reading my blog (which I didn't know). Mr. Chalmers said that after he read about the story of the roaches in the seat belts in Hoima he went out to his cars and searched to make sure there were no varments in any of them. :)

Soon!

HOME

Hello everyone,

After 30 straight hours of traveling - I'm home safe and sound.  Spending three months has given me a completely new perspective on life and I'm amazed at everything from the speed of the internet, the freshness of the air and the conditions of the road.

Sitting at my computer, sipping coffee and probably the happiest man in the world right now!

I know I know - I owe a summation blog post.  I'm working on it - got distracted on the plane rides home (where I was supposed to do the writing).  They had mini TV's in the headrests and I hadn't watched TV in 3 months!!!  

Sorry - working on it.

Got my Mom sitting next to me as I type this.  Good feeling :o)

Joe

Pictures - Last Day in Buziga

http://picasaweb.google.com/Joseph.Quaderer/BuzigaLastDay?authkey=Gv1sRgCN-b5-2N6pf4Mw#

Latest and Greatest

Hi everyone,

As many of you know I leave Africa tomorrow and come back to the United States.  I've been in Africa for three months, had countless life-altering experiences and shared most of them with you.  

On my flight from Uganda to Amsterdam I am going to write my summation and will post it shortly thereafter.  Just a reflection on what I've learned and how these experiences have helped to shape me as a person.

I'm currently in talks with Educate! to determine the best course of action for me after Christmas break and once I know what my future holds I'll update the blog.

Thanks for all your support and god bless.

Joe

Kampala 1966 & Today

So I FINALLY took out my camera in central Kampala today because I had to get a picture of the Old Taxi Park so all my faithful readers could see just how chaotic it really is.  I had to take the pictures super fast and they don't do the park justice - but you can get an idea of what it looks like.

I also included pictures of central Kampala from 1966 so you can see the massive difference.

Enjoy!

http://picasaweb.google.com/Joseph.Quaderer/Kampala1966Today?authkey=Gv1sRgCOyE5-Km_oeyJQ#

Tuesday, December 1st 2009

            Today I woke at 4:45 and walked down to Maggie’s room.  She was ready to go so we walked outside at 5:00 AM.  The entire city of Kigali was quiet…almost unusually quiet.  We walked around for about 10 minutes when we finally found two boda boda drivers that could take us to the bus park.  I told my boda boda driver to follow Maggie no matter what – I didn’t want us to get separated at that time of the morning.  There was no issue with the boda boda’s and they took us right to the bus park and we got on the Kampala Coach bus with no problems.

            Maggie fell asleep pretty quickly.  I couldn’t fall asleep (usual problems falling asleep on moving vehicles) but this problem was exacerbated by a man two rows behind me playing music on his laptop.  It was before 6:30 AM and this guy was playing music loudly.  I was angry, but the gods punished him later for his transgressions.

            At around noon we pulled into a gas station.  Maggie was asleep and I was dozing pretty good.  Apparently, though, a man boarded the bus – walked all the way to the back where the people with the laptops had left their laptops on their seat while they got something to drink.  The man took two lap tops and walked off the bus.  (Nobody on this bus noticed this man didn’t belong there).

            When the people with the stolen laptops got back they were FURIOUS that Kampala Coach had let someone on the bus who didn’t have a tichet.  Then they asserted that the Kampala Coach operators had colluded with the thief who not only knew to walk to the back of the bus where the laptops were located, but was also allowed on and off the bus with no questioning.  Honestly it wouldn’t surprise me if the bus operators were colluding with the thief.  The buses here are shady as hell.           

            Long story short we were detained an hour while the people chased around the small town looking for the thief.  Alas, their search ended to no avail and the bus continued on its journey.  The rest of the 12 hour bus ride passed without anything major.  It was very weird to think a thief had entered the bus and apparently walked past where Maggie and I were sitting.  Guess we got lucky – mzungus are always targeted in instances like these.

            Maggie and I got back to Kampala, ate Indian food and went back to our compound mentally and physically exhausted.

Monday, November 30th 2009

            I woke up early today, around 6:30, and went to the lodge by myself to read and write.  It was one of the most beautiful mornings I can remember and I walked back into my room and got the camera to snap a couple pictures (attached).  Then I read and wrote for an hour or so before Maggie woke up and joined me.  We ate breakfast together and then decided to head back to Kigali.  But first we needed to figure out how to get back from Kiniji to Masenze.

            We paid for the room and then asked the hostess to arrange for boda boda’s to pick us up at the guesthouse and drive us for the 15-minute drive to Masenze.  We maybe would have walked it again but neither of us were sure we could retrace the route through the forrest that Samuel had led us 2 days before.

            The hostess was on the phone calling the boda boda drivers when a man walked in.  She hung the phone up.

            “He’s driving to Masenze.”  She said.  “Ask him to drive you.”

            “Can we ride with you?”  I asked.

            “Ask my client.”  The man replied.  “His name is Richard.”

            We walked to the parking lot and saw a white haired man with slicked back hair and a walrus-like mustache sitting in the passenger seat of a large van.

            “You Richard?”  I asked.

            “Yup!”  He chirped.  “Need a ride?”

            “You read my mind.”

            “Get in!”

            Maggie and I got in the van with another woman.

            We drove for about 20 minutes.  Richard was a really nice guy – he was an American from California.  He told me he used to live in New York and lit off the fireworks over the East River for the 4^th of July for a long time.  Small world.

            The van pulled over on the road.

            “Okay.”   The driver said, “This is the closest we’re going to Masenze.”

            Hmm – I guess that tidbit was lost in translation.  Richard wasn’t going to Masenze after all.  Maggie and I and the other woman hopped out.

            “How far is Masenze?”  I asked the woman.

            “2 kilometers.”  She said.  “A boda boda can take you for 300 francs (60 cents) or you can wait a half hour for the bus.”

            Suddenly we were surrounded by boda boda drivers.

            I looked at Maggie.  “Its only 2 kilometers and it’s a country road.  You want to boda it?”

            “I don’t care – whatever you want to do.”

            Another boda boda driver pulled up.  He had a small head and beady eyes.

            The woman pointed at him when he wasn’t looking.  “Do not take him.”  She warned.  “He is bad.”

            “What do you mean “bad”?”  I asked.  I wanted to know if he was a bad driver or if he was a bad man and he’d rob us.

            “He’s very bad.”  She repeated.

            I’d heard enough.

            “Lets just walk it Maggie.”  I said.  “Its only a mile and a half.”

            She nodded.

            The woman told us to walk straight and then make a left at the roundabout.  We set off down the road with all our gear.

            We made it to Belvedere bus with 5 minutes to spare. 

            The entire ride back to Kigali Maggie and I soaked in the beautiful scenery and talked.

            We got back to Kigali in 2 hours, locked our stuff in the hostel and headed took boda boda’s to the bus park to buy our tickets back to Kampala.  We wanted to do another overnight bus but when we spoke with the bus operators they told us there was no overnight bus from Kigali to Kampala.

            “Maybe that’s a good thing.”  I said to Maggie.  “I don’t think we should be wandering around Kigali at 1:00 in the morning.”

            In Kampala we have Mad Max – our trusted cab driver that is always on time and a consummate professional in every facet.  Here we didn’t know or trust anyone. 

            We decided to go with Kampala Coach because the buses were roomier and supposedly nicer.

            “The only bus back to Kampala leaves at 5:45 in the morning.  You need to be here at 5:15.”  The Kampala Coach operator told us.

            We had the same problem.  We’d need to leave our hostel at like 4:45 – 5:00 in the morning to make it on time.  But that was our only option.  We bought the tickets and headed back to our hostel.

            It was another ardous day of travelling and Maggie and I just ate and then did a little Christmas shopping at a crafts store.  We were both concerned about the early morning departure the next day.  In addition to being super early you need to make sure your boda driver isn’t drunk or looking to rob you.  I made a mental note of the exact route we’d need to travel to get to the bus park and if the boda boda driver veered off that path I’d know something was up.  With many things in life I trusted that we’d be okay so long as we were prudent and calm – and with that thought in mind I fell asleep.

Rwanda Pictures - Day 4

http://picasaweb.google.com/Joseph.Quaderer/RwandaDay4?authkey=Gv1sRgCMyrtJGt5des8AE#

Rwanda - Day 3 - Mountain Gorillas

As per my November 29th posting I couldn't take pictures of the gorillas but I found these online:

http://picasaweb.google.com/Joseph.Quaderer/RwandaDay3MountainGorillas02?authkey=Gv1sRgCICk0reg__W-Mw#

Sunday, November 29th 2009

            We met with Flohan, Xavier and Aaron for breakfast.  The meal wouldn’t have won any culinary awards – white toast, blue ban (African margerine that doesn’t need to be refrigerated), pineapple, coffee & bananas.  We’d figured breakfast would be bad considering the noxious fish from the night before and it lived up to expectations.

            Maggie and I realized we didn’t have any food to eat on our 4-hour trek up the mountain so I grabbed a row of mini bananas and we set off.

            Normally you need to hire a driver for $80 to go to National Park Des Volcanoes but Maggie and I were fortunate that Flohan and Xavier said we could jump in their van.  Hurray!

            We got to the park and were told that in addition to us four we’d have Bernard – a spindly 6’4’’ Belgium expatriate with wire-rimmed glasses and a close cropped hair cut.  He lived in Kaniji in the early 1980’s studying gorillas with Diane Fossey.  Diane Fossey lived on Mount Bisoke for 15 years studying gorillas.  In 1985 she was killed by poachers whom she clashed with often.   The movie “Gorillas in the Mist” was about her studies, life and death.

Gorillas in the Mist: The Story of Dian Fossey

 

Overview

Gorillas in the Mist is a 1988 film which tells the true-life story of naturalist Dian Fossey and her work in Rwanda with Mountain Gorillas. The screenplay was adapted by Anna Hamilton Phelan from articles by Alex Shoumatoff and Harold T. P. Hayes and a story by Phelan and Tab Murphy. The original music score was composed by Maurice Jarre. The movie was directed by Michael Apted and the cinematography was by John Seale.

The movie stars Sigourney Weaver, Bryan Brown, Julie Harris and John Omirah Miluwi. It was nominated for five Academy Awards - Best Actress in a Leading Role (Sigourney Weaver), Best Film Editing, Best Music, Original Score and Best Writing, Screenplay Based on Material from Another Medium - and won the Golden Globe Awards for Weaver's performance and Jarre's score while being nominated for Best Picture.

Plot summary

A Kentucky woman, Dian Fossey, is inspired by an anthropologist Louis Leakey to devote her life to the study of primates. Travelling into deepest Africa, Fossey becomes fascinated with the lives and habits of the rare mountain gorillas of the Rwandan jungle. She becomes so preoccupied with her vocation that she loses the opportunity of a romance with National Geographic photographer Bob Campbell.

Appalled by the poaching of the gorillas for their skins, hands, and heads, Fossey complains to the Rwandan government, which dismisses her, claiming that poaching is the only means by which some of the Rwandan natives can themselves survive. She rejects this, and dedicates herself to saving the African Mountain gorilla from illegal poaching and likely extinction. To this end she forms and leads numerous anti-poaching patrols, and even burns down the poachers' villages and stages a mock execution of one of the offenders. Fossey is mysteriously murdered on December 26, 1985, in the bedroom of her cabin.

Its really crazy - I remember watching that movie as a kid and wondering what it would be like to live in the heart of Africa...and now, perhaps by chance, perhaps by fate I was there.

Anyways...it was pretty cool to have Bernard in our group.  He had moved back to Rwanda only 6 months ago.

            “How are you getting there and back?”  Bernard asked.

            “Well, we have a ride there but we don’t know how we’re getting back.”  I said.  Flohan and Xavier’s driver was heading back to Kampala after dropping us off at the base of Bisoke.

            His eyes smiled.  “Don’t you think that’s a little optimistic?”

            I nodded.

            He pointed at his vehicle a bad-a$$ Land Cruiser with an elevated intake valve, 4-wheel drive and tires the size of a 18 wheelers.

            “Today is your lucky day.”  He said.  “I can drive you there and back.”

            Apparently Flohan, Xavier, Maggie and my plan to “figure it out” was a bad idea.  Most days there are only a few people climbing the Bisoke volcano and without a ride back you’d be in a sticky situation.

            We drove to Bisoke on some of the worst roads I’ve ever driven on – and believe me – that’s saying a lot.  We needed every one of our 4 wheels to make it to the base camp.

            We started our ascent and were moving very fast.  I run every day, but Rwanda is more than a THREE MILES high just at the BASE of the mountain.  The air is thin.  It made me nervous because the guide and porter are used to the thin air, Maggie is from “mile-high” Denver and even Flohan and Xavier come from high altitudes in Switzerland.  I was the only one without high-altitude lungs.  Before we entered the base camp I was sweating profusely and winded.

            We began our ascent and initially I tried to avoid the puddles and water (little did I know what awaited).  We continued climbing.

            We reached the site where Dian Fossey lived with the gorilla’s and had been slaughtered.  We turned upwards and hadn’t gone far when the guide put his hand up and told us to stay still.  We’d run into a pack of mountain Buffalo which have terrible sight, are dumb and are the most dangerous animals on the mountain on account of their size and proclivity to charge.  Flohan and Xavier told us when they had gone mountain tracking the day before the guides brought guns – not to protect against gorillas or poachers but in the event they ran into mountain buffaloes.

            “You are lucky to see mountain Buffalo.”  Our guide Fidel told us.

            “I want to see mountain gorillas!”  I said.

            He smiled.  “You need to pay to see the gorillas – go gorilla tracking.”

 

            Okay.  It’s a weird thing here.  People have to pay an obscene amount of money ($600) to see the gorillas.  Let me put that in perspective for you.  The average per capita income for Rwandans is $370.  The average per capita income in the United States is $22,000.  So it would be like people coming to the United States and paying $40,000 to watch some gorillas pad around in the jungle. 

            Why am I highlighting this?

            Its because the gorilla tracking brings in SO much money that the tour guides and the national park are VERY strict about who can see them.  They don’t want tourists who pay $150 to climb Bisoke to see gorillas when the going rate is $600.

            When the Democratic Republic of Congo gorilla fighters (which were within miles of where we were trekking) want to inflict economic punishment on Rwanda the plan is VERY simple.

            Kill a group of gorilla toursists and you dessicate an entire industry for 12 months. There was a group of gorilla tourists killed in 1998 and it ravaged the industry.

 

            Sorry – I digressed – anyways, the $600 was too much for Maggie to pay and I didn’t want to do it by myself…so gorilla tracking wasn’t in our itinerary – BUT – I did mention to her that I was upset because we were in the last place on earth that mountain gorilla’s live, and there are only 700 left, and we weren’t going to see them.

            We continued hiking.  I called up to Bernard, “Hey, what are our chances for seeing mountain gorillas today?”

            “One or two percent.”  He said.

            My hopes were getting smaller and smaller.  Sigh.

            The rest of the hike was super intense.  It was probably the hardest exercise I’ve ever done in my life – no exxageration – 4 hours of hiking up steep slopes through thick bush and deep mud that was sometimes 8-12 inches deep (if you don’t believe me about the depths of the mud check out the pictures from day 3 of my trip).

            We reached the top, but it was unfortunately covered in a cloud.  We couldn’t see any of the outlying landscape and we could barely make out the crater lake in the middle of the volcano.

            Suddenly the fog lifted and I was able to snap some pictures of the lake.  We hung out for a half hour rehydrating, resting our legs and sharing the mini bananas I’d taken from breakfast. We each got ONE mini banana (which is the size of a plump thumb).  Not a hearty lunch after rigorous exercise…again poor planning on our part – most trekkers bring lunch.           

            The walk down was even harder than the walk up because we were still trying to avoid the holes and the mud and the roots and now we had gravity pulling us down.

            “How many people break their ankles coming down this mountain?”  I asked Fidel.

            “Not many.”

            Yeah right – it was a perfect storm to snap an ankle.

            Xavier had badly broken his ankle a year ago and he was down right mad at the conditions.  “This is f**king insane!  They should have told us it was going to be this treacherous!  I don’t want to break my ankle again.”  He yelled.

            We continued our descent.  All the sudden Fidel raised his hand and turned around.

            “STOP!!!”  He hissed.  “Don’t move.”           

            He flapped his arms admonishing us to get down and to keep quiet.

            “What is it Fidel?”  I whispered.  I thought it was another herd of mountain buffalo.

            “Come together in a close group.”  He hissed.  “The gorillas are sorrounding us.”

            WWWHHHAAATTTTTTTTTT?!?!?!?

            I kid you not – I trudged down another couple of feet and literally within arms reach sat a 600-pound silverback mountain gorilla.  If I walked a little closer I could have touched it.

            “Keep moving!”  Fidel hissed.  “Stay close together!”

            I gazed at the gorilla few seconds more, knowing this opportunity would never happen again.  Literally, like the movie “Gorilla’s in the Mist” I was looking at a gorilla in the mist on top of a volcano on the border of Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo.  This doesn’t happen often.  This doesn’t usually happen in a lifetime.

            I didn’t know what the big deal was with seeing the gorillas – but after seeing one so close I know the $600 people pay is worth it.  They are so massive and powerful and beautiful and stark and serene animals.  The animal could have torn me limb from limb (and if it were the movies, where they are depicted that way, I’m sure that would have happened) but it sat there just staring at me quietly.

            Fidel hissed at us again.  “Stay together!  They are still all around us!”

            I looked one last time and then started walking down.  When BAM another gorilla just off the path!  I looked at him but Fidel was adamate we continue moving.

            Then another MASSIVE gorilla on the left side into the distance.  It saw us and ran into the bush – the signature silverback disappearing into the thick underbrush.  Then ANOTHER gorilla eating bamboo or sugarcane or something on the right side.

            Then from the left where the massive silverback had been I heard a blood-curdling, guttural screech.

            “We are in the middle of a family!”  Fidel yelled under his breath. 

            Another screech.

            Bernard looked at me.  “The gorillas are telling us to move.”

            I didn’t need any more prompting.  I looked back at Flohan and Xavier who were taking pictures of the first gorilla.

            Fidel yelled at them.  “Come here now!”

            Flohan and Xavier slid down the mountain.

            Fidel walked up to them.  “Did you two take pictures of the gorillas?!”

            Flohan and Xavier didn’t respond.

            “You did.  I know it.”  Fidel yelled.  “Take out your camera and delete the pictures right now.”

            Wow – Fidel turned from a warm and bubbly guide to disciplinarian real quick.

            Like I said before – they are super strict with this stuff – they didn’t want us going back to our lodge and telling people we saw gorillas and then showing them pictures they themselves paid $600 for.  Seeing those gorillas was a complete anomaly – we just got lucky.

            We came back to Bernard’s car so tired we could barely walk.  We got back to the Kiniji lodge and Flohan, Xavier, Maggie and I got lunch.  Then Flohan and Xavier made their way to Kigali and Maggie and I went to our rooms and read and slept.

            I woke up at 9:30 after sleeping a few hours and scribbled the notes for this journal entry on a piece of paper (of which I’ve only now transcribed to my blog), had a well deserved beer and read.

            The mental snapshot of the mist and the gorillas is something that will stay with me always.  It was one of the more magical experiences of my life.

Scolded

So my beloved friend Aidan told me I've been remiss with my writing duties lately.  I told him I'll get back to writing and finish strong.  One more week in Africa...cant slow down now.  

I have two more days of my Rwanda trip to write...including my trek up and down Bisoke and my bus ride back where a thief came on the bus and stole thousands of dollars of merchandise.  Stay tuned :)

Rwanda - Day 3

http://picasaweb.google.com/Joseph.Quaderer/RwandaDay3?authkey=Gv1sRgCIyX2qC__4rrxQE#

Photos of Uganda in 1966

My friend Dave (Yale doctor I met when rafting the Nile) sent me these pictures.  If you remember I traveled to Murchison Falls with him and his friends a few weeks ago.

---------------------------

Hey Joe,
One day, when you have a fast internet connection again, check out my
dad's photos of Murchison Falls and Kampala in 1966. You'll find them
under "African Slides East Africa"
http://picasaweb.google.com/cytokines41

Saturday, November 28th 2009

            Woke up today and Maggie and I went to a place called the “Blues Café” for breakfast.  Then Maggie went looking for coats (we would need them at the summit of Bisoke volcano) and I went to an internet café and did some work for NYU.

            We met back up at 1:00 and went to the tourism office to pay for our Bisoke trek - $150 – not too bad.

            Maggie and I apparently weren’t thinking too clearly because we bought the trekking tickets before knowing if there was room at the Kiniji Guest House – the only reasonably priced lodge in the town (it cost $20 and the other lodges that catered to extravagantly rich people charged about $400 / night).  The lady gave us the number for the lodge but it didn’t work.  I called from my cell phone and my global cell phone and it didn’t work either time.

            “Are you sure this is the right number?”  I asked Peace.

            She nodded.

            Maggie and I decided we’d just go to Kiniji and hope they had room.  The lady told us where to get buses to Kiniji and we left.

            On the way to the bus depot we bought a Rwandan SIM card and airtime and called the lodge.  They were completely booked.  Our spirits sank.

            “Can you refer us to another lodge?”  Maggie asked.

            They told her to call back in a half hour.  Great.

            We got VERY lost looking for the bus company, “Belvedere Bus.”  It took us about an hour to find it.  It was very frustrating everywhere we went people harassed us and tried to get us to take their bus – but we only trusted Belvedere because the woman at the tourism office was adamant we take them.

            Finally we got to Belvedere at 2:23.  The bus left at 2:30…good timing.

            The bus wound through the verdant hills that were layered and tiered with farming trenches.  Seperately the tiers were pragmatic means of creating farmable land – in aggregate they were a stunningly beautiful agricultural mosaic stretching as far as the eye could see.  As we wound higher into the Rwandan mountains the mist of the mountains, clouds of the sky and haze of the distance morphed into one.

            Our ears popped as we rose higher still.  We stopped at a roadside mart along the way.  Maggie got a ham and cheese sandwich.

            She bit into it.  “Mmm, its delicious.  Have half.”

            “No, its not that big and you are really enjoying it.”

            She smiled.  “It’s delicious and that’s why I want to share it with you.”

            Aww isn’t she nice!?

            The sandwich was good, but three months ago it would have made me ill.  My stomach is pretty Africanized by now – I can eat basically anything and not get sick (knock on wood).  It’s been almost 2 months since I’ve had stomach issues.  Not bad (although I go through about a pound of Purell every day (that’s the trick I think)).

            After 2 hours we arrived in Musenze.  I thought Musenze was within walking distance of Kiniji.  I walked to the bus driver, I pointed at my ticket and then down at the ground (basically asking if we were at the destination I was supposed to be at).  He nodded.

            Maggie persisted.

            I walked over.  “Maggie, we know we’re in the right town why are you still talking to the bus driver?”

            “We need to take another bus to Kiniji.”

            Oh.  I didn’t know that.

            There was a crowd gathered around us.  Masenze was the real sticks.  A woman wheeled over a crippled child in a wheelchair.  The child supplicated softly, “Please give me money.”

            I couldn’t in that situation.  I walked away, but it was sad.

            Again a group of people all working for different bus companies harassed Maggie and I.  We finally found one going to Kiniji and bought tickets which cost 300 Francs (60 cents).

            While we waited for the bus to leave we watched a young boy with a leg amputated at the hip running around on his hands and his one good leg.  The boy was disturbingly dexterous and his body movement reminded me of something out of a poltergeist movie or something.

            A child came to Maggie’s window selling an odd fruit that was ensconced in what appeared to be a flower bud.

            “What is it?”  Maggie asked.

            The children, and nobody on the bus spoke a lick of English.

            Finally a woman in front of us reached out the window, grabbed one of the buds, opened the leaves and popped a gumball-sized fruit in her mouth.  Ahh, it was food.

            Maggie bought it and we ate the strange fruit.  It tasted like an orange-flavored strawberry and had the consitency and texture of a tomatoe.  Delicious.

            “Savor the flavor.”  Maggie said.  “You’ll never see this fruit again.” 

            How right she was – I cant even count the number of times I came across bizarre fruits on my travels that I’ve never seen again.

            After a 30 minute trip we got to where we surmised was Kiniji.  I turned to the man sitting next to me, wearing a suit and asked him if he knew where Kiniji Guesthouse was.

            He smiled, a wide, toothy smile.  “Yes, I will take you there.”

            Hmm – okay – that works!

            We made small talk as we walked.  His name was Samuel and he was a preacher at a 7^th Day Adventist Church in Masenze but lived in Kiniji.

            As we walked we were inundated with children SCREAMING “Mzungu! Mzungu! MZUNGU!”  I have to admit – in all my travels I’ve never seen kids get THAT excited.  We were definitely not a common site in that town.  There were less while people in Masenze and Kiniji than just about anywhere I’d been before.  They kept demanding I take pictures of them and then show them the pictures.  Cute.

            Samuel led us off the main road and onto a dirt path that snaked between a thin forest of trees on either side.  Maggie and I started getting nervous.

            “You’re taking us to the Kiniji Guesthouse – right Samuel?”

            He smiled and nodded.  “Yes, this way.”  He pointed at another shock of trees in the distance.  “Just behind those trees.”

            It was odd, but I think I have a good sense for people and I felt Samuel was a good guy.  Plus he was dressed in a full suit and was a preacher…I mean if he was a robber it was an elaborate hoax.

            Much to my surprise Samuel took us directly to the lodge (he took us a back way through the forest).  Along the way we met his daughter. 

            Three boys – George, Claude and Fred started walking with me.  We talked about their favorite English Premier League Team (Arsenal) and about their soccer team.  When I got to the lodge they asked me to take their picture and email it to their school (I did).

            When we checked in we met two Swiss guys, Flohan and Xavier that had tracked gorillas earlier in the day but were also climbing Bisoke the next day (same as us).  They kindly offered to drive us from the campsite to the base of the mountain.  They were nice guys so Maggie and I had dinner with them and Aaron – a guy from Quebec that was going to Medical School in Australia and doing an internship in a Rwandan hospital.  Good conversation, good people – but the worst food I’ve had yet in Africa.  All they had was fried fish and I literally couldn’t put the thing in my mouth.  It was rancid.  I ate a mini-banana and French fries.  Yum.

            We had a long day of travelling and sleep came quickly.

Rwanda Pictures - Day 2

http://picasaweb.google.com/Joseph.Quaderer/RwandaDay202?authkey=Gv1sRgCO6Nj7OmkYeVrwE#

Friday, November 27th 2009

2:44 AM – Maggie is asleep next to me.  I just got off the phone with my family and I can’t sleep so I’m writing.  We’re stopped in a small town and at almost 3:00 in the morning : in the foreground there are men running up to my window and tapping on it and proffering sticks of fried beed.  These people area really tireless.  In the background a man wearing a tan raincoat is dancing to reggaeton coming from one of the shops.  He’s oblivious to the bus that just pulled up – content to mingle with the music and the dust and the darkness of the night.

 

            The rest of the night I was captive to my imagination – thinking about all I’d experienced in Africa, about what Rwanda would be like, about not being with my family, about wondering if our stuff is going to get stolen.  The countryside looks the same in the dark – all I feel are the bumps of the dirt road and all I see is dust being spewed from under the bus.  Its 4:50 and we’ve been driving for a few hours now.  There is a film of dust in the bus.   I can taste it in my mouth.

            The night capitulated to the inevitability of day and I was graced with the beauty of the Rwandan countryside awakening outside my window.  I watched the sun come up through the early morning mist and haze, over the gently undulating landscape – it was bright and red and powerful.

            I nudged Maggie awake.

            “The sun is rising.”

            She opened her eyes and smiled.  It was one of the most beautiful sunrises I’ve ever witnessed.

            We weren’t yet in Rwanda “The land of a 1,000 hills” but already the landscape was changing – it was breathtaking.  Hills as far as the eye could see and then the hills reached up gently and kissed the awakening sky.

            “How are you doing?”  Maggie asked me, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

            “I’m okay.  Havent slept a wink and my leg is killing me.”  The leg where I tore my hamstring was on fire, absolutely throbbing.  I don’t know what it is about certain bus (and even worse, matatu) seats but the angle of the seat was terrible and I was in pain.

            “I can give you a Vicotin for the ride back.”  She offered.

            “That would help.”

            We arrived at the border 5 hours later – at around 10:30.  Suddenly everyone started getting off the bus.  Maggie and I had no idea what has happening.

            I grabbed my bags and started to walk off.

            “Leave your bags.”  The conductor commanded in broken English.

            I wasn’t comfortable with this.  We were supposed to leave our bags on an empty bus?

            We did as we were told and got off the bus.  We were the last to get off and as soon as we got off it drove away.

            WHAT?!

            We watched as the bus with all our stuff drove down a street and past a slew of other trucks and buses.

            Someone yelled that we needed to exit Uganda before entering Rwanda.  Someone handed us a yellow piece of paper.  We filled it out with our passport information and then waited in line for 15 minutes.  We got checked out of Uganda and started walking on the no-mans-land street our bus had gone down that connects Uganda and Rwanda.

            As soon as we passed the gate we were swarmed with money exchangers.

            “I give you good rate!”

            “I give you 730!”

            “Mzungu!  Change here.”

            There had to be 60 or 70 of these guys.  They were all over Maggie and I but we barged through.

            Finally we got to the Rwanda border and there was a money exchange counter.  I’ve done enough travelling to know that the border exchange rates are terrible, but Maggie and I made them compete against each other until we got a decent exchange rate.  Oh yeah, they don’t like Uganda shillings so we had to use our spare USD.  We drove the money changers from a rate of 760 to 775 and changed about $200 each.  It was tough – they speak KiRwandan or French in Rwanda – we were just beginning to encounter the troubles we’d have with absolutely no common language between Rwandans and us.

            Maggie and I hadn’t eaten since the night before so we got some chappati and mondazzi and then wandered around looking for our bus.  We finally found it – but – they had taken everyone’s stuff out and laid it against the side if the bus.

            This is funny – so Rwanda is apparently a super environmentally friendly country – they weren’t checking the bags for guns or drugs or something like that – they were checking them for plastic bags.  Under NO circumstances can you bring plastic bags into Rwanda – they take this very seriously.  So random.

            The drive to Kigali was incredible – the bus weaved in between gigantic hills that had been terraced to make them agriculturally productive.  The combination of all the terraced hillsides created a pituresque amalgam of manmade and natural beauty.

            We got to Kigali at noon.

            We didn’t speak French or KiRwandan.

            We didn’t have a place to stay.

            We didn’t have a map.

            We didn’t have a schedule for what we were going to do (although we had a couple vague ideas).

            We pulled out a Lonely Planet guide for East Africa.  There was a Rwandan tourist office.

            “Lets just go there.”  I said.  “They can help us figure stuff out and they probably speak English.”

            As soon as I said that a man came over to us.  “Where are you going?”  He asked.

            Maggie and are naturally guarded with anyone approaching us, but we needed help.

            “We are trying to get to the tourism office.”

            He smiled.  “You can take a bus.  Right this way.”

            We followed him to a couple matatus.

            “You can take any of these into the center of the city.”

            We were waiting for the hammer to drop.  For him to ask for money or tell us to give him something or give us a brochure for a hotel.  Nothing.  Just a wonderfully nice man.  How pleasant.  That was just the beginning of the wonderful demeanor of the people we met in Rwanda.

            The matatu conductors were relentless, however, one of them grabbed my wrist so hard he turned me around as I was walking.  I glowered at him.  I don’t do well when people touch me.  It’s a pet peeve.

            Finally we got in a matatu and headed off for a section of town we didn’t know.  Nobody spoke English.  Finally a man got on that understood broken English and he said he was getting out at the same place we were.           

            We got off the matatu and still had no idea where the tourism office was.

            We approached man with badly stained teeth and he spoke broken English and was very kind and showed us to the building.

            The lady at the counter, “Peace” (what a cool name) told us about the different attractions Rwanda had to offer: gorilla hunting, volcano trekking, genocide sites, genocide museums, lakes…etcetera.

            We had heard good things about the volcano treks and decided we wanted to do the two-day trek up Karisimbi mountain which is 14,783 feet high and located half in Rwanda and half in the DRC.  To put that in perspective – Kilimanjaro, the highest peak in Africa, is 19,931 feet - - so Karisimbi is no joke.

            Before we could do Karisimbi we had to get more money (it cost $250 per person and we only exchanged $200 at the border).  Rwanda is weird in this regard – it’s the only place I’ve ever been to that doesn’t have ATM machines.  We set out from the tourism office looking for a bank when we were approached by a nice, well-spoken, genteel-looking boy (maybe 17 or 18). 

            “The guard told me you are looking for a bank.”

            We nodded.

            “I’d be happy to show you.”  He smiled.

            He took us to the bank where we were able to withdraw money through an incredibly complex and annoying process.

            Afterwards we were walking out.

            “Thanks (I forget his name now) – we really appreciate it.”

            “Yes no problem.”  He said.  “But I do have one favor to ask of you.  My parents were both killed in the genocide and tomorrow is the day the killer is set to go on trial – I want to go but I don’t have enough money for the bus trip.  It costs 4,800 Francs ($10).”

            Now here is a tough situation.  The kid was really nice and helpful and well put together (he was wearing a designer scarf for Christ sakes!) and its true that everyone in Rwanda was touched by the genocide and it was believable that he lost his parents – but what are the chances that his parents killer was to be tried tomorrow?

            I knew I was being had…but for $10 I didn’t think it was worth it to grill the guy about his story.  What if he was telling the truth?  Then I’d feel terrible.

            Maggie and I gave him 5,000 Francs each.

            “Good luck tomorrow.”  I said.  “I hope justice is served.”

            “I hope so too.”  He smiled.

            We walked back to the tourism office with our money.  “Oh, Karisimbi is on waitlist.”  Peace said.  “You can’t climb that until next Thursday.”

            Wish she told us that before we withdraw an additional $500 from the bank.  Oh well.

            “Can we climb Bisoke?”  I asked.  Bisoke was the second tallest volcano, further in towards the Rwanda side.  It was 12,172 feet – still pretty serious elevation but was only a one day trek.

            “Yes.  You can do that.”

            Great.   Maggie and I elected to make our way to Kiniji (where the volcanoes are) without a guide because guides were a lot of money and we’re pretty experienced at travelling around via public transportation.

            With the rest of our day we decided to visit a genocide museum in an outer province of Kiniji.  To say the museum was sickening is an understatement.  The genocide that took place in Rwanda was possibly one of the most horrific incidents in ALL of humanity.  I say this because over 1,000,000 people or 1/8^th of Rwanda died in the massacre.  And it wasn’t like the slaying of the Muslims in the Balkans, or the slaughter of non-Arians by Hitler – these people all killed EACH OTHER.  Literally neighbors killing neighbors.  Friends killing friends.  Husbands killing wives.  Brothers and sisters killing each other.  I am not exaggerating.  The fear was so pandemic and so deep that people didn’t trust others they had known for their whole lives.  The pictures and the stories of how brutually people were slaughtered were unreal.  After the memorial we walked outside to a mass burial grave that contained over 240,000 people.

            240,000 people brutually murdered and buried beneath where we were walking.  240,000…its hard to understand.

            It was a moving experience - this didn’t happen in the 1940’s when my grandfather was a young man.  This happened in 1994 when I was 13 years old.  I struggled to bridge the logical gap between the kindness of the Rwandan’s I’d met earlier in the day with the savagery of what took place not long ago in this small country.

            Afterwards we took boda boda’s back to our hostel (which had NO running water).  All I can say about Rwanda is that the aftermath of the genocide hangs above the city like a dense, heavy fog.  EVERYONE…and I mean EVERYONE knew someone that died in the genocide.  The city is quiet.  You can’t talk about whether you are a hutu or a tutsi.  What your religion is.  What your political orientation is.  The fabric of this country is indelibly scarred with the memory of what happened 15 years ago.  It’s an imprint that will never leave Rwanda and its people.

            Maggie and I ate dinner reflecting over all we’d seen.  

            “Maggie have you noticed how many amputees there are?”  I asked.

            She looked around.  Almost at any instant you’d see someone with an arm or leg missing.  They were everywhere.  Often times during the genocide if you weren’t killed you were disformed.  They hacked off arms and legs like they were nothing and today, 15 years later these poor souls were still walking around hopelessly disfigured.

            Maggie and I watched as the light faded away from the city.  Kigali became queit, almost ominous.  There was no nightlife, no raucousness – just silence – as if the city was still penitential over the brutality of 15 years ago.