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Inside, I walk past walls filled with snapshots of victims. With each photo of a child, a few details of his or her life are listed:

Francine Murengezi Ingabire

Age: 12

Favorite sport: Swimming

Favorite food: Eggs and chips

Favorite drink: Milk and Fanta Tropical

Best friend: Her elder sister Claudette

Cause of death: Hacked by machete

I wonder if Congo will ever have a memorial like this.

On the drive home, I chat up my taxi driver, who speaks some English. I tell him my destination. He volunteers, “I studied in Goma and Bukavu in the 1970s, but I’ve not returned since.” He pauses for a moment. “Laurent Nkunda is over there straightening it all out for us. He’s taking care of that situation.”

I know about Laurent Nkunda. His attacks have been in the headlines. But my taxi driver’s comment is hardly a shock. Nkunda is widely known to be backed by Rwanda. He’s the leader of the rebel group the National Congress for the Defense of People (CNDP), claiming to protect his fellow Congolese Tutsis from Interahamwe aggression. But his militia is known for the same atrocities as any other, and the presence of Nkunda’s CNDP has resulted in the displacement of more than 750,000 people.

My driver chews on his thought for a moment, then adds, “In Congo, they hate Rwandans. If we go there, they kill us.”

We are quiet for a while.

He says, “You should let me drive you to Bukavu. Forget your flight.”

I picture myself crouched in the back of this taxi as we crawl across the border into Congo, trying to be inconspicuous in a car with Rwandan plates that’s boldly labeled KIGALI CITY CAB.

“I will take you! It is no problem!”

“You are kind. But no thanks.”

At dinner on the hotel terrace, I watch the other guests. Much to my relief, I notice a woman traveler sitting by herself. Women travel by themselves in Africa all the time. I’ ll be fine. Several minutes pass, then a male colleague joins her.

In my brief stay in the hotel and around Kigali, I don’t see another lone woman traveler.

All the same, by morning I am starting to feel confident while listening to the birds, enjoying the relaxing breeze, and having a lovely breakfast amid flower gardens. Watching businesspeople in their tropics-friendly, ohso-colonial business wear, I think, Rwanda, easy. Africa, no problem. Orchid Safari Club is probably a lot like this four-star hotel, with terraced views and lovely buffets. Bukavu might be an awful lot like Kigali—clean, organized, with calm, happy people. Maybe everyone is being dramatic when they talk about Congo. Maybe it will be no big deal.

I stop at the front desk to check out. A fellow guest, an older gentleman who seems to be a seasoned African traveler, nods hello. “How’s your stay going so far?”

“Brief. I’m flying to Congo in a couple of hours.”

He remarks flatly, “Well, that will be a different experience, won’t it.”

WHEN I LEAVE THE HOTEL, the doorman calls a taxi for me. I wait by the curb next to a white South African with red, leathery skin who is wearing a khaki safari vest—a cue that he is an old-school African journalist. I’m not surprised when he introduces himself as a television producer. He’s shooting a documentary about Francophile Africa for South African television. My taxi driver, a former employee at the French Embassy, is among his subjects. I agree to allow his Rwandan crew to ride along with me to the airport. While we wait, he asks, “Where are you headed?”

“Congo.”

I stare ahead, waiting for the requisite sizing up. But standing side by side on the curb, we both maintain a forward gaze. He’s quiet, then offers, “That place . . . Be careful. You can’t trust anyone. Last spring, I was in Goma for three days.”

I continue to stare forward.

He asks, “How long are you staying?”

“Five and a half weeks.”

On the short drive, my destination catches the camera crew’s attention. “The Congo, huh?”

“What’s your take on the conflict?” I ask.

“The Congo people brought it on