Two gallants

It's 6pm on Tuesday and we've been in Cyangugu – or rather in its hilltop extension of Kamembe – for 24 hours. This time yesterday three of us got off the bus: Antoine and I and Emmanuel, a geography teacher from CGFK, with whom I have worked twice now, on his way to promotion as a head of department at the Kamembe Friends school.

I hardly recognised my backpack as it emerged from the luggage store at the back of the bus – it was covered in fine red dust. As we wait at the side of the road for Antoine to make phone contact with our hosts, Emmanuel dusts off the rucksack, ensuring that the dust blows away from me, not onto my navy skirt. When I hear that we're to travel by moto to the rendezvous, I take out my hoodie and put it on for warmth, only to discover to my embarrassment a series of stains down the front and round one pocket. 'Oh my mother,' says Emmanuel, 'That is very sticky.' And he scrapes at one of the marks with his keyring. 'My mother'... I am honoured.

The three motos are selected. My fully stuffed rucksack is on my back and my handbag across my chest. I also have a cloth bag full of teaching materials. (Next time I'll bring a cabin-sized suitcase, but that may turn out to be the wrong choice then.) Antoine has a soft bag of clothing and a computer case; Emmanuel a medium sized suitcase. How the motos will carry us and the luggage I don't know. Can I hold my teaching bag and not fall off? My last moto ride took me down an exceedingly bumpy back lane when I had reckoned on a smoother route. Dorothy, my VSO friend, says she's heard that moto riding is good for the core muscles – I can well believe it, because the only hand hold is low behind one's saddle, leaving much of the work of gripping to the seat of the pants, as it were. I put on the inadequately fastened passenger helmet, mount, and hope for the best. Just as we are about to take off Emmanuel, whose driver has loaded the suitcase up front, extends a hand. 'Grandmother,' he says, 'Give me that bag.'


The walk to the church and school this morning after last night's heavy rain is torture. I have my respectable teacher's shoes on my feet and my sandals in my backpack ready for gardening. Antoine leads the way, along first a tarmacked road, then well beaten dirt, then by degrees increasingly slithery and sticky mud. If I had known I would have changed my footwear at the beginning, but now it is too late: there is no way I can open my rucksack without putting it down, extract my sandals, change my shoes, and put the muddy ones back in a plastic bag in the rucksack. I am lagging further and further behind Antoine, the mud sucking at my shoes and frequently pulling them off my heels. Tiny steps feel safest but the hummocks of solid mud between the puddles of slop are not closely spaced.

Ten minutes or so later, we arrive at the school gate, beside the church. There are two shoe scrapers, both clogged with mud right up to the top. (When we were here two years ago Mark or Demi would have commandeered a spade and restored function.) The mud protrudes from the front and sides of my shoes; clinging under one heel is a large clump of vegetation. I try to scrape one foot at a time along the side of the drain in front of the headmaster's office, but my rucksack is quite heavy and I fear losing my balance together with what remains of my dignity.

Emmanuel is among the small clump of onlookers. We all greet each other – no degree of discomfort precludes that. I am told to come inside, muddy as I am. I change into my sturdy if inelegant sandals and my shoes are taken away to be cleaned. Five minutes later the morning's formalities are over and I leave with Tertullian for the short walk to the teaching room for the women's group. As I emerge Emmanuel considers my feet. 'Grandmother,' he says in what might be a teasing tone, 'Those are not the shoes for a teacher.'



Caption: On Weds the lane still loads my sandals with mud. A kind workshop participant washes them with soap and water.


At the end of the morning's teaching the women and I walk to Tertullian the pastor's house. The lunch arrangement has been changed again, I note. Thunder is rolling but only a light drizzle has fallen. By the time my class of teachers for the afternoon session arrives to join the group for lunch, a burst of heavy rain has been replaced by something lighter but steady. I am sitting next to James, a young teacher of accounting, brought in to make up the numbers because not enough science teachers want to take part in my two classes. We chat. At the end of the meal there are introductions again – the teachers and the women don't all know each other – then a few words from me. James is asked to translate and does it pretty well. Tertullian invites us to wait for the rain to let up before the 5 minute walk back to school, but after half an hour it is decided that the rain has set in so we'll just have to get a bit wet. I produce my umbrella and get a round of applause.

Walking back to school is not bad in my stout sandals. The one woman among the group of teachers slithers in her light sandals before changing into something plastic and more serviceable. Two of the men tuck their trouser bottoms into their socks.

At the end of the discussion class an hour later the rain is still persistent. It is time to make my way back to the lodging. Antoine and I have agreed to meet there instead of waiting for each other at school. I have noted the name of the place, and I ask the departing group if somebody can point me in the direction of the short cut Antoine mentioned in the morning. James volunteers to set me on my way. I observe that both he and Tertullian have wellington boots. We retrace the morning's steps, from the worst mud to the less threatening. At least my sandals stay on my feet.

We turn to take the short cut. At first it seems no worse than anything else, until round a bend there is a steep descent. James firmly seizes my wrist. I slither and he checks me. Back on level ground he points out the roof of Umucyo Lodge and Bar, our destination. But the lane has become a path, and so steeply descending I don't know if I can manage at all. Again he holds me in a firm grip. At one point we edge sideways along a domed ridge around the top of an enormous puddle. Young women coming in the other direction laugh at the sight of the poor bedraggled muzungu. Going up wouldn't be so bad, I think.

After a few more slithery yards we come to the relative security of a flight of uneven steps, running with water which at least washes off the worst of the mud. We turn onto the road and James delivers me to the gate. I offer to buy him a drink but he has to go. Perhaps tomorrow?

Thank you, James. Thank you for your youth and strength, your local knowledge, and your thick-soled wellington boots. I hope it won't be quite as wet tomorrow.