Rwanda: green and rainy. If you were going to fly into a place about which you knew nothing other than it was the site of one of “the three great genocides of the 20th century,” Kigali, Rwanda may be the most likelmy to supply oyu with the expected goosepimples.
First we stop over in Bujumburu airport, which is nestled between too mist-topped mountains. The landing strip feels like it’s been warped by all the rain. A kid is riding his Schwinn right alongside the tarmac: the grass behind him is higher than his head.
There’s a rusty Air Burundi plan sitting idle next to a double prop that looks like it might have been part of the Marshall Plan. Someone has rolled out a red carpet from the terminal door to nowhere, but there are soldiers in antiquated outfits, shouldering antiquated rifles waiting at semi-attention for someone.
We’re waiting a half hour, so I snag a window seat. Then the plane fills up with people heading back to Nairobi via Kigali. One of the very last people to get on is a Spanish woman: she is supposed to be in my window seat. I offer to go back. She claims she doesn’t mind taking my aisle seat, all the while putting off a strong chinga tu madre vibe. Whatever. Ain’t gonna fight you to give you your seat back, lady.
The flight from Bujumburu to Kigali is less than a half hour, but this is when the real spook factor kicks in. Most of the flight is spent banking into Kigali airport. Between the fact that are no nice, median flatland around Kigali—just sprawling hilltops and valleys—and the slant of the plane, the area below always looks askew. Even the meandering river, which is, in reality, flat, looks to be running at an angle. The white clouds shrouding the mountain peaks and the impenetrable green leaves shrouding everything on the ground don’t help.
Get off the plane, run the usual argument with taxi driver about how much I’m paying him, why he took me to the wrong place, why he doesn’t know where this hotel is in his own frigging city, blah blah blah. Get out of taxi, find hotel by foot.
In my hotel now, quickly took off my rain-dotted shirt. Rains all day in Kigali: enough to keep your hair wet, not enough to soak your shirt. On the ground the city is distinctly uncreepy. Everyone seems friendly, the place isn’t nearly as rundown as Nairobi.
Shirt off, blog written, itch on my back reminds me that with the tropical climate comes the malaria-carrying ‘skeeters, so I throw on a tee. Note: mosquito net already installed on the bed. Looks exactly like the type my fiancée has been asking me to install for about a year and a half now. I miss milady. Wish she was here at the big genocide party with me.
Back outside, it looks like I spoke too soon. Definite creep factor at night. The streelights aren't working, but the halogen lights over every business is. Can't see anybody's face; just silhouettes off the wet street, reflecting the halogen.
I ask the hotel recption guy how long white people should be out walking alone. He says until nine. I heaf off for the internet, practically walking down the middle of the street to avoid all the darkened doorways.
(excuse any typos this week: French keyboards.)
