Rwanda and the DR Congo

- my computer gave up, has gone on vacation, so fini with iPhoto – the next pictures will have to come up when back in SF -

Kampala

Back to the human jungle and chaos! My mum has always been a proponent of visiting markets when traveling to new country, saying that they show the true colors of its people and culture. Kampala’s main open air market was to be no exception. Owino Market was known as one of the most chaotic spots of the capital, as well as being the accessories and wardrobe closet for ‘The Last King of Scotland’. So I asked Justine, Heidi's housekeeper, if I could tag along and help her with groceries and errands. It was early on a Monday afternoon, Justine had just finished work early and had a few hours before picking her daughter up from school.

We get off the matatu at the City Center (at which point I find out that I had been paying double the standard fare the entire time, bloody mizungu tax!). With the simplicity of a little girl, Justin takes my hand before diving into the downtown chaos. Chatting, giggling, we float our way through rivers of people - under the scorching equatorial sun and amidst the smells of animal, man, food, and dust that come along with the heat. Not even five minutes into our expedition, an army vehicle drives by with six soldiers in camouflage with large black guns in the back of the truck. Suddenly, there's a quick change in the happy jostling atmosphere of the crowd. The flow of the pedestrians has now changed to one general direction, and from a slow pace to a more hurried and worried one. Justine stops in her tracks, eyes dart around alarmed but assertive, grabs my hand and whispers 'tear gas'.

Before I can even mutter a '???', we melt back into the crowd for a few moments, taken in by the momentum of the mass and then branch off on a little side alley- revealing a secret-garden-ish, hidden universe. Stuff. Everywhere. Rows of stuff- horizontal rows of stuff, vertical rows of stuff, like a thick overgrown tropical jungle- as far as the eye could see everywhere. Cloths, underwear, plastic toys, more cloths, posters, electronics, people sleeping in corners, people crouching behind stands, people running through stalls, a thick jungle of people and stuff. With a confident pace, Justine weaves our way through it all, hand in hand, away from disorganized chaos towards this organized chaos, we're at the gate to Owino Market. The crowd has now scattered, pace has returned to normal, as if nothing had happened. Justine later told me that she had been caught in teargas twice before, as teargas and police violence are the government's knee-jerk reaction to quell political and student protests- this time it was targeting Museveni's political opponent who was trying to infiltrate Parliament.

Owino is an experience in itself. I wish I could put a video of it on this thing to convey the feeling- there are these walkways that resemble the retractable bridges above medieval castles moats– as if the entrances of the market were the elevated bridges since the handbag and luggage vendors display their goods on these 20 ft tall panels. You then cross the walkway, under the towering display of bags, into Owino, and into a world of black leather shoes. I never knew so many black leather shoes existed; they're all second hand, but perfectly shined and looking new. We walk across 10, 50, 100 feet of wooden planks (covering the stagnant puddles of trash and rain from the night before) through piles of neatly arranged shiny black leather shoes, until we reach basketball jerseys. Another 10, 20, 50 feet of wooden planks through every basketball jersey conceivable, thousands piled up horizontally and vertically. Another ten feet, and we reach the linen department, and then the women's shirts, then women's pants, at which point the jungle of clothes part and we reach an opening, and here is the 'lingerie' department – a 15 x 15 area where five men are sitting on the floor surrounded by piles of lingerie, organizing, yelling, throwing items around. A ten minute walk later, we arrive at the end of the clothing jungle – grains. Every grain one could possibly imagine- huge bags, piles of peanuts, dried beans, soy. Then the butchers, then vegetables. Just as my eyes are about to pop out of my head, Justine takes my hand again, stops by her favorite passionfruit lady sitting in the 3 rd row, 7 piles down, and checks the first errand off her list.

Beginning of travels

Two months later, I finally feel as if I'm getting the hang of Kampala. Taking Jaime's words to heart- '"Wherever you are, be all there.". I've started to settle into a routine, am comfortable ridding side-saddle on the back of bodas (the motorcycle taxis), have *almost* seen the sun come up after a night of dancing, found my favorite jogging path through Makerere University campus – but work has been stagnating, which has made room for this crappy feeling of purposelessness. The most frustrating bit is that I feel like a spring, all wound up ready to work, completely give myself to a project, make a valid contribution… I'm ready, charged, wanting to put these past 18 years of school to good use, especially when one sees how much can be done here, on all different levels. But coordination, expectations, everything takes time here, so I'm just waiting to hear back… With the malaria project completed, the next one undetermined, I think I'll embrace unemployment and explore.

Rwanda

Rwanda – the country of a thousand hills (aptly named after the hotel starring Hotel Rwanda, 'Hotel des Milles Collines' ) – also known as the 'Switzerland of Africa', and yes, it's quite possibly one of the highlights of adventures so far.

I'm scribbling this over dinner at the New Cactus, a little Belgian restaurant that makes a mean grilled Tilapia, savoring a glass of South African sauvignon blanc, treating myself to a reminder of Westernism. In this lush green garden, Cesaria Evora in the background, romantic candlelight tables overlooking the twinkling lights of Kigali, capital of Rwanda, at the foot of the hill, it's hard to believe that this city was victim to one of the most horrific genocides of our time with more than a million deaths.

1994. I was in sixth grade, the year of Kurt Cobain's overdose, the rise of ska, mid-weekly's dance lessons… and I faintly remember headlines in the media of some 'internal conflict, a civil war' in Rwanda. Maybe it was because we were so far away, or maybe I was just too young (or clueless, as I realize is the case far too often), but I never quite understood the extent or meaning of a genocide within such a small, densely populated country. So yes, maybe the motives of my tourism are gruesome and voyeuristic- genocidal tourism- but it was this gruesome legacy which brought me to this unbelievable country.

At first glance, Rwanda just seems like a beautiful, fertile, lush country – with terraced rolling hills covered with a patchwork of dark chocolatey browns and deep olive greens, and all the hues between the two. Tea is one of their main exports, so the valleys between the hills are filled with the bright greens of the young tea buds, speckled with little dots of color from the bright clothing of tea-pickers. The roads are immaculate; not a pot-hole in site, speed limits properly marked and enforced, trees neatly line the road. This come in such a stark contrast with Uganda, where just a few kilometres north of the border, the roads are littered with trash, people drive like maniacs (love the cab that would still cruise, with no headlights, at normal speeds in Kabale), towns are grubbier. Even the people are different, mannerisms are different. On the drive to the Rwandan border, we were 8 scrunched in this tiny car, the woman beside me wanted to hold my hand and invited us to her home, Caribbean-beat music was happily blasting on the crackly radio, people just seemed to have a happier carefree way about them. But as soon as we crossed the border and hopped in a Rwandan taxi, we were 4, properly buckled in, music was either off or Western (I think I listened to more Celine Dion and Kenny Rogers in Rwanda than in my life combined!).

So Rwanda definitely has a very distinct feel - There's a sophisticated air to this capital, with undertones reminiscent of Geneva, perhaps due to the strong NGO presence mostly based out Switzerland– ranging from MSF, UNICEF, OXFAM, CICR, WHO, USAID, the list of labeled vehicles and imposing properties continues. Inflation is relatively low, the currency is strong, supermarkets have butter and Cote d'Or chocolate. You would never imagine that one million people (one million people, more than the population of San Francisco), Tutsis and moderate Hutus, were slaughtered, the rest of the country terrorized, vacated, destroyed, disseminated only a decade ago… But then you start talking to people and you find a few clues that hit you with such force- as if the Rwandan people were trying so hard to put the past behind and start from scratch: the cab driver, the hotel concierge, Frederick the passenger, Josephine, the woman who accompanied us through the streets of Gisenye, the two scouts I met at the restaurant in Kigali, they’re all orphans. The multitude of dismembered beggars, the disfigured man waiting by the car on my way back to Uganda, subtle traces of this horrible past are everywhere...

My god, the baggage, the stories – At first, I tippy toed around the subject, wanting to hear about the genocide first hand but not knowing how to approach such a personal and painful recent history, but then found that Rwandans are eager to share and tell you about their country. Their stories would come with a strange mixture of deep sorrow and love for their country, desire to make you appreciate Rwanda, with a very grounded, matter-of-fact way of dealing with the past. For example, I mistook this man getting in his Jeep for a cab driver, but he laughed and offered me a ride regardless- and for the entire duration of the car ride, he praised Rwanda as if he were its salesman, insisting on the greatest of its people, how they have learned from the past, are not the same people as 10 years ago and that I should encourage friends and family to visit. He was also an orphan. When I asked him why were people so eager to volunteer something so personal, he replied that it was important to approach the issue head on, as an integral part of moving forward.


Entry into Rwanda

With only a small backpack, passport in hand and a pocketful of Rwandan francs exchanged at the border (there are no known working ATMs in the country) on the black market, Mike (a med student from UCSF I had just met a few days earlier) and I bumbled across the Ugandan/Rwandan border, not exactly knowing where we were heading, except that our final destination was to be Lake Kivu. We had reached Kigali and the sun was beginning to call it a day, but the road to Gisenye (the town on Lake Kivu) seemed quick and easy enough from Kigali – besides, we were two and we were just going to head straight to a hotel upon arrival.

After purchasing a ticket in advance for an on-time departure in French (unheard of in Uganda), we hit the road in a mini-van, Kigali-Gisenye. Half an hour in the trip, this little old man is standing by the side of the road, looks left then right, then hobbles across the road, twenty feet in front of our racing matatu. The car can't stop, everybody gasps, but since we're driving on these narrow roads on such steep hills, we can't swerve. A brutal thump sends the whole matatu in shivers. Silence, people are running towards the car, to the man beside the car. Mike walks out, medical kit in hand- we were driving through what seemed to be a few houses, but people are coming out from everywhere, streaming, 20, 30, 40, to see what has happened. This is the first contact we have had with rural Rwanda- while I had been seduced by countryside, capital and people up to now, I had never seen such hungry poverty-stricken eyes in the past two months. Rather than calling out 'mizungu', kids were tugging at us aggressive calling out (or us?) 'money'.

But the old man is still breathing and is driven to a nearby hospital. There is nothing Mike can do and it seems best to let the crowd deal with this incident. We never knew the fate of the old man. We returned to the car and drove into the night.

The volcano

A couple hours later, the matatu is zipping along in total obscurity. Everything around us is pitch-black and the only thing we can see are the 10 feet in front of the car illuminated by the headlights, definitely creepy. And then we see the Nyiragongo Volcano. This is the most surreal amazing vision- a cartoon fairy tale couldn't have portrayed it any better- There, in the middle of the jet black vast open nothingness, big billows of foaming reddish grey smoke. The Lonely Planet vaguely mentioned a volcano on the Congolese border, but this angry, fuming, active volcano was the last thing we were expecting. Suddenly, the Congo – nicknamed the ‘true heart of darkness' – captured our interest.

The matatu putts along, finally arriving at the bus terminal at Gisenye around 9pm. We stumble out of the car, sleepy and achy, and find ourselves in a completely deserted town - we're in the center of town and one mangy security officer with a gun disproportionally large for his body size is lurking in the shadows. We jump in the back of the cab with Jules, the cab driver, who happens to be a pastor as well (and why not?). After a long day and finally finding vacancy, we collapse at the Hotel Gisenye. The following morning, it took a few moments to remind myself where we were- architecture, tall ceilings, lake views, manicured shrubbery landscape, it's all Switzerland. Even the butter with breakfast!

Gisenye is a strange place – the only non-Rwandan presence appears to be only NGO's, not a single tourist in sight. Apparently, this town was one of the most affected by the genocide. Rwandan officials were known to have their headquarters based out of the nicest hotel in town and had easy access to cross the lake into the Congo in the event of evacuation when the political situation became too hairy. The nearest point of refuge would’ve been Goma, the neighboring town just 5 km away on the Congolese side of the border. Goma also lay at the foot of Nyiragongo, an active volcano straddling the Congolese/Rwandan border – which erupted and swallowed half of this town in 2002. Goma would be our next destination.

Lake Kivu and the DR of Congo

So we quickly gobble down our breakfast; an array of exotic fruits (where we had these bitter but beautiful Asian plums- a hybrid between pomegranate, persimmons, with hues of greens and purples- but they just had to be enjoyed because they were so pretty, regardless of the taste), coffee, fresh bread… and yes, the quintessential flavorful creamy butter that tasted like cow. As we walk out of the hotel’s gate, Mike and I befriend Josephine, a university student who has the day off and she volunteers to guide us around the town for the day... just because. We stroll by the lake shores under tall manicured trees, with a run-down, nostalgic, grandiose air to this place, along a long road which leads to the Kivu Sun Hotel - the hotel that briefly served as the headquarters for the interim government that presided over the genocide… Kids everywhere, staring at us, aggressively. This is by far the most uncomfortable I’ve been so far – they’re pulling at our bags, demanding money, surrounding us. Thank God Josephine is with us. But what feels most disturbing, though, is the obvious divide between very wealthy and very poor, and that we unfortunately and uncomfortably fall in these tracks and follow the stereotype of segregation. There’s no middle ground- and feel as if we have no choice but to find ‘refuge’ in these tourist havens. Soon, we arrive at the gates of the Kivu Sun Hotel, where we part ways with Josephine and wait in the gated community for Jules, the pastor, to visit Goma.

Unchartered, unknown territory. Ouh, the sexiness of exploring a buried town at the foot of an active volcano. We read every bit of information about Goma available, spoke to every traveler we met, double checked the latest security reports with the local hotels – the rebel activity was located only at the rim of the crater, but the town of Goma was known to be safe during the day. Again, the only foreign presence being NGO and humanitarian aid organizations. After clearing the border with our pastor, we drive into a shabby, run-down town, we’ve already arrived. The car drives up a small hill, the road is getting a bit rougher, but the town is not as sexy as I had imagined. But suddenly, Mike knudges me, pointing at a small wall- a fence maybe.. ‘No, it’s the roof of a house covered by the lava’ explains Jules. My jaw drops- a completely new layer of life and town has been built directly above and among the old town. Two towns: one partially covered graveyard, the other resurrected new town- both co-existing in an eery symbiotic way. But as quickly as we had crossed over, we had to cross back into Gisenye. The shadows were getting longer, and our place was not there.


Bolting across the border

After sitting in a taxi for a good hour and a half waiting for the car to fill up with passengers, we finally leave the taxi park realizing that the border closes in two hours and that the road to the border is to take two hours. Why nobody else is tweaking out at the prospect of spending the night at the border, I can't tell you. So the taxi is chugging along, Mike is grumping- livid at the idea of missing his last day in Kampala if we get stuck, tea plantations racing by, kids running after the bus – we're at the border, 4 minutes before the deadline. However, we have to fill out exit forms from Rwanda, cross a large metal gate leaving Rwanda, walk over 100 meters through non-man's land, to cross another large metal gate opening up to Uganda, and fill out entry forms. Ah, I wish I could post a picture of this whole scene! Mike's roommates found themselves in this situation just a few weeks back, arriving at the Rwandan border like us at 6pm, thought they had made it and nonchalantly walked the 100 m only to realize that there was no one on the Ugandan side, so turned back to Rwanda, found that the Rwandan border officials had left, and so they had to sleep in no-man's land under the gaze of both Rwandan and Ugandan border patrols. So in the most ridiculous sprint under the cheer (and yes, I got a high five) of the black-market currency exchangers, with books and flashlights flying out of backpacks in the muddy truck tracks, we made it.

Bus ride back home from Rwanda

(3 days later, 2nd trip in Rwanda, having return to Rwanda for a few days after Mike left)


I'm sitting on the coach bus, embarked on a 9h bus ride back. We've just crossed the border, music starts to resound, the TV is turned on, with movie entitled 'Without Shame'. The text with the title and the cast pops up a-la-Back to the Future. This is Nollywood- the 2 nd largest movie industry after Hollywood is Bollywood, with Nollywood coming in third (Rwanda's budding movie industry goes by Hillywood). Mind you, 95% of the bus is male, but their cool, composed, oozing-with-virility demeanor switches to that of a group of Latin American grandmothers giddy over soap operas. The Nollywood acting and way of filming is very different than what we are used to in the West- one may think almost rudimentary, but not to this crowd. Just as the husband is about to reprimand the wife on her marital duties, the lover hiding in the shower, the crowd goes wild. Yes, even the large old man overflowing into my seat is hooting at the lover. Priceless. Best bus ride I've ever had.