Small stories from a big world

  We woke up early today, even though it is a Sunday. At 7 am we are already at the entrance of the Volcanoes National Park in the north of Rwanda. While the guides decide who will join which group, we drink a delicious cup of coffee. Black, cappuccino, latte. It's all available and the coffee is super tasty. We have already forgotten the early wake up. We are assigned to a group of 7 tourists in total. Patience is our guide. After a briefing, we set off. First by car, following a winding road into the the mountains. After an hour, we arrive at a village that is also on the edge of the park. We walk through the fields. It is full of potatoes, in all stages of growth. People are harvesting and planting and other beds are full of young flowering plants. It is beautiful. We climb steadily and finally reach the wall and ditch that mark the border of the park.   This barrier is mainly meant to keep the elephants and buffaloes, who apparently live in the jungle here, away from the fertil

It is 5:46 and I am gently shaken out of a dream. Literally. The earth trembles again. I hear rumbling and the mosquito net dances back and forth. On Saturday night, the Nyiragongo began to spit fire. Nyiragongo is a volcano in Congo, near the border with Rwanda. The last eruption was in 2002 when lava destroyed a large part of the city of Goma and killed more than 200 people. Fortunately, this time there were far fewer deaths. The lava mostly flowed in a different direction. The smouldering rubble stopped at the airport. But even so, several villages were destroyed and an important access road to the north was blocked. People fled the scene holding everything they could carry on their heads or backs. Through the deepest darkness -because the electricity failed-, with behind them the threatening glow of so much nature violence. Many crossed the border into Rwanda in the dead of night. Most have now returned, especially when the earth began to tremble in Rwanda. It seems to be a nor

  Musanze, formerly Ruhengeri. It is still early when I go jogging. The mountains are shrouded in mist and clouds. A dirt road first, then I get onto the tarmac road. It is busy on the road. Not because there are many cars but there are many people on their way on bikes and on foot. Cyclists with large, pale yellow, plastic cans. I don't think they contain water. Rather something that is fermenting, because I hear a soft hissing. Maybe banana beer? The road climbs steeply. The cyclists get off and push their heavy loads further. So do taxi bikes. A carrier is welded onto the back of the heavy bicycles, with a colourful cushion. Sometimes the seat is extra-long so that two or even three people can be carried. Hard work for those who pedal. I see women carrying large bags of greenery on their heads, bundles of brushwood too. I pass the campus of a college. On the grass, young people, each with two basins in front of them, doing their Saturday laundry. Soon, the washing lines ar

  Kigali is a green city, spread out over various hills. I find jogging and walking good ways of discovering a city. But the steep slopes make jogging, walking and cycling real work-outs. In Da Nang I was running at sealevel, and it was flat. Kigali has an average height of 1500 m. You can just imagine how these first runs looked like. Uphill, puffing like an old steamer.   Suffering. One day I went jogging after a heavy rainfall, just before it would get dark. That happens in no time here. Twilight barely lasts half an hour. I passed the American Embassy and turned right. Most of the paved roads have sidewalks that are easily passable and not, as in Vietnam, crammed with scooters and food stalls. Usually there is only a sidewalk on one side. I had reached a good rhythm and was on my way to my temporary home. "Sssss," I heard across the road. Jogging. "Ssss," I heard again, from across the road. But also from some distance away. Looking up. Across the road, pede