Whispers.

Ramp from main guard tower, Birkenau.

Oświeçim, Poland – A whisper. A comment.

(Withheld.)

I've long read the stories, seen the movies and imagined the terror in my mind. For once, the movies haven't exaggerated.

The pages of history books I studied in university unfold before me in full colour and in three dimensions. But here, the pages are so massive, so physically real. Five hundred acres real and scarred by seemingly endless brick foundations, left hollow.

Like I'm feeling.

Over five years, more than 1.3 million people were sent to Auschwitz-Birkenau, 85 per cent of whom were murdered with incomprehensible brutality. Our tour lasts longer than most victims spent here. The hollows remain as a physical black mark on history, whispering to us to remember.

Inside, a display case holds two tonnes of human hair. Two tonnes.

Pathway to the crematoria, Birkenau.

The whispers grow louder with each crunch of gravel as we move past the unloading ramp, still stitched together by miles of railroad track and barbed wire. An eerie peace is found in groves of mature trees swaying around a small pond.

It's shattered when we're told this is where ash from Crematoria IV was unceremoniously dumped – graves, rather than groves. More whispers.

We fall even further into silence as a man rocks on his heels, breaking into a heartbreaking song of prayer in Yiddish over the haunting, shattered rubble of the former Crematoria II. Blown up in 1945 by the fleeing Nazis, it's a contorted mound of jagged steel and concrete: destruction, destroyed. 

Otherwise, it's the silence that whispers of the horrors that took place here.

Right under our feet.

Humbled.

The starting point of something much bigger.

St. John’s, NL – Standing toward the end of the port at the edge of downtown, I blame the rain for the wetness streaming down my face.

I am not being entirely honest.

Sure, the grey day spent walking to Memorial University has dissolved into warm showers, but arriving at mile zero of Terry Fox's Marathon of Hope has hit me unexpectedly hard.

Is there a more heroic Canadian?

I have been very fortunate to not have been disproportionately affected by cancer, but I cannot help but reflect on legacy. And on the power of humanity – or of goodness – at a time in our history where empathy so often feels to be in short supply.

One person's will and actions can indeed change the world. Planning to run across the country, the 22-year-old Fox hoped to support cancer research by raising one dollar for each of Canada's 24 million inhabitants.

On an artificial leg.

Fox's journey was ultimately suspended outside Thunder Bay, ON when cancer reached his lungs – after running more than 5,300 kilometres through weather conditions of all kinds.

Today, his legacy is carried on through the annual Terry Fox Run, which has raised nearly a billion dollars for cancer research through events held around the world. Sometimes, we just need to take the first step.

A little rain is nothing; neither are tears.

Engulfed.

Making waves.

Gulf of Mexico – The sea rolls by like a reel.

Fishermen, too.

The wind winds in waves as we wake in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, the sun rising in the colour of flamingo wings. It’s warmer, but gusty.

Hypnotic waves follow the churn behind the ship, dissolving into turquoise set against an endless horizon of blue. I keep waiting for dolphins.

And, I'm left thinking of the snow-crowned conifers from one of the absolute best days of my life, 16 years ago today: happy birthday to my favourite young lady. This day's weather is quite a contrast.

Pulling forward, clouds become tinted by our chimney stacks, leaving them yellowed like nicotine-stained teeth. It’s hard not to think of the environmental price of my relaxation.

As waves scatter like static, the beauty in isolation, however, is astounding: we are but a ripple in a giant blotter of blue.

Falling for Vancouver.

Pick your Flights.

Vancouver, BC – Free in the greyness of a silent morning, the sea air provides enough of a wake-up coffee.

I’ve always loved mountains and the ocean, even if my affinity for Vancouver hasn’t aligned. Heading toward The Seawall in Stanley Park, however, I am left to my own thoughts, slowly breaking like the day. Bliss.

Set against a sky cross-hatched by sailboat masts, the sun rises in golden shards. Leaves lay like stained glass: seasons shattered in my palm.

Past the totem poles and under Lions Gate Bridge, where the corn chip crunch of barnacles and banana peel viscosity of kelp welcome my footfalls. It smells of past-due pumpkin. On to Prospect Point and Slhx̱i7lsh, where the land melts into the vast expanse of the sea, dotted by bulking freightliners.

As I make my way over the bridge to Granville Island, the sun puts up its dukes against the morning chill. The sun, dare I say, has made it hot. Could this day get any better?

Such peace in beauty; such beauty in peace.

State of Mind.

Same spot, different shot.

New York City, New York – The balloon pops – the gunshots – are silent now.

But, they still reflect off the concrete like dull hammers in my mind.

It has been more than 20 years since I last visited the Empire State Building. Twenty years since an aggrieved Palestinian teacher stood beside me in a tan trench coat – short, dark hairs bristling at the nape of his neck – and opened fire into the crowd on the 86th floor, leaving a young Danish musician doubled over, fatally shot.

Others fell around him, seriously wounded.

He then put a bullet into his own head as I lay below: the slow melt of a crimson puddle at my feet in those seconds-that-felt-like-minutes has stained my memory – likely forever. Time had stopped.

For some, literally.

Twenty years to return to this place, where life was a fleeting flash for some, fortune for others. Where falling, rising and falling again held the key to future stories and the ability to make memories anew. The key to return, even after 20 years.

Same spot, then.

Where one photo is all I had to distance me from nightmares. Or clutch me to its bosom. Rest in peace, Christoffer Burmeister, who did not have that opportunity.

I had, presciently, become nauseous moments before the shooting began. The feeling returned as I took a tentative first step onto the windy deck, unsure if memory lurked around the corner, now filled by unknowing visitors.

It did, but was gentle with me.

The blood is now scrubbed away, but the memory permanent. Oddly, the spot the shooter fell still appears to be traced by an abundance of sand. Even 20 years later, the deck seems to haunt me. But I am free.

Add to this day the hollow shells of melted fire trucks and ambulances stuck between twisted steel rising like gnarled fingers at the 9/11 memorial and museum, and a visit to Ellis Island, and it has been a really heavy day.

But one to remember.

In a positive light.

Kudus and Kudon'ts.

Looking for something else.

Uis, Namibia – Topless Himba women, painted with butterfat and ochre, stand roadside – thick red dreadlocks falling from their heads.

Scattered amongst them, children with impish grins and loose checked blankets or loincloths scramble over a crooked tree branch. One sports a thin, closely cropped wedge of hair that courses over the centre of his head. A few conical and thatched huts lay conveniently behind tables of handicrafts.

Tourists flow from a line of trucks, shutters clicking at bare-bottomed children. Fifty Namibian dollars per photographer, please.

Billed as authentic, I can only imagine why, with countless miles of open space behind, we will pass several tiny villages at the side of the dusty highway. Uncomfortable with the spectacle being orchestrated I, and a few others, stay behind.

Privilege is very real. To me, it’s just too much of a human zoo: 'natives on parade.' This isn’t the way I wish to support the local economy.

To each their own, I suppose. I'll just watch the kudu and giraffes.

Camelot.

I sense your attention flagging.

Boston, MA – The glitz, the glamour.

The gilt, the grin.

The pageantry, the gowns, the boats, the gifts. The hand-annotated speeches, and recordings of those words spoken, resounding. Astounding.

Election posters, pins and bunting. History, encapsulated: the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum.

Papers from the Cuban Missile Crisis show a level of civility and diplomacy seemingly absent today. Khrushchev and Kennedy, firm, yet cordial as the world teeters on the verge of nuclear apocalypse.

Suddenly, a long, black hallway, darkened – lit only by five small televisions. Newsreels.

November 22, 1963.

The lump in my throat forms like the one in Walter Cronkite's as he reads the news bulletin.

"President Kennedy died at 1 p.m. central standard time, 2 o'clock eastern standard time – some 38 minutes ago."

I don't know why I tear.

But I do.

Fin.

London, Ontario, Canada – Mounds of snow rest on the side of the road, blackened like smokers’ teeth. The listless wet grass mopes in faded browns as the swollen river climbs the banks.

Where is all the green? The statuesque trees cloaked in bright leaves? The rolling fields of tea, shimmering in the sunlight? The lizards, scampering under rocks, covered in moss? Where is the mashaza?

Alas, this is not Rwanda. Back in Canada, spring is yawning, but not yet awake.

I returned yesterday afternoon and spent my first day home at the Ivey Eye Clinic. Examining the results of Sunday’s crash outside Kigali, the doctors shook their heads, marvelling in amazement at just how lucky I had been. “Unbelievable.” It turns out I have a 4.2 mm laceration on my cornea that went so deep it came within a micron (a thousandth of a millimetre) of penetrating my eye, leaving me blind on the right side forever. Lucky indeed.

The current prognosis is yet unknown, but there’s hope I’ll regain at least some of my vision while the eye heals over the next six months.

It may not be green, but at least I can see something. And I still have the cold rain to remind me of Kitabi.

Day 44: Lasting Memories.

Kigali, Rwanda – Kigali, Nairobi, Amsterdam, Detroit, London. As I sit in Kigali International Airport with my departure nearing, I am struck by what I am leaving behind.

I have munched on my last succulent brochette skewered on a fresh stick of green bamboo in Nyanza. I’m done driving through the towering hills of Nyungwe in darkness (while standing in the back of a flatbed truck as the cold air makes my knuckles chatter). I’ve said goodbye to Richard, Daniel and Jethro – and to great staff at KCCEM. For now.

I’ve seen my last tropical rainstorm that sends people scurrying for cover, like ants. I’ve cupped my way through my last shower from a basin and breathed my last waft of a field of eucalyptus. As we passed, it shimmered in the sun as though it were winking. I’ve felt my way through my last blackout and spied the last of the swaddled babies poking their heads out of the backs of their mothers’ kitenge.

The ‘tea girl’ has brought me my last morning tea in my office and the women at the canteen will no longer ‘forget’ to return my change. I’ve quaffed my last Primus. And Mutzig. I’m down to my last remaining bills of ‘mafaranga’ and will no longer feel the buzz of the clippers at the ‘saloon’. And certainly not at foreigner prices.

The last wide-eyed child has stared at me, pointing tentatively while calling me ‘muzungu’. Followed by ‘good morning madame’ or ‘agachupa!’ or ‘give me money’. I’ve watched my last banal programme on Africa Magic television and finished joking about ‘mashaza’ and ‘My Sandra’. At least until the emails begin.

No more will I be stuck behind petrol trucks that struggle to inch up each and every one of Rwanda’s thousand hills. No more Impala minibuses. The sharp cut of horns to alert children and bicycles weaving onto the road will no longer fill my ears. I’ve driven the road to Kigali one last time.

I’ve seen the last of the low-lying cloud hanging over the hills and taken the last picture from ‘the spot’ in Kitabi. I've seen promise for great things from KCCEM. I’ve witnessed the last Rwandan vista whose beauty surpasses the last. Last day, last look at homes perched seemingly impossibly on the edge of hills, last pair of clean boxers.

But this is just the beginning.

Day 43: Ode to Kitabi.

Kigali, Rwanda – With the amount of rain Kitabi gets, it was appropriate my eyes misted over at having to say goodbye to its rolling tea fields and looming backdrop of Nyungwe National Park yesterday morning. It has begun to feel like a second home, and I am remarkably at peace there.

Look closely and you’ll see that each of Rwanda’s ‘thousand hills’ is covered by slightly different vegetation, the result of human impact, different altitudes, mineral deposits, water absorbance, etc. From vast fields of banana palms swaying in the breeze to forests of coniferous trees, the country is painted with chlorophyll.

Unlike much of Rwanda, however, Kitabi is located in a poor region for agriculture. Its drier soil is fine for producing tea, peas and tubers like sweet potatoes, but tropical fruits are hard to locate. When we did not travel, food variety waned.

It makes me appreciate how hard it is for the predominantly poor residents of the area, most of whom are unable to travel to markets an hour or two away. Moreso, it makes me realize how lucky were are at home to simply go to any number of grocery stores and select anything we feel like having from around the world.

Kitabi: you are more to me
than rolling carpets of tea,
than a silent
forest of green.

You are somewhere I have grown
and grown to love,
somewhere that gave me breath
and took it away.

I am changed by your change,
and changed by your same,
and believe I came to love
my home away from home.

Day 42: Blood Diamonds.

Kigali, Rwanda – Like diamond pixie dust, shattered glass flew into the cab of the truck and I was left pulling a shard out of my right eye as blood began trickling down my face. I flattened myself against the front seats as a dump truck loaded with sand hurtled past with a baritone rumble.

Its brakes had failed.

Previously, a raging storm had felled a large tree across the road, forcing us to stop, beginning a long procession of vehicles behind us. We were first on the scene.

As young men hacked at the tree with machetes and an axe, a growing cry rose from vehicles behind us. Jethro and our driver Leonard managed to scramble out of the vehicle as I wondered what was happening. Climbing out of the back seat, I opened the door in time to take a face full of glass.

The tree laying across the road splintered into a billion toothpicks as it was hit by the truck, which flipped onto its side. If it hadn’t hit the tree, the cars on the other side would likely have been decimated. Amid cries and people rushing about, a number of locals came over to see that I was alright. The truck driver did not wear so much as a scratch.

Though I cannot currently see out of my right eye, the prognosis from Dr. Bategeximana at King Faisal Hospital in Kigali was that trauma from the impact will subside and that there was no damage to the cornea itself. Already, I see (literally) a bit of improvement.

(Update upon returning home: it turns out the glass came within 1/1000th of a milimetre from puncturing my eyeball and has actually made a 4.2 -milimetre incision in my cornea.)

Given that tomorrow marks 12 years since I was involved in this on my first night in New York City, I've decided I should no longer travel during the last week of February.

It could have been a lot worse. Ironically – and mercifully – I was the only one injured in the accident.

Could it be because I'm a muzungu? Or are forces conspiring to keep me from leaving?

Day 41: An All White Affair.

Cyangugu, Rwanda – Between the preacher’s rapid-fire Kinyarwanda and the deafening din of driving rain against the church’s tin roof, I had little hope of understanding. But when the entire church turned in my direction with probing eyes, I knew something was up.

The bride was not the only one in white.

The preacher had said something to the effect of “We have a very well-attended wedding today – we even have a muzungu.” Having driven up a narrow hill being repaired by the community, it became obvious this village had not hosted many foreign visitors. It was said I was likely the first in Gihundwe Parish church.

Sitting to my left, Claude reached out and shook my hand, saying “Welcome to God’s church.” I learned then I was to acknowledge the congregation with a two-handed wave. To my right, children literally sat on top of each other on the edge of the pew opposite, trying to sit closer to the muzungu attending the wedding. The rest of the bench was empty.

I was honoured to join several colleagues from KCCEM for our colleague Laurent’s wedding today in Cyangugu. The new family had had their traditional wedding a couple weeks ago and now joined another couple being married in the church. I had never before seen two marriages conducted simultaneously.

In contrast with the overt joyousness of weddings in Canada, bride and groom were predominantly stoic during the ceremony. The young woman of the other couple even appeared frightened. Veils were lifted, but there was no kissing the bride. People clapped and said prayers, and hymns were sung. Vows and rings were exchanged and handycameramen manoeuvred around guests with a handheld spotlight. The same, yet different, and incredible.

Likewise, I found the reception fascinating and attempted to interpret the meanings of various ceremonial acts, which included a first meal and cutting of the cake (incongruously, as artificial snow was sprayed from a can). Again, the emcee made a point of sprinkling references to the muzungu in his monologue and looking in my direction with a big grin. A young child crawled off his mother’s lap and under the chairs, apparently disinterested with the occasion.

For me personally, it was an amazing cultural experience and I was deeply grateful for the invitation. I wish Laurent and his new bride the very best for their future together.

Saying Goodbye.

Kigali, Rwanda – This evening, I was unexpectedly struck by a startling reminder of how little time I have left in Rwanda. For the first time, I had to say goodbye to someone with whom I’ve developed a strong friendship in Kitabi.

Though I had not realized I would not be seeing him again before I left, I am very thankful for having come to know my new friend Richard. Our paths will diverge over my remaining days and he came to say goodbye tonight in Kigali. Apart from Jethro and Daniel, I have spent more time here with him than anyone, laughing about mashaza, the Cheetah Girls and the world’s many Sandras. I will always remember the morning I wandered off into Nyungwe National Park for something to do, only to find him walking in my direction to make sure I was alright as I popped out of the forest.

We had planned to travel together to Uganda, but the clock operated against us. We talked of visiting his parents’ village on our return from Kampala and that we did not have the chance to do so is the one regret I have from this trip. “Next time,” he says.

Finding out this was it really sucked. I’ll miss him.

Day 37: Conservation of Leadership.

Goma, DR Congo – Six stacked tables over which a large white tablecloth had been draped served as the backdrop for our presentations in the grand meeting hall at the Ihusi Hotel today.

As the tropics seeped through the windows, words in English and French hung in the humid air. Translation flowed like a discordant echo. Air conditioners, meanwhile, lined the room, sitting silent, as fluorescent lights winked awkwardly. The crushing roar of UN planes taking off and landing nearby shook the walls, often drowning-out the microphones.

Jethro and I were co-facilitating sessions about leadership and management for 30 senior conservation officials from DR Congo, Uganda and Rwanda on behalf of KCCEM. The trans-boundary meeting is being led by the International Gorilla Conservation Programme to provide updates and to discuss conservation efforts, environmental sustainability and community development. As the United Nations has declared 2009 to be the Year of the Gorilla, it also served as an opportunity to discuss events for the coming year.

As seems to be inevitable, we were required to reorganize on the fly to manage time. One key presenter arrived five hours late and had not yet even begun drafting his slides. Needless to say, the schedule went into the blender. Our sessions were fairly well received and provided me with an occasion to present and discuss theories of leadership in both English and French. It was a great opportunity, with one more day to go.

On an interesting cultural note, people are often given a cash per diem and certificates of attendance for coming to such conferences and meetings. Otherwise, many don’t come.

Day 36: Going, Going, Goma.

Goma, DR Congo - It's a byline that scares many from the western world. "Goma." "DRC." But the guns aren't sounding nearby and, in fact, I'm in one of the nicest hotels I've been to in Africa (the Ihusi).

Travelling from Kitabi this afternoon, the roads were lined with banana palms, which are erected along roadsides in Rwanda for weddings and for government officials. Given the sheer number that pointed our way to Gisenyi, we gathered they indicated a significant event. It certainly wasn't for us. In fact, all of the Rwandan government (more than 200 people from the Director level up) are meeting for a retreat in the lakeside town this week. Needless to say, security is high.

Though the process was a little lengthy as officials scrutinized our passports and examined a letter of invitation that had been prepared to ease our transit, we made it through the Congolese border without any difficulty. The sheer number of UN trucks (and UN planes that flew overhead) and Voluntary Repatriation Manifests that had been casually stacked onto the counter in the immigration office was a little sobering, however. I have never before been in a country engaged in a civil war.

Not that you can tell, where we are. It is humid, tropical and the mountains loom over the shimmering blues of Lake Kivu. People laugh, share beers and welcome you to what may be an oasis in the midst of madness. The sounds of birds merge with the waves, lapping against the shore. A man dangles his pole for small fish to add to his ugali. And a gunboat patrols the lake.

It's hard to believe that within a couple hundred kilometres down the road, six million people have died in this conflict over the past 11 years.

Day 34: Rural Rwanda.

Kitabi, Rwanda – An endless line of rural citizens had begun the long walk through the dark with bags of charcoal or vegetables balanced on their heads. Most were barefoot and shielded their eyes as our headlights pierced the darkness, hands shooting up to steady their loads. It was six a.m. and many had likely already walked great distances.

Men, women and children alike coughed as a hundred trucks carrying sweet potatoes to the capital from outlying areas belched acrid clouds of diesel exhaust. The farther one goes from Kigali, the more evident the extreme nature of poverty in Rwanda – ‘Capital P’ Poverty. For most, the sole means of subsistence is whatever crop they are able to produce and sell. In areas around the capital, this means making long daily treks into the city to sell what is not needed at home.

Houses are commonly made from hand-made clay bricks hewn from nearby hills. Some are covered in a mixture that includes chalk to make the surface smooth, and occasionally painted. Others are made from mud stacked on a framework of sticks, often listing to one side. Some of the poorest homes are simply mud cubes. Roofs are often comprised of steel sheeting, or clay tiles. Unlike Tanzania, few are thatched, in part because of a government mandate against them.

Experiences like this still affect me deeply, despite having been to other developing nations, and to Africa twice. It pains me to see children in these communities gathering water from puddles that pool at the end of muddy driveways during rainstorms. And to know it is often cleaner than the alternative. The extent of poverty can be staggering.

It hurts, and is a constant reminder of the excesses of home.

Day 33: Feeling Like a Local.

Kitabi, Rwanda – Having been here 33 days, I’ve begun to feel like a bit more of a local. I have my hotel in the city. They know me by (last) name (well, close to it). I don’t rush to the manager when I find women’s underwear hanging in the closet and used soap in the bathroom.

I have my go-to restaurants, my favourite meals and my local friends. I have a spot at the table and a mobile phone. I have a barber, though I wear my hair short. I can sing along to the chorus of some songs in Kinyarwanda. And not know what they mean. I drift unconsciously between languages when greeting people.

I have a job and need to wash my clothes by hand. I’ve given up hope for a warm shower with water pressure. And for not having to flush using a basin. I have eaten brochette after brochette and have quit resisting all the fresh tropical fruit. I have places to go to feel peace and I have a routine.

I know the prices of things, have ridden a minibus halfway across the country and have grown to love the taste of mashaza. I no longer take a picture of every single thread of low-lying cloud hanging over the mountains. I don’t flinch when the power goes off for the seventh time of the day. And it rains for the tenth. I have watched hours of Africa Magic television and have begun to dream with a Nigerian accent. Children smiling remind me of my own.

I know to order my drinks akonje and my sides without mayonnaise. I know the bends in the road and the smells. I respect the opportunities I have in life, and appreciate that others don’t. Time spent waiting has meant more time for thinking, observing and listening. If it weren’t for Paul, I wouldn’t know how North American sports teams were doing. But I've developed a better appreciation for futbol.

I've likely seen more of the country than most Rwandans. In some places, I’m less of a novelty because of the colour of my skin.

But I don’t have my family and friends in Canada. I miss you (but I’m still not ready to come home).

Day 32: Riding the Impala.

Kitabi, Rwanda – As we arrived in Nyanza, the minibus jerked to the side of the road and was instantly surrounded by a horde of entrepreneurs hoping to sell food and beverages to the 33 passengers. Fermented milk, juice, doughnuts, roasted corn and brochettes on fresh bamboo spears were hawked through the windows. Stooped women with faces lined like the fields and handicapped children approached the door with pleading eyes and hands out.

The seats in the Impala minibus were comfortable enough as I returned to Kitabi this morning on a route that continues to Cyangugu. A ticket for the nearly seven-hour trip costs 4,000 FRw, about eight dollars, though I disembarked at the midway point.

Passengers carried goods from the city they hoped to sell at the other end. Fabric, electronics and a stack of Master P jeans (well, I guess they had to go somewhere) wrapped in clear plastic rested at my feet. Seats folded out to accommodate more passengers and we listened to R&B music in Kinyarwanda and English. I played peek-a-boo with a baby seated in front of me. She didn’t quite know what to make of it.

Next to me, a woman unwrapped the largest Hubba Bubba lollipop I’ve ever seen and proceeded to suck on it for the next hour. Then she played with the (obnoxious) ringtones on her mobile phone. At long last, she contented herself by singing softly under her breath. While the confines were not as tight as in the dalla dallas in Tanzania, if we had been any closer on some of the turns, she may have conceived.

I was amazed the tires managed to stay on the rims as the minibus accelerated around the hills’ many corners. Even still, the ride took me three-and-a-half hours, the horn sounding constantly, mostly at the streams of children who were just getting out of school for the morning. Many looked back indignantly, covered their ears or pretended to throw things in front of us.

My legs were still sore from gorilla tracking the other day, so I was not sad to have to give a sharp whistle to finally get the driver’s attention. Kitabi – home away from home. It was my stop.

Day 31: Interloper Anteloper.

Akagara National Park, Rwanda – Dry red clay crackled under our tires as we made our way into the bush. The noise was enough to send a family of impala sprinting across the field, hind quarters bucking like a donkey’s.

Given that impala are able to jump 11 metres at a go, or three feet into the air, the style obviously works for them. But it still made me laugh. Nearby, a trio of males with sharp, curled horns butted heads, aspiring to be the only one allowed to join a family of females. Naturally, they played for keeps.

When Akagera National Park was founded in 1934, it occupied 2,500 square kilometres in the north-east corner of the country, on the border of Tanzania. Following the war in 1994, it was reduced to 1,085 square kilometres in order to provide additional space for farming. While drier than other areas, the park is still lush and filled with Rwanda’s characteristic rolling hills. Large lakes teeming with hippopotamus and crocodile rest at its centre. Akagera is also the only area in the country you can find animals typical of the African savannah.

It is also home to more than 520 different kinds of bird and a colourful assortment of butterflies.

The long horns of a resting topi poked out of the tall yellow grasses, the only objects not swaying gently in the breeze. Large antelope, topi are able to run at speeds of 70 kilometres an hour and are the fastest member of the family in this park.

Driving slowly along barely-there paths, we startled a bushbuck, which leapt in front of us, and into the foliage. A baboon followed, squinting menacingly. Seeing us approach the watering hole, a fish eagle swept into the sky with majestic wings, coming to rest in a nearby tree. With wingspans of up to seven feet, these impressive birds have the strength to carry a baby impala.

At the lake, hippos stayed submerged, keeping cool in the face of the hot midday sun. With a large snort, they’d come to the surface long enough to cherish another breath. Overturned and shattered thorn trees pointed to the presence of elephants, but we did not cross paths with any today. Though one of my favourite animals, I was spoiled by the number of them I saw on the Serengeti last year.

The highlight, however, was driving off-road through the tall grasses and being confronted by a gorgeous Massai giraffe, which bent over in curiosity. These animals just seem so dignified – it must be that they always hold their heads high.

And so ends my foray to Rwanda’s three national parks in three days.

Day 30: Gorillas in the Midst.

Parc National des Volcans, Rwanda – The sun didn’t so much rise as it lightened the sky over the majestic, mist-covered peaks of the Virunga volcanoes in the north-west corner of the country this morning. Having left at 3:45 a.m., it was yet another early start.

By seven, I gathered with 50 foreigners who would be split into teams and taken to track families of mountain gorillas on different peaks. Of the 320 such gorillas remaining in the world, 250 can be found in Rwanda, the others in nearby DR Congo and Uganda.

When asked if I was feeling energetic before being assigned a climbing team, I should have known it was going to be a long morning – but a challenge not to pass up. The answer, of course, could only be yes. I joined seven other climbers from Australia, the United States and Germany for our assignment: to track the Susa (“River”) family made famous by researcher Dian Fossey. At 40 members, this is the largest group in the Virunga Massif and contains both the first set of surviving twins and long-time Fossey friend, “Poppy”. What an amazing opportunity and, in some ways, honour.

After driving another hour, we set off on foot across volcanic rock and through farmer’s fields for six kilometres. In the driving rain, we couldn’t even see that there was a mountain in front of us. Upon reaching the base, we began the long ascent into a steep bamboo forest laid out like a tight giant slalom course that arced over us. A guide hacked a path with his machete and we all hoped to avoid falling down the hill, taking out everyone behind us.

The bamboo seemed impenetrable and we cursed its existence. More than once. After six kilometres – straight up – it finally ended, but we were still left with another eight kilometres through thistles and nettles that stung our hands and stabbed us through our clothes. We began hoping for bamboo again, but at least the sun had begun to shine.

Over several hours, we had covered 20 kilometres, two-thirds of which were vertical. This would, of course, have to be repeated on our descent – a journey that would end six hours after it began.

But the tall greenery swayed behind an enormous black hand that took a sticky plant and fashioned it into a ball of salad before popping it into a large black mouth. A touch of grey shone from its shoulder and a youngster in front of him similarly directed the tasty treat into its mouth. There was now no question the journey was worth it, and that much more delicious because of the investment we had made in it.

A male, who becomes a silverback after 12 years, can grow up to 200 kilograms in size. This was just one of three in this group, which we found seated nearby, having neatly trampled the surroundings into a tidy meadow. Though it was hard to count exactly how many there were, the guide counted at least 25 gorillas, including a week-old baby and several youngsters who wrestled, climbed branches and cartwheeled and spun their way down the hill. A mother with a baby on her back walked right past me and parked herself in a tree just above my head.

For the record, there is nothing cuter than a baby gorilla.