When motorbikes go wrong

It happened in an instant.

I saw a face. A motorbike.

Then I heard the awful sound of vehicle hitting vehicle.

And then a thud.

Then, I felt our SUV roll over something.

Oh. My. God.

I screamed. Put my hand over my mouth, which was agape. Anna grabbed my hand.

We had hit someone. Rolled over their motorbike.

The moments before flashed in my mind.

Looking out the window … looking straight ahead … two kids on a motorbike, rounding a turn from the left and down our one-way road … into our SUV.

“Where’s William? Where’s the other car?” Anna asked as a crowd of people quickly encased our ride. Instinctively, I locked the doors.

I didn’t want to get out. I didn’t want to see what twisted, mangled mess was beneath the wheels of the four-wheel-drive which had been carting us around for four days. It had sounded so awful. I couldn’t imagine the carnage, the wreck, anything.

Seconds passed like minutes as our driver exited the vehicle and stepped outside and into the crowd, surveying the scene.

A teenager emerged from the side of the SUV, finger clearly broken but nothing more. I never saw the other person, but was told he walked away from the crash. Moments later, the two blended into and disappeared into the crowd. Had they stayed, they faced trouble — they were on the wrong side of the road.

The crowd did not leave. They swelled outside our car as we sat inside … waiting for William to come and translate and tell us what was going on.

Finally, the other SUV pulled up. They had gone the non-scenic route to the hotel.

“It’s all OK,” he said, calming us in the backseat. “They are exchanging insurance. It’s fine.”

Relief swept over me and I stepped out of the SUV to see the damage for myself.

Those kids were lucky to be alive, let alone escape nearly unscathed.

There was an enormous dent in the side of the gold SUV, and the bumper was slightly torn up.

Wow.

Soon, the crowd had all bit dispersed, save for the few men who helped move the mess out of the street.

William went back to his SUV and we began to back up. The men who helped moved the bike tried to block us.

What the hell?

The driver’s window was down, and quickly, they were grabbing onto the door, sticking their heads in the window, voices raised, hands outstretched.

We backed up to go around the other side of the road.

They followed, holding strong to the vehicle.

Our driver, bless him, finally reached into his wallet and pulled out some money and handed it them.

The men still crowded us, but this time, our SUV accelerated, leaving the men and the moment behind us as we moved on to the Stipp Hotel to recover from our gorilla trek earlier that day.

Disclosure: Rwanda Development Board covered meals, lodging and activities.

Rwanda, 15 years after the genocide

The next morning, we awoke early for breakfast, where I met Jason, Adam and another reporter, Mary (she was doing a story on politics, not travel, but was still on our travel press trip). We ate quickly because we were being shuffled off on a bus tour of Kigali.

We could have slept in because we left late for the trip, and then when we arrived at Rwanda Development Board’s headquarters, we waited some more.

When we finally boarded the bus for our tour, we stopped back at our hotel to pick up a TV crew from Uganda who would be joining us on our city tour.

For an hour, we drove up and down the hills of Kigali.

It was like nothing I had ever seen before. People walked in the roads, balancing what seemed to be kilos and kilos on their heads, motorbikes and cars and motorbike taxis shared the streets with pedestrians. Shacks lined the streets next to huge homes and businesses.

Our tour took us through the new part of Kigali, beyond the dirt roads … to the homes being built by locals. Scaffolding was simply rickety wood piled high, workers crafted the homes in front of our eyes.

This was no fine tuned corporation pumping out homes. This was local people, building homes other local people would live in.

Then, it was on to the Kigali Memorial Centre, because it is so important people never forget what the people of Rwanda endured to become who they are today.

I’m not going to lie. I knew there was a genocide in Rwanda, but that was the extent of my knowledge.

The memorial we visited hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt very similar to the way I felt when I visited Auschwitz, except even more appalled. This genocide happened in my lifetime. While I lived in Maryland in 1994, worrying about what to wear to school, people my age in Rwanda were fighting for their lives. And not making it.

The exhibit was poignant. Displays featured crude photos, harsh reminders of the country’s past, and images that will not ever leave my brain. The memorial hits home when visitors walk into a room shrouded in darkness. The only things lit are the visible reminders of what happened to an entire population of people.

Skulls lined up.

Bones.

Clothing, torn and tattered, found in some of Kigali’s mass graves.

I stood there, ready to weep.

But, it would be even worse upstairs — the hardest of the memorial for me was the room dedicated to the children who were victims of the senseless killings. In this room were photos of the children, along with personal information about each — what they liked, what they wanted to be when they grew up, their favorite sports, their favorite food … and then, heartbreakingly, their cause of death.

Hacked by a machete; bludgened with rocks; tortured to death; stabbed in the eyes; grenade thrown in the shower; burnt alive; Gikondo Chapel; shot dead; killed at Mlehoro Church; a 2-year-old smashed against a wall; a 9-month-old macheted in his mother’s arms.

That information hurt the most to learn.

There was also the mass graves outside. A beautiful garden home to more than 250,000 victims of the genocide. Unmarked concrete slabs overlooking the hills of Kigali.

Our group walked out of the center quietly and boarded the bus, back into the city which was now thriving and at peace. A far cry from 16 years earlier.

The next stop was Rhugeri for World Environment Day and Kwita Izina, the naming of the baby gorillas.

Disclosure: Lodging, meals and activities were courtesy of the Rwanda Development Board.

The first night in Rwanda

Once JD and I had arrived at Sports View, we dropped our bags in our rooms and set off to find the other members of our press trip — Anna, Jason and Adam.

We only found Anna.

When I had received the names of the people on the trip, I was elated to see Anna was a part of it. Since I had joined Twitter a little more than one year ago (not even the same account I have now), I had followed Anna. She was a person I respected, admired and could not wait to meet in person.

Needless to say, when JD and I banged on her door at 9 p.m. our first night and woke her up, I knew immediately we would become friends.

The three of us ventured to the poolside restaurant downstairs and enjoyed dinner, talking briefly about our excitement over the itinerary we were given, and of course, talking social media and blogging.

My body ached by the time dinner was through, and I was craving a hot shower to wash off the 24 hours of traveling and the airport sleepover the previous night.

I walked into the shower in my room, a decrepit looking corner with a pair of dirty flip flops at the base of the shower.

There was a bug crawling on them.

It’s OK, D. You are in Africa. Maybe this is how it is …

I turned on the faucet.

Cold.

Maybe if I turn the shower on, it will warm up.

I twisted the knob.

Water began squirting out of the pipe directly above the faucet. The shower head refused to work.

Oh my god. I am dirty. I need a shower. I want a shower. Please, please, please let me shower.

The shower gods had other plans.

After a minute or two of spitting water at me from the pipe, I called it a wash (not literally, of course, I was filthy), and crawled into my bed.

My mind crawled with thoughts about the upcoming five days of my life … the sites we were supposed to see … the places we were supposed to visit … and quickly, sleep came over me.

Disclosure: Rwanda Development Board provided lodging, most meals and activities.

My first glimpse of Africa

I picked 14 K on the Brussels flight to Kigali on purpose. I wanted a window seat and to spread my legs out in front of me. I never get the chance to sit in the first seat in the economy class, but this time, the Plane Gods were on my side.

The trip to Rwanda from Brussels is a long one. It takes nearly as long to get from DC to London. But, damn, it is an amazing view. The flight takes you over Germany and its swirling fields of green, and Italy and the mountains still capped in snow, and then on to the vast blue of Mediterranean.

And, then there is Africa.

Continue reading “My first glimpse of Africa”

Airport Sleeping 101

So, you are going to crash at the airport?

I am not a huge fan airport sleepovers. It’s not comfortable. It’s not fun. It’s loud.

But, sometimes turning the airport into your own personal sleep sanctuary is the only option. Plus, it’s my favorite backpacker word: FREE.

Late-night arrivals, early morning flights, even running out (or being out) of money, makes overnight stays at these transport hubs a viable option.

Here’s what you need to have so you don’t spend the night wishing you were asleep:

1. Something to keep yourself warm. The floors of the airport get cold. Make sure you have warm clothing, a towel to drape over your body or (even better) a sleeping bag.

2. Headphones or earplugs. Airports echo, and other people staying overnight don’t really care if you are trying to get rest. They will talk. They will laugh. They will be loud. Drowning out the sound means a better night’s sleep.

3. Food and drinks. Most airports shutdown in the middle of the night, so if you don’t have food or drinks, you will be hungry and thirsty. Grab some bread, a jug of water, some snack bars … anything to hold you over until the gates come up in the morning.

4. Something cushion-y for your head. Sweatshirts, towels, bags … anything to serve as a pillow can help in your quest for sleep.

5. A book. In case you can’t sleep, read a book for a little bit to make those eyes heavy. Bonus if you have a guidebook — then you can read up on your next town and kill time.

6. Locks. Just because you are sleeping in an airport doesn’t mean you should let your guard down. Lock your bags.

7. Toiletries. Nothing is worse than waking up in the morning and realizing your toothbrush and toothpaste aren’t easily accessible. Keep ’em nearby in a carry-on. Just remember to stow them into your checked luggage before you go through security. Otherwise, bye-bye toothpaste.

8. Hours. Make sure the airport is open at night. Some airports (not many) will kick you right on out.

9. A laptop. If you have it, bring it. Many airports have free wifi so you can check e-mail, watch movies online and write.

10. A smile. It isn’t always fun. But, smile. You’re in an airport, headed to someplace (probably) pretty awesome. Keep your wits about you, be friendly … even if your back is stiff, you have dark circles under your eyes, etc. No one wants a meanie boarding their flight.

Do you have other suggestions? Leave a comment!

Dolce suenos in an airport?

“You should make sure you have a towel if you are going to sleep at the airport tonight,” the girl at Faro Guest Lounge, where I had been staying for two night, suggested. “Those floors get cold.”

“Yeah,” I said.

I hadn’t even thought of it. I hadn’t really thought anything through in terms of my air travel back to Brussels so I could catch my flight to Rwanda.

Continue reading “Dolce suenos in an airport?”

The campo in Espana


“D!!” I could her Abbey calling my name, but couldn’t see her. “D!!”

I looked past the bus, across the street where a red Volkswagen van parked on a bed of gravel, and there was Abbey, waving her arms around.

Ahhh … to be with a friend again!

After two nights in Lagos, the second of which I did nothing (although the Aussie who worked at the hostel suggested I hit up a beach party at 4 a.m., to which I replied “if i remember to set my alarm”), I had gone to Faro for the night in order to catch a bus to Sevilla to catch another bus to Vejer de la Frontera, to meet up with Abbey who would take me back to her little campo, San Ambrosio, where she was working at Los Alamos, a horse-riding resort.Continue reading “The campo in Espana”