Entry 1 - Travel Day(s)

Days plural as I rather enjoyed a forced lay over in Brussels when my flight to Kigali was delayed by 24 hours. Beginning the night before at Mum and Dad’s (in Scotland), I was having a funny feeling about my flight. My intuition coupled with my imagination made up it would be my bags that wouldn’t make it. I surrendered this possibility, trusted I have everything I need in my heart, soul, and brain and my small carry on, and went to sleep. Do first things first, do what’s in front of me….The gift of these slogans was such that the trickiest part of preparing for 2 weeks in Africa was making my palette on the floor when my husband kept driving his race car in his sleep.

We were up very early and we did a good job getting to the airport (ha ha to all you who rag on us for our notorious aversion to early mornings). My originating flight would not allow me to either check in for Brussels-Kigali or check my bags all the way through; hmmm, that instinct hummed again. When I eventually made it to the right counter, I was informed that I was done for the day, stuck in Brussels for 24 hours. The aircraft was still in Kinshasa, DRC, which coincidentally I fly to later in my own journeys.

Now, earlier in the morning before I knew about this long delay, I’d been having a small thought about how if for some reason I stayed in Brussels, I would likely find an absolutely terrific meeting of Fellowship of which I am a member. I am not so evolved that when this became not just an odd thought but my plan for the day, I smiled. I began rather to pick apart each of my choices during the still young day and analyze pointlessly how I might have discovered this cancellation sooner and how that might mean I’d still be in bed with my beloved. What a day dream that was! Soon enough, however, necessity took over and I began the process of finding a hotel room and covering my ass for the next period of time.

On the public phones (reevaluated choice # 36, never travel without Scottish mobile), I caught myself becoming really irate trying to place a collect call to American Express. The service provider, however, was determined instead to make money off my call and I actually hung up on the operator to take some breaths. Hanging up was a courtly gesture of sublime good manners compared to where I was going if I kept talking to the fool. In order to ensure collect calls are not placed via them (and one has no other phone choices in this airport) they simply do not dial the number. I would have paid for the call or provided an alternate number if there was one on the back of the card; but both were toll free.

Anyhow, more importantly than catching an international travel catch 22, I caught myself. In the not so long ago distant days, an episode like this would have been a perfect chance at “justifiable anger,” an excuse to rage, to take out any and all anger I might have about abruptly displaced travel plans, the powerlessness and indignity that mark current air travel, underpinned by any fear (and fear of pain!) I have about my forthcoming journey. I did not have to, and that is by the grace of a Power greater than myself.

I felt guided and led the whole time, in fact. I had some choices about hotel (airport, or city centre?) and did not struggle with the decision. Some key phrases from my daily reading came true: When in doubt, we ask for inspiration or a decision. We don’t struggle. We relax and take it easy. Except for complaining to my husband about the cost of living in Brussels, which I did more to keep up my reputation for being “tighter than two coats of paint,” it was all emotionally effortless. The meeting I found was fantastic and heartening. In my room, I had a chance to read the many, kind emails I had received last week for my birthday. I caught up on voicemail. I finished my book.

Today’s travel has gone off as planned, and as I write, I am watching the African sun begin to set, casting shades of oranges so associated with this continent.

Africa! How is this possible? How did I get here? Where does this life come from? My 40th birthday in the Scottish Highlands with dear friends, roaring with laughter and running a sack race on the front lawn of a castle, to my first appointment in Rwanda this evening with a woman Senator and Zainab Salbi, the founder of Women for Women International, whose amazing book “Between Two Worlds” I finished last night? I called someone back from the Rodham-Clinton campaign last night and when the President heard it was me on the line, he grabbed the phone for a wee chat. That is sort of nerve wracking, to have him spontaneously get on the phone like that…I have to laugh at my life, give thanks, laugh, give thanks.

The African sun is setting with its patented hues of orange and red. The sun looks like this from nowhere else on earth. I can see the thousand hills of Rwanda undulate before me, terraced and graced with lakes. I am grateful to be emotionally sober. My last time to this continent, the original home of us all, I was so overwhelmed with emotion as to be nearly distraught. Everything, but everything, made me cry! My first African tree! My first African bird! My first African friend! I was returning to my cradle and had the heightened emotionality of a seeker’s first pilgrimage. I am far from casual about this journey, far from it, I am simply….simpler. My gratitude, awe, respect, and even my enthusiasm are more subtle.

There is tough work to be done. I begin tomorrow the Genocide Memorial and a talk afterwards about the progress Rwanda has made since that insanity. I will meet our host country staff (PSI Rwanda) and begin to learn more about the burden of poor health that continues to unnecessarily cost Rwandans their children, their own lives, and stifle their economy and progress. Rwanda is the most densely populated African country, and malaria, lack of safe water (only 2.5% of Rwandans have piped water), the great need for family planning, STI’s, HIV, and other preventable diseases and issues keep the entire population subsisting on less than a dollar a day. I will see our programs in action, celebrate what works, and help carry the message of prevention and effective grassroots programs to those who can fund them and help change attitudes and policies for the better.

Gender based violence will be a core theme of this trip. I have already abdicated my day to see the Silver Back Gorillas in order to go to Goma, a city in the Democratic Republic of Congo accessible more safely from Rwanda (Dario is not amused but Papa Jack is here and has done his work. We’ll be okay, said to be more stable now, a very large UN presence, too). The refuge camps are filled with masses of women - victims of rape. The gorillas, much as I love them, can wait.

I am glad to be here, glad to learn, glad to serve, and am more than a little perplexed as to why me.