Well. I’m in Rwanda. Thanks to Alison & Brew, my luggage weighs less than me and I can actually manage to carry all of it at one time (though my clumsiness either inspires laughter or pity). I said final goodbye's at Union Station and struggled onto the train with my bags. Jeremy, a friend from NY days, picked me up at the Newark NJ train station, chauffered me through the grizzly bowels of Gotham to my old roommate Carey's home at Castle Terrace, in Hoboken, where pristine Victorians and towering trees line the brick street.

Monday, after a delicious breakfast with Carey at the Turning Point, my bags and I made the harrowing journey from Hoboken, across Manhattan and Brooklyn, to JFK. Big bag, little bag 1, little bag 2 and me all managed to get on and off the same planes at approximately the same time. It was lovely. My bags won’t tell me anything about their transport buddies, but I can gossip about mine.

Waiting at JFK was an African woman (west Africa) who was very confused. I think she was trying to visit the states but didn’t have the correct visa so they were sending her back. But she didn’t understand what was going on and ended up refusing to get on the plane. So, she and her bags had to be removed. Result – minor delays leaving JFK and foreign woman stranded in airport. Not allowed to enter the US, refusing to leave the airport and no one spoke her language. Sort of sad. While I was worrying about her (there was some commotion before we even got onto the plane), I met another worried about-her-passenger. She was ex-peace core, married to a Moroccan and contracting in Iraq. She was headed to Morocco to see her husband, who she hadn’t seen in two years.

On the first flight, there was this Frenchman who, according to his ticket, was supposed to sit next to me. He was a pastry chef at a hotel in Sonoma, CA. Lank. Bad teeth. Greenish skin tone. Didn’t shower. A bit stiff, put-offish (…and that’s coming from me). Gave me this slight sense that if I occupied just a centimeter of space, then maybe my existence might be justified...if that centimeter was further away from him. I guess that’s what people mean by “very French”. (I have had some sincere hospitality from the French so I know not all French fit into American’s “very French” stereotype. But he’s the reason that stereotype lives on.) As soon as he learned there was an open seat next to his friends, he left to joint them. I was delighted.

A minute after he left the Belgium boy from across the aisle asked if the window seat next to me was taken. Of course he could have it, I said, and hopefully he’d be able to see the NY skyline as we took off. Unfortunately the NY skyline ended up being on the opposite side of the plane. Still, Belgium boy was a nice flight mate. For one, he fit in his seat. Two, he was friendly. Three, he slept most of the time. Fourth, he showered. Cute little Belgium boy was about college age. He’d just finished a month volunteer program at an orphanage in Cusco, Peru. This was his 3rd day of “transit” – he’d had 15-hour layovers in Lima and NYC. So, he was a very tired little Belgium boy.

In Brussels airport, I and another person on my first flight chatted (half to keep ourselves awake) as we waited for our respective 2nd flights. She headed to visit her dad in the DRC. Her father is a prosecutor for Congo’s government. Years ago, when war broke out in the DRC, her dad’s life had been in danger. They had fled first Goma and then the Congo. Now he was back, working for the Government. The rest of her family had established residency in the States.

I was the one with the window seat on the final leg of my journey from Brussels to Kigali. The terrain was fascinating. It spanned the Alps, the length of Italy (you could even see the “foot” at the bottom), the Mediterranean Sea, the Sahara (where you could see Libyan oil wells puffing up large black clouds into the clean desert air) and then heavy grey clouds covering Uganda and Southern Sudan (which I’m told are quite green). A very talkative grandfather-like engineer sat next to me. He was Argentinean, with an ex-wife and seven grown children in South America. He is currently married to a legal consultant who worked and lived in Iraq, and he lives and works for a construction contractor in Rwanda. (2nd not together married couple of the trip.) I learned all about how to build a road through the Sahara (though the system has yet to be tested). I learned about how Goma’s streets are flooded with harden lava. I learned about the hotel business in Cancun, Mexico. I contested his claim that Christ never said he was the Son of God and that the NT was compiled by councils in the 4th Century (Dad – I really wish I had that FF Bruce book about the archeological record of the NT. Also, I need to brush up on my 1st and 2nd century church history. I knew there were earlier church councils, like Nicaea, and manuscripts that pre-date the 4th Century. However, the engineer was as locked in his thinging as I am. So ultimately, I don't think logical arguement would have persuaded him.) And I kept falling asleep on grandpa engineer. He liked to talk and would talk about everything. While it was interesting, my eyelids were heavy. I hadn’t really slept in 30 hours.

Finally, we arrived in Rwanda around 7 pm. It was the most turbulent decent I have ever experienced – probably because of the heavy clouds over Rwanda’s one thousand hills. I was surprised that the Sun had already set, but then grandpa engineer explained that the sun rises and sets around 6 every day, give or take a few minutes as we’re at the equator.

Everyone mobbed the visa office. People were cutting other people off, pushing themselves forward right and left. Including foreign nationals. I since learned that lines really aren’t formed in Africa – though – compared to other countries, people actually do queue up in Rwanda. After fighting more mobs to get big bag and little bag #2 off the world’s smallest luggage conveyer belt, I stumbled out the door to find Matt Smith waiting for me. Matt drove me like a madman past a funeral procession, up and down Kigali’s jumbled streets to Melissa Evans apartment. While most people in Rwanda have houses, she has a high-rise apartment – that’s what she prefers. It is a beautiful apartment the feels like it came straight out of a magazine. I’m staying with her for the next few days and working on projects for her at the bank.

Melissa is a cosmopolitan woman. She’s Urwego’s CFO. Born in the Philippines, raised in the states, educated at NC Chapel Hill, had a brief stint in Albany and has lived in Africa for the past nine years. Melissa loves to read. In fact, we share some of the same favorite books. She calls herself a recovered workaholic. So, I’m hoping to learn a few things from her.

Matt’s from Austin, TX (Can’t get away from these Texans. They’re everywhere. It’s like they’re gonna take over the world.) He manages special projects for the bank. Matt and I will be sharing an office and he’ll be the one that drives me to Urwego’s 27 branches, all over the Country as I work on my project. When he was talking me around town today to get my cell phone and exchange my money, people asked if we were brother and sister. Matt says that Caucasians look alike to them.

Matt showed me where I’ll be living, in Kyovue, the expat/rich Rwandan neighborhood. While the guesthouse has minimal furniture, it has a metal gate, security guards (dad aren’t you happy) and a cook/housekeeper. It also has a beautiful garden with lime trees, orange trees, herbs, and a gazebo. The garden looks down into the peopled valley below and across to the hills to the other side of Kigali.

Today, I meet everyone at the banks Kigali office. About 70 people. Unfortunately, I remember the names and faces of only 5 of them. Hopefully they’ll be forgiving as I learn to pronounce their names. I’m one of 4 non-Rwandans at the bank.

Rwandans (and foreign nationals) call the city “KIG-al-ee”. While some speak English or French, most speak Kinyarwanda. Hopefully I can pick up a little kin-yar-wandee in the next two and a half months.