The Woman at Kibeho

The shy woman at Kibeho

I left that sacred space with an intense feeling of love and God in my chest. As I walked down the narrow hall I saw a woman. She was ironing the old fashioned way, alternating two irons heating over coals. She was ironing priest’s clothes – the kinds of things they wear in church. When she looked up at me she smiled a shy smile. There was another one of those moments of contact I’ve had here that sort of thrill me – warm me – reach the deepest place in me. She reached out her hand in the kind of traditional handshake. It is a show of respect. She held out her right hand and clasped her right forearm with her left hand. We held hands longer than people usually do, maybe thirty seconds. When we let go our hands slid apart slowly, our fingertips lingering. It’s hard to describe what happened. When I read over what I have written it seems feeble. We sort of thanked each other in our own languages and I slipped outside. I wanted to get her picture but I was too shy to ask her. As I went outside and spoke with the others, I saw her peeking around the corner. We were all holding cameras. I think she wanted me to take her photograph. I walked over to her and motioned the question. She stood erect, smoothed out her blouse and ran her fingers back through her shining black hair. She smiled faintly. I don’t remember ever looking into the eyes of a more beautiful woman. There was a connection there I will never be able to explain. We did not understand each other’s spoken language at all. But there was something deeper. Maybe it is because it is such a spiritual place or because of Immaculee and her spirit. The air was holy. The rocks on the ground, the black and white birds and the simple building. The sounds of school kids and the cawing of crows and the hoeing of the fields nearby with the constant chunk, chunk, chunk of steel in earth. It was all holy and somehow filled with God’s presence.

Praying

The shrine at Kibeho

As I knelt there thinking of what in my life I really wish for I couldn’t think of anything for myself. Nothing. Here in Rwanda I have seen poverty that is almost unimaginable in the US. I have heard stories and seen evidence of the genocide – madness beyond comprehension. What do I wish for in my life? What could I possibly be lacking?

So… My prayers became those of gratitude. I thought of Devin and Colin and our wonderful home in the woods, Sasha, our school, friends and family, our church, which now means so much to us. I thought of you, Heidi. You. More than anything or anyone the biggest blessing in my life has always been you. Your light in my life is God. So I prayed with every fiber of myself to be thankful for you and for all the many rich blessings in our lives. My prayers of petition were for Rwanda. Rwanda has been through so much. I prayed that the peace and comfort that I have experienced could become part of these wonderful people’s lives. I prayed that Americans and privileged people all over could see the strength and power that comes through forgiveness. I prayed that the privileged few who have so much could share and learn from these beautiful people, this wonderful country.

We left that holy place and I remembered that I had left my sunglasses inside. I went back to that room by myself and looked at the inexpensive plastic floor covering, the peeling plastic forming the cross on the windows, the spider webs in the screens and the paint peeling from the walls and I understood that the decorations didn’t mean a thing. It’s all about the presence of God. In that most humble place there was God. I’m not saying that I know all about God. But in that room, it didn’t matter what I was wearing, how my hair was cut, if my jeans had a hole in them. It doesn’t matter if my church has a stain in the carpet, or if there are fresh flowers up front every week. It doesn’t matter if we have expensive monitors showing the words to every song or a sound system that is extraordinary. It doesn’t matter if a child cries during the service or the pastor wears a suit and tie. And if I sing off key, don’t get a chance to shower before church, it doesn’t matter. If I understand anything about God’s message it is that we can be the people we want to be. We can be people who make a positive difference on this planet. We are here to be protectors and stewards and builders. We are here to learn and to teach about what is possible. We are here to help others in all the ways we can.

Kibeho

Immaculee with the statue of the

Blessed Virgin Mary

at Kibeho

It took about four hours to get there and, as I said, the passengers in our car were pretty cranky and a little sacrilegious. It was hard to have a good attitude about it because we were uncomfortable the whole way. But when we finally got there, I could definitely feel the power of God in that place.  Immaculee fell to her knees to pray and she cried hard. She told us about the visitations and what an important place this is to Rwanda and to the Catholic Church. There are only a few places on Earth where there have been confirmed sightings of Mary. Because Immaculee was so into it, the power was magnified. We went inside to a little cement block room where Mary first appeared to a humble worker at this school. There were small statues and pictures and plastic film applied to the windows to form a cross. A little candle. Very modest. I knelt to pray along with the others and began with the Hail Mary I had recited countless times as a kid.

Hail Mary,
Full of Grace,
The Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women,
and blessed is the fruit
of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary,
Mother of God,
pray for us sinners now,
and at the hour of death.
Amen.

It was powerful. Immaculee has been saying over and over that if you say the Rosary a certain number of days with reverence in your heart that your desires will be fulfilled. I can’t say I believed this entirely. I do believe in the power of prayer. I know that when you focus on something with all of your energy it is much more likely to happen. In the back of my mind I had doubts. Not that I doubt the power of God. Maybe I doubt the power of humans to know what is best.

Kibeho to Kigali

The trip to Kibeho (the shrine to Mary) was a wonderful taste of the countryside. Most of the houses are made of materials from the land. Most are very simply made. The frames of the houses are slender trees or bamboo with the branches knocked off. Woven across are branches and covering all of that is mud. I think it hardens in the sun. There were a few thatched roofs and many made from corrugated metal or earthen tiles. Many window spaces with no glass. Lots of doorways have no doors. The houses in the country are very tiny, smaller than our living room. No electricity. When we were riding back it was close to dark when we left Kibeho. We drove at least two hours in total darkness. Not a single light from a house. I didn’t even see candlelight, although it may have been there. No streetlights.

The highway (video - Country of thousand and one hills!) had two lanes and people walked up and down the sides all day long. So many people carry bundles balanced on their heads. Firewood, building materials, straw, reeds, baskets, bags of produce (some of these were HUGE), large bunches of bananas, jugs of water, etc. I have never seen one fall.

The driving here is intense. There is constant passing on blind curves, tailgating, driving on the wrong side of the road. Honking, flashing of lights, swerving, perpetual near collisions. In the city the driving is brutal. People drive so close, even at high speeds, and cars often nudge each other as they push into traffic.

So tired now. I’ve been waking up around 5:30 or 6:00 every day and having a hard time staying up past midnight or so. Sleep is restless. I can’t really explain what I am feeling over the phone and when I read this over is seems scattered and self-serving. I hope in some real way you know how much I love and miss you. I’ve memorized every smile line and freckle on your face from the pictures I brought. When I am alone I fall into those pictures. I can almost feel you – almost taste you. Sometimes when I look into your eyes I am breathing air you have breathed.

The Man With No Legs

We stopped in a restaurant in Butare to go to the bathroom. A little man was crawling toward our car. He had no legs. I could not tell how old he was. His hair was half gray. His black eyes were silvered around the edges with cataracts. He wore a suit jacket. Our eyes locked. I took out a five thousand franc note and folded it into a tiny ball. From the shadows of the restaurant I gave him the quiet sign (a finger to my lips). I had been cautioned about giving money this way. I walked to him and bent over and clasped his hand. I left him the tiny ball of money. He looked into me, Heidi. I know you understand what I mean. He looked into me. He mouthed the words God Bless You. Barely a whisper. I felt blessed.

Butare

On the way to Kibeho we stopped in Butare (boo-tar-ee). That’s where Immaculee and Richard went to the university. We were following the other vehicle and it pulled over at an intersection. We had been driving for a long time so I thought we were stopping to take a pee. Richard got out and walked down a little road. He stopped and looked back at Brandon and me. He motioned with his head for us to follow. (Here it is impolite to gesture “come here” with your finger.) It was dusty and littered. We followed, curious. We walked off the road and into a quiet wood. We walked on. Richard stopped and looked around. It was a beautiful spot. The sunlight filtered green light through large leaves over us. There was no wind. Richard paused. Brandon and I looked at each other. “This is where my brother was killed. Right here.” He pointed to the leafy forest floor. Silence. Then he told us that he was trying to get his little brother to Uganda or the DRC. They were on the road near here when they were captured. They were simply taken back into the woods with others and shot. He watched as his brother was killed. Richard was shot in the stomach, the forearm, his hand. He pulled up his shirt and showed us the scar. Brandon and I were silent as he told us what happened. After he was shot he put his bloody hand over his face and pretended to be dead. That is what saved him. When the killers left he crawled out of the woods to where he was discovered by someone he knew. He was taken to a hospital. He was nearly killed there as well. He came so close to dying. His parents and sisters were also killed. His parents were killed in a church where they had gone for protection. His brother was killed right in front of him. He barely escaped. I can hardly write it down. We stood there in the lovely clearing in the woods. Birds were singing. An old woman walked past with a bundle of wood on her head. She looked at us questioningly. What did she think? A Rasta with two white guys standing in the forest. Silently. Richard’s head was down; his heavily lidded eyes were closed. Then again, maybe she did know. It was the most profound moment of this journey for me so far. I love these people. I love this big sad man. There is no way to imagine the pain Rwanda has gone through.

The Way to Kibeho

Saturday 7/6/07 I am sorry that I haven’t been able to call yet today. I hope that you aren’t worried. We left the hotel at 8:30 AM (2:30 AM your timer). Cindy had the phone in the other car. Now we are sitting in traffic about three hours from Kigali. We are coming back from Kibeho where we visited a shrine to the Virgin Mary. She appeared here several occasions beginning in November of 1981. The first visitation was to a worker at a tiny school on a mountain. It’s a long story and I can’t tell it very well but Mary appeared and sent comfort to the people and her message was unconditional love. I need to look up more about it but being here with Immaculee was a moving experience. The trip was long and cramped. It took about four hours. It wasn’t my choice to do this today. The driving in Rwanda is pretty scary. I was in the car with folks who really don’t buy into Catholicism. Most of the jokes were pretty sacrilegious. Much of the road was bumpy and these trucks have tight shocks that made the secondary roads difficult.

A Tutsi Woman

During the genocide a Tutsi woman was tortured and raped multiple times by Hutu extremists. Her family was tortured and killed an the river near her home. She was left for dead. But she lived. She became pregnant and kept the baby (I don’t think abortion is a real option here). She had no other family left alive. Her only surviving child was fathered by one of her tormentors. How can you get your head around something like this? She kept her baby and she loves it despite how it came to be. She loves this baby. That is God.

Choose Your Way to Die

There’s this little story/lesson/parable Richard told us. It’s simple. It goes something like this. A man is walking along in the forest and he turns around to find that he is being chased by a lion. He barely makes it to a tree where he escapes by climbing to the top. In the tops of the trees a giant deadly snake comes after him. He climbs so high to avoid the snake that the tree bends towards the river. In the river he spots an enormous crocodile. The crocodile spots him. Richard asked, “What do you do? What happens?” Brandon and I just sat there waiting for the answer. “You choose your way to die,” was his response. He went on.

In the genocide (Video - A Love Letter to My Country, Hear Her Cry) you would probably either die by being shot or being chopped by a machete. It does not cost money to kill someone with a machete but bullets cost something. Some people chose to die by a bullet so they paid their captors for the bullets to kill their families and themselves. They chose their way to die.

Away from this madness walked some survivors. Immaculee and Richard and others. Even those who don’t bear physical scars lost people they loved and carry memories that will forever haunt them.

The Belgian Barracks

The Memorial for the Belgian soldiers

The Belgian Barracks

On our way back to the hotel we saw a small building riddled with bullets and fragment marks. It turned out to be the scene of the Belgian soldier’s deaths at the start of the genocide. A woman named Marie Josee took us around to the different rooms and told us in Kinyrwandan (translated for us by Richard) the story of the brave Belgian peacekeepers who tried to protect the prime minister after the president was killed at the start of the genocide. The prime minister was murdered along with her husband. The soldiers were taken to their barracks where they were tortured and killed. Now the barracks (video - This is where the Belgian para's got killed in 1994!) are kept nearly as they were after the soldiers were killed. Bullet holes, grenade fragment marks, grenade craters in the floor, blood stains on the concrete. Marie Josee was wonderful. She was pretty collected throughout the telling. She had never met Richard and they talked a lot. Just the two of them.






Before we left she told us her story. Confusion about her father, whether he was Hutu or Tutsi, thinking she knew who her father was then sort of being betrayed by her mother. Her Hutu husband leaving her with two small children because her father may have been Tutsi. She tried to put on a brave face but she was terribly sad. She burst out crying. All of us got emotional.

When we sat on the wall outside waiting for the others who were comforting Marie Josee, Richard sat with Brandon and me. Again, very emotional. It’s why he has to eventually leave Rwanda. Too many stories with tragedy leading to more tragedy. He told us a few stories

Beggars

Many times during our walk around Kigali we were approached by people asking for money. We had been pretty sternly counseled not to give to them. Many of the women asking for help had small babies. My heart was torn. The first time I slipped a 5,000 franc note from my pocket (about $9.00 American) and gave it to a beautiful young woman with a baby. No one noticed. The next time I tried to do the same thing (another woman with a very young baby) some others must have seen because they followed us and would not leave. “Please, my baby is sick! My baby is sick!” Again, my heart was broken. Richard was angry. He must have picked up on what I had done. The women were relentless. Finally he said we could give them 100 francs – but not me. Someone else had to do it.

When we debriefed later he said that he knew “that one” (the girl who would not leave me alone) and that she sniffed glue and that the money would go right to her drug habit. The baby, he said, wasn’t hers.

Immaculee told us at another time that Richard gave a lot of his money to the poor. When he does give money he takes people out and buys them food. He eats with them. He always talks to them, although he just told us to say NO! (oya sp?) He says things like, “Why aren’t you in school?” “Go help your mother at her shop.” “You gotta get work – do you want to keep asking for money?”

Walking Kigali

The busy streets of Kigali

11:15 PM

I loved hearing your voice and that everything is well and normal. It’s not that I take you or the boys for granted. But being away for this long makes me crave you. While this is a really valuable experience, I do feel like I’m missing out on some important Kick-back time because this is anything but relaxing. I told you on the phone a little about today’s adventure. Tim and Immaculee spent all day working on making contacts and schmoozing with Paul Kigame, the president. (It is interesting to be in a place where the leader is adored by almost everybody.)

Richard came early. He spent the entire day with us. First we walked through downtown Kigali. I took pictures but there’s no way they can do it justice. Extremely busy. People everywhere. You can buy almost anything from vendors or from the tiny shops crammed together. It’s very poor. Dozens of people came up to us selling everything from fruit to sunglasses, pants to belts, phone cards, fabrics, t-shirts, etc. Laughing, jeering, Kinyrwanda, French, snatches of English. Smells of delicious cooking food, tobacco, body odor, diesel exhaust, perfume. One scene that stays in my mind is about a dozen guys pushing a broken down bus up the street.

Today we were just scouting, looking around. When we come back (after going to Sonrise School) we may go to shop a little more. We took lots of pictures but that sort of drew people’s attention and we already had enough of that. Richard is the only man with dreadlocks I have seen here. (“Hey, Rasta!”) Plus he is very well known as he grew up not far from here. Our group was the only white people around all day so we were closely studied the whole time we were about.

Richard

Richard is a friend of Immaculee’s. They go way back to school days. He is a big heavy lidded man. Dreadlocks. Control. Brilliant mind. Barely making ends meet. Wants to make a documentary about Rwanda and the genocide but seems to be hung up. His story is every bit as compelling as Immaculee’s. He doesn’t like to be in the spotlight. He has a poet friend who has published some of his letters/poetry which sort of account on a surface level his experiences and tragedy and loss. I saw a little of this on the internet the other day. He was wounded, left for dead, watched as his brother was killed (others too I think). He chooses to stay here at least for a while. He understands the needs here and, in his way, is helping his country to come back from despair. I have the same kind of respect for him that I do for Immaculee. Not because of the terrible things that have happened to him but because he has come out on the other side whole.

9:30 AM

As I was writing Richard came up. He thought we were going to Kibeho (ki bay ho) this morning and he was going to film. Plans changed so we had breakfast together. I know more of his story now. He has worked for organizations which helped commute death row inmates’ sentences to life in prison. He was an investigator who looked into the young lives of prisoners for reasons why they might have “gone bad” as he put it. He doesn't know if he can stay. Too hard. Too many sad memories and too much guilt.
He spoke about the best ways to help Rwanda. He isn’t for aid per se but rather helping people to stand up on their own. He’s OK with us being here. If nothing else, we can share our experiences with others. He would like for people to come to Rwanda. For the world to see this place differently. It looks like he’ll be with us as we go to visit the Sonrise School as an interpreter. I think it is also a way to give him some business. Immaculee sort of booked his time for these two weeks. It will be good to have him there with us. I see him more as a teacher than an interpreter. We shall see.

The Veranda

Friday 7/5/07 7:30 AM

It is a weird feeling sitting on the veranda by myself in the morning as I have done most days so far. This is a nice hotel. Very nice. The nicest in Kigali I am told. The nicest in Rwanda. Presidents stay here. So here I am on a “mission”, staying in the nicest place in the country. I realize that just by staying here I am “helping” Rwanda. Many people are employed in this hotel. A man washes the tiles on this big veranda almost every day. The rooms are immaculate. The food is excellent. The waiters and waitresses all make a wonderful living because of this hotel. Many people are benefiting from our visit so far from the doormen to the drivers but I still have that doubt about whether or not it was worth it for me to come.

I don’t know how the others in the group feel. To some it may be a cool experience just to travel to a faraway place. To some in our group it changes the world just a little bit to give out angel stickers to poor children who come up to the car when we stop. What real difference am I making besides fueling the economy? Even the money I have given to the drivers and the orphanage; the songs and sweets for the little ones haven’t made a real difference in anyone’s lives. When I am here among such enormous grief and need and staying in the Serena Hotel like I am royalty, spending hundreds of dollars to see gorillas and being guarded by men with machine guns, sitting in the VIP section of the stadium to watch a parade and leaving that event to enter crowds of people some with only one arm and asking for money in one language after another…

Scars and laughter, grief and forgiveness, mothers toiling in fields with little ones wrapped to their backs in the rain, pictures of those who died in the genocide, prayers to forgive, pushing bicycles laden with fruit or wood up mountainsides… Richard.

The Reception

A soldier prepares his speech at the Liberation Day celebration.

The reception was also surreal. It was in the office compound of the president. He was socializing and having his picture taken with dignitaries. I never approached him, although I wanted to. He is so brave, so selfless. He saved this country in its most desperate hour and he presides over a peace and reconciliation process like the world has never seen. I am in awe of him. But I couldn’t approach him. So much heavily armed security – of course.

Beautiful women in traditional dress, high powered government officials and officers in uniforms, huge tents open at the sides – a full bar in every one, exotic food, wonderful traditional dancers. They were beautiful/mesmerizing/haunting/enchanting/sensual. Large hollow animal skin drums and chanting. You would have loved that part. They danced the land; swaying grass, long horned cows, the wind, the savannah, the rainforest. There was so much power in that compound. It was kind scary (beginning to see a pattern?). Not so much the awe-of-the-elite. Just knowing how much blood had been spilled by the men in that place. Also the suffering many of them had to endure. Men with machete scars across their heads, bullet scars, slash marks. It wasn’t bad. It was exciting, intense.

It was also a little creepy leaving because we headed out to find the cars and drivers without exactly knowing where they were. There was a lot of desperation there. Soldiers with machine guns everywhere. People driving crazily (which is pretty average here). Lots of poor people asking for money.

We ended up going to a soccer game in that same stadium where the president spoke. Weary. Long day. I miss you more than you can know. I love you.

The Military

Paul Kigame delivers his Liberation Day speech.

One of the surprising things for me was how much the military/violence/weapons were glorified during the parade and ceremony. It’s just that it wouldn’t be all that acceptable in our country. Lots of demonstrations of hand-to-hand combat, bayonet drills, hatchet-knife-pickax-and machete throwing demonstrations, etc. Different sections of the military part of the parade were devoted to showing off different weapons. A hundred guys would march with M16s.

Then another hundred with

Kalashnikovs.

Then grenade launchers. The VIP section was about half military men in camo-type uniforms. It only stands to reason that the military would be held in such high esteem since it was what stood between genocide and eventual peace, madness and civilization. It is also what keeps their enemies at bay (the Interahamwe – extremist Hutu – are all around in neighboring countries). I’m sure this was just as much to show their enemies their military strength and resolve as it was to give the people of Rwanda peace of mind. Still it was kind of spooky. Same with all of the heavily armed police and military presence around Kigali. Lots of guns. Big ones.

The Soccer Field

Paul Kigame enters the futbol stadium on Liberation day

Independence Day in Rwanda is remembered by the people here to celebrate real independence. The ceremony at the soccer stadium was surreal. Because we were with Immaculee, our little eclectic group was seated in the VIP section. Parade. Business, military, dignitaries. It lasted for about four hours. Paul Kigame’s speech was pretty amazing. He would like to see Rwanda’s image go beyond malaria, AIDS, poverty, third world status and, especially, the genocide. It was all about individuals making a huge difference in the lives of their countrymen.













Boring at the time because it was in Kinyrwanda but it was later translated for us by Richard and Immaculee. The president was only a short distance from us when he gave his address to the country. Before going into the stadium we met some important dignitaries and men in the military. The head of all of the military in all of Rwanda set us up with the nice seats and the invitation to the reception with the president afterwards. I can’t remember his name (James ?). He’s one of the most powerful people in the country.

Liberation

Thursday 7/4/07

I miss you so badly today. Fourth of July is one holiday we have always spent together and one we enjoy so much. Not so much because we think of or honor our independence. Just because we make it special. The fireworks, the boat, grilling out… family.

Today is the thirteenth anniversary of the end of the genocide. Today the Hutu and Tutsi celebrate the end of real madness and the beginning of goodness coming back into this country. Before the genocide the Tutsis were mercilessly persecuted. When they were mocked, compared to cockroaches, threatened, beaten, raped, even killed – they could do nothing. Just look away, just hope that it didn’t get worse. Just pray. Then there were three months of Hell.

Today, things are not right in Rwanda but they are getting there. Thirteen years ago well over a million people were killed in the worst ways imaginable. Thirteen years ago Immaculee and the others were praying in the bathroom they had been in for months. There was no government, police, social services, transportation – nothing civilized except for the unbelievable daring of some selfless people who risked their lives to save others.

So Rwanda

About a mile into the trail, skirting farm fields, there were several people dumping dirt from containers they carried on their heads into a large squared in foundation. One after another after another dumped their dirt and walked really far to get another load to dump into this huge space. They were going to build a pumphouse there. I have no idea why they had to get the dirt from so far away and carry it on their heads that great distance. There was dirt everywhere. But again, slow, steady, persistent, consistent.

Many people working the fields. Plowing by hand with big heavy hoes. Little children working with muddy clothes, mothers with babies wrapped to their backs, rainy mist, fog, cool dampness, rainforest at the edges of the fields, beehives, eucalyptus trees, rich black tilled earth, wet black faces. Soldiers accompanied us – trailed us actually. They carried AK47’s. Supposedly they were there to scare the gorillas by shooting into the air if one got violent. Thinking back on it (and considering conversations I’ve had since returning) I’m pretty sure they were there to protect us from guerillas not gorillas. That part was weird. The soldiers, or guards, never looked us in the eye or initiated any contact. I know they were just doing their job. Still, AK 47’s for protection? It was a reminder of just how far we were from home. How far I am from you.

After reaching the gate to the park we had only about another mile before encountering the gorillas. We could hear them (and smell them?) before actually seeing them. We made plenty of noise to alert them to our presence and Anoclet made some pretty convincing gorilla sounds to announce us. At first I saw a young one in a tree and thought that was about the level that our contact would be. It got so much more intimate. Eventually a small group of mother, father, juvenile son, five month old baby son and juvenile friend all pretty much played around within seven meters of us.

The baby gorilla at Virunga

Anoclet was beside himself with joy. He hadn’t had a very clear view of the baby himself and he was sincerely awed at the sight. He spends around an hour a day hanging around with these guys. He said that the parents “presented” the baby to us. The little one, not a great walker yet, frolicked and nursed and ate and rolled around constantly. It seemed to be showing off. It would barely stay still long enough for me to take pictures is the low light. The juveniles wrestled and thumped their chests; shoved, kicked and farted to our great pleasure, awe and delight. The older ones were very laid back. I was never scared. Photographs and videotape definitely won’t do it – neither will my feeble words. The beauty and power and ease were breathtaking. But I guess the theme of so much of this trip is the Godness in these moments. It was there, Heidi.

Virunga Park

Cindy and Anoclet at Virunga

At the park today we were with a cool group of people. Cindy, her step-son Brandon, two others from our party (Midori and Portia). Three Germans came with us as well. The others in our group Immaculee, Tim Van Damm, Tina and Nancy as well as Richard went in another car to a different part of the park. Amazing.

We spent an entire hour hanging out with five or six gorillas. The thing is… I didn’t want to have that experience without you. I don’t regret coming. I will get the most out of this trip. But I so miss being with you. One of my biggest lessons from this trip is that your presence in my life has been the single most important part of me.

The trip to get to the park was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. [The car wreck - maybe I'll write about this later]

When we got there we headed down a fairly long winding muddy path through farm country on the edge of the rainforest. It was about an hour walk. Not steep exactly but uphill. Overcast, cool, wet.

It was a little spooky at first. Lots of people hanging around the station. Some of the men there used to be poachers and now they carry backpacks, water, etc. for people who can’t make the trek unaided. Many of the men had unfriendly looks.

We left there and our guide (Anoclet: ann oh klet) was wonderful. He truly loved his job and these gorillas. As we walked he often stopped to talk about the vegetation and the community’s role in maintaining the park and vicinity.

Too Long Gone

Heidi, when I called you this morning I could barely hold back the tears. Two weeks is too long. This has been great. It has been life changing. But I really don’t want my life changed without you.

Terraced Fields

Today we hiked in to see the gorillas. We went by many people farming. On the way we drove by thousands of terraced fields. Mountains are made into a series of horizontal planes for farm fields. For miles and miles, mountain after mountain, fields are cut out of the steep sides. Every tree cut down and every stump cut out by hand. Every scrap of wood used for cooking.

The farmers (men, women, children, women with babies on their backs) all use this sort of heavy hoe. Every field is tilled by hand. The work looks back breaking. It looks unending. But the people are patient and resigned. They do what needs to be done. What else can they do?

Chopping Wood/That is Rwanda

Wednesday 7/3/07 8:00 PM

I didn’t get to finish my thoughts on Mother Teresa’s orphanage. Just one more before I forget. There were about half a dozen guys chopping firewood for cooking in a big open area inside the compound at the orphanage. Somehow they managed to haul in some huge logs. They looked like cedar but smelled different. Three feet across. Really hard wood. It was a hot and sticky day. The men were working with machetes and really dull looking hand axes. The axes had pipes for handles. Hot. Hard work. The kind of work that would have taken about an hour in the US with chainsaws and splitting equipment. Six guys. Chipping away at tree trunks with machetes. That’s like a metaphor for how things are done in Rwanda. This scene stays with me. They had their shirts off. Their dark bodies were glistening with sweat. They were relentless. We were there for about an hour and when we came out they were still chipping away with machetes and these tiny axes, hatchets really.

Then a puff of cool breeze came. Almost as one the men stopped their labor, closed their eyes and sort of leaned into the breeze. Little smiles came to their faces. Just that little pause. That tiny sip of refreshment. Then, just as quickly as it arose, the breeze left and the men went back to work. Sleek. No body fat. Thin and muscular. Determined. Uncomplaining. Facing a limitless task – That is Rwanda.

Richard

Richard, me, Cindy and Brandon (left to right)

During the day when we were standing around waiting for the forms to be processed for us to go to the gorilla area (Virunga), I got the chance to talk to Richard (Immaculee’s friend and videographer for this project). Very big man. Dreadlocks. Powerful. Not in a physical way so much as in presence. Kind of quiet. Wonderful with the children at the orphanage. I asked him about his work (he told me, in no uncertain terms that you don’t ask people about their families or their past). He went to mass with us the other night. It was the first time going inside a church since the genocide.

“Oh?” I asked. His parents were killed in the church where they went for protection. Since then he said, “I have no use for the church.” He went on that it seemed to be good enough for Immaculee and brought her comfort. So why not?

He is sort of working on a documentary about the genocide. He explained that the documentary could take a long time because many people still can’t make themselves talk about it.

The Party

Playing and singing for the children at Mother Teresa's.

So we came back several hours later with all kinds of sugary treats. Fanta (soda), biscuits (bis – kweet) and big suckers. There were suitcases filled with clothes and necklaces which were kind of like little toys. About fifty kids were seated on concrete benches singing beautiful African songs. The adults in charge would not let them get up at first. I recognized some of the children from our visit earlier in the day.

We gave out the treats. I played guitar. These children (music video The Forgotten of Rwanda) didn’t know English or any of the songs I played but they seemed to rock out at the instrumentals. Mostly blues. That’s sort of universal I guess. They jumped up and slapped the guitar with sticky fingers and pulled on the strings. That part was tremendous fun. The grownups who worked there kept insisting that everyone sit down. They eventually gave up and let the kids get loose. One kid, about five or six but hard to tell, could really dance. He spun and swayed and jumped in a free form style. He was having so much fun moving to the music. He was uninhibited and danced the wild dance of elation. He looked very handicapped. One eye was nearly closed. It looked surrounded by scar tissue. Teeth everywhere. But he danced with wild and free abandon.

I went to another area after a while and played for some of the adult women. Widows of the genocide mostly. They were seated on a low brick wall outside of their cramped and crowded rooms. Maybe fifteen or twenty. Mid-twenties to pretty old. Some were sort of dazed and had to be led around. A few really attended and clapped when I finished each song. I sang some blues and “Amazing Grace”. Slow. As loud as I could sing outdoors. Several women gave me an appreciative look and spoke in Kinyrwanda. One woman came up to me and clasped my hand to her chest.

After we had been there a pretty short ime the nuns whisked us away. They seemed relieved to be rid of us. I don’t think I blame them. We blew in, jacked up the kids on sugar and trinkets, hyped them up with crazy music and dancing and left them to the difficult task of getting them settled into sleep. In a way it was thoughtless. I do think it was fun but when I looked at it from the nuns point of view… I gave the Mother Superior some money as we left. She did not seem grateful in the way that I thought she would. I knew that they could use the money but the Sister didn’t seem to want it. I surely couldn’t read what she was thinking but there was no thanks for the party or the money or the suitcases of clothes, only relief when we left. Again, I don't understand so I cannot question.

There was a weird energy between her and Immaculee and Tim (Immaculee’s agent) and Richard (I’s old friend and cameraman). I’m still trying to wrap my head around all of that but it was an important day for me. I realize that this day didn’t make a real difference in the lives of these children and we probably made the adult care givers lives a little more difficult. It seemed to be a hassle to them. It did make a difference to the others I am traveling with and to me. How much I take for granted. When I am hungry I go the cupboard. When I need comfort, Heidi, I wrap my arms around you or hug Devin or Colin. When I am cold I put on a sweatshirt; when I am uncomfortably hot I turn on the air conditioning. There are so many who live with so much less. There are so many who don’t even have a hand to cling to. [Please God, help me to realize and appreciate the many blessings in my life. Let me not take anything for granted.]

The Chapel

We prayed before we left in a small chapel. Silently at first. On our knees. Then one of the young sisters said a prayer. I left with this overwhelming sadness but intense gratitude for these strong young women who give their lives completely to the service of others. They receive no recognition. They too are hungry and their work is endless. They only give. I cannot fault Mother Superior for her decision not to allow photos or videotaping. I am certain that Immaculee would only do good for this place, but who am I to judge? How could I ever question the judgment of a person so selfless, who lives only to serve?