Getting up at 5am seemed so insignificant and far away. From the second we had left I had felt in a constant state of anticipation. The $50 USD taxi, or pick up truck as it turned out to be, that it had taken all night to arrange – trying to persuade other travellers to come with us to bring down the costs had, in fact, shown up and was making scarily fats progress along roads that really should be certified impassable. It became a game, in an attempt to distract ourselves from thinking too much about what was ahead, to see who could stand up in the back for the longest time possible without falling. The thought of falling to our death hadn’t even occurred to us.
This game was of particular interest to the hundreds of children’s who screamed ‘hello’ as we drove by. An added difficulty in the game became to wave, in addition to standing.
We became side-tracked by the majestic and mysterious mountains that had closed in around the road; we knew what their hidden depths contained and watching them make us hungry for it. As with all mountains you are reminded that we humans haven’t been around for long and that the earth is watching us, with infinitely wise answers to our questions waiting for us.
We had arrived; we began the slow ascent though the trees on foot, and fell silent, waiting. We felt as though we didn’t know what was around the next corner. And then it was upon us, the thing that made Rwanda so special. The graceful creatures that are decreasing in numbers steadily but surely that makes you realise how lucky you are to be in a place that generations after you will only read about. Time is limited and it goes past in a second. You have been let into their world and you watch them play and interact and fight an you realise that day after day while you are worrying about your job and getting that report in on time, they are here and they would always be here if it wasn’t for the actions of a selfish few.
It was so different to yesterday where we had visited the Churches of Nymata and Nyamrama. The genocide memorials of Rwanda. The first, although shocking, was museum like, enabling you to witness the horrors and remember those who had suffered in a dignified way. It allowed you to distance yourself from the tragedy, acknowledging that it had happened but at the same time not really believing that it was ever actually real. We cycled along our merry way to the next church to remember and acknowledge that we should have done more. Walking inside, the tears came. The horror hit you and you could smell the fear, the death. This was not a museum, or a memorial in any way what we expected and felt safe with. The church had been left exactly as it had been found by a local Tusti woman. We walked around the church listening to her story, jumping from pew to pew to avoid crushing the decaying bones of the thousands of people who had died here literally rotting uncovered beneath you, filling the spaces between the pews where live bodies should sit. Rags of clothes were scattered and the walls sprayed with blood and the machete holes left by the killers.
We weren’t the only visitors. A young man followed us in and acknowledged us. He too seemed terrified and in shock as he realised what had happened.
He walked in front of us and the machete wound that had caved in the back of his skull became evident. He had been here.
We left but not without visiting the grave of the sister of the woman who had preserved and set up the memorial. As she bent down next to the grave, it struck me once again how we in the west carry on with our lives without knowing half of what is going on in the world, so wrapped up are we in our own.
But alongside the appalling sense of tragedy is a magical atmosphere and a sense of triumph. A country that has looked over the edge of the abyss and come back. It is an incredibly friendly and hopeful society and the country has so many great joys. Instead of being a defining part of the country, it is possible to see beyond it a society that will heal. Rwanda is a magical place and it is a magical time to be there, where you can experience the daily life of the last living mountain gorillas who may be saved by the programs put in place and it is a place where you are welcomed and you can sit on the back of a motorcycle on a paved road in Africa and see hope.
Looking across my commuter carriage, I wish I was there now.
Vicky Lane
