My very green, GREEN card :-)

I may have never gotten one in the US, but I certainly made it in Africa!!! As of today, July 30, 2010, I am a Rwandan resident (well, Rwandan foreign resident)!!! YUHUUU!!! Well, I don't quite know what all of this means, other than that I will have certain discounts for trips and savanna park entries. I hope it doesn't also mean I have to start paying taxes here?! In any case, I have never been as excited about a document before. This is, indeed, the greenest ID ever imaginable (you will notice that, by coincidence, even the photo is taken against a green background, while I was wearing a green top...) What were the odds, right... I just have to figure out now how I can carry this thing around, since folding it does not seem to be an option?!

In light of one of my previous entries, I must add that the immigration officer, a very sexy, tall, married man by the name of Andrew, was filling in my papers while offering life advice. I was duly informed that "there are many young, single, cute Rwandan men", and that I should totally forget about going back and just stay and build a future here. He assured me that, once married, citizenship will not be a problem whatsoever... I imagine that another Rwandan is all this place needs, if we consider how densely populated the country already is!

Jungle Graveyard

I didn’t quite expect that my first ever anthropo-archeological experience would take place in a gorilla graveyard, at an altitude of 3,000 m, in the most incredible, eerie forest on the face of the earth.

We started up at 7 a.m. on Monday morning, with a team of specialists from George Washington University. Leaving their PhDs aside, we can also call them “the bone people”. They’ve been here for several weeks, and they have dug up several gorilla skeletons, in order to study their disease history and stuff. This Monday was going to be very special, though: for the first time we would take the gorilla remains out from the original cemetery, where Dian Fossey is also buried. On top of that, this grave (belonging to one of the legendary silverbacks in Rwanda) had been desecrated in March, so the surprise element was eating at us all. Would we find something/anything?

Once the cars dropped us off at the edge of the park, after a terribly bumpy ride, we hired six porters from the village for our heavy equipment (now that I also have a big telescopic lens for my camera, I also need someone to carry my stuff up. Honestly, every hundred grams less makes a difference when you hike like this). Of course these guys ran us up the mountain like crazy, so my idea of being fit took a hard blow, when I was left breathless (of course, I keep saying to myself that the horrible pneumonia I had last fall still has something to do with the fact that I get tired unusually fast, and I never seem to get enough air in my lungs).

After a couple of quick breaks, we entered the park and then this movie-set Hagenia forest. Simply breathtaking (on the positive note, this time). After about an hour, we reached the old camp site, which Dian Fossey set up and ran, and which was completely looted and then destroyed during the 90s. Luckily this is still the dry season, so the paths were decent, although the soil does get swampy here and there. I was sweating like crazy and freezing at the same time, so I didn’t quite know how to negotiate between my fleece, pullover and rain jacket, other than on-and-off several times.

A short walk later, and here we were at the gorilla graveyard. Dian started it when she buried Digit, her favorite silverback, killed by poachers in 1978. She was later buried here herself. Since then, the place has become a true pilgrimage site (an expensive one too, at about $75/person).

The American scientists were quick to set-up and explain to everyone that since the grave had been desecrated, this was going to be an unusually delicate operation. Basically, two women would scrape the entire surface just with trowels, while all the men would either sit around and watch, or sift the stuff dug up. Considering that this was a massive pit and the pace very slow, we were all bracing for a very long day (well, couple of days).

Trying to warm up in the freezing temperatures, everyone was guessing away the reasons for which the locals would have dug up the gorilla skeleton. Someone offered that it was surely to sell it to a collector, while someone else believed it was for a much more pragmatic reason: the villagers will have wanted the blanket in which the silverback had been carried, and which they assumed would have been buried in the pit as well.

The operation did indeed, take a veeery long time. All the while I fussed around, took lovely pictures of everyone and everything, and at the same time cursed the fact that no one else around seemed able to take a decent picture of myself (for the millionth time, HOW HARD CAN IT BE TO POINT AND SHOOT, on a really fast, accurate camera?!?!?!) But leaving my photographic frustration and the freezing cold aside, I did enjoy the day to the most. It was then and there, in that magical forest, that I knew I had made the right decision for Africa. My life-long dream to be in such a fabulous place had indeed become TRUE.

On a more mundane level, it is definitely noteworthy that my lunch consisted of a slice of by-then almost frozen pizza (this is certainly one of the most unusual places where anyone will have ever had pizza…) Although dehydrated, I almost didn’t have any water up there, since that bottle was colder than the vodka bottle I usually keep in the freezer.

Notwithstanding all this, the two American women were quite amazing, digging upside down for hours. First a tooth, then a pile of hair, and finally, on the second day, the real body started appearing. Turns out the looters had only snatched the head, so everything else was pretty much in order. We now have the skeleton remains in the garage, in my backyard, so the story certainly goes on, in quite an intimate way…

My Prospects

After my visit last year to Guatemala – where every man, married or single, broke every conversation by “how old are you?” and “are you married?” -, I was expecting a surge of intimate questions in Africa as well. To my surprise, men in Rwanda tend to be somewhat more reserve, while the ones in Congo don’t need to ask anything. They just go straight for the grabs. (Ironically enough, I had to ‘complain” about the Congolese’ “sexual harassment” last week to my boss in Kigali, who is, actually…. Guatemalan. He has put all my Congo travel on hold until we ‘re-evaluate the situation’.)

Anyhow, yesterday I was out in the field, to an area called Bisate, just next to the Volcanoes National Park. We were visiting a school in order to inaugurate a new classroom block (which replaces the old mud structure that collapsed last year). While I was on tour with my camera, this teacher approaches me and asks about my age and marital status. I deducted two years, in order to not shock the guy two much, and I did say I was not married. The stunned look on his face was priceless. Probably not as much though as the one on my face, when he asked, in broken English, “And your prospects?!”

Aha, “my prospects”… In an instant I flew back to my apartment building in Cluj, where some five years ago a concerned neighbor was asking me “dar perspective ai?” I guess I could fool that guy, but this teacher had me hooked. So there I was, the white woman (I am reminded EVERY day of how different my skin color is), supposedly in control of the situation, totally humbled by the lack of prospects…

It is funny, indeed, how we (the whites) are viewed here. (If you are into political correctness, stop reading!) Everywhere you go, people in the streets will call you “mzungu” and start pointing at you. According to Wikipedia, the word in Swahili actually means “person of European descent who roams around aimlessly”. It came to signify “white”. So I can imagine that many locals would think that we are actually here without any prospects (personal ones, in the first place). Sort of, those guys who just couldn’t get a life in the white world and came down here to feel good about themselves. They all assume, however, that we are loaded (which is a funny concept, considering that many whites just volunteer here).

So yes, I predict a busy weekend coming up, since I will have to define some sort of prospects for myself, to be able to live up to the tough questions next time :-)

Me and My Private Soldier :-)

First Day in the Volcanoes National Park

After a few weeks of bureaucracy, I finally received the park permit last week. It will allow me to enter for free in the next six months and visit all animal groups (gorillas, monkeys, buffaloes, elephants, antelopes, etc).

I decided to take it easy, so yesterday I chose the golden monkeys. They live only in Central Africa, and they are endangered - of course. At least in Rwanda they are not poached for bush-meat (unlike in neighboring DRC)...

What I didn't realize was that being a "mzungu" I needed a special escort in the park. All Rwandans (researchers and students) could go right ahead, whereas I needed a guy with a gun. I was, actually, quite taken with the idea. For the first time in my life I would have "my own soldier".

The monkeys were ranging somewhere around 2,600 m in altitude (which is higher than the highest mountain peak in Romania), but the hike was relatively easy. Until the park border we had to meander through village crops (mostly potatoes), and then we reached the bamboo area.

Walking through that vegetation is sooo different from any other forest experience I had before. The bamboo stems seem so fragile, but they are so sturdy and so dense. At times it felt like we were going beneath a stack of spears. I also learnt, the hard way, that fern stems sting like crazy.

We reached the monkey group around 11 a.m. and stayed with them (or chased them) for a couple of hours. They are such cute, funny animals!!! And although they come very close to you, they are so hard to photograph, as they just won't sit still for one second. Or they'll be obscured by thick vegetation, even if they are less than a meter away. I was imagining already how hard it would be to shoot a documentary on them. It would take days, or even weeks, for some decent footage.

I did get some good pics, though, and I also managed not to get peed on (I understand they love peeing on the people underneath the trees). And yes, I also did have a swell time with my private soldier (professionally only, of course). He now says he'll put in a request to always accompany me from now on :))

Landing in Butembo, DRC. Quite THE experience

Malaria

When you are in Africa and wake up in the morning with fever, chills, nausea and diarrhea, and when you have obsessed for weeks about that ONE mosquito bite on your leg, you do have to consider the worst… Yes, malaria!

Although the areas where I’ve been are mostly high-up, therefore with a pretty low risk of getting this disease, it is certainly around. And it is not to toy with!!!

Since I gave up prophylaxis around mid-June (I really didn’t feel like popping antibiotics daily for so many months), I sort of relaxed about this altogether. But Friday morning, right before I was supposed to sit in our staff meeting, I did have a panic attack: what if I actually have it?!

My colleagues quickly arranged a car to take me to the local hospital –where, supposedly, they are very good at diagnosing malaria within half-an-hour, after getting a drop of blood from the tip of your finger. A co-worker, Emmanuel, joined me, as I wasn’t going to do too well on my own. I was actually about to collapse with fatigue, fever and teary eyes.

During our short ride, both Emmanuel and Bosco, the driver – a guy with whom I watch football normally and who was stunned to see me so weak all of a sudden – were trying to reassure me that I don’t have malaria. They both, obviously, had had it many times, and they were vividly describing the worst states they had been in. Honestly, I wasn’t feeling that reassured. I just wanted to give my drop of blood and set my mind at peace. Scientifically.

Only that Rwandan public health care is not as straightforward as I had been let to believe. It is actually pretty close to what I had experienced many times in Romania: long, chaotic lines, and a myriad of offices which must register you and give you the go-ahead to the next one… The only difference: corridors are open, so you can breathe fresh air and look into beautiful, green gardens. Oh, and another small detail: people don’t push and don’t yell at each other. They just sit there, resigned to the fact that it’ll be a looong day. So I really didn’t want to be the white bitch who would cut in front of everyone, and Emmanuel was obviously not the kind of assertive guy I would have needed in order to get moving faster, so, here I was, spending about 4 hours in the morning in order to get to see a Congolese lady doctor and then be sent to the lab and give much more blood than I had anticipated. I was so dizzy by that time that I didn’t even realize that they took blood only from my arm, and not from the tip of the finger. Oh well, I counted my blessings when I was out-of-there, only to have to return 2 hours later for the results. I spent my lunch-hour without eating, but half-listening to more and more people giving me their malaria stories, from across Africa. The guards and the cook and another driver and two expats who were around were all sure that I was going to be “just fine”.

Once back at the hospital, and after another line at the lab, I finally got the piece of paper, where the only thing scribbled was “RAS”, under the “positive” column. So while standing in yet another line in order to see the Congolese doctor again, I was trying to remember all the acronyms of all possible diseases and germs I had read about. What the hell was RAS?! And was it really positive? Was I really THAT unlucky, to get sick from the one and only mosquito bite I had gotten in five weeks in Africa?

Finally it was my turn to go inside. The doctor seemed completely relaxed when she saw the paper. I thought, “not another one who has had malaria endless times, and for whom this is nothing THAT scary”.

As it turned out, I was fine. RAS was nothing more than… “Rien A Signaler”!!! They should totally teach THIS acronym in guide books in the future and save people from panicking like I did…

In my euphoria I did remember to mention to the doctor that I had only given blood from my arm – which she didn’t take all that well. Basically, she confirmed that I could still very well be just in the incubation period (which can last from a few weeks up to a year), and that I should go back if I feel sick again… No kidding! In the meantime, I would just have to tend to my cold and dehydration the old-fashioned way…

On the bright side: Senzane Domman is, as of last Friday, a proud registered patient of the Musanze Hospital, with updated records and all. I am 32, and I weigh 57 kilos (when I said 55 the nurse looked up in disbelief and asked “only?”, so I had to adjust my figure until she was content). Supposedly, next time I will be fatigued, feverish and nauseated I can just present my “carte du patient” and skip a few lines…

White vs. Black Pubs

Since it's the World Cup, and since having cable at home is apparently very expensive (around $100/month I've been told), I had to look for venues to watch the games. Places are divided into "mzungus" ("white") pubs (i.e. "Bar de Albi", ca sa ma refer la o veche zicala romaneasca, intoarsa pe dos) and local pubs. Of course, I first went with the white crowd to the most accessible places, just a few minutes away from my house. One of them in this category is actually run by a Moroccan (he was delighted when I told him I visited his country a few months ago), and there's promise of couscous and tajine dishes on the menu in a few days (he even offered to cook some for me and a few of my friends one evening, before they are officially released). Until now, though, there have been brochettes, pizzas, lots of beer (Mutzig, Primus and Amstel), and double Red Label whiskey (they don't serve it in any other quantity...)

After a few nights around these places, one of my colleagues, Joseph, decided it was time for me to venture out to the local pubs, so he gave me lifts and introduced me to his friends. First we went to a Kenyan bar, where the top of the beer menu was warm Skol beer (!), but then he recommended the best place in town for pork and cheap whiskey in large quantities. So here we were, at the end of this dirt-road full of pot-holes, in an upstairs lounge, that looked pretty much like a private dining-room, being served royally. I didn't quite understand the thing with measuring alcohol, so I asked for a glass of Martini, which greatly confused the waitress. Joseph explained again that here "a glass" will actually be a 330 ml bottle, that you can take at home, if you cannot have it all on the spot. Somehow the idea intimidated me a bit, so I just settled for some whiskey from his own carry-on bottle.