Something to blog about, I mean, since I know that my readers are waiting on tenterhooks. Whatever those are. If I even spelled them right.
In the olden days, when we flew back and forth to Liberia, if I recall correctly, we flew TO Africa during the day and FROM Africa at night. Flying to Rwanda, though, requires an extra flight. So it looks something like: New York - Amsterdam - Nairobi - Kigali. The result is two consecutive overnight flights (New York - Amsterdam and Amsterdam - Nairobi) and then a horrible, exhausted layover in Nairobi and then a short little flight up over Lake Victoria to Kigali. It's miserable and every time I do it I vow never to do it again - I vow to get to Nairobi earlier and stay overnight there before flying to Rwanda. I was once so tired after that journey that I fell asleep at my hotel and in the middle of the sleep I received a phone call which I still cannot remember, although my phone showed that I answered it. I must have talked. I just don't remember talking. I was that tired.
But there is one moment which makes the whole trip worthwhile. It is not the moment when the plane crosses the northern coast of Africa, leaving the Mediterranean behind. It is not the moment of first feeling the air of Africa through the open windows in Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi. It is not the moment when the announcement is made for the flight to Kigali. It is not the moment of landing in Rwanda. It is not even the moment of stepping out of the plane on the hill over Kigali. No, the moment that makes worthwhile two overnight flights in a row is the moment, somewhere over Southern Sudan or Northern Kenya, above the early morning clouds covering the Rift Valley, when the sun rises on my first day back in Africa. In that moment, I can scarcely stay still in my seat.