I took a new route, this morning, on my run, hoping it would be less hilly. In that, I was sorely disappointed. Three steep hills one way and two on the way back. Well, as I topped the furthest hill and was 50 paces from my turn around point, who should I see striding over the hill but Damacine, our gardener. When we say each other our eyes both lit up. He shuffled over to my side and joined me for the remaining half of my run. Him, running in his nice pressed shirt and his dress pants. And Damicine did more than just keep pace - he pushed me to run faster up the hills. When we got home he told me that he played tennis at the Novotel (where I swim and risk contracting skin cancer underneath my SPF 30 sunscreen).

There are always Rwandans walking on the streets, sometimes with baskets on their heads. Sometimes just walking. When they saw Damicine and I (many were people I'd already past in the first half of my run), they, stopped, stared and smiled at us. Children on their way to school, would join us for several paces, before petering off, laughing. Others cheered us on in French or Kinyarwanda. It was quite a sight for them - Rwandan and "muzingo" (white person), running together. Rwandans never run and never with muzingos. They generally try to cheat muzingos, because, as Adelin explained yesterday, they assume all muzingos are rich. (Talk about racial profiling.) Damacine speaks almost no English, but somehow we manage to communicate.

If I go out to do some shopping, he tells me what the fair price for the moto taxi would be or correct price for the item I want to purchase. I know he's telling me the truth because it is usually half of what they initially quote me. It's fun how much we can communicate when we really try.