Christmas

This was my first Christmas completely removed from the United States. It has been very different and wonderful.
The most obvious differences have been the weather and wonderful lack of commercialism. As anticipated, Lubutu’s Christmas weather is tropical. Christmas Eve was very hot, with the blazing Equatorial sun in a cloudless sky. Though I cannot say I enjoy sweating on Christmas, it has been nice to escape the West’s commercialism. No one has disposable income here and there is nothing to purchase anyway. Last week I spoke to Kurt and we talked about his anxieties of his yet unbought gifts for his parents and siblings. It was difficult to relate. In a different conversation, my mother asked if it was all right for us to exchange Christmas presents in February, after my return home. The question was so alien to my current situation that it took me a few moments to think and answer.
Though the contexts of weather and commercialism are different, I had an unforgettable holiday. On Christmas Eve I went to church at the cathedral directly opposite Couvent. Four of us entered into a crowd of about 600 people, all beautifully singing, swaying, and dancing. Ten altar boys danced in synchrony, surrounding a motionless singing priest. The interior walls of the church’s vaulted ceiling amplified the passionate voices. We initially joined the large group standing in the rear, dancing and clapping. When the hymn was over, several people offered us their seats. We initially refused but it was clear this was a losing battle. We eventually sat down on a backless wooden bench and listened to the service being conducted in Swahili.
In a forward corner of the church stood a crèche. The figures all had black skin and the manger lay under trees and a roof constructed of banana leaves. The only other decorations hung across the width of the sanctuary. Strings of thousands of packing peanuts criss-crossed over the congregation’s heads. Many more hymns followed with drums providing the only accompaniment. We clapped in time to the music as everyone sang passionately of the holiday.
It had a fantastic Christmas experience here in non-commercialized tropical Lubutu.

Bisoke

I planned to spend two days in Rwanda's Parc National de Volcans. Yesterday I satisfied my curiosity about the mountain gorillas. What next?
There are three choices of non-gorilla activities. The most popular is a short hike in the forest to spend time with golden monkeys. Like the gorillas, these small primates have been habituated to human contact. I asked several people about the experience and received reviews varying from "fantastic" to "they were up in the tree tops so don't waste your money." So no golden monkeys for me. Another possibility for a day trip is a hike to Diane Fossey's grave. She lived in these mountains, studying and educating the public about mountain gorillas. She was murdered in 1987 and is buried just outside the park boundaries. Not having read or seen "Gorillas in the Mist" I decided to forego this activity. The third possible choice is Bisoke.

Parc National de Volcans encompasses five extinct volcanoes. They form the border between Rwanda, Uganda, and the Democratic Republic of Congo. From the Rwandan side it is possible to climb two of these mountains. Karisimbi is a two day trip but Bisoke can be hiked in a day. To me, on a visit to Volcanoes National Park, isn't it logical to try to climb one of the volcanoes?
The National Park charges seventy-five dollars per person (including a guide) to climb the mountain. As I predicted, there were no other tourists wanting to go today. I had the guide to myself! I am sometimes a fast hiker and groups of varying abilities can be exasperating.
We began the trip by walking through beautiful fields of flowers resembling daisies, grown and harvested to produce a natural insecticide. After a gradual ascent through the flowers, we crossed a stone fence that encloses the national park, built to keep people out and wild animals in. The going got rough almost immediately. The path was steep and very muddy. Following each step forward I slid back a half step. The guide and I proceeded through several different vegetation zones and saw a lot of fresh droppings (including gorilla) and footprints, but no living animals. The path got steeper and I repeatedly thought "how are we going to go down this?" I considered calling it all off several times (40% of tourists do so) but 4 ½ hours after starting, we arrived. At the summit of 3711 meters (about 11,500 feet) lies a perfect crater lake. On the other side of the water lay Congo—home!

After a short break for lunch we started down. For me, this was much worse than ascending, though faster due to my innumerable falls and slides. My hiking boots were dirtier than I have ever seen them, likely due to hundreds of dunkings in 6 inch deep mud.
The path down took slightly under four hours. When we crossed the stone fence to exit the park I was exhausted, happy, and relieved to have stopped sliding and losing my footing.
Was it worth it? Definitely. Would I recommend it? Only for people who are very fit and have excellent hiking boots, rain gear, and lots of determination. And only in the dry season, though the guide told me there is mud even then, as the summit is usually in clouds. If descending steep muddy trails makes your ears burn with anticipation, it is perfect. I loved the experience and am pleased I persisted to the summit but tonight am hungry, tired, and sore!

Gorillas

It's only money, but 500 dollars is a lot. I debated about buying a permit to see the mountain gorillas in Rwanda for a long time. To me, 500 dollars is many days of sweat and toil. Permit holders spend only one hour with the gorillas. Is anything worth 500 dollars an hour?
Here in Rwanda's Volcanoes National Park there are eight groups of habituated mountain gorillas. Each day, seven people are allowed to visit each group. A typical gorilla group contains seven to twelve members headed by one or more male silverbacks. The other members are females, babies, and younger males called "blackbacks." Each gorilla group has a name. After arriving at park headquarters at 7 a.m. I was assigned to see the Susa Group. Susa has the most members but is also the most remote. Tourists wanting to see them must be willing and able to hike a long distance.
It was a hard trek of three hours straight up the side of a mountain, beginning at an altitude of 9000 feet. The path was toppled trees and trampled plants. My feet rarely made contact with solid ground. Without a walking stick to plunge down to the earth and use as a third leg, it would have been nearly impossible.
So at noon today I had my contact with the mountain gorilla. Susa has two silverbacks, the extremely large, 200 kilogram(440 pound)dominant males. There were approximately a dozen females and as many blackbacks and babies. Bigger gorillas lazed on the ground while the babies swung in the trees. National Park rules state that humans are to stay seven meters away but one especially friendly female came much closer to inspect us.
When we were halfway down the mountain, the wind picked up, clouds rolled in, the temperature dropped, and I was drenched from my first Rwandan rainstorm. By the time we drove back to town the sun was out. Our group celebrated our successful gorilla encounter with cold beer in the warm sun. There are approximately 710 mountain gorillas in the world, all threatened due to territorial encroachment. I spent part of today with a few of them and felt lucky to do so.

Trip to Rwanda-Kigali

This morning I woke up at my usual early hour, went for a run on Axe Kindu, and returned home for breakfast. There were new arrivals last night so for a nice change I had camembert with my usual horrible coffee.
At 11 a.m., a car brought me to Tingi Tingi, a widened section of pavement called an "airstrip", located 20 minutes outside Lubutu. Seconds after we arrived, a small plane landed. Out popped three expatriates and their baggage. In response, Kirstin (a Belgian expatriate leaving Lubutu) and I jumped in. The twelve seat plane took off over the thick jungle. Slightly over an hour later we landed in Goma, far eastern Congo.
After a few minutes at the MSF base, I was drivn to the border and crossed into Rwanda. What a change! The roads are well paved and have shoulders or sidewalks where people can walk. When I jump on a taxi motorcycle the driver hands me a helmet. There are stoplights and there is currency other than the US dollar.
Thankfully one of the drivers from the MSF base helped me cross the border, travel by taxi motorcycle to the nearest Rwandan bus station, change money, buy a bus ticket, and get seated on the next bus to Kigali. From the border this entire procedure took twenty minutes, unheard of in Congo.
Three and a half hours later the bus arrived. I took another "taxi moto" to the recommended but not very nice Hotel Okapi.
So many things are strange here. There is a lot of traffic. In contrast with the quiet of Lubutu, Kigali is deafening. No one stares at me or says "bonjour" even though I saw few other white people in town. There are sidewalks, lots of traffic signals and glass buildings taller than one story. There is almost everything except ice cream parlors and movie theatres. Of course these were the two things I most eagerly anticipated! Too bad.

The countryside is drastically different here. There are mostly big rolling hills, almost completely deforested of their native trees, every inch divided into square cultivated plots. No matter how steep, nearly all of Rwanda is being used to grow food.
It is overwhelming to be in this city after four months in Lubutu.
Kigali is a one day city. I have been here exactly twenty-four hours and feel I have done and seen it all. There isn't a lot her for the tourist, but what I did see was powerful and nearly had me crying in public.
Mention Rwanda to most people and they remember the genocide of 1994. For one hundred days the majority Hutus slaughtered the minority Tutsis. After it was over, one million people had been murdered. When recounting this story, Rwandans pause here and then invariably add "Rwanda was dead."
Perhaps not dead but badly hurt. To begin healing the national wound, dozens of genocide memorials have been opened around the country. Today I visited one of them, the Kigali Memorial Center.
The Center has two floors. On the first, rooms are arranged in two circles, one inside the other. The exhibits in the outer circle begin with photographs and commentary of the colonization of Rwanda, steadily leading up to the events of 1994. Video screens tell the tales of eyewitnesses and survivors. It was chilling as I remember those 3 1/2 months very well. I remember thinking "uh oh, this is not going to be good" when the president of Rwanda's plane was shot down on approach to Kigali airport. I remember the killing extensively covered in the press while no government intervened to stop the massacre. And I remember being relieved when it was over.
After finishing the outer circle of commentary, the inner circle of exhibits were even more chilling. One room was filled with carefully stacked skulls, many crushed by blows. Another held thousands of photographs of victims, submitted by their families for display.
That over, I ascended the stairs. To the left were huge photos of children. A plaque below listed their favorite toys and foods and the way in which they were murdered. The remainder of the second floor detailed other genocides throughout history-Armenian Turks, European Jews, and Cambodians, among others.
I exited the building and walked around the gardens encircling the Memorial Center. The flowers and fountains sit atop the mass grave of 250,000 Rwandans.
After an emotionally wrenching three hours, I spent the remainder of my day shopping and walking the streets of Kigali. I have ended my afternoon and now sit with a drink next to the swimming pool at the Hotel de Mille Collines, made famous in the film "Hotel Rwanda." Only fifteen years ago, hundreds of people sought refuge here, drinking the water from the pool to stay alive.
As with all genocides, the most puzzling question is "How could people do this to each other?" Not to strangers but to neighbors and friends. My one full day in Kigali was interesting and emotionally exhausting.

I woke up late this Sunday morning, brushed aside the mosquito net and swung my bare feet on the warm cement floor. Stumbling into the dining room, my eyes opened wide at a much welcome sight. René, a Belgian surgeon, sat at one end of the long dining table, an open can of French foie gras before him. Fortunately he was willing to share his little piece of culinary heaven with me. We both ate so much that we left the table contented and ill. During our breakfast conversation I had heard loud noises coming from the kitchen. Jana and Remo, German expatriates, were making coffee cake. Brushing aside any thoughts of satiety, I dug in. It was delicious. Finally free, I waddled out to the terrace where Maria poured me a tiny cup of ultra-strong Lebanese coffee.

As expatriates in Lubutu we eat very well, but the food is not varied. Breakfast is bread, butter, and jam, along with coffee or tea. The bread is tasteless and has the shape of a slightly elongated hot dog bun.
Lunch is at 1 p.m. and is the largest meal of the day. It is served as a buffet on a side board in the dining room. Several identical, covered serving dishes hold the food which varies little from day to day. The buffet starts with rice, potatoes (mashed and boiled) and badly overcooked pasta. Next are vegetables, usually one raw (sliced peeled cucumbers or whole cherry tomatoes) and two cooked. Spinach is a constant and the second is always poured directly from a can, usually corn or green beans. We always have two meats. The most likely is pork cut into little chunks prepared grilled or in a bland oily sauce. Chicken sometimes appears, but into pieces and floating in a mysterious brick red sauce. Once every 2 weeks there is terribly smelly fish that forces me to eat on the terrace. The cooks deep fry plantain slices to eat as slightly sweet chips. Dessert is usually pineapple chunks. Someone drags out a few bars of Belgian or French chocolate out of the refrigerator, breaks it into chunks, and we argue the merits of one brand over another.

Dinner is mostly lunch leftovers but often the cooks prepare two plain roasted chickens (plucked next door in the kitchen- watch out for feathers!) and either bread, pizza, or quiche. The last two are a bit different from what I am accustomed. The staff uses the same dough as to prepare bread, but they allow it to rise in the pizza or quiche pan before baking. The result is a delicious thin topping sitting atop a one inch thick crust, occasionally raw in the center. Pizza toppings are corn, tuna, chicken (with bones) or canned slimy mushrooms. The quiche is always leek.

It sounds delicious, right? It is but it is also repetitive. The staff who cook our food appear to have no knowledge of spices or variety. The spinach is prepared exactly the same way each day. There are dozens of bulbs of garlic in the pantry, all unpeeled and rotten.
Condiments have saved me. I slather virtually everything in either ketchup or Bertolli pesto. I do have one special treat I look forward to each day. Remember those deep fried plantain chips? I put several on a plate and microwave until they are viciously hot. I dip a fork into a jar of Nutella and apply the black paste onto the steaming chips. After a minute, this perfect combination is cool enough to eat. People here make fun of me because I eat this every day and am clearly in ecstasy with every bite.

On Sunday the kitchen staff departs at 1 p.m., leaving the afternoon for the expatriates to get creative in the kitchen. A few weeks ago I made Chicago-style stuffed spinach pizza which was a great hit. Other have created Javanese curries, Belgian rice pudding, French eclairs, and Algerian grilled chicken—all delicious. Today started with foie gras and German coffee cake. I wonder what’s for dinner?