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.

Fin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 44: Lasting Memories.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this is just the beginning.

Day 42: Blood Diamonds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 41: An All-White Affair.

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

The bride was not the only one in white.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 40: Hello, Moto.

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

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

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

Day 37: Conservation of Leadership.

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

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

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

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

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

Day 32: Riding the Impala.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 31: Interloper Anteloper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 30: Gorillas in the Midst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 28: Time to Bolt.

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

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

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

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

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

Day 26: Chimpan-A to Chimpanzee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 25: Shear Experience.

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

Thankfully, the barber had a gentle touch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 22: A Change of Pace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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 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.

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 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.