Adjusting the Signal.

I like to stand out; I'll use beige.

St. John’s, NL – The sun shines brightly over colourful row houses, stacked into the hills like Rubik's Cubes.

Turquoise doors framed in purple stand sentry against canary yellow siding, offering a visual cue that the area's weather is typically grey. A neighbour, made up in mint with orange frames seems to wink knowingly.

Following a fantastic Thai-inspired dinner at Bannerman Brewing Co., we hike to the top of the Signal Hill National Historic Site for views across St. John's and the Atlantic Ocean. Home to the city's defences since the 17th century, Signal Hill is so named for its place in history as the site where, in 1901, the first trans-Atlantic wireless signal was received.

It's a landmark that quite literally rises above others in the area.

Ironically, no Wi-Fi.

As a dark fog curls and unfurls over the hills, we see how quickly even the brightest of colours can be muted. In a whisper of a moment, the heat is similarly subdued.

Following a two-and-a-half-year pandemic-induced grounding, travel's rhythm has come rushing back with the force of takeoff. It's a tentative fist step back.

And yet, so much is the same: Air Canada cancelled our London-Toronto flight, leaving us to draw a new piece to re-complete the puzzle we have laid out for the next couple weeks. Some things never change.

If nothing else, travel requires flexibility, creativity and patience. And sometimes a Dad who's willing to drive you two hours to the airport at 4:30 a.m.

It is Father's Day, after all.

(Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

Desert, Deserted.

People in grass houses shouldn't throw matches.

Kubundu, Namibia – Closely cropped thatched-roof homes dot the landscape. Some, freshly cut, still shimmer in shades of yellow.

Incongruously, several have satellite dishes wedged into the sandy ground outside.

Their walls are constructed of a bare skeleton of crooked sticks that clutch the loose mud smoothed beneath. At one, the sun dances across rings of clear soda bottles thrust into the plaster. Larger branches stand sentry, fencing the compound.

Still, goats and chickens roam freely as women sweep and rake the dry ground in front of their homes. Others carry buckets of water on their heads. Buckets, baskets and bowls of everything, really.

Babies, though, are carried at the hip in colourfully printed sashes.

A blue-grey smoke hangs languidly, filling the air with the spicy smell of charcoal. And of community. People gather under a large, shade-bearing tree speckled with small, orange fruit. Nearby: bars, salons, bustle.

On the outskirts, long cinder-block buildings house a school, tidily painted yellow. Kids wave eagerly as we pass. We share in the enthusiasm: civilization for the first time in a week. Finally, some colour.

It has been an overarching theme of the whole trip: it's amazing how much water can alter a landscape.

On the Town.

Hamming it up for the camera.

Cape Town, SA – As we pulled into the township of Gugulethu, on the outskirts of Cape Town, a young man with a half-finished beer in his hand stumbled, tripped over his feet and fell to the ground.

When he stood, another man slapped him repeatedly on the head. Apparently, he was no longer welcome. He fell again. It was all of 9:30 a.m.

The township is home to 700,000 people living in tight quarters stitched together by scrap plywood, cardboard and sheet metal. Wood smoke from the braii clouds the air, and shreds of garbage bag flap in the breeze like Tibetan prayer flags.

Tellingly, countless crooked abortion posters are pasted to the outside walls, alongside murals advertising Coca-Cola and SIM cards.

While the community's people were lovely to us – and we were investing in their community – the experience felt precariously close to one of 'poverty porn.' It's a moment your privilege leaves you naked.

Even more, given the morning's first encounter, it seemed wrong to be on a tour where we were to learn how traditional beer is made, and then sample it. But we did, engaging in the ritual of doffing our caps, kneeling and tipping the large communal tin can to our lips. The bready mixture will win no awards.

Glassy-eyed men sat in the corner of the cramped black shack, egging us on.

We had made it to 10 a.m.

Hash Function.

Paddie-whack.

Hanoi, Vietnam – A cloud of white smoke rose skyward as fire burned in the field.

The acrid air smothered my nose as we trudged through rice paddies, tiled yellow at the foot of the mountains. Conical hats bobbed among the plants, harvesting the staple of cuisine here.

It was my last time with the Hanoi Hash House Harriers, and my final day in Vietnam. I had joined the group for three of the four weekends I was in the country, and today was cooler than previous outings – a slight breeze tickled my face.

It was a nice alternative to the 45-and-humid that had usually slapped me across it.

Farmers took small sickles to the plants, stacking them into tiny bundles atop the severed stalks. Diesel-powered engines rattled heavily and belched black smoke as threshers separated the husks of rice. Scrap was left like large piles of exhausted hay.

Nearby roads were painted yellow by grain left to dry. As the sun glimmered its final smiles, women used hoes to pile it back up and bag it.

Like the friendly locals in these fields, I, too, could only smile: this was a great way to cap off my trip.

Parading Around the French Quarter.

One of the many street performers in the French Quarter.

New Orleans, LA - The morning fog that greeted us broke into cloying humidity as we set out to see some of New Orleans this afternoon.

First off, Pastor Randy directed a tour past some of the devastation from Hurricane Katrina. In St. Bernard's Parish, where we are staying, water levels had ranged from two feet to 28.5 feet. And it came in quickly, rising from a foot to nine feet in five minutes. Everywhere I go, I imagine – or rather, try to – 30 feet of water.

Now, empty lots rest as patchworks of dry greens and browns, framed by crippled fences bearing all-too-silent witness to a hurricane that completely destroyed the Parish. Five years later, broken windows still lean as though in a shattered mouth, doorways are shuttered and spray painted digits mark faded houses with a history that lingers still.

These derelict houses sit for sale, but unwanted: following the storm, the proud Parish's population dropped from 70-thousand people to 30.

Like the theatrical masks you so often see in boutique windows, however (grinning and sad alike), there are two sides to the city. Visiting the French Quarter, we were greeted by a vibrance and hospitality that belies the faded homes nearby.

Looking for the legendary Bourbon Street, half the team was suddenly swept into a parade. And, to paraphrase: "parades are awesome." Especially in the Big Easy. Carried away in a giddy sea of joy, we cheered, and were cheered, as the police car escorting the revelers blinked behind us.

Our fitting message from the City of New Orleans: seize the moment, because you never know what the next might entail.

Day 39: A Red Mark.

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

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

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

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

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

Day 35: The Road to Kigali.

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

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

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

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

Day 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.

National Heroes Day.

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

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

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

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

Day 21: Take the Community to Work Day.

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

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

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

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

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

And ourselves.

Day 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 “muramutse” (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 Kitabi. 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.

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.

Baby, Don't Forget My Number.

Butare, Rwanda – Returning to Butare for the second time of the day because of a mis- commun- ication 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.