Leaving town, the landscape opened up to large fields sitting at the foot of rolling green hills that sprawled as far as the eye could see. I noticed that many of the workers in the fields were wearing orange jumpsuits. Soon after, I began to see pink jumpsuits as well. In Kigali, I spent an afternoon at the genocide museum and learned that those convicted of crimes of genocide were not given the standard-issue orange jumpsuit in prison. Rather, they were clad in pink, to set them apart. I made my way down a narrow stretch of road in between two fields now crowded with perpetrators of genocide. A surreal feeling came over me as it sunk in – these were mass murderers. Several of the men stopped to stare at me. I pedaled by, not ten feet from them, as one man raised a hand and offered a smile. This wasn’t a movie or a photo on the news. These were living, breathing human beings who had been convicted of murder on a horrific scale and were forced to bear their scarlet letter in the form of a pink jumpsuit. Uneasy, I dug in and pushed toward the rising hills. I had come to Rwanda to see the jungle, climb some hills, and explore the 250 km stretch of dirt road along the coast of
Lake Kivu known as the Congo-Nile trail, but thus far I had not found a moment to myself. Rwanda is the most densely populated country in Africa, and I was bombarded with attention wherever I went. Stopping to get water, some fruit, or to use the “rest room” was impossible without attracting a large crowd. The children in particular were constantly curious, and often screamed “Mzungu, mzungu!” as I passed. Getting used to the staring, and in some cases, grabbing or touching, was a cultural barrier that might be hard for a lot of people to overcome. At times it was certainly a struggle for me, but I mostly found engaging with locals to be easy. It was amazing to interact with people so united and peaceful just nineteen years after the genocide turned neighbor against neighbor, and tore their country in half. As the sun began to flirt with the horizon, I pulled off the road into what seemed to be a quiet patch of grass overlooking a valley. I sat down, pulled out my food container, and began to make myself a snack. Sure enough, a crowd soon gathered to watch me eat. I licked avocado from between my fingers while one man made an attempt at conversation. Since he spoke a little English, I asked him if he knew a place I could camp. Bunyan Velo 71