Mess by Molly

Thick soupy rainforest fog surrounds me as I step outside my cozy room at the rustic aging tourist lodge overlooking the Virunga mountains of Rwanda. The dawn is wet and chilly.  Eight volcanoes separate us from the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Uganda, the unstable earth an apt reference for the smoldering conflict ever ready to erupt in these lands’ rich with natural resources and ecological treasures.  While my boss Mindel and I are here for a UN technology conference, we arrived early to track the critically endangered mountain gorillas.   Clad head to toe in Patagonia hiking gear, black mud gaiters, and an oversized rain jacket, I gratefully breathe in the scent of blue and purple hydrangeas as I duck into the breakfast alcove to savor a sumptuous spread of tropical fruits and hot porridge ahead of our third day in the jungle. 

I skim the breakfast buffet, pouring myself a hot coffee from the ceramic carafe and grabbing some pineapple and passionfruit to snack on until Mindel, a non-morning person, joins me.    I scroll through yesterday’s pictures on my phone of the 21-member majestic and peaceful Amohoro gorilla family who had a newborn baby among them.  My favorite though is a close-up video of a small mama gorilla on all fours crossing in front of us with her toddler bouncing up and down on her back, arms wrapped around her neck, reddish black hair sticking up as it stares straight at the camera.  Mom pays us no mind as her longer front arms swing her and the infant to another spot in the camp while the other family members look on.   

Prior to this trip, we didn’t know much about gorilla families.  As soon as we boarded the vintage blue Land Rover in the parking lot of the Marriott Kigali with our toothy-smiled driver, we began learning all we could.  On our three-hour drive into the mountains, Mindel, a lawyer by training, sat in the front seat and peppered him with questions about absolutely everything including, of course, the ever-present Rwandan genocide.  

Once we discovered that the Susa gorilla family was the one Diane Fosse lived with and that trekking to see them was considered a difficult hike and thus met my threshold for daily exercise, we decided to deploy our diplomatic lobbyist training.  We began our charm offensive with the professional tour guides of Volcano National Park.  Only eight tourists are allowed to visit each gorilla family for one hour a day, so we knew we needed to get lucky.  Our personal guide confided that the Park was hesitant to assign us to this privileged group because of our old age and the challenging nature of the hike.  They weren’t sure we could make it; but they chose us anyway.

Successfully tracking the Susa Family was an eight hour round trip hike through a mix of thick quicksand-like mud that grabbed and held onto our hiking boots, painful sticky bush plants that stung us through our clothing and treacherous slippery downhills with twisted perilous tree branches and roots ready to trip us at any moment.    Not to mention buffalo and gorillas.

Obviously, we turned down the optional porters available to hire for $10 USD at the beginning of the hike. We didn’t need help.  I proudly bragged about my marathon running experience and having lived at altitude in Peru. And Mindel, being an avid pickleball and soccer player felt the same way.  About 10 minutes in, we realized our horrific mistake when we got stuck in the mud and had no porter to carry us out.  We now understood why the park rangers thought we weren’t a good fit for this group.  However, the Susa gorilla pictures are well worth the hike. 

Since my only opportunity to access WiFi is here in the breakfast area, I post close-up images of the number one Silverback reclining in bamboo as his harem of females pick bugs off him and videos of cheering school children in their colorful hoodies and sandals running to greet us as we enter the national park to show the world how adventurous (and grateful) I am.  The younger man I have been seeing will surely be impressed with such a worldly older woman. 

I absentmindedly nibble a bit of fruit watching the video stories slowly upload when suddenly I feel a splitting crack in my upper top temporary dental prosthetic as the left part crunches too heavy into a piece of fibrous pineapple core.   A sinking sensation flushes across my body.  The blood drains out of my face down through my stomach the way it has so many times before during one of my many dental emergencies due to bulimia and sugar addiction.  Those had usually been limited to crowns coming off (which are devastating), but this time I can feel with my tongue that the entire front teeth prothesis has just split down the middle leaving me toothless.     

I stand up and immediately walk to the women’s restroom outside the restaurant and stare at my reflection in the oval mirror above a white porcelain sink, the cool air a contrast to my blushing face. My body is in shock.  I open my mouth to confirm my worst suspicions.  The plastic prothesis has split into two half pieces and is dangling in my mouth from the two back molars meaning I can stick my tongue through it and there are NO top front teeth whatsoever looking back at me.  I am completely and utterly mortified at my appearance.  What am I going to do for the next two weeks in Rwanda with no front teeth?