A New Goal.

DC and Titus, plotting World Cup dominance.

Chekalini, Kenya – Although I do not understand many words of their persistent chatter, the children here sound just like those anywhere else.

Excited. Eager. Proud.

In the blazing heat of midday, this chatter wilted as DC, Titus and I first kicked around a couple of guavas, then a ball crafted from rolled-up felt wrapped in a plastic bag and bound by twine. Games transcend the differences of culture and language that so often define our uniforms.

We laughed as we beat the ball into submission – its felt unfurling like a tail – and we flailed our legs wildly, attempting to communicate through the unspoken language of sport.

Taking my hand, Lincoln guided me the long way around the property to show me his school – pointing out trees, flowers and other words he understood in English. With a kind smile, a funny face or an awkward dance, such differences in language can easily dissolve. In fact, sometimes language simply does not matter: some experiences are universal.

And no matter how one says it, I know I have been so tremendously blessed with my good fortune here.

Magic.

Titus, DC and Bobo during one of the welcoming dances.

Chekalini, Kenya – A long but beautiful day on the road has carried us to the most incredible of nights.

After wending our way over the clay arteries that lie beyond Eldoret, we arrived at Eric's family's home in Chekalini this evening. We were immediately greeted by a welcoming committee that framed the front of the house.

Eric dissolved into his mother's eagerly awaiting arms as we shook hands with his brothers and sisters, and high-fived the numerous nieces and nephews. There may have been a few tears.

We entered the house and were blessed with a traditional prayer of welcome and offered a meal. All day, the children had made excuses to stay home from school in case we arrived, conveniently forgetting their pencil cases or their homework. There may have been some excitement.

Initially, the children eyed the large white man I am with a degree of suspicion. Then I showed them just how poorly I dance.

Soon, they mimicked every shake of my arms and awkward rattle of my hips as everyone laughed and clapped along. Consider the ice broken. I soon taught them the 'exploding fist bump,' several new ways to contort one's face and "I've got my eye on you," replete with hand gestures.

They gobbled it up.

The children sang us songs in Kiswahili and English, and I showed Lincoln (Bobo) how to take photographs. He insisted on using the viewfinder, rather than the giant screen on the back. Whatever works. Then he and Titus reached up and took my hands to guide me on a tour of the property. It was pitch black, though the night sky was perforated with diamonds.

"Twende," they said as we wove through the dark pasture. There may not have been much we could actually see, but their pride in their home shone through.

Tonight was magical.

Marketing.

Vendors hawk their wares at the Maasai market.

Nairobi, Kenya – A muted brown field hosts the weekly open air Maasai market in Nairobi, and it seemed to be transformed into a tulip farm by all the brightly coloured goods for sale yesterday.

If only it smelled as good.

Sitting on grey tarps covered with wood and stone carvings, beaded jewellery and toys, blankets and paintings that repeated themselves from shop to shop, women constantly implored us to check out their wares. Maasai sat draped in traditional beads, their stretched ear lobes grazing their narrow shoulders. Gnarled fingers became artfully entwined in wires-full of beads, dancing as they crafted ornate neck pieces.

If the vibrant colours were not enough to make you think your brain had been inserted into a kaleidoscope, the sheer hustle and bustle may have.

And hustle they did.

Before so much as entering the market, we had already made many new ‘friends’ who promised to guide us around and help us make a deal. I soon had three, who placed items in which I had expressed a mild interest into a shopping bag. “These are ‘the maybes,’ we call them,” one said.

They were very friendly, but tenacious. Shopkeepers called over: “promote something of mine – buy something, even small.” Word of our presence spread quickly and everyone always seemed to be aware of where we were, what we had looked at and what we might be interested in. This, despite the size and commotion of the market. One salesperson even came up to me and said I worked in communications.

I had not told anyone.

Colourful fabrics hang in the Maasai market.

Having finished stepping through the labyrinthine path that divided the tarps, my new friends spread my wares onto the grass and began to negotiate, writing the numbers 1-4 on a piece of paper. This was where we were to respond to each other’s pricing salvos. The larger of the men placed 16,000 KSH beside number one.

For a half hour, we shared back pats, laughs, jokes and conversations about our families. Numbers and conversion rates turned to slurry in my mind.

I negotiated down to 14,500 KSH before giving him 2,000 KSH and asking for change. I had not converted correctly in my head and I soon realized the extra zero I had overlooked made for a ridiculous price. I walked away anew, saying we were not even close enough to begin a negotiation.

“Name your price, my friend,” he said. “You’ll be insulted,” I replied. “Insult me,” he added with a big smile. The game was back on.

I felt no pressure because I did not need any of the gifts I was purchasing and I have plenty of time to pick something up – outside the city where prices are generally lower, no less.

Sensing a deal slip away as I inched closer to people I knew who had finished their shopping, one of the salesmen left, frustrated. His two colleagues did not give up so easily. They kept at it, taking turns, and eventually offering 3,500 KSH – even trying to play to my emotions. “I have five children and two wives, and I haven’t eaten today,” one said.

I decided I would not budge from 2,400 KSH and held strong until we finally agreed for 100 shillings more – minus a necklace of trade beads they said they wouldn’t even take less than $50 for on its own.

While I may have still paid mzungu prices, I was comfortable both with my purchases and with supporting the local economy. It was exhausting, and while I do not tend to enjoy haggling, it remains a central aspect of the culture here. This time I even had fun with it.

“You are a hard bargainer,” one said before shaking my hand goodbye, his eye already tilted toward his next mark.

Make No Bones About It.

A skeleton at Nairobi National Museum.

Nairobi, Kenya – The full-bodied smell of a brewing storm blends like spices with the city’s other pungent aromas: flowering jacaranda trees, acrid charcoal fires, bus diesel and human sweat.

To avoid an afternoon spent dancing with raindrops, we have opted instead to roam the vast halls of Nairobi National Museum, which has left me astounded at the history set out before me.

All around, children scramble to pose for photos in front of murals depicting pastoral scenes, or beside artifacts that testify to the nation’s history. Tying the past to the future, a vendor has painted their faces with tribal markings, and their excited cries echo through monuments of their – and our – history.

I am not the only one giddy.

Standing here, it is abundantly obvious: there’s Canadian and European history, which remain significant, but pale at their ability to trace the roots of civilization, which began just up the road. The past in front of us may be local, but its impact is much farther reaching in terms of our understandings of human evolution.

In room after room, this history becomes tangible as ancient skulls rest, poised and unstaring in their hollowness. Bone fragments are epoxied together like jagged human jigsaw puzzles – as is history itself. It is completely humbling to consider the insignificance of this passing moment in the context of millions of years.

It resonates particularly strongly with me that many of these artifacts are in fact original, rather than plaster cast reproductions of some of the earliest origins of species.

And then, in one moment, my eyes widened in excitement – my mouth, similarly agape. I was staring at the skeleton of the famous, 3.2-million-year-old ‘Lucy,’ an early hominid I had read about as a child in National Geographic, and subsequently studied in school. Nondescript in a plain case with other artifacts, she seemed to shrug at her placement: "That's just how much history there is here."

I was rendered speechless, so I simply basked in wonder and in my love for this continent.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

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.

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.