We made it back alive, and went straight to Centre St. Vincent, the hostel run by nuns, who laughed at our condition on arrival (we must have been a sight) and took really good care of us. Then I decided that I really needed a hot shower, so on Thursday I went to the beach to a nice hotel with a real bed and hot water and spent two days recuperating and sifting through my summer experience. Today I tried to make it to Uganda, but halfway there on the bus my digestive system rebelled and I had to get off at the nearest town to stay the night. Luckily, that town is Ruhengeri, and I'm back at St. Vincent's with the nuns.
In all the time I have had to think and write, I have come to some conclusions about life and my trip in Rwanda. Things like this always seem trite, but I'll try my best...
The most important things are ones we tend to ignore because they're right in front of us: time with family, shared daily activities like making dinner, a beautiful sunset, the chance to share a laugh ith a stranger.
No matter how busy and stressful life is, there is always time to say hello.
People who drop by uninvited and unannounced are not just friends; they become family. They should be seen as blessings, not annoyances.
Keeping relationships informal creates friends wherever you go. Paying with food or an exchange of services forges a bond that money can't touch.
Sometimes there are things competely out of your control: rainy season, public taxis, etc. Not stressing about them and focusing only on what you can control makes you much more effective at accomplishing things.
People generally pull through; trusting them will get you better results than doubting them will.
People are generally good. Acting on this shouldn't mean being naive or stupid; but fearing everyone cuts you out of some amazing relationships and experiences.
Do not pity poverty. People don't want your pity, or if they do it is only because they have figured out the most effective way of exploiting white guilt. What they want is exposure to the things you have access to, and some help getting their hands on the tools that have not been available to them. The rest they are capable of doing, and pitying them is limiting.
Do not idealize their traditional ways of life. Tradition can be stifling. Some aspects of it are beautiful, but coupled with those things are poverty, disease, oppression, repression, ignorance, and anger. This is not to say we should attempt to change their culture either, but to see their lives as idyllic is far too simplistic.
There is a fine line between respecting the culture tht you are a guest in and denying the person you are and your own culture. Sometimes modificatiopns in behavior and small lies of omission help things go more smoothly. But if people welcome you into their homes and their lives, it is because they, too, are curious about another way of life. Be honest with them, because they already love you, and it's not like they don't know that things are different where you come from. That's why they asked. Explain why you believe what you do, but also don't expect to change their minds on the spot. If there is something that you're going to try to convince them of (like the importance of gender equality) make sure you choose your timing and audience carefully. Make sure, as well, that you are in the right mood and frame of mind.
Always dress nicely and shine your shoes. It counts.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Ellen versus the volcano
Two asides before I start this. Number one: I am out of the news loop, but can someone please explain why Tony Snow AND Karl Rove are resigning? I am ready to jump for joy, but I also have the sneaking suspicion that this means something sinister has happened and we don't know the half of it yet. Number two: As I sit here typing this, in EQUATORIAL AFRICA, I am wearing a wool sweater, long underwear under my jeans, and a scarf. Seriously, what is up?
Now for the real story. Since I last updated, the following things have happened: I found travel buddies and decided to climb a volcano. The office of tourism did not manage to give us any of the right information, so we attempted to walk 14 km to Kinigi; the town where park headquarters are, but no buses go... Then we spent a sleepless night camping at a hotel, and then we headed out for the hike. This is a classic tale of overestimating ourselves and underestimating the mountain. For about an hour, things were amazing. We were so excited to actually be there after the horrendously complicated ordeal that preceded the excursion. Then we realized that only hiring one porter and switching off carrying the other pack was ridiculous. But the guide's porter was amazing and took our other bag in addition to the one he already had. Porters are incredible. So that solved our problem, and life was good again. Until the hike started to get really intense and involve shin-deep mud and person-height stinging nettles, which I am still covered in. But we kept our chins up. Until it started to rain tropical amounts of rain and soak all our warm clothes. But we kept our chins up. Until it started to hail. (For full effect, at this point you should know that I am wearing shorts, a t-shirt, a shell raincoat, and chacos. Brilliant, Ellen.) Now I'm starting to not be so happy. So we ask the guide, Espoir, how much longer we have until we reach the base camp where we will sleep. At the tourism office, the guy told us the hike to the base camp takes two hours, so we're thinking that we are probably close. Wrong. Espoir says that it will be two more hours, maybe one and a half if we really go fast. In those two hours, we will gain about 700 meters in altitude; and we're already starting to feel it.
After a few minutes, Myriam starts stopping a lot. (You should know that she has low-grade food poisoning and thus cannot keep food down, so is essentially running on nothing at this point.) And I'm doing okay, except I'm freezing to death, running on no sleep, and trying to mentally convince myself that I don't have food poisoning, which ultimately was not the case. So while we are stopped, I realize that I can no longer feel my hands and feet, and I panic a bit. I'm trying to explain in very broken kinyarwanda that I need to keep walking, that we have to split up into two groups because if I stop I'll never make it. Normally splitting up is not a good idea, but I figured it would be okay because accompanying Myriam and myself were the following people: Espoir the guide, two super-human porters, and 12 members of the Rwandese army, equipped with satellite communication devices, AK-47s, and a rocket launcher. (More on that later.) So we split up, and in my panicked craze, I made it up that mountain in record time, but I'm not really sure how because I sort of blacked out. I do remember hallucinating that trees were the base camp, though. When we arrived, I took off my wet stuff and ate lots of food, and was sane again. But I still couldn't feel my extremities. The army dudes made a fire, and I tried to dry my clothes but it was so cold out that they wouldn't dry, so I was left with jeans, one sweater, and a not-nearly-warm enough sleeping bag (which I had carried under my raincoat). We pitched the tent, and I got in it to conserve body heat. I passed another sleepless night, shivering the whole time, still not able to feel my hands and feet, and at 6 am we got up and came back down the mountain. On the whole, it was not as horrible as this account makes it seem, because situations like that provide so much opportunity for irony and self-deprication, and we all know how much I love those. And it was a major learning experience. Here are my big lessons: 1) What Oregonian does not have a rain cover for her pack? Seriously. 2) When the guide tells you that you should get porters, do it. 3) When the guide tells you that many people don't even make it to the base camp, listen and think. 4) Difficult hikes are tons of fun when you're in good shape, and not fun at all when you're not. Get your butt to the gym this semester. 5) The "dry season" excludes the Virunga volcano range. 6) As stated earlier, Africa is not always warm. 7) If the fees for climbing the volcano seem really high, it's not because they're trying to rip you off, it's because 12 military guys need to get payed for keeping you safe.
Safe from what, you ask? They tried to tell us that there are dangerous animals in the mountains, which is probably true. But we were skeptical that animals merited that many guys and a rocket launcher. Plus, the mountains do border DRC, and it is the region where many different militia groups chill out, most notably the former Interahamwe. After Mymi and I pointed these things out, they finally admitted that there was an ever-so-slight chance of an attack by one of those groups. Add that to the list of things to know before you go.
Now for the real story. Since I last updated, the following things have happened: I found travel buddies and decided to climb a volcano. The office of tourism did not manage to give us any of the right information, so we attempted to walk 14 km to Kinigi; the town where park headquarters are, but no buses go... Then we spent a sleepless night camping at a hotel, and then we headed out for the hike. This is a classic tale of overestimating ourselves and underestimating the mountain. For about an hour, things were amazing. We were so excited to actually be there after the horrendously complicated ordeal that preceded the excursion. Then we realized that only hiring one porter and switching off carrying the other pack was ridiculous. But the guide's porter was amazing and took our other bag in addition to the one he already had. Porters are incredible. So that solved our problem, and life was good again. Until the hike started to get really intense and involve shin-deep mud and person-height stinging nettles, which I am still covered in. But we kept our chins up. Until it started to rain tropical amounts of rain and soak all our warm clothes. But we kept our chins up. Until it started to hail. (For full effect, at this point you should know that I am wearing shorts, a t-shirt, a shell raincoat, and chacos. Brilliant, Ellen.) Now I'm starting to not be so happy. So we ask the guide, Espoir, how much longer we have until we reach the base camp where we will sleep. At the tourism office, the guy told us the hike to the base camp takes two hours, so we're thinking that we are probably close. Wrong. Espoir says that it will be two more hours, maybe one and a half if we really go fast. In those two hours, we will gain about 700 meters in altitude; and we're already starting to feel it.
After a few minutes, Myriam starts stopping a lot. (You should know that she has low-grade food poisoning and thus cannot keep food down, so is essentially running on nothing at this point.) And I'm doing okay, except I'm freezing to death, running on no sleep, and trying to mentally convince myself that I don't have food poisoning, which ultimately was not the case. So while we are stopped, I realize that I can no longer feel my hands and feet, and I panic a bit. I'm trying to explain in very broken kinyarwanda that I need to keep walking, that we have to split up into two groups because if I stop I'll never make it. Normally splitting up is not a good idea, but I figured it would be okay because accompanying Myriam and myself were the following people: Espoir the guide, two super-human porters, and 12 members of the Rwandese army, equipped with satellite communication devices, AK-47s, and a rocket launcher. (More on that later.) So we split up, and in my panicked craze, I made it up that mountain in record time, but I'm not really sure how because I sort of blacked out. I do remember hallucinating that trees were the base camp, though. When we arrived, I took off my wet stuff and ate lots of food, and was sane again. But I still couldn't feel my extremities. The army dudes made a fire, and I tried to dry my clothes but it was so cold out that they wouldn't dry, so I was left with jeans, one sweater, and a not-nearly-warm enough sleeping bag (which I had carried under my raincoat). We pitched the tent, and I got in it to conserve body heat. I passed another sleepless night, shivering the whole time, still not able to feel my hands and feet, and at 6 am we got up and came back down the mountain. On the whole, it was not as horrible as this account makes it seem, because situations like that provide so much opportunity for irony and self-deprication, and we all know how much I love those. And it was a major learning experience. Here are my big lessons: 1) What Oregonian does not have a rain cover for her pack? Seriously. 2) When the guide tells you that you should get porters, do it. 3) When the guide tells you that many people don't even make it to the base camp, listen and think. 4) Difficult hikes are tons of fun when you're in good shape, and not fun at all when you're not. Get your butt to the gym this semester. 5) The "dry season" excludes the Virunga volcano range. 6) As stated earlier, Africa is not always warm. 7) If the fees for climbing the volcano seem really high, it's not because they're trying to rip you off, it's because 12 military guys need to get payed for keeping you safe.
Safe from what, you ask? They tried to tell us that there are dangerous animals in the mountains, which is probably true. But we were skeptical that animals merited that many guys and a rocket launcher. Plus, the mountains do border DRC, and it is the region where many different militia groups chill out, most notably the former Interahamwe. After Mymi and I pointed these things out, they finally admitted that there was an ever-so-slight chance of an attack by one of those groups. Add that to the list of things to know before you go.
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