illegal emissions

        A quiz.  In ten seconds or less, what’s the first thing you think of when you hear the word Malawi?    Go.          

        Anything?             

        Anything?  

       

        For some of you, your first thought may have been that Madonna adopted a baby from there, which is true. The powers-that-be, bent the rules on foreign adoptions because she promised money for orphans. I’m not sure she’s come through, but that’s not really what I’m looking for here. While we’re talking about celebrities though, let’s give this quiz to Jon Stewart, newscaster of the Daily Show.

       “Jon, ten seconds.  First thing that comes to mind when you think of Malawi?”

       “Farting.”

       “What’s that Jon?”

       “Farting, and the fact that in Malawi, it is a criminal offense if you fart in public.”

       This is also true.  Evidently this law was on the books back in 1929, just like many of the crazy laws we still have on the books in the US. When it came up again though, rather than abolish it, the President wanted to enforce it.  The Local Courts Bill reads:

        "Any person who vitiates the atmosphere in any place so as to make

        it noxious to the public to the health of persons in general dwelling

        or carrying on business in the neighborhood or passing along a public

        way shall be guilty of a misdemeanor."

        I'm sure we all know people who could really rack up a criminal record in Malawi. Seriously though, how will they police this?  What if someone let’s one of those ‘silent, but deadly’ ones? Who’s going to take the blame? Will it be ‘he who smelt it, dealt it?’ Surely there are more important things to clean up in this East African country. One concern I have is that there is potential for abuse.  I'm afraid they may use this as an excuse to bring people in. The people of Malawi think the entire situation is ridiculous and that their government should be spending its time and money on other issues.

       Malawians are not happy with their President.  I asked several of them about this and they said he is selfish and not a man to be honored. This is the same President who bought a private jet while his country was in the middle of a fuel shortage, and there are conflicting stories as to why there actually was a fuel shortage. It had reached the crisis stage when I took my bus trip from Mzuzu to Blantyre. I wasn’t allowed to purchase my ticket in advance, because the ride was contingent on the bus company securing enough fuel to make the trip.  They said,

       “Show up in the morning, and if we have petrol, we’ll go.”

       The next morning the bus pulled out and we got on our way.  Four hours into the trip, we pulled over to the side of the road and sat.  Twenty minutes later, I began to breathe in the heavy, noxious smell of gasoline.  I looked at the woman next to me and asked,

       “What?”

       She leaned in, “black mm..ma..” She searched for a word.

       “Black market?”

       “Yes.”

       I doubt the bus company made a profit that day, paying black market prices. When we rolled into town I noticed lines and lines of cars at every gas station. It reminded me of the American fuel shortages in the 1970’s.

       A few days later I called Linus, a taxi driver, to give me a lift to a shopping area so I could purchase some supplies. I got into his car and noticed his tank was almost on empty.  When I asked him about it, he said,

       “There is no petrol in the city anywhere. The stations are closed.”  He took me to the shopping center and as I got out I said,

       “Thank you.  I’ll call when I’m done because I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

       “I’ll stay and wait.  I have only enough petrol to take you back and then get home.”

       “Oh, ok.  I won’t be long then.”

       Back in the taxi, we headed towards the hostel.  During every stop in traffic, he turned off the car's engine. On the way up a hill the car sputtered to a stop.  No gas.  We were about two kilometers from the hostel.

       “I’m sorry,” He said, “can you walk from here?”

        “Yes, of course, but what about you?  How will you get home?” I knew he lived in a village outside of town.

        “I will hitch a ride. The government has promised petrol on Friday.”

        “This is Wednesday. That means you won’t make any money tomorrow.”

I made a mental note to call him and go somewhere on Friday.

       Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of Malawi just because the government has its priorities twisted.  The landscape is lush and beautiful.  The country itself is called ‘The Heart of Africa” because the Malawians are so friendly and accommodating. I enjoyed getting to know these precious people. The highlight of my time there came not from a Malawian though, but from an American. 

       I checked my Facebook page one day and saw that Heidi, the director and instructor of my TEFL certification course in Costa Rica was going to be in Malawi!  After teaching two more sessions, and going back to the states, she had accepted a fellowship from the US government to teach at a university in Blantyre. We made a plan to meet for dinner.

        “Teacha, teacha!” I yelled when I saw her across the restaurant.  We hugged, and talked simultaneously, each of us so happy to see a familiar face. We settled into a booth and Heidi said,

       “Hey, I remember that shirt.”

        I laughed and said, “Heidi, I’m still on the same trip, you’ll recognize all five of my tops.”
       "No way! That seems like forever ago."

        We talked non-stop about the things that had happened in our lives since we’d met last August. When we'd said good-bye at the end of my course in Costa Rica, we'd assumed we would never see each other again, yet here we were, on another continent, halfway around the world in a remote country. We talked about Malawi and her high hopes for her students. We laughed about the crazy times back at TEFL, and the fun people in the class. It was like no time had gone by at all.  Our meal was delicious, our bellies were full and we were content.  We giggled as we tried not to pass gas.

      

????

shiver me timbers

        Mayoka Village is actually a hostel, but the owners were determined to get off the grid as their own village, and made the place ecologically friendly and self-sufficient. Their delicious food is organically grown and meals are prepared from produce that is in season. They have their own filtering system so the water is drinkable from the tap. (Though I wasn't willing to test that.) The showers have hot water for a few hours each morning and they harness energy from lightening strikes to heat them.  They also have a compost toilet which, for those of you who have never had the pleasure, is quite interesting.  It doesn’t smell, and the compost will eventually be used as fertilizer.  Mayoka is also very involved in the community and finds creative ways to support the locals. It sits on the side of a steep hill and overlooks Lake Malawi, the largest lake in all of Africa. It was so nice that I stayed for a week.

       As I left Mayoka Village, a four-wheel drive taxi picked me up, and took me to Nkhata Bay where I would catch a bus back to Mzuzu.  The bus, it turns out, was actually a small car. I paid 500 Kwacha, three dollars, for a seat and luggage was free. We had to wait for the car to fill up with people before it would leave.  I sat in the hot vehicle forty-five minutes, wedged in between two men, until we were at maximum capacity. It was a tight fit. Right before we left, someone brought a roll of laminate flooring, and after failing to tie it to the top, they shoved it in through the hatchback, up the side to the front. Now we were so squeezed that I sat upright on the edge of the seat with my face in between the driver and front passenger, the two men’s shoulders touching behind me. The driver cranked up the volume on some American Pop music so I sang along. Fortunately for them, it was only an hour ride.

       At the depot in Mzuzu, I found a taxi to take me to a hostel for the night, as the next morning, I would catch a real bus for a nine-hour ride to Blantyre. It was early on a rainy afternoon when the driver turned onto a slippery dirt road beside a field. It seemed an unusual place to have a hostel, but it was in my guidebook, so I was going on the assumption that it was all right. It was called Mzoozoozoo, a clever play of words on Mzuzu. The place looked like an unkempt house. As we pulled in, the driver said,

       “I’ll wait to see if they have a room, and make sure you want to stay.”

       “Its fine, I called ahead and they have room.”

       “I’ll wait.”  He said as he pulled my bag out of the back.

       “Um, ok.”  I soon found out why.  I walked in the front door and surveyed the room.  The living room had been converted into a bar. There were five white men lounging in the room, each with a beer in their hands and several empty bottles already on the table. The air was a little creepy. They looked crusty and worn, like they had done too many drugs in the sixties and seventies. One stood at the bar with his sunglasses on, a beer in his hand and snorkel flippers on his feet. They stared at me, no one saying a word.

        Flippers? I thought.

       “Hello,” I said to snorkel man, “I called about a room.”

       “Yea, it’s a dorm," he said with a British accent, "but you won’t have to share, no one else is back there.”

       Back there? 

       I was nervous about being the only woman around, but I figured if they were this trashed early on a Sunday, they’d be harmless or passed out by nightfall. I thanked the driver for his kindness, told him I would stay, and asked him to pick me up at 5:30 the next morning.  The men looked at me, still in silence.

       I turned to snorkel man again, “The room?”

       “Yea?”  Pause.

       “May I go there?”

       “Oh yea, yea, right, right. Follow me.” He tried unsuccessfully to flipper his way to the front door.

       Barefoot, he took me out on the porch and around to the back yard. As we walked through the high grass, I searched the recesses of my mind to remember what the guidebook had said about this place.  “A favorite haunt of back backers.”  Haunt, that was the word they had used. I also remembered something about “sleeping in the room of the timbers.” We passed a small shed where the bathroom was located and then he led me to the timbers all right, he opened the door and it was a barn. The room had four beds with mosquito nets.  It smelled of mold and dirt, and I could see the outdoors between the cracks of the timbers.  There were only sheets on the bed, no blanket. It was going to be cold at night at this altitude, so I was trying to think of clothes I had that I could pile on.  Ah me, sometimes you get what you pay for. I need to get better about reading between the lines of the guidebooks. On one of the other beds was a backpack with a man’s toiletry kit. He must be checking out.  I dropped my bags, grabbed my laptop and walked into town for food and Internet.

        I returned before nightfall and discovered a young woman at the hostel. She was a Peace Corps Volunteer and had a weekend off from working in her village.  She was as relieved to see me as I was her.  We sat at the bar and had a beer, all the while getting to know not only each other, but the crustys as well. One, named Phil, told us they were self-proclaimed 'harmless, chain-smoking alcoholics’. Who, it turns out were very entertaining and quite nice.  They were old rockers from London who came here many years ago and never left. The electricity went out in the evening so they lit up the place with candles, and found snacks for us since food couldn't be cooked. We laughed and traded stories until the evening wore on and I was ready for sleep.

       Phil said, “Oh, you’re staying in the dorm room, I need to get you a blanket.”

       Thank goodness!

       He came back into the room with both palms turned up. One hand held the blanket and the other tipped up and down as though weighing something on a set of scales.

       “You can have the blanket, or the Phil, either one will keep you warm. I’m just offering, it’s your choice.”

       I laughed, “Thank you Phil, I’ll take the blanket, it’s a lot less complicated.”

       I made my way back to the room and as I opened the door I heard a rhythmic heavy breathing as though someone were in a deep sleep.  It appeared the man had not checked out.  I quietly prepared for bed in the dark. I had a sleeping bag liner and decided this was a good night to put it to use.  I was afraid to try the mosquito net because I envisioned it being full of dust and holes. Surely I could go one night without it and not get Malaria.  I climbed in, and within minutes a mosquito buzzed my ear. I dove completely under the blanket. He made his way in. I fought the little bloodsucker for a long time, and finally decided to let the net down, just so I could get some sleep.  Surprisingly, I found the net to be in very good condition, and I dozed off.                  

       A dog started barking at about two in the morning, waking the man across the room. He sat up, fumbled through his bag, lit a cigarette and lay back down. Should I be worried about the barn burning down? I watched the red glow for a few minutes, but lost track of where it was extinguished. The only solace was that it was pouring down rain outside,which also sort of meant, inside. He smoked and went back to sleep. At five I rose, wrapped my backpack in a poncho and waded through the back yard.  I never even laid eyes on the man in the timbers. 

       As I stood on the porch in the dark waiting for my ride, the front door flew open.  Snorkel man was standing there in his shorts rubbing his eyes, his hair was going in all directions.

       "Oh brilliant, you're awake." He said, "I was about to come get you to make sure you didn't miss your bus."

       "Wow, thank you, that was so thoughtful."

        I realized I had done a pretty good job of misjudging and underestimating this place. 

My chalet on the lake at Mayoka

Fourteen dollars a night.  Amazing.

Add one scoop of saw dust and one scoop of ash.

Monday is ferry day at Nkhata Bay

These boats are called dugouts because they are from a tree that has been dug out.
It's a skill to keep them from tipping.

A woman was doing laundry and she summoned this boat.

She bought her selection for dinner.

Lake Malawi.  The mountains across the lake are Tanzania,
and are only visible certain times of year,

a night at the zoo

      

       

      

      

      

       

No Man's Land - part two

       The sun was just coming up as I cautiously peeked my head out of the door. I was still shaken from the events of the night before and hadn’t slept at all, but things weren’t quite so scary in the light of dawn. The security guard asked if I needed a taxi, and when I said yes please, he took off running down the long road.  I smiled, that’s the Africa I know.  I walked towards the gate and on the left was a church, a Moravian church.  A reminder, I thought, God was with me the entire time.  I wished I could have stayed for a service, and met some fellow Moravians, but my Tanzanian visa ran out that day.

       I climbed into the taxi and my anxiety ramped back up at the thought of going back to the bus station. My driver, a legitimate one this time, said he could drive me all the way to the border.  It would be considerably more than the bus, but at that point I felt like it was worth the peace of mind. We negotiated the price, and I had him write it down.  We stopped for petrol, and he said,

       “You give me money to pay.” 

       “Yes, but I take it out of this,” pointing to the figure written on the paper.  He was disappointed that I knew the scam of making mzungu pay petrol on top of cab fare, but he agreed. I was glad I had studied my Lonely Planet guidebook. An hour and a half, and four security check-points later; we pulled up at the border.

       We had beaten all the buses there, and so entered an empty parking lot. Seven men surrounded our car, tried to open the doors, and banged on the windows.  They were shouting and asking if I needed to change money, or a taxi to the next town over the border.  I looked at my driver and said,

        “If you get me to customs, I won’t take out the cost of petrol.” 

        He smiled and said, “Ok, are you ready?” 

        We got out of the car and the men were hovering around me like seagulls on the back of a ferry, shouting, trying to get my bag, and creating as much confusion as possible.  My driver was doing his best to keep them at bay, as I kept answering, hapana asante. No thank you. We neared customs and they disappeared into thin air.  Inside, I received my exit stamp and I was suddenly overcome with sadness at leaving Tanzania.  I didn't renew my visa as I had earlier decided that I should travel to see other parts of Africa while I was on the continent. Perhaps I would find a place to settle down along the way.

       Back outside I started the long walk to the bridge. The men appeared out of nowhere and surrounded me again. This must be what it is like to be hounded by paparazzi. 

      “You must change your money on this side.”

       “No thank you.”

       “You will lose your money. Change your shillings.”

        "No thank you." They were all shouting at once.

       “You can’t change money over there, step over to my office, we will negotiate.”

       “No thank you.” One tried to take my bag.

       “I am trying to help you.”

       “NO thank you.”

       Another said, “You need a taxi to Karonga.  You pay me, I take you all the way.”

       “No thank you.” They kept talking and playing off of one another.

       “You don’t trust us?  We are trying to help you.” It went on and on.

        The last 24 hours finally boiled over inside me and I shouted, “Hapana acha!”  It was the rude way to say, no stop! They fell silent.

       “I know there is a bank just on the other side, so don’t tell me about your black market money, and you, “ I pointed to another man, “can’t take me all the way to Koronga because you can’t even cross the border, so I’m not giving you one single shilling. You’re all a bunch of … bullies!  Go look that word up in English, and back away from me, NOW.”

       “How did you know these things?”

       “Because she is an American woman.” Said one of the others before I had time to answer.  I was slightly flattered, though I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way. I turned and made my way to the bridge, unaccompanied.

       I said to myself, 'Whoa, where did she come from? – I don’t know – bunch of bullies? That’s such an old phrase – Yea, but I kinda hope she sticks around.'

       I looked up and saw before me the 300-meter walk to Malawi. I was the only white person I had seen in days, and there I was walking myself across the empty bridge.  My emotions were in tatters. I had all my possessions for the year, a pack and a roller bag, which was heavy and bulging.  The scene was such a contrast that I must have looked like Elle Woods, in Legally Blond, when she showed up at Harvard.  I was packing more belongings than most of these people even owned, not to mention they'd never seen a roller bag.  I felt a little ridiculous. Half way across though, I remembered that I was an American woman, and I held my head high.  

       I got my Malawi stamp, changed my Tanzanian Shillings to Kwacha, and bargained a deal on a taxi to Koronga. Several checkpoints down the road, two Malawian Policemen got into the back seat of the car. I looked at my driver and whispered, 

       "Quanini?" Why?  

       He looked at me. His hand was on the seat and he motioned it as though to say, 'don't say anything.' The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I sat in silence staring straight ahead, trying to be invisible. My mind went to all sorts of horrible places. Twenty miles later at the next village, they spoke. The driver pulled over and they got out.  I was so relieved until it occurred to me, 

       "They just got a free ride on my money, didn't they?"

        He had been holding his breath as well, and let it out as he laughed and nodded, "I think so."

       At the bus station, when the taxi dropped me, I encountered the same type of hysteria as every one before, but it was a small station.  I found a bus that would take me four hours to Mzuzu, the next town with transport. I met several wonderful Malawians on that ride, such sweet people. At the bus station in Mzuzu, I was accosted again.  I told them I needed a bus to Nkhata Bay.  This time their story was that there were no buses because it was Saturday and I should take a taxi.  

       I was laughing at this point, "Yes there are buses, they run every day." 

       "But you should have my friend take you because he can take you all the way to your hostel, and you don't want to get in after dark."

       Ugh, after dark, he'd hit me right where it hurt. I bargained a price.

       I looked at the driver and asked, "You know Mayoka, and you're going to take me all the way right?"

       "Yes."

       We drove through Mzuzu, and an hour through the lush, green Malawian countryside. We dipped down into Nkhata Bay, which is a small village on the edge of Lake Malawi, and headed up to Mayoka Village, my hostel. The road was dirt and fairly rough. After ten minutes, the driver stopped the taxi by a roadside market and got out.  He went to the back and pulled my bag out of the trunk. I got out.

       "What?..."

       "My car no go, need four wheel drive, you hike up that path, this man carry your bag."

       "What! Do I have to pay him?"

       "Yes, he help you."

       "No, I have already paid you to take me all the way.  You pay him."

       He reluctantly went into his pocket and paid the young man a pittance. My new friend hoisted the heavy bag onto his head, I grabbed my other pack, and we headed straight up the hill for a twenty-minute hike. I felt so badly for him, that I paid him again, once I finally reached my long awaited, hard fought destination.

        I arrived just in time for dinner.  I was famished, as I hadn't eaten in two days. I sat, staring out at the gorgeous lake, thinking.  Why do I make these plans?  I always dread them and half the time I'm scared out of my mind. Why can't I go home, get a job, and be a normal person? 

       I have to make these plans though, precisely because I am afraid. I must get beyond being terrified and stand on my own two feet before I can move forward into my new life, before I can leave the No Man's Land I'm living in.

Malawi

Nkhata Bay

Mayoka Village

Lake Malwai

No Man's Land - part one

       No Man's Land. It is a bridge over the Songwe River between the borders of Tanzania and Malawi. A bridge suspended between two different countries. It is a void, an empty crossing-over from one land to another, one culture to another. There is a feeling of uncertainty, as one walks through this limbo. For me, the pathway was about leaving the known, for the unknown.

       The journey started at 5:00am the day before at the bus station in Dar Es Salaam.  It was still dark and there were fifty buses all packed together, rows and rows on a huge lot, with hundreds of people swarming around them. I had my ticket in hand, but how would I know which bus was mine?  Fortunately a porter appeared.  Good, I thought, I’ll gladly pay him money to get me to the right bus.
       On the way, the porter tried to increase the price several times, and I said no, we had already agreed on the price. We wove in and out of people, frantic and loaded down with all types of baggage and goods they had purchased in the big city, trying to get to their bus on time.  In all of the confusion I kept my eyes on my bag he was carrying, making sure no one took it from him, all the while he continued discussing the price. We stopped at a bus that I confirmed with the driver, was mine.  I put my bag under the bus and hoped it would still be there when we reached Mbeya. I handed the porter my Tshillings and he took off into a run, disappearing in the crowd.   

        “Hey, my change!” I yelled.

        I couldn’t follow him and leave my belongings. He had ripped me off and gotten his price. I was so angry. I was stewing when I got on the bus.  It wasn't a large amount, but still, it wasn’t right.  I sat waiting for the bus to fill up, and I began to calm down. I knew I couldn’t have found the bus without him, though small consolation it was when I was feeling so violated. I looked around me to see the Tanzanian people I had grown to love, getting settled into their seats for a long day of travel, and I smiled. I was excited to see the landscape of southern Tanzania, plus, this bus had air conditioning, a screen in the front for videos, and trashcans so I wouldn’t have to haul mine around.  It was luxurious.

       As soon as we left the station, the driver put in a Live Concert of Celine Dion from the nineties, because they LOVE Celine Dion in East Africa. We drove straight through to lunchtime and stopped, but the line at the squatty potty was so long, that I ran out of time to get food.  Back on the bus I opened a bag of peanuts and a bottle of water I’d brought with me. Staring out the window of a bus for fourteen hours gives one plenty of time for self-reflection, and I went through every part and parcel of my life.  

      There was one more unofficial stop in the day, which was by the side of the road.  Only men got off to use the bathroom near the trees. Our driver took the two trashcans, and I watched as he emptied them into some bushes.  Oh no! Out of sight, out of mind I suppose.  The Celine Dion DVD went back in for round two (just in case we forgot), and we moved on down the road.

       It was late and dark as we pulled into the bus station in Mbeya, which for me was unnerving. Young men trying to get to our bags immediately swarmed our bus. I got off the bus as fast as I could and pushed my way through the people to the undercarriage.  I was four people back when, through the crowd I saw a man reach for my bag! Instinct took over as I literally climbed on top of people to get there in time.  Just as the bag was coming out, I lunged with a final push and grasped the handle.  The crowd surged back taking me with it, but I held on for dear life to the bag.  The bus driver was trying to push the men back away from his customers and a small fight broke out.

       I backed away from the bus and a man approached me.

       “You need a taxi?”

       “Yes, to the Moravian Youth Hostel, do you know it?”

       “Yes, come with me.”

       He flagged a car and as it came over, we both got in.

       “You’re not the driver?”

       “No, he is my friend.”

       “Then why are you in the car?” I asked. 

       “I must show him the way.”

       “He’s a driver, he should know the way. No, I won’t take a cab with two men.”  I started to get out and realized there were no more cabs anywhere in sight, as most people had been picked up by family. I had no choice but to take this one.

       “I want you to know they are expecting me.” I reached into my bag and found the only defense weapon I had, a pen, and placed it in my hand.  This could at least put an eye out if necessary.  Besides, the pen is mightier than the sword, right?

       “Yes, yes, we will take you, it’s no problem.”

        My only consolation was that in a few minutes I would be in familiar territory.  I have been a Moravian all my life.  My family is Moravian many generations back, and even the name Lucetta is a Moravian name.  We are a Protestant faith similar to Methodists or Lutherans.  There aren’t many in the United States because we are mission oriented thus are mostly in underdeveloped countries, the reason most people have never heard of us.  Our motto sums up how we operate within our faith: In essentials unity; in non-essentials, liberty; in all things love.  I think that’s beautiful. Southern Tanzania is full of Moravians, and I was about to stay in one of their hostels.

       We drove for quite a while, but I knew the hostel was supposed to be close to the bus station. I was becoming more and more alarmed.

       “I am Moravian. They know I am coming and they will be looking for me.”
       I was hoping that was true. My only defense was to make them realize they would be held accountable for their actions. He mumbled something in Swahili to the driver, who turned the car around. I held my breath until I saw the big gates with the Moravian symbol painted on the front.

       I paid the driver and the man got out of the cab.  He carried my bag, which was an unusual thing to do, and found the night watchman to check me into my room. The taxi drove away while the man stood with my bag.  What?  The watchman opened my door and the man went into my room with my bag, all the while talking about bringing a taxi to get me at six forty-five in the morning.  I picked up the room keys the watchman had placed on the dresser, and discreetly put them in between my knuckles.  I stepped out onto the stoop, which faced the parking lot, and looked for the night watchman.  I gestured for the man to come out of my room and loudly said good-bye.  He hesitated, but finally walked out. Glaring at me, under his breath he said,

        “I’ll see you at 6:45.” That would give him plenty of time to make a plan.

        I ran into the room, locked the bolt and slid down onto the floor, my back against the door.  I was shaking and my heart was pounding. I took a few deep breaths. Just get me to the border. Get me to the border.

        I felt pangs of hunger, but there would be no going out to find dinner.  It was ok though; many Africans go to bed hungry every night. I searched for my small bag of peanuts and began to ration them, because tomorrow morning I would have to be out at six-fifteen flagging down a new taxi. 

southern Tanzania

sunrise

The Moravian Seal

I was happy to see the familiar words written in Swahili

Moravian church at dawn

      

      

       

now or never

       He looked straight at me, his face revealing nothing.  Our eyes caught. His stare was benign and uninterested, as one might observe a stranger in passing at an airport.   Why me?  Why would he glance in my direction?  He stood.  He was tall, over six feet, I would assume. He moved towards me.  I shook, both with fear and excitement, my heart racing.  He headed straight for me, and my eyes widened into a stare, locked on his every move.  Was I in harms way? Closer now.  Closer, my chest heaving as I tried to breathe.  Within several feet of me he reached out his strong arm, and as he came by, he used it to nudge me out of the way.  My eyes following, he walked on, not looking back.  He  was a silverback mountain gorilla and I had spent the last twenty-four hours trying to get to him.

      The trek to find gorillas, I discovered, begins the moment you decide you would like to have a wildlife experience like no other in the world. Only fifty-four permits are granted per day. That’s all. Most people, who come, find a tour group to take care of their flight, the permit, and transportation details a year in advance. I didn’t know about gorilla trekking a year ago. I didn’t even know I would ever be in Rwanda.  

       My new friends at the hostel said that sometimes it was possible, if it was just one person, to get a permit at the last minute due to a cancellation, because if people are sick they can’t be near the gorillas. The primates are so genetically close to humans that they can catch our diseases, yet haven’t built up any immunity. I asked them how I would find out about such an opening.

        “Just hop on a motorbike taxi and have them take you downtown to the permit office.” 

       “A motorbike taxi?” 

        “Yea, they're cheap, and easy because they weave in and out of traffic jams.”

       “Do I have to provide my own helmet?”  I pointed to the one she held in her hands.

       She laughed and said,

       “No, I brought my own, I’m here for six months and my inner Larry David wouldn’t let me put a public helmet on my hair.”

       “I’m headed that way,” said Marc, “hop on a bike and meet me downtown, I’ll show you where the permit office and the bus station are located.”

       I walked to the top of the road, and flagged a bike.  I didn’t have an inner Larry David so I put the potentially germy helmet right on my head and off we went, weaving dangerously through traffic like a video game.  Downtown, Marc pointed to a small alley.

        “Down there and turn left. That’s where the bus station is believe it or not, and across the way, down the hill is the permit office.  Good luck.”  I walked into the office of the Rwanda Tourism Board with low expectations.

       Lets see, I thought, it takes half a day to get there, and I’m required to be at the park entrance at 7:00am for briefing or I forfeit my ticket, so I would need to leave the day before and stay overnight nearby.

       “Would you possibly have a permit for two days from now?" I asked.

       “Sorry, we don’t.  Sold out. Would you like me to check the day after?”

       “No, that’s the day I fly out.”

       “Oh, wait we do have one for tomorrow, and looking at the clock I’d say if you hurry, you’d have just enough time to go pack a bag and catch a bus up to the mountain.”

       I stood there thinking quickly:  I‘ve heard you have to take two buses to two different towns of which I did not know the names; get a ride from there to a lodge, somehow get to the entrance by 7:00 am, and hire a driver ahead of time, to take you from the park entrance to the start of the trek to see your family of gorillas. That is so many terrifying variables. I don’t speak the language, and if I mess up anywhere along the way I lose the chance to see the gorillas. My heart was pounding.  No time to plan. No time to book a reservation, so possibly no place to sleep.  It’s ridiculous how this keeps happening, choosing between, immediately or not at all. This is a crazy way to live a life. I paced back and forth. I'm afraid to navigate these unknowns alone. I’m here though, and I’ll never have this opportunity again.

       “Yes, I’ll take it.” 

       On the first mini bus I smiled as I sat in the familiar fold-down seat in the middle of the isle, with my pack on my lap.  I breathed deeply. I looked out the window at the beautiful landscape of cultivated hills, and listened to the lilting sounds of Kinyarwanda being spoken around me. I had a few more modes of transportation to figure out, and hopefully, if the lodge were at capacity, they would at least have a couch. A motorbike took me the last leg of the trip and as we rode through the countryside, beautiful Rwandan children stood at the side of the road waving and smiling the entire way.

       I was up at 5:00am for the big day.  The lodge served breakfast early knowing we would need sustenance for the hike. The night before when I'd arrived, I immediately began quizzing the other guests as to whether they were going gorilla trekking, and had they hired their driver from the entrance to the trek? Each driver comes at a cost of eighty American dollars, round trip back to the entrance of the park.  If you find people to share the car, then you reduce your cost. I rounded up four people, and we hired a driver. Having someone to share the experience with was going to make the day that much more enjoyable.

        At the briefing, in the morning, we were assigned to one of the seven family groups on the mountain, and were told we would stay seven meters apart from the gorillas at all times for safety and to respect their space. Upon first site of the family, the clock would start ticking and we would be given one hour to observe. We drove forty-five minutes through the countryside to the base of our trek.  Our two guides met us, and although the gorillas are peaceful, each was carrying a rifle for our protection. The gorillas live between 7, 000 to 14,000 ft in elevation so we hiked an hour and a half straight up through farmland to Volcano National Park, the edge of one of the last high rain forests in the world. 

       Once in the forest the vegetation became incredibly dense. We rolled down our sleeves and pants legs because of the stinging nettles.  The others brought gloves, but not having any, I brought socks to protect my hands. Our guides used machetes to create a path for us leading towards the general area of where the family was last seen. We thrashed our way through the forest.  The radio crackled and the trackers said they had spotted the family! Our guide began to make unusual guttural noises; he said to announce to the gorillas that we meant no harm. The trackers guarded our packs, as we were not allowed to take anything but a camera, with no flash, into the area.

        I heard a guttural sound being returned.  We pulled back the brush and there was a mama playing and wrestling with her young one!  The clock started ticking as I gasped a cry of joy.  These gentle giants rolled, tumbled and snuggled with each other. The love between the two was palpable and so beautiful to watch.  We followed them up to another spot where they gathered with the rest of the family.  We quickly learned that the gorillas had not been given the seven-meter rule, which is how we had several close encounters with them. They went about their day, not caring we were there, but brushing up against us from time to time.
       I watched with a sense of wonder and awe. They were so similar to us, that it caused us self reflection. It was easy for me to understand why Diane Fossey and Jane Goodall had made a life's work studying these amazing primates.
       It was truly one of the most thrilling, and shortest hours of my life.

Rwandan hillside

The Virunga Mountains near the lodge

dawn

sunrise

      

the dense forest

      

almost asleep

The silver, or gray hair on his back identifies him as the male and the leader of the group

gorilla love

Restoration Hardware

      

       I wasn’t quite sure what to expect next, after my visit to the church. Mishek, my driver, pulled up to the Kigali Memorial Centre, which was a beautiful building with a fountain in the front, and gardens on the side.  It was designed as more of a traditional museum and I spent two hours inside reading the exhibits, observing the photos, searching for answers.

       In Rwanda, in the 18^th century, if you had many cows you were a Tutsi, if not you were a Hutu, and depending on the size of your herd, you could fluctuate between the two. In the 19^th century, the Belgians came in to colonize Rwanda and used Eugenics to racialize the Tutsi and the Hutus, meaning they artificially created an ethnic race where there was not one before.  If you had more than 10 cows, you were Tutsi, if not, you were Hutu. ID cards were issued, and what were previously social classes became fixed as inappropriate ethnic classifications. The Belgians convinced the Tutsis they were superior, and the Tutsis oppressed and indentured the Hutus for many years, treating them horribly.  Time passed, the Belgians left, and new generations of Hutus rose up, eventually gaining some positions of power.  They, in turn, began a campaign of hatemongering against the Tutsis that was reported at the time, as rivaling that of Hitler.  It included leaders of government, politicians, clergy, people in the media, and even Rwanda’s favorite pop star.

        On April 6, 1994, an airplane carrying the presidents of Rwanda and Berundi, was shot down as it prepared to land at Kigali.  Both presidents were killed when the plane crashed. The assassination was the straw that broke the camel's back and the Hutu’s unleashed their anger in an unfathomable way. The victims had become the killers.

        Seventeen years later, in the aftermath, we’re left with the carnage still apparent in the lives of the Tutsis, and the lives of thousands of Hutu’s who fled, afraid they might be convicted, whether involved or not, living as refugees outside of Rwanda afraid to come home.  The United Nations, though it denied help for the Tutsis during the genocide, created the Tribunal, which holds the main perpetrators accountable.  For the smaller crimes, they use a system, which has always been in place in Rwanda.  Called Gacaca, it is a judicial way of local justice used in the villages, with elected judges from the community. The goal of Gacaca is to find the truth, for that is the only way healing can truly come about. Those who confess, show remorse, and help find the bones of those they killed are given lighter sentences or folded back into the community. This takes a tremendous amount of forgiveness. I read a story of a perpetrator who killed a woman’s husband and all of her children. After his confession at Gacaca she said,

       “I have no one now. I will take you into my home and treat you as a son.”  The healing power in that kind of forgiveness is undeniable.

       Attendance at Gacaca each week is mandatory, as are many things in Rwanda.  Umuganda Day, is the last Saturday of the month and it is a day of required community service throughout the entire country. They have cleaned, repaired, planted and rebuilt.  Plastic bags are now outlawed in Rwanda and a visitor can even be fined if your luggage is searched and you are found with one. Ethnicity has been formally outlawed in Rwanda as well, in the effort to promote a culture of healing and unity. One can stand trial for discussion of the different ethnic groups. Rwandans believed that women bore the brunt of this war and should have more power in the restoration.  They reserved seats for them in Parliament, and after the last election, they now hold the majority.  There is a tight rein, a clamp down on anything untoward. Some say with all the mandates, it is a dictatorship cloaked in democracy. I don’t know enough to have a valid opinion, but my first impression is that whatever is happening, it’s working for now.

       Mishek delivered me home to the Discover Rwanda Youth Hostel.

       “Asante sana.” Thank you very much. I waved as he drove away.  I would have missed the important component of Nyamata if he had not insisted on taking me.  I went out to the porch, and found the other guests were also collecting there at the end of the day. I grabbed a beer and using the honor system, recorded my purchase on the notepad placed at the bar. 

       “Hello. How was your day?” someone asked. 

       “Rough. I’ve been immersed in the genocide.” I pulled up a chair. “Tell me about yourselves, why are you here?  I need to take my mind off the topic.”

       “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you then,” said a young Canadian woman covered in tattoos and piercings, “I’m a Photographic Restorationist.  I’m preserving the photographs of the genocide for the museum.”

       “Me either, I’m working on my Doctorate, studying the colonial period in Rwanda.  I’m interviewing the elderly people to find out their take on the hatred,” said a Belgian woman.

       Another Belgian said,

       “For my Masters thesis, I’m studying the effectiveness and relationship between donors and the Rwandan Government. Your country is a leading contributor by the way.”

       An American man spoke,

       “I’m a lawyer, clerking for the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. My job is to help raise the standards of the judicial system.”

       “I’m American too,” said a young woman, “I work with KIVA, overseeing micro loans for people to start small businesses now, in Rwanda.”

       “I’m from Holland, interning at the Dutch Embassy.”

       My jaw dropped open at the first of the introductions and never closed.

       “My gosh! Who ARE you people!?  I feel like I’m in the presence of greatness, found on a Rwandan hillside, in a Youth Hostel?” They grinned.

       These people, staying for six or nine months at a time, were working on the larger picture, the big issues, trying to change thought processes, traditions, and laws, from the top.

       I felt small.

       “I’m just on the ground trying to help one person at a time.”

        Next to me, a man named Marc chimed in,

       “Don’t look at me, I’m just a loser tourist.”

       We laughed, raised our glasses, and toasted to change.

       Earlier that morning before my journey through the museums began, I checked the international news on my laptop. I was surprised by one article.  It read:

                  A genocide fugitive, Jean Mary Vianney Mudahinyuka,

                  was handed over by United States, Chicago Authorities 

                  following a deportation order of immigration fraud.  He

                  is expected to begin a 19 year sentence which he was given

                  in abstencia.  He was instrumental in the deaths of many

                  and also killed families himself.  Known to be violent, say

                  authorities, he assaulted  a US police officer.

         I was very proud of the United States, for bringing this man to justice. Many countries have assisted by helping with housing, providing seeds for planting, AIDS education and antiretroviral drugs, counseling for victims, and help for orphans and children born of rape.

        This is how Rwanda heals, on many different levels in many different ways: one person with the courage to forgive, another with a new idea, or someone willing to give their time. The world wants them to succeed, to create a stable, viable society in which the Hutus and the Tutsis can live side by side as one, again. They don’t have to do it alone. Everyone can take part. Everyone, for even Marc, the tourist, had come to trek gorillas, which is Rwanda’s number one source of income.

Kigali Memorial Centre

memorial gardens

mass graves

another burial site

Discover Rwanda Youth Hostel

view from the porch that houses great minds