The moon peeped through the clouds last night. That means today is a holiday in Kigali. It is IDD, the end of the Muslim month of Ramadan. If the moon hadn't poked out, it wouldn't have been a holiday and everyone would have been working. I wonder what happened in Ruhengheri. It is always cloudy in Ruhengheri at night.

Rwanda is, supposedly, the best place in the world to see Mountain Gorillas. You can see them in Congo...if you don't mind getting caught in a poachers trap. You can also find them in Uganda, though they aren’t as plentiful. You can see them sedated at the zoo too...I guess. But Rwanda. In Rwanda they are quite alive and active. So alive one of the young gorillas eyed my friend, Nathan, with a mischievous glint and then proceeded to jump out of the tree, onto him. Yes. Jumped by a gorilla. Rwanda's Virunga Volcanoes are the heart of their natural homeland. Rwanda was the home of Diane Fossey's research.

Currently 13 gorilla families live in Rwanda. (I say currently because the families travel to Uganda or Congo on occasion. Sometimes to establish permanent residence. Probably when they don’t like the present government. Gorillas are too peaceful to stage a coup.) Each family has one Silverback, a whole bunch of females and a slew of babies. I have significant issues with this one male, many female set up. However, when I declare the females need to be liberated from such a primitive social structure, the gorillas stare at me blankly and go on doing their thing. There may be a Blackback in the group (young male), but he can't enjoy the Silverback privilege - the females. In fact, if a Blackback and female are caught shagging by the female’s Silverback, both Blackback and Female are beaten, “just like humans” the guide tells us.

Our group, the Amahoro Group, is unusual. (What group isn't?) There are 15 in the Amahoro group. It has two Silverbacks. That, guide explains, is because one Silverback is “a casualty”. He is not the alpha silverback. Besides the two silverbacks, there is one Blackback, and about as many babies as females. That’s because the two Silverbacks keep themselves busy when they aren't sleeping or eating. Females have a nine-month gestation period.

Our group contains 8 tourists: Kim and Lance from New Zealand, Luke from Australia, Kat and Unky from Sweden, Rupert from England, one Japanese and me. A muzungo must pay more than twice as much as a Rwandan citizen to see Gorillas. I don't mind because of all the jobs I'm creating. One guide. 4 porters. 2 soldiers. We meet 4 trackers, when we come to the gorilla group. We approach gorillas with the trackers and our guide. We file important items into our pockets – passport, money, cell phones and camera. The porters and soldiers guard our bags while we go to meet the gorillas. Bags make them curious. We don't need curious gorillas as gorillas have been known to enjoy muzungo food and drink and $90 camelbak. No walking sticks. It reminds them of the poachers. No flash photography. No pointing or shouting allowed and, if a gorilla charges, definitely no running. It will just give them confidence. We don’t need confident gorillas. No going within 7 meters of the gorillas. They brush against our legs.

Our gorilla’s are lounging in a thicket of stinging nettles. I have my father's sensitive skin. Three days and a professional coffee-scrub massage later my legs still itch.

Now, I’ll let the pictures do the rest of the talking. Even Pulitzer prize-wining prose wouldn’t stand a chance against these photos and video clips of...

• Mama gorilla, baby gorillas and tracker
• How to make a gorilla nest
  
• Baby tree tumble
• Baby tree tumble for the patient
• Chowing on sting nettles
  

(That line on YouTube that says "Uploading. Please be patient. This may take several minutes." It needs to be revised to "several hours" in Rwanda given internet speed. One videos have yet to be added. For the pictures, I needed to obtain more online storage. There will be more on Picasso soon too.)

Tonight marks the beginning of another adventure – my first trip alone in Rwanda. I travel by Virunga bus to the foothills of the Virunga Mountains. Then, tomorrow, I go gorilla trekking. Yes. Up close and personal with the Gorillas. I’m hoping to hop up to Gisenyi (the resort town on the edge of Lake Kivo) after that, to rest by the lake, with a book and a suntan. It shall be back to Kigali Sunday. Again by Virunga. Very exciting. Traveling on my own.

Last Friday I added another stamp to my passport - Uganda. If Rwanda is a sly woman and Congo is a grizzly man, than Uganda is like an adorable, mangy puppy dog barking for your attention. What do I mean? Well, Uganda is a bit more chaotic (like Congo). All the taxi men and money changes come shouting at you as you cross the boarder. The roads aren't as nice. There are packs of steer or goat wandering here and there. The land isn't as heavily cultivated as Rwanda. Wild parts actually remind me of Sierra Nevada, in California, or of the Black Hills, in South Dakota. Uganda feels like a jovial big party. At least, that was my 30-minute impression. I know Uganda’s exports are huge. They are one of Rwanda’s largest importers. Even though every inch of Rwanda seems to be cultivated, the population is too dense for the country to supply food to all its citizens.

We didn't go far into Uganda - only to Lake Bunyonyi, the home of Bushara Island Camp our eco-tourism destination. We, in this case, would be Yan, Susy, Nyanja and I.

Uganda was the last great adventure of Yan and Susy's whirlwind tour. Serious whirlwind. First bit of travel advise. If you come to Africa, make sure you're here for at least 2 weeks. Yan and Susy had 9 days in Africa and two travel days. They departed DC the 12th; arrived the 13th. Climbed a mountain with me 14th - 16th. Went to Goma the 17th. Traipsed around Kigali the 18th. Traveled to Uganda and back 19th and 20th. Flew back to the States the 21st on a flight that left early. 9 days. Three countries. Thankfully they made it on the plane JUST before takeoff. Airport Security wasn't going to let them through check in. (Check in is on the other side of the security line.) A little power game ensued. Nyanja shouted at security. Melissa and I stood by the wall, biting are lips. We'd suggested they come to the airport two hours in advance. If people listened, this "rude muzungo tourist" drama could have been averted. After a few minutes security opened the door. Yan and Susy scrambled.

Second word of travel advice - don't try to cut the two-hour advance arrival time down in Africa. And confirm your flight three days ahead of time. Departure times are often changed, in advance or even as a last minute decision the day of. Once some people are loaded onto the plane, the airport staff go home. They like sending their flights out early. It means a shorter shift. Air traffic control at the destination can deal with it's own problems at the other end.

Well. Back to Lake Bunyonyi, the home of little birds. As a picture is worth a thousand words, let me show you 86 pictures. That's easier than writing 86,000 words...and you're more apt to pay attention. ☺. Nyanja took charge of this trip. Nyanja and I are very different; particularly in the way we handle things. Nyanja and AB are at opposite ends of the planning spectrum. For me it was a lesson in character development. Let’s say, it has been helpful to have a peaceful week to think and process.

Shelagh (pronounced Sheila) and I went down to the lunch together. I'd been visiting her office about something or other ("sleuth work" I call it) when the firm-wide announcement went out. I wish you could know Shelagh. She's shrewd but trustworthy. She's intelligent but in a very kind way; confident without being conceited; driven without being consumed. She's witty, both in the expat way and the Rwandan way. (Rwandan humor is different than America's. It employs logic and language twist, which I sometimes think more clever than the standard U.S. fair.) She's got a personality with depth, a sensitive heart and a little bit of edge - enough to make her spicy. Most of all, she's pretty. Her features are nicely proportioned and placed. Her skin is smooth and black. Though, what really animates all of her is a beautiful spirit and a secret joy (she's a newly expectant mother and she's got that special spark some of them have). Shelagh. She's someone I never want to loose contact with.

So, we grabbed lunch together. Today's specialty was rice and stone. It looked lovely, for traditional Rwandan food, which I admit isn't generally presented in an aesthetically pleasing manner. Particularly Rwandan buffet food. I enjoyed the rice up to the point were I discovered stone. That happened when I realized a tiny corner of one of my bottom front teeth was missing. I have excellent, strong teeth. No cavities. No need for braces. I and my dentist have always been proud of my teeth. Well. I guess, it was time for me to be taken down a peg or two. Archie's dentist, from the UK, had given him an emergency dental kit. He brought it back to the office. We opened the package and read the instructions. They actually had step-by-step instructions to fill a chipped tooth. Still, I was a tad nervous. This tooth was right up front - one of the teeth we use to tear our food. I made the second international phone call of my trip to contact my dentist, Dr. Love. She calmed me a little bit. Leave it, she said. (She didn't trust the "Dentanurse" package from the UK.) It should be fine and become less sharp over the next few days. They could either fill or whittle it down when I get back to the States in a month and a half.

Archie, the CEO of Urwego Opportunity Bank, called me into his office yesterday morning. Getting called into the CEO's office isn't frightening...at least for me. I'm not getting paid, so I have no fear of being sacked. Also, Archie's got a quick wit and a bundle of good stories. He is a Scot who has lived all over the world, running banks, logging institutions or managing the production of vanilla beans. But mostly banking. I'm not sure if he just financed the other things through banking. Archie was actually enjoying retirement in Scotland with his family when Opportunity International (the non-governmental organization with the largest ownership share in Urwego), asked him to come to Kigali, Rwanda to CEO the bank. He has more experience in retail banking (and living in Africa...which many can never adjust too), than anyone who has ever been at this bank. Thankfully, he accepted the short term assignment.

Archie's wife, Jenny, comes to visit in late October. She sounds like a fun and fiesty woman. I've heard stories about her jumping into a waterfall, fully clothed, to save a drowning Congolese man when they live in Zaire (now Congo). And she did it again...this time dressed for a tea party hosted by someone like the grand commissioner's wife (not sure what that is) to save some screaming mother's child. The child had fallen into the swimming pool next to their sortie. I've heard about Jenny's cooking...she's a professional chef(fess?).

Well, back to being called into the office. Archie very much liked the bit about eloping three posts ago. Scotland, he told me, had built up an entire industry around eloping. At one point, you couldn't marry without parental consent until 21 in England. Scotland was much more slack, requiring only 16 years and something like 3 days of residence. There has been much Eloping at Gretna Green, where an anxious young couple may be married over the anvil by a blacksmith, while they where being chased by a furious father.

While Lehman Brother's was in the process of declaring bankruptcy last Monday, I was in the process of bankrupting my precious supply of strength and patience.

Climbing Karisimbi, a volcano in Rwandan's Virunga range, sapped my strength. Karisimbi, Africa's third tallest mountain, ascends to 14,787 feet.

Our little troupe began our accent Monday, camped at 11,ooo feet Monday night, summited Tuesday morning and descended Tuesday morning/afternoon. By sundown, we were off the mountain driving back to Ruhengeri. My muscles, or lack thereof, didn't fully recover until today.

The fourth American in our posse, whom I guess I should call the first, exhausted my patience. It was for her sake the entire excursion had been arranged. I shall call her AB. ITom is more generous than I. He just says AB and I have opposite personalities. She has a bit of a hard time relaxing and tries to control every little detail in a country where you have to be open for mishap and surprise. My analysis is much harsher. I was continually embarrassed by the manner in which she spoke of our guide and our porters in their hearing. It was really because of them any of us made it through the thick brush to the summit. AB's just one of those people that makes me want to be contrary. She really means well, but her execution is not very considerate. My patience ran a tad short. Thankfully, the other members of our party provided escape.

We had quite a party - 18 in all. Our troupe consisted of 4 muzungos - the infamous AB, two friends from DC - Yan Lee and Susy Tukenan and myself. We had an aptly named guide, Patience, and five porters - Immanuel, Augustus, Andrew, John and Beatrice. Four porters carred our bags. One carried theirs. Finally, there were 8 soldiers - 2 for every muzungo. Rwanda is one of the safest places in Africa. Why do we need soldiers, we asked? Patience explained that Rwanda was safe because the government made certain that it remained so. The soldiers were there to protect us from wild beasts and thieves. Also, it was part of their training. They carried heavy packs and constructed a shelter out of brush. They built their fire from scratch. Four went ahead and four behind. We couldn't take photos of them. They couldn't fraternize with the muzungos (which was a tad of a shame as one of them was tall, dark [obviously] and handsome).

I learned a new word in Kinyarwanda - beyondo, or mud. We were up to our ankles in mud. Literally. Yan, unfortunately, experienced altitude sickness first hand when we arrived at our camp, around 11,000 feet. Thanks to the little camping stove Matt made us out of a Coke can and an Ovaltine bottle, we were able to boil water for a little bit of heat. She did not try to make it to the summit with AB, Susy and I. Susy's little body was amazing. She came straight from DC swamp level and made it to the summit - on a muddy rugged trail that was quite vertical.

Tuesday morning, after Susy, AB and I were already panting, Patience insisted that we stop, rest and have some chocolate. After he could tell, we'd had time to collect ourselves, Patience told us the real trek was about to begin. We spent the next 600 meters scrambling through mud and climbing trees. We only made it up because our respective porter's held our hands - Immanual with Susy, Andrew with AB and I with Augustus. They practically pulled us all up the last 1000 meters. I only made back down, but clinging to Augustus, stepping where he directed and jumping into his arms, again and again.

If you'd like to see all 104 pictures from the trip with commentary, please visit the following link.

I really love being in Africa. There is something restless in my soul that is at peace here. I think, it may be the adventure of navigating routine in a very different world. I love it so much, I don't want to leave...which is part of the reason I just extended my stay until November 1st. A whole two weeks more. I won't make it back to the states until November 2nd, two days before the elections (strategically planned to minimize drama...partially.)

I hope no one is to insulted by this...but the only thing I really miss are the conversations with my dad about books, music and just living. That's what Skype is for. Right?

Melissa sent me one line the other day: "Hi Grace - Don't get married in Tanzania". There was a link to this article. In a sound bit, it says that, in a country where 89 percent of the population survives on a single meal a day, a wedding ceremony costing $10,000 would be considered quite cheap. The bride and groom designate committees, including the most important: the fundraising committee. People often take out loans to give to the wedding of people they don't even know. Then, there are the African wedding crashers, which lend a whole new meaning to the term Wedding Crasher. What do the bride and groom receive as gifts? Barely nothing.

Some call it marriage made easy, others think it's just another way to show up the haves from the have-nots. Either way, wedding committees are part and parcel of life...not just in Tanzania. Rwanda has it's own rituals and appear to be just as costly. There have been probably 7 wedding at the bank (Urwego Opportunity) since I've been here. Everyone gives to everyone elses' wedding. They ask during devotionals. Then lists are circulated. People pledge. People all see how much everyone else pledges. 5,000 RWF (a bit more than 9 USD) after 5,000 RWF bill flow into the department head. Then the department head collects funds and gives it to the wedding couple. At least, that's what is supposed to happen. I was in the financing room, working with Adelin and Chantal, when a bride-to-be received her bucket of 5000 RWF bills. Bucket. I'd never seem such cash. I felt like I was witnessing a bank robbery. And I was in a bank.

I've also seen pictures of the weddings. They are lavish affairs with tents of people...and five long ceremonies:

1) The Giving of the Cow (by the Groom's family to the Brides family, which she disburses as desired...read much family squabbling)
2) The Civil Ceremony (at least two hours)
3) The Church Ceremony (as long as the civil ceremony)
4) The Reception (which lasts forever. If it isn't a Christian couple, there is much dancing and alchohol flows abundantly.)
5) Finally there is the Coming Home Ceremony, where the family and friends take the bride to her new home and hang out before the bride and groom do their thing.
6) Finally, finally - there is yet another tradition. The bride's family isn't supposed to visit the new couple until the couple has first visited them. This tradition is seldom honored.

By the end, everyone is exhausted. Many Rwandan's don't even like all their traditional ceremonies. Though, the Rwandan men very much like the honeymoon. At least, that's what the single ones tell me.

I think the real marriage made easy is what my grandma did in 1944 - elope. Grandma boarded a train in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and road to San Bernadino, California. She and Grandpa Teddy went to the courthouse. Then, after being made decent, they stayed in Riverside's mission inn...at least while Teddy wasn't at boot camp, preparing for the European Front.

Much simpler. No debt. No ridiculous amounts of money spent on a single day...particularly when the bride and groom have no money. Better financial footing for the new couple. (They'll have enough problems to sort through there first year without added money trouble.) For those of you who actually will date and get married, eloping seems like a wonderful way to go.

(For those of you who get frustrated when I sing the praises of eloping, just remember, at present you're fighting a mute battle. So, please allow me to admire the esoteric elopement model, especially when weddings become a means of impoverishing the bride, the groom, the extended family and the community.)

Melissa, don't you worry. I won't get married in Tanzania.

Nyanja always laughs at the Grace routine to for getting on a moto taxi.

Step 1: Hail the moto taxi. They screech to a halt for the muzungo.

Step 2: Sputter some Kinyarwanda polititude like "mwyaramutse" (good morning) or "mwirwiwe" (good afternoon).

Step 3: Try to explain where I need to go, using neighborhood names and landmarks. (There are no street names here. No one knows addresses.)

Step 4: Negotiate a price. This is were I always find out the price ahead of time so I don't get the muzungo price (double normal price).

Step 5: Put a plastic shower cap on my head, to protect my hair from potential lice.

Step 6: Put on the Helmet. If the strape is broken or the helmet too loose, I look for a different taxi.

Step 7: Get on moto taxi. (Always challenging in a taylored skirt. The site is know to trigger laughter.)

Step 8: Ride. My left had grasps the rail of the seat behind me. My right hand, is placed gingerly on the moto taxi drivers shoulder. I shout "buhoro, buhoro" (slowly, slowly) and am ignored. So, then I revert to option 2, grasp taxi driver's right shoulder more tightly, to the point he feels the prickle of my long finger nails.

Step 9: Point directions to the exact final destination.

Step 10: Get off, mixing French and Kinyarwanda, with a murakose/ca va bien/chow (thank you/it is good/bye) and pay the negotiated price. Generally the taxi drivers are able to make change.

Congo is not Africa for beginners.
Congo is like a man, full of grit and grizzle. Motorcycles, minibuses and heavily laden wooden bicycles, swivel and grind along the lava-strewn streets in haphazard fashion. A swarthy Swahili-speaking Congolese proudly ripples his muscles, swinging in and out the sliding side door of his taxi. Determined, he crams 20 plus passengers into the minivan size vehicle – 4 abreast, 5 rows deep. More passengers; more money. One might spot sporadic UN Land Rover near the sole fancy hotel in Goma's town center or near the market. The women are in traditional garb – a dress or ream of fabric made out of some geometric African print. They labor along with a load on their head. Bags of cabbages. Firewood. Baskets of tomatoes. Most have a baby bump on their back. Children, looking barely three, balance yellow plastic cartons of water on their head. It’s boisterous. Congo teams with life and black dust. Chaotic. Unpredictable. Exciting. The sights and sounds are almost over stimulating.

Rwandan is like a woman; well-kept gardens line the trim red roads in good repair. (Well…relatively good repair. We are in Africa.) She is also bustling with life, but in a quiet, much more ordered way. Rwandans still plod along the side if the road. Men and woman still carry burdens on their heads - bundles of cassava leaves, baskets of peanuts or cobs of roast corn, peace baskets (originally from Uganda) or bushels of wood. They are a subtle people. You see it in the Rwandan’s faces. Like a woman, they don’t always show all their cards. Is there something they’ll spring on you? You never know.

I like them both. I like them different. Being a woman who doesn’t show her cards, I might fit better in Rwanda. But Congo was definitely adrenaline rush.

This weekend I visited a village outside of Goma with Nyanja’s mother, Josephine, who doesn’t speak a lick of English. I speak even less French, Kinyarwanda and Swahili. Somehow, we managed to communicate. It added to the adventure.
Saturday just after sunrise we met at Virunga’s bus station. Josephine stuffed us in the second row from the back of the bus, right next to the radio. She directed me to the seat right above the bus wheel, where I crunched, in fetal position the entire six-hour trip. About three and a half hours in, I remembered that I didn’t have enough padding on my bottom for a long road trip and Josephine proceeded to get quite sick. Part of me thinks it might be motion sickness, as we snaked up and plummeted down the hills, steering around potholes at a determined pace. I even got a tad queasy. Any motion sickness definitely seemed to be extenuated by the back of the bus. I discovered during the weekend, Josephine tried to sit in the back and always seemed to get sick, unless I stuffed her with my precious supply of Tylenol. On the return trip, when we had to sit in the only remaining spots at the front of the bus, there was no motion sickness. (I think it may have also been stress, for Josephine. The final Rwandan leg of the trip bring back memories of the genocide for her.)

Despite my uncomfortable position, I ogled at Rwanda's beautiful country as we journeyed to Goma. Charles tells me Rwanda has been described as the Switzerland of Africa. I can see why. The difference is that Rwanda is more agrarian and appears more populated. Hills are irrigated from the valley to the very summits. I remember how, as a little girl next to mother in her garden, dirt was made of three components: mud, clay and sand. Mother would get soil for her garden containing more of one and less of the other. Mud was the primary soil component in Wisconsin, so dirt was blackish. In Rwanda it seems to be clay...clay and sand. The result - red roads. (In Congo, the ash remaining from nearby Nyiragongo's 2002 eruption seems to be the primary soil component.)

At Gisenyi (Rwanda’s pristine resort town across the border from Goma), we switched to a taxi, which took us to the custom’s office. I filled the proper paperwork with Rwanda, got a stamp in my passport and walked 50 paces into the Democratic Republic of Congo, for another stamp in my passport. Papa Babi, Nyanja’s father, works for customs, so it made crossing into the DRC easier. Congo’s corrupt, including the government officials. They generally don’t let people pass without some form of bribe. Having the Papa Babi connection made crossing the boarder easier. Still, they refused one of my $20 bill used to pay the $35 visa entry fee. The clean, fresh bill had a tiny tear and it was printed in 1999, not the past 5 years. So, I had to scrounge for acceptable, tattered Rwandan Francs. There was some Swahili commotion I didn’t understand. Then we left.

It was astounding how the world changed in the 200 paces between Rwanda and Congo.

Papa Babi and Josephine walked us to a little black VW Rabbit he had hired. At first I thought they’d hired it because Nyanja’s mother was so sick (she’d been vomiting next to me on the bus), but I later found it had been hired because of me. We piled in and proceeded to bump along, bottoming out every 50 paces and fighting with moto taxis, clumps of people, taxis, bikes and UN peacekeeping vehicles for a little square of road. We seemed to be zigzagging around. I wasn’t sure why. All I knew is that the idea of a restroom sounded very pleasant, but how to say that without being rude? I didn’t know. So, I remained quiet and watched and listened.
The black Rabbit came to a screeching halt. I looked around. This was where I would be staying? My heart fluttered. Yikes.

I got out of the car. A swarm of cute, filthy children buzzed past me, singing “Mzungo, Mzungo, Mzungo”. (That’s Swahili for me: white person.) A teenage boy came up and tried to kiss me. I slapped him. (Alison, I believe slapping to be quite appropriate in this instance.) Somehow, I managed to escape my maze of children and tumble after Papa Babi and Josephine. This was not home. (What a relief.) This was the market. They had brought me to get some meat, tomatoes, onions and beans. I wish I had good pictures for you, but I felt like I would have embarrassed Josephine and Papa Babi if I took out my camera. So, no pictures. Just memories. Papa chose which vendors we would approach. They sat in their little plywood booths, under an wobbly construction of sticks and plywood covering. One had a calf’s leg hanging from the unstable structure. Papa when up and negotiated for one kilo of the nicest part, the thigh. (They were being so good to me.) Then we found tomatoes, onions, peas and peppers from other vendors. Everyone started at me. I followed, wide-eyed with amazement and very much wondering if this country had restrooms. Probably not.

We returned to the little right-drive Rabbit, for one final car adventure on our trip to Papa Babi's. The taxi drive got distracted by one of his friends at the side of the road. All of a sudden there was this CRUNCH. This boy on a bike had been trying to sneak between the minbus two feet in front and the little black Rabbit. Our driver had hit him. The Boy-man looked terrified and the seat had come off his bike. Our taxi driver got out of the car. After a five minute Swahili shouting match (where about 25 bystanders piped in), the driver hopped back into the car and we drove away. I had no idea what had been said, though that is when I figured out the right-drive Rabbit was a private taxi.

After driving for probably another 15 minutes, the taxi pulled off the rood and, in 100 yards, up to a red metal gate. We all piled out, this time for real. We were home. Finally. It was a lovely home - white stucco walls, high ceilings. A front and side tile porch. Red concrete floors. Curtained white framed windows Much nicer than the surrounding blackened plywood shanties. In fact, it was wired for electricity and plumbing...for whenever the Congolese government got around to bringing infrastructure out to their village, at the very end of the minibus line from Goma. So that meant that I used the outhouse and washed in a pail of water. They kindly warmed my water, using the little charcoal stove. I was there special guest.

My first visit to the outhouse (featured right, the door at the very right), was a cultural experience. After I unfastened the lock, the slanted wooden door swung open to reveal a room, with a square hole cut out of boards in the very center. Mosquitoes swarmed just below that hole, above the cesspit of feces. There was no toilet paper and I couldn't find a latch to fasten the door from the inside. Josephine realized my predicament while I was inside, doing my thing with the door flapping open uncomfortably. She came to my rescue and locked me in. That was all very well and good until I wanted to get out. Being locked inside an outhouse isn't my idea of a pleasant experience.

After a plenteous serving of soda and fruit (sweet bananas, sour oranges, mangoes and the red fruit) we had a rest before heading into town to go to the supermarket...via an over-stuffed minibus. Everyone stared and shouted at the mzungo. I wish you could have all stuffed into the taxi with me. It was an experience I can't explain and will never forget. At Kivu Market (where expats shop in Goma), Papa Babi and Josephine insisted I pick whatever fresh bread I wanted. Nervous of exploiting their generosity, I tried to get day old bread. Unacceptable. They insisted. Fresh. So, I pointed to the baguette and sh. Those are usually delightful and cheap. They got three...but appeared absolutely shocked when they found out the price. Papa told me that they had "no more money". Of course I felt awful, wanted to pay and wasn't allowed.

Back home we began to cook. Have I mentioned how long cooking takes, done the Rwandan way? We started at 16:30 (half past 4). We finally ate at 20:30, four hours later. That was with the help of the houseboy. Granted, the "Rwandan way" means breaks for all the neighbors who stopped over. Still, Josephine prepared a feast for me. Meat. Peas. Beans. Rice. Ugali. French fries. We moved from cooking outside to cooking outside and inside. They let me watch the inside bit. (I wanted to do things, but every time I pantomime/asked, Nyanja's mom would laugh and shake her head. Josephine's sister came to help cook too. Her family - husband and two sons (Chuchu and Danny) came to help eat.

Me, attempting to eat Ugali the traditional way, was a source of endless amusement for everyone. Buckets of laughter followed every try. In the course of the evening her husband invited me to go to prayer with them the next morning. They are Jehovah Witnesses. The little wheels in my head spun. Not fond of Jehovah Witness by any means. However, I've heard that it is ruder, in Africa, to say no than to lie. And, there was this little part of me that was curious. It would be a cultural experience. The Congolese couldn't really peskily proselytize me. I live on the opposite end of the world. If anything, I’d have more of a basis for what I think. So, I said, if it was in English, I would go. In English? Yes, yes, yes.

Everything was in French – the smattering of Bible verses, the Hymn, the readings and Q&A from the Watchtower magazine and the final hymn. I was all fine and dandy, sitting, enjoying my cultural experience until this cute Congolese girl with an English “Watchtower” shifted across the isle, so I could read along. Then my blood began to boil. Nothing bothers me more than the misuse of Scripture. I think Jehovah Witness is a cult. They take scripture out of context ALL the time. Dad used to say that, if you picked and chose from Scriptures, you could manipulate them to say whatever you want. ("Judas went out and killed himself." "You go and do likewise."...Not that that is what I want.) Whenever the Jehovah witnesses came to our door, dad would have hour long conversations with them...until church leadership figured out it would be best to just have their people skip our house. Dad would ask their people to many troubling questions.

Anyways, that was a total aside. I have three more Congo stories to tell. The next is about the houseboy, _____. Saturday night, after all our guests left, Josephine & Papa Babi gave me the lantern to go use the outhouse. (By now, toilet paper had been found for the special guest. The houseboy was outside, washing dishes. I crept up the stairs, entered and locked the outhouse with the special nail latch to which Josephine had so kindly introduced me. Then I heard the other stairs on the opposite side of the outhouse creak. A rather uncomfortable sensation, given there are small cracks between the planks. Still, I tried to think the best of the situation as I returned to the house. Papa Babi and Josephine gave me the key to lock myself into my bedroom and a light by which to change. I could hear them chatting in the living room as I prepared for bed. I glanced out the window to see this shadow, shaped like the houseboy, right by the curtain crack. I rustled the curtains. The shadow disappeared. Back to brushing my teeth. In another minute, the shadow reappeared. I lifted the curtain again, only to experience the same disappearing act. The next morning, I was up and about before Josephine and Papa Babi. (I couldn’t help it. The roosters started to crow at 5 am and didn’t stop. It was like a “who can cock-a-doodle-do loudest” contest, not at all sleep conducive.) The houseboy was up and about too, scrubbing the floors. I approached my little peeping Tom, pantomimed hiding behind the curtain and then pointed at my window. He hung his head and shock it vigorously, frightened and guilty. I let it be. What could I do? I didn’t want to accuse him falsely, though I was 96% certain it had been him. I told the story to Nyanja, late Sunday night. She laughed it had to me him. See, she explained, he was deep in the African bush. I should have seen him take his first ride on a minibus. In fact, unbeknownst to me, our little right-drive black Rabbit had driving all over town to find him. He was lost somewhere in Goma. Nyanja said _____ had probably never seen a female mzungo before. He had been quite thrilled when I took his photo or tried to talk to him…I could even tell. Somehow, I couldn’t be angry with my peeping Tom anymore.

After prayer, Josephine took me to visit her sister’s family. Her sister’s home was more like the other ashen shanties…just larger, with land, a garden and animals. Josephine brought me over to the barn and laughed as I scrambled away from the birdhouse of pigeons that dived towards my head when I passed by. There were big pigs and little pigs, hens and chickens, cock, ducks, dogs, cats and ducklings, all living in relative harmony. Then Josephine took me into the main room, in her sister’s house. A large dining room table covered with a white embroidered tablecloth dominated the room. The walls were of plywood and a TV sat on the stand at the opposite end of the room. It felt like a kitchen, dining and family room combined. We, and other guests, sat around the table sipping Fantas and discussing the CIA. A fuzzy little duckling wandered around my feet, as I rested them below the table. The duck and hen came to visit, only to be shoed away. Discussing government theory with a little fluffy duck underfoot is not an everyday experience…at least not in my world. The contrast between intellectual aptitude starkly contrasted with wealth.

There is one final story to be told. However, for those of you who are concerned about my safety, please stop reading. For those who don’t care, pray continue. Josephine made the entire bus stop as soon as we got to Kigali she made me get off with her and get on a moto taxi. All I really wanted was to go home and shower, but no. I had to come to her home for dinner. Well, I’m glad I did. Nyanja translated the bits of story that I didn’t know, while it was still fresh in Josephine’s mind. A major bit was this. At the customs office, when I was entering the DRC, they wanted a bribe. No bribes provided. Then they insisted that, while they knew I was being taken to the village, I couldn’t stay there. It wasn’t safe. I had to return to town in stay in the nice hotel, where all the expat’s congregate. This is the reason for the commotion in the customs office. That’s why they had moved on of the stove inside to cook, after it got dark Saturday night and why they gave me the key to lock myself into the room at night. When Nyanja told me the whole story, I playfully accused Josephine of lying. Nyanja’s mom replied that it was too hard to explain. It wasn’t in the dictionary.

The DRC is a tumultuous place. Many of the Hutu Power, who perpetrated Rwanda’s genocide 14 years ago, had gone into hiding there. Raids are still common. The government is totally corrupt. I’m glad I didn’t know where I stayed wasn’t considered safe…until my return. I would have still done it, but been so nervous.

So. That way Congo. Signing off, safe and sound in Rwanda. Yan and Susy arrive today. We head to the mountains tomorrow, to prepare to climb Karisimbi. More adventures to come soon.

Yesterday was Salomon's birthday celebration...and Josephine's. He turned 2. Josephine turned... I am happy to report that Salomon was very enthusiastic about the cake I made for him from scratch. Whipping that butter by hand with my arm muscles (or lack thereof) was a true labor of love.

Something from dinner last night didn't settle well with my tummy. It was probably the cabbage cheese salad. You ask why I ate a cabbage cheese salad? Well, it looked pretty...and it was for Salomon. Looks can be deceiving. Salomon thought it was pretty too. In fact, he grabbed some from my plate and stuffed it in his mouth. Then there was this little boy grimace. He pulled it immediately out of his mouth and placed it back on the corresponding pile on my plate. Not being a cute little boy celebrating my 2nd birthday, I couldn't quite get away with the same thing. I ate the salad.

Result. Upset stomach and etc. Today, I have had no desire to eat, but have needed to remain hydrated. Instead of a proper lunch I ran out of the bank to grab water from the shop 6 doors down. As always, I stumbled through a Kinyarwanda greeting as I came back through the door, past our armed security guard and the front desk clerk. They always smile and wave back. The armed guard has a little English, but the front desk clerk has almost none. As I past the desk clerk, on my way back she said in perfect English, "We all love you."

So precious. Totally made my day.