Some things get easier

Some things get easier with practice. Fortunately moto riding is one of them.

Sunday evening

Rachel and I got off the bus on impulse in Ruhengeri to buy a few provisions for cooking on Tuesday. Consequently we arrived at Kabali Station for our ride up to Mutura in complete darkness. Indeed we almost missed the place to get off: the driver had forgotten to set us down or didn't care, and the landmark I depend on - a huge limestone cliff - was invisible. As we walked the pitch black 100 yards or so back to the moto drivers at the junction, I wondered how we would survive the ride up. I checked with Rachel and neither of us had thought of this complication when we decided to shop.

We wrapped up against the chill and set off. To my surprise, the moto headlights were just as good as daylight for showing the road. Passing the turn off for the Friends Church, I thought how easy it had been. What I'd forgotten was that it was another 10 minutes or so to the house where we were to stay and that the road through the village and up, up, up beyond was badly in need of a new coat of clay and gravel to bury the volcanic rock. I think that without experience I really might have crashed forward into the driver of fallen off completely.

Tuesday

Our double act is quite fluent now. 4 of the early arrivals stayed with me while 3 went with Rachel to the market. Yesterday we'd talked a lot about food and personal hygiene - it's a current government priority, Rachel says - so hand washing was scrupulous. Then 3 large beetroot, not available in the market and grown by participants from seed I gave them last time, were grated; 7 kilos of potatoes scrubbed and not peeled; a huge bunch of chard divided into stalks and leaves to make two dishes; 3 heads of garlic peeled and chopped; 2 kilos of rice picked over; half a cheese grated fine; 2 large pineapples cut up. By now I was quite anxious for the remaining provisions to arrive, and fairly soon they did.

Red and white onions were chopped; a kilo of carrots grated and another sliced; a huge white cabbage laboriously shredded in Rwandan fashion; 23 eggs put on to boil. Following her teaching on clean water yesterday, Rachel had bought some hygienically bottled, for washing any salad not to be cooked. Tomatoes, parsley, green peppers got the treatment. It was too late for the beetroot or celery leaves but she let that pass.

Some work and some rest

Then we each started on our party pieces: Rachel making a sauce/gravy with peanut flour, a vegetable stir fry and a cheese sauce for the macaroni while I assembled a large salad on a tray and another in a bowl, made a white sauce for the boiled chard and celery stalks, and finished by frying slivers of ox liver dredged in flour and salt. (If any reader wants to discuss the ethics of that last, I'll be happy to engage.)

Cabbage, carrot and onion with parsley and vinegar and a surround of tomato and pepper slices (no lemon available)

There was enough, despite anxiety from the group that we should have bought 10 kilos of potatoes, and plenty to spare for half a dozen expectant children and for the host family to eat later. When I asked, dish by dish, whether the women had enjoyed the food, the answers were enthusiastic yeses.(Or should that be yesses?) Task accomplished.

Here is the feast before we broke into it