Rally, Ruhengeri.

On the way to Ruhengeri (recently renamed Musanze) in the northwest of the country, you can catch glimpses of the Virungas volcano chain that straddles the borders between Rwanda, Uganda, and the Democratic Republic of Congo, in the distance. Their shadowy figures cut impressive shapes on the horizon, usually crowned by a halo of smoke or clouds. You can see the soil turn from burnt orange to ashen black. One of the most fertile regions of Rwanda, the region boasts those same patchwork hillsides I love covered in crops. People haul unwieldy bundles of fat purple sugarcane. Flimsy bicycles seem to groan under enormous sacks of potatoes that sag close to the ground. Trucks pass packed high with bunches of green bananas.


We had gone there to see a rally, a car race completed in alternating stages of racing and technical assistance over some seriously challenging terrain. This rally ran a course from Kigali to Ruhengeri, one riddled with cliffs, muddy roads, sharp turns, hills, huge pot holes, and precariously steep drops into water. In short, it seemed like a sick death wish to participate in such a sport. Family, friends and other spectators formed a caravan on the road there. Occasionally a racecar would whiz by, and we waved wildly. We stopped in a small village just short of Ruhengeri for the official start of the race and were swarmed by local kids.

They huddle around you with little regard for your personal space, staring at your face, clothes, and trying to peer into your bags. Their intense gaze makes me uncomfortable.

During a lull in the afternoon, we drove up to the Virunga Lodge.

The children stare, wave, and smile as if you’re the first muzungu they’ve ever seen, though surely that road has seen countless funny people traverse its terribly treacherous path, speckled with that porous black volcanic rock. They run alongside the car with huge grins on their faces.

"Muzungu!!!"

One boy in particular really raced himself breathless at my window and kept yelling ‘bic-a, bic-a!’ We thought perhaps he wanted a pen (bic), and so we slowed and I handed over a pen. He ran from the car holding it aloft as if he had just won some trophy.

The Carina (the Corona’s replacement but definitely not an upgrade) took a serious beating on the ascent, but once there, we could see that sacrificing the car to make the climb would have been worth it: the 360-degree views were fantastic. The lodge - completely eco-friendly and powered by solar energy – had unusual ‘dual drop’ toilets (meaning, one hole for liquid waste, and one for solid… yes, be careful how you aim!) that require a bit of skill to use.

There, surrounded by two crater lakes, volcanoes, lush green hillsides, and nothing but the sound of a rather loquacious cow, you feel a little bit like the cherry atop a nature sundae.

Eastern Rwanda: Poo-tastic! Cow dung art and brown waterfalls

Together with another American expat, I took a day drip to the Eastern part of Rwanda and learned that poo has many extensive properties.

Having recently purchased several pieces of “Imigongo” to decorate the house, I was curious to see the factory where this unusual artwork is produced. Textured art work featuring geometric prints, Imigongo is created from cow dung applied to wood pieces, baked, and painted in either black and white schemes or earth-colored hues. Supposedly the dung of youthful cows is the best.

The ‘factory’ consisted of a room with 8 women sitting on mats on the floor. The women to the left were taking clumps of dark green cow dung and molding it to wood planks with their hands like clay. The women to the right were painting. An interesting micro-conveyor belt system that produces around 20 pieces a day. They worked rather morosely, not talking much or really even smiling. Perhaps that was because they didn’t like two funny looking tourists watching them while they work. Or perhaps it was because they stick their hands in cow dung day after day. I imagine it gets old.

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Don’t Eat on the Run

We had packed a lunch for this day trip, but come noontime, we were left with a small quandary: where do we eat our lunch? In Rwanda, it is considered poor taste to eat or drink anything while you walk on the street, drive in your car, or are anywhere in public that is not a dining establishment. We resorted to discreetly munching on our sandwiches in the car, taking a bite when there wasn’t someone staring at us on the road!

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After the imigongo detour, we continued to Rusumo Falls at the border of Tanzania. On foot, we crossed onto the bright yellow bridge between the two countries that hovers over the falls. On one side of the bridge, the falls angrily rush and burst, perpetually churning a small pool of trash and green leaves at the bottom. All the rains of late have muddied the water, turning the falls from a shock of white water (as it says in the guide book) to a rusty brown. It looks almost like someone is pouring out a big batch of butterscotch cake batter. Or – to continue the theme – it could be described as that giant’s very bad bout of diarrhea.

On a more sober note, during the genocide, this bridge became the funnel for large exoduses. As many as 250,000 fled in one day. Sadly as well, the river became swollen with bodies. According to the guide book, journalists on the scene reported seeing 1-2 bodies tumble over the falls per minute...