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.