Welcome to Rwanda. Give me all your plastic bags.

As we descended through the clouds over Kigali, I looked west towards the Congo, were I am heading tomorrow. Enormous clouds towered in the horizon, occasionally torn by violent bursts of forked lightning, as if concealing a terrifying industry below. An ominous sign, by any standard.
I was joined on the plane by my new friend Peter Van Straaten. Professor emeritus as a Candian university, and devoted fan of the use of phosphates in agriculture. It is leaps and bounds more interesting than it seems, allthough I must admit that is not saying much.
The reason I mention my new friend, is that he will soon play an important part in my introduction to this brand new world.
Getting off the plane I was immediately greeted by a rather large acasia (is this how you spell it?). It feel slightly contrived, in the same way as in movies one always has to be shown Big Ben or the Eiffel Tower in order to understand where one is. I wanted to tell the tree to stop trying so hard, but there was no time.
Kigli Airport is a brutish, looming building, built like a brutalistic Sovjet monument, but in the scale of the Spinal Tap Stonehenge. Impressive in the same way as a tall dwarf sometimes takes your breath away.
I had to get in line and pay for my Visa, and I of course, had brought no money. My trepidation was short lived, however, as Dr. Van Straaten provided me with a large bundle of dollars to get me through it.
After spending a good hour and Western Union, I was able to repay him in full.
My ride, an elusive gentleman by the name of Gilbert, was nowhere to be seen. He may have been there, but perhaps a sudden burst of shyness led him to bin his sign reading "Mr.Vegas" and hide behind a plant. I am hoping for the latter, and that he has since regained his nerve.
Once again, the good doctor had to sort me out, as he and his colleague, a smiling chap with more cyllables in his name than I have metaphores, took me to the glitzy, ritzy Chez Lando hotel.
A sprawling, modern structure filled to the rafters of new friends.
At this point, things became slightly frantic. Realizing that both my passport and creditcard were AWOL, I was quickly reduced to something a lot less than a man. Savagely I emptied my bag, wept a little, shook a stranger desperately and bargained incoherently witht the universe. My desperation was reaching new peaks. I would die here. How would I get home? Where was my mother? And why was this stranger letting me shake him for so long? Incidentally, Rwandans are really polite and will let you shake them for quite a long time.
A kindly young lady from the Kigali office of the UNDP took pity on me, and together we retraced my steps to the airport. Sobbingly, I knocked on the door of the Western Union where my paraphanelia had last been seen. Of course, all my documents were there, and for the second time in less than 30 minutes, I grossly invaded a Rwandans personal space. A sidenote: Rwandans will not let you hug them for as long as they will let you shake them, but for the limited amount of time they give you, they provide wonderful hugs.

If any of my parents read this: Please disregard the bit where I lose all my documents. I made it all up. Your son is fine. Go back to sleep.


PS! Plastic bags are illegal in Rwanda. I have enough in my suitcase to get life in the chair.