Landing at the Kilgali (Rwanda) International Airport at night is unlike any other airport landing I have experienced in the past first half of my life. The pilot having made his announcement that we were about to land, the thump of the landing gear having reverberated through the plane, I watched as the lights of Kigali came in view, apparently still several hundred feet below us. Then the thud of wheels hitting the tarmac and still the lights of the city looked like they were two or three hundred feet below us. They were--the airport sits atop a ridge, and the runway we used did not appear to be very wide. There was a driving rainstorm and one could have thoughts of the plane skidding and crashing down the hillside. Of course I did not have such thoughts, being ever positive and free of any anxiety of any kind, except where anxiety is called for, as determined by me.
Ever reliable Kassim was there to meet me and quickly shuttled me to the Gorilla Hotel. As I walked into the cozy but efficient reception room, the desk clerk and his assistant greeted me with "Bonsoir, Mr. Kerry." And they were the same staff that greeted me 17 months ago. The porter carried my large duffel up three flights of stairs to my room, amazingly the same room I had occupied on my first stay at Gorilla Hotel. I made a quick inspection, and yes, the sheets had been changed! Actually, I had no anxiety about the cleanliness of the room. Kigali is one of the cleanest, if not the cleanest, cities in Africa, and the business enterprises reflect that concern for cleanliness. Indeed, on my first trip to Rwanda, I was carrying a box of Belgian chocolates in a plastic bag. I was required to throw away the plastic bag before going through passport control. You will not see plastic blowing around the streets of Kigali, which prides itself on environmental protection.
After getting settled in my room, I went to the charming little restaurant at the rear of the hotel. Once again, familiar faces, some of the save servers and busboys as when I was last there.
Although it has been said that familiarity breeds contempt, and perhaps that is true for house guests who overstay their welcome, being greeted with familiar sights and sounds in a foreign country is very warming and reassuring. I had a couple of Primus beers, THE beer in Congo, some frites and enjoyed watching the diverse patronage. To my immediate left, three German men; across from me, a boy of about 12 or 13 engrossed in his laptop, drinking tea and what appeared to be fried bananas; also across from me and to the left, three young women in a lively conversation in French, with as much being said with hand and finger gestures like little birds darting about as with words. I could catch a few words, but their speech was so animated and so fast, that I was at a loss for efficient eavesdropping.
Tomorrow Kassim picks me up a 9 for the trip to Goma. And then the work begins. Pray for the women of the Congo, who are the greatest victims of rape, discrimination and injustice, but who also are the Hope of the Congo. And on that note, I sign off for now, urging you to read Half the Sky by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDun, who make a plea for us all to do something to help rescue women and children from violence, rape, discrimination, and injustice.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Brussels
The best thing about an early morning flight is getting up at the crack of dawn and rushing to the airport, and for someone a bit anxious like me, that means getting to the airport at 4 a.m. for a 6 a.m. flight. Fortunately, my Air France flight was scheduled to take off at 3:30 and the command on the e-ticket was to check in no later than 2:30. So I planned to get to the airport by 1:30, and be anxiety free.
Leila and I awoke at 6:30 and that is the worst thing about an afternoon departure. How do you fill those hours between arising and departing? Packing had started several days earlier and finished up the night before, as I repeatedly packed and unpacked, shifting items from the large rolling duffel destined for the belly of the plane to the carryon, all in order to get the weight of the duffle down to 50.6 pounds. If I were over that limit, so I believed from reading the advice on the Air France web page, I would be surcharged $50. That I could have handled, but for the second hop, via Brussels Air from Brussels to Kigali, the penalty would have been $200.
Unsuccessful in getting the weight down to 50.6 pounds, I went once again to the Air France web site and reread the baggage rules. I then discovered that I was allowed one carryon plus another small bag, such as a computer bag. Voila! The solution. I transferred the my large Dell laptop, and the still boxed mini laptop I was taking to Richard Malengule, a Congolese human rights attorney, and about 50 high energy bars , along with writing tablets, power cords, earphones, and my reading material, Le Petit Prince and Les Adventures du Nicolas. (Kids' books yes, but Petit Prince has gems for readers of all ages, and Petit Nicolas is a great assist, with explanations of grammar and vocabulary in the margins.
So after once again strapping the rolling duffel on my back and stepping upon the bathroom scales, I finally achieved the goal of 248 pounds, allocated between me and the duffel. I learned from the Air France ticket agent that all that effort was unnecessary. She explained if I had only one bag to check (2 are allowed) I would be allowed somewhere around 70 pounds.
The flight was uneventful. Fortunately I had snared an exit row seat, and had no seat in front of me, thus allowing a lot of stretching out, and with my inflatable butt cushion and neck collar, I actually was able to get a few hours sleep. With an AA (ambien assist).
Upon departure, I was able within a few minutes’ walk to the TGV station (Train Grand Vitesse, loosely translated, Really Fast Train) and was in Brussels in an hour and a half. Chatted about half the way with a Belgian man who makes several trips each year with a couple hundred pounds of used, but very serviceable clothes for little children. It is all on his own dime, but he is answering the question, “but Lord, when did we clothe thee?
I believe that meeting him was a good omen for my trip.
Leila and I awoke at 6:30 and that is the worst thing about an afternoon departure. How do you fill those hours between arising and departing? Packing had started several days earlier and finished up the night before, as I repeatedly packed and unpacked, shifting items from the large rolling duffel destined for the belly of the plane to the carryon, all in order to get the weight of the duffle down to 50.6 pounds. If I were over that limit, so I believed from reading the advice on the Air France web page, I would be surcharged $50. That I could have handled, but for the second hop, via Brussels Air from Brussels to Kigali, the penalty would have been $200.
Unsuccessful in getting the weight down to 50.6 pounds, I went once again to the Air France web site and reread the baggage rules. I then discovered that I was allowed one carryon plus another small bag, such as a computer bag. Voila! The solution. I transferred the my large Dell laptop, and the still boxed mini laptop I was taking to Richard Malengule, a Congolese human rights attorney, and about 50 high energy bars , along with writing tablets, power cords, earphones, and my reading material, Le Petit Prince and Les Adventures du Nicolas. (Kids' books yes, but Petit Prince has gems for readers of all ages, and Petit Nicolas is a great assist, with explanations of grammar and vocabulary in the margins.
So after once again strapping the rolling duffel on my back and stepping upon the bathroom scales, I finally achieved the goal of 248 pounds, allocated between me and the duffel. I learned from the Air France ticket agent that all that effort was unnecessary. She explained if I had only one bag to check (2 are allowed) I would be allowed somewhere around 70 pounds.
The flight was uneventful. Fortunately I had snared an exit row seat, and had no seat in front of me, thus allowing a lot of stretching out, and with my inflatable butt cushion and neck collar, I actually was able to get a few hours sleep. With an AA (ambien assist).
Upon departure, I was able within a few minutes’ walk to the TGV station (Train Grand Vitesse, loosely translated, Really Fast Train) and was in Brussels in an hour and a half. Chatted about half the way with a Belgian man who makes several trips each year with a couple hundred pounds of used, but very serviceable clothes for little children. It is all on his own dime, but he is answering the question, “but Lord, when did we clothe thee?
I believe that meeting him was a good omen for my trip.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
GOING TO GOMA, DRC
Counting down the hours until my departure for Goma, Democratic Republic of Congo, I am experiencing the same emotional and physical symptoms that I always experienced on the eve of a jury trial: nervousness, anxiety, queasiness of stomach, restless nights and loss of appetite. Add to those waves of discomforting symptoms, some last minute doubts. Before a trial the doubts were expressed as maybe I should have settled this case, and as the hour nears to embark from SFO for Goma, the doubts that keep arising and that I keep pushing back down are expressed as, do you really think you can do anything to change things in north east Democratic Republic of Congo?
Yet when the day for trial came and I stood before the panel of prospective jurors and chatted with them in an effort to establish rapport and find out what I could about their likes and dislikes, the adrenalin flowed and I knew that this was where I belonged, in the courtroom seeking to obtain some measure of justice for my client.
And I know that once I get to Goma, once I pull my bulging, rolling duffle over the border and am greeted by Pascal or whoever is available from Heal Africa to pick me up, once I have my feet on Congolese soil, there will be no doubt, there will be no misgivings, but rather I will be infected with the joy and the hope of patients, the dedicated doctors, nurses and other staff of Heal Africa, and the other volunteers assembled there to engage in the struggle for some measure of justice, peace and healing for the victims of over a decade of violence, rape, displacement and destruction of men, women, children, villages, farms, homes and clinics.
If people who have suffered so much can still be joyful, hopeful and unrelenting in their faith in God, how can I do less? God willing, I will be up to the task.
My next blog will describe the task that lies ahead: working to establish legal clinics in the Wamama Simameni (women standing together) safe houses for the victims of rape and other sexual and physical and mental violence .
Internet accessibility is spotty in Goma, and sometimes does not exist at all, so it may be a while before the next blog gets posted.
Yet when the day for trial came and I stood before the panel of prospective jurors and chatted with them in an effort to establish rapport and find out what I could about their likes and dislikes, the adrenalin flowed and I knew that this was where I belonged, in the courtroom seeking to obtain some measure of justice for my client.
And I know that once I get to Goma, once I pull my bulging, rolling duffle over the border and am greeted by Pascal or whoever is available from Heal Africa to pick me up, once I have my feet on Congolese soil, there will be no doubt, there will be no misgivings, but rather I will be infected with the joy and the hope of patients, the dedicated doctors, nurses and other staff of Heal Africa, and the other volunteers assembled there to engage in the struggle for some measure of justice, peace and healing for the victims of over a decade of violence, rape, displacement and destruction of men, women, children, villages, farms, homes and clinics.
If people who have suffered so much can still be joyful, hopeful and unrelenting in their faith in God, how can I do less? God willing, I will be up to the task.
My next blog will describe the task that lies ahead: working to establish legal clinics in the Wamama Simameni (women standing together) safe houses for the victims of rape and other sexual and physical and mental violence .
Internet accessibility is spotty in Goma, and sometimes does not exist at all, so it may be a while before the next blog gets posted.
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