machines and the one shop was closed. I had no local currency anyway. The arrivals board was equally busy here in Sleepy Hollow, so I went back outside.
Of Kigali itself, there wasn’t much to see, at least from where I was standing. Low hills flanked the airfield, and the closest one behind the terminal was dotted with small, nondescript shanty-style homes, nothing over two storys and only a few of those. On the opposite side of the apron I could see a faded old Soviet Mi-24 Hind gunship that was missing two of its five main rotor blades. Thinking about it, the presence of the relic was the only indication that this was an airport.
It was airless. Only the insects broke the silence. I brushed the flies off my face so many times that it looked like I was waving goodbye to an invisible plane. A large insect flew an orbit around my head, recon-noitering a place to land, before touching down on my neck. I slapped at it, and the thing flew off sounding like a door buzzer with too much voltage. It was ten-forty am. If everything was running to schedule, the principals would be here in twenty minutes.
Ten minutes short of the aircraft’s scheduled arrival time, a black limousine drove onto the far side of the apron, followed by five others, plus a khaki-colored truck bringing up the rear. When the convoy got close enough, I could see little flags flapping from atop their front fenders. The line of vehicles scribed a wide arc around the ramp, eventually stopping opposite me, fifty meters away. Soldiers jumped down from the back of the truck, some of them wearing Vietnam-era fatigues but many more outfitted in what appeared to be Rwandan Army Class As. The men in the fancy uniforms were also holding shiny nickel-plated AK-47s, and they formed up in an orderly straight line to one side of the lead vehicle, then stood at ease. The guys in the greens carried more businesslike H&K MP-5 submachine guns with the blue anodizing worn off, and they fanned out around the cars. Aside from the fact that the folks in the limos were obviously important, I had no idea who they were. No doubt Travis would, but he was on the inbound plane. The front passenger door of the fourth vehicle opened and out stepped a man wearing a blue suit, blue business shirt open at the collar, and wraparound sunglasses. He walked casually toward me. When he came within ten meters, I could also see that he was wearing an earpiece, which tagged him as security.
‘ Bonjour ,’ he said, smiling without any kind of warmth.
I nodded. ‘Hey.’
He followed with some French I couldn’t follow, then summed it up by holding out his hand, palm up, wiggling his fingers, and saying, ‘Documents.’
I handed him my paperwork and diplomatic passport.
‘US Air Force,’ he said, reading the words off my shirt. He turned his attention to the forms, and raised his eyebrows at the firearms authorizations. Then he toed the bag at my feet and said, ‘I see this.’
I knelt, unzipped the bag, and let him take a peek. ‘This,’ he said, motioning at the locked case. Despite the Status of Forces Agreement between the US and Rwanda that okayed the weapons I was bringing in, he was clearly nervous about it. He wanted the case opened, so I opened it. There was a moment’s indecision on his face, and I knew he was considering one option that had me face down while his buddies with the submachine guns stomped me into the pavement. But he checked the documents again, looked me up and down once more, and decided that maybe I was who and what my documents said I was – friendly, legal, and not to be messed with. I could feel the sweat on my back forming rivulets.
‘Hot, isn’t it?’ I said, flicking the droplets off my forehead with a finger.
He nodded, pinched his shirt away from his body, and said, ‘ Oui, monsieur. Il fait chaud ici. ’ All of which I took to mean, ‘Yeah, hotter than fuck.’
He handed back my papers and said, ‘Twenny Fo et Leila,’ and with his
Of Kigali itself, there wasn’t much to see, at least from where I was standing. Low hills flanked the airfield, and the closest one behind the terminal was dotted with small, nondescript shanty-style homes, nothing over two storys and only a few of those. On the opposite side of the apron I could see a faded old Soviet Mi-24 Hind gunship that was missing two of its five main rotor blades. Thinking about it, the presence of the relic was the only indication that this was an airport.
It was airless. Only the insects broke the silence. I brushed the flies off my face so many times that it looked like I was waving goodbye to an invisible plane. A large insect flew an orbit around my head, recon-noitering a place to land, before touching down on my neck. I slapped at it, and the thing flew off sounding like a door buzzer with too much voltage. It was ten-forty am. If everything was running to schedule, the principals would be here in twenty minutes.
Ten minutes short of the aircraft’s scheduled arrival time, a black limousine drove onto the far side of the apron, followed by five others, plus a khaki-colored truck bringing up the rear. When the convoy got close enough, I could see little flags flapping from atop their front fenders. The line of vehicles scribed a wide arc around the ramp, eventually stopping opposite me, fifty meters away. Soldiers jumped down from the back of the truck, some of them wearing Vietnam-era fatigues but many more outfitted in what appeared to be Rwandan Army Class As. The men in the fancy uniforms were also holding shiny nickel-plated AK-47s, and they formed up in an orderly straight line to one side of the lead vehicle, then stood at ease. The guys in the greens carried more businesslike H&K MP-5 submachine guns with the blue anodizing worn off, and they fanned out around the cars. Aside from the fact that the folks in the limos were obviously important, I had no idea who they were. No doubt Travis would, but he was on the inbound plane. The front passenger door of the fourth vehicle opened and out stepped a man wearing a blue suit, blue business shirt open at the collar, and wraparound sunglasses. He walked casually toward me. When he came within ten meters, I could also see that he was wearing an earpiece, which tagged him as security.
‘ Bonjour ,’ he said, smiling without any kind of warmth.
I nodded. ‘Hey.’
He followed with some French I couldn’t follow, then summed it up by holding out his hand, palm up, wiggling his fingers, and saying, ‘Documents.’
I handed him my paperwork and diplomatic passport.
‘US Air Force,’ he said, reading the words off my shirt. He turned his attention to the forms, and raised his eyebrows at the firearms authorizations. Then he toed the bag at my feet and said, ‘I see this.’
I knelt, unzipped the bag, and let him take a peek. ‘This,’ he said, motioning at the locked case. Despite the Status of Forces Agreement between the US and Rwanda that okayed the weapons I was bringing in, he was clearly nervous about it. He wanted the case opened, so I opened it. There was a moment’s indecision on his face, and I knew he was considering one option that had me face down while his buddies with the submachine guns stomped me into the pavement. But he checked the documents again, looked me up and down once more, and decided that maybe I was who and what my documents said I was – friendly, legal, and not to be messed with. I could feel the sweat on my back forming rivulets.
‘Hot, isn’t it?’ I said, flicking the droplets off my forehead with a finger.
He nodded, pinched his shirt away from his body, and said, ‘ Oui, monsieur. Il fait chaud ici. ’ All of which I took to mean, ‘Yeah, hotter than fuck.’
He handed back my papers and said, ‘Twenny Fo et Leila,’ and with his
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