Well, that's it. I've been home now for about 3 and 1/2 months, and life has returned to something like normal. I'm busy. I have working at the local food pantry, being on the school board, art class, student mentoring, trivia night every two weeks, planning the Sustainability Fair, etc. etc. to keep me out of trouble, but there's a part of me that misses Africa.
Art class is one of my favorite things, maybe because it can incorporate so many of the things I love. For example, since my return, I've been painting FROM the photographs I took
while in Africa. Here's one of my gorillas.
Also, I find myself wondering what I'd like to see if I were to go back to Africa, and I think about the great migrations in Tanzania and Kenya. So I've also been painting wildebeests.
Migrating.
And I read about the prolonged drought in sub-Sahara Africa and found an amazing photograph of the dried up bottom of a reservoir near Capetown (the first modern city that will completely LOSE it water supply THIS YEAR), and I painted that reservoir bottom as well.
As you can see, no artist need fear that I am going to intrude on their turf, but I enjoy painting so immensely, maybe because it requires me to concentrate so fiercely on the subject matter.
And spring is in the air, and in a few days time, Scott and I are taking a road trip with friends (and Aramis) to see the great crane migration on the Platte River, Nebraska. That no doubt will lead to more paintings. And soon it will be time to start seriously thinking about the garden, and so on.
SO . . . . . . some of you have been such kind readers, and I
do so appreciate your letting me share my impressions and photos. My own memories are now so much the clearer for my having committed them to print, and they're much better organized now too.
Many of you have sent kind remarks and comments, and I feel very good about that. Now I will pause until the next trip comes along.
I was again fortunate on the leg from Kigali to Amsterdam to be seated next to a Ugandan electrical engineer on his way to Haiti. He had been working there trying to re-establish some infrastucture for several years and would come home to visit his family occasionally and go back. He said going to Haiti was so odd for him, because he flew thousands of miles and landed and found a place so much like home it was eerie. He said Haiti was like Uganda with an ocean! He was insightful and pleasant company, and I concluded that the people of Haiti were very fortunate to have his assistance.
It was a long flight and I can't really remember what time it was in Amsterdam--early in the morning I think. I had time to snoop around a little, but I spent most of my time going through security. Didn't it used to be that once you got through airport security at one airport you didn't have to go through it again at the next airport (if you never left the second airport of course)?? Well, if it WAS that way before, it sure isn't that way now, and I had to go through security in Amsterdam and then again an hour later in Paris.
And how weird is this? I ran into some one I knew in the Amsterdam airport! It was the principal of the high school at home. He and his friends were on the way to Slovenia to do some mission work. I thought he meant for just a short time, so didn't think much of it, but when I got home, I found he was resigning his position to this sort of thing more.
All of a sudden it seemed everyone was a missionary! Both of my seatmates on the Amsterdam/Paris leg and the Paris/Chicago legs were American missionaries returning home. I was a little uncomfortable talking with them, especially when one of them laid his hand on my arm and prayed for me, but I survived.
Time is such a fluid concept when you're on such a long flight. You sleep, and you eat, and you may watch a movie and look outside once in a while, but for me it's so disorienting. I like to watch the map on the screen to see WHERE we are, but I almost never have any concept as to WHEN we are. But soon enough where we were was Chicago. I was there but my luggage was not. I thought it must be in Paris since I had so very short a layover there, but no, turns out it was in Amsterdam. So they promised to deliver it to me at home in a couple of days, and I felt that if it was going to happen (as surely it must), it was a lot better to happen on the way home than on the way over.
So, I was back in country, not even having gone through customs or anything since I had no luggage, and there was SCOTT, beginning to worry because I had been
so long waiting for my luggage. It was so reassuring and wonderful to see him! We had a fine full evening ahead of us, visiting his family, and a pretty early start the next morning to drive HOME. Aramis was happy to see me. The weather here was a little different from Africa.
Somewhere along the line I began to realize that my friends liked to surprise me. So after we regretfully left Heaven, they told me we were making one last stop, but they didn't tell me where.
We pulled into the parking lot of a large hotel
very near Heaven, and Moses asked me if I knew where we were. As it happens, I did
know where we were--at the Hotel des Mille Collines (or Hotel of a Thousand Hills, a name for Rwanda), or, as it is better known to the world, the Hotel Rwanda. I had just watched the movie again shortly before I departed from home.
You may remember the 2004 movie starring Don Cheadle, which was about a hotel manager in Kigali who gave shelter to over 1000 Tutsi (and Tutsi sympathizers) people fleeing the 1994 genocide. The people thought they would be safe there because that's where the U.N. troups were headquartered, but they got precious little support from the U.N. (the U.S. either). But this man, on his own, opened up the hotel to all those seeking sanctuary, and he did in fact manage to arrange for all of them to leave the country safely. It's a great movie, and if you haven't seen it, you may want to.
The basic facts of the story are true, and this is the hotel. It's been remodelled a LOT since 2004, but it is definitely the same, posh place as it was then. It features fabulous local artwork and a swimming pool area that looked really inviting even to a non-swimmer like me.
It was just so very sobering to think about the horror of the Genocide while standing in the beautiful location where it occurred. Hard to imagine it could happen. Makes one feel we should all be vigilant that it
DOESN'T happen again.
Also, it made me admire Rwanda for its amazing recovery and reconcilation.
And then it was sort of startling; it was time to say good-bye to my new friends. They were SUCH pleasant companions, and we experienced so much together. I will miss them. And, by the way, if anybody who may be reading this thinks THEY might want to go to Africa sometime, please let me know. I'd love to set you up with Moses and his company.
They drove me to the airport, where we underwent the most exacting security check ever. We had to take everything out of the car and set if on the sidewalk where the guards opened everything and had their dogs sniff everything. We were body-wanded and asked some questions, and . . . well, I guess I felt secure but a little scared.
They offered to wait for me, but they were heading home to Uganda yet that night and of course it wasn't necessary for them to hold my hand. So, with a genuine feeling of regret, I said good-bye to Emma, Moses, and Jackie (as pictured in order, above).
There were some very nice shops in the airport, where I did make a few last minute purchases, and before long I was on my way to Amsterdam.
The drive from Lake Bunyonyi to Kigali is not all that long, and as we proceeded, I began to feel that odd mixture of sadness that the trip is over and I wouldn't be seeing my new friends again for a long time, if ever, and also of excitement at going home. We crossed the Uganda/Rwanda border like old pro's and proceeded through the gorgeous terraced hills, heading generally lower the farther we drove, through the tea fields and the farms and the villages, until the outskirts of Kigali became apparent.
My friends kept telling me about the special lunch we were going to have, but they didn't tell me much about the place, probably in case we couldn't get a table. We drove through some shady residential streets and into a driveway. A young woman met us as we got out of the vehicle and said "Welcome to Heaven!" and right away it was clear that we were in a VERY special place.
Heaven is a lovely restaurant built by an American couple shortly after the Genocide. They came to Rwanda to help re-build the country after the tragedy and stayed and raised a family there and built and ran a their restaurant. It is one of those rare places where one can immediately see that immense attention to detail has been always paid, both in the food offerings and the decor, not to mention collecting a fabulous staff.
As soon as we were seated, these wonderful complementary little avocado smoothies appeared at our plates, and Jackie and I went to work toasting each other right away. They were SO refreshing and tasty!
For a moment I am going to pretend to be a food/travel reviewer and post some photos of the offerings. They were so exceptional.
These were the chicken kabobs that Moses, Jackie, and Emma all enjoyed, and they
look wonderful
And these were the best fish tacos I'd ever had, and that includes the ones I make and am quite proud of. These were a work of art.
And here's us four travellers, from left to right, Moses, Emma, Jackie, and me. What a memorable meal.
They were selling the book about the owners' experience in Rwanda called A Thousand Hills to Heaven: Love, Hope, and a Restaurant in Rwanda, written by the owner Josh Ruxin, at the restaurant, and I picked up a copy.
When I got home, I read it, and the Genocide seemed closer than it ever had while I was in Rwanda. Mr. Ruxin talks about the time a stranger showed up at the door--before the restaurant was even ready to be opened--and asked permission to dig in their parking lot. She had learned that her husband had been murdered in that very parking lot and wanted to exhume the remains so they could be laid to rest at the Genocide Center. Of course he gave her permission, and yes, indeed, her husband's bones were there. He learns of some of the terrible stories from other atrocities that happened in that bucolic, lovely neighborhood. Again, I marvelled that so much beauty and peace were resurrected from such a history--and in so short a time too.
In my mind I had rated Lake Kivu a 10 out of a possible 10 (though now that I reflect on it, perhaps I should have deducted a point or two because of the probability that it will blow up one day and kill everyone and everything for miles around). I had to create a whole new scale when I saw Lake Bunyonyi. 10 out of 10 is not enough for Lake Bunyonyi.
They say Lake Bunyonyi is one of the deepest in all of Africa, and it is located at a high altitude in the mountains of Uganda, giving it an unusual-for-Africa moderate climate. The mountains seem to rise right out of the lake, and there seem to be mountaintops coming right OUT of the middle of the lake, since Lake Bunyonyi has many beautiful hilly islands of all sizes.
We arrived at our beautiful lodge overlooking the lake, and this was the view from my verandah. I was dirty and tired after my morning of trekking, so couldn't wait to luxuriate in a nice hot shower. I was in a somber frame of mind, because this was to be my last night in Africa, though my flight didn't leave Kigali until 8:00 p.m. I felt sure we'd be fitting a lot into that last day.
There was a very nice restaurant at the lodge, and I sat outside and watched the sun go down. For those of you who have never had the chance to go to Africa, the sun goes down with very little fanfare there. One minute it seems like daylight, and then, suddenly, it's dark. No lingering sunsets like we enjoy during our summer nights. I guess it has something to do with being so close to the Equator. We were SO close to the Equator I longed to get there so I could stand with a foot in both hemispheres--I have many ambitious longings--but Moses told me it would be a long long drive. Better to stay near the lake. My three comrades had found somewhere else to stay, and there was an important football match on TV, so I had the evening to myself. I used the time for consolidating my luggage and packing my bag. I had left home with three bags but was going home with only one (a BIG one). I went to bed early.
So, how great is it to wake up to the sound of birdsong? They were singing up a storm all around the lodge, and I threw the curtains open like a model in an air freshener commercial. Can you BELIEVE that the morning peace was disrupted by the sound, of all things, a jet ski? I decided to take it philosophically since it was sunny and otherwise calm outside, and the lake looked even lovelier than the day before. I had a quick coffee because this was the morning we were scheduled to go on a boat tour of Lake Bunyonyi!
The little port where we caught our boat was one happening place. There were many boats that had brought crops into the town and there were many boats waiting to take people out of town, some going to Congo, with which Uganda shares the lake. Some of these boats were ridiculously over-crowded, and I gather boating disasters are not unusual there.There weren't many tourists around, so Jackie and I got a whole big boat to ourselves and our guide and the guy who was steering.
Our guide told us to call him "George," but that was not his name. He knew we didn't have a chance at being able to even pronounce, much less remember, his given name. So "George" he was.
The thing I remember most from our tour was George's description of three of the islands. The first was a former leper colony. At one time, about 7000 lepers lived on the island--almost every leper found in sub-Saharan Africa. A Belgian doctor founded it, apparently, and his house was on a nearby small island.
The lepers' island was very beautiful, and I found myself thinking "well, if one had to be a leper, I guess this would be as good a place
to be as anyplace in the world." With the advent of effective antibiotics, Africa ran out of lepers, apparently, or at least ones that required quarantine, and the buildings on the island were converted to a secondary school, which draws from students from all around the lake. Our George was an alum---and proud of it. My irreverent mind got to thinking of what the high school mascot would be in such a place, and what sorts of cheers they would shout at games: "Go Lepers Go!" My irreverent mind should just shut up and mind its own business.
An even sadder island--and a very very small one at that--was called Punishment Island. Apparently until surprisingly recently, girls who disgraced their families by becoming pregnant were taken out to this island to die, either by starvation or by drowning. George explained that the value
of girls is how much a man is willing to pay her family for her, and no man would pay for a woman who had already been pregnant. Naturally I was outraged and demanded of poor George "What about the boys?" George said of course there was no punishment for the boys, because "sons are gods to their families." Oh. Even I knew better than to pursue the matter any further.
My favorite island was Upside Down Island. George told us that legend had it that at one time there was a very productive still on that island
and that, not surprisingly, people from around the lake enjoyed gathering there and partying. They had a lot of boisterous fun, which attracted the attention of a witch, who wanted nothing more than to join in the fun. However, when she approached ,the revellers, the party-ers chased her away, wanting nothing to do with the witch. The witch was hurt and, as my mother liked to say, "irked." So she did what anybody would do under the circumstances: she put a curse on the island and turned it upside down, thereby drowning all the revellers. There's got to be a moral to that story.
I wish we'd had more time to see more of Lake Bunyonyi, but we had to cut our delightful trip short. When we got back to shore, I saw two things I'd like to share.
I'd seen many of these flamboyant black and white birds in Rwanda and Uganda, but this is the first one I saw that sat around long enough for me to get a decent picture. I asked Moses what kind of bird it was, and he told me it was a caped crow and that it was very very common.
And this, I felt, was a fascinating place to park a bike.
Plus, now that I look more closely at this photo, there's that crow again!
Well, I barely had time to catch my breath, when Moses said we MUST be getting going back to Kigali to catch my flight, so I changed into my airplane clothes and hopped into the car.
We all tentatively stepped out onto the road, bewildered as we could be. It was shocking, after all the trekking we had done, to so suddenly find signs of "civilization." The gorilla trackers were all sitting around, and they looked suspiciously like they were laughing at the frightful, exhausted mess we all were. "Over there," they pointed out,
and sure enough, just a few steps down the
road, just a few feet off the road, were
various gorillas, including this handsome silverback.
I am literally standing on the road looking at him, and he is perhaps 10 feet off the road looking at me. And no, I had not been swimming. My head was literally drenched in sweat.
In this group were several silverbacks (which are simply male gorillas over the age of 12, when they develop the grey hair on their backs) and a couple of mothers with very small babies, less than a couple of months old. Again, I was not able to get a decent photo of the babies, because the mothers kept them well hidden. We were only able to get brief glimpses of them.
We were looking at one big silverback on one side of the road who suddenly decided he wanted to check out the OTHER side of the road. We were all standing there in a line, and he walked straight for us; we quietly parted, and he brushed past us. It was SO thrilling! And I was rather proud of us oldsters. Not only had we withstood the most demanding hike I've ever experienced (I think), but every one of us followed directions exactly and did NOT run or scream or act in any way frantic when that really big guy walked right by us.
And then I was lucky enough to get my favorite photo of the entire trip. I hope you agree. I have even given this picture a name. I call it "Beatific Gorilla." He looks sort of "Joan of Arc"-ish to me, though I suspect he was simply looking for the tenderest shoot or the tastiest leaf.
It must have been at least 2:30 by then, so when our hour was up, we ate our sandwiches and fruit and felt restored enough to exchange email addresses and share vital information. It occurred to me that this was a great opportunity to find out about just how Hebrew a name Eshelman is, so I asked Gidon. He talked it over with his wife and friends, and one of the friends said he knew of a town by that name in Israel. He suggested I come over and collect rent! Gidon and his wife travel frequently to the U.S., and even have a friend in Madison, so I think we might actually meet up again, And I am intrigued to have a more-or-less open invitation to their home in Israel, especially since Gidon is a dedicated gardener and orchardist. Here I am regaling him with shocking stories about the shortness of northern Wisconsin growing seasons.
Suddenly we were joined by Moses, Jackie, and Emma, who had driven to pick me up! I had not even begun to wonder how we were getting back to our starting point. Emma was very impressed: he said he had looked at a map, and we had trekked about 12 kilometers, which I think is more than seven miles even not counting the hills.
So that was that. We four climbed into the car and drove away with only memories of the Impenetrable Forest.
I felt a little smug eating dinner that night since I already had my first gorilla trek under my belt. I also had my insider information from the Dutch lady that morning that it would be an easy short hike, since hers had only been about 10 minutes into the forest. Here in Bwindi is where she had trekked. So I set off in serene confidence that this would be an easy day. Ha! What a moron! Wouldn't you think by now I'd realize that wild animals do not consistently appear on cue at an appointed time and place each day? What a moron!
The drive into the Bwindi
Impenetrable Forest was short and
uneventful. Even the road was
cushy by the standards we'd
become used to. There was no
doubting that this--finally--
was true African JUNGLE, the
real thing!
The park's trek-embarking spot
was a little fancier than at Mgahinga, and there were more people there waiting to go trekking. I'd say about 30. They told us they
would be taking out three distinct groups of trekkers to three distinct groups of gorillas. "My" group had, I believe, 8 people. All of us were distinctly on the uncomfortable side of middle-aged, except for one young American woman who was accompanying her mom. While we were waiting, the gentleman sitting next to me said "Do you mind telling me what HAPPENED in your country a year ago?" I was comforted by his sympathy but couldn't come up with an intelligent response, because, honestly, I DON'T know what the hell happened with that election. I found that my new friend Gidon was an Israeli. His English was so good, I would never have guessed that was where he was from, but his wife and the couple they were with did not speak English very well.
I was the experienced one of the group with my one trek behind me, so of course I had to give them all advice. They were expecting to go without porters, and I told them the ethical, economical, and conservation reasons for hiring porters, because they were not convinced they needed porters physically.
They were, actually, a few years older than me, and one of them was quite disabled. I am VERY pleased to inform you that yes, they accepted my arguments and each hired their own porter, as did I.
We set off with our guide, and it didn't take long for me to realize that this was not going to be any easy walk. From the beginning, my porter was both tugging me up steep inclines and holding me back from falling down even steeper declines. The forest was breathtakingly beautiful, and I took many photos (sometimes for an excuse to stop), but none really do it justice. You get no sense of how mountainous the terrain is, and it's green on green on green--no contrast to set it off.
We kept walking. The information from the walkie-talkies didn't sound good.
We all became drenched in sweat and mud. We'd all fallen a couple of times, and sometimes we had to scoot on our butts and crawl on our knees. Our porters faithfully and zealously pulled and tugged at us. We all felt very humble and grateful to them. I kept thinking: "We're going to have to go BACK all this way! Can I make it?" We were told the gorillas were still moving, and so we kept walking.
Surprisingly, we saw no mosquitoes or any other bugs. Some of the trekkers had sprayed themselves with lots of spray, but I used none and didn't need it.
Up and down, up and down. We kept going. I didn't wear a watch, but I could tell we'd been walking more than two hours and still we had no word of imminent gorillas. I began to feel philosophical--that I had had great luck the day before and got to see several gorillas. Maybe today I would have to be content with the fabulous jungle.
Gidon [and yes, by the way, I AM spelling his name right, even though it is pronounced "Gideon." He said some one had probably messed up on his birth certificate.] found a big worm. I mean a
REALLY big worm. Our guide told us it was a giant earthworm. The "giant" part was pretty obvious.
Eventually our guide's walkie-talkie did buzz with news of gorillas still quite a distance ahead. Up to this point we had been on something of a trail, but now we turned left, and the guides got out their MACHETES and started whacking the brush to get us through--just like in the movies. Occasionally we saw sign of where mountain elephants had dug up trees. We were warned they could be dangerous and that one of our guides might have to shoot his rifle to scare them off.. When they called this place the Impenetrable Forest, they weren't kidding! We went down the steepest hill yet. I literally felt like I was going to fall off the mountain. When we got down to the bottom, there was a pretty good-sized creek to cross. We actually carried stones to make a little foot bridge to get across. We scrambled across the creek, up a small thickly wooded incline, and came to . . . . . . . a ROAD! A good,
well-travelled road!!! Turns out we could have driven to our destination, but then, who at the beginning could have known that this is where the gorillas would lead us?
