Guma Guma... Superstars!

            I can’t help but be fully immersed in the countdown of my time left in Rwanda these days. Especially without a computer, and at least for a day or two each week without power, I find myself with less and less to do, and more times to either drive myself crazy, read (although I only have a couple books left), eat (which I do a lot of), or simply sit and think about how drastically my life is changing but how slowly it seems to be doing so. Granted, one month is really not that long of time, but it seems somewhat like it’s dragging through the stasis of my life these days. I can see the horizon of emotions, the sadness to go, the excitement to leave, the anticipation of travel and being back home, yet right now, it’s just static. So I am trying to fill my time with the little things, like I did in the beginning, the small goals… today I am going to buy food, today I am going to do laundry, today I am going to visit this person, rather than ticking of the list of tasks I’ve kept myself busy with for the last two years. 

            It does seem to be giving me time to be a little more spontaneous however, most notably last Saturday going to Guma Guma Superstar 3 in Nyamagabe. This is kind of like the Rwandan version of American Idol. Down to ten singers/groups, they are touring the country and performing for free on a temporary stage made out of an RV or something. The people can come, watch and then text their votes in to the organization. It all started Friday evening. Another PCV and I were saying what we thought was our final farewell to Nyamagabe and toasting to our last two years, when a group of people comes in with a bunch of Primus (the PBR of Rwanda, and the main sponsor of Guma Guma) shwag and an “awesome” cutout where you could stick your face in the hole and become one of the stars. I won a Guma Guma hat and we took our pictures in the hole, and discovered that Guma Guma was coming to Nyamagabe the next day! With a little prodding from my friend, she convinced me and a couple others to go the next day to Guma Guma.

            Saturday began with my site mate, Nick, coming and making me pretty amazing belated birthday cinnamon rolls, after which we headed to Nyamagabe to meet the others and begin the Guma Guma adventure. I think in previous blog postings I’ve talked about the sometimes mortifying, sometimes obnoxious, and sometimes awesome benefits of being a foreigner in Rwanda. One of these is that you are often offered the nicer seats, which are usually more comfortable, shielded from the sun, and at the very front of whatever is happening. I admittedly have taken advantage of this at different times, for example receiving seats under tarps to protect me from the rain or sun, or getting a nicer seat on a bus to avoid being squished between creepy or somewhat drunk men. There are times when I have actively refused this, like at church when they’d like me to sit in front of the entire congregation as an “honored” guest, or to take one of the five nice chairs at the front of Genocide Commemoration ceremonies. 

            I didn’t come to Rwanda for two years to be set apart, to be seen as different, and “honored” or separated because of those differences. I came to integrate, become a member of a community, and work with the local population as an equal, as best I could. I tried as often as possible to deny this advantage. So, we arrived at Guma Guma and were instantly taken to the VIP lounge. Sitting with lots of other community “bigwigs,” the chiefs of police and armed forces for the district, amongst others, we were placed front and center, right by the stage, right by the speakers. Instantly we were handed free Primus, and we got free Guma Guma hats and Primus wristbands, and a completely unobstructed view of the stage. It was pretty darn nice, but I couldn’t help feeling guilty about all the Rwandans dancing behind the barrier who would probably value the experience so much more than we did. How many people who knew me were standing in the crowd watching us? The answer is too many, as I found out when I ran in to several of them later in the day. They laughed at my attempts to dance.

            The VIP lounge was pretty darn nice. We were never without a dry glass, but I also felt like “one of those” expats. I do think there is a place for each type of aid agency and aid worker, but I must admit that I tend to appreciate the Peace Corps model a bit more than the others, maybe simply because I’m headlong into it these days. There’s something to be said for the way we live, in my case in a house comprable to my coworkers, making about the same money each month as some of my coworkers and less then some others, taking public transportation (no agency labeled range rover driving me around). We work to become a part of the community and learn the language, and attempt the mythological feat of grassroots development, a task particularly difficult in Rwanda which utilizes the top-down approach seemingly exclusively.

            So, ingrained in me has become the desire and the drive to try to be “one of the community” to be seen as an equal (this was probably a part of me before admittedly), yet here I am instantly getting taken to the VIP section without a single word of protest on my part, and enjoying myself (in spite of the ringing in my ears for the next two days). I watched the teenagers constantly being pushed away from the barrier as they danced too close, some of them drinking Primus without a care in the world that the cops in front of them would enforce some semblance of a drinking age law. I was mortified when one of the artists came off the stage and tried to drag me and another volunteer up there to dance, and relieved when it was vehemently shot down by a stage hand who yelled, “No white people!” at us. So we (and I thankfully) danced just in the grass by the VIP lounge, but still drew enough attention to have our pictures taken and posted on the organizations Facebook page. 

            For almost three hours we watched the musicians and the crowds, we sang along to the songs we knew, and gawked at some of the provocative dancing we were watching. One teenage boy was brought on stage and continued to grope and fondle the hostess of the event for a good five-ish minutes. I couldn’t help thinking that if that were me that boy would probably have been slapped up-side the head right quick! I kind of feel like an old conservative lady now, writing that (no offense to old conservative ladies).  Towards the end of the performance when the bad brews and loud music finally started to wear on me, the music seemed to turn into a repetitive mantra of “hejeru, hejeru” or telling the crowd to put their hands up… what had happened to the music? And we were all disappointed that the one female artist, Knowless, did not make an appearance.

            After the show we headed back into downtown and said our (what I think will be) final farewells to Nyamagabe and the Golden Monkey Restaurant. It was a fun way to finish that part of

 my experience. As for work these days, my counterpart (the health center employee who partnered with me on my animal husbandry project) Flandrie and I, agreed to go to one of the five cells in my sector each week for my remaining five weeks and visit the community health workers (CHWs) who have animals there. Two weeks down and three to go. It has gone well so far, there are some participants who have baby chickens right now, and others who complained that someone stole all of their animals. So a mixed bag I guess. 

It’s really hard to convey the magnitude of the number of hills in Rwanda unless you see it. Known as the land of a thousand hills, I think Rwanda is really closer to a million hills. I guess it all depends on how you define hill. In my part of this country however, the hills are tall and steep, descending into narrow valleys and starting right back up again. As I walked with my counterpart this week, I asked her why all the Rwandans live on the tops of the hills, and all on different hills. She took this question at face-value and launched into an explanation about the rainy season, as we trudged up yet another steep hill to the next CHWs house. I guess I should have spent some time explaining rhetorical questions in my two years here, as that is one of my major forms of communication. So I listened to her breathless explanation wishing that the hill would end, and eventually it did. 

We hiked about 13 miles that day visiting people, and I was greeted by name repetitively by different community members and children. My counterpart turned to me towards the end of the trip and said “So many people know you, and nobody knows me.” I explained that I’ve actively chosen to walk to all the rural villages the last two years rather than be seen as just another foreigner passing through on a moto. It felt pretty awesome though to see and feel the effects of this decision after two years, to see something so tangible as being more known in rural villages than my Rwandan counterpart. At one point a group of kids passed us and one of them yelled out “umuzungu” or “white person,” to which another kid calmly turned and said, “she is not umuzungu, she is the one who makes the children laugh.” That was pretty awesome too, even if the kids were calling me a clown. I think I would rather have spent the last two years being called a clown than white person.

So rarely in this experience do we get to see the tangible benefits of what we have done, and this simple walk through my community really showed me what I’ve done and who I am to these people. Although it might sound relatively conceded, it makes me feel pretty good that I am already remembered for being more friendly and present than my co-workers, and also for my sense of humor. As this countdown becomes ever smaller, I have been struggling with my common frustrations, being stared at, being treated differently for my skin color, being identified by my skin color. I call my friend here daily and sigh into the phone venting about some idiot staring at me for an entire bus ride, or some woman trying to increase the price of her peas because of my skin color. It’s tiring, and I must admit I’m happy the end is very much in sight. 

I’m going to miss this place, the people, the culture, so much. It has been my home for the last two years and I have become a part of a place, one that I never thought was an option or a possibility. It has changed me in good ways and bad, and it has created in me the visible opportunity to become the better person that I want to be. I look forward to seeing how this place, experience and these people have changed me, and who I will continue to become because of this experience. It is immensely rewarding to see the subtle impacts I’ve made and the feelings my Rwandan community has about me. I guess we all need a little ego stroking every now and then! So in spite of all the amazing things and the truly obnoxious or crappy things, I think it is officially and mentally time for me to move on to whatever comes next in my life, to leave Rwanda, at least for now.

Pictures: 1. Rita, Christine and me celebrating my birthday and one final farewell to Butare. 2. CHW Marcelline in front of the chicken house she built for the animal husbandry project. 3. Nick, Griff and Christine posing as Guma Guma Supertars. 4. The stage at Guma Guma. 5. Christine and I with the Guma Guma sign. 6. The sign for my work and the main road passing by it that goes all the way to the DRC. 7. Looking back on my village, just under the big hill. 8. One of the baby chickens. 9. Flandrie and me after marching up one of the many hills.

Where I'm going, I don't really know. The road is calling, so I've got to go...

So… this is it. I’m past the home stretch and in the last few feet, getting ready to literally fly into home. Exactly two years ago today, Cinco de Mayo 2011, I and 19 other potential future Peace Corps volunteers walked off of the plane into the muggy Rwandan night. Now, ten of us remain, and just completed our close of service conference in Kigali, meant to prepare us for saying goodbye and whatever is supposed to be coming next. I do feel more prepared, yet somehow less prepared as well, maybe more overwhelmed with what is to come rather. The conference was successful, although strange to be sitting at the u-shaped tables with only a few of us listening on as we discussed what this whole thing has and will be. It was strange to look upon these people who I have come to know and understand, in a way that will never be shared with people outside of this experience, yet really not know that much about them. It was a strange finalizing experience. So now I return to my village, about six weeks to go, and I thought to myself that over the course of the last two years, I’ve posted mostly about differences between home and here, specific experiences, and often times complaints. So in this time of reflection and subtle panic, I found that I want to share some of the things that I’ve really loved and am going to miss immensely…. So here goes.

 

I love sitting on my door stoop and watching the sky change over the mountains in Nyungwe, the sun setting and having a giant cup of tea in my hand, playlists that inspire the world around me echoing from my one room house. I love the way the eucalyptus trees’ blue leaves contrast with their coniferous counterparts, how the oily leaves smell when you rub them between your fingers, and the sweet smell of their smoke when being turned into charcoal. I love the giant flowers that bloom outside my house in bright red and white, and the tree that stands outside my old house with huge flowers on hit inciting the buzz of hundreds of bees. I love the steep hillsides covered in bright green tea plants, spotted with workers carrying big woven baskets on their heads with today’s pickings. I love my one room house, that I have somehow turned into a home, US national park pictures hung on the walls, and a Christmas tree up year round. I love that Rwandans paint bricks red and the mortar lines between them black, creating a wonderfully weird cartoon version. Scaffolding made of wood scales buildings being constructed everywhere in this constantly growing country eliciting respect and awe over their successful craftsmanship.

I love learning how to dance with my host sisters, and the way we’ve developed to distinguish between a boyfriend and just a friend. These women, my four host sisters and host mother, are so inspiring, enlightening and informative on what it is like to be a woman, how to become a woman, and the immense power of being a woman. I love simply being with them, sitting, having a pea fight when preparing them for dinner, sitting over the fire, listening to my host mother as she hands me corn on the cob pulled straight from the fire. I love speaking Kinyarwanda and walks with Immaculee. I love that I put in the time of going to church almost every Sunday for a year, and the warm reception that it elicits from random villagers walking through the hills. The full body hugs and strong slaps on the back, high pitched happiness squeals, and huge beautiful smiles. I love how proud of me my community, my village has become, how they tell me that they don’t want me to go, how they tell me that I am a good person. I love that I feel the same way about them, no matter how different our cultures or our beliefs are. I love my counterpart, who was rightfully suspicious of me for so long, and somehow became one of my best friends in Rwanda, full of life, intelligence, motivation, drive, and laughter, she has been the saving grace of my “days in the office.”

I will always remember the time I woke and heard singing in the distance, not unusual singing, as the sounds of song are heard so frequently here (another thing I love). The singing echoed from the valley where a creek had been dammed and hundreds of colorful people were singing with all their spirit as many more joined the ranks of the baptized.  Each birthday I spent here in Rwanda, the first buying pineapple with my host sister eight days after I met her and before I knew how to talk to her, the second with my mom arriving with me in my village and at my brand new house, the third with anticipation. I will always remember International Women’s Day, being pulled into a mob of beautiful, brightly dressed women and forced to “cow dance” with them, being surrounded by love, openness and acceptance. My favorite shopkeeper, and participant in my animal husbandry project, sharing with me, talking over the vegetables about struggles, hardships, the similarities of our worlds and smiling, always smiling, hugging, happy to see me, beautiful. Peace Corps conferences, seeing my group mates dwindle and stay together and come together after lengths of time, seeing us change, seeing us not change, being a part of something, and understanding each other. Meeting new groups, faces, people from all over the United States, and the world. Ice cream at Inzozi Nziza and foreigner food in Butare, the day I first had Meze Fresh, Mexican food in Kigali.

 

I love walking along the dirt roads of my sector, seeing how fast the landscape changes and how often it has changed in two years. Walking to the sounds of the village, kids playing – rolling rings of metal down the hills and roads using a stick, people working, men chatting at the banana beer bars, singing, too loud radios with too much static, motorcycle taxis. I love blue bars, bars painted completely in the color schemes of African beers – Primus blue, Mutzig red. Ordering barbecued pork by the kilo, and it arriving on a literal silver platter and just digging in with forks. The markets, seeing all the fruits and vegetables laid out, and smiling women greeting me, remembering me, lowering their prices because we have become friends, cauliflower, green beans, peas, carrots, tomatoes, onions, potatoes, green peppers. Eating three pounds of passion fruit in one sitting, or two pineapples in one day. The biggest and most delicious avocados I’ve ever seen. Bags of hand roasted peanuts for about six cents. Chickens wandering everywhere, across the road, through the shops, into the maternity ward. Sheep that look like fuzzy goats, and goats that sound like yelling children.

I am going to miss all the singing, dancing, and celebrating, the love of secret Santa parties, and the love of excessive outfit changes for weddings. I will miss my co-worker singing my name as he walks through the health center, and my co-workers laughing every time someone says “sinzi byose” (I don’t know everything) or “tuzareba” (we will see) as these are my catch phrases. I love that my co-worker refused to name his new son Sawa (which means “ok”) but calls him that regularly because it is our joke. I love that everyone has some connection, and although they may not know everyone, Rwandans live in one big village, they help each other, they are together. I will miss my site mate, and his school, where I always forget that they speak English and I have had such impassioned conversations about gender equality, the future of the world, and why the copier still isn’t working. Letting me come use the US-like internet they boast, and standing at the top of the college stairs for the millionth time seeing the tea fields slip right into the jungle.

 

I will always remember having tea with the director of the tea factory, and learning how tea is made. I will never forget helping out in maternity, and learning the differences between Rwandan health care and US healthcare and learning in a new way the value of good health and equality. I will always remember the five camps I participated in and teaching young boys and girls how to put condoms on wooden penises. Listening to the girls give their potential answers to someone pressuring them to have sex before they’re ready. The camp talent show. Gangham style and Call me maybe.  Butare weekends, being with people of my own culture, and weekends in the village, quiet, relaxing, and rejuvenating. Hours of television and movies I would have never ever watched if I didn’t have so much time alone. Reading books by candle light every night. So much time for introspection and all the things I learned about myself, who I am, where I want to go, who I want to be, and what I want to mean to the world. Implementing surprising, successful projects in my village and earning the respect of my community.

            In my last two years, I climbed to the top of Africa with my 60-year-old father, and shared this world with all of you, and I was welcomed into this world by everyone here. I will miss being greeted by everyone I pass on the street by name, children telling me “good morning” at any and every time of the day. Explaining what freckles are, and that the sun “hurts” me if I am in it for too long. I have learned about and immersed myself in a truly amazing place with truly amazing experiences. It’s so easy at times to focus on the negative, the things that I let exhaust me and take over my mind and heart for stretches at a time, but there are so many reasons that I am still here, and so many reasons why I am happy. I’ve seen some of my highest highs and my lowest lows. I have become a part of this community and this world is such a part of me now. The time has come for this piece of my journey to end, and my heart will anguish when it does, but I am happy to be moving forward, taking all of these amazing things, and so many more with me into the rest of my life, and sharing all of it with all of you.
 

So thank you all for following me and sharing this with me. I’ve really loved all of your support and loyalty through this experience. It’s all a part of who I am now and who I want to be, and I feel immensely fortunate that that is one thing I will never have to miss or long for. I feel immensely fortunate that I am able to see the beauty in those lowest of lows, and the perfection in the highest of highs. I couldn’t have predicted this, any single piece of it, but it has been a beautiful journey with wonderful people in a surprising world, where I have found and experienced and relished in its unique love. I can only say wow.

 

Pictures: 1. Drawings from COS Conference. 2. My great friend in my village, Justin. 3. A view of a carrot garden and the mountains in the distance outside my house. 4. The sky darkening as I watch the hills from my stoop. 5. Street graffiti in Kigali. 6. The Health 3 group with the country director and the program and training director.

Getting Ready for Goodbye...

              Somehow I am suddenly left with just a handful of time left here in Rwanda, and in the Peace Corps. I had two years of warning, and when there’s a set time limit it’s hard not to count down, yet here I am surprised, and admittedly somewhat scared. How did I get here, and where is here? I’m about to embark on another adventure where I get to come full face with how the world I once knew has changed, and maybe even more scary, how I have changed. Countless nights of having way too much time to myself, thinking, delving into introspection uncontrollably, and now I actually have to make all of it cohesive. How am I going to do that? Yeah, it’s scary. And what of this world I am returning to? Granted I’ve had a once in a life time experience that I have loved and hated and wouldn’t trade at all, but I question if I’m behind all the other 25 year olds in the world, at least in the context of existing in a different world. For example… what in the heck is the Harlem shake? OY!

            It’s hard to explain how things change as far as a way of life. I remember telling my dad for a long time that I won’t know how to exist back home anymore. Granted I’m sure things will come back to me, but he somewhat insinuated that I couldn’t forget, until he came to Rwanda. His tone almost instantly changed to something along the lines of “yeah, you’re going to be so culture shocked coming home!” Don’t I know it? He recently sent me a can opener in a package. The first time I used it, my first reaction was, “this is way too easy!” I had been using a hammer and nail to open my cans, and to be honest, although tedious, it seemed to work just fine. Although I am so ready not to have to lug jerry cans of water to my house, to be able to buy diverse and good food, and good brews, amongst other things, it’s really going to be hard to say goodbye to this place that I have come to call home, a place I’ve spent nearly a 12^th of my life in. (Not high in fractions, but it feels high!)

 

            My community knows that I am getting close, and they ask me regularly when I am leaving. I say about three months, and they get sad and say that it’s not possible, it cannot be done. They ask if I will return to Rwanda, to which I reply “I want to.” It’s hard to explain that I don’t know what I’m doing three months from now, let alone when I will be back here, if I will ever make it back here. Most of you reading know me pretty well and know that I’m not so good at not having a plan. My parents are probably getting tired of repeating, what should be an absurdly easy thing to me now after two years in Africa, but somehow it’s not, and that thing is to be patient. Surprisingly, I think I have become more patient and more easy-going, two things that I never would have used to describe myself, but now my future is looming over me, and I am taunting myself over my lack of futuristic comprehension. OY!

            So now I am wrapping up projects and trying to prepare all my friends and the friendly faces I see each day for my departure. But really, I’m working to prepare myself. My animal husbandry project has been a surprising success in my mind. The first two months of the project produced about 580  eggs for 52 chickens. One participant said her rabbits produced 30 babies, which I don’t think is possible, even if all four female rabbits gave birth, but the babies died. So, the rabbits haven’t been as successful, but I am still pleased with the project. My gender based violence training has reached a somewhat stalled point as it is now April, genocide commemoration month. Next week is commemoration week. On April 7^th 1994, the killing started in Rwanda, and within 100 days over 1 million Rwandans were slaughtered. It’s an intense month, and things kind of shut down around the country, especially next week. There are meetings every afternoon in which role is taken and if you are seen on the streets during the meetings you can be arrested (not so much if you are a foreigner). It’s a big deal still, 19 years later.

            So this world has been a wonderfully absurd emotional roller coaster with some of my highest highs and lowest lows of my life thus far. I am so relieved and happy right now that I am in the most positive place mentally of my service thus far. I was proud of myself when some idiots hoed up my garden, and all they could say to me when I called them out about it was “be patient.” I just sighed, recognized that they probably didn’t know any better, and walked away. There was no yelling, anger or frustration that ate away at me, that I couldn’t let go of for hours, days or weeks. I simply left it at that and walked away. It’s taken me a year a half to get to the point that I could shrug off the more basic struggles of life and try to go with the flow. It’s hard to really describe to another if they haven’t experienced living this intimately in another culture, and that’s not to downplay anyone else’s life experience, it’s just simply hard to describe.

            One of the most challenging things I’ve had to deal with here is this emotional roller coaster. At times I would walk away after yelling at a child for calling me “white person” and instantly wonder where inside of me such hostility came from. I would wake up and have to interact with a neighbor when all I was trying to do was make it to the bathroom, and my day would be ruined. The neighbor was never mean, just something inside of me was triggered and I wouldn’t be able to stop my hostility for the rest of the day. I would snap at a coworker or some person who came to stare at the white person and instantly wonder why I was acting that way, yet turn around and do it again seconds later. There were many times that I really didn’t like the person I was emanating and would recognize that I wanted to change it, yet my emotions were always on the surface and seemingly uncontrollable.

            That’s not to say that this experience wasn’t also filled with laughter, love, happiness and wonderment. It has been, and it has been amazing. It’s so amazing to go from not knowing how to say bathroom, to being able to have real conversations about the war in Congo with my host mother, and explaining how to use a computer, and having inside jokes with everyone I know. It’s nice to see people light up when they’re with me, and feel myself transformed by their inner light. It’s nice to see an entire community advocating for me, informing others of who I am and what I mean to this place. They say I am “Munezero wacu” or “our Munezero” (Munezero being my Rwandan name). It’s nice to have people laugh with me, share curiosity with me, and genuinely care. How far I have come. This is amazing, and I am very happy. That’s not to say that I’m not ready to come home, although it’s going to be really hard to leave.

            As I am nearing my end I have continued to do some traveling. Recently I traveled to the east to visit some of my friends from the health group who arrived a year after mine (almost all of them were stationed in the east). It was rainy and cloudy which was perfect for me as the east is known for being hot. It was really nice to spend some time in the east though and really soak up the landscape. As it’s the rainy season everything was green, but more savannah green, less rainforest green like where I live. I had so many great conversations with the different people who hosted me. We talked about life in Rwanda, life back home, discussed issues and pop culture. It’s always nice to talk to people from the United States who are experiencing the same things that we are.

  

          It is also kind of cool to see the house and environment that we each make for ourselves. What do we hang on our walls, what furniture do we have made. What are our cooking habits like. Aside from still getting overheated, and some mosquitoes, the trip was wonderful. The place that had the most mosquitoes was down by a volunteer named Ian. He lives really close to the Tanzanian border, by the waterfall, and we were able to go back and check it out, which was beautiful… again. But he so kindly gave me his room to sleep in and I stupidly didn’t open any windows initially. It was so hot! I’ve become a radiator. I don’t know if I was like that in the states, but I always seem to be warm, especially when I’m sleeping. I’m so glad I live where I do here.

 

              The trip east was full of bus rides to random towns and random bars for lunches and a few beers. The longest day was coming home. I caught a bus at around 8AM to Kigali, and from there, within 20 minutes was on a bus to Cyangugu. I arrived back home at about 3:30PM, after a very full day of travelling. But it was worth it. I don’t have any other travel plans, but within a month I have my close of service conference in Kigali. Cinco de Mayo this year will also mark my two years of being in Africa. Goodness gracious that’s weird. It feels like there’s so much left to do, yet also not that much. My life is in a weird sort of fast forward coupled with a somewhat static seeming existence. Everything seems contradictory at times, but maybe that’s how my life was back home… I just can’t remember. Soon enough. I am planning a short trip to see Victoria Falls after I finish… my brother might not let me come home without seeing it. Then I will be homeward bound, two days of flights later I will end up in PDX. OY….

Well, in the belated sense of St. Patty’s Day… Until we meet again, may Spring finally take the place of Winter, and flowers and trees begin to blossom again, coloring the landscape like the fabrics of Africa, and may the river levels hold high enough for rafting until after I’m back (mostly the river levels thing though)! Much love!

 Pictures: 1. My friend Evelyne in her and her husband's shop in my village. This is where I buy almost all of my food and supplies (mostly meaning toilet paper)! The blue material wrapped around her is holding her four month old baby boy on her back while she works. 2. The view from my "back yard" looking up towards Nyungwe. 3. My first broken down bus in Rwanda, not too bad of a rate, 1 every two years. 4&5. The waterfall at the border of Tanzania and Rwanda in a place called Russumo. And of course, the African version of myself. 6. The view of the valley above the waterfall. 7. A little village, and Rwandan bus right by the border.

Wandering the countryside...

            There is a tiny grove of coniferous trees along a stretch of dirt road about a two hour walk into the heart of my sector here in Rwanda. It is right after a village which I do not care for very much, riddled with gawking men and the shouts of “muzungu” always announcing my arrival. No matter how many times I correct, explain, scold, plead or ignore, it is always the same experience. Right afterwards, however, I pass this grove of trees, and momentarily it smells like what I remember home to smell like. It has been two years since I stood amongst the pine trees of Oregon and oh how I miss it. So I pass this grove, orange needles littering the ground beneath the trees. For just a moment I am in a universal place, not Rwanda, not Oregon, I am simply happy and associating this place with so many wonderful and happy memories. The experience lasts only a minute each time I pass by, but it consistently re-centers me and no matter how I feel, I am then happy, and more ready to face whatever comes my way. That’s a pretty great sense memory, if you ask me.

            Recently I have spent some time FINALLY visiting some other volunteers in other places throughout Rwanda. My first trip was through the forest, to the other side. Being that I live right on the edge of the forest, on the main road, it’s mildly absurd that it took me almost two years to simply pass through it to the other side… but it did, and I finally made it. I went to visit my friend Kate in a place called Nyamasheke first. She lives by the district office, next to Lake Kivu. Her site was very beautiful and very friendly. We went to the market together and walked around a bit. It was beautiful although way too hot for me, although everything seems that way anymore. I miss air conditioning! It was really wonderful to see how another PCV, someone that I care about has integrated into their community and made it very much a home. People love her in her village, and they outwardly respect her. It was nice to see such positivity towards others in my group after our almost two years here.

 

            After a couple days, Kate and I traveled south of her to a place called Mushaka, where two other volunteers live (Claire from H4, the health group after ours and Tim from the Education 3 group, which is the same group as my site mate). We arrived and they fixed a really awesome red curry lunch for us. Shortly thereafter we embarked on a 4 hour round trip hike to the border between Rwanda and Congo. It was really nice to wander through their village, although somewhat strange to see how they interact with their community versus Kate and I. There are consistent phases, emotionally and otherwise, for PCVs and it’s always interesting to hear what others (outside of your own group) say or see the things that they do. Sometimes even talking to my site mate, I am rendered somewhat speechless because we are in such different places mentally. But Tim and Claire, and Kate are all awesome, so the trip was great.

We walked to the cliffs overlooking the river that divides the two places, and it was so beautiful, although somewhat saddening too. Congo, or DRC, is such a depressing place to me, a pained place, and somewhat seemingly impossible to help. So sitting on the cliff side overlooking the beauty that is Congo, it just made me sad that somewhere so beautiful can have so much death, rape, and pain. The Rwandan perch overlooking the river was so peaceful and satisfying though, and the walk there and back were both so immensely beautiful, and it was done with great people.

 

From here, Kate and I traveled on to Butare where we spent a few days and prepared for the PC regional meeting. Finally, I made it back to my home and my village, and it was so nice. Although I am happy to see other parts of Rwanda, it’s always nice to return to my home. The following week I finally made it to Whitney and Jake’s site in the sector just south of mine, Kivu. To get there, I walked the 22 kilometers to Shaba cell, the furthest community in my sector. It’s a beautiful walk, and not too strenuous. This trip to Shaba was amazing and so heartwarming. Lots of people along the way knew who I was, were happy to see me and made me feel loved and like I was home. It is such a strong reminder of where I was two years ago, relative to where I am now, and how I perceive my communities value of me. Once in Shaba, I caught a moto to Kivu, a short but seemingly perilous journey. I met Whitney at their local secondary school, where I watched enthusiastically as she worked to “fluoride” all 1,300ish kids in the primary school. This is just one of the many amazing projects that Whit and Jake have done at their site, including soy projects, and water tank construction. It’s amazing to see all the volunteers engaging in their projects, and to relate them to my service and what I have done, or what projects I would of liked to have done. Granted, if I could in two years, I think would try to do everything. But, I got off to a slow start. Without much direction, I jumped in and surprisingly, I still got a few great projects in, and I became a part of a place, that seemed impossible to become a part of. The following morning I mildly helped Whit with the fluoride project, individually painting fluoride onto the teeth of 1,300 children… seems kind of crazy right? It’s a pretty amazing project.

Finally I returned home, just in time to head off to another wedding. This wedding was between Desire, Nick’s roommate, and Bibiane, a great woman who used to live in my sector, then moved. Along with two other Canadians working temporarily at Kitabi College of Conservation and Environmental Management (KCCEM), Nick’s School, I played a mild role in the wedding, although I think we were mostly just window dressing (or however the expression goes). As normal, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, but we played along and everyone got a few laughs out of us. After the wedding, I spent a few days with my host family, for the first time since my dad was here. It was so great to see them and catch up, and be able to converse even more than ever before.

            As I get closer to the end of my service, I find myself being more reflective than I seem to normally be, drawing parallels between the world I remember to the one the I am in now. With my host family recently, these parallels became relatively inseparable. I sat in the kitchen with my host mother watching her fry French fries in oil, sizzling as she drops a new batch in, watching her yank her hand away quickly so it doesn’t get burnt. I remember this exact same experience with my mom back in the states, granted the kitchen wasn’t a mud brick building and we weren’t cooking the fries over a camp fire, but still the experience was the same. I watch my host sisters get ready to leave the house, grooming themselves in the mirror several times, before accepting their appearance, as teenage girls will. And I sit in my room as my host parents wait in the living room, worried and angry, for their youngest to return from a non-parent sanctioned trip to the capital. All of this could be taking place anywhere in the states right now.

 

            I often think of the irony of US tourists versus the mentality of foreigners in our country. I see expats here (and everywhere) that need the pampering of a very nice hotel, a driver, amazing food. They do not speak the language or try to engage in the culture, but they have no qualms stopping on the side of the road and taking pictures of random villagers, seemingly expecting everyone to cater to them (granted this isn’t everyone of course). Then I recall so many conversations I’ve had in the states with people who claim “if people want to come to our country, they better speak English!” How arrogant we can be! As much as I love my culture, my state, my country, who I am, sometimes it saddens me that all the populations that may look up to us, really don’t know how many failings we have, and we tend to deny them all together. That being said, I think everywhere in the world could use much better cross-cultural education and improved lessons in tolerance and understanding.

 

            Although I disagree wholeheartedly and vehemently with the people in the United States or anywhere who discriminate against others because of their differences, I feel as if I’m misrepresenting our country sometimes when I say “we are all people, we are all the same,” because I know too many people who don’t feel that way, and it saddens me immensely. That being said, I feel so unendingly fortunate that I have had this opportunity and have made it a part of my ever-shrinking world. I sit and listen to the radio with my sisters as they announce the contestants for Guma Guma Superstar a Rwandan national music competition of mostly hip hop or pop artists. I think about what I inadvertently expected from Africa, and I see how almost nothing was right. These people and their culture are wonderful, and I feel and see that they have accepted me into their world. It’s an amazing feeling that I will probably never have the chance to experience in the same way again. Don’t mistake me, I could complain for possibly days as well (as my parents could probably attest to) and there are things I am not going to miss in the slightest, but I do feel so lucky to have had
the opportunity to experience this love/hate relationship, and come out of it positive.

 

            Peace Corps is famous for being something that changes you, and for being the toughest job you’ll ever love. How much I hate to perpetuate clichés and to follow the norm, but unfortunately I very much have to agree with these ideas. Although I don’t exactly know how all my pieces fit together, I am scared and excited to move forward and see who I’ve become because of my two years in Rwanda. I wouldn’t change this for anything, and I feel so happy to have done it, but would I want to do it again?… Maybe you should all ask me in five years when I’ve forgotten all the challenges and only remember the good things, because right now, I’m very ready to head into whatever comes next in my life, and also to figure out how not to leave Rwanda behind.  

Zanzibarian Recuperation

            So, quite a while ago now, I came down Kilimanjaro, met my friend in Dar Es Salaam, watched my dad drive away in a somewhat questionable taxi, and boarded a ferry to the Tanzanian spice island known as Zanzibar. Kate and I were met at the ferry terminal by a Tanzanian man holding a cardboard sign with her name on it. He guided us through the back alleys of Stonetown, boutiques of colorful artwork and overpriced tourist items flying by as I tried to keep up. We arrived at the hostel to discover our room was four very steep flights of stairs up, right on the deck overlooking the back alleys and architecture of the city. The view was amazing and the weather, stifling hot. We pulled our two twin beds together under the ceiling fan, although most nights I spent spread-eagle without sheets, trying to capture an bit of coolness that I could.

            After our brief rest, we began our journeys on the town. We wandered the tiny streets, occasionally jumping out of the way of passing scooters and mopeds in the narrow alleys. The buildings were so different than the one-story mud houses I’ve seen for almost two years, and the back alleys  were dotted with mosques, not the usual Christian churches of Rwanda. Men and women passed by in traditional Islamic attire, and tourists seemed to be everywhere. Initially the sundresses, tank tops and shorts were shocking, and I fought myself to not pass judgment, as I also resorted to shorts as soon as we hit the beach and I didn’t remove them practically until we returned to Stonetown a week later.

Our first night in Zanzibar, we wandered around looking to fill the seafood shaped void that had been growing in me since I left the Pacific NW. Finally we settled on a little place where I ordered clam chowder and crab alfredo. I was in mini-heaven. As we sat, we made friends with the other patrons who turned out to be US aid workers in Rwanda. We were also approached by the owner who was a returned Peace Corps volunteer in Kenya, now living in Zanzibar. It was such a wonderful and friendly first night on the island. We went to bed absurdly hot, but full of great food and content spirits, ready to wake the next day for more adventures and exploration.

Kate (my friend) is an immensely patient and laid back person, in many ways my polar opposite. But, I have to hand it to her, she put up with my consistent complaints of overheating and sweating as we wandered around the island! Day two, we walked around more of Stonetown, through the market, along the boardwalk and even got some ice cream bars (which were AMAZING). Although Tanzania has a different currency (shillings) than Rwanda (francs), the increments are both by the thousands. The shilling’s exchange rate is more than the franc however, $1 being equal to RFW 607 (Rwanda) and 1,500 shillings. So in Tanzania, when anyone quoted me a price, my reaction was always shock at how expensive things were, even though they really weren’t. I never got the hang of shillings versus francs.

 

It was also very hard not to be able to communicate, reminiscent of my first eight months in Rwanda. They speak Kiswahili in Tanzania, and although there are some similarities in Kinyarwanda, my Swahili pretty much maxes out with hakuna matata, and asking what time it is (not that I could understand their answer to that question)!  So, I couldn’t really communicate or bargain, which I have come to love. I imagine myself back at Safeway in the states telling a check-out clerk to lower their price. May not be the best approach. Anyways, back on the spice island, we went to dinner that night at the open air seafood market. Between 50 and 100 merchants set up barbecues and ovens and  make seafood brochettes, pizza, and other things. There is fish on a stick octopi or squid tentacles, mussels on a stick and full shrimp or lobster. The choices were kind of overwhelming and sometimes relatively disgusting looking, although I’m sure they were absolutely delicious.  We each got fish. We also ran into a lot of volunteers we knew from Rwanda and met a lot of PCVs from other countries.

The next day we boarded an open-air version of the squeeze bus. Really it was a truck converted to transport people, but it was awesome, as I didn’t have to fight with a bunch of people to keep the windows open. I got all the air I wanted. We rode this to almost the northernmost tip of the island to a place called Nungwi. After a 15 minute walk, we checked into our bungalow and got settled. Our hotel was really nice, on the quieter end of the beach. It also was home to a natural pool which in turn was home to between eight and ten turtles that you could swim with.  Every morning the employees would scour the beach for seaweed filling a bucket they’d leave next to the pool. We could go and feed the turtles, and they were so used to this that as soon as a person would approach, they’d swarm the steps. I have to admit, this made it a little daunting to get in at times, but I did like to sit on the steps and feed and watch the turtles swimming around their home. The pool was affected by the tides, so low tide, the water barely hit my waist, and high tide, I couldn’t touch the bottom.
 

We were a one minute walk from the beach which is where I went almost as soon as we arrived. Unfortunately it was low tide which exposes a series of tide pools that run most of the length of the beach. This left the ocean (the swimmable portion) at least a ten minute walk, maybe closer to 20, wading through the shallower water across a field of sea urchins. Several times we saw tourists limping along the beach as a result of urchin encounters. So I walked a ways along the beach and saw what there was to see, but mostly I watched the ocean. Later we walked the opposite direction in search of dinner. We settled on a place called Mangys which stood in a central area for beach access restaurants. We were enticed by the name, and the sign for happy hour out front. Although I love so many things about Rwanda, one of the things I would change is the complete lack of cocktails. When there is hard liquor on the menu here, it is served in a very expensive shot form. So, happy hour and cocktails were two things I hadn’t seen since my last month in Oregon, and I hate to say, I missed them.
 

We had burgers and drinks and we indulged in our week long vacation on the beach. Each day we walked along the beach. It felt so good to be barefoot, walking along the shockingly blue ocean on white sand beaches.  Several other volunteers were staying about three kilometers down the beach in a place called Kenwa. We wandered down and hung out with them, including on New Years. We also got massages a couple of times in their village. They were party central on the beach and it was always nice to see them, then be able to head back to  our quiet end of the island. Walking to their hotel on New Years, we got trapped by high tide and we couldn’t pass. Used to Oregon where places are not built literally right to the edge of the ocean, it was so surprising to me that at high tide there was nowhere that we could pass.

 One “inclusive” (as the guard told me, although he meant to say “exclusive,” and with how he treated us, I really want to call him an idiot for his mistake) resort refused to let us pass along their property, so we had to (after being escorted off their property) make our way to the main road and walk the long way around, at night. When we finally arrived, our friends were nowhere to be found and you can’t buy anything at their hotel without a hotel charge card, which I again thought was relatively ridiculous. Finally we found them and our bight really began. The hotel had a live show, followed by fireworks and lots and lots of dancing. It very much felt like your typical “people getting away, without supervision, and going crazy” shindig. It was a great and distracting night which is awesome because I usually hate new years. Finally around 4 AM, Kate and I began our trek back to our hotel, only to get stuck by high tide yet again. After being escorted off the “inclusive” hotel’s property again, we finally decided to call for a taxi at another hotel who were amazingly inviting and helpful.
 

We slept in on the first with me groaning audibly every time the power went out and the fan would stop. It was amazing to be able to dip my feet into the Indian Ocean on the first of January. I was really happy not to have internet access as the first thing  I saw when I was able to check my facebook were all the tributes to Linds and Steph. These tributes are amazing and it’s awesome to be reminded of all the great things about these two amazing women, their lives, and the people in them, but as soon as I read these tributes, my heart felt instantly heavy. So, I spent New Years with them in my heart, toes in the final physical resting place, without the heaviness for the first time since January 1,2007. It was nice and empowering to have a happy New Years, especially with the ocean creating such close ties.

Anyways, the second was our last full day on the island. We walked to Kenwa and got massages, the time planning around the high tide schedules. On the walk back, we stopped to swim and Kate came foot to sea urchin. The animals got their spiny spurs stuck deep in both her feet. She then became one of those limping tourists. I followed her limping to the nearest hotel where a random employee worked to pull the spines out and rubbed her foot with soothing papaya. This endeavor was followed by a fun-filled distracting happy hour back at Mangys. Kate was in a lot of pain, but the happy hour did help!

Finally the day arrived to leave the beautiful Zanzibarian beaches and spend a couple nights in Dar Es Salaam back at the Best Western Hotel thanks to Kate’s parents this time. We hopped a bus back to Stonetown only to find all the ferries, but the night ferry, were booked that day. So we bought our night ferry tickets and headed to the park to wait for boarding at 8 PM. After another seafood market buffet and another ice cream bar we headed for the ferry, found our seats and waited. The ferry was supposed to leave at 10 PM. As ten hit, an announcement was made that due to choppy seas, the ferry would wait until 3AM to depart. After seven hours of sitting, and rocking with the waves, sleeping intermittently, and feeling like I’d been on the most obnoxious slow motion roller coaster ever, my stomach was relatively upset, and the ferry set off.

About 5 AM a small child started vomiting absurdly loud in the packed cabin, which made it more difficult to distract me from my own queasiness. I never understood my brother’s complaints of sea sickness while he was in the Navy. We grew up on the water, it is home to me. But, he was definitely right, the ocean is very different than rivers. Finally 7 AM rolled around, we arrive in port, got a rickshaw to the Best Western just in time for the awesome breakfast buffet. We turned on the air conditioner, ate mango, bacon and French toast with real syrup, then crashed after an 11 hour ferry ride.

The day we spent here was nice and relaxed. I spent most of it resting, still trying to calm my stomach.  Kate made it out to Subway, something I hadn’t eaten since high school and we enjoyed hot showers and bad movies on the tv. We awoke at four to catch the bus back to Rwanda. Although long, the bus to Rwanda wasn’t so bad. When we crossed the border, I was so happy to be able to communicate again. We made it to Kigali about 36 hours later, and I barely made a bus to Butare, and only did because some man sold me his ticket. Checking into my hotel in Butare, I felt so relieved to be back in home territory. Here, I ran into a couple PCVs from my group and we grabbed dinner together. It was an amazing conclusion to a much needed and wonderful vacation. The next day I hopped a bus home and felt rejuvenated, happy and ready to tackle my last six months in Africa.
 

 

Photos!!!!!: 1. Stonetown 2.The beach close to our hotel, at mid-low tide 3.Turtles in our pool 4. A restaurant we enjoyed 5. Paintings on the beach at low tide 6. Boats on the beach 7. The river dividing the border between Tanzania and Rwanda.

Small and Strong, My Dad Visits Africa!

            After spending almost three weeks with my dad, one in  Rwanda and another climbing to the highest point in Africa… I suddenly find myself sweating profusely in the Zanzibarian  humidity, the mosquito net flailing gently under the ceiling fan we’ve pulled both our beds under to feel slightly cool. The last few weeks have been amazing.

But, to return to where we left off, I’m skipping a blog post about camp, as it was a success (mind you there were some hair pulling hiccups). Overall it was amazing… everyone had fun… and I’m happy it’s over.

So anyways… my dad arrived in Rwanda the very last day of camp. I rushed to Kigali, took a much awaited  shower (not a cold bucket bath), then walked to the airport, where my dad’s flight was almost two hours late. So I waited, literally dancing back and forth from foot to foot, impatiently watching the people from the flight ahead of his pass through the exit. Finally he arrived and his African journey began!

 

            His first full day began at Gisozi Genocide Memorial and then a trip in a nice taxi to visit my host family. They all loved meeting my father, and they loved all of the exciting gifts that he brought, especially the Nike soccer ball, which my host brother was still hugging when we drove away a few hours later. We passed the second night in Butare, where  my negotiating prices might have been a little overwhelming to my poor jet-lagged father, who also may not have been expecting the daughter I now am after only a year and a half in this foreign world. Finally we arrived in my village, an express bus, a squeeze bus (his suitcase tied on top) and a motorcycle taxi ride later. We walked every day with the pending Kilimanjaro climb looming in our mental periphery. We visited the tea factory, and the cultural village, and we walked a 15 mile road through my sector which I love. He told me over and over how shocked he was by the human constancy in my life. There are always people… everywhere.

            He was true to his character in wanting to fix the little things that could stand some fixing, but found the task challenging without his shop and plethora of tools. In particular, my door handle wasn’t actually screwed in and occasionally it falls off. It’s never been a problem for me, but it seems to drive so many others crazy. So after dwelling and planning for what I assume was actually a couple days, he figured out how to jerry-rig it so that it will stay together. Although I find his determination to be both appreciated and somewhat comically familiar, it is nice to have a door that doesn’t even occasionally fall apart anymore!
 

            After a week, the time came for us to leave Rwanda together and to embark on a brand new African adventure for both of us… Tanzania. We were both fairly relieved to be leaving, my dad antsy to keep moving forward and onwards and upwards (literally), and the same for me too, but also to have the first vacation outside of Rwanda (a place the size of Maryland) in over a year and a half. We were both very ready! And so it is so that we arrived at the Kigali airport quite early, waited for our flight to Nairobi where, after eating a BLT and drinking the first Corona I’ve had in maybe two years, we waited some more for our flight to Kilimanjaro airport. We watched the final light of the day fade out of the sky behind a huge black mountain filling the African skyline as we began our decent into Kili. Anxiously anticipating the next day, the air conditioning on its lowest possible temperature… we wiled away the evening hours in  a cool, clean hotel room.

            Awaking early, we had an African style buffet at the hotel (which was somewhat lacking in my dad’s normal protein allotment). Finally we got into the 4X4 safari vehicle and drove off. Only maybe a kilometer or two later, we stopped to rent equipment (below zero sleeping bags, and some other small things). Feeling somewhat like a back alley deal, we wound through a shop, to come out in the courtyard behind to a little overstuffed shop full of seemingly abandoned climbing equipment. We rented our “funky” smelling equipment, then started off again in the direction of the mountain. It’s funny how many times I am taught something here in Africa… only to get my hopes up yet again that it won’t happen the same way for the millionth time. This time it was the expectation that people would communicate with us. So we sat at the park gate for maybe 1.5 hours not really knowing what we were doing there. Then we got back in the car and drove for another half an hour to our actual starting place. I guess it was to be expected, but I hate to admit, my dad and I aren’t the most patient people in the world.

            After lunch, we began our trek on the road about 3KM from the trailhead, as it was too muddy for the car to make it. Everything I read about Kili and everything people have told me is that we must go slowly. We will continuously hear “pole-pole” which means slowly by slowly, and we did hear this constantly. We began our hike going so slow that within the first ten minutes we asked if we could pass the guide, both taking off down the trail. The first day was rainy, and uneventful. We were both uncomfortable in our “eating” tent, set up with a collapsible table, table cloth and a seemingly absurd amount of condiments which they’d carry up the mountain for us which they’d carry up the mountain for us. It was awkward to be treated like the tourists that we were, and to watch a camp site be put up and taken down around us each day with all our requests to help denied. I can’t say  I honestly cared for that aspect too much, although I will admit that it was nice not to have to cook, or lug all that stuff up the mountain.

            As my father is quite the early riser, we were almost always seemingly the first ones on the trail each morning. Day two was really beautiful, we hiked up and out of the forest and across the remnants of a huge glacial field. It was semi cold as there was sideways rain and big wind gusts for part of it. But as we were crossing the field we got our first real glimpse of the mountain that lie ahead of us. I can’t say that this wasn’t an “oh shit” moment for me, but it was one of determination and self-assurance that we could and we would be able to do this. This was one of our longer days. If you did an eight day trip instead of a seven day (like us) this is the day that would be broken up into two segments. I’m glad we did it in one, but I was very happy to reach the camp when we did finally arrive.

            The camps were kind of versions of tent cities, rolling off and away down the mountain side. Our group alone was 10 people, the two of us, two guides, and six porters to carry all of the gear. So group after group, a really large number of people, made up these tent communities, although for the most part, us foreigners didn’t seem to mingle too much. The next day we experienced our first “climb high, sleep low” experience… Here we made it up to around 13,000 feet, and it was cold. The winds were biting and at times it kind of felt like it was sleeting on us. We then hiked back down to between 10,000 and 11,000 feet to sleep for the night.  

Everyday seemingly between nine and ten AM, the clouds would roll in and really act like fog… We were unable to see much ahead of us, and nothing around us, and the sun’s heat didn’t have too much of an impact.  So I started each morning feeling really cold from the night, then inevitably had to stop along the trail to remove a few layers of clothing as I heated up. Then when the clouds moved in, I began to get cold again. With all the water I was drinking, I had to make a few trips to the bathroom each night which was always on the brisk side. But the first night I did this in an open camp site, I stepped out of the tent to a brilliant star filled sky, and the moon-lit snow covered peak of Kili looming over me. It was such a phenomenal view, and unfortunately is one of those that can never be truly captured on film.

Day four began with a climb up a rock wall. There was a trail, but you did have to pull yourself up rock ledges and over boulders on a relatively steep/sheer rock face. There was even some ice built up. Although it was a little questionable at times, we covered a good chunk of elevation in this little excursion. Only to go back down the other side, as this was our second day of “climb high, sleep low.” Our last day before the summit attempt, we only hiked around 4 kilometers, but we were finally sleeping at above 15,000 feet. It snowed on us this afternoon and evening, as I impatiently tossed and turned waiting for 11 PM to arrive when we’d be awoken to begin our summit attempt.
 

We started trudging slowly up the mountain lit only by a fading moon and our head lamps. We twisted our way, back and forth, up the darkened mountain side, always hoping that the next rise would be that last one. Watching Orion in the sky,  it truly felt to me that at some point, we would be right there in the middle of the stars. As the night (or morning) progressed I got increasingly cold, and I was constantly checking the skyline, looking for any hint that the sun was about to rise. About 3km and 6 hours later, we finally reached Stella point, where being my dad, he wrapped his arms around his daughter and tried to warm her up. I was so cold, my toes were numb, my fingers were numb, and I felt I was pleading for the sun to rise. But, after only a few minutes the guide told us we should continue onwards.

Hostilely I continued. As soon as I came around the rock face from Stella point I saw the first glimpses of a pink sunrise in the distance, and felt so much happier… instantly. We trudged on, me with my eyes on the sunrise, and generally happy to see again, beyond the constraining distance of the head lamp. I watched my dad hiking up the mountain ahead of me, and finally we saw the green “you’ve made it” sign in the distance. Still feeling pretty cold, we happily snapped our requisite “we made it to the top of Africa” pictures, and then pulled open our coats to snap a picture of our Bluegrass Today t-shirts. After only about 10 minutes, we turned and began our trek back down the mountain.

It was so beautiful to see what we had spent the last 6 ½ hours hiking up, the steepness, the views of the mountains around us, the glaciers on the top. It felt so good to have achieved our goal, and to be on the downhill run. You gain around 4,000 feet between the last camp and the summit, in only 3.5 kilometers. It was interesting to see all the snowy switchbacks we came up, as we slid back down them. What took 6 ½ hours to climb only took us about 1 ½ hours to descend. We got back to our camp and slept for a few hours, before continuing downwards.

We stayed in a really nice forested camp for the last night, both pretty tired, my knees aching from all the downhill. We ate our last meal of soup and high carb food and went to bed early. We awoke extra early this last day and blazed through the last part of the trail. Although I was going slower than everybody else because of my crappy knees, it gave me a chance to really enjoy my surroundings, without a train of people crowding me. I took lots of pictures, and was so happy to get to the end and take my boots off. They carted us back to the hotel, where we indulged in showers, beer and pizza and then slept the rest of the afternoon. It was a really nice way to finish the Kili portion of my Tanzanian adventure.
 

The next evening we boarded a flight to Dar Es Salaam and checked into the Best Western Hotel. It was so strange being in such a clean and nice hotel after so many $8 a night Rwandan hotels. I cranked the air conditioner and settled in to watching bad  American movies on the three movie channels. The next day was Christmas, and my friend Kate met up with us at the hotel. We ventured to the hotel bar, and I had my first cocktail in a year and a half. It was really nice, and I was happy. Christmas lunch was an elaborate buffet at the hotel, which was really amazing and good. I was so happy, and went back for at least seconds. Finally the time came for my dad to fly home (which he was very ready for) and the next part of my Tanzanian adventures to begin. I said goodbye to my dad in the hotel lobby and watched him drive away in the (to me) sweltering African humidity.

It was a great trip and it was so great to see my dad again after only 20 months apart. We talked a lot about what comes next and what my life and future might look like, as well as his life and future. He talked a lot about his granddaughter and all the amazing food he was missing back in the states. It was a wonderful visit and I was so happy to have spent my vacation as I did. The next day, Kate and I boarded a ferry and began our Zanzibarian adventures. I hope you all had a Merry Christmas, or Happy Holidays, and that your new year was wonderful too! We’ll get to New Years though in the next posting about Zanzibar! Miss you all and so much love!