

Rwanda has indeed been a crazy experience. The first episode here was but a precursor for all that was to come. When we landed, the Kigali airport was small, seemingly too small, about the same capacity as my quintessential comparison Key West but with way less airplanes, and it seemed not to have been renovated for thirty years. Welcome to a country that tore its own heart out just over thirteen years ago. The first test, mentioned before, was that Kigali was hosting an HIV/AIDS conference that was stretching the undermaintained facilities and infrastructure of the city to their brink. Jake and I were seen as a release valve by the Hotel des Milles Collins, our upscale accommodation for a single night, and they tried to send us to their spill-over facility. My undaunted companion, after quickly using our pick-up man's cell phone to talk to the manager, convinced them otherwise.
And so we were in Rwanda, and the feel of the "developing world" (for fear of using a misnomer term or upsetting the language police, or both) was all around us. Part diesel fumes and the "crazy" (ditto) drivers spewing them, part run-down houses and shops and the apparent bifurcated economy, both authentic but one tailored more for me and the other the one I yearned to see and know, part the looks on peoples' faces while we speed past, this was a place that did not know Americans with the same familiarity as most other places I had been.
When we checked into the Milles Collins, the stressed-out manager gave Jake an incredulous, I-can't-believe-this-punk-kid-convinced-me-not-to-drop-his-reservation look, and mentioned under his breath that our room would be ready shortly; he had already checked people into our room, and they were being moved out. We waited patiently, although it was 10 p.m. While we waited, I ran to the bar to place a last-minute food order because we had been traveling all day and the RwandAir Express dinner was insufficient. While I was at the bar I noticed two things. The first was that the bar and adjoining pool area were the only parts of the hotel that were truly well done. Other than these well-kept and recently renovated areas, the rest of the hotel looked much like what you would expect a genocide that wipes out over an eighth of a country's population would do to tourism dollars at a top hotel. It bears mentioning, here, that Hotel des Milles Collins is Hotel Rwanda. The second thing I noticed was the irony of ironies: There were tons, and by tons I mean about a dozen, of prostitutes working the bar because of the huge conference, an AIDS conference. Now, don't get me wrong, I may be misperceiving cultural differences here, and I surely don't want to sound like an expert on this, but I feel like I know it when I see it.
We weren't in Kigali long enough for me to feel like I completely got it. It was busy. Vehicles traversed every which way and no stoplights were working. There was a bit of dust everywhere. Not many people spoke English, half of the few that did sold, and the other half just wanted to practice.


Jake and I went to the Kigali Genocide Memorial Museum. It was an artfully done piece on recent tragic history. I learned much. My stomach hurt.
The ride from Kigali to Kenigi, the small village outside Ruhengeri, a small town in the Western Province of the country, was in turns beautiful and rough. It was beautiful because Rwanda is truly the "Land of a Thousand Hills" and the views were outstanding. It was rough because winding on those hills and the ultimate altitude change completely disoriented me. I focused my energy on making sure Jake, who had been feeling ill for two days or so and was taking the worst of it then, felt better and was eating something.
I woke up easily at 5:45 a.m., having gone to bed very early the night before. Gorillas were on my mind. They were the impetus for our trip to Rwanda in the first place, but now whatever adventure this morning brings will be a bonus, maybe an afterthought. I was only slightly wrong; the gorillas demand more than just an afterthought.


While we climbed the hill farms, through the mist, alongside our guide, two uniformed men with machine guns, and the three other young Americans who, with us, had subtly gamed the system, I couldn't help but think that this experience was going to be real. Real it was; gorillas are powerful and beautiful, with comic antics and fascinating family structures. They also look cool. These nine gorillas were the most interesting animals I had ever seen, probably mostly because of their striking similarities, and thus their more strikingly identifiable differences, from us, and because they were in their natural environment.

We took a proverbial leap of faith back in Ruhengeri, opting for public minibus travel. Towards the end of the three-hour drive, the seventeen and their baggage inside a vehicle approximately the same size as a Ford Aerostar from soccer practice carpooling days seemed luxurious compared to the twenty, baggage, and about four hundred pounds of potatoes we had had in the vehicle previously. The minibus stopped over twenty times in a sixty-two kilometer drive. I questioned my decision to jump in more than once.
But now, after it all, we are in Gisinyi. Jake had secured a reservation at the Serena Hotel on Lake Kivu. In typical EKOWorldTour style, we shifted within the time of a day from cutting corners on gorilla trekking and the cheapest feasible transport to posting up in a four-star resort. I would drop knowledge and criticism, throwing back to Peruvian rants, on the rediculousity of the traditional Rwandan dance ceremony performed during the dinner of the western tour group that is taking helicopters around the country touching down only for the safest experiences (I saw the helicopters parked on the beach of the resort) but I've probably burned enough bandwidth for one night.