Journey through the hills...

“Ibihumbi bitandatu…” He said, a light smile playing on the corner of his mouth.
“Iki?!?” I yelled back, “Uri umusazi!!”
I stood in the dying light of Kibuye trying to find a moto to take me back to my site and was running into too many people trying to rip me off. People stood around watching the “umuzungu” who knew Kinyarwanda bargain with a stubborn moto driver. He was asking for 6,000 Rwandan Francs (about 12 American Dollars) for a trip I knew to be 3,000. I was getting impatient and had called him crazy, getting some laughs out of the small group of onlookers. Using them in my bargaining scheme I turned and asked if I was right about the price. Some of them nodded and laughed and the moto driver looked down at his hands. I tried one last time, using the limits of my language skills, telling him he wanted the “umuzungu” price, not the Rwandan price. I told him that if he had a good heart he would help me out, and with that I began to walk away. Sure enough, 15 steps later while an eruption of discussion burst from the small group behind me, I heard the moto start up and come toward me.
“Umva,” he told me, “I can take you for 4,000, only because the night is coming.”
I sighed and agreed, knowing that by the time he would return from my village it would be close to dark.
On the back of the moto with my bag on my back and bread stuffed into my jacket (we don’t get bread in my village so I’m always smuggling some back for my housemates) we began the journey through the hills. The sun was beginning to set and a light rain had just fallen, causing everything to shine in the dying light. The street was misty with steam and people lined the side of the road, returning home from fields and offices. As we powered up a hill I admired the beauty of this quiet country. Hills of green tuck into each other and banana trees with large leaves are surrounded by endless rows of corn.
We reach the top of the hill and I feel the breath catch in my chest. The road that stretches before me – with Lake Kivu in the background – is eerily empty. The light misting of rain had created steam, rising in twisting pillars, from the cooling road. Though the hill wasn’t very high, my stomached jumped like I was approaching the drop in a rollercoaster. The playful tricks of light and steam before me resembled a procession of ethereal people making their trek home. As we drove through the unearthly parade the pillars separated and disappeared behind us. With all sounds muffled by my heavy duty Peace Corps issued racing helmet the journey through the crowd of mist was quiet and peaceful. We turned onto the bumpy dirt road leading to my village and left the strange spectacle behind.
Life in Rugabano has become very comfortable. The second semester of three has just begun and my students are starting to realize they can never know what to expect in my lessons. The teachers are becoming very involved in their club, adorably bringing notebooks and questions to each session and the primary students I walk by everyday to go to class are calling me by my local name – Uwineza, instead of “Muzungu”. I’m visiting people in my community and watching my students play in sporting events. I’m throwing Frisbees with some new fanatics after school and starting projects to improve the school grounds in collaboration with some teachers. My biggest problems these days seem to be things like doing my laundry. This is mostly because I share a compound with 3 others and water is in tight supply (also I’m a lazy American who can’t properly do laundry by hand..). Viatelle, our garden planter and water retriever, has stopped working for us with our encouragement after reviewing his poor grades this past semester. With his teenager’s interest in studies and the extra duties around our house, we thought it was best for him to fully focus on school. Viatelle leaving means more difficulties getting water; something that can be resolved, but makes little daily tasks that much harder.
Being recognized as a teacher in the community instead of an outsider is a welcome sentiment. I feel the ease I felt in Mauritania seeping back. My life now seems normal and relaxed. I find myself appreciating the daily happenings more often. One day I was walking home from the market with Jacky and a little pint sized girl about 4 years old came and gave me a hug. I asked her where she was going and she burst into a 4-year-olds recount of how she lost her front tooth (apparently a stubborn hill in the market). Jacky laughed and joked with her, asking if she was going to sell them as we walked along the pathway home. She ran back to her mother and grabbed her skirts, glancing back and smiling occasionally. After buying some things in town we found the little one again at the top of our hill. In her hand she carried two white flowers she had picked. Jacky asked if she would give one to us and she turned toward us, smiling bright and holding out her offering in her small hand. The image of that little girl, in a torn and dirty dress offering up a flower as beautiful as her missing-tooth smile, will stick with me forever.
So it goes. Taking note along the way of little hands offering flowers and wandering ghosts on a misty road. My journey through the hills continues.