I zone out, sink into stream of consciousness. the words flow.

But a taxi is honking viciously at the gate. I am startled. flustered, fluttering, fluttering..and my focus is gone. Pounding fists rattle the paint-scratched iron frame, and Jon steps into courtyard. He has the look of a man we will listen to.

“hurry guys. we need to go. now. everything in town is closed. and the army is marching across the border. we need to go.”

The honking cab has pulls in behind Jon. The honker is better dressed than I. He wears a collared shirt with stripes, and looks distinguished and starched. We scramble and stumble to mobilize. Sloppy, we are. Five of us slide into the back seat of the cab, an early 90s Camry. Red is ready to shoot. The camera he wields is massive. As if Thor became a journalist and began wearing vests with functional pockets. Functional and magical. From one such pocket Red unveiled our press passes. And now they now hang from lanyards around our necks as we fly down the dirt road to the shores of Lake Kivu. We descend upon a crowd of thousands that is gathering. I hope nobody notices my lanyard.

Near the border we disburse. Guards mingle with the masses. And a jeep of hardened soldiers recline coldly, smoking and staring. They are Congolese (FARDC). I try to blend in, but there is one problem. Everyone else is black. Maybe I will tan.

Suddenly the crowd before us erupts in song and dance. Hundreds of men with automatic weapons and RPGs march past. Some smiling, some silent, some burdened with an unsettled grimmace. I watch their faces, I watch their shoes. Meticulously kept and hardly reminiscent of the war zone, except that hundreds of them carry rockets with their bare hands. Or strapped in pouches that hang from chests.

I am still staring at shoes when I feel a tap from behind. A soldier wishes to pass.  He carries a gun, 18 inches in length, that shoots tennis ball-sized death. It’s like playing Nerf, for keeps. The gun rests on his hip and I am directly in the line of fire. I move.

Now the lake is quaking behind us. To avoid trample I become one with the onrushing mob. Carefully though.  It is this brand of mass mentality that easily becomes destructive. Boats of marines rumble across the soggy international border. This country is in love. I squint up the shoreline, half expecting somebody to begin ‘the wave’; instead, Red pops out from behind a bush. Vest in tact.

And where are the others? I see Jon and Dan ahead, rushing the border. With all the excitement of the moment, nobody reminds Jon not to cross. Guards soon congregate as the parade passes fully into Rwanda, its culmination marked by the musical styling of a military brass band. Jon bides his time. The band bobs up-and-down. There are many trombones. Jon is incognito. A chameleon in boots that click and clack as he walks. He slides through a hole in the border wall. Brilliant.

What a day! We follow the procession to a ceremony in the town park of Gisenyi. It is contained in a bowl of a valley that opens up just as winding roads fall into it from steep cliffs above. Such a beautiful scene. We are enamored. Somehow this all seems so glamorous.  My suspicions arise.  There were reports of as many as 4000 Rwandan soldiers occupying Congo for the last month, in a joint operation with the Congolese army. Their stated purpose was to root out members of a rebel group, the FDLR, that was formerly involved in the Rwandan genocide, fifteen years ago. Today, just over 1000 troops return to Rwanda. Most of them are immaculate. Marching. Dancing. Heroes.

Where is the dirt, the grime, the battle scars? Where are those soldiers. Locals tell us that all of the Rwandans will return home over a 3 day period. But with vast natural resources and national retribution at stake just across the border, I am not so sure.

Time will tell. But only if we listen.

*photography by Dan Johnson (http://www.danielnjohnson.com/)