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?

Operation Red Blood Cells, 2009.

Kitabi, Rwanda – I blame the elevation. And the starchy foods. And the beer.

I just returned from a four-kilometre jog – er, butt-drag – through the mountains and tea fields of Kitabe. Has it really been that long since I last suited up for Starlim’s basketball team? People who know me are aware of my distaste of running for running’s sake. Sports, I love, but running to run – not so much.

I blame Christmas turkey. And long hours on a plane and in a truck. And too much time writing.

But tonight was enjoyable. The sun was setting over the hills on a clear evening that left just a hint of blush in the sky. And more than just a hint in my cheeks. Children ran after us, cheering, when we passed the village. “Funny,” Jethro said. “I’ve run past here many times before and they’ve never done that.” Chalk up another one to the muzungu.

Up the steepest final hill, a friendly teenaged boy ran effortlessly alongside, seemingly mocking us. I give him a high five and instantly realized I should have conserved the energy. Two young women who had just gathered jugs of water changed their path in order to follow us up the hill home. If they weren’t so polite – and politely giggling – they could have passed us, water jugs and all.

The sun shone behind the house like a halo beckoning us to the finish line. The way I felt, I wasn’t sure if I was really supposed to head toward the light, or not. The elevation has left the alveoli in my lungs grasping like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

Okay, I blame myself.

Day 11: And the Rains Cometh.

Kitabi, Rwanda – Given the country’s history, it can be a little unsettling when the roads appear to be bleeding, which they did as rain traced our course back to Kitabi this afternoon. Drops hit us like a thousand flies to the windshield and rivulets of red clay flowed off the hills and across our path.

Even cheery sunflowers appeared droopy, seemingly weeping. It was the quietest I’ve seen the roads during my time here as people took cover, huddling under steel awnings with bundles of bananas and bags of charcoal. Hitting the roof, the raindrops made their own tune. Nobody seemed to be whistling along.

As treacherous as these roads can be, you can hardly blame anyone not wanting to push heavy bicycle loads up the hills with even less traction. Even the smoke weaving its way through the clay brick of homes seemed to want to revisit its course.

For those willing to brave the storm, colourful fabrics contrasted nicely against the grey blanketing the landscape. A child washed in the runoff. Others clung to soggy red sports jackets, which hung listlessly over their heads. Further down the road, a couple of drivers shivering in rain coats huddled under the trailer of a transport truck that had broken down.

It has rained at least a little every day I’ve been here and Kitabi, being a rainforest, often remains cloaked in cloud. The rains, however, contribute to the vast vegetation that is essential to the nation. There is a dearth of industry in this country and more than 80 per cent of its citizens are dependent on agriculture for survival. It’s one thing that is bountiful.

Given the abundance of food and of clay used to make solid homes, it can be easier to overlook that extreme poverty exists in Rwanda, but people here are among the poorest in the world, living off less than a dollar a day.

By the time we returned to Kitabi, however, the sun welcomed us with open arms.

Day 10: Gooooal!

Kigali, Rwanda – The second the sharp header crumpled the twine, the crowd of thousands set to dancing, and to small fires. The goal had come just as injury time expired in the first half and excited Rwandans danced excitedly to heavy bass and drums for the entire intermission that followed.

Players rushed to midfield, where they knelt to kiss the grass. By that point, I wished I could do the same as I was beginning to feel the effects of the hard concrete, faded blue, which served as our seats. That and a young Rwandan had decided to attach himself to my leg.

The goal gave the home side a 1-1 draw with Cameroon in today’s Africa Youth Championship match, a score that held through 90 minutes and provided Rwanda with a berth in the semi-finals. The dancing, cheers and ululations that had tempered after Cameroon opened the scoring early in the game continued unabated throughout the second half and seemed to provide the home team with a lift.

Football plays a significant role in the culture here and I was excited to have the opportunity to take it in first-hand. By the second half, Amahoro stadium was about 95 per cent full, and loud. Some wore masks (I swear I saw Nixon), others painted their faces in sparkles the colours of Rwanda’s flag. An entire section wore the nation’s yellow jerseys. Flags, both large and small flailed proudly. A boy even wove in and out of the crowd trying to sell toques in the team’s colours. And yes, there were a few small fires lit in celebration.

Shown on the big screen, President Paul Kagame received cheers nearly equal to those of the players. When he came down to the field to shake the participants’ hands, adoration poured forth from the bleachers on all sides. It’s not something I’m used to seeing for a politician back in Canada.

Even getting into the stadium was an interesting experience. Pulling into the parking lot, a couple of young boys beckoned us to follow them to where they knew there was a parking spot. They received a couple coins for their efforts, and a few more to watch over the truck while we were inside. The entrepreneurial mindset is alive and well. In order to get our tickets, we had to wade through a deep thicket of children who were hoping to find their way inside. It also marked the first time I was asked for money since I’ve been here.

As we left, the same boys who had looked after the truck also happened to know (of course) a shortcut for getting out of the parking lot and avoiding the post-game crunch. A couple more coins and we were out ahead of the masses.

We did not end up making it to Kibuye today as planned. More importantly, Jethro and I managed to secure a meeting with Rosette Rugamba, the Director General of the Rwanda Office of Tourism and National Parks. Very well respected in the country, Rugamba has received many awards for her work toward developing tourism, while protecting the environment. With some luck, I’ll have an opportunity to spend some time working with her communications team before I leave.

We also managed to share a good laugh as we discovered this was not actually the first time we had been in the same room together, although none of us knew each other the first time. It turns out the Director General had accompanied President Kagame on a visit to Western a couple of years ago, where both Jethro and I worked. Now she’s his boss.

Day Nine: History.

Kigali, Rwanda – I was just one, one of a hundred or so sitting in a hotel bar in Kigali; just one, one of several hundred million witnessing history. Never before have American politics so captured the world’s imagination.

Unsurprisingly, Barack Obama’s inauguration as the 44th President of the United States was big news in Africa today. I am told giant television screens were erected in Kisumu, Kenya, where Obama’s father lived (somewhere I visited last year), and I have little doubt the entire community came out to watch.

Here at the Hilltop Hotel and Country Club (it’s not as it sounds, believe you me) in Kigali, around 100 people folded themselves into white plastic chairs put in place for the occasion and took in the pomp and circumstance. A screen was unfurled from the ceiling and CNN’s Internet feed was broadcast on it. Beside it, a small television carried BBC.

The eyes of Muslim, Catholic, black and white were locked in rapt attention as the screen carried the day’s events. Rwandan, Kenyan and Canadian alike clapped boisterously at the site of the next President and listened intently as he spoke. A hush fell over the room until certain salient points were punctuated by rejoicing, cheers and hugs.

Even bigger cheers and sarcastic waves followed as former President Bush was taken off in a helicopter. Most here are thrilled at the addition of the word “former” to Bush, and the removal of “elect” from Obama.

It was pretty neat to be in the centre of Africa, the only white person in the room, as America takes steps toward progress, toward rectifying some of its history, toward change. Regardless of the politician Obama becomes, this has been a great day for humanity.

Day Eight: Back to Kigali.

Kigali, Rwanda – Though I’ve only been there for about 12 hours since I landed in this country a week ago, I began my day at my ‘home away from home’ in Kitabi. Shortly after breakfast, though, it was back on the road for the three-hour return to Kigali, where we have a day of meetings with the National University of Rwanda, followed by two days in Kibuye, on the country’s western border with DR Congo.

As I have not seen much blue sky since arriving, it was a particularly nice treat to awaken to a clear backdrop to one of the most stunning natural scenes I’ve seen in my life this morning. The mountain air in Kitabi was thin like the clouds framing the plots of tea that cling to the hills falling away from my front door. I breathed it all in deeply to take with me on our commute to the country’s capital.

Regardless of the time or where we go, Rwanda’s roadways are constantly lined by people on bicycles or on foot, generally carrying something on their heads – suitcases, briefcases, bedrolls, bundles of sticks, yellow jerry cans of water or large foliage that makes them look as though they have Sideshow Bob’s hair. A quick cut to the horn gets those who have strayed onto the pavement to correct their steps.

Heavily laden trucks wheeze exhaust like chain smokers in an attempt to make it up the many steep hills; so slow are they that pedestrians pass them. At any point on the road, you can count on a bus passing in the other direction at least every two minutes. Essentially large minivans, they’re on time here, and full.

Enroute, we passed several more groups of pink jumpsuit-clad prisoners who were off to work the fields under the watchful eye of heavily armed guards. Others manned a biogas facility. Strangely, yet others were found sitting in a small roadside cemetery – it made me wonder if this was an added element to their restitution. It’s striking how many prisoners you see, particularly when you consider how little crime there is in the country now. It’s a bit of a reminder.

Pulling into Kigali in the early afternoon, we were greeted by the familiar red clay brick houses that line the city’s hills like jagged teeth. The rest of the day was spent doing what one learns to do a lot of here: waiting. We sat for more than two hours for a scheduled meeting with a high-ranking official who did not materialize. Alas, this is not uncommon.

At its Most Beautiful.

Kitabi, Rwanda – More than 2,000 metres above sea level, my head aches and my ears have popped, feeling at moments like snare drums. The sheer beauty on which my eyes have supped today, though, has brought over me a calm as ethereal as the wisps of cloud that hang languidly between the mountains. I am happy.

Put simply, Kitabi, and this region that travels through Nyungwe National Park, provides some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve seen in the world. I cannot get over how fertile and rich with vegetation this country is; it’s as though the rains that fall paint everything green, with small speckles of pink and yellow.

Throughout the drive, I sat with my head lolling out the window like a puppy that hasn’t been outside in a week (except I kept my tongue in my mouth), taking in all the smells of the fresh air and the eucalyptus.

We drove among the clouds and above them, through rain showers and bright sun. All the while, we navigated tight turns on uneven roads over rolling hills to tall peaks. I stared in wonder at the wall-to-wall trees that towered over us, unspooling vines earthward. Small birds somehow contorted to cling to the sheer rock face. It was stunning.

We saw a number of monkeys, including one sitting in a tea field just outside the park, and another with a baby. Not realizing they existed here, too, I was a little surprised to see a squirrel dash across the road in front of us. Somehow, they do not tend to be featured among the many wooden animal carvings artisans offer to help you remember your time in Africa.

We were greeted at Kitabi by a small group of village children who had crept onto the College’s property to fill their jerry cans with water from its well. I was home (away from home).

Day Seven: Hallelujah!

Cyangugu, Rwanda – This morning, I had one of my favourite memories of the trip so far, though it was actually something I didn’t even get to see.

I was sitting in a planning meeting about finance, IT and communications at KCCEM when I was awoken from my reverie by the sound of drums and a large crowd singing. Women ululated and the preacher’s cries of “Hallelujah” were answered in chorus. Rwanda is 95 per cent Catholic and this is, of course, Sunday.

While I’m not religious myself, I was disappointed to not have the opportunity to head down the street to steal a peak at this service people were investing themselves in so much, and no doubt completely enjoying. It went on all morning, with brief moments of quiet as the preacher addressed the congregation. Another series of Hallelujahs and the air was once again punctuated by the deep tenor of drums and joyous song.

Naturally, I also found it quite comical the service was being held in what is otherwise a bar.

Day Six: Off the Beaten Path.

Cyangugu, Rwanda – With towering mountains, red soil, tropical vegetation and the twisted shape of Lake Kivu, it’s not really any wonder this is an exceptionally beautiful region of Rwanda. Despite being perpetually overcast – or perhaps hazy is more fair a term – I can’t help but marvel at the vistas.

It’s temperate, though warm in the sun and particularly humid following rain. Still, I was completely comfortable in a long-sleeved shirt as I worked outside on my balcony this morning. The breeze had a relative chill to it – ‘relative’ as I hear it is currently -30 back home in Canada.

You could really hear the hustle and bustle of Saturday morning as children ran around playing and others completed such tasks as laundry and firewood gathering. Drums resonated over the hills in the distance and people could be heard singing from all angles. Children’s shouts and the ever-present chirps of birds completed the aural tableau.

I’ve been told this area has long felt cut off from the rest of the country and that, as a result, people are different here. The depth of the Nyungwe Forest – and its steep, curved roads – have made accessing this region difficult. Due to its proximity to the DRC, however, you see a significant proportion of the population heading off to work across the border, and a number of Congolese working here.

Though poverty would impede many Rwandans from flying, there is at least an airport here, where I ventured this morning to pick up my baggage this morning (finally!) I particularly enjoyed the ride because it took me through the rural area and I was able to witness some of the community’s daily goings-on. A young girl with a large bundle of sticks balanced on her head vanished into the tall grasses, while a trio of young boys disappeared into the hills. Another boy tended to his goat with a bamboo pole twice as long as he as two rusted bicycles with large bundles of bananas slung over the back rested against the clay nearby. Another man struggled to push his bike up the hill with two giant bags of onions on the back. There were people everywhere.

Though children still attend school on Saturday here, a small group had taken time to watch the planes taking-off at the airport, much like I had seen in Kisumu, Kenya last year. It was nice to see them looking after each other, pulling stray friends out of the way of oncoming vehicles, which have little regard for pedestrians in this country. One young girl in the group could not have been more than two-feet-tall and wore a tiny kanga wrapped around her waist. She was, in a word, adorable.

I took their photo and, despite the severity I’ve seen on many faces here, theirs lit up when I waved, making me feel welcome.

Day Five: A Light Show.

Cyangugu, Rwanda – Given that I’ve just spent the past couple of days working – editing long manuals that will be used to govern and manage KCCEM – I figured I wouldn’t have many stories to tell.

I could talk about the food, but that will wait for another day. This is an African country where there is no shortage of things to eat, and where flavour is important. Unlike last year, I may just come home heavier, rather than lighter.

After a last-minute invitation to go out with the team to a local dance club, I figured I could write about the nightlife and the traditional Congolese dance, ndobo, that is prevalent in this part of the country. Unfortunately, that opportunity fell through due to a lack of communication, though the beats resounding from next door had my leg a-twitching in my sleep all night.

While waiting, though, I decided to step outside in an attempt to take some long-exposure photos of the lights on the hills across Lake Kivu. For whatever the reason, I climbed out my window (I have a door) and onto my balcony. The storm clamouring for attention over the mountains was one of the most spectacular light shows I have ever seen.

It was like paparazzi in the heavens as several flashes a second lit up the sky for an hour, non-stop. For the most part, lightning bolts weren’t visible, though one could occasionally see one jumping, kamikaze-style, to a nearby cloud. Instead, as though filled with giant flashbulbs, the sky silhouetted – in various shades of grey – the swollen clouds and arrows of rain that fell to the earth in the distance.

Yet, where I stood, the stars in the sky smiled down like a million twinkles in your eye.

Day Four: Clean Clothes.

Cyangugu, Rwanda - Finally! My bagges has grown restless and decided to return to me. I received the call this morning that it had finally made its way to Kigali and that I should receive it tomorrow. We were fortunate that there's an airstrip here in Cyangugu, which saves us having to make the long trip back to Kigali.

A different pair of pants (after a week in these ones)! Sandals! A razor! Dental floss (though I've temporarily picked up the custom of using a toothpick here, I still have sweaters on my teeth)!

Photos, however, will have to wait until I return to Kitabi on Monday. Internet here is not reliable.

Make a Run for the Border.

Cyangugu, Rwanda – Today was a pretty non-descript day of work, planning and editing at the retreat, but I did take time to look out from the patio where I was working outside and marvel at the sun shining down on the mountains, the exotic birds chirping all around me and the proximity of DR Congo, right across the lake. In short, it was pretty cool – there are worse ways to work. And yes, I’m well aware of how lucky I am to have this opportunity.

At the opening of the retreat, we learned the meanings of everyone’s names in Kinyarwanda, which varied from “Always exceeds expectations” to “By the glory of the grace of God”. It was neat to hear the cultural relevance of their names and we discussed whether naming children in this manner was believed to help them become self-fulfilling prophecies. We were told there’s a saying in Kinyarwanda that is roughly “Your father may not hit you, but may curse you with a bad name.” So, I guess the answer is yes.

After the day had wrapped, a few of us decided we wanted to go down to the DRC border to ask if we could take a step into the country and pose with the Welcome sign. Zany, perhaps, but some of the group has done it before and it’s not usually a problem. Today, however, the border was a little too quiet as the thousands of people who cross it every day for work had already made their journeys. We made it to within a few feet, but turned away.

I have spoken a lot of French today, getting to know some of the KCCEM staff a little better. Many speak Kinyarwanda, Kiswahili, French and English, but a number feel more comfortable speaking to me in French. It’s also likely that doing so slows me down a bit and makes me easier to understand than I am in English. It has left my mouth sore from using muscles I use so seldomly, but it was also rewarding to carry-on conversations for a half-hour at a time without many struggles, particularly given my usual hesitancy to speak the language.

Yes, I am the Foreigner in the Group, Thanks.

Cyangugu, Rwanda – In anticipation of the start of more formal work at a team retreat that begins tomorrow, we arrived in time to meet with KCCEM staff for dinner at the La Petite Colline Restaurant. Located on the border of the Democratic Republic of Congo, Cyangugu is also on the shore of Lake Kivu.

Dinner was comprised of chicken, two enormous whole tilapia, rice, peas and chips. There I was, trying to be all polite by removing the tough chicken from the breast bone with my fork and knife. The woman who runs the restaurant came over, reached into the giant platter of chicken and scooped one out for me she figured I could handle: a drumstick.

I immediately started using my hands as everyone around me had been doing.

Zebra Meets Skunk, Meets Lemur. Or Something Like That.

Nyungwe National Park, Rwanda – Toward the end of a long day spent moving south through the country from Kigali, fog seeps from the pavement as though the earth is smoldering beneath us. It dances hypnotically in the truck’s headlights as lightning briefly introduces us to the mountain peaks that envelop the serpentine curves of pothole-chocked roads in Nyungwe National Park. We’re heading to Cyangugu through Nyungwe, which is the largest montane rainforest in Africa, and whose stunning vistas will serve as my backyard during my time at the Kitabi College of Conservation and Environmental Management.

While Rwanda’s roads are extremely good – particularly for Africa – this one, winding through the park, is far from it. Already, we have seen two trucks that have driven over the edge, their drivers huddled around fires by the side of the road to keep warm. The curves are enough to become vomit-inducing, which has become the case for one of our passengers, and a few before. That it’s dark and raining lightly certainly does not help matters.

I have been fortunate to see my first non-avian wildlife of the trip: a jackal, loping along the side of the road, and an animal Jethro identified as a civet – a medium-sized carnivore with the face of a lemur that looks something like a very large skunk with a bushy tail and zebra striping on its hindquarters. Really. Unfortunately, I had packed my camera given the darkness, but both animals are extremely shy and seldom seen.

Baby, Don't Forget My Number.

Butare, Rwanda – Returning to Butare for the second time of the day because of a mis- communication at the bank, a local woman came up to me with a wide grin and asked me in French for my phone number. When I told her I didn’t have a phone yet, she said I must surely have an email address she could take. French must not have been the language of love because I certainly was not going to hand it out, though we had a short chat.

Even after we drove across the street and I stayed in the car, she kept her eye on us.

It seems she had had a good chuckle at the muzungu who was standing outside the truck without any shoes on. Jethro explained to me that, in his day, white people were the only ones to wear shoes in most parts of Africa. Today, most of the Rwandan men I’ve met wear extremely nice and fashionable leather shoes, but there I was, standing in the red clay-covered road without shoes.

I had taken them off because of the heat and my more appropriate footwear is in my suitcase. Of course, I still don’t know where that is.

No Words.

Gikorongo, Rwanda – I made friends with a few children in Gikorongo this afternoon while waiting for one of the team members who had gone into the bank. As a series of children huddled timidly around the truck, it became evident that, for the first time on this trip, my skin colour had made me an object of fascination. We made attempts at small talk in English, French and Kiswahili, but they seemed content to just stare at the “muzungu”.

Though we tried, my Kinyarwanda is still extremely limited and their grasp of English and French was limited to a few memorized questions. Responses, understandably, drew blank stares, or giggles. It became awkward rather quickly with little to say to each other, yet they remained on the other side of the truck window, staring in.

If only we had had a soccer ball.

Day Three: The Ultimate Road Trip – Kigali to Cyangugu.

Cyangugu, Rwanda – Given the amount of time we spent driving from Kigali to Butare to Gikorongo to Kitabi to Cyangugu today, I’ve broken the trip down into a few smaller vignettes. In many ways, it was an ultimate road trip that offered spectacular sights that may be a precursor to similar trips we are planning to other areas over the coming weeks, including up to Volcanoes National Park in the north-west and Akagera National Park in the north-east, home to the country’s only savannah lands.

We passed a constant stream of people walking and bicycling along the roadways. There were children with large jerry cans of water on their head, others with school notebooks and small slates, and a half-dozen seven-year-old girls in school uniforms helping a man push his bicycle, laden with two large sacks, up one of the many steep hills. A young boy kicked an improvised soccer ball made from a stuffed chip bag, while another used a stick to push a tire down the hill. Classic improvised toys.

As dinner was prepared, smoke seeped through tiles atop mud houses that were surrounded by bamboo fences. Elsewhere, inmates in pink jumpsuits dotted rice paddies like flamingos. Given how many of them would have been incarcerated for vicious attacks with implements such as these during the genocide, I found it ironic to see them lugging around heavy pickaxes and hoes.
The drive throughout was gorgeous, with great views of the mountains, bustling towns and changing vegetation. There were forests of eucalyptus, which shimmered blue-silver in the light and filled the air with menthol, and others with exotic pine trees. Crops of sunflowers sparkled like stars in a sky of green banana trees. From tea plantations to chalk walls and clay soil, there is so much ecological diversity here.

It’s a Small World, After All.

Kigali, Rwanda – Funny story: so there we are, sitting at the Karibu restaurant in downtown Kigali. Apparently, it’s an extremely popular spot for lunch among locals and foreigners alike, feeding approximately 1,000 people a day. Think Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, Africa edition.

I’m enjoying the nice buffet with a full plate (in Rwanda, one serving only, please) of fried cauliflower, beef, carrot salad, fried plantains, spaghetti and a few other things, wondering if the clouds that hang over the city are going to bear rain. And something on the television in the corner of the restaurant catches my attention.

The programme features interviews with researchers speaking about tornadoes, hurricanes and extreme winds. Seems basic enough until I realize it’s a programme I’ve helped BBC and Discovery Channel pull together that includes researchers involved with the “Three Little Pigs” project at The University of Western Ontario.

And that I’m in it.

Day Two: Kigali: “Let’s Go for Chinese".

Kigali, Rwanda – Day two, and still no bags. I spent a significant amount of time at the airport this morning, only to discover they had found their way to Entebbe, Uganda. They’re the adventurous sort of bag, it seems. Nobody can track them down definitively, but hopefully tomorrow. This is Africa.

I awoke to a cool and hazy morning after a few hours of being tormented by the air-raid siren of a mosquito buzzing around my head. I wasn’t sure if it was inside my mosquito net or not. It was gunning for me, though, I am sure.

Bright and early, the hotel’s cute little garden courtyard was feverishly swept by boys with small hand brooms constructed of bundled twigs. The rhythmic whisking was punctuated by the sharp staccato chirps of a variety of birds that danced in the trees outside my window. There would be no more sleep.

Breakfast consisted of fried eggs, done like an omelet, toast and a thermos of chai, as well as a side of mini bananas and passion fruit. We even had lunch at a Chinese restaurant – yes, we’re still in Rwanda – and it was, in fact, the best Chinese food I’ve had outside Asia. First, yesterday’s mansions, now really good Chinese food – I’m beginning to feel I’m not in Africa after all. In many ways, Kigali is a city like others around the world.

We also met up this afternoon with a Rwandan woman named Bernadette who lived for many years in London, Ontario and now runs a guest house in Kigali where she keeps two crested cranes that wander the property. We spent a bit of time talking about how London has changed and become a little more diverse, and about the University. It’s neat to come across someone with common acquaintances and experiences during travel.

This city is rife with motorcycles, including moto-taxis, and entrepreneurs roam the streets, hoping to sell you everything from newspapers to towels, to shoes. For being a large African city, it’s also very easy to feel safe. Of course, this is helped by the abundance of heavily-armed security guards and police.

Though English and French are becoming more common in Rwanda, I began to learn – and use – some Kinyarwanda today. I got some impressed laughs when I greeted everyone at breakfast with “muaramutse” (good morning) and have also mastered “murakose cyane” (thank you very much). I’ve also been working on “muramuke” (goodbye, in the evening) and “agachupa amazi aconje” (cold bottle of water). I know some other words from Kiswahili or French already, but I’m having a little trouble with how many words sound alike. It is, however, only day one.

The government’s move this past year to anglicize the country is a significant step it hopes will establish Rwanda for the future. Kiswahili is now also mandatory in schools. In the meantime, it’s easy to see challenges given that most of the country speaks Kinyarwanda, grew up in a French state – possibly with little education in the language – and now has to make the switch to English and Kiswahili, which is predominant in many parts of East Africa. There will no doubt be growing pains in the short term.

Unlike last year, however, I’ve only heard the catcall “muzungu” (white person) once, and that was from a couple of teenagers. Given the number of foreigners working in, and visiting, Kigali, I’m not so much of a novelty. And I’m appreciative of that.

Given my adventurous baggage, we’re going to stay in Kigali again tonight, this time at Le Printemps Hotel, which is another guest house, but a step up from last night. Tomorrow, we will leave regardless of my bag arriving as we have a retreat to attend in the south-west of the country. Ironically, by the time the retreat ends on Sunday, I will have been in Rwanda for nearly a week before having had a chance to visit my short-term home in Kitabi.

Remembering the Past.

Kigali, Rwanda – “Children, you may have been our National heroes,” the plaque reads at the Kigali Genocide Memorial. Behind it, light streams through large yellow picture windows of young children who perished during the massacres. Beneath each, a name and thumbnail biographical sketch that reads something like this:

Age: 3
Description: Mummy’s boy
Favourite pastime: Playing with friends
Favourite food: Chocolate
Last memory: Watching mum die
How killed: Stabbed in the eye. Or, Hacked with a machete in mother’s arms. Or, Grenade thrown in their shower.

I really hope my children are being given a big hug right now.

Elsewhere, cases of skulls, many in pieces, lie perfectly arranged. Like many say the genocide was. In other cases, femurs. Clubs, hoes and machetes. And bloodstained Superman sheets. And rosaries. How can there be a God in the Hell these people endured? Picture after picture, testimonial after testimonial. A toddler’s sandal. The very chain and lock that was wrapped around an entire family thrown into a mass grave.

Not to mention the memorial is built on a mass grave that is the final resting place for 150,000 people. Humankind is capable of atrocities I am simply unable to comprehend.

Of course, it is also capable of tremendous compassion and healing.

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Day One: Kigali - "Toto, We're Not in Africa Anymore. Are We?"

Kigali, Rwanda – With the cloying humidity and a distinct pot pourri of smells that includes the sweet smoke of home fires and the choking mask of diesel exhaust, my senses took me immediately back to my last trip to Africa as I stepped out of the airport this afternoon. Driving around Kigali, however, things looked fairly different when compared to Tanzania and Kenya.

Given that this is the most densely populated country on the continent, the sheer volume of people is unavoidable. That the city – and most of the country – is built on sprawling hills has also made everyone’s plot in life stand out all the more. Tremendous infrastructure developments like good roads seem also to have attracted that many more drivers. There also appears to be less yelling and jostling. Case in point: there is an orderly system at the bank – policed by its users – whereby you take a seat at the end of the line and move down one until it’s your time to visit the wicket. I dare say that would not work in Nairobi.

The biggest shock for me, though, was the houses. Housing developments of hundreds of homes that would rival the largest in London are cropping up everywhere. It’s not just a couple select communities, either; it’s all over the city. Apparently, over the past 15 years – and even moreso over the past six – foreign investors have invested heavily in Rwanda and have begun to build monstrous homes with imposing gates, Roman columns and infinity pools. It seems so out of place, particularly given that extreme poverty is enmeshed into the very same communities. Jethro explained to me that, unlike a city like Nairobi, which has very geographically defined slums, sparse land has left the poor living side-by-side with the rich.

Entire hills are being carved out for these new developments, leaving the shanties that previously occupied the land in toothpicks. For me, it raises the question of where these marginalized people are going to live, particularly given the population density. Driving through these neighborhoods, though, you no longer feel like you’re in the Africa you’ve become somewhat accustomed to. It’s surreal, much in the way I imagine Las Vegas to be.

We’ve decided to stay in Kigali tonight at the Agasoro Motel, nestled behind a large steel fence with imposing spikes on the top. While it's very basic, it will certainly do the trick and the lunch they prepared for us – consisting of grilled fish, fresh cut fries with a sauce you could add and spiced peas – was very good.

Given the amount of traveling I’ve done over the past few days, I had also planned to have a shower to freshen up. It turns out that, by flushing the toilet, I exhausted my water supply. There must be a lesson in there somewhere. When in Africa, you have to roll with the punches, or in my case at least, roll with the pungent.

Welcome to Kigali.

Kigali, Rwanda - I’m here. Sure, it has taken me 37 hours door-to-door, with 17 hours on airplanes and a total of approximately 90 minutes-worth of naps over the past 53 hours, but I am back in Africa, and in Rwanda for the first time. If only I could say the same for my luggage, but who am I be kidding?

We flew overnight from Amsterdam, so there was little to see, despite it being a clear night. Still, though, the Nile stood out like a giant ink spill seeping into tissue paper, and the stars seemed to provide a mirror reflection of some of the continent’s larger cities. Come daybreak, though, the pastels rose from Kenya’s horizon like a dust storm, parting the blackness from the centre. Like all sunrises I’ve seen from the air, it was gorgeous.

And now that I am here, I am surrounded by a beauty that isn’t easily described by words, much like love.

En Route.

Amsterdam, The Netherlands - This journey began at 16:40 yesterday in London, Ontario. Or, well, it was supposed to begin at that point. Instead, I became very familiar with a near-empty airport waiting room and its shiny vinyl seats. This was after airport security became all too familiar with me, 'randomly selecting' me to receive the kind of rubdown you usually have to pay for in an airport.

Instead, after a flight from London delayed by two hours and consecutive missed connections, I now find myself sitting in the very nice Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam for an unexpected layover of eight hours. I won't, as a result, be spending a night in Nairobi, which will probably be easier. Logistics thus far have been a gong show.

Despite the delays and change of plans, I'm still on track to arrive in Kigali at the original time, which is a positive and means I don't have to change the time Jethro picks me up, which is good considering it's a two-hour drive to Kigali for him.

I'm not quite halfway to my destination yet, but I've pretty much been up for 24 hours and have survived the past couple of hours on some shortbread cookies (thanks mom for the package of goodies - the security guard in London got a big kick out of it, saying "someone has a sweet tooth.")

I tried to sleep. Really. I folded myself like an origami crane, contorted and creased, but slept like I was being jabbed with unexpected needles. Which is to say, not well. The odour of stale feet walked hand-in-hand with breath, aged like cheese, and dark snores drowned out the engine, carrying me to a daylight that lives several hours ahead.

Yes, such metaphors awaken from sleep deprivation.