No one goes to Rwanda in the summer. No one goes to Rwanda in the winter. There is no high season there, only a low season. It may look like a tropical Switzerland, but it’s the opposite of a resort. Nobody goes there unless he wants to see black people hacked to death by machetes. Club Dead. only my first impression, of course. I could be wrong.
Call me Jib, that’s a baby nickname. apparently during some dry spell in my babyhood I thought I was a puppy and, according to sources close to me, spoke gibberish. Now I’m twenty-six, and I don’t do that anymore, but I’m still called Jib. I busted out of Yale for grades. I’ve never done drugs. I have no visible means of support. I’m a yachtsman. A wandering Protestant. I’m definitely the leading contender for black sheep of my rather austere family from Middletown, Rhode Island, all made up of aunts, uncles,and cousins who live behind walls of old money. My Aunt Pearl says I give dilettantism a bad name. I’ll be okay. I’ll just never run for the Senate.
This is my story. I really don’t expect you to believe it. But you probably ought to because it’s true.