Wanda vs. The Hills - Related Image.
Dusk falls over Kigali... navigating the city's hills in the daytime prooves quite the work out.
Wanda O'Brien
July 6 - Kigali
Laces double knotted, hair tied in a ponytail and calves stretched it’s my third day in Kigali and I set out on my first run. I guess “run” is rather an ambitious term to describe my trot/ walk over the hills that make up the Rwandan landscape and surround the Initiative’s house in Kimihurura (the name of the district I live in). I start running north/west out of the driveway, my white sneakers a stark contrast against the red dirt road. By the time I’ve gone 200 meters (steadily inclining) I’m out of breath and smiling broadly. There is a school at the first intersection I get to and a few of the students are outside. “Muraho,” I call out and they smile and say hello back. I’m travelling downhill now and increasing my pace as I pass Papyrus (the restaurant I had dinner in the first night), picking my way along the cobblestoned side-walked, weaving around people walking in front of me, calling out greetings constantly, each one becoming breathier and breathier.
The sun is shining on my face, beads of sweat are forming on my forehead, and I am embracing the wind rushing towards me as I fly down the hill, that much closer to an actual running pace. Then, halfway through my descent it dawns on me: just as what goes up must go down, what goes down must come up if she wants to have lunch today. I toss that thought to the sidewalk as I’m nearing an intersection and decide to veer to the right. Motos (motorcycle taxis), mini-van buses and cars zoom past as in a practised dance, veering around each other, calling out their location through beeps, then passing where there is room. I’m running on a paved sidewalk now, and there is a median in the road dividing the traffic. Up ahead there is a bus-stop and over a handful of people are waiting to board a mini-van bus. I always feel nervous when people watch me running, and I remain nervous in Rwanda. I’m nearing the people. I don’t look to see whether they’re looking at me or not. I’m looking at the view of houses lining the valley across the street. I’m about five paces away now. I look up, I smile, I make eye-contact with some people. I call out my greeting, “Muraho,” and those I make eye-contact with greet me back. Ok, I think to myself, these people are much friendlier to me than people in Toronto. I feel like I’m in cottage country where every person you pass acknowledges your presence with a wave or a smile. Thus far, I’m usually the first one to call out the greeting, but I’m staring at a person just as much as they’re staring at me.
The salt drops are dancing around my pores and my sweatpants, frizzy hair and constant panting make me feel like an anomaly beside Rwandans going about their business on a Monday morning. The sidewalk I’m running on is uphill once again and my calves and thighs are really feeling the burn. I wonder if Richard Simmons ever went running in Rwanda. My trot has become a jog/walk and within minutes I succumb to the appeal of my body and give in: I walk, to what would be the shame of my high school cross country coach.
I soon cross to the other side of the street and turn back. I think it will be midday shortly (my watch broke in London where I transferred) and the Rwanda sun is quite powerful in the afternoon. On my descent towards the traffic intersection I pass two young boys playing in grass beside the road. I’ve started jogging again. “Chocolat?” the younger (or shorter) of the two asks.
“Oya,” (no) I reply as I approach, “sorry.” A pause. “Ça va?” I ask, calling up my most basic French. They both break out into smiles.
“Ça va,” the one who asked for the chocolate replied. “Et tu?”
“Bien,” I answer as I’m passing, “Bonne journée.”
“Bonne journée!” he exclaims as he gives me the thumbs up.
“Bonne journée!” I repeat, turning my head around to smile and giving my own thumbs up.
I continue running, and smiling, and turn my head once again to see that the boys have resumed their game in the grass. I feel energized and think I can tackle the upcoming hill and run the whole way home.
But then I’m actually on the hill that leads to my name-less street. I’m pumping my arms. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. I pass a group of teenage boys in school uniforms. “Muraho,” I pant out, confident in my greeting ability. They burst into laughter. I draw comfort in the fact that teenage boys are teenage boys regardless of country, and their laughter has spurred me to quicken my pace. I round the corner. I see Papyrus. Just reach Papyrus, I tell myself. You’re almost there. So close. Why is this hill so difficult? Just keep moving. But really, I think my legs are going to collapse. Fifteen more feet. Ten more feet. Final stretch...
I stop. I walk. I pass the restaurant’s sign. I’m gasping and utterly unattractive. But I’m smiling from the endorphins.
Rwandan hills: 1
Wanda: 0