Rwanda

When we finally left Kisoro a few days later, we were sad to leave a place that we had felt so comfortable in. Rather than backtrack through Kampala and Kenya to get to Tanzania, we decided to take the short taxi/bus ride to Kigali, Rwanda’s capital and catch a plane from there to J’Burg. We decided to skip Tanzania altogether because we had already seen loads of animals similar to the Serengti, were not climbing Kili, and had heard that the beaches in Mozambique were prettier and more pristine than the ones in Zanzibar. Also, the three day bus ride to get to Zanzibar and a similar one to get to Mozambique sounded miserable.

The border crossing from Uganda to Rwanda was fantastic. Probably the easiest border crossing I’ve ever had. From there, we caught a few chapas (small buses) into Kigali. Almost immediately after crossing the border we noticed a huge difference. In Rwanda, most of the younger kids looked mesmerized by us. They would stare or run to get their friends and point. It seemed as if they had never seen a white person before. The older people, however, were completely indifferent. They did not even stop to call us Mzungos. Although I’m just speculating, I suspect that since the genocide, which happened within the last 14 years, Rwanda’s formerly-healthy tourism market has plummeted.

Once in Kigali, we headed straight to the genocide museum. It was terrifying. The speed and intensity of the genocide’s onset were unbelievable. I had little knowledge about Belgium’s role in creating the class divisions between the Tutsi and Seti. It made me sick to hear the stories of religious-leaders, family members, and friends betraying each other. The worst were the stories about the families that were forced to watch, and sometimes even participate in, the slaughter of their own family before they themselves were killed. There were many instances where I could not control my tears, but the last room was too much. I was sobbing uncontrollably. It is filled with blown up pictures of young children. Under each picture, is a list of the child’s name, age, favorite activity, etc., and how they died. Looking at those sweet, innocent little eyes and then reading that they had been killed by being smashed against a wall or were macheted while in their mother’s arms. There is a special place in hell for someone who could commit such acts against a baby.

After the museum, we lost any desire to see anything else in Rwanda. We decided to spend the 10 hours before our flight in the airport. Luckily for us, they had a good café with internet and gelato. We were all in need of comfort.