Kind Old Volcanoes

I awoke early this morning not by a sound, for my perch was high above the early morning clamor of the village below. I was compelled from my warm bed to the cool stone balcony by the excitement of what I might see there. In the dawn light splayed out before me in cold grays and greens was the northern tip of Lake Kivu. Across the still delicate waters rose up the abrupt escarpment of the eastern Congo shore. At the head of the lake the sun sparkled off the roofs of the neighboring towns of Goma and Gisenyi. My eyes quickly sought after and found what they truly desired: not far to the north of the towns lay the volcanoes. First Nyiragongo, identifiable by the cloud emitting from its crater; then Mikeno and Karisimbi poke their cone-shaped heads out further to the northeast. A bird begins singing its morning prayers—as Father Joseph would put it—calls me off the summit of distant peaks to the flower garden below. I tell myself they are prayers of thanksgiving that I could be permitted to peer into a scene of such wondrous creation.

Though from the description this could be some ruler’s lofty castle (and indeed, at times, it felt like one) it was actually the Kivumu Parish, our lodging the first night of our journey from Gisenyi to Kibuye—the first leg of our ride along the western shore of Lake Kivu. This was our first excursion off the smooth tarmac and onto the dirt track. We didn’t really know what to expect. Our only info came from stories of folks who had driven the road. Any tour biker can tell you that intel coming from drivers can be hazardous to translate to bikers who are their own engine. Carol has little mountain biking experience, and I haven’t owned a mountain bike in seven years. We were prepared for a lot of walking our bikes up and down the hills of Rwanda. We both were surprised when the road ended up being in relatively good shape. We learned quickly to bank to the outside of turns to avoid the drainage ruts created by the obsessive rains.

The surface is made up of just larger than fist-sized rocks packed in with dirt. The one time we did ride in a vehicle these rocks didn’t provide much bang or bounce. But on a bike it’s a bit like going over and over a washboard. We learned to steer off to the side as best we could, and then one day we came upon a section of road with large potholes and deep ruts. I noticed there were not as many of those medium sized rocks here where the road conditions deteriorated and came to the understanding that it was these rocks which held our lovely boulevard from eroding into the sea. So it was either jostle along at a good pace over stones or slowly weave your way around and through a pockmarked path. Despite the daily soreness in my hands and arms I came to appreciate those stones. Riding the dirt road held an additional delight in that there was very little vehicle traffic and we felt, at times, like queens and kings of the road swerving back and forth at whim in order to find the smoothest line.

Kivumu is about 25km from Gisenyi and we arrived with our usual escort of children tired and sweaty after our mostly uphill ride. After inquiring on the whereabouts of the father we peered around a corner and surprised ourselves and our host when we saw that we both were mzungu. The father took us in and invited us, without formal introduction of any kind, to look through his collection of photos. Beautiful native birds, plants, flower blossoms, kind smiling faces, coffee trees (the local export crop), and volcanoes graced the pages. We soon learned more about the geology, botany, and ornithology of Rwanda in those two hours of looking at pictures and walking through the gardens of the parish than in our previous six months here. Father Joseph originally alighted to Rwanda from his native Belgium when he was 19 to begin his seminary studies. 50 years later he is still here living and serving in the land he loves. His big rosy cheeks, gentle smile, and excitement over spelunking and mountaineering at age sixty will stay clear in my memory for some time.

The road to Kivumu was also the first time we heard children consistently asking us for candy. Flying down the track, or more likely, puffing in granny gear up the hills we would hear cries of “aga bon bon, aga bon bon.” On this bike tour I quickly realized that patience is harder to come by when you’re already frustrated by the slow slog of ascending hill after hill. So we started to come back with responses like, “where do you think we have candy on our bikes?” or “what mzungu’s been giving you so much candy?” This dilemma hung in our minds like an empty-handed pouty-lipped child as we climbed up towards Kivumu. Things became a bit ridiculous when once or twice we heard adult voices among the children’s. I have one particular memory of catching up to Carol as she was harshly chastising this man on the side of the road. Alarmed, I said, “what happened?!” When I found out that she was mad because it was a grown man this time asking for candy I broke out in laughter. Everyone enjoys a little sweet once in a while—more frequently if you are Carol Miller. The irony of the scene was like candy to me. Nearing dusk Father Joseph kindly took us around to point out some of the interesting parish history (such as 40 buried lava boulders from the bottom of Lake Kivu each dating 3 million years old). When he questioned some young kids about whether or not they were nicking his flower buds the gentle father rewarded with a reach into his pocket for some candy. Carol and I exchanged surprised, though knowing smiles. Bon bons materialized from the father’s jacket pocket on more than one occasion that evening. When we brought our experience on the road to his attention later that day he smiled and said something to the effect “kids like candy”—as if we could ever sway the habits of a kind old priest.

The next morning we showed father Joseph our map and he helped us pick out a couple of other parishes we might be able to stay at along the road to Kibuye. We left early and covered a good distance when it started raining around noon. Clouds swirled up around the ridge where we had stopped creating ominous shapes and then dissipating as quickly as they had formed. A sharp burst of wind was our final warning before the heavens opened to another heavy downpour. Fortunately we were able to duck into a little shop for lunch. We gave the rains a while to putter out, but eventually we were forced out of hiding regardless. We donned our raingear and pursued a locally recommended shortcut to get us to our destination. The shortcut turned out to be slippery yet brilliantly direct in getting us to the next parish. We arrived so early that we decided to continue onto Mushubati.

We arrived at the gate of Father Joseph’s friend, Father Murenzi, only to hear that he had no room at the parish. We could pass the night at a nearby school he just recently helped establish. The school turned out to be the Komera Center for traumatized, deaf, and disabled children. Komera has many meanings in Kinyarwanda. In this case it refers to becoming strong or building up oneself. We were greeted by Leoncia, a kind sister from Tanzania, who left her community to work full-time with youth. The kids were on holiday during our visit, yet we were still given a tour of each classroom by Leoncia and Martin, who is the visiting sign language instructor. Even though he is deaf himself, I was impressed by how adept Martin is at communicating with sign and without (for those folks like me who can’t even produce the letters of their name). Carol has learned many signs from classes and self-teaching over the years and she was excited to have the opportunity to communicate and practice. I would love to talk at great length about the Komera center and its accolades in curriculum, parent involvement, sustainability, etc. with anyone who is interested. This conversation needs to happen outside of a post, though. Carol and I both dream of spending a week with the kids of Komera, and she very well might in the coming weeks. Nevertheless, we had to move on the next morning to get to Kibuye.