After The Genocide.
Subdued and reflective after a couple of days immersed in genocide we set off for the four hour road trip to the DRC border, Lake Kivu and the small town of Gisenyi. With Haddington as our driver, it was Niamh, Lorraine and my turn to travel in the relative comfort of the small four wheel drive. Profound thoughts and emotions rendered us literally speechless and it seemed disrespectful to talk about anything other than genocide. Eventually, in the face of the incomprehensible and possibly as a defence mechanism, we spoke of lives and loves, losses, disappointments and betrayals, grounding us in our own realities. My friend Gemma’s archetype system, having travelled with me around-the-world, has found a collection of curious and converted recipients. On this day as I shared stories of angels, elementals, dragons and star people en route to Gisenyi it brought some light to the darkness.
Stopping in Musanze (aka Ruhengeri) for a coffee and toilet break, with a budding connection, Lorraine and I set out to explore the quaint little town. In contrast to Huye (Butare), which had been described as a University town and Rwanda’s ‘Intellectual and Academic’ centre and did not live up to the hype, Musanze was a hidden gem. Wandering down the main road past locals walking their goats on a lead, women swathed in vibrant cloth, with views of the Virunga volcanos in the distance, Lorraine commented on a recent ‘attack’ in the village of Musanze. I discounted its relevance, this Musanze was not a village. After a brief peek in at the Dian Fossey museum we rushed back to our waiting car. Met with concerned looks, Niamh quietly commented “Jacob has been worried”. Another group member had told her of a recent attack on a group of tourists in the area. I considered the risk. While I acknowledged an attack may have occurred, but tourists, really? Certainly Intrepid would have redirected the itinerary or Jacob would have cautioned us. But I wasn’t sure. Later I discovered Al Jazeera records from 5th October ‘Unidentified attackers have killed at least eight people and wounded 18 others during an overnight attack in northern Rwanda near the border with Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), according to police. The attack took place on Friday in Musanze district’s Kinigi sector which attracts tourists because of its Volcanoes National Park and its mountain gorillas, an endangered species’.
Driving from Musanze, the three most iconic of eight volcanos in Virunga National Park, Muhabura, Bisoke and Sabyinyo, emerged from cloud in time for a picturesque sunset. Haddington shared each mountain’s story, steeped in the local culture. Sabyinyo, or Tooth, referred to the value of teeth for old men. Muhabura, the Guide, can be seen from many directions, and Bisoke — Soaked with Water, for the crater lakes atop. Stopping for a photo we were soon bombarded by children who had learnt to beg. An ethical company, Intrepid advised us to ask to photograph people, not just snap away and to avoid paying or giving sweets. Where possible snapping a ‘selfie’ WITH the person and showing them the photo was enough to satisfy the locals. A group of boys, mildly harassing as we stopped to snap the volcanos, were content to pose for a group photo to the back drop of Uganda, the DRC and Rwanda.
Approaching the very Shona sounding Mukamira (the Bantu languages seem, to my ear, to have a preponderance of ‘m’s and ‘k’s), a sudden thud and pop and shattering of glass behind me stopped us in our tracks. A rock thrown at the window. Having just heard talk of tourist attacks, Lorraine, Niamh and I were a tad unsettled. Haddington locked us in the car (with the broken back wondow) as the locals, who had apprehended the culprit, gave him a blow by blow description of the event. As with any African village, a single incident becomes entertainment and soon the road was lined with the entire populous, many crowding around the car. Haddington returned. It appeared that a teenager with mental health issues had thrown the rock. Haddington needed a letter for insurance but when the police arrived they were insistent on cuffing the girl and taking her into custody. Accompanied by her anxious mother the police took her to the Mukamira police station. We followed. But compassion reigned and soon the youth was taken to hospital, the letter given to Haddington and the incident closed. We were quite happy for our little adventure, as most ravellers are, particularly when we were all safe and sound. Haddington hadn’t received any calls so we assumed Jacob was nonplussed with our delay. It was only driving into Gisenyi Paradise Lodge that we discovered Haddington’s phone wasn’t connecting and poor Jacob had indeed been very worried.
Our accomodation on the Lake was inviting, greeted with enthusiastic staff, a blazing fire pit and internet. The staff had personalities bigger than Ben Hur and were entertaining at every opportunity, from running at break neck speed with trays of food or drinks held high, to showering our vehicles with petals with a dramatic farewell at our departure. As luck would have it the rain, apt for immersion in genocide, parted the following morning. Emerging from my thatched rondoval sun glinted off the blue of Lake Kivu, serenaded by the fisherman who, according to an article (https://theculturetrip.com/africa/rwanda/articles/a-night-with-rwandas-musical-fishermen-on-lake-kivu/) sing for courage as each trio of boats paddles out and back each sunset and dawn. Lyrics, varying day by day, are always sung in the local Amashi tongue, a combination of Kinyarwanda and eastern Congolese. This fishing routine reminded me of night time kapenta fishing on Lake Kariba, as the waters of Lake Kivu lit up with the boats’ lanterns, bobbing above the water attracting sambaza and tilapia fish. Back near shore, their produce sold, the fisherman spent their morning repairing nets before rest and yet another night of their communal work.
After a scrumptious breakfast of fresh fruit, amazing Rwandan coffee, french bread and tropical jams, eggs or pancakes, we set off for a lake tour. Beginning at the fish market and Bralirwa brewery (purveyers of beer and soft drink), we passed the methane gas plant that theoretically could power Rwanda for 50 years. The gas had its positives and negatives. The generally poor aquatic life of Lake Kivu is attributed to the gas, the plus being no crocs, hippos nor bilharzia, making swimming a possiblity — a rarity for an African lake.
Skirting the Rwanda-DRC maritime border, we wondered if we could lay claim to travelling in the DRC? Not really. Our boat circumnavigated Punishment, or Kabakobwa, Island. It was on this little mass of boulders that girls who had failed to protect their virginity were punished. From December 15–23 all unwed girls from surrounding villages between the ages of 14 and early 20s were screened. December the 24th continues to be shrouded in doom, associated as it is with the innumerable girls dumped there and left to starve, drown attempting the swim back to a family that had already disowned them, oh and the repercussions for the males who defiled the girls — none of course. It’s not clear when the practice actually ceased it wasn’t so long ago. Shrouded in this history, to this day no one sets foot on the rocky outcrop.
Under blue skies, calm waters and a strong sun we passed by the local hospital where crowds gathered under the shade of a tree, passed hot springs where locals routinely bath, and back to Paradise Lodge. “It will rain” Jacob predicted, “It is too hot, I am never wrong”. So the afternoon trip to Gisenyi was brought forward so as to avoid the anticipated thunderous downpour. Gisenyi is contiguous with Goma in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. It was a name I was less familiar with. Goma was more familiar as the town of post genocide refugee camps. After the relaxing morning, wandering town through crowds entertained by a finance company’s magic and music show, passing rows of red mototaxis, I was brought back to thoughts of genocide. Experiencing the beauty and nature of Rwanda it was easy to block out its ugly history. Amidst the local market’s colourful displays of fresh produce, the increasingly common array of Chinese plastic produce, mounds of second hand clothes direct from our first world refuse, and the stunning local cloth, I passed stall holders and pondered what their story might be. We met back at our transport under sunny skies. Sorry Jacob, your claims to fame as a weatherman seemed groundless.
Later that day we were entertained by a local troupe performing the traditional Intore, a highly choreographed three part dance. The ballet, performed by women; followed by the dance of heroes, a dance of acrobatic flair was performed by men. It was exhausting just to watch, sweat pouring off the two guys. The final part was drums. I reluctantly allowed one of the dancers to drag me up and soon the audience was jigging along building up a sweat of its own.
The following morning, showered with rose petals and singing from the Paradise lodge staff we set off for Uganda. As kids walked to school and adults to work, Jacob described a little of their life. Away from the main road only a fifth of the population had electricity and most still had to walk for water (though we discovered the children and women walking with yellow jerry cans were usually carrying banana beer or wine). After a relatively speedy and uneventful border crossing, other than dipping our shoes in disinfectant to minimise the spread of ebola, we drove the short distance to Kisoro, and our quite spectacular accommodation at Lake Mulehe Gorilla Lodge where each room was named after one of the local gorillas. Nshuti, my room, meant friend. My friend Tom, in Kariba, a Zimbabwean in the tourism business, often says ‘if Africans can learn to do service it will thrive’. I wrote to him. Rwanda and Uganda have got it down pat (well other than needing to order a meal 1 hour before you intend to eat). Otherwise, and unlike in Zimbabwe where to ask for service in the hospitality industry is like asking them to give you an arm or a leg, Ugandan and Rwandan hospitality staff were pure joy, in every sense of the word.
One staff member lead us through Mikozi village to a local banana beer maker. Soon we had a gaggle of kids following us, posing for photos, observing our every action. Not all parents value education for their children or perhaps the demands of the fields leave little choice. Slowly, now we were walking at altitude, we made the steady climb up cinnamon coloured dirt roads, along narrow tracks in lush verdant grass, and past a school. I saw girls playing ‘elastics’, taking me right back to Clayton and the hours of fun friends and I had. Do kids today even know what elastics is? While not a novel experience (a group of tourists may walk by every other day) it was as if royalty had come to town. At first just a few students escaped to wave and greet, but in no time it seemed the school in its entirety descended upon us, literally mobbing us. It was hilarious. We snapped away and took selfies with hordes of boys and girls clamouring for their moment in the limelight. Our guide said he and the teachers had given up on trying to corral the students back into their classrooms, instead accepting this momentary reprieve from the mundane.
Continuing on, cattle and goats feeding on the lush grass, we entered the beer maker’s property. He took us through the brewing steps culminating in a sample of the rough draught. I was more interested in banana gin. The next planned stop was at a local witch doctor but he had a family emergency. Getting back to my room a little early to enjoy the spectacular view and some alone time was an OK alternative. As lovely as the group was I was thankful I’d paid for a single supplement, space to just chill and ‘be’ with my thoughts.
Rising at 4.30 Rwanda time the next morning we set off with some trepidation. A challenging hike awaited us and the risk of being the 1 in 1000 that did not encounter a gorilla family was a worry. Sitting in the front seat of the land cruiser I had my first conversation with Paul, a fifty something Ugandan. He was a humble man who worried at Intrepid’s upcoming change in policy. Rather than Intrepid owning vehicles and hiring drivers, Paul would now have to purchase a vehicle himself to work for the company. He talked of his family, educated children who, struggling to gain employment in Uganda, were forced to the middle east and an uncertain future. Not merely with regards to jobs and distance from family, but life and death. To gain a work permit Africans had to undergo a plethora of medical tests. Yet these tests had a sinister overtone. It was not to ensure workers’ wellbeing, rather their suitability for illegal organ harvesting. One of Paul’s friend’s son recently died in the UAE. As he was a young healthy man who went to work in the IT industry, the family insisted upon viewing the body upon its return. This is not typically done. Ugandan government officials, part of this horrific trade and keen to protect their gold mine, obstructed families access to the deceased. The family delved deeper to discover many of their son’s organs removed. Let’s be clear, this is not a young Uganda deciding to sell a spare organ and take the inherent risks. It is murder, plain and simple. For the educated unemployed Ugandans it must seem a little like a lottery hoping they will be the winner and actually get a job.
As the sun rose we could see Lake Mulehe and the valley shrouded in dense cloud through which an occasional hill peaked, like islands in a sea of mist. Of course the ‘Gorillas in the Mist’ phrase was thrown around more than once.
Following Jacob’s advice (which, other than his weather forecasts, was reliable), I decided on securing a porter. Once allocated, camera at the ready, socks pulled up high to avoid stinging nettles, we set off. The trackers set off early every morning having stayed with the gorilla family till dusk the previous day, certain where they would sleep. Gorillas literally shit where they sleep, so need to move on from the nest made for a single night’s use to graze and settle somewhere habitable the following night. Finding the gorilla family each morning the trackers stick with them till we arrive. Walkie Talkies kept our guide on the right track, and the armed National Park rangers led the way, ever vigilant, guns at the ready for to set off warning shots if we encountered any elephants or buffalo. Ah the joys of having a porter. Given it was the wet season the track was in parts quite slippery. The porter carried my small day pack. With a hiking stick in one hand and my porter’s ever ready hand to literally pull me up slopes where necessary I managed a decent pace. Starting at 2300 m above sea level, we could feel the altitude but even Pat, who celebrated her 69th birthday that very day, managed the trek, the undulating landscape, while steadily inclining, giving regular relief. We’d heard of a chair that for US$800 per day could be hired along with porters to carry you to the gorillas. How wonderful for people with disabilities to at least have an option.
The hours ticked by but that seemed inconsequential as we passed a nest scattered with bamboo debris and caught up to the trackers, often ex poachers. Our pricy trek permit now enables locals to have a role protecting rather than decimating the gorilla population. Lush and verdant, the guides had no hesitation at cutting away brush in the thick forest to enable a better view. The first glimpse was incredible. A mother sat nursing her baby — quite indifferent to the humans clicking cameras and expressing hushed awe a mere four metres away. After a quick drink from her sagging breast the baby reclined, chewing on fresh green bamboo shoots grasped in his black leathery digits. Gazing around at times, my camera captured a moment of casual concern which soon moved to consternation. I then moved to another spot in the bush, near a juvenile who was less than a meter away, way closer than the 7 meter perimeter recommended. But this was at the gorilla’s insistence. Climbing to the tip of a thin bamboo reed which bent under his weight he casually swung down grabbing the fresh growth at the reed’s very top. Munching on bamboo, he placed his finger between his teeth to clear a stuck fibre, it was such a human mannerism. He too was completely indifferent to our presence. Ahhhhh, amazing.
Creeping through dense scrub we gasped in unified pure delight as we entered an opening where the alpha male, an enormous silverback called Mark lounged alongside one of his females, Ndugutse and two juveniles. Mark slept as they huddled and ploughed through his thick coat extracting bugs which they unceremoniously ate, in-between picking their nose or laying down for a rest. Ndugutse sat bemused, indifferent or bored. She was difficult to read, her affect blunted to my unaccustomed eyes. Reclining, Nshuti, the older of the two juveniles, reached his hands back behind his head, his pose relaxed, lips gently together in a smile of pure bliss. That is until Nsekuye, the annoying younger brother, began rough and tumble play which soon got out of hand. Nsekuye climbed all over, biting Nshuti who eventually, fed up, responded with the archetypal gorilla strutting, chest beating and hooting vocalizations, asserting ‘I’m bigger and stronger than you, don’t mess with me’. I felt immense privilege observing gorilla pretend play — Nshuti practicing being the alpha male. But Nsekuye, like any little brother had yet to learn limits and soon pushed Nshuti over the line. That’s when dad woke up. Moving quickly to put a stop to their antics with a deep gutteral call akin to a dad’s ‘enough kids!’ retort. He calmly held Nshuti down as Ndugutse, arms crossed as if saying ‘finally you get up and deal with them’ sat with an ‘I told you so’ face. Mark turned and sat in profile, gasps again as we experienced his true majesty, buff leathery chest framed by his ‘silver back’ and sleeves of thick fur. His face, distinctive with lines under his wise eyes that spread from his flat nose, across his cheek, with a smooth upper lip and fur forming a beard below his lower lip. From Nsekuye’s young leathery face marked by lines, Nshuti’s small upper lip, Ndugutse’s furry frame to her visage, all were distinct and individual. We learnt that Dian Fossey identified each gorilla not by finger print but by nose print.
Our hour came to a close and we reluctantly began the process of tearing ourselves from the mesmerising encounter. I’m not sure words can truly capture how blessed we felt, how spiritual the experience was, that these brothers of ours tolerated our presence and allowed us a presence, the gratitude that Rwanda and Uganda were striving to protect these gentle giants. As I began to put my camera and phone away our guide, voice hushed but excited, announced. “There is the third silverback”. I turned and walked a mere metre to see Rukundo squatting close by. He stood and began walking straight for me. To say fear quickly replaced awe would be an understatement. Our guide strongly asserted “Stand your ground, stand your ground”, the words for us, the tone for Rukundo. The guide quickly made a deep guttural call, m mmmm sounds, raspberries, rounded clicks and belches = a collection of sounds that sent a message “all is well.” Rukundo sat a metre or two from me, calm and apparently posing for photos. His chest panting I felt he was looking directly to my eyes. It honestly felt as though he was looking straight into my core. He calmly sat as the sound of our clicking cameras accompanied whispered wonderment. Later I discovered everyone felt they too had had direct eye contact with the gorillas. Was this some biological feature of the gorillas’ eyes, or maybe they did bestow a moment of connection with each of us? Tearing ourselves away we began the decent, reflecting on how blessed we had been — clear skies, meeting the entire gorilla family, witnessing nursing and a myriad of gorilla behaviours. While physically plodding down Mt Muhabara, our euphoric mood had us floating.
The next day we returned to Musanze. Our hotel sat at the end of the long main street, walking distance to the best coffee around, past the Dian Fossey museum and close to a local art gallery. A twin lakes bike ride was the last included activity of our tour but Jacob had from the outset discouraged us from actually doing it. On his last tour one traveller had tracked it to be a 44 km cycle. In Rwanda. The Land of 1000 Hills. With a day of trekking behind us and another ahead we were reluctant. Jacob worked hard with the company to create an alternative and was promised a 10 km cycle around the town. Lorraine and I hadn’t been on a bike for 25 years. A fit 70 year old, she did well. I was doing OK till the first real hill. Even in low gear I had to dismount. Catching up to the lead guide he assured me that was the first and last hill. Ahh but the African compulsion to tell you what you want to hear! My African friends and I have discussed this at length. They attribute it to the equivalent of an eastern desire to ‘save face’, not wanting to admit not knowing, as well as a colonialism legacy of telling the boss what he needs to hear. Struggling on, a few of the group behind me still, I reached Niamh who had considerately waited, our guide far ahead. The slow incline was killing my quads. Dismounting again we paused for water. Clouds threatened. Perhaps this would be the day Jacob’s prophecy would come to fruition. “We must be close to town” I asserted, “the main guide said it was a circuit”. Niamh looked quizzical. “This guide said we go back the same way”. OMG, I was already exhausted. The I blurted out “Oh FUCK” as I saw yet another incline ahead. Niamh also spewed out an ‘oh fuck’. Kathy stood on the roadside not much further on to alert us to a turn left and additional 10 km to the lakes, on a dirt road. Enough. So much for the gentle 10 km ride around town Jacob had been assured. My muscles had reached that point of weakness where they could barely function. I think most of the group were considering continuing on but I knew my limits. In the end 5 of us other than Niamh and Marie who are regular cyclists, turned back. The cycle back was slow, steady and strenuous at times. And just as we reached the outskirts of town the spitting sky slowing became steady rain.
Our final full day began with an optional trip, a trek to the Golden Monkeys. A rose gold sunrise gave way to blue skies as we drove to the Volcanoes National Park. As morning mist dissipated revealing the peaks of the Virunga mountains, the valley below remained swathed in a blanket of cloud. A guide who had worked with Dian Fossey led us to view one of the rarest ape species in the world. As for the gorilla treks, this trek was helping both monkeys, their habitat and locals alike. Niamh and I shared a porter merely to give income but he got no tip as we barely saw him. He walked ahead within the large group perhaps not remembering who had hired him. Wandering past farms of pyrethrum, the white daisy like member of the chrysanthemum family, a natural insecticide, our guide periodically stopped to point out various bits and pieces. His energetic chest beating, gorilla grunts and bush munching, while entertaining, left us wondering as to his sanity. As surely being a Dian Fossey team member would not have sent him over the edge, thoughts of the genocide resurfaced. He was a rotund man of average height probably in his 50s. We could not help from wondering ‘was he perpetrator or victim?’
After an easy stroll we reached woodlands where hundreds of monkeys played, ate, copulated and slept. Grey ears and eye sockets, amber eyes, black furry sleeves, legs, tail and delicate fingers gave way to variegated yellow and black fur over the front face and body, with a golden ginger back and black crown. One monkey confidently sat poised on a thin shoot of bamboo as he stripped a piece of bamboo. Other monkeys sat amidst dense green undergrowth, cheeky young played tag, biting and wrestling each other. mothers groomed their patient infants. This hive of community activity unfolded as our large group dispersed, meandering in and out of the forest, each of us encountering our own private show. I was prepared to be underwhelmed after the gorillas but it was yet another special and unique experience. I am now keen to trek to see Rwanda’s chimpanzees. Next time!
Due to rains we had our last group dinner at the hotel, a place of zero atmosphere. Tired after 8 busy days we sat subdued, exchanging personal details, airdropping photos, sorting out the final day and airport transfers. Waking to gunfire in the early morning I wondered again at this country which seemed an African anomaly. There were a few I suppose. I hear Ethiopia has a progressive government. Botswana seems to be maintaining minimal corruption. In a post colonial phase, with a ‘Freedom fighter’ political party ruling, Namibia is a ‘watch this space’ scenario. In 2019 Rwanda is a country that has experienced a profound cultural shift from francophone, pseudo-tribal, with a genocide riddled history to anglophone, apparently reconciled, with a regionally renowned economy. Yet there is a darker side. At village level or the umudugudu, each community member is obliged to gather monthly for Umuganda, the nationwide community service day. Supposedly peer shaming, a key feature of chairman Mao’s China, Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union, is part of the structure. As my taxi driver in Kigali spoke glowingly of President Kagame I wondered if his totalitarian leanings were a price the populous were prepared to pay for peace?
Our last morning was spent on a local bus journeying to the cleanest city in Africa. The bus, as with the majority of vehicles, respectfully abided by the almost countrywide speed limit of 40 kmph. Given the hills and single lane roads, a sensible choice. As we passed houses with high pitched roofs that are the new mode I pondered, ‘I hope they never have to hide people in roofs again’.
We reached Kigali and some of our group sped off to the airport. I was staying another night and so returned to the Kigali genocide memorial. The first visit a little rushed and incomplete, then the gorillas and golden monkeys fairly successfully quashing the deep emotion evoked in the first part of the week, I wanted to immerse myself in the experience yet again, the victims deserving of my attention one more time.
As I flew out of the modern Kigali airport the following morning listening to the quintessential African laughter nearby — a ‘He Hey’ with a rising falling lilt I considered my emotions in that moment and a mere six weeks earlier upon leaving Zimbabwe. Had I ‘fallen out of love’ with Zimbabwe and ‘in love’ with Rwanda. Or was it more simple. Maybe I just loved, felt connected to, Africa.
