I was in the absolute worst mood in recorded human history last Friday night, after checking into the the Ki-Whozit Death Lodge in Northern Rwanda (NOTE 1: I made that name up, but somehow, it's ever so much more accurate.) This after a harrowing 3 hour drive through absolutely breathtaking scenery which I didn't get to focus too much on because of the Formula One reject assigned as my driver.
Robert was nice enough, even though I'd been assured he spoke English and wound up developing my own version of sign language to communicate that if I survived the journey, I would strangle him until his eyeballs popped from their moorings. He just grinned through it all, so I finally leaned back and shut my eyes, the better to concentrate on studying the images of my life flashing in front of me.
By the time we got to the "lodge," a term I use loosely and with tongue rooted deeply in cheek, I was almost hysterical. I'd neglected to consider that I'd be hiking in mountain terrain, which meant the night before the trek would be cold and that I'd I'd need to keep my limbs covered to prevent scrapes and scratches from wild underbrush. The accommodations instantly reminded me of Northern Uganda, so I knew there'd be no hot shower and sheets that would guarantee persistent fungal rashes within their loveless embrace. So for dinner last Friday night, I had a jumbo-sized bottle of Rwandan beer and 3 Bayer aspirin. And for the first time in ages, I prayed for the sweet release of death.
Okay, it wasn't that bad, but it was close. There was just too much time to lie there under the mosquito netting and wish there was somebody next to me to stave off the huge, flapping behemoths and the threat of wild animal attack, and to snuggle with to keep warm. Even the prospect of seeing some cute monkeys wasn't offering any comfort. I had my own Outback Pity Party up in that dank cottage room, and got only about a couple hours sleep, to boot.
So when the alarm went off at 5 AM, I sprang out of that bed and threw on my clothes and thought, "Okay, let's go check out those fucking chimps and get this damned thing over with."
And then I saw their faces.
Now I'm a believer.
Here is my new life mantra: "Golden Monkeys are Kewl!!!" The hike through the forest was a bit challenging, mostly because I was wearing cargo capri pants, and hadn't brought long socks to protect my lower legs, and my sneakers really weren't the appropriate shoes for the arduous trail. But it was a beautiful morning, and my ongoing hot flashes made a jacket completely unnecessary.
From the very first Golden Monkey sighting, I was completely and utterly hooked. They are so amazing. You think you've seen one monkey and you've seen them all, but these dudes are really different, somehow. Their faces are so expressive. They can leap like Michael Jordan.
Their coats are so, well, golden.
I'm telling you, a sister could get used to this outdoor stuff. I also have to get a grown-up camera, the better to capture the awesome splendiferocity of it all. (NOTE 2: I made that word up, so all you Grammar Police can just chill, AH-IIIIGHT???) I simply cannot wait to get back to Northern Rwanda to see the scary yet majestic, Silverback gorillas. I will know what to bring, where to stay, and how to speak enough Kinyarwanda to instruct the driver to "SLOW THE FUCK DOWN!"
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