A Mist Within Silences

The silence within our car is complete. Not born of awkwardness or frustration, this hollowness surrounding us is a product of exhaustion. Balanced by an immense darkness through which our car pierces, the emptiness of this night drive to Kigali, to a warm bed, feels whole. Our muscles sore, bones echoing creaks of fatigue, today was wonderful.

At 6 am we set out from Ruhengeri to spend the morning and afternoon tracking wild mountain gorillas at the base of Rwanda’s volcanic range. Although I don’t embrace being a tourist, this adventure fully entices me. Packed into a tank of a safari-studded Range Rover, Danielle and her parents, Charlotte, our driver Alex and I made the 40 minute drive to ‘base camp.’ Stepping outside the interior warmed by our bodies into a crisp morning, a thousand silver stones crinkled beneath our boots.

My attention was instantly drawn to the horizon opposite a towering mountain before us. Through a thing grove of slender trees, the morning’s unending horizon of mountains has been eclipsed by a sea of thick white mist, which embraces every crag and valley of those distant ranges. As far as I could see, layers upon layers of folded earth and a thick mousse of cloud between. A union of stone and subtlety.

After receiving a quick briefing we returned to our ride, setting out for the mountainous interior. After 15 minutes the road beneath our yellow safari tank deteriorated into a dense matrix of jagged almost metallic rocks. The ride was so violent we could only manage a crawl of maybe 10 mph for the next hour or so. Jostling back and forth, our path cut through small villages sheltered from city life. Children gathered in that early morning, some in khaki uniforms marching to school, others holding even smaller children, many with mouthfuls of teeth running alongside us, some ignoring us intently.

Along with us were two 40-something Australian women and a middle-aged Virginian man. We all gathered at the foot of a daunting peak and here learned the rules of the way: No smoking, no problem. No eating next to the gorillas, no worries. No running if they charge you, umm…

“But don’t worry, we speak gorilla.” Our guide, elaborating on that note, informed our group that gorillas make 16 discernible grunts or calls, which give directions to others or demonstrate a specific need. I stand there in those sentences wondering where linguists would classify this level of communication. “We’ll be seeing the second largest group in Rwanda, the Agasha” or ‘special’ group complete with an infant. I’m really excited now, and then in a moment, we’re off.

A hand-made wall of volcanic stone marks the national park’s boundary from neighboring farmlands. In lieu of a gate, we climb over this grey patchwork and enter instantly into a dense thicket of forest. One of the porters, all of whom are dressed in green Rwanda Development Bank sponsored uniforms and wearing rubber black rain boots, slices us a path between dangling branches through which one cannot see and burgeoning bamboo with a well-worn machete. The air within contains a purity I’ve rarely experienced--both fresh and electric. Our path, winding upwards a small open valley, is but a viscous porridge of mud, encouraged by an increasingly insistent rain. Our boots are literally being sucked into this soup of black earth, ripping from our feet, leaving some of us in only socks until a porter rushes to help. As the sky empties itself upon us, the guide yielding a machete unfolds a layer of forest into which we follow. Insulated from the rain, we trudge on, now mired in a complex geometry of branches, roots, and inescapable shadows.

After an hour of our ‘40 minute’ hike to the gorillas, we’re pretty sure the Agasha group is hiding from the rain. Voices from unseen guides who live up to 12 hours per day in this labyrinth coo instructions. A man with a sighted rifle leads us higher up the mountain’s slopes, deeper into the jungle's grasp. Our path is formed by the lead guide, yet there are always stinging nettles to either side, or flowers vibrant in their yellows or reds. Two hours in and I’m thinking the Agasha are hiding from us.

Our march eventually brings us to a ridge, its clearing reveals the heights our feet have earned. I peel away my jacket’s hood and absorb the openness of the valley below us sprouting everywhere its giant fern fingers. My eyes cross this valley to the ridge opposite us, its black rocks sheer slabs stretching either to the basin between us or perhaps upwards. Running perpendicular to us, the valley twists upwards to another ridge, a massive cathedral of raw granite and a giant wave of mountain form its outline. When everyone is caught up, our guide descends, and so into the valley we enter.

This descent is astonishingly difficult. Each of us uses every limb for balance, we are nearly every step now plunging down our own height’s worth, clutching for anything to hold onto--a root, branch, or rock piercing through the still thick mud. At one point, when twisting around to take a swollen branch in order to repel a bit down the impromptu path I realize the thick branches between me and the valley are simply masking a sheer drop to the left. A slip would be long and jagged.

When we finally reach the valley floor, I’m confident for having finished and truly impressed that Danielle’s parents and the Australian women are overcoming this terrain. There are cylindrical plants gashed open by machete, oozing a white milk. I’m told its latex, and touch the sap to my fingers. We march upwards from this valley basin towards the cathedral-shaped granite, hoping.

Three-quarters upwards, and the guide stops. A machete burns through giant sprawling lettuce. Charlotte’s finger points  through the newly revealed patch.

Her black face is gentle, arms cradling a shivering newborn with hair matted from rain, her presence steals words from my mouth so I stand there, mouth agape in something like reverence 10 feet away. I’m drawn to her eyes, amber-shaded irises, piercing in their depth. I’m inspired by her grandness--larger than I had imagined. She rises and moves away from us, her movements quick but elaborate with such massive limbs. We continue on until we reach an opening filled with some twenty gorillas, huddling in the rain. Among them is a magnificent silverback, the mature male who fought violently to control the Agasha females. His arms are folded like a disgruntled grandpa, his eyes frustrated as a man captured in the rain.

The guides grunt deeply UH uh, the same as a child’s ‘no,’ asking the gorillas to stay calm. We have one hour to sit with them. Every once in a while the silverback huff-grunts with his whole body, Ruh Ruh Ruh Ruh, clearly agitated. One time, the whole group joined in unison. But for the most part, they sat there quietly huddled in the rain, and we sat there in silence huddled in the rain.

We spent three hours finding Rwanda’s Agasha gorillas, one hour sitting alongside them, and then another two or more climbing out of that density. The jungle balances extremes. It's mother to intense vegetation, to life exploding from the ground, its leaves reaching towards heavens, its roots plunging towards hells. It's mother to violence and death, home to the decay of the fallen, and cradle to a world we can’t easily endure. That juxtaposition smells, for what its worth, like pan-fried almonds and freshly snapped celery. Every step was an encroachment on life, or perhaps its destruction underfoot. Yet, in that death, absorbed are the nutrients. Life and death reform into and out from one another here, and the distinction between these propellant forces is but one moment captured in an enduring fluctuation. In that immensity, where is time’s place? Does it drive forward, swirl within itself, or simply live among the growth and decay? Regardless, I wasn’t ready to know the time until we were nearly out of that place. Back in our car, time set in again, mastering the sun’s position and dictating the still encroaching moon. I do not live in that world of pan-fried almonds, in a world distanced from time, in the misty intermediary between life and death, and yet…

The silence within our cabin is complete. Exhausted, inspired we sit without words. Our huddled bodies reflect the extant black-tipped nightfall, coating the folded earth, hinging its nadirs and zeniths, embracing us hushed so everywhere.

*****

It’s Saturday, 2 am when I awake from a nightmare: people are telling me I can’t run, to stay home; I have no clue where to go and am late; I oversleep and completely miss the race. I manage to get back to sleep but decide to wake up plenty early so I can get to Amahoro ‘Peace’ Stadium where the Kigali Peace Marathon is set to start. Truth be told I don’t really know where to go, my legs are still sore from yesterday’s gorilla trekking, my shoes are still completely soaked and muddy, and I’ve never run more than 9 km (two weeks before). I’m seriously nervous about the whole thing, but hey its my birthday, and I trust everything works out.

There’s a huge group gathered around the track inside the stadium. I quickly see my friends--a mix from Kigali and Peace Corps. It’s the first time I’ve seen so many of them in a long time. I’m still a bit nervous but am now calmed and ready for my first half marathon.

At the starting gate, all the runners of the quarter marathon relay and the half are waiting at the gate. Without warning:

         “Happy Birthday to You…”

My friends are leading the entire mass of runners in this chorus. It was really a special moment, and made me feel really happy.

The race went well. I kept a pretty solid (for me) pace for the first lap of 10 km, and was reinvigorated getting a cheer as I made a lap inside Amahoro Stadium’s track to begin the second lap. They ran out of water very quickly, but had a seemingly infinite supply of bananas every 4 km or so. This resulted in their being banana peels all over the road, the comedy of which kept me smiling. I was really surprised at how hard the last 5 km were. At one point I was so thirsty and overheard a man offering a cold bottle of water to his running wife. She declined, he looked at me and asked if I wanted it. It was a godsend, a true gift. About 3 km later a Rwandan came alongside me. We stayed together for a bit and I handed him the rest of the water. I finished the 21 kilometers (13.1 miles) in a little over 2 hours. My goal now is to break 2 hours on a half and to train for a Marathon when I get back home.

Afterwards, we cheered on our friends. Laughed about banana peels and water shortages. We took part in standing ovations for particularly inspiring individuals: a Rwandan who completed the half on crutches with his one leg, an elderly Rwandan man that finished the whole thing along with a blind European man who ran the Marathon with a pack of friends helping to guide him through the street course.

That night, I ended up staying in Kigali and had dinner with friends and Danielle’s parents at a great outdoor Indian restaurant (my favorite type of food). They hosted a traditional Rwandan dance group decked out in elaborate costumes and we enjoyed mysterious dishes I’d never tried before yet found delicious. After dinner, the power cut out. Then a group walked downstairs with a candled plate of fruit and ice cream. They sang “Happy Birthday” in at least 4 languages, including what I think was Hindi. One of the men took my hand, urging me to stand and I danced with him throughout an extended chorus or two. It was hilarious and a great capstone to the best birthday weekend in memory.

We left Khana Khazana, gave friends goodbye hugs and 4 of us went looking for motos on the main road. The night was crystal clear. Grabbing the attention of one, we called out into the street, passed by several motos already with passengers. After a couple minutes, one heard us, turned his head toward our group--

The violence of metal exploding and lights shattering stopped everything except for the scene that unfolded. The moto driver slapped against the SUVs windshield, splintering. When the car finally stopped, the man was flung uncontrollably some 15 feet onto the ground, rolling, his helmet breaking away. I’ve never seen a serious accident before. I glanced at my friends, we were all in shock. I looked at the moto driver, he began to move slightly. Before I knew it I was moving towards him. A large crowd of men gathered. The Chinese driver was clearly distressed and confused. They tried to lift the moto driver into his car but the man refused. They set him down on the grassy median. My friend Caitlin was an EMT in college. I tried translating to the group what she needed us to do into French or Kinyarwanda as she stabilized his head. His eyes were so vacant. In a few short minutes he began shaking violently. It probably was his body going into shock, which Caitlin later said can be what actually kills someone. We tried to tell the group to not move him, but they wanted to move him. When he started shaking, I felt utterly helpless to ease this man’s pain. I didn’t think about it and grabbed his hand, I guess I was trying to comfort him. I doubt it helped. They took him and put him into the back of a taxi with no one else but the driver with him.

I have no idea what happened to this man that night. When I think about him, I sincerely pray he is recovering from his injuries and he has family that can comfort him. I don’t know how serious his injuries were, but that impact was something that still frightens me when I’m on a moto. I always secure my helmet now.

We could have discussed life's impermanence, the delicate fluctuation balancing existence and death. But we don't fully live in a world of symbols and metaphor, we live in one of individuals. And their suffering seems to deserve more than metaphysics, topics of conversation, or flowery prose. We got into a taxi after the moto driver was put into his own. We went home and slept. The silence within our cab was complete.

Short and Sweet

         As we walked beneath an unrelenting sun, a rushed day amassing condiments, canned vegetables, soaps, and various supplies potentially necessary for our upcoming venture into divergent lives, Danielle and I began to tire. The two of us had lived relatively in tandem since our midnight arrival into Kigali what was then one month ago. The memory of arrival remains distinct: the clamoring for overheard luggage; the curious enthusiasm; an opening of air-locked doors and clanking of shoes against metal stairs; the distinctively familiar and sweet aroma--of air thick with heat containing the exhalations of burning plastic, sewage, and the smell of sun-baked sand. Stepping into that night was reminiscent of so many in Niger, that scent so characteristic of Africa that whispers: you’re on land foreign and long from home.

            After two hurried days of Embassy orientations, we had disembarked from that dusty capital bearing suitcases and chimerical conclusions about Rwanda. A handful of weeks followed in the verdant southern city of Nyanza, the nation’s center of cultural heritage, home to former Kings once revered as deities. Danielle and I trained alongside 70-some Peace Corps volunteers, intensively learning Kinyarwanda; participating in cultural-immersion sessions; acquainting ourselves with cultural subtleties spoken with eyes, the oft-jagged earth, and the brilliant turbulence of foreign clouds.

            As we are here through Fulbright and not Peace Corps, we spent a lot of time together when not engaged in their official requirements and became good friends in those first weeks. But our time as a minority within a pack had ended that afternoon as each of us set out on independent journeys to new homes and lives. And so we found ourselves in Kigali, accruing supplies beneath the pressing noon. Our backpacks and arms weighted, our ears exhausted by the yelping of children or automobiles, our faces damp with perspiration, we trudged home. We crossed a hazardous intersection arriving safely on a frontage road when--without warning--a boxy sedan barreled down upon us without a hint of breaking. Danielle and I literally leapt out of its path. I struck its trunk with a clenched fist as it passed, furious. After a moment of bewilderment we marched on, anger yielding only to exhaustion.

            Yet within a matter of steps, the day’s geometry upturned. A precious little girl of no more than three ran from out of nowhere, grinning aglow with eyes that laughed. She gazed up at us with neither fear nor covetousness. Without hesitation, her tiny fist unfurled to take my free hand. We walked with our new friend beaming at her soft, childish replies to our questions in Kinyarwanda: How are you? What is your name? How old are you? In engaging her little world we seemed to escape for a moment from the matrix of time, the once vehement sun melted into the rolling hills of the horizon, its absence filled with the refulgence of a vivid present. After a few minutes her small fingers released, we all said good-bye, and a blur of her yellow dress receded into the arms of the city. Though the sun reformed atop the sky and yelping car horns remembered to squabble, a residual feeling of joy remained throughout that afternoon, lingering like an aftertaste of a rich, dark chocolate. And neither the toils of past nor the future unknown mattered in those moments short and sweet.