Fin.

London, Ontario, Canada – Mounds of snow rest on the side of the road, blackened like smokers’ teeth. The listless wet grass mopes in faded browns as the swollen river climbs the banks.

Where is all the green? The statuesque trees cloaked in bright leaves? The rolling fields of tea, shimmering in the sunlight? The lizards, scampering under rocks, covered in moss? Where is the mashaza?

Alas, this is not Rwanda. Back in Canada, spring is yawning, but not yet awake.

I returned yesterday afternoon and spent my first day home at the Ivey Eye Clinic. Examining the results of Sunday’s crash outside Kigali, the doctors shook their heads, marvelling in amazement at just how lucky I had been. “Unbelievable.” It turns out I have a 4.2 mm laceration on my cornea that went so deep it came within a micron (a thousandth of a millimetre) of penetrating my eye, leaving me blind on the right side forever. Lucky indeed.

The current prognosis is yet unknown, but there’s hope I’ll regain at least some of my vision while the eye heals over the next six months.

It may not be green, but at least I can see something. And I still have the cold rain to remind me of Kitabi.

Day 44: Lasting Memories.

Kigali, Rwanda – Kigali, Nairobi, Amsterdam, Detroit, London. As I sit in Kigali International Airport with my departure nearing, I am struck by what I am leaving behind.

I have munched on my last succulent brochette skewered on a fresh stick of green bamboo in Nyanza. I’m done driving through the towering hills of Nyungwe in darkness (while standing in the back of a flatbed truck as the cold air makes my knuckles chatter). I’ve said goodbye to Richard, Daniel and Jethro – and to great staff at KCCEM. For now.

I’ve seen my last tropical rainstorm that sends people scurrying for cover, like ants. I’ve cupped my way through my last shower from a basin and breathed my last waft of a field of eucalyptus. As we passed, it shimmered in the sun as though it were winking. I’ve felt my way through my last blackout and spied the last of the swaddled babies poking their heads out of the backs of their mothers’ kitenge.

The ‘tea girl’ has brought me my last morning tea in my office and the women at the canteen will no longer ‘forget’ to return my change. I’ve quaffed my last Primus. And Mutzig. I’m down to my last remaining bills of ‘mafaranga’ and will no longer feel the buzz of the clippers at the ‘saloon’. And certainly not at foreigner prices.

The last wide-eyed child has stared at me, pointing tentatively while calling me ‘muzungu’. Followed by ‘good morning madame’ or ‘agachupa!’ or ‘give me money’. I’ve watched my last banal programme on Africa Magic television and finished joking about ‘mashaza’ and ‘My Sandra’. At least until the emails begin.

No more will I be stuck behind petrol trucks that struggle to inch up each and every one of Rwanda’s thousand hills. No more Impala minibuses. The sharp cut of horns to alert children and bicycles weaving onto the road will no longer fill my ears. I’ve driven the road to Kigali one last time.

I’ve seen the last of the low-lying cloud hanging over the hills and taken the last picture from ‘the spot’ in Kitabi. I've seen promise for great things from KCCEM. I’ve witnessed the final Rwandan vista whose beauty surpasses the last. Last day, last look at homes perched seemingly impossibly on the edge of hills, last pair of clean boxers.

But this is just the beginning.

Day 43: Ode to Kitabi.

Kigali, Rwanda – With the amount of rain Kitabi gets, it was appropriate my eyes misted over at having to say goodbye to its rolling tea fields and looming backdrop of Nyungwe National Park yesterday morning. It has begun to feel like a second home, and I am remarkably at peace there.
Look closely and you’ll see that each of Rwanda’s ‘thousand hills’ is covered by slightly different vegetation, the result of human impact, different altitudes, mineral deposits, water absorbance, etc. From vast fields of banana palms swaying in the breeze to forests of coniferous trees, the country is painted with chlorophyll.

Unlike much of Rwanda, however, Kitabi is located in a poor region for agriculture. Its drier soil is fine for producing tea, peas and tubers like sweet potatoes, but tropical fruits are hard to locate. When we did not travel, food variety waned.

It makes me appreciate how hard it is for the predominantly poor residents of the area, most of whom are unable to travel to markets an hour or two away. Moreso, it makes me realize how lucky were are at home to simply go to any number of grocery stores and select anything we feel like having from around the world.

Kitabi: you are more to me
than rolling carpets of tea,
than a silent
forest of green.

You are somewhere I have grown
and grown to love,
somewhere that gave me breath
and took it away.

I am changed by your change,
and changed by your same,
and believe I came to love
my home away from home.

Day 42: Blood Diamonds.

Kigali, Rwanda – Like diamond pixie dust, shattered glass flew into the cab of the truck and I was left pulling a shard out of my right eye as blood began trickling down my face. I flattened myself against the front seats as a dump truck loaded with sand hurtled past with a baritone rumble. Its brakes had failed.

Previously, a raging storm had felled a large tree across the road, forcing us to stop and thus beginning a long procession of vehicles behind us. We were first on the scene.

As young men hacked at the tree with machetes and an axe, a growing cry rose from vehicles behind us. Jethro and our driver Leonard managed to scramble out of the vehicle as I wondered what was happening. Climbing out of the back seat, I opened the door in time to take a face full of glass.

The tree laying across the road splintered into a billion toothpicks as it was hit by the truck, which flipped onto its side. If it hadn’t hit the tree, the cars on the other side would likely have been decimated. Amid cries and people rushing about, a number of locals came over to see that I was alright. The truck driver did not wear so much as a scratch.

Though I cannot currently see out of my right eye, the prognosis from Dr. Bategeximana at King Faisal Hospital in Kigali was that trauma from the impact will subside and that there was no damage to the cornea itself. Thankfully, glass did not cut the eyeball. Already, I see (literally) a bit of improvement.

Given that tomorrow marks 12 years since I was involved in this on my first night in New York City, I've decided I should no longer travel during the last week of February.

It could have been a lot worse. Ironically – and mercifully – I was the only one injured in the accident. Could it be because I'm a muzungu? Or are forces conspiring to keep me from leaving?

Day 41: An All-White Affair.

Cyangugu, Rwanda – Between the preacher’s rapid-fire Kinyarwanda and the deafening din of driving rain against the church’s tin roof, I had little hope of understanding. But when the entire church turned in my direction with probing eyes, I knew something was up.

The bride was not the only one in white.

The preacher had said something to the effect of “We have a very well-attended wedding today – we even have a muzungu.” Having driven up a narrow hill being repaired by the community, it became obvious this village had not hosted many foreign visitors. It was said I was likely the first in Gihundwe Parish church.

Sitting to my left, Claude reached out and shook my hand, saying “Welcome to God’s church.” I learned then I was to acknowledge the congregation with a two-handed wave. To my right, children literally sat on top of each other on the edge of the pew opposite, trying to sit closer to the muzungu attending the wedding. The rest of the bench was empty.

I was honoured to join several colleagues from KCCEM for our colleague Laurent’s wedding today in Cyangugu. The new family had had their traditional wedding a couple weeks ago and now joined another couple being married in the church. I had never before seen two marriages conducted simultaneously.

In contrast with the overt joyousness of weddings in Canada, bride and groom were predominantly stoic during the ceremony. The young woman of the other couple even appeared frightened. Veils were lifted, but there was no kissing the bride. People clapped and said prayers, and hymns were sung. Vows and rings were exchanged and handycameramen manoeuvred around guests with a handheld spotlight. The same, yet different, and incredible.

Likewise, I found the reception fascinating and attempted to interpret the meanings of various ceremonial acts, which included a first meal and cutting of the cake (incongruously, as artificial snow was sprayed from a can). Again, the emcee made a point of sprinkling references to the muzungu in his monologue and looking in my direction with a big grin. A young child crawled off his mother’s lap and under the chairs, apparently disinterested with the occasion.

For me personally, it was an amazing cultural experience and I was deeply grateful for the invitation. I wish Laurent and his new bride the very best for their future together.

Day 40: Hello, Moto.

Kigali, Rwanda – I tried not to think of how many heads had been where mine was headed (pun intended) as I pulled the heavy green helmet over it. The flimsy plastic clasp on the nylon strap refused to grip tightly.

Pulling through Kigali on a moto-taxi for the first time, the visor threatened to catch in the wind and pull the helmet right off. Then we’d start uphill and the small motorcycle would sputter to summon the strength to pull us toward our destination. Too many sweet potatoes.

In the end, I made it halfway across town for 1,000 FRw (about two dollars), an uncommon slickness in my hair and a brief period of travelling like a local.

Saying Goodbye.

Kigali, Rwanda – This evening, I was unexpectedly struck by a startling reminder of how little time I have left in Rwanda. For the first time, I had to say goodbye to someone with whom I’ve developed a strong friendship in Kitabi.

Though I had not realized I would not be seeing him again before I left, I am very thankful for having come to know my new friend Richard. Our paths will diverge over my remaining days and he came to say goodbye tonight in Kigali. Apart from Jethro and Daniel, I have spent more time here with him than anyone, laughing about mashaza, the Cheetah Girls and the world’s many Sandras. I will always remember the morning I wandered off into Nyungwe National Park for something to do, only to find him walking in my direction to make sure I was alright as I popped out of the forest.

We had planned to travel together to Uganda, but the clock operated against us. We talked of visiting his parents’ village on our return from Kampala and that we did not have the chance to do so is the one regret I have from this trip. “Next time,” he says.

Finding out this was it really sucked. I’ll miss him.

Day 39: A Red Mark.

Kigali, Rwanda – Crouched on reddish-black volcanic rock, a long, jagged row of homes and businesses that line the road from Gisenyi bear a red ‘X’ like a modern-day scarlet letter. The mark indicates the structures will be destroyed for being too close to the road. Though owners receive compensation from the government, they are still often forced to relocate.

I have seen this throughout the country and it reflects Rwanda’s infrastructure development, particularly roads, in the face of little formalized land ownership.

Passing through the northern province, even more letters are stencilled on signs and onto the facings of most buildings. The words they form, however, reflect a slogan introduced by the region’s popular governor. Like scars beginning to heal, they remind passersby of the genocide, but speak of hope for the future.

Loosely paraphrased, the phrase asks people for peace, forgiveness and to fight genocide from the roots up. That this message has been branded throughout this region is particularly significant given that it was home to former President Habyarimana and many of the genocide’s organizers. It is also where the war continued the longest.

In most instances, the word ‘Jenocide’ is singled out in red.

Day 38: Going Grey.

Goma, DR Congo – Driving through Goma at dusk, as we did last night, can be likened to being an extra in an old black-and-white film. It’s moderately surreal and volcanic ash from an eruption three years ago has tinted everything in hues of grey. Even the colourful African fabrics women wear are muted.

People paid us no mind and, despite constant reminders of the conflict that has plagued the region for more than a decade, it is obvious life goes on here. Fancy leather shoes hung from boards on the main street, men rode large, handmade wooden scooters and people continued to carry-out their tasks in the market.

Goma is very dirty, though, and fires of lit cardboard burned on the sides of the main road. The smell cuts at your nostrils. Gutters overflowed with refuse of all varieties and goats rooted through it. I temporarily lost my appetite for brochettes. Black volcanic rock has been salvaged and used for fences, but the buildings carry a sooty reminder reminiscent of parts of London, England.

Though we passed a house where each room was made from old shipping containers, Goma, much like Kigali, is witnessing a construction boom. Enormous mansions are being built right in the city, proving there's still money in the region. And presumably, some degree of safety in the city.

The UN maintains a large camp at the airport and the vast white sea of its shelters, trucks and armed vehicles contrasts dramatically with the black tarmac. Its peacekeeping force in DR Congo is the largest in the world. While I’ve become moderately accustomed to the presence of automatic weapons in Rwanda, a couple Congolese soldiers we passed carried handheld grenade launchers. Serious stuff.

I can imagine the conflict here has gone on so long that, for many, theatrics in the region simply play in the background, like white noise. I'm sure they'd still like them to come to an end.

Day 37: Conservation of Leadership.

Goma, DR Congo – Six stacked tables over which a large white tablecloth had been draped served as the backdrop for our presentations in the grand meeting hall at the Ihusi Hotel today.

As the tropics seeped through the windows, words in English and French hung in the humid air. Translation flowed like a discordant echo. Air conditioners, meanwhile, lined the room, sitting silent, as fluorescent lights winked awkwardly. The crushing roar of UN planes taking off and landing nearby shook the walls, often drowning-out the microphones.

Jethro and I were co-facilitating sessions about leadership and management for 30 senior conservation officials from DR Congo, Uganda and Rwanda on behalf of KCCEM. The trans-boundary meeting is being led by the International Gorilla Conservation Programme to provide updates and to discuss conservation efforts, environmental sustainability and community development. As the United Nations has declared 2009 to be the Year of the Gorilla, it also served as an opportunity to discuss events for the coming year.

As seems to be inevitable, we were required to reorganize on the fly to manage time. One key presenter arrived five hours late and had not yet even begun drafting his slides. Needless to say, the schedule went into the blender. Our sessions were fairly well received and provided me with an occasion to present and discuss theories of leadership in both English and French. It was a great opportunity, with one more day to go.

On an interesting cultural note, people are often given a cash per diem and certificates of attendance for coming to such conferences and meetings. Otherwise, many don’t come.

Day 36: Going, Going, Goma.

Goma, DR Congo - It's a byline that scares many from the western world. "Goma." "DRC." But the guns aren't sounding nearby and, in fact, I'm in one of the nicest hotels I've been to in Africa (the Ihusi).

Travelling from Kitabi this afternoon, the roads were lined with banana palms, which are erected along roadsides in Rwanda for weddings and for government officials. Given the sheer number that pointed our way to Gisenyi, we gathered they indicated a significant event. It certainly wasn't for us. In fact, all of the Rwandan government (more than 200 people from the Director level up) are meeting for a retreat in the lakeside town this week. Needless to say, security is high.

Though the process was a little lengthy as officials scrutinized our passports and examined a letter of invitation that had been prepared to ease our transit, we made it through the Congolese border without any difficulty. The sheer number of UN trucks (and UN planes that flew overhead) and Voluntary Repatriation Manifests that had been casually stacked onto the counter in the immigration office was a little sobering, however. I have never before been in a country engaged in a civil war.

Not that you can tell, where we are. It is humid, tropical and the mountains loom over the shimmering blues of Lake Kivu. People laugh, share beers and welcome you to what may be an oasis in the midst of madness. The sounds of birds merge with the waves, lapping against the shore. A man dangles his pole for small fish to add to his ugali. And a gunboat patrols the lake.

It's hard to believe that within a couple hundred kilometres down the road, six million people have died in this conflict over the past 11 years.

Day 35: The Road to Kigali.

Kitabi, Rwanda – Like the spokes on a (very curved, and very hilly) wheel, all of Rwanda’s roads lead to the capital city. As I alluded to yesterday, this is a very Kigali-centric country and it is hard not to pass through it, regardless of your destination.

It is Rwanda’s power base and home to much of the country’s wealth. Most professionals work in Kigali and many of those employed elsewhere maintain homes there. Even though the trip from Kitabi takes more than three hours, for example, most of the staff here at KCCEM begin their pilgrimage home each Friday, as do many who work at the National University of Rwanda, in Butare. For more than a million people, it is home.

It's hard for me to believe, but this is my last full day in Kitabi, though I have a bit more than a week left before I depart for home. Tomorrow, we head to Goma, DR Congo, where I will be co-facilitating a two-day session on leadership and management for the International Gorilla Conservation Programme.

And yes, we’ll have to go through Kigali first (though if a straight road existed to Gisenyi, which is opposite Goma, the six-hour trip would be reduced to one).

Day 34: Rural Rwanda.

Kitabi, Rwanda – An endless line of rural citizens had begun the long walk through the dark with bags of charcoal or vegetables balanced on their heads. Most were barefoot and shielded their eyes as our headlights pierced the darkness, hands shooting up to steady their loads. It was six a.m. and many had likely already walked great distances.

Men, women and children alike coughed as a hundred trucks carrying sweet potatoes to the capital from outlying areas belched acrid clouds of diesel exhaust. The farther one goes from Kigali, the more evident the extreme nature of poverty in Rwanda – ‘Capital P’ Poverty. For most, the sole means of subsistence is whatever crop they are able to produce and sell. In areas around the capital, this means making long daily treks into the city to sell what is not needed at home.

Houses are commonly made from hand-made clay bricks hewn from nearby hills. Some are covered in a mixture that includes chalk to make the surface smooth, and occasionally painted. Others are made from mud stacked on a framework of sticks, often listing to one side. Some of the poorest homes are simply mud cubes. Roofs are often comprised of steel sheeting, or clay tiles. Unlike Tanzania, few are thatched, in part because of a government mandate against them.

Experiences like this still affect me deeply, despite having been to other developing nations, and to Africa twice. It pains me to see children in these communities gathering water from puddles that pool at the end of muddy driveways during rainstorms. And to know it is often cleaner than the alternative. The extent of poverty can be staggering.

It hurts, and is a constant reminder of the excesses of home.

Day 33: Feeling Like a Local.

Kitabi, Rwanda – Having been here 33 days, I’ve begun to feel like a bit more of a local. I have my hotel in the city. They know me by (last) name (well, close to it). I don’t rush to the manager when I find women’s underwear hanging in the closet and used soap in the bathroom.

I have my go-to restaurants, my favourite meals and my local friends. I have a spot at the table and a mobile phone. I have a barber, though I wear my hair short. I can sing along to the chorus of some songs in Kinyarwanda. And not know what they mean. I drift unconsciously between languages when greeting people.

I have a job and need to wash my clothes by hand. I’ve given up hope for a warm shower with water pressure. And for not having to flush using a basin. I have eaten brochette after brochette and have quit resisting all the fresh tropical fruit. I have places to go to feel peace and I have a routine.

I know the prices of things, have ridden a minibus halfway across the country and have grown to love the taste of mashaza. I no longer take a picture of every single thread of low-lying cloud hanging over the mountains. I don’t flinch when the power goes off for the seventh time of the day. And it rains for the tenth. I have watched hours of Africa Magic television and have begun to dream with a Nigerian accent. Children smiling remind me of my own.

I know to order my drinks akonje and my sides without mayonnaise. I know the bends in the road and the smells. I respect the opportunities I have in life, and appreciate that others don’t. Time spent waiting has meant more time for thinking, observing and listening. If it weren’t for Paul, I wouldn’t know how North American sports teams were doing. But I've developed a better appreciation for futbol.

I've likely seen more of the country than most Rwandans. In some places, I’m less of a novelty because of the colour of my skin.

But I don’t have my family and friends in Canada. I miss you (but I’m still not ready to come home).

Day 32: Riding the Impala.

Kitabi, Rwanda – As we arrived in Nyanza, the minibus jerked to the side of the road and was instantly surrounded by a horde of entrepreneurs hoping to sell food and beverages to the 33 passengers. Fermented milk, juice, doughnuts, roasted corn and brochettes on fresh bamboo spears were hawked through the windows. Stooped women with faces lined like the fields and handicapped children approached the door with pleading eyes and hands out.

The seats in the Impala minibus were comfortable enough as I returned to Kitabi this morning on a route that continues to Cyangugu. A ticket for the nearly seven-hour trip costs 4,000 FRw, about eight dollars, though I disembarked at the midway point.

Passengers carried goods from the city they hoped to sell at the other end. Fabric, electronics and a stack of Master P jeans (well, I guess they had to go somewhere) wrapped in clear plastic rested at my feet. Seats folded out to accommodate more passengers and we listened to R&B music in Kinyarwanda and English. I played peek-a-boo with a baby seated in front of me. She didn’t quite know what to make of it.

Next to me, a woman unwrapped the largest Hubba Bubba lollipop I’ve ever seen and proceeded to suck on it for the next hour. Then she played with the (obnoxious) ringtones on her mobile phone. At long last, she contented herself by singing softly under her breath. While the confines were not as tight as in the dalla dallas in Tanzania, if we had been any closer on some of the turns, she may have conceived.

I was amazed the tires managed to stay on the rims as the minibus accelerated around the hills’ many corners. Even still, the ride took me three-and-a-half hours, the horn sounding constantly, mostly at the streams of children who were just getting out of school for the morning. Many looked back indignantly, covered their ears or pretended to throw things in front of us.

My legs were still sore from gorilla tracking the other day, so I was not sad to have to give a sharp whistle to finally get the driver’s attention. Kitabi – home away from home. It was my stop.

Day 31: Interloper Anteloper.

Akagara National Park, Rwanda – Dry red clay crackled under our tires as we made our way into the bush. The noise was enough to send a family of impala sprinting across the field, hind quarters bucking like a donkey’s.

Given that impala are able to jump 11 metres at a go, or three feet into the air, the style obviously works for them. But it still made me laugh. Nearby, a trio of males with sharp, curled horns butted heads, aspiring to be the only one allowed to join a family of females. Naturally, they played for keeps.

When Akagera National Park was founded in 1934, it occupied 2,500 square kilometres in the north-east corner of the country, on the border of Tanzania. Following the war in 1994, it was reduced to 1,085 square kilometres in order to provide additional space for farming. While drier than other areas, the park is still lush and filled with Rwanda’s characteristic rolling hills. Large lakes teeming with hippopotamus and crocodile rest at its centre. Akagera is also the only area in the country you can find animals typical of the African savannah.

It is also home to more than 520 different kinds of bird and a colourful assortment of butterflies.

The long horns of a resting topi poked out of the tall yellow grasses, the only objects not swaying gently in the breeze. Large antelope, topi are able to run at speeds of 70 kilometres an hour and are the fastest member of the family in this park.

Driving slowly along barely-there paths, we startled a bushbuck, which leapt in front of us, and into the foliage. A baboon followed, squinting menacingly. Seeing us approach the watering hole, a fish eagle swept into the sky with majestic wings, coming to rest in a nearby tree. With wingspans of up to seven feet, these impressive birds have the strength to carry a baby impala.

At the lake, hippos stayed submerged, keeping cool in the face of the hot midday sun. With a large snort, they’d come to the surface long enough to cherish another breath. Overturned and shattered thorn trees pointed to the presence of elephants, but we did not cross paths with any today. Though one of my favourite animals, I was spoiled by the number of them I saw on the Serengeti last year.

The highlight, however, was driving off-road through the tall grasses and being confronted by a gorgeous Massai giraffe, which bent over in curiosity. These animals just seem so dignified – it must be that they always hold their heads high.

And so ends my foray to Rwanda’s three national parks in three days.

Day 30: Gorillas in the Midst.

Parc National des Volcans, Rwanda – The sun didn’t so much rise as it lightened the sky over the majestic, mist-covered peaks of the Virunga volcanoes in the north-west corner of the country this morning. Having left at 3:45 a.m., it was yet another early start.

By seven, I gathered with 50 foreigners who would be split into teams and taken to track families of mountain gorillas on different peaks. Of the 320 such gorillas remaining in the world, 250 can be found in Rwanda, the others in nearby DR Congo and Uganda.

When asked if I was feeling energetic before being assigned a climbing team, I should have known it was going to be a long morning – but a challenge not to pass up. The answer, of course, could only be yes. I joined seven other climbers from Australia, the United States and Germany for our assignment: to track the Susa (“River”) family made famous by researcher Dianne Fossey. At 40 members, this is the largest group in the Virunga Massif and contains both the first set of surviving twins and long-time Fossey friend, “Poppy”. What an amazing opportunity and, in some ways, honour.

After driving another hour, we set off on foot across volcanic rock and through farmer’s fields for six kilometres. In the driving rain, we couldn’t even see that there was a mountain in front of us. Upon reaching the base, we began the long ascent into a steep bamboo forest laid out like a tight giant slalom course that arced over us. A guide hacked a path with his machete and we all hoped to avoid falling down the hill, taking out everyone behind us.

The bamboo seemed impenetrable and we cursed its existence. More than once. After six kilometres – straight up – it finally ended, but we were still left with another eight kilometres through thistles and nettles that stung our hands and stabbed us through our clothes. We began hoping for bamboo again, but at least the sun had begun to shine.

Over several hours, we had covered 20 kilometres, two-thirds of which were vertical. This would, of course, have to be repeated on our descent – a journey that would end six hours after it began.

But the tall greenery swayed behind an enormous black hand that took a sticky plant and fashioned it into a ball of salad before popping it into a large black mouth. A touch of grey shone from its shoulder and a youngster in front of him similarly directed the tasty treat into its mouth. There was now no question the journey was worth it, and that much more delicious because of the investment we had made in it.

A male, who becomes a silverback after 12 years, can grow up to 200 kilograms in size. This was just one of three in this group, which we found seated nearby, having neatly trampled the surroundings into a tidy meadow. Though it was hard to count exactly how many there were, the guide counted at least 25 gorillas, including a week-old baby and several youngsters who wrestled, climbed branches and cartwheeled and spun their way down the hill. A mother with a baby on her back walked right past me and parked herself in a tree just above my head.

For the record, there is nothing cuter than a baby gorilla.

Day 29: Holding Pattern.

Kigali, Rwanda – I’m sitting alone on a patio overlooking the capital city and the heavy rains have ceased, leaving a perfect rainbow arched over the homes that line Kigali’s hills.

It reminds me of the holding pattern you find on television, which is appropriate given that updates to this blog will be on hiatus until I return to Kitabi, hopefully on Friday. Tomorrow, we leave at 4 a.m. for Parc National des Volcans, where we will make an early-morning ascent into the volcanoes to track mountain gorillas.

Stay lower than the silverback, I’ve been told.

From there, we’ll return to Kigali, then proceed to Akagera National Park to commune with the giraffes, baboons and hippos on Thursday.

But looking out as the sun sets over Kigali – not rosy, but white illuminating the rounded clouds that stand high across the whole sky – I can’t help but marvel at how cool this is.

Updates to follow.

Day 28: Time to Bolt.

Kitabi, Rwanda – We were enveloped in a sudden flash of white and the instantaneous roar of deep, rumbling thunder shook the ground beneath us.

Having dodged raindrops the size of grapes while running from the computer lab to a waiting truck yesterday, either the vehicle itself, or the ground beside us, was struck by a large bolt of lightning. For a moment, the air was bleached; I had never been so close to one of Zeus’s arrows.

This followed a lightning strike a few minutes before that had hit the lab, sending a long spark out of the server and over our heads, alerting us that it might be wise to leave. Lightning arrestors would be a prudent investment.

The weather can change very quickly here. Given that Kitabi is located on the edge of a rainforest, it’s not surprising that sunny days can suddenly dissipate into skies of looming cloud and rains that make the hills disappear. The area accumulates approximately 2,000 millimetres of rain annually, which feeds the lush vegetation that springs from every inch of soil. I have never seen so much green.

And yet, when it is sunny, the skies seem to be painted on over rolling hills, making this one of the most beautiful areas I’ve seen in the world.

Day 27: A Word on Language.

Kitabi, Rwanda – At any one time here, the lyrical tones of a variety of languages are carried on the breeze. With everyone talking on a mobile phone, it can be a real symphony.

Many educated Rwandans are at least bilingual and often speak three or four languages, at least passably. Persistent chatter on the street is generally in Kinyarwanda, but the government implemented a policy this past year that made English the working language. Meetings, however, often dissolve into the national tongue.

I imagine the transition will be interesting – and likely challenging – in the short term, given that the policy is not being phased in. It’s already in place. Imagine waking up one morning and suddenly finding out that all of your work had to be done in a different language – one you understood little of. All of a sudden, school curricula are in English. Signs, advertisements, newspapers, overhauled.

Though it may handicap the nation in the near future, the President believes the change will help Rwanda better position itself on the global stage in the long run. English is also central to the country’s desire to join the Commonwealth.

Kiswahili – the language of much of East and Central Africa – has now also been made mandatory in schools.

Given France’s extensive historical involvement in the country, many Rwandans also speak French (though there are areas in which you may be thought less of if you do because of disgust with the former colonial power). Rwanda was once part of ‘La Francophonie’, the association of French-speaking nations, but diplomatic relations have chilled with France because of its colonial past and its role in the genocide.

On an interesting note, Kinyarwanda is blessed with a couple idiosyncrasies that can be somewhat confusing if you’re not prepared for them. For reasons I do not understand, the ‘k’ sound is often pronounced as “ch” and an ‘l’ can be pronounced as ‘r’. As an example, Kigali (where I’m headed back to tomorrow) is often pronounced “Chigari”. To add another wrinkle, ‘b’ can be pronounced as ‘v’, leaving the oral form of Kitabi as “Chitavi”.

Confused yet?

Day 26: Chimpan-A to Chimpanzee.

Nyungwe National Park, Rwanda – The alarm was shrill in the way anything is if it’s trying to wake you up at 2:30 a.m. The sun was nowhere near shattering the blackness.

Instead, we had a relatively clear skyline for our journey into Nyungwe National Park, where we were to track chimpanzees this morning. The blanket of stars reminded me of the sleep I could still be having. As we wove over the Park’s bumpy roads, tail lights bobbed like sinkers on fishing lines and remainders of the other day’s landslides jutted out like ribs.

After two hours of driving, we picked up our guide and two German tourists at 4:30 and made our way 12 more kilometres back into the rainforest. The wet, rutted roads were the worst I had ever encountered, so bad our journey took another 90 minutes.

As the sky lightened, we stood waiting for the trackers to locate the chimpanzee hoots that would set our direction. We knew the primates were nearby, but were keeping silent as their day was just breaking, too. Chimps are known to travel large distances and to not remain in one place long if food is not plentiful. A tracker fooled us with his call.

And suddenly, at 7:15, four large females thundered down the hill and across the road behind us. We stood, mouths agape, at how close we had been. We barrelled into the bush behind them (well, after giving them a bit of a lead), leaving no question of stealth with our heavy footfalls. The terrain was unforgiving and I cannot say I was always able to remain on my feet. Crashing down steep, muddy hills as vines and roots alike conspired to ensnare us, we didn’t see the chimps again for another hour.

A ruckus of calls erupted from deep in the valley, seemingly taunting us.

It felt like somewhat of a cross between Indiana Jones and Mantracker, Africa edition. Sharp thorn bushes snapped back into my face and dewy ferns found their way underfoot. All at once, it seemed, I’d be pulling myself up an incline, sliding back down a hill, climbing over a slippery rotten mahogany tree and jumping small streams. Chaffing from the walking stick left blood blisters speckled in my palm. But it was all worth it.

Finally, artillery fire of half-eaten figs hailed down upon us from high up in the trees, each hitting the soft ground with a resounding thud. The entire troupe was feeding above and littering the rainforest with its remains. Branches arched spectacularly as long hairy arms swung from them with ease. As the chimpanzees climbed down to feed elsewhere, we saw that two of the mothers had babies clinging to their stomachs. They were less than six months old.

Four hours and several vertical kilometres later – after tracking the family to yet another location – we emerged from the rainforest exhausted and completely filthy. And happy.

Over the years, I have been fortunate enough to have had many unique experiences, both good and bad, but I can think of few that were more exhilarating – or exhausting. Chimpanzees possess 94 per cent of human DNA and it was incredible to share space with our nearest relative in the animal kingdom.

But how would I love to be able to have a hot shower with water pressure.

Day 25: Shear Experience.

Kigali, Rwanda – As the blades inched toward my throat, my Adam’s apple bobbed hesitantly and I resisted the urge to jerk wildly.

Thankfully, the barber had a gentle touch.

In fact, he seemed to pay special attention to each remaining hair on my head and face, the clippers humming a familiar tune as he checked the mirror to ensure each side was even. I had never sat so long in a barber’s chair as I did at ‘Saloon 2020’ in Kigali yesterday afternoon. With barbers on every block, this is a competitive business in Rwanda.

Sounds of a soccer game broadcast in Kinyarwanda blasted from a cramped corner of the five-seat shop. The image was as shaky as most of the passes. People milled about, both inside and outside, and we were immediately seated in standard black office chairs draped in plastic.

The barber produced a clear plastic bag covered in Chinese characters, which contained a bright orange cape with the words ‘My baby girl’ emblazoned across it. I chuckled to myself. He proceeded to prepare the clippers with rubbing alcohol and cotton, and a little oil, which reassured me.

Right from the start, the clippers chewed at my head like a hyena, causing the embarrassed barber to hurry into the back to find a new set. And likely to lament the wily ways of muzungu hair.

At the end of 45 minutes in the chair, every angle had been examined and each hair had been tapered as much as it could be. It cost me 1,000 FRw, about two dollars.

Not being a muzungu, Jethro, of course, paid half that.

Day 24: Landslide to Kigali.

Kigali, Rwanda – The rains erased the hills as greens became greys and sharp became blurred. Each icy drop, icier at its core, pummelled the rug of crestfallen cloud that hugged the earth.

The pavement ran red as small landslides cascaded down the hills, the curled roots of grass and small plants clutching like gnarled fingers to the muddy heap. A felled tree lay sprawled across the road.

A convoy of 12 open olive green Mercedes trucks stood roadside with flimsy camouflage tarps flapping in the cold wind. Most held up to 100 standing soldiers who shivered in uniform, staring out with hardened gazes. Two of the trucks carried supplies, piles of mattresses absorbing all the skies could offer.

New clay homes shed their outer skin and windshield wipers duelled, their swordplay leaving sliced remains splattered before us. Ruddy water wove its way down mud steps, down tile roofs, down irrigation ditches. Everywhere down, small stones somersaulted in the surf. People dared the stinging onslaught to collect the water in jugs.

And yet, as the sky lightened, the explosion of green made it seem as though all had grown by twice its size in the past hour.

Day 23: A Measure of Safety.

Kitabi, Rwanda – Having finished his transactions, a man walks out of the bank with a paper bag filled with money (plastic bags have been outlawed here and this is still strictly a cash society), casually strolling into the busy street with the bag held flimsily in one hand. In Nairobi, he wouldn’t make it three steps.

Here, nobody pays him any mind.

Despite the country’s recent history – or likely because of it – Rwanda appears very safe. In cities and rural areas alike, people walk the roads at all times of day and night. You don't see confrontations and special attention is paid to the safety of foreigners. Given the country’s dependence on rebuilding its tourism sector, one of the last things the government wants is to have something happen to a visitor.

And yet, razor wire twists rhythmically atop heavy iron gates and the jagged teeth of broken soda bottles line the tops of walls that surround homes and businesses in the more affluent areas. Private security companies often appear to be one of the country’s largest employers and military and police are as much a part of the landscape as the buses that careen through villages en route to Kigali. All are heavily armed.

It may be safe, but the caution can sometimes cloak a sense of foreboding.

Day 22: A Change of Pace.

Kitabi, Rwanda – Now halfway through my stay in Rwanda, I can hear the ominous ticking of the clock as time evaporates into the thin mountain air. With the realization of what we have accomplished already, and what we plan to do, my schedule has begun to fill quickly.

I have been working at the Kitabi College of Conservation and Environmental Management (KCCEM), which falls under Rwanda’s education and tourism sectors. Thus far, most of my time has been spent on the education side, editing manuals, a strategic plan and curricula – 130,000 words and counting. Over the next few weeks, however, I have been asked to devote efforts to the tourism side and will be making my way around the country to take photographs and prepare written materials.

Given my love of exploration, wildlife, writing and photography, it’s really not a bad deal.

Thus far, our plans involve visits to the country’s three national parks, including a middle-of-the-night trek far into Nyungwe to track chimpanzees and possibly golden monkeys. Deep in Parc National des Volcans, where Dianne Fossey conducted much of her research, we hope to get close to some of the last mountain gorillas remaining in the world. Giving our legs a break, we’ll finish in Akagera National Park, which is located in the only region of Rwanda that is arid savannah. It is also home to many of the animals one generally associates with Africa.

During my remaining time, I’ll also have opportunities for other personal experiences. My friend and colleague Richard and I are planning to take a bus to Kampala, Uganda, and I’ve been asked to help facilitate a session for the International Gorilla Conservation Programme in Goma, DR Congo. Right before I return to Canada, I’ll be attending a colleague’s wedding in Cyangugu.

It promises to be a busy few weeks, but a period rich in experience.

National Heroes Day.

Kitabi, Rwanda – While I didn’t personally have an opportunity to participate in any of the many ceremonies taking place around the country today, it is National Heroes Day in Rwanda. This holiday is similar to Remembrance Day in Canada except that it’s held mostly in honour of four heroes (or group of heroes).

I spoke to a number of Rwandans who expressed that they would be spending the day thinking of Fred Rudahigwa, who was the leader of the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) until he was killed during the first day of fighting in 1990. He was succeeded by current President Paul Kagame. They will also remember Agathe Uwiligiyimana, the country’s Prime Minister during the early days of the genocide. Uwiligiyimana’s assassination also led to the deaths of 10 Belgian UNAMIR soldiers sent to protect her.

Students of Nyange Secondary School are also being remembered for their courage and solidarity. Three years after the genocide, they refused demands from insurgents who had just returned from then-Zaire to separate according to Hutu and Tutsi lines. In the end, two of the three girls killed were Hutu.

The fourth hero remembered is King Charles Rudahigwa Mutara III, who is believed to have been murdered by his Belgian doctor when he expressed opposition to Belgian colonial policies.

Day 21: Take the Community to Work Day.

Kitabi, Rwanda – As the last Saturday of the month yesterday, the country came alive for mandatory community work Rwandans call umuganda. Young and old, weak and strong flooded the streets and hills with hoes, picks and other tools. Colourful toques and a rainbow of kangas dotted the landscape like a vast garden of flowers.

Organized at the local cell level (umudugudu), umuganda brings the community together to identify, and act upon, development activities that will improve their areas. Many such initiatives are related to issues of sanitation, security and the construction of water channels.

Community members will typically work throughout the morning until 10, before attending meetings until noon. It’s at these meetings that further development opportunities are identified, and where the community discusses issues related to family planning, healthcare, local politics and security. Funds are also collected for security (approximately 1,000 FRw – $2 – apiece to pay for local police) and for garbage removal (another 1,000 FRw).

It was also the first time since my arrival in Rwanda that I noted a complete absence of buses on the roads. Apart from the buzz of people when passing through a community, the air was silent. By law, they’re not allowed to run until noon as everyone is to be engaged in umuganda.

I can see benefits of such a concept in North America. Beyond community building, it could provide us with an opportunity to clean up our environment and to approach our world a little more selflessly. We may not have the same needs to build ditches, but whether it’s picking trash out of them, or planting trees, it could still provide us with an opportunity to better our communities.

And ourselves.

Day 20: Celebrating Nyungwe.

Nyungwe National Park, Rwanda – For three and a half hours, I was inundated with wave after wave of Kinyarwanda, and was successful in fishing out about 10 words. And yet, it was still a pretty cool afternoon.

Invited to the annual celebration of Nyungwe National Park, I sat under an orange tarp erected on jagged sticks as various dignitaries, including the local mayor, park warden and director general of ORTPN recapped the past year’s successes and paved the path for the coming year. In between speakers, a song about Nyungwe played on the sound system, and many people sang along. The crowd of about 200 people included members of the community, park rangers, military, KCCEM and ORTPN.

During one intermission, we were entertained by traditional Intore dancers, who swept across the ground, bells ringing from their ankles. It was a real treat, particularly from a cultural perspective. Professional Rwandan Intore dancers routinely win international competitions, though the group we saw today were still young. Another intermission featured a morality play about plundering from the environment.

As with any good Rwandan event, a sumptuous feast was served and, by the end of the day, crate after crate of empty soda and beer bottles were carted away. One opportunistic child located a half-finished bottle of Amstel in one of the red plastic crates and took a couple long tugs.

By the conclusion of the formal programme, everyone – men in suits and in full army gear – got up and began dancing to local music, Rihanna and Celine Dion – whom I’ve heard absolutely everywhere I’ve travelled. Unfortunately.

I felt fortunate to have experienced it.

Day 19: GOP: Goat Old Party.

Kitabi, Rwanda – Around the world, people have been celebrating Barack Obama's ascension to the Presidency of the United States, and it's no different in Rwanda.

Given Obama's Kenyan heritage, in fact, he's a popular choice here. I've seen a few Obama bumper stickers, shirts, baseball hats and have even heard of women wearing kangas printed with his image. He's also often a frequent topic of conversation with people who assume I'm American (despite my attempts to wave the Canadian flag). Inauguration viewing parties were held here, as across the globe.

But the crew at KCCEM has ratcheted up the celebration for tonight. Apparently, promises were made during the election and now the College has to buy a goat. And roast it.

I've given it the name McCalin.

(Update: Given an expected influx of guests, we're now the proud, ahem, temporary, owners of not one, but two goats: McCain and Palin. I can't say I'm overly accustomed to my dinner grazing in the backyard. On its side dishes. Mmmm, goat: no kidding, it can't be bleet.)

Day 18: 3,000 Feet Above Sea Level in the Back of a Truck.

Nyungwe National Park, Rwanda – Tears flew from the side of my eye and onto the heavily armed man in worn, olive fatigues who sat next to me. A series of scars traced an ominous history up his arm and his grizzled face bore short grey stubble. The soldier’s semi-automatic rifle rested discomfortingly in the direction of my chin.

I was glad to see him smile.

We sat together in the back of a pickup truck as we took a dozen members of the Rwanda Defence Forces and Park Rangers to posts deep in Nyungwe National Park yesterday. They will spend several days in the cold, wet forest, patrolling for insurgents and protecting the area. As we made our way into the mountains, the cold wind inflated my cheeks and made my eyes water. But the views were spectacular.

The truck bed held large packs with all the supplies the men would need for several days in the bush. My feet were buried under bags of tomatoes and heavy yellow containers of water. A machete rattled against the gate. Bed rolls provided cushion for those sitting on the floor.

Setting off with their packs, one group was to hike into the hills for three hours before stopping to sleep. Young boys travelled with them, carrying food and cooking supplies on their heads. They would then rise first thing in the morning for four more hours of trekking, vanishing deep into the forest.

As we climbed to 3,000 feet above see level, clouds filled my lungs and the chill set into my knuckles. Handling the tight curves involved alternately clinging to the truck with every turn to the right, and pushing hard with my legs on each to the left. Monkeys perched on roadside walls, watching with curiosity, and a long black bird with bright red wings flew overhead. A lengthy convoy of UN vehicles with long antennae swaying with each bump in the road passed on their way to keep peace in the DR Congo.

And rain began to fall.

Day 17: An Evening in Kitabi.

Kitabi, Rwanda – The smoke of dinner’s cooking fires twists and curls up red hills, dancing with low-lying wisps of cloud like a woman in a loose veil. Together, they lower the blanket over the land.

Children use rough sticks to push plastic water bottles filled with sand down the hill – in the vastness of youthful imagination, everything is a toy. A group of children scampers into the hills – leaving a hand-made wooden scooter at my feet – after I surprise them by coming around the corner through the trees. Soon thereafter, they return, giggling. A large group follows behind, chattering in excitement. Once a timid girl in a colourful headscarf agrees to a high-five, a line queues behind her. The village is alive.

With no light pollution, the blackened sky curves like an iron pot and sparkles with a million pinpricks that allow the heavens to shine through.

Day 16: Something to Quaff that Thirst.

Kitabi, Rwanda – As far as the eye can see, rolling green hills sprout foot-high plants that produce the tea I’ve been consuming a lot of lately. Watching stooped women with large bags slung over their backs perform the arduous task of picking the leaves, it’s obvious I’m indulging in one of the region’s specialties.

While I’m not normally much of a tea drinker, it’s nice to know it’s produced nearby, and to participate in the local culture. That it’s a great help in my battle to keep warm hasn’t hurt its appeal either. Tea with milk (chai) is also quite common, though I’ve found that it’s often made with powdered milk, which – for whatever the reason – I’ve tended to avoid.

Strangely, while Rwanda also produces coffee, I haven’t had many opportunities to enjoy a nice cup of local brew. Instead, what’s generally offered is a small red tin of Nescafe powdered crystals produced in Kenya – not quite what I had in mind. The search is on, though.

Given the tropical climate, fresh fruit juice is also a popular choice, though it’s best as a foreigner to be sure you know what kind of water has been used to dilute it. If it’s from the tap, you’re best to pass. I’ve had the passion fruit juice a couple times, which is quite sweet with a touch of a tang, and a popular choice around here. Plus, it just sounds cool to say to the waitress, with one eyebrow raised, “Passion”, with a seductive emphasis on the first syllable.

The chagrin I felt last year about the ubiquity of soda products is repeated here, though they seems to be less overtly advertised. There are fewer Coca Cola huts slinging glass bottles of the fizzy drink and fewer buildings either painted the familiar bright red or festooned in Coke banners. I wonder if this may be partly because the climate is more temperate and less dry.

Oddly enough, the generic term for soda here is Fanta (which is a Coke product), though you must specify if you’d like orange or citron, or a Coca. A bottle here is not quite as cheap as in Tanzania, but is still inexpensive, running around 300 FRw, or about 60 cents. Conversely, a small bottle of water generally costs about 500 FRw – a dollar – so the same problem exists.

The two main Rwandan beers are Primus and Miitzig, though many people also drink Amstel, which is Dutch. Interestingly, unless you specify otherwise, you will be brought either the large 75 Cl bottle, or two smaller bottles, depending on the make (Amstel doesn’t produce the larger version). Though I haven’t come across any yet, Rwandans area also known for their ‘home brew’ – a banana beer.

Primus is seen as the more blue-collar beer, where Miitzig comes clad in a shiny white foil label. While something may be lost in the translation, someone told me people here have an expression about Primus; it’s the beer that makes children say: “Daddy, please stop taking beer so that we can afford to buy sugar.” A large bottle will set you back just more than a dollar. The expression about Amstel, on the other hand, is to the effect of: “Anna-Maria, go home and make the bed.” I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.

One last note on beverages: as people drink beer, soda and water both ways, you’ll also have to specify if you’d like it cold (“aconje”) or warm (“inshyushye”).

Day 15: Removing the Mask.

Kitabi, Rwanda – Only 40 per cent of Rwanda’s estimated 8.5 million citizens are considered employed and, of them, 75 per cent are their own bosses. The average per capita income is only 62 cents a day. In short, this is one of the poorest countries in the world.

I’ve written previously that the abundance of food and vegetation can sometimes seem to mask the extreme poverty that exists here. Walking through a modern city like Kigali – with its hustle and bustle, well-dressed business people and a recent housing boom that has led to the rise of hundreds, if not thousands, of mansions – it can be even harder to fathom.

But Kigali is not representative of the country as a whole. No, this is a country where 94 per cent of people live in rural areas and where 87 per cent are engaged in agriculture and its related trades. There is very little industry here and 60 per cent of the population is under the age of 20. In 2004, the per capita gross domestic product was estimated to be a mere $228. Statistics can be a little numbing, or awakening, depending on your perspective.

In somewhat of a paradox, this is actually quite an expensive country, particularly when compared to others on the continent. The cost of accommodation in Kigali, for example, is on par with anything you would pay in Canada and potentially more expensive in relative terms when you consider the amenities offered. The lack of industry and a reliance on imports also increases the cost of everyday goods.

It’s enough to make you reassess your opinion of what poverty is, which has been gnawing at me of late. Generally, I’ve personally tended to define poverty as a lack of opportunity – for sufficient food, nutrition, shelter, health and access to education or gainful employment – but the poverty here is different from what I witnessed in Kenya and Tanzania.

Here, food is rarely a problem and with better nutrition generally comes improved health. HIV/AIDS infection rates aren’t as high as other sub-Saharan countries. Following a government mandate, there are few thatch houses remaining and people live in solid homes with steel or tile roofs. But Rwanda’s people are no less impoverished.

The Kitabi College of Conservation and Environmental Management (KCCEM) – where I’ve been working – hopes to marry environmental training with tourism to diversify and further the country’s economy. Located at the world’s only surviving Afro-montane tropical rainforest, KCCEM is being developed with consideration paid to the country’s development thrust, particularly to the government’s ambitious Vision 2020 goals and the Economic Development and Poverty Reduction strategy.

In short, the College seeks to generate employment opportunities and training thorough sustainable use of the environment, and to develop private entrepreneurship practices related to environmental conservation and protection. Overall, they hope to address issues of capacity building in the fields of biodiversity and environmental conservation througout the Albertine Rift region. My work here has helped me feel I am at least contributing something, however small.

The government hopes such initiatives will lead to an increase in per capita GDP to $900 by the year 2020.

Day 14: Something to Whet that Appetite.

Kitabi, Rwanda – Food plays a central role in Rwandan culture and is a major aspect of most events and gatherings. Thanks to an excellent climate for agriculture, it’s also abundant, which is so rarely the case on this continent.

Tropical fruit is served at most meals and generally includes some combination – or all – of tree tomatoes (sweet, unlike field tomatoes), passion fruit, pineapple, banana (sometimes the mini version) and paw paw, a sort of sweet melon.
With the exception of one day where soup was also served as an appetizer, breakfast has been the same every morning since I got here: fruit – either before or after – a couple slices of dry bread (or sometimes a sweet bread) and a pseudo-omelette for making an egg sandwich. Daniel, the ‘house boy’ (not my term) who prepares our meals at home in Kitabi, puts onions in, making them that much better.

As with my experience in Kenya and Tanzania, the starch-laden lunches and dinners are hardly Atkins-friendly. At each, you can expect to be served at least two or three of fried or roasted potatoes, rice, sweet potatoes, fried or mashed bananas, or spaghetti. Though generally made from cassava here, ugali can also be found, but it is not as prevalent as it was last year. I had heard fried plantains could be found everywhere here, too, but I haven’t found any yet.

Mashaza – peas, often salty and with carrots or tomato – are a staple found on most plates. Other typical meal-time vegetables include cabbage, collared greens, tomatoes or carrots, often shredded into a salad with onions (usually topped with mayonnaise, which I avoid here). Vegetables don’t tend to be much of a focus. While we don’t tend to eat meat at home, meals on the road have typically included fish (fried whole, or in filets), chicken (split into pieces and eaten with your hands) or beef, usually in a sauce.

Unlike my (granted, relatively limited) time elsewhere in East Africa, however, I’ve found that Rwandans devote more attention to flavour, liberally using herbs like rosemary, particularly in meat sauces and gravies. Eating out, you’ll often find yourself lining up at a buffet. Unlike North America, though, you’re only allowed to take one trip. You may pile your plate high, so get your fill the first time. In larger centres, you can also find French, Italian and Chinese restaurants.

For faster food, brochettes – goat or beef kebabs – and chips (fries) are ubiquitous. The brochettes are prepared with onion and seasoning, and are particularly good when they don’t carry with them the lighter fluid flavour of the gas over which they have been broiled. Roadside, it is also quite common to find men standing around fire pits roasting a dry corn that really ends up tasting like popcorn.

I’m happy to say that, while I came prepared with emergency food, I haven’t needed any of it (except during my layovers en route). The food here is really quite good.

I’ll write about beverages another time.

Bon appétit!

Day 13: Losing Myself in Peace.

Kitabi, Rwanda – A dozen children, wearing clothes as dark as their skin, first dive into the bush, then chase after me down the road that leads into Nyungwe National Park. “Bonjour, Madame (sic). Comment allez-vous?” “What is your name?” “Muzungu – where do you come from?”

Such phrases echo behind, then alongside me, with differing degrees of both enthusiasm and timidity. They are, for the most part, greetings these children have learned in school and don’t really constitute the basis for substantive conversation. One of them appears to be trying to push her friend into me so that someone can say they touched the muzungu who had wandered past their village. They're all extremely excited to see themselves on my camera's screen, pointing themselves out to their friends.

Adults, sitting nearby and minding even-smaller children who cling to the hems of their mothers’ garments, smile in amusement and offer up a gentle “muaramutse” (good morning) in reply to my greeting in Kinyarwanda. While Nyungwe is a tourist destination, most visitors simply pass through here in the blur of a hired car, and on to the area deep in the forest inhabited by chimpanzees and golden monkeys.

In other words, it’s not overly common for a 6”3 white man to casually stroll past their small plots of land, many of which are occupied by a clay house, a few stalks of corn and a cow that smells as though it has been wallowing in its own filth. Because it has been. Outside one, a one-year-old plays with a small hoe; looking around, agriculture is unquestionably in his future.

Though a little overcast, it is a nice Saturday morning in Kitabi and I had decided after breakfast to go for a walk, with no real objective in mind. Two hours later, I had left my home here behind, wandered through the buffer zone that leads to Nyungwe and up into some of the Park’s hills. It’s easy to lose track of time in the beauty and peace of these surroundings.

Once I leave the roadway, butterflies flit, seemingly aimlessly. Bright red birds scream at each other before darting across the path in front of me when I pause to breathe in the scenery. Vines tap me on the shoulder. Forest elephants used to roam these hills, until the last one was killed during the war in 1994. There’s talk about re-introducing them to the area in the near future. Branches around me crack mysteriously, and yet it all seems so quiet. Peace, much-needed.

Deeper into the forest, crickets chirp in chorus like a relaxation CD, and yet remain somehow haunting. I’ve remained on the lookout for the military patrols that roam the forest as I have no desire to be startled by a group of camouflaged and heavily armed men. They often seem to simply appear out of the forest like ghosts emerging from the low-lying cloud. Many insurgents hid out in Nyungwe following the war, though most have since made their way to the DR Congo. The military presence is here to ensure it remains that way.

It is so silent, and the hills so steep, that you can hear trucks rumbling like thunder long before you see them. Bus drivers careen around corners, the rubber of their tires barely clinging to the rims. Some honk; others wave. Shrivelled corn cobs, picked clean, litter the side of the road. It’s a common snack while driving here, and you can often see roasting pits along the way.

Thunder has begun to murmur over the hills and the first drops have begun hurtling themselves earthward. In the distance, the silky string of rain completes the tapestry of Kitabi. Emerging from the forest, I see a bicyclist making his way down the hill and, around the corner, another man who appears to be smiling in my direction.

My colleague Richard has come looking for me.

Day 12: Signs, Signs, Everywhere Are Signs.

Kitabi, Rwanda – Today is just another (chilly) work day in Kitabi, though it's the first day I've had reliable Internet access (hello, photo upload).

As systems are not as developed as I'm accustomed to, things can take a lot longer to accomplish. Case in point: Jethro had to return to Kigali today just to transfer money from his FRw account to his USD account, which are at the same bank. Yes, that's a three-hour drive away. Not only that, he is going to have cross the street to another bank in order to first exchange the currency, before returning to his bank. Sound complicated? It can be.

People who know me are aware of the small enjoyment I get from signs, products and other forms of marketing that offer some form of double entendre, or a funny inconsistency. In visiting countries where English is not the primary language, these are not uncommon occurrences. Here are a couple I’ve seen thus far.

Throughout the country, you can find several places to get your hair cut on every block. Many Rwandans take their hair pretty seriously and it's a business that seems to have flourished in cities and rural communities alike.

Throughout the country, too, you see signs like the one above and the one to the right, advertising "saloons". It’s a place to get your hair cut, not a place to enjoy intoxicants with your friends. Frankly, if you’re involved in the latter, please keep the scissors away. When I first got here, I had begun to wonder if they had all just used the same sign maker. While many list the traditionally proper "salon", I gather from the prevalence throughout Rwanda that these instead merely reflect a regional morphology of the language. It makes me chuckle just the same.

Given its mountainous topography, Rwanda is not the warmest African nation. That said, it’s certainly not what one would normally refer to as cold – particularly for someone coming from Canada. As such, I found it quite humorous that this Coke ad describes the “Brr Season”. And yes, that is an African Santa Claus. As well as another “Saloon” beneath it.

Last night, I wasn't sure if I should be reassured or alarmed when I discovered that my bottle of "pure" water had a best before date. Of less than a year from now.

While not a sign, I got a particularly good laugh at the expense of a reporter I heard on BBC Africa while driving through Nyungwe. I kid you not, he actually asked his interviewee, as a follow-up question: “So, what’s up with that?”

So?