Kigali, Rwanda - A Spiritual Challenge

Rwanda – Tutsis, Hutus, genocide, death.  Rwanda and its associations are familiar to most of us.  The exact details of how things unfolded here may not be as familiar, but the mentioning of Rwanda certainly doesn’t leave a lovely image in our heads.  At least to me, these are the only things that I could associate with Rwanda before coming here.  The genocide of 1994 which left around a million people dead and the vast majority of the remaining population displaced, injured, and confused, all in a matter of 100 days, has left an ugly stain on human history.  That is Rwanda to most.  I am not going to give a history lesson here but I do recommend you give a little time to research.  What you will find is disturbing.

Why did I come here?  With its sinister past, very recent flare up of violence on the border with DR Congo which left Rwandans dodging stray gun and rocket fire, refugees fleeing the violence creating the possibility for a humanitarian disaster, along with its dismal development statistics, Rwanda doesn’t fit the profile of a holiday destination.  I was asking myself this question as I struggled to get clear information on how to cross into Rwanda from Tanzania.  Looking at the map, the obvious route I was told was too dangerous because of “smugglers”.  The longer route, although safer, had no direct connection to the border and would require several awkward vehicle changes in places I had no information about.  So why go through the trouble of coming here?  First, I had an in.  Peace Corps opened a program here a few years back and I had recently been in touch with some volunteers here.  Rwanda is considered safe and not so off the beaten path, but it is comforting to have someone line you out.  Second, I had heard rumors that Rwanda is beautiful.  Known as the “land of a thousand hills”, tiny Rwanda is packed full of mountains, valleys, lakes, and volcanoes.  Third, my travels are more than just a holiday; I am here to learn as well.  I want to get as complete a picture of Africa as I safely can.  Sadly, crisis is as much a part of Africa as giraffes and lions.

My transit into Rwanda went unexpectedly smooth.  Figuring out the transport connections was straightforward and I only had about 10 awkward minutes standing on the side of the road.  Once across the border it was obvious that I was in a new country.  Besides the usual currency and language change, the steering wheel moved to the other side and the well-maintained bus that I boarded was filled only to capacity, not 20 bodies beyond capacity like Tanzania buses.  Everything seemed very much in order.  As the bus winded its way towards the capital, I couldn’t help but ask myself, “Who is a Tutsi and who is a Hutu?”  As I later learned, these thoughts are forbidden.  Tribal identities have been abolished in Rwanda in an attempt to put the past behind them.  There are no more Tutsis.  No more Hutus.  Only Rwandans.

Upon arriving in the capital city of Kigali, I was highly impressed.  Kigali is possibly one of the prettiest capital cities I have seen yet; spread across several lush ridges and valleys, and hills in the distance as far as the eyes can see.  On top of that, Kigali is clean, streets well-maintained, and traffic orderly with stop light timers and lighted median and center lines.  I also couldn't help but notice the heavily armed military and police presence in the streets.  Kigali is orderly to the max.  A far cry from not even 20 years ago when bodies decayed in the streets and dogs acquired a taste for human flesh.  But I have been warned; there is more than meets the eye in Kigali.

A beautiful welcome to Rwanda 

 Even though Kigali isn't a huge city population-wise, it feels huge thanks to all the ups and downs.  It is absolutely a beautiful city.

The skyline of Kigali city center.

Given Rwanda's dark history, I figured it worth educating myself more about what unfolded here.  To do so, I visited a memorial site and museum in the city.  What I saw and what I learned changed my perspective on the country.  As you progress through the dimly lit rooms you are given a full history of the build-up to the genocide, going all the way back to the early days of colonization.  Then you come to the rooms describing the 100 days of genocide with personal accounts.  My legs became a little weaker.  Further on, you walk through rooms with probably tens of thousands of personal photographs hanging on the walls.  Then there is a room full of skulls and bones; machete cuts clear on the skulls.  Outside the memorial lays the giant mass graves where over 250,000 victims have been laid to rest.  But the hardest room to stomach is the "Children's Room".  Here large photographs of children are displayed; from bouncing babies, to smiling girls, to playful boys.  Under each picture is a placard giving the name, favorite food, favorite hobby, best friend (often "mama") and the like.  It's the last line that brings tears to your eyes; Cause of Death - shot in the head, burned, stabbed in the eyes and head, hacked by machete, beat against the wall.  It's heavy.

One of several rows of mass graves where the remains of over 250,000 victims of the genocide were laid to rest.  This is only a fraction of the total victims.

Leaving the memorial and stepping back into the busy street was a bit of a struggle for me.  My perspective had changed and I was wondering if the signs of genocide were all around me.  Is the woman I passed on the street, clutching a crutch, arm missing at the shoulder, a Tutsi?  Could have that stern looking man once been part of a Hutu death squad?  Is the young man, arm missing at the elbow, begging for money through the bus window, a Tutsi?  Taboo thoughts but hard to keep out of the head.

As if I hadn't had enough, I hopped a mini-bus to the outskirts of Kigali to visit two churches at Nyamata and Ntarama.  During the genocide, churches became a place of refuge for many Tutsis.  But, they also became places of massacres.  Both churches are now memorial sites and for the most part have been untouched since the genocide.  At Nyamata the bodies have been removed but all the bloody clothes and personal belongings remain, heaped on the pews and in piles around the church.  The walls and roof are riddled with bullet holes and signs of forced entry are evident.  At the back of the church lays mass graves.  The security guard for the site took me into the graves, opened caskets, and did her best with no English to describe to me what happened.  She gestured that entire families were packed into single caskets and she also pointed out the stacks of baby caskets.  Skulls and bones in the thousands were neatly placed on racks.  At one point, she gestured at one casket in particular and I think she was trying to explain that her mother and father were inside.  At the next site of Ntarama, things were much the same; left as is.  Ntarama however had a small Sunday school in the back.  Entering the building with little pews I quickly noticed the big dark stain on the wall.  I'll let you put it together.

The clothing of the victims of the massacre at Nyamata; no doubt a disturbing place to walk around. If you look closely you will notice the roof riddled with bullet holes.

Things have not changed in the churches since the sad days of the genocide.  It is eerie walking through the undisturbed rooms imaging the horror that unfolded.

A sobering reminder of what happened in Rwanda.  The world needs to know and always needs to remember.  The UN stepped aside and the rest of the world turned its back; lets at least hope we've learned something.

It was no doubt an emotional day in Kigali.  I found myself holding back tears a number of times.  I have no personal connection to those that were slaughtered, so why is it so emotional?  What happened here was not so much an attack on persons as it was on humanity.  We are all humans.  It does hurt to see these things in person.  At the end of the day, sitting alone in my room at a large church compound, I was able to bring myself a little comfort before falling to sleep.  I was in a church.  The very room that I was sleeping in probably housed frightened Tutsis.  But there was no massacre at this church.

Mwanza and Bukoba - Transiting the Great Lake

Happily leaving the well-beaten path of the Kilimanjaro area behind, I took a 17-hour bus ride to Tanzania's second city, Mwanza, situated on the southern shores of Lake Victoria.  The ride was only supposed to take 12 hours, I budgeted for 15, but after two breakdowns we arrived in Mwanza well after dark.  It was no doubt a long day, but 17 hours watching Tanzania go by can be quite entertaining.  The bus passed through stunning and diverse landscapes from wide open savanna plains, volcanoes, boulder-strewn hills, and desert-looking waste lands, not to mention bustling little villages and Masai herdsmen tending their cattle.  I am finding out that in Africa, it is often more about the journey and less about the destination.

Even though Mwanza is Tanzania's second largest city, it is nothing compared to Dar es Salaam.  Mwanza does have tall buildings, congested traffic, and general chaos, but it is beautifully set amongst huge boulders, hilly terrain, and of course there is the lake.  Lake Victoria is huge; Africa's largest lake and the world's second largest.  The lake is shared by Tanzania, Kenya, and Uganda and there are ports and villages scattered around its shores.  Because of this, the Mwanza port is busy with ships and boats plying the waters hauling cargo, people, and fishermen.

The way in which Mwanza is built around a bay with hillside homes amongst the boulders gave it an exotic feel, like being on the Mediterranean (like I know what it is like to be on the Mediterranean...)

The streets of Mwanza were chaotically on par with the streets of other big cities, but it is the lake and pretty surroundings that separate it from the rest.

Sunset over Mwanza gulf.

My objective of this leg of the journey was to board the MV Victoria and set sail across the lake to Tanzania's other major port town of Bukoba. Arriving in Mwanza I didn't know exactly what to expect from the MV Victoria. I was envisioning something similar to the boats that took me across Lake Malawi but was certainly hoping for something better.  Turns out, the MV Victoria is better by leaps and bounds. The boat, or ship rather, was built in 1960 and commissioned in 1961 on Lake Victoria.  It is a proper passenger and cargo vessel that was a joy to be aboard.  The boat left Mwanza late in the evening under starry skies, calm water, and lighting storms on the horizon. It was almost romantic steaming across the waters of Lake Victoria watching the dozens of bobbing kerosene lamps of the night fishermen and feeling the rumble of the ship under your feet.  The ride was smooth and I even managed to catch some sleep in a shared cabin that had six beds.  After about 9 hours the boat blew its deafening horn and we pulled into the port of Bukoba in the early morning light.

The MV Victoria.  A big boat for a big lake.

Bukoba is not too much unlike Mwanza, in that it is set in hilly and bouldery terrain.  However, it is not near as big and therefore maintains more of a village feel. There is a beautiful sandy beach, but the cloudy weather and warning about bilharzia in the water prevented me from doing any serious beach bumming.  Instead, I wandered around the town, visited the market, ate mangoes, and tried to escape from people in the surrounding hillsides; you know, the usual.

Traditional hut found on the beaches of Bukoba...actually, that was my accommodation for the night.

If dropped along the shores of Lake Victoria blind-folded, you would not know whether you were on the ocean or a lake, unless of course you tasted the water.  Unlike Lake Malawi, I don't think there is any way to see across this lake.

Bukoba town center.

 

Like Africa's other great lakes, Lake Victoria is loaded with fish and the locals are avid fishermen.  Tilapia seemed to be the most common fish, and delicious.

Marangu - Luxury at the Base of an Icon

My initial assessment of the Mt. Kilimanjaro area was one of disgust that left me considering hopping the next bus out.  From the minute I stepped off the bus in the gateway town of Moshi, I was flooded with ungenuine greetings followed by persistent hassling for Kilimanjaro climbs and Serengeti safaris.  I came here for neither; I came to merely view one of the planet’s most iconic mountains.  I reckon I will stick to my free and peaceful mountains of Montana where someone isn’t trying to sell me a key chain every step of the way.  Plus, I have seen my fill of wildlife; no point in paying hundreds of dollars to sit in a stuffy Land Rover full of bulky-camera wielding tourists.  Nonetheless, my protests fell on deaf ears and the hounding never let up.  Something has gone terribly wrong when a Masai herdsman extends his hand in greeting only to turn your wrist and peek at your watch, grin on his face.  Sorry Moshi, you may have a big mountain but even Dar es Salaam is more appealing.

Busy Moshi streets - often a nuisance to cross, especially when someone is on your heals trying to sell a trip to the top of Kili.

Carrots, oranges, Mombasa mangoes, Tanga mangoes, tomatoes, garlic, ginger, green pepper, coconut, papaya...what more could you ask for!

 The main mosque of Moshi. With Tanzania's population around 50% Muslim, mosques can be found in every town and they are always reliable for that 4 a.m. morning prayer wake-up call.

To escape the riffraff I headed for the small town of Marangu on the lower slopes of Kilimanjaro.  Unfortunately, it was not an escape.  I was like a lone gazelle amongst a pride of lions; I was the only fresh piece of muzungu meat around.  It’s apparently low season in the area which meant I was the only target for more of the persistent hounding for things I did not want.  However, with the low season comes some unexpected delights.

After disembarking the bus in Marangu I promptly shouldered my pack and began looking for a campsite.  Out of shear desperation, I popped into a lodge that I knew was well beyond my budget, just to get the guys who were hassling me off of my back. I was very warmly welcomed by the owner who showed me a few rooms.  I explained to him that I would have to go elsewhere because the luxury that he was offering was not for me.  Desperate for a guest, he offered me any room for well below the normal price and with some additional bargaining I was able to get dinner included.  With any room available, I chose the big one he called “artsy” with strange curves and funky painting.  It was like living in a Vincent van Gogh painting – I didn’t know if I should put my hands to my face and scream or just quietly sit on the floor and meditate.  I did neither.  Instead, I fired up the stove and cooked pancakes.  (I have since researched that the famous “scream” painting I was envisioning at the time was not a van Gogh...oh well.) 

Lush, green, and hilly Marangu.

Luckily I was in Marangu for its twice-weekly market.  It was no doubt a colorful affair.

Well, you could ask for beans.

Wanting only to take some peaceful walks on the lower slopes of Kilimanjaro, I sought advice from the helpful owner of the lodge.  Going against his businessman instincts (the lodge’s other area of business is selling guided walks) he lined me out on places to walk thus helping me to avoid paying for a guide and paying entrance fees.  Apparently he knows a dirtbag when he sees one.

Despite the initial hassles of the area, I came to have an enjoyable couple of days on Mt. Kilimanjaro’s lower slopes.  Once away from the nagging touts of the main village, I found the local Chagga people of the area probably some of the friendliest I have met.  I followed small roads and footpaths that took me though small villages, farms, open meadows and lush rainforest. One morning, I woke to brilliant blue skies, which I hadn’t seen for some time.  I jumped out of bed and hastily threw a small day pack together and rushed up the lower slopes to finally get a clear view of the mountain before the inevitable clouds moved back in.  I was rewarded with clear views of the mountain and with not a soul around.  If it weren’t for my growling stomach (my hasty packing resulted in no food in my pack) I may have considered poaching the mountain (a lofty consideration).

I may have not gotten the legendary views of Kili with elephants marching in the foreground, but I at least like to think that I got unique views that few other tourists get.

The small roads and footpaths winding through the lower slopes of Kili were delightful; the smells were fantastic, people friendly, and the bananas delicious.

In the end, the hassles and frustrations were worth the few moments on the doorstep of such a famous mountain.  At the same time, I am glad to have checked it off the list and have no intention of returning.  Excessive tourism has ruined a mountain.  I dislike the way that it has driven people mad for their slice of the tourist bucks and I dislike the way it makes me have to treat them in return.  Call me a curmudgeon, but it’s not for me.  What is also not for me is this luxury stuff.  Really, why do I need 2 forks, 2 spoons, and 3 knifes to eat a pretty-looking but small portion of food?  With all the utensils I expect a lot of food.  And what in the world is the long pillow on the bed for?  My one dirty spoon and Therm-a-Rest are all the luxury I need for now on.