Sometimes you can’t explain it. Depending on what ‘it’ is, the lack of explanation can be trivial or mundane, but depending on what ‘it’ is, the absence of certainty can unnerve you to the core, can unravel your sense of truth and reality.
Late last night I found myself unraveling. Fortunately for me, the uptwisting and outpouring I am alluding to was what most modern doctors would call ‘food poisoning.’ Nevertheless, for hours in the middle of darkness I succumbed to this ‘it’ that had taken hold of me and demanded out.
Although I didn’t have any official obligations today, I had promised my friend Fofo—yes Nigerinos I have a Rwandan friend named Fofo :) --that we would climb the mountain across the street from ISAE, the landscape that fills the brown metal of my square bedroom window like a painting of vibrant realism. I had bailed earlier in the week, and didn’t want to flake again, so although I felt exhausted mentally and physically, I figured, what the heck, maybe a hike would do me some good.
We set out at 10 am and unlike the recent weather, a thick fog layered over the morning with intense fortitude. “Rain’s going to come today,” I suggested. “Yes, but not yet.” “Then let’s get to it.”
Crossing the street into Byangabo, the small roadside town outside of ISAE is always an exciting thing—not because Byangabo is a fascinating place by any means, but because being the town’s only white person, or muzungu, most everyone seems so excited to greet and share a few phrases. As we walked towards the base of Mount Byangabo, a chorus of school children in blue or tan uniforms rang out: “Muzungu! Good Morning!” I love joking with Rwandans, and when I hear the title muzungu I often shoot back: Muzungu ari hehe? Bari abanyarwanda gusa hano! (Where’s the white person? There are only Rwandans here!) Although I wasn’t feeling too hot, hearing the responding laughter cheered me up immensely.
We cut through a field of tall grass still wet with morning dew, past the local primary school, and into a small village set at the base of our day’s objective. The dramatic transition from life on the main road to country life was made more so because of the minor distance separating the two. Some 200 yards from the main road—one of Rwanda’s four—there is no electricity, the paths are all mud, and the well-kept western clothes most Rwandans wear around ISAE are replaced by aged cloths and plastic sandals.
Cementing our transition into another world, one distant from modernity in most senses of the word, a crowd of 20-some young children instantly gathered around Fofo and I. They all wanted to touch our hands, to ask what we were doing, and to laugh from their tiny cores when we could communicate in Kinyarwanda.
Now at the foot of Mount Byangabo, we began with a brigade of local 6-8 year olds that apparently didn’t have any official obligations today either. The path upwards became way steeper than I had imagined near instantaneously. The fitting was slippery because of the morning fog, and the grey clouds seemed intent on unraveling and outpouring just as I had last night, and soon.
I grabbed for branches or rocks on the side of the slick mud path that sloped a twisted upwards, and as we made our way higher, our brigade dwindled to an elite special forces unit of lil’ Rwandans.
It struck me as we climbed that people lived on this mountain, that the mud brick houses we passed on this sloping gradient were inhabited by people that traversed this path each day—with groceries, with gallons of water in their arms or on their head, with infants on their back. That sense of humility struck me in a fashion like I had seen in The Motorcycle Diaries when Che and his friend are passed up by an elderly, indigenous man porting a huge load as they collapsed on the roadside. Upon seeing him, they quickly rose and continued, and remembering this helped me suppress a little post-nausea fatigue.
The slopes of Mount Byangabo are similar to most of the mountains I’ve seen here—incredibly steep and cultivated. I had no idea one could raise corn, carrots, cabbage, potatoes, or green beans on gradients that one could easily slip straight off, but Rwanda’s population density has necessitated drastic and innovative measures to keep up with the growing demands of a hungry and ever-larger populous. As we turned a corner along the way, we came upon an entire family tilling their land by hand. We greeted them, and as we continued to walk throughout our day, they remained there with hoes in hand, for hours, farming on the mountain’s edge.
At one point the path literally washed away from beneath us so Fofo and I got on all fours and crawled our way upwards, often sliding back several feet. But regardless, we were getting up that mountain. We paid a child 100 francs (20 cents) for water to wash our hands, and we were on our way.
As we pressed on the morning fog began to melt away and the distances across the surrounding countryside came into precise focus. At the summit, there is a Pentecostal Church. So many mountaintops are capped with churches in Rwanda.
On our descent, a woman picking corn with her young son hollered down to us and brought us handpicked ears of fresh white corn. As we stood and spoke with her, a flock of sheep enveloped us and the 9-year old herdsman cackled as I tried to speak sheep.
At another turn, we came upon an umudugudu (village) meeting. Elders and local leaders were meeting on an overhang over a grass-covered cliff, debating and deciding in an age-old democratic form. Our presence had gathered pretty stern glares of interest, but when we greeted them, prostrated, with utmost politeness, the tense atmosphere evaporated just as the fog had recently melted away. “Hey, the muzungu speaks Kinyarwanda,” exclaimed a man on a thick log bench. “Who, me?” I tossed back. “I only speak Kinyarwanda. I forgot my English when I came here.” As we rounded the corner away from this now jubilant scene, a sense of warmth filled me as a mixture of sun, laughter, and the beautiful landscape seemed to pour into me. It’s moments like this that make the hard times worth it.
We continued downwards, passing more people, taking photos with droves of children, and feeling refreshed. When I got home, I slept for 7 hours straight.
Sometimes, I suppose you can’t explain it, whatever ‘it’ is.
Yesterday ‘it’ was the origins of sickness. Today, it was the sights and sounds of a mountain village and the crossing of paths between people that had, until today, no connection. Maybe that unexplainable causality propelling us towards our future, towards one another, and away from our lunch holds answers. At this stage, I couldn’t tell you. But I could tell you that whatever that mystery is, ‘it’ sure is beautiful.
